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Love itself describes its own perfect. Be speechless and listen.
I had just come to accept that my life would be ordinary when extraordinary things began to happen. The first of these came as a terrible shock, and like anything that changes you forever, split my life into halves: Before and After.
-Jacob Portman (Ransom Riggs)
Reeling from the mysterious events surrounding his grandfather’s tragic death, 16-year-old Jacob Portman sets off to learn more about of his grandfather’s life, the strange photographs he kept, and the fanciful stories he told about them. Jacob’s journey takes him to an abandoned orphanage on a remote island where a secret world hides beneath the ruins of the bombed-out wreckage.
We cling to our fairy tales until the price for believing them becomes too high.
As soon as I turned the last page of Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children on Sunday afternoon, I ran to the bookstore to buy the next book in the series. This is Ransom Riggs’s first novel and it is riveting. Riggs has woven a story around the strange and creepy vintage photographs he collected from flea markets over the years, some of which are published in the book as characters and scenes. The pictures alone are worth the book’s cover price.
Though categorized as “young-adult fiction,” consider yourself forewarned, there is a significant amount of dark and violent topics touched on in the pages, including the Holocaust, bomb raids, murder, animal slaughter, animation of the dead, and slightly less scary non-human monsters of the sharp teeth and tentacled sort. In fact, there was a certain point, about mid-way through, when it began giving me nightmares, so maybe it’s not the best bedtime story. But it is a story worth reading.
I have a new one-eyed Turtle friend named Sprout. He has taken up residence in my garden. We’ve been hanging out together.
Nickel seems threatened by this new relationship. Last week while I was cleaning out the veggie beds he persistently intercepted my reach, sticking his silly cat head between my hand and every weed I was trying to pull. It was a sad and desperate attempt to force me to pet him, which of course worked. And while I was taking pictures of Sprout, Nickel jumped up on a rock between us and he went all “Zoolander” on it, in a “look what I can do” sort of way. It was a sad and desperate attempt to force me to take pictures of him…
I’ve been working on a choreography for Emma Shapplin’s The Inferno for months now. The song stirs something in me that badly wants out. A version of the song is embedded below.
After months of reading, thinking, listening, and moving, the idea is finally beginning to find some form in motion. I need to finish it.
The quote in the image above was taken from John Ciardi’s translation.
Yes, there’s a lot aflame around here lately. It’s an energy that needs to be channeled somewhere safe, like dance.
Clearly, I come from a long line of distinguished goat people. It’s written in my DNA. If you don’t believe me, refer back to Exhibit A. That is my grandfather Hiram, Goat Wrangler Extraordinare. My cousin, The Elitest Jerk, sent me the above picture. She came across it yesterday while sorting through family heirlooms.
Recently, as I have dilly-dallied about the yard, I’ve been hearing the distant, but happy sound of goat bleating. The song of my people is in the air! My neighbors two doors down have made a recent acquisition. I struggle to catch a glimpse, but to no avail. The summer foilage has grown too thick. There is some comfort in knowing that goaty goodness is getting closer and closer to Peace.Love.Home…
In a world where color-coded tampons represent a gesture of affection just think what testament of love could be expressed in the gift of a goat…
Remember, it is the Year of the Goat.