one. i don't understand instagram. you want the pictures you take today to have an aged look to them? twenty years from now, your family's going to look at them and the images won't be accurate reflections because you tweaked it with filters to make it look older. i guarantee you, technology will have improved so much that a basic photo taken today by you will appear to your children like the basic photos your parents took of you in the seventies. there's genuine vintage. and then there's the fake.

two. i keep hearing that line from he's just not that into you, the one jennifer connelly spoke when her philandering douchebag of a husband, bradley cooper, stands before her holding up two samples of hardwood flooring, one of which is laminate, and asks her to pick the real one. she can't, because they seem to be identical. but when he shows her the fake, she snatches it and says, "this is a lie."

i'm tired of deceit and disappointment.

the other day, i texted one of my so-called friends and asked if she was free that afternoon because i could use some of her sunshine. her kids were down for a nap; she was gonna take one, too. i asked her to text me when she woke up. perfect! she never did text me back. this kind of thing happens a lot with her. this kind of thing happens a lot with my friends, though i don't usually come right out and say i need them.

it's march. i hate march. i used to love it. winter was over. the trees and the flowers and the sun and the breeze and the blue and green... the color! after two months of gray and gloomy. spring break! my birthday! i used to love this month. now i hate it. i dread it. for SO many reasons. my allergies. my birthday. my brother. i HATE this month. my parents go to colorado, because that's where his grave is, and they need to be there. my mother needs her brothers. and that's where they are. my other brother has his wife, his children. i get to do this by myself. every year. i don't even have reliable friends upon whom i can lean. my parents' friends, maybe, but i don't like calling them, because it'd get back to my parents that i couldn't do it on my own. and then my birthday. two weeks later. i abhor this month.

for three decades, i have picked myself up every time my spirit's crashed. i have made myself get up under the delusion that at some point, picking myself up would be easier, because at some point i'd find a good support system.

it's laughable, really, that delusion. i don't know that i can keep maintaining it. and it's hope, you see. it's important that i do.

there's this other part of me that feels guilty, even as i'm typing this, that i can't always pick myself up so quickly, so successfully. the world would want me on medication because my brain is sick. and i ought to be. but when i am, i cannot write. i can't. and that is SO MUCH WORSE. then instead of a rainforest or swamp, my mental landscape would be a desert. i'd rather have the rain. the world doesn't want to hear about misery. and yet i'm writing about it. again.

i like me so much better when my head is clear.

that's a very long two. i'll try to keep the rest short.

three.  a friend gave me this picture. i like it. good stuff.

four. i've managed to keep my room clean for a week. go me!

five. i'm getting clumsier as i get older. this morning i broke some ceramic thing my mother had in her windowsill and just now i almost spilled my giant houston rodeo coke-filled cup on her computer. go me.

six. my parents have asked me several times now what i want for my birthday. what i want they can't give me. and of the things i could ask for, the only one is aggie season tickets which are now hella expensive, and i won't get those. i had to take phineas to the shop because my eight-year-old car was making godawful noises. so his repairs? that's now my birthday present. what a way to celebrate my having survived thirty-nine years of this shit.

seven. it's beautiful out today. i think i might go sit outside and read.

eight. i haven't read anything this month. i now have four days to read eight books. yeah. that's gonna happen.

nine. of the marriage equality images i'm seeing everywhere on facebook, this one's the best. and i really, really can't understand why anyone would deny anyone else any semblance of happiness. that's just stupid.

ten. i am fat. again. another reason why i hate this month. i stop caring about my diet. and the number of adult beverages i drink. and all the sudden my gut's rolling over my waistband.

eleven. i'm not nearly as much of a fan of the voice as i used to be. i might stop watching that show.

twelve. i used to like peonies the best. especially the white ones with the flash of red. they look so fragile and so feminine. so delicate. the opposite of me. mostly. i'm pretty delicate, i guess. i break easily. but i don't act delicately. or something. i'm too clumsy. too brash. too crass. anyway, when i'm feeling like that bull in a china shop, i go to the store and buy a batch of these if they have them and take them to pappadeaux's to leave at the hostess stand for the restaraunt's guests to take. makes me feel better.

but ever since reading the language of flowers by vanessa diffenbaugh, i'm conflicted. according to the floral dictionary in the back, the peony means hate. how fitting, then, that i would like it, right? i've been handing out hate. and now i feel a little guilty.
maybe i should learn to love ranunculus: you are radiant with charms. at least, i think that's what the book said it meant. i lent my copy out. i do like the colors.

