Heart Stories

One of the things I'm most grateful for are the amazing friends I have so I've decided to do simple script paintings for the people in my life who are extraordinary. I'm calling these paintings "Heart Stories" the short stories of people who inspire me. These are my first two:

 "Micu"

She is the creator and facilitator of a mail art website that sends loving letters to people who need a smile in their life. We've not met each other in person yet, but you know how sometimes you just know you've found a kindred spirit? She and I share a special bond like none other, what began as a quick little letter has blossomed into a loving and supportive friendship. At any given moment, you can be sure she's doing something for someone else, her heart is a heart of giving.

"Jessica"

I met this young lady through her older brother. When we first came to know each other I was amazed at her unique take on life- she was bubbly, sweet, and always caring. She was a little girl and then suddenly she was a woman! Graceful, stunningly beautiful, and stronger than she realizes... She's dealt with her fair share of trials, but through it all, this is her story...

Connections

There's a yearning I have, it's deep within, and I admit, it only touches me every now and again. It's a need for connection. I am connected to many people through different ways, but this yearning goes deeper. I suppose I feel it most when I notice the self centered-ness of today's social media fueled world (I know: blogging, hypocrisy!) but it goes further than that... It's the fact that this trend has led to new vocabulary, entirely new words that have been invented to further describe the ways we focus on OURSELVES. That must be it, the thing that touches me the deepest, that cuts to my very soul is the focus on ourselves. 

Yes, it's important to value yourself, I don't deny this. But it's exceedingly important to value others. We need to turn the cameras away from ourselves every now and again. We don't need to post every little thing that sort of resembles us, and we shouldn't beg for attention all the time. There are people in this great big world who are hurting, who don't need to see another picture of you sitting in front of your mango lychee smoothie... People who need substance, contact, and love. 

Step out from in front of the camera for a moment, and talk to someone who's actually there with you. Instead of posting and reposting another mildly interesting internet sensation, sit down and write a note to someone -it could change the course of their day. Don't take 50 pictures of yourself at just the right angle so you can represent yourself a certain way, be you, be unapologetically you. 

I recently saw a photo of someone I know, she took it of herself standing in front of a mirror in a public place, she's obviously posing in an unnatural way to make herself look "just so". She said something like "not even posing, this is how I look" and everyone raved on how amazing she looks without posing... In looking at the picture, the thing I noticed past the obvious was a person sitting on a bench in the background who looked miserable, as if they were in the middle of crying - forever immortalized as a hazy figure on this person's feed. No one noticed the person in the back, no one said "Oh, that poor man!" And I suppose that's my point, if she weren't so busy trying to see herself in the best light at the best angle, she might have seen this man: alone and crying. She could have made a connection. 

I worry that it could be me, that I make people feel less valuable than myself. I strive every day of my life to let others know they are loved and they are important - please God, don't let an opportunity pass me by! Dear Reader, there are people in the world who hurt, who need you... Find them, offer them love, and watch what happens.

Happy Birthday

There was no escaping it. Every year on my birthday, it happened. Early in the morning Grandma would wake me up with a terrible rendition of "Happy Birthday". Part joyous shouting, part tuneless singing, part uncontrollable laughing, it was my favorite part of my birthday. In the grand scheme of things, birthdays rate very low on importance - but Grandma never let that deter her.

Last year was the first birthday I didn't get my "Grandma serenade", she was very sick and in the hospital. It was a sad day in the midst of a sad time. Once I grew up, birthdays just never meant very much to me, the only thing that really mattered was that Grandma always remembered and she always sang. When my birthday came last year, there was so much going on, it was just forgotten. It seems stupid to admit, but I cried - I cried because for the first time, my Grandma wasn't there to remind my family about my birthday. I also cried because I realized that the only reason my extended family actually remembered me on my birthday was because Grandma would call them to remind them to wish me a happy day. Even though my family is huge, I'm the only one born in August... For some reason that made it impossible for most of them to remember, unless Grandma called them.

