I ran a 10K this morning before work, completing it in what, for me, is record time. Then I got dressed and strutted into the office, feeling all that and a bag of ridge-cut chips. With sea salt.
Then I realized that the sticker was still on my skirt.
I found a centipede in my apartment. Or it found me. I was very dutifully beginning to wash my dishes when it sprung on me. Only I didn't know it was a centipede. At the time it was just a fast and sinister-looking bug.
See this photo.
It was the middle of the night, too, or I would have called Entomologist Brother and asked him what the heck it was, why it was in my sink, and should I be worried.
It turns out that there is really only one sinister-looking bug that answers to the description, "big bug lots of legs" when you search with Google.
According to Wikipedia, centipedes can sting, but it doesn't hurt as much as a bee (but who wants to be stung by a sinister-looking bug with that many legs?). And they prey on spiders.
I clearly need to rethink my room mate discrimination policy. My spider population has grown undeterred. But if a large spider population equals a large centipede population, I'm going to have to draw some lines. I can't have a complete ecosystem living with me.
The centipede spent the night trapped under a cup in my sink, and this morning when it was clearly still living and thriving, I managed to set it free by initially sliding a sheet of paper under, but the crease in the paper allowed it to escape, so I dropped the paper and retreated. Then, gathering my courage, I trapped it under the cup again, this time on the floor, and steered it to the front door. Home invader successfully evicted.
I also have a tentative plan to go with some friends to a beach famous for being a habitat for sea turtles. This is fantastic.
I don't mind it, but I always feel a bit deceptive answering it, because who can pick a favorite among a thousand? There are some books you hate, some you are indifferent to, some you love, some you admire, and some that change your life.
As an aside, I really hate it when people are all like, "My favorite book is the Book of Mormon." Okay. Um, while technically it is a book, it's really not. Books and scriptures are not the same thing. All you're really saying when you tell people that is your favorite book is that you're not much of a reader and you want to impress them with your spiritual superiority. It's obnoxious.
I usually just tell people my favorite is Jane Eyre, because it is one I've read a lot and both love and admire. But if I answered with the book I've read the most times, it would be The Blue Castle, by L.M. Montgomery. It's a bit embarrassing to tell people that, to tell the truth, because in spite of its thematic depth and archetypal genius, it's so sentimental (and the editing is frightful ... it's enough to give an editor a ghastly headache). However, I just looked at the jacket and saw where I had written my name and how old I was when I got it, and I realized that I have had it for twenty years. And I've read it at least once a year since I bought it with my babysitting money at the Bookstop (well, with the exception of the 18 months I was serving a mission).
There is something bitter about this, because I have realized there comes a time when you know a book so well it loses its magic. I don't have it memorized, quite, but I recognize all the lines by sight. I can recite almost all the dialogue to myself in reasonably good order. Reading it gives me less pleasure than making it into a movie in my mind (which I do with most books I like), so what's the point of reading it ever again?
It is the end of an era, I suppose. There's no other book like it in the world, so I don't have anything to go to now for the special kind of comfort it gave me for so many years. I'm a grown woman now, have been for quite some time, and I don't necessarily need syruppy fairy tales for comfort and reassurance, but it's a sad thing to outgrow something that has been so instrumental in forming my character.
I've lost something I will never get back.
My dad, who knows me well, once suggested I read a short story in his favorite science fiction journal. The protagonist is a writer, and he lives in a future in which people, in essence, back themselves up in case of accidental death. All their memories are stored in some sort of database, and if they die, their organs are replaced and they are brought back to life and their memories are re-booted. But this writer decides that he has written such a brilliant book that he wants to be able to experience it as a reader for the very first time. He deliberately neglects his routine back-ups, and when he finishes the book, he kills himself. When he is restored, he has lost three years of his life, and his girlfriend is furious with him. He doesn't understand what is going on and what he was thinking in putting all his affairs and relationships in jeopardy for, until he finds a copy of his book.
There are so many things I've wanted to be able to go back and experience again for the very first time. Not enough to do something as drastic as the writer in the sci-fi story, but still... particularly when faced with the loss of a much-loved book, wouldn't it be nice?
So, I went to a strawberry patch this morning with some girlfriends. It was delightful. The idea was proposed to go make jam out of all the surplus strawberries we ended up with (because among the four of us we probably had about 17 pounds of strawberries).
