My days were simple.
Care for my rams and craft cheese.
Simple. They were simple.
My people are more
than savage killers and thieves.
They are more than you.
We had a prophet
many, many years ago.
He spoke. We listened.
He told me “Someday
the man Odysseus, will
steal your gift of sight.”
This man I pondered.
I considered and wondered
whom this man could be.
Strong? Of course he is.
Impressive? Oh, he must be.
Smart? Certainly so.
But my life passed on.
The prophet died, and his tales
ebbed from memory.
My rams. My kinsmen.
These filled my days, and I was
content in my life.
You. You came and stole.
You demanded I give more.
You told lies, small thief.
You and yours are not
the same as me or my kin.
Your blood is bitter.
Did they deserve more?
Was their leader truly good?
No, Thief, you are vile.
But you refused to
lay down and die easily.
You tricked me, Mortal.
You filled me with wine.
Bitter falsehoods you fed me.
My mistake: I slept.
Searing pain. My screams.
You wretched worm of mankind.
Oh, this white, hot pain.
Have you had your eyes
stabbed out with a burning stick?
No. You have both eyes.
You robbed me of mine.
My sight. My dear brothers’ trust.
You stole these from me.
Taunt me. Shout at me.
I hear you. Poseidon hears.
He will avenge me.
And these, my dear rams,
I will tend with my last breath,
but not near as well.
Rest is my freedom.
I dream and my eye still sees
the pastures, the rams.
You could never take
everything from me, Thief.
You can’t take my dreams.
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Saturday, August 1, 2015
The Used Bookstore
The buildings were old and weathered. Some sported paint and new signs, but the rest were comfortably the same as they had been for many long years. Walking along aged concrete amid the faintest sprinkle of rain, I glanced at the dusty windows of unused businesses. Where a comic book store had its short run, boxes, an old wardrobe, and an easel populate the darkness, illuminated only by the light shifting through neglected windows. A few more yards and a door greets me, paint chipped but cheerful regardless. I wrap my fingers around the metal handle and push gently, noting the pale semicircle on the floor that marks the door's daily repeated path. As I step inside onto the wooden floor, I take in my surroundings and close the portal. Two cats occupy the counter, one curled tightly in sleep and the other simply lounging, watching me with clear, green eyes. I know these cats, if only in passing. I have sat on the floor with them, running my hair stick back and forth across the uneven surface as they pounce, bat, and bite it.
When was I last here?
A year? More?
I make my way to the back corner where science fiction and fantasy are laced together on the shelves, followed by one of the cats. Grace tossed aside, he leaps from the counter and charges past the shelves; his little thudding feet leave echos trailing behind him. Immediately, he jumps upon a chair, staring at me with loving eyes. I lean over, allowing him to climb to my shoulder. There I stroke him, soft fur sliding past my finger tips, pulling a silky purr into the air. This is not enough however, and he continues to climb on me, finally settling on my back, leaving me bent over to accommodate. His feet tucked in beneath him, he is the contented victor, having conquered the giant. I stand, bent over like a broken doll still left on display and stare at the books on the bottom shelf. Cookbooks and photography. I make a mental note to return, but never do. A minute passes and the cat leaves with no explanation. I straighten and take the last few steps to my chosen genre.
Here, where spines wear authors and titles like strange garb from the far away lands in which they take place, I inhale and close my eyes, soaking in the atmosphere of the books that no longer have homes. This is a shelter, a place where those who find themselves unwanted are taken, a place where those who are lonely come.
The cat has returned. He sits beside my feet, talking to me. His voice fills the space around him as clearly as if it were solid matter ballooning from his small form. My gaze flitters across the shelves and comes to rest on a note taped to a nearby door.
"Do not let cats in this room no matter how much they beg."
He meows again.
"No." I tell him, gentle and firm, but I still smile.
Moments later, one of the store workers enters that back room, and the cat slips in. She calls to him, trying to navigate the stacks of boxes, all of which hold promising books. He proves stubborn however, and refuses to emerge.
I return to the books. There are names I recognize and names I have never before encountered. Goblin Moon by Teresa Edgerton catches my eye, as does The Gnome's Engine. I start my book pile with them. I've never heard of the writer, but if I only read authors I already knew about, I would have far fewer books and much less happiness. I step to the side and lift my focus a few shelves higher. There, tucked away in shadow, are various works of Patricia McKillip. With a quiet sigh floating to the floor in the company of now startled dust motes, I carefully bring down Od Magic, still robed in Kinuko Y. Craft's cover art. This is a piece of my beginnings. I remember curling up with my mother under the covers of her bed, sunlight gleaming in the windows as I listened to her read, her voice crafting poetry from prose. Od Magic was one of our favorites, the color of the cover matched by the color of McKillip's descriptions and characters. Yes, well known and loved, this book will accompany me home as well. I also select Riddle of Stars, having never read the trilogy before, and had I unlimited time and the ability to do so, I would clutch more books to my heart and bring them home like baby birds in need of a mother, but Earth spins on her toes with no intention of slowing, no matter how desperately I may plea.
Forcibly removing myself from the shelves where temptations beckon me sweetly, but not quite ready to leave the quiet little store, I cross the floor again, this time entering a little reading nook, populated by chairs, a couch, and a few small tables the perfect size for a pile of books and a laptop to comfortably sit together. The nearest table is taken by a dozing fellow. A little out of shape, his dark hair is warm from sunlight. I give him a polite hello as I take the chair closest to him. He opens shining eyes and answers with a soft meow and a tail twitch. We talk in whispers, gentle sounds in different tongues, as I rub behind his ears. We can hear the store workers talking.
"Brody got in the back again." Her voice rests somewhere between concern and irritation.
"I'll go get him." A man answers, seemingly resigned.
This place is owned and run by a family. They don't aim to make it large or particularly profitable, so it stays small and quiet near the edge of the square in a town where most citizens would rather go hunting than read, and there is nothing wrong with that. I like the small and quiet. I love the empty spaces and dancing shadows. I enjoy the peace here.
The door to the back room opens again, and I hear the man talking to Brody. "Go over there. There's a girl over there. She'll pet you."
Sure enough, I hear once more the echoing of little cat feet. Brody crashes onto the table between me and his brother. Tail high, he greets me with trilling song as I restack the toppled books. These he chooses to rub his cheeks against whilst sprawling across my purse.
"You can stuff him in your purse and take him home with you." The man reminds me of my father, not fond of cats, but loving people who are, and thus doomed to look after the small, bothersome beasts. Regardless, they are a part of his team.
I laugh. "I already have enough cats at home."
"Another cat person," he chuckles to himself before walking away into the forest of covers, spines, and pages.
I never once looked up from cats or books to see his face, to sketch in my memory how his face folded when he smiled or the manner in which he took a single step.
