Books I have read this year THAT ARE NOT SCI-FI !!! The Other Ones...

 Sorry for the Amazon pic here - I don't have the book anymore and couldn't find another pic of it anywhere - the link 'look inside' bit won't work, go to Amazon if you want to buy it...

Just occurred to me, while I was pottering about and pondering this week’s blog post, that I have 4 on the go (which is a bit unprecedented for me, so many at once), but none are done…so I wondered what else I was working on, as I was convinced there was something else, and despite my usually very sensible filing methods, I couldn’t find it.  Turned out this was because I was simply assuming I would remember to make a doc of it at some point, and was waiting till late in the year to do it, because it was part of a doc I work on all year – all the books I read (so I don’t end up reading things twice; or when an old senile lady with my 50 cats and purple hats, I don’t forget I used to read at all).  This post would be scouring that doc for all the books I read that are NOT DOCTOR WHO.  I put that in big caps, as the readathon is so immense, you’d be forgiven for thinking that’s mostly all I read.  I have read more Dr Who this year than anything else (which makes it my most sci-fi fantasy year EVER), but I have had the odd moment to read other things…in fact, I do it often, to sort of cleanse my palette before going back for more of the enjoyable readathon.  I love series’s best of all books, feeling secure and comfy with variations on ‘more of the same’…then suddenly I’ll feel discontented and want something totally different.  I am a faddy thing.  Hence I have many many books yet unread, all sitting around like a patient Library of Joy.  So lets see what I managed to read this year that did not include the good Doctor…obviously, this is just a selection, cos I have read quite a bit of crap (oh the joy of fluff reading too!) and I won’t put ALL those here, as you all have your own taste in fluff and don’t need my help!  But I’ll leave some of the romances and girl epics here.

