Book review up!

Review of The Conquest

I spent my Saturday night devouring Yxta Maya Murray's The Conquest and penned a brief review this morning that appears on Musings of  Bookslut.  Do you like magical realism?  Historical fiction? An unexpected love story?

If you find this novel at your local used bookstore, snag it.

The Appeal of the Giraffe Cam

Over a month ago, Animal Adventure Park began live-streaming a giraffe cam.  The star of the show is the unborn calf that is taking its sweet time to be born. The leading lady is the almost puppy-like April, a 15 year old giraffe.  Her baby's daddy, Oliver, is a rambunctious 5 year old.  As a young bull, his interests are eating and mating so he is kept separate from the very pregnant April.  Despite the divider, the giraffe cam frequently is witness to sweet head touching, neck circling signs of affection between April and Oliver.  For weeks, thousands of people tune in.  What started as the great baby watch has morphed into something else.

So what is the appeal in watching a giraffe pace around a stall bigger than my house, chewing her cud, throwing alfalfa over her body, and sweetly taking carrots and lettuce from her darling caretakers, the vet, and the park owner?  Why do so many turn in for 9pm tuck in, where treats are given and the stall is cleaned? Do most, like me, watch with jealousy as the caretakers stroke the magnificent creature and kiss her belly? Or do they sympathize with the expectant mother, pregnant for 15 months, give or take 60 days? 

Whatever the reasons for tuning in, April's little family has done remarkable things for giraffe conservation and research.  It has brought people together from all across the globe.  I was watching the cam when news outlets reported the attack in London. Do you know what I saw? Comment after comment of people reaching out to strangers.  I've seen people sunk in a depression so deep find comfort through this giraffe cam.  I've seen children deciding the future is theirs and they can be a part in saving our creatures.

This isn't about a giraffe.  It's much, much larger.

April is already larger than life

Throwing in the towel

Okay.  Here it is 21 days in and I am throwing in the towel.  Blogging every day is too near impossible with everything else going on.  Plus, and let's be honest here, I don't really have something worth saying every day!

I will continue to blog at least a couple of times a week, but I'm not going to do fluff pieces because I feel like I have to blog.  I am cooking more frequently and I am reading regularly again.  And I am writing every day - either working on fiction or doing legally type stuff - so there is that.  I just don't want to bore you, dear Reader, with drivel.  And I honestly have the attention span of a terrier.  But I do want to talk about the inaugura...  look! squirrel!

One of the Boys

   *Since I neglected to blog earlier this week, I'll give you another taste of Thailand...  one of my 2003 adventures!*

        After talking the big talk about renting bikes in Bangkok and riding up to Chiang Mai, we decided it simply wasn’t going to happen - too expensive and too dangerous.  Especially during Songkran.  The Thai New Year puts everybody on the streets and usually with Beer Chang or Singha in their hands.  Never big on planning, Colin, Trevor, Dave and I became stranded in Ayuthua with no apparent means of getting to Chiang Mai.  This had not been part of the plan.

            “We could hitch hike?” Trevor stuck his thumb out as a tuk-tuk rattled past.  It was hot pink.  Nothing like the ones in Bangkok.  It didn’t stop.

            “Nobody’s going to pick up four white kids,” Colin said, pointing across the street to a Ro-tii stand.  We crossed and ordered the crepe-like treats.

            “We could split up,” Dave offered as I took a bite out of a plain one.  The boys dressed theirs up with chocolate syrup, bananas, or both.

            I wiped sticky condensed milk off my hands and licked my lips.  “Now hold up.  I’m not so sure hitch hiking is wise.  And splitting up is definitely not wise.” 

            We ended up not hitchhiking, due mostly to the fact I refused.  We found a bus-station that wasn’t really a bus-station on the outskirts of town.  Young men would flag down buses heading in the general direction of where you wanted to go and you could pay to stand or sit in the aisle, as most of the busses were already full of Thai families on holiday.  We ended up paying 300 baht apiece for floor space on a bus that would take us the rest of the way to Chiang Mai.  It was midnight, we had hours left in our journey, and the four of us were exhausted.  I soon stretched out on the dirty, smelly floor of the bus.  Several Thais laughed softly behind their hands and looked down at the faraangs laying in the aisle.  In an effort to ‘save face,’ I smiled up at them.  A young man handed me his blanket, red plaid and smelling of a campfire.  I placed it between the hot floor and my face, earning a smile when I thanked him in his own language, careful to say “kha” at the end.  Colin lay at my feet, his head resting on my legs.  Somewhere further up lay Dave and Trevor, just as uncomfortable.  After sleeping a few hours and immediately following my being violated by a cockroach, a seat became available.  I played the girl card and got it, but I didn’t feel too bad as the bus had cleared enough for the boys to have seats within the hour.

            We reached the Chiang Mai bus station when the sun was just beginning to light up the sky.  We caught a tuk-tuk into town and found a little roadside stand serving chicken skewers and fried bananas.  The cheap food managed to wake us.  On this, our second trip to Chiang Mai, we had connections – friends who owned a guesthouse and a friend who rented motorcycles named Mr. Beer.  We went to visit Mr. Beer first.  Mr. Beer was a bit rotund and always flashing his teeth when he smiled.  He reminded me of a used car salesman.  He cheated us, charging us more for being white but less for being students in Bangkok; we weren’t “real faraangs” and our Thammasat University ID cards opened doors and lowered prices all across South East Asia.

Jonadda guest house and restuarant

John, an Australian, and his Thai wife ran the guesthouse.  John was hilarious in a ‘surely you’re not serious’ kind of way.  The first night he took us to the top of the guesthouse, showing us the part of the building that would be their living quarters.  As we stood on the balcony, built higher than ordinance allows, he smoked and talked about how horribly stupid Thais are.

