Sleepy chit-chat and a book recommendation

There are other people’s books that are so unbelievably good, you forget that you are a writer-that you write anything…Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer is one of those books. There’s far too much to this story to accurately summarize it for you; in the beginning, I knew it was about a very interesting nine year-old who lost his father on September 11th; but this story is so much more than that. It’s about those journeys we all have urges to embark upon, but usually lack the courage to actually pursue. One of my most favorite lines from this book is: “Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living”. Could anything else so true be said any better than that? Or this one: “When I looked at you, my life made sense. Even the bad things made sense. They were necessary to make you possible.” That is so close to my own feeling from a mother’s point of view… it gives me strange butterflies every time I read it. That power is unique. Believe me, this is a story that you really should read; It’s very funny at times, and at other times it kills you a little more each time you read the next line, to absorb that much pain, but this story’s so brilliant, the pain enriches you, and believe me, speaking from someone who does not enjoy any extra pain, and who is by far, the least masochistic person around, if I say the pain is good and worth experiencing, then you know it must be. To see someone successfully create characters that (“wear heavy boots”, as Oskar, the main character refers to it), those that carry a giant hole inside, or perhaps several tiny holes, is fantastic. Jonathan Safran Foer’s writing style is extremely individual, and it’s inspiring to read other people’s work that make their own rules. One of the reviews for his book, “Everything is Illuminated” reads: ‘Not since… Clockwork Orange has the English Language been simultaneously mauled and energized with such brilliance and such brio’ (Francine Prose, New York Times Book Review). I think that’s exactly the right recipe needed to write such an engaging book. Also, the fact that the book is full of photographs and various other extras makes it as entertaining as Mark Danielewski’s House of Leaves, (which I must admit I still haven’t finished-when the muse comes around, I drop the book, or books I’m reading, so that I can become completely absorbed in my own world-this happened while reading House of Leaves unfortunately.)

My gut tells me to make the effort to contact Jonathan Safran Foer and personally praise him, but the truth is, I’m stubborn, and I have a dozen or so whims each day that I usually decide against acting on; This positive notion would probably end up on my ever growing to do list and eventually be pushed down the list by  the painfully slow science unit concerning acids, bases, salts and other ‘I really don’t give a damn abouts’. It seems strange to me now that I wanted to be a scientist when I was 10 years-old.

 

Winning the first place in a school science fair convinced me that I could do even greater work than my blue-tinged celery osmosis project. This career was brutally murdered when by age 11, I saw the Harlem Globetrotters do their thang on TV. I was convinced I could and would be the first Girltrotter; after all, I was the tallest kid in my class, and in the part of our yard where grass still refuses to grow, we had a rickety basketball hoop, with no net (compliments of the last family who’d dwelled in this slummy place.) So as long as it wasn’t raining, I could practice my moves on the dirt basketball court, and eventually I’d be ready for the globetrotters. But I was a chubby, lazy little monster, who no longer liked getting muddy and the dirt court seemed to always be a mud court-AND besides, my mother would never buy me a real basketball. So my basketball career was short-lived and was eventually destroyed by my new endeavor-I snuck into the cinema and saw Purple Rain when I was 13. This was the real wake-up call of my adolescence-Prince needed a wicked girl like me-sure, I wasn’t as well endowed as Apollonia, but I had personality, right? I was a lovable badass, who was already dying her hair all by  herself, and wearing heavy black liner and low cut shirts and though I was already much taller than Prince, I knew I’d make a perfect Princess, and I was convinced I could teach the purple funkster a thing or two. I can still do a very entertaining  Darling Nikki rendition.

 

