#pain is not the only touchstone for growth
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pain is not the only touchstone for growth
melanie martinez, womb / warsan shire, backwards / mary oliver, “blue iris.” devotions / jmfenner / nayyirah waheed / jenny slate, little weirds / @soapstore on tumblr / jenny slate, little weirds / ocean vuong, on earth we’re briefly gorgeous / sue zhao / @emmablowguns on twitter / jenny slate, little weirds / ottessa moshfegh, my year of rest and relaxation / @anariafortheendoftimes on tumblr / mary oliver, upstream / marya hornbacher, waiting / robert de flers
#melanie martinez#warsan shire#mary oliver#jenny slate#ocean vuong#art#arts#post web#postweb#web weaving#webweaving#web weavings#poetry#literature#parallels#aesthetic blog#aesthetic#art parallels#loving myself#pain is not the only touchstone for growth#growth
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tonight I am thinking thoughts about retired!Dream. about human Dream, weak and exhausted, dropped off on Hob Gadling's doorstep like an abandoned housecat.
I am thinking about Hob and Dream not immediately falling into bed, into a relationship, into orbit around each other. I am thinking about Hob turning his office into a spare room, teaching Dream how to be human, how to be independent, introducing him to new experiences and new people, and then basically sending him out free in the world once Dream knows enough to survive on his own. about Dream wanting this, wanting that freedom, that self-determination.
about Dream renting his own flat. cooking his own meals. choosing his own experiences, trying out everything under the sun completely on his own terms because he’s an adult with agency despite technically being less than a year old in human terms.
I’m thinking about Dream traveling. sending postcards and letters back to Hob in London from Cambodia, from Chile, from Butte, Montana. about Dream dating; about his first sexual adventures in a human body being with people he met in pubs or at the library or on Tinder. about Dream falling in reckless human love and getting his heart broken when the other person didn’t feel the same. about Dream making mistakes, making bad choices, getting hurt – never so badly that it scars him, never so deeply that it really damages him, but enough that it hurts – about Dream learning how to come to terms with that pain in his own right.
I’m thinking about Hob stepping into his role as Dream’s steadfast touchstone instead of the other way around. about Dream continually returning to the safe harbor of Hob’s care before he strikes out again on his own. I’m thinking about the patience and devotion and the longing Hob feels as he watches Dream explore; the highs and lows he experiences alongside him; how he wants Dream so fucking badly and will never, ever, push to have him until Dream comes to him of his own free will. because he will not have Dream if he feels beholden. I’m thinking about the iron lid Hob has to clamp down on his own desire, because that’s not what Dream needs from him.
until… it is. because there’s only one way this can end. I’m thinking about Dream realizing that none of his explorations, none of his liaisons, have brought him as much joy and satisfaction as Hob has simply by being his friend, by being there for him. I’m thinking about Dream, returning to Hob, choosing Hob, because he independently comes to the conclusion that they are, in fact, meant to be. about how much deeper, how much more meaningful that choice will be, coming after months or even years of journey and growth and self-discovery.
about what it will mean to Hob, to know that Dream has come back to him, has chosen him, over everything else; that after all his myriad human experiences he has determined that Hob is who will complete his human life and bring him the most joy. and then they make out disgustingly and live happily ever after.
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Books that should be inducted into Coquette 'Girlblogger' Canon
The Color Purple by Alice Walker
A powerful cultural touchstone of modern American literature, The Color Purple depicts the lives of African American women in early twentieth-century rural Georgia. Separated as girls, sisters Celie and Nettie sustain their loyalty to and hope in each other across time, distance and silence. Through a series of letters spanning twenty years, first from Celie to God, then the sisters to each other despite the unknown, the novel draws readers into its rich and memorable portrayals of Celie, Nettie, Shug Avery and Sofia and their experience. The Color Purple broke the silence around domestic and sexual abuse, narrating the lives of women through their pain and struggle, companionship and growth, resilience and bravery. Deeply compassionate and beautifully imagined, Alice Walker's epic carries readers on a spirit-affirming journey towards redemption and love.
