Month: April 2018

The Guardian—Book Review

SUMMARY

Julia had just recently moved on from the death of her husband, Him, who left her a Great Dave named Singer in his place. Julia is attempting to get back into the dating game with Richard, who is handle and charming, but very mysterious. At the same time, she finds herself drawn to get best friend Mike, who has been there for her for years. A typical relationship turns deadly, and Julie finds herself in danger.

REVIEW
Something that has always kind of irked me about Nicholas Sparks books is that the women usually don’t have much personality. They’re just kind of shy and sweet and friendly, and Julie is the same way. Mike, however, I do applaud for being different. He’s not perfect and suave and slick. He’s kind of a clumsy dork who doesn’t know what he’s doing. He can be a little too immature, intentional or not, but he was a refreshing change from the usual Casanova. Richard is also written fairly well. You can tell something is off with him from the beginning, and it only gets worse from there.

Something that the book does well is that it knows where it’s going. It doesn’t feel like the reader is being tugged between plotlines. Even between romance and suspense, it keeps things merged well.

Julie and Mike’s romance is decent enough. Something that kind of threw me off was that they were supposed to be friends of several years. It didn’t feel like that. More like work buddies than best friends, but they work better as a couple. The fact that Julie’s husband had passed it meant to be a sort of tieback for them. She’s trying to move on now, and Mike doesn’t know if he should ask her out, etc. Though this could have been interesting, Julie being a widow is actually not that important. That is, it really didn’t feel like it mattered. It didn’t make me feel anything, and I kind of forgot at times.

Towards the end of the book, we are unedited to two new characters that we follow for a good bit. They aren’t can, but it becomes annoying to keep up with them when they aren’t really main characters. They disappear after they serve their functions, anyway. The same can be said for a side character that was set up to be quite important. She goes through the story as a woman jealous of Julie’s relationship with Richard. She doesn’t try to sabotage them or anything, but she does push the envelope a little bit. Something happens with her at the end, but afterwards, we are left a little in the dark about the outcome.

The ending managed to get me a little emotional, even though I kind of saw it coming. Overall, this book is far from the worst of Nicholas Sparks, but I wouldn’t call it his best, either. If you’re looking for a Hallmark-channel like book to read, this will work fine. Just don’t expect to be blown away by anything.

Barn Burning

The short story “Barn Burning”, by William Faulkner is honestly a brilliantly worded and well-written story about a physically and emotionally abuse father who may be extremely crazy. There may be some spoilers in this review, but honestly, I’d recommend to go online and read a PDF file of it real quick and come back, it’s great.

So, first off, the book takes place in early 1900s, maybe 1890s, in the American South. The people there are still extremely racist, many are poor, and hard working. The main character is Sarty and the story is written in third person, but kind of told by Sarty twenty years from now. The story starts off with his father, Abner, in court because he is accused of burning somebody’s barn, which is pretty illegal. William Faulkner makes the beginning extremely easy to read and understand, but he also makes it extremely interesting and tense, making the reader wonder the entire time of what was going to happen. Sarty is then called to the stand to actually testify against his own father, Faulkner adds this conflict in brilliantly, bringing this up later to prove that Abner is physically abusive and paranoid that his own son won’t even help him.

Abner is then told to leave the city they were in, so they move for the twelfth time. Faulkner does a great job in this story of adding great information at the right time, and he gives us just enough so we could understand everything. He also establishes that Abner was in the war, he does this while they were moving from the city they just lived in, so Faulkner would not waste any time by doing this portion another time, it also gives a great transition to the next portion of the story.

They then go to Abner’s new bosse’s house. Abner steps in horse poop and kind of purposely rub his poopy shoe on a one-hundred dollar rug from France. His boss brings the rug to be cleaned to Abner, and Abner ruins it after being told by his wife to not put lye on it and rub it violently with a stone, which is what he did. His boss then tells him that he will pay him back for the rug, not with money, but with corn. Abner goes to court to get rid of the charge, but the charge is instead cut in half.

