Updates, etc.

Evidently, I'm a blogging failure as of late. My life is at once too busy and too boring; you could say it's busy, but uneventful, as I once heard somewhere. The simple truth of that statement as it applies to my life struck me when i heard it and has stuck with me. I love it when that happens; someone else (or maybe something in the deep annexes of my brain) gives me the perfect words to describe something I never could before. Now that I'm done gushing about the English language and briefly complaining about summer doldrums, I'll get to the real point here. I promise you I'm still alive, and that I will be updating soon with previously promised posts about books I've read lately as well as newly-cooked-up and as-yet unmentioned posts about things such as my adventures in quilting (if that doesn't have y'all on the edges of your seats, I don't know what will!)

Sometimes...

Sometimes I read something someone else has written and it inspires within me something I cannot begin to describe. I don't cry often while reading books or watching movies. I'm not entirely sure why, yet, but I do know that when I do find something that makes me cry, that touches my emotional core in a way that the only way I can express what I'm feeling is to allow those feelings to escape from my eyes and roll down my cheeks, there's something special about it.
Like this: http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/dont-date-a-girl-who-reads/. I don't even know what to call it. An essay? A blurb? As an English major I should be better at cataloging these sorts of things, but I am not. This thing, whatever it is, made me cry today. And I want everyone in the whole world to read it. Because that's what happens when I fall in love with something; part of me wants to save it, keep it all to myself so that no one else can tarnish its wonderfulness. But the other part of me is so ridiculously excited about whatever it may be that I want to spread it around everywhere, so that I can talk to other people about how great it is and revel in its amazing-ness with an audience rather than alone in my room at 1:30 AM.
Now that I've over-hyped this little guy, I'm going to stop rambling.


PS: please excuse the quality of the source, there...the link is semi-crappy but it gets the job done

Little Women

I promised you a separate post about Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, so here it is. It's somewhat belated and will likely be wildly inadequate, but here goes.

Little Women (the abridged version) was one of those books I would carry around with me everywhere. I loved the main characters Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy March. I frequently lost myself in their world, and loved every minute of it. I bought several cheap spin-off books aimed at audiences my age and considered myself a connoisseur of all things Little Women. In fifth grade I attempted the real deal. No more "junior" abridged version that left out all of the important parts. I was a big kid now, I could certainly handle it. I hauled that 500-page paperback around with me for weeks. It took up too much space in my backpack, was unwieldy in my small hands, and moved far too slow for my usually quick and now impatient reading pace. I gave up on the book then, put it back on my teacher's shelf to be revisited another time. That time was this summer.

For some reason, the subject of Little Women came up everywhere in the weeks before school ended, from a movie suggestion in my Netflix queue to a random conversation with a friend. I found a cheap copy of the book on amazon.com and eagerly awaited its arrival in my mailbox. Finally (read: 2 days later) it came. When I tore open the cardboard packaging, however, I saw that I had actually received another copy of the children's version. The dreaded abridged version. I laughed at the mistake, but decided it was time for serious business. I was reading this book no matter what.

I picked up a copy from Barnes and Noble (still one of my favorite places in the world, by the way. Every time I pass the huge one in Oakland's Jack London Square on my way to or from school, I have to fight the tremendous urge to jump off the train and explore it for hours. anyway, sidenote over, back to the pointed rambling). Once I started reading, I couldn't believe I hadn't read the book in its entirety much earlier on in my life. It's simple, but quite lovely. I can see how it wouldn't be something that everyone would like, and I'm by no means suggesting that whoever has gotten this far in this inane rambling post should go out and read this book. However, reading Little Women reminded me so much of my childhood. I recognized the roots of many of my dreams, ambitions, mannerisms, and thoughts in the pages of this book. I remember doing (or trying to do) some of the things the characters do. I look back on my childish actions with a sense of irony, realizing that I was doing the things the March girls did with the same sense of naivete and tunnel-vision that young people often maintain. Reading Little Women was for me not meant to be a journey into a classic work of literature or a way to study the writing of other authors in an effort to improve my own. Rather, it was simply reading for the pleasure of reading, for the joy of re-visiting old friends and seeing them in an entirely new light.

If you read all of that, I thank you. I think you're either a little nuts or a lot bored, but I won't ask questions. Do you have a favorite book from your childhood that you'd like to re-visit? or have you already? These things always fascinate me.

I haven't watched any movie versions yet, but the best two (supposedly) are in my Netflix queue