Plum Bum: A Novel Without Moral by Jessie Redmon Fauset
Written in 1929 at the height of the Harlem Renaissance by one of the movement's most important and prolific authors, Plum Bun is the story of Angela Murray, a young black girl who discovers she can pass for white. After the death of her parents, Angela moves to New York to escape the racism she believes is her only obstacle to opportunity. What she soon discovers is that being a woman has its own burdens that don't fade with the color of one's skin, and that love and marriage might not offer her salvation.
Comfort Woman by Nora Okja Keller
Comfort Woman is the story of Akiko, a Korean refugee of World War II, and Beccah, her daughter by an American missionary. The two women are living on the edge of society—and sanity—in Honolulu, plagued by Akiko's periodic encounters with the spirits of the dead, and by Beccah's struggles to reclaim her mother from her past. Slowly and painfully Akiko reveals her tragic story and the horrifying years she was forced to serve as a "comfort woman" to Japanese soldiers. As Beccah uncovers these truths, she discovers her own strength and the secret of the powers she herself possessed—the precious gifts her mother has given her.
Freshwater by Akwaeke Emezi
Ada begins her life in the south of Nigeria as a troubled baby and a source of deep concern to her family. Her parents, Saul and Saachi, successfully prayed her into existence, but as she grows into a volatile and splintered child, it becomes clear that something went terribly awry. When Ada comes of age and moves to America for college, the group of selves within her grows in power and agency. A traumatic assault leads to a crystallization of her alternate selves: Asụghara and Saint Vincent. As Ada fades into the background of her own mind and these selves--now protective, now hedonistic--move into control, Ada's life spirals in a dark and dangerous direction.
Told from the perspective of the various selves within Ada, and closely based on the author's own personal experiences, Freshwater explores the metaphysics of identity and mental health, plunging the reader into the mystery of being and self. Freshwater dazzles with ferocious energy and serpentine grace, heralding the arrival of a fierce new literary voice.
Luster by Raven Lelani
Edie is just trying to survive. She’s messing up in her dead-end admin job in her all-white office, is sleeping with all the wrong men, and has failed at the only thing that meant anything to her, painting. No one seems to care that she doesn’t really know what she’s doing with her life beyond looking for her next hook-up. And then she meets Eric, a white middle-aged archivist with a suburban family, including a wife who has sort-of-agreed to an open marriage and an adopted black daughter who doesn’t have a single person in her life who can show her how to do her hair. As if navigating the constantly shifting landscape of sexual and racial politics as a young black woman wasn’t already hard enough, with nowhere else left to go, Edie finds herself falling head-first into Eric’s home and family.
Brunt Sugar by Avni Doshi
In her youth, Tara was wild. She abandoned her loveless marriage to join an ashram, endured a brief stint as a beggar (mostly to spite her affluent parents), and spent years chasing after a dishevelled, homeless 'artist' - all with her young child in tow. Now she is forgetting things, mixing up her maid's wages and leaving the gas on all night, and her grown-up daughter is faced with the task of caring for a woman who never cared for her.
This is a love story and a story about betrayal. But not between lovers - between mother and daughter. Sharp as a blade and laced with caustic wit, Burnt Sugar unpicks the slippery, choking cord of memory and myth that binds two women together, making and unmaking them endlessly.
Dogs of Summer by Andrea Abreu
High in the mountains of northern Tenerife, the sun hides behind a seemingly endless ceiling of cloud cover that traps the region's inhabitants in an abject, infernal heat. There, in a ramshackle village far from the island's glamorous beach resorts, two adolescent girls pass a treacherous summer in each other's all-consuming company.
The nine-year-old narrator is known to us only as Shit - a pet name given to her by her best friend Isora. Blonde, brash, beautiful Isora, who isn't afraid to mock the boys around town or gossip with the adults; who, though she is only one year older, has already grown breasts and pubic hair. Together, Shit and Isora wander the streets, shooing away the neighborhood's many pitiful dogs; they try to keep skinny by vomiting up sweets; they dream of shiny BMWs that will take them down to the beach, where they will finally get to enjoy the sea, just like the tourists whose vacation homes Shit's mother cleans for a living. But as June turns to July, and July to August, the narrator's simmering love for her friend erupts into a painful sexual awakening, just as Isora begins to heed the first calls of womanhood. Shit tries to keep up with her, but learns that growing up is a path one must walk alone; a journey so solitary, it can lead even the most intimate friendships to violent ends.