Eventually, I ease Brody off of my bag with apologies and careful movements, finally making my way back to the front desk. Somehow, I still have credit here, and it applies to all the books but one. I pay what is due and thank them, slipping back out the door with a little wave goodbye to the cats. It's sunny out by now, and I wish it wasn't. Rain, however light, always seems right when the day involves a used bookstore, especially a quiet one, but I count my blessings that the books stay easily dry.
Once in the car, I flip the pages of each book, smiling at them lovingly. Each used bookstore smells slightly different, as if the books have been talking to each other, sharing their stories and trading news of outside places. One day, when I am old and many of the books in my library are even older, my skin will be wrinkled and the books' pages will be yellowed, and both will still be filled with love and quiet.
And maybe, just maybe, a bit of cat hair.
When was I last here?
A year? More?
I make my way to the back corner where science fiction and fantasy are laced together on the shelves, followed by one of the cats. Grace tossed aside, he leaps from the counter and charges past the shelves; his little thudding feet leave echos trailing behind him. Immediately, he jumps upon a chair, staring at me with loving eyes. I lean over, allowing him to climb to my shoulder. There I stroke him, soft fur sliding past my finger tips, pulling a silky purr into the air. This is not enough however, and he continues to climb on me, finally settling on my back, leaving me bent over to accommodate. His feet tucked in beneath him, he is the contented victor, having conquered the giant. I stand, bent over like a broken doll still left on display and stare at the books on the bottom shelf. Cookbooks and photography. I make a mental note to return, but never do. A minute passes and the cat leaves with no explanation. I straighten and take the last few steps to my chosen genre.
Here, where spines wear authors and titles like strange garb from the far away lands in which they take place, I inhale and close my eyes, soaking in the atmosphere of the books that no longer have homes. This is a shelter, a place where those who find themselves unwanted are taken, a place where those who are lonely come.
The cat has returned. He sits beside my feet, talking to me. His voice fills the space around him as clearly as if it were solid matter ballooning from his small form. My gaze flitters across the shelves and comes to rest on a note taped to a nearby door.
"Do not let cats in this room no matter how much they beg."
He meows again.
"No." I tell him, gentle and firm, but I still smile.
Moments later, one of the store workers enters that back room, and the cat slips in. She calls to him, trying to navigate the stacks of boxes, all of which hold promising books. He proves stubborn however, and refuses to emerge.
I return to the books. There are names I recognize and names I have never before encountered. Goblin Moon by Teresa Edgerton catches my eye, as does The Gnome's Engine. I start my book pile with them. I've never heard of the writer, but if I only read authors I already knew about, I would have far fewer books and much less happiness. I step to the side and lift my focus a few shelves higher. There, tucked away in shadow, are various works of Patricia McKillip. With a quiet sigh floating to the floor in the company of now startled dust motes, I carefully bring down Od Magic, still robed in Kinuko Y. Craft's cover art. This is a piece of my beginnings. I remember curling up with my mother under the covers of her bed, sunlight gleaming in the windows as I listened to her read, her voice crafting poetry from prose. Od Magic was one of our favorites, the color of the cover matched by the color of McKillip's descriptions and characters. Yes, well known and loved, this book will accompany me home as well. I also select Riddle of Stars, having never read the trilogy before, and had I unlimited time and the ability to do so, I would clutch more books to my heart and bring them home like baby birds in need of a mother, but Earth spins on her toes with no intention of slowing, no matter how desperately I may plea.
Forcibly removing myself from the shelves where temptations beckon me sweetly, but not quite ready to leave the quiet little store, I cross the floor again, this time entering a little reading nook, populated by chairs, a couch, and a few small tables the perfect size for a pile of books and a laptop to comfortably sit together. The nearest table is taken by a dozing fellow. A little out of shape, his dark hair is warm from sunlight. I give him a polite hello as I take the chair closest to him. He opens shining eyes and answers with a soft meow and a tail twitch. We talk in whispers, gentle sounds in different tongues, as I rub behind his ears. We can hear the store workers talking.
"Brody got in the back again." Her voice rests somewhere between concern and irritation.
"I'll go get him." A man answers, seemingly resigned.
This place is owned and run by a family. They don't aim to make it large or particularly profitable, so it stays small and quiet near the edge of the square in a town where most citizens would rather go hunting than read, and there is nothing wrong with that. I like the small and quiet. I love the empty spaces and dancing shadows. I enjoy the peace here.
The door to the back room opens again, and I hear the man talking to Brody. "Go over there. There's a girl over there. She'll pet you."
Sure enough, I hear once more the echoing of little cat feet. Brody crashes onto the table between me and his brother. Tail high, he greets me with trilling song as I restack the toppled books. These he chooses to rub his cheeks against whilst sprawling across my purse.
"You can stuff him in your purse and take him home with you." The man reminds me of my father, not fond of cats, but loving people who are, and thus doomed to look after the small, bothersome beasts. Regardless, they are a part of his team.
I laugh. "I already have enough cats at home."
"Another cat person," he chuckles to himself before walking away into the forest of covers, spines, and pages.
I never once looked up from cats or books to see his face, to sketch in my memory how his face folded when he smiled or the manner in which he took a single step.
Eventually, I ease Brody off of my bag with apologies and careful movements, finally making my way back to the front desk. Somehow, I still have credit here, and it applies to all the books but one. I pay what is due and thank them, slipping back out the door with a little wave goodbye to the cats. It's sunny out by now, and I wish it wasn't. Rain, however light, always seems right when the day involves a used bookstore, especially a quiet one, but I count my blessings that the books stay easily dry.
Once in the car, I flip the pages of each book, smiling at them lovingly. Each used bookstore smells slightly different, as if the books have been talking to each other, sharing their stories and trading news of outside places. One day, when I am old and many of the books in my library are even older, my skin will be wrinkled and the books' pages will be yellowed, and both will still be filled with love and quiet.
And maybe, just maybe, a bit of cat hair.
Monday, May 25, 2015
In Which I am (as Always) a Geek
At the beginning of this month, I had the chance to hang out with Christian. When we stopped for lunch, the lady who was our cashier noticed my Spiderman t-shirt and asked if I had seen the new Avengers movie, Age of Ultron. I had not, but that was no hindrance for a conversation about Marvel. She told me about her grandson, who was obsessed with Iron Man. No surprise there. Little boys tend to love him. I think it might be all the cool guns he gets to play with. Make something go boom, and the boys will be fans. She went on to say that they told him Iron Man is Robert Downey Jr. One evening he heard on a commercial that Downey was going to be on a late night show. He begged to stay up to see Iron Man, and they let him, much to his delight. That's the closest many people are able to come to meeting their heroes. I have to wonder if maybe the boy will actually meet his hero in the flesh some day, or if he might step up to the "big screen" and be the Iron Man of a next generation. I suppose I'll never know.
