I was expecting to enjoy Middlesex, but I don’t think I was expecting to like it as much as I did in the end. It was a more addictive read than I gave it credit for, and it certainly made me wish I could’ve flip-flopped moments so that when I was face-to-face with Jeffrey Eugenides himself, I could’ve told him how much I’d enjoyed his work, appreciated his writing style, and felt inspired by his own contributions to the literary world.

I like to describe writing the way I describe food. There are adjectives used for the tasty and tangible subject that are perfect for capturing the essence of how a particular author chooses to put his selected words together. Eugenides’s style isn’t thick; it’s certainly nowhere near as dense as Austen’s. At the same time, it isn’t thin or brittle as in novels like The Awakening by Kate Chopin and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Middlesex was spicy and substantial without being heavy or dry. I’d compare it to masala chai. I could see it being somewhat difficult to swallow for an impatient reader, but all in all, it goes down easy, and tastes delicious all the while. Eugenides is consistent, his protagonist’s voice is unwavering in its believability, and he takes his time with his prose without physically paining you. The novel moves at a very comfortable pace.

Another interesting thing about Middlesex is its chronology. There’s a lot of “hopping around” through time; we’re hearing about the lives of Cal’s grandparents and lives of his parents, and about his own life, both his upbringing and the life he is a part of at present. All of these separate stories are shattered and mixed together, causing a slow-reveal of facts and a slightly detectable feeling of suspense. You itch as you read to know the whole story. You want order, but at the same time, you thoroughly enjoy the leisurely out-of-order walk-through.

After finishing this book, I’m curious about The Virgin Suicides and perhaps some other works by Eugenides. But there are plenty of other things on my list. For a while now, I thought I’d be starting Siddhartha next, but it seems I was mistaken. I’ll be asking my local librarian about American Gods by Neil Gaiman, and from what I’ve heard, this next choice is going to provide a wild and wonderful ride.

much love, carlydee

PS: I started Pokémon Diamond. I missed the mystery of not knowing what’s going to happen next in a Pokémon game, but I do have to say, so far the fourth generation is falling short in the cool, creative new Pokémon department. Every time I see a Bidoof I want to cry tears of pity for the poor creature.

lalulutres:

The Night’s Long Journey -Cristie Henry

(via cindyisawkward)

I think I may try my hand at that bicycle in the garage.

I guess I’ve grown a little attached to it. I kinda don’t want to give it away. It’s a very, very cool bicycle. Old. A little tall for me, with slim tires and sweeping handlebars. If he could talk, he’d sound like Iron Man’s JARVIS. He was made in Nottingham, England. I like him. He’s a nice carmine color, and despite his age, he possesses a very regal, commanding presence. His name would definitely have a title before it. “Sir” or “Lord,” I’m thinking.

Yeah. He’s sticking around.

Something’s changed about me. Maybe it’s a part of “growing up,” or maybe it’s just me, changing. But here it is: I don’t like relying on people. Emotionally, especially. Over time, I’ve just become more and more inclined to keep myself slightly detached from everything so as not to become too reliant on outside factors for happiness or contentment. I tend to invest less of myself in others. I’m slow to consider a person close. I guess with the way things change, the fluidity with which people enter and exit each other’s lives, it makes sense to make friends and make good friends and enjoy every moment, but to know that the eventual loss of them is a normal occurrence, and shouldn’t cause too much pain.

The thing is… there’s nothing wrong with certain things and certain people meaning the world to you. There are people in my life who mean the world to me, and there isn’t anything wrong with that. It’s just, losing those things doesn’t have to destroy you. Loss hurts, but it isn’t your ruin by default; it just happens, and then time goes on, and you aren’t obligated to writhe in pain until the day you die because of it.

It’s hard to imagine certain people gone. My mother. My sister. People I love to the point of pain in showing it. Do you know what I’m talking about? Sometimes, you love someone so much that it’s painful to admit how much you love them. You hesitate to show too much affection and shy away from deep, moving moments because you know if you admit that you love someone that much to the universe, you are vulnerable beyond any vulnerability you could ever imagine. You almost want to push them away just to create some illusion that you aren’t completely and utterly devoted to them.

In any case, it’s hard to try and think of myself without such people in my life. But despite the pain that would inevitably accompany my loss of them, I firmly believe that I would not be finished. I would carry on. I have a life to continue living, whatever happens. If I were ever to vanish from this world and cause pain to my sister and my mother and those who know me, at no point would I ever wish to leave them stuck and grieving forever. Not even actually stuck, but under the “illusion” of being trapped in sadness. There’s no such thing.

Never, never, never. You are never stuck.

All the time, people lose people and people suffer under the delusion of being nothing without those they’ve lost and then people somehow come to terms with the fact that they are still something and move on. All the time, people instead find other people to pad their lives with, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but loss is inevitable.

There’s something to be said for being aware of that and struggling anyway, but also in knowing the value of oneself, and one’s own pursuits of happiness.

much love, carlydee

danceabletragedy:

WHALE KISS by Lora8

(via wellarentucoool)

New idea. Just gonna run with it.

Not five minutes ago I finally finished devouring Jane Austen’s Emma (and I say this in the least cannibalistic, Shia-LaBeouf-esque way possible, metaphorically, as it were). Emma was the first book on my list, one of the reasons being that it was one of the two books in my closet that I haven’t finished yet, and the only novel by Jane Austen that I possessed but hadn’t read.

The other reason I chose to tackle Emma before Middlesex (the other neglected novel in my closet and my next target) was because of the many informal reviews I’d been given of it by college friends who were forced to read it for their lit classes. Not a single person I talked to classed it as a good book. I’d been told that Emma is a bitch, the story is insufferably drawn out and entirely uneventful, and getting through even the first few pages is nothing short of agonizing.

Of course, I didn’t take all of these negative comments to heart. I particularly enjoy Jane Austen’s style of writing, and barely mind my few moments of fatigue as I push through her leisurely accounts that are given with great care and detail. As I read her stories, I enjoy picturing them like a film in my mind’s cloudy eye, enamored with her chosen settings and intrigued by her characters, always many and always somehow mistaken. Pride and Prejudice was wonderful, and though I liked Sense and Sensibility and Northanger Abbey well enough, I preferred Emma over them both, though P&P still holds a very special place in my heart. Liz’s story appeals much more to me than Emma’s. Emma as a character fascinated me, though, more than Liz ever did.

Here is where I place the spoiler warning. Future Emma readers, I recommend you do not read beyond this point.

I can see where the “bitch” comments are coming from: Emma is manipulative. She is also often wrong when she tries to assume how other people feel or what they’re thinking. Emma likes helping those around her, but sometimes she doesn’t realize how much of a hindrance her help could potentially turn out to be, Harriet Smith being the chief example of this (especially when it comes to Robert Martin; you almost want to slap Emma for keeping those two apart for so damn long and thinking so little of this guy who’s so in love and then so heartbroken). Emma’s “help” also typically consists of subtly affecting people’s emotions in order to push them in what she assumes is the “right direction.”

But let’s face it, guys. She has faults. She makes mistakes. This pales when held up to her owning up to these mistakes. When things fell to shit, she knew it was all her fault, and she apologized for it. She took everything that she had to take. When she made that stinging remark to Miss Bates (which yes, was very mean, but I was also a little irked by Miss Bates’s page-long speeches that only just barely contributed to the novel’s moving-along), she took it upon herself to promptly make the necessary social amends. When she learned of Mr. Elton’s unlikely affections for her (I never liked him from the start), she was completely honest about her feelings not only with him, but also with Harriet, expressing her deepest regrets about misleading her and feeling very strongly that she had done the wrong thing in trying to make them a match.

Something I really loved about Emma was how self-reflective she was as a character throughout the entire book. Of Austen’s “clever women,” Emma stands out a bit. She isn’t as stinging in her smarts as Liz, and so is more like Elinor in her cleverness. At the same time, of the three, Emma is the most self-aware. I say this in the sense that she takes long moments in the book to assess herself and where she stands and how she feels. Her ability to pause and dissect her emotions is brilliant, and I think a crucial statement on Austen’s part in the praise of being familiar with oneself and one’s ways of living, feeling, and interacting. I’ve come to think that through self-awareness, one can find personal and interpersonal peace, as well as the key to pushing through any disaster. Emma is an example of this. She does wrongly assess herself in some aspects sometimes, but she revises her feelings as she learns more about herself and about others. She takes what she learns and then applies it to herself, open to changing her opinions when they have been justly overturned.

One of these self-aware revisions occurs after Harriet tells Emma about her feelings for Mr. Knightley and her suspicions about his own affections towards her. Emma suddenly realizes that she has always been in love with Mr. Knightley from the start, and after Harriet leaves, she then tries to discover when this began, how this fit in with her previous fits of endearment, and what all of what she was feeling could possibly mean. She sorts herself out first. Then she comes up with her plan of what to do next in regards to Harriet and Mr. Knightley.

Another thing I like about this novel is that the clever girl gets the man who matches her in intellect. This irked me immensely about Sense and Sensibility (no details, just readerly frustration). Mr. Knightley is perfect for Emma. He possesses the clarity of perception that she so obviously lacks, and sees the good in her despite her flaws. I have to say, I was overjoyed when they finally had their little scene among the shrubberies, all “Good God, Emma, how could you not have known?!” and so on and so forth. Comparable to the pleasure I took in Mr. Darcy’s “I love you most ardently,” though like I said, special place in my heart for that particular romance.

