Phrases:
'D for Denzel Washington.'
'Action films are getting more boring. Everything is more boring. Nothing surprises anyone anymore, especially not children.'
'Never expect little of anyone or anything. Either be caught off guard and surprised, or be prepared.'
'B for Barry Scott.'
G for Get me the f$^&*% out of here!'
'Poetically Correct.'
'PC imploded.'
'Exploding moths.'
The inward markings of a tree stump are in the shape of a colony, or a canyon, or the labyrinth of the Minotaur.
Why is the moss so green among putrid brown woods?
What's that on the poor, mighty tree, standing strong and sturdy? Paint? No, nature. Decay.
Lichen clings to the tree, coiling all around it like a bristly caterpillar. Will the strong oak become its cocoon, ready to burst into a more beautiful nature at just the right time?
So many sticks, twigs and leaves on the ground, so many ruts, and skeletal branches keep poking me.
Is bark a tree's wrinkles? The snapped-off layers of time?
There is always something new amidst the old.
Always follow the sun. The moon. The river. They will lead you home. Where you need to be.
Ivy grows all over the trees. Such pretty green shapes, like the ace of spades.
What is a promise un-kept but another dark hole of misery and distrust in humanity's fragile, encrusted core?
Maybe we buy things impulsively and desperately in order to fill the void of unsatisfied ambitions and needs in our hearts. But that's the curse of money: We can never have enough, and we can never get enough of throwing it away. The cycle of easy and soulless living continues...
Monday, 28 March 2016
Scribble #22
All masters start out as novices as well.
No word nourishes my soul and sings to my heart quite like 'story'.
"Pigeons in sync. Kissing pigeons on the fence."
"A squirrel climbs up a small tree next to a fenced-off yard in front of me. Quietly, I approach it. The grey furry rodent climbs higher, then sits on the branch nearest me. It doesn't take off as I walk closer, as I playfully coo at it, like it's a baby, and tell it it has no reason to be afraid. I've never been at such close quarters with a squirrel before. The little creature stares its beady black eyes at me, as if daring me to make a sudden movement, to keep walking towards it. Eventually it does spring off the tree and down the fence, stopping once or twice.
I wonder - really wonder - if that animal was testing me, seeing if I was a threat, like how it percieves other humans or predators. I was so close to it, as it was perched itself on that tree branch, that I could see the sharp bristles of its grey coat, and softness of its large bushy tail. I even talked to it kindly. The squirrel sensed I was not a threat. A weirdo, maybe, but a human who loved and cared for animals anywhere, woodland or no. It only left because instincts against humans won out.
Wow, what a mad, hopeless observation. I think I know which one of us is the nutter here."
Why is a child's chalk rendition of a powerful tree on the pavement, in the rain, so sad? Everyday, while out and about, is a story of chance. Chance encounters. Chance deals. Chance catch-ups.
No word nourishes my soul and sings to my heart quite like 'story'.
"Pigeons in sync. Kissing pigeons on the fence."
"A squirrel climbs up a small tree next to a fenced-off yard in front of me. Quietly, I approach it. The grey furry rodent climbs higher, then sits on the branch nearest me. It doesn't take off as I walk closer, as I playfully coo at it, like it's a baby, and tell it it has no reason to be afraid. I've never been at such close quarters with a squirrel before. The little creature stares its beady black eyes at me, as if daring me to make a sudden movement, to keep walking towards it. Eventually it does spring off the tree and down the fence, stopping once or twice.
I wonder - really wonder - if that animal was testing me, seeing if I was a threat, like how it percieves other humans or predators. I was so close to it, as it was perched itself on that tree branch, that I could see the sharp bristles of its grey coat, and softness of its large bushy tail. I even talked to it kindly. The squirrel sensed I was not a threat. A weirdo, maybe, but a human who loved and cared for animals anywhere, woodland or no. It only left because instincts against humans won out.
Wow, what a mad, hopeless observation. I think I know which one of us is the nutter here."
Why is a child's chalk rendition of a powerful tree on the pavement, in the rain, so sad? Everyday, while out and about, is a story of chance. Chance encounters. Chance deals. Chance catch-ups.
Book Review - 'The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate' by Jacqueline Kelly
2021 EDIT: Couldn't hold my interest quite as much this time, I'm afraid. And I only first read and loved this five years ago. Wow I'm getting old fast. Also, I somehow didn't catch on last time that Calpurnia and her family have black maids and cooks (is there a mention of pay?), and this is set in Texas in 1899. And they live and work in a cotton farm. For a book all about exploring, studying and analysing everything around you, particularly in childlike wonder, the racial tensions, violence and segregation of that period are never even cited. Nothing of that side of life is addressed in this book, when it has boundless opportunity to. Silly kiddie crushes everywhere seem more important. In terms of politics, sexism is criticised (though not really any form of toxic masculinity, I'd noticed), but not racism.
Well, 'The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate' is still a book I would recommend to anyone, mainly children. It still doesn't matter that it has no plot; it's the coming-of-age journey that matters.
