Something like a general update: the roller coaster of the last few days, with bonus Feist quotes!

I have been having one hell of a roller coaster ride over here man let me tell you.

Devon was up on Saturday, but didn't stay until Sunday because he's fighting some sort of cold/allergy/sinus infection thing of ick. It was fantastic to see him and I spent half the day in tears. So I said that Portland and I have unfinished business. Devon-long-distance and I have unfinished business and Whitman and I have unfinished business too, and this last week has been a particularly strong reminder of all of that. Normally I have a poor memory, which I may call a pain in the ass but actually rely on to protect me because as it turns out, the last (oh say) ten years of my life? really not worth remembering. This last week has been nothing at all like those years, but there's been so much emotional turmoil that sometimes it's hard to tell, and...

It's just that I remember it all.

Examples wouldn't help you or me—because they aren't your memories, and because fuck no I do not want to dwell on them. But all of it, everything about my time here in Portland, everything about seeing Devon this weekend, reminds me of something else, some random thing that I've done a perfectly good job of forgetting these last few years. Not every memory is awful, but each one is tied a past that is, and so all of it, even the nostalgia, it fucking hurts and scares me.

But after Devon left, Dee hung out with me in the living room for a few hours and we just talked. I talked, I rambled, I touched on some of why this is so difficult and scary, and it was distracting and cathartic and wonderful bonding time. I didn't have to ask for it, I don't know if I expected it, but—ah, this is what friends do, isn't it? They're there for each other. That's still a revelation for me, a surprise—that I have friends; that this is what that means. On Sunday we went walking, in the glorious and gentle overcast weather, we went to Starbucks and poked at awesome stores and had that sort of perfect day where you do exactly what you want, purely because you want to, and come away feeling satisfied, which is no small thing. At night we watched The Dark Crystal and it was fucking fantastic. These things surprise me, too. Happiness always does.

And then today I thought I'd ride on that high—the high of discovering that Devon can leave without the world crashing down upon my shoulders, the high of having loved ones and being happy—by writing a book review and making dinner and attempting my version of productivity, and instead I was singularly nonfunctional and after a mini-breakdown I just decided to lock myself in my room and pretend I didn't exist anymore, at least for a few hours, and ain't that just the hallmark of mental fucking health. It's hard for me to talk about these things with her—to talk about the wild ride of the brain crazies, because I find it difficult to work these things out in words; to explain the effect they have on me and why I don't want to leave my room, because I fucking hate to admit the truth about myself because I just don't like that truth very much, you know? And so I repay her love by being the bad non-communicative friend ... but on the flipside I come out feeling a little better, a bit more prepared to try again.

I feel it all I feel it all
I feel it all I feel it all
The wings are wide the wings are wide
Wild card inside wild card inside

Oh I'll be the one who'll break my heart
I'll be the one to hold the gun

I've sort of flayed myself alive here: I've opened myself up to the thin air and it hurts like a motherfuck, believe you me. And when I see in there, I don't like it all. It's almost enough to make me wish I didn't know it was there. But I did this to myself and so I can't regret it—and not just because I don't want to look like an ungrateful coward, unhappy even when she gets what she wants; but because I did it because I wanted to. I want this opportunity and this pain. I want to work things out and embrace these new experiences and give myself the chance to become myself. (I want the dog days to be over, if you will.) That doesn't make it any easier, though.

I love you more
I love you more
I don't know what I knew before
But now I know I wanna win the war

So it's been an intense couple of days is all I'm saying. And beautiful. And awful. And intense.

And I think I caught Dev's cold thing.

P.S. Sometimes in the process of writing all these things out I manage to resolve them, at least a bit, at least temporarily, in my head. Almost all the time I manage to tire myself out. That can make my replies to comments absent and/or slow. But those comments are still so welcome and productive and beloved, and I don't want anyone to think otherwise, even if I can't always express it.

