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MY THOUGHTS ON 177 BOOKS
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MY THOUGHTS ABOUT THE BOOKS I'VE READ
I read a lot. Okay, not a lot, but about one book per week. I’m grateful to be gifted with the desire to dive into the words of other writers in a quest for entertainment, understanding an awakening*.
* A Honky’s version of becoming woke. In that spirit, every book you see in my, I Love It section: I loved!?! I find giving these books a score pointless. I try to share how the books made me feel as opposed to firing out a synopsis. Every book on these pages deserves 5 STARS! Because, who, am I, to try to tell anyone else what to like? And because, unless the book is filled with hate, writing is hard, writers deserve to be encouraged to keep writing. Unless of course, you suck as a writer, even then, keep writing, one day you might stop sucking. 
(I TRY TO REFRAIN FROM SHARING THOUGHTS ON BOOKS I DON'T LIKE)
ULTIMATE RATING SCALE
5 STARS = 5 STARS
5 STARS? = Less than or greater than 5 STARS - YOU DECIDE
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IN SINGING - HE COMPOSED A SONGJeremy STEWARTA powerful look at the damages caused by labels.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
“In Singing – He Composed a Song” is a lyrically beautiful, experimentally dark, short book hitting heavy themes.
John is a child, 15-years old. Gifted. Disturbed. Not from entitlement. Those tasked with looking out for him judge him because of where (?) he’s from, watching him through a clouded lens. He’s labelled. The labels adhesive is unbreakable. He’s institutionalized, deemed a hazard to himself and to others. He’s just a child. We’ve all appallingly whispered gossip about those like him we’ve encountered in our lives. The labelling for him and those like him follow them throughout life as rumours like a violent tornado swirled only a few steps behind. He doesn’t have a chance.
My mum was labelled an unfit mother by religion + community. Her label was slapped firmly on her when she was forced to birth me in a place of disgrace, sanctioned by religion, where the unfit mothers (out of wedlock) gave birth, only to have their babies ripped out of their arms and then adopted out or sold—if the babies survived. The mums were to be fixed to become marriageable. The babies were never to be spoken of again.
I found out by accident, at age 43, my mum, who I had watched die when I was 27, wasn’t my birth mother, and my birth mum, the one labelled unfit, had hung out in the background of my life, playing a different role.
In 2016, alongside my birth mother’s deathbed, my mum told me, the night before they were coming to take me away, she pleaded with my mum(grand) to keep me. My labelled unfit mum lived with the burden of the secret her whole life—my entire family did. And I have now lived with the label of being a child whose birth brought shame, ever since.
A label’s adhesive is corrosive. It eats away at those of us who’ve been labelled, following vehemently behind.
For me, when I mention my story to others, I am often met with, “It was the times” or “A lot of people were adopted” or “A lot of people come from screwed up families.”
“Shut up” would be kinder.
“In Singing – He Composed a Song” is a powerful look at the damage labels cause. For those of us who are labelled, how could we ever be, okay?
WRITTEN: October 20, 2021
“In Singing – He Composed a Song” is a lyrically beautiful, experimentally dark, short book hitting heavy themes.
John is a child, 15-years old. Gifted. Disturbed. Not from entitlement. Those tasked with looking out for him judge him because of where (?) he’s from, watching him through a clouded lens. He’s labelled. The labels adhesive is unbreakable. He’s institutionalized, deemed a hazard to himself and to others. He’s just a child. We’ve all appallingly whispered gossip about those like him we’ve encountered in our lives. The labelling for him and those like him follow them throughout life as rumours like a violent tornado swirled only a few steps behind. He doesn’t have a chance.
My mum was labelled an unfit mother by religion + community. Her label was slapped firmly on her when she was forced to birth me in a place of disgrace, sanctioned by religion, where the unfit mothers (out of wedlock) gave birth, only to have their babies ripped out of their arms and then adopted out or sold—if the babies survived. The mums were to be fixed to become marriageable. The babies were never to be spoken of again.
I found out by accident, at age 43, my mum, who I had watched die when I was 27, wasn’t my birth mother, and my birth mum, the one labelled unfit, had hung out in the background of my life, playing a different role.
In 2016, alongside my birth mother’s deathbed, my mum told me, the night before they were coming to take me away, she pleaded with my mum(grand) to keep me. My labelled unfit mum lived with the burden of the secret her whole life—my entire family did. And I have now lived with the label of being a child whose birth brought shame, ever since.
A label’s adhesive is corrosive. It eats away at those of us who’ve been labelled, following vehemently behind.
For me, when I mention my story to others, I am often met with, “It was the times” or “A lot of people were adopted” or “A lot of people come from screwed up families.”
“Shut up” would be kinder.
“In Singing – He Composed a Song” is a powerful look at the damage labels cause. For those of us who are labelled, how could we ever be, okay?
WRITTEN: October 20, 2021
17
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UMBILICAL CORDHasan NAMIRLove Prevails!
5++ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Love prevails.
How did the book make me feel/think?
A heartwarming love story. Acceptance of who you are while at the same time understanding an evolving world evolves at the pace of a snail. What do you do? Do you fight? Do you resist? Do you run away? No. You love more. And you share all of your joyful glorious love with the world. Proudly. Loudly. Without apology. Those struggling to accept, one day, they’ll change + see profoundness and beauty in kindness and love.
Hasan Namir in Umbilical Cord deserves a rousing applause line for sharing his joy and giving the rest of us permission to love.
The rapture in Malek’s eyes shows us all what is possible!
I will leave you with a love story. I hope you don’t mind.
April 25, 2010.
Love. Do I think he is a good man? What if he is mean or dislikes me? Should I text him? Yes, or No? Should I buzz or turn around? Oh. He texted me: Where are you? Should I lie that I’m still home? And just leave? I’m almost there. Why not! Let’s see. He might be a good guy. He seems very nervous! He may be a good person. He may be considerate. Okay, I’m way more comfortable than expected! Do I think he likes me? I like him. He is a good person. I want to know him. We’re having—I like it, but is it just one night, or—He is not texting me, oh well—Oh it’s, his text. I guess he likes me. Happy! When do I get to see him next? Would he be thinking about me? I think about him all the time. I can’t stop thinking about him. He asked me to meet again. Em—Should I? Or should I not? I don’t want him to feel awkward around me. I like him. I want to see his friends. He’s introducing me to his friends. They’re nice, but I feel doubt in them. Well—Why would I care what other people think. I just need to stay with him. All I need is his love. I want to stay with him all the time. I want to see him. What is it? I can’t stop thinking of him. Never felt this feeling before. Confused. What if he is not really into me? He is an amazing person. He is good. I like him. I want to stay with him. I want to embrace him. I want to give him my love. Is this love? I don’t know what love is. What is love? Is this love? I want to see him. Take care of him. I want to give him everything. Good health. Love. Joy. I’m confused. I miss him. He seems to like me. I feel comfortable. Is this normal? Or just me? I want to see his mind: what is he thinking about me? Whatever. I think I made up my mind. I know what’s going on. I love him. That’s what this is. Love!
October 19, 2021
Love prevails.
WRITTEN: October 19, 2021
Love prevails.
How did the book make me feel/think?
A heartwarming love story. Acceptance of who you are while at the same time understanding an evolving world evolves at the pace of a snail. What do you do? Do you fight? Do you resist? Do you run away? No. You love more. And you share all of your joyful glorious love with the world. Proudly. Loudly. Without apology. Those struggling to accept, one day, they’ll change + see profoundness and beauty in kindness and love.
Hasan Namir in Umbilical Cord deserves a rousing applause line for sharing his joy and giving the rest of us permission to love.
The rapture in Malek’s eyes shows us all what is possible!
I will leave you with a love story. I hope you don’t mind.
April 25, 2010.
Love. Do I think he is a good man? What if he is mean or dislikes me? Should I text him? Yes, or No? Should I buzz or turn around? Oh. He texted me: Where are you? Should I lie that I’m still home? And just leave? I’m almost there. Why not! Let’s see. He might be a good guy. He seems very nervous! He may be a good person. He may be considerate. Okay, I’m way more comfortable than expected! Do I think he likes me? I like him. He is a good person. I want to know him. We’re having—I like it, but is it just one night, or—He is not texting me, oh well—Oh it’s, his text. I guess he likes me. Happy! When do I get to see him next? Would he be thinking about me? I think about him all the time. I can’t stop thinking about him. He asked me to meet again. Em—Should I? Or should I not? I don’t want him to feel awkward around me. I like him. I want to see his friends. He’s introducing me to his friends. They’re nice, but I feel doubt in them. Well—Why would I care what other people think. I just need to stay with him. All I need is his love. I want to stay with him all the time. I want to see him. What is it? I can’t stop thinking of him. Never felt this feeling before. Confused. What if he is not really into me? He is an amazing person. He is good. I like him. I want to stay with him. I want to embrace him. I want to give him my love. Is this love? I don’t know what love is. What is love? Is this love? I want to see him. Take care of him. I want to give him everything. Good health. Love. Joy. I’m confused. I miss him. He seems to like me. I feel comfortable. Is this normal? Or just me? I want to see his mind: what is he thinking about me? Whatever. I think I made up my mind. I know what’s going on. I love him. That’s what this is. Love!
October 19, 2021
Love prevails.
WRITTEN: October 19, 2021
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#BLACKINSCHOOLHabiba Cooper DIALLOI’ve never once said, “I have a white friend."
5++ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I’m Caucasian. I’ve been meandering around on this rock a long time. I grew up in insular Saskatchewan. During my meandering, I’ve been conditioned. Conditioned. Conditioned. Conditioned. Don’t say it five times, or the Candyman will show up.
My conditioning: Books, movies, television, music, news reports… everything, told me who and what to be afraid of, where not to go, and most importantly, it cemented my privilege. Why would I not believe my conditioning, buying in entirely? I didn’t, but I did. Who wouldn’t want privilege?
Then, I travelled, moved to a different city, and slowly, my attitudes changed. Crap, the things I do and say can cause others pain; who knew? I’d express my newfound discoveries to friends, and my peers refuted my findings in true privilege fashion, suggesting the conditioning is accurate. I resisted. I read more. I realized we all have a responsibility, and what we think isn’t necessarily another person’s experience. We weren’t all born white.
#BLACKINSCHOOL is an exquisite look into the life of an intelligent girl in high school who happens to be black. It is not meant to awaken Caucasians, but it is intended to help break the bleeping conditioning.
Every day, I want to be a better person; reading #BLACKINSCHOOL helps.
I have no desire to be woke, but I strongly want to learn.
Asking where are you from? Which, in my opinion, is quotidian small talk and a question not worth answering?
When a white asks another white, it’s an attempt (?) to find commonality—still pointless, because really, who cares? Is the inquisitor taking notes?
When a white asks a non-white, the question takes on a different bent. If the answer is “from here” —it’s rarely accepted, something more exotic is desired, preferably where the inquisitor can flex a micro-aggression-fueled sense of superiority.
I didn’t believe this. I thought perhaps if someone got upset, it was an overreaction. But then, the night after reading #BLACKINSCHOOL, I was sitting at a bar stool in a local watering hole. Next to me sat a Black Man; his Caucasian date arrived; I believe it was the first time they met. The Black Man’s date asked, “Where are you from?” He replied, “I’m from here.” His answer didn’t satisfy his date, “I mean, where are you really from?” He fired back, “Aren’t all white people from the same village?”
Fortunately, Sandra Bullock entered the watering hole and saved the day.
For me at least, my conditioning is breaking. Thank You, Habiba!
WRITTEN: October 17, 2021
I’m Caucasian. I’ve been meandering around on this rock a long time. I grew up in insular Saskatchewan. During my meandering, I’ve been conditioned. Conditioned. Conditioned. Conditioned. Don’t say it five times, or the Candyman will show up.
My conditioning: Books, movies, television, music, news reports… everything, told me who and what to be afraid of, where not to go, and most importantly, it cemented my privilege. Why would I not believe my conditioning, buying in entirely? I didn’t, but I did. Who wouldn’t want privilege?
Then, I travelled, moved to a different city, and slowly, my attitudes changed. Crap, the things I do and say can cause others pain; who knew? I’d express my newfound discoveries to friends, and my peers refuted my findings in true privilege fashion, suggesting the conditioning is accurate. I resisted. I read more. I realized we all have a responsibility, and what we think isn’t necessarily another person’s experience. We weren’t all born white.
#BLACKINSCHOOL is an exquisite look into the life of an intelligent girl in high school who happens to be black. It is not meant to awaken Caucasians, but it is intended to help break the bleeping conditioning.
Every day, I want to be a better person; reading #BLACKINSCHOOL helps.
I have no desire to be woke, but I strongly want to learn.
Asking where are you from? Which, in my opinion, is quotidian small talk and a question not worth answering?
When a white asks another white, it’s an attempt (?) to find commonality—still pointless, because really, who cares? Is the inquisitor taking notes?
When a white asks a non-white, the question takes on a different bent. If the answer is “from here” —it’s rarely accepted, something more exotic is desired, preferably where the inquisitor can flex a micro-aggression-fueled sense of superiority.
I didn’t believe this. I thought perhaps if someone got upset, it was an overreaction. But then, the night after reading #BLACKINSCHOOL, I was sitting at a bar stool in a local watering hole. Next to me sat a Black Man; his Caucasian date arrived; I believe it was the first time they met. The Black Man’s date asked, “Where are you from?” He replied, “I’m from here.” His answer didn’t satisfy his date, “I mean, where are you really from?” He fired back, “Aren’t all white people from the same village?”
Fortunately, Sandra Bullock entered the watering hole and saved the day.
For me at least, my conditioning is breaking. Thank You, Habiba!
WRITTEN: October 17, 2021
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ANY KIND OF LOVE AT ALLMary Fairhurst BREENUnflinchingly honest. Unapologetic. Humanizing. Comforting.
5++ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
“They” say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. “They,” whoever “They” are (?) also suggest traumatic events build character.
I think a laundry list of traumatic events assaulting an individual (in this case, Breen) reveals the character lying within. Mary Fairhurst Breen has heaps of character.
We are fortunate Breen found the strength and unbounded courage to share her heartache in “Any Kind of Luck at All.”
Breen’s ability to reveal devastating heartache and sorrow in a soul-shaking manner is unfathomable. Breen lays herself bare as she invites readers into the throes of the unrelenting assaults of mental health + addiction. Breen unapologetically, despite the horrific cards she’s been dealt, doesn’t wallow. But instead sheds light on the need to cauterize the horrendous challenges humanity faces as we meander the rocky roads of life. And then humanize those of us who are struggling.
Breen understands the limitations of privilege. Instilling deep-rooted honesty in her children.
“Emma happens to be tall and blond and is well aware of the advantages she enjoys as a result. Fortunately, she uses her power for good, and when she walks through doors that open automatically for her, she holds them open for others.”
What hit home most for me is her unflinching honesty (and sense of humour) + ability to understand life, addiction, entitlement…everything, is ephemeral. If we don’t come together and realize we matter more than what we desperately try to project, the world will continue to spin in judgement.
Breen’s unbridled love for her family and her amazing daughters is crystal clear. And while facing unbearable grief, Breen, in all of life’s flawed glory, lets others know what everyone needs: love and understanding without the shackles and shallowness of judgment.
“Any Kind of Luck at All” will resonate strongly with anyone suffering loss.
I feel Breen was destined to tell this story. The world is a better place because she has.
Breen’s sexuality is uncovered subtly; it should only matter to her, not me, you, or anyone else. Because as much as it is a vital part of who she is—the only thing truly mattering is, she’s human, struggles, and somehow found the strength to offer comfort to the rest of us.
Thank You.
That’s how this book made me feel/think!
WRITTEN: October 14, 2021
“They” say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. “They,” whoever “They” are (?) also suggest traumatic events build character.
I think a laundry list of traumatic events assaulting an individual (in this case, Breen) reveals the character lying within. Mary Fairhurst Breen has heaps of character.
We are fortunate Breen found the strength and unbounded courage to share her heartache in “Any Kind of Luck at All.”
Breen’s ability to reveal devastating heartache and sorrow in a soul-shaking manner is unfathomable. Breen lays herself bare as she invites readers into the throes of the unrelenting assaults of mental health + addiction. Breen unapologetically, despite the horrific cards she’s been dealt, doesn’t wallow. But instead sheds light on the need to cauterize the horrendous challenges humanity faces as we meander the rocky roads of life. And then humanize those of us who are struggling.
Breen understands the limitations of privilege. Instilling deep-rooted honesty in her children.
“Emma happens to be tall and blond and is well aware of the advantages she enjoys as a result. Fortunately, she uses her power for good, and when she walks through doors that open automatically for her, she holds them open for others.”
What hit home most for me is her unflinching honesty (and sense of humour) + ability to understand life, addiction, entitlement…everything, is ephemeral. If we don’t come together and realize we matter more than what we desperately try to project, the world will continue to spin in judgement.