Saturday however, I did finally see Age of Ultron. I didn't wear my Marvel t-shirt--but only because it was in the wash, otherwise there would have been absolutely no question as to attire. As far as sequels go, it was a good movie. I was surprised that I wasn't already aware of very much of the plot, considering the amount of time I end up spending on websites riddled with fandoms. It seems the Marvel fandom is better about spoilers than the Sherlock or Doctor Who fandoms. The after credits scene made me very nearly squeal, so I'm looking forward to the next film Marvel puts out (not that I wasn't already).
After a Marvel movie, the only reasonable stop is the bookstore. There were more people than an introvert wants to find in a bookstore at four o'clock, but books are books and I still had gift cards (how I hadn't spent them already is beyond me, but it's most likely that I couldn't decide which books to spend them on). I followed my usual route, skimming over the new releases before stopping at the journals. I had three blank ones waiting for me at home, but I knew I'd regret not stopping to flip through bare pages and investigate the new designs. One burly leather volume caught my eye and nudged me into a smile. It had no pattern printed on it, only two words: Carpe Diem. Appropriate for a journal, but it also made me think of an English teacher I had, and I made a mental note to mention it to her. She taught us to seize each day and to know the difference between seizing the day and being reckless. Carpe Diem is far more appealing to me than YOLO ever could be.
I kept my visit with the journals short and took my normal path to hunt down the graphic novels. I was a tad surprised when I came to the usual aisle. It had changed, allowing more room for manga and moving the Marvel comics and graphic novels to the other side of the shelf. I was fine with this. I had manga I was planning on taking home, if I could locate them. It seems that the next book I need in a series is always the only one not on the shelf, but Saturday was a good day for me, and I found both the books I had been looking for, despite having to stay out of the way of other readers. Although, this time it wasn't much of a bother. I heard a conversation between, presumably, a father and his daughter in her mid to late teens. Another father occupied the aisle with me, his child, however, was much younger, a boy of maybe eight, wearing a bright yellow t-shirt and talking almost constantly. Weirdly enough, I didn't find it annoying. A short while later I slid into the science fiction section and found the same father and son carrying a conversation that I couldn't help but grin at overhearing.
"That's a TARDIS!"
"That's right."
"The TARDIS is cool." The little one was silent for a moment, contemplating. "I want a TARDIS."
Don't we all?
I could almost hear his father smile. "Me too, Buddy."
"The TARDIS is a time machine."
"Well, it's interdimensional. It travels in more than just time..." He went on explaining the particulars of the TARDIS's traveling abilities to his son, and the boy listened.
I was beaming after hearing them. Be they American superheroes or British aliens, we all need someone to look up to. Nerd parents make me happy, and on almost any day, I wouldn't be able to say why. Today I can supply one reason, if not the whole picture. As opposed to other children, the children of nerds and geeks have special role models, heroes with extraordinary abilities, but it's not the abilities that make the heroes special. Superheroes have failings, flaws. They are aware of these flaws and are constantly working to overcome them. Sometimes the weakness can be an object like Superman's kryptonite, but often weaknesses are as common place as pride; the flaws often found in everyday people are reflected in their heroes. Heroes help us learn to overcome internally as much as externally. Children need that. The little boy is going to grow up, and his interests will change. He may come to believe that he's too old for Doctor Who, but he won't forget the love he had for it. He won't forget the Doctor who saves the universe by solving problems instead of killing, who runs to help no matter what race or species is calling out to him, and who cares about the individual people as well as their worlds. Although, at his age, he probably just likes it because of the time travel and aliens. Who's to say?
The duo wandered off, and I continued my perusal of the shelves. I made a point to stop by the YA books. Most are romance, but there are always a few gems. I am Princess X caught my eye. Honestly, I probably wouldn't have given it a second glance if the cover art had shown a normal high school girl. It didn't. The image was of a blue haired girl wearing a pink dress and holding a katana. But what sold me on it was when I noticed the author: Cherie Priest. That was it. The book was coming home with me.
I poked around in the graphic novels and was again presently surprised. There was Brody's Ghost by Mark Crilley. When I decided to improve my drawings years ago, my friend Maxine was the first person I went to. After she helped me with some basics, she had introduced me to Mark Crilley's drawing videos on YouTube, which have been a major help for both of us. We'd always been interested in reading Brody's Ghost, but we'd never come across it, and there it was in Barnes & Noble. I carefully slid the first book from its companions and added it to my growing pile.
After I checked out, I texted Maxine a picture from Brody's Ghost that I knew she'd recognize and added the caption of "Look familiar?" Needless to say she is going to borrow it the next time we see each other, and seeing as I was not the one driving and the book was rather thin, I read it in the car on the way home. I car sick afterwards, but it was worth it. Before I went to bed that night, I had finished my manga, and the next day I read through I am Princess X. Cherie Priest did not disappoint.
Saturday however, I did finally see Age of Ultron. I didn't wear my Marvel t-shirt--but only because it was in the wash, otherwise there would have been absolutely no question as to attire. As far as sequels go, it was a good movie. I was surprised that I wasn't already aware of very much of the plot, considering the amount of time I end up spending on websites riddled with fandoms. It seems the Marvel fandom is better about spoilers than the Sherlock or Doctor Who fandoms. The after credits scene made me very nearly squeal, so I'm looking forward to the next film Marvel puts out (not that I wasn't already).
After a Marvel movie, the only reasonable stop is the bookstore. There were more people than an introvert wants to find in a bookstore at four o'clock, but books are books and I still had gift cards (how I hadn't spent them already is beyond me, but it's most likely that I couldn't decide which books to spend them on). I followed my usual route, skimming over the new releases before stopping at the journals. I had three blank ones waiting for me at home, but I knew I'd regret not stopping to flip through bare pages and investigate the new designs. One burly leather volume caught my eye and nudged me into a smile. It had no pattern printed on it, only two words: Carpe Diem. Appropriate for a journal, but it also made me think of an English teacher I had, and I made a mental note to mention it to her. She taught us to seize each day and to know the difference between seizing the day and being reckless. Carpe Diem is far more appealing to me than YOLO ever could be.
I kept my visit with the journals short and took my normal path to hunt down the graphic novels. I was a tad surprised when I came to the usual aisle. It had changed, allowing more room for manga and moving the Marvel comics and graphic novels to the other side of the shelf. I was fine with this. I had manga I was planning on taking home, if I could locate them. It seems that the next book I need in a series is always the only one not on the shelf, but Saturday was a good day for me, and I found both the books I had been looking for, despite having to stay out of the way of other readers. Although, this time it wasn't much of a bother. I heard a conversation between, presumably, a father and his daughter in her mid to late teens. Another father occupied the aisle with me, his child, however, was much younger, a boy of maybe eight, wearing a bright yellow t-shirt and talking almost constantly. Weirdly enough, I didn't find it annoying. A short while later I slid into the science fiction section and found the same father and son carrying a conversation that I couldn't help but grin at overhearing.
