tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66420178962735323972024-03-13T11:16:23.110-07:00mental wayfarermental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.comBlogger145125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-63414702430388750772013-05-12T10:59:00.000-07:002013-05-12T10:59:02.445-07:00In The Grip of Grace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-26TZTvjbiqc/UY_YBaYl9KI/AAAAAAAAAc4/R_eH0TYWJO4/s1600/in+the+grip+of+grace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-26TZTvjbiqc/UY_YBaYl9KI/AAAAAAAAAc4/R_eH0TYWJO4/s400/in+the+grip+of+grace.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I've always imagined grace as ephemeral, drifting light as a feather, settling peacefully on someone's shoulder. Or around him, unnoticed. Or seen, but not recognized. Maybe even shrugged off.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But I think "in the grip of grace" has a ring of truth to it. It's an assertion of existence, a shameless declaration of being. Because there is grace, wherever you look.<br /><br />There is grace in loneliness. When you are with no one but your thoughts, in the silence you recognize your own voice and discover that being by yourself isn't so bad after all, and that you are not truly, not ever, alone.<br /><br />There is grace in broken relationships. When you try and put a number on how much you've given of yourself, how many times you've cried in anger and frustration and hurt, you get to the point where you count how many times you've almost given up but didn't and you realize how strong you really are.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">There is grace in unfulfilled dreams. When you grieve over those wasted years that you feel amounted to nothing and you call to mind the faces of the people you love whom you've disappointed, you realize that they believe in you because they see something there, and they love you anyway even if there wasn't.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">There is grace in pain. When you feel that nothing, nothing, nothing could feel worse, you wonder how you could possibly still be alive, why you can still stand up and, despite not knowing where to go from where you fell, you find that you can still walk on, move forward, if you just put one foot in front of the other.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">She stands in your path and looks you square in the eye. She grabs you by the shoulders and whispers, <i>Here I am. Look at me. I am grace.</i></span><br />
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<i>(photo by Julie De Leon)</i>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-16567415966197986102013-05-11T15:00:00.003-07:002013-05-11T15:10:05.604-07:00When I say I love You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NskvBr7sKpo/UY6-xf_GRZI/AAAAAAAAAcg/4fPjybnx6xg/s1600/old+couple+on+bench.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NskvBr7sKpo/UY6-xf_GRZI/AAAAAAAAAcg/4fPjybnx6xg/s400/old+couple+on+bench.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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When I say "I love you," I give you a gift.<br />
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I give you a dagger. I point to my heart and say, "Here. This is where you can hurt me."<br />
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And I wait.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>(photo by Julie De Leon)</i></span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-997394889716865412013-05-10T04:27:00.000-07:002013-05-10T04:29:00.387-07:00"Do I Make You Proud?"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CZtJPVEySRc/UYzYlh0ih8I/AAAAAAAAAcE/nnpDVSINIgM/s1600/may+9+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CZtJPVEySRc/UYzYlh0ih8I/AAAAAAAAAcE/nnpDVSINIgM/s400/may+9+001.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The piece of sky above the trees in the distance have turned from dark to a dull grey-blue. I scan the expanse, searching for my mother's spirit, knowing she's nowhere there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Eleven hours ago, I was at the book launch of Motherhood Statements-- a collection of essays on mothers, motherhood and mothering-- where a piece I wrote is included. I was giddy. My first published essay! Friends and family came to show their support, their presence a gesture of unwavering faith and maybe even relief that finally-- finally!-- I've accomplished something that deserved their pride. My joy was great, but not quite complete.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I thought of my mother. My piece in the anthology was about her, after all, and about our long and painful relationship together. I thought of what she would have worn to the event, how uncomfortable she would have felt around the people who attended, how she would have been thinking that I wasn't dressed appropriately, and how this young writer Mookie, who read an excerpt from her essay, was so pretty and confident and had already achieved so much while I, her own daughter...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">In the 1999 movie The Sixth Sense, my favorite scene was towards the end, when Haley Joel Osment's character finally admitted to his mom (played by Toni Collette) that he could see and speak to the dead. He said that he spoke to his grandmother, who told him that her answer to his mom's question was, "Always." When Haley Joel Osment asked his mom what the question had been, she replied: "Do I make you proud?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">At 42 and more than 5 years after my mom's death, I still measure my worth by her standards. I can still feel the shadow of her eyes burning through my skin-- watching me, appraising me-- and the cluck of her tongue, accompanied by a disapproving shake of her head, is almost audible. None of my children see dead people (thank goodness) and I am not courageous enough to stand by my mother's grave to ask whatever part of her that's left beneath that headstone if I make her proud, with any degree of confidence that the response would not be painful to hear.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">It has been a challenge to break free from her opinion of me. Every Mother's Day, I offer her the gift of my perseverance to be better than she thought me capable.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">To love myself as I deserve, that's my gift to myself.</span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-17288590168286128432013-04-30T06:39:00.001-07:002013-04-30T06:39:39.674-07:00How to Train A Woman<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tM4jZe_vgQ4/UX_JD6LTapI/AAAAAAAAAbo/g410xUJKJec/s1600/neanderthal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tM4jZe_vgQ4/UX_JD6LTapI/AAAAAAAAAbo/g410xUJKJec/s400/neanderthal.jpg" width="387" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">If you want to own her and keep her,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Read the lines below;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">They are tried and tested tricks</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">That every man should know.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Jane or Susie or Meg-- call her what you will</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It should make no difference to you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Call her Dull or Shallow or Dumb,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As long as she comes running when you do.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Ask her questions, feed her the answers</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Snort when she offers an opinion;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">You're always right, you explain to her,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">That's your idea of a conversation.