Breen’s unbridled love for her family and her amazing daughters is crystal clear. And while facing unbearable grief, Breen, in all of life’s flawed glory, lets others know what everyone needs: love and understanding without the shackles and shallowness of judgment.
“Any Kind of Luck at All” will resonate strongly with anyone suffering loss.
I feel Breen was destined to tell this story. The world is a better place because she has.
Breen’s sexuality is uncovered subtly; it should only matter to her, not me, you, or anyone else. Because as much as it is a vital part of who she is—the only thing truly mattering is, she’s human, struggles, and somehow found the strength to offer comfort to the rest of us.
Thank You.
That’s how this book made me feel/think!
WRITTEN: October 14, 2021
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HAPPY SANDSBarb HOWARDLike reading a country song playing out in stream-of-consciousness on hyperdrive.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I go for a walk. I need to hold onto who I am. My mind wanders. Say what you feel. Nah. Keep it inside. I’m losing it. No, you are not. You’re human. Why am I laughing?
Look what that person is doing over there. OMG, hilarious. I must let others know. Don’t.
The best comedy is what plays in my head, only for me. I don’t need television, movies, social media—holding onto who I am is the only story I need to watch.
Barb Howard’s “Happy Sands” is like reading a country song playing out in stream-of-consciousness on hyperdrive.
Howard is a deftly talented writer with a lightning sharp wit, whose comedic chops left me gasping, mouth agape. I drooled a little.
I need a drink. Why not.
As much as this is a comedic ride, it is also a captivating story, opening a screen door into what it must be like for mothers when they feel they are on the cusp of losing everything. A husband to depression. Children who are outgrowing families. A life slipping from the shallows of youth into the deep end of whatever the heck is next?
Mothers are often the family rocks. The nurturers. The encouragers. The…
It must be awful to feel alone and underappreciated.
Thankfully, for readers, Howard makes us laugh—and hopefully, while we guffaw, some tenderness is returned her way as a life preserver is tossed into the deep end just before she…
OMG. Is that plastic pink flamingo’s neck snapped?
WRITTEN: October 13, 2021
I go for a walk. I need to hold onto who I am. My mind wanders. Say what you feel. Nah. Keep it inside. I’m losing it. No, you are not. You’re human. Why am I laughing?
Look what that person is doing over there. OMG, hilarious. I must let others know. Don’t.
The best comedy is what plays in my head, only for me. I don’t need television, movies, social media—holding onto who I am is the only story I need to watch.
Barb Howard’s “Happy Sands” is like reading a country song playing out in stream-of-consciousness on hyperdrive.
Howard is a deftly talented writer with a lightning sharp wit, whose comedic chops left me gasping, mouth agape. I drooled a little.
I need a drink. Why not.
As much as this is a comedic ride, it is also a captivating story, opening a screen door into what it must be like for mothers when they feel they are on the cusp of losing everything. A husband to depression. Children who are outgrowing families. A life slipping from the shallows of youth into the deep end of whatever the heck is next?
Mothers are often the family rocks. The nurturers. The encouragers. The…
It must be awful to feel alone and underappreciated.
Thankfully, for readers, Howard makes us laugh—and hopefully, while we guffaw, some tenderness is returned her way as a life preserver is tossed into the deep end just before she…
OMG. Is that plastic pink flamingo’s neck snapped?
WRITTEN: October 13, 2021
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BECOMING VANCOUVERDaniel FRANCISIt feels like the past is chasing the present preparing to repeat itself.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I love Vancouver. I have resided here for 31 years.
Some rich man came and raped the land, nobody caught him. Put up a bunch of ugly boxes and Jesus people bought them. – The Eagles |The Last Resort|
“Becoming Vancouver” is a fabulous essential read with a spectacular cover. Anyone residing in or visiting Vancouver would gain a deep understanding of how this stunning natural canvas came to be, where it's at, and perhaps where it may be going. It's not all rosy. History has a propensity to repeat itself. Only in the current world version, everything is perilously amplified as humanity races toward…
Vancouver is like the perfect Instagram shot if only you crop out the unavoidable suffering of those who are being left behind. Those falling into the throes of addiction, or with mental health issues, and the abject misery of not being born into wealth or coming from a family that staked the first claims to their slice of paradise. Being born into wealth or a construction family is not a qualification. Instead, it reeks of entitlement and privilege often laced in xenophobia and racism, coupled with a tremendous lack of self-awareness. The first inhabitants of Vancouver tried desperately, and succeeded, for the most part, to maintain their advantage by demeaning others and keeping voting rights to themselves. Or starting predatory businesses preying on those less fortunate.
Vancouver has always been a city in constant flux between those who want to exploit its beauty by pushing unfettered development and those who believe Vancouver's pristine beauty should be preserved for all of its citizens to enjoy.
In the wake of the many battles for the city’s soul, Vancouver, like many cities in the world, is leaving behind human destruction as the have-not’s trip into addiction, alcohol abuse, mental health issues, and basically hopelessness. One hundred years ago, homeless men (primarily men) wanted a job. In today's Vancouver, the homeless appear to have lost all hope, and what they seem to quest is to manage their addictions to control the pain of being left behind. You can't walk a block without…
A shiny tower goes up, we look the other way; the city sure is beautiful. But is it? Is Vancouver at a crossroads? Vancouver needs solid leadership, open to listening before Vancouver becomes nothing more than a playground for the super-rich as more and more people fall into despair.
I think it would be fantastic if “Becoming Vancouver” was in every hotel room in the city or offered as a purchase option to everyone visiting the city when they booked their rooms. “Becoming Vancouver” is a captivating read, where, for me, the more I read, the more history I thirsted for. Maybe I will stop by The Sylvia Hotel, the first lounge allowing men and women to drink together (1954).
It is vitally important to study the past if we hope to make the future better for all.
WRITTEN: October 8, 2021
I love Vancouver. I have resided here for 31 years.
Some rich man came and raped the land, nobody caught him. Put up a bunch of ugly boxes and Jesus people bought them. – The Eagles |The Last Resort|
“Becoming Vancouver” is a fabulous essential read with a spectacular cover. Anyone residing in or visiting Vancouver would gain a deep understanding of how this stunning natural canvas came to be, where it's at, and perhaps where it may be going. It's not all rosy. History has a propensity to repeat itself. Only in the current world version, everything is perilously amplified as humanity races toward…
Vancouver is like the perfect Instagram shot if only you crop out the unavoidable suffering of those who are being left behind. Those falling into the throes of addiction, or with mental health issues, and the abject misery of not being born into wealth or coming from a family that staked the first claims to their slice of paradise. Being born into wealth or a construction family is not a qualification. Instead, it reeks of entitlement and privilege often laced in xenophobia and racism, coupled with a tremendous lack of self-awareness. The first inhabitants of Vancouver tried desperately, and succeeded, for the most part, to maintain their advantage by demeaning others and keeping voting rights to themselves. Or starting predatory businesses preying on those less fortunate.
Vancouver has always been a city in constant flux between those who want to exploit its beauty by pushing unfettered development and those who believe Vancouver's pristine beauty should be preserved for all of its citizens to enjoy.
In the wake of the many battles for the city’s soul, Vancouver, like many cities in the world, is leaving behind human destruction as the have-not’s trip into addiction, alcohol abuse, mental health issues, and basically hopelessness. One hundred years ago, homeless men (primarily men) wanted a job. In today's Vancouver, the homeless appear to have lost all hope, and what they seem to quest is to manage their addictions to control the pain of being left behind. You can't walk a block without…
A shiny tower goes up, we look the other way; the city sure is beautiful. But is it? Is Vancouver at a crossroads? Vancouver needs solid leadership, open to listening before Vancouver becomes nothing more than a playground for the super-rich as more and more people fall into despair.
I think it would be fantastic if “Becoming Vancouver” was in every hotel room in the city or offered as a purchase option to everyone visiting the city when they booked their rooms. “Becoming Vancouver” is a captivating read, where, for me, the more I read, the more history I thirsted for. Maybe I will stop by The Sylvia Hotel, the first lounge allowing men and women to drink together (1954).
It is vitally important to study the past if we hope to make the future better for all.
WRITTEN: October 8, 2021
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SUTURENic BREWERDoes our greatest art come from pain + suffering?
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I crack open my chest and rip out my heart, releasing its blood onto the canvas—so you can grasp my unrelenting pain as I desperately try to feel loved. I need you to understand my anguish; it is my way of letting you know I’m alive.
I can barely breathe, so I cut out my lungs, adding them to the canvas; your love is all I have, yet I’m afraid of it + your closeness, I don’t think I’m worthy. By adding my suffocating lungs to the canvas. I become relevant. Inspirational. Relatable.
I tear out my eyes so you can see what I see. You never will. Eventually, my life grows black as I immerse you in my opaque suffering. You love me. But my insatiable insanity only brings you sorrow.
I drip blood onto the page. Always thirsting for more. You love me unconditionally; you bring kindness. I return rage + my unworthiness. I need to be unlovable. I need to cry onto every page in a dark plasma. If I lose my agony, I will no longer be accepted for my art. I will become stale, repetitive, unreadable. I must bleed.
I stitch over my insecurities, again and again, and again, until they become manageable, constant reminders of who I am and who I never will be. Or I will die.
I think that is what I’ve consumed. I’m not sure. I will return to my beginning, with my heart + lungs, + eyes sutured back where they are meant to be.
WRITTEN: September 29, 2021
I crack open my chest and rip out my heart, releasing its blood onto the canvas—so you can grasp my unrelenting pain as I desperately try to feel loved. I need you to understand my anguish; it is my way of letting you know I’m alive.
I can barely breathe, so I cut out my lungs, adding them to the canvas; your love is all I have, yet I’m afraid of it + your closeness, I don’t think I’m worthy. By adding my suffocating lungs to the canvas. I become relevant. Inspirational. Relatable.
I tear out my eyes so you can see what I see. You never will. Eventually, my life grows black as I immerse you in my opaque suffering. You love me. But my insatiable insanity only brings you sorrow.
I drip blood onto the page. Always thirsting for more. You love me unconditionally; you bring kindness. I return rage + my unworthiness. I need to be unlovable. I need to cry onto every page in a dark plasma. If I lose my agony, I will no longer be accepted for my art. I will become stale, repetitive, unreadable. I must bleed.
I stitch over my insecurities, again and again, and again, until they become manageable, constant reminders of who I am and who I never will be. Or I will die.
I think that is what I’ve consumed. I’m not sure. I will return to my beginning, with my heart + lungs, + eyes sutured back where they are meant to be.
WRITTEN: September 29, 2021
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Letters to AmeliaLindsay ZIER-VOGELBabies are pauses in the life sentences of adulthood...
5++ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Alongside my mother’s deathbed, the second time I watched my mother die, she begged and pleaded with my mother |grandmother|, the night before they came to take me away, to keep me.
Society, religion, and community had deemed my mother unfit and unlovable. Her support network only exacerbated her failure. What chance does a newborn have?
For the next 27-years, I acted as a painful reminder of her unworthiness, which manifested in her telling me every time she saw me, I would never amount to more than a miserable failure—until my mother |grandmother| died the first time. I cannot fathom the unrelenting pain she endured. My mother’s last words to me were, “I’m never going to see you again, am I?” We hadn’t seen each other in 23-years—after I accidentally discovered she was my mother (2003).
Letters to Amelia sent me spinning in a heavy fog as I tried to navigate emotions about the ephemeral nature of everything that is life.
I felt like I was about to crash land. Dark. I know.
Why did it elicit such powerful emotions?
Because I came to an understanding most things in life are transitory. Especially birth.
A man could never comprehend the loneliness involved in giving birth + having a new life growing inside you. Especially when men, often absentee, even if they choose to stick around, attempt to take control, often mansplaining their ignorance.
I realized (I like to think I’m self-aware enough to understand, my realization may be flawed), giving birth is the epitome of “new” in a world that craves “new.” As much as billions-upon-billions of babies have been born before, the 40 weeks of pregnancy must be the most terrifying, + isolating time women must deal with.
Hearing you are not the only one must strip away an expectant mother’s inherent need to feel special, unique. And support networks must have an unknowing capacity to obliterate happiness by their relentless need to relive what was once “new” for them—or worse yet, have their other half, if they stick around, try to impose their will on something they can never possibly understand.
A baby arrives in 40-weeks, giving expectant mothers a short window to dismantle their lives and reinvent who they need to become—as their support networks one by one retreat into their own lives.
Letters to Amelia is a powerful read about finding support in a place where judgement is replaced with the comfort of kindness.
Fortunately for me, the fog lifted, I landed safely. Why? Because I have a burning desire to see what’s new!
WRITTEN: September 24, 2021
Alongside my mother’s deathbed, the second time I watched my mother die, she begged and pleaded with my mother |grandmother|, the night before they came to take me away, to keep me.
Society, religion, and community had deemed my mother unfit and unlovable. Her support network only exacerbated her failure. What chance does a newborn have?
For the next 27-years, I acted as a painful reminder of her unworthiness, which manifested in her telling me every time she saw me, I would never amount to more than a miserable failure—until my mother |grandmother| died the first time. I cannot fathom the unrelenting pain she endured. My mother’s last words to me were, “I’m never going to see you again, am I?” We hadn’t seen each other in 23-years—after I accidentally discovered she was my mother (2003).
Letters to Amelia sent me spinning in a heavy fog as I tried to navigate emotions about the ephemeral nature of everything that is life.
I felt like I was about to crash land. Dark. I know.
Why did it elicit such powerful emotions?
Because I came to an understanding most things in life are transitory. Especially birth.
A man could never comprehend the loneliness involved in giving birth + having a new life growing inside you. Especially when men, often absentee, even if they choose to stick around, attempt to take control, often mansplaining their ignorance.
I realized (I like to think I’m self-aware enough to understand, my realization may be flawed), giving birth is the epitome of “new” in a world that craves “new.” As much as billions-upon-billions of babies have been born before, the 40 weeks of pregnancy must be the most terrifying, + isolating time women must deal with.
Hearing you are not the only one must strip away an expectant mother’s inherent need to feel special, unique. And support networks must have an unknowing capacity to obliterate happiness by their relentless need to relive what was once “new” for them—or worse yet, have their other half, if they stick around, try to impose their will on something they can never possibly understand.
A baby arrives in 40-weeks, giving expectant mothers a short window to dismantle their lives and reinvent who they need to become—as their support networks one by one retreat into their own lives.
Letters to Amelia is a powerful read about finding support in a place where judgement is replaced with the comfort of kindness.
Fortunately for me, the fog lifted, I landed safely. Why? Because I have a burning desire to see what’s new!
WRITTEN: September 24, 2021
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A Confederacy of DuncesJohn KENNEDY TOOLEIf you find mental health, poverty, racism, misogyny, alcoholism, funny, well...
|SUBJECTIVE| |
How did the book make me feel/think?
An incredibly entitled, privileged Caucasian sits down in front of a typewriter?
I wanted to love this book. I wanted to laugh so hard my sides split open, and my insides poured out.
The experts all agreed (without using their names, hiding behind institutions) this is one of the funniest books ever written. Heck, it won a Pulitzer.
I never found laughter—not even once.
I’ve been told I have a grand sense of humour.
My wit has been described as. Dry. Sardonic. When people get me, it is glorious. When they don’t, even better!
I don’t think rapists who want to be fathers should move to Texas. I don’t think rapists who want to be fathers should move to Texas.
Life has repeatedly knocked me down, leaving me floundering with only one way off life’s canvas: comedic redemption—often with a hint of self-deprecation. It’s called: survival.
WARNING: Some people may find the following passage (and sentence two + three above) offensive. Read at your own…
When an entitled Caucasian uses his advantage to viciously skewer, mental health, dementia, alcoholism, misogyny, race relations, illiteracy, poverty, and on and on and on and on— Never pointing the pen inward and supposedly becoming so despondently mired in ennui because nobody was willing to publish his entitlement-biased-comedy-masked-vitriol (parading as humour), he took his own life.
And then came a Pulitzer.
This reader finds absolutely nothing humorous in entitled writers viciously skewering… while hiding behind the glaring advantage, few are given.
Sadly, he ended his life. This reader (and writer) does not believe his depression warranted him being labelled genius. It’s just sad + tragic.
Ask yourself why the praise for this book comes from institutions, not individuals?
If you are a writer, would you hit the streets, find the most addicted or mentally addled person, and base your humour on them?
I would guess that not a single non-Caucasian would call this book funny or genius or anything other than savagely mean.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: September 18, 2021
An incredibly entitled, privileged Caucasian sits down in front of a typewriter?
I wanted to love this book. I wanted to laugh so hard my sides split open, and my insides poured out.
The experts all agreed (without using their names, hiding behind institutions) this is one of the funniest books ever written. Heck, it won a Pulitzer.
I never found laughter—not even once.
I’ve been told I have a grand sense of humour.
My wit has been described as. Dry. Sardonic. When people get me, it is glorious. When they don’t, even better!
I don’t think rapists who want to be fathers should move to Texas. I don’t think rapists who want to be fathers should move to Texas.