This year I knew I wasn't going to get my wonderfully awful "happy birthday" song, so I prepared for a good cry when that inevitable emotion hit me. I cried. Don't get me wrong, it was a lovely day, quiet and calm, just the type of day I enjoy... I just missed her and her silly singing, and my heart felt quite alone. Ah, but Dear Reader, fear not, this story has a happy ending!

My mom and aunts are back in Hawaii visiting my Grandma's remaining siblings - so they were not around on my birthday. Partway through my day, I got a phone call from my mom, I figured calling to check in and just say a quick "happy birthday" what I heard next made me laugh and weep: a terrible, off-tune shouting, singing, laughing rendition of happy birthday. Great aunts, great uncles, aunties, uncles, cousins, second cousins, nieces...it was awful and beautiful. As I closed my eyes, I could've sworn I heard Grandma's voice.

Untitled

Some days are excruciatingly, heartbreakingly beautiful. And sometimes days are excruciating and heartbreaking. Today was one of the latter, I'm sorry to say. It's never easy to lose a friend, all of those sad moments you recount and think, "I should've hugged him a little longer the last time I saw him," or "if only I'd known, I would have told her how much I loved her." I hate those words: IF ONLY. They resound such regret, so many unspoken things.

Today a friend passed away, and his family is broken. How could they not be? He was brave, kind, funny, and thoughtful. In writing this, I am trying to process things, and deal with a few losses I've recently suffered but haven't yet come to terms with. I don't want it to sound as though this is meant to make me feel better, rather it's to remind you, Dear Reader, that life is short. Yes, it can punch you in the stomach so hard you lay on the ground gasping, and yes, there are unkind moments and people at every turn. Please, when you read this though, forget the awful things, and focus on the sweet moments and the people who make you (and your life) better. They're there, I promise.

And can you do me one more favor? When you see those people who make you smile, who give you hope, who encourage you, who love you... Tell them you love them, and give them a good long hug.

When the post goes wrong

I love mail. Love it. But when it goes wrong, there's almost nothing more irritating. I'm talking about the recent trend I've experienced of non-delivered mail. Seriously, what is going on USPS?! I pay your exorbitant rates and practically keep you in business with the hundreds of letters I've sent... So why won't you deliver my mail?

Recently this has happened:
1 letter to my wonderful pen pal in Hungary - never delivered
1 letter from my wonderful pen pal in Hungary - never delivered to my PO box
1 letter from Hungary - never delivered to my PO box
1 letter from Canada - never delivered to my PO box
1 letter from California - never delivered to my PO box

It's also possible that 2 letters to my pen pal in Canada were never delivered...

I know of a few other people who have experienced mail loss recently. Honestly, it's not about the loss of money, the contact and friendships are worth more than money to me... But it's the fact that when a person cares enough to send a letter, a piece of their heart is shared - it's a serious thing for this many letters to be missing. If this is happening to you, I encourage you to do what I've done and alert the United States Postal Inspection Service unless we begin keeping them accountable, I think the USPS will continue their careless antics.

Why I Love My Postman

As I dropped off some mail for the current Mail A Smile challenge at the post office, I had an epiphany: I love my postman. There's a bunch of reasons but the main thing is this: he fully accepts and appreciates mail art.

The employee at the post office disapproved so much of my envelope that he told me " Never do this again, okay?" So of course I obliged him and lied by saying "okay." Yeah, one grumpy postal employee isn't going to keep me from cheering others up with pretty mail! The funny thing is, it was the least decorated envelope I've sent out in years. It was white with a little sketched black border around the address (I should add the envelope was bought, I didn't make it) and I used my semi-cursive-semi-printing handwriting which is, by all accounts, still totally readable. What was the clincher though? I wrote the zip code like this: 0-0-0-0-0 well, almost like that... the dashes were actually tiny dots.