thirteen. i pray almost every day that my niece will not be like me and that my nephew will not be like my older brother.

fourteen. i've been to church three times this month. and the masses have been good. prodigal sons returning and reconciliation and all that crap. and i feel good while i'm there. i feel loved by lord despite all my shit. but then, i leave his house...

fifteen. carrabbas makes the best tilapia. they also make the best chocolate martinis. and their desert rosa cake is my favorite cake of all of'm. i like it better than chocolate.

sixteen. the pear tree in my front yard is blooming. sometimes, i look at it and think my brother did that for me. i know it's not true. that the sun did it. but, there's a delusion i don't mind perpetuating.

seventeen. i bought justin timberlake's new album. i don't understand the fascination with this man, and i thought that perhaps listening to it from beginning to end might enlighten me. i don't like his voice. i don't like his lyrics. so all he's got is a beat, and i can find that anywhere.

eighteen. i've been stuck on the script. i keep hitting repeat for tracks two and three: for the first time  and nothing. i'm a little annoyed with myself that i can't click them off.

nineteen. i need there to be good movies in the theaters. and that ain't gonna happen for two more months. ARGH. and then it's only two: iron man three (which won't be that good, but i'll be content to stare at robert downey jr. for two hours, plus i like his voice) and star trek into darkness. then it's just the lone ranger. otherwise, the cinematic industry sucks ass right now. they're making a fast and furious six? and the hangover three? and before sunset? and smurfs two? what the hell for?

twenty. i'm seeing a significantly greater number of gray hairs on my head. i am adamantly opposed to coloring it or hightlighting it, though.

twenty-one. i have to rewrite five chapters. they are the crucial ones, and so they must be awesome, and i'm a little worried that i can't make them so, as their subjects are not things with which i am overly familiar.

twenty-two. i really wanted to have this book finished by my birthday.

twenty-three. i really don't want to weigh one-sixty, either.

twenty-four. but i'm too damned lazy right now. i can't bring myself to care enough to do something about it.

twenty-five. oh, i miss my brother. i miss his laughter. i so could use some of that right now.

as it is, this will have to do.

random quarter

one. the best gift i've given: the other day, a man told me i was beautiful. outside of my family, i've never heard a man say that to me.

two. the biggest surprise i encountered this year: that compliment.

three. what makes life fun for me: good company.

four. a perfect day, morning to night, looks like this: good weather, good food, good company... or a day at kyle field, win or lose (but preferably win) during football season. (not that i'll be in that there stadium any time soon... season tickets are twice as much as they used to be, and now i'm twice as poor.)

five. how would i describe myself: contradictory.

six. my heart's desire, at this very moment: that the novel i've been slaving over for more than a decade will soon find publication.

seven. the dream i've had since childhood: that i would belong.

eight. the greatest adventure i've had: the summer i toured europe with my cousins.

nine. right now i'm obsessed with: that compliment.

ten. my defining personality traits: bipolar-ness.

eleven. i am most grateful for: my parents.

twelve. my sanctuary: my room, the backroads on a glorious day, kyle field, my uncle's monastery.

thirteen. in a friend, i look for: humor, patience, compassion, fun.

fourteen. what i love about myself: talent.

fifteen. my personal motto: i don't have one.

sixteen. what i would tell my younger self: quit fucking around.

seventeen. the best advice i've ever been given: write.

eighteen. what i want to spend more time doing: writing.

nineteen. what i hope to do differently this year: get published.

twenty. what motivates me: pithy checking account balances.

twenty-one. what makes me feel alive: music.

twenty-two. what memory i'd love to relieve: passion.

twenty-three. what inspires me: love.

twenty-four. i admire: honesty.

twenty-five. what i'd like to be better at: reading people and trusting them in their absence.

stargirl

why i wanted to read it: a girl i met at the bookstore yesterday recommended it.

what i liked: she laughed when there was no joke. she danced when there was no music (p. 15).

suddenly, intensely, i wanted to know everything about her. i wanted to see her baby pictures. i wanted to watch her eating breakfast, wrapping a gift, sleeping. since september, she had been a performer--unique and outrageous--on the high school stage. she was the opposite of cool; she held nothing back. from her decorated desk to her oratorical speech to her performance on the football field, she was there for all to see. and yet now i felt i had not been paying attention. i felt i had missed something, something important (p. 78).

she was bendable light: she shone around every corner of my day.

she taught me to revel. she taught me to wonder (p. 107).

i walked in a gray world of nothings. 

so she would stop and point out that the front door of the house we were passing was blue. and that the last time we had passed it, it had been green...

after a while i began to see better. when she said, "look!" and i followed her pointing finger, i saw. eventually it became a contest: who would see first? when i finally did it--said "look!" and pointed and tugged her sleeve--i was as proud as a first grader with a star on his paper (p. 108).

