I just finished the book about a half hour ago. Twenty of those minutes have been spent bawling my fool eyes out and trying to breathe through my nose, which is impossible right now. The last ten minutes have been spent trying to find a little hope on the internet.
The front of my shirt is sopping.
I thought first person was pretty much narrative Kevlar. Silly rabbit.
The writing is absolutely beautiful from page one and doesn't let up at all. In the future, when I ponder mortality, I'm just going to re-read certain pages because Burke's thoughts on life, death, and everything in between are worth claiming as my own.
But I probably won't be re-reading this book because it destroyed my heart and it's going to take some time to grow back. There's only so much masochism that I can take.
And I didn't see it coming. I mean, every time (Jesus, the tears just keep coming- I'm having difficulty seeing the screen) Clete said Dave couldn't die, and when they're driving in the car after Clete saved his life and Dave reaches over and cups Clete's neck- really, it killed me.
I read the last page and a half three times before I surrendered to the sobbing. After that (because INCEPTION used up all my tolerance for ambiguous endings), I went to Burke's website where his fans were in various stages of profound grief and appreciation, which is a very strange combo of emotions.
And very powerful. Speaking for myself, my brain feels like it's throwing itself against my skull.
People seemed accepting of the deaths (notice that plural- and here come the waterworks again), but hopeful.
Then I came across a comment from the Big Man himself: "Clete said the Bobbsey Twins from Homicide are forever. He's not a man who speaks idly."
Okay, I can take some comfort from that. But my heart still feels like two good friends are gone.
I'm going to make cinnamon toast and sink into a Meg Cabot book for restorative purposes.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
My methadone
When I can't have the black tar that is actual episodes of TRUE BLOOD, I rely on the methadone of youtube, interviews, forums, and recaps.
The interviews from ComicCon are pure gold (not as golden as an actual ep, but fairly convincing gold-plate). First of all, I think Deborah Ann Woll has a massive crush on Eric. When Alex says he'll make out with her, doesn't she look as if she's taking him seriously? Second, I loved seeing the adorable Charlaine Harris on the panel. It's cool she sat next to Alan Ball. If I had been an author of her status, I would've demanded a seat next to ASkar right before I demanded a bowl full of M&Ms with the brown ones taken out.
The forums on TWP are frustrating. Some people cannot be pleased no matter what, and the commenters who complained that the last episode was boring (HOW THE HELL COULD YOU CALL IT BORING?!) must be really hard to satisfy in real life. I'm glad I'm not their waitress, girlfriend, best friend, or daughter.
My sister Emma has recently succumbed to the dark thrall of TRUE BLOOD. She blew through the last two seasons in a couple days and caught herself up on the third. Coincidentally, I stumble on a post about why junkies make bad friends. One of the reasons was that they want to hook you on the drug of choice so they feel normal. Yes, Emma's nearest and dearest were after her for months to watch TRUE BLOOD, and now she's as hooked as we are.
She was the one who told me that ASkar was in the "Paparazzi" video. Sure 'nuff, he is. I had to watch it again (and again) to make sure.
Tangent: While trawling youtube, I came across this. Do you see those girls behind him? Don't they look bored for the most part? It shocked the hell out of me when they started clapping. Maybe my students aren't bored in my class. Maybe I'm misreading their expressions and they're really one note away from bursting into applause.
The interviews from ComicCon are pure gold (not as golden as an actual ep, but fairly convincing gold-plate). First of all, I think Deborah Ann Woll has a massive crush on Eric. When Alex says he'll make out with her, doesn't she look as if she's taking him seriously? Second, I loved seeing the adorable Charlaine Harris on the panel. It's cool she sat next to Alan Ball. If I had been an author of her status, I would've demanded a seat next to ASkar right before I demanded a bowl full of M&Ms with the brown ones taken out.
The forums on TWP are frustrating. Some people cannot be pleased no matter what, and the commenters who complained that the last episode was boring (HOW THE HELL COULD YOU CALL IT BORING?!) must be really hard to satisfy in real life. I'm glad I'm not their waitress, girlfriend, best friend, or daughter.
My sister Emma has recently succumbed to the dark thrall of TRUE BLOOD. She blew through the last two seasons in a couple days and caught herself up on the third. Coincidentally, I stumble on a post about why junkies make bad friends. One of the reasons was that they want to hook you on the drug of choice so they feel normal. Yes, Emma's nearest and dearest were after her for months to watch TRUE BLOOD, and now she's as hooked as we are.
She was the one who told me that ASkar was in the "Paparazzi" video. Sure 'nuff, he is. I had to watch it again (and again) to make sure.