We made jam. Lots of it. Then we made strawberry ice cream. Lots of that. Now, there are still enough strawberries left to make a strawberry pie. And I must say I think I'm rather good at making pies. Except when I'm not.
This is going to be exciting.
However, I think it's about time to post something, so I will. And it will be completely trivial.
I went to the craft store today, and not only did I manage not to gag, I actually enjoyed myself. I think the Church is going to force me to like crafts. That is perhaps okay. But I still draw the line at scrapbooking.
I wonder if it's weird to like fake flowers and butterflies as much as I do? Because I really, really like them.
Finally, my awesome friend told me about a game she played last night, for which one of the questions was, "If your life were a movie, what would it be titled?"
I already pretty much revealed what mine would be called when I blogged about my autobiography. But she posed the question to some of the coworkers, and one of them came up with a title and all the specs. Who would play him at various stages of his life, who would write the soundtrack, who would direct it, etc.
For the record, if there were a movie about my life I would want it to be directed by Terrence Malick, Gus Van Sant, or Peter Weir. Music would be by Craig Armstrong, Alexandre Desplat, or Philip Glass, with songs in the background by people like Jeff Buckley, Laura Marling, Regina Spektor, and maybe even some Scala and Kolacny Brothers (even though that's all a little trendy). And the necessary Simon and Garfunkel number. The child me would be acted by any cute little girl with red hair, and the adult me would be Romola Garai, even though we don't look much alike. We're taking artistic liberties.
How about you? What would your life movie be like?
But lately I have not been well. I won't go into particulars on the blog, but it's been rough. I can't really say how rough, either. There's nothing really to compare it to. But there are two things this experience is explicitly teaching me, and I'm sincerely thankful.
One is that there are a lot of people who care about me. I have a tendency to be too self-deprecating, and I constantly question how valuable my friendship is to people. If I had it my way, I would be always the giver in a friendship, but that is wrong on multiple levels, because that means that sometimes I attract more needy people than I can handle, and it keeps me from being real with people who aren't needy. And even when I am real with them, I'm so apologetic about it it's weird. So, during the time that things were escalating, there were several people who made me feel cared for. Not by doing anything huge. A friend in another state randomly sent me a facebook message. A few people at church pulled me aside and asked if I was really okay. Even if I sorta lied to them, I appreciated being asked. The list could go on. I mean, really, I am surrounded by people who are good and kind, and I am learning to accept that it's okay to be the one who needs that on occasion, even as I recognize that sometimes these people who are going out of their way to express love and concern for me are struggling with their own issues. It's a beautiful thing to see the Atonement in action as we all try to be kind to one another during our own pain and heartache.
The second is that I think when all is said and done, the privilege of having a resurrected body is going to be so glorious I try to comprehend it and get overwhelmed. Having health problems isn't just something that is trendy. It's a mortal condition. Even specific ones that I wanted to dismiss as trendy, really, are an integral part of our experience here. I'm not explaining it adequately, I know, and I recognize again that most people out there suffer physically much more than I do. I hope this doesn't sound trite. I hope it doesn't sound, like Elder Holland said one time, like "cheerful rhetoric". Having a body that constantly hurts, or that doesn't do what you want it to, is genuinely hard, and there's no getting away from it. Sometimes I think, again, of people I care about who are seriously suffering with physical health issues, and I want to curl up in fetal position and cry for them. But I know that my Redeemer liveth. Easter means something a little different to me this year than it has in previous years. Something a lot deeper and a lot sweeter. And we will be resurrected just as Jesus was. For real.
So, I hope we all have a happy Easter and are able to feel truly close to the Savior at this time. Much love.
She became one of my favorite people back when we were toddlers. The first time I can remember bonding with her was when we shared frustration over the fact that our brother got to stay up 30 minutes later than I did. I was probably about four years old, so she must have been two. It wasn't enough that I got to see Wild America first. They put me to bed, and I writhed in anger, knowing that Brother (who was only 16 months older than me!) was in the living room watching National Geographic—my favorite show. And, to add insult to injury, the sun hadn't even thought of going down yet, and we had yellow curtains. With ruffles. Sister stood up in her crib and babbled something. If I ever understood her, I don't remember what she said. But we were both in it together, and that's what counted.