"i hate change," she said. "it's so jangly."

"do you realize how much you must throw away in a year," i said.

"did you ever see a little kid's face when he spots a penny on a sidewalk?" she said (p. 118).

and just like that, stargirl was gone... she turned around slowly for my open-mouthed, dumbstruck inspection. nothing goofy, nothing different i could see. she looked magnificently, wonderfully, gloriously ordinary (pp. 139-140).

"gave up herself for a while there, she loved you that much. what an incredibly lucky kid you were."

i could not look at him. "i know."

he shook his head with a wistful sadness. "no, you don't. you can't know yet. maybe someday..."

i knew he was tempted to say more. probably to tell me how stupid i was, how cowardly, that i blew the best chance i would ever have. but his smile returned, and his eyes were tender again, and nothing harsher than cherry smoke came out of his mouth (178).

what sucked: at times it borders on ridiculous. but then that could be because i don't often embrace oddity.

having said all that: it's a very quick read, and parts of the story are really quite good. i'd folded down the corners of quite a few pages so that i could share with you the quotes that resonated for whatever reason. and i think perhaps it's the kind of story, on the whole, that will resonate for some time.

persuasion

why i wanted to read it: sandra bullock quoted it in the film the lake house: there could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison...

i'd liked pride and prejudice well enough (though i'd forgotten how painstaking reading it had been), and so i'd asked my father to buy me a copy.

it sat, for years, on my desktop. once in a long while, i'd take it down and try to read it, but i never got past the first chapter.

what i liked: the years which had destroyed her youth and bloom had only given him a more glowing, manly, open look, in respect lessening his personal advantages (p. 58).

his kindness in stepping forward to her relief--the manner--the silence in which it passed--the little particulars of the circumstance--with the conviction soon forced on her by the noise he was studiously making with the child, that he meant to avoid hearing her thanks, and rather sought to testify that her conversation was the last of his wants, produced such a confusion of varying, but painful agitation as she could not recover from... (p. 77).

she understood him. he could not forgive her.--but he could not be unfeeling (p. 87).

after talking however of the weather and bath and the concert, their conversation began to flag, and so little was said at last, that she was expecting him to go at every moment; but he did not; he seemed in no hurry to leave her... (p 171).

"a man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman!--he ought not. he does not" (p. 173).

the careless expression was life to anne, who saw that captain wentworth was all attention, looking and listening with his whole soul; and that the last words brought his enquiring eyes from charles to herself (p. 211).

i am half agony, half hope... unjust i may have been, weak and resentful i have been, but never inconstant... you sink your voice, but i can distinguish the tones of that voice, when they would be lost on others... (pp. 223-224).

what sucked: pretty much the whole of the book, excepting the quotes mentioned above and the majority of the text from page 217 on.

i fell asleep SO many times reading this book. oh, if only the whole of the thing could've held my attention half as well as the last twenty pages did.

the first sentence of pride and prejudice: it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. 

twenty-three words.

the first sentence of persuasion: sir walter elliot, of kellynch-hall, in somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the baronetage, there he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed one; there his faculties were aroused into admiration and respect, by contemplating the remnant of the earliest patents; there any unwelcome sensations, arising from domestic affairs, changed naturally into pity and contempt, as he turned over the almost endless creations of the last century, and there, if every other leaf were powerless he could read his own history with an interest which never failed--this was the page at which the favorite volume always opened: (p. 3).

note the punctuation at the conclusion of that quote. a colon. A COLON. as in there are more words to follow. because the last quote has MORE than a HUNDRED words in it, BEFORE the colon. try diagramming that. you can't! it's not concluded yet!

nine times out of ten, this is what EVERY SINGLE sentence is like.

i like periods. i love them. they're like little gems. prizes for having read a whole sentence! and boy, would i've liked to've been rewarded for reading strings of sentences that were sometimes so long they took up a bottom third of a page and a top third of another.

i also love dialogue. and there is so very little of each of these things in this novel. so many times, i would've appreciated the white space that comes with quoting what was said rather than relaying it in prose. some pages are huge blocks of text. in fact, there are some pages that are comprised of two paragraphs. two VERY LONG, tedious paragraphs.

having said all that: meh.

