Untitled IV - Ed (FICTION)

The sign on the freeway welcomes me to the sate of Oklahoma. And Merry fucking Christmas to you too. I've still got 800 miles to go until I reach Mexico. I need to get some food. 

I enter the diner and sit in a booth in the darkest corner I can find. It's a run-down place, and only about half the bulbs are working. It's 4pm, so there are only a few customers inside. No one raises his head as I walk in, not even the waitresses. Maybe it's my lucky day, I say to myself, as I slide into the booth. Maybe the news hasn't reached the boonies yet. There is a TV on across the room, but it's showing what...yesterday's game? I can't really make it out from here; besides, the flickering lines aren't really helping. On second thought, probably they are. 

"What'll it be today, sonny?" she drawls, as she blows a big bubble with her chewing gum and suddenly I'm taken to the year 1972, December 12th. It's snowing outside and it's my 10th birthday. I sit at the kitchen table, waiting for breakfast. My father isn't there, as usual; I'm not really sure he came home last night. My mother is smoking a cigarette and staring out the window. Her hair isn't combed and she still has her makeup on from the day before. She has shown no signs of remembering that it's my birthday, but just like every year, I hope that there is a surprise for me planned. Deep down, though, I know that she doesn't care enough to plan all that.

She throws the cigarette butt into the sink, amongst the dirty dishes. The smoke continues to rise from it and cloud up the room. She seems to not be bothered by it. She pops a cube of bubble gum into her mouth; she always chews gum after she smokes. This is the reason why her breath always smells like a combination of sweet and putrid. It's been like this as long as I can remember her. 

"What'll it be today, sonny?" she asks as she blows a big bubble. "Cocoa Puffs or Cheerios?" She asks this everyday, when I know as damn well as she does that the only thing we've got is burnt toast with butter. She hands me two pieces on a plate, and laughs, her weird crooked laugh. There will definitely be no surprise today. 

"So what'll be? I've got other customers, you know!" the waitress yells. What happened to southern hospitality?

"I'll have the steak with the baked potato." She walks off. She's obviously not from around here, and neither am I. Shit! What am I going to do now?

Book Review

"Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life" by Anne Lamott

My grade: B

As is clear from the title, this book is for writers, or more specifically, aspiring/unpublished fiction writers. Having read several books on writing, I would say that this one is quite helpful and insightful, and offers to some extent a new perspective while covering the basics. There are a few things I didn't like about the book, however. Firstly, Lamott states quite openly that being funny is important to her, and while she often is, sometimes it feels over-the-top and plain unnecessary. Secondly, she focuses way too much on her own story, and not enough on general tips and potential outcomes for all writers. She additionally has a tendency to dwell on a certain story from her life, which in the end, bears no (or hardly any) relevance to the reader. There were, overall, a significant amount of anecdotes and details from her personal life, which in my opinion didn't have to be present in such a book; at least, not to this extent.

For all of you writers out there, if you haven't read too many books on writing yet, I would recommend this one.

Must be said

I can't stand animal cruelty, and cruelty against children for the same reason: neither can understand what is happening. An adult, at least, can understand the injustice, get angry, in some circumstances, fight against it. But a child, and in a certain sense an animal, are completely helpless against such crimes, because they cannot rationally conclude that a crime is being committed against them, and of the greatest kind.

I am not a violent or an aggressive person by any means, and physical violence of any kind is completely against my nature, but I believe a person who commits a crime against a child or an animal should be killed, because that is not a person! That is some form of an evil force that exists only on Earth and it must be immediately extinguished.

It makes me firstly incredibly angry, but mostly indescribably sad when I see something like a goat walk a tight rope in a Chinese circus with a monkey on his back, also doing some sort of tricks. I can only imagine what type of abuse these poor living creatures were subjected to in order to be able to do that. Let's all face it: a goat is not mean to tip-toe a tight rope!

Maybe I'm crazy, maybe I'm sick, or maybe I'm just plain wrong. I'm against - full-heartedly AGAINST - all crimes against humanity, against all creatures that are alive and feel pain, but I'm most passionately judgmental and intolerant of people who commit any act of injustice or violence against one who cannot defend itself. Rise and stand for justice, or look yourself in the face and feel no shame; I won't be the one to judge you. But if you are guilty of a crime against another living creature, especially a child, or an animal, get the hell off of my blog!

Fran 6 (FICTION)

They hadn't really spoken about it, but considering that Francisca was living in Brian's flat, the conclusion was obvious: Francisca would need to move out. It was actually quite nice of Brian not to kick her out straight away, Francisca thought. After all, it was his right. Besides, Francisca never told him about the disease. In fact, they hadn't really spoken in two-and-a-half weeks. She decided it really would be best if she just quietly packed up her stuff and left. He wouldn't be too surprised to find her gone, whenever he did return back home.

It didn't take Fran long to pack. The only things that were hers, really, were two closets-full of clothes and some jewelry, accumulated through the years. She took only the essentials and the few items that held sentimental value, like the 2-karat diamond ring Charlie had proposed with. He was a good kid; it's too bad, really, the way things worked out with him.

Francisca grabbed the two suitcases and headed towards the front door. By the time she got there, she was completely out of breath. Come to think of it, she really had become weaker lately, but she tried to push that out of her mind for now. She sat down on the couch for a minute, to get a quick rest. A thought came to her: maybe she should leave a note for Brian, even if just a couple of words. She got up, with effort, and waddled over to the kitchen counter, feeling herself decrepit. She took a Post-It note and pen, but on second thought, wrote nothing. It's better left unsaid, she thought.

Dragging the suitcases to the car, one at a time, Francisca finally got in herself and started the ignition. If only she had somewhere to go, someone to turn to. Never in her life had she felt so alone - and so helpless. Her life was coming to an end, a terribly sad an pathetic end, but nobody seemed to care. Perhaps it was something she had done, perhaps it was her fault nobody loved her, Francisca thought. But she was too tired to ponder such questions, so she put the car in Drive and drove to the only place she could think of: home.

Book Review

"The Road" by Cormac McCarthy

My grade: A+

This is a book I read a while ago, but it has stayed with me nonetheless and I feel it worthy of a post on my blog. This is probably the best piece of modern literature that I have read in the last few years. Its incredible darkness sucks you in, and I found myself unable to put it down, even though it was emotionally incredibly difficult to read. It was definitely worth the pain, though.

The book is not broken down into chapters at all, and I'm sure McCarthy doesn't follow all the rules of grammar, but there is purpose and effect in that. The story is that of a father and son, but really it's about humanity. The father and son don't even have names. They are trying to survive in a world where most are dead, to protect one another while maintaining their integrity.

I recommend this book to anyone and everyone. If you read books, you have to read this one.

Book Review

"The Northern Clemency" by Philip Hensher

My grade: C-

I'm surprised at myself for getting through the 738 pages, which believe you me was no easy feat. I have to say, what really kept me going was the anticipation of the ending: I really thought that there will be a point made somewhere along the way, but it was all in vain.

This book strives to be a family epic. I would even argue that "War and Peace" comes to mind when reading this book, for a number of reasons, although its many shortcomings are only highlighted by this reference. In a family epic book, what becomes crucial is character development. The only reason the reader would be interested in learning what happens to a character as he gets older is if the reader feels something for the character, regardless if that is love or hate. This aspect is entirely missing in the novel. The characters are to such an extent underdeveloped that I was often confusing one person with another, along with their histories, up until the very end. It also arouses no interest whatsoever to find out what happens to the characters as time progresses, nor is one either happy or sad when one character or the other dies off. Whatever little is learned of the characters only paints them in a relatively bad light, and in the end, you have a poorly-written book about pathetic people, who you neither respect nor have any kind of strong feelings for one way or another.

Additionally, the book is poorly edited. Starting from an impermissible amount of typos for a published work all the way down to too much telling and hardly any showing (in 738 pages!), you would think a work of such supposed caliber would have been read over one or two times before going on the bookshelves. I would definitely NOT recommend this book, even if you have all the time in the world.

Shelves (FICTION)

The shelves are stacked one on top of another. Some are white, and some are black; some are right, but some are wack. And as I look at these shelves, I think how much like life they are.

The shelves stand empty now. They were full of his things before. I hated his things; they were useless trinkets, probably gifts from ex-girlfriends. Some seemed really exotic, but I know he's never been to such places before. He prided himself on these shelves, and I hated them, but now that they're empty, I miss the way they once were. 

Two days ago, he packed up his things and he left. He didn't take everything. But he took the trinkets, and the best six years of my life. He left me, though, with an old half-empty bottle of shampoo, 3 dirty unmatching socks, a Dutch-Swahili dictionary, and six years' worth of memories. Long, wonderful memories, with a sad ending. Oh, and he also left a note. 

In the note, he explained everything, and nothing at all. He said he had to go, couldn't possibly stay, but I don't know why. Is it the shelves? He said I should move on, find someone new, someone who would deserve me, but he didn't say how. He said I shouldn't cry, shouldn't think about him anymore, everything was really for the best. But is it really? The note was 30 pages long. He walked out through the door, carrying all of his bags, but he left the shelves. The crooked black and white shelves. They stand here now, mocking me with their emptiness.