…Wow, what a strange path this-like most of our other chats has taken. I bet you think I plan this ahead of time, don’t you? That I sit down and write it all out before I type it?  I promise you that isn’t the case. This morning, I wrote down the basic things I wanted to share with you-meaning You must read the damned book I’ve told you about and also the fact that I check out far too many library books at once because I’m a slave to variety-so when I visit the library, I can’t settle on just one or even two books. No, that wouldn’t satisfy my every desire. Instead, I check out an armful or two each time. And then as usual, I get wrapped up in my work, whatever that may be at the moment, and then the books are ignored, piled in a messy stack, full of a variety of interesting bookmarks, beside my bed-just in case I wake in the middle of the night with a desire for Augusten Burroughs or even Elizabeth Berg. What follows over the next month or so, is the occasional reading of a chapter or two, then the renewal date comes around and occasionally, if I’m extra charming to certain librarians, the rule-breaking second renewal, and finally when the final return date looms over my head- for example, just 3 days away as is the case at the moment, I begin diving in, devouring my new little book friends like crazy. And considering they usually spend so much time so close to me in the most intimate layer of my inner world (which usually means falling asleep above the cover on my bed, wrapped in my monkey blanket, or occasionally even getting between the sheets for a good three hour catnap, I feel attached and hate to give them back to the cold shelves, where they will no doubt be looked over and completely ignored by the village idiots. I’ve tried to remedy this-tried to pick just one or two-I’ve even tried to ignore books altogether and head straight to the periodicals, for the newest Psychology Today, or National Geographic or even Game Informer magazine-but I can never resist for too long, and find myself strolling through every single aisle of the library, looking for something that sparks my interest. I tend to fall for a great cover, though I know that’s one of the ultimate sins-if the cover looks good, I’m taking it home and stacking it beside my bed, hanging onto it as long as I possibly can. Now, for example-not only am I reading the last few chapters of  Augustine Burroughs’ A Wolf at the Table, and Elizabeth Berg’s The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted, AND the first book from the Death Note series (I’m going to keep pushing Death Note until each and every one of you realize this is actually VERY cool), but also, I spotted a book called “Words fail me” (by Patricia T. O’Connor). Not only did the title grab me, but the cover is almost the exact same green I painted the kitchen during my stay in Hell House (if you’re new, go to Giving up the Ghost for the story of my beloved Hell House) I rarely read writing books-and while I’m sure they may serve their purpose, I still feel that reading them is about as useful as reading the ‘how to get rich quick’ or the ‘allowing you inner child to put down that matricidal weapon and  stop hating the mother (aka Haggis Queen) you were cursed with, so you can move on with your life without a prison sentence’. It just doesn’t work for me. Not to mention there was an arrogant ass who’d never written anything, other than criticisms of other people’s work and a writing tips book, but yet he completely attacked Raymond Carver, using him as an example of how not to write. Give me five minutes alone with that jerk…just 5 minutes!

 Bastard Critics clean the toilets in the deepest pits of Hell-with their tongue!

 

 

And Now for something completely different…

 

There’s a Kate Bush song you’re probably familiar with called “Running Up That Hill (A Deal with God)”. I love this song, and being the strange weirdo I am about switching gender roles to better understand one another, and then hearing Placebo (a group I’m otherwise completely unfamiliar with) do this song from a man’s point of view is gorgeous, especially considering the particular subject matter of this song. Have a listen and tell me what you think. I’ll leave the lyrics for you in case you need them, but I won’t always do that for you-you’d respect me less if I constantly spoon fed you guys, so next time you may have to google it yourself instead!

 

So, I’ll leave you alone for now. Thank you for your kind words about The Lucky 13 remix, but you should tell safetycopy yourselves!!. I haven’t added more to the downloads page yet because I’ve been busy being Miss L, N’s wicked-cool teacher today. Now, after another full day on very little sleep, I’m going to have a shower, maybe even have a blueberry/pomegranate ice cream cone, and then hopefully get some sleep-maybe even between the sheets this time. Leave what you want-I never get tired of your wonderful photos, beautiful poetry, very cool music and general weirdo to weirdo chit-chat. By the way, what’cha doing this weekend?

 

 Sleepy hugs and kisses~13

 

 

 

 

darklucia13@yahoo.com

 

‘Let’s exchange the experience’…

 

 

 

 

Running Up That Hill

 

It doesn’t hurt me.
You want to feel, how it feels?
You want to know, know that it doesn’t hurt me?
You want to hear about the deal I’m making.
You, (If I only could, be running up that hill)
You and me (If I only could, be running up that hill)

And if I only could,
Make a deal with God,
Get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
Be running up that building.
If I only could

You don’t want to hurt me,
But see how deep the bullet lies.
Unaware that I’m tearing you asunder.
There’s a thunder in our hearts, baby

So much hate for the ones we love?
Tell me, we both matter, don’t we?
You, (If I only could, be running up that hill)
You and me (If I only could, be running up that hill)
You and me, won’t be unhappy

And if I only could,
Make a deal with God,
And get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
Be running up that building.
If I only could

Come on, baby, come on, come on, darling,
Let me steal this moment from you now.
Come on angel, come on, come on, darling,
Let’s exchange the experience

And if I only could,
Make a deal with God,
And get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
With no problems.

And if I only could,
Make a deal with God,
And I’d get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
With no problems.

If I only could, be running up that hill…

 

 

 

 

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