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Buy her no flowers, give her no gifts,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Utter no praise for a good deed;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Compare her weaknesses to her mother's and say:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The plant grows but from the seed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">When she gets upset, as she sometimes will,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Sit back and enjoy the silence;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">If she speaks up when she's had her fill,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Sweet talk her back into obedience.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Laud her at your dinner parties,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Commend her for the things she's done--</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But make sure she knows she owes you</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">When all of the guests have gone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Frown at her curiosity and her wandering soul,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Emphasize that her place is by her man;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">That no one but you will forgive her faults,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Though if she wants to leave, she can.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Tell her that people are fickle, and people are cruel,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">That they don't love her as much as she thinks they do;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Tell her that friendships are ridiculous</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Because all she really needs is you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Encourage her to chase her dreams</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But make it clear you've sacrificed your own;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Her conscience will keep her from doubting</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The selfless action that you've shown.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Do still be sweet on her,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Don't disparage her all the time--</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">for if the victim is a willing one</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Where, then, is the crime?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">If you want to own her and keep her,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Follow the advice above;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">That's how you train a woman...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Unless you're looking for love.</span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-13948814063805872472013-04-25T11:20:00.000-07:002013-04-25T11:20:10.959-07:00Fallen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XgQSMwj-5js/UXlzYKctpuI/AAAAAAAAAbQ/Q_Hwg_yAE8I/s1600/airport+Joney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XgQSMwj-5js/UXlzYKctpuI/AAAAAAAAAbQ/Q_Hwg_yAE8I/s320/airport+Joney.jpg" width="311" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> the one you didn't meet</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the smile you didn't return</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the name you didn't ask</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the date you didn't set</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the conversation you didn't have</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the laughter you didn't share</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the stories you didn't tell</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the next dates you didn't plan</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the trips you didn't take</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the sunsets you didn't watch</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the emails you didn't exchange</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the hand you didn't hold</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the kisses you didn't steal</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the warmth you didn't miss</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the sleeping face you didn't memorize</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the intimacy you didn't know</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>the love you didn't risk</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>fallen...</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>without ever leaving the ground</i></span></span><br />
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<i>(photo by Julie De Leon)</i>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-23596189397474035732013-04-22T23:00:00.003-07:002013-06-24T19:53:27.049-07:00What he'd done<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xHAF2R55z0E/UXYi5s2-3oI/AAAAAAAAAYs/RN20HxZ19aU/s1600/lamp+beside+bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xHAF2R55z0E/UXYi5s2-3oI/AAAAAAAAAYs/RN20HxZ19aU/s320/lamp+beside+bed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You told him about that night<span style="font-size: small;">.<br /><br />That time when you went out drinking with <span style="font-size: small;">co-workers on a Friday night. When you came back to your table after a trip to the <span style="font-size: small;">powder room to find only one<span style="font-size: small;"> male co-worker there. How he explained that the others <span style="font-size: small;">wanted to go home already and could you hang around long enough for him to finish another beer? How you felt dizzy and couldn't remember anything from the time you blacked out until you found yourself in the motel room. How he had talked to you in his soft, sweet voice. W<span style="font-size: small;">hat he'd done despite your tears, your pleading. How you wished he'd be merciful and kill you. How you knew he wasn't man <span style="font-size: small;">enough even for that. How you wanted to kill him but discovered that cowardice wasn't exclusive to asshole<span style="font-size: small;">s. What self-loathing<span style="font-size: small;"> you had to endure. What it took to get up every morning and drag your body to work. How you froze up <span style="font-size: small;">each time you saw him. How he would smile and sit casually on your desk. Why you couldn't get up, walk away, scream at him, slap him. When you started noticing that people were staring at you. When you started hearing muted mutterings about you. How some of the men began talking to you with new-found interest, even familiarity. How the women looked at you with envy or superiority, or worse, pity. What went on in the cavity of your chest as you carried on, day after day after day after day.<br /><br /><br />You told him, because he <span style="font-size: small;">said he <span style="font-size: small;">was your friend<span style="font-size: small;">. Then he said "I'm sorry," maybe for the transgression of a brother. "I<span style="font-size: small;"> understand," he added, though how he could was beyond you. What he didn't do was hold your hand or take you in his arms. And in your mind you were walking away.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">(photo by Julie De Leon)</span></i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-90958079201086163672013-03-31T01:39:00.001-07:002013-03-31T01:46:28.787-07:00Flowers<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-shmZ3MDmgmk/UVf1xz7g0kI/AAAAAAAAAYU/awUBKJutIlE/s1600/paper+roses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-shmZ3MDmgmk/UVf1xz7g0kI/AAAAAAAAAYU/awUBKJutIlE/s400/paper+roses.