"That's a TARDIS!"
"That's right."
"The TARDIS is cool." The little one was silent for a moment, contemplating. "I want a TARDIS."
Don't we all?
I could almost hear his father smile. "Me too, Buddy."
"The TARDIS is a time machine."
"Well, it's interdimensional. It travels in more than just time..." He went on explaining the particulars of the TARDIS's traveling abilities to his son, and the boy listened.
I was beaming after hearing them. Be they American superheroes or British aliens, we all need someone to look up to. Nerd parents make me happy, and on almost any day, I wouldn't be able to say why. Today I can supply one reason, if not the whole picture. As opposed to other children, the children of nerds and geeks have special role models, heroes with extraordinary abilities, but it's not the abilities that make the heroes special. Superheroes have failings, flaws. They are aware of these flaws and are constantly working to overcome them. Sometimes the weakness can be an object like Superman's kryptonite, but often weaknesses are as common place as pride; the flaws often found in everyday people are reflected in their heroes. Heroes help us learn to overcome internally as much as externally. Children need that. The little boy is going to grow up, and his interests will change. He may come to believe that he's too old for Doctor Who, but he won't forget the love he had for it. He won't forget the Doctor who saves the universe by solving problems instead of killing, who runs to help no matter what race or species is calling out to him, and who cares about the individual people as well as their worlds. Although, at his age, he probably just likes it because of the time travel and aliens. Who's to say?
The duo wandered off, and I continued my perusal of the shelves. I made a point to stop by the YA books. Most are romance, but there are always a few gems. I am Princess X caught my eye. Honestly, I probably wouldn't have given it a second glance if the cover art had shown a normal high school girl. It didn't. The image was of a blue haired girl wearing a pink dress and holding a katana. But what sold me on it was when I noticed the author: Cherie Priest. That was it. The book was coming home with me.
I poked around in the graphic novels and was again presently surprised. There was Brody's Ghost by Mark Crilley. When I decided to improve my drawings years ago, my friend Maxine was the first person I went to. After she helped me with some basics, she had introduced me to Mark Crilley's drawing videos on YouTube, which have been a major help for both of us. We'd always been interested in reading Brody's Ghost, but we'd never come across it, and there it was in Barnes & Noble. I carefully slid the first book from its companions and added it to my growing pile.
After I checked out, I texted Maxine a picture from Brody's Ghost that I knew she'd recognize and added the caption of "Look familiar?" Needless to say she is going to borrow it the next time we see each other, and seeing as I was not the one driving and the book was rather thin, I read it in the car on the way home. I car sick afterwards, but it was worth it. Before I went to bed that night, I had finished my manga, and the next day I read through I am Princess X. Cherie Priest did not disappoint.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Reading Again
I was raised in a forest. Books could be found in almost every room of our little house.
Until I was twelve, our home was a white two story house surrounded by fields. The closest town, where my sister and I went to school, was nearly half an hour away. We grew up isolated, in a way, in our own special kingdom teeming with magic and wonder, two princesses of light, and our parents the gentle English major rulers.
The center piece of our house, as far as I was concerned, was a simple bookshelf. There was a row of books behind the ones that showed and books lying on top of those. I felt I would spend my life reading them all. Every night, my father would read to us before bed: a chapter from the Bible and a chapter from a fiction book. My sister and I would curl up against our mother and listen to tales of Fuzzies, Martian invasions, and water turned to wine. Many nights we begged for just one more chapter, and I remember Dad flipping pages to see how long it would be, if he could manage to read that much more. When he spoke, saying "I think we could," it was a victory, and we would snuggle closer.
When I was a little older, I would select books from the short shelves in my father's study, shelves assembled from bricks and planks of wood. I couldn't wait until I was older, when I wouldn't have to do homework or sit in school instead of reading. Now, I miss those days. Reading what I choose to read is a rarer commodity, precious. This last week, I was finally able to read two books from my own list. It's like stepping back into that house, light streaming through the windows on a summer day. I feel closer to being whole than I have in months.
There is a fulfillment in lifting another beings' thoughts and dreams from paper and ink and making it a part of yourself.
Until I was twelve, our home was a white two story house surrounded by fields. The closest town, where my sister and I went to school, was nearly half an hour away. We grew up isolated, in a way, in our own special kingdom teeming with magic and wonder, two princesses of light, and our parents the gentle English major rulers.
The center piece of our house, as far as I was concerned, was a simple bookshelf. There was a row of books behind the ones that showed and books lying on top of those. I felt I would spend my life reading them all. Every night, my father would read to us before bed: a chapter from the Bible and a chapter from a fiction book. My sister and I would curl up against our mother and listen to tales of Fuzzies, Martian invasions, and water turned to wine. Many nights we begged for just one more chapter, and I remember Dad flipping pages to see how long it would be, if he could manage to read that much more. When he spoke, saying "I think we could," it was a victory, and we would snuggle closer.
When I was a little older, I would select books from the short shelves in my father's study, shelves assembled from bricks and planks of wood. I couldn't wait until I was older, when I wouldn't have to do homework or sit in school instead of reading. Now, I miss those days. Reading what I choose to read is a rarer commodity, precious. This last week, I was finally able to read two books from my own list. It's like stepping back into that house, light streaming through the windows on a summer day. I feel closer to being whole than I have in months.
There is a fulfillment in lifting another beings' thoughts and dreams from paper and ink and making it a part of yourself.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
A December Update
This is not going to be one of the stunning posts, just a warning in case you read through this expecting an astounding conclusion and, in your bitter disappointment, decide to revolt.
A few days after Letter to Green Bean Casserole, my mother decided to make a green bean casserole. I may or may not have consumed roughly half. It was glorious.
I've been rereading George MacDonald's Phantastes, and, as I also recently watched the Jim Henson movie Labyrinth, I'm toying with writing a research paper on Fairyland being a medium for growing up in stories. It's an exciting proposition. I could use Phantastes, "Goblin Market", The Chronicles of Narnia, Peter Pan, and other wonderful works of literature. That may not be until the summer, however. And speaking of papers, Ace informed me that he fully intends to post the paper he mentioned in his last update. It is on the topic of sexism in video games, and while I don't game myself, I am interested in the topic.
Recently, I widened my internet presence. I decided to use the name Onevartist, for the simple reason that it will be easier to find than Kara Smith (apparently there are a lot of us). I have a deviantArt and a Google+. Yay. I have a YouTube as well, and I'm hoping to post bible study videos in a few years, with the help of my friend Christian, but as of yet I haven't posted anything there.
Well, I do believe I have exhausted my supply of relevant information. Stay warm this winter. I'll do my best to post again later this month.
A few days after Letter to Green Bean Casserole, my mother decided to make a green bean casserole. I may or may not have consumed roughly half. It was glorious.