            “My friend has been a prostitute for five years.”  He laughed.   “She does it to feed her father.  She’s a damn idiot.  The man drinks it all away.  They’re all damn idiots.  They think they know things, think they’re so smart but they’re stupid.  Most women are, but especially Thai women.  No offense,” he said, looking at me. 

A few insulting comments later and we were downstairs trying to figure out the room situation.  I was the one posing the problem.  I was going to have to room with one of the guys or rather one of the guys was going to have to room with me.  This normally wouldn’t have caused complications but Trevor and Dave, my two Mormons from Utah, were uncomfortable with the idea.

            “Let’s flip for who has to room with Tommi,” Dave suggested.

            “Ouch.  Shouldn’t I pick who I want to room with?”  Nobody listened to me.

            “I’ll room with her.”  Colin dropped his bag beside mine and climbed into the top bunk.  “Goodnight.”

            The next morning was the start of Songkran, the water festival.  Imagine the world’s largest water fight and you’ve got a pretty realistic picture of the Thai New Year.  The reason Chiang Mai is so crowded for the festival is because the city is surrounded by a moat.  Hundreds of people line the streets with buckets, hoses and water guns.  Children jump from ancient ruins into the murky moat water.  The holiday isn’t just for children, as truckloads of people ranging from infant to elderly laughingly douse each other.  Traffic comes to a standstill and everyone is fair game, except for monks.  Do not wet the monks.

            Being white and on bikes made us easy targets.  We had no idea the grandiosity of the festival and had nothing to fight back with.  We were soaked within seconds.  Five gallon buckets of water with baby fish from the moat were tossed over my head.  I was a fun target because my t-shirt, when wet, did nothing to conceal breasts that are significantly larger than most Thai women’s.  The Asian men riding in the backs of trucks kept tossing bucket loads at my chest, almost pushing me off the back of the bike. The attention was making my guys noticeably uncomfortable.  They didn’t much like to be reminded of my gender on our expeditions.  Later that evening, when undressing for a shower, I pulled a dead fish out of my bra. 

            The festival went on for days.  We thought it was only a city thing but as we traveled from Chiang Mai to Chiang Rai we found small groups of children waiting with buckets by the side of the road.  We slowed for the drenchings but, because I cannot drive a motorcycle and was riding with Trevor, I didn’t get nearly as wet as he did.  The only dry spot on him were where my arms hung loosely around his middle.

            “Does this stupid holiday ever end?” Colin moaned as a truck full of teenagers completely soaked our almost dry entourage when we stopped to check the map. 

            “We’ll be in Burma tomorrow.  They don’t celebrate it there.” 

            I was dead wrong.  The Burmese met us at the border with water guns.  The water had coloring in it, leaving snotty looking green streaks down the boys’ white shirts.  I had just about had it.  When a young kid of about fourteen dumped his entire bucket over my head, I couldn’t hold it in any longer.  I wasn’t exactly in the holiday spirit.

“Fuck.”  I broke my abstinence from foul language and followed the curse with “damn it all.”  Even whispered under my breath, Trevor heard my curses.  He spun around and took a bucket from one of the kids.

            “You wouldn’t dare,” I said.

            He raised an eyebrow in that “oh I wouldn’t?” way before tossing the far from clean water over me. 

            I stood glaring at him for a few moments before borrowing my own bucket and chasing him down the dirt street.  The kids around held their stomachs and shook with the sweet sounds of laughter.  White kids playing with them on their holiday was a rarity.  We walked down the street, taking in what we would could of Burma before we had to be back at the border. There are only day passes into the country.  We dodged truckloads of water-toting Asians.  “I love you,” men, young and old, shouted to me from pick-up beds, blowing kisses and giggling as they sped away, splashing through the mud puddles left by the festivities.  “Marry me,” one boy yelled before leaving a zig-zag pattern of green water on my shirt. 

The only white people we saw in Burma were each other.  We were such celebrities that Burmese youths asked if they could have their picture taken with us.  As the only woman, I was even more a rarity.  Children held up their arms for me to take them.  Mothers smiled when I did, brushing my skin with their fingertips and holding my hair in their hands, murmuring to each other in a language I couldn’t begin to understand.  We slipped down a back road to escape the drenchings and stumbled over four children playing in the dirt.  Two were Buddhist novices, and their saffron colored robes hung dry and loose on their frail frames.  The other two shook water from their hair and giggled.  The oldest was probably eight.  The tiny monks gestured for us to follow them and one of the other boys took my hand and pulled.  They led us down dry, quiet roads, far away from the down town insanity.  They took us to their temple, high on a hill, looking down on the city.  They posed for pictures, flashed us the peace sign, and skipped back down the hill to resume their game.  They left us to marvel in the beauty of the building and surrounding grounds.

            We soon realized that our day passes were about to end and hurried to the border, where the Burmese got in a few more buckets before we crossed back into Mae Sai.  Northern Thailand is much cooler than Bangkok, especially at night, and I shivered against Trevor as we rode through the now quiet streets to our guesthouse cabins.  I was wet, cold, tired and teetering on cranky.  I wanted a hot shower and my Bangkok bed and while the cabins in Mai Sai were a huge improvement from the various guesthouses we’d stayed at a long the way, I knew it’d be cold water and there’d be lizards in the bed I’d be sharing with Colin.

            “You look like shit… err crap,” Colin took it upon himself to tell me as I waited for him to unlock the cabin’s door.  Even though Trevor and Dave were already in their cabin and couldn’t hear him, he corrected himself out of habit.  Both of us had fallen into watching our language not because they’d asked us to but because we wanted to.

            “Damn Canadians.”  I stuck my tongue out at him and rummaged through my rip-off North Face backpack from the Chatuchak Market until I found my shower stuff.  I’d managed to jam shampoo, conditioner, body wash, a razor, toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant, body spray, tampons, and just-in-case-makeup all in the same Ziploc bag.  I grabbed my towel, stepped down into the shower area and pulled the curtain dividing the two areas closed.