Life has repeatedly knocked me down, leaving me floundering with only one way off life’s canvas: comedic redemption—often with a hint of self-deprecation. It’s called: survival.
WARNING: Some people may find the following passage (and sentence two + three above) offensive. Read at your own…
When an entitled Caucasian uses his advantage to viciously skewer, mental health, dementia, alcoholism, misogyny, race relations, illiteracy, poverty, and on and on and on and on— Never pointing the pen inward and supposedly becoming so despondently mired in ennui because nobody was willing to publish his entitlement-biased-comedy-masked-vitriol (parading as humour), he took his own life.
And then came a Pulitzer.
This reader finds absolutely nothing humorous in entitled writers viciously skewering… while hiding behind the glaring advantage, few are given.
Sadly, he ended his life. This reader (and writer) does not believe his depression warranted him being labelled genius. It’s just sad + tragic.
Ask yourself why the praise for this book comes from institutions, not individuals?
If you are a writer, would you hit the streets, find the most addicted or mentally addled person, and base your humour on them?
I would guess that not a single non-Caucasian would call this book funny or genius or anything other than savagely mean.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: September 18, 2021
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The Winter WivesLinden MACINTYREUnconditional friendship comes with a heavy price.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Who are you? Do I really know you?
You’ve been in my life for most of its duration; I trusted you. I needed you. Something was amiss. The pegs were square, the holes were round. It didn’t matter; we connected—became close, like brothers, inseparable—we fell in love with the same person. I lost. I settled.
Life was easy for you. You were a shining star, destined for greatness—you threw it all away. We remained tight. You chased darkness and prospered beyond your wildest dreams. I knew, but I didn’t. My childhood was traumatic. My mom couldn’t remember…
You saved me. We loved unconditionally. Your realities came rushing forward in a blistering flow after you died, almost. I stayed unconditional; I became your cleaner; your love, my true love, grifted me alongside my settled love, her sister. My mind started to collapse like my long-gone mothers did. I swallowed youthful traumas—hiding my pain, making it easy for us to bond—you a star—me, an awkwardly brilliant and loyal malleable friend.
Death comes, reality unravels. I needed to stop, to live, to recapture my destiny.
Macintyre’s innate ability to cut through pointless ramblings makes the “Winter Wives” a compelling page-turner. It leaves readers thirsty for page after page, not to unmask who did it (?), but more so because most of us understand life is often shrouded in secrecy bubbling below the surface of our lives, blocking us from becoming who we are meant to be.
Truth be told I never knew you—your default was to constantly lie.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: September 9, 2021
Who are you? Do I really know you?
You’ve been in my life for most of its duration; I trusted you. I needed you. Something was amiss. The pegs were square, the holes were round. It didn’t matter; we connected—became close, like brothers, inseparable—we fell in love with the same person. I lost. I settled.
Life was easy for you. You were a shining star, destined for greatness—you threw it all away. We remained tight. You chased darkness and prospered beyond your wildest dreams. I knew, but I didn’t. My childhood was traumatic. My mom couldn’t remember…
You saved me. We loved unconditionally. Your realities came rushing forward in a blistering flow after you died, almost. I stayed unconditional; I became your cleaner; your love, my true love, grifted me alongside my settled love, her sister. My mind started to collapse like my long-gone mothers did. I swallowed youthful traumas—hiding my pain, making it easy for us to bond—you a star—me, an awkwardly brilliant and loyal malleable friend.
Death comes, reality unravels. I needed to stop, to live, to recapture my destiny.
Macintyre’s innate ability to cut through pointless ramblings makes the “Winter Wives” a compelling page-turner. It leaves readers thirsty for page after page, not to unmask who did it (?), but more so because most of us understand life is often shrouded in secrecy bubbling below the surface of our lives, blocking us from becoming who we are meant to be.
Truth be told I never knew you—your default was to constantly lie.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: September 9, 2021
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A History of My Brief BodyBilly-Ray BELCOURTTo be superior you’d have to admit your flaws. Superiority is a ruse.
5+++ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I’m 61 now. I’ve walked beside you my whole life—several steps ahead. Why? Because I’ve been conditioned. I don’t remember who conditioned me. The conditioning is flawed. I’m not better than you. I just believed I was. We went to school together. We worked together. I judged you. We all did. We inadvertently participated in the blood lust. We joked when you were barely out of earshot about you. We laughed. We did so to feel superior. Superiority is a ruse. It doesn’t exist. To be superior, you’d have to admit your flaws. We’re all flawed. Damaged.
I disgusted myself; I participated. I’m complicit. I need to grow, to ask forgiveness in evolution. A question: How would a white father explain residential schools to his brood?
I don’t want to feign woke-ness. I need to be better. I need to hear, feel, taste your pain + eradicate the detritus clouding my thoughts. I despise those amongst us who continue to propagate the illusion of being better, more deserving—claiming we had nothing to do with your suffering—telling you to get over yourself. How? We’re violent in our inaction. We fester in the silence of not speaking up.
By inviting us into his life and soul, Belcourt, in an exquisite fashion, paints a never-ending reality of how centuries of oppression, both NDN + LBGTQ, destroyed the fabric and perceived pureness of our society. Many, if not most of us, have bought into the grift we somehow deserve more and discounting that the puppeteers working our strings are nothing more than puppets themselves as they attempt to keep life’s playing field skewed to their advantage.
We all must be better. Thank you, Belcourt, for your piercing honesty and devastatingly gorgeous lyricism.
I must walk beside you to evolve + to grow.
We may not be able to erase our pasts, but our words and actions can help to heal our futures.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: August 28, 2021
I’m 61 now. I’ve walked beside you my whole life—several steps ahead. Why? Because I’ve been conditioned. I don’t remember who conditioned me. The conditioning is flawed. I’m not better than you. I just believed I was. We went to school together. We worked together. I judged you. We all did. We inadvertently participated in the blood lust. We joked when you were barely out of earshot about you. We laughed. We did so to feel superior. Superiority is a ruse. It doesn’t exist. To be superior, you’d have to admit your flaws. We’re all flawed. Damaged.
I disgusted myself; I participated. I’m complicit. I need to grow, to ask forgiveness in evolution. A question: How would a white father explain residential schools to his brood?
I don’t want to feign woke-ness. I need to be better. I need to hear, feel, taste your pain + eradicate the detritus clouding my thoughts. I despise those amongst us who continue to propagate the illusion of being better, more deserving—claiming we had nothing to do with your suffering—telling you to get over yourself. How? We’re violent in our inaction. We fester in the silence of not speaking up.
By inviting us into his life and soul, Belcourt, in an exquisite fashion, paints a never-ending reality of how centuries of oppression, both NDN + LBGTQ, destroyed the fabric and perceived pureness of our society. Many, if not most of us, have bought into the grift we somehow deserve more and discounting that the puppeteers working our strings are nothing more than puppets themselves as they attempt to keep life’s playing field skewed to their advantage.
We all must be better. Thank you, Belcourt, for your piercing honesty and devastatingly gorgeous lyricism.
I must walk beside you to evolve + to grow.
We may not be able to erase our pasts, but our words and actions can help to heal our futures.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: August 28, 2021
16
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ZEN + THE ART OF MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCERobert M. PIRSIGGenius + Insanity Share Threads.
|SUBJECTIVE| |
How did the book make me feel/think?
A young man named Lindsay tried to teach me, when I was a young man named Lindsay, how to water ski. The thing is, he couldn’t get up on skis himself.
Zen + The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance reminded me of my failed skiing attempt. Pirsig takes his young son Chris on an across America cycle tour to instill life values and provide him with comfort and direction to navigate this confounding world. Christopher suffers from mental health issues, + his father suffers from the insanity of introversion-filled genius.
I loved the book. And then I didn’t. It grew tedious in the madness of brilliance. Without question: it is a valuable classic—attempting to suffice what matters most in life. Us. Connections. Family. Love.
In Orwellian fashion, if you read between the lines, a far more terrifying than 1984 version of the direction of the world is suggested. Zen… was published in 1974, and Pirsig paints a clear picture of humanity’s inability to process the lightning pace of technology. We may love the progress; however, we are far too emotionally stunted to traverse what is being thrust upon us daily.
For this reader, the message was Quality is subjective, and it depends significantly on a plethora of variables, such as cultural and socioeconomic factors. What matters to me might not matter to you. I believe this leads us to the one Universal truth—we must care for each other—we’re all we’ve got, and we’re all that matters.
Zen… is a painful reality about a man whose mind has been marinating in genius who wants to provide his son (and all of us) the tools to soften our lives, pushing us toward caring. Still, the only trouble is that genius often finds itself spinning on a hamster wheel without a visible offramp.
It’s probably a lucky thing I couldn’t get up on the water-skis because I’ve never learnt how to swim.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: August 26, 2021
A young man named Lindsay tried to teach me, when I was a young man named Lindsay, how to water ski. The thing is, he couldn’t get up on skis himself.
Zen + The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance reminded me of my failed skiing attempt. Pirsig takes his young son Chris on an across America cycle tour to instill life values and provide him with comfort and direction to navigate this confounding world. Christopher suffers from mental health issues, + his father suffers from the insanity of introversion-filled genius.
I loved the book. And then I didn’t. It grew tedious in the madness of brilliance. Without question: it is a valuable classic—attempting to suffice what matters most in life. Us. Connections. Family. Love.
In Orwellian fashion, if you read between the lines, a far more terrifying than 1984 version of the direction of the world is suggested. Zen… was published in 1974, and Pirsig paints a clear picture of humanity’s inability to process the lightning pace of technology. We may love the progress; however, we are far too emotionally stunted to traverse what is being thrust upon us daily.
For this reader, the message was Quality is subjective, and it depends significantly on a plethora of variables, such as cultural and socioeconomic factors. What matters to me might not matter to you. I believe this leads us to the one Universal truth—we must care for each other—we’re all we’ve got, and we’re all that matters.
Zen… is a painful reality about a man whose mind has been marinating in genius who wants to provide his son (and all of us) the tools to soften our lives, pushing us toward caring. Still, the only trouble is that genius often finds itself spinning on a hamster wheel without a visible offramp.
It’s probably a lucky thing I couldn’t get up on the water-skis because I’ve never learnt how to swim.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: August 26, 2021
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NIGHTBITCHRachel YODERThe advance praise says we're supposed to love this book.
|SUBJECTIVE| |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I don’t want to write my thoughts on this book. You can’t make me.
Why don’t you?
I don’t want to be labelled. Motherhood is the most important thing on earth; I’m a man, I can’t possibly understand.
But we want to hear your thoughts.
I’m afraid I might be crucified.
I read the advance praise. I wanted to love this book.
Start reading. Okay, this is different. I cringe, laugh, cringe more. This is sort of working.
What’s the message? Mothers are abused? They have to give up everything to go through the violence of childbirth. Mothers are saints, gods, angels. Their connection to their offspring is vital, strong, unbreakable.
Mothers' dreams drift away as they are forced into the importance of motherhood. At least the one in this story, this Mum is angry, broken, flailing, did I say angry?
On one page, she complains about her sacrifices. On the next page, she pours her tears into the love of her child. I keep reading. I cringe. I get it; this story could only take place in suburbia, where a shrinking number of families can afford the luxury of a stay-at-home parent.
What, she’s turning into a dog? Her husband is less than her, and he hasn’t had to give up anything? He gets to escape weekly, leaving the child-rearing to the unappreciated mother?
No wonder she’s angry. She wants more. But she loves her kid. Does she?
About 100-pages to go, and the book takes a turn: A scene so grotesque for the first time ever, I didn’t want to read another page. I did. It didn’t get better, enjoyable, anything… it seemed like the author had exhausted her frustrations of motherhood and dropped on the readers’ metaphors lost in blood. I hated the last 100 pages + and feel stupid for not understanding the advance praise.
For me, NB is 238 pages of the author telling us she prefers dogs to cats masked in the laziness of trying to be Kafkaesque. And all mothers aren’t heroes (most are)—but not those who don’t really want the gig.
I believe comparing writing to Kafka is overused. The author of NB is not a man who experimented with hallucinogenic substances, so; therefore, Kafka references wring hollow for me.
I do have a suggestion for a follow-up book: A story where the mother explains to the authorities how her now nineteen-year-old son couldn’t possibly be a psychopath because his formative years (up to age 3) were uneventful, except, of course, for her mother killing animals with her mouth in front of him.
At least she didn’t give her kid a chia pet—that would have guaranteed his future psychopathy.
I am now terrified of dogs, + suburban women.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: August 18, 2021
I don’t want to write my thoughts on this book. You can’t make me.
Why don’t you?
I don’t want to be labelled. Motherhood is the most important thing on earth; I’m a man, I can’t possibly understand.
But we want to hear your thoughts.
I’m afraid I might be crucified.
I read the advance praise. I wanted to love this book.
Start reading. Okay, this is different. I cringe, laugh, cringe more. This is sort of working.
What’s the message? Mothers are abused? They have to give up everything to go through the violence of childbirth. Mothers are saints, gods, angels. Their connection to their offspring is vital, strong, unbreakable.
Mothers' dreams drift away as they are forced into the importance of motherhood. At least the one in this story, this Mum is angry, broken, flailing, did I say angry?
On one page, she complains about her sacrifices. On the next page, she pours her tears into the love of her child. I keep reading. I cringe. I get it; this story could only take place in suburbia, where a shrinking number of families can afford the luxury of a stay-at-home parent.
What, she’s turning into a dog? Her husband is less than her, and he hasn’t had to give up anything? He gets to escape weekly, leaving the child-rearing to the unappreciated mother?
No wonder she’s angry. She wants more. But she loves her kid. Does she?
About 100-pages to go, and the book takes a turn: A scene so grotesque for the first time ever, I didn’t want to read another page. I did. It didn’t get better, enjoyable, anything… it seemed like the author had exhausted her frustrations of motherhood and dropped on the readers’ metaphors lost in blood. I hated the last 100 pages + and feel stupid for not understanding the advance praise.
For me, NB is 238 pages of the author telling us she prefers dogs to cats masked in the laziness of trying to be Kafkaesque. And all mothers aren’t heroes (most are)—but not those who don’t really want the gig.
I believe comparing writing to Kafka is overused. The author of NB is not a man who experimented with hallucinogenic substances, so; therefore, Kafka references wring hollow for me.
I do have a suggestion for a follow-up book: A story where the mother explains to the authorities how her now nineteen-year-old son couldn’t possibly be a psychopath because his formative years (up to age 3) were uneventful, except, of course, for her mother killing animals with her mouth in front of him.
At least she didn’t give her kid a chia pet—that would have guaranteed his future psychopathy.
I am now terrified of dogs, + suburban women.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: August 18, 2021
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SPOILED BRATSSimon RICHGrab left shoe, right shoe, go!
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Privileged. Entitled. Nary a worry in the world. Raised in comfort. A spoiled brat. Simon Rich?
I wanted to hate this book because of the above. Without struggle, how can one be funny?
But much like the cyclist who doesn’t ride on the sidewalk or stops for pedestrians, Simon Rich has royally messed up my perception of the d-bags living in the privileged, entitled, carefree world.
How?
He takes direct aim at himself and in a delightfully (1) deprecating way, mocking himself and those of his ilk while at the same time deftly tackling issues inflicting the world today with a new bent on many universal themes.
Simon comes across as a d-bag with a conscious and we are lucky he doesn’t have hardship and struggle to cloud his mind as he delivers humour from a unique perspective. From the safety net looking up.
Two rubles to drink milk right from the goat.
Laugh. Laugh. Laugh. Cringe. Cry.
A cyclist stops and waves me across the street. Darn it. You are not all a-holes.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
P.S. This is the second book in a row I've read containing a goat.
WRITTEN: August 1, 2021
Privileged. Entitled. Nary a worry in the world. Raised in comfort. A spoiled brat. Simon Rich?
I wanted to hate this book because of the above. Without struggle, how can one be funny?
But much like the cyclist who doesn’t ride on the sidewalk or stops for pedestrians, Simon Rich has royally messed up my perception of the d-bags living in the privileged, entitled, carefree world.
How?
He takes direct aim at himself and in a delightfully (1) deprecating way, mocking himself and those of his ilk while at the same time deftly tackling issues inflicting the world today with a new bent on many universal themes.
Simon comes across as a d-bag with a conscious and we are lucky he doesn’t have hardship and struggle to cloud his mind as he delivers humour from a unique perspective. From the safety net looking up.
Two rubles to drink milk right from the goat.
- By delightful, I mean in a cringe-worthy manner where an Elf-on-the-Shelf, is abused by a ten-year-old psychopath.
Laugh. Laugh. Laugh. Cringe. Cry.
A cyclist stops and waves me across the street. Darn it. You are not all a-holes.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
P.S. This is the second book in a row I've read containing a goat.
WRITTEN: August 1, 2021
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everyone in this room will someday be deadEmily AUSTINAn unsupervised goat |___ _ ______ed ____ of _____| in a bakery.
5+++ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I read the first 100 pages. I laughed. I laughed. I laughed. I had to pee. I kept reading and laughing. I couldn’t put the book down. I’m still carrying it.