Ugly Girls by Lindsay Hunter
Perry and Baby Girl are best friends, though you wouldn’t know it if you met them. Their friendship is woven from the threads of never-ending dares and power struggles, their loyalty fierce but incredibly fraught. They spend their nights sneaking out of their trailers, stealing cars for joyrides, and doing all they can to appear hard to the outside world.With all their energy focused on deceiving themselves and the people around them, they don’t know that real danger lurks: Jamey, an alleged high school student from a nearby town, has been pining after Perry from behind the computer screen in his mother’s trailer for some time now, following Perry and Baby Girl’s every move—on Facebook, via instant messaging and text,and, unbeknownst to the girls, in person. When Perry and Baby Girl finally agree to meet Jamey face-to-face, they quickly realize he’s far from the shy high school boy they thought he was, and they’ll do whatever is necessary to protect themselves.
Jesus Saves by Darcey Steinke
Jesus Saves , a New York Times Notable Book of the Year, is a chilling horror story, a suburban gothic set not among green manicured lawns and cul-de-sacs, but the trash-filled woods between subdivisions and superhighways and the strip malls and duplexes on the back side of town. It’s the story of two Ginger, a troubled minister’s daughter; and Sandy Patrick, who was abducted from summer camp and now smiles from missing-child posters all over town. Layering the dreamscapes of Alice in Wonderland with the subculture of River’s Edge , Darcey Steinke’s Jesus Saves is an unforgettable passage through the depths of literary imagination.
Cats Eye by Margaret Atwood
Cat's Eye is the story of Elaine Risley, a controversial painter who returns to Toronto, the city of her youth, for a retrospective of her art. Engulfed by vivid images of the past, she reminisces about a trio of girls who initiated her into the fierce politics of childhood and its secret world of friendship, longing, and betrayal. Elaine must come to terms with her own identity as a daughter, a lover, and artist, and woman—but above all she must seek release from her haunting memories. Disturbing, hilarious, and compassionate, Cat's Eye is a breathtaking novel of a woman grappling with the tangled knots of her life.
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Conundrum and Chemicals
A nameless main character. That’s who she is. I followed her life and learned about the subtle difference of sleeping from suffering. She was a hateful character but I do sympathize with her.
She slept and suffered, splurged, isolated, medicated herself, hallucinate, commiserate, made revenge, amend, but still, she died in the end...
We sleep in order to regain strength. In her case she sleeps in order to feel the peace that comes with nothingness. She said she just initially wanted some downers to drown her thoughts and judgments, since the constant barrage made it hard not to hate everyone and everything. She thought life would be more tolerable if her brain was slower to condemn the world around her.
Sleeping was her coping mechanism, trauma response, and leisure pursuit, all at once. Only sleeping made her feel good. “Nothing else could ever bring me such pleasure, such freedom, the power to feel and move and think and imagine, safe from the miseries of my waking consciousness”.
She thought that when she wakes up, she’ll be renewed, reborn or become a whole new person. There’s a longing in her character, a void she’s trying to fill. She’s trying to live and find and feel a sense of being.
She then tried a well planned chemical hibernation project. Swallowing Ambien, Rozerem, Solfoton, Ativan, Xanax, Trazodone, Nembutal, Benadryl…Infermiterol, and all the other drugs I could no longer remember. Hoping that it’ll numb the pain away.
It was her state of false happiness.
The moment she takes all those chemicals in, it’s as if she’s a different person. Lost but at the same time present. Her presence was in her created delusion and just doing the unimaginable. All her chemical consumption has already altered her thought process I guess. She did horrible things but I am fully aware that I am in no position to question her morals. She created her own reality to run away from the excruciating pain of her existence. It was her breakfree moment.
She lived a life full of pain. At the end, she managed to say that pain is not the only touchstone for growth. Did she ever feel good? “What a conundrum.” Her psychiatrist would probably say.
-jan, thoughtballoon
June 7, 2023
Book Review: ‘My Year of Rest and Relaxation’ a Novel by Ottessa Moshfegh.