1. To Walk a Pagan Path, by Alaric Albertsson
   (This started off very promisingly, with some good solid suggestions of daily practices to incorporate, and some good information on Saxon practices in particular.  Until…I suddenly started to get the opinion that unless I kept bees, made mead, did loads of bread baking and other pagan crafts I couldn’t really be pagan at all…I don’t have time for many of these things.  It was odd – one minute the book was suggesting 15 minutes of meditation a week was a very small therefore ridiculously easy commitment to keep; the next something in incredible depth, an hour a day. I know it only went into all the depth for those that have time and want to connect more, but I started feeling tired and half-hearted and half arsed by all I could be doing and won’t be.  For this reason, the first 3^rd of the book gets 5 stars and I’d keep it.  But I’d sell the rest, and since that’s 2/3rds, I’ll be making notes on the first bit and selling the rest.  The info is useful, but I seriously doubt I’ll ever have time to act on it, so away it goes for someone with no children who lives on an organic smallholding or similar…ACTUAL BOOK.)
2. 32 Candles, by Ernessa T. Carter
   (Damn good book.  Found by chance through browsing.  A very sad black Southern teen searches for her Molly Ringwald ending (a la the Brat Pack film 16 Candles, in case you’re missing the reference), grows up and eventually in the very last paragraph, gets it.  But what a hell of a lot between those 2 points.  In both action and tone, it’s a book of 2 halves.  I loved both halves and I loved all the characters.  Davie, the heroine is brilliant – even her various revenges are explicable and excellent – her character does bad things for the right reasons, and good things for the wrong ones.  The dialogue is excellent too – Nicky her first longtime boyfriend and the Club manager is a great creation.  The whole thing is 20/10.  Best random find in 100 years – I wish this author had written or will go on to write a hell of a lot more.  This is YA book that is just as easily read by me,age 43, and not one iota does it feel like a teen book – it’s age defiant. ON KINDLE.)
3. The Touch, by Julie Myerson
   (Thinking I may have to stop reading Julie Myerson’s books for all she’s brilliant and an exceptionally good writer.  Too too real, too too sad.  This one ended up with my favourite character getting beaten to death in a park the way Bill Sykes beat Nancy to death in Oliver, with a silver topped cane.  And only now I’ve finished the book do I feel the horror of Frank as a character – horrible strapping overtly physical aggression.  And the Jesus Saves madness.  Actually sickening as a character.  And all the others, so small and sad.  I thinks she’s really a quite depressed person, Julie Myerson – book after book she writes these sad characters.  Yet I see her on Newsnight Review and she seems fine…weird.  Also much sideways reference to the small incidents in life people see as psychic e.g. knowing you have to leave a place before an accident etc – these incidents aren’t analyzed, just mentioned and passed along, forming the backdrop for a book concerned with the before and after of a supposed ‘miracle’…that is also never made clear one way or the other.  A very interesting and VERY disturbing book indeed.  [Months after I finished it, I was still reliving the murder of a character I had come to love at the end; such a well realised scene, and so pointless, the killing.]  Hmmm.  ACTUAL BOOK.)
4. Nothing Bad Ever Happens in Tiffanys, by Marian Keyes
   (This was a Penguin 70s book, a small collection of some of her essays unpublished elsewhere.  She has a marvellous conversational tone, and reading her cheered me up on an otherwise turgid day.  I do love the way she talks.  And after I had just been traumatised by Julie Myerson, this was a good antidote – not frivolous, not stupid ‘girly’ light: simply a remembrance and a soft humoured appreciation of the good things, the funny things, the quirks of people.  Sometimes I seem to feel that I must swim in very serious waters all the time – and there’s certainly enough of it about, I could drown…but why do I think that? The earth and its people are not all bad or in trouble; sometimes its fine to just do the reading equivalent of drink a coffee, and watch people, without imagining the worst all the time. Marian Keyes’s essays have this observational warm and dry tone perfectly.  ACTUAL BOOK.)
5.  If You Prefer A Milder Comedian, Please Ask For One, EP, by Stewart Lee!
   (I can never write a good review of Stewart Lee.  I can never really explain why his making me laugh at what is and isn’t funny and why that is so brilliant.  A bit like people hate it when I don’t laugh at their jokes and then I explain why I didn’t get it and how I think it could have been funnier, for me.  It falls flat for them.  And yet, when Stewart Lee does it, it feels both angry and affectionate and I love it.  Also, he is a very good writer.  His tone is about more than humour, it’s about how to be a person with generous but discerning values in a commercial, biased and twisty world.  It’s very principled work.  And it made me laugh out loud many times while reading. ACTUAL BOOK.)
6. The Wine of Angels, by Phil Rickman