I've been rereading George MacDonald's Phantastes, and, as I also recently watched the Jim Henson movie Labyrinth, I'm toying with writing a research paper on Fairyland being a medium for growing up in stories. It's an exciting proposition. I could use Phantastes, "Goblin Market", The Chronicles of Narnia, Peter Pan, and other wonderful works of literature. That may not be until the summer, however. And speaking of papers, Ace informed me that he fully intends to post the paper he mentioned in his last update. It is on the topic of sexism in video games, and while I don't game myself, I am interested in the topic.
Recently, I widened my internet presence. I decided to use the name Onevartist, for the simple reason that it will be easier to find than Kara Smith (apparently there are a lot of us). I have a deviantArt and a Google+. Yay. I have a YouTube as well, and I'm hoping to post bible study videos in a few years, with the help of my friend Christian, but as of yet I haven't posted anything there.
Well, I do believe I have exhausted my supply of relevant information. Stay warm this winter. I'll do my best to post again later this month.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Summer Ramblings
Right. I should probably post something.
Hello again. Not much has happened recently in ways of adventure, which I regret. I probably need to do something to fix that. Little things have been happening though. I made pudding recently, and I am pleased to inform you that there were no spiders involved. Not that the world has been spider free, mind you. They've certainly been popping up here and there: the back of my bedroom door, a few times on the living room floor, on the wall, and, the most nerve racking spot, the ceiling.
Also, I now have a laptop, finally. My computer was a Dell that was maybe fourteen years old. It ran 2003 Word at any rate. The laptop is also a Dell, her name is MollyHooper, and I love her very much. Unfortunately, she already has a smattering of cat hair on her, but in this house that really can't be helped. As a result of having Molly, I probably spend a little too much time online. Okay, not probably, I do. A few days ago, I watched ten episodes straight of Sword Art Online, an anime that came highly recommended by the youngest two of my older brothers. I agree with them that it is amazing and I understand that many people spend far more time online and could watch probably the entire show in one sitting, but I can't. Even not watching videos or playing games, spending too long in front a screen will give me a nasty headache, and I've learned from experience that those headaches will persist into migraines. One particularly nasty headache that didn't quite make it to the migraine rating was induced by watching all of Attack on Titan with a friend. I was enough out of sorts to not feel like eating much, but I doubt I would have felt up to eating even without the headache. If you've seen it, you'll understand perfectly. In a way the headaches are good thing. I do things other than stare at a screen like drawing, sleeping, and reading. At my father's recommendation, I've started investing time in his collection of Cherie Priest's books, beginning with Four and Twenty Blackbirds, which I've almost finished.
I've been journaling more frequently. Still not quite daily, but it's an improvement, much the same as my blogging: more frequent than before, but not as frequent as I'd like.
A nice thing about summer is that I seem to have more time to see with my poet eyes, as my mother would say. Usually this means I run around barefoot in the grass, clutching my camera. I may post some more pictures, seeing as it is easier to transfer pictures from camera to computer, now that I have Molly. We'll see.
I feel like I've cheated. This isn't really a blog post.
This is a blog post. Rambling is not cheating.
Hello again. Not much has happened recently in ways of adventure, which I regret. I probably need to do something to fix that. Little things have been happening though. I made pudding recently, and I am pleased to inform you that there were no spiders involved. Not that the world has been spider free, mind you. They've certainly been popping up here and there: the back of my bedroom door, a few times on the living room floor, on the wall, and, the most nerve racking spot, the ceiling.
Also, I now have a laptop, finally. My computer was a Dell that was maybe fourteen years old. It ran 2003 Word at any rate. The laptop is also a Dell, her name is MollyHooper, and I love her very much. Unfortunately, she already has a smattering of cat hair on her, but in this house that really can't be helped. As a result of having Molly, I probably spend a little too much time online. Okay, not probably, I do. A few days ago, I watched ten episodes straight of Sword Art Online, an anime that came highly recommended by the youngest two of my older brothers. I agree with them that it is amazing and I understand that many people spend far more time online and could watch probably the entire show in one sitting, but I can't. Even not watching videos or playing games, spending too long in front a screen will give me a nasty headache, and I've learned from experience that those headaches will persist into migraines. One particularly nasty headache that didn't quite make it to the migraine rating was induced by watching all of Attack on Titan with a friend. I was enough out of sorts to not feel like eating much, but I doubt I would have felt up to eating even without the headache. If you've seen it, you'll understand perfectly. In a way the headaches are good thing. I do things other than stare at a screen like drawing, sleeping, and reading. At my father's recommendation, I've started investing time in his collection of Cherie Priest's books, beginning with Four and Twenty Blackbirds, which I've almost finished.
I've been journaling more frequently. Still not quite daily, but it's an improvement, much the same as my blogging: more frequent than before, but not as frequent as I'd like.
A nice thing about summer is that I seem to have more time to see with my poet eyes, as my mother would say. Usually this means I run around barefoot in the grass, clutching my camera. I may post some more pictures, seeing as it is easier to transfer pictures from camera to computer, now that I have Molly. We'll see.
I feel like I've cheated. This isn't really a blog post.
This is a blog post. Rambling is not cheating.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
A Visit to the Bookstore
Early Monday evening I entered Barnes and Noble. The chill from outside loosened its grasp and drifted away from me like smoke. There were more people than I would have liked, but I'm an introvert, and, as such, would prefer as few people as possible. Doing my best to remain invisible, I wove around the bookstore patrons. Despite any discomfort I might feel around them, they were there for the same reasons I was, reasons that were made of paper and ink.
I stopped by the journals first, a habit I had picked up from my mother. Many of the blank books were familiar faces: a leather lion, a yellow ribbon bookmark peering from between pages, and a variety of green leaves. A few that I recognized were the same as some of my mother's. Several new faces murmured their mute hellos as well. I picked up one that I'd inspected before. Its black cover was rough as I traced the clockwork design on the front. Gently opening it, I flipped through the pages, blank save for the black lines, and inhaled the sent of unused paper, the sent of potential.
I moved on to the graphic novels and mangas, taking a few detours to avoid people perusing the fiction and poetry shelves. Peeking into the desired aisle, I smiled slightly and moved on to the next one. The graphic novels and manga had a slightly different atmosphere. In other sections, readers stood back from the shelves or sat in chairs, but here, those who felt quite at home sat on the floor in the middle of the aisle. On days when other customers were few and far between, I would do the same until my legs fell asleep beneath me. Monday, however, I moved on to the other books for the time being. I flipped almost every book over to read the back, occasionally opening them to read the inside of the dust jacket. Cover art and titles are far from reliable in defining a book's worth. Still, only a shelf away from the graphic novels, I could hear the college age boys that occupied the floor. There were a few mentions of characters they all seemed to be familiar with, and then they began to head out.
"What's that one?"
One of them picked up a book and flipped a few pages. "It's about a hipster."
"I don't want to read about hipsters."
I waited a moment and put down the steampunk book I had been holding, moving to investigate Barnes and Noble's stock of graphic novels and manga. My attention shifted from book to book, art style to art style, before I wandered back to the fantasy, where a book of dragon history caught my eye. I smiled. I have a love for dragons. Taking it into my hands, I opened it to the middle and found a copy of Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky. Eventually, I drifted back to the front to do some people watching. Many in line were adults, more than likely parents. They seemed worn, but perhaps it was simply the effect of the holidays. A pair of girls near the line stole my attention for a moment. They both were shorter than me, likely in high school or early college. The taller of the two had short red hair and wore a black pea coat. She embraced her friend.
"I didn't expect to see you here!"
"I read!" The shorter one replied indignantly. Her hair was dark and fell a little past her shoulders. She wore a dark shirt with a wide, but not low, neck line.
I smiled a little. They reminded me of myself with my friends. It was the clothing styles as well as the fact that I wouldn't expect to find my friends in Barnes and Noble, even though I know full well that they read.
I came home with one book. It was enough. Two days before, I had downloaded ten new books to my kindle, many of which were for free. I have reading material. I go back to work tomorrow. The books not yet read will be a comfort to have ready as well as a torment to ignore, as it is with all books.
I stopped by the journals first, a habit I had picked up from my mother. Many of the blank books were familiar faces: a leather lion, a yellow ribbon bookmark peering from between pages, and a variety of green leaves. A few that I recognized were the same as some of my mother's. Several new faces murmured their mute hellos as well. I picked up one that I'd inspected before. Its black cover was rough as I traced the clockwork design on the front. Gently opening it, I flipped through the pages, blank save for the black lines, and inhaled the sent of unused paper, the sent of potential.
I moved on to the graphic novels and mangas, taking a few detours to avoid people perusing the fiction and poetry shelves. Peeking into the desired aisle, I smiled slightly and moved on to the next one. The graphic novels and manga had a slightly different atmosphere. In other sections, readers stood back from the shelves or sat in chairs, but here, those who felt quite at home sat on the floor in the middle of the aisle. On days when other customers were few and far between, I would do the same until my legs fell asleep beneath me. Monday, however, I moved on to the other books for the time being. I flipped almost every book over to read the back, occasionally opening them to read the inside of the dust jacket. Cover art and titles are far from reliable in defining a book's worth. Still, only a shelf away from the graphic novels, I could hear the college age boys that occupied the floor. There were a few mentions of characters they all seemed to be familiar with, and then they began to head out.
"What's that one?"
One of them picked up a book and flipped a few pages. "It's about a hipster."
"I don't want to read about hipsters."
I waited a moment and put down the steampunk book I had been holding, moving to investigate Barnes and Noble's stock of graphic novels and manga. My attention shifted from book to book, art style to art style, before I wandered back to the fantasy, where a book of dragon history caught my eye. I smiled. I have a love for dragons. Taking it into my hands, I opened it to the middle and found a copy of Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky. Eventually, I drifted back to the front to do some people watching. Many in line were adults, more than likely parents. They seemed worn, but perhaps it was simply the effect of the holidays. A pair of girls near the line stole my attention for a moment. They both were shorter than me, likely in high school or early college. The taller of the two had short red hair and wore a black pea coat. She embraced her friend.
"I didn't expect to see you here!"
"I read!" The shorter one replied indignantly. Her hair was dark and fell a little past her shoulders. She wore a dark shirt with a wide, but not low, neck line.
I smiled a little. They reminded me of myself with my friends. It was the clothing styles as well as the fact that I wouldn't expect to find my friends in Barnes and Noble, even though I know full well that they read.
I came home with one book. It was enough. Two days before, I had downloaded ten new books to my kindle, many of which were for free. I have reading material. I go back to work tomorrow. The books not yet read will be a comfort to have ready as well as a torment to ignore, as it is with all books.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Happy 115th Birthday
"What are you reading?" I looked up at my mother, blond hair with touches of brown brushed my shoulders. I was maybe four or five, perhaps six, but I had already been filled to the brim with an appreciation for books. I also knew that it wasn't likely that she'd even hear me ask. Books would do that to her, pull her from herself, leaving her deaf to the world. It wasn't so today.
"It's about a man who goes to another planet where sin doesn't exist, and he has to keep that world's Eve from sinning." She looked down at me for a moment before falling back under the waves of the story her pages held.
My mind was filled with images of a star traveler on a barren wasteland of a planet, perhaps Mars. To his left I could see an Adam, Eve holding his hand and standing slightly behind him. Miles past them were buildings where civilization had sprouted. To the traveler's right was a skinny little apple tree and a snake. I was sure it would make a great story and promptly forgot about it.
Last year, I picked up C. S. Lewis's Space Trilogy. I hadn't ever really been able to stay focused when reading the Narnia books, but these three books were a far different story. I devoured Out of the Silent Planet and started on Perelandra. I don't know how far I was into Perelandra when I remembered a short conversation with my mother what seemed like ages ago.
Before last year, I firmly believed that such a thing as a favorite book was impossible (excluding the Bible). I liked Out of the Silent Planet very much, but Perelandra made me want to scream, cry, and throw up all at once. Since then it has been my favorite book, and Lewis my favorite writer.
C. S. Lewis was born one hundred fifteen years ago today. Seven days ago was the fiftieth anniversary of his death. His death was overshadowed by American President John F. Kennedy's assassination, which happened the same day.
Happy birthday to the writer that made such an impact on my life and my religion.
"It's about a man who goes to another planet where sin doesn't exist, and he has to keep that world's Eve from sinning." She looked down at me for a moment before falling back under the waves of the story her pages held.
My mind was filled with images of a star traveler on a barren wasteland of a planet, perhaps Mars. To his left I could see an Adam, Eve holding his hand and standing slightly behind him. Miles past them were buildings where civilization had sprouted. To the traveler's right was a skinny little apple tree and a snake. I was sure it would make a great story and promptly forgot about it.
Last year, I picked up C. S. Lewis's Space Trilogy. I hadn't ever really been able to stay focused when reading the Narnia books, but these three books were a far different story. I devoured Out of the Silent Planet and started on Perelandra. I don't know how far I was into Perelandra when I remembered a short conversation with my mother what seemed like ages ago.
Before last year, I firmly believed that such a thing as a favorite book was impossible (excluding the Bible). I liked Out of the Silent Planet very much, but Perelandra made me want to scream, cry, and throw up all at once. Since then it has been my favorite book, and Lewis my favorite writer.
C. S. Lewis was born one hundred fifteen years ago today. Seven days ago was the fiftieth anniversary of his death. His death was overshadowed by American President John F. Kennedy's assassination, which happened the same day.