            “Wait!” Colin yelled as I started to peel off the wet clothes.

            “What?  Tell me you do not have to use the bathroom now.”  I groaned and yanked the curtain back.

            Colin laughed and stepped down beside me.  “Nah.”  He reached beside the squat toilet and picked up the tattered roll of toilet paper.  “Just didn’t want this to get wet.  I think it’s the only roll we’ve got left between the four of us.  Unless you’re holding out?”

            “I know I’ve got baby wipes and I might have a roll.  I can’t remember if I left it in Nan or not.  You can check my bag.  If it’s in there, give it to Trevor and Dave.”

            Colin nodded his head and stepped out of the shower/squat area, pulling the curtain closed behind him.

            The shower, while freezing, was a godsend.  The combining crisp smells of my cleansers put me in a better mood.  Humming to myself, I stepped, wrapped in a towel, into the other room.  Colin was nowhere to be seen.  I latched the door and put on dry, almost clean, clothes.  They smelled like elephant ass from being river-washed in Cambodia the month before so I sprayed myself with jasmine body spray before venturing out to find the boys.  I didn’t have to go far. 

“What took you so long?” Dave called as soon as I stuck my head out of the door.  They were sitting at a table in the outside restaurant owned and operated by the same couple as the cabins we were staying in.  The restaurant was on the Nam Ruak, the river the only thing separating us from Burma.

“Sorry.”

“Well she is the girl.”  Trevor rolled his eyes then winked at me.

“Shut-up Budge.”  I sat down beside him and ordered khai yat sai.  Thai omelets come over rice and covered in chili sauce.  They’re amazing.

Colin looked up from his books.  He was studying for the MCATS the entire time he was in Thailand because he was registered to take the test in Singapore in May.  “It’s okay.  I’m used to it; Candace always hogs the bath back home.  I just took a shower in their cabin, eh.”  Trevor and Dave confirmed with quick nods.  “Want a drink?”  Colin raised an eyebrow along with the corners of his lips.

I glanced at my Mormons.  I’d behaved enough for one day.  Colin held up two fingers and said “Singha”.  My omelet arrived with the beer.

“So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?” I asked, wiping the sweet chili sauce out of the corners of my lips with a rough napkin.

Trevor opened the Lonely Planet.  “Well there’s this really neat place called Doi Tung that I’d like to see.”  He passed the book over to Colin who glanced at the write-up on the area.

“It’s only twenty or so clicks away.  I say let’s do it.”  He handed the book back to Trevor.

“What’s there?”  I wanted to know what made the place so ‘neat’ as Trevor put it.

“Listen,” he began to read, skimming over some parts.  "The main attraction at Doi Tung is getting there.  The road is winding, steep and narrow, so if you’re driving or riding a motorcycle, take it slowly.”  He glanced up and grinned.  I sighed and took a sip of my beer.

“Oh, it gets better,” Dave said, reading over his shoulder.  “It is not safe to trek in this area without a Thai or hill-tribe guide simply because they might think you’re a drug dealer or USDEA agent.  You may hear gunfire from time to time.”  Six eyes looked at me.  “What do you say, Tommi?”

I finished my beer and nodded to the waitress for another.  “Sounds great.”

Trevor jumped up to hug me, excited about the upcoming motorcycle trip and wondering how fast he could get the Phantom to go on those winding, mountainous roads.  “You rock.  For a girl.”  He paused.  “And you smell good.”

“Thanks.”

Dave wiggled his nose in my direction and turned to Colin.  “I’m jealous.  You get to sleep beside someone who smells like flowers and I get to sleep with Budge who, well, we’ve all smelled him lately and I think we can all agree she smells much better.” 

Our laughter echoed down the river, in and out of Burmese shacks on one bank, and through the rustic Thai cabins on the other. 

“Well,” I said, turning to Dave, “You’re the one who wanted to flip a coin.”

And so the Big Top falls...

“The circus is a jealous wench. Indeed that is an understatement. She is a ravening hag who sucks your vitality as a vampire drinks blood – who kills the brightest stars in her crown and will allow no private life for those who serve her; wrecking their homes, ruining their bodies, and destroying the happiness of their loved ones by her insatiable demands. She is all of these things, and yet, I love her as I love nothing else on earth.”


― Henry Ringling North, The Circus Kings: Our Ringling Family Story



The announcement stunned some but largely came as no surprise. Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey is coming to an end after over a century of entertaining the masses. Feld Entertainment made the announcement earlier this week. And while domestic terrorists animal rights activists rejoiced, many of us were left just a bit confused as nostalgia had us longing for the circus elephants and simpler times.

But listen now and listen good - if we do not take aggressive measures, and soon, we will lose out on ALL our animal pastimes. From delighting in circus elephants to running your Papillon through an agility course to trail horses. Zoos may soon be a thing of the past, dog shows no more than a historical footnote or a trivia question. This victory for AR should serve as a warning to all animal lovers.

Don't let the animal rights activists win. Before you support them, KNOW WHAT YOU SUPPORT. Before you throw your hard-earned money their way, KNOW WHERE THAT MONEY IS GOING. Yes, there are MANY bad apples in animal sports - I will not deny that - but one bad apple does NOT spoil the bunch. Protect our sports. Fight AR propaganda. I don't want my children's children to only know about dogs through picture books and memories.

Love. Hope. Faith. Justice.

I'm not writing a lengthy blog today.  I'm not posting the words of a great man taken from us.  But I want you to look inside your heart.  If those 4 words are not there, write them.  Write them quickly.  Then follow the teachings of your heart. Always.

Political Musings

Okay... So I neglected to post yesterday.  Twenty lashes and whatnot.  I'm still proud of my attempts to write every day!  That said, I'm going to do something I swore I would not do - I'm going to make a political post.  ACK!  RUN!


