I’ve never heard the original, just a cover, but the song is beautiful.

“Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings where our loved ones shine down to let us know they are happy.”

RIP Kenny.

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, “My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all. One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego. The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked, “Which wolf wins?” The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

Leave out all the rest

(Linkin Park)

I haven’t really lost anyone super close to me.  My grandfather, yes, but I was 15 years old.  Too young to really appreciate what a great man he was, and what I’d lost.  It’s only now, as an adult, that I realize that.  Especially last year, when I went to Ireland.  I wish I could have shared that experience with him.  It was his homeland, after all, and he was the reason I went there in the first place.

This past Tuesday, the mother of one of my best friends died.  She was very ill, for a very long time, so it wasn’t really a huge surprise, but still.  It’s been strange.  I’ve always been quite sensitive.  So these things tend to tear me up a bit, even though it doesn’t directly affect me.  I guess I just feel for my friends.  It’s strange, because another of my very close friends mother passed away some years back.  It was very, very fast.  This time it was long and drawn out and horrible.  Neither experience seems any easier.

I feel melancholy, and a little lost.  I want to be there for my friend, and I am.  But we all know that the days immediately following a death are insane and busy and crazy.  She doesn’t really need me right now.  I’m sure she will in the future though, and I’ll be there.

And of course these kinds of situations make you examine your own life, in ways that aren’t always comfortable.  It’s so strange and indescribable.  I find myself tearing up at times, and it probably seems strange to people.  It’s a little weird to be so emotionally…sympathetic.

And it came to me then that every plan
Is a tiny prayer to father time
As I stared at my shoes in the ICU
That reeked of piss and 409
And I rationed my breaths as I said to myself
That I’ve already taken too much today
As each descending peak on the LCD
Took you a little farther away from me
Away from me

So who’s gonna watch you die? So whos gonna watch you die?

(Death Cab For Cutie)

Facing death she has invited a young amateur biographer to hear the truth of her life tale. Intrigued, said biographer (Margaret), comes to know Ms. Winters very well, guessing at the secrets in her past.

I read this book relatively quickly, as these things go recently. I took me two half days, made easier by having the large print version. It was also a quick read, in and of itself — not too mired down in its own seriousness, full of just enough intrigue to keep you turning the page.

**Minor Spoilers below **

The resolution of Ms. Winter’s story was relatively surprising on two levels, her own identity, which I did not guess outright until it was stated (though I had certainly caught the foreshadowing and hints) as well as the reality behind Emmeline. That, I never would have guessed at. Indeed I’m not even sure why it was included, as that twist seemed entirely unnecessary.

Indeed there were a few plot twists that seemed unnecessary — Margaret’s twinness, for one. Setterfield, it seems, wanted to mash as many twists and turns into this story as she could. She handles most of it well, even some of the stories that seem unnecessary keep you wanting to know more (see: Aurielius). But there are a lot of intertwining of relationships that are in the book just to have one more twist.

That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it. On the contrary, I enjoyed it immensely. I was surprised. Part of what drew me in were the descriptions from both Margaret and Vida about books, stories and reading. They felt very real, obviously written by someone who has enjoyed reading immensely.

This particular bit rings the most true for me, and it is when I knew I would forgive the book all its faults based solely on the fact that Setterfield (via Margaret) expressed something I have felt for a long time:

I have read at every stage of my life, and there has never been a time when it was not my greatest joy. And yet I cannot pretend that the reading I have done in my adult years matches in its impact on my soul the reading I did as a child. I still believe in stories. I still forget myself when I am in the middle of a good book. Yet it is not the same. Books are, for me, it must be said, the most important thing; what I cannot forget is that there was a time when they were at once more banal and more essential than that. When I was a child books were everything. And so there is in me, always, a nostalgic yearning for the lost pleasure of books. It is not a yearning one ever expects to be fulfilled.

In the end it feels like The Thirteenth Tale is just a well-written VC Andrews tale — instead of being told in the present it is a long-done history.

In that book which is
My memory
On the first page
Of the chapter
That is the day when
I first met you
Appear the words . . .
“Here begins a new life”

- Dante, as reimagined by Star Trek, believe it or not.

Someday I want to say this to someone and mean it.

(The real translation is thus: “In that part of the book of my memory before which is little that can be read, there is a rubric, saying, ‘Incipit Vita Nova’.”)

“God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of the players, (ie everybody), to being involved in an obscure and complex version of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won’t tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.”

Journalist: So why do you create these strong women characters?

Joss Wedon: Why are you even asking me this? How is it possible that this is even a question, honestly? Seriously, why did you write that down? Why aren’t you asking a hundred other guys why they don’t write strong women characters? I believe that what I’m doing should not be remarked upon let alone honoured. …. Journalist: So why do you write these strong women characters? Joss: Because you’re still asking me that question. Awesome.