One Book Everyone Should Read

Sweet baby Jesus in a tuxedo t-shirt, this essay is going to be tricky business. Not only am I very indecisive, I am certain that I've read four times my weight in books (in case you're wondering, that's a LOT). So, instead of writing a nice essay about one book you should read, I'll write about several different categories from which everyone should read at least one book.

-A book so painful to read that it takes you several years, a bottle of tylenol, a mental break and a few tears to finish it: I'm a firm believer in finishing what you start when it involves books. Usually the painful books teach the best lessons. Examples: it took me three years and four attempts to finish Wuthering Heights (sheer boredom and despising Catherine and Heathcliff did not make this easier); Blindness by Jose Saramago (I hated the book so much that I have no idea if that is how you spell the author's last name) took me over a year to read because I found it extremely dull; and I had a book from the library for so long because I couldn't finish/start it that I had to pay 30 dollars in overdue fees (that's two years of fees, FYI). My grandma said that, in boarding school, her teachers insisted that even awful books should be finished. She said that her teachers told her that reading painful books make you appreciate good books even more, and that this process teaches you willpower and diligence. My eleven-year-old self did not approve of this as she returned several unfinished library books. However, forcing myself to read painful/difficult books has taught me a lot. I realized that translations can be awful if said translation is not done properly, sometimes the most difficult books are the best (Wuthering Heights is one of my favourite books), and that sometimes the overdue fees are worth it (finishing the two-year-overdue book really made me appreciate the importance of due dates and keeping your bank account stocked with some contingency money). 

- An historical fiction : I hate historical fiction. There, I said it. I hate hate hate it. However, in grade ten I had to read one for a project, and I managed to find one that I liked enough to endure (The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak, is meant for thirteen year olds but I still recommend it to everyone because it is just that great. He has quite a nice style. Back to the topic now.). Although I generally don't enjoy this genre, there is nothing quite like feeling emerged in the time period and actually "experiencing" what life was like for the characters (and would have been for you). Because of historical fiction, I learned that I would never like to be a geisha or someone in Nazi Germany. I feel like that, along with learning about what other time periods could have been like, is a valuable lesson. 

-Books from those lists of books you "should" read: these lists, found in great quantities online, in magazines, and through StumbleUpon, usually feature books that you may not feel like reading. They are generally full of classics, modern classics, banned books, and books you were forced to read for school. You may groan when you see these lists (I used to; I was too cool for school and didn't like some librarian telling me what to do) and may not want to read these piles of books because someone says you should. However, I generally find that there are good reasons that you "should" read these books. They're usually considered classics for a reason, and aside from Blindness (see above), I have yet to be disappointed by a librarian's recommendation. Speaking of recommendations, see below. 


-Your best friend's/mom's/dad's/brother's/sister's/uncle's/hairdresser's/librarian's/teacher's/meat vendor's/Cutco© salesperson's favourite book: while the book that said person recommends may not be something you necessarily jump at the chance to read, I find that recommendations generally give you a most excellent opportunity to get a great insight into the person's inner workings. I think books contribute many opinions, thoughts and morals to a person's mind, and reading a book that they love or that has changed their life in a major way shows you a side of them they may not feel comfortable showing. I do my most thinking while I'm reading and in the shower. Because you can't share a shower with someone (...?), I find that sharing books is the best way to learn a little bit more about your favourite person. 

-Your favourite Childhood book: This may technically be a book that you'll be re-reading, but I still included it in the list (mad rebellion up in hurr). Reading a book you used to love will remind you of so many old memories you had, what you used to love and things you used to find challenging to understand, find funny, etc. Because my fingers and brain cells are getting bored, I'll let you figure out why you should do this (retrospection, recollection, reminding, and other things that start with r. Rainbows?)


Because I've blabbered on for long enough, if you want to know more about me you can read this list of books below. A few of these may or may not be from my childhood (that, or I'm embarrassed to admit that I just read them a few days ago).
-The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
-The Bell Jar (Sylvia Plath)
-Wuthering Heights 
-1984
-Slaughterhouse Five
-A Clockwork Orange
-One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
-Eve's Apple
-Perks of being a Wallflower
-Away (Jane Urquhart)
-The Underpainter (Jane Urquhart)
-Memoirs of a Geisha
-Lake of Dead Languages (Don't remember who wrote this one)
-Girl, Interrupted
-Monkey Taming
-It's Kind of a Funny Story
-Water for Elephants
-Lord of the Flies
-Dubliners


Plz note plz: there are mucho more books I have read and loved. I don't remember them right now. Bye now, kthx.

Useless Knowledge

Knowledge is never useless. Some people may think it is, but the know-er always knows a way in which to use their knowledge. No use knowledge a know-er has is still good to know, y'know? Sorry. I'm done. I think I just gave myself dyslexia a little bit there. I've had a fever lately, so please pardon my incoherence.

Alec Thomson, if you read this, I find the title of this topic insulting to people who only know useless things. Discrimination!