(i watched the bbc production this morning, and have greater respect for the plot, and a better understanding of the power of the tale. i think the film succeeds in telling the brunt of the story, but lacks severely in the ending. here, the novel is infinitely better.)

the language of flowers

why i wanted to read it: a friend recommended it.

what i liked: but if meredith had placed me in the group home to scare me into behaving, it hadn't worked. despite the staff, i liked it there. meals were served at regular hours, i slept under two blankets, and no one pretended to love me (p. 10).

i knew who listened to their mother (genna), who was loved by their teacher (chloe), and who would rather be buried alive in the sandbox than sit through another day of class (greta, little greta: if my asters had been in bloom, i would have left her a bucketful in the sandbox, so desolate was the voice that begged her mother to let her stay (p. 21).

arranging the flowers and wrapping them in brown paper as i had seen renata do, i'd felt a buoyancy similar to what i'd felt slipping the dahlias under the bedroom doors of my housemates the morning i'd turned eighteen. it was a strange feeling--the excitement of a secret combined with the satisfaction of being useful (p. 44)

"no, warmth of feeling," elizabeth said. "you know, the tingling feeling you get when you see a person you like."

i didn't know that feeling. "warmth of vomit" (p. 63).

i wasn't looking for the mysterious vendor; at least, i told myself i wasn't. when i did see him, i slipped down an alley and ran until i was out of breath (pp. 69-70).

"it's thorny and pod-bearing. just the sway of the tree makes you think of shifty-eyed men in convenience stores, untrustworthy."

"and how is untrustworthy related to secret love?" he asked.

"how is it not?" (p. 86).

there had been a dried-flower business, he explained, but he'd shut it down when his mother became ill. he didn't much care for the corpses of what had once been alive (p. 103).

"i'm more of a thistle-peony-basil kind of girl," i said.

"misanthropy-anger-hate," said grant. "hmm."

"you asked" (p. 104).

i was sleep-deprived and useless for an entire week. my fur floor didn't dry for days, and every time i went to lie down, the moisture soaked through my shirt like grant's hands, a constant reminder of his touch" (p. 110).

i picked up a payday and ate out the peanuts until it was nothing but a gooey caramel strip. 

"best part," grant said, nodding to the caramel. i handed it to him, and he ate it quickly, as if i would change my mind and take it back.  "you must like me more than you let on," he said, grinning (p. 129).

if i had known how, i would have joined grant in prayer. i would have prayed for him, for his goodness, his loyalty, and his improbable love. i would have prayed for him to give up, to let go, and to start over. i might have even prayed for forgiveness.

but i didn't know how to pray (p. 195).

what sucked: the excitement i'd had in the first half fell off in the second, but it should have, as this was the part of the story where the main character screws up royally and you just want to bash her head in and throttle her. still, the author can't quite recover that energy in the conclusion, and maybe it's right that it's this way, but i wanted that thrill back. i wanted the rush of a great story that i'd felt the author had promised me so wonderfully at the first.

having said all that: it's the first book i've read this year that i gushed about to others before i was even halfway through it. the first one i've felt impatient while reading (a majority of) it, eager to see what happens next. i love these characters, even when they're being pigheaded, stupid louts--specifically, victoria. i love how she and grant find each other. i wish i could've loved the story with the same intensity cover to cover, but it's still the best book i've read in a long time. plus, i stayed up till nearly four a.m. to finish the damned thing. and i don't do that too often anymore. they should make a movie of this, and carey mulligan should play victoria, and taylor kitsch should play grant. for much of the time i'd read it, i wished i could tell a story so well. i'd be happy to lend it to you. it's beautiful.

redeeming love

why i wanted to read it: because a friend recommended it.

what i liked: "when he smiled at me, i felt it all the way down to my toes."

lucky passed on the stew in favor of the bottle of red wine. "if a pock-marked midget from nantucket smiled at you, you would feel it all the way down to your toes" (p. 72).

"i want to fill your life with color and warmth. i want to fill it with light" (p. 140).

"are you crying? for me?" she said weakly.

