Friday, April 16, 2021
Friday, April 9, 2021
I'm on the fence if to review this book - or any book - anymore. My goal has never been to offend anyone. Yet, I've come to realize that, for some reason, I'm drawn towards problematic books. I'm sure this says something awful about me as a person. Which makes me hate myself. I love this book and the message that drugs are terrible. They ruin not only your own life but others around you. I lived this book, my parents are/were drug addicts, and so are my older sister, brother, and even younger sister. I've watched drugs destroy their lives in ways they can't see because all that matters to them is getting more.
BUT, a huge but, someone else may come along, read this book, and be hurt or triggered by it, instead of seeing the message I do. That's not something I want. There are enough horrible things in this world without me adding to it by accident.
I do not want to add my voice but uplift someone else's who knows better than me. I want to remain teachable and open. I'm sorry to anyone my reviews/opinions have hurt in the past. I hope you'll forgive me. I've got a very long way to go.
Wednesday, April 7, 2021
Last year was awful, really terrible for me. I know what you are thinking, that last year was unpleasant for everyone. You're not wrong. But because last year was grim, I've really fallen behind on NetGalley. I logged on for the first time in nearly a year the other day and saw the books I had. Most were released last summer.
Most of them were due around late summer, but when my father passed away... my world just kinda stopped. I stopped. I still don't think I've gotten back to how I was. It's been nearly 8 months. I'm starting to understand that I'll never be the same.
But I've been reading a little more and decided to catch up on these books! I've got a few to share with you today.
Let's get started!
Sunday, April 4, 2021
Wednesday, March 31, 2021
When I first encountered Ford Donovan, I had no idea who he was...well, other than the obvious. Young, gorgeous, successful, smart. Did I mention young? If I did, it bears repeating. Ford Donovan was too young for me.
Let's back up to how it all started. My best friend decided I needed to start dating again. So, without my knowledge, she set up a profile for me on a popular dating site--one that invited men ages twenty-one to twenty-seven to apply for a date. Those nicknamed Cunnilingus King were told they'd go straight to the top for consideration. The profile wasn't supposed to go live. Another point that bears repeating--it wasn't supposed to.
Nevertheless, that's how I met Ford, and we started messaging. He made me laugh; yet I was adamant that because of his age, we could only be friends. But after weeks of wearing me down, I finally agreed to one date only--my first after twenty years of being with my high school sweetheart. I knew it couldn't last, but I was curious about him.
Though, you know what they say...curiosity kills the cat.
Monday, March 29, 2021
Sunday, March 28, 2021
None of us can stop death. As humans we will all die. We never know when death will come to claim us so we should live each moment to the fullest. Live each day as if it's the last, because it very well could be.
Nothing But Death by Pablo Neruda
There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.
And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.
Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.
Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.
I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.
But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.
Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.