the most inspired i've ever been while surrounded by sponges and listening to the cupid shuffle. or, city museum, part two!

Part one found here.

Oh, yes, the Cupid Shuffle blared from the next room as the Hoboken Duschene* prom drew to a close. Without my contacts, it took me several steps before I saw that these were sponges, not blocks, and I knew we would be here for a while. A minute later, I heard this mysterious child:

(hereafter referred to as Future Architect)

   say these incredible things to his dad (and I paraphrase):

Future Architect: I've never felt this way before about anything.

Dad: What's that buddy?

Future Architect: I can make whatever I want. There are so many possibilities!

I melted. There was joy involved. 

Joshua started building his tower.

I went over to revel.

Infinite!

I was so excited about what the kid had said, I asked Joshua to take a picture of me with the sponges.**

He obliged.

Oh, the possibilities!

I was really, really happy.

Joshua's tower turned out pretty cool, too.

Note the Future Architect's masterpiece in the background,

and his little sister, actin' a fool.

And I took an artsy-fartsy picture of myself:

All in all, it was one of my better Cupid Shuffle experiences.

*not the real high school's name, but close enough.

** I actually flubbed and said, "Will you take my picture with the possibilities?" And he looked at me like I was nuts and said, "What?" before I clarified that I meant the sponges.

P.s. I am so sorry if I got the Cupid Shuffle stuck in your head. If it's any consolation, I did it to myself, too.

tothelefttothelefttothelefttothleft...

fifteen authors who have shaped me in some way.

1.  Shel Silverstein.
     I assume that most would add this man to their list for such things as The Giving Tree, but honestly, he's on my list for the audiobooks of Where The Sidewalk Ends and A Light In The Attic, which I demanded to hear on just about every road trip I went on from the ages of 5 to 13, probably.  The man's voice was like a creepy, buttery lullaby that made you want to stay up and hear more, and then stay awake thinking about it.  So, not too successful as a lullaby.  Brilliant as narration.  Also, seriously, I cannot help but *adore* Runny Babbit.  Don't you?  It grieves me that Silverstein died before its publication.  I would have loved to hear him recite it.

2.  Lois Lowry.
    I know so little [read: nothing] about this author outside the realm of The Giver, but, oh.  The Giver.

3.  CS Lewis.

     I used to sit in the corner of my grandparents' huge walk-in closet, turn off the lights and wait for Narnia to come.  Enough said.

4.  Harper Lee.
     I read To Kill a Mockingbird on a camping trip with my family the summer I turned 14.  Changed my life.  It made me want to (a), play Scout on stage, even though I was already way too old, (b), name something, possibly a daughter, Harper (which is still totally in the mix, as far as I'm concerned), and (c), though I didn't fully realize it at the time, be a writer.

5.  Tim O'Brien.
     I loved reading The Things They Carried in 11th grade.  I vividly remember sitting under the table in English class, devouring it and being thoroughly creeped-out.

6.   Ernest Hemingway.

     I will be honest, the only Hemingway I've actually read is A Farewell to Arms, and I pretty much hated it. Why on earth is he on my list, then?  Because I grew up going to Key West every summer, that's why.  I used to beg my parents to take me to his house, again and again, mostly to see the the six-toed cats.  But as I got older, I appreciated the whole thing a lot more.  I love seeing his pictures all over the wall at Sloppy Joe's.  Regardless of how you feel about him, isn't it incredible to sit where he sat?

7.  JK Rowling.

     I know this one is a given for any human being even remotely interested in literature who was alive (and most likely young) from 1998 until now, but it is irrefutable.  Nothing re-reads quite as delightfully as a Harry Potter book.  Especially on the back deck at my parents' house in the middle of summer, or on the choir tour bus back in high school, or out-loud in a car with someone you love.

8.  Christina Rosetti.
     Poets were supposed to be included in this, and I wish I had more, but the first one to come to mind is always Christina Rosetti, for Goblin Market.