"don't you think you're worth it?"

something inside her cracked. she writhed inside to escape the feeling, but it was there nonetheless, growing with the light touch of his hand on her shoulder, with every soft word he spoke. she was sure if she put her hands against her heart, her palms would come away covered with her own blood. was that what this man wanted? for her to bleed for him? (p. 152).

"why?"

"because for some of us, one mile can be farther to walk than thirty" (p. 164).

"i know what i am. i never pretended to be anything else. not once. not ever!" she put her hand on the edge of the wagon seat. "and here you are, borrowing michael's wagon and his horses and his gold and using his wife." she laughed at him. "and what do you call yourself? his brother" (p. 186).

she destroyed his dreams, and he made her windchimes (p. 284).

you are all fair, my love;
there is no flaw in you.
song of solomon 4:7 (p. 305).

"i'm not your father! i'm not duke! i'm not some gent paying for half an hour in your bed!" his hands tightened on her arms. "i'm your husband! i don't take what you feel lightly" (p. 307).

"show me this father of yours, michael," she said, unable to keep the edge out of her voice.

"i am," michael said quietly.

"where? i don't see him. maybe if he stood before me, i'd believe he existed." and she could spit in his face for everything that had happened to her and her mother.

"he's in me. i'm showing him to you every hour of every day, the only way i know how" (pp. 315-316).

what sucked: the length. good heavens, ms. rivers is verbose, especially in the last hundred pages or so.

having said all that: i liked it. there's good stuff here.

julie and romeo

why i wanted to read it: i have a faint recollection, i think when i'd been a bookseller at borders, of seeing this book on one of the displays--a bestsellers bay or a trade paperback table or something--on one of the front of store fixtures. i remember thinking the cover was pretty. i also remember rolling my eyes at the obvious reference to shakespeare. a modern day take. how original. last year, while i'd briefly provided what ended up being free and unnecessary services to a local bookstore here, i'd come across it in the stacks of books i'd been cataloging. i read a few pages thinking it sounded cute, despite the lack of originality. and i like love stories where the characters spend most of their adult lives trying to find each other. a week or so ago, i googled best love stories and was directed to good reads' list of fifteen hundred titles. one of them was this one.

what i liked: she waved her hand at me, a gesture she had picked up from her father. "they're idiots. not idiots, really. they're good guys one at a time, but when you put them together they're like, i don't know. a bunch of moose or something" (p. 191).

"that's good. i don't mean good that he's hurt, but this way all the boys will be able to say dad won" (p. 192).

a couple of the characters--romeo cacciamani and his daughter, patience, a.k.a. plummy. that the story was a fast read. it's cute. everytime the grandma got a piece of the story, i pictured anne bancroft playing her role. she would've nailed it.

what sucked: the story didn't impress me at all. i gave it to page eighty and was gonna bail, but then, i realized there's only two hundred pages or so to the thing. i might as well finish it. and in my mind, from now on, i will picture anne bancroft as a batshit-crazy grandma. sad.

i really need to start looking at the backs of books. i was going to read marian keyes' lucy sullivan is getting married (found it at barnes & noble's while at work one day. liked the cover. meant to give it a look, but never got around to it. saw it on a good reads list. apparently, it's popular in britain or something. so much so they'd made a television series about it. story seemed cute and quick, even though the book had twice as many pages as this one. the printing? bold and heavy. pretty font. easy to read and nice to look at. oh, but the story... it's awfully written. AWFUL). so yeah, on the back of the keyes' book, for the brief author bio, she says that she lives with her husband and their IMAGINARY DOG. O-KAY. christian science monitor hails julie and romeo as "a captivating modern romance." modern and romance, sure. captivating? for me? not so much. and a christian magazine's recommending it? next time i'll know to pass.

having said all that: keep in mind, i'm a pretty critical chick. my standards for good fiction, like everything else, are pretty high. this one's a decent beach read, on par with some of nora roberts' crappier tales, without the sex, of course.

the silver linings playbook

why i wanted to read it: the movie, i felt, doesn't deserve near as much hype as it's gotten. i liked it well enough, but i can't say it's one i'd want to own. i hadn't realized it'd been adapted for the screen from a novel,  though i probably should have, until i saw it on the counter of a bookstore's cafe. one of the baristas had recommended it. i'd told her i hadn't been too crazy about the movie. she insisted the book was a lot better.