Still here?  Okay.  Not to toot my horn, but I am a highly educated individual who puts a lot of emphasis on education, free thinking, and creativity.  As an attorney, I encounter laws nearly every day that I question.  I also encounter situations nearly every day where there are NO LAWS on the books when I feel there should be.  That said, I am bound by the laws we do (and do not) have.  There is a system in place - it may be broken, but there is a system.  And there is also a system to fix the cracks and heal the wounds.  That system must be followed.

So when I see the hashtag "notmypresident" - I get a little squirrely.  I hated that sentiment when Bush was elected.  Twice.  I hated that sentiment when Obama was elected.  Twice.  And I certainly hate it now.  There is a marked difference now, however.  That difference is that in my heart of hearts, I know Trump does not have the necessary skillset to serve as president.  But we have a system and that system elected him.  I'm not going to just take my ball and go home; that's not how I was raised.  You have to USE THE SYSTEM TO BEAT THE SYSTEM.  Trust me on this.  You can boycott the inauguration all you want, but it will not change the fact that Trump WILL BE PRESIDENT.  So stop pouting.  Seriously.  For me.  For the Obamas, who have so graciously extended support to President-elect Trump.  It is time to protest policies, not people.

You want change?  That is how you will get it.  Not by trying to turn back time and hoping for a different outcome.  Not by boycotting an already-elected President.

Lula whoa!

It happened. I caved and purchased a pair of leggings. And another. And another. It all started with the elephants.

Now hear me out, these are FUN clothes. I'm tired of feeling like I'm old. I want bright. I want funky.  And I want buttery soft. I hate wearing pants, except for my fuzzy pants. Now I have pants that are perfect for me.  And I love my elephants. Love them. I may never wear real pants again.

Goodnight Moon

After 4 days of ice and a day to melt, we had a gorgeous 70 degree Carolina blue sky kind of day.  As much as I love Fall, there's still something about warm sunny days that makes me want to roll the windows down, turn the radio up, and drive until the sun sets. An itch to go sets in, filling me with a nervous energy. It's a day that feels like fresh starts, new beginnings, and a naive hope.  To stop adulting, to erase all anxiety riddled thoughts, and go with the wind.

And after a day of desire to go, comes a moon that could swallow you whole.  One could vanish in that moon.

It's melting!

I posted twice yesterday. No jawing at me. This totally counts.

I'm full of delivery pizza and craving a nap turned into a deep sleep.  Sometimes work is exhausting.  I'll spare you the details, but it can be soul destroying.   Some days, I lose faith in my fellow men.  So eager to destroy others. Cheat the system. Ready for a handout or an exception to a well established rule because privilege.  And that's not even the clients I'm talking about.  Who raised you? Because they either seriously dropped the ball or would tear your hide up.

Rant over.  

Winners Bitch - A Working Title

So I joked with the Mister that I was going to write a dog show mystery with murder, sex and a lot of barking bitches.  I don't much think he was serious. Last night when insomnia scratched at the insides of my eyelids, I started.  I'm monkeying around with the terms so as not to get a nasty email from the Registry That Must Not Be Named, but I don't hate it.  Mysteries are a bit of a foreign territory for me, but I sort of like what I'm building.

Enjoy a taste of the roughest of rough drafts.

Winners Bitch - A Working Title

                I was vying for best bitch in breed when a scream echoed through the facility. Idyls Something to Talk About, Rumor, was a mere single point from her championship and she was showing her heart out in her individual exam when panic ensued.  Her eyes went white, she pulled at the handmade kangaroo show lead, and stomped her feet like a wild pony.  I glanced around the ring, whispering reassuring words to the Pointer that had launched my return to the dog showing world and trying to collect her for the judge.

                “It’s okay.  Take a few minutes.”  Patricia Davies, a former Pointer breeder turned handler turned judge, said with a reassuring smile.  She had been my mentor before everything had been destroyed and I’d left the fancy for what I’d thought was forever.  Life has a funny way of mucking with your plans.  So there I was with Rumor, my second weekend back on the show circuit after nearly a three year absence, with a bitch I’d bred and a name I had to restore to its former glory when a scream spooked the dog and had the hair on my neck standing up.

                “Thanks.”  My eyes darted around the building, passing over rings full of panicking dogs.  The beagles in ring three had taken to howling.  An Afghan in ring eight had broken free of its handler and was running laps around the ring, it’s glorious brown/black hair flowing around it.  The Show Committee members were pushing through the crowds toward the crating area.

                “Exhibitors,” Mrs. Davies said, gesturing to the ten of us in the ring.  “There’s too much nervous energy in the ring.  Please trot your beautiful dogs around and collect them.  We will resume judging at that time.”

                I wrapped Rumor’s lead around my hand three times and kept the lead taut as I ran her around the ring.

                “What do you think that’s about?” Tabatha Brinkley settled into a stride beside me, her puppy bitch sticking close to Rumor.

                “I don’t know, but it sure freaked the dogs.”

                As we ran around the ring, a club official ran up to Mrs. Davies and began gesturing wildly.  An older man, he was red with excitement and I worried briefly he’d stroke out.  After he left, Mrs. Davies held her hand up.  “Are any of you in crate area B?”  Her voice shook.  Something was horribly wrong.

                A couple of handlers stepped forward.

                “Please take your dogs and follow Mr. Greene.”  Mrs. Davies pointed in the direction of the man’s retreating back.  “The show is over.”

                That’s when I heard the sirens and Rumor relieved herself.  She’d always been a nervous shitter – a genetic trait passed down from her award-winning grandmother.  I looked around for the stewards to get cleaning supplies, but Mrs. Davies shook her head.  “Leave it.”

                “What’s going on?” A voice asked.