I walked to a micro-brewery. A 10,000-pound anchor was leaning against the wall of a building—far away from any body of water. A cheap silver chain + lock fastened the anchor to the wall of the building.
Weird.
I read another 100 pages. The book turned. Dark. Darker. Darkest. I laughed more. Emily Austin has an uncanny ability to bounce from sexuality to mental health, to addiction to…well, it’s like a race car of thoughts is ripping around a track in her mind. I grabbed a slice of bread. A goat walked by. Austin must have experienced almost crippling doses of pain in her life. Must have. That’s the only way to explain her comedic brilliance. I had to pee again.
I walked to a local watering hole. There was a sign on a post: LOST CAT with a picture of a CAT. Redundant?
Maybe the cat’s name was Mittens.
I read another 100 pages. I became captivated by Austin’s innate ability to write dialogue interspersed with the deep thoughts racing through her mind, often coming perilously close to going off the rails of the track.
Everyone In This Room Will Someday Be Dead is the most uproariously hilarious smattering of writing and thoughts this reader has ever read.
Here comes the unsupervised goat again—a goat who provided me with the quirkiest line I’ve read.
In the last few pages, the book turns dark.
Black.
And then Emily smashes a gaping hole in the darkness, leaving me with a cheek-to-cheek smile on my face.
I finally peed.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
P.S. This is my |new| favourite book!
WRITTEN: July 28, 2021
I read the first 100 pages. I laughed. I laughed. I laughed. I had to pee. I kept reading and laughing. I couldn’t put the book down. I’m still carrying it.
I walked to a micro-brewery. A 10,000-pound anchor was leaning against the wall of a building—far away from any body of water. A cheap silver chain + lock fastened the anchor to the wall of the building.
Weird.
I read another 100 pages. The book turned. Dark. Darker. Darkest. I laughed more. Emily Austin has an uncanny ability to bounce from sexuality to mental health, to addiction to…well, it’s like a race car of thoughts is ripping around a track in her mind. I grabbed a slice of bread. A goat walked by. Austin must have experienced almost crippling doses of pain in her life. Must have. That’s the only way to explain her comedic brilliance. I had to pee again.
I walked to a local watering hole. There was a sign on a post: LOST CAT with a picture of a CAT. Redundant?
Maybe the cat’s name was Mittens.
I read another 100 pages. I became captivated by Austin’s innate ability to write dialogue interspersed with the deep thoughts racing through her mind, often coming perilously close to going off the rails of the track.
Everyone In This Room Will Someday Be Dead is the most uproariously hilarious smattering of writing and thoughts this reader has ever read.
Here comes the unsupervised goat again—a goat who provided me with the quirkiest line I’ve read.
In the last few pages, the book turns dark.
Black.
And then Emily smashes a gaping hole in the darkness, leaving me with a cheek-to-cheek smile on my face.
I finally peed.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
P.S. This is my |new| favourite book!
WRITTEN: July 28, 2021
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BRAMAH and the BEGGAR BOYRene S SAKLIKARAn extraordinary fantasy pushing the limits of convention.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I’m not sure what I’m reading. Genres and style stretched to a breaking point, creating fresh tracks. I feel as I’ve entered a world where a talented disc jockey invites me into a new world. A battle for the soul of humanity ensues. Good versus evil. Everyday people, oppressed versus greed and corruption.
I step onto the disc. Spin. Spin. Spin. The verses and rhymes poetically layer on top of each other, elevating me, taking me places I’ve never been. I chase different dimensions. Just as I’m about to understand where I am, the mix master deftly sends me crashing through a portal to only have to rebuild once more. Another beat. Another layer. Another crash. The bad outweighs the good. Hope is being erased. But hope can never be eviscerated; it’s hope; it has its own pulse and thundering beat.
Bramah and the Beggar Boy beautifully challenge our conceptions of who we are and who we are destined to become. I think. I’m not sure what I’ve read.
What I do know is that long after I lock this book away on the shelf, the realm and dimension I visited likely will enter my dreams, and Bramah will help me unlock the mysteries of the unlimited creativity of THOT J BAP.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: July 21, 2021
I’m not sure what I’m reading. Genres and style stretched to a breaking point, creating fresh tracks. I feel as I’ve entered a world where a talented disc jockey invites me into a new world. A battle for the soul of humanity ensues. Good versus evil. Everyday people, oppressed versus greed and corruption.
I step onto the disc. Spin. Spin. Spin. The verses and rhymes poetically layer on top of each other, elevating me, taking me places I’ve never been. I chase different dimensions. Just as I’m about to understand where I am, the mix master deftly sends me crashing through a portal to only have to rebuild once more. Another beat. Another layer. Another crash. The bad outweighs the good. Hope is being erased. But hope can never be eviscerated; it’s hope; it has its own pulse and thundering beat.
Bramah and the Beggar Boy beautifully challenge our conceptions of who we are and who we are destined to become. I think. I’m not sure what I’ve read.
What I do know is that long after I lock this book away on the shelf, the realm and dimension I visited likely will enter my dreams, and Bramah will help me unlock the mysteries of the unlimited creativity of THOT J BAP.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: July 21, 2021
|
heart berriesTerese MARIE MAILHOTCracking a window into your life takes extraordinary courage.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Another Top 5.
A powerful illuminating must-read into a world not far from each of our doorsteps.
Centuries of oppression. Often administered by us. We manipulate and make people feel like less. We steal opportunities and then shun. We can be floor-licking bile-puking drunk, yet we stereotype others to the point where the others we’ve stereotyped fear the stereotype. We isolate then judge. We appall.
Caucasians find joy in the trivial. Indians (Indigenous) people carry misery with them throughout life as we strip them from humanity.
“Indians try to run away, and many starved. Nuns and priests ran out of places to put bones, so they built us into the walls of the boarding schools.”
Pause. Shudder.
Two older Caucasians discuss a sporting team’s name change at a local watering hole as if changing the name is going too far.
What’s wrong with us? "—built us into the walls—"
During the same conversation, one of the men says an Indigenous street name doesn’t belong in Vancouver; it should only be in Iqaluit.
My blood curdles.
Another friend says, “It goes both ways.”
What are you trying to say?
“In white culture, forgiveness is synonymous with letting go. In my culture, I believe we carry pain until we can reconcile it with ceremony. Pain is not framed like a problem with a solution. I don’t even know if white people see transcendence the way we do. I’m not sure that their dichotomies apply to me.”
We are complicit in stealing the ceremony.
There will never be a situation where an Indigenous person is upset because they are changing the monikers of the Kings, Golden Knights, or Patriots.
White people, we genuinely need to crawl inside the mirror and not come out until we’ve evolved. While inside, read: Heart Berries and open your heart and eyes—we are not everything.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: July 21, 2021
Another Top 5.
A powerful illuminating must-read into a world not far from each of our doorsteps.
Centuries of oppression. Often administered by us. We manipulate and make people feel like less. We steal opportunities and then shun. We can be floor-licking bile-puking drunk, yet we stereotype others to the point where the others we’ve stereotyped fear the stereotype. We isolate then judge. We appall.
Caucasians find joy in the trivial. Indians (Indigenous) people carry misery with them throughout life as we strip them from humanity.
“Indians try to run away, and many starved. Nuns and priests ran out of places to put bones, so they built us into the walls of the boarding schools.”
Pause. Shudder.
Two older Caucasians discuss a sporting team’s name change at a local watering hole as if changing the name is going too far.
What’s wrong with us? "—built us into the walls—"
During the same conversation, one of the men says an Indigenous street name doesn’t belong in Vancouver; it should only be in Iqaluit.
My blood curdles.
Another friend says, “It goes both ways.”
What are you trying to say?
“In white culture, forgiveness is synonymous with letting go. In my culture, I believe we carry pain until we can reconcile it with ceremony. Pain is not framed like a problem with a solution. I don’t even know if white people see transcendence the way we do. I’m not sure that their dichotomies apply to me.”
We are complicit in stealing the ceremony.
There will never be a situation where an Indigenous person is upset because they are changing the monikers of the Kings, Golden Knights, or Patriots.
White people, we genuinely need to crawl inside the mirror and not come out until we’ve evolved. While inside, read: Heart Berries and open your heart and eyes—we are not everything.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: July 21, 2021
|
THIS CITY IS A MINEFIELDAaron CHANA lengthy rant of woe is me.
|SUBJECTIVE| |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I’ve lived in Vancouver for more than 31 years. Every day I fall deeper in love with the city. Sure, like every city and person, Vancouver has flaws, but despite the imperfections, like every city, it is filled with a diverse mix of personalities, and like every city, it is what you make of it.
A city doesn’t owe its inhabitants anything.
I used to have a friend who complained about Vancouver not being as fast-paced as Toronto—repeatedly saying how much better Toronto was. Every time she complained, she discounted all of the fabulous people here. I pleaded with her to stay, to give the people of the city a chance. The hundredth time she complained, I told her to leave—and if there was any problem with the city not being what she wants it to be—she was the problem. She left. I’m glad.
In This City is a Minefield, Aaron Chan uses the last chapter to lambaste the city he was born in—claiming Vancouver doesn’t offer him what he so deserves.
Chan’s complaining about this beautiful place is only part of why I am breaking my rule and giving this book a 1 Star review (I would have given it less if there was an option too).
The other reasons and there are many, might be too many to list.
The book sucked me in by suggesting it might give readers a peek into the trials and tribulations of being gay and Chinese. But it doesn’t. Unless gay and Chinese is not a universal thing where parents don’t want their children to be gay, or get an education, or ever leave the parents’ comfort zone. It’s not original or is it a cultural thing; it is just life.
Chapter after chapter after chapter, Aaron whines about how someone as self-proclaimed perfect as he is — “…I would find other gay guys out there like me—romantic, intellectual, witty. Different.” —deserves to be loved? And if you do not meet his standards, you are a creepy old white guy, a basic gay, an intellectually vapid gay who works out. If you like Top 40 music… you’re flawed?
The person he describes in the book (him) comes across as pretentious, banal, unlikeable.
I feel bad typing that.
Chan signs up for Gay Apps (Hookup apps) and gets mad when he finds gay racists “No Asians” and seems to think if he calls them out, he can fix racism—the naivety is shocking. Perhaps, he should be grateful for the red flags.
When dating doesn’t work out the fairy-tale way, he feels it should, he thinks he can force relationships to work. Everything isn’t so bleeping important.
Chapter after chapter after chapter of insulting everything and everyone. This isn’t so much a memoir as it is a lengthy rant of woe is me.
When Chan doesn’t find what he wants, he sleeps around and feels less when he does, but instead of saying he experimented with meaningless sex, he used a whole chapter in insufferable prose, masked as artistic, to…?
Nobody is immune to Chan’s barbs, even the fantastic city in which he is lucky to live.
I wished I had used my track + field experience to run to another part of the bookstore to select a different read—an insightful read instead of one about how the world owes the author better life experiences.
“I believe I value love more than the average person.”
Who says that?
Chan goes to a gay bathhouse searching for the elusive love he so desires and proceeds to insult everyone there, seeming to forget he is in a gay bathhouse.
And finally, saying you are a sapiophile, and intellectual, doesn’t make you interesting: it makes you painfully dull. Just an opinion.
I wouldn’t have written these thoughts if Chan hadn’t insulted everyone who lives in Vancouver.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: July 16, 2021
I’ve lived in Vancouver for more than 31 years. Every day I fall deeper in love with the city. Sure, like every city and person, Vancouver has flaws, but despite the imperfections, like every city, it is filled with a diverse mix of personalities, and like every city, it is what you make of it.
A city doesn’t owe its inhabitants anything.
I used to have a friend who complained about Vancouver not being as fast-paced as Toronto—repeatedly saying how much better Toronto was. Every time she complained, she discounted all of the fabulous people here. I pleaded with her to stay, to give the people of the city a chance. The hundredth time she complained, I told her to leave—and if there was any problem with the city not being what she wants it to be—she was the problem. She left. I’m glad.
In This City is a Minefield, Aaron Chan uses the last chapter to lambaste the city he was born in—claiming Vancouver doesn’t offer him what he so deserves.
Chan’s complaining about this beautiful place is only part of why I am breaking my rule and giving this book a 1 Star review (I would have given it less if there was an option too).
The other reasons and there are many, might be too many to list.
The book sucked me in by suggesting it might give readers a peek into the trials and tribulations of being gay and Chinese. But it doesn’t. Unless gay and Chinese is not a universal thing where parents don’t want their children to be gay, or get an education, or ever leave the parents’ comfort zone. It’s not original or is it a cultural thing; it is just life.
Chapter after chapter after chapter, Aaron whines about how someone as self-proclaimed perfect as he is — “…I would find other gay guys out there like me—romantic, intellectual, witty. Different.” —deserves to be loved? And if you do not meet his standards, you are a creepy old white guy, a basic gay, an intellectually vapid gay who works out. If you like Top 40 music… you’re flawed?
The person he describes in the book (him) comes across as pretentious, banal, unlikeable.
I feel bad typing that.
Chan signs up for Gay Apps (Hookup apps) and gets mad when he finds gay racists “No Asians” and seems to think if he calls them out, he can fix racism—the naivety is shocking. Perhaps, he should be grateful for the red flags.
When dating doesn’t work out the fairy-tale way, he feels it should, he thinks he can force relationships to work. Everything isn’t so bleeping important.
Chapter after chapter after chapter of insulting everything and everyone. This isn’t so much a memoir as it is a lengthy rant of woe is me.
When Chan doesn’t find what he wants, he sleeps around and feels less when he does, but instead of saying he experimented with meaningless sex, he used a whole chapter in insufferable prose, masked as artistic, to…?
Nobody is immune to Chan’s barbs, even the fantastic city in which he is lucky to live.
I wished I had used my track + field experience to run to another part of the bookstore to select a different read—an insightful read instead of one about how the world owes the author better life experiences.
“I believe I value love more than the average person.”
Who says that?
Chan goes to a gay bathhouse searching for the elusive love he so desires and proceeds to insult everyone there, seeming to forget he is in a gay bathhouse.
And finally, saying you are a sapiophile, and intellectual, doesn’t make you interesting: it makes you painfully dull. Just an opinion.
I wouldn’t have written these thoughts if Chan hadn’t insulted everyone who lives in Vancouver.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: July 16, 2021
|
THE UNION OF SYNCRONIZED SWIMMERSChristina SANDUWhat happens in life when you don’t have a place of belonging?
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
What happens in life when you don’t have a place of belonging?
A river. Two sides. One part of Russia. The other laying in limbo. A cigarette factory. Exploited workers. Six women form a friendship, playfully escaping their realities in the murky waters of the river.
Those on the other side of the river see promise in the women’s playfulness |synchronized swimming|.
Those on the other side of the river exploit these women for the pride of their country.
The women escape by swimming their way into the Olympics.
Life changes. Escape leads them to different locales around the globe.
When a person comes from purgatory and is thrust into the world, survival is questionable at best as their lack of grounding leaves them abundantly vulnerable to the darker sides of life. Transforming oneself into someone new, with predators lurking, waiting to feast on your insecurities and solitude—how?
Being female would only exacerbate life challenges (I would think), leaving loneliness and despair trapped inside. Coping, and trying to climb while fitting into a world full of rejection, a constant illusory reality.
As much as I could never understand the female experience, what I can appreciate because I was an unwanted baby—purgatory sucks—and luminous beauty comes from being an individual. Often sad, lost, but definitely, unique.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: July 13, 2021
What happens in life when you don’t have a place of belonging?
A river. Two sides. One part of Russia. The other laying in limbo. A cigarette factory. Exploited workers. Six women form a friendship, playfully escaping their realities in the murky waters of the river.
Those on the other side of the river see promise in the women’s playfulness |synchronized swimming|.
Those on the other side of the river exploit these women for the pride of their country.
The women escape by swimming their way into the Olympics.
Life changes. Escape leads them to different locales around the globe.
When a person comes from purgatory and is thrust into the world, survival is questionable at best as their lack of grounding leaves them abundantly vulnerable to the darker sides of life. Transforming oneself into someone new, with predators lurking, waiting to feast on your insecurities and solitude—how?
Being female would only exacerbate life challenges (I would think), leaving loneliness and despair trapped inside. Coping, and trying to climb while fitting into a world full of rejection, a constant illusory reality.
As much as I could never understand the female experience, what I can appreciate because I was an unwanted baby—purgatory sucks—and luminous beauty comes from being an individual. Often sad, lost, but definitely, unique.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: July 13, 2021
|
THE ROADCormac McCARTHYThere is nothing more powerful than a parent’s unconditional love for their children.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Where shall I place you on my all-time list?
1? 2? 3? 4? 5?
Top 5 for sure.
I’m exhausted. Not a single word in The Road is wasted.
I’m breathless. Father. Son. The world is over; all that is left is traversing a post-apocalyptic Deathscape to find finality.
Simplicity blows up into a complex social commentary.