   (The first in his Merrily Watkins series.  A female vicar stranded in the middle of a folk horror made by Hammer or Amicus circa 1975!  It had a lot of the elements I like in a story: the country, the supernatural, the magic, the paganism, and the strong but flawed female and male characters.  I think the apple bit was overdone – I felt like a ripe red apple was exploding out of the book at me!  But I’ll read the next one – if only to see how Lol’s possible romance with the alarmingly Time Traveller-like Merrily goes.  Very readable.  ON KINDLE.)
7. Midwinter of the Spirit, by Phil Rickman (Merrilly Watkins series)
   (Well.  This started very well indeed, and became quite creepy, involving and scary in places [the stuff with the fey girl Moon, and the haunting of Merrilly via the magically charged suit – shiver].  Then I began to suspect that all of these books are going to be, not an examination of Christianity in tension with paganism, but veiled Christian apologetics, where paganism is always going to end up the baddie.  Which rather pisses me off, specially as the books are well written.  Athena White, the elderly expert on witchcraft and Western Ritual Magic is an excellent new addition.  The ending rather annoyed me – the wielding of a huge cross attempting to do an exorcism in a cathedral in front of hundreds of people…for some reason, I require a degree of reality with my supernatural horror/ detection.  The way Merrily is always on the verge of losing her job yet doesn’t is skated over; the way Lol suddenly out of nowhere grew a pair in this book was also not examined.  So all that was VERY annoying.  But I read the book in 3 days and would read the next; indeed, cos I had an omnibus edition, I have started reading the next, already…ON KINDLE.)
8. The Key to It All, by Joanna Rees
   (This was a book club book, read in an effort to stop reading scifi all the time in my obsessive fashion.  I would not have picked this book up by myself, I would have judged its cover and let it be.  It had a very interesting if flawed premise: that people received a key, that seemed to be something of a legend.  Some people had never heard of it; but some people had – it unlocked wealth and riches, you show it and people just give you stuff.  Restaurants and such.  How could a lowly doorman know about an elite key?  And if the lowly doorman knows, why didn’t everyone?  And why wasn’t it a scandal?  It had a nice semi complicated plot, a train robbery, some varied characters, somebody trying to do a good thing but because it was shrouded in secrecy, it became sinister for some of them and brought out their worst side.  Was a lesson in being honest in your dealings with people.  I felt the ending was rushed and flawed. Nice to see Mack the train robber get away – but also silly.  And Kamiko had some odd scenes and some sordid references; it was a strange direction to take possibly the most interesting character.  People’s idea of wealth and luxury baffled me – it seemed to be all about yachts and drugs and clothes – celeb culture, nothing more…no one started a charity or even did ONE good thing with the money…It was enjoyable and pacey and I read it in a couple of days, but was left with a feeling that it could have explored a whole lot more about moral choices and our society’s received values than it did.  Disappointed at the end.  ACTUAL BOOK.)
9.  A Crown of Lights, by Phil Rickman (Merrilly Watkins series)
   (The weakest so far in the Merrily Watkins series.  I didn’t really care about poor dead Menna and the lawyer WJ Weal; I didn’t really care about Judith Prosser and her fetish for victimised people.  Which was sad, as this was the main premise of the story, the big lead in.  I found the introduction of a pagan couple interesting till they had one of them losing faith and slowly becoming Christian again over the course of the book and the other a romantic but oddly weak man.  The fundamentalist preacher, Ellis – even he was no one in particular, just a nutter.  There were a lot of odd characters.  Merrilly’s daughter Jane and her boyfriend Eirion seemed to be round the edges purely for getting in trouble value; and Lol, my favourite character, was absent on a course, the whole book.  It was very readable, but lacked any real involvement for me, or any real climax.  Skilfully written, but disappointing.  ACTUAL BOOK.)
10. The Midnight Rose, by Lucinda Riley
    (This was an epic doorstop of a book, quite a wrencher.  Anahita was a beautiful creation: her calm voice was marvellous narration.  And I liked the info about Ayurveda.  Towards the end I began to be very irritated with Maud Astley – as I generally get irritated with SuperVillains.  One woman causing So Much Trouble – why didn’t someone just kill her, for gods sake??  The thing that upset me towards the end of this brilliant book, was the fate of Moh, the lovely child.  I really felt for him, taken from his mother, and his father killed in front of him; and then Anahita left all her life not knowing what had happened to her son?  What I didn’t get was that with all the Maharani’s influence etc – why didn’t *someone* believe Anahita that her son was still alive, and search for him?  This could have been done, surely?  I found all that very upsetting.  As was the sudden turn to Hammer horror and 70s psychological drama, with the secret of Lord Astbury – that was well done, but needless melodrama nonetheless.  This was an exceptional book – marred, for me, by the handling of those 2 issues.  I object to being heartwrenched to that degree, especially on the subject of children.  I was thinking I would read all her other books, but I might have a quick check to see if there’s massive child trauma in any of the others before I do – I don’t like child cruelty in horror, or anywhere.  I’m well aware it happens, I’m well aware there are awful things that go on – I don’t need to think about it in my escapist time; it does no good. ACTUAL BOOK.)