My Year of Rest and Relaxation is a 2018 novel by American author Ottessa Moshfegh. ‘MYOR’ is set in New York City in 2000 to 2001 and follows an unnamed protagonist as she gradually escalates her use of prescription medications in an attempt to sleep for an entire year.
I feel like I was with her everytime she drops her core-hitting monologues. I was there as she narrates her life. She is a disgusting woman — for lack of better term to describe “some” of her actions yet I found myself sympathizing with her. Some pages, I just have to sit down, take a sigh and stop. What a woman. Maybe those were all her trauma response? Maybe for the lack of love in her life? Yes she is deprived of love. Does that justify her actions? No, not at all. Maybe I’m over-analyzing and she’s just trying to navigate her life. I do feel sorry for her. She lived a life full of sadness. I feel like I was inside her character. I was trying to understand where she was coming from. Reading the book was a ride. The narrative took me to highs. I know I will not fully decipher why she did all those things. Only she knows and only she can express her pain.
After finishing the book, I can say that it was A LOT to grasp but I did like it. Moshfegh made me feel certain emotions ig. It was good, but I think you should be mindful when you pick this one.
Cover Design: Ravenclaw (WeHeartIt via Pinterest)
Graphics: Canva
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Feb LezRead: The Color Purple and Dread Nation
For February, we're reading Alice Walker's The Color Purple, and Dread Nation by Justina Ireland. We'll plan to to have this meeting virtually!
Official Event info: https://www.facebook.com/events/268623882778924
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Book Description: The Color Purple, by Alice Walker
Winner of the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award
A powerful cultural touchstone of modern American literature, The Color Purple depicts the lives of African American women in early twentieth-century rural Georgia. Separated as girls, sisters Celie and Nettie sustain their loyalty to and hope in each other across time, distance and silence. Through a series of letters spanning twenty years, first from Celie to God, then the sisters to each other despite the unknown, the novel draws readers into its rich and memorable portrayals of Celie, Nettie, Shug Avery and Sofia and their experience. The Color Purple broke the silence around domestic and sexual abuse, narrating the lives of women through their pain and struggle, companionship and growth, resilience and bravery. Deeply compassionate and beautifully imagined, Alice Walker's epic carries readers on a spirit-affirming journey towards redemption and love.
“Reading The Color Purple was the first time I had seen Southern, Black women’s literature as world literature. In writing us into the world—bravely, unapologetically, and honestly—Alice Walker has given us a gift we will never be able to repay.” —Tayari Jones
“The Color Purple was what church should have been, what honest familial reckoning could have been, and it is still the only art object in the world by which all three generations of Black artists in my family judge American art.” —Kiese Laymon
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Source: https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/52892857
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Book Description: Dread Nation, by Justina Ireland
Jane McKeene was born two days before the dead began to walk the battlefields of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville—derailing the War Between the States and changing America forever. In this new nation, safety for all depends on the work of a few, and laws like the Native and Negro Reeducation Act require certain children attend combat schools to learn to put down the dead. But there are also opportunities—and Jane is studying to become an Attendant, trained in both weaponry and etiquette to protect the well-to-do. It’s a chance for a better life for Negro girls like Jane. After all, not even being the daughter of a wealthy white Southern woman could save her from society’s expectations.
But that’s not a life Jane wants. Almost finished with her education at Miss Preston’s School of Combat in Baltimore, Jane is set on returning to her Kentucky home and doesn’t pay much mind to the politics of the eastern cities, with their talk of returning America to the glory of its days before the dead rose. But when families around Baltimore County begin to go missing, Jane is caught in the middle of a conspiracy, one that finds her in a desperate fight for her life against some powerful enemies. And the restless dead, it would seem, are the least of her problems.
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Source: https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/30223025
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About LezRead:
LezRead is Ann Arbor’s premier book club for queer women. We are informally organized through the Jim Toy Community Center and meet on the fourth Sunday of the month. We have both virtual and in-person meetings. Please review the description for any schedule changes.
*To support JTCC and its work, please regularly donate at jimtoycenter.org.
* New members welcome! Email [email protected] to join the private Facebook group.
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EMDR Fun - Thoracic Battleground
CW: long af (at least that’s the way the first draft was trending before I saved it as a draft and it disappeared from existence in the interceding time (and I forgot all the jokes I initially had, so long and boooring)), middle-aged moroseness/malaise, some suicide talk.