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Her hands were a tribute to her work: they were rough, callused, perpetually stained with ink or paint or contact bond. They've been bruised and cut and chafed and nicked and scalded and pierced and skinned in spots.<br /><br />They did not look like a woman's hands at all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">On her worktable, a big black notebook lay open to a blank page; sharpened 4B pencils, a worn eraser, calligraphy pens, bottles of ink, tubes of acrylic paint, and paintbrushes were scattered around it, like a coven worshipping fire.<br /><br />She sighed. Sometimes she wished that the table held nothing but a bunch of flowers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>(photo by Julie De Leon) </i></span></span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-36891743549703089742013-03-29T13:09:00.002-07:002013-03-29T13:09:19.438-07:00Void<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ylFA3OqKFn8/UVXzxjRwYUI/AAAAAAAAAYE/ZN-vnX-apPA/s1600/lone+man+paddling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ylFA3OqKFn8/UVXzxjRwYUI/AAAAAAAAAYE/ZN-vnX-apPA/s400/lone+man+paddling.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The first time she noticed it, it was the space on her back, right below her nape.<br /><br />She was peeling carrots then, using a big knife that wasn't designed for the task but it was the only knife she could find that was sharp enough. It was blistering in the kitchen. She had her hair up in a bun some recalcitrant strands too stubborn to be restrained. It itched in places where they fell on her bare shoulders, except for that spot on her back, below her nape. There, it felt strangely empty, lacking--like a limb had been severed and it haunted her still.<br /><br />Another time, she was in a cafe, under a big green umbrella that offered no real shade. Her coffee lay neglected on the small table in front of her; a brew of watered down battery acid. She took a long drag from her cigarette, shifting her gaze from the book in her hand to the chair to her left. For an instant, it surprised her that it was empty, though she came alone and was expecting no company. What affected her was not so much the empty seat but the consciousness that the space next to her arm was cooler than anywhere else around her body, as if a warmth had occupied that space until that moment, had shielded her and vanished, leaving her unprotected and vulnerable.<br /><br />She became more aware of these sensate impressions--in the car with her kids, out on the porch waiting for her morning coffee to kick in, at her desk while she worked--rifts in the synapses of her routine. Oddly, she did not question the existence of these sensations. They were familiar, somehow; recent memories whose images had faded beyond recognition.<br /><br />Until that evening.<br /><br />She was in a cab, stuck in rush-hour traffic. She closed her eyes, trying to drown out the horrid music being spewed out by the cab's radio with mindless musings. Then, she felt it. Real. Intimate. Comforting. The void took the form of a familiar hand, warm around her own, and on her cheek, stroking it.<br /><br />She wept.</span><br /><br /><i>(photo by Julie De Leon)</i>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-50229003004612556842011-12-27T21:12:00.000-08:002011-12-27T21:14:29.429-08:00For Tito Bert, because you are loved......<i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">and will be terribly missed</i>.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jcJDwRWh2Cw/Tvqk8UDxzeI/AAAAAAAAAV8/vJdN8Detgyk/s1600/ink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jcJDwRWh2Cw/Tvqk8UDxzeI/AAAAAAAAAV8/vJdN8Detgyk/s320/ink.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was thinking of writing about you, but words fail me. I thought maybe drawing you would be easier.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The composition will be in black and white and varying shades of gray. You don’t need an assorted nor ostentatious display of color to be interesting. A tinge of gray gradating into a darker, more solid hue, as if from innocence to maturity. The shadows of youth, not lost, but tucked into the sobriety of age.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I will start with a rough sketch. Tentative lines to achieve a desired end—an exercise in dreaming and believing. A journey of faith.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There will be lines that are casually drawn, as if taking a piece of charcoal and sweeping it across a grainy surface, the tiny valleys of the paper left unmarked. A passage, from one point to another, leaving your imprint on the path taken but conspicuously bare where you do not tread. The flourish says, <i>here I am, and this is where I have chosen to go</i>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There will be bold strokes, like lines on flesh, showing purpose and confidence. Etched around the mouth for a life spent in laughter, on the forehead for the wisdom of experience, between the brows for earnestness, and around the eyes—left by images perceived and fathomed, by visions dreamed and realized—crinkling at the corners in affirmation.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There is no need to draw the full face, only parts of it, like it’s unfinished. A life well lived but not lived out. Some lines still need to be drawn over, broken lines connected or filled in. I think it’s beautiful like that the drawing, the man. They are the same, neither lacking in character. In fact, to accept the flaws, to embrace the incompleteness shows, I believe, strengthe of character.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">With every shaft of light, a shadow is cast. Black and negative space. But the word <i>negative</i> is somehow incongruous for a drawing of you. I’d like to think of it as clean, crisp white that triumphs over black. So there will be more white which, in all its purity, inspires its audience.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The picture will show the perpetual kind smile that is a Tito Bert trademark. The line of the neck almost graceful, belying competence and loyalty. The eyes that—though crinkled with joy—are gleaming with sensitivity, understanding and sincerity, twinkling with a touch of playfulness.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Still, it’s not enough. I cannot show with any number of lines or experiments with tone and texture my gratitude for all that you have given me: fatherly love which I was too proud to accept I needed, much less ask for, but that you have generously showered me; your faith in me and what you believe I can achieve when I am filled with doubt; and the gift of family, through Gretch. Gretch, who is the sister of my heart. My friend, my ally, my hero, my sounding board. The warmth to my objectivity, the logic to my confusion, the fresh perspective to my sometimes one-track mind. And, from the time I was 20 until now, at 40, my best friend in the whole world. You gave me all these, touching my life in a most profound way.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I would draw you or write about you if I could, but I’m not so talented as to do you justice. I can only try. I will, however, wish you a happy, blessed and memorable 75<sup>th</sup> birthday, along with the whole of my heart, and pray that it finds its way to you.</span></div>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-25203966187822400992011-05-11T19:46:00.000-07:002011-05-13T13:46:45.839-07:00Dying for Chocolate: Whodunit #9<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tq1wieJG0aA/TctR5ulpm_I/AAAAAAAAAVw/ytf9Jn5_i0g/s1600/biscotti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tq1wieJG0aA/TctR5ulpm_I/AAAAAAAAAVw/ytf9Jn5_i0g/s320/biscotti.