There’s the truth, really. I just love it when romances are well-suited, when they’re completely and utterly romantic.

The spoilers end after this point, ye who read so carefully.

I will say that Emma moves at a very leisurely pace, even compared to Austen’s other novels which definitely amble more than they do sprint.  Emma is slow. The happenings are very meticulously recounted and getting through the very sophisticated narration and dialogue does take a fair bit of endurance for those who don’t revel in its embellished propriety. This isn’t a book-for-every-reader, a Hunger Games, as it were. However, you never really know how much you’ll like a book until you flip to the first page and give it a go, so I suggest that you at least pick up Emma and try to push through at least page five. If you put it down, you put it down, you know? But if you don’t?

Then you’ll really thank me.

much love, carlydee

newspaperblackout:

A blackout by koalafication:

If time rolls up in a nice car

there’s not a logical reason behind it

just good business

cyrilrolando:

Cupido

It was just..
A look to the moon…

…Desires to explore new lands,
to caress tenderly new sands,
with hands.

Wasn’t my fault..
It’s the light, it was so…

…Affections for the golden eyes,
to reach the heart and devise,
new skies…

The distance..
I couldn’t stand more…

…My strength is hard to manage,
Mars and Venus in backstage,
Bang.

I shot the moon.





Time : 20 hours
Software : Photoshop CS2
Tool : Wacom tablet

Work in progress :

2011

It’s strange, thinking about it. I mean really thinking about it, not just for a little, but for a while. Trying to piece together the reality of it. Believing it. Picturing it. Breathing life into it.

He’s still alive. He’s here, on the same ground you’re on, just a long ways northeast of you. The same gravity that pulls you pulls him, too. He’s under the same sky. You saw the big dipper when you lifted your head. He might see it from where he is. He might’ve noticed it.

He might’ve thought of you, like you are thinking of him. Likely for a little. Maybe for a while.

He has the same hair. Maybe a little longer or shorter than you remember. The same face, eyes, nose, lips, chin, ears, neck. He probably smiled more than once today. He must have the same smile. He must’ve laughed more than once, and his laugh can’t be different. You can’t quite hear it in your head anymore, but there’s this artificial echo of it that you conjured from characteristics you do remember: a little choppy, always light, a sophisticated chuckle rather than a plain old laugh.

His room must still be messy. Everything strewn everywhere. Bits and pieces of his life, things that are important to him. Him and his mum still eat together; she still likes to wake up early and drink tea, probably. Maybe, once or twice, as she sipped or stirred, she remembered you. Maybe, they’ve talked about you, or she’s asked, and he’s never bothered answering.

The couch is probably still where it was downstairs, and there could still be a heart on the basement window. He could still recline down there on the cushions and play chess against the computer; he may or may not play until he wins. He must be better at it now.

It’s likely that he still goes to the lake when he can. Kayaks. Roasts marshmallows. Looks up at the stars. Still listens to the same music. Still can’t make his bed as well as you can. Still listens to Phantom of the Opera and reads Shakespeare and dreams of dark, dangerous silhouettes at the ends of familiar hallways. Still thinks the monster is him, no matter how much you’ve told him no, no matter how much she must be telling him no.

She could be telling him now.

He is existing in this same moment just as you are existing and he could be thinking about your existence as much as you are thinking about his, but that seems so farfetched. Your mind can’t even wrap itself around the thought. You’ll never know. You’ll never know if he is thinking what you’re thinking right now. It hurts to wonder since that’s all you’ll be able to do.

Perhaps he still keeps his phone on late at night, just in case.

He still eats and drinks and talks, you know. You can almost hear his voice, but you know you’ll never really hear it unless you ever see him again, and that’s about as likely as him thinking what you’re thinking at this very moment, right now. You try to imagine what he says to other people, but you can’t. You only hear him laughing, and picture his smiling face with a moving mouth.

Right now. He’s here. He’s alive and here and breathing and living and being. He’s tangible. You know how it feels to hug a person and you recall that sensation and you relate it to him as you try to remember hugging his solid person, holding him close. You try to remember how real he was to you when he was standing in front of you, and then you place that real person somewhere you can’t see him, waking up in the middle of the night, breathing hard, trying to blink away the horrors of yet another terrible nightmare.

He may be alive, but you won’t be seeing him. You won’t be hearing him speak. You can only think of his life, be aware of his living as you are living, and nothing else.

It’s strange, thinking about him. Thinking about him thinking about you.

much love, carlydee