not even the trees

hootie and the blowfish

someone please talk to me 'cause i feel you cry

and you're sitting with him, and i know i'll never see you again...

i wonder if you're looking down at me and smiling right now

i wanna know if it's true when he looks at me, won't you tell me

does he realize he came down here and he took you too soon...

right now i just can't see 'cause i'm feeling weak

and my soul begins to bleed

and no one's listening to me, not even the trees

god of wine

third eye blind

every thought that i repent
there's another chip you haven't spent

and you're cashing them all in...

the god of wine comes crashing through the headlights of a car

that took you farther than you thought you'd ever want to go...

she takes a drink, and then she waits. the alcohol, it permeates

and soon the cells give way and cancels out the day...

every glamorous sunrise throws the planets out of line

a star sign out of whack, a fraudulent zodiac

and the god of wine is crouched down in my room

you let me down. i said it. now i'm going down

and you're not even around

there's not a day where i don't think of my brother and get either, if not both, of these songs in my head soon after. i, who lived in san antonio then, was listening to the first one right around the time the cops in lake charles were calling my parents in conroe to tell them that their older son, their firstborn had died.

and when my parents called me six hours later, when i made the roughly four-hour drive home, the second song was on repeat. i played it most of the way home because i didn't know the circumstances. my brother had a drinking problem. it developed when i was in high school. so for a decade, i'd been living under the assumption that, yes, chances were quite good that i would see his death sooner rather than later, and that he would most likely die in an automobile accident. so while i'm making that trek, i'm imagining the physical, literal wreckage. i should've been more preoccupied with the figurative kind.

the sky was white that day. there was no break in the clouds, no variance in the hue. it was raining, but it wasn't. it was more like a mist, like the air was sweating. but it was the middle of march, not hot enough for that. it was like that the whole way home, halfway across texas.

there's not a day where i don't see that sky and think, that's how it was. and every memory of that day and the events to follow flood my consciousness.

i've always felt as though my brother was the best of the three of us. imagined him being born on a day that began with a glamorous sunrise, that maybe if he'd been born on a different one, things would be different. it's a silly thing to think. it does me no good whatsoever.

he didn't die in a car. he died alone, in front of l'auberge casino resort in lake charles, louisiana. he'd spent his last day on earth fishing with friends. drinking buddies. they'd hightailed it to my parents' house after he died. i remember greeting them at the door. i remember the air outside feeling oppressed by their grief. the sun had come out sometime between my arrival home and their appearance on our doorstep. i remember their faces, the guilt on them. like they thought it was their fault he'd died because they'd left him alone.

my brother could be a vicious bastard when he was drunk. i was unfortunate in my life that i got to see how callous he could be. he'd gotten so drunk the day he'd died that he'd become that cranky jackass, and they'd left him in his room while they'd gone to dinner, figuring a nap would do him some good. they came back afterward to find that he was still cranky and left him again to go to the casino. when they came back at around ten that night, he was not in his room.

a stranger found him face down on concrete at half past midnight on march twelfth, fifty feet from the resort's entrance.

the guilt on those men's faces haunts me. they couldn't have saved him. no one could.

i spent that first week running errands: calling on his oldest friend to get the word out about the memorial service we had here for him; gathering the things my mother requested; packing for the trip to colorado for his funeral; turning a bulletin board into a photo collage:

i kept busy. i was so concerned with whether my parents and younger brother and our friends and jon's friends were alright. i hadn't been that close with my older brother. i'd been preparing myself for this moment since i was in college so i hadn't expected grief would sucker punch me.

but it did.

it waited a couple of months, waited until i was back in my apartment in san antonio. until i was alone. and then...

there were days i didn't leave my apartment. days i didn't bother to brush my teeth or comb my hair or change my clothes or shower. it was disgusting. i was disgusting. not so much because i missed him but because i'd fucked things up with him. i'd not loved him well enough. i'd spent the first two decades of my life putting him on a pedestal, and then when he'd broken it, i'd thought he was no better than the rubbish beneath the debris. i'd never bothered to know him.

and i couldn't lean on my family, didn't want to weigh them down with my guilt and grief when they were struggling with their own. didn't want to lean on his friends. didn't really have friends of my own on whom i could call for help.

here's the thing, though: the only person i would've allowed myself to lean on would've been a romantic partner, had i had one. i wouldn't've shared my feelings. i would've wanted him to distract me.

i can't tell you what else happened in two thousand three. that whole year was march. that month dragged on and on and on. i don't remember anything but death and grief.

i wish this weren't the case. how awful is it that a whole year could be so significant and so ghostly at once?

you would think the first year would be the hardest. it's not. it's the second one. there's the anniversary of the death. there's all the holidays and birthdays that he's not here to celebrate with us.

then you fall into a routine, acclimate yourself to the new normal. you start to forget him: the sound of his voice, the things he loved, the stories he told, the horrible taste in music, the way he could NEVER sing in key. maybe this is a good thing. maybe it helps you heal. you can't cling to him, to the grief, the loss. he's not there anymore. not anywhere.

and then people kind of forget that you've lost him.