what i liked: i don't have quotes for you on this one, either. none of the writing really tugged on me so much that i want to remember it. it's not a powerfully-written story from a linguistic view, i guess. the language isn't spectacular, here. the story's not. but the characters make it interesting, and the author does a great job of making those characters real to the reader because of how it's written. the main character, for example, is a man who has no filter, doesn't want one, would prefer others not have them.  he's also pretty impulsive and aggressive. he narrates the story. and the way he tells it is often amusing.

what sucked: the back third of it, save for the last three pages. those last three are really quite good.

having said all that: i liked the main character more, having read the book. but i think the film does a better job of telling that story than the novel does.

i see you everywhere

why i wanted to read it: i liked the title. i liked the cover art. i liked that it was about two siblings, two sisters--louisa and clement (what a cool name for a gal!). i liked that it spanned more than two decades. i liked that it was free--an advanced reader's copy i'd snagged of the barnes & noble booksellers' breakroom table while at work one day.

what i liked: i can't give you quotes on this one because my copy isn't a final copy, isn't the technical, printed word, the one that everyone gets to read, and i'm instructed on the back of the book that quoting it isn't allowed. so... i liked that it's told in story arcs, really, rather than chapters. long arcs, and sometimes the point of view hops back and forth along that trajectory from one sister to the other--first lou's version, then clem's. or it's told from entirely one perspective. i liked that here and there, there's poetry. for the most part, i liked the characters. i liked that it made me miss my mother's side of the family, made me long to know my great aunts and uncles a little better. that it moved me.

what sucked: that it dragged in places. that it made me miss my family. that it made me cry. repeatedly. i hadn't expected that. hadn't wanted it. and i'm a little annoyed, still, that it did so.

having said all that: it's incredibly rare that a book makes me cry. and for this reason, i must recognize it as a good one. worth reading, even though it affected me in such a way.

the perks of being a wallflower

why i wanted to read it: because i used to work at a bookstore, and this was one of those titles that i saw pass through the checkout line frequently. because it's small. i figured it'd be a quick read. and i really like tiny books that pack a punch. it didn't have that fanfare around like twilight and harry potter or, now, fifty shades. so it's kind of quiet book, but there must be something about it that resonates. it'd been sitting on my desktop, in the queue, for some time, however. and then i saw the movie, which i liked quite a bit, and meant to get around to reading it... but there's a lot on my get-around-to-this list.

what i liked: that's when i started thinking about my sister... how she was actually very pretty. and how different her face looked when she realized boys thought she was pretty. and how different her face looked the first time she really liked a boy who was not on a poster on her wall. and how her face looked when she realized she was in love with that boy. and then i wondered how her face would look when she came out from behind those doors.

when i thought that, i started to cry... and i couldn't let that happen because my sister was counting on me, and this was the first time anyone ever counted on me for anything" (p. 118).

i know that i brought all this on myself. i know that i deserve this. i'd do anything not to be this way. i'd do anything to make it up to everyone. and to not have to see a psychiatrist, who explains to me about being "passive agressive." and to not have to take the medicine he gives me, which is too expensive for my dad. and to not have to talk about bad memories with him. or be nostalgic about bad things (p. 139).

i look at the teachers and wonder why they're here. if they like their jobs. or us. and i wonder how smart they were when they were fifteen. not in a mean way. in a curious way. it's like looking at all the students and wondering who's had their heart broken that day, and how they are able to cope with having three quizzes and a book report on top of that. or wondering who did the heartbreaking. and wondering why (p. 142).

what sucked: nothing.

having said all that: i still say one day is the best book i've read this year so far. but i did like this one quite a bit.

a smile as small as mine

there are people who get to look on that view every day. i'm privileged that i got to see it once.

i've not been doing well. more often than not lately, i go through my days feeling as though i am either invisible or a laughing stock. i am reminded of how i felt in my childhood and adolescence, and i had a hell of a time getting through those days. i don't like remembering them.

today, i bothered to paint my nails--they don't often grow well and rarely are long enough, but i've managed to get them to grow a little bit past my fingertips. they're about to start splitting or breaking. i've got three or four different bottles of opi lacquer on my bathroom counter. for some reason today, i felt compelled to pick one up and paint. i'm horrible at this, by the way. my hands aren't steady enough to do it well. so, the polish looks okay, so long as no one looks too close.

like me. i'm alright, until you get to know me. then... i'm too moody and too serious and too this, that and the other thing.

i don't know how to talk to people.

i'm tired of being weird, a.k.a. strange, as in "not comfortable or at ease; constrained."

there are stickers in austin that insist people keep the place weird. portland, oregon has them, too.