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Dying for Chocolate is a book in Diane Mott Davidson's culinary mystery series about Goldy Bear (yes, that's the name of the main character and, no, this is not a fairy tale): newly divorced from an abusive husband, desperately trying to be a good mom, working to keep her fledgling catering business afloat, and solving a mystery to boot. Busy woman.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In Dying for Chocolate, Goldy, with her son Arch in tow, is forced to move into the house of Bo and Adele Farquhar in the exclusive Aspen Meadow Country Club as a live-in cook while she has a security system installed in her own home following an incident involving her violent ex-husband. Aside from cooking the Farquhars' meals, she also accepts catering jobs like the fundraising events that keep Adele busy, and intimate themed dinners for their neighbors, the Harringtons.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When Philip Miller, a wealthy psychologist she is dating, dies in a mysterious car accident, Goldy wonders who is responsible for his death. Is it her ex-husband, who might have been driven by jealousy? Philip's sister, who is dependent on him financially and possibly the heir to all his fortune? Weezie Harrington, who is rumored to be having an affair with Philip? Or is it Julian Teller, a quiet, troubled college student who is also Philip's patient?</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The novel is interesting in that recipes of dishes Goldy prepares in the story are included between chapters. Maybe to cleanse the palate, to break the monotony of a pretty dry storytelling, or to help the reader imagine how tired, busy and frustrated Goldy must have been, for example, when she dropped a cake she was about to serve and which took her four hours to make.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I thought it was predictable as all the clues suggest that almost all of the characters may be the murderer-- all but one. This character seems to have no motive and a lot of convenient alibis. The fact that the reader's attention is deliberately being drawn away from him (or her) makes it all the more obvious that he (or she) is the villain.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I love the Amelia Peabody mysteries by Elizabeth Peters and the Jack Reacher novels by Lee Child, because both Amelia and Jack are thinking characters. Though they have their share of luck-- as when they stumble upon clues, or when they are rescued from particularly sticky situations-- it plays no part in unraveling the mystery. I was disappointed by Goldy because, had the villain not admit to the murder, she would have been clueless to the very end. And she was impossibly lucky, too. When she was poisoned by cantharidin, along with her massively-built, fit and healthy cop friend, it was fortunate that its effect on her 5-foot, overworked, undernourished, caffeine-loaded, stressed body was so minimal and short-lived that she was still able to come to the aid of her cop friend (who was reduced to a helpless, immobile, useless, groaning heap on the bathroom floor) and drive several miles to rescue her son who was drowning in the school swimming pool (and just in the nick of time, too).</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I have not read any of Davidson's other books, and I admit to being discouraged by Dying for Chocolate, but she does cook up the most appetizing titles: The Last Supper, The Grilling Season, Killer Pancake and The Cereal Murders (my personal favorite), to name a few. Though it would probably be fun to see what recipes are included in her other books, I, however, am not looking forward to the mystery part.</span><br />
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(<i>image from</i> <a href="http://www.sabong.net.ph/forum/showthread.php?t=23931&page=54">http://www.sabong.net.ph/forum/showthread.php?t=23931&page=54</a>)mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-63534812030253525672011-05-02T06:18:00.000-07:002011-05-02T06:18:56.671-07:00Confessions of a Deathmaiden: Whodunit #8<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-siZ5zOSw2cc/Tb6vLKG-4NI/AAAAAAAAAVs/Pe2X3UDkCi0/s1600/confessions+of+a+deathmaiden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-siZ5zOSw2cc/Tb6vLKG-4NI/AAAAAAAAAVs/Pe2X3UDkCi0/s1600/confessions+of+a+deathmaiden.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Tomas Gomez was in a coma. He was sent home by the Abbot-Kinney Medical Center to wait for his death. He was only a little boy and he was not ready to die.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Frances Oliver had four years of training at the Institute for Eternal Living and was called to assist with Tomas Gomez. Her job-- similar to that of a midwife who assists during childbirth-- was to help the dying cross over. But when she met the brain-dead Mexican boy with the sloping forehead, she saw his future, his wife, his children. It was not his time to die.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As a deathmaiden, Frances could not be too attached to a patient. But Tomas was only ten, and she felt that he was cheated of living a full life by someone, and that person had used her. As she set forth to uncover who was responsible, she finds her own life threatened as she gets closer and closer to the truth. Her quest takes her from modern L.A. deep into the heart of Mexico where the ancient Tarascan tribe lives-- their religious practice of cannibalism holding the key to the unraveling of a complicated, exciting and adventure-filled mystery.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Confessions of a Deathmaiden is thrilling and thought-provoking, pushing the reader to re-evaluate his beliefs about life, death and what really matters, mixing fact and fiction in a seamlessly-woven novel.</span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-26542346551297460472011-05-02T06:08:00.000-07:002011-05-02T06:08:42.157-07:00Plum Spooky: Whodunit #7<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5SqiL_8snMQ/Tb6suokrTPI/AAAAAAAAAVo/UYzzmcZzOAo/s1600/plum-spooky-big.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5SqiL_8snMQ/Tb6suokrTPI/AAAAAAAAAVo/UYzzmcZzOAo/s1600/plum-spooky-big.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">For several years now, the Stephanie Plum series has been my go-to material for when real life humor is elusive, for those times when I need to rest my gray matter after reading a particularly draining novel, or for when I'm feeling inordinately stupid and need to feel smart.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Stephanie Plum is a Jersey bounty hunter, though not a very good one. In a city where even the little old ladies pack thirty-eights, she goes after her skips-- those offenders out on bail who, as bond enforcer, Stephanie is supposed to bring in to re-schedule when they miss their court dates-- armed only with pepper spray and a defective stun gun. She fumbles along unequipped with skills for bond enforcement but manages to hang on to the job through sheer pigheadedness and desperation, as her only other alternative is to concede unemployment and move back in with her parents. Her minor successes at work are largely due to luck, stubbornness, the workings of a divine being with a sense of humor and, often, with many thanks to Ranger, her own personal deus ex machina who pops up, clad in black and driving a shiny new SUV to rescue her from whatever sticky and embarrassing situation she gets herself into. If anything, Stephanie is accomplished at having trouble find her.