Thursday, July 24, 2008

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Facing My Fear

So.


I just finished reading another gem of a book by romance author Lydia Joyce, desperately wanting to buy the next one in the series today.


Yes, I did say romance novel - the one genre I swore I would never read. And yet, Ms. Joyce is a goddess when it comes to Gothic romances; each book is layered with not only a good love story but historical facts (most of the books are set during the Victorian age - mid 1800s) and intrigue.

I finished Whispers in the Night in a day and several hours then, with a look of satisfaction on my face, played my favourite game: What Will Kimberly Read Now? As most of you have seen in my pictures on my profile, my library is pretty extensive for someone who lives in a one bedroom apartment but hey, you do what you gotta do!

After picking up and putting down several titles, I finally decided on one and when I realized what I had done, I almost panicked.

There is one book that I have not been able to finish two times in a row in my life. I reach the same page, the same scene, and I calmly put down the book and pick up a cozy mystery or a D & D fantasy book. However, this book was written by one of my favourite authors and for me, the Goth Librarian, to say that I have not read it yet is blasphemy.

The book? Glad you asked.

Middlemarch by George Elliot.



I can hear you groaning out there . . .


I love all things from the 60s - the 1860s and Middlemarch is no exception. I have watched the BBC production of the book (fell in love with it), I have purchased several copies of the book for my own amusement, and so on. However, as most of you know, Middlemarch is no skip in the park. It is, to be exact, an 811 page skip in the park (the number of pages in my latest copy).

So, why try to read it?

Simple. Because I love literature.

Many of you would run screaming at the sight of this mammoth book, and years ago I almost did the same thing (twice), but today is different. I am older and my tastes have changed. I tried to read it before because I loved literature and because I wanted to look sophisticated and cool. Now, I want to read it because I love literature and . . . that's all.

So, tonight marks the beginning of my third attempt to read the book that I swore I would never try to read again.

Question: have any of you ever read Middlemarch? Are any of you interested in reading Middlemarch? I'll write a review for this book so let me know if you are interested in reading it!

Thanks for reading.

Friday, July 11, 2008

(nothing)

She wanted to be there for him


in the rain, the train slowly coming


to a ferocious halt.


A sound unlike any other


escaped her throat when she saw his face-


all past black gone, replaced by something holy.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Indigo: A Poem in Three Parts

I

An indigo painted dream lies here

as a beacon for all who seek to dream.

Ripples cascading forever and into the past

long for those who are full; a denied

absence of colour, prolonged interrogations

and still, a silent curse

blessed on the head of one who is asleep.

The words here are pure,

resistant to fire and calming to hands cool

and fragrant of dying roses.

Words are linked to a forgiving blessing

given by a priest or witch doctor

who rattles the bones of dead goddesses.

Supple and limber are the dreams

awakened by the non blue non black painting,

giving those who have lost hope a chance to blink.

My eyes, still crying from when I was born

are stained the same colour as the painting-

my scarlet letter for a new generation.



II

Guilt: a form of controlling others.

Nonsense to those who fear

an otherwise bastard of a tale.

Fires, small and large, smell sweetly

of the herbs thrown in, giving off such heady scents

that we can not help ourselves but rather sing.

From the indigo painting to the fire

that was started by fish who knew better.

Atrocious, I think (such a humble writer am I),

to prefer the light to the dark,

of saints and shadows, of sunflowers and water lillies,

here I stand before you, on trial for my creation

of what sets people free. Guilt, they tell me,

comes not from me but rather what lies behind me-

the painting of indigo, of colour and of none.

Yet they see my eyes ringed with sweat,

they see my eyes of indigo,

they see my painting of indigo.

My guilt becomes my skin.



III

She is what you make of her.

I can not take credit for her birth

but how I wish I could; she comes from the painting,

the central force of the dreaming and the lost.

To touch her is to forever sleep, snuggled

deep within the folds of a womb of black.

She is not coarse; soft hands guide me and only me

towards the painting that I both love and fear.

The silence surrounds us, swallows the writer whole

and later, much later, is awakened by the

sounds of the sea; at last, the writer

is in the painting, a captive willing

to desert all she knew of before.

This is her pardon for the guilt

(I am made clear again)

made recognizable by the trial that never happened.

And this, you may ask me,

what of this? What is next?

What is before and what has occurred?

I smile and say "Nothing."