It is impossible to imagine what I would be without her. We both bossed and manipulated each other, but I think she bossed more, even though I'm older.
She was the one who taught me to tell time. I failed the clock quiz in 2nd grade because I was absent the day the teacher did the clock lesson, and I was scared to tell anyone that I didn't understand. Then one day, when I was in fifth grade, I told Sister that I didn't know how to tell time. A few minutes later, I knew how.
What I started this post to say, though, is that today I felt the way Gwen Stacy described herself in The Amazing Spiderman when her dad asked her if she wanted some cocoa (I tried to find the clip, but it's not on YouTube). However, my Awesome Sister made the day completely great by finding this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tEgzGnzojc
Which is to say that she located a musical piece I have been crazy for since about 1999, but I never knew what it was called or how to get ahold of it. I'm a sucker for marimbas and xylophones, and even more so when they are used in films about literary experiences. Here is a fun clip:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1hMMUJ2Gn7Y
I'll tell you.
I believe in love. And just because I don't have a healthy, happy relationship with a man I love doesn't mean I have any reason to resent a day on which other women in happy relationships can specifically celebrate them. Goodness knows the world needs all the happy relationships it can get, and how dare those of us who don't happen to be in one begrudge those who are.
Have we really stopped so low as a culture that it is acceptable to assume that the happiness of others is somehow hurtful to us? How does setting aside a day to celebrate romantic love hurt me?
Plus, there is no reason either to ba-humbug the kids out of a fun day to swap cute cards and candy with their little friends, or out of the rest of us to just be festive and wear special colors and eat way more candy than is good for us and spent time with the non-significant others in our lives.
I had a lot of fun, and I spent the evening with my girlfriends, decorating cookies, listening to music, and laughing.
So why hate? I love Valentine's Day.
Today was one of the most terrifying days of my life. I think it was even scarier than the day I fell in a lake with alligators.
I went to a shooting range.
One of my awesome friends, whose personality is decidedly yellow, if you're into the color code thing, mentioned on Monday that she was taking a firearms safety course. When I seemed intrigued, she offered to let me come along. I might be very cautious about it, but when it comes to something new and foreign, I'm usually game. So I took her up on it.
We spent the afternoon handling a variety of empty guns (the ammo, as required by law, had to be stored in a separate part of the house during the class) and learning about gun safety. Then we had a short break and headed out to the shooting range, where we practiced with real guns with real bullets, then took the firing test.
The first time I pulled the trigger of a loaded 9 mm glock, I almost had a nervous breakdown. I was so shaken I nearly gave up then and there. They coaxed me into firing what was left in the magazine, and then I stepped back, determined to be an observer from that point forward.
Fortunately, the instructors were kind. They gave me a breather, got me some headphones to enhance my earplugs, and let me trade out the 9 mm for a Browning 22. After loading up and shooting that baby, I was feeling pretty ok.
So, to pass the test, you have to shoot 40 times and hit the target at least 28 times. I hit 37 times. Oh, yeah.
I called to tell my daddy all about it, and because we're all about logic and reality vs. validation, he pointed out that at a range of 7, 5, and 3 yards, you don't have to be all that good. And with a 22, you're really not going to do much damage anyway. But it's a lot harder to handle a gun than it looks.
And I passed the test.
Oddly enough, during our dinner break, my awesome yellow friend was talking about some of the situations she encounters at work as a therapist. Our other friend and I were asking lots of questions, and she told us to draw a picture of a person in a rainstorm and she would psychoanalyze us.
It wasn't as terrifying as shooting a pistol, but I was a bit scared of being psychoanalyzed as well. It turned out fine.
And now, there is gunpowder in my nose.
My sister fundamentally changed my life when she suggested that instead of a film with Justine Waddell or Colin Firth, I should go for something with Bruce Willis. She loaned me her edited copy of Die Hard. My favorite part?
"Ho Ho Ho. Now I have a machine gun."
And then, I just saw the trailer for Red 2, and I don't even know who this person is who is so excited. Where did I go?