At least it's leagues better than the sequel.
Final Score: 3.5/5
Original Review:
Never, ever before have I read a novel where the general consensus for it could very well be "Nothing happens", and yet I found it to be the most beautiful, charming, wonderful, funny and spellbinding kind of "Nothing happens".
Each chapter of 'The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate' by Jacqueline Kelly is a little standalone story. Lacking an overall plot, the book's connecting theme is the coming-of-age journey of eleven-year-old Calpurnia "Callie Vee" Tate, and her scientific exploration and discoveries in her small, hot Texas farm in 1899, at the turn of the century and the revolutionary point of great worldly changes. While she's thinking on one of her many musings, Callie ends up starting a close relationship with her grandfather, a shadowy figure in the family, who is also deeply into the scientific field. Together they become avid naturalists - finding various types of animal species and insects, plants and micro-organisms - influenced by Charles Darwin's 'Origin of Species'.
Later, however, Callie's upbeat, energetic, independent and curious personality is threatened by her mother's interference. As the only girl of seven children, Callie is made to learn cooking, sewing and other chores to prepare her for the drudged, limited life of a housewife. As a little girl who thrives in creativity and the open air, and who hates tedium and repetitiveness, Callie wishes to escape society's expectations of what a woman should be. She continues to explore the grasslands and rivers with her grandfather, discovering things every day.
Is Callie's own nature strong enough to fight a restricted, oppressive environment? Is her future set in stone, even as she enters a new century, full of new and exciting possibilities?
I absolutely adore 'The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate' and its themes and characters. Callie is a joy to read about; always fun, witty and active, she's totally infectious as a narrator. She's right up there with Anne of Green Gables and Heidi on the list of sweet and highly enthusiastic young girls in literature that bookworms would imagine as their friends. Callie loves books and libraries too! I love her interactions with everyone in this book. Her six equally-growing brothers range from kind to mischievous to too darn adorable. Her bond with her granddaddy is something special indeed. He is the sly, encouraging relative the reader wishes they had. Callie's relationships with other female characters - like her mother, her family cook Viola, and her best friend Lula Gates - are varied as well, and ever-changing as the novel progresses in development.
As Callie is still a child, she can also be selfish and afraid of change in her family. She doesn't hide much from anyone. But hallelujah!! she acknowledges and learns from her mistakes, which is admirable for someone of her age.
The whole novel has a positive, sunny feel to it, thanks to Callie's youthful view of the world. Yet it doesn't shy away from what she must expect when she becomes a young woman. Blatant sexism creeps into her innocent world. Callie Vee is truly heartbroken at the prospect of not being allowed to follow her dreams anymore, because she's a girl, and the author makes sure the reader understands her pain and anguish.
Throughout the book you get to know Calpurnia Tate as a spirited, free-thinking, free-feeling, clever and brave girl. So the thought of all that being forced out of her - that she might be beaten down into a repressed, bored, dead-inside servant - is devastating. She isn't a wild child or a degenerate; she's just curious about all the little natural mysteries surrounding her home life. The absence of a major plot reflects Callie's own spontaneous growth and development (her own “evolution” as the title indicates) - humanity and earth are meant to be carefully studied and explored, not manmade into hard, coherent and contrived structures.
Calpurnia Tate is a healthy kid, a healthy girl. To hell with what's considered normal. If only her parents and teachers gave her the benefit of the doubt.
Callie doesn't give in easily though, and she knows what's what, and who is good and who is bad for her (and her safety): another refreshing trait in a heroine. By the end, I was wishing this fictional charmer all the best - for a bright future where she can achieve her dreams - in a brand new beginning in 1900...
I cannot recommend 'The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate' enough. I found myself re-reading chapters over and over again because they're such lovely treats - something I've never done before. It is a gorgeous, spritely tale about earth's treasures amidst the mundane and ritual, created by man. There are no constraints. Similar books have not come close to making me feel the freshness and glory that 'Calpurnia Tate' has.
Nature has no set rules, not always. It is fleeting, unpredictable, but beautiful, like life itself. Calpurnia Tate has made me feel lucky and grateful to be alive.
Final Score: 5/5
EDIT: Forgot to mention another thing that's such a breath of fresh air in this novel - there's not a hint of a love interest for the female protagonist in sight!!!
Well, 'The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate' is still a book I would recommend to anyone, mainly children. It still doesn't matter that it has no plot; it's the coming-of-age journey that matters.
At least it's leagues better than the sequel.
Final Score: 3.5/5
Original Review:
Never, ever before have I read a novel where the general consensus for it could very well be "Nothing happens", and yet I found it to be the most beautiful, charming, wonderful, funny and spellbinding kind of "Nothing happens".