Meet Spike the Cat, with other sundry pictures: a picpsam.

On a much different note!


Meet Spike the cat.
Spike is century_eyes's just-turned-seventeen domestic shorthair ginger tabby (with who knows what on his background, although he has a long and graceful tail) who has more fur than any cat I've ever met, dramatic deep-set eyes, a quiet little purr, and plenty of charm (even if he can run a bit low on dignity). He looks lovely against green.

( +4 more pictures and plenty of rambles. )

So that's Spike. Isn't he lovely? He's so lovely.

In other news, I have achieved the impossible inevitable, and recreated ( Miwako's Magic Medicine jar from Paradise Kiss. )

Because we picked up some kompeito at Uwajimaya. (Kompeito is my favorite-ever candy, just so you know.)
Also, for junkmail, I have a picture of those stuffed cats on my windowsill:

( One last pic. )

Since you were curious. ^_^ They're not mine, actually—century_eyes surprised me with them on my first night here. She says they used to be in her office at work, but they're pretty well at home here in my window.

Book Review: Tender Morsels by Margo Lanagan

Title: Tender Morsels
Author: Margo Lanagan
Published: New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2008
Rating: 4 of 5
Page Count: 433
Total Page Count: 102,240
Text Number: 293
Read Because: intrigued by Baobhan Sidhe's recommendation, borrowed from the Corvallis public library
Review: Molested by her father, gang raped by her peers, Liga wishes for death but instead find herself delivered to a magical haven, safe from all sexual violence. But as she raises her two daughters there, overlaps begin to appear between her world and the one she's left. Tender Morsels is a brave, beautiful, but not untroubled book. In the line of McKinley's Deerskin, it manages to do what most novels are better off not even trying: combine rape and fantasy, without distorting one or diluting the other, to paint a heartbreaking and heartbuilding portrait of sexual trauma. To an extent, Liga's experiences are exaggerated and straightforward examples of sexual violence, but they don't occur in a vacuum and the culture which fosters them is as much at issue here as those specific events; likewise, Tender Morsels's magic is creative and intensely otherworldy, but it serves to explore, rather than dismiss or simplify, the issues at hand. And so Tender Morsels is a story of miracles and real-world truths, traumatic events and entire societies. It offers up some exquisite moments, and for the most part Lanagan handles her issues with respect and careful ambiguity—save for one exception: near the end of the book (and this may be a SPOILER, so consider yourself warned) rape is used to revenge rape, and the event goes by largely unanalyzed, which is troubling to say the least. Given the book's challenging content, it's no surprise that it has some weak points; still, this one makes for a sour conclusion.

Tender Morsels is also troubled on a technical level. Although it immediately establishes a strong voice, the book takes some time to gain momentum and never manages to sustain it. Lanagan's voice is unique, with unusual diction that nudges the book towards a fable, but it rides an uneasy line between immersive and contrived, and always feels a little raw. Together these elements make Tender Morsels seem unfinished and unrefined. The narrative also switches between first and third person—and while my dislike of that may be a matter of personal taste, the fact that the first person narrators are exclusively male gives men a stronger sense of individual identity than women, which seems rather counterproductive. It's also worth noting (although it's not necessarily a complaint) that Tender Morsels is by no means young adult fiction. It's no more inappropriate for a YA audience than any other piece of literature, and it has some adolescent protagonists, but on the whole its difficult content and focus on lifelong female experiences and social roles sets it apart from that genre. But perhaps what bothered me most about Tender Morsels was just that I didn't love it as much as I wanted to. I have a passion for these sorts of brutal, beautiful fairytale retellings, and Tender Morsels tries hard to be among the best of them—but it never quite convinced me, never quite won me over, despite putting up a good show. That doesn't make it a bad book—but sometimes even good can be a disappointment. I still recommend Tender Morsels and I would love to read more books like it, but it's not one that I'll ever need to return to myself.

Review posted here on Amazon.com.