A young boy is frightened, pure, innocent, kind, caring; his father shades him the definition of unconditional. The father, taking the boy's lead, constantly battles with his survival instincts. Instincts, which would lead him into the sickness of survival at all costs instead of the innocence of accepting love is all they have. And being swallowed by the darkness of believing, somehow, you deserve more than the others playing out life’s end—a somehow that would leave you unrecognizably damaged and soulless as destiny delivers you to the inevitable.
The father and son intuitively understand the providence awaiting them when they finally stop moving. The boy repeatedly asks, “Are we dying?” --with the father consoling his son with reassurance and love.
I couldn’t help but think I was reading about society gone astray as the father and son moved from place to place, dragging their found belongings with them like homeless people hoping tomorrow will bring light. I felt none of us are immune from the plight of those less fortunate. And in a sense, humanity needs to peer deeply into a collective mirror and hopefully understand what matters most is love and kindness--and there is nothing more powerful than a parent’s unconditional love for their children.
Near the end of this engrossing ride, my eyes filled with tears, and then—twist--
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: July 13, 2021
Where shall I place you on my all-time list?
1? 2? 3? 4? 5?
Top 5 for sure.
I’m exhausted. Not a single word in The Road is wasted.
I’m breathless. Father. Son. The world is over; all that is left is traversing a post-apocalyptic Deathscape to find finality.
Simplicity blows up into a complex social commentary.
A young boy is frightened, pure, innocent, kind, caring; his father shades him the definition of unconditional. The father, taking the boy's lead, constantly battles with his survival instincts. Instincts, which would lead him into the sickness of survival at all costs instead of the innocence of accepting love is all they have. And being swallowed by the darkness of believing, somehow, you deserve more than the others playing out life’s end—a somehow that would leave you unrecognizably damaged and soulless as destiny delivers you to the inevitable.
The father and son intuitively understand the providence awaiting them when they finally stop moving. The boy repeatedly asks, “Are we dying?” --with the father consoling his son with reassurance and love.
I couldn’t help but think I was reading about society gone astray as the father and son moved from place to place, dragging their found belongings with them like homeless people hoping tomorrow will bring light. I felt none of us are immune from the plight of those less fortunate. And in a sense, humanity needs to peer deeply into a collective mirror and hopefully understand what matters most is love and kindness--and there is nothing more powerful than a parent’s unconditional love for their children.
Near the end of this engrossing ride, my eyes filled with tears, and then—twist--
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: July 13, 2021
|
TAKE UP THE SLACKR. L. HOWARDA ragtag crew comes together when things matter most.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Wow. What a surprise.
My friend Jim lent me his copy of this captivating read.
Anyway, a tugboat navigates the untamed waters of the British Columbia coastline for decades. It is crewed by a ragtag crew of misfits from across the land.
They are rough around the edges, and at times, make readers question whether they can even stand one another for a second. Somehow, collectively, they mesh together in the understanding the sum truly is greater than the parts. Their lives depend upon one another.
They continue circumnavigating the rugged, undeniably beautiful coastline. The crew's leader grows ill |no spoiler| shining their steadfast love for one another regardless of differences.
Take up the Slack is the story of these ragged souls told with buttery prose, guaranteed to capture readers in the simplicity of what matters, and the beauty found in coming together.
Narrated from the tugboat's point of view!
If you can find this book, it's must-read. I hope the author revisits republishing this tasty sea morsel—I'm sure many publishers would be willing to give it a go!
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: July 13, 2021
Wow. What a surprise.
My friend Jim lent me his copy of this captivating read.
Anyway, a tugboat navigates the untamed waters of the British Columbia coastline for decades. It is crewed by a ragtag crew of misfits from across the land.
They are rough around the edges, and at times, make readers question whether they can even stand one another for a second. Somehow, collectively, they mesh together in the understanding the sum truly is greater than the parts. Their lives depend upon one another.
They continue circumnavigating the rugged, undeniably beautiful coastline. The crew's leader grows ill |no spoiler| shining their steadfast love for one another regardless of differences.
Take up the Slack is the story of these ragged souls told with buttery prose, guaranteed to capture readers in the simplicity of what matters, and the beauty found in coming together.
Narrated from the tugboat's point of view!
If you can find this book, it's must-read. I hope the author revisits republishing this tasty sea morsel—I'm sure many publishers would be willing to give it a go!
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: July 13, 2021
16
|
SURE, I'LL BE YOUR BLACK FRIENDBen PHILIPPEHey white people; we need to evolve.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
First off, I want Ben to be my friend.
We’d be an odd pair. I’m a soon-to-be 61-year-old lifelong conditioned Caucasian; I’m working on breaking my conditioning.
At times beyond hilarious (whatever that means), this book crosses generational and cultural biases with tickling aplomb.
Reading about the experiences of others helps us realize our individual lives are not the only ones that matter. While reading, I became hypersensitive to those walking amongst us.
IN THREE DAYS
Two twentysomething white guys passed me on the street. There was a poster of a missing indigenous woman on a street pole. They ignored the pain of ‘missing’ and began making fun of her name.
The next night out for a few pops at our local watering hole. Instead of hello, a friend plops down and chooses to rant about the veracity of the number of indigenous babies found buried at a residential school. He then switched gears too, “The city did a great job cleaning up the homeless from a city park." Finishing strong by questioning if it was a good decision by the opposition leader (politician) to be wearing a turban because it turned people off.
The following morning a lady asked me on the street, “How did you get so brown?" She then added, "I can only get white or pink.”
And finally, a couple locking up their bikes, I overheard a middle-aged white woman say to her friend, “You pick the restaurant. It doesn’t matter which one you pick; they have taken over this street. They are all the same.”
I don’t want to be those people I’ve mentioned above. I don’t want those people in my life.
Part of my conditioning busting is stopping using those/they/them, but in this case, I think it suits those.
Thanks, Ben, for sharing your experiences. I’ll leave you with this, something no Caucasian can ever have an opinion on other than just listening.
“I cross the street coming out of the subway at night because that little old lady in front of me is visibly terrified of the Black Man behind her, and she shouldn’t be scared, but she is literally shaking, so why not do her that unfair kindness?”
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: July 6, 2021
First off, I want Ben to be my friend.
We’d be an odd pair. I’m a soon-to-be 61-year-old lifelong conditioned Caucasian; I’m working on breaking my conditioning.
At times beyond hilarious (whatever that means), this book crosses generational and cultural biases with tickling aplomb.
Reading about the experiences of others helps us realize our individual lives are not the only ones that matter. While reading, I became hypersensitive to those walking amongst us.
IN THREE DAYS
Two twentysomething white guys passed me on the street. There was a poster of a missing indigenous woman on a street pole. They ignored the pain of ‘missing’ and began making fun of her name.
The next night out for a few pops at our local watering hole. Instead of hello, a friend plops down and chooses to rant about the veracity of the number of indigenous babies found buried at a residential school. He then switched gears too, “The city did a great job cleaning up the homeless from a city park." Finishing strong by questioning if it was a good decision by the opposition leader (politician) to be wearing a turban because it turned people off.
The following morning a lady asked me on the street, “How did you get so brown?" She then added, "I can only get white or pink.”
And finally, a couple locking up their bikes, I overheard a middle-aged white woman say to her friend, “You pick the restaurant. It doesn’t matter which one you pick; they have taken over this street. They are all the same.”
I don’t want to be those people I’ve mentioned above. I don’t want those people in my life.
Part of my conditioning busting is stopping using those/they/them, but in this case, I think it suits those.
Thanks, Ben, for sharing your experiences. I’ll leave you with this, something no Caucasian can ever have an opinion on other than just listening.
“I cross the street coming out of the subway at night because that little old lady in front of me is visibly terrified of the Black Man behind her, and she shouldn’t be scared, but she is literally shaking, so why not do her that unfair kindness?”
That is how this book made me feel/think.
WRITTEN: July 6, 2021
|
SEVERANCELing MAThe premise makes for a fabulous short story.
|SUBJECTIVE| |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I did not like writing my thoughts on this book.
The premise would have made for a great short story.
I got fired at the start of COVID-19. A fifteen-career gone without severance.
What I gleaned from this book is unfettered capitalism sucks, being young is hard. I didn’t learn anything new about the immigrant experience (I guess I un-gleaned that point). I wanted to learn more; I think.
There was an overdone theme about the shackles of religion, I think. I didn’t laugh, once. Sad.
Severance is an easy read, unfortunately, littered with too many paragraphs like this:
“In my new studio, we took a break. There was nothing to drink, so we opened boxes of mismatched dishes and had some tap water. The former tenant had left ice in the freezer.”
Page after page after page of the likes of ↑↑↑
Seriously, this is a paragraph in “NAMED THE BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR BY—”
Creative writing shouldn’t be a thing.
Progressing through the book there were chapters that could have easily been called “I” —I is a tedious character, at least for me.
The praise for the book sure is good. I am not sure all the praise-people read the book. I’m certain the editor didn’t. If he/she would have, I wouldn’t know what |bildungsroman| means. Seriously, in the praise section it was used twice. I can’t pronounce it, and I most certainly am averse to using it: who is the word for?
Hey, did you hear about the book that delivers a bildungsroman?
A what?
For a moment, during the last 100-pages or so, the book turned for the better. Then it didn’t. It became littered in product placements, I thought I was reading a terrible Amazon Prime movie in book form.
Montblanc. Enterprise Rent a Car. Swingline. Muji. Weleda Skin Food. Kraft. Frosted Mini-Wheats. Old Navy. HotHands. Amazon. FedEx. UPS. USPS. DHL. iPhone. iPhone. iPhone. ChapStick. Juicy Couture. Dyson. Maruchan Instant Lunch. Heinz. Manischewitz. Kiehl’s. Ultra Facial Moisturizer. Mario Badescu Facial Spray. Sephora.
That was in about twenty pages. I don’t know why it bothered me. It just did.
That, along with, lines like these:
“I peered down the length of the staircase, its lower half submerged in shadow. The skunky scent of leftover beer, the aroma of cheap weed.”
And
“The move-in day was long and draining. I was exhausted by evening.”
Again, I don’t know why this bothered me, (maybe) it was because of the cheap weed?
I finished the book. That’s a good thing.
One last thing about the praise, one of the people lauding the book said, “When I finished it, I immediately picked it up and read it all over again.”
Why?
I don’t believe you.
When I read the last word, I pondered: Is storytelling dead? Has it been killed off like a millennials’ fever dream?
I got up. Went to the washroom. I walked back to the computer. I wrote another sentence. And then, I repeated the routine.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
My eighteenth favourite book of the year (out of nineteen thus far).
WRITTEN: June 21, 2021
I did not like writing my thoughts on this book.
The premise would have made for a great short story.
I got fired at the start of COVID-19. A fifteen-career gone without severance.
What I gleaned from this book is unfettered capitalism sucks, being young is hard. I didn’t learn anything new about the immigrant experience (I guess I un-gleaned that point). I wanted to learn more; I think.
There was an overdone theme about the shackles of religion, I think. I didn’t laugh, once. Sad.
Severance is an easy read, unfortunately, littered with too many paragraphs like this:
“In my new studio, we took a break. There was nothing to drink, so we opened boxes of mismatched dishes and had some tap water. The former tenant had left ice in the freezer.”
Page after page after page of the likes of ↑↑↑
Seriously, this is a paragraph in “NAMED THE BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR BY—”
Creative writing shouldn’t be a thing.
Progressing through the book there were chapters that could have easily been called “I” —I is a tedious character, at least for me.
The praise for the book sure is good. I am not sure all the praise-people read the book. I’m certain the editor didn’t. If he/she would have, I wouldn’t know what |bildungsroman| means. Seriously, in the praise section it was used twice. I can’t pronounce it, and I most certainly am averse to using it: who is the word for?
Hey, did you hear about the book that delivers a bildungsroman?
A what?
For a moment, during the last 100-pages or so, the book turned for the better. Then it didn’t. It became littered in product placements, I thought I was reading a terrible Amazon Prime movie in book form.
Montblanc. Enterprise Rent a Car. Swingline. Muji. Weleda Skin Food. Kraft. Frosted Mini-Wheats. Old Navy. HotHands. Amazon. FedEx. UPS. USPS. DHL. iPhone. iPhone. iPhone. ChapStick. Juicy Couture. Dyson. Maruchan Instant Lunch. Heinz. Manischewitz. Kiehl’s. Ultra Facial Moisturizer. Mario Badescu Facial Spray. Sephora.
That was in about twenty pages. I don’t know why it bothered me. It just did.
That, along with, lines like these:
“I peered down the length of the staircase, its lower half submerged in shadow. The skunky scent of leftover beer, the aroma of cheap weed.”
And
“The move-in day was long and draining. I was exhausted by evening.”
Again, I don’t know why this bothered me, (maybe) it was because of the cheap weed?
I finished the book. That’s a good thing.
One last thing about the praise, one of the people lauding the book said, “When I finished it, I immediately picked it up and read it all over again.”
Why?
I don’t believe you.
When I read the last word, I pondered: Is storytelling dead? Has it been killed off like a millennials’ fever dream?
I got up. Went to the washroom. I walked back to the computer. I wrote another sentence. And then, I repeated the routine.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
My eighteenth favourite book of the year (out of nineteen thus far).
WRITTEN: June 21, 2021
|
CRYING IN THE H MARTMichelle ZAUNERI must have been dehydrated.
|SUBJECTIVE| |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I hated writing my thoughts on this book. Writing them makes me feel like a word starting with an “a” …and finishing with “hole.”
I wanted to love this book. I had predetermined I would.
It started off in a flurry, I was in!
I witnessed the wraths of cancer taking away my father, my mother, and then, my mother a second time.
I cry easily. I believe I could turn pro if there was a crying circuit. Is there?
I even cried during an episode of Bob’s Burgers.
I’ve been to Korea twice. I’ve been to an H-Mart, numerous times.
Anytime an author (anyone) shares their journey about the vulnerability of losing a loved one to cancer—is a vitally important story to share.
Here comes the waterworks. No. I must be dehydrated. I’m getting mad at myself. I turn a page. Why am I not crying? Cry dammit. It even says crying in the title.
No tears.
What is this book about?
Too many words.
“…towering over her head by more than a foot. It was remarkable that someone so large could grow from a woman so small.”
I just learned what it is like to go from child to adult (it must be deeper).
These are sentences in an International Bestseller: Why?
Please ban creative writing. Stories need to move along. I want to cry.
Why is the first thing in the author description about a band? If you understand Japanese + Korean history, it would be highly unlikely, for any Korean, to use Japanese in their band name.
There is one less bestselling (bestselling) author.
I must go watch Bob’s Burgers.
Does the previous sentence make me an “a” …?
I am terribly sorry for Michelle’s loss. I wanted to cry.
I would not have written my thoughts on this book if it wasn’t a BESTSELLER.
WRITTEN: June 18, 2021
I hated writing my thoughts on this book. Writing them makes me feel like a word starting with an “a” …and finishing with “hole.”
I wanted to love this book. I had predetermined I would.
It started off in a flurry, I was in!
I witnessed the wraths of cancer taking away my father, my mother, and then, my mother a second time.
I cry easily. I believe I could turn pro if there was a crying circuit. Is there?
I even cried during an episode of Bob’s Burgers.
I’ve been to Korea twice. I’ve been to an H-Mart, numerous times.
Anytime an author (anyone) shares their journey about the vulnerability of losing a loved one to cancer—is a vitally important story to share.
Here comes the waterworks. No. I must be dehydrated. I’m getting mad at myself. I turn a page. Why am I not crying? Cry dammit. It even says crying in the title.
No tears.
What is this book about?
Too many words.
“…towering over her head by more than a foot. It was remarkable that someone so large could grow from a woman so small.”
I just learned what it is like to go from child to adult (it must be deeper).
These are sentences in an International Bestseller: Why?
Please ban creative writing. Stories need to move along. I want to cry.
Why is the first thing in the author description about a band? If you understand Japanese + Korean history, it would be highly unlikely, for any Korean, to use Japanese in their band name.
There is one less bestselling (bestselling) author.
I must go watch Bob’s Burgers.
Does the previous sentence make me an “a” …?
I am terribly sorry for Michelle’s loss. I wanted to cry.
I would not have written my thoughts on this book if it wasn’t a BESTSELLER.
WRITTEN: June 18, 2021
|
HAUNTEDChuck PALAHNIUKTaking boring people and turning their lives into electrifying nightmares.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Palahniuk is not likely everybody’s cup of tea. However, he is so ridiculously gifted in storytelling he could author a story about a cup of tea that would not only disgust you, but it would make you wet yourself in laughter while making you consider if you could ever drink tea again because somehow, he’s turned tea into a monster.
Mundane. Broken. Ordinary. You. Me. It’s all fair game.
Easily in my top twenty-five, currently landing at my number two spot. Seriously.
At times I felt like I was going to pass out as Chuck described the wants, needs, and pains of dull, damaged people, as they faced their deepest, darkest, most revolting fears.
Which of your friends would you want to die first, so you could eat them because there is no refrigeration available?