11. Cocktails for Three, by Madeleine Wickham (aka Sophie Kinsella)
    (Madeleine Wickham is Sophie Kinsella’s earlier incarnation, slightly more serious than the glib and addictive Shopaholic series et al for which she later justly became known.  She’s just as good a writer in these. This was so well done for a chick lit – the structure was flawless – after I finished it I wanted to tear the book up, highlight it, mark it in sections of Act 1, Act 2 and Act 3.  Notice all the bits of character development; how the characters were perfectly different and bounced off each other so well…it was the work of a real professional.  And not schmaltzy, nor treacly – particularly the character that had just had a baby and wasn’t coping so well, I really empathized with her overtired paranoia and need for self time.  The ending was a trifle too neat and lovely considering the degree of mental anguish the 3 characters had put each other through, albeit due to misunderstanding – but maybe it’s only me who does not forgive and forget so easily?  Not sure.  But a very neat, tidy, well written palette cleanser, which I read after the rather overheated – but equally fun and readable Midnight Flower.  ACTUAL BOOK.)
12. Are you Him? By Paul Darrow (autobiography)
    (Avon in Blakes 7 – in case I should EVER forget.  It took me over a year to read this.  I kept stopping for a million other things.  It started off really well, his early life reminiscences and his rather louche style sat well.  Then it seemed to get a bit repetitive and bitty.  By the time I picked it up near the end, all I was getting was lots of small chapters that seemed to really go nowhere; an alarming amount of affectionate sexism, and the feeling that he had a word count to complete.  What started off well petered out a bit.  Shame, as I was really enjoying it and the insight to Paul Darrow’s character.  A good actor indeed, as he comes off more interesting and varied in his parts than he does in his writing of himself.  He clearly has a huge love for film and theatre – maybe I’ll try one of his novels?  ACTUAL BOOK.)
13. Shadow Woman, by Linda Howard
    (A very good novel.  A study in paranoia masquerading as a romantic thriller.  Really it could have been about someone with a mental illness; as it was, it was about someone having undergone a brain wipe starting to remember their previous life as a black ops operative and realising their memory is triggering an assassination attempt on themselves.  Cue the handsome black ops ex lover come to save her.  It sounds absolutely stupid, but was calmly and rivetingly written.  It fizzled out a bit at the end – which was how we know it really was a romance, because they usually do this, but this is a romance writer about to break genre entirely I think.  She’ll ditch romance and become a thriller writer, I suspect.  I’ve read this author before, a while ago, but nothing I’ve enjoyed as much as this.  ON KINDLE.)
14. Tempting Fate, by Jane Green
    (In which, bad things happen and are related so convincingly, and there is a happy ending which is sort of wish fulfilment, as I don’t see that happening in real life; and yet, very enjoyable.  All very readable and wonderful – except this: “You’re supposed to feel that way.  That’s what parenthood is.  It’s utterly selfless.  You put your own thoughts and feelings and desires aside, without even being aware of doing it, and you put your children first.” [p.315] RIGHHHHT!!!  So I’m Officially A Shit Mother, as declared by the Paragon of Perfection Jane Green.  Hmmm.  I mean, of course that’s how it should work, but unless you are 100% secure, have no fear of lost time or lost opportunities, then…you are not going to be able to put yourself ALL to one side, for however long.  Bullshit.  I call bullshit.  I might be a rare one in standing up to say I find motherhood often unsatisfying cos I have many things I want and need to do for myself, I am not Just A Care Unit…but – I suspect a lot of people feel like me and keep quiet about it, for fear of judgement.  Apart from that unalloyed statement of an Ideal rather than the Messy Reality most of us live in, I liked this book a lot.  ACTUAL BOOK.)
15. Man of My Dreams, Short Story Anthology by Sherrilyn Kenyon, Maggie Shayne, Suzanne Forster and Virginia Kantra
    (This was restful.  I really needed some Sherrilyn Kenyon, I was in the mood for her tone – and she delivered exactly, I really enjoyed her story.  Anyone who has read her will know the tone I mean: perky, grumpy, sassy characters, exceptional banter, very vivid as usual.  The Maggie Shayne story didn’t quite do it for me though it was good; I think I was still in the Kenyon zone.  The Suzanne Forster story spent too much time dwelling on an attaché case and lost me quite early on.  The Virgina Kantra story was sweet, a bit strange and very readable.  Made me feel I might try some of her other books – so new author discovered.  That makes the purpose of this anthology fulfilled in life: short bites of people you like already plus discovery.  ACTUAL BOOK.)