1. To Say Nothing of the Dog, Connie Willis. If one says nothing of the dog, one can say a lot about this comedy of errors based on the adventures of a time-lagged historian whose attempts to escape his unreasonable and domineering sponsoress's insane demands lead him back to the Victorian era in search of a blunder, in the form of a disrupted love story, an appallingly ugly family heirloom, and a lost cat, that so disordered the space-time continuum that everyone's life in the future is threatened. It's immeasurably funnier if you have read Shakespeare and the major Victorians. There is little I love in a book more than literary humor, and I was laughing out loud for most of the book. 8
2. The Alloy of Law, Brandon Sanderson. A story set in the same universe as his famous Mistborn series (which I read last year), this one is a fun pastiche of science fiction and the Wild, Wild West. And the character dynamics don't stoop to cliché. 7
3. Shadows in Flight, Orson Scott Card. At long last I got to read what happens to Bean. I love Bean. But this book was just okay. No love, no hate. The somber ending didn't overwhelm me like that of the last book he was in—it fell a bit flat. Normally if I don't love a book I can think up a better ending for myself. This one I couldn't, because maybe there wasn't a better way to end it, and maybe it didn't need to be ended. I dunno. 4
4. Coronets and Steel, Sherwood Smith. We are long-time fans of Sherwood Smith. This new series was the perfect way to engage my mind in a fun action-adventure story right after I moved across the country. What is not to love about a fencing, ballet-dancing history graduate student from California who finds herself in a mysterious family feud in Eastern Europe while on a crazy quest to figure out her grandmother's past? 6
5. Blood Spirits, Sherwood Smith. Spoiler Alert. I can't say I loved the sequel as much as the original. It went the vampire direction. Justify that if you will, but vampires are so cliché I was a bit disgusted when the story took that turn about 2/3 through the book. 5
6. His Majesty's Dragon, Naomi Novik. You know, I love Bromances, and this is really the ultimate in Bromance, except the Bros are a man and a dragon. I wasn't prepared for how endearing the dragons would be, because most dragon stories don't have likeable dragons. There are lots more books in this series. We'll see if I get around to them.6
7. Between Shades of Grey, Ruta Sepetys. This book was practically a Holocaust book, even though it started out in Lithuania and I think it was the Russians rather than the Germans committing the atrocities. I feel like American pop culture's obsession with that time is disrespectful in a way I can't describe adequately. The book was good, but to say a book like this (based on true events and the suffering of real people) is good seems very callous. However, the fact that these people might have wanted their story told and it didn't get crowded out by more popular concentration camp tales is fine with me. They were thrown onto trains and carted out to remote areas of the Russian territory, where they were forced to work on communal farms for almost no food, and ended up being shipped to the North Pole and left on their own. By the time they were rescued, they were almost all dead. It was really a downer, and I can't give it a rating.
8. Imagine: How Creativity Works, Jonah Lehrer. This is one of those pop psychology books that I saw advertised on Amazon. It was the first book I bought to read on my Kindle Touch. A fun read, and very quotable. I might read it again in a few years.6
9. The Queen of Attolia, Megan Whalen Turner. This sequel to The Thief took me completely by surprise. I didn't realize this kind of fantasy got so good! The first book had some tense moments and some brutality, but who expects a love story to open the way this one did? It's a good thing I got the Kindle version, because apparently the paperback cover gives it away, and I think a lot of the impact comes from that one thing being unexpected. 8
10. The King of Attolia, Megan Whalen Turner. Again, I expected these books to be shallow, but they are not. A very fun read about a foreign king winning the respect and allegiance of his people. I don't remember details much, and I will definitely be reading it again soon. 8
11. Conspiracy of Kings, Megan Whalen Turner. Still good. Not quite as strong as the others. We'll see what happens with the fifth book. I expect great things. I have turned my nose up at series books in the past, but occasionally it's ok to break with principle and read them when they're good. 6
12. Ida B., Katherine Hannigan. An okay middle-grade book about a little girl struggling with family and socialization issues. Maybe I'm too hard on it because I've read so many Newbery books, and it seems like middle-grade publishers all want to put out the same story these days. 3
13. I Am Legend, Richard Matheson. I reviewed this on my blog when I read it. I think it's the only Horror genre book I've read, aside from The Prestige. 6
14. A Posse of Princesses, Sherwood Smith. She knows how to do girl power the right way. It was fun, not only because of the lead girl, but because of the ensemble of supporting characters. 5
15. Wild Swans, Jung Chang. I can't remember if I reviewed this book. It's difficult to describe. It is a three-generational memoir beginning with a warlord's concubine, transitioning into the occupation by the Japanese, to the takeover by the Communists, with a detailed account of how it all worked by one who saw it all and left in early adulthood. Of everything I've read this year, Wild Swans probably had the heaviest impact on my intellectual development. Can't give a rating to a real person's life experiences.
