i read somewhere,
that your purpose is
to give your life meaning
Clever, i’d thought then
now, never a truer thing I saw
It’s all experience, hands-on
full throttle even when time
moves at a snail’s pace
It’s a real thing, to have died
and still, be breathing, limbs moving
It was/is my experience living on this edge
To know what it means
to have a freezer-burned soul
The thaw promised growth and healing
What’s good for me was not for the polar bear
Scattered around my body
are holes i dug with my
Like from the earth my mother came
ivy and moss flank the trellis of my ribs
to hold myself to me,
Perhaps, i realize, not so i did not fall apart
but to contain the new thing I become
each time i change
into the thing i’m supposed to be
i know what it means to
sit quietly at dawn and to
let the dew bathe meRead More »
Story contains swearing
He scoops me up like one would a small sleeping child. I am neither. I scramble for bars of my cage frame but he was stronger. Thrashing wildly as I can the fucker holds on like I’m nothing. Not always a happy person, not particularly strong, but I meant something once. I could again.
“You’re making this worse, sweetheart, more than it has to be,” his breath comes in puffs of fetid peppermint.
Screaming was moot, the basement took care of that. The two men that still breathed roused from their cages, their teeth bared in feral grimaces. One throws himself against his door, the other follows suit.
I know he’s hauling me to the steel table by the incinerator where Carter’s corpse had slept. Chest split open. Organs harvested. I feel the wince crack apart dried up riverbed of tears. Hell wasn’t the destination it was just a passage to something worse than the tales, and ours had its jowls laced with ashes and flames for teeth.
I may be nothing in this moment but I’m not stupid. Faked injuries facilitated recovery time. He’d wanted to have some fun with us before he got down to business eventually. The slime was considerate enough to let me off the hook so he could start all over again.
The plan, need to follow the plan. I go lax in his arms. I sing a lullaby with my body, arms like wilting flowers and breaths leafless trees in the wind. I feel his grip ease, only a little.
Got it. My hand closes around cool metal at his hip. I need to act quickly.
Rated it: 4.5 stars
Read: December 2017
Read count: 2
See my review for The Tales of Beedle the Bard
The first time I read this it was a copy of my cousins, three years ago when I was visiting in England. A slim red paperback edition with Harry’s scribbles which I’d thoroughly enjoyed. I believe that being on the island, while not in Scotland where Hogwarts is, added more to the sublime atmosphere. At the time this was one of the three books of the Hogwarts Library Collection that I did not have.
Ah, but I remedied that recently and now I have in my possession the edition above published just last year. A gorgeous hardcover, smooth as a baby’s bum and has an illustration of a Runespoor, the three-headed serpent, on the back cover.
While sans scribbles it has a forward by the man himself, Newt Scamander, who briefly mentioned on the incidents in the movie adaptation of Fantastic Beasts which in my opinion was a brilliant touch for those of us who have watched the movie, fostering a sense of familiarity.
The introduction states what is considered a Being and a Beast and the controversies that have challenged and modified the definitions over the years; and how they’ve secretly coexisted with muggle-kind. Read More »
Eyeball that bit of wisdom. Read it again. One more time to be sure. Okay then. Maybe you recognize some of that in yourself, I know I do.
An infernally astute quote from John’s debut novel, Looking for Alaska. “Infernal” because it illustrates a sort of personal hell I should be scrambling to escape. A loop whose deeply rutted trail I’m vaguely aware of at the best of times and crystal sharp at the worst of times.
Which is f**king tedious? I mean if I could be aware of all the tomorrows I tell myself I have and not take them for granted, I’ll get my goals accomplished, every day I would be compelled to complete them.
But like the blessed idiot that I am, I do stupid sh*t anyway. And I could analyze to kingdom come about the lies I convince myself are truths, their roots lay in self-doubt and lack of self-compassion. I’ve thought out of the whys and have finally sifted and understood what some of my actual truths are. Three years ago this introspection would’ve been beyond me but I feel lighter at the thought that I’ve come so far that I can see how I could fortify wobbly foundations and continue to build my person. Growth is always the goal.
But essentially the labyrinth is a fantastic illusion that could make us or dismantle us and perhaps it can only work out if we realize that within it we can make new paths. That we can take a chainsaw to some of the dead ends, and plant new saplings.
The past is a ghost. The future a phantom horizon. The present? It’s where we live. It’s not always pleasant but it’s where our hearts beat, the precipice of the next moment. Isn’t it awful how we conjure those ghosts and let them possess us? How we often try to dream out the possible futures thereby plugging up the goodness that the present can offer?
I read Looking for Alaska about two years ago, stayed up until morning to finish it only to have a feeling of mental suspension and an excellent view of the void. Alaska was a bitch, sure, but