Chuck Palahniuk needs to be on the must-read list of every writer because he with the utmost deftness understands what takes a story from ordinary to great is we all want something, even if it leads to our own demise. Telling stories about want; what do you want?
Palahniuk also comprehends better than most, humans are intrinsically flawed and when tragedy strikes, we are more interested in the sheer scope of suffering instead of the humanity lays within.
Go for it. Chase it. Live.
Haunted could quite easily be the most terror-inducing book I’ve read.
#2
WRITTEN: June 16, 2021
Palahniuk is not likely everybody’s cup of tea. However, he is so ridiculously gifted in storytelling he could author a story about a cup of tea that would not only disgust you, but it would make you wet yourself in laughter while making you consider if you could ever drink tea again because somehow, he’s turned tea into a monster.
Mundane. Broken. Ordinary. You. Me. It’s all fair game.
Easily in my top twenty-five, currently landing at my number two spot. Seriously.
At times I felt like I was going to pass out as Chuck described the wants, needs, and pains of dull, damaged people, as they faced their deepest, darkest, most revolting fears.
Which of your friends would you want to die first, so you could eat them because there is no refrigeration available?
Chuck Palahniuk needs to be on the must-read list of every writer because he with the utmost deftness understands what takes a story from ordinary to great is we all want something, even if it leads to our own demise. Telling stories about want; what do you want?
Palahniuk also comprehends better than most, humans are intrinsically flawed and when tragedy strikes, we are more interested in the sheer scope of suffering instead of the humanity lays within.
Go for it. Chase it. Live.
Haunted could quite easily be the most terror-inducing book I’ve read.
#2
WRITTEN: June 16, 2021
|
MEMORIALBryan WASHINGTONA Perfect Combustion of Character and Life.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Gay or straight or otherwise, who cares?
If you do, you missed boarding the evolution train + are (probably) an anti-masker/vaxxer.
Tolerate is a violent word.
Nobody has ever uttered these words, “Mom, Dad, I’m straight"—and were then thrown out of their home.
Memorial by Bryan Washington is a deftly written, what’s another word for compelling? —captivating read, shining a light on the reality a gay person’s life is messed up, just like everyone else—only with different sex.
Brilliant.
It was so enthralling, I thought I was reading a memoir. Until I didn’t.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
In my Top 25
WRITTEN: May 21, 2021
Gay or straight or otherwise, who cares?
If you do, you missed boarding the evolution train + are (probably) an anti-masker/vaxxer.
Tolerate is a violent word.
Nobody has ever uttered these words, “Mom, Dad, I’m straight"—and were then thrown out of their home.
Memorial by Bryan Washington is a deftly written, what’s another word for compelling? —captivating read, shining a light on the reality a gay person’s life is messed up, just like everyone else—only with different sex.
Brilliant.
It was so enthralling, I thought I was reading a memoir. Until I didn’t.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
In my Top 25
WRITTEN: May 21, 2021
|
KLARA AND THE SUNKazuo ISHIGUROUnconditional found in the unlikeliest of friendships.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I’ve heard Klara and The Sun be described as a masterpiece. Yes.
I’ve been lucky lately; I’ve been on a reading roll. Ten out of the fifteen books I’ve read in 2021 have landed in my subjective Top 25! The books have run the gamut from Talking Animals navigating New York City to being black in America to the unquenchable quest for Happiness to addiction to abortion and now to Artificial Intelligence (Klara and The Sun).
What makes Ishiguro’s writing brilliant – well – I shed a tear for an Artificial Friend (not a spoiler). Who’d of thought an Artificial Friend could teach us valuable life lessons?
Rhetorical?
I’m not sure. We, humans, are deeply flawed, beautiful, complex, troubled beings. Imagine a sick girl needing friendship—an Artificial Friend is introduced |Klara| she’s not the most advanced model. She’s dated. But there is something about her that shines in this world where everyone, and everything, is replaceable. The new phones have arrived, this time purple…must get it…my life will be so much better.
The young girl’s sickness progresses, the humans in her orbit care, but primarily for how the girl’s illness will impact their lives. Not Klara: her love and duty for the girl is the precise definition of unconditional. If the humans only listened, they’d understand. Klara does; she sees a fractured world filled with pollution and the transitory nature of living. Klara doesn’t care about what people think—she only cares about the well-being of the girl who selected her as a friend.
I shed a tear for Klara. I shed a tear for the naivete of unconditional love + the lessons we can learn if only we knew how to get there.
The new phones are here. Goodbye.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
In my Top 25
WRITTEN: May 5, 2021
I’ve heard Klara and The Sun be described as a masterpiece. Yes.
I’ve been lucky lately; I’ve been on a reading roll. Ten out of the fifteen books I’ve read in 2021 have landed in my subjective Top 25! The books have run the gamut from Talking Animals navigating New York City to being black in America to the unquenchable quest for Happiness to addiction to abortion and now to Artificial Intelligence (Klara and The Sun).
What makes Ishiguro’s writing brilliant – well – I shed a tear for an Artificial Friend (not a spoiler). Who’d of thought an Artificial Friend could teach us valuable life lessons?
Rhetorical?
I’m not sure. We, humans, are deeply flawed, beautiful, complex, troubled beings. Imagine a sick girl needing friendship—an Artificial Friend is introduced |Klara| she’s not the most advanced model. She’s dated. But there is something about her that shines in this world where everyone, and everything, is replaceable. The new phones have arrived, this time purple…must get it…my life will be so much better.
The young girl’s sickness progresses, the humans in her orbit care, but primarily for how the girl’s illness will impact their lives. Not Klara: her love and duty for the girl is the precise definition of unconditional. If the humans only listened, they’d understand. Klara does; she sees a fractured world filled with pollution and the transitory nature of living. Klara doesn’t care about what people think—she only cares about the well-being of the girl who selected her as a friend.
I shed a tear for Klara. I shed a tear for the naivete of unconditional love + the lessons we can learn if only we knew how to get there.
The new phones are here. Goodbye.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
In my Top 25
WRITTEN: May 5, 2021
|
WE, JANEAimee WALLThe definition of loneliness = abortion.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Too many men are trapped in the archaic belief we each have our place/roles, and a woman’s role is to be subservient to a man.
Too many of us allow men to control this world unchecked.
We are really the same. We want love + a meaningful life, + a place of belonging but are swallowed by the murkiness of conformity. Many people are lost on society’s fringes wanting everything in their lives to be different, fulfilling. Still, they are trapped in a dream of wanting more in a world where everything is ephemeral + controlled by the marketed flavour of the day, as life slips by.
Man. Woman. Listening is a problem. Belief in what we’re sold only exacerbates the divide. We can never fully understand each other because man can never possibly understand the emotions of having another life growing inside. Or the horrible decision (almost) always made (always) made alone to say goodbye + the unrecoverable pain of continuing living. We’re pregnant, isn’t a thing.
The definition of loneliness = abortion.
Nobody considers the emotional toll bestowed upon those who perform the abortions—it must be devastating.
A man can run. A woman can never escape pregnancy.
Men mostly talk about nothing, sports, blah, blah, blah. Women keep us alive.
Men must learn to listen, to evolve.
I was born in a secret place. I was to be sold or adopted out to a farm family. My mother was never to speak of me again—religion was going to fix her to become suitable for marriage after I was long gone. I was an afterthought; I survived, I’m okay.
Adopted out or aborted—I’m here. A choice was made. I’m happy to be here.
Regardless of my life, I don’t think it is my responsibility to choose what’s the right path for others.
I believe all we are collectively supposed to do, is listen + learn, + evolve.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
In my Top 25
WRITTEN: April 25, 2021
Too many men are trapped in the archaic belief we each have our place/roles, and a woman’s role is to be subservient to a man.
Too many of us allow men to control this world unchecked.
We are really the same. We want love + a meaningful life, + a place of belonging but are swallowed by the murkiness of conformity. Many people are lost on society’s fringes wanting everything in their lives to be different, fulfilling. Still, they are trapped in a dream of wanting more in a world where everything is ephemeral + controlled by the marketed flavour of the day, as life slips by.
Man. Woman. Listening is a problem. Belief in what we’re sold only exacerbates the divide. We can never fully understand each other because man can never possibly understand the emotions of having another life growing inside. Or the horrible decision (almost) always made (always) made alone to say goodbye + the unrecoverable pain of continuing living. We’re pregnant, isn’t a thing.
The definition of loneliness = abortion.
Nobody considers the emotional toll bestowed upon those who perform the abortions—it must be devastating.
A man can run. A woman can never escape pregnancy.
Men mostly talk about nothing, sports, blah, blah, blah. Women keep us alive.
Men must learn to listen, to evolve.
I was born in a secret place. I was to be sold or adopted out to a farm family. My mother was never to speak of me again—religion was going to fix her to become suitable for marriage after I was long gone. I was an afterthought; I survived, I’m okay.
Adopted out or aborted—I’m here. A choice was made. I’m happy to be here.
Regardless of my life, I don’t think it is my responsibility to choose what’s the right path for others.
I believe all we are collectively supposed to do, is listen + learn, + evolve.
That is how this book made me feel/think.
In my Top 25
WRITTEN: April 25, 2021
|
BETWEEN TWO KINGDOMSSuleika JAOUADUnfortunately, at some time, Cancer connects us all.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
A yellow Volkswagen bus drives through the pages of Between Two Kingdoms for a few pages, and then dawns the cover. It should have been a Subaru.
I give this book 5-Stars, but I didn’t love it. The story is essential, but somehow it lost me—not in a literal way. I’ll explain.
I cheered for Suleika. I’m ecstatic she survived the unrelenting wrath of Cancer to be able to share her incredible story. I visited hospitals at least 1500 times, watching my father and then my mother battle cancer, eventually succumbing. Unlike Suleika, who unfairly became inflicted at a youthful age, there wasn’t the love + support of newfound love in my parents’ cases. There wasn’t the endless camaraderie between the others inflicted. And there wasn’t the upset of the unfairness of Cancer tearing apart a young life.
I found the incredible detail of Suleika’s illness to be anything but comforting. I may burn in (h...) for those thoughts.
I also found the book to ‘countlessly’ speak about how her writing had helped others to the point I wished there was another word for countless.
I never connected with Suleika’s 100-Day-Journey around America, visiting other Cancer survivors + a death row inmate, ‘Little GQ.’ I found it to be self-serving. It read like I was reading a creative writing class where vulnerability had been replaced with flowery verbiage. Each stop along the way was laced with a propensity to highlight stereotypes under the guise of becoming awakened.
A Yellow Volkswagen bus drives over a few pages of this story. It should’ve been a Subaru—that would have been more vulnerable—and would have, for me, connected me, as opposed to giving me the feeling I had read too many references about self to count.
I watched, alongside my mother, my father, die because of Cancer. I then watched my mother die. Twenty-nine years later, I watched my mother lose her battle to Cancer a second time (a long story). Young or not, there is no fair time.
WRITTEN: April 21, 2021
A yellow Volkswagen bus drives through the pages of Between Two Kingdoms for a few pages, and then dawns the cover. It should have been a Subaru.
I give this book 5-Stars, but I didn’t love it. The story is essential, but somehow it lost me—not in a literal way. I’ll explain.
I cheered for Suleika. I’m ecstatic she survived the unrelenting wrath of Cancer to be able to share her incredible story. I visited hospitals at least 1500 times, watching my father and then my mother battle cancer, eventually succumbing. Unlike Suleika, who unfairly became inflicted at a youthful age, there wasn’t the love + support of newfound love in my parents’ cases. There wasn’t the endless camaraderie between the others inflicted. And there wasn’t the upset of the unfairness of Cancer tearing apart a young life.
I found the incredible detail of Suleika’s illness to be anything but comforting. I may burn in (h...) for those thoughts.
I also found the book to ‘countlessly’ speak about how her writing had helped others to the point I wished there was another word for countless.
I never connected with Suleika’s 100-Day-Journey around America, visiting other Cancer survivors + a death row inmate, ‘Little GQ.’ I found it to be self-serving. It read like I was reading a creative writing class where vulnerability had been replaced with flowery verbiage. Each stop along the way was laced with a propensity to highlight stereotypes under the guise of becoming awakened.
A Yellow Volkswagen bus drives over a few pages of this story. It should’ve been a Subaru—that would have been more vulnerable—and would have, for me, connected me, as opposed to giving me the feeling I had read too many references about self to count.
I watched, alongside my mother, my father, die because of Cancer. I then watched my mother die. Twenty-nine years later, I watched my mother lose her battle to Cancer a second time (a long story). Young or not, there is no fair time.
WRITTEN: April 21, 2021
|
BEGIN BY TELLINGMeg REMYA gallop past what life may deliver.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
The things (I) (you) we go through + must overcome.
A man can never understand a father abusing his daughter.
A son can never comprehend why his mother abandoned him at birth.
The mother could never understand why her father sent her to an abhorrent place to give birth—only to try to have her fixed and become marriageable.
And the world is too filled with (I) (you) we, strapped in the shackles of conditioning + fuelled by daily noise, for some of us, not to become broken, flawed, violent.
Do we need professional sports?
“Begin by Telling,” triggered in me, unfixable memories I live every day…must live every day.
“Begin by Telling” awakened me to the weight + beauty of listening because if we did, we’d understand listening is the root of kindness + shines a bright light on the path to a better world.
That’s how this book made me feel.
In my Top 25!
“I’m not pregnant in the pandemic. I pray for anyone who needs an abortion during this time.”
WRITTEN: April 9, 2021
The things (I) (you) we go through + must overcome.
A man can never understand a father abusing his daughter.
A son can never comprehend why his mother abandoned him at birth.
The mother could never understand why her father sent her to an abhorrent place to give birth—only to try to have her fixed and become marriageable.
And the world is too filled with (I) (you) we, strapped in the shackles of conditioning + fuelled by daily noise, for some of us, not to become broken, flawed, violent.
Do we need professional sports?
“Begin by Telling,” triggered in me, unfixable memories I live every day…must live every day.
“Begin by Telling” awakened me to the weight + beauty of listening because if we did, we’d understand listening is the root of kindness + shines a bright light on the path to a better world.
That’s how this book made me feel.
In my Top 25!
“I’m not pregnant in the pandemic. I pray for anyone who needs an abortion during this time.”
WRITTEN: April 9, 2021
|
FLOAT LIKE A BUTTERFLY, DRINK MINT TEAAlex WOODThis is what courage reads like.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
When I finished the last word of “Float Like a Butterfly, Drink Mint Tea,” I couldn’t help thinking this is what courage reads like. Most of us have demons haunting us. We must knock them down with a right or left hook or an uppercut and then do our best not to let them up off the canvas.
They say comedy comes from pain. Alex Wood is darnnnnn funny.
What makes this book glow the brightest isn’t Alex’s undeniable sense of humour; it’s his unflinching honesty + unassuming way of giving something back.
We all need to be grateful Alex found the fortitude to pick himself off the canvas of addiction and shared his story instead of becoming another selfish, tragic, boring story.
I write. The reviews I like most, are the ones saying: I’m funny.
I hope the one Alex appreciates the most is: THANK YOU!
That’s how this book made me feel.
In my Top 25!
WRITTEN: April 9, 2021
When I finished the last word of “Float Like a Butterfly, Drink Mint Tea,” I couldn’t help thinking this is what courage reads like. Most of us have demons haunting us. We must knock them down with a right or left hook or an uppercut and then do our best not to let them up off the canvas.
They say comedy comes from pain. Alex Wood is darnnnnn funny.
What makes this book glow the brightest isn’t Alex’s undeniable sense of humour; it’s his unflinching honesty + unassuming way of giving something back.
We all need to be grateful Alex found the fortitude to pick himself off the canvas of addiction and shared his story instead of becoming another selfish, tragic, boring story.
I write. The reviews I like most, are the ones saying: I’m funny.
I hope the one Alex appreciates the most is: THANK YOU!
That’s how this book made me feel.
In my Top 25!
WRITTEN: April 9, 2021
|
HOW TO PRONOUNCE KNIFESouvankham THAMMAVONGSAEvery entitled Caucasian (male) should read this book.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
“How to Pronounce Knife” should be essential reading for every Caucasian male to help them understand how ridiculously entitled they are.
When I cracked the book open, I found the stories to be cute, hilarious, light-hearted, romps filled with laughter at a life I’ve never had to encounter.
I never had to give up everything to live the life I live, or leave my country, often rife with strife—leaving loved ones behind, or forgo my dreams to be exploited by companies that use those who’ve come to North America chasing an elusive dream—working in plants and slaughterhouses and anywhere where language isn’t a barrier for employment.
This book is profoundly hilarious and heartbreaking at the same time.
“My father did not grieve. He had done all his grieving when he became a refugee.”
At the halfway mark, my mind opened to what place of birth bestows upon us, yet many of us whine about how hard done by, often throwing barbs at those we don’t understand.
“He was happy someone at the factory was talking to him instead of pulling at the skin on the side of their eyes and laughing as they walked by.”