                Mrs. Davies looked quite ill.  “There’s been a murder.”  She refused to look at me, but I didn’t expect her to.  After the home invasion that left twenty dogs in my care dead and my husband unaccounted for, people got a little shifty eyed when discussing the horrors of life.  As if making eye contact would send me spiraling back to the night when I was beat within an inch of my life and forced to watch my beloved kennel go up in flames.

                “Dog or person?”  I didn’t recognize my voice; it sounded too smoke-filled and thick with memories.  Maybe it’s good she didn’t make eye contact.

                Mrs. Davies ignored me.  “The police will need to question you,” she said to all of us. 

                “Dog or person?” I repeated.

                She finally looked at me, her eyes watery pools of the faded blue of old age.  “Both.”

Iced In

“I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great” 
― Robert Frost

My snow days turned to ice days and frigid nights.  I didn't venture outside for days.  It was lovely.  I had my pets.  I had my books.  I had my mister.  A lazy Sunday turned into a rare Monday with the office closed.  Monday turned into a Tuesday on a delayed schedule and permission to work from home.  I spent the day lawyering in fuzzy pants.  It was fantastic.  Everything is still frozen, but the cold never bothered me anyway.  (I couldn't resist.)

This is the curse of NC winters.  We love the magic of the snow.  The excitement.  The thrill.  And so oft we're faced with black ice.  Instead of the soft crunch of snow, we have the loud snap of a layered sleet, snow, and rain.  There's no snow man coming from that.  No snow angels to be had either.  But there's still a hint of magic when things shut down.  It does make for great reading & snuggling weather.  Netflix & Chill?  Please.  I've got Books & Coffee to warm me up.

***Also, my reading resolution is going along quite swimmingly.

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Play by Jack Thorne

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child

Play by: Jack Thorne

Based on on original story by J.K Rowling, John Tiffany & Jack Thorne

I intentionally left Rowling out of my title, because Rowling was largely left out of the script.  For something that bills itself as "the eighth story. Nineteen years later," Harry Potter and the Cursed Child reads more like fan fiction turned play than something crafted entirely by Rowling.  Part of the issue is the fact it is NOT A NOVEL.  I knew that when it was published.  I wasn't one of the disappointed readers who lost their wands over the play format.  I knew what I was getting into.  What I had suspected but didn't know for sure until I read the play was that Harry Potter's world is best viewed with Rowling's words.  The play is but bones of dialogue that desperately need to be fleshed out (and by Rowling) to fully join the Harry Potter canon.

There I said it.

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child is a controversial topic among Potter-heads, muggle-born, and the magically inclined.  And for good reason - it simply doesn't fit and it's lacking in the magic.  Would this review be the same had I seen Noma Dumezweni breathe life into Hermione?  Or if I had witnessed Anthony Boyle in one of the more interesting roles of the play?  I honestly don't think it would.  Because there are glints of the magic within the script that would shine on stage.  And oh how I want to see it.  Because the magic of the play itself would allow me to move past parts of the plot that don't mesh with the Hogwarts I love.  

As for the plot, the idea that Albus would decide his mission in life was to save Cedric Diggory seems too much like holding on to the past, but that's the idea: Harry cannot escape his past and neither can his children.  Speaking of children, I don't much mind that Voldemort had a child.  The books imply a dark, sexual tension between him and Bellatrix. Delphi, whose name itself foreshadows the prophecies to come, is a curiosity.  How did Potter not sense something dark when he was in the same room with He Who Must Not Be Named's offspring?  Had he gone soft since the Battle of Hogwarts?  

And who is the cursed child?  There are a few vying for the title.

Harry Potter AKA The Boy Who Lived

    - He is forever scarred by his past and it truly marks everything he does and everyone he loves, Albus included

Albus Severus Potter

   - Named for two great men and the child of the Boy Who Lived, he never asked to be a Potter.  Expectations weigh too heavily on him.  He is lonely.  (I was horribly disappointed in how his siblings failed to assist him - the Weasleys were a lovingly, large family where siblings looked out for each other - why didn't James, Albus and Lily have that connection?)

Scorpius Malfoy

    - The Son of a Death Eater who is, in many ways, a male version of Hermione.  A lonely boy, he buries his mother early in the script.  He is nothing like Draco, much like Albus is nothing like Harry.

Delphi

   - Daughter of Bellatrix and Voldemort.  Her father was the Dark Lord she'd never meet (without the aid of some dark and rightly banned magic) and her mother was crazy and locked up for eternity.  She was raised by Death Eaters who didn't care for her.  An orphan, her search for answers and family love & approval mirrors that of Harry's so many years ago.  My money is on her.  Harry has love.  Albus has love. Scorpius has love.  There is no one to love Delphi.  There is no father to tell her he's proud.  No mother to appreciate the strength of her talents.  She is truly the cursed one.

Also, what to make of the fact Rowling ended book seven with  "All was well" when things are so very, very, very far from "well" in the Cursed Child.  

Crossposted on Musings of a Bookslut

Isabel Allende - Maya's Notebook

Maya's Notebook

Isabel Allende

Translated from the Spanish by Anne McLean

Originally published in Spanish as El Cuaderno de Maya in Spain in 2011

The English translation of Isabel Allende's Maya's Notebook was published in 2013.  Surprisingly, I found it in a bargain bin a year or so ago.  It's been sitting patiently in my TBR pile since then.  (We do not discuss how quickly that pile is growing.  I'm just excited to finally be back to reading.  Not reading was like forgetting how to be me.)  Some of you know that I have a love of so-called "multicultural" books, and Allende is one of my favorites.  (The House of Spirits, Daughter of Fortune, Portrait in Sepia, and My Invented Country in particular.)  Maya's Notebook is no exception; Allende is a master story-teller and she uses words in such a brilliant way to paint some remarkable characters and settings.