16. No Mercy, by Sherrilyn Kenyon (Dark Hunter World 19)
    (The Dev and Samia story.  It was ok, as ever I love the wit, but there’s something about this series that is starting to feel a bit rushed and over imagined – not as in depth with the characters as previously.  There is such a vast universe peopling her books, and other characters seem to pop up constantly, getting their storylines prepared for subsequent books, its distracting – as are the fact that lots of the characters are starting to sound and look like each other [guys, you can’t ALL wear black leather or black jeans all the time].  I’m still enjoying the series, but it doesn’t have the fire it used to. ACTUAL BOOK.)
17. The Séance, by Heather Graham
    (This one I read in bed on and off for about 4 months.  Sometimes it held me and sometimes it didn’t.  It suffered from 2 problems these sorts of American romance thrillers suffer from – on the one hand, a love of overly gross forensic detail – vaginal trauma to the victims, fine in a regular thriller, but somehow all the wrong tone anywhere near a romance unless it’s played differently to this; and second, a strange clinical stopping short of the worst excesses a serial killer like this should have had – a flawed characterisation of the, in this case, 2 villains.  They just felt cardboard cut-out, I didn’t understand them or their motivation at all.  I am aware these 2 problems conflict and I’m not sure how I’d sort them, other than changing the whole tone of the way I would have written this story if I had to, were it me.  But I don’t think I would have written this exact story because the whole idea of Beau coming back as a ghost to help solve the murders he was framed for was a bit hokey.  As was the excessive emphasis on family and groupings – another factor of American romances, and one that makes them very establishment.  ACTUAL BOOK.)
18.  Retribution, by Sherilyn Kenyon (Dark Hunter World 20)
    (This started off slow, became quite epic and good and then all the incessant Buffalo and Coyote and Butterfly stuff started to really irritate me and I skimmed to the end.  Interesting – written differently, this for me, could have been one of her best, but it came off, just…too long and intense in the wrong places.  I wonder why the ending of so many of these American romances, even something as OUT THERE as Sherrilyn Kenyon can be, is having a baby?  Like that’s the be all and end all of your relationship.  It used to be Getting Married; now it’s Having a Baby, or two.  I’m not sure if this is societal conditioning, the idea that happiness and perfection have been reached when this happens – as we even had a bonus scene of Acheron’s baby getting born, all very dramatic and was relevant to his plotline ongoing; but…I find the emphasis on these massive family groupings and having children…sort of…sexist?  Retrograde?  The women are so kickarse, yet they all end up breeders…do they have nannies?  As you can’t be kickarse without having a fake TV/book baby in real life – a child takes up 100% more or less, of your available life…no more kickarse for you, females…do you see what I mean??  It’s odd.  They must have home help.    ACTUAL BOOK.)
19.   South of the Border, West of the Sun, by Haruki Murakami
    (While this was brilliantly written as usual, spare and gorgeous – as well as absolutely littered with little bits of trueness about life and love…I liked this the least of any of his books I have read.  At bottom, it was a book about a man prepared to throw away everything for an attempt to find something he lost a long time ago.  Perhaps because I understand that, I wanted to yell at him to stop and appreciate what he has now.  I’ve blown my own life apart in the past doing exactly this; and so far I’ve been lucky, it worked out.  But the oddness of Shimamoto, her complete lack of history, and her distant self enclosedness; these things make me think it wouldn’t have worked and he would have ended up more lost than ever and kicking himself. He ends up patching things up with his astonishingly non histrioinic wife, and I was left thinking, as usual, that his books are a dream of interactions, rather than actual interactions.  Fluid snapshots of unreal moments narrated by a sleepwalker.  I found his selfishness understandable and also almost moronic - which is very strong coming from me; I am often self-interest personified.  ACTUAL BOOK.)
20.  Oxford Menace, by Veronica Stallwood
    (Latest in the ever readable Kate Ivory series.  The thing I liked best about this was…no, the 2 things: Kate’s usual distance and objectivity combined with a healthy self interest, plus the end – I think Ms Stallwood ended really nicely.  It was left with Kate almost in the same situation in which she began the book.  A sort of stalemate with her boyfriend where they might get married, move to a bigger house, have children…and she is unsure of all, especially the latter.  Kate Ivory takes things as they come, while never turning off her calculations: I mightily respect this plastic realism she has.  I wish the series didn’t stop soon; it’s my favourite crime series!  The actual detection and character based part of the novel concerned vivisection and animal rights; Kate Ivory was a bit on the opposing side to me about the issue, but then she would be, it’s the kind of person she is – and a triumph of character creaton that I can SO disagree with a heroine and yet still adore her! ACTUAL BOOK.)

 

Now, should anyone be under the false impression that I only read Boy Book sci fi, let that collection of small amounts of litfic, and large amounts of pulpy chicklit prove you wrong.  And if you wonder where all the history books are - man, they are LONG, they are still on the pile of books I’m reading.  Never rush a history book, or you’ll miss something important that could change your understanding of everything, you know…

Something I need to get off my chest before I go on...

I’ve been struggling with what to say next for a while now.  These are my thoughts.

This health scare I have been having.  It’s not over yet.  The docs think I may have something serious.  They are testing.  Endless, invasive, nasty, scary tests.  There’s been a lot of hospital lately.  Soon there will be an answer, and lets hope it’s a good one: that they jumped to the worst case scenario, tested backwards from there and will conclude I have nothing wrong with me at all that a damn good holiday wouldn’t fix; or an injection of cash to pay the bills without worry and loss of sleep.  Several other things that would help.

In the meantime…

I have been thinking this.  You know how when people have had a near death experience, or recovered from an illness, and they say: ‘live every day as though it were your last’, ‘treasure every second’.  The treasuring I can get with, I see that.  But I think it anyway.  But you can’t live every second, every day as though it were your last.

For instance.  If I knew, rather than thought, there might be something awful wrong with me, and I had little time left – I would be quite selfish with it.  I would demand that I go and live with my mother by the seaside, because I have been craving seaside for a long while now.  That spaciousness, the call of the gulls high up, so free and speaking of blue expanse and long journeys.  I would ask for that, and I would get it, because my mother is lovely at the best of times, and would move heaven and earth to help me if she could.  I would go, Lil Fluffhead would go.  This would completely mess up mum and Fry’s living arrangements, but it would be bearable, because everyone would know it would be for an unspecified, but limited amount of time.  I would sit in the sun a lot, get loads of babysitting and generally try and ‘come to terms’ with mortality, while listening to the sea and watching it glitter.  Possibly Stanley would get some kind of leave off work and stay as much of the time as he could – ‘compassionate leave’ it’s called.  I would make him come.

But that is just a scenario.  It’s not now.  What am I supposed to do, in the hinterland, the no man’s land of I Have No Clue What Is Wrong With Me, The Symptoms Persist, But No Diagnosis Has Been Reached, Nothing Ruled Out.  ???

How do you fit that in to your life??  How do you live with any kind of joy, any kind of ability to look forward and see a momentum, see a life stretching out in front, see the point of making any plans at all…etc?

Also – life is not normal anyway, at the moment.  Roughly once a week, there is another test.  Sometimes I have to fast for the test, or be quite ill to clear things away so they have a clean slate to look at.  So the test intrudes beyond its actual time.  A half hour test can ruin three or four days of the week, as I start to feel ill-er and ill-er, weaker and more headachey.  I have to ask for help with Fluffhead; mum loses money she could have gained at work (that she badly needs) to come and help me (because Stanley has used up all the time his work will charitably give him short of a diagnosis).

That last makes me wonder:  where are my ‘friends’?  I’m the first one to admit that I was Push Away Girl after my dad died.  But its remarkable how easily people let themselves be pushed.  How easily they disappear into their own lives.  How in one case, I actually felt dismissed after I left my last job, from someone whose friendship I thought I would carry with me.  Or one woman, endlessly at sea in her own life, I had been writing to for many years, and met up with 2 or 3 times.  I felt we were sisters; she said she did too.  But we drifted.  I made one mistake, born of confusion, and lost her trust, never to be let back in.  Now I hear from her once every few months; the same light small talk.  I have apologised till I am bored of my words, but she cannot say anything to me that isn’t light and funny and meaningless – while I know from others that she still rages beneath.  I wish her well.  But I can’t be friends with people who can’t trust me with their actual selves and their actual lives, as I would wish to trust them with my thoughts on mine.  Who cannot forgive a mistake earnestly apologised for and understood.

Or the friend I have known for almost twenty years, who has disappeared into her own life since she restarted work with such a pop of totality, it’s as if she never existed.  There’s a tight vacuum of absence.  Now: she loves a crisis and always has done – indeed, I have often referred to her (privately to myself) as my Foul Weather Friend.  It took me 2 tellings of her about this little peccadillo I am experiencing for her to even connect.  Then there was a small facebook flurry, then nothing. 