of his friends, the only one who makes a consistent effort to keep in touch is one of his corps buddies from a & m. he tells me stories. he doesn't mind sharing them. his daughter was born a few years after my brother died, on the anniversary of his death. i have no trouble remembering her birthday. i need to be reminded when her brother's is.

the other day a friend messaged me because a friend of hers had lost her brother, and she wanted to know how to best help her friend. i told her that my grief might be different from her friend's because i felt my brother's death had been intentional: he'd put himself on that path and chosen to walk it to its dead end. i have a lot of anger, still: at god because he couldn't save him, because he took him instead of me when my brother's presence in this world was so much more appreciated and by so many (when he was sober, he was amazing, yall. he was beautiful, and i am not); at him for not finding the strength to conquer his demons, for not appreciating how much he was loved; at myself for being angry with god and him and myself, for not loving him, for thinking all these things. i told her i needed to think on this some.

so how could i have been helped...

i don't need to talk about him. he's buried in the mountains of colorado, near the rivers and slopes, where his spirit is free to fish in the warmer months and ski in the winter... or so i like to think.

but on the occasion that i want to talk about him, i want people to be willing to engage. my younger brother is never interested in doing this, but he's an olympic internalizer. i know not to bring jon up with him. every now and then, i'll see jon in him: in the sound of his voice, his mannerisms, the way he expresses himself. prior to my brother's death, i'd never seen the similarities. it's kind of nice to see them now.

i wish i could remember that year. i wish i could i remember the good that occurred then. i wish more of his friends were present in our lives now, not because i want them to help me keep his memory alive but because his death is enough... the death of those friendships just adds to the grief, makes the loss that much more prevalent.

i'd want someone there... often. not to grieve with me but to brighten my world because it was so, so unbearably bleak. i needed color and chaos, the kind that's born from creativity rather than tragedy.

my mother struggled with what to put on my brother's headstone. one of the television programs i liked the year he died was called ed. there was an episode where the main character was struggling with something -- can't tell you what exactly, because, again, i can't remember much from that year -- but i do recall from that episode the words life was his art. my mother liked that. and so on my brother's headstone are the words laughter was his art. of the things i've written, the pieces i love the most have come from the most hideous experiences. art's one of the best therapies there is.

what i miss most is my brother's laugh and the ease with which he could make others laugh.

in the film steel magnolias, truvy says laughter through tears is my favorite emotion. THAT'S how you get through grief, yall. laughter. the more, the merrier.

nine things to celebrate in september

one. september third. skyscraper day. travel to the nearest metropolitan area (if it's within a reasonable distance) and take a picture of the skyline. if the distance is too great, dig through your travel photos for a favorite skyline shot.

two. september sixth. read a book day. if you're anything like me, you've got stacks of books you've been saying i'm going to read this... someday. someday's here. pick one that's been on your to read list for far too long. read some.

three. september eighth. pardon day. what unforgivable curses have been used on you and by whom? find the strength to forgive one person. be brave enough to confess the forgiveness.

four. september ninth. teddy bear day. donate a new teddy bear to a children's hospital.

five. september twelfth. national video games day. what was one of your favorite video games to play in your childhood? find an arcade that has that game and play some.

six. september thirteenth. fortune cookie day. snag six fortune cookies. give five to your friends or family, and keep one for yourself. what's it say?

seven. september seventeenth. national women's friendship day. of your girl friends, which have you known the longest? what's sustained that friendship? send a note letting her know how much you value her presence in your life.

eight. september twenty-first. world gratitude day. this one's got two parts. ONE) on this day, make a concerted effort to say THANK YOU if someone pays you a compliment. women are so bad at shrugging off positive attention, like we don't deserve it. like the other day when a friend commented how sweet i was, i contradicted the compliment. if someone says THANK YOU, instead of saying NO PROBLEM say YOU'RE WELCOME. TWO) as you go through your day, make a list of everything you see for which you are thankful. there's a notes app on your phone. USE it. if you do it right, by the end of the day, it should be a rather long list. type it up. send it to me. i'll be grateful for the mail.

nine. september twenty-eighth. national good neighbor day. check in with one of the folks who lives nearby, if not next door. take fifteen minutes out of your day to visit.

the beginning of everything

why i wanted to read it: because i liked the title and the cover and the first few pages grabbed my attention. but it, like so many books, made it home and then was untouched for quite some time. i picked it up again for the book beginning with b category in erin's book challenge.

what i liked: so who was i in the aftermath of my personal tragedy? at first, i was a lousy sport when it came to the chipper attitudes of the pediatrics nurses. and then i was a stranger in my own home, a temporary occupant of the downstairs guest room. an invalid, if you will, which is probably the most horrific word i've ever heard to describe someone who is supposed to be recuperating. in the context of a mathematical proof, if something is considered "invalid", it has been demonstrated through irrefutable logic not to exist (page 13).

we wound up debating the merits of free market economics, which definitely wasn't my strong suit, and i argued pro again. i thought i'd managed to present the argument okay, but the moment that freshman adjusted his belt, straightened his tie, and shot me a look like he expected me to suck it, i knew i was done for. he filleted me. 

it was so frustrating, knowing that, if we were on a tennis court, i could've killed him with my backhand, slicing it to land short and watching him run like hell. but this was debate, and my superpowers were nonexistent. i almost wished he'd debated cassidy in her ridiculous harry potter costume, so she could've wiped the smirk off his muggle-face (pages 146-147).