Tangent: While trawling youtube, I came across this. Do you see those girls behind him? Don't they look bored for the most part? It shocked the hell out of me when they started clapping. Maybe my students aren't bored in my class. Maybe I'm misreading their expressions and they're really one note away from bursting into applause.
Walk this way
Sisters Emma and Ella and I are going to Fenway on Saturday to see Aerosmith (J. Geils is the opener). We're kind of nervous that the band's going to break up before then.
Well, at least we'd get to see J. Geils.
Our seats are far away from the stage, but I'm glad because I recently saw a picture of Steven Tyler and the man needs distance to keep the magic alive.
Some tidbits:
1. For the longest time, I thought the song said, "Born to sway." I was singing along one day and one of my friends started cracking up and told me I was an effing idiot for mis-hearing the lyrics. This was not my first or only mis-hear.*
2. "Freeze Frame" was a great song to dance to at school dances. We'd be hopping around and the minute Peter Wolf said the words "Freeze Frame," we'd freeze. Because that's how we rolled. How glad am I that dancing with the same sex if you're a girl doesn't carry a stigma? If it did, I probably would've spent those dances glued to the wall.
3. I think "Dream On" was the first epic song I ever heard.
4. When we bought the tickets in May, I was all happy that my summer would end once again with a concert. Now that the time's is here, I'm bummed because school starts in two and a half weeks.
*Another example: There's a song called "The Things We Do For Love." Here's what I heard: Like walking through the rain and the snow,/ and there's nowhere to go,/ and you're feeling like a robin who is dying**/ and you're looking for the answer in Orion***
**a part of you is dying
***and you're looking for the answer in her eyes
Well, at least we'd get to see J. Geils.
Our seats are far away from the stage, but I'm glad because I recently saw a picture of Steven Tyler and the man needs distance to keep the magic alive.
Some tidbits:
1. For the longest time, I thought the song said, "Born to sway." I was singing along one day and one of my friends started cracking up and told me I was an effing idiot for mis-hearing the lyrics. This was not my first or only mis-hear.*
2. "Freeze Frame" was a great song to dance to at school dances. We'd be hopping around and the minute Peter Wolf said the words "Freeze Frame," we'd freeze. Because that's how we rolled. How glad am I that dancing with the same sex if you're a girl doesn't carry a stigma? If it did, I probably would've spent those dances glued to the wall.
3. I think "Dream On" was the first epic song I ever heard.
4. When we bought the tickets in May, I was all happy that my summer would end once again with a concert. Now that the time's is here, I'm bummed because school starts in two and a half weeks.
*Another example: There's a song called "The Things We Do For Love." Here's what I heard: Like walking through the rain and the snow,/ and there's nowhere to go,/ and you're feeling like a robin who is dying**/ and you're looking for the answer in Orion***
**a part of you is dying
***and you're looking for the answer in her eyes
When you find a hair
My sister Emma bought the kids and Chinese over tonight. One moment, we were enjoying the sesame chicken, rice, and lo mein; the next, she was sputtering and lurching to her feet to dump her plate.
Her actions weren't exaggerated or over-dramatic. She found a hair in her noodles.
I blame my dad for this aversion. If he found a hair in his meal, he'd swear and stomp like a big old baby. Because the idea of a hair in his food grossed him out to the nth of the nth degree, he attracted Bad Food Karma.
If one meal contained the magic hair (hee- sort of like Button, Button, Who's Got the Button), he would get it.
I think that might've been one of the reasons he always made me get my hair cut as a consequence for my misdeeds in high school. My hair never reached past my ears for all four years. This is why I waited until a few years ago to get my hair cut above my shoulders: I wanted to have long hair for as long as I had had short hair.
I didn't ask my sister if the noodle hair could've been mine- she looked this close to throwing up.
Is there any meal that is so good, a hair in it would be a momentary incidental? I'm thinking of my steak from last week and my dinner at Emeril's. Those dinners were of such surpassing delight, I might've plucked the hair from my mouth and kept on eating. Chances are pretty good the hair would've been clean.
Her actions weren't exaggerated or over-dramatic. She found a hair in her noodles.
I blame my dad for this aversion. If he found a hair in his meal, he'd swear and stomp like a big old baby. Because the idea of a hair in his food grossed him out to the nth of the nth degree, he attracted Bad Food Karma.
If one meal contained the magic hair (hee- sort of like Button, Button, Who's Got the Button), he would get it.
I think that might've been one of the reasons he always made me get my hair cut as a consequence for my misdeeds in high school. My hair never reached past my ears for all four years. This is why I waited until a few years ago to get my hair cut above my shoulders: I wanted to have long hair for as long as I had had short hair.