He behaved as though the envelope was so over-decorated you couldn't read a thing (though I did follow the USPS addressing policies- it should be noted that my envelope looked nothing like their example of an envelope). I was mildly irritated but didn't much mind. Why, you ask? Because of my postman of course!

This guy is wonderful. Every time I get a personal mail art letter he shouts to me, "Nicole, mail!!!" He likes the variety and the difference from boring business letters and sale papers, and really, who wouldn't?!  (Except for a totally boring and/or serious person to adheres strictly to postal rules.) I mean, here's the deal: I pay exorbitant costs for postage stamps, shipping etc. and I probably keep my local postal branch open so they should be more like my post man! But I digress...

Not only does my postman love the mail-art envelopes and packages I receive from pen pals, he loves my own mail art. Every time he picks up my mail he smiles and says things like, "pretty!" Or, "how nice!" So fellow mail artists, keep fighting the good fight and writing letters to those who need a smile - our cause is just and noble!

Felix Holt, The Radical

First off let me say this, I am not a political person.  I'm not interested in politics *gasp* on the whole, I think politicians are liars (and that's the nicest thing I can say) and anything having to do with the subject quickly elicits my typical response: glazed eyes, nodding off, little drool at the corner of my mouth...  So when I studied up on Felix Holt, The Radical and found out that it was George Eliot's "Most Political Novel" I panicked.  The task seemed insurmountable and the odds of me liking this novel were improbable.

I didn't do Eliot justice.  How could I doubt her genius?!  READ IT.  If you don't like political stuff, it's okay, it's not what you think.  Yes it's set during the backdrop of the first Reform Bill, and Felix is known as a Radical...  But there's so much more going on there than just political stuff, and even that is more interesting than you'd think.  Mr. Lyon is a fantastic character and when his history is revealed in chapter 6, it brings such warmth to the story and illuminates Esther's own personality so much better.  Long story short, I recommend this book to anyone who hasn't read it before, it helps if you've read a book or two of Eliot's beforehand, but it's not essential as you'll quickly get used to her writing style.  Here's a couple of good quotes from Felix Holt:

She cried bitterly. If she might have married Felix Holt, she could have been a good woman.  She felt no trust that she could ever be good without him.   p.419

A woman must choose meaner things, because only meaner things are offered to her.  Her lot is made for her by the love she accepts.   p.525

Agnes Grey

Historically, Anne Bronte has been much overlooked and overshadowed by the incredible brilliance of her illustrious sisters.  However, I categorize her on the same level as Charlotte and Emily namely because of her wonderfully vivid style of writing.  A defining characteristic of the Bronte sisters is the way they wrote about things they knew a little of and laced them with ideas and situations they could only imagine.  Agnes Grey is a bit of a mold-breaker in that it's based mostly on Anne's personal experiences as a governess.

Being a governess wasn't an incredibly desirable job, yet many novels sort of gloss over the trials they encountered; not so with Agnes Grey.  Often throughout the novel it seems like Anne penned the real-life frustrations she encountered as a governess and then later changed the names for the sake of her story. 

At the start of the novel, Agnes is a little difficult to sympathize with because of the reserved way she relates her story.  As with so many novels, the heroine doesn't open up and become more three-dimensional until the love interest comes on the scene.  Agnes and her unspoken love of Edward Weston brings bittersweetness into the novel, and that trial gives the story its beauty.  It's an understated short novel, and it's well worth a read.

Here's a poem Anne wrote shortly after Emily's death and aptly named by Charlotte:

Last Lines by Anne Bronte-



I hoped, that with the brave and strong,


My portioned task might lie;

To toil amid the busy throng,

With purpose pure and high.


But God has fixed another part,

And He has fixed it well;

I said so with my bleeding heart,

When first the anguish fell.


A dreadful darkness closes in

On my bewildered mind;

Oh, let me suffer and not sin,

Be tortured, yet resigned.