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In Plum Spooky, she finds herself in the company of a finger-flipping monkey named Carl, chases after boy genius Martin Munch-- who was arrested for breaking his boss' nose with a Dunkin' Donuts mug and stealing a magnetometer from the lab where he works-- after he fails to show up for his court date, comes face to face with the frightening and dangerous Wulf Grimoire who kills without remorse and disappears theatrically in a puff of smoke, and rides shotgun with Diesel, over 6 feet of stunning, hard-muscled male who is also after Wulf.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As in each of the Stephanie Plum books, the plot is not too complicated, the suspense is not too exciting, the twists are never unpredictable and the bad guys are always caught in the end. But I love Janet Evanovich's smart-talking characters, Stephanie's drool-worthy paramours, the main characters' outrageous adventures and their firm belief that jelly doughnuts solve most of the day's problems. I couldn't agree more.</span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-25182624395580913122011-04-13T04:53:00.000-07:002011-04-13T04:53:28.150-07:00Underhanded<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7FJIDSkhAIE/TaWOdXwGcfI/AAAAAAAAAVk/FTok-QsXpDk/s1600/fatherofbride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7FJIDSkhAIE/TaWOdXwGcfI/AAAAAAAAAVk/FTok-QsXpDk/s320/fatherofbride.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He positions himself at the back, silent an unobtrusive. A black bag lay at his feet containing the tools of his trade. He observes.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There were about a hundred people milling about in the room, excluding the wait staff. Among them were the wealthy, dripping elegantly in gold and pearls. Hobnobbing with them were those who, though of comparable and luxurious means, lacked the confident air of those who were born into money. They wore huge, dazzling pieces of jewelry that defied all the rules of symmetry, suitability and classic style. For him, the former were easier preys: relaxed, unguarded, even foolish.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The room was big and allowed him to move about freely. Several tea lights were nestled on each of the twelve round tables spread out across the dimly-lit room, for decoration as well as illumination. He takes note of the large windows and where they faced, the plain-looking doors that opened to a storeroom, the washrooms and the kitchen, and the main entrance where a couple of eagle-eyed personnel took their posts. What made him good at his job was his attention to detail, his sharpness at spotting an opportunity and his innate ability to stay focused despite a myriad distractions.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He picks up the black bag and sets it down carefully behind a decorative column to the left of the dance floor. He squats, reaches inside the bag and his hand closes around the cold metal apparatus. Checking, fitting, letting his hand get accustomed to its weight. He stands up, excitement building like liquid fire within him. He is ready. He looks around and finds his target. The father of the bride. A cunning businessman who turns everything he touches into gold. His presence commands respect, even fear, and he revels in it. He has just stepped into the room, his daughter a breathtaking vision on his arm. She leans closer and whispers something in his ear, and the stony mask of the businessman begins to crumble into a soft smile. The man behind the column sees his opportunity and aims. He might not get another shot.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It's these stolen moments of which he was most proud.</span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-65623934293140335232011-04-06T10:54:00.000-07:002011-04-06T10:54:38.814-07:00Small hands<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jaJUubBh1QY/TZyowZcj0FI/AAAAAAAAAVg/INfnXjJVPu4/s1600/hands+holding+candle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jaJUubBh1QY/TZyowZcj0FI/AAAAAAAAAVg/INfnXjJVPu4/s1600/hands+holding+candle.jpg" /></a></div><br />
They were small hands, like a child's, but dispossessed of their due grace and delicacy. They were rough and callused, the fingers gnarled like old tree roots. Greenish serpentine veins crawled on the back of the palms. The nails were clean, being perpetually soaked in laundry and dishwater, without polish or other signs of professional ministrations. They were hands that worked and, at rest, they trembled from years of neglect and being triflingly treated.<br />
<br />
A permanent depression had formed on the side of the middle finger, where it cradled a pen when writing or drawing. Some said that beautiful words and pictures were created by this hand, at no insignificant cost to the wielder.<br />
<br />
The hands curved down to surprisingly dainty wrists, one of which bore the marks of a troubled past. Streaks of thin, white scars that glistened when light grazed them, beautiful for their pain and passing.<br />
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The fingers curled, stiff with strain, and could not join palms in prayer.mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-72700024314780548862011-04-03T22:40:00.000-07:002011-04-03T22:40:49.998-07:00On Hallowed Ground<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MMP9D0uaOIE/TZlZwkd7WII/AAAAAAAAAVc/kKz0fu1TZoY/s1600/st-monica.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MMP9D0uaOIE/TZlZwkd7WII/AAAAAAAAAVc/kKz0fu1TZoY/s320/st-monica.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
A woman reading from a prayer book bought from a street hawker; the ascending rows of tea lights giving her face an eerie glow. Another dabbing a white handkerchief on the feet of a statue. An old man on his knees, head bowed and hands clasped in worship. A black-veiled lady looking up at the statute of Jesus on the cross, fingers rolling the rosary in her hand as she mumbled a prayer as mechanically as each flip of a bead. Every single one of them was alone, breathing the same air.<br />
<br />
Graven images looked down on them, their stares hard and cold as the benches on which the people sat. Shafts of light shone through the eyes of the saints painted on the colored glass windows and evoked guilt. A statue in ravaged wood towered over them, its hand in a gesture of mock benediction. One of a child, in robes of wine and gold, wearing an expression uncharacteristic of one so young. A mother cradling a baby in her arms, sculpted out of marble; the mother's eyes fixed lovingly on her child, unmindful of everyone else's supplication. An old woman in the somber tones of a nun's habit, limned with a forehead furrowed in desperate devotion, cheeks hollowed by restraint, hands clenched in prayer.<br />
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Human life imitates the saints. Flesh, wood, stone, glass or canvas: each its own medium of suffering and vanity.mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-77380968832156737902011-03-31T05:40:00.000-07:002011-03-31T05:40:29.422-07:00If you speak to her<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3BQSGvVEI-Y/TZR1qguhfdI/AAAAAAAAAVY/vtfA9sdmroY/s1600/asian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3BQSGvVEI-Y/TZR1qguhfdI/AAAAAAAAAVY/vtfA9sdmroY/s320/asian.jpg" width="273" /></a></div><br />
She sits at a corner table, her solitude emphasized by the accoutrements that form an invisible wall around her: a single coffee cup with dregs sitting idly at the bottom, a mobile phone that has remained silent the entire time she has been sitting there, a drab brown bag slung around an unoccupied chair adjacent to hers, a leather-bound notebook opened to a blank page. Her hand is poised to write, but her eyes stare absently at the chaos outside the window.<br />