9.  Anne Lamott.
     Bird by Bird is the best college textbook I ever didn't buy for class.  I invested in my own copy post-graduation, because I knew it was special and I missed it (I had borrowed it and, honestly, not done very much of the reading when I was supposed to).

10.  Kelly Link.
     When I first read her short story Monster, it absolutely astounded me.  It's a bizarre, enchanting, ultimately horrifying little tale about a kid getting picked on at summer camp, and, you know, a monster.  I love it.  I can't get over the voice.  She writes the way I want to write.  I don't know how else to explain it.  Also, I read a collection of her short fiction on my honeymoon, and so her voice will always sort of remind me of that, too.

11.  Yann Martel.
     What is it about Life of Pi?  The philosophy is often over my head (as most things are), I don't really agree with Pi's religious convictions, and I still have no stinking clue what happens at the end.  But I love this book terribly, and if I get to thinking about it too much, I always want to re-read it.  It's the way the man writes, that's what.

12.  Dodie Smith.
     "I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.  That is, my feet are in it; the rest of me is on the draining-board, which I have padded with our dog's blanket and a tea-cosy.  I can't say that I am really comfortable, and there is a depressing smell of carbolic soap, but this is the only part of the kitchen where there is any daylight left.  And I have found that sitting in a place where you have never sat before can be inspiring-- I wrote my very best poem while sitting on the hen-house.  Though even that isn't a very good poem.  I have decided my poetry is so bad that I mustn't write any more of it."
     --is my favorite opening paragraph of any book I have ever read.  If you haven't yet had the absolute joy of diving into I Capture the Castle, just know that I cannot recommend it enough.  It is perhaps my true favorite, and has been for a couple of years.  It's so... melodic.  So sweet.  Honest.  Beautifully written.  Romantic (really, how can you not love a boy like Stephen Colly?).  And, in some places, completely hilarious.  I could go on and on.  Also, this woman wrote The 101 Dalmatians, and who doesn't love that?

13.  Sheldon Vanauken.
     I finally finished A Severe Mercy this past winter, and it... was... what?  Are there words to describe this man's story?  I bawled.  I learned.  I grew.  And, hey, the man was friends with Jack himself, and a good portion of the book is their correspondence.  Sharing in the grief of the women they loved.  We had a passage from it read at our wedding.  Sounds macabre, I know, but it was perfect: all about God defining a marriage.  Beautiful stuff.

14.  Laini Taylor.
     On a much, much lighter note, here is another author who writes the way I want to write.  In an effort to seem hip and reviewer-y, I wrote this post about her book Lips Touch, which is way more awesome than it may sound (the book, not my review.  The review is... just a review).

15.  Suzanne Collins.
     Here we go.  Deep breath.  The Hunger Games.  Catching Fire.   Mockingjay.  I do not know how she did it, but Suzanne Collins absolutely broke me (in a good way, kind of) with Katniss's story.  Please, friends.  Please.  Read these books.  I tore through the whole trilogy twice in five weeks, if that's any indication of my feelings.  The story is unforgettable.  And that's all I can say without turning into a total fangirl.

it's like they knew: a pondering of poor adaptations.

::I wrote this in July.  

I didn't post it then because I was too embarrassed.  

I'm over that, now.  

Confession number one:  I heart Avatar: The Last Airbender.  

This post is my love-splurge on the cartoon and subsequent "what-the-bluh?" on the film. ::

I must confess, I do love a good story, with great, well-developed characters, humor, heart, and a compelling plot. I must also confess, I hate it when these things are turned into films that miss the point, no matter how fun they are to look at through those abominable 3D glasses.
Two weeks ago [read: five months ago] at Creative Music and Art camp, our only boy (hereafter referred to as "Little Josh") had an adorable habit of waterbending in the hallway at Munday. I loved it. I even joined him, and we had epic battles in the lobby. Here's a picture of us, mid-showdown:

I'm not trying to be dramatic.  I just can't get the photo to go up any higher.