I’ve never been great at holding myself accountable, except when it comes to blaming myself for everything, regardless of how much responsibility I actually bear for whatever trespass, real or imagined. That’s one of the reasons self care - journaling, posting here, writing shitty poetry and shittier songs, riding my bike, going to the gym, etc - tends to slide for the right for me. I doubt I am unique in that sense, but maybe relatable. I went through an angry at everything phase (which I think is almost over, hopefully I haven’t just gotten used to it), a really fucking hard to get out of bed phase (it’s always hard, but harder lately, so I added “fucking,” a word that has become solely an adjective anymore, though I do find myself missing the verb form, but that’s a whole other thing (sorry, I got frustrated for a minute about the lack of non-solo sexual activity in my life, which probably stems from a larger frustration regarding a stark lack of any form of intimacy in my life, but not so frustrated I’m inclined to do anything about it because... people)), am on the fence about suicide (though currently getting my affairs in order seems like work, and who needs more work, but disconcerting that it feels like a viable option - again a whole other thing), a “I’m going to buy a lot of stuff to keep me busy and distract me from my problems” phase, and I’m working into a “shit, I should probably stop spending my money and act like an adult” phase. Still hard to get out of bed though.
I was told by my therapist a few months ago that, thanks to my marriage and childhood, I have complex PTSD. She recommended EMDR to help with some of the traumatic experiences in order to try to gain some traction on a sense of self worth. This is something I’ve struggled with for quite a while. Since middle school my baseline mental state was somewhere between the call of the void and passive ideation. I just thought it was like that for everybody, and the crap I had to endure (partly from childhood but mostly during marriage) were things everybody dealt with more gracefully, at least outwardly, than me. It occurred to me recently that maybe my baseline could be better, discussed it with my therapist and set some goals for EMDR.
Initially it was fantastic. Cheap ass bike my rich dad and stepmother got me for Christmas because she didn’t feel I was worth spending more than the bare minimum on? Boom, done! (Little disappointed in myself for the material nature of this particular touchstone but hey, I never claimed to be anything more than a trope). Ex telling my buying a new wedding set would go a long way towards her getting over her cheating on me? Rapidly fading memory! (Still salty though, this was one of my favorite things to get all twisted up about - stupid personal growth). Being ghosted by a person I didn’t mean to get feelings for but accidentally fell all the way in love with? Fucking Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless mind that shit! Wait... why didn’t it work on that last one?
Instead I had pain ping-ponging around my chest and left shoulder for 2 days and for the next week I experienced what can only be described as aggravated, full-body nausea. The only real respite I had was taking a day road trip, putting on an audiobook to avoid the doldrum of driving and destressify any traffic I would hit. Otherwise, with any idle or otherwise unaccounted for clock cycles my brain tends to gravitate towards this person. For better or worse I tend to get stuck on certain people, places or things. Basically, for any proper noun there is a low likelihood of fixation, but a high severity if it happens. And in the case of people, when feelings hit holy shit do they hit hard. Sometimes this leads to me getting in incredible shape, or writing a shit ton of songs, or hand- wringing about people. Brain-wringing maybe more accurate? So there are weeks like the last one when, aside from 37 minutes I had to try to pay attention in a meeting but ended up obsessively picking at what I though was a zit on the bridge of my nose (it was not, I basically just scraped of the top layers of skin) while composing a lighthearted conversation with a not-very-close friend (that I would do anything for regardless) complete with two alternate endings where she ended up sending me nudes (trope alert! And none of the predicted variations of this conversation materialized, nor did any actual conversation for that matter, but better over-over prepared I suppose ), that any spare brainpower I have reverts to maladaptive daydreaming (maladaptive my ass, I doubt I would’ve ever developed any social acumen without it) about scenarios involving this person, how things went, and how things could go. But I’m straying from the point.
[insert time passing here]
Ok, it’s been like 3 weeks and another EMDR session on the same memory writing/procrastinating this. The sensations weren't quite as acute in the days after the last session, but I still had the full body roiling nausea for a couple days. Then a couple days reprieve, probably due to emotional exhaustion. I thought I was finally in the clear when a few days ago I started to feel that bottomless pit level of nausea I tend to equate with interminable sadness. And my therapist says she wants to go one more session on this memory. Holy fuck.