16. Room, Emma Donaghue. Hated it. It could have been a Lifetime movie. Someone told me she liked it because it made her think, and that's fine. I like and respect her, but I don't like being made to think about things so sordid—unless maybe they really happened and it would lead to something useful. In this case, it was just a terrible downer with no merit and no utility. 0.5
17. The Virginian, Owen Wister. Already reviewed it. It's good because it was a first. And because the titular character is so endearing. 5
18. Watercrossing, Krissi Dallas. This is the third in an eight-part series my friend and former coworker is publishing. I was one of her early readers and went to publishing conferences with her during its development, so I am very invested in where the story goes. My friend is extremely charismatic and so talented at coming up with things that grab teenagers and the young at heart. I have fun reading them and love and respect what she is doing with her writing (as in, this is probably the only teen magical realism romance out there that doesn't have any sex or bad language). Also, she is another one of the rare women who truly understands how to do girl power the right way, and I am really looking forward to reading the rest of the series. 6
19. Blackout, Connie Willis. Read it. You will love it. Enough said. 8.5
20. All Clear, Connie Willis. Copy #19. This is not a sequel to Blackout, it is part two of a two-volume book. 8.5
21. Palace of Stone, Shannon Hale. Sometimes one reads too many princess books. I really love Shannon Hale as a writer, but the works that get the attention aren't the good ones. This was a sequel to her Newbery award-winning Princess Academy, which was good as princess books go, but there was no need for a sequel. If you want good Shannon Hale, read The Goose Girl. 3
22. These Is My Words, Nancy Turner. A pioneer story about a spitfire girl who crosses dangerous territory with her family to move to Texas, sustaining heavy losses and going back to Arizona. I liked it, I guess, but her voice was too progressive, and it seemed like somebody died on every other page. 5
23. Bellwether, Connie Willis. This might be my favorite of Connie Willis, not because I think it is the best, but because it is the easiest to read. It's trauma free, and every sentence is witty. I especially love the definitions at the beginning of each section. And, well, everyone knows I like to make fun of trendy people, and that was the whole point of this book. 8
24. Passage, Connie Willis. So beautiful. So traumatic. Wow. 8
25. All About Emily, Connie Willis. I've been told that this one would have been a million times funnier if I had seen All About Eve. But I hadn't, and I still managed to laugh hysterically. 8
26. Crossing to Safety, Wallace Stegner. Book club. I liked it. It was an interesting character study about two married couples and the dynamics of marriages and friendships. 7
27. Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut. Already reviewed. 3
28. Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert. Finally got around to this one. Well, we all know how it ends, more or less, but it was getting there that was so darkly intriguing. It's difficult to love a book about a woman so caught up in story-book romance that she sabotages her own happiness by feeding a loathing for her husband, her child, and everything else in the world that is mundane and uninteresting. There is a reason this one is a classic. 6
29. Pope Joan, Donna Woodfolk Cross. Already reviewed. 6
30. Beau Geste, Percival Christopher Wren. I liked it pretty well. It was good fun; it reminds me a little of The Four Feathers. Those young British hotheads who wanted to be larger than life could only succeed in adventure fiction that is now practically out of print, probably because it was written by a dude who lived in a very racist time and reflected the attitudes of the day. I watched the movie with my mom—she is a Gary Cooper fan. I might have enjoyed it much more if the chaps playing 20-year-olds hadn't been in their late forties. 5
31. Fire and Hemlock, Diana Wynne Jones. A crazy fantasy built around my favorite T.S. Eliot poem, based on Tam Lin, about entrapment and betrayal and all kinds of weird stuff. The ending picked me up by the feet, swung me around in circles, and flung me to the other side of the room. I'm still trying to figure out what happened, and that's the beauty of it. 8
And I am convinced there should be a 32 on this list, but I forgot to add it to my spreadsheet, so that's another book I read that I will never remember. Sad.