I didn't ask my sister if the noodle hair could've been mine- she looked this close to throwing up.
Is there any meal that is so good, a hair in it would be a momentary incidental? I'm thinking of my steak from last week and my dinner at Emeril's. Those dinners were of such surpassing delight, I might've plucked the hair from my mouth and kept on eating. Chances are pretty good the hair would've been clean.
Some love for James Lee Burke
James Lee Burke's newest novel- THE GLASS RAINBOW- came out in July.
I was all set to buy it and save it for one of my last books of summer. Then I started coming across some mentions of the book.
And now I'm too terrified to read it.
I'm afraid Burke's going to kill of Clete in this one. The bell's been tolling for the big man, and I didn't think he'd make it out of the last one alive, although I was oh so relieved when he did. But his luck can't hold.
If I don't read the book, Clete will always be alive. The Bobsey Twins of the Big Sleazy will still be wreaking havoc and going full-tilt boogie against the evils of the universe. I don't think I want my heart broken.
The curse of the re-reader is knowing the end of a series. When I take another trip on the Hogwarts Express, I can almost supress the upcoming deaths, but it's hard to look at Dumbledore with the same eyes when the last books gave me an ambivalence toward his character. The heady escape in PRISONER OF AZKABAN brings a joy followed quickly by sadness.
I feel horrible being scared of the book. I love James Lee Burke. I think he's one of the greatest contemporary writers. I'm in love with Dave Robicheaux and have been even before he became sober. Burke's prose is magic- some of his passages take my breath away with their beauty, and I wish I had the head that could automatically save those words. He ends a book (I can't remember which one) with Robicheaux at Jazz Festival, and in a moment of redemption and utter faith in humankind, describes the soul-illumination of the people around him who are shining in such brilliance. Completely reminds me of El Greco's paintings- those pale, elongated faces that look like candle wicks burning with the light of their souls.
Burke did a reading for PURPLE CANE ROAD in Portland when I was living there. He was incredible: he read a chapter and had the audience laughing, was humble and warm to everyone, and even though I was poor and my money in the bank was promised elsewhere, I scrounged up a few bucks, raided my coin jar for all its silver, and went back to Powell's the next day to buy the book in hardcover. Because I had to give this wonderful man and writer something back for all he had given me.
Now there's a new one of his in the store, and I'm too much of a coward to buy it.
I was all set to buy it and save it for one of my last books of summer. Then I started coming across some mentions of the book.
And now I'm too terrified to read it.
I'm afraid Burke's going to kill of Clete in this one. The bell's been tolling for the big man, and I didn't think he'd make it out of the last one alive, although I was oh so relieved when he did. But his luck can't hold.
If I don't read the book, Clete will always be alive. The Bobsey Twins of the Big Sleazy will still be wreaking havoc and going full-tilt boogie against the evils of the universe. I don't think I want my heart broken.
The curse of the re-reader is knowing the end of a series. When I take another trip on the Hogwarts Express, I can almost supress the upcoming deaths, but it's hard to look at Dumbledore with the same eyes when the last books gave me an ambivalence toward his character. The heady escape in PRISONER OF AZKABAN brings a joy followed quickly by sadness.
I feel horrible being scared of the book. I love James Lee Burke. I think he's one of the greatest contemporary writers. I'm in love with Dave Robicheaux and have been even before he became sober. Burke's prose is magic- some of his passages take my breath away with their beauty, and I wish I had the head that could automatically save those words. He ends a book (I can't remember which one) with Robicheaux at Jazz Festival, and in a moment of redemption and utter faith in humankind, describes the soul-illumination of the people around him who are shining in such brilliance. Completely reminds me of El Greco's paintings- those pale, elongated faces that look like candle wicks burning with the light of their souls.
Burke did a reading for PURPLE CANE ROAD in Portland when I was living there. He was incredible: he read a chapter and had the audience laughing, was humble and warm to everyone, and even though I was poor and my money in the bank was promised elsewhere, I scrounged up a few bucks, raided my coin jar for all its silver, and went back to Powell's the next day to buy the book in hardcover. Because I had to give this wonderful man and writer something back for all he had given me.
Now there's a new one of his in the store, and I'm too much of a coward to buy it.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
I'll read the recap
I love Jacob's recaps of TRUE BLOOD (even when his opinion differs greatly from my own), and I've started reading his recaps of GOSSIP GIRL.
I won't watch the show because it gets pretty tiresome, and I wish I had a friend who could tell me the eps that are worth watching (and that friend could also tell me which VAMPIRE DIARIES are Damien-centric) because I don't want to wade through hours of cheese to get the one nugget of mixed metaphor.
But Jacob's recaps of GG are things of joy, truth, and beauty. They remind me of the Elizabeth Bishop poem that describes a mediocre painting, but because the poem is witty and awesome, the fictional painting becomes transcendent.
Jacob reminds me of Dan, this incredible guy I worked with. We'd have 45 minutes to set up the dining room and wait for the early customers, which was enough time for him to recap (before we knew to call them recaps) a movie. He used to see a ton of movies.
And they were usually movies that I wouldn't want to see, but I loved to hear him tell me the storylines. He was one of those few people who knew how to tell a good story. His recaps were always magical.
I imagine his retellings would become even more inspired once he graduated from college and gained more life experience. He was too big, too classy, too much for our po-dunk town. My imagined future for him was that he'd move to NY, get a fabulous job, live in a fabulous apartment, and be surrounded by incredible people who recognized his great spirit.
We lost touch when I left the restaurant, and he's one of those people I always thought about calling. Then I lost his number and his last name was impossible to spell. But I always comforted myself that he was living a fairy tale life.
I ran into a co-worker of ours years ago and asked her if she was still friends with him. "Dan? You didn't hear?"
He was in a car accident and suffered a severe TBI. Last she heard, he was relearning how to walk and talk.
She said this in the calmest way, which I understand because the news was years old by the time she related it to me. No, she didn't have his number.
I tried to find him after I talked to her, but couldn't. I've tried to look him up on Google and Facebook, but no luck.
Jacob reminds me of him. Two incredible storytellers who make gold out of hay.
I won't watch the show because it gets pretty tiresome, and I wish I had a friend who could tell me the eps that are worth watching (and that friend could also tell me which VAMPIRE DIARIES are Damien-centric) because I don't want to wade through hours of cheese to get the one nugget of mixed metaphor.
But Jacob's recaps of GG are things of joy, truth, and beauty. They remind me of the Elizabeth Bishop poem that describes a mediocre painting, but because the poem is witty and awesome, the fictional painting becomes transcendent.
Jacob reminds me of Dan, this incredible guy I worked with. We'd have 45 minutes to set up the dining room and wait for the early customers, which was enough time for him to recap (before we knew to call them recaps) a movie. He used to see a ton of movies.
And they were usually movies that I wouldn't want to see, but I loved to hear him tell me the storylines. He was one of those few people who knew how to tell a good story. His recaps were always magical.
I imagine his retellings would become even more inspired once he graduated from college and gained more life experience. He was too big, too classy, too much for our po-dunk town. My imagined future for him was that he'd move to NY, get a fabulous job, live in a fabulous apartment, and be surrounded by incredible people who recognized his great spirit.
We lost touch when I left the restaurant, and he's one of those people I always thought about calling. Then I lost his number and his last name was impossible to spell. But I always comforted myself that he was living a fairy tale life.
I ran into a co-worker of ours years ago and asked her if she was still friends with him. "Dan? You didn't hear?"
He was in a car accident and suffered a severe TBI. Last she heard, he was relearning how to walk and talk.
She said this in the calmest way, which I understand because the news was years old by the time she related it to me. No, she didn't have his number.
I tried to find him after I talked to her, but couldn't. I've tried to look him up on Google and Facebook, but no luck.
Jacob reminds me of him. Two incredible storytellers who make gold out of hay.
How cool is this?
I mean, really, how cool is this?
Let me tell you about how hard I make it for myself to submit comments. I'm extra-introverted in real life and that shit carries over online. Making a comment is a thing of doubting and second-guessing (ridiculous, I know!), and I'm in awe at the ease with which others make comments.
I always think my comments will make my computer vomit and explode. Or they'll kill a thread deader than Cooter (poor Cooter, ya redneck, V-addicted, poor excuse of a werewolf. We hardly knew ye).
So a comment of mine gets me free books! If that's not positive reinforcement, I don't know what is.
I love the Smart Bitches. They're my go-to blog (along with Dear Author), and I'm touched and incredibly psyched at their generosity.
Let me tell you about how hard I make it for myself to submit comments. I'm extra-introverted in real life and that shit carries over online. Making a comment is a thing of doubting and second-guessing (ridiculous, I know!), and I'm in awe at the ease with which others make comments.
I always think my comments will make my computer vomit and explode. Or they'll kill a thread deader than Cooter (poor Cooter, ya redneck, V-addicted, poor excuse of a werewolf. We hardly knew ye).
So a comment of mine gets me free books! If that's not positive reinforcement, I don't know what is.
I love the Smart Bitches. They're my go-to blog (along with Dear Author), and I'm touched and incredibly psyched at their generosity.
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