"the world tends toward chaos, you know," cassidy said. "i'm just helping it along. you could too. just write down a made-up name, or even a fictional character..."

"fictional people?" i teased... "i think i'll stick with reality," i said, handing cassidy back her phone... "imaginary prisoners are still prisoners" (pages 175-176).

she'd put on a pair of boots with big heels, and the extra height made holding hands feel different, as though she was closer, and easier to reach (page 194).

"just once i want someone to be afraid of losing me," phoebe said (page 221).

"i -- just -- the whole time, it's been someone else?" i said numbly.

she cocked her head slightly, her hand on her hip, as though it pained her to have to explain it to me.

"how could it have been you? my god, ezra, look at yourself. you're a washed-up prom king who lost his virginity to some cheerleader in a hot tub. you take me out for burgers and friday-night movies at the multiplex. you're everything i make fun of about small hick towns like this one, and you're still going to be here in twenty years, coaching the high-school tennis team so you can relive your glory days."

back when they'd reset the broken bone in my wrist, i'd woken up on the operating table. it was just for a moment, before the doctors upped the anesthesia, but in those seconds when the lights were bright and hot and the surgeons were bent over me with my blood dripping from their scalpels, it'd felt as though i'd woken into a nightmare.

hearing cassidy say those things was worse. because i hadn't been broken when i left my house an hour earlier, with a wrist corsage of white roses still cold from the refrigerator, but i was certainly broken now.

i stared at her, horrified. her chin jutted stubbornly and her eyes were a hurricane, and there was nowhere for me to seek cover

i turned and walked away.

"ezra!" she called desperately, as thought i was the one who was being unreasonable.

i paused, considering it, but what more was there to say? and then i continued my funeral march toward the parking lot.

the death of a relationship. at least i was dressed for the wake (pages 244-245).

"remember my twelfth birthday... how all of the sudden, we weren't friends anymore... you're pushing me away, exactly like you did in seventh grade... i was the fat kid who drew comic books. i was going to be bullied no matter what. you act like that day at disneyland was my big tragedy, but you're the one who lost your best friend" (pages 269-270).

what sucked: the writing is mediocre, at best. most of the time, it was disheartening for me to read this book because i felt my own writing was equal to this, and i want to do better and am not sure i can... which made me feel like shit, because it's really not good writing. too much telling, bad dialogue, poor character development... it doesn't read quickly enough for my liking. it's fairly predictable. there's not much more heart than what's in these passages here. he break-up scene is barely a page. that should be gut-wrenching, and surely what's there has some power, but... the author always seems to fall a little short. not much heart, and much less chemistry.

having said that: the bones of the story are good. there's some amazing conflict here, and the author does do well in creating a believable world in which these characters live. although i'm not fond of the writing style, i cared enough about ezra's plight to see it through to the end.

all the dark places

"black holes are the remnants of former stars; they're so dense that not even light can escape; they lurk inside every galaxy; they're the most destructive force in the cosmos; as a black hole passes through space, it engulfs everything that comes close to it, stars, comets, planets..." (theodore finch in all the bright places; niven, page 304).

the whole time i was reading this book i thought of things i wanted to say, comments in concert to content of this novel. i almost posted about it first before the book because the thoughts were swirling so close to the surface but didn't because: a) i blog about mental health a lot, i think -- maybe too much -- and people are probably as tired of my depression rants as i am of others' political tweets; b) i felt i should at least wait until i'd finished the book -- that blogging about it before wouldn't be right. and then i wasn't going to post about my thoughts at all because there's a hurricane and environmental and political unrest and... i kept telling myself that my voice doesn't really matter all that much.

and in the end, that last thought is exactly why i am posting. because that is exactly what's wrong with this picture.

i watched pieces of some documentary about walt disney last night, of how he'd built this amazing studio to accommodate the growing number of employees contributing to and carrying out his ideas, of how he'd created a pyramid system there, a hierarchy... that if you did this much work, you could have this many perks. and if you went around that system and tried to share your perks with others, you would be stripped of those perks.

i'm reading the beginning of everything by robyn schneider, and in it a character becomes more aware of social status and how the elite feel that only their voices matter. he'd not been listening to others, had not even thought to do so because he'd believed himself to be fairly content with his world and how it revolved.

of all the passages that i felt best summed up what it's like to have bipolar disorder, the one above about black holes does it the best. the last therapist i saw said she thought i had major depressive disorder, and not bipolar disorder as so many of my counselors and therapists suggested in my twenties. maybe that's true. i can tell you though... there's a point in all the bright places in which theodore is so overcome by his emotions, so exhausted from trying to be good, as he put it, that he moved into his closet and hid there. i can tell you that i've come out of my room a handful of times today, and only briefly -- trips to the kitchen and the bath. i've not changed out of my pajamas. the only self care i've done today is brush my hair and teeth. i made a half a sandwich for lunch. i had a small bowl of ice cream and a handful of saltines. i've drunk two coca-colas and am sipping on ginger ale. i am not hungry. i am eating because i know i should be. i threw up the sandwich, by the way -- maybe twenty minutes after having eaten it. not by choice, yall. i didn't stick a finger down my throat. i HATE being sick that way and would never choose to be so.