Abner does what any normal person would do, he goes home and prepares kerosene and oil to burn his bosse’s barn down. Sarty wants to stop him, but his father then commands Sarty’s mom to hold him down, or she would probably get beat, so she holds him down. Sarty escapes and tries to warn the boss, but the barn is already being burned down. The boss the gets a gun and shoots Abner. Sarty then ponders his father’s life and states that he respected him.

I recommend this story to anybody who is willing to embrace a wonderful story that showcases a father who is extremely abusive, narcissistic, impulsive liar, and might be insane. This story shows that even though you may be abused, you can still love that person, because in the end, Abner did try his best to protect his family.

Freedom is what she wants most…

“Freedom—that is what Lilly Linton wants most in life. Not marriage, not a brood of squalling brats, and certainly not love, thank you very much!
But freedom is a rare commodity in 19th-century London, where girls are expected to spend their lives sitting at home, fully occupied with looking pretty. Lilly is at her wits’ end—until a chance encounter with a dark, dangerous and powerful stranger changes her life forever…
Enter the world of Mr. Rikkard Ambrose, where the only rule is: Knowledge is power is time is money!”

This is the short detailed overview of the book Storm and Silence and within this review, I will discuss the amazing writing choices within the first few chapters of this historic masterpiece. A small bit of backstory to this book is that the author, Robert Thier, originally added this book to the well-known writing platform Wattpad, and although many people criticize Wattpad stories on this domain as cliché and poorly written, this book is clearly nothing of that nature. It is elaborately written and was acknowledged for it. The book was chosen to be published, and now is online as well as in stores for sale.

Now, onto the book itself. The storyline just as it was stated in the overview takes place in 19th-century London, and even though I know very little of London in the 19th-century, it was very easy for me to follow along with the storyline so far. The character traits that Mr. Thier gives to his characters, Lilly and Mr. Ambrose, is ironic and refreshingly clever. I am also not one to boast about writing that is written with accents nor with so much history, but this book has done a great job of providing these as well as keeping the reader engaged. The escalation of the storyline so far has been at a somewhat steady pace, and I can definitely tell that the characters each have there own bit of depth to them.

Not only do I want to just point out the progression of the story, but also the conflicts. One would presume that juggling so many conflicting social issues which are brought to light within the story would clash and cause the reader to become confused or overwhelmed, but somehow the book keeps every climax flowing accordingly. Lilly so far would have to go in my book of favorite characters alongside Mr.Ambrose because not only is she dealing with her constant need for freedom in a society that oppresses her, but also juggling the societies expectations of a lady, the issues within her family, and the responsibilities Mr. Ambrose brings along. Her quick wit and sly remarks are what keep her on top in this book, and so far I am loving it.

I encourage anyone looking for a switch up in their reading list to give Storm and Silence a look. I also encourage readers to indulge themselves in the mystery of if this book was named after the characters, which would you see as the description of the storm and which as silence; I guarantee your choice will never be set in stone.

It Would be Nice to Take a Nap Today

I’m waiting for the call from my mother to officially declare how much she hates me. I want the call- I need to hear it from her mouth and let it sink into my bones and settle into the crook of my ears, just so I won’t forget it when we’re riding down the road together.

I’ll want to tell her about my day and all off the things that I said and thought but then her voice will fall from my left ear crook into the canal and I’ll remember that she doesn’t care. No one, especially her, wants to hear about the madness in my mind. I’ll stay silent.

She knows my favorite food is spaghetti- it’s why she makes nothing by roasts: grilled, baked, crock-pot, steamed. I’ve been eating roasts for the last five years of my life, but it’s okay, I  deserve them. I think she needs to cook roasts to remind herself to hate me, because otherwise, she might ask me how my day was. She can’t do that do that while focusing on seasoning the afternoon roast.

It started when I was nine and dropped her ring that she told me to not drop. It was lost in her car for over a year. She looked at me differently after that. Sure, I was the one to find it after its escapade under the driver’s seat, but she deemed that I was untrustworthy. She was right. I get it from her.

I have a basic sense of morals that remind me not to murder anyone or the like, but beyond that, what needs to happen goes. (I don’t know how to make this sound less crude.) This has never sat well with her because, despite her hatred for me, she is a very compassionate person who lives her life to please others. I am not like this- she is angry about it. We argue about it a lot.