Each chapter of 'The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate' by Jacqueline Kelly is a little standalone story. Lacking an overall plot, the book's connecting theme is the coming-of-age journey of eleven-year-old Calpurnia "Callie Vee" Tate, and her scientific exploration and discoveries in her small, hot Texas farm in 1899, at the turn of the century and the revolutionary point of great worldly changes. While she's thinking on one of her many musings, Callie ends up starting a close relationship with her grandfather, a shadowy figure in the family, who is also deeply into the scientific field. Together they become avid naturalists - finding various types of animal species and insects, plants and micro-organisms - influenced by Charles Darwin's 'Origin of Species'.
Later, however, Callie's upbeat, energetic, independent and curious personality is threatened by her mother's interference. As the only girl of seven children, Callie is made to learn cooking, sewing and other chores to prepare her for the drudged, limited life of a housewife. As a little girl who thrives in creativity and the open air, and who hates tedium and repetitiveness, Callie wishes to escape society's expectations of what a woman should be. She continues to explore the grasslands and rivers with her grandfather, discovering things every day.
Is Callie's own nature strong enough to fight a restricted, oppressive environment? Is her future set in stone, even as she enters a new century, full of new and exciting possibilities?
I absolutely adore 'The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate' and its themes and characters. Callie is a joy to read about; always fun, witty and active, she's totally infectious as a narrator. She's right up there with Anne of Green Gables and Heidi on the list of sweet and highly enthusiastic young girls in literature that bookworms would imagine as their friends. Callie loves books and libraries too! I love her interactions with everyone in this book. Her six equally-growing brothers range from kind to mischievous to too darn adorable. Her bond with her granddaddy is something special indeed. He is the sly, encouraging relative the reader wishes they had. Callie's relationships with other female characters - like her mother, her family cook Viola, and her best friend Lula Gates - are varied as well, and ever-changing as the novel progresses in development.
As Callie is still a child, she can also be selfish and afraid of change in her family. She doesn't hide much from anyone. But hallelujah!! she acknowledges and learns from her mistakes, which is admirable for someone of her age.
The whole novel has a positive, sunny feel to it, thanks to Callie's youthful view of the world. Yet it doesn't shy away from what she must expect when she becomes a young woman. Blatant sexism creeps into her innocent world. Callie Vee is truly heartbroken at the prospect of not being allowed to follow her dreams anymore, because she's a girl, and the author makes sure the reader understands her pain and anguish.
Throughout the book you get to know Calpurnia Tate as a spirited, free-thinking, free-feeling, clever and brave girl. So the thought of all that being forced out of her - that she might be beaten down into a repressed, bored, dead-inside servant - is devastating. She isn't a wild child or a degenerate; she's just curious about all the little natural mysteries surrounding her home life. The absence of a major plot reflects Callie's own spontaneous growth and development (her own “evolution” as the title indicates) - humanity and earth are meant to be carefully studied and explored, not manmade into hard, coherent and contrived structures.
Calpurnia Tate is a healthy kid, a healthy girl. To hell with what's considered normal. If only her parents and teachers gave her the benefit of the doubt.
Callie doesn't give in easily though, and she knows what's what, and who is good and who is bad for her (and her safety): another refreshing trait in a heroine. By the end, I was wishing this fictional charmer all the best - for a bright future where she can achieve her dreams - in a brand new beginning in 1900...
I cannot recommend 'The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate' enough. I found myself re-reading chapters over and over again because they're such lovely treats - something I've never done before. It is a gorgeous, spritely tale about earth's treasures amidst the mundane and ritual, created by man. There are no constraints. Similar books have not come close to making me feel the freshness and glory that 'Calpurnia Tate' has.
Nature has no set rules, not always. It is fleeting, unpredictable, but beautiful, like life itself. Calpurnia Tate has made me feel lucky and grateful to be alive.
Final Score: 5/5
EDIT: Forgot to mention another thing that's such a breath of fresh air in this novel - there's not a hint of a love interest for the female protagonist in sight!!!
Tuesday, 22 March 2016
Book Review - 'Carol' by Patricia Highsmith
2021 EDIT: I couldn't get into 'Carol' a second time, unfortunately, and I skimmed most of it.
I just don't think the 50s novel was meant to be enjoyed much. So many descriptions of the most mundane details and observations. Some scenes are outright pointless, if not tedious. The narration is dreary, dull, impersonal, awkward and meandering, with little actual heart. There are inconsistencies in the writing, such as characters being in one place and then suddenly, a few paragraphs later, they are in a different place entirely in the same room. It's confusing, and is what I mean by the book being awkward. The characters can be bewildering, inconsistent and not always likeable (not that they need to be, but still, it would have helped add a certain ardour and vitality to the narrative). Names of supposed characters keep popping up on pages, as if the reader is expected to know who they are. A realistic depiction of people and life flying by? Is this intentional? Why should I care, anyhow?
It seems to me that, like the 2015 film adaptation, which I also grew bored of, 'Carol', or 'The Price of Salt', mostly relies on its LBGTQ romance as its novelty and highest selling point. Without it, what else is there that's worth remembering? It could work as an antipatriarchy story, I guess. It's like style over substance - not that there isn't any good substance in 'Carol', far from it. It just could have been written better; more freely, and with more energy, in my opinion.
I appreciate it for being the "first" lesbian novel with a somewhat happy ending for the couple. That's antipatriarchy and anticensorship.
I didn't care for Therese this time round, either. How selfish she is, even if she is young. And she's apathetic and judgemental, especially of women who aren't Carol.
Final Score: 3/5
Original Review:
The second book I've read that centers on a lesbian romance. The first was 'Annie on My Mind' by Nancy Garden, from the eighties. This one is from the fifties. I maintain the belief that regardless of who you are - and what your sexual orientation is or lack thereof - a good book is a good book and can be enjoyed by anyone. A good book should be able to at least garner interest in a readership not normally into its subject matter.
And in my opinion, 'Carol' (originally 'The Price of Salt') by Patricia Highsmith is a brilliantly-written, atmospherically real novel that is an instant classic. Additionally I saw the film adaptation starring Cate Blanchett just the other night - the day after I finished the book - and I knew I had to start a review right away.
'Carol' explores all the rainbow spectres of emotion from beginning to end. The theme of the main character experiencing first love towards someone of the same sex - no subtext, which was revolutionary for its time - is the icing on the cake of this absorbing and exhilarating craft. It is also the "first" homosexual love story with a positive ending (however ambiguous). What hope and joy.
Mostly set in New York, 'Carol' is constantly in motion; moving from place to place, meeting one character here, another there, and then in a flash we're introduced to another new person. A reflection of how real life works when adult human beings are always in a state of activity; with so many aspects of their lives to function through as productive society members. Classism is another theme that’s more subtly touched upon in this great work.
The romance itself is potent and a source of passion throughout, but the author still takes time to develop it slowly within the narrative, all from the perspective of the young protagonist, Therese Belivet. 'Carol' is her coming-of-age story: her starting out in life, miserably working in a doll department in a store at Christmas, endlessly waiting for job opportunities in theatre set designing, drifting away from a boyfriend she doesn't love, losing contact altogether with people from her previous life. Carol, the person - the rich Suburban older woman, sophisticated and beautiful - enters Therese's life as if by a magical chance at the department store. Carol Aird, who is going through a divorce and fighting for custody of her daughter, becomes Therese’s life.
But, by taking more and more risks with each other - like travelling à la 'Thelma and Louise' road trip - Carol could end up bringing about naïve Therese's destruction as well as her own, emotionally...
It sounds so straightforward. Really, it's glorious. To no end it's thrilling.
The novel flows in a natural-seeming way - filled with natural-sounding dialogue from the very human characters - despite its on-driving pace and quickly dropping off certain elements from one place to the next, big or small. For there will always be the big and small things in life that will shape us. Little features, such as the department store of dolls and train sets, kid gloves and set design models, add up to shine an innocent, fairy tale light to 'Carol' in its modest beginnings. The calm charm before the storm of the adult world, full of harsh consequences slowly but surely ploughing through.
Like Therese, we will continue to go on moving forward; to grow and gain new experiences. We will learn and decide what to keep to ourselves and what to discard as the past, as a shadow of our former lives. We must love ourselves for who we are, do what we feel is right, and not change because of the preconceived ideas of ignorant and intolerant people.
The fifties NY atmosphere Highsmith utilized is stylish, delightful yet gritty and morose all at once. The majority of the supporting characters are male, and most of them are negative presences for Carol and Therese, due to living in an oppressive, patriarchal society that thrives on the submissiveness of the female in order to go on in its toxic waste-lay. The few supporting female characters, such as Abby, are at first perceived as potentially threatening. But they are actually positive influences; Therese mostly misunderstands them for they make her fear for her place in Carol's life, and for her own mortality.
There are flaws in 'Carol', of course. Even though I thought the writing was near perfection, it does contain a few old-fashioned phrases I had to get used to. To me they seemed to be placed a little awkwardly. Therese believes that Carol had betrayed her at one point because Carol may love her young daughter more than Therese. The child is in the midst of a custody battle between her parents following a bitter, vengeful divorce. It's all about who spends the most time with Carol (who is pretty callous and judgemental herself). This absurdly childish and selfish notion of Therese's doesn't really change throughout the story, although it could be a sign she's still maturing long after the ending, which to the final page is perfectly done.
'Carol', among its other achievements, made me care deeply about a romance story. A forbidden romance story at that. The characters are complex and believable, the events of all shapes and sizes are intriguing and richly defined, and the solid writing does not let the reader go for a moment. It’s great to see a female friendship - sexual or not - portrayed positively. By the by, ‘Thelma and Louise’ is also one of my favourite films.
‘Carol’ may have cured my long-suffering reading slump this year. It certainly regained my faith in well-written and fantastical books. What can I say, I love it. As Carol would say, it's like it was flung from space.
