I am reading Eat Pray Love. Only I am not. I am devouring, relishing, tasting, experiencing it.
I am Eating it, Praying it, Loving it.
I’ll write a response to it when I finish, I just have to! But not a review. Would you review the Bible? Well, I would… yes, I would, so it’s a poor metaphor. I’m having the intensity of reading experience I had reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. Beneath the artistic awe and the total absorption in the story, there is part of me screaming and jumping up and down “I WANT TO WRITE JUST LIKE THIS. ONLY NOT, BECAUSE LIKE ME. WHICH IS SIMILAR. OR WILL BE. BUT STIIIILLLLL. I WANNA WRITE!!!!!!!” So I’m thinking a lot while reading about a book idea I conceived a few years ago that is very, very groovy. Oh wow. Idea.. maybe NaNoWriMo? Whew: scary. (And by the way, ladies- how in the name of Johnny Depp-see below- did you do this with toddlers in your home? I can only barely fucking write a blog post with Molly here.)
When God is mentioned in a traditional context or almost any male deity context*, I approach the concept with Athiest Mind.
If Goddess is referred to, with a specific femaleness, I respond with Deep Primal Cavewoman Awe Brain/Heart/Soul.
I just sort of noticed that today. I’m kind of stubbornly refusing to delve into the athiest brainiac chick vs. moon shreiking pagan witch mama, because it pretty much utterly fails to matter. If Persephone is a story that makes me imagine that some deep part of me resonates with this lovely ancient myth, who gives a rat’s ass if She is Real or she is a metaphor?
*Exceptions: mention Dionysos, and I respond much like I do to Maggie Gyllenhaal (click it. Seriously. Speaking of Cavew Woman.. grrroowwlll….)and Johnny Depp and full moons. Mention Ganesha, and my soul immediately drops to it’s aether knees, assumes the child’s pose and tears up in grateful reverence. Mention Hades and I think at once of a vision thing I had once with a very specific ritual I was supposed to do and have never done. I kind of think I should do the damn thing.
This is what it takes to make me feel spoiled and giddy:
Dinner plans at a restaurant where you actually sit down and place you order. And the order is for sushi!
$17.99 to spend at Border’s on Joe Hill’s paperback Heart-Shaped-Box, a discount book of Witchcraft Illustrations, and a faery pop-up for the Birdy’s birthday. Bonus points for chatting with very cute sales guy about Nirvana due to song title reference in said Joe Hill novel.
Twenty minutes of pure, quiet me time to gnosh on mall pizza and read first chapter of book. It is a gothgirl’s wet dream. Even if said gothgirl hasn’t dyed her hair black, gotten anything pierced or tattoed in a good six or seven years. Goth lives in my black, angsty heart. Right beside the patchworked, hand-stitched hippy chick part of that heart.
$30 Victoria’s Secret gift card, and a 5 for $25 sale on panties. Viva les boy shorts. I will look hotter in mine than the model, because I have a set of adorable ass dimples with a Wicca/Hindu tattoo in the middle. Did you know? Proudly sporting the tramp stamp since 1999.
Copied straight from reply to a Lexie question:
I had a hard time with it. I usually really am OK w/ adaptations- like Harry Potter- they always do great… But ouchie, this is my favorite novel which I’ve read 100 times (read to Molly in utero!) and it was pretty much assfucked.
There was such subtlety in the book within the plot points and the mood, and the film just really doesn’t give the audience any credit. There’s a really annoying device in the beginning that tries to be Princess Bride story-within-story that is never even completed and is completely infuriating. But, the casting is good. DeNiro is prrrrretty good, but his gayness is borderline frat boy offensive or something. Claire is great, and her accent is spot on:)
I’ll give it another few looks before I write it off. I think a book-less viewer would think it is OK. I also think the dead princes are hilarious but I missed part of that- we did have the Birdy in the room so I wasn’t 100% focused.
So Leigh, and my cousin, and maybe somebody else, asked me why I hate teh bunnies. If you had seen this book as a child, you’d have the phobia too. Look:
And the roots go even deeper. When I was 1, my aunt brought me an inflatable pink Easter Bunny. It terrified me. And as it happens, I have a nasty allergy to rabbits. They cause a hellacious asthma attack, the red swollen eyes of death, and if I touch the little twitchy fuckers, pretty inflamed hives.
And to illustrate my Solidarity in Bunny Hatred, I offer this, as a little Ode to Anya Christina Emmanuella Jenkins (and almost) Harris:
And here is Anya’s musical outpouring of disgust and loathing. If you’re not a fan the lyrics will make considerably less sense and yet remain totally hysterical.
Does this post seem a little repetitive? It’s because you read this one.
OK: I’ve perfected the “eclectic” header and subtitle-catchphrase-slogan-one-liner-whatever thing. Yes, those are boobs. My boobs. Because they rock hard, even though they are more pendulous and cushy than actually, um, rock hard. Unless the baby sleeps chez grandies, in which case, at 7 a.m., they are definitively rock hard. Bu made a fabulous double D’s breastfeeding joke the other day… can’t remember it. Maybe vitamin DD or something.
So I bought this book when we had a small bit of disposable income: A History of the Breast. I was digging the cultural aspect of it, the feminist readings of nude art, the goddess statues and all that jazz. Hadn’t really considered the lactation function of the boobs much then. And it arrived, unfortunately, with some juicy thick novel or other and ended up neglected on my shelves or the piles of overflow books which far outnumber the shelved ones.
So I dug it out when I cleaned the closet & studio, with even keener interest than when I bought it, for now boobs aren’t just
they are also The Twin Fountains of Awesome Noursishment and Comfort Issuing Forth from My Very Body.
The punchline to this convoluted story of a book? Molly’s obsessed with it. It’s her favorite book in the house right now, and she flips from page to page. She likes the pictures of the Willendorf figurine the way Bu likes a steakhouse menu.
And speaking of Bu? Ergh: This is what he named my boobs:
I should have gotten a really good novel queued up to soften the Post-Potter Depresssion. (This isn’t due to the content of the book; it was precious and I have no real critique except that there was a plot point that made me go Wha? Huh? and sent me googling for clarification.) Now that I’ve finished eating, sleeping, breathing Deathly Hallows I’m just a bit lost, entertainment-wise. I’ll have to channel my obsession to another fandom and pop in Buffy Season 6 DVD’s until I can get to the theater to see Order of the Phoenix.
Our day was insane, amplified no doubt by my staying up until 2:30 a.m. reading. And why the hell has the baby decided that she needs to nurse for an hour and a half solid before bed?!
Totally kidding, darlin’. Take your time and enjoy. It’ll take me three freaking weeks to read it anyway in the short time between finishing whatever work and life have thrown at me (after finally sneaking away from snoozing Emsy) and falling into an exhausted sleep.
Everybody in my LiveJournal friends and Bloglines feeds has just finished, (and luuurved it!) is reading, or is scoffing at us silly grown-ups making a hysterical fuss over a kids book. No one’s not talking about it. Shoulda scrimped and bought it. Coulda survived without fast food breakfasts and that bottle of wine. Damn it all, lack of impulse control! Will avoid having similar fangirl regrets when Stardust opens by beginning to save for date night right now. If Bu thinks he’s getting out of a fairy tale flick he’s so sadly mistaken.
***Forgive the sloppy “photoshopping” as I’m actually stuck in Fireworks land and working quickly;)***
Oh, and if you’re so inclined, feel quite free to steal the “spoilers” graphic;)