This does remind me a bit of when I started antidepressants. Initially I had an amazing, halcyon haze where I did not give a shit about anything. It was... amazing, I guess I said that already, but it was that good. After a couple days it felt like my brain was actively fighting the medication. It almost literally felt like a knock-down, drag out fight was happening inside my body. That largely equilibrated to moderate tension and my thoughts were toned down to a dull roar versus constant, full on stampede. The largest benefit of antidepressants is I am not in a near constant state of passive ideation, though that makes it somewhat more disconcerting when my thoughts drift back to more morbid territory.
Hopefully my experience with EMDR will even out like the antidepressants did. Maybe I’m just being petty and am unwilling to give up the hurt because I don’t want the feelings that developed to be invalidated. I mean, even with a heavily asterisked list, I’ve only had post-superficial feelings maybe a half dozen times, and non of the previous really even compare what I felt with this one.
We’ll see what happens after then next appointment. I can’t really drag this post out much longer, I feel guilty for not finishing and continuing to put off something that’s supposed to be self care. Plus I’m pissed I lost the running joke I had in the first draft. I’m sure I’ll get over it, but I’ve gotten stuck worse on less.
(ok maybe just long and not long af)
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#a quick poem for this morning#poetry#poets on tumblr#napowrimo#the orangery literary society#the rain is full of ghosts tonight#pain is not the only touchstone for growth#my writing
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There was majesty and grace in the pace of the swaying branches of the willows. There was kindness. Pain is not the only touchstone for growth, I said to myself.
— Ottessa Moshfegh, from My Year of Rest and Relaxation
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Hello! do you have a collection of favorite quotes/excerpts about trees? feeling very much in love with trees today <3
i also feel very much in love with trees ♡
— franz wright, “the poem”
“…my heart would be glad if I were under the eaves of that wood, and it were springtime…”
— j.r.r. tolkien, from the fellowship of the ring
— ingeborg bachmann, in the storm of roses; “my bird” (tr. mark anderson)
— eduard bagritsky, from “black bread”
“There was majesty and grace in the pace of the swaying branches of the willows. There was kindness. Pain is not the only touchstone for growth, I said to myself.”
— ottessa moshfegh, from my year of rest and relaxation
— ada limón, from “mowing”
“Be my mother, I said to the trees, in the language of trees, which can’t be transcribed, and they shook their hair back, and they bent low with their many arms, and they looked into my eyes as only trees can look into the eyes of a person, they touched me with the rain on their fingers till I was all droplets, till I was a mist, and they said they would.”
— emily berry, from “canopy,” in stranger, baby
— mary oliver, sleeping in the forest
“I’m thinking of dating trees next. We could just stand around all night together. We could just stand each other. I’d murmur, they’d rustle,”
— kim addonizio, from wild nights
— emily dickinson, from selected letters
— michaela coel by durga chew-bose for garage
“I am one of those who has no trouble imagining the sentient lives of trees, of their leaves in some fashion communicating or of the massy trunks and heavy branches knowing it is I who have come, as I always come, each morning, to walk beneath them, glad to be alive and glad to be there.”
— mary oliver, winter hours: prose, prose poems, and poems
#anon#compilation#<333#i tried to keep this from getting out of hand!! but you can check out these tags:#in the wild forest#lure me deep into the dark pathless woods#the flower bloomed and faded#l#maybe i should add this to my list of comps to do a part two
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Banned Books Week 2021: Books in the Top 100
This One Summer by Mariko Tamaki, Jillian Tamaki (Illustrator)
Every summer, Rose goes with her mom and dad to a lake house in Awago Beach. It's their getaway, their refuge. Rosie's friend Windy is always there, too, like the little sister she never had. But this summer is different. Rose's mom and dad won't stop fighting, and when Rose and Windy seek a distraction from the drama, they find themselves with a whole new set of problems. It's a summer of secrets and sorrow and growing up, and it's a good thing Rose and Windy have each other.