I wrote this with the Morning Show playing in the background. While listening to the show’s vapidness and the guests talking about “how to buy stuff to hold onto your youth” —I couldn’t help but wonder: who is this for?
Who it isn’t for is, for those who’ve sacrificed everything leaving their pasts behind in search of a new place of belonging?
Every white |person| should read this book. You will laugh, guaranteed. But what you might do even more, if you open your heart is, realize the struggles of many don’t revolve around creams to erase the character lines around their eyes.
In my Top 25!
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: April 7, 2021
“How to Pronounce Knife” should be essential reading for every Caucasian male to help them understand how ridiculously entitled they are.
When I cracked the book open, I found the stories to be cute, hilarious, light-hearted, romps filled with laughter at a life I’ve never had to encounter.
I never had to give up everything to live the life I live, or leave my country, often rife with strife—leaving loved ones behind, or forgo my dreams to be exploited by companies that use those who’ve come to North America chasing an elusive dream—working in plants and slaughterhouses and anywhere where language isn’t a barrier for employment.
This book is profoundly hilarious and heartbreaking at the same time.
“My father did not grieve. He had done all his grieving when he became a refugee.”
At the halfway mark, my mind opened to what place of birth bestows upon us, yet many of us whine about how hard done by, often throwing barbs at those we don’t understand.
“He was happy someone at the factory was talking to him instead of pulling at the skin on the side of their eyes and laughing as they walked by.”
I wrote this with the Morning Show playing in the background. While listening to the show’s vapidness and the guests talking about “how to buy stuff to hold onto your youth” —I couldn’t help but wonder: who is this for?
Who it isn’t for is, for those who’ve sacrificed everything leaving their pasts behind in search of a new place of belonging?
Every white |person| should read this book. You will laugh, guaranteed. But what you might do even more, if you open your heart is, realize the struggles of many don’t revolve around creams to erase the character lines around their eyes.
In my Top 25!
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: April 7, 2021
15
|
HAPPINESS tmWill FERGUSONI laughed until I could laugh no more. Then, I peed myself.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I’m currently struggling with a bout of depression, like most people in the current state of the world. Most of us are facing undaunting uncertainty as COVID-19 blasts around the earth. My struggle stems from losing my career. I’m sixty—WTF is next (?) derides me daily. I know I’m not alone—not alone isn’t comforting. I don’t want to discount depression; perhaps, I’m just sad.
Stop. Think. What is your perfect weather day? Is it 25 degrees Celsius and sunny (77 Fahrenheit), allowing you to bask in the warmth? Or is it 0 degrees (32 Fahrenheit) with fresh powder to carve up on the slopes?
Now imagine every day was that day: Would that bring you delight?
If everyone lived their perfect day every day, wouldn’t life be dull, pointless, droning on and on and on, dour, with humour stripped away from our souls? Wouldn’t it?
“HAPPINESS” tickles our funny bones by exorcizing the insanity of happiness fulfilled. The humour is brilliantly nuanced and, for this reader, relating to the nuance, helped relieve my bout of depression/sadness, if only for a moment as I guffawed whole-heartedly while realizing what makes life sweet is the struggle. Without struggle, the happiness we derive from life would be nothing more than cultlike sameness if happiness were a given.
Vices may be bad for us, but without question, vices allow us to fail, climb, rejoice, celebrate, and become who we are meant to be.
If you need a break from the day-to-day challenges: I unstintingly prescribe a dose of Will Ferguson’s “Happiness.”
In my Top 25!
“Sober men don’t dance. We need our vices. We need our cotton-candy fluff because life is sad and short and over far too soon.”
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 29, 2021
I’m currently struggling with a bout of depression, like most people in the current state of the world. Most of us are facing undaunting uncertainty as COVID-19 blasts around the earth. My struggle stems from losing my career. I’m sixty—WTF is next (?) derides me daily. I know I’m not alone—not alone isn’t comforting. I don’t want to discount depression; perhaps, I’m just sad.
Stop. Think. What is your perfect weather day? Is it 25 degrees Celsius and sunny (77 Fahrenheit), allowing you to bask in the warmth? Or is it 0 degrees (32 Fahrenheit) with fresh powder to carve up on the slopes?
Now imagine every day was that day: Would that bring you delight?
If everyone lived their perfect day every day, wouldn’t life be dull, pointless, droning on and on and on, dour, with humour stripped away from our souls? Wouldn’t it?
“HAPPINESS” tickles our funny bones by exorcizing the insanity of happiness fulfilled. The humour is brilliantly nuanced and, for this reader, relating to the nuance, helped relieve my bout of depression/sadness, if only for a moment as I guffawed whole-heartedly while realizing what makes life sweet is the struggle. Without struggle, the happiness we derive from life would be nothing more than cultlike sameness if happiness were a given.
Vices may be bad for us, but without question, vices allow us to fail, climb, rejoice, celebrate, and become who we are meant to be.
If you need a break from the day-to-day challenges: I unstintingly prescribe a dose of Will Ferguson’s “Happiness.”
In my Top 25!
“Sober men don’t dance. We need our vices. We need our cotton-candy fluff because life is sad and short and over far too soon.”
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 29, 2021
|
ON SUCH A FULL SEAChang-Rae LEEAn enthralling, captivating, gripping, dystopian (?) read.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I’ve read a few dystopian-themed books lately. What I’ve discovered: there might not be such a thing as a dystopian world. We’ve arrived. We’re living it. Open your eyes + ears. The truth is often accepted as the words of those with the loudest talking sticks. But the thing is, it’s not really the truth.
Cards are dealt. If you’re lucky, you’ve been dealt a decent hand. Or if you are fortunate (?) your generational cards have given you an unearned upper hand.
We’re tossed into our lots in life. Climbing out, is insurmountable at best. We are dropped into set categories. Some of us must make the best of menial in an angry world. Some of those dealt strong non-generational hands forget where they’ve come from. They’re small people, often with ginormous trucks. A silver spoon drops out of one of their mouths; he/she doesn’t realize he/she is being used as well. It doesn’t matter. A safety net is in place; he/she will never fall far.
As for the rest of us, we must fight and claw, often over each other, as we desperately try to make our way through the impossible. Kindness is often replaced by struggle.
We are all sick. Nobody is immune, except for one man, who may be the cure for all - the entitled want to use him, to harvest the cure.
Eyes always darting. Never connecting. Money comes before humanity. Business is heartless. We’re the product: Humans. Damaged. Flawed. Barely holding on. We shamelessly hide behind a shaded false mask of direction, when used up – you tell the broken: This is no longer for you. Each time, your soul dies a little more. You don’t care; you drive a big truck.
But I have nowhere else to go. Life has ravaged me. You are draining the last droplets of my plasma.
Go. It’s not working anymore.
Please. I have another drop, you futilely plead.
A week later: Hey, did you hear, So-and-so died?
We pretend to care. So-and-so had nowhere else to go. We took what we could. There is no time to mourn; another soul who is barely holding on is waiting to take So-and-so(s)’ place.
ON SUCH A FULL SEA is an enthralling, captivating, gripping, dystopian read where we might, if we don’t take a moment to pause and realize, as Chang-Rae Lee weaves this breathtaking futuristic tale of where we might be heading—in reality, we may already have arrived—now our challenge is to have the dealer deal fairer hands.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 19, 2021
I’ve read a few dystopian-themed books lately. What I’ve discovered: there might not be such a thing as a dystopian world. We’ve arrived. We’re living it. Open your eyes + ears. The truth is often accepted as the words of those with the loudest talking sticks. But the thing is, it’s not really the truth.
Cards are dealt. If you’re lucky, you’ve been dealt a decent hand. Or if you are fortunate (?) your generational cards have given you an unearned upper hand.
We’re tossed into our lots in life. Climbing out, is insurmountable at best. We are dropped into set categories. Some of us must make the best of menial in an angry world. Some of those dealt strong non-generational hands forget where they’ve come from. They’re small people, often with ginormous trucks. A silver spoon drops out of one of their mouths; he/she doesn’t realize he/she is being used as well. It doesn’t matter. A safety net is in place; he/she will never fall far.
As for the rest of us, we must fight and claw, often over each other, as we desperately try to make our way through the impossible. Kindness is often replaced by struggle.
We are all sick. Nobody is immune, except for one man, who may be the cure for all - the entitled want to use him, to harvest the cure.
Eyes always darting. Never connecting. Money comes before humanity. Business is heartless. We’re the product: Humans. Damaged. Flawed. Barely holding on. We shamelessly hide behind a shaded false mask of direction, when used up – you tell the broken: This is no longer for you. Each time, your soul dies a little more. You don’t care; you drive a big truck.
But I have nowhere else to go. Life has ravaged me. You are draining the last droplets of my plasma.
Go. It’s not working anymore.
Please. I have another drop, you futilely plead.
A week later: Hey, did you hear, So-and-so died?
We pretend to care. So-and-so had nowhere else to go. We took what we could. There is no time to mourn; another soul who is barely holding on is waiting to take So-and-so(s)’ place.
ON SUCH A FULL SEA is an enthralling, captivating, gripping, dystopian read where we might, if we don’t take a moment to pause and realize, as Chang-Rae Lee weaves this breathtaking futuristic tale of where we might be heading—in reality, we may already have arrived—now our challenge is to have the dealer deal fairer hands.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 19, 2021
|
HEAVYKiese LAYMON“HEAVY” resonated with me, the most of any book I’ve read.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I’m white. Writing thoughts on books on anything but the white experience can be daunting.
The day after my twenty-fifth birthday, my father died. Just before Christmas, less than two years later, my mother died. Sixteen years later, I discovered the people I watched die were not my real birth parents. In October 2016, I met my mother for the first time as my mother, alongside her death bed. One week later, my mother died for a second time.
I am not capable of getting past the threads of my life story. They will haunt me forever, triggered by certain days + holidays.
“HEAVY” resonated with me, the most of any book I’ve read.
I realize that no matter how extreme my life events have been, I’m white. I have never had to face the realities of trying to be anything other than what I am, to succeed.
That’s what a 400-year advantage bestows upon us white folk.
One afternoon, at a local watering hole, when the topic of race comes up, some of my friends claim race issues are not an issue in Canada (they are). And when I react with disgust at their statements, I’ve been met with, “You need to stop reading books about the plights of others.”
I won’t back down. It’s all our responsibilities to stamp out attitudes by having uncomfortable discourse—even if it ends friendships.
“Heavy” shines a powerful light on the disparities of centuries of oppression and the unearned advantages of white marginality. It delicately touches on the difference between black + white, wealth.
I’m white. I don’t think I’d have survived my life events if they were dropped on me after being held down for 400-years.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 6, 2021
I’m white. Writing thoughts on books on anything but the white experience can be daunting.
The day after my twenty-fifth birthday, my father died. Just before Christmas, less than two years later, my mother died. Sixteen years later, I discovered the people I watched die were not my real birth parents. In October 2016, I met my mother for the first time as my mother, alongside her death bed. One week later, my mother died for a second time.
I am not capable of getting past the threads of my life story. They will haunt me forever, triggered by certain days + holidays.
“HEAVY” resonated with me, the most of any book I’ve read.
I realize that no matter how extreme my life events have been, I’m white. I have never had to face the realities of trying to be anything other than what I am, to succeed.
That’s what a 400-year advantage bestows upon us white folk.
One afternoon, at a local watering hole, when the topic of race comes up, some of my friends claim race issues are not an issue in Canada (they are). And when I react with disgust at their statements, I’ve been met with, “You need to stop reading books about the plights of others.”
I won’t back down. It’s all our responsibilities to stamp out attitudes by having uncomfortable discourse—even if it ends friendships.
“Heavy” shines a powerful light on the disparities of centuries of oppression and the unearned advantages of white marginality. It delicately touches on the difference between black + white, wealth.
I’m white. I don’t think I’d have survived my life events if they were dropped on me after being held down for 400-years.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 6, 2021
|
ELECT MR. ROBINSON FOR A BETTER WORLDDonald ANTRIMI laughed until I could laugh no more, then I cringed.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Come with me, over here. Hello.
Back in the early 80s, I used to be the top mixed-tape DJ at my University.
Two tape decks and a microphone!
Fast forward to the here and now. Clickbait clicked: ‘TOP 500 ALL-TIME ALBUMS.’
Scroll. Scroll. Scroll.
How could I have missed several truckloads of ear-pleasing gems?
I did. There is soooo much great music.
Read. Read. Read.
‘Elect Mr. Robinson…’ —why did I select? I don’t know. I’m glad I did; it has made it into my TOP 10 ALL TIME.
The book is a mess. It takes us along on a disturbing ride through a dystopian world. A world where the mayor of the city in this gruesome story launches springer missiles into a reflective pool—massacring innocent people—for no reason.
His punishment: being drawn and quartered by vehicles, not horse. His last wish (to Mr. Robinson): give my body parts a proper burial.
The city falls into a dark quagmire where the citizenry dips into a pool of paranoia, building moats (violent) around their homes. Those who’ve lost loved ones fall into poverty and are ostracized and begin living as survivors in a city park. Mr. Robinson’s wife identifies as a prehistoric fish. Mr. Robinson wants to teach the city children about the horrors of humanity. I laughed until I could laugh no more, then I cringed.
This book is a delightfully (d)ucked up mess; dark—beyond dark. I laughed more.
The ending stretches squeamishness to such an intense level. I’m not sure what my love of this book says about me?
Newsflash: We’re living in a dystopian world, NOW.
Read. Read. Read.
I don’t want you to miss (this) any literary gems.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 5, 2021
Come with me, over here. Hello.
Back in the early 80s, I used to be the top mixed-tape DJ at my University.
Two tape decks and a microphone!
Fast forward to the here and now. Clickbait clicked: ‘TOP 500 ALL-TIME ALBUMS.’
Scroll. Scroll. Scroll.
How could I have missed several truckloads of ear-pleasing gems?
I did. There is soooo much great music.
Read. Read. Read.
‘Elect Mr. Robinson…’ —why did I select? I don’t know. I’m glad I did; it has made it into my TOP 10 ALL TIME.
The book is a mess. It takes us along on a disturbing ride through a dystopian world. A world where the mayor of the city in this gruesome story launches springer missiles into a reflective pool—massacring innocent people—for no reason.
His punishment: being drawn and quartered by vehicles, not horse. His last wish (to Mr. Robinson): give my body parts a proper burial.
The city falls into a dark quagmire where the citizenry dips into a pool of paranoia, building moats (violent) around their homes. Those who’ve lost loved ones fall into poverty and are ostracized and begin living as survivors in a city park. Mr. Robinson’s wife identifies as a prehistoric fish. Mr. Robinson wants to teach the city children about the horrors of humanity. I laughed until I could laugh no more, then I cringed.
This book is a delightfully (d)ucked up mess; dark—beyond dark. I laughed more.
The ending stretches squeamishness to such an intense level. I’m not sure what my love of this book says about me?
Newsflash: We’re living in a dystopian world, NOW.
Read. Read. Read.
I don’t want you to miss (this) any literary gems.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: March 5, 2021
|
THE PLAGUEAlbert CAMUSHumanity is living through a social experiment.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
The Plague was written in 1947—as I read, it felt like I was reading the here and now. Seriously. My arm hairs stood on end.
The authorities debate whether to alert its citizenry; every second is vital. It becomes inevitable—measures must be put in place—or we’ll all perish. More denial (not) corrupts those responsible for the greater good—they think mostly about their power—how to maintain it. We all become expendable. Until it becomes apparent there is no escaping, bodies begin to pile up—the suffering and fear become unbearable.
Many deny. They believe there is a massive conspiracy…to bleeping what? What’s the possible endgame?
Controlling us. Tracking us. I look at my phone. We’re already controlled, tracked…idiots.
Some use plague to enrich themselves. Those who can’t are trapped in uncertainty; some fear whether they will ever be okay again. Others keep fighting the selfish battle that their lives have been turned over, and they do not give a damn about the rest of us suffering.
The Plague and Covid-19 are social experiments. It is a test of humanity—can we come together and look outward past our own selfishness and understand we must all rise up and do whatever we can to take care of each other?
They are tests on the strength of our capacity to empathize with others who face the same invisible demons by understanding the outcome for you might not be the same as mine or that of every he or she.
The Plague, written in 1947, is a profound reminder that man is a preciously small idea that needs to recapture the capacity for love for all. Regardless of societal, economic, or demographic differences, and return us, or maybe deliver us, for the first time, to a kinder world where discrimination is levelled off or totally eradicated.
We’re all in this together. Be kind. Wear a mask. Don’t let selfishness eliminate an understanding that your thoughts are not always right.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: February 17, 2021
The Plague was written in 1947—as I read, it felt like I was reading the here and now. Seriously. My arm hairs stood on end.
The authorities debate whether to alert its citizenry; every second is vital. It becomes inevitable—measures must be put in place—or we’ll all perish. More denial (not) corrupts those responsible for the greater good—they think mostly about their power—how to maintain it. We all become expendable. Until it becomes apparent there is no escaping, bodies begin to pile up—the suffering and fear become unbearable.