The novel opens in 2009, a week after Maya's grandmother, Nini, spirited Maya off to Chiloe in Chile.  The novel is in first person, written as a journal from a broken girl whose road to recovery lies in memories - both the good and bad.  The reader quickly learns that Maya has been sent to Chiloe for her own protection.  Why she needs protection isn't so readily revealed as Allende, through Maya's journal entries, crosses spaces of time and countries seamlessly keeping the reader engaged in the 19 year old's story without giving an abundance of backstory at a pop.  What starts as a very self-absorbed tale of a 19 year old, albeit a scarred one, quickly becomes the story of a country, of a people, and of a family that cannot be bound by words.  As Maya becomes more comfortable with herself and her surroundings, the entries include more details of her past.

Allende takes us from the privileged streets of Berkeley, to a beautiful rehabilitation center in Oregon where Maya is tasked with caring for vicunas.  "...two slender animals with upright ears and the flirtatious eyelashes of a bride."  Maya stays with the program out of concern for the animals:  "I had to postpone my escape: the vicunas needed me."  From Oregon, Maya is taken on a hitch-hiking ride to hell with a trucker from Tennessee who says grace over breakfast after drugging and raping her, using his penis and the barrel of a gun to exert his dominance.  The rape is her fare, or so she learns.  This passage in particular is hard to stomach.  The passage left my stomach in knots and a tightness settled in my jaw when reading it.  As for Maya, it took many an entry into her journal and a lot of time in Chiloe to heal, before she could reveal the heartbreaking journey that left her in the care of Brandon Leeman, a hardened drug dealer, and his cohorts in Vegas.  In Sin City, Maya spiraled out of control.  By the time she realized what she'd become, she'd found it too late and too embarrassing to call her Nini for rescue.  When her criminal benefactor is murdered by his own men, Maya's life of luxury is gone.  Running for her life and quickly withdrawing from the ample substances he'd gotten her hooked on, Maya turns to prostitution.  But Leeman's criminal dealings and Maya's involvement in and knowledge of them have made the streets of Vegas deadly; Maya wasn't just another addict, she was the key to a fortune.  In time, the reader learns that Maya was sent to Chiloe because of Leeman's murder, dirty cops, and a storage facility with half a million dollars that only she knows the location of.  Thanks to the heart of gold druggie, Freddy, and the Widows for Jesus, she is saved.  Nini and Mike O'Kelly make the drive from California to take Maya back to rehab.  She tells them of the storage unit.  Mike and Nini are comically involved in a group called the Club of Criminals - this comes into play as they use their knowledge to plot Maya's escape from the States and to destroy the money and the counterfeiting plates found in the storage unit.

Those are the events that led Maya to Chiloe, and while their action may drive the novel, the pace of the Chiloen sections, the descriptions of the people and their own skeletons (child abuse, incest, the scars of the Pinochet dictatorship and the interrogations and disappearances that marked the '70s) give the story life. Maya learns why her grandmother was forced to leave Chile, what happened to Nini's first husband, and why the stranger in Chiloe, who hasn't seen her Nini in decades, was so willing to take her in like a stray dog.  Maya learns who she is.

Interesting note for me: dogs are featured pretty heavily in this novel.  From Daisy, the tiny pup Maya had as a little girl whose memory helps Maya get over her first heartbreak, to the dogs trained by Susan, her father's wife, to the purebred dogs signaling social class to Fahkeen, the stray described as "a cross between German shepherd and a fox terrier" who appears on page 15 and becomes a much-adored pet who saves her life.  It's interesting what Allende does with animals in this novel - particularly the dogs.

Maya's Notebook is a Bildungsroman, and Maya's journey is as painful as it is beautiful.  I can't recommend Allende or this novel enough, but I will say that some passages and descriptions may be too intense for some readers.  Happy reading!  You'll fall in love with Chiloe almost as quickly as Fahkeen fell in love with Maya.

**Cross-posted on Musings of a Bookslut!

Disappointment

The 6-8 inches of beautiful fluffy snow did not follow its anticipated course.  Instead, I woke to inches of ice.  A soft snow finally began to meander its way down a few hours ago, leaving a thin fluffy covering over cracking ice.  Sigh. Maybe this winter will bring the quiet snow later in the month.  It'll be back in the 60s in a few days.

Welcome to January in Carolina.

Anticipation

It is snowing.  Edit.  It is GOING to snow.  The flakes are being a bit elusive at the moment as rain continues to fall.  Surely it's cold enough.  Is it cold enough?  It feels like it.  But what do I know of "cold enough to snow."  I'm a North Carolina girl - and not the western part.  Snow is still a mystery for me.  A beautiful act of trickery.  Surely such beauty is not real.  The excitement.  The silence.  Is there anything better than the silence of a snow covered world at dawn?  Is there?  I fancy there isn't - at least not for a North Carolina girl who becomes five at even the mention of snow.

I've looked out the window no less than 20 times in the past hour.  I am my mother's daughter.  There's an excitement here, a thrill, that I wish you Northerners could understand.  I wish you could see feel the magic.  As a child, talk of snow meant snow days, hot chocolate, and the smell of a wood burning fire place.  It meant snow ball fights, bread bags over our boots, and sledding on street signs.  It meant watching the bird feeder with a Sibley's guide in hand.  Tufted Tit Mouse. Cardinal.  Chickadee.  (Those were easy.) Cedar Wax Wing.  The year the Grosbeaks came.  It was a game to feed the birds and give them names.

One such snow day, it meant a litter of hound puppies.  I remember.  I couldn't have been more than four or five.  There was chili for lunch and puppies that smelled of straw brought inside for the warmth.  I can still smell it.  

So you see, snow is magic.

 "Not Only The Eskimos," by Liesel Mueller from Alive Together (Louisiana State University Press).