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If you speak to her, she will hear, not your words, but your pity. She will hear the hundred other voices that have whispered harsh words behind her back. The voices that have made promises and broken them. Those that spat venom veiled in gracious words.<br />
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If you catch her eye, she will see, not your compassion, but your sympathy. And it will offend her. It took her a lifetime to inure and protect herself from cruelty. To feel nothing. Kindness is almost alien, and demonstration of it will confuse her.<br />
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You have to make her understand.<br />
<br />
You walk towards her and, before the sound of your footsteps reaches her, she gets up and walks away.<br />
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Out into the street, unchallenged.mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-44181268945930373332011-03-22T08:38:00.000-07:002011-03-22T08:38:29.824-07:00Star-crossed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-kFxAd_SPfO4/TYjCTkHZ5-I/AAAAAAAAAVU/sNC12BThiX8/s1600/2+stars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-kFxAd_SPfO4/TYjCTkHZ5-I/AAAAAAAAAVU/sNC12BThiX8/s320/2+stars.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Harsh white light flooded the room and the mirrors were not kind. She looked fat, the fabric of her slacks stretched unflatteringly around her hips and thighs. She wore her low-cut blouse that, though her friend from work said the color looked good on her, showed off a faint shadow of cleavage none too proudly. Over it, she covered her big arms and flabby midsection with a dark blazer. She leaned forward to inspect her reflection, dismayed at her lackluster hair that was a tad too short and failed to hide her thick neck. <i>Can't do anything about that now</i>, she thought, as she made a last attempt to conceal the dark circles under her eyes with powder. A friend had set her up on a blind date and, if her date was punctual, he should already be waiting for her at the table he reserved.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Smile</i>, she reminded herself, walking across the lobby to the restaurant.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He looked up. He saw a girl whose smile lit up the whole room, and she walked right past his table.</span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-21238583857001047852011-03-19T07:08:00.001-07:002011-03-19T07:08:46.853-07:00Solo Dining<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-x6Kf2jhnJgY/TYS4mYyQRZI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/vmQTMvquX30/s1600/avocado+whip_edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-x6Kf2jhnJgY/TYS4mYyQRZI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/vmQTMvquX30/s320/avocado+whip_edited.jpg" width="140" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She was cooking for one tonight. Maybe a pasta dish and salad, she thought. Her eyes surveyed the cupboards that were stocked with cans of luncheon meat and sausages, none of which she ever particularly cared for. The fridge offered choices that were more to her liking: packaged greens, cherry tomatoes, frozen sweet peas and parmigiano reggiano from that overpriced deli. She also had two avocados. She could tell they were ripe because she could hear the seeds lolling about when she shook them. Dinner was not without promise.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She tossed together a salad of young arugula leaves, halved cherry tomatoes, some olive oil, rice vinegar, grated parmesan, salt and pepper to sneezing. She decided to throw in a few pine nuts, saving some for the pesto she planned to make for dipping with crusty bread on a weeknight date with the TV. She read somewhere that peanuts and avocados were a rich source of tryptophan, an amino acid that increases the amount of the serotonin hormone made by the brain. Surely, pine nuts and pea-nuts shared some DNA. Because one simply cannot have enough happy hormones, she topped the salad with a couple of thick slices of avocado for good measure. The rest would be for dessert-- avocado whip-- mashed using an electric hand blender, with half a cup of cream, white and vanilla sugar, and some milk to keep the blender going. She would stick it in the freezer and it should be good and ready after dinner.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In a skillet, she made pasta sauce: butter, garlic,frozen sweet peas, smoked salmon, a little flour, milk and cheese. Penne pasta would have been perfect but all she had was spaghetti. <i>To the illumined woman, a clod of dirt, a stone and gold are the same</i>, she recited, drawing from that part of her brain that had been dormant for a long time. She was glad for the memory; these days, she almost always felt like she suffered from mental atrophy.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She cut a piece of day-old Italian bread lengthwise and slathered a butter-garlic-parsley mixture on each half. She sprinkled them with cheese before popping them into the oven. Pasta just seemed lonely without bread. She watched the cheese bubble and the edges grow darker, knowing that all it took was a few seconds to turn toast into burnt bread. Food was the only thing she managed to watch vigilantly, it seems.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Now, her seldom-used china and silver lay spent on the dining table. It had been a proper meal. The table had looked falsely festive, having nothing to celebrate. There, seated at a table meant for two, she was full. But she still felt empty.</span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-65155939882970490152011-03-16T09:29:00.000-07:002011-03-16T09:29:00.488-07:00for Tito Bert<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-pybQv0hmVg0/TYDlAybGotI/AAAAAAAAAVM/LZcDuXc1GW4/s1600/tbert_blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-pybQv0hmVg0/TYDlAybGotI/AAAAAAAAAVM/LZcDuXc1GW4/s1600/tbert_blog.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I was thinking of writing about you, but words fail me. I thought maybe drawing you would be easier.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The composition will be in black and white and varying shades of gray. You don’t need an assorted nor ostentatious display of color to be interesting. A tinge of gray gradating into a darker, more solid hue, as if from innocence to maturity. The shadows of youth, not lost, but tucked into the sobriety of age.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I will start with a rough sketch. Tentative lines to achieve a desired end—an exercise in dreaming and believing. A journey of faith.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There will be lines that are casually drawn, as if taking a piece of charcoal and sweeping it across a grainy surface, the tiny valleys of the paper left unmarked. A passage, from one point to another, leaving your imprint on the path taken but conspicuously bare where you do not tread. The flourish says, <i>here I am, and this is where I have chosen to go</i>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There will be bold strokes, like lines on flesh, showing purpose and confidence. Etched around the mouth for a life spent in laughter, on the forehead for the wisdom of experience, between the brows for earnestness, and around the eyes—left by images perceived and fathomed, by visions dreamed and realized—crinkling at the corners in affirmation.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There is no need to draw the full face, only parts of it, like it’s unfinished. A life well lived but not lived out. Some lines still need to be drawn over, broken lines connected or filled in. I think it’s beautiful like that the drawing, the man. They are the same, neither lacking in character. In fact, to accept the flaws, to embrace the incompleteness shows, I believe, strengthe of character.