I was just about giddy when I first realized what Little Josh was doing. I asked, "Are you waterbending?" And he said, "Yeah, watch this one!" I practically squealed, "I love that show!" Little Josh said, "Me too! And my brother loves it too!" And then he taught me how to waterbend. My good friend and fellow counselor, Jesse, who has yet to see the cartoon, said, "What about... groundbending?" And I said, "Earthbending, Jesse, get it right." (Jesse, this is your second shout-out on this blog, which proves that you are super-cool.) [Jesse, now that five months have passed, have you gotten around to watching this show? You still need to. If anyone makes fun of you, you can blame it on me.]

Not many people will take me seriously when I tell them to watch Avatar, the cartoon that came before (and has absolutely nothing to do with) that James Cameron thing. But, trust me, if you're anything like me, you'll enjoy it. Then again, I am continuously, hopelessly drawn to things made for kids (two of my three favorite movies are Spirited Away and How to Train Your Dragon, after all), so take me as seriously as you want.

When I first dove into Avatar: The Last Airbender, I didn't want to tell my husband, knowing he would make fun of me for watching a kids' show, even if just a little bit. And, once I confessed, he did. Then he started watching it too. The next day, he requested that I not watch any more without him. Victory! We finished the whole series in about three weeks. We both laughed out loud, time and again, and I cried SUCH happy tears at the finale. The first thing I said when it was over was, "This does NOT need to be made into a movie."
But, alas, it had already happened, and we could not undo it. Thankfully, I had read enough to know how low my expectations needed to be in order to not throw popcorn at the screen. Actually, I suggested that we not even see the film, or just wait for Netflix, but my Joshua, who loved Avatar as much as I did, could not resist. So, for the first time in possibly forever, I went to see a movie on its opening day. Ha! Oh me.
Well, it wasn't SO bad that I wanted to leave, but I was tempted to take a bathroom break, which would have broken my usual hold-it-no-matter-what standard. In fact, the last time I left a movie to use the restroom (and buy a soda, and dawdle the whole way back) was when my best friend in ninth grade dragged me to see Love & Basketball.
I shouldn't go on and on about the misery of Shyamalan's The Last Airbender, because you can read about that anywhere. Or you can experience it yourself for $10 a piece on a Thursday night, like we did. [Or, you know, rent it, or something.] But I can't help it. Leaving the theater, Joshua had steam coming out his ears and kept saying, "I knew it would be bad, but I didn't know it would be THAT bad!"

I, on the other hand, couldn't stop laughing.  

I don't know what I thought was so funny. It definitely wasn't Sokka, whose lovable goofballery had been sacrificed for a more serious, "brooding" type.  Just look at Jackson Rathbone over there, pursing his lips. Who is this guy? Come to think of it, the whole thing seemed like it was trying to be the "serious version." Why?
[Hold on while I digress:]
Also, half the characters' names were pronounced wrong.  Maybe this is what cracked me up.  "Ahng? Soak-a? Ee-ro? [Ah-vatar?]" I wheezed. "What was that all about?" Joshua replied, "Maybe they changed his name to Soak-a because he always ends up getting wet," which made me laugh even more, because such moments were actually funny in the cartoon, but SO awkward and unnatural in the movie.  
Speaking of awkward pronunciations, none of the actors seemed convinced that they were saying the names right. I felt like every time the girl who played Katara said "Ahng" instead of good ol' "Aang," a tiny part of her died. I bet she'd been a fan of the cartoon, too. In fact, I think the only thing the new pronunciations gained was an alienation of the original fan base. Everything about these actors seemed shy, really. Shy and ill-fitting. Not including Dev Patel, of course, who pretty much set the bar way over everyone else's heads [dare I add, even over the head of the production itself?]. He was the only character I believed, though they totally dumbed down that wicked scar. Considering how great the other characters were originally, and should have been in the film, this makes me more sad than happy. The really funny part, I suppose, is that the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that this could have been done right, but wasn't, and we may never know why.  

Oh.  Money.

On the way home, Joshua and I laughed at the fact that the first thing we wanted to do was go back to the cartoon and watch some of it that night, to get the bad taste out of our mouths. So, we did. And then, while perusing the internet for consolation, I found absolutely the best possible thing to make a sour Avatar fan feel better. 
This quote, and its corresponding video.
"Don't worry, folks, this movie isn't a live-action adaptation of Avatar: The Last Airbender, but of the Ember Island Players." 