1. Any opinion that doesn't agree with mine is biased and judgmental.
2. Any discussion board that stays up long enough will contain a post in which one participant calls another a Nazi.
3. Every interactive site will eventually feature a cat video.
4. The more trivial an issue is, the more likely people are to get upset about it (and start calling each other Nazis).
5. Any reference to religious convictions is, in fact, an attempt to violate the separation of church and state.
6. All discussion boards would be, if they adhered to the MPAA system, rated R.
7. Online service agreements change approximately every time you decide to use the service. Or more.
8. It doesn't matter how cool the interface change is, if it happens on a social media network, it will be complained about. Usually accompanied by expletives.
9. No matter how bad the fanfiction is you're reading, it can always get worse.
10. A lot of people blog so they can feel like they did something useful with their time, rather than recognizing it for what it is. Using the internet is practically like pulling that string in the story about the little boy who gets a magical string that controls how time passes in his life. Time, and life, are gone before you know it.
* I'm thinking of deleting my blog again. If you just read this post, the why is self-explanatory. But before I do, feel free to share additional rules.
When I was sixteen I decided I was so ugly I would do anything short of robbing a bank to improve myself. My first step was getting rid of the huge, nasty, obnoxious glasses I had worn under protest since first grade. No, I did not get contacts (my family couldn't afford the kind of contacts I needed and I didn't have a job yet). I just stopped wearing the glasses. The other kids I knew always thought my parents were so authoritarian. Nope. I doubt they ever forced me to do anything (irrelevant tangent: when I was seventeen, I asked them to give me a curfew). And in high school they don't give you a yellow dot for leaving your glasses at home, so there were no negative repercussions to this decision. There were, however, plenty of positives. People, myself included, began to see that my appearance was rather more than tolerable.
Vanity wins every time.
However, recently I discovered that I would need to foray back into the vision-enhanced world. I just said hello to functional depth perception, and it just so happens that this occurred just shy of two years after my graduation from library school.What better way to celebrate librarianship than by purchasing a pair of hipster glasses?
Now, where's my frumpy cardigan?
But, favorite or not, this little man is awesome.
And this one.
When they left, I was sad. And very tired. I went to bed around 5:30 pm and didn't get up until nearly 10:30 the next morning. Then I didn't feel like doing anything, and even if I did, there isn't much to do on holiday weekends when you don't have family around, so I watched a Christmas movie. I have lots of favorite Christmas movies, and here they are in no particular order:
* Love, Actually
* Mickey's Christmas Carol
* Miracle on 34th Street
* It's a Wonderful Life
* Joyeux Noel
We love the French. They always make such depressing profound films. I hate French films, except when I love them. And I love Joyeux Noel. It think it is well nigh impossible not to love a story where music dissolves fear and hatred and gives grieving young men a chance to figure out that the person they thought was their worst enemy was just a friend in disguise. Instead of writing a silly review of it, I'm just going to link to the song in the credits, which doesn't do the rest of the story justice entirely, but is a very sweet song regardless.
Here's a photo for your visual enlightenment. I'm sure you can tell as clearly as I can that this is a superior haircut.
On another note, I dreamed last night that I bought a pair of boots so audacious my imagination broke. This is difficult, because every time I go to the shoe store and look in the clearance section for big feet, there are some pretty darned audacious shoes. It's like they think just because we're tall we want both lots of attention and lots of potential to biff it. And shoes that couldn't possibly go with anyone's professional wardrobe (the less said about possible professional wardrobes some of these shoes would go with the better). Some of these shoes are so tall it's difficult to wear them and accelerate while driving. Wait, though. In my case maybe that's a good thing.
The ones in my dream were patriotic boots, and they morphed as I put them on. It was a long, grueling process, but by the end, they were slick and shiny red and blue, up to mid-thigh, with slits down the middle so they could show enough skin to be all three patriotic colors. They had buttons and laces and zippers and hooks, and the heels were something like six or seven inches. In the dream it was too appalling to laugh, but now I find it very diverting. Butter my butt and call me a biscuit.
And, to change the subject yet again, it is getting down to the wire with my annual reading list. Less than two months to go, and my "To Read" list is still longer than my "Already Read" list. Unless you count all the books I've re-read this year, which is up to at least 17.
I'm trying to finish Beau Geste. This is because at one point I met a really nice guy who said it was his favorite book. This experience may have enabled me to give him a list of a dozen books I think he might like, including The Four Feathers, The Last of the Mohicans, and maybe even Dracula. I imagine he has already read Lord of the Rings. Some guys have a thing for action/adventure books that may or may not be well-written. I can't explain it, but it doesn't bother me unless they make fun of me for reading The Brontes. You take your life in your hands if you say anything derogatory about Jane Eyre in front of me.