people seem to think being weird is the way to go, and yet my weirdness isn't embraced by anyone.

sometimes, i can't even wrap my arms around it.

i wouldn't mind the invisibility or the ridicule so much if i could embrace my imperfections all the time. but sometimes, when i'm met with so much adversity from without, it makes it harder for me to shrug off the adversity i battle in my brain.

right now, i feel as though i am constantly beseiged.

so today, i painted my nails, and drug my fat ass to the gym. i showered and dressed and put on some make-up--nothing crazy, just mascara and lipstick--with the hopes that spending a little more time on myself might reinforce the battlements somehow. so stupid.

i could use some kindness. and not just that kind you get from your facebook friends. but the sort you see in those random acts of strangers... so if you're the praying sort...

my mother's got this page-a-day that she no longer flips. it's kept on january twenty-seventh's quote, a poem of emily dickinson's:

they might not need me;
but they might.
i'll let my head be just in sight;
a smile as small as mine might be
precisely their necessity.

random quarter

do you know what the problem with having an eight-year-old blog is? you run out of things to say. or you spend more time racking your brain for something new than you do on actually writing the new post. i like writing random quarter posts the best, but they take forever. still, they are my favorites, and so i thought perhaps since this is so, such a post should be used to mark the occasion. which means i've to come up with twenty-five new things to tell you about me. i am not, however, going to reread every rq post to ensure that i don't repeat myself. and some of you are newish here, anyway, so...

one. i wear the same size shoe as my mother, but i am four inches shorter than she. thank you smoking for stunting my growth. seriously. i would not want to be five foot eleven. that would suck.

two.  the only band i plan on seeing in concert this year is the airborne toxic event--which i have seen twice now--at house of blues houston, which happens to be my favorite concert venue.

three. somehow the psychedelic furs' love my way got in my head. i have no idea how that happened.

four. i have not been to the gym in four months. and it shows. oh, how it shows. and yet the horror of my flabbiness is not enough to motivate me to drag my fat ass in there.

five. i have no depth perception. i've mentioned this before. i'm doing it again because it causes me great trouble. like, while walking in a crowded mall, trying to guess how far away people are from me and whether my projected path will intersect with theirs and when and how do i change my course as to avoid this... calculating this stuff when i have no concept of feet and yards and all that crap, when everything is flat is a huge inconvenience and annoyance, and i'm not always good at masking that annoyance, so people often respond with, "what the hell is your problem?!" so many things come to mind. 

still. it's not quite so bad as this.

six. i should be working on my novel right now. or doing laundry. or finishing cleaning out my closet. or reading east of eden. or mucking out my car. instead i'm sitting here typing this thing. 

seven. i don't much care for reality shows.

eight. my favorite food is bread. i think i'm allergic to it, though, and i probably wouldn't need the gym so badly if i didn't eat so much of it, but i don't care. more butter, please. 

nine. in nine weeks, i will be forty. fuck. 

ten. i do not like cats. and this isn't because i am horribly, horribly allergic to them. i wouldn't like them even if i weren't.

eleven. i signed up for a singles event. a viewing of the film safe haven. not because i want to see the movie or because i'm hoping for a good outcome having attended, but because i'm curious to know what kind of guys would willingly volunteer to see a nicholas sparks film. should make for some good people watching.

twelve. i cannot stand jim harbaugh. i don't like how he treated alex smith this year, how he seemed to have such confidence in him last season and then, post-concussion, relegates him to backup quarterback status. that's pretty crappy, if you ask me. but i can't stand the ravens all that much, either. they beat up my patriots. i'm a little pissed. still, i do love michael crabtree. so i'll have to root for the forty-niners. and oh, how it pains me to say this.

thirteen. i am not religious. at all. perhaps if i were closer to god, my life would be very different. he's like the gym. i know i should go. i know i should strive to be better. but at this age, does it really matter all that much?

fourteen. i miss san antonio. but i'm certain if i were to go back there, i would be annoyed at its growth and so-called progress.

fifteen. i want to go to austria. and ireland. i can't decide which one i want to see more.

sixteen. i can't decide if i want to go to graduate school. a part of me thinks i'd be hiding and wasting time, and i do those things so well already. paying twenty grand to do them so more seems beyond wasteful.

seventeen. i get really bad dizzy spells. daily. they scare me. probably because i eat too much bread and avoid the gym too often.

eighteen. i've started to forget what being in love is like. 

