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Review: Harry Potter



I wasn’t a “reader” until High School, even then I was very casual in my reading. I read mostly beach books ... mostly James Patterson, it would take months to get through a single book. When I was 16, I read Harry Potter and the Sourcer’s Stone. Within a week and a half I read through Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, which was the then current release. I finally understood was it was to be a reader. To stay up till 4am because you cannot put a book down. To quake with excitement at the release of the next book. To stand in line just to be one of the firsts to get your hands on a new volume.

I remember the wonder when the first film was released. The satisfaction I felt when I saw the characters in my imagination spring to life.

If you wonder why I love these books and movies it’s because they did change my life, as corny as that may sound. They created a passion for reading that has not dulled.

My entire adult life has been hallmarked with Harry Potter book releases and movie openings. To reach the end of the road is heartbreaking ... and exciting ... and disappointing ... and a closure for a large part of my life.

Thank you, J.K. Rowling. Thank you, for giving me Harry...
and Gaiman...
and the Discworld...
and Graphic Novels...

and fantasy...

and SF...

Thank you for giving me refuge from a world with too little magic.

Movie Review: For the Bible Tells Me So

http://www.forthebibletellsmeso.org/indexd.htm

This was an incredible, moving documentary regarding the misuse of the Bible in regards to homosexual rights. The Bible has served as a weapon to allow hate. The hate of blacks, the hate of women, the hate of gays, etc. The perversion of the Bible by conservative Christians is saddening.

I feel sadness and fear when I meet a conservative Christian and hear the hate in these views.

The most important take-away from this film, to me, was to stress the importance of reading the Bible for yourself. Do not let anyone define what you believe. The most important skill that you will learn is how to think for yourself.

Book Review: Little Children by Tom Perrotta

I picked up this book from my library because I watched the movie version a year or so ago and was enthralled by the plot. I'm happy to say that the novel is no less enthralling. Tom Perrotta's characters in this novel are unique and substantial.

It impresses me when an author creates a story in which all main characters are terribly flawed. There is not one adult main character in Little Children who is a good person, yet, you can sympathize with them all.

Even Ronnie... at first. The author makes no secret of Ronnie's past, yet, I found myself denying it and feeling sorry for him especially when he was kicked out of the town pool on a hot summer day. However, during the blind date scene there is no doubt that Ronnie is evil. That he will hurt people. He is not in control of himself and is a danger to society. Does that mean that the townspeople have the right to treat him as they do? I don't know. My first response is no. Human beings should be allowed to live out their lives. He did his time in prison and his life is already horrible. Why add to that pain? Does the fear that other have of him make him deserving of daily abuse? At what point is his crime paid for? Is that even possible with a crime like his?

The marital relationships in the book are heartbreaking. Pure examples of what I find fearful in a committed relationship. Todd and Sarah possess a flaw which can been seen often in humanity. The idea that someone else is required to fix the problems in your life. If I only do this, if I only had this. They didn't being this story with the need for another person but latched onto each other so quickly and completely after their first meeting.

I find myself identifying with Sarah personality. The idea of motherhood is completely undesirable for me. On one hand, I was disappointed by her thoughts at the end regarding giving up her dreams and being a strong mother for her daughter and on the other hand it was so selfless that it was hard for me to not be touched.

Review: "Handling the Undead" by John Ajvide Lindqvist

Having read "Let Me In" by Lindqvist, I knew that the undead in "Handling the Undead" would exist outside of the modern idea of the zombie. Once again, Lindqvist has created an exceptionally original monster. The "reliving" do not chase down humans wanting flesh and brains, they attack at a psychic level. This is not book that will make you scream, it is a book that will make you think.

Lindqvist creates a realistic tale of what could occur during an awakening and the reaction of the society in which it occurs. From scientific reactions, government reactions and religious reactions (making a connection to Revelations... the dead will rise from their graves...).

We follow several sets of main characters, there are time markers that each set of characters experience. I found all of the main characters captivating, however, two stick with me the most. Flora, a goth teenager who has "the power," she is an empath, connected deeply with the emotion of those around her, sometimes picking up on the thoughts of others. She reminds me of what I imagined Death from Neil Gaiman's "Sandman" to be before she accepted her burden of being death. And David, whose wife dies in a terrible accident and is awakened shortly after her death. While Flora provides a supernatural point of view, David provides an emotional point of view. "[His wife] was not dead, he could not grieve. [His wife] was not alive, he could not hope."

Lindqvist has an depth in his work that one would not expect from a horror writer. He tells an amazing story about experiencing life and death and the glimpse of what happens next.

"I believe...
There is a place where happiness exists. A place, and a time."

Handling the undead

Inspired by Chuck Palaniuk’s Postcard from 1986 in Fugitives and Refugees….

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star...” I stop when I see my son’s sunken face wincing. We hear a man shouting from another room, “fag, cunt, nigger, fucking kikes.” I try to remember where I stopped. I’ve been singing this song for hours; it no longer has words to me. It’s mediation. It’s me breathing in and out, watching my boy struggle to breath.

A nurse runs into our room to apologize for the shouting. The patient has overdosed on drugs and they cannot give him anymore until they clean his system of whatever he may have taken that night. The shouting continues, “fucking fags.” With every shout my boy winces. He cannot tune it out. His final moments in this world will be filled with this hateful dribble from some fucking asshole who is throwing away his life when my baby struggles for pain filled moments of his. This man who I used to rock on my knee is the most loving, honorable, respectful child whose only sin was to love. He will die listening to pure hate stream from the mouth of a junkie down the hall.

“how I wonder what you are…” the man screams again,”fucking cunt nurse, where is my goddamn nurse.” I struggle with the desire to stay and sit through this shit with the desire to make it stop. To give my child a moment of peace.

I stand up and grab my handbag. I walk to the door. The boy who drove me here, who I assume is more than ready to drive me back so that he can clock out of for the night follows me. I walk down to the screaming mans room, the door is cracked open. He must know I’m hear, his ranting becomes enthusiastic, he has an audience. The young man who has followed me here stands by the door. Wary. I can only imagine his thoughts as I sit next to the screaming man. I could not hate more than I hate this filthy creature on the bed. My eyesight blurs with rage. “Cunt,” he screams, “get the fuck away from me.” He lies naked on this bed, raging against the straps that are there for his protection. I look at this creature in disgust. My baby is in pain. He is worsening this for him. I open my handbag and take out a safety pin. “Get away from me. Fucking get away from me, he screams.” I don’t say a word. I don’t make a sound while I ram the safety pin into his leg over and over. I make sure to get no blood on me, blood is killing my child, it won’t kill me. The man is begging me to stop, stop the pain, fucking get away from him, “crazy cunt,” get away. I continue to drive the pin into him until he stops. Until he shuts the fuck up.

The screaming stops, I drop the pin into the hazardous waste collection box and walk back to my son’s room. The driver follows me; he shows no sign of shock, no judgment. He’s clearly seen worse.

I open the door and prepare to start singing, but there is no point. My boy is gone. His body is clearly lifeless lying on the bed. I feel nothing.