Happy birthday to the writer that made such an impact on my life and my religion.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Monday, November 5, 2012
National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo)
So. Here it is. The month of novel writing. I've actually never participated. Well, I might have for a day, but I'm a bit attention deficit when it comes to writing. I set out to write a book and I end up getting distracted by characters newly born, ideas that wouldn't work in the world I'm writing in, old stories that are calling for revisions... That's why I tend to stick with short stories and poetry. This year I'm hitting it again. I'm going to try to write a book, again.
I started in fifth grade, but the story progressed too fast. There was very little character development, and let's face it, at fifth grade my spelling and grammar were awful, let alone my writing style. I had to shut it down. I buried The Last Gift Seer and have only revisited it to bring back happy memories, not to write or improve it. Sixth grade through eighth, I improved, but I kept starting over. I never reached chapter two. I said goodbye to my dragon story, Wingbeat.
I'll see how it goes this time around. It gives me a reason to procrastinate on a blog post I've been meaning to write about something (I won't spoil it for you, just in case I do finish it.), something to do instead of scanning my shelves for something to read that matches my mood, and frankly I'd rather do this than "No Shave November" (On that front, let's just conclude that my big brother, Ace, is excited for an excuse to attempt a beard.*).
I won't be alone. Another blogger, Sarah Elisabeth Newman, is participating in NaNoWriMo. She's actually why I decided to. Sarah's been working on her book for a while, and I admire that, especially considering my track record. The way I see it, if I keep in mind that she's working on it, it'll help me stay focused.
So, now that you've read this slightly boring post, I have a challenge for you.
Join us.
*Note: My brothers list grows, since they're all honorary. Ace is currently the youngest of my four main brothers.
I started in fifth grade, but the story progressed too fast. There was very little character development, and let's face it, at fifth grade my spelling and grammar were awful, let alone my writing style. I had to shut it down. I buried The Last Gift Seer and have only revisited it to bring back happy memories, not to write or improve it. Sixth grade through eighth, I improved, but I kept starting over. I never reached chapter two. I said goodbye to my dragon story, Wingbeat.
I'll see how it goes this time around. It gives me a reason to procrastinate on a blog post I've been meaning to write about something (I won't spoil it for you, just in case I do finish it.), something to do instead of scanning my shelves for something to read that matches my mood, and frankly I'd rather do this than "No Shave November" (On that front, let's just conclude that my big brother, Ace, is excited for an excuse to attempt a beard.*).
I won't be alone. Another blogger, Sarah Elisabeth Newman, is participating in NaNoWriMo. She's actually why I decided to. Sarah's been working on her book for a while, and I admire that, especially considering my track record. The way I see it, if I keep in mind that she's working on it, it'll help me stay focused.
So, now that you've read this slightly boring post, I have a challenge for you.
Join us.
*Note: My brothers list grows, since they're all honorary. Ace is currently the youngest of my four main brothers.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Love: the Ultimate Truth
"So much of what really happens in this world can't be seen with those round balls in your eye sockets. You could pluck them out and still see bright as day. Or you could walk around with the prettiest blue eyes carved from the sky and be as blind as Black himself." -- Ted Dekker
I recently finished reading Sinner by Ted Dekker. I cried. I won't tell you at which part because that might spoil it for you. There is part of every one of Ted Dekker's books that rings true. That part is the same in each one. The most important part of Christ is love. He loves us.
He loves us. He loves us! He LOVES us!
It's true. If you look in the bible he does everything out of love for us. Even flooding the Earth was an act of love.Yes, he also punished us many many times, but parents punish their children because they love them and want them to learn. Sadly, humans tend to take a lot of time to learn.
Referring to the quote, there are a lot of blind people out there. They don't know Christ's love and power. I think all of us have the same power as Dekker's Johnny. We can all open others' eyes to the truth, though admittedly not as extravagantly. The world isn't black and white, though. Some of us can see, but it's a little hazy, blurred. Those of us need glasses. Our spectacles can be found in any book store, library, and even many many homes. The Bible. There are so many examples of His love and power .
It can be boring for some in the New Testament, when the first several books are the same story only a little different, but it's like in any learning experience. If the instructor, or book, goes over something more than once, it's probably very very important. The story of Jesus IS very very important.
"For God so love the world that He gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life." -- John 3:16
God loves us. We are all his children. He is our Father. Therefore all of creation is our family, all of mankind is our siblings. We are family in Him.
I am a daughter of Christ.
I recently finished reading Sinner by Ted Dekker. I cried. I won't tell you at which part because that might spoil it for you. There is part of every one of Ted Dekker's books that rings true. That part is the same in each one. The most important part of Christ is love. He loves us.
He loves us. He loves us! He LOVES us!
It's true. If you look in the bible he does everything out of love for us. Even flooding the Earth was an act of love.Yes, he also punished us many many times, but parents punish their children because they love them and want them to learn. Sadly, humans tend to take a lot of time to learn.
Referring to the quote, there are a lot of blind people out there. They don't know Christ's love and power. I think all of us have the same power as Dekker's Johnny. We can all open others' eyes to the truth, though admittedly not as extravagantly. The world isn't black and white, though. Some of us can see, but it's a little hazy, blurred. Those of us need glasses. Our spectacles can be found in any book store, library, and even many many homes. The Bible. There are so many examples of His love and power .
It can be boring for some in the New Testament, when the first several books are the same story only a little different, but it's like in any learning experience. If the instructor, or book, goes over something more than once, it's probably very very important. The story of Jesus IS very very important.
"For God so love the world that He gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life." -- John 3:16
God loves us. We are all his children. He is our Father. Therefore all of creation is our family, all of mankind is our siblings. We are family in Him.
I am a daughter of Christ.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Family Fun With Boogers
In Elementary, boogers are the grossest things in the world, but somehow funny. I provide you now with a little game. I learned about it when listening to a CD my father was playing. English Majors was the title. The person speaking on the CD at the time said that, in fourth grade, he would take a movie title and replace one word with the word "booger" or "boogers," just to get a laugh from his classmates. This can transfer into a fun car game for long trips or just something to do when you are bored. Here's what I came up with.
Black Boogers (Black Books)
Sky Captain and the Booger of Tomorrow (Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow)
Mountains of Boogers (Mountains of the Moon)
The Secret Life of Boogers (The Secret Life of Bees)
Lonesome Booger (Lonesome Dove)
Booger Grit (True Grit)
O Booger, Where Art Thou? (O Brother Where Art Thou?)
