Tag: fiction

Resurrection Day

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Happy Sunday, friends. I have a few minutes as I sit and relax here at Laura and Caisson’s…an Easter banquet is being prepared and there is much work to do to prepare, but thought I’d grab a few moments (some of the only few I’ve had without anything else that must be done!) to write a few words on latest books. Of necessity, I do believe I will write fewer words than is my custom and may possibly not ramble as much as I usually do. Small victories. But why bother writing so many words when I can spend time with some of my most favourite people in the world? Now Caisson sits on the couch holding little Shiloh as she sleeps and Laura prepares a flour-less chocolate cake and Dani is resting in our room so…I suppose I will allow myself a moment or two to write.

22. The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde. This is a ridiculous and absurd romp. I had never read Fforde before but heard that this was a tale for the literary minded that don’t mind something a bit off the wall. And you know what? This one delivered. I found it absolutely hilarious. A bit irreverent at times and a bit more profane than I would have liked, but the humour was absolutely top notch. A lot of the jokes rely on a bit of knowledge of literature but in my mind, that made this book all the more superior. Mind you, this book is not for everyone. You may need to suspend your imagination a wee bit.

23. Grandpa’s Stolen Treasure by Lois Walfrid Johnson. Being back at Laura and Caisson’s means I get access to old childhood books once again. This was a quick breezy read, made all the more enjoyable by the memories summoned up as I read a book I probably haven’t opened in 20+ years. This one is probably not one of the stronger ones in the series. As Laura and I discussed, we enjoy the books that take place around the homestead and not in new cities. This one took place in Duluth which was interesting but…not quite as fun a setting as the farm and its environs. Still, a good tale well told and it is hard to find good children’s books so…would heartily recommend this to the younger crowd!

24. The Runaway Clown by Lois Walfrid Johnson. Book 8 of the Northwoods series, a fun story. Probably not the strongest of the series and the premise is stretching a bit much on the idea of Anders and Kate’s mystery solving skills, but you know what? Still worth a read. I particularly liked this one for the strong Christian themes and wisdom interspersed throughout. From Papa giving Kate dating/marriage advice (!! – also very solid and relevant even today!) to Kate standing up for her faith even when it sabotaged her friendship with her crush. Also, Kate sharing the gospel with her friend and praying with her!! Truly beautiful. This is one of those children’s books that is Christian but not weirdly so. It feels like a real family with a real faith loving a real God.

25. Mystery of the Missing Map by Louis Walfrid Johnson. Book 9 of the Northwoods series. A fun story with a few new characters thrown in. Probably not the best of the series, but I still found it enjoyable. It was odd reading this and having absolutely no memory at all of the plot (and continually being surprised by it!) yet little snippets here and there sparked my memory – “I remember this line!”. I’d forgotten whole characters yet I remembered reading certain turns of phrase. Funny how the memory works.

Imminent

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Hello friends! A beautiful Sunday has been enjoyed. Dani and I got a nice long walk in, albeit in possibly the most humid environment possible, to our great sighing dissatisfaction. Still though. It was good to be outside and soak in the sunlight and enjoy a nice long ramble together, talking of all and sundry. And we were not walking just to walk although so often that is what we do. We ended up at Kaboom eventually and it was a glorious few minutes browsing the stacks as I hoped to find a treasure. I will admit this was one of those rare cases where I did not buy anything! I did find an old 1916 copy of “The Possessed”, but decided not now, since I have no idea when I would end up reading it. Was really hoping to find a copy of “Brothers Karamazov” but oddly enough there were none to be found. Hopefully next time! Dani and I finally arrived back home and oh how good it is now after my shower to be sitting in my little corner chair enjoying the supreme relaxation that is felt after a good long walk. Dinner will be burritos and tomato and avocado soon enough. But not yet. I shall talk for a few words on my latest book and then it shall be time to read – “Gospel According to Jesus” still encouraging my soul.

16. First Love by Ivan Turgenev. Was initially thinking this would finally be the exception to prove the rule – the first of the great Russians that ended up a disappointment. And I will say that this tale is simple enough and not grand or epic in any way. But this little mid-19th century Russian story proved in the end to be worth the read. I had not read Turgenev before but heard enough that I was eager for this one. Yet the story seemed so bare bones and simple on its face, and so it is for the most part. There is not much subtlety in this one. Yet it is worth it simply for the last few pages and the reflection on mortality and what life really means and what it all points towards. The last few pages were sublime and worth the seeming-superficiality of some of the earlier pages. Grateful I read this one and I will not hesitate to pick up another Turgenev in the future. This was just a short story after all, so curious to see what his novels are like. I am a simple man of simple tastes and apparently I still haven’t met a 19th-century Russian tale that I dislike.

Shades of Grey

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Hello friends!! Tuesday afternoon here. A few words on my latest books – not many I promise! – and then it shall be walk time, even if it is ridiculously hot and sticky this mid-March day.

14. The Passion According to G.H. by Clarice Lispector. What even do I say about this one? A profoundly weird book, I enjoyed it in part but most certainly not in its totality. I doubt I could even recommend it to anyone because I just don’t know anyone who could take the strangeness and come out unscathed. Oh but perhaps that is the point? One is not supposed to experience this book and not be different on the other side, methinks. Anyway. I won’t spin my wheels too much here. My favourite parts of this book was the wordplay and the absorbing rhythm at which the author spins her tale. The book fairly thrums with a high intensity sense of longing. There are stretches in this book which thrill in the way in which the author constructs a train of thought. I honestly don’t know how one can write in this way. I think perhaps I’d love to read her poetry for at the end of the day, the stream of consciousness which runs through this novel is poetic in a way which feels almost effortless, though I’m sure the author travailed over this book with much blood, sweat and tears. This is a good book, to be sure. But just maybe not one for me. There are philosophical underpinnings which make me quirk an eyebrow and wonder what exactly the author is getting at. Her thoughts are veiled at times and I wonder if the titular G.H. is an aspect of the author or simply a handy voice to ponder deeper truths that may be at odds with the accepted wisdom of the age. It is a work to behold and perhaps some of you may enjoy this one. The writing is beautiful and the way in which the author utilizes language is truly a marvel. If perhaps I had a bit more comprehension I too could peer over the heights of pretension and join the narrator at a spot unbidden and gaze myself over the deserts that call me back to my ancient home. But if we acknowledge an ancient home we too acknowledge the fruit that we ate that took us from it and though I wish to discourse myself on many things I fear my ability to do such is not quite up to the skill the author wields with such peculiar joy. I both loved and loathed this book. I think the author would approve.

15. Tom Lake by Ann Patchett. I enjoyed this book in the moment though less so as I reflect back now. It is a very easy read and the narrative pulls you forward swiftly, even as you lean forward with the girls in earnest, eager to hear the next part of the tale their mom has finally resignedly decided to tell. Possible spoilers ahead. The characters are lovingly drawn and there are parts of this book that I truly loved despite the trauma that marked this book in parts. I think my favorite parts of this book were simply witnessing Lara and Joe and their daughters living and working and talking and laughing and crying even as they spend their time working the orchard and wrestling with their past. I could have spent most of the time with them in fact! Maybe that makes me a bit akin to Peter Duke, one who recognizes the most unusual peace and beauty at that place and feels it to be home even though he only walked that land but twice. I did think this book was well written and did enjoy the craft of the writer as she tells a story about a girl who becomes a woman and experiences a life that seems as foreign to me as to her daughters. There were a few things that bothered me, of course. I have decided I don’t like Covid books. As much as it’s subtle, even reminders of that time irk me and especially looking back at it, it frustrates me to see all the follies of that era laid bare again. There are also a few character moments and choices that made me sigh, though I recognize they are common to this age so I should not be surprised. It makes me sad to see Emily’s fierce opposition to bringing children into the world. Though I do understand the sentiment and even know people who share it, it will never not make me sad. Though perhaps there I stand with Joe and Lara. And then of course the abortion at the end was handled with such brevity and obvious approval, it made me want to weep. I do so hate abortion. But is this not a reflection of the times and mores which even now hold sway? I suppose so. So as much as parts of this book grieved me and as much as I don’t think I’d read this one again, I am still glad I read it. There are reflections in this book that are truly lovely and I’m grateful to read about a family in which there is such fierce love for one another.

Simply Yes She Said to Me That One Fine Winter Day

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I’m a bit tired and don’t think I shall spend much more time on the computer this day. Leftover sausage and lentil stew for dinner, hurrah! And more Olympics-watching for Dani and I! We shall soon find out who wins the ladies’ figure skating gold! But for now, thought I might as well spend a few minutes of my time writing a bare few words on my latest read.

10. A Haunt for Jackals by J.L. Odom. A great read. As previously reported, read a new book recently (By Blood, By Salt) and was so struck by its uniqueness and high quality that I couldn’t help but immediately source the second book. This is that second book and I am very sorry to say that the third book is not yet available so I must wait for the conclusion (or just continuation?) of this series! Ahhh! But anyways, A Haunt for Jackals was a fantastic book, even if it was even more grim than the first book, if that was possible! This book is a very…how shall I describe it…muddy and bloody book. I think that description is apt. So I read this one a bit slower than I originally thought I would, simply because I had to be in the right mood for it. But once I slipped into the world again with Azetla and Tzal and others, well…the pages just rolled by. The world is so richly textured and the characters feel so real, I simply delighted in the reading experience every time I opened the book. There is definitely trauma in this book, especially with the history of Tzal being unveiled. It was…hard to read at times. Be warned. Still yet, there is beauty in this book. I’m grateful for this book, even though I must confess I was a bit surprised by a revelation at the end that I thought was too obvious to be true! But we shall see what the next book holds. Sad I have to wait!! Oh one more point. This book is definitely more of a military book than I am used to reading. Not sure if that’s my thing, but I have to say the battles were thrillingly told and even for someone as militarily inexperienced as I, was not bored. This author knows how to spin a tale.

A Different Kind of Music

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She sits on the porch in the fading light of sunset, a mug of coffee cradled in her hand. She knows it may possibly be too late for coffee but she cares not. The scent of coffee sparks her soul. The darkness draws closer and she looks out over the fields to enjoy the golden softness of the heads of grain before the curtain falls. It is good to rest this night. Her muscles are slowly untensing after the long day walking to and fro and hither and yon. A hot shower will be most welcome shortly, but not yet. Firstly the sunset must be enjoyed for the moment is not to be missed on a night such as this. The yellow light slowly turns to orange and threatens red as the sun slips ever further down the curve of the prairie sky. The clouds hug the horizon promising her very favourite type of sunset, the type where the garments of the heavens drape loosely about its frame. All the better to showcase the breathtaking beauty that is ever present but only rarely shyly seen. But enough of the sunset chatter, she thinks to herself as she breathes deep. She brings her other hand up to the coffee mug and she drinks. The wind blows across the treeless pastures and causes her to shiver. The sun winks and is gone. She lets herself sit a moment or two longer, slowly rocking back and forth in her chair. She plays a finger through her hair about her ear and considers. The thick book on the table next to her calls her name. But first, hot shower and cozy pajamas and then back on the porch to curl up with aforesaid book and a tall glass of something cold and dark. And she may even light a candle. It’s that type of night, a night for the prolonging of the beautiful and a lingering in the light. But first she must move her tired muscles. She slowly rises and turns to the house. Her hand on the doorknob, she looks back one more time to take a mental photograph of the way the porch railing silhouettes against the twilight. The night is not yet over, she promises herself. But now, shower time.

Notes

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It’s a Tuesday night. It’s warmer. Why. I want our nice cold winter weather back! Alas, I suppose I will just have to grin and bear it. For now. So while I bemoan the unseasonably warm temperatures and pine for winter once again, I will write a few words on my latest.

7. The Winds of Change by Isaac Asimov. I’d forgotten I’d read this before and pulled it off my shelf thinking it was a new read. By the time I had a funny feeling that I had indeed read this before, I was already about halfway through and decided to just finish it! And it…was fine? Either I’m starting to outgrow Asimov a bit in my advanced age or this is one of his weaker collections. Either way, the short stories were reasonably entertaining in the moment, but not much more than that. Some of them were downright clunkers! Ah well, still better than a lot of sci fi being published at the moment!

8. By Blood, By Salt by J.L. Odom. What a stupendous book. Oh how I do delight when I find a book that so thoroughly surprises me as this one did! I bought this one off a recommendation and kind of forgot about it until a few days ago when I was perusing my shelves looking for a new read. Saw this and shrugged and thought why not try it? It looked a little grim and daunting and I wasn’t entirely sure I was in the mood for such. Still yet? It won my heart. I shall attempt to not spoil this one as I really feel much of the beauty of this book is in the discovery. But it is a fantasy, I guess you could say. A work set in a place and time not quite our own. Yet there are similarities – obvious and not disguised ones – to cultures and personalities of our own human history, and while I first wondered if it was perhaps a bit too pat in its appropriations, I soon found myself marveling at the deep and intricate world the author had constructed. This may be a debut novel, but the writing feels confident and self-assured. The author knows where she’s going with this. One of my only qualms is that this book is not the end! I have already sourced the next book and eagerly await it arriving so I can drop once more into this world. Some may think her themes and touchpoints too obvious, yet I feel they work. I do wonder where she’s going with this and I’m pleased that I can’t quite tell. I get whiffs of some of my all-time favourites (particularly some resonance to Till We Have Faces) and I’m frankly a little shocked that this is the author’s first published book. The writing is grounded, detailed and feels utterly real. The characters are a bit foreign at times yet…with the world and history that they’ve lived, is that not surprising? I mentioned at the start, but this is indeed a grim book. Not much light-heartedness, quite a bit of violence and trauma. If you’re looking for a bloodless adventure, this is not the book for you. Yet sometimes the shedding of blood is necessary, is it not? I can’t wait to read the second and see how the story of Azetla continues. Stunning work, truly.

Fondly She Says

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They sit around the table talking of all the delicate things of life. They speak of loving from a distance and friendships severed and high drama now converted to a steady well-banked fire. On the table is laid a feast with one large pot of meat and sauce and other smaller bowls with various accoutrement and at the end sits a plate of sliced bread still slightly steaming and a small dish of butter invitingly placed nearby. It may seem slightly unnecessary to take the time to describe the food and its placement on the table yet does it not add to understanding the back and forth of the hands that go here and there as various bits of this and that get added to bowls as the conversation carries ever on? I am attempting to paint a scene and sometimes I prefer to let my gentle readers fill in the dialogue for themselves if only they see the staging well described before them. So yes. Back to the table at hand. The four friends talk in a way which indicates kinship or union of some kind, even if it can also be seen that they do not know each other as intimately as family might. Yet there are smiles that linger on one face long after an encouraging word has been said and no one is looking in his direction. What is it to share your heart with another and know that it is being seen as true? This is rare, is it not? I know I crave such. But now I leave the table and glance at the tea kettle that already is near at a boil. Four cups on the counter with tea bags placed within. A glance into the living room where sofa and comfy chairs sit and I can imagine them sitting there with cups cradled gratefully in hands, steam rising to caress joyous faces. They sit as I knew they would and then of course the continued chatting about life and death and the divine amidst the mundane of which we everyday breath and see. There is nothing grand to be said about this whole evening of course, it is just a small homey scene. Yet perhaps are not those the grandest? I think so.

Fare Thee Well

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She stood at the window gazing with calm equanimity across the chaotic void. The last ship had launched and the fiery remnants of its wake still glistened and yet her face did not display any trace of tears though she knew she would never see her love again. She stood for several long slow beats of her heart feeling her body pulse to the rhythm of the station’s reactor. There would be time to mourn later, of course. There would be nothing but time and she would struggle to know how to fill it. But for now, for this moment, she wanted to feel her union with him as a still present reality and to admit to separation would be akin to standing over her own grave. She refused to think of the long years that stretched before her. Instead, she felt the press of his hand on hers and the lingering touch of his lips. She remembered the small smile that graced his face as he had turned one last time before walking down the gangway. She let his final words ring in her ears. They would meet again, to be sure. But it would be on the other side of space and time. She would see his face again in a place which she now saw only vague outlines of in her dearest dreams.

And now comes the long march. Now comes the cold dark of the unknown years which stretch afore her. She must fill the void with the little graces and beauties that she had spent so many years cultivating in fertile soil. Now comes the refining fire and the test of faith. But the void is too vast for her to fill with the finite scribblings of a weary heart. Yet still it must be filled.

Juliet let her shoulders relax and she sighed a mortal sigh. And in the light of the star filled sky she felt tears begin to fill her eyes.

To Be Raised

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She writes of what she knows, of cliffside walks and fireside conversations and books that end with a sigh on the lips and a prick of the heart. It is challenging for her to write of battles and fiery declamations or of back and forth duels or action set pieces. She at times wishes she had a more exciting life on which to draw rich inspiration for she knows not what it is to crawl in the mud in the trenches of a war which long ago ceased to have any meaning or forward drive. Think of the scars on her soul and the weariness of heart that would have resulted from such a campaign and think of the poetry that would of necessity sprung forth.

But one look into the eyes of her bosom companion persuaded her that perhaps it was for the best that her life up until now had really been rather boring. When she looked into his eyes and saw the pain that seemed to leak through at the most odd moments, she, well – she knew she would have broken long before. And even if the best art comes from the most broken amongst us, who can say that she would not have been one of the broken ones who only brings forth crumbling potsherds and ashy rags, crumbling crying on the rug afore the fire? A few are marked for greatness and for gold shining forth from that ancient forge. But there are too many shattered skeletons nearby that belie the idea that beauty needs only a little fire to metamorphosize into the divine.

Remember this, she says to herself softly. Remember this. And then she reaches across the table and takes his hand and squeezes it gently as she kisses him with her eyes. She thinks of her notebook on the coffee table and her half-written scribbling of a girl walking through the meadow grass as the last of the evening sun shines through the winter branches. That girl walks in beauty and knows it in the moment. That is a precious gift and shall not be squandered.

Remember and hold on to beauty, she whispers to him now. I do he responds soft. But it’s not quite as hard as you think, for I am also one who is held. And the arms around me are made of sterner stuff than even my nightmares dare to be. His smile broke through and he lifts his hands in mock surprise. Even I too though mortal am reminded by these words of my immortality. Does that seem quite odd to you? That’s the paradox of resurrection. That’s a slender sapling growing up through the ash. That’s a scorched seed falling slowly through the wind. That music you hear? That’s an echo of the song that even now my heart yearns to sing in full. Someday, she says. Springtime comes.

Beginnings

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The last party I attended, I lasted twenty minutes before I started reciting poetry at the top of my lungs. That was admittedly a low point but I argue that I was baited into such. Every time Rachel shares the memory, her inability to keep a straight face testifies to her guilt. That poetry incident is unrelated to the present tale, but I thought it would set the stage nicely for the relationship between Rachel and I. It’s complicated really. (Aren’t all relationships such, even the ones that are unburdened by any sorts of romantic feelings one for the other?) But like any enduring friendship, ours had its high points and low points. The high points include in their number such efforts as the great Christmas narrative retelling of 2023, the pizza party at the coffeeshop that somehow devolved into a long-winded argument on the merits of Augustinian theology, and the near daily reminders to write something beautiful. The low points? We’ll get there. For what’s a great story without a really, really, bold-italics-underline really, great low point? So to cut to the chase, things have changed. Of course. The drama.

Not that long ago, I promised Rachel that I’d never write again. Obviously I’ve done a great job at keeping that promise. But here my fingers go, darting across the keyboard and providing fodder for scores of psychotherapists in their attempts to disentangle my waking dreams. You may wonder why on earth I would ever make such a foolish promise, me to whom writing comes more easily than breathing (pardon the stale cliche), whyever would I decide it was a good idea to cap my pen and shut my laptop, that the time had come to hang up my cowl? Again, to refer to the low point discussion, we’re getting there.

But let’s reverse a bit. We must retreat to where I can tell you this tale in the peace and quiet and right now my thoughts are screaming at me. I’m honestly unsure whether this is a good idea, but I dare not stop now that the dam has been breached. I suppose we could make this a participation game. Maybe that would make this feel more of a real relationship, even though I am fully aware I am imprisoned in my own head and that these words exiting into cyberspace and manifesting themselves in front of your eyes and being interpreted by your own psychosocial persona will communicate a story to you quite a bit different from the looping tale that is taunting me in my dreams even now. So any relationship between me (narrator, possibly lunatic, author of sorts) and you (a reader or perhaps listener, someone who exists but other than that of unknown quality and character) will of necessity feel a bit forced and mercenary even. Still now, friend? Can I call you friend? Would you like to hear a bit more about the friendship between Rachel and I that led to such a cataclysmic end? I promise you it is not a romantic tale (as much as the suspicion may rise) and I assure you that there’s nothing fantastical about what I’m about to spill. You could call this a theological journey of sorts, and if that word scares you, I will not attempt to urge you to stay with me. Stay or go, it’s all the same for me. I’ll keep writing. The question is – will you keep reading?