Many deny. They believe there is a massive conspiracy…to bleeping what? What’s the possible endgame?
Controlling us. Tracking us. I look at my phone. We’re already controlled, tracked…idiots.
Some use plague to enrich themselves. Those who can’t are trapped in uncertainty; some fear whether they will ever be okay again. Others keep fighting the selfish battle that their lives have been turned over, and they do not give a damn about the rest of us suffering.
The Plague and Covid-19 are social experiments. It is a test of humanity—can we come together and look outward past our own selfishness and understand we must all rise up and do whatever we can to take care of each other?
They are tests on the strength of our capacity to empathize with others who face the same invisible demons by understanding the outcome for you might not be the same as mine or that of every he or she.
The Plague, written in 1947, is a profound reminder that man is a preciously small idea that needs to recapture the capacity for love for all. Regardless of societal, economic, or demographic differences, and return us, or maybe deliver us, for the first time, to a kinder world where discrimination is levelled off or totally eradicated.
We’re all in this together. Be kind. Wear a mask. Don’t let selfishness eliminate an understanding that your thoughts are not always right.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: February 17, 2021
|
white trashNancy ISENBERGVital. Important. Upsetting. Uncomfortable. Cringe-worthy. Reflective.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
White Trash is a vitally important, upsetting, uncomfortable, cringe-worthy, reflective read for all of us…White Trash. It tells the unvarnished truth of America.
Expel those deemed criminals, less-than-human trash, from Europe (mostly England), firing them across the pond to inhabit a new land.
Claim a classless society while at the same time dividing humanity into elite and garbage, with the elite staking claim to everything and the trash being deemed as expendable to be used and exploited to build the wealth and power of the elites.
The business model for every TA in North America.
Tell a lie: “all created equal” --after centuries of conditioning a large swath of Caucasians, they are not worthy of being anything other than waste, morons, imbeciles, miscreants.
Introduce African slavery. The waste people become valuable commodities necessary for the elites to remain at the top, but they no longer want to work. They are forced to fight wars for the elites—until realizing there is nothing in fighting for them.
So, the elites promise those who fight their own slave after pointing at the African Americans and telling the “garbage” they’ve been exploiting they are lower than you—nothing more than animals. An easy ruse because you’ve been told you are trash for several generations.
When that doesn’t work, give the trash worthless plots of land and a voting rights illusion.
Deny education. Segregate neighbourhoods “birds of a feather.” Promote eugenics (hmm, Germany). Breed humans like animals.
Sterilize women deemed wanton, not of good stock.
“Davenport felt the best policy was to quarantine dangerous women during their fertile years. How this policy prescription led to sterilization is rather more calculated: interested politicians and eager reformers concluded that it was cheaper to operate on women than to house them in asylums for decades. Southern eugenicists, in particular, argued that sterilization helped the economy by sending poor women back into the population safely neutered but still able to work menial jobs.”
With the advent of television, use the supposed “gutter trash” as entertainment—once more keeping many of us in our place—at least letting some of us know we will never be allowed to climb.
Throw this all into the slow cooker, and what do you get: Lindsey Graham jumps to mind.
America has come a long way. But has it?
America may be a classless society, because all-in-all, are we not all White Trash?
Admitting our shortcomings and the despicable advantages bestowed upon some of us, maybe, just maybe, might spark centuries of curing an illness still plaguing many of us today.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: February 8, 2021
White Trash is a vitally important, upsetting, uncomfortable, cringe-worthy, reflective read for all of us…White Trash. It tells the unvarnished truth of America.
Expel those deemed criminals, less-than-human trash, from Europe (mostly England), firing them across the pond to inhabit a new land.
Claim a classless society while at the same time dividing humanity into elite and garbage, with the elite staking claim to everything and the trash being deemed as expendable to be used and exploited to build the wealth and power of the elites.
The business model for every TA in North America.
Tell a lie: “all created equal” --after centuries of conditioning a large swath of Caucasians, they are not worthy of being anything other than waste, morons, imbeciles, miscreants.
Introduce African slavery. The waste people become valuable commodities necessary for the elites to remain at the top, but they no longer want to work. They are forced to fight wars for the elites—until realizing there is nothing in fighting for them.
So, the elites promise those who fight their own slave after pointing at the African Americans and telling the “garbage” they’ve been exploiting they are lower than you—nothing more than animals. An easy ruse because you’ve been told you are trash for several generations.
When that doesn’t work, give the trash worthless plots of land and a voting rights illusion.
Deny education. Segregate neighbourhoods “birds of a feather.” Promote eugenics (hmm, Germany). Breed humans like animals.
Sterilize women deemed wanton, not of good stock.
“Davenport felt the best policy was to quarantine dangerous women during their fertile years. How this policy prescription led to sterilization is rather more calculated: interested politicians and eager reformers concluded that it was cheaper to operate on women than to house them in asylums for decades. Southern eugenicists, in particular, argued that sterilization helped the economy by sending poor women back into the population safely neutered but still able to work menial jobs.”
With the advent of television, use the supposed “gutter trash” as entertainment—once more keeping many of us in our place—at least letting some of us know we will never be allowed to climb.
Throw this all into the slow cooker, and what do you get: Lindsey Graham jumps to mind.
America has come a long way. But has it?
America may be a classless society, because all-in-all, are we not all White Trash?
Admitting our shortcomings and the despicable advantages bestowed upon some of us, maybe, just maybe, might spark centuries of curing an illness still plaguing many of us today.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: February 8, 2021
|
HOW TO SLOWLY KILL YOURSELF AND OTHERS IN AMERICAKiese LAYMONI don't want to be racist.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I don’t want to be racist.
How can I not be racist?
I grew up surrounded by people mostly looking like me. We sucked. We’d been conditioned from birth and come from generation after generation of whites being told there will always be someone below you—if you listen to us—watch what we create for you—read what we tell you—learn what we teach you. We’re giving you the advantage.
We had a Siamese cat named Guy. My brother nicknamed it Guy blank-blank, blank, blank-blank, blank-face. When I was eight, I’d stand on our porch and call out Guy’s nickname, signalling Guy to come home.
One of my aunts, after visiting Jamaica, stated her opinions on Jamaican fathers. It wasn’t glowing.
When I was twenty-three, my girlfriend’s parents told her, he wished she behaved more like the polite Japanese volleyball girls, he’d been tasked with driving around.
We’d get floor-licking drunk, that was okay because we were not Indigenous.
I’ve been pulled over for traffic offences on a few occasions; one time, I swore at the police officer—without repercussion—without fearing repercussion.
"I do not believe in guns. I do not believe in prisons. Yet I know I need a gun if I am to continue living alone in this Mississippi, American Town."
A friend and I were stopped by police while pushing our car home while drunk—no repercussions.
A few days ago, I saw two non-white guys looking down at a causeway; my first thought, I’d never say aloud, shamed me. Why is it on the ready?
I want to share with the few black people I know, announce, really, I’ve read this book. I’m not sure if that’s okay. I think it would reveal how much of an ass I can be.
“How to Slowly Kill…” and other books about those who do not look like me are salves to heal my conditioning. They call out to white people: look inward and continue growing in this never-ending understanding, we are not unique; we all bleed red.
I’ll never truly comprehend the unwavering advantage I’ve been given + the unforgivable truths we’ve inflicted on those who don’t look like us, just because we’ve been conditioned to believe the festering lies of entitlement.
I don’t want to be racist.
So, I’ll read more.
WRITTEN: January 22, 2021
I don’t want to be racist.
How can I not be racist?
I grew up surrounded by people mostly looking like me. We sucked. We’d been conditioned from birth and come from generation after generation of whites being told there will always be someone below you—if you listen to us—watch what we create for you—read what we tell you—learn what we teach you. We’re giving you the advantage.
We had a Siamese cat named Guy. My brother nicknamed it Guy blank-blank, blank, blank-blank, blank-face. When I was eight, I’d stand on our porch and call out Guy’s nickname, signalling Guy to come home.
One of my aunts, after visiting Jamaica, stated her opinions on Jamaican fathers. It wasn’t glowing.
When I was twenty-three, my girlfriend’s parents told her, he wished she behaved more like the polite Japanese volleyball girls, he’d been tasked with driving around.
We’d get floor-licking drunk, that was okay because we were not Indigenous.
I’ve been pulled over for traffic offences on a few occasions; one time, I swore at the police officer—without repercussion—without fearing repercussion.
"I do not believe in guns. I do not believe in prisons. Yet I know I need a gun if I am to continue living alone in this Mississippi, American Town."
A friend and I were stopped by police while pushing our car home while drunk—no repercussions.
A few days ago, I saw two non-white guys looking down at a causeway; my first thought, I’d never say aloud, shamed me. Why is it on the ready?
I want to share with the few black people I know, announce, really, I’ve read this book. I’m not sure if that’s okay. I think it would reveal how much of an ass I can be.
“How to Slowly Kill…” and other books about those who do not look like me are salves to heal my conditioning. They call out to white people: look inward and continue growing in this never-ending understanding, we are not unique; we all bleed red.
I’ll never truly comprehend the unwavering advantage I’ve been given + the unforgivable truths we’ve inflicted on those who don’t look like us, just because we’ve been conditioned to believe the festering lies of entitlement.
I don’t want to be racist.
So, I’ll read more.
WRITTEN: January 22, 2021
|
HOME FIREKamila SHAMSIERedemption + Assimilation + Family + Love: Bottled together in a desperate broth.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
HOME FIRE left me reeling. As much as I enjoyed the unrelenting twisting fiction of the story, I felt I was supposed to dive deeper into the gears turning humanity.
Kamila (author not a character) is of Indian descent, born into a patriarchal society shading womanhood in a sickness gripping many, not all, of the men. A thousand+ year struggle for equality + to find a voice—much most of us have never been exposed to, nary capable of grasping and understanding.
HOME FIRE elicited visceral emotions + a profound session of reflecting. Several questions sprinted through my mind, a reckoning of sorts—transcending borders.
Conflicted is the best way to describe the swallowing of my sensitivities while reading the searing realities in this captivating tale of love, family, deception, and the quest for the illusiveness of wholeness, + the overwhelming desire to belong.
As the story tumults perpetually to the confounding conclusion—mouth agape, I gasped as a single tear rolled over my left cheek.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: January 21, 2021
HOME FIRE left me reeling. As much as I enjoyed the unrelenting twisting fiction of the story, I felt I was supposed to dive deeper into the gears turning humanity.
Kamila (author not a character) is of Indian descent, born into a patriarchal society shading womanhood in a sickness gripping many, not all, of the men. A thousand+ year struggle for equality + to find a voice—much most of us have never been exposed to, nary capable of grasping and understanding.
HOME FIRE elicited visceral emotions + a profound session of reflecting. Several questions sprinted through my mind, a reckoning of sorts—transcending borders.
- How are children supposed to bleeping assimilate in new homelands when their roots are stripped away from them, and past family digressions haunt them with every step they take?
- What is assimilation supposed to do, and who defines assimilation?
- Can a radicalized person return to salvation after discovering the path he has been dragged down is clouded in deception?
- Is it possible for love to prevail over the differences of faith, especially when money and power smother out kindness + hope?
Conflicted is the best way to describe the swallowing of my sensitivities while reading the searing realities in this captivating tale of love, family, deception, and the quest for the illusiveness of wholeness, + the overwhelming desire to belong.
As the story tumults perpetually to the confounding conclusion—mouth agape, I gasped as a single tear rolled over my left cheek.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: January 21, 2021
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TALKING ANIMALSJoni MURPHYI laughed. Pondered. Cringed. Became aware. And then, frightened.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
TALKING ANIMALS, this should be cute, light-spirited read about our lives from the point-of-view of the animals, primarily an adorable alpaca who’d emigrated from South America to NYC, I thought.
And it is both hilarious and cute, but it is so much more. I flip a page, and I’m immediately drawn into the destructiveness of us, the humans, to everything living, to everything we need to survive—to our health and well-being, to our very existence.
I laughed. Pondered. Cringed. Became aware. And then, frightened.
It is not like I don’t know what the animals in this poignant tale are trying to convey to us. Still, much like the inhabitants of the sea and greed’s persistent lack of care for anything but hoarding wealth, well, if it is not glaring in your face, all of us are complicit in the consumption of everything, which is leading toward an inevitable ending.
“What’s really destroying us is this slow carcinogenic drip. It comes from everywhere. What you can’t see is more dangerous than what you can.”
A friend who used to be a friend (a willing participant in the hoarding of wealth) travelled to the Java Sea—there is no seafood to be found. Imagine that.
We are floundering in capitalism. We are distracted by life and shiny things.
What Joni Murphy adroitly does in this entertaining, dystopian romp is bring to the forefront through the eyes of a delightful alpaca what power, greed, racism, corruption, and the many forces we humans must come to terms with together. Then, battle through by dropping our opportunities to allow those who come after us to have a future. We’re all in this collectively, and hopefully, we will open our eyes and realize the land needs the sea as much as I need you!
“The pig was blaming the world’s problems on fish, when fish were getting poisoned and eaten, and eaten and poisoned, by all the creatures on land who’d built their industries on sea exploitation.”
“I learned the rich are weak, twisted creatures. I learned to hate them while serving them smoked-salmon canapés.”
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: January 12, 2021
TALKING ANIMALS, this should be cute, light-spirited read about our lives from the point-of-view of the animals, primarily an adorable alpaca who’d emigrated from South America to NYC, I thought.
And it is both hilarious and cute, but it is so much more. I flip a page, and I’m immediately drawn into the destructiveness of us, the humans, to everything living, to everything we need to survive—to our health and well-being, to our very existence.
I laughed. Pondered. Cringed. Became aware. And then, frightened.
It is not like I don’t know what the animals in this poignant tale are trying to convey to us. Still, much like the inhabitants of the sea and greed’s persistent lack of care for anything but hoarding wealth, well, if it is not glaring in your face, all of us are complicit in the consumption of everything, which is leading toward an inevitable ending.
“What’s really destroying us is this slow carcinogenic drip. It comes from everywhere. What you can’t see is more dangerous than what you can.”
A friend who used to be a friend (a willing participant in the hoarding of wealth) travelled to the Java Sea—there is no seafood to be found. Imagine that.
We are floundering in capitalism. We are distracted by life and shiny things.
What Joni Murphy adroitly does in this entertaining, dystopian romp is bring to the forefront through the eyes of a delightful alpaca what power, greed, racism, corruption, and the many forces we humans must come to terms with together. Then, battle through by dropping our opportunities to allow those who come after us to have a future. We’re all in this collectively, and hopefully, we will open our eyes and realize the land needs the sea as much as I need you!
“The pig was blaming the world’s problems on fish, when fish were getting poisoned and eaten, and eaten and poisoned, by all the creatures on land who’d built their industries on sea exploitation.”
“I learned the rich are weak, twisted creatures. I learned to hate them while serving them smoked-salmon canapés.”
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: January 12, 2021
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THE BOOKSHOPPenelope FITZGERALDA story about an underdog battling the evil of 'have.'
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Florence Green is a lost widow, floundering in a small town, trying to matter. She’s vulnerable. She’s trying to cope. To dig herself out of the doldrums, Florence opens a bookshop to bring hopes + dreams to a town left in the past. Filled with simple people living simple lives. Anytown. Anywhere.
‘It is a good book, and therefore you should try to sell it to the inhabitants of Hardborough. They won’t understand it, but that is all good. Understanding makes the mind lazy.’
Simple is kept simple by those who yield the power—for no reason other than they can. The definition of evil?
These exterminators of hope have no shame.
Florence Green is a lost widow who finds a generational soulmate in a voracious reader—waiting for his inevitable end. He sees passion in Florence’s soul. He tries to protect her from the exterminators.
The Bookshop is a flowing tragedy, where sadly, ‘haves’ exterminate ‘have-nots’.
Bookshop shrewdly mirrors real life, cheering for hopeful failures while at the same time lamenting the inevitability of those holding the cards turning life into a loss for all—for no reason other than they can.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: January 8, 2021
Florence Green is a lost widow, floundering in a small town, trying to matter. She’s vulnerable. She’s trying to cope. To dig herself out of the doldrums, Florence opens a bookshop to bring hopes + dreams to a town left in the past. Filled with simple people living simple lives. Anytown. Anywhere.
‘It is a good book, and therefore you should try to sell it to the inhabitants of Hardborough. They won’t understand it, but that is all good. Understanding makes the mind lazy.’
Simple is kept simple by those who yield the power—for no reason other than they can. The definition of evil?
These exterminators of hope have no shame.
Florence Green is a lost widow who finds a generational soulmate in a voracious reader—waiting for his inevitable end. He sees passion in Florence’s soul. He tries to protect her from the exterminators.
The Bookshop is a flowing tragedy, where sadly, ‘haves’ exterminate ‘have-nots’.
Bookshop shrewdly mirrors real life, cheering for hopeful failures while at the same time lamenting the inevitability of those holding the cards turning life into a loss for all—for no reason other than they can.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: January 8, 2021