I don’t think I’ll ever get her to utter the words we both need to hear. She needs them to sit on her shoulder and whisper all of the terrible things I’ve done, just as I need them ready to fall from my ear into my canal and scream their reminder that we’re not right for each other. I don’t think it will ever happen.

I’ll tell her about my days as we ride down the road, and every couple of weeks she’ll make something other than roast. Maybe not spaghetti, possibly something with chicken.

 

chisme

they say you are what you eat

but what about what you drink?

I drank liter of juice

but I don’t feel anymore sweet

or fruity

like that candle you got me

because of my sexuality

thats only for men i tell you

you tell me that its half true

but only when its convenient

find a middle ground

or you can’t stick around

but i’m a fish out of water

and i don’t care if you want her

they say you are what you eat

but what about where you sleep?

on the top bunk of a bed

in a room where nothing is said

only heard

god i hope that was a bird

whoops

wrong room

in that room i sleep on the floor

and don’t do chores

i just sleep

and pretend to ignore

the knocks on the walls

and the thing they used to kill the lord

they say you are what you eat

but what about where you creep?

i’d rather put a bullet in my head

then have my parents say don’t let it happen again

it wasn’t my fault

i don’t care what they say

p l e a s e  l i l l y

die.

you’re the only man who has ever made me cry

i suppressed

and I folded

and folded

103 times

i looked at myself and realized i was dying

and suddenly every man was you

they say you are what you eat

but what about what you think?

i live with five people

and you live with two

we all share a bathroom

but you’ve never shared a day in your life, have you?

until you met me, that is

you share me with three people

and i share you with none

well, shared

loving you was like trying to own nice furniture in a house filled with cats

i will never tell you that

i’ve been told i don’t talk much

but no one really listens much

so i’ll just keep everything in here

playing my thoughts on repeat until i disappear.

 

 

teeth named agony

Revelation 12:11
And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony, and they did not love their lives to the death.

Figure in landscape,color and light! light on top darks lower on figure

And so it was,the eyes were swords wielded on girls half- drunk on their lover’s cars outside of the bar last Tuesday.

My mother overdosed on hymnals six weeks ago, leaving me with ma man and two options, flight or fight.

Grandfather's Trained Bear - Robert Burridge

I chosen either and now I’m wearing two pairs of socks; if were going to be honest, it doesn’t matter how many socks I put on because I hate socks and I wish I didn’t have any on.

Hoochie Coochie Dancer

To me, LBJ is a con, just like Jesus and seat belts and all the dying men who still have teeth in the bottom of their closet.

Someone probably forgot to brush their teeth today, which doesn’t bother me one bit, but might bother you, so I thought i would include it.

 

I want to be teeth and tongue and the weightlessness of bird bones.

Cane is asleep on my doormat like a dead dog and it’s blasphemy if I do it, but I bring him inside anyway,his eyes broken and bleeding,weeping for a bottle half full.

The Whole Act, by Robert Burridge

And still it seems, a life half lived is all were ever gonna be.

“Death is swallowed up in victory. O Death, where is your sting? O Hades, where is your victory?

 

There’s no daylight in Vietnam.

American Flyer

Unfinished Poems

Medusa

Woman turned Gorgon

You didn’t deserve what happened to you

Fool for a God in a temple for a night

Snakes upon your hair for the rest of your life

To bed with a bed blissfully

Unaware of you fate

And now angry, and alone, without a mate

Cursed by a Goddess for all of eternity

For no man to love

For no one to see

Turning people to stone

Like your heart

It is dark and bitter

And like your beauty

Won’t you wither

away

Daddy’s Girl

If my father were still alive I feel as if i would’ve been a daddy’s girl
But he’s not, so i’m not
Because of childish decisions and careless mistakes
I now have no one to make my house stable when it shakes
No one to take my side when my mom tells me no and no one to show me the ropes
My mom became my mom and my dad when he died
And she had to do it all on her own, keep me alive
His death made us strong, closer
And i’m glad God chose her
One parent became two and she taught me how to tie my shoes
To ride a bike
To drive
And daddy didn’t because he couldn’t
And that doesn’t bother me anymore
But i always wondered
Would I really be a daddy’s girl if he were alive