Shall I with joy thy blessings share

And not endure their loss?

Or hope the martyr's crown to wear

And cast away the cross?


Thou, God, hast taken our delight,

Our treasured hope away;

Thou bidst us now weep through the night

And sorrow through the day.


These weary hours will not be lost,

These days of misery,

These nights of darkness, anguish-tost,

Can I but turn to Thee.


Weak and weary though I lie,

Crushed with sorrow, worn with pain,

I may lift to Heaven mine eye,

And strive to labour not in vain;


That inward strife against the sins

That ever wait on suffering

To strike whatever first begins:

Each ill that would corruption bring;


That secret labour to sustain

With humble patience every blow;

To gather fortitude from pain,

And hope and holiness from woe.


Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,

Whate'er may be my written fate:

Whether thus early to depart,

Or yet a while to wait.


If thou shouldst bring me back to life,

More humbled I should be;

More wise, more strengthened for the strife,

More apt to lean on Thee.



Should death be standing at the gate,

Thus should I keep my vow;

But, Lord! whatever be my fate,

Oh, let me serve Thee now!

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

If Miss Anne Bronte was intent on writing her novel in a very different fashion, she nailed it.  It's an interesting notion to introduce a seriously reserved character who's supposed to be the heroine, and then to show her warmer side once you've read much of the story.  The most pervasive themes within the story were love and unrequited love, Bronte interwove those themes impressively. 

I'm a serious literary lover, I have untold passionate crushes on many leading men in novels (i.e. Captain Wentworth, Mr. Darcy, John Thornton, Mr. Rochester etc.)...  However, Gilbert Markham isn't one of them.  The thing that sets those men apart is their serious love of their women, no matter the circumstances, even when they hate their objects of desire, they still love them.  This is a serious accusation to say that a Bronte sister's leading man is a little less than impressive, but I couldn't help feeling that in the end, not too much separated Markham from Mr. Hargrave. 

Think about it, both men are captivated by Helen, and both men then take the very natural masculine stance of feeling deeper in love when they find she's a damsel in distress.  The only difference between the two men is the encouragement Markham received and the serious discouragement Hargrave received.  Perhaps this less than impressive hero is presented in such an inhibited way because the novel itself was pretty constrained.

This is not to say it's a bad novel, far from it!  I love Anne Bronte's novels as much as her sister's, it's just a much more sedate storyline than the passionate Wuthering Heights or mysterious Jane Eyre.  Interestingly, the film version with Toby Stephens, Tara Fitzgerald and Rupert Graves is pretty amazing.  I have to say,  Toby Stephens kinda makes you just fall in love with whoever he's playing, so in an exceedingly rare instance, I find the film version of Markham much more likeable than the original literary version.

First post of 2012, WOO!

Ah,Time.  Yet again I've left off writing on this blog (I've posted on my other blog more recently), but I haven't left off reading the novels on my epic list.  Much to the disappointment of my 3 or so readers, I won't be posting about all of the novels I've finished...  I'll just write about one or two.

I've recently read:
Silas Marner -George Eliot
Hamlet - William Shakespeare
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall - Anne Bronte
Agnes Grey - Anne Bronte
The Mill on the Floss - George Eliot
Felix Holt - George Eliot
Cranford - Elizabeth Gaskell
North and South - Elzabeth Gaskell

On a whole other note, I'm in training for the Long Beach Marathon Bike Tour...  Of course, I'm taking it easy now because of the unnatural humid heat out here! But after the heat wave breaks, get ready to see me out there on the trails on my gorgeous little Schwinn! 

Letter Writers Alliance

I’m a member of an interesting group. As a girl with a passion for all things old fashioned and vintage, the Letter Writers Alliance just makes sense to me. Isn’t it sad that writing letters and sending them through the post has become such a rarity? I am an avid letter writer, but I didn’t know it until my brother joined the Marines. It really began when he was in boot camp.