Things that I know that seem to be useless to others:
-Entire plots and lyrics to a few musicals: I can tell you about the origin and development of their books and lyrics, who played what character and when, major changes that were made and can probably sing 9/10 songs from the musical for you. Musicals I can talk your ear off about include Spring Awakening, Cabaret, Wicked, Dream Girls, Book of Mormon, Chicago and Hairspray. I will likely recite the wikipedia page for you, word-for-word. Please do not get me started.
-Pokemon Red/Blue, Gold/Silver and Crystal: I can name you almost every pokemon, tell you what attack does the most damage, and name what can be found in each town. Do not ask me about yellow (I got frustrated and couldn't defeat Brock at the first gym so I just went back to playing Red with my level 64 Charizard [fun fact! I have a rat named Charmander. He doesn't like me very much and poos a lot. He does enjoy eating cheetos, though]) or any of the newer versions (I found the DS quite frustrating and too heavy. I didn't really like the touch screen... Pokemon made up my childhood and I can still remember where you can find each pokemon and who would win in a battle.
-Mental Problems: I find psychology fascinating, especially abnormal psychology. I have probably read ten memoirs about people spending time in mental hospitals. I can tell you the symptoms of almost any mental illness. I can talk about eating disorders, causes and treatment for hours. I can tell you how to detect suicidal behaviour and how to talk to someone who is suffering from anxiety, depression, etc. People may find this morbid but I find problems in peoples' minds fascinating. This may be due to the fact that my family is great to study (I have odd relatives).
-Canada's Food Guide
-Piercings: if you have a question about getting a piercing somewhere, where to go, how to clean it, how big your earring needs to be, or what the names for piercings in awkward places are called (helix, tragus, anti-helix, conch...), talk to me. 

Well, that probably bored you! If it didn't, I don't have a summer job and have nothing to do, so I have a LOT of time to answer any questions you may have!

P.S. I also know quite a bit about cake decorating, baking, movies, fiction books, and the Hamilton Public Library system. I also know a lot about grantmaking in non-profit organizations.

P.P.S. I also know what PS means.

P.P.P.S. Bye.

one thing I understand

???

My goal for this essay was to write about something I understand completely. I was hoping that this would relieve some of the stupidity I felt after last week. However, all it has made me realize is that I don't truly understand anything enough to deserve the title of Chief Understander.

For this reason, my essay will be left at this. Sorry, dedicated fans and readers (yeah, okay...).

One thing I wish I was smart enough to understand...

I do understand a fair number of things. I know how to tie my shoes, ride a bike, read a book, bake tasty treats and I know how to (most of the time) be nice to people. This being said, there is a lot that I don't know. This list includes:

• Quantum physics
• how vocal chords make people sing
• how my boyfriend can remember every different type of car on the road and identify them by sight
• what language pets think in (if they think)
• why people use shingles on their roofs
•  how language and writing were invented
• why people kiss (seriously, what is so goddamn romantic about smushing your lips against someone else's or licking their tongue? I just don't get it.)
• how people decided what to eat. From this follows wanting to know why we know to eat (Who thought, let's put this random substance in our mouth and chew?)
• what language deaf people think in/how they think
• why people think babies and little animals are cute
• what blind kids do in school when they're being taught the colours

 However, there is one thing that I really wish I could understand. Aside from all the questions that seem to pop into my head at the most inopportune time (e.g. "I wonder how moles grow on people's faces," "who invented icing?", "why did Bob Marley have dreadlocks? Who invented those, anyway?", "Why do people drink rotten grapes? Who decided that was a good idea?", and, the most pressing as of recently, "Why did they discontinue coloured ketchup?") the one that has bothered me for the longest time is a little more serious than the others. What's really been bothering me, and I wish I could understand, is how creativity started.

This may sound like a dumb question. But, if you think about it, it makes sense. People say that creativity is when you take what you've seen before and change them just a slight bit to make this idea into something new. But if Person Y takes components of Person X's creation, then Person Z does the same from Person Y's creation and this continues, where did Person X get his ideas from? He didn't have a person to get inspiration from.

Since the changing of ideas is really all that can be hypothesized about creativity, how exactly can one suppose that the creative process started?

You can applaud a person for their delicious cake, but who decided to put things into a hot place and see what tasty treats resulted? How does this happen?

It probably all happened in The Beginning. But I seriously doubt that God/Flying Spaghetti Monster/Allah/Other Religious Figure put people on earth and handed them an instruction manual. Is the desire to create innate in our minds? Are we inspired by what we see? How do people make the jump between seeing something in nature, like a leaf floating, to creating something extraordinary, like a flying machine (also known as an airplane)?

Sometimes, when I sit down to write (i.e. right now), I get struck by the urge to create something that nobody has ever done before. I want to make people scream WOW THAT GIRL IS SO TALENTED or HOLY MOLY MACARONI BATMAN! I NEVER THOUGHT ABOUT THAT BEFORE! but don't know how. This is when I wonder how people create. I know how people create, so then I think about big inventions, then I think about olden times, and, before I know it, I'm thinking about Person X and his talented mind.

Maybe if I were smart enough to understand how Person X created creativity, I wouldn't be sitting here writing my essay almost a week ahead of time.

If I still can't figure it out, I'll start the next essay so I don't feel so stupid and I can talk about something I actually know about.

Chekhov's Gun

Chekhov's gun is something about drama where a gun is introduced in the first act and is fired in the second act and you shouldn't include things that you don't really need and it's supposed to be subtle and it's not a red herring and blah blah blah.

That is besides the point. I stumbled upon a page describing the Chekhov's gun "dramatic device" or whatever it's called and was fascinated about the idea of a gun just sitting on the table and seeing what the characters would do.

That morphed into this.


************************************

There is a gun on the table.

There is a gun. It is on the table.

I am sitting, smoking my ninth cigarette. My hands are shaking. Breathe in, French exhale. Continue for several minutes. Eventually I make the ashtray overflow a little more.

Prescription for relