Friday, September 30, 2016

Walk on Earth meets Like a River.

Rae Carson.
We love her, with good reason.
Fire and Thorns for one.
Now, there aren't very many North American girl's that escaped Little House on the Prairie books,
and if a look at that time period grabbed you, then Little House didn't let you go.
I don't think I've read anything with that certain "twang" since that series.
Guess I never thought there was anyone that could hold a candle to it,
but I was wrong.
There's always someone that comes along and surprises you.
Carson, whilst no surprise, continues to give us what we love about her.
Book Two out now.
Like A River, a beautiful flow.
Walk on Earth a Stranger  (The Gold Seer Trilogy, #1)Like a River Glorious (The Gold Seer Trilogy, #2)
Forty page taster ...

Strange amusement. Three Dark Crowns.

Is it not strange,
the amusement of those who take hearts and souls?
Is it not strange,
to find such intention?
Come to read words on pages with witches that
 drink poison after poison to test their strength.
Does poison become a part of you, or do you become a part of poison?
Three Dark Crowns,
from the author of "Anna Dressed in Blood," this story takes rotating perspectives
from triplet sisters fighting for one crown.
Good luck.
Three Dark Crowns by Kendare Blake

Digging shallow graves.

Look at the world.
Look at it now.
Do not be shallow.
It is not you and I, or we and me.
Look at the world.
See it as all.
See what is and what we are,
 how we fit into all
so small.
Piece to piece,
you, me, we, all.
Look at the world,
does it fit all?
These Shallow Graves

Thursday, September 29, 2016


Now this is interesting.
I love the idea of the two stories meeting in the middle.
You can begin with either, turn the book around and hear the other story and how they align.
Beautiful idea,
and coming from Lauren Oliver, it's sure to be worthy of a good look.

The Madman's Daughter.

The Madman's Daughter.
Hmm, I remember when this came out, not all that long ago.
It seemed full of intrigue, in a sad and woeful way.
Ah, yes ... the premise. A gothic thriller about the secrets we'll do anything to know and
the truths we'll go to any lengths to protect.
Yeah, well, there you go. 
The Madmen's way. Not intended to be gender specific.
The Madman’s Daughter (The Madman’s Daughter, #1)Her Dark Curiosity (The Madman's Daughter, #2)
A Cold Legacy (The Madman's Daughter, #3)

Sunday, September 25, 2016

If you have, and then have ...

I finished it.
I did not want to, but the last pages were indeed read.
It was beautiful, 
and yes I sat there crying, not blubbering, just quietly crying.
Words have this wondrous thing that can wrap around them.
It's called heart,
and it's beautiful, truly, truly beautiful, if you find the right words.
and it made me think of why, like my previous Madeleine L'Engle post, are things not obvious
right from the get-go?
Why is it that we take time to get what is so clear in the first place?
Do we ignore it?
Do we want to ignore it?
Is there something there that we need to believe and believe in that keeps us from seeing
what is, and not what we wish?
We all want those hearts.
We all want to feel those words pierce our hearts,
because we all want to feel.
God bless.
May you all find those words,
may you all find those moments of "clear."
Image result for a wrinkle in time book

Before Part One. The Short Strokes.

Saturday, September 24, 2016

Sharing with F. Scott.

Not so shabby. Good old F. Scott Fitzgerald, born this day, 1896!
Not too shabby at all.
"Show me a hero, and I'll write you a tragedy."
The Great GatsbyTender Is the NightThe Curious Case of Benjamin ButtonThis Side of Paradise
The Beautiful and Damned
"The test of first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at
the same time, and still retain the ability to function.
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."
A tip of the hat
to F. Scott.

Hey, there little frog!

Let us just have this moment of cute.
This little guy is warding off danger with a "don't mess with me" sounding off that is absolutely the cutest damn thing ever!
I want one!

When there is an ocean of words.

There is indeed an ocean,
but it is not full of words.
That is the ocean inside us, and it too ebbs and flows.
When I enjoy a book. When I "feel" it,
the turn of the pages happens really, really, really slow.
I don't want to finish it. I don't want to get to that last word.
Please, no.
Image result for words in deep blue
This she says, in Deep Blue ...
"The words still hurt, but they hurt less than they did when I told Henry, and Frederick,
maybe they will hurt less when I tell the next person."
The inside out of words in what we wish to understand 
 in people, in us,
and the need to unravel what tangles our hearts.
We have to.
We can't feel the ocean if we don't,
and we can't line shelves
with the threads of our lives.

Thursday, September 22, 2016

The Wonder.

a new take on anorexia twenty years before it had a name.
It happens in Ireland,
a decade after the potato famine,
"A logical place to set a story of hunger."
WONDER, a historical drama that explores the triumph of soul over body,
and the tangle of "fasting girls" around
science, religion, rationality, and superstition, not to exclude
Protestant purism and Catholic ritualism.
Sound rich?
Just a bit.
The Irish define themselves as a people who endured hunger,
so the parallel, the stage if you will, lends itself perfectly.
In the same way, Donoghue explored the world in and from ROOM,
THE WONDER is that same containment,
a behind the closed door peek.
Releasing in October, no doubt we will once again be intrigued.

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

We can not care enough.

In this world,
is this true ...
we can not see to care enough?
Is it? True?
When we sit and have sat to watch when we should have said and done, 
Is this our world?

And the wings that float above, the eyes that saw that one thing,
is this really what it looks like?
This thing?
We travel through and reach shores,
and we climb over the banks and hold the earth in our hands
and we remember what it is to
feel once again that which brought the world into our eyes.

Monday, September 19, 2016

Look at this magic. Just look!

You have heard me speak of magic,
the magic we feel in people, in our work, in our lives and days.
I have not spoken about what magic can sometimes look like.
This is magic.
Everything about Lisbeth Zwerger speaks of magical
That escape into"something" that simply washes over us.
We become lost inside a moment,
disappear into it.
I adore her work, 
and obviously there are many who feel the same --
Awarded with the Hans Christian Anderson Medal for Lifetime Achievement in 
Children's Literature we can surely agree --
how lucky are we to have these in the world?
How lucky are we to have,

Sunday, September 18, 2016

We Cannot See.

All the Light We Cannot See.
Papa who says, "I'm here," and follows behind each one of Marie's steps,
counting each one, encouraging each one,
her eyes in a world she no longer can see.
"It's so big," she says.
"You can do this."
Not yet. Not quite yet.
He lifts her to his chest and holds her from falling
like the cane that falls from her hand.
The world is so big.
What if she falls? What if there's a cliff?
What if you fell and you still saw?
All the Light We Cannot See.
the sense in all.
All the Light We Cannot See

I wish. Konigsberg and Sharing Too Much.

I wish I could talk,
hours and minutes and days at a time.
I wish I could hear,
hours and minutes and days.
I wish I could hear the thoughts that stir the night, into the night.
I wish, those thoughts were mine.
I wish the night were made of wishes painting the night sky,
and wishes became real, and real became words.
And then, I understood the reply.
Openly Straight (Openly Straight, #1)
Sharing too much.
Konigsberg was well reputed for it. A regular on ESPN, it was then he developed a penchant for "sharing too much." It won him a GLAAD media award.
Hell, we've all been in the "sharing too much" arena at one time or another. You don't have to be gay for that, you just need to have lived. The problem with sharing too
much is people don't really want too much honesty, and you know, I've found myself stepping away from it to a certain extent as well. It's easy to understand. We've got our own honesty. Why the hell would we want to hear anyone else's. Let's just keep it at, "Hey, how you going? Good? Fine? Okay,"
and keep those feet walking.
Our lives do not want too much.
They are brimming with too much already, but I will tell you something about
people that "share too much,"
They're brimming with thoughts, ideas, emotions that are squishing to get out.
They have active enquiring and insatiable minds, and
they're usually working through some things.
That's the problem.
Maybe, they were being pounded by societal restraints. Maybe they were being pounded by communities. Maybe they were being pounded at the hands of one person. Maybe two.
And maybe, they just needed to say and understand what the heck was on their hearts, so it made some damn sense, and so the world did too.
That sharing usually does mean something to people.
It's the ears that sought to hear that can be the problem.
Take Konigsberg, for instance,
an interesting guy, who wrote "Openly Straight" and is openly gay.
In Openly Straight he speaks about being defined as"that gay guy."
Labels. One of the most frustrating things we do as human beings, but there's that need
to put everyone inside our little man made boxes.
Things must make sense.
What happens when they don't?
The Porcupine of TruthHonestly Ben (Openly Straight, #2)

Just outside a day. Megan Abbott.

Image result for ny times
A writer exists just a little outside the world,
and of course in it too, but it is that distance we sometimes place ourselves in, or at, that allows
 for a certain watchful insight that inevitably gleans some sort of character, or poise, or moments in understanding.
A coming together, if you will.
It's an odd phenomenon to be both in a moment and outside it,
to be both analytical and present enough to experience it too.
Those moments are precious,
and when they mix and stir with what already lives inside us,
those untouched places we dig around in that help us put together what we see, observe, live -- outside and in.
That's gold.
Megan AbbottYou Will Know Me: A NovelThe Song Is You: A Novel
Something woke me tonight.
It's often the way. Usually, it's thought energy traveling through the ether shaking me awake.
"Hey, you there."
That's the touch of the unexplained.
I wonder about that "out and in" we experience when it then touches against those untethered moments of what we don't understand.
I mean, take experience and mix it with a realm outside our human knowledge, nudge it into spirituality, and there's another element for us to drive that dig.
Our nature wants explanation, but it is the writers realm to not want everything.
We do not want answers served up on platters as much as we don't want life served up the same way.
We need those questions.
We want the process of exploration.
We simply must have
the world unravel itself before us, one thread at a time, one face, one answer at its own sweet time.
Everything, in its time.
What time is it for you?
Check this out ...
A nice little tidbit in the New York times. Insight into one writer's mind and her day.
The Fever: A NovelThe End of Everything: A NovelImage result for The Little Men
Megan Abbott.

Saturday, September 17, 2016

Football Final! Well done!

Who's going to take it?
Who deserves to win?
Final today.
Ooo .... keep that ball in play.

Well done.
Our suburb won.
Considering all the development going on at the club,
there was, I suppose, a huge incentive to get that prize,
and so,
they did.
The Sharks take it.
A season done.

Eclipse it out. Eclipse Away.

Tonight, tonight,
there will be a full moon eclipse.
Now an eclipse such as this has got a load of messages attached to it.
Apparently ... hang on, I'll just underline that ...
it's supposed to get a little e-mo-tion-al.
Stuff that.
Ain't gonna. Been there, done that, eclipse it away to a new road.
Ah, that's the other thing about this eclipse, 
there's a real dramatic shift for better ... or worse.
Dibs. I'm taking "better."
Apparently, we are to expect lightning strikes in our relationships,
likely for the good.
Disclosure of our "in the heart" stuff, aligning us with what we've been holding back.
Yeah, well ... apparently. 
The focus is on what's working. The stuff that isn't, "bye bye."
It's an opportunity to let go of trying to find an explanation. Accept what is. 
Hmm. Maybe. 
Forgive and forget.
Hmm. Unlikely.
Sometimes, pain is a breakthrough. Stuff that.
this is an eclipse of warmongering, fear mongering, new wars, worsening wars,
and wars within wars. Really? Haven't we seen enough?
Basically, this eclipse is meant to be an energy shifter, a chance to block out and reset.
Opportunity presents.
I say take it.
So re-set. Block out.
Keep the wars at bay,
and there might just be a few surprises along the way.
Eclipse away.

Friday, September 16, 2016

Little Nothing.

First off, great title.
Little Nothing,
what magical transformation can there be?
Her identity stripped away, her soul transcends physical bounds.
Woven in and around a journey of a man determined to protect her,
determined too to love her.
This is a shocking tale, original, and a delightful example of magical realism at its best.
What we do,
to escape our worlds.
Little Nothing escapes to the best.

Glorious, glorious. Dream.

Glorious, glorious dreams.
Last night, the night before ...
so glorious. So incredibly real.
Just beautiful.
The float and drift of a memory.
The dreaming dream.

Thursday, September 15, 2016

A Few Right Thinking Men

There's a man, 
a rather big man.
Seen a such and respected as such.
I know who he is. He knows who I am.
One day, this man and I will speak,
and he will know all there is to know, and he will see what he leaves in his hands,
and as I see those bow their heads in a way no man should ever do,
I will not bow mine.
Of course not, I am not a man,
but I will tell him where there might be ...
And then hope, 
he will be the same.

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

The writers read.

Come now.
Words that talk until there is nothing left to say, until all words spill out onto page after page,
and all that there is and all that will be,
and all that the world has given and taken
becomes the words that spill.
Come now.
Fill the pages,
one by one,
until it is all and finally done.
The words of our page after page.
The books we live to be done.

Magical Magic Mclemore.

Yes, please.
Paint them from the trees, let me see
 the moon, sun and stars.
This is magical realism.
It bleeds roses out of a wrist and promises secrets of love at its best.
This my next order, an October 4th release.
When the Moon Was Ours

Monday, September 12, 2016

Our Children.

Our children.
We can tell them, "Don't go there. I would rather you not," and still
when they are of an age to choose themselves, they inevitably do as they do.
You might as well be speaking another language.
It is difficult for children to see
that relationships they grew up with might not be what they now need. 
Sometimes, you must leave behind.
The gap is simply too wide.
Backgrounds. Experiences. Familial, or otherwise, can be such a great divide in thought
that I wonder how long before a child realizes.
I don't point fingers. I don't judge how people live, but I recognize enough what my children would be used to, and what they would not.
We were not a family of drinkers. We preferred having our minds clear.
It worries me to see so many families here that are consumed by drink.
It seems a very Australian thing.
I don't remember children's sporting venues back home having a bar on hand during trophy handouts
with parents slugging them back.
I believe it sends the wrong message.
I believe there's a time and place for everything.
I believe in this very, very strongly.
These children are constantly exposed to adults with a drink in their hands, so when they become of age, it is almost expected.
A right of passage they must take.
It is not expected in my realm. 
When I hear your thoughts, your viewpoints, your voice, I want to hear them without the slurring of words. I want them to be real. I want them to represent you.
It worries me. The world. Our culture. What we instill.
I know that I have made mistakes, and they may have been huge, but still I see the fault not just in me.
For that I am grateful, and in that I am not blind.
From an outsider looking in, this is only my perspective, but it is interesting
that recently I had a conversation with someone who had done a great
thing for the community.
It was something I'd hoped would happen for a very long time.
I wrote letters to parliament officials, but it was one of those times when you thought your voice, or voices were lost, and then it happened.
A voice was heard and now the community will benefit from that,
and the children will have what they need.
I hope it works out as they intend,
but during that conversation, the gentleman spoke of rallying around someone who needed help,
and I listened, and I watched him speak with interest,
but they were hollow words.
People that need, whether it be emotional or otherwise, 
tend not to get that help, not here anyway.
Everyone is too busy in their own worlds, and rightfully so, they tend to be busy places,
but it's more than that.
There is a sense they would rather watch someone fall then to watch them get up and stand.
This reflects an element of something ungainly, unhealthy, and perhaps it is that which holds a drink to their hands. 
Light begets light, dark to dark.
cat beer drinking bar national beer day
Look out on your communities as I speak.
Are they what they should be?
Or are they just a fall over of our own school days.
I always thought we got beyond those days, that somehow we entered another world where adults reigned, 
people got past their school age self.
Call it evolution.
You see, it goes back to what I said in the beginning. 
Inevitably, you have to leave behind minds that do not see the same lines.
We are funny, all of us, in our own ways.
We try. 
We do as we do and as we can,
and inevitably our communities sometimes with the right hearts and right minds,
 gather speed and do more.