In This One Summer two stellar creators redefine the teen graphic novel. Cousins Mariko and Jillian Tamaki, the team behind Skim, have collaborated on this gorgeous, heartbreaking, and ultimately hopeful story about a girl on the cusp of her teen age—a story of renewal and revelation.
The Color Purple by Alice Walker
A powerful cultural touchstone of modern American literature, The Color Purple depicts the lives of African American women in early twentieth-century rural Georgia. Separated as girls, sisters Celie and Nettie sustain their loyalty to and hope in each other across time, distance and silence. Through a series of letters spanning twenty years, first from Celie to God, then the sisters to each other despite the unknown, the novel draws readers into its rich and memorable portrayals of Celie, Nettie, Shug Avery and Sofia and their experience. The Color Purple broke the silence around domestic and sexual abuse, narrating the lives of women through their pain and struggle, companionship and growth, resilience and bravery. Deeply compassionate and beautifully imagined, Alice Walker's epic carries readers on a spirit-affirming journey towards redemption and love.
The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende, Magda Bogin (Translator)
In one of the most important and beloved Latin American works of the twentieth century, Isabel Allende weaves a luminous tapestry of three generations of the Trueba family, revealing both triumphs and tragedies. Here is patriarch Esteban, whose wild desires and political machinations are tempered only by his love for his ethereal wife, Clara, a woman touched by an otherworldly hand. Their daughter, Blanca, whose forbidden love for a man Esteban has deemed unworthy infuriates her father, yet will produce his greatest joy: his granddaughter Alba, a beautiful, ambitious girl who will lead the family and their country into a revolutionary future.
The House of the Spirits is an enthralling saga that spans decades and lives, twining the personal and the political into an epic novel of love, magic, and fate.
The Librarian of Basra: A True Story from Iraq by Jeanette Winter
Alia Muhammad Baker’s library in Basra, Iraq, has been a meeting place for those who love books for the past fourteen years. Now war has come, and Alia fears that the library—along with the thirty thousand books within it—will be destroyed forever.
In this incredible true story of a war-stricken country where civilians seem powerless in the face of battle, this feminist and inspirational tale about a librarian’s struggle to save her community’s priceless collection of books reminds us how, throughout the world, the love of literature can unite us all.
#Banned Books#banned books week#banned books list#censorship#Book Recommendations#reading recommendations#book list#TBR pile#tbr#to read#fiction#nonfiction#childrens books#YA Books#Library Books
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"There was majesty and grace in the pace of the swaying branches of the willows. There was kindness. Pain is not the only touchstone for growth, I said to myself. My sleep had worked. I was soft and calm and felt things. This was good. This was my life now."
-My Year of Rest and Relaxation
#booktumblr#booktok#my year of rest and relaxation#quotes#book quotes#sleep#sleepcore#it girl#ottessa moshfegh
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My year of rest and relaxation - Ottessa Moshfegh
“And that was exactly what I wanted -- my emotions passing like headlights that shine softly through a window, sweep past me, illuminate something vaguely familiar, then fade and leave me in the dark again.”
“The fear felt like desire: suddenly I wanted to go back and be in all the places I’d ever been, every street I’d walked down, every room I’d sat down in. I wanted to see it all again. I tried to remember my life, flipping through Polaroids in my mind. “It was so pretty there. It was interesting!” But I knew that even if I could go back, if such a thing were possible with exactitude, in life or in dreams, there was really no point. And then I felt desperately lonely.”
“Maybe they understood, in fact, that beauty and meaning had nothing to do with one another.”
“Pain is not the only touchstone for growth, I said to myself. I was soft and calm and felt things. This was good.”
“There she is, a human being, diving into the unknown, and she is wide awake.”
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Ottessa Moshfegh wrote, "pain is not the only touchstone for growth" 🌱
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There was majesty and grace in the pace of the swaying branches of the willows. There was kindness. Pain is not the only touchstone for growth, I said to myself. 📌 Nuwieba. South Sinai. Egypt 🇪🇬 #MBPlanet #iregipto #egyptpassion #southsinai #nuweiba #nature #relaxing #relax (at Nuweiba-RedSea) https://www.instagram.com/p/CQ9krTYrdvD/?utm_medium=tumblr
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Take a ramble with me, friends in the void...