i am not doing well right now, which is why i'm in my room. i've not slept well in weeks. last night was the first night i'd not taken some sort of sleep aid because i thought maybe i would sleep better if i didn't, but i had bad dreams. i did awful things in them.

the only people who have texted me today are my writing friends with updates on their status regarding the damage from harvey, and that's because i'm in a group text. were i not to be in that group text, i would not have heard from any of them. the only other person to text me was the daughter-in-law of one of my mother's oldest friends, wanting to know how things were for us.

i text friends, and with the exceptions of a couple of people, it may be days before they reply. and when they do, i think they're only doing it because they feel guilty for not having done so sooner.

i think -- often, much too often -- as theodore does: i am broken, i am a fraud, i am impossible to love. i feel like that. all the time.

and there's the guilt. that i cannot be good. that i cannot be better. that i can't shrug this shit off. that i can't suck it up and plow through my day like so many others do. that i think it would be better if i drove my car onto the three-lane frontage road in front of pappadeaux's restaurant, where i go to write, and let the oncoming traffic traveling at fifty miles an hour or so t-bone me. that i have to remind myself how wrong that is, how selfish, how stupid, how costly. that i can't tell my parents or my friends when i'm being tossed about in the tempest because they won't understand and it's wrong to burden them with my troubles when they can't comprehend them. that i cannot appreciate all the good in my world (and i know it's there. you can't have a category four hurricane strike texas and put a shield over my home as karma has somehow done and not know of the good) as fully as i should. that i cannot be what the world wants me to be. i get up out of bed every morning and put on a mask the moment i go downstairs. and then i go outside, and if i'm lucky, i can wear that mask for the entirety of the time i'm around others. and sometimes it's not so much a challenge to wear it because somedays i'm stronger than others.

but my head hurts. every day. i hurt. EVERY day, and it's not just because i have that mild case of cerebral palsy. it's that my head's FUCKED, and tylenol or advil, vitamins and claritin and wellbutrin... they are drops in the bucket sometimes.

i am a black hole. and the best place for me to be is in my room, in my jammies, bundled in my blankets, resting on my pillows. banging on these keys or reading a book... or best of all... sleeping. because sometimes being awake sucks ass.

i hear all the time how nice i am. like yesterday, when the guys who take care of our pool texted to say they'd be by this week, i told them that our pool looked pretty damned good and they could put us last on their list. i was told of how sweet i am. instead of saying thank you, as i should have, i texted: actually, i'm not.

because really, i'm not. i have to do nice things to combat the evil within. i have to do nice things to remind myself that i am capable of good. i have to do nice things so the madness doesn't win.

they say you get what you give. i'm of the mind that you give what you get. and what i've gotten, since birth is the notion that i should be hidden away -- first by my doctors, then by my teachers and peers, and after college, the world, really. the only people i can say who truly care for me are my mother and my father.

i type that, and there's a part of me that knows it's wrong of me to say. there's a part of me that weeps because i feel that way. there's a part of me that is desperate to say this isn't so. it's not true. it's your mind lying to you.

i don't have the energy right now to find evidence to the contrary. were i to make the effort, i wouldn't believe what i found, even if it were in black and white.

i am a black hole. i keep everything, good and bad. the trouble is, there's so much more bad.

maybe i was capable of shining once. maybe. if so, it was so long ago i don't remember.

all the bright places

why i wanted to read it: this is one of those that i always saw on display at barnes and noble for the longest time, like the fault in our stars, but would pick up and put down again and again. on a visit to the lovely, independent blue willow bookshop in west houston many, many months ago ago, i purchased an autograph copy, but it sat in my car for weeks and weeks. it finally made it into the house, only to be stashed on the bookshelves. one of the categories for erin's book challenge is mental illness in fiction, and it suits. god, does it suit.

what i liked: theodore finch. "what in the hell were you doing in the bell tower?"

the thing i like about embryo is that not only is he predictable, he gets to the point. i've known him since sophomore year.

"i wanted to see the view."

"were you planning to jump off?"

"not on pizza day. never on pizza day, which is one of the better days of the week." i should mention that i am a brilliant deflector. so brilliant that i could get a full scholarship to college and major in it, except why bother? i've already mastered the art (page 13).

it's my experience that people are a lot more sympathetic if they can see you hurting, and for the millionth time in my life i wish for measles or smallpox or some other recognizable disease just to make it simple for me and also for them. anything would be better than the truth: i shut down again. i went blank. one minute i was spinning, and the next minute my mind was dragging itself around in a circle, like an old, arthritic dog trying to lie down. and then i just turned off and went to sleep, but not sleep in the way you do every night. think a long, dark sleep where you don't dream at all (pages 15-16).

apparently, i'm tragic and dangerous (page 26).

someone has come in late and dropped a book and then, in picking up the book, has upset all her other books so that everything has gone tumbling. this is followed by laughter because we're in high school... and so, because i'm used to it and because this violet girl is about three dropped pencils away from crying, i knock one of my own books onto the floor. all eyes shift to me. i bend to pick it up and purposely send others flying -- boomeranging into walls, windows, heads -- and just for good measure, i tilt my chair over so i go crashing. this is followed by snickers and applause and a "freak" or two, and mr. black wheezing. "if you're done... theodore... i'd like to continue."

i right myself, right the chair, take a bow, collect my books, bow again, settle in, and smile at violet, who is looking at me... (page 29).

outside of class, gabe romero blocks my way. amanda monk waits just behind, hip jutted out, Joe wyatt and ryan cross on either side of her. good, easygoing, decent, nice-guy ryan, athlete, a-student, vice president of the class. the worst thing about him is that since kindergarten he's known exactly who he is...

"pick 'em up, bitch." roamer walks past me, knocking me in the chest -- hard -- with his shoulder. i want to slam his head into a locker and then reach down his throat and pull his heart out through his mouth, because the thing about being awake is that everything in you is alive and aching and making up for lost time.

but instead i count all the way to sixty, a stupid smile plastered on my stupid face. i will not get detention. i will not get expelled. i will be good. i will be quiet. i will be still...

i've made a promise to myself that this year will be different (pages 32-33). 

worthless. stupid. these are the words i grew up hearing. they're the words i try to outrun, because if i let them in, they might stay there and grow up and fill me in, until the only thing left of me is worthless stupid worthless stupid worthless stupid freak (page 63).

i sign onto facebook, and over on violet's page someone from school has posted about her being a hero for saving me. there are 146 comments and 289 likes, and while i'd like to think there are this many people grateful that i'm still alive, i know better. i go to my page, which is empty except for violet's friend picture (pages 75).

roamer mumbles. "maybe you should go back up there and try again."

"and miss the opportunity to see indiana? no thanks." their eyes bore into me as i look at violet. "let's go."

"right now?"

"no time like the present, and all that. you of all people should know we're only guaranteed right now."

roamer says, "hey asshole, why don't you ask her boyfriend?"

i say to roamer, "because i'm not interested in ryan. i'm interested in violet" (page 87).

mom says, "decca, tell me what you learned today."

before she can answer, i say, "actually, i'd like to go first... i learned that there is good in the world, if you look hard enough for it. i learned that not everyone is disappointing, including me... (page 104).

water is peaceful. i am at rest... in march of 1941, after three serious breakdowns, virginia woolf wrote a note to her husband... "i feel certain that i am going mad again. i feel we can't go through another of those terrible times... so i am doing what seems the best thing to do... you have been in every way all that anyone could be... if anybody could have saved me it would have been you" (page 106).

... a voice in me says, you're no hero. you're a coward. you only saved them from yourself (page 161).

i can go downstairs right now and let my mom know how i'm feeling -- if she's even home -- but she'll tell me to help myself to the advil in her purse and that i need to relax and stop getting myself worked up, because in this house there's no such thing as being sick unless you can measure it with a thermometer under the tongue...

i don't want to hear about the cardinal again. because the thing of it is, that cardinal was dead either way, whether he came inside or not. maybe he knew it, and maybe that's why he decided to crash into the glass a little harder than normal that day. he would have died in here, only slower, because that's what happens when you're a finch. the marriage dies. the love dies. the people fade away. (pages 185-186).

in gym, charlie donahue and i stand on the baseball field, way beyond third base... he crosses his arms and frowns at me. "is it true you almost drowned roamer?"

"something like that."

"always finish what you start, man" (page 204).

"what are you most afraid of?"

i think, i'm most afraid of just be careful. i'm most afraid of the long drop. i'm most afraid of asleep and impending weightless doom. i'm most afraid of me.

"i'm not." i take her hand, and together we leap through the air. and in that moment there's nothing i fear except losing hold of her hand (page 221).

labels like "bipolar" say, this is why you are the way you are. this is who you are. they explain people away as illnesses (page 272).

a string of thoughts run through my head like a song i can't get rid of, over and over in the same order: i am broken. i am a fraud. i am impossible to love. it's only a matter of time until violet figures it out. you warned her. what does she want from you? you told her how it was. 

bipolar disorder, my mind says, labeling itself. bipolar, bipolar, bipolar.

and then it starts all over again: i am broken. i am a fraud. i am impossible to love... (pages 277-278).

i am tired. i am avoiding seeing violet. it's exhausting trying to even myself out and be careful around her, so careful, like i'm picking my way through a minefield, enemy soldiers on every side. must not let her see. i've told her i've come down with some sort of bug and don't want to get her sick (page 281).

all i know is what i wonder: which of my feelings are real? which of the mes is me? there is only one me i've ever really liked, and he was good and awake as long as he could be (page 314).

and violet markey.

i love the world that is my room. it's nicer in here than out there, because in here i'm whatever i want to be. i am a brilliant writer. i can write fifty pages a day and i never run out of words. i am an accepted future student of the nyu creative writing program. i am the creator of a popular web magazine -- not the one i did with eleanor, but a new one. i am fearless. i am free. i am safe (page 52).

i look in the direction brenda pointed and there he is. theodore finch leans against an suv, hands in his pockets, like he has all the time in the world and he expects me. i think of the virginia woolf lines, the ones from the waves: "pale, with dark hair, the one who is coming is melancholy, romantic. and i am arch and fluent and capricious for his melancholy, he is romantic. he is here" (page 90).

he sits cross-legged, wild hair bent over one of the books, and immediately it's as if he's gone away and is somewhere else.

i say, "i'm still made at you about getting me in detention." i expect some fast reply, something flirty and flip, but instead he doesn't look up, just reaches for my hand and keeps reading. i can feel the apology in his fingers... (page 153).

the room has been stripped bare, down to the sheets on the bed. it looks like a vacant blue hospital room, waiting to be made up for the next patient (page 290).

just two lines across, each word on a separate piece of paper. the first line reads: long, last, nothing, time, there, make, was, to, a, him.

the second: waters, thee, go, to, it, suits, if, the, thee.

i reach for the word "nothing". i sit cross-legged and hunched over, thinking about the words. i know i've heard them before, though not in this order.

i take the words from line one off the wall and start moving them around (page 332).

what sucked: not a damned thing.

having said that: read it. please, please read it. i know i shared a lot from this one. i promise you, there's so much more good than i've included here.

motion picture monday

one. robin hood: prince of thieves.

released: 1991.

starring: alan rickman, kevin costner, morgan freeman.

what makes it awesome: alan and morgan.

two. sense and sensibility.
released: 1995.
starring: alan rickman, kate winslet, emma thompson.
what makes it awesome: alan, kate and emma.

three. die hard.

released: 1998.

starring: alan rickman, reginald veljohnson, bruce willis.

what makes it awesome: alan.

four. dogma.

released: 1999.

starring: alan rickman, ben affleck, matt damon.

what makes it awesome: matt... and jay and silent bob.

five. love actually.
released: 2003.
starring: alan rickman, bill nighy, emma thompson.
what makes it awesome: the film isn't awesome. it's one of those silly ones. but it has moments of sheer brilliance worthy of attention, most of which involve emma and bill. also the music's pretty.

six. harry potter and the prisoner of azkaban.
released: 2004.
starring: alan rickman, david thewlis, gary oldman.
what makes it awesome: alan and gary... and fred and george... and that map.

me in ten memes

yes. yes, i should.

throwback thursday: a truth universally acknowledged

this was originally posted august thirty-first, eight years ago. the sweatshirt in the photo below is the same one i'm wearing in that mug of me in the sidebar. it's not nearly as baggy as it used to be. it had been my favorite, and then it wasn't, but after some time passed, i can wear it again and love it as i had when i'd first bought it. but, oh there was a time i could not touch it...

my favorite sweatshirt is one i purchased last year at aggie outfitters at the mall in college station. it's too big for me, but that's one of the reasons i love it. it falls to the middle of my thigh, and the sleeves are long enough that my hands are hidden by the fabric. and it's hooded.

i can get lost in this sweatshirt.

i ain't that scarred when i'm covered up (beth hart -- leave the light on).

and it's thick, good, strong, warm cotton. wearing it is like being wrapped up in a thick, flannel blanket.

but the best thing is the giant 12 imprinted on the front in worn white numbers, trimmed in gold. big, bold blocks of twelfth man.

i wear it when my soul is at its weakest.

i was walking the streets of cardiff at three in the morning, back to the hotel after a quest to find a debit machine so i could get the cash i needed to pay the cab fare for transit from the hotel to the airport.

like any other city, the streets of cardiff at three a.m. look nothing like the streets at three p.m. i marveled at the city's ability to clean up the excessive debris from a drunken night of debauchery in such a short time. if one were to be on those streets at ten a.m., all evidence of the previous night's party would have been swept up and tossed in the garbage. but on this night, as i was walking, i think there might have been two hundred plastic cups broken and crushed on the concrete in front of one bar. i passed a lot of bars.

at three a.m., just like at three p.m., a lot of people are milling about, but the early morning's crowd is dressed dramatically different than the afternoon's, and, instead of anticipating the fine time to come as the afternoon's crowd does, the early morning's bunch are coming down from the high of having that fine time.

and here's me, who's been up for maybe ninety minutes, who's exhausted from a mediocre vacation and a mild depressive episode. i'm shoving my way back to the surface. at least, i'm trying to do so. i've had a good day's rest, and i'm bound for the airport, for family, for home, so i'm a little better.

but better is a fragile thing.

here's me, in my comfort clothes, making my way through the crowds as quickly, as unobtrusively as possible. i'm a little scared, so i don't look at anyone directly. i try not to call too much attention to myself.

but there's that giant, white twelve, and quite a few notice it.

no one says anything. not until i'm a couple of blocks away from the hotel, just around the corner. and i'm thinking almost there, almost there. i'm reveling in the knowledge that i've made it unharmed.

three men walk by me. after they've passed, one of them calls out, hey, twelve! you're not a number! you're a female!

i'm considering saying something when i hear another say, and ugly!

mentally, everything stops. in my head, i just stand there, frozen, shocked, humiliated, hurt, and horrified that my day has begun this way. in my head, i cry. i can almost feel the breath freeze in my lungs and my heart stop, just for a second.

but outside, i appear as though i am unfazed. there's not a hitch in my step that betrays me. there's not a shift in my posture so that my shoulders seem slumped. i keep walking.