Bel Canto and Patchett's Commonwealth.

Bel Canto.
Just saying it feels kind of "breathy," wistful. A sudden need to find it on my bookshelf takes me over. It is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful books ever written,
and now Patchett brings us
 a story she says, "steps away from the operatic tendencies of Bel Canto."
Bel Canto
It is simple,
 in that there are no extreme moments one way or another.
No cataclysmic events, or dreadful secrets.
It is just life.
Moments that "almost" happen,  standing on the precipice with toes hanging over, and your heart is pounding, and then feet simply pull back. There are moments of "on the edge suspense" throughout, but it returns you over and over again back into life.
There are guns with safety's that never come off, a juxtaposition against Chekhov's, "bring a gun into a first scene and it simply must go off."
There is gin, but no alcoholics.
Someone dies, but it's not violent.
This is a book of divorce, a family that dissolves and the exploration of how one act shows itself years and years down the track.
Who are these people? How do they interact? How do their lives evolve after the fact?
Patchett once wrote an essay, a very personal and revealing piece of work,
and there are revealing pieces in Commonwealth too that made her feel the need to gain others approval, or acceptance.
She sent it to her entire family when it was finished and said,
"Does anybody have a problem with this?"
The response was complete in the way people should be complete.
A be and do as you are and think. Be honest about it.
"You're an artist. We've known you forever. We love you. We understand you. Do what you want."
Ah, there you have it.
This what separates those who possess heart art, and those who don't.
You either get it, or you don't.
With Patchett at the helm, you most definitely will not go wrong.

Sunday, September 11, 2016

The blog dog.

This is a blog of thoughts,
of books,
of what it is to combine life and writing, writing and life,
or for that matter anything where thought on matters and matters of thought are thought.
I have broken and bled here, at one time or another.
I have shared what I have read and will be reading.
I have looked at words as treasures that drip through veins,
and pulse hearts.
But, they are just words on a page, or screen as the case may be.
The Best of MeThe Book of Tomorrow
There will be some, very few, or even just one,
who will come here to hear,
who know me and want to know.
And maybe that is enough,
maybe that for whatever reason is enough,
mixed of course with some very eager and nicely placed peanuts to peanuts that need a good sized elephant to get them back in line,
but I would suggest 
that this is another kind of world,
or it certainly could be,
where if you want to know what my thoughts are, what lives and breathes kind of thoughts,
what motivates, what moves, what, what, what,
what it feels like "this."
Do you understand what I'm saying?
What "this" feels like, to be in such a time and place,
then you come and you do it in the "real" world,
the one that aligns people and stands them in place.
The one where you have fortitude to listen and talk, and talk and listen,
and leave down your phones,
otherwise, there are a multitude of interesting blogs with a hell of lot more
intelligent and interesting things to say then I have.
If you read this, 
and you know me, and if you are,
then you know.
You know.
Or, you certainly should.
This is a blog.
It is mine.
It is irrelevant to the world, but to me. It is just a small, very small
part of me.
And in your hands I will place a book as easy as one, two, three.
The Book of Lost ThingsThe Book of Secrets

Bookish Fall.

Bookish present their Fall reads,
which happen to be our Summer reads.
I'll pluck out a few that caught my eye. Visit their site and pluck out yours.