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">With every shaft of light, a shadow is cast. Black and negative space. But the word <i>negative</i> is somehow incongruous for a drawing of you. I’d like to think of it as clean, crisp white that triumphs over black. So there will be more white which, in all its purity, inspires its audience.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The picture will show the perpetual kind smile that is a Tito Bert trademark. The line of the neck almost graceful, belying competence and loyalty. The eyes that—though crinkled with joy—are gleaming with sensitivity, understanding and sincerity, twinkling with a touch of playfulness.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Still, it’s not enough. I cannot show with any number of lines or experiments with tone and texture my gratitude for all that you have given me: fatherly love which I was too proud to accept I needed, much less ask for, but that you have generously showered me; your faith in me and what you believe I can achieve when I am filled with doubt; and the gift of family, through Gretch. Gretch, who is the sister of my heart. My friend, my ally, my hero, my sounding board. The warmth to my objectivity, the logic to my confusion, the fresh perspective to my sometimes one-track mind. And, from the time I was 20 until now, at 40, my best friend in the whole world. You gave me all these, touching my life in a most profound way.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I would draw you or write about you if I could, but I’m not so talented as to do you justice. I can only try. I will, however, wish you a happy, blessed and memorable 75<sup>th</sup> birthday, along with the whole of my heart, and pray that it finds its way to you.</span></div>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-88476271745750751342011-03-09T02:28:00.000-08:002011-03-09T02:28:05.713-08:00Peripheral Vision<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-W1TSunEfrEs/TXdV7fziqBI/AAAAAAAAAVE/zHCTBzlxz58/s1600/fuzzy+lights.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-W1TSunEfrEs/TXdV7fziqBI/AAAAAAAAAVE/zHCTBzlxz58/s320/fuzzy+lights.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I see shapes of people in various states of motion or rest-- sitting, walking, gesturing with their hands, taking long strides as if in a hurry to go somewhere, standing up, leaning against a wall, crushing a cigarette underfoot, typing away on a keyboard, drinking from a cup. Just people shapes. No faces, no emotions. No, not people exactly; rather, impressions of them.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I see colors. Subtle hues with fuzzy edges and dull ash grays to darker ones. Those colors that no store-bought tints can imitate. Like the color of the world through a foggy window, a starless sky, or when the first vestiges of light break through. Those colors that, I imagine, would be called </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>melancholy</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> or </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>velvet night</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> in poetry.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I see shadows of events. Maybe premonitions. Maybe memories. Vignettes of situations. Things I would have done but didn't. People I would have met but are long gone. Droning murmurs of conversations spoken only in the obscurity of my mind. A friendly touch on an arm, a warm hand on a shoulder, a casual caress of fingertips through hair-- as tentative in thought as in substance. Maybe dreams. Maybe lies.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I watch life unfold-- not before me-- but out of the corner of my eye. And only here do I feel safe.</span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-21532463740693936162011-02-23T06:49:00.000-08:002011-02-23T06:49:01.171-08:00Whodunit in Savannah<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_U_kVPTc7P4/TWUZXeVtWsI/AAAAAAAAAVA/bd2VQuRwPXI/s1600/midnight+graveyard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_U_kVPTc7P4/TWUZXeVtWsI/AAAAAAAAAVA/bd2VQuRwPXI/s400/midnight+graveyard.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Writer John Kelso discovers that, for the price of a good dinner in New York, he can book a flight and spend a three-day weekend in another city. He finds himself in the beautifully time-warped Savannah, in the company of colorful, larger-than-life and sometimes eccentric characters. An antiques dealer who rises from obscurity to popular host of the most famous and anticipated Christmas parties in town. A male hustler notorious for his sex appeal and violent temper. A hilarious drag queen whose personality is as resplendent as the gowns she wears. An old recluse rumored to possess a poison so lethal that it can wipe out all traces of human life in Savannah. A witch in borrowed purple spectacles who scatters graveyard dirt and chews root as she casts spells and works her magic on unsuspecting Savannahians, for a measly $25. A piano-playing lawyer/con artist who moves into historic houses, turning them into profitable but illegal night clubs.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One morning, the town wakes up to news of a shooting incident at Mercer House, in which the antiques dealer allegedly shot the young hustler to death after a heated argument. Was it a lovers' quarrel? Was it premeditated murder or self-defense? It takes four trials to determine the former's guilt or innocence-- eight years worth of social intrigue, shifting alliances, small town politics and dark magic as only Savannah can stage.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It's hard to believe that Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt is nonfiction, and that the murder really did happen during the early hours of May 2, 1981. The characters are almost too outrageous, the location too architecturally beautiful, and the situations too theatric to be real. But they are. And Savannah has suddenly become so mysterious.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The book was made into a movie and released in 1997. With Kevin Spacey and John Cusack in the lead, you know you can't go wrong. I absolutely loved the movie, and truth be told, I loved it more than the book. But the novel is still worth reading. </span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-89879816444734614862011-02-16T00:23:00.000-08:002011-02-16T00:23:29.618-08:00As it passes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-a4UCMrKD7yo/TVuJRZ-ZUII/AAAAAAAAAU8/9yWIRZNMKBM/s1600/face+on+the+floor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-a4UCMrKD7yo/TVuJRZ-ZUII/AAAAAAAAAU8/9yWIRZNMKBM/s400/face+on+the+floor.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Her eyes are open and empty, set apart from a wide forehead by eyebrows arched, it seems, in perpetual surprise. Her breathing is deep and slow, as if in slumber. She could almost be dead, oblivious to everything around her but for the sounds of life scratching, scraping, clanging in her head, through the ear that is pressed on the cold, hard floor. And what she couldn't see, even with her eyes wide open, she could hear.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The sound of her mother's voice, scathing; carrying over the murmur of a thousand different voices trapped in an unmapped realm.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The sound of her husband's footfalls-- loud, urgent but distant-- going farther and farther away in undisguised retreat.