A little, tiny review.

The best of Robin McKinley’s books pour into the reader a sense of unfolding mysteries, like the lingering taste of some unknowable sweetness on the tongue, or the languid unfurling of the dense petals at the heart of a rose. Slowly, slowly the bud opens, revealing the glorious, beautiful design of the whole.

Chalice is one of these books.

Read it. If you possibly can.

(Oh, and also, check out Johnathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. Seriously. Do it now.)

Where my musical tastes are leading me:

So, I've been getting more and more into the whole folk music/acoustic/'whatever the heck I feel like listening to' scene.

This means that lately I've been favoring my two Pandora stations that play music resembling that of Jose Gonzales or Ingrid Michaelson. (Have I mentioned lately that I love Pandora? Dude. I love Pandora.)

And now, as part of a semi-delayed parental/self birthday gift I ordered for myself from the online bookstore that is swallowing the world, I have gotten Ingrid Michaelson's Girls and Boys CD. And I am listening to it. Yea, even now.

You know how when you get a CD you listen to it and kind of earmark your favorite songs, feeling glad that you got maybe 7 really excellent songs out of the 12 on the CD, or feeling disappointed that you really do only like the 2 songs you'd previously heard on the radio and that the rest of the CD is good for nothing but making the CD look appropriately sparkly on bright sunny mornings?

Well, listening to Girls and Boys is like listening to a CD full of favorites. Seriously. Awesome. Lyrical and thoughtful. (And it's particularly nice that her voice has roughly the same range as mine, so I can sing along and almost think I sound good doing so. Also, her songs are hecka-fun to harmonize with.)

I would write more, but I'll sound too much like a fangirl. Also, I want to listen to music. And this writing thing is totally distracting me, yo.

This is me.

Read here.

Goes so well with the previous post, doesn't it?

Incomprehensible

I think sometimes that I am not a very understanding person.

I mean, I try to be understanding. And really, I can understand things like people feeling sad or lonely, or feeling frustrated with traffic or with crowded subway trains, or how it feels when the hot weather finally breaks and you get one perfect day.

I can understand that.

But I have a hard time understanding other things. Things like, for instance, why some people don't care for books. This one has me flummoxed. Well, granted, I can understand that if someone has a reading problem like dyslexia or similar somethings, reading would not be a pleasant experience exactly. (But hey--books on tape are always a fantastic option! Braille! Etc.!)

But people who don't find themselves thinking about characters while they're walking around on the sidewalk? Who don't automatically reach for some tattered paperback or thick-and-heavy leather-bound classic edition or yeesh--even a magazine or something, whenever they have a spare minute or ten? Who don't relish that mingle of climax, loss, and joy, a joy with a flavor unlike anything else--like something unbearably delicious that dissolves almost as soon as you taste it, as if to linger any longer on your tongue would cause you to spin into giddy delirium--that comes when you read the last sentence of an excellent book, close it, rub the cover a little and smiling, sigh to yourself?

I sometimes fear that I can have nothing to share with such people.

I'm sure there would be some things we could agree on, that it's easier to see when there is sufficient light, that couches are generally preferable to stone benches, that blankets are good when it is cold, but there would always be this deep inner part of me that would remain untouched, bewildered, uncomprehending.

So, I'm afraid my sympathetic powers are limited. I may never fully understand another human being unless they're somewhat bookish, like me.

Because, my dears, I am incontrovertibly and deliriously and giddily bookish. And I revel in it.

Why, oh why don't all people long to be librarians?

Candy for the masses

"It has come to my attention," she wrote, each finger tap punching briskly into the keyboard, "that there are some among my readers who wish for a more regular update of the events of my life."

She paused, hands poised over her computer, ready to pounce on them like so many warrior-like worms (she wondered for a moment--could worms be warrior like? She imagined earthworms clad in helmets and shaking spears with their back ends and smiled to herself) while she cocked her head and ruminated on the events of the day. Was there anything worthy to report?

Let's see, she thought to herself, hot oatmeal for dinner, a long nap this afternoon which I decidedly should not have taken, conversation with Mom prior to nap, class this morning...beautiful fall-ish day?

"It was a beautiful day today," she continued, allowing her warrior-worms to jump into the fray. "It was just on the chilly side of cool, which made my walk home that much more pleasant. But the weather is boring to talk about, and I suppose all of you are looking for something more...meaty."

I suppose I could finish my account of the marmot affair. She shuddered. No. Perhaps not yet. More recovery was necessary, she supposed, before she could bring herself to conclude the terrible tale.

"Alas; that's pretty much all I have to tell," she continued. "School's fine, work's fine, all systems normal. Even my toenails are doing pretty well, I guess. At least they're growing like crazy. Maybe a trim is in order."

She blushed a little and decided to erase the bit about the toenails. No one needed to hear about that.

Meaning to hit the backspace button, she accidentally (and unaccountably, because the two actions are pretty much completely dissimilar) hit the 'Publish Post' button instead. So the bit with the toenails was up there for all the internet to see. Chagrined, she decided to simply call it a post and withdraw.

For the time being.