it's not normally a shocking sentiment. i've heard this more times, so many more times than i care to recall. it's not new. it's not something i've not told myself more times than i've heard it, in hopes that hearing it would hurt less.

it's that i've not heard it in a while. that i liked my face well enough when i got dressed that morning. that it's been said by someone on the other side of the world.

it's that the sentiment is now universal.

and the sweatshirt, the thing that once provided some small bit of solace, i'll have to get a different one, a new one, for that because this one is now tainted by the taunts of three men i met on the streets of cardiff at three in the morning, and every time i look at it, i'll think of them, of that day, of that ugliness.

motion picture monday

one. the lion king.

released: 1994.

starring: jeremy irons, matthew broderick, james earl jones.

what makes it awesome: the songs. hakuna matata, yall.

two. die hard with a vengeance.

released: 1995.

starring: jeremy irons, samuel l. jackson, bruce willis.

what makes it awesome: jeremy. holy toledo, somebody had fun.

three. x-men two.

released: 2000.

starring: ian mckellen, hugh jackman, patrick stewart.

what makes it awesome: the special effects are pretty badass and the cast is pretty spectacular.

four. the lord of the rings: the return of the king.

released: 2003.

starring: ian mckellen, billy boyd, orlando bloom.

what makes it awesome: the story and all the efforts made by cast and crew to tell it.

five. the da vinci code.

released: 2006.

starring: ian mckellen, tom hanks, paul bettany.

what makes it awesome: its complexity and quickness.

six. the words.

released: 2012.

starring: jeremy irons, zoe saldana, bradley cooper.

what makes it awesome: the premise, its backstory and jeremy.

seven. the hobbit: desolation of smaug.

released: 2013.

starring: ian mckellen, orlando bloom, luke evans.

what makes it awesome: luke.

five things

five pieces of music often stuck in my head

one. michael convertino's score for the film bed of roses

two. gabriel yared's score for the film city of angels


three. james horner's score for the film swing kids


four. rachel portman's score for the film one day.


five. rachel portman's score for the film chocolat.

five favorite concerts

one. tori amos at the cynthia woods mitchell pavilion, the woodlands.
two. the airborne toxic event at house of blues, houston.
three. jonny lang and beth hart at revention center, houston.
four. u2 at arrowhead stadium, kansas city.
five. korn and staind at kemper arena, kansas city.

five favorite albums

one. the airborne toxic event by the airborne toxic event.
two. the joshua tree by u2.
three. violator by depeche mode.
four. ten by pearl jam.
five. little earthquakes by tori amos.

five favorite male vocalists

one. chris cornell.
two. eddie vedder.
three. joe elliott.
four. geoff tate.
five. todd park mohr.

five favorite female vocalists

one. beth hart.
two. johnette napolitano.
three. tori amos.
four. shakira.
five. beth gibbons.

five favorite bassists

one. michael "flea" balzary.
two. reginald "fieldy arvizu.
three. les claypool.
four. jeff ament.
five. cliff burton.

five favorite guitarists

one. jimi hendrix.
two. eddie van halen.
three.  stevie ray vaughan.
four. joe perry.
five. kirk hammett.

five favorite drummers

one. alex van halen.
two. lars ulrich.
three. tommy lee.
four. chad smith.
five. matt chamberlain.

five favorite songs

one. with or without you by u2.
two. faithfully by journey.
three. anna begins by counting crows.
four. stand inside your love by smashing pumpkins.
five. crash into me by dave matthews band.

five signs i've seen recently
one. have faith.
two. believe there is good in the world.
three. whatever you do, take pride.
four. never doubt that you are loved.
five. to dream of the person you wish to be is to waste the person you are.

five stories i reread regularly

one. lovers and dreamers by nora roberts.
two. irish born by nora roberts.
three. landline by rainbow rowell.
four. eleanor and park by rainbow rowell.
five. right before your eyes by ellen shanman.

five characters whose personalities mirror mine
one. miss brill in katherine mansfield's short story of the same name.
two. liza weiler in ellen shanman's right before your eyes.
three. kate powell in nora roberts' holding the dream.
four. celia rae foote in kathryn stockett's the help (though the packaging's more like skeeter phelan's).
five. victoria jones in vanessa diffenbaugh's the language of flowers.

five favorite films

one. star wars: episode v - the empire strikes back.
two. the lord of the rings: the return of the king.
three. star trek.
four. serenity.
five. steel magnolias.

five television programs i drop everything to watch

one. game of thrones.
two. this is us.
three. lethal weapon.
four. monday night football.
five. sunday night football.

it's not a great idea to get stuck on game of thrones, by the way. lots of really, REALLY bad shit happens on that show.

check out erin's list of five things.
she got the idea from heather.

throwback thursday: posts from picky's archives... with a little something new thrown in

so i know i've talked a lot about my great uncle and the monastery at which he had resided for some sixty years. it closes in about two weeks. he is ninety years old. he is not doing well. my parents have property in colorado. they drove up there this past weekend, and then drove to utah to see him, to get him situated in an assisted living facility.