Final Score: 4.5/5
I just don't think the 50s novel was meant to be enjoyed much. So many descriptions of the most mundane details and observations. Some scenes are outright pointless, if not tedious. The narration is dreary, dull, impersonal, awkward and meandering, with little actual heart. There are inconsistencies in the writing, such as characters being in one place and then suddenly, a few paragraphs later, they are in a different place entirely in the same room. It's confusing, and is what I mean by the book being awkward. The characters can be bewildering, inconsistent and not always likeable (not that they need to be, but still, it would have helped add a certain ardour and vitality to the narrative). Names of supposed characters keep popping up on pages, as if the reader is expected to know who they are. A realistic depiction of people and life flying by? Is this intentional? Why should I care, anyhow?
It seems to me that, like the 2015 film adaptation, which I also grew bored of, 'Carol', or 'The Price of Salt', mostly relies on its LBGTQ romance as its novelty and highest selling point. Without it, what else is there that's worth remembering? It could work as an antipatriarchy story, I guess. It's like style over substance - not that there isn't any good substance in 'Carol', far from it. It just could have been written better; more freely, and with more energy, in my opinion.
I appreciate it for being the "first" lesbian novel with a somewhat happy ending for the couple. That's antipatriarchy and anticensorship.
I didn't care for Therese this time round, either. How selfish she is, even if she is young. And she's apathetic and judgemental, especially of women who aren't Carol.
Final Score: 3/5
Original Review:
The second book I've read that centers on a lesbian romance. The first was 'Annie on My Mind' by Nancy Garden, from the eighties. This one is from the fifties. I maintain the belief that regardless of who you are - and what your sexual orientation is or lack thereof - a good book is a good book and can be enjoyed by anyone. A good book should be able to at least garner interest in a readership not normally into its subject matter.
And in my opinion, 'Carol' (originally 'The Price of Salt') by Patricia Highsmith is a brilliantly-written, atmospherically real novel that is an instant classic. Additionally I saw the film adaptation starring Cate Blanchett just the other night - the day after I finished the book - and I knew I had to start a review right away.
'Carol' explores all the rainbow spectres of emotion from beginning to end. The theme of the main character experiencing first love towards someone of the same sex - no subtext, which was revolutionary for its time - is the icing on the cake of this absorbing and exhilarating craft. It is also the "first" homosexual love story with a positive ending (however ambiguous). What hope and joy.
Mostly set in New York, 'Carol' is constantly in motion; moving from place to place, meeting one character here, another there, and then in a flash we're introduced to another new person. A reflection of how real life works when adult human beings are always in a state of activity; with so many aspects of their lives to function through as productive society members. Classism is another theme that’s more subtly touched upon in this great work.
The romance itself is potent and a source of passion throughout, but the author still takes time to develop it slowly within the narrative, all from the perspective of the young protagonist, Therese Belivet. 'Carol' is her coming-of-age story: her starting out in life, miserably working in a doll department in a store at Christmas, endlessly waiting for job opportunities in theatre set designing, drifting away from a boyfriend she doesn't love, losing contact altogether with people from her previous life. Carol, the person - the rich Suburban older woman, sophisticated and beautiful - enters Therese's life as if by a magical chance at the department store. Carol Aird, who is going through a divorce and fighting for custody of her daughter, becomes Therese’s life.
But, by taking more and more risks with each other - like travelling à la 'Thelma and Louise' road trip - Carol could end up bringing about naïve Therese's destruction as well as her own, emotionally...
It sounds so straightforward. Really, it's glorious. To no end it's thrilling.
The novel flows in a natural-seeming way - filled with natural-sounding dialogue from the very human characters - despite its on-driving pace and quickly dropping off certain elements from one place to the next, big or small. For there will always be the big and small things in life that will shape us. Little features, such as the department store of dolls and train sets, kid gloves and set design models, add up to shine an innocent, fairy tale light to 'Carol' in its modest beginnings. The calm charm before the storm of the adult world, full of harsh consequences slowly but surely ploughing through.
Like Therese, we will continue to go on moving forward; to grow and gain new experiences. We will learn and decide what to keep to ourselves and what to discard as the past, as a shadow of our former lives. We must love ourselves for who we are, do what we feel is right, and not change because of the preconceived ideas of ignorant and intolerant people.
The fifties NY atmosphere Highsmith utilized is stylish, delightful yet gritty and morose all at once. The majority of the supporting characters are male, and most of them are negative presences for Carol and Therese, due to living in an oppressive, patriarchal society that thrives on the submissiveness of the female in order to go on in its toxic waste-lay. The few supporting female characters, such as Abby, are at first perceived as potentially threatening. But they are actually positive influences; Therese mostly misunderstands them for they make her fear for her place in Carol's life, and for her own mortality.
There are flaws in 'Carol', of course. Even though I thought the writing was near perfection, it does contain a few old-fashioned phrases I had to get used to. To me they seemed to be placed a little awkwardly. Therese believes that Carol had betrayed her at one point because Carol may love her young daughter more than Therese. The child is in the midst of a custody battle between her parents following a bitter, vengeful divorce. It's all about who spends the most time with Carol (who is pretty callous and judgemental herself). This absurdly childish and selfish notion of Therese's doesn't really change throughout the story, although it could be a sign she's still maturing long after the ending, which to the final page is perfectly done.
'Carol', among its other achievements, made me care deeply about a romance story. A forbidden romance story at that. The characters are complex and believable, the events of all shapes and sizes are intriguing and richly defined, and the solid writing does not let the reader go for a moment. It’s great to see a female friendship - sexual or not - portrayed positively. By the by, ‘Thelma and Louise’ is also one of my favourite films.
‘Carol’ may have cured my long-suffering reading slump this year. It certainly regained my faith in well-written and fantastical books. What can I say, I love it. As Carol would say, it's like it was flung from space.
Final Score: 4.5/5
Thursday, 17 March 2016
Non-Fiction Book Review - 'Judy and Liza' by James Spada
An old book of my mum's, found while I was staying with her. I skimmed through her Marilyn Monroe collection, but in one sitting - during dinner no less - I managed to complete 'Judy and Liza'. It is a short but entirely satisfactory biography on the life of one of Hollywood's most talented, beautiful and tragic starlets, Judy Garland, and is subsequently about her daughter, Liza Minnelli.
'Judy and Liza' explores and explains the history between mother and daughter, their lives and beyond - from Garland (Frances Gumm)'s birth up to Liza's career in the eighties. There was the love, the complexities, the trials, the anxieties, the comebacks, the antithesis between fame and family, and the depression. But with the rises and falls and all the bleakness, both ladies were hugely talented (great singers especially) and intelligent (they'd have to be to survive the way they lived). Towards the end, at the point of catharsis, 'Judy and Liza' tells of Liza's rise to fame on her own. It talks about how she takes being compared to her mother as both a blessing and a hinderance - professionally and personally - long after Garland's tragic death.
A great, eye-opening read of a classic. A star-studded bio sure to remind everyone that no one is perfect; we're all human, we've always had problems. The rich and famous likely have much bigger ones.
Final Score: 5/5
'Judy and Liza' explores and explains the history between mother and daughter, their lives and beyond - from Garland (Frances Gumm)'s birth up to Liza's career in the eighties. There was the love, the complexities, the trials, the anxieties, the comebacks, the antithesis between fame and family, and the depression. But with the rises and falls and all the bleakness, both ladies were hugely talented (great singers especially) and intelligent (they'd have to be to survive the way they lived). Towards the end, at the point of catharsis, 'Judy and Liza' tells of Liza's rise to fame on her own. It talks about how she takes being compared to her mother as both a blessing and a hinderance - professionally and personally - long after Garland's tragic death.
A great, eye-opening read of a classic. A star-studded bio sure to remind everyone that no one is perfect; we're all human, we've always had problems. The rich and famous likely have much bigger ones.
Final Score: 5/5
Monday, 14 March 2016
Saturday, 12 March 2016
Scribble #21
Silence in the house. Only the dripping coming from the kitchen faucet. It is peaceful, a comforting sign that time still ticks, that I still exist to hear it. I am alive, and to me, when I myself cease to tick, time will at last stop. But that's not true. Time will keep going on outside of my own life, forever, for all eternity. With no one able to keep it in check or track it towards the end of the universe. We cannot keep it in a piece of clockwork or in a bowl, unlike drops of water from a faucet.
Time itself has no clock in which to contain it. It will stop ticking eventually. But we have clocks: we always make them, and record time everywhere.
Criticism, and learning how and why you should critique works of art - heck, any work at all - is important. It can help you improve your own art.
"Revising and studying thoroughly; it's like brushing your teeth."
"We humans are amazing creatures. We are continuously fascinated by the past, and yet we learn nothing from it."
"I would try to understand your point of view, but I love my sanity too much."
"Children are not childproof." - copyright Janet Temple.
Time itself has no clock in which to contain it. It will stop ticking eventually. But we have clocks: we always make them, and record time everywhere.
Criticism, and learning how and why you should critique works of art - heck, any work at all - is important. It can help you improve your own art.
"Revising and studying thoroughly; it's like brushing your teeth."
"We humans are amazing creatures. We are continuously fascinated by the past, and yet we learn nothing from it."
"I would try to understand your point of view, but I love my sanity too much."
"Children are not childproof." - copyright Janet Temple.
Friday, 11 March 2016
Scribble #20
Crickets sing to me.
Grass sings.
The wind sings.
Find something as rare as a four-leaf clover.
No happiness lasts forever.
School children are monsters.
What burdens we must acknowledge, and then carry.
Shiver. Shake. Sweat. Shatter body and mind and heart.
Do cats feel loneliness and un-fulfilment in others as well as themselves?
I avoid people, but jump at the chance to get acquainted with animals. Can they not be just as cruel and manipulative? Hurtful even?
I feel drawn towards lonely people more than those in groups. One opinion influencing them - can it be their own? I see myself in lonely children. Why are a few people more pleasurable than crowds?
Is the power of hope just to believe?