The Booger Princess (The Little Princess)
Finding Boogers (Finding Nemo)
Booger Boy (Steam Boy)
The Dark Booger (The Dark Crystal)
Where the Wild Boogers Are (Where the Wild Things Are)
Kung Fu Booger (Kung Fu Panda)
Pale Booger (Pale Rider)
A Midsummer Night's Booger (A Midsummer Night's Dream)
The Merchant of Boogers (The Merchant of Venice)
Love's Boogers Lost (Love's Labors Lost)
As You Like Boogers (As You Like It)
Rikki-Tikki-Booger (Rikki-Tikki-Tavi)
Little Shop of Boogers (Little Shop of Horrors)
The Remains of the Booger (The Remains of the Day)
The Perfect Booger (The Perfect Score)
A Booger with a View (A Room with a View)
A Room with a Booger (A Room with a View)
Phantom of the Booger (Phantom of the Opera)
Second Hand Boogers (Second Hand Lions)
This isn't a game for just movie titles though. It works just as well with books. If you look at someone's bookshelf and burst into giggles because you did this to their books in your head, people might start thinking you're crazy, unless you explain.
Fellowship of the Booger (Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien)
The Wizard of Boogers (The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum)
What-the-Booger (What-the-Dickens by Gregory Maguire)
Here There Be Boogers (Here There Be Dragons by James A. Owen)
Booger Rider (Dragon Rider by Cornelia Funke)
The Screwtape Boogers (The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis)
The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Boogers (The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents by Terry Pratchett)
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Booger (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Boogers (Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Boogers (Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Booger of the Phoenix (Harry Potter and the Booger of the Phoenix by J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Boogers (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Booger (Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Deathly Booger (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J. K. Rowling)
Booger Like This, Cat (It's Like This, Cat by Emily Neville)
The Tales of Booger-the-Pooh (The Tales of Winnie-the-Pooh by Ernest H. Shepherd)
The Hunger Boogers (The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins)
The Booger Games (The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins)
Catching Boogers (Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins)
Black Boogers (Black Books)
Sky Captain and the Booger of Tomorrow (Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow)
Mountains of Boogers (Mountains of the Moon)
The Secret Life of Boogers (The Secret Life of Bees)
Lonesome Booger (Lonesome Dove)
Booger Grit (True Grit)
O Booger, Where Art Thou? (O Brother Where Art Thou?)
The Booger Princess (The Little Princess)
Finding Boogers (Finding Nemo)
Booger Boy (Steam Boy)
The Dark Booger (The Dark Crystal)
Where the Wild Boogers Are (Where the Wild Things Are)
Kung Fu Booger (Kung Fu Panda)
Pale Booger (Pale Rider)
A Midsummer Night's Booger (A Midsummer Night's Dream)
The Merchant of Boogers (The Merchant of Venice)
Love's Boogers Lost (Love's Labors Lost)
As You Like Boogers (As You Like It)
Rikki-Tikki-Booger (Rikki-Tikki-Tavi)
Little Shop of Boogers (Little Shop of Horrors)
The Remains of the Booger (The Remains of the Day)
The Perfect Booger (The Perfect Score)
A Booger with a View (A Room with a View)
A Room with a Booger (A Room with a View)
Phantom of the Booger (Phantom of the Opera)
Second Hand Boogers (Second Hand Lions)
This isn't a game for just movie titles though. It works just as well with books. If you look at someone's bookshelf and burst into giggles because you did this to their books in your head, people might start thinking you're crazy, unless you explain.
Fellowship of the Booger (Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien)
The Wizard of Boogers (The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum)
What-the-Booger (What-the-Dickens by Gregory Maguire)
Here There Be Boogers (Here There Be Dragons by James A. Owen)
Booger Rider (Dragon Rider by Cornelia Funke)
The Screwtape Boogers (The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis)
The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Boogers (The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents by Terry Pratchett)
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Booger (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Boogers (Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Boogers (Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Booger of the Phoenix (Harry Potter and the Booger of the Phoenix by J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Boogers (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Booger (Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Deathly Booger (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J. K. Rowling)
Booger Like This, Cat (It's Like This, Cat by Emily Neville)
The Tales of Booger-the-Pooh (The Tales of Winnie-the-Pooh by Ernest H. Shepherd)
The Hunger Boogers (The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins)
The Booger Games (The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins)
Catching Boogers (Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins)
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Letter to Comics
Dear Comics,
Do you recall when I would anticipate visiting my grandparents, just so that I could dig you out of the newspaper and curl up on the couch? I haven't forgotten. Stories told in pictures. Laughter brought to light on page. Maybe you were one simple box. Maybe you were several. I grew up borrowing my dad's books of Calvin and Hobbs, completely relating to the ones about the monster's under Calvin's bed and Hobbs's surprise attacks. Insta-Purr does that in the dark when you can't see him, other than his green eyes and white teeth that is.
Hello graphic novels. Which one of you was my first? I think the first I read was my father's Mouse Guard books. I now have nineteen of my own. It's not many, but it's enough for now. I remember sitting before the bookshelves at Borders, shifting through the new ones I hadn't seen before. I will always miss curling up with you there.
At this point I must address webcomics. There are nineteen of you guys currently bookmarked on my computer. Nineteen seems to be my number when it comes to comics, doesn't it? Girl Genius, you get most of the blame for this. If it wasn't for you I would have probably been a little less enthusiastic. Thank you and curse you. I now have a slight addiction.
I cannot write to/about comics without mentioning comic books. Comic books, I'm sorry. I don't have any experience with you, no past to draw happy memories from. Perhaps one day, we will have spent some time together in a nice quiet spot. Until then, I will regret not knowing you.
To all comics, I give a warm thanks. I would have a lot more free time with nothing to do, if I lived in a world without you. Less to read and draw.
Your Friend,
Kara
Do you recall when I would anticipate visiting my grandparents, just so that I could dig you out of the newspaper and curl up on the couch? I haven't forgotten. Stories told in pictures. Laughter brought to light on page. Maybe you were one simple box. Maybe you were several. I grew up borrowing my dad's books of Calvin and Hobbs, completely relating to the ones about the monster's under Calvin's bed and Hobbs's surprise attacks. Insta-Purr does that in the dark when you can't see him, other than his green eyes and white teeth that is.
Hello graphic novels. Which one of you was my first? I think the first I read was my father's Mouse Guard books. I now have nineteen of my own. It's not many, but it's enough for now. I remember sitting before the bookshelves at Borders, shifting through the new ones I hadn't seen before. I will always miss curling up with you there.
At this point I must address webcomics. There are nineteen of you guys currently bookmarked on my computer. Nineteen seems to be my number when it comes to comics, doesn't it? Girl Genius, you get most of the blame for this. If it wasn't for you I would have probably been a little less enthusiastic. Thank you and curse you. I now have a slight addiction.
I cannot write to/about comics without mentioning comic books. Comic books, I'm sorry. I don't have any experience with you, no past to draw happy memories from. Perhaps one day, we will have spent some time together in a nice quiet spot. Until then, I will regret not knowing you.
To all comics, I give a warm thanks. I would have a lot more free time with nothing to do, if I lived in a world without you. Less to read and draw.
Your Friend,
Kara
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