To quote everyone who commented on this on Youtube, " [o.m.g.] it's like they knew!"
I suppose the effects were decent. Buh.

This is what Little Josh said when I asked him if he was excited about the movie: "Yes! It's going to be awesome!" I asked him why he thought so, and he said, "Because, it'll look real, and everything's better when it's real!" I wonder what he thought of it, in the end?

**Addendum: Little Josh and I also went through earthbending and firebending, that afternoon in Munday Lodge. On of the absolute highlights of my summer at camp was when I asked him, "Oh, can you redirect lightening?" And he said, in 100% seriousness, "No, I haven't learned to do that yet." Seriously. I love kids.

a little blog identity crisis.

"Identity crisis" is one of those terms that makes me roll my eyes and think, "You're only saying that because you thought it was cool when others said it."  And yet here I am, using it, too.

Have you, you lucky few, noticed that I keep changing the look over here?  It's the crisis.

Not only do I not know what to blog about, but now I can't decide what the page should look like.  I'm pretty sure it's just going to have to change with my mood, and today I'm feeling paint-flingy.  And perhaps a tad rosy, though the reason for that one evades me.  Rose is not typically my color.  I do like it best of all the pinks... though I generally hate pink.

But isn't rose far better than plain, awful pink?

Well, now that I've exhausted arguing with myself over which shades are best within one color, here's a list of things:

1.  I got excited for Christmas today.  I know, way too early.

2.  I had to remind myself to dread Christmas instead, because now I work retail.  At one of the most popular and awesome and (come December) Christmasy stores in Knoxville.  I.e., holiday madhouse.

3.  Adelaide ran away two and a half weeks ago and still hasn't come home.  *frowny face*


4.  I'm going to spend half of next week on LeConte with Katie and that makes me happy, even if my cat did disappear forever, and Christmas is going to suck this year.

5.  I want a Phineas & Ferb water bottle.  Laugh all you like.  I am a FAN.  In fact, I'm going to reference it at the end of this post.

6.  I heart.heart.heart watching The Dick Van Dyke Show on Netflix.

7.  I finished the "Moon Trilogy," which is actually called The Last Survivors Trilogy, I think, and it was... meh?    I mean, the great kind of meh where I wished it would keep going, but still meh, because I know it won't.  Perhaps I should review it?  I don't know.  It won't be as glowing as I would have liked.

Speaking of things glowing, I sat through the latter 2/3 of Gone With The Wind last night, and I must say, I enjoyed it quite a bit.  I'd never seen that much of it in one sitting before.  What a long movie.  But everyone already knows that, so I don't know why I'm blogging about it.

Again with the crisis.

See you next time.

Julie is out.  Peace!

because i want to write reviews.

Lips Touch: Three Times, by Laini Taylor  

Let me just start by saying, the maxim "don't judge a book by its cover" was coined for this one. I wanted to read Lips Touch because I wanted to read Laini Taylor (I enjoy her blog immensely).  I went for Lips Touch, let's be honest, I hesitated a little based on the pouty, red-lipped vixen on the cover.  I'm still not even sure who it's supposed to be, and it's a tad too romancey for my taste.  Fortunately, the Amazon preview started with the first chapter and not the little intro, and these were the first words I read (I'm not sure if "There is a certain kind of girl the goblins crave," would have caught me in quite the same way):

Kizzy's family lived in the weird house outside of town with all the anvils in the yard and the tick-ridden billy goat that rammed the fenced whenever anyone walked past.

And I was hooked.  I fell in love with that crazy billy goat, man.  I read the rest of the preview (which may have been the first three pages- not enough for me to realize what it was even about), and wanted to read more.  When my copy came in the mail, I slipped off the pouty-lipped dust jacket and haven't picked it up since.  Because the art on the inside is plain magical.  The first images I saw made me squeal:  Christina Rossetti's Goblin Market remains my favorite of all the poems I've studied.  I thought to myself several times, looking at the opening illustrations, "How did she know?"  As if it had occurred to Laini Taylor one day, "Hey, this is Julie's favorite poem, I should write a short story about it."  I get this way about what I read/see sometimes, harboring secret convictions that it was made just for me.