Searching for yourself in destructive fashions
In the beds of men you won’t remember tomorrow
You don’t know love, not of self or other
Fighting for control within yourself

You’re spineless in a backless dress, too weak to be anything but
Hand out, begging
You need but don’t know what
Get a grip on reality instead of getting lost in lines of coke

You’re a child begging for forgiveness
Needing a hand to hold
———————————————————–

In your skin, you find comfort
You find solace, you find beauty, you find intelligence
In your skin you find…
Insanity
You find pity, self -loathing hatred
In your skin you find love, love of living, love of self
In your skin you

———————————————————–
Distressed denim and mind sets make for good back stories
Ripped knees and jeans
All unholy things
I am unstable and distracted
My mind draws blanks
I can’t even think straight
Exhaustion overpowers me and I can barely stay awake
I want to overachieve but I can’t believe that I am able to do a lot of things
I am useless

(Read this like you’re going to fall of a cliff. Read it like you’re frantic, out of control, unstoppable) 

Some girls love girls and boys, and some boys like girls and boys And some people like other people who are different. That may seem crazy, insane, foreign and new, but surprise! surprise! It happens. Sometimes the infinity to love both seems like too much. That it conflicts with your ideas, or you as a person, or the very things you’re supposed to reject comes from being gay. Or any other word some people choose to put out there. For some time now I’ve been battling. And it’s been hard and I have lost at times and won at times and pushed myself to a breaking point others times too. And at my lowest, I have crawled back up tooth and nail and cried and almost puked and torn my mind to shreds about things like this.  Then I came to a realization so destructive that it border-lined insanity. I was going to tell the world i was gay. Which involved my parents. But how could I do that? What would happen? Who should be present? Should I make arrangements just in case I get kicked out? What could I do for money or for food or college or a job? The thoughts played cat and mouse over and over again and I couldn’t even begin to explain the sudden need to not exist on planet earth for a maybe a month or three so I wouldn’t have to make this decision. Then out of nowhere came an idea from the heavens and crafted by demons because both had to have a part to even think this up. I’ll write a blog. WOW! That was extremely anticlimactic Tim-era, do better next time. Wait! hold on not just any blog post. No. A post for experiences I have had to deal with and things that I feel like I need them to know. And I’ll send this blog post to them senior year. Not now of course because that would be disastrous, to say the least, but, coming up to graduation and when I did I would hope and pray they would show up after and if not……. I would know what they felt. Because I can’t seem to stay hidden anymore.The Gay jokes are starting to get pesky. The hiding is becoming deter mentally.  The wishing to be anything but this is beginning to be pointless and as I grow older, and as I get a better idea of what is happening I can no longer do this and I hope they’ll understand, and yeah there’s a chance they won’t, but I can try and maybe fail with confidence. I owe myself that at least.

I can’t stop writing about the world ending. I’d like to pretend that it doesn’t mean anything.

3:33

I woke up today. the doves have been here again. the dust told me so,
outlining their footmarks, all pointed in a circle with me in the middle.
the window is shut, yet the dust bunnies still sob themselves
back to sleep.  I clean away the claw marks at the bottom of my bed.
I swear they get closer every day.

but you & me, we’re screaming about a feeling in a june riverbed
until the crack of dawn, drinking the creek water that’s turned
into wine, our denim dipped legs running as fast as we can,
sun-stained on cheeks and shoulders.  your momma told you
to put sunscreen on those damn shoulders, she’ll beat some more
of your skin raw when you get home, so much so that it’ll peel up
just to run away. or maybe she won’t, i hear she’s been trying
to act real good since the Lord is coming home, the preacher
is awfully excited. and holding hands with you is like
holding a dog’s tongue, sticky and unclean,
but I’ll be holding this dog’s tongue till the end of my days.