I still remember the day the recruiter took him to MCRD San Diego. It was a little foggy that morning and I didn’t sleep from the night before. It was 4 in the morning and my family and I were wandering the house a little mindlessly. He was just himself even at the dawn of a new pathway in his life, he was confident, if a little pensive. I’d decided weeks before that I would give him a hug, say “Goodbye, I love you” and I wouldn’t cry… at least not in front of him.

So the moment came to test my fortitude, I said it, he hugged me and then all I remember from the moment the car turned out of sight was suddenly being at home. My usual response for intense emotional situations is to sleep, so I have a lot of times in my life where time seems to escape me. Anyways, for the 27 minutes it took to get home, my parents were silent and I strongly suspect I fell asleep. The very moment I strode through the door and into my room though, I became restless. I wanted to go into his room and say “Hey” or do something goofy to make him laugh, but he wasn’t there and he wouldn’t be for 13 weeks straight.

I remember picking up the nearest writing instrument (a fluorescent blue gel pen) and grabbing a notebook. At that time, something in me changed. I realized it was a way to express my life and my thoughts to my brother in a way I’d never do in person. How funny to suddenly want to ramble on and on about my inane thoughts and ideas. When the first few weeks of boot camp were over, he was finally able to receive letters. I’d been chronicling everything for days, so naturally it was time to send those out and get on with more letters. By the time he was in 3rd phase I was writing two or more letters a day and mailing them out. His DIs teased him for getting so much mail, but he said he loved it and he still wanted to hear anything I had to say. Mail call was his favorite time of day.

Letters were my way of still feeling close to my brother even when we were in two different worlds. On Sundays when he got a few free minutes, he’d dash off a letter answering some of my questions, telling me some funny stories and telling me he missed me. The things we couldn’t or wouldn’t say in person seemed to jump out of our pens and onto the papers. Each and every time the mail came, I haunted the post man. Normally he got jumpy at the houses with dogs; he’d sort of sprint up to the box, put the mail in and sprint off. With my eyes constantly searching for his arrival, my habit of leaping out the front door to make sure (a) he picked up my multitude of letters (b) he dropped off any and all personal letters and the velocity at which I sped out towards the box… He began sprinting up to my door and sprinting away. (Have you ever seen Keeping Up Appearances? I became Hyacinth with the scared post man.)

There were other times when I’d pen volumes of letters, but none so obsessively as when he was deployed. When several months lapse and you’re waiting for a Marine to come home, and you have my particular sleepy default condition, you tend to forget much of that time. But some things I do remember: the hours and hours I spent writing, crying and hugging a sandy letter, the two 100 packs of gel pens I went through and feeling that I could get through another day as long as I had the hope of more letters coming someday soon.

That habit has followed me to this day. I may not write scores of letters a day anymore, but I try to send friends and family something every so often just to remind them, and hopefully, give them the feelings I get when I receive mail. If you haven’t written a letter for a while, or you’re thinking of someone, sit down and write; give them that little thrill of opening an envelope. Join the LWA and begin chronicling things in your life, just write something.

Long Beach 5K

It's been a long time since I've posted anything... Between my new baby, work, church, KOTW and the 5K tomorrow, things have been hectic. But hey, here it is, October 8th and I'm ready to rock that run tomorrow.

International City Bank's Long Beach Marathon/Half-Marathon/Bike Race/5K is gonna be sweet, I'm very proud to be an official Semper Fi Fund team runner. So far, I've raised $245 from just 6 contributors! Thank you friends, family, and loved ones for your unfailing support and for caring about this awesome charity! If you want to donate, there's still time, check out the Rockabilly Semper Fi Fund page. (I receive no money, it all goes straight to SFF, I'm just the sponsor for that particular webpage)

This year: 5K... Next year I'm thinking the bike ride sounds fun :)

xoxox

Pamela: or, Virtue Rewarded

First of all, let me say, thank goodness I got this novel for so cheap at Camelot Books. I would’ve been extremely upset if I’d spent much more than I did. Of the three disliked novels I’ve read recently, I suppose this one is better, not good, but better than the other two. The Expedition of Humphry Clinker still strikes fear into my very soul, I despise that novel with a passion… whereas Joseph Andrews just kind of bored me to the brink of death.