You know how sometimes a particular film/book/experience reaches you in a certain way based on the film/book/experience that came right before it?  For example, two of my favorite plays to be a part of in college were JB and The Hiding Place, because they followed the grueling hard work of Spitfire Grill and Arsenic and Old Lace, respectively, BOTH of which featured my playing an old lady (blech).  In JB and The Hiding Place, though the work was still hard, I relished in my smaller roles and was able to enjoy the camaraderie of the whole thing a lot more.  This book was like that.  It's my most recent read in a long, long line of grueling hard work: Going Bovine, which made me feel like I'd gone bonkers and then depressed me horribly, St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves, wherein very few stories actually felt as though they had come to an end before the author just quit writing them, The Invention of Hugo Cabret, which was beautifully done, but heartbreakingly lacking in the story department, Toby Alone and Toby and the Secrets of the Tree, which left me vaguely happy, because happy endings do that-- until I'd thought about it for a few days, and now I wonder, really?  

On my birthday, I started reading Lips Touch, and relished in my smaller role.  It was fun.  I was able to kick back and enjoy the camaraderie.  There was no terminal illness (or freaking insanity) to deal with, no unfinished ideas that made me feel stupid, no questionable or unbelievable motivations, no confusion over which character I was supposed to be following (there was a twist in this area in the third story, Hatchling, but I loved it)...  I didn't really get mad at the writing, or the illustrations, though I remain a tad peeved over the cover, mostly since it does not fit the rest of the book.  Sort of like a strange costuming choice that makes the audience cock their heads to the side in unison when it appears, and later whisper, "I don't know what all that was about.  But didn't you love it when--"

Okay.  I'm not going to mention the cover art anymore.

Let's talk about the stories.

The opening story, Goblin Fruit, is a direct descendant of Rossetti's Goblin Market, as earlier implied.  It follows the "but what happened next" path, though it skips a couple of generations.  I really like the name Kizzy.  I like that it's related to Lizzie, the name of the girl in Rossetti's original.  And I like that she's just far enough removed from her grandmother's story to not really care when it comes down to it.  And without giving too much away, I love the final illustration (not the one pictured here, a different one).  At first I skimmed over it, thinking, "Oh, the grandmother," but when I looked back earlier today, I think I figured it out.  Is that not Kizzy herself?  I kind of hope so.  And, wow.

The synopsis of the book states that all three of these stories hinge on a first kiss, but I would argue that this first story is the only one that really does.  They all involve first kisses, but this is the only one where anything actually hinges on it.  And I like that.

The middle story, Spicy Little Curses Such As These, was much stronger than the first (which is saying a lot, because the first was pretty dang good), and featured one of the most fascinating characters I've ever encountered: Anamique, whose voice will kill anyone who hears it and has successfully remained silent for 18 years.  And as wacky as that sounds, the beauty of this woman's writing is that you actually believe it.

The final story, Hatchling, takes up the whole second half of the book, and it was my favorite.  I had no stinking clue what was going on for the longest time, but once it started coming together, man, it took my breath away.  I loved so many specific things, but I'll let you read it if you want, so you can enjoy all the sweet morsels as they come.  I especially loved (as alluded to above) the multiple points of view.  At first, you might pinpoint Esme as the main girl, the one to follow, until you learn about her mother, Mab, or meet Mihai, who tastes like a river.  It's his story you're really following, in which Esme only plays a part.  It's pretty awesome, guys, whether you like fantasy or not.  I will say that parts of this story were a tad too mature for younger readers, but all was handled with such great taste that I didn't even realize how disturbed I should have been until later.  And yes, that's a good thing.