eyelashes and dandelion puffs fly through the air,
carrying all of our wishes with them. I laugh. “I bet God’s eyelashes
are made of ours, and he uses these dandelion puffs for nose hairs.”
“don’t be silly,” you say, “God doesn’t have nose hairs.
he’s too respectable for that, bet he has a beard or somethin’.”
all our wishes rise up to the air, but the clocks are chiming loud,
the loudest they ever have, and the dandelions are crying.
they beg, “God, we can’t hear you, we’re lost.”
the clocks beat them down right out of the sky.
chiming, it’s 3:33. halfway to evil.

laughing, tongues out, pink where the sun can’t lick.
God, this wine is great, isn’t it?
I forgot how to eat honeysuckle. I scream at the top of my lungs,
“I bet those angels have a thousand teeth and two jaws,
three jaws, even.” (I eat the flower whole. that’s right, right?)
you spit. “jaws, what do they need jaws for, I don’t think angels
chew tobacco.” the dove behind you winks.

but I’ll never forget when we turned around too quickly
and for a second, saw us, everywhere, with new colors
I’d never even imagined. us, like ghosts, haunting ourselves.
do you think this wine is getting to me? I don’t think
I’ll ever remember how to eat honeysuckle again.
I pet the dove beside me. “what are you gonna do
when the sky falls out, buddy?” it laughs right in my face
and asks me, “what are you gonna do?” its teeth
are a whole new color I’d never seen before in my life.

the window is on the other side of the room now, isn’t that funny?
and I’ve got a stepdad, but my dad never even left.
All the universes are running together, everything is ripping apart.
there are some days that I have blue hair  and some days
that I do not know you and some days where my leg lays
on the other side of the room. But it is every day
that the dust bunnies lay decapitated on the floor.

I tried turning around too fast again today. it wasn’t black.
it was nothing, like the universe was a little slow to put on a show.
I watched as the rocks tied to the river, seams being sewed together,
watched as you were sown together, piece by piece.
you tried telling me I blinked. you knew I hadn’t.
I don’t think I’ve closed my eyes for days,
too scared they’ll get sown together.

and I’m screaming in these july riverbeds, screaming, we’ll die here.
we won’t make it, stuck between makeout rock and home,
a dove footprint stained on my forehead.
swimming in lakes— the water that’s breaking me, me and my levies—
and I sob. I don’t want to drink wine anymore.
okay, you say. no more drinking wine.

the stars start falling out of the sky. I hold a dog’s tongue.

 

4377

elena – spanish, “shining light”

so i’m writing this blog on april 4th, but i assume by the time it goes up, it will be april 12th. i only mention this because the next day, april 13th, my best friend turns 17.

so, elena, this is dedicated to you.

when you first added me on snapchat all those years ago, i don’t think either of us ever anticipated ending up here. all of this was an accident. but we started talking, and lucky for us, we had a lot in common.

the date on your first physicality in my life is february 21st, 2015. just a few days after we started talking if not the exact date. from “the things we dig” down to the fact we both have one dimple, i think our fate together was sealed.

i have the clearest memories of sitting in the back of my fifth period science class, surrounded by stupid teenage boys, hiding my phone under my desk to reply to you because mr. hobbs wouldn’t let us have our phones out in class. i can see the yellow hearts, too.

since then, we’ve both been through a lot. the first year’s worth of our conversations is gone (still wish i hadn’t deleted that snapchat account). the history is gone, but i still remember skyping you while i painted commissions for an art project in my backyard. i still remember messaging you on instagram and you messaging me a few months later to tell me you didn’t even realize it was me you were talking to.

every moment i have with you becomes my new favorite.

in jack antonoff’s words, nothing has changed me quite like you. i know it sound cheesy, but it’s supposed to be. there are more references to describe us than i can count, but you’re the only one who would get them anyway.

i can write all the words and make all the playlists in the world, but none of them will ever capture what we are. birds of a feather, floating to each other across the pond.

elena beth brammar, you are my best friend, and now you’re 17. soon i’ll be 18, and you’ll follow two months suit, and before we know it, we’ll be old ladies in rocking chairs with the husbands (or wives) we dreamed of having. and all i can hope is those two wrinkly old ladies in their rocking chairs are best friends just like they were all those years ago, back when their skin was bright and pink and full of hope that one day, 4377 won’t come between them anymore.

you already have the playlist, but i made something else for you, and this time, the words that describe us are all ours.