Pamela at least gave me some interesting thoughts to keep me awake. Again, as with Humphry Clinker, it’s written in an epistolary fashion, which can be mind-numbing at best. Here’s the basic gist of the story: Pamela Andrews is a very beautiful 15 year old servant whose mistress has just died, leaving her in the hands of her scoundrel of a son, Mr. B. Immediately Mr. B sets to giving Pamela extravagant gifts, not long after, he begins to test her fortitude by trying to seduce her. A kiss here, a kiss there and before you know it, he’s attempting to ravish the poor (extremely young) virtuous girl.

Here’s where the story sort of gives you something to think about: Pamela is a mere servant girl, however she values herself and her purity. She says “no”, and although she stupidly gets into many of these awkward moments by her own naïveté, it was sort of a big deal to write about a servant girl who valued herself enough to disagree with her master. If you’re like me though, you’ll read her self pitying “O, pray for poor Pamela” letters with an annoyed sigh.

And then there’s the “I want to hit myself on the head with this book lots of times so I’ll forget I just spent time reading over 500 pages of fairly obnoxious whiny letters” moment… ::SPOILER ALERT:: She falls in love with this total cad! What’s the reward for being virtuous? Apparently marrying your would-be rapist. Ick. There were a few other things that just made me roll my eyes when I read about the personality and history of Pamela’s beloved Mr. B. But like I said, of the three novels, this one was the most interesting. It makes you think, even if they are thoughts of “What the heck?!” It’s better than nothing.

Joseph Andrews

Is it possible, have I found yet another novel that I dislike as much as The Expedition of Humphry Clinker? Pretty darn near. Okay, it wasn’t as bad, but it was… dull. Now, I mistakenly read this before reading Pamela (which, for those of you who aren’t familiar with Joseph Andrews, it was written as a follow-up sort of mocking piece in which Henry Fielding attacked the weaker morality points he noticed in Samuel Richardson’s Pamela), which could account for a bit of the dislike, but I’m fairly certain I disliked it for itself.

Another weakly written novel of the picaresque* genre (*a satirical story of a lower class hero or heroine navigating through life and coming upon many adventures), I guess I could cut Fielding some slack since he was merely attempting to parody Richardson, but… Ugh. Adventure is certainly not a word I’d use to describe this novel; it contains a bit of tawdry humor, mysterious parentage and totally unrelated effusive speeches.

Joseph, is introduced as the brother of Pamela Andrews (from the novel Pamela) and is immediately put into a similar circumstance of a very forward master (or in his case, mistress) trying to seduce him. The Lady Booby (yes, that’s really the name Fielding chose) unable to seduce handsome young Joseph sends him away, and thus begins a very tedious novel. I shudder to think about any time the irritating Parson Adams started on a self-righteous sermon-like speech. There's not too much for me to say, I didn't like this one. Glad I'm done with it, check it off the list.

Maybe I’m just too picky, I don’t know. I infinitely prefer the Dickensian picaresque novels to this sort of boredom, but one more down, lots more to go.

Shakespeare's Sonnets

I’m not going to bore you with a tedious analysis of these sonnets. I’m a firm believer that poetry should be read, felt, enjoyed, experienced… not torn apart or deconstructed, they ought to be left intact (without being dissected) the way the artist intended them to be. Prose should never be used to explain the beauty of a poem.

I love William Shakespeare, and I adore his poetry. His sonnets are marvelous and I can find one to suit any mood or situation from passion to despair, love to loss, it’s all there. Here’s a list of some of my favorites, depending on my moods…

18 – In junior high I memorized this sonnet and performed it at a student expo. Yeah, it’s one of my more embarrassing childhood memories (I don’t want to talk about it.)

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

71 – This appeals to my morbid side, it’s painfully beautiful.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
Oh, if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.

116 – This was the sonnet that affirmed my love of Shakespeare when I was a girl. It makes so much more sense once you’ve loved and lost. Thank you, William Shakespeare, for sonnet 116.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixèd mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come,
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

141 – Ah the blindness that takes over when you fall in love, embodied in one amazing sonnet.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote;
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

145 – I love the fear that Shakespeare lays open in this sonnet, it’s human and familiar.

Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said, "I hate,"
To me that languished for her sake:
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue, that ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom;
And taught it thus anew to greet;
"I hate," she altered with an end,
That followed it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who, like a fiend,
From heaven to hell is flown away;
"I hate," from hate away she threw,
And saved my life, saying- "not you."

The Way of the World

I’m one of those people who loves reading plays… that being said, I suppose I should qualify that statement: I love reading most plays. This wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever read ::ahem Humphry Clinker:: but it was far from dazzlingly wonderful. It’s a fair choice for a play from the Restoration comedy genre; I kind of had a geek moment when Congreve mentioned Ben Johnson’s Volpone… That was honestly the high point for me.

To be fair, I’ll share a short synopsis, maybe you’d like to read the play for yourself. Like I said, it isn’t terrible; I’m just not generally partial to the Restoration comedies. The story centers on the lovers Mirabell (yes, Mirabell is a man) and Mrs. Millamant who love each other and want to marry. Alas, impediments exist! If Millamant’s aunt, Lady Wishfort marries someone, they will lose £6000 of Millamant’s dowry… Marriage is a possibility when a rich lady is in question. Lady Wishfort would rather her niece marry her nephew Sir Wilful and of course there are also the added complications of former lovers and mistaken identities, all characteristic of the basic Restoration comedy. It’s short, you can read it in no time, and maybe you’ll like it more than I did. Hey, I bought my Dover Thrift Edition from Barnes & Noble for only $1.00!

Ulysses

“If the accused could speak he could a tale unfold one of the strangest that have ever been narrated between the covers of a book.” James Joyce’s Ulysses has been accused of being unreadable and obscene; and its history is far from sedate. For a while it had been banned in the UK and the United States because of its unabashed and sometimes explicit descriptions (and choice of language).

Make no mistake, reading Ulysses is a huge undertaking but it’s something I think every serious fan of literature should undertake at some point (side note, since it’s based on Homer’s Odyssey, it’s doubly interesting if you’ve ever read the original… though it probably won’t really help to understand some of Joyce’s truly enigmatic phrases and slang).

I finished Ulysses on Bloomsday! Unintentionally, I assure you, I got so caught up reading it I read through the whole night of June 15^th to the morning of June 16^th. When I realized what day I finished reading Ulysses, I geeked out. There are almost no words I can use to explain how incredibly epic this novel is; you just need to read it to understand what I mean. Don’t be intimidated, pick it up, read it. Here are some quotes I either found amusing/insightful/funny/or a complete epitome of Ulysses …

Pain, that was not yet the pain of love fretted his heart.

Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere? Ah, in the dead sea, floating on his back, reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn’t sink if you tried: so thick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of the body in the water is equal to the weight of the. Or is it the volume is equal of the weight? It’s a law something like that. Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What is weight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second, per second. Law of falling bodies: per second, per second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It’s the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.

The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck.

She swore to him as they mingled the salt streams of their tears that she would cherish his memory, that she would never forget her hero boy who went to his death with a song on his lips as if he were but going to a hurling match in Clonturk park.

On the other hand what incensed him more inwardly was the blatant jokes of the cabmen and so on, who passed it all off as a jest, laughing immoderately, pretending to understand everything, the why and the wherefore, and in reality not knowing their own minds… (Fun trivia: Brendan Fehr’s character in Roswell quotes a version of this fantastic line in the episode 285 South)

theres nothing else its all very fine for them but as for being a woman as soon as youre old they might as well throw you out in the bottom of the ash pit.

