This has been a summer jam-packed with books for me. Sometimes it feels like the reading of them is more important than the content. It’s like that feeling you get when you’re really hungry and you don’t care what strange thing you eat as long as it fills you up.
This is not neccesarily a recommended reading list, it’s more a hodgepodge sample of what has been filling up my little head, because reading even a mediocre book beats sitting around staring off into space. I think. (*stares off into space and thinks about that*)
A man revisits his childhood, drawn to a small farmhouse and the pond behind it where his seven-year old self encounters dangerous, strange and frightening things. His beloved kitten gets run over, his family’s boarder commits suicide, and he and his eleven-year old friend Lettie try to send some creepy evil thing, accidentally awakened from another realm, back to its own world. This is one for fans of grown up fairy tales who like to remember the terror and magic involved in simply being a kid.
Vonny and Andre are worried about their abnormally short four-year old son Simon, but go on to worry about a variety of other things after their elderly neighbor Elizabeth, suffering from deafness and dementia, jumps out of her second story window and has to have her 16-year-old (kind of trampy, Andre-seducing) granddaughter come to live with her while she convalesces. Spoiler alert – Simon gets taller.
Coco is a struggling author who has a cheating husband, a gay son named Rosencrantz, two best friends who receive the bulk of her crazy e-mails, a hideous mother-in-law, a snobby agent, and a seemingly endless run of bad luck. It’s not easy getting back into the dating scene at the age of 42, never mind trying to steer your chaotic life in a new direction and get yourself back on track. But like Rosencrantz – (“Fucking hell Mum, like, way to go”) – I was laughing out loud and rooting for her all the way.
I guess I did not read nearly enough angst ridden young adult novels as a young adult so I’m making up for it now. This is a book written for teens by someone who remembers very well what it’s like to be one.
A down-on-his-luck disabled veteran detective investigates a super-model suicide and solves the mystery of her death. I read this only because it’s actually J.K. Rowling writing under a pseudonym, and not because I like to read crime fiction or mysteries. More seasoned whodunit lovers will probably have this one figured out before the end, but I never expect these things to turn out the way they do.
What secret is locked inside Rabo Karabekians potato barn? What better way to delve into the many layers of brilliance in the works of Kurt Vonnegut than to re-read some of my old and long forgotten favourites?
There are more books I could mention and give bad reviews, but why say things that aren’t nice? Or did I do that already? It’s hard for me to stay focussed on this because I’m part way through something new and hungry for the next chapter. In fact, I have two books on the go at the moment. I am a book glutton. Maybe I need help. Maybe there’s a book on that.
“Not that she didn’t enjoy the holidays: but she always felt—and it was, perhaps, the measure of her peculiar happiness—a little relieved when they were over. Her normal life pleased her so well that she was half afraid to step out of its frame in case one day she should find herself unable to get back.” – Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver
1. Sluggish (an actual slug would look hyperactive in comparison)
2. Inactive (I’m typing only because I get to sit down to do it)
3. Unresponsive (W sent me a text and a one word answer wore me out)
4. Languorous (physically and mentally squishy)
5. Listless (although not really because, hey – this is a list)
6. Weary (women do get weary)
7. Lackadaisical (dreamy, but the dreams are purposeless and beyond weird)
8. Somnolent (sounds so much more sophisticated than just plain sleepy)
9. Unambitious (my post-a-day plan has gone for a crap)
10. Lazy as hell
This has been going on since dragging my butt home following five straight days of work (three is normally my limit and then I turn into a walking zombie). Then I tried to answer a daily prompt which wanted to know what bores me. Everything I wrote, if you need to know the answer to that one. I gave up and wrote this exciting list instead.
Now I’m too embarrassed to reply to old comments because everyone has SO moved on and will have forgotten who I am, never mind what they said to me. I’m sorry. But too out of it to drum up the effort to make a sad face.
There! This can pass for a post! I am going to hit PUBLISH and go to bed! Expect slightly greater things tomorrow. Or possibly the day after that.
“Sometimes I do smart things. Sometimes I do dumb things. Most of the time I don’t do anything.”
― Gorilla Rising Hintz
“With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.”
Today is W’s 65th birthday. Imagine being married to someone so damned OLD! And both of us still crazy after all these years.
oenophilia (noun) – love of, devotion to, or obsession with wine
“Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.” ~Rumi
Daily Prompt: When you were 10, what did you want to be when you grew up? What are you now? Are the two connected?
Art class was one of the things I loved most about elementary school, a close runner-up to reading everything I could get my hands on and making up long and involved (very loosely based on reality) stories of my own. I remember the day our teacher gave us big blank pieces of art paper and told us to paint a picture which illustrated the answer to the question “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
In my short little life so far I had been asked that question about a billion times and was really sick of the people pleasing answers I felt compelled to come up with in response to it. I usually said whatever I thought was most likely to get the adult harassing me to smile and nod and then go away and pick on somebody else. It was my experience that grown ups really didn’t care what you wanted to be when you grew up, it was just a thing they asked kids when they couldn’t think of anything else to say.
This art assignment was less structured than normal, almost like being asked to paint whatever popped into our heads. So here’s what popped into mine.
I painted a stage across the bottom and a beautiful sparkly gossamer curtain across the back with lines and lines of flowing folds. On the stage stood a beautiful blonde woman in a gorgeous white evening gown which looked like a wedding dress without the veil. So I added a couple of gigantic red roses and a bow for clarification. In her hands she held a microphone attached to a long black cord that coiled off to one side and out of the picture. This was back in the day when microphones could be taken off their stands allowing performers to walk around trying not to get tangled up in a bunch of wires. The lady’s eyes were closed and her mouth was a big round red O taking up half her face. There were musical notes floating around above her head. It was a beautiful picture and I was incredibly proud of it. Because that was going to me – drop dead gorgeous, blonde, dressed to kill and singing my heart out on the Ed Sullivan Show.
So how did that work out for me? Actually, not well. I can’t sing. I don’t look so great with blond hair – tried it once and didn’t have any more fun than I’d had as a brunette. Never in my life have I owned or felt the urge to purchase such elaborate formal wear. Or one of those big poufy wedding dresses either. Red lipstick makes me look weird. I have never used a microphone or done anything on a stage where I was the center of attention unless you count being handed a diploma. And Ed Sullivan died before I could be discovered. If he was alive today he’d still be waiting.
Today I work in the medical field and wear a lab coat at work every day. Hey – it’s white! So that part of my vision of the future was bang on. The rest, not so much. Even as the picture took form all those years ago I’m sure I knew it was just a silly dream and simply an excuse to paint a beautiful lady in a stunning dress.
I try to make a point of never, ever, asking a young child what they want to do with their lives. How can they possibly know? What a kid does know is what’s fun, what makes them laugh the hardest, what games they like to play, which books are the best to read. They’ve got years and years to live and so many things to experience and even then their life work decisions may never be carved in stone.
Now I’d answer the question by saying simply that I just want to be happy. There’s time enough to discover all the ways there are to make that happen.