Not Only The Eskimos

We have only one noun
but as many different kinds:

the grainy snow of the Puritans
and snow of soft, fat flakes,

guerrilla snow, which comes in the night
and changes the world by morning,

rabbinical snow, a permanent skullcap
on the highest mountains,

snow that blows in like the Lone Ranger,
riding hard from out of the West,

surreal snow in the Dakotas,
when you can't find your house, your street,
though you are not in a dream
or a science-fiction movie,

snow that tastes good to the sun
when it licks black tree limbs,
leaving us only one white stripe,
a replica of a skunk,

unbelievable snows:
the blizzard that strikes on the tenth of April,
the false snow before Indian summer,
the Big Snow on Mozart's birthday,
when Chicago became the Elysian fields
and strangers spoke to each other,

paper snow, cut and taped
to the inside of grade-school windows,

in an old tale, the snow
that covers a nest of strawberries,
small hearts, ripe and sweet,

the special snow that goes with Christmas,
whether it falls or not,

the Russian snow we remember
along with the warmth and smell of our furs,
though we have never traveled
to Russia or worn furs,

Villon's snows of yesteryear,
lost with ladies gone out like matches,
the snow in Joyce's "The Dead,"
the silent, secret snow
in a story by Conrad Aiken,
which is the snow of first love,

the snowfall between the child
and the spacewoman on TV,

snow as idea of whiteness,
as in snowdrop, snow goose, snowball bush,

the snow that puts stars in your hair,
and your hair, which has turned to snow,

the snow Elinor Wylie walked in
in velvet shoes,

the snow before her footprints
and the snow after,

the snow in the back of our heads,
whiter than white, which has to do
with childhood again each year.

I read today!

Where is your favorite spot to read? Favorite position? Time of day?

Saengdao

*Sometimes I dabble...  my life is littered with bits and pieces of half-started stories I'm not willing let go of.  What follows is a draft of the beginning of one of my Thai stories.*

Saengdao was born during the rainy season, three weeks early at a hospital in Bangkok-noi.  For someone so early, she was in a terrible hurry.  The rains flooded the city streets and frogs the size of small melons left the banks of the Chao Phraya River to serenade the tuk-tuk as it sped through the Bangkok streets-weaving in and out of red and yellow taxis, motorbikes, and buses-towards the hospital, Saengdao's screaming mother its only passenger.  Every so often, the tuk-tuk would run over a frog and a disquieting POP! would briefly silence the pregnant woman. 

Daw was usually very quiet and the tuk-tuk driver, a distant relative, was quite surprised at the obscenities she screamed at him, the rain, the frogs, the cars around them, and some man who, according to her, will burn in hell.

“You sound like a farang,” he shouted, swerving into the incoming traffic to pass the bus that blocked their path.  Daw continued screaming and cursing him for going so damned slow.  She was not having her child on the streets of Bangkok.

Daw had been born on a very starry night.  Her mother had been in Chiang Mai for the Songkran festival and had witnessed a shooting star as her water broke.  Daw was named in honor of that star; her mother always claimed that the shooting star was Daw’s soul flying down from heaven to enter her unborn body.  The Christians had gotten to Daw’s mother when the first blue eyed missionary knocked on her door, Bible in hand.  It was that very blue eyed missionary, whose name has long been lost, who planted his seed in Daw’s mother while only God watched.  Daw’s mother always claimed that his blue eyes were hidden behind his daughter’s deep black ones, peering out, waiting.  It was in Saengdao that they were unveiled and rather unwelcomed.

            Daw named her daughter before she saw her.  So convinced was she that the small child would be a replica of herself, a chance to start over and change her destiny, she named her Saengdao, Starlight.  But when the baby opened her startling blue eyes and wailed, Daw pushed her away.  “She is not my daughter.  Bring me another.”

            The nurses chuckled and pushed the baby back towards.  “Come, this is Saengdao, the child you bore.”

            “She is a farang,” she spat out, teeth clinched.  "Just look at her eyes.  She is not blood of my blood."

            “They will turn black, just as pretty as yours,” they assured.

            But Daw knew better.  Those eyes belonged to the white man who’d promised her America before making her bleed and putting a baby in her belly.  Clint had been exploring business options with Kenan Institute Asia and had quite literally tripped over Daw while attempting to board the ferry.  They'd had a whirlwind of a romance.

         Daw had ridden with him to the airport when he departed.  He’d kissed her openly and it had excited her.  She'd hoped he'd ask her to join him and waited expectantly as his flight was called.  “I’ll come back soon,” he’d shouted over his shoulder as he walked briskly away from her.

            Daw had memorized his flight schedule.  Bangkok to Seoul - two hour lay-over.  Maybe he'd call.  Seoul to Tokyo - twenty minute lay-over; part of her hoped he'd miss the connection.  Tokyo to Chicago.  She knew he’d go through customs here and hoped that the hour lay-over was enough time to make his Chicago to Raleigh, North Carolina flight.  She went home, his flight numbers scribbled on the back of a postcard she’d bought at the airport. He'd scribbled his phone number on it as well.  She clutched the postcard, tracing his writing with her finger, and listening to BBC.  If his plane crashed, she’d know it.  She sat in front of the TV for over twenty-four hours, only getting up to relieve herself and let the cat in when its meowing grew incessant.  When Daw was positive that he had landed safe in North Carolina, she tucked the postcard into her Bible and went down the street corner to get some noodles.  She was starving.

      She'd called him when she missed her cycle and the test confirmed her suspicions.  She hung up when his wife answered.  She decided then that the child she carried, her star light, would be her chance to shine.  But the little bastard came into the world in a hurry with blue eyes and her own plan.

Sick as a dog

So I've been battling a wicked cold for over a week.  I finally went to the doctor's today. Result? Acute sinusitis.  Now I have antibiotics and hydrocodone cough syrup. (Trust me... I had to push for the syrup. Codeine makes me itchy. The pearls don't help me sleep. This is truly all that works and about once every 2 years, I request it. The doc today initially refused. Take Codeine, he urged. Apparently he was more concerned about me possibly being addicted to hydrocodone and a pill hunter than the fact I cannot take Codeine. Maybe the fact I coughed up a lung in his office supported my claim.  Even so, don't people use Codeine in a similar way? I mean, why was he pushing it on me?!?!) Here's hoping I start feeling better soon. (See my Snorlax? He is my get well charm!) I dislike not breathing and 5 boxes of Kleenex in and my nose is raw. 