Reading Journal for Book Lovers

In my rambles through the sweet little book shops of Solvang a couple months ago; I picked up one of the most useful items I’ve ever beheld: A Reading Journal For Book Lovers. Yes, yes… I’m aware that I’m a total geek, but really, how practical for an avid reader! First off, I adore the cover design, but then you open it up and it’s equally impressive inside too.

The inside of the journal contains pages to analyze any books you’ve finished, little prompts about your personal reading preferences and numerous reading lists (i.e. BBC Top 100 Reads*, Pulitzer Prize Winners, Time Magazine: Top 100 Novels etc). Most of the pages consist of your own personal book rating system with areas to write the title, author, date published, genre, date you started/finished, your rating out of 5 stars, what the book inspired you to learn about and a whole page for notes.

Seriously, for like $13.00 you can grab this super cute reading journal, I think I’ll probably buy several more of these, just to keep myself well stocked for future reading endeavors.

*Side note… Has anyone noticed that the BBC’s top 100 list includes a strange Harry Potter book? (I myself, never having read a Harry Potter book find it ludicrous that they would be included amongst true classics such as Pride & Prejudice, David Copperfield, Middlemarch and Wuthering Heights but that’s not my point…) My point is, if you’ll check the list, number 22 is written as “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone”. As I said, I don’t know Harry Potter stuff, but I do know Van Morrison, and I know for a fact that good old Van released an album about 13 years ago called “Philosopher’s Stone”… I’m pretty sure Harry Potter has more to do with sorcerers than philosophers. Am I way wrong here? I did a search on bn.com and found H.P. and the Philosopher’s Stone… But it’s in Greek, that doesn’t count and I doubt it would have been included in the BBC’s Top 100 list. I dunno, it just seems strange.

The Dream of the Rood

Where can I begin with this poem? It’s stunning. It won’t take any time to read, but oh my goodness, it’ll probably get you started on some serious thinking. I read this poem a few weeks ago with every intention of writing about it then, but it’s taken me this long to find any words about it.

The Dream of the Rood is a fine example of Middle English poetry, though the exact date of the poem’s authorship is still unknown. Perhaps that adds to the wonderful mystery of it all.

At any rate, you may wonder, what is a ‘Rood’? Ah, glad you asked. Rood is a Middle English word for ‘rod’, which was also a word used for a crucifix. Maybe the title makes you wonder: is this the cross dreaming, or is someone dreaming of the cross and then writing the poem (think about the title, it’s still unclear… the only answer is to read on and find out).

The poem is indeed a dream about the cross of Jesus and its experiences and viewpoint during Jesus’ crucifixion. Whoa, what an incredible idea, the use of the inanimate object to tell the story of Jesus’ crucifixion. It’s interesting, all of the Easter church services I’ve been to in my life; I’ve never heard anything so abstract that made so much sense. The idea of a cross or tree speaking puts me in mind of one of my favorite Bible verses… check out 1 Chronicles 16:33.

I realize this isn’t my usual type of post, that’s simply because there’s almost nothing I can say. Read it, and you’ll see what I mean.

Howards End

It may be apparent to any readers that my all time favorite author is the great Charles Dickens. I love the way he details scenery, his character’s appearance and his descriptions can go on for pages… E.M. Forster is quite the reverse, yet I love his writing style as well. Forster seems to focus less on outward appearances and much more on the psychological side of things, internal thoughts and repressed feelings. The brilliance of Forster’s novel lies in its understated nature blended with well balanced intrigues, hopes and tragedies.

Any Jane Austen fans may note slight similarities between Sense and Sensibility’s Dashwood sisters and the Schlegel sisters of Howards End… Check it out and see what you think, it’s certainly a splendid novel.