Found families and long term, through the growth phases friends are on my mind (Blame the deancas fic I’ve been reading. Also, blame folklore (I don’t know why but it’s ever present) and my reread of Felix Ever After by Kacen Callender).
Found families are less on my mind, except in how they feed into the long term, through the growth phases friends. They fuel one another, and I’d like both.
Now, down to what my brain’s been writing for me this evening (Yes, it’s about my experiences in all my 26 years. These are void journal entries.):
I do not have any long, long term friends. I have friends from growth phases. Some last into another phase, and some do not last. I can provide evidence of this phenomenon from elementary school. When I moved from one school to what became my middle/high school, I kept the friends who moved with me. I realize that’s normal. Kids do not have the ability to travel of their own volition, and we did not have cell phones that allowed for unlimited communication at. reasonable price. I kept in contact with my best friend (see: unbeknownst to me, first crush) through 7th and into 8th grade, but we drifted.
Middle to high school: Same school, so it only changed when one friend moved. We stayed in contact through 10th grade, and she was the beginning of the three year trend. I had one constant friend through 15 years, but we grew apart in high school and were just friendly.
Undergrad: One friend (see: second crush, quite possibly could have been young love if it wasn’t for my repressed emotions and lack of self knowledge) from high school stayed in contact with me through three years of undergrad (see? three year trend). We only stopped talking because she never called me back after her study abroad program. I tried calling and texting her 13 times (yes, I know, but I didn’t know if she did the 12-week or 16-week program so I was worried she wasn’t getting the messages) over a two month period. That was six years ago, and I still wonder why but that’s another ramble.
Anyway, I made friends my first year living in a dorm, and the dorm life was what we had in common. We stayed in touch through most of undergrad, and we’ve meet up once or twice since but it’s more like a reunion than anything else.
My main friend from undergrad stayed in my life until 2018. That’s technically four years, but she graduated my second year in college and I finished a year early so it’s messy time wise anyway.
M.Ed. program: This was a small program -- ten people. I thought most of them were insufferable. I only liked one classmate, she became a friend, and she’s kind of stuck around until this year. The last time we talked was because she was quarantined and bored out of her mind, and I could tell that was the only reason she contacted me. I haven’t felt like we’ve had a proper friendship since last year.
1st job/Teaching/Whatever life is now: Fourth year teaching, and I have friends at this job. One moved out-of-state at the beginning of this school year, and I miss him. He was my touchstone at this job, and he drew the other people in the friend group around me. I don’t have anything in common with them otherwise. My other good friend here will properly drift when I go to a library next year.
My realization may years ago is that I have friends through my school/program/work rather than outside shared interests. I didn’t learn how to make friends based on my favorite books or songs or characters or hiking trails or crochet patterns or recipes or whatever else I love.
I was a repressed eldest child who was academically perfect, fulfilling parental expectations, who reached middle school and fell into chronic pain. When my chronic pain started, I was focused on functioning, pretending to be ok, and fulfilling my role in the family. I didn’t mature emotionally at a developmentally normal rate, and, as an adult, I’m learning who I truly am and what emotions I feel. I simply did not allow emotions because how else could I fulfill the roles I’d played for so long? Not being a grump was enough. I only had energy to do my schoolwork and function.
My chronic pain is more or less predictable now, so I know when it’ll get worse or why I hurt (thanks, today’s cold front). I’m finally at a place when I want to become emotionally involved in another person’s life. I want a friendship based on who I am now and what I enjoy -- what we can enjoy together. I’m tired of being the stoic, smart ass. I’m just tired of not being me. The repressed part of me still exists around family, and I’m working on that. They expect a certain me, after all.
Anyway, found family and long, long term friends, why did I start with that and meander through my lack of both? Simply this: I’m ready and waiting to find those people. I’m just not sure how to reach out. Real life? Online to people who seem interesting? It’s this year of our pandemic, so it’s not like the avenues I thought about last year are possible now that I have the drive to engage. I’m navigating it slowly, and I’ll get there. Nonetheless, I know I’m ready, and that’s quite possibly the most important step to being open to change.
#words#personal#this was fun to write#took me 45 minutes#though#interesting to see my thoughts penned to paper haha#hello void#it's not even everything that went around my brain earlier#maybe another draft will come#words words words#text
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