When one resolves to blog every day, there's bound to be some mundane boring entries.  Sorry, dear reader, my brain is too foggy for quality.

In entirely unrelated news, they're calling for snow Saturday! Oh for a snow day with a book in a cozy nook!

In the realm of what I read today comes.... drug interactions! OK, I'd intended to read before bed but the syrup gives me dumb-face and I don't retain well.  Allende must be savored!

Is the 6th Circuit decision worth barking over?

A December 19th, a decision came down from the 6th Circuit that had dog-lovers country-wide expressing their outrage.  Brown v. Battle Creek Police Department No. 16-1575 (6th Cir. 2016) (Full Opinion Available Here) had dog-lovers barking mad as social media exploded over the case.  But did Brown v. Battle Creek Police Dept. really change existing law?

A dog is property.  I don't care how "trendy" the hashtag #furkids is or what a multi-million billon dollar industry the pet industry is.  (True story - it surpassed 60 billion last year.)  Either way you shake it, a dog is legally property and the Constitution of the United States protects its citizens from unreasonable governmental seizures of property.  (Killing is seizing for these purposes.)  It all boils down to reasonableness.  The majority, if not all, of the circuits have addressed the killing seizing of personal pets and they have all focused on the reasonableness of the action.

It is this "reasonableness" that makes me barking mad.  Some courts use the breed of the dog to justify the actions.  In particular, Altman v. City of High Point (a 2003 4th Circuit case) placed a lot of emphasis on dog breed in determining that the shooting of dogs running at large was reasonable and therefore justified.  The breed?  Pit bulls.  Altman, cited for persuasive purposes in Brown v. Battle Creek, opines that pit bulls are "a dangerous breed of dog."  The dog referred to in Altman was Hot Rod, who was only half-pit according to the opinion.  Hot Rod had not attacked anyone.  Despite this, the court concluded that "Officer Moxley attempted to and succeeded in killing the animal, thereby removing, for all Moxley knew, a potentially dangerous pit bull from the public streets."  (Emphasis mine.)

Now this is the kind of language to get riled up about - NOT the fact that officers can kill dogs.  Brown v.  Battle Creek used the language of Altman as one of the reasons the shooting of two pit bulls was justified.  The court's reliance on this argument is misplaced as Breed Specific Legislation has failed time and time again.  Particular breeds are not inherently dangerous and should not be viewed as such.  Any breed can be dangerous; dogs are animals.

Furthermore, Brown v. Battle Creek cites the dog owner's criminal history, gang affiliations, and the type of drugs they were seeking as reasons that killing the dogs was reasonable.  I'm sorry - say what? So because the owner is a criminal, the dog is clearly a threat?  This makes little sense.

 Reasonableness in killing a dog hinges on whether the dog poses an imminent threat.  Brown doesn't change that.  But is it reasonable that in determining whether a dog poses an imminent threat that the owner's background be considered?  That the breed be a deciding factor?  In this instance, despite reports indicating the dogs were "barking" and allegedly "lunging," I'm not entirely convinced the dogs could not have been otherwise "seized" in a manner that would not have resulted in their deaths, and the court's reliance on out-dated breed specific logic and the owner's criminal background makes me question the "reasonableness" of the officer's actions.

*Photo is of my own "half-pit" dangerous dog.

A Fresh Start

"New Year's Day... now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions.  Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual."   - Mark Twain

It's no secret that 2016 was one painful series of sunsets.  I lost count of the number of talented stars who had their lights extinguished, not to mention the number of innocent  lives taken in systematic racism and violence.  The Presidential Election of 2016 was quite possibly one of the most painful, embarrassing and devastating pile of poo to come out of the year.  On the personal side of things, I suffered one blow after another after another.  But here we are in 2017 and still we rise.  The smoke of last night's fireworks is but a faint smell in the air - farewell, 2016.

Resolutions have always been something I afford little significance.  Words, though quite powerful, are oft shown to be quite empty.  Resolutions are those empty albeit well-meaning words.  But maybe this year will be different.  Maybe this is the year I'm different.  Scratch that - I know I'm different this year - you don't walk through fire without a few scars, eh.  So let's put some weight to these words and force them to ring true.

1) I resolve to write Every. Single. Day.  (In this very blog!  Oh what lucky readers you are!!)
2) I resolve to read Every. Single. Day. (Even if it's just a sentence.  A paragraph.  A chapter. A novella. A novel.  Shoot... give me a nice tome on a snowy day and see what happens!  I will track these attempts in the blog entries as well.  Accountability and what not.  Facebook posts DO NOT COUNT. - On a related note, I resolve to resurrect Musings of  Bookslut)
3) I resolve to bring my query total to 100.  No more. No less.  I will query 100.
4) I resolve to sign with an agent or I will self-publish.  End. of. Story.
5) I resolve to cook more.  (Example... tonight I made tom khai gai... from scratch)

These are 5 simple (and do-able) resolutions. Bring it 2017...  I see you.  Let's do this.



***
01/01/2017  - What did I read today?!?!?!

Today, I reread for probably the 25th time Christina Rossetti's "The Goblin Market."  I'm not one who frequently turns to poetry, but this poem has vibrantly lived in my head for many a year now.  My favorite part?

"No," said Lizzie, "No, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us."
She thrust a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering a each merchant man.
One had a cat's face,
One whisk'd a tail,
One tramp'd at a rat's pace,
One crawl'd like a snail,
One like a wombat prowl'd obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry.
She heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather."