“Grief is a most peculiar thing”

Grief is a most peculiar thing, we’re so helpless in the face of it. It’s like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.

Memoirs of a Geisha. Arthur Golden.

Peregrinations , Episode 1

Certain days have a habit of making you feel Unreasonably Happy, imbibing you with an optimistic Robert-Browningness, that Hakuna Matata kind of feeling. Today is one of those days as I walk with a Bounce in every step, giving away Free smiles to Boring strangers living their Boring lives around me. Thus I strut into my Destination, the administrative section, like the  Living Legend of Unrestrained Jollity, if ever there was one. I reach the lady I have an appointment to meet and greet her with a Beaming Gush, “Good Morning, Ma’am!”

But alas! The Lady Behind the Desk is like the genius daughter in Interstellar, she senses indications of Life, of some Form or Presence beyond her Desk, a Presence frantically waving its hands about, yelling at her warm good mornings, throwing down books and cellphones to catch her attention, but all to no Avail. She stares at her computer screen like someone Bewitched, Continue reading

Awkward is Special: On Reading THE PERKS OF BEING A WALLFLOWER

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In the company of a hypersensitive, overanalysing, melancholy, first person narrator who rambles on about his boring school life (sounds like me), reading Perks is tedious work. He goes on about the special people in his life, such as everyone, including a devious sounding teacher who lends him novels and makes him review each one. As it turns out, the teacher was genuinely interested in helping develop Charlie’s writing skills. Because Charlie is ‘special’– sounds ambiguous and unfair.

I guess the book’s fine as a psychological case study, as most contemporary bestsellers are, such as We Need to Talk about Kevin; this one tells the story of a boy whose traumatic childhood memory

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“I were 12 yr. and 3 wk. old that day”

I were 12 yr. and 3 wk. old that day and if my feet were callused one inch thick and my hands hard and my labourer’s knees cut and scabbed and stained with dirt no soap could reach yet did I not still have a heart and were this not he who gave me life now all dead and ruined? Father son of my heart are you dead from me are you dead from me my father.

Peter Carey. True History of the Kelly Gang (2000).