I have to be honest, as much as I love the Market, Goblin Fruit was probably my least favorite story of Lips Touch.  I even contemplated taking the whole thing to McKay's,  very early on, not because I didn't like it, but because I thought it would be nothing more than a fun read.  Wrong-o.  The rest of the book turned me all the way around.  It wasn't just a fun read, it was a quality read.  Sorry, McKay's.  I mean, McKay.  You can have half the books I mentioned earlier, but I'm keeping Lips Touch.

*all illustrations (minus the cover of St. Lucy's) by Jim Di Bartolo.

reintroducing myself.

Well, that was a long break.  In the car last night, I thought up a delightful, clever way to reintroduce myself, but I have forgotten it now.  No surprise.


Last week my friend Jesse Myers wrote to me saying that he enjoyed reading my blog, though I hadn't written anything lately.  I responded:
     "It has become a battle recently between writing on the blog, writing emails, writing for fun, reading novels, and reading the Bible. Sadly, the blog usually ends up at the bottom of this list. Even more sadly, reading the Bible isn't very high up, either. I've always struggled with that. It's like, once I'm reading it, I don't want to put it down, but it takes forever to motivate myself to open it up. Sigh."


Apparently, it has been this way for writing on the blog, as well.  I feel like I have to devote a ton of time to a post, and always find myself wasting that time doing something else.  BUT!!  Since I was a big girl this week and successfully read from my Bible, I figured I could go ahead and tackle this as well.  Also, I enjoy writing and I miss it.


Living in Knoxville has been just fine these last six months, but I must admit, pretty dull in the middle of the day.  There was that one month when I didn't have a car and walked to the grocery store or to McKay's for entertainment, or the month after that when I did have a car again, and just drove to the Greenway to run all the time...  Freedom is nice, but so is variety.  So, to my great happiness, I FINALLY got a job.  A fun job.  The sort of job I've always wanted.


Believe it or not, I actually applied at Mast last summer, six months before I even lived here (I applied again at the end of March).  Ohh... I think it'll be fun.  I know I see the whole thing in a rosy fog right now, though.  I am learning that my co-workers are just as imperfect as I am, even though I spent ten minutes telling my grandmother about how awesome everyone is (before I'd even met half of them).


It makes me a little nervous to know that they've talked about "the new girl."  I haven't been a "new girl" in a while.  Or had a job.  Come to think of it, I haven't worked since September.  I had no idea I'd be taking eight months off.  Jeez.


I'll admit, I was a little hesitant to work again.  Since moving to Rockford, I had really started to enjoy my days a lot more.  It's nice to be able to step outside and run any amount you like, whenever you like.  I had also really gotten used to reading and writing a lot, and I remember thinking, "If I get a job, I won't be able to run and work and read and write, all in one day!"  I have a feeling this will be true.  I will have to learn true motivation to accomplish all of these things.  For example, I woke up at 5:00 on Tuesday to run before going to work.  I did it, but I'm still exhausted from it.  How do people (like my husband) get up at this hour every single day?  Will I ever be able to train for this marathon if I can't even pull myself up out of bed?


For those of you not in Chattanooga at 11:00 pm on Thursday, May 20, you may not know that it is thundering like mad outside.  Joshua and I are in his parents' basement guest room, and he's already out cold, curled up under the covers.  We're here for two reasons:  first, today was his mommy's birthday (yay!), and second, we're driving to Atlanta tomorrow morning to fly down to the Bahamas for four days.  Yes, the Bahamas.  I don't think either of us have ever been there.  Joshua's had this trip up his sleeve for several months, now.  I knew we would be going somewhere beachy, but I didn't know exactly where until recently.  Surprise!  Wouldn't it be fun if I could post while we're there?  I may very* well do so, if we can ever find cheap-as-free internet.


*Sidenote:  I recently came across an excellent list of quotes (mostly writing advice), which included this hilarious one from Mark Twain:  “Substitute “damn” every time you’re inclined to write “very;” your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.”  So perhaps I should edit my above statement to read, "I may (well) do so..."


My favorite on the list was one I'd heard before from Madeleine L’Engle:  


     “You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.”


:)