Others are there at the end of email, more or less consistently.  Again though – its amazing how terrified people are of the first hint of unwellness – they do vanish…Some of my erstwhile mostly virtual friends are doing their damndest to completely avoid this issue of mine due to their own health phobias; and ignoring me as a result.

It makes me wonder what the POINT is, of having friends.  I think I may expect too much.  But that will have to be the case.  I have read words of people who say unconditional love is the way to go, expectation is always wrong.  I disagree.  I expect someone I count as friend to be here for me when I am in crisis.  I would be there for them, if I knew about it.  If I couldn’t go in person, I would be on the phone, I would be there by email; snail-mail; facebook message.  If I was late or not as consistent as I said I would be, I would explain why, as soon as I could.  But I would want the person to feel not alone when they were frightened and weakened.  I would help them stand up and face what was in their lives – if only by my words of encouragement, if that was all I could do.  I understand we all have our own lives going on – but it is an easy thing to send a morning text to someone, or a quick ‘thinking of you’ email; or a note in the post, and to keep it up.  Many things I would do, and have done, for people: are matters of moments.  But they count when you are scared and facing deep uncertainty.

The only person who has the right to laugh at all this prescriptive (and rather judgemental) sentiment is Troubadour – as he can say, as ex husbands do, that I left him in his hour of dire need.  And I will always bow my head to his interpretation of events and say: I’m sorry but I had to.  I will accept the blame, always, for what I did there.  And anyone who wants to say it’s my karma to be mostly alone in this situation now – go ahead.  I bow my head to that too.  I accept the responsibility.

But still.  One small ray of hope: I met a woman recently, quite by chance.  I won’t say much of her.  She seems as odd as me; whilst not being as insane as the last person I met as a result of the blog (one day I’ll tell you all about that, but not now – I wish that insane person well too: we both messed up, there).  From the first, conversation with her was easy, honest and real.  She doesn’t hide.  She answers questions.  She seems to take me at my word and not read between the lines and make up her own story (you can’t really deal honestly with people determined to do that).  I discussed her with Fry.  He suggested I should call her friend.  I said, ‘it’s too soon, its needy, it might scare her away’.  He shrugged, as he does, and said, ‘you women – you take everything so seriously – you talk well with her, you know how rare it is to find someone whose brain works even a bit like yours, just call her friend, honey kitten’ (which is what he calls me when he thinks I am being small and stupid and rather ignorant; but cute).  So.  So.  Alias TimeTraveller: you’re here.  Be assured, I am not expecting you to answer for the sins of anyone else.  You are you, and I am happy to have met you.  Long may our pleasant talks continue…friend.

But still.  Again.  Further.  How to live life while all this is going on?  While I have this health scare, while money worries pile up almost to intolerable levels, while trying to make a happy home for a small, innocent and blameless person.

It’s these times when you need your philosophy, your spirituality, your religion, whatever.  Existentialism helps me in moments.  Some days I bravely face the day and make my choices, looking whatever current truth there is, in the eye.  Some days I can’t.  Those days I choose distraction or spirituality.  Distraction is when I decide I am part of a story – as only stories make sense, really.  If I were Dr Who, I would be in the marooned on Earth phase, without my Tardis and my freedom, at the mercy and doing my best to cope with all the Earthbound problems; while trying to deal with my own issues at the same time.  (So apparently I’m Jon Pertwee – well, here’s to being astonishingly well dressed).  If I were in the novels of Sherrilyn Kenyon, I would be in that unlit and scary period before I am made a Dark Hunter and have my purpose; that time of cruelty and torture before the gift of vengeance and protection, and way before the redemption of love…Sometimes I am not in a story, but simply preferring to be surrounded by one: these are the times when genre fiction is what you need.  Series of romances, or science fiction epics, or fantasy quests.  Action, feeling, MOVEMENT, choices, consequences, change…Inspiration to stand up tall and deal with life from wise cracking space commanders, or detectives; from strong women with groups of supportive friends as clever and kind as they can be.  (This is where I get my ideas of friends from: and why NOT aspire to the heights of fictional loyalty, why the hell not???)

Spirituality, well…As you know, I incline toward the green earth and its smells, its wet grasses.  I feel free in the woods, tramping through dried orange leaves.  I feel clear on a hill with the wind on my forehead and blossoms blowing by me.  It is horribly hard to hold on to this when you are in a strip lit windowless room, lying on one side, with a tube up your arse in your intestines causing you the most excruciating pain.  You whimper (yes, actually whimper) as the mad scientists work away above you, occasionally opening your eyes to see what they see on the screen – never have you felt so strongly that insides should be left alone, inside, where they belong, and not interfered with.  You screw closed your eyes again.  The nurse says you are breaking her hand, and takes it away, refusing to let you hold it anymore.  You hold the side of the metal bed instead, unable to see any images in your head that will take you away from all this, because all there is is now, and now is pain.

Yes.  Well.  There was no journeying on the Lands of my mind for me that day.  And it’s difficult to not dread whatever is next, and worry over it.  Science and medicine are cold.  My Christian friends (yes, astonishingly, I have 2 of them, despite me being unkind about their God, repeatedly) are praying for me.  This is kind and I want them to carry on doing it.  I have an odd belief in Other People’s Beliefs.   Their faith may well send helpful emanations my way.  But nonetheless, I still can’t be doing with their God.  One of them suggested to me that all would be eased were I to ‘Accept Him’…but I maintain that a God that needs me to believe in Him and Worship Him or He will Send me to Hell and punish me, is not as loving as advertised, and I don’t appreciate the emotional blackmail.  I accept this responsibility too (so that Christian friend: please be assured, you did your best, you shan’t get the blame for failure). 

It would be wondrous to have a mighty God to look after me and see that this all works out ok, wouldn’t it?  But what I have in the heart area of my mind…is still the green green grass, and the call of birds, the petals of flowers and the fur of cats, the scales on fish.  Beauty.  Decay.  Destruction.  Rebirth.  My Asatru correspondent phrased my query on how to cope with this sort of thing this way:

In Heathenry our future is not known until we make it. Even divination through runes and seidh only gives guidance, not specifics. While death is accepted as inevitable when and how is not.

As I see it one can draw great courage from this uncertainty. To me it means our actions have meaning and impact no matter what happens. The simple courage of living in spite of loss, fear, and hardship is a powerful thing. It shows what you face that you will not let it rule you. 

(~ by Ryan Smith, one truly coherent thinker, in private mail; my italics)

Now…considering a good portion of the best and most famous Gods die at Ragnarok in Heathenry…they are damn good at living with uncertainty, and the death of their heroes, the dream of these larger than human yet so human creatures.  And all that about being brave in the face of the unknown, of trying to live your principles, whatever they may be, IN SPITE of not knowing, in spite of anything and EVERYTHING…this all brings me back to the existentialism I spoke of in posts past.  Personal Responsibility.  Do the best you can – even if it feels pretty poor that day.

Its cold comfort.  (Not as cold as the mad scientists, but then I am biased by their recent well intentioned meddling about with me.)

It would be less cold were I less alone…But I’ve had that rant.  If any of you reading this at any point feel like you know me in real life and I am having a go at you – you know what:  I am.  I could have been a better friend to several people; I have made bad mistakes myself in the past.  But I try to correct them, I try to repair.  If I can’t, I leave and walk away.  (It’s questionable whether the door is still open, as Troubadour would have said, as I am not good at forgiving and forgetting, though I persist in trying).  But I very rarely just abandon people. 

But anyway.  My anger, my disillusionment, they are all part of this big thing going on with me at the moment.  Stanley actually feels it too.  He wonders where his friends have gone also, since we moved away from London.  I will try to remember to NOT do this to someone else one day.  I will try and learn to support even the people who have pushed me away, because of something I knew about.  I will keep trying.  This is what I will learn.

And to life.  Well, right now, I have dyed my hair again (deep warm brown – I can’t afford a haircut, so this will have to do for a smarten up), and now I will go and plant soft pink petunias and geraniums outside.  They will carry on going despite this summer of rain, despite the masses of slugs. They will keep going even if all their petals are eaten away, or soaked to colourlessness.  They will not die and they will exist still, in a different form, as a green plant without flowers or leaves.  Their roots will be whole, and fine.

Somewhere, it is always summer.