this isn't how i wanted it to be for him. for them. he is the last of my grandmother's siblings to leave us. i wanted just one of those remarkable, charismatic people to go peacefully, and of the eight of them, he is most deserving of that. he's spent his life serving god, serving others. and now his heart is failing him. i'm not ready for this chapter of my life to end just yet. i'm not ready for him to go.

i was reading posts by others who are celebrating their blogiversaries. it made me want to dig into my archives a bit. the oldest post i've kept is from june sixteenth. nine years ago.

taken near holy trinity abbey in huntsville, utah

i took this photo a long, long time ago during one of my family's winter visits with my great uncle. i was riding in the passenger seat, running errands with a relative. i snapped this shot of a box elder tree on a ranch as we made our way toward huntsville from the abbey. there were cattle under that tree, but the snow was so deep you could barely see them. i call it reach. i wish i could reach into heaven and hug the greats one more time. i wish they were here. i wish that his passing would come more quickly, more easily. he's hurting, and we're all helpless to stop it.

the help

why i wanted to read it: because erin sent it to me years ago... and because one of the categories for her challenge was a book that had a yellow cover.

what i liked: she rubs the cream in my hair with both hands. i can practically feel the hope in her fingers (page 128).

"minny, i don't care if celia never lifts another finger for the rest of her life... i don't care if she can cook. i just want her here --" he shrugs. "with me" (page 162).

i turn out all the lamps, the television, every electricity sucker downstairs save the refrigerator. i stand in front of the window and unbutton my blouse. carefully i turn the dial to three. because i long to feel nothing. i want to be frozen inside. i want the icy cold to blow directly on my heart.

the power blows out in about three seconds (page 325).

i sit down at my typewriter.

but i cannot type. i stare at the tiny gray squares of the back porch screen. i stare so hard, i slip through them. i feel something inside me crack open. i am vaporous. i am crazy. i am deaf to that stupid, silent phone. deaf to mother's retching in the house. her voice through the window. "i'm fine, carlton, it's passed." i hear it all, and yet i hear nothing. just a high buzzing in my ears (page 331).

"going from hilly to celia must've been quite the change, johnny."

johnny shakes his head. "like living in antarctica all my life and one day moving to hawaii" (page 386).

what sucked: nothing really. i'd seen the movie ages ago, so i'm more partial to certain scenes in the film than i am to their respective parts in the book, but... it's a pretty solid story.

having said that: i like all the characters, save for hilly and elizabeth. but even they are well-developed. it's rare that an author can evoke such animosity for a character in me, and yet... i can admire the author her ability to have fashioned these women. hilly is a vile human being for all her hate and elizabeth is equally so for all her cowardice. i listened to it on audio, which is why i don't have as many snippets to share with you of the things i liked, and every time the disc ended (i borrowed it from the library, yall), i was both annoyed by the interruption and sad because the story had stopped. also, if you do the audio, octavia spencer reads minny's parts, and the gal who reads the secret life of bees reads skeeter's. it's a damned fine story. i'm glad to have read it.

the fall film challenge: my list

one. starring anthony hopkins. howard's end.

two. listed on nathan bransford's best hundred movies challenge. the big sleep.

three. about charity. megan leavey.

four. starring robert downey, jr. spider-man: homecoming.

five. about envy. snow white and the huntsman.

six. about faith. war room.

seven. about greed. the wolf of wall street.

eight. about hope. creed.

nine. starring jeremy irons. their finest.

ten. about justice. wind river.

eleven. starring kevin bacon. footloose.

twelve. about lust. don jon.

thirteen. starring ian mckellen. mr. holmes.

fourteen. set in a castle. elizabeth.

fifteen. about fortitude. room.

sixteen. about pride. the founder.

seventeen. starring alan rickman. bottle shock.

eighteen. released last year and reviewed on slothsandmovies.com. jackie.

nineteen. about temperance. gifted.

twenty. about prudence. the case for christ.

twenty-one. starring val kilmer. kiss kiss bang bang.

twenty-two. about wrath. logan.

twenty-three. set in an exotic locale. dunkirk.

twenty-four. about gluttony. chef.

twenty-five. set in space. the space between us.

motion picture monday

one. a few good men.

released: 1992.

starring: kevin bacon, tom cruise, jack nicholson.

what makes it awesome: the story and jack.

two. murder in the first.

released: 1995.

starring: kevin bacon, christian slater, gary oldman.

what makes it awesome: the story and this is probably kevin's best role.

three. apollo thirteen.

released: 1995.

starring: kevin bacon, tom hanks, ed harris.

what makes it awesome: the story and the cast.

four. sleepers.

released: 1996.

starring: kevin bacon, dustin hoffman, robert de niro.

what makes it awesome: next to the count of monte cristo, this is the best example i know of karma kicking ass. and the cast is one of the best ever assembled.

five. picture perfect.

released: 1997.

starring: kevin bacon, jennifer aniston, jay mohr.

what makes it awesome: it's kind of silly, and after sleepers, silly is a wonderful thing.

six. crazy, stupid, love.

released: 2011.

starring: kevin bacon, emma stone, ryan gosling.

what makes it awesome: emma and ryan.

seven. patriots day.

released: 2016.

starring: kevin bacon, john goodman, mark wahlberg.

what makes it awesome: the story.