nineteen. i used to love to drive. i don't anymore. in fact, the less i'm in a car, the happier i am.

twenty. i suck at saving money.

twenty-one. i wish there were more great books out there. i want more good love stories in my library, and am seeking recommendations.

twenty-two. every now and then i'll try to pamper myself with a day at a salon--haircut, manicure, pedicure, facial. and halfway through, i'm chomping at the bit to get out. so BORING. 

twenty-three. i can't sleep more than four hours at a time anymore. it's irritating. 

twenty-four. i can't blow bubble gum bubbles.

twenty-five. i don't wear yoga pants except to sleep.

one day

why i wanted to read it: because i LOVED the movie. because it's a beautiful story about emma and dexter. because usually books are better.

what i liked: SO many things.

she plucked the cigarette from his mouth. "i can imagine you at forty," she said, a hint of malice in her voice. "i can picture it right now... you're a big man in a small car with a tan like a basted turkey."

"so shall we change the subject, then?" (p. 6).

"so if i'm so awful--" his hand was on her hip now.

"--which you are."

"then why are you sleeping with me?" his hand was on the warm soft flesh of her thigh.

"actually, i don't think i have slept with you, have i?" (p. 7).

"what are you doing later?"

tell her that you're busy. "nothing much," he said.

"so, shall we do something then? me and you, i mean?"

wait 'til she's asleep then sneak away. "yeah. alright," he said. "let's do something," (p. 13).

(in a letter from dexter, in which he asks her to come to india) have a look around and at precisely twelve midday you stand directly under the centre of the dome with a red rose in one hand and a copy of nicholas nickleby in the other and i will come and find you, em. i will be carrying a white rose and my copy of howard's end and when i see you i will throw it at your head (p. 47).

"what's up with you?" said emma, without looking up from dostoevsky's the idiot.

"i can't get into it."

"it's a masterpiece."

"makes my head hurt."

"i should have got something with pictures or flaps."

"oh, i am enjoying it--"

"very hungry caterpillar or something--"

"i'm just finding it a bit dense. it's just this bloke banging on about how horny he is all the time."

"i thought it would strike a chord." she raised her sunglasses. "it's a very erotic book, dex."

"only if you're into little girls."

"tell me one more time, why were you sacked from that language school in rome?" (p. 75).

(in a conversion with his ex-wife) "we do all love you, dexter."

"no reason why you should," he mumbles, embarrassed.

"no, maybe not. but we do" (p. 407).

what sucked: the length. the last fifty pages or so dragged a bit. but the last few pages made up for that.

having said all that: of the handful of books i've read lately, i've liked it the best. SO good.

the phantom tollbooth

why i wanted to read it: because in fifth or sixth grade, we watched the film version, and i remember liking it a lot. ever since i watched it, i wanted to read it but never got around to it.

that's the whole movie, boys and girls. just so you know.

what i liked: "here in digitopolis, we have our meals when we're full and eat until we're hungry. that way, when you don't have anything at all, you have more than enough. it's a very economical system. you must have been quite stuffed to have eaten so much."

"it's completely logical," explained the dodecahedron. "the more you want, the less you get, and the less you get, the more you have. simple arithmetic, that's all. suppose you had something and added something to it. what would that make?"

"more," said milo quickly.

"quite correct," he nodded. "now suppose you had something and added nothing to it. what would you have?"

"the same," he answered again, without much conviction.

"splendid," cried the dodecahedron. "and suppose you had something and added less than nothing to it. what you would have then?"

"FAMINE!" roared the anguished humbug, who suddenly realized that that was exactly what he'd eaten twenty-three bowls of.

"it's not as bad as all that," said the dodecahedron from his most sympathetic face. "In a few hours you'll be nice and full again--just in time for dinner."

"oh dear," said milo sadly and softly. "i only eat when i'm hungry."

"what a curious idea," said the mathemegician, raising his staff over his head and scrubbing the rubber end back and forth several times on the ceiling. "the next thing you'll have us believe is that you only sleep when you're tired. (pp. 186-7).

"you'll find," [the mathemagician] remarked gently, "that the only thing you can do easily is be wrong, and that's hardly worth the effort. (p. 198).

it's clever and whimsical. full of imagination.

what sucked: it can be pretty ridiculous, and i couldn't help but wonder, throughout my reading of it, what illicit substances the author might have ingested to influence the crafting of this tale... but then maybe i should've read when i was younger.

having said all that: i'm not too keen on it.