Because I do. Read books over and over, I mean. But only if they're good. Harry Potter, for instance. I've read the entire series at least four times since its completion with the publication of The Deathly Hallows. But I re-read the entire series at least every time a new book came out since I was introduced to them after the publication of The Goblet of Fire. That means that if I totaled all the times I've read a book with Harry Potter in the title, the sum would be over 50. I don't know if I should be concerned or not, considering that they are my "happy" books—I read them when I feel overwhelmed and need an escape.
I have probably written before that it irks me a little that people claim reading fiction is only for escape. Sometimes it is, obviously. But more often than not, for me at least, it's for some other reason. Sometimes I read to be cool for somebody (yes, I will admit this ... more on that later). I read because reading a book is just as good as having a conversation with someone, with the added bonus of zero awkwardness because you don't have to go through any small talk or idle chit chat before you get to what they're really all about inside. Rather pathetic, really.
The problem with escapism is that it inevitably ends. As long as the Harry Potter series is, it is always over sooner or later, and then you're left bursting with emptiness because for so many days/weeks you were immersed in another world and have to come crashing back to your own. Always alone.
Sometimes I don't want to read anymore because of that. But I have to keep my mind occupied. Giving up reading is unthinkable, no matter how torturous it is to finish a book and wander around a small apartment with no one to talk to about all the emotions just experienced by being a temporary observer of another universe. I might be able to get along without books if I had hundreds of intellectually stimulating acquaintances who interacted with me on a daily basis.
No, on second thought, I couldn't. Books don't demand anything from you. You can pick one up and read just a sentence before discarding it, and it never knows the difference. And how often have you started a conversation with someone that you wanted to last for one sentence that ended up lasting an hour or more? Yes. People are great, but the very fact that they are people and must be treated with common courtesy makes them too energy inefficient.
This post begins to make me sound cold, so I think I will end it here. The next book I'm reading for my book group is called Pope Joan, which originally I was not thrilled about, then warmed a little to, then finally got less excited again after finding out it's merely a novel. I imagine it will be something like Ophelia, by Lisa Klein, which I read several years ago and which was, as indicated by the title, a back story for Hamlet's tragic love. I gave up on historical fiction years ago, but I'm going to be a good sport and read Pope Joan anyway. I will probably hate it, as I have hated or been indifferent to almost everything we've read in this book group so far. But I think one point of a book club is to read stuff you hate so that you don't get a skewed perspective of how great the literature market actually is. Well, that and you have people who are going to talk about it with you. Liking is always a possibility, and when you don't choose it yourself, there is always the surprise factor. Besides, there are few things more difficult than reading a book you absolutely love only to find out that no one you know has read it and you will spend the rest of your life convincing others that they need to read this book and wishing, wishing you had someone to discuss it with. Until you finish another book, that is.
I'm certain that any hard-core librarians out there would throw rotten fruit at me for calling a book vulgar, but what else is there to call it? I obviously don't believe in "banning" books—and by that, I mean taking them off the shelves of public libraries—unless they are actually illegal. But if I were a parent I would object to my child being assigned to read the book, and I would probably protest it as age-inappropriate in a school library below high school level.
I suppose one of the best things about going to a book club is that if you are wholeheartedly involved, you are forced to read things you normally wouldn't, so it makes your rating system a little more "real". I don't often finish books that I only give one star.
For another example, back in the 80s, no one would expect validation to come from anywhere but another person. Now it's all over the place. Billboards, chocolate wrappers, and my new favorite--cough drops.
If Halls weren't the only one to have grapefruit flavor, I would switch to another brand. I don't think I need validation from a cough drop wrapping.
And, to continue this disconnected post, I will confess that one of the pitfalls I find in living alone came along today: I had to convince myself that it is not acceptable at any level to have candy for dinner just because I don't feel like washing the dishes.
I was reasonably convincing, I think, because dinner is now on the stove, but I think I will still have candy afterwards.
Finally, I like the ring of my title today. You could use it to replace the first line of Julie Andrews singing "My Favorite Things."
Have a lovely evening, y'all folks.