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The sound of her heartbeat pulsing through her breast, against the unyielding floor, coming back like blows, knocking the wind out of her.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The sound of ancestral whispers, the lessons of ages; the rasping, grating noise of prophets writing on the wall.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She is tired, breathless from a journey that covered many miles, spanned many years, without ever leaving that spot on the cold, hard floor.</span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-67997438581324387822011-02-10T08:23:00.000-08:002011-02-10T08:23:53.808-08:00What Was Lost<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LhxnABtGOmA/TVQQvONINvI/AAAAAAAAAU4/ED1fnak-WM0/s1600/milk_carton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="343" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LhxnABtGOmA/TVQQvONINvI/AAAAAAAAAU4/ED1fnak-WM0/s400/milk_carton.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This novel, my fifth for the <a href="http://gatheringbooks.wordpress.com/2011/01/25/suspense-mystery-and-crime-a-whodunit-reading-challenge-january-june-2011/">Whodunit challenge</a>, blew me away. I'd gush, but no amount of rhapsodizing would be commensurate.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It starts off innocuously enough. Kate Meaney, 10-year old aspiring private investigator, is on a bus performing surveillance on her fellow commuters, judiciously jotting down character analyses and her theories in a small notebook. She lives with her father who encourages her dream of becoming a detective; sits beside the naughtiest girl in class, Teresa Stanton, in Junior Three; considers 22-year old Adrian from the sweetshop next door as her best friend; and has a stuffed monkey in spats who plays Miles Archer to her Sam Spade. It is 1984 and nothing exciting seems to be happening in Green Oaks--- until she vanishes without a trace.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It's a mystery unlike any other, better than most of what I've come across in this genre, and more. It's about loss and its many forms, about how different people cope with or are made smaller and weaker by it, and about how friendship trumps it, as well as most other things.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The writing is fluid and uninflected, expertly setting the joyless tone for the entire novel, but far from rendering it monotonous. The suspense is built at a calculated pace until it consumes. There is humor, if one cares to look, but it is dark and sad. The mystery is resolved in the end but, though there is closure, one is left hanging, wanting more.</span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-41590421258812302752011-02-09T06:57:00.000-08:002011-02-09T06:57:26.436-08:00Whodunit #4<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BxNbM5RMvAo/TVKrNw9J5jI/AAAAAAAAAU0/ym7kw8E8T3c/s1600/holmes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BxNbM5RMvAo/TVKrNw9J5jI/AAAAAAAAAU0/ym7kw8E8T3c/s400/holmes.jpg" width="350" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In <i>Hound of the Baskervilles</i>, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are up against a supernatural hound that, according to legend, has been the curse of the Baskerville family for generations. The recent death of Sir Charles Baskerville by the gloomy moor in Devonshire has aroused suspicion that the curse has something to do with it. Dr. Mortimer, a family friend, enlists the help of Holmes to solve the mystery as the remaining heir to the estate, Sir Henry, is arriving to take the place of the late baronet, and Mortimer is worried that the young </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Baskerville might suffer the same fate as his father. Holmes, saying that he has business to attend to in London, asks Watson to accompany Sir Henry back to Baskerville Hall in Devonshire, acting as the detective's eyes and ears in his absence.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In Devonshire, intriguing events take place: the suspicious behavior of the servants; reports of an escaped convict in the area; eerie sounds in the middle of the night; a strange, solitary figure roaming the hills by the moor; a certain Laura Lyons who has something to hide; and a warning from the beautiful, dark-haired Beryl Stapleton who lives in Merripit House beside Baskerville Hall with her brother, Jack.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Although the motive is obvious and the suspect is revealed quite early on, it was a thrill to sit back and watch Holmes tie the loose ends together using his trademark and uncanny logic, unraveling a gothic mystery with supernatural elements. Arthur Conan Doyle, as always, provides masterful entertainment.</span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642017896273532397.post-85630202531907575572011-02-08T21:28:00.000-08:002011-02-08T21:46:59.110-08:003rd Whodunit book!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BxNbM5RMvAo/TVIkfSx_Y-I/AAAAAAAAAUw/mes69W8G3KY/s400/poirot.jpg" width="363" /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Curtain</i> is not my first Agatha Christie novel. I remember having read a couple back in grade school when I read ravenously and indiscriminately, but they apparently did not make an impression on me the way Nancy Drew did.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Curtain</i> is the last novel in Christie's mystery series where the protagonist Hercule Poirot, a Belgian ex-police officer, summons his long-time friend and sidekick Arthur Hastings to a guest house in Styles to help him solve an extraordinary case. There were five previous murder cases wherein there was but one clear suspect for each, and where each suspect was arrested or admitted openly to the crime, and was charged or acquitted. But in all five cases, there was an "alien note" which had not escaped Poirot's near-omniscience: a person who was somehow connected to the suspects and was in the vicinity of and at the time the murders were committed. As if the case wasn't difficult enough, the absence of a motive rendered it virtually impossible to crack.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It is a fitting culmination to a popular series. There are numerous plot twists, distracting clues and characters who are all potential murderers. The reader is led to draw false conclusions and it's a wonderful guessing game until the end. It has all the ingredients for a successful murder mystery, including an aging detective who has unwavering convictions, sharp wit, charm for the ladies and an authoritative air for the rest of humanity, a good command of French, knowledge of almost everything that happens within a 2-mile radius, and plenty of hot air; and a kind, morally upright, eager-to-please fan masquerading as an assistant who does the senior detective's bidding cheerfully, and takes all his disparaging remarks in stride.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">What makes <i>Curtain</i> even more interesting is that Poirot is old, weak and, for the most part, confined in his room from where not much detective work can be done. Hastings is fooled into thinking that he plays a major role in the resolution of the case when in fact, as Poirot reveals in the end, Hastings is merely being educated. Poirot, as it turns out, was still quite capable. I feel almost sorry for Hastings, if he weren't such an emotional, gullible, clueless, bumbling idiot throughout the novel.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Curtain</i> was written in the early 1940s but was not published until 1974. It's <i>unputdownable</i> still, 70 years hence. </span>mental wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12648559838676278134noreply@blogger.com6