What is instinct? Is it a cosmic force? A prophet? Something that tells you mind, body and soul if something is fine or not? Is it always right? Is it like a conscience?
You make wishes and dreams happen, but when is the time to wait, to gather energy and knowledge?
When and how do I know not to worry or think too much about that worry? Worry is uncertainty becoming fear. Is instinct based off of knowledge, or is it something born inside of us?
We all fear what can hurt us. As animals fear.
What is a hug? What is a cuddle? What is a hold? A grip? A grasp? A snuggle? A struggle? What differentiates between these? Is it the circumstance surrounding them? Is it the feeling gotten from them? Is it the intent behind them? The consent given? Like a different kind of touch?
The only thing worse than having problems is feeling you are alone with those problems.
Grass sings.
The wind sings.
Find something as rare as a four-leaf clover.
No happiness lasts forever.
School children are monsters.
What burdens we must acknowledge, and then carry.
Shiver. Shake. Sweat. Shatter body and mind and heart.
Do cats feel loneliness and un-fulfilment in others as well as themselves?
I avoid people, but jump at the chance to get acquainted with animals. Can they not be just as cruel and manipulative? Hurtful even?
I feel drawn towards lonely people more than those in groups. One opinion influencing them - can it be their own? I see myself in lonely children. Why are a few people more pleasurable than crowds?
Is the power of hope just to believe?
What is instinct? Is it a cosmic force? A prophet? Something that tells you mind, body and soul if something is fine or not? Is it always right? Is it like a conscience?
You make wishes and dreams happen, but when is the time to wait, to gather energy and knowledge?
When and how do I know not to worry or think too much about that worry? Worry is uncertainty becoming fear. Is instinct based off of knowledge, or is it something born inside of us?
We all fear what can hurt us. As animals fear.
What is a hug? What is a cuddle? What is a hold? A grip? A grasp? A snuggle? A struggle? What differentiates between these? Is it the circumstance surrounding them? Is it the feeling gotten from them? Is it the intent behind them? The consent given? Like a different kind of touch?
The only thing worse than having problems is feeling you are alone with those problems.
Wednesday, 9 March 2016
Scribble #19
The church is so cold the air I breathe inside it turns into a milky white mist in front of me, and among the bulletins, posters and charity brochures. There are all kinds of stones - gravestones, gravel, and amber and black path stones - wet from the nearby river, and leading up to the large, grey wooden doors like angel blood jewels. Inside the timeless cathedral of alabaster and brown, it smells of home, of a living room containing dusty cushions and cobwebbed chairs - not to mention the priceless benches and pews. No one has visited or cleaned the holy sanctuary for a long time. But it gives off a feeling of a fire being set, to kneel and pray by, as if God were welcoming me with His heart - by touching my heart, and not my eyes. A bell sounds in the distance, it has been going in cycles, banging not ringing, announcing beauty and melancholy throughout the centuries. The sun is out, and the church creates its own inner light; its own love. Beige and gold have never looked so magnificent together. Old stone scriptures. New children's drawings on paper. A neverending high ceiling, filling high and low with wonderful space. The rest is silence. Pure, calm, respected silence. Were I to come visit this place at night, there would be candles to light the darkness and honour God, the angels, the saints. Eagles, doves and ravens watch over me...
Churches - the most peaceful, private public places on earth.
It gets warmer the closer you are to the alter; the closer to God. Now I carry God's heart like a hearth inside me wherever I go.
I don't remember any details concerning my dream, but I do have a lingering sense of fear and foreboding, and I feel like crying. Maybe I don't want to remember my dream. Why are so many people so cruel, so ungrateful, and completely lacking in empathy? Why so much vitriol?
I wonder if I should write in the rain, to see if a change comes over me. Better yet, I should write outside and let the rain drops fall on my pages, soaking them through, and see if some magical kind of emotion will be expressed from within and without. Clear, beautiful pearl drops, like tears on my work. They'll still be lovely though, in the rain.
Do I unconsciously block out smells in forests? I hardly mention them in my writing.
Churches - the most peaceful, private public places on earth.
It gets warmer the closer you are to the alter; the closer to God. Now I carry God's heart like a hearth inside me wherever I go.
I don't remember any details concerning my dream, but I do have a lingering sense of fear and foreboding, and I feel like crying. Maybe I don't want to remember my dream. Why are so many people so cruel, so ungrateful, and completely lacking in empathy? Why so much vitriol?
I wonder if I should write in the rain, to see if a change comes over me. Better yet, I should write outside and let the rain drops fall on my pages, soaking them through, and see if some magical kind of emotion will be expressed from within and without. Clear, beautiful pearl drops, like tears on my work. They'll still be lovely though, in the rain.
Do I unconsciously block out smells in forests? I hardly mention them in my writing.
Tuesday, 8 March 2016
Scribble #18
Squish squish squish, I step through the wet field, the grass shining and refreshed in the peeking, colourless sun. It is like a swamp around here, only the air is clearer. My trainers may be caked in mud, but at least I'm not sinking to my waist, stuck and in danger of drowning in muck.
Trickling streams. Rushing on and on, taking leaves and twigs and branches and pines down its assorted path. I didn't know there is a huge stream in my town, and possibly a river moat up ahead. There is a lot I don't know, or remember since childhood. I used to climb the trees; the bark as green and mossy as a pond.
Exploring. Unlocking the past. Outside is as foggy and cold as my childhood memories. The freshness of being bullied and undermined at school - where I always tried to internally escape from, and a few times even tried to run away from externally - it is all there before me now, longing to be forgotten, buried. I was a pathetic prisoner. The dam breaks, and the tears rush to the surface, blocking up my throat and wavering in my eyes. These types of memories are as colourless and plainly truthful as my tears. Is that why I am suddenly melancholy? Unable to lift my face up to the breaking sky, not wanting to. But it seems the sun is trying to show its face to me through the pale clouds. It never gives up. Indeed if it did the world would be pitched in blackness and total oblivion, with no hope to cling to at all. How hard it must be to keep going - it's admirable. Rain is sprinkled on the grass at my muddy and soaked feet. I may not feel or look alright, but the earth will keep on rotating, day after day, for a millennia more. I guess that's another theory of balance - between the physical and soul-psychic worlds.
Silence. But for the birds talking to one another. What do they talk about? I wish I could join in their conversation. Even streams are never lonely. Everywhere is just so vast and empty of people at this time of year, and I know for a fact that humans don't normally hibernate. Of course not. They normally have jobs. Presumably, and preferably.
Trickling streams. Rushing on and on, taking leaves and twigs and branches and pines down its assorted path. I didn't know there is a huge stream in my town, and possibly a river moat up ahead. There is a lot I don't know, or remember since childhood. I used to climb the trees; the bark as green and mossy as a pond.
Exploring. Unlocking the past. Outside is as foggy and cold as my childhood memories. The freshness of being bullied and undermined at school - where I always tried to internally escape from, and a few times even tried to run away from externally - it is all there before me now, longing to be forgotten, buried. I was a pathetic prisoner. The dam breaks, and the tears rush to the surface, blocking up my throat and wavering in my eyes. These types of memories are as colourless and plainly truthful as my tears. Is that why I am suddenly melancholy? Unable to lift my face up to the breaking sky, not wanting to. But it seems the sun is trying to show its face to me through the pale clouds. It never gives up. Indeed if it did the world would be pitched in blackness and total oblivion, with no hope to cling to at all. How hard it must be to keep going - it's admirable. Rain is sprinkled on the grass at my muddy and soaked feet. I may not feel or look alright, but the earth will keep on rotating, day after day, for a millennia more. I guess that's another theory of balance - between the physical and soul-psychic worlds.
Silence. But for the birds talking to one another. What do they talk about? I wish I could join in their conversation. Even streams are never lonely. Everywhere is just so vast and empty of people at this time of year, and I know for a fact that humans don't normally hibernate. Of course not. They normally have jobs. Presumably, and preferably.
Sunday, 6 March 2016
Scribble #17
I am in my right mind. My mind just isn't like anyone elses'.
My face turns rosy and fuller when I write.
What do different elders know? Each one always gives different advice, for each has had a different life, and learnt different things. Difference is a good thing.
Children go about the world telling lies and expecting the world to be completely honest with them. The difference between child and adult lies? The adult has experience enough to know how to get away with it better.
A moon in the daylight of winter, up in the mist of clouds, is a silver and gold-plated disc. To reach out and hold it between my fingers, it would be the size of a sunflower seed.
We best remember and learn from the things that scare us.
No path or stream comes to an end. They rush and travel on as much as the people who follow them.
No writer really emphasises just how muddy and dirty the woods are.
Where there is a green growth, there is hope and beauty. Clover patch planet.
The dark makes the cold seem colder, and the little lamp light as distant and helpless as in a tomb.
My face turns rosy and fuller when I write.
What do different elders know? Each one always gives different advice, for each has had a different life, and learnt different things. Difference is a good thing.
Children go about the world telling lies and expecting the world to be completely honest with them. The difference between child and adult lies? The adult has experience enough to know how to get away with it better.
A moon in the daylight of winter, up in the mist of clouds, is a silver and gold-plated disc. To reach out and hold it between my fingers, it would be the size of a sunflower seed.
We best remember and learn from the things that scare us.
No path or stream comes to an end. They rush and travel on as much as the people who follow them.
No writer really emphasises just how muddy and dirty the woods are.
Where there is a green growth, there is hope and beauty. Clover patch planet.
The dark makes the cold seem colder, and the little lamp light as distant and helpless as in a tomb.
Thursday, 3 March 2016
Sorry if I've been less active lately. I've been having difficulties emotionally, so I'm on a week-long break away to spend time with my family. It’s great. Hopefully my self-esteem will pick up soon, as I do realise that there are lovely and supportive people in my life. Talking - not hiding who you are and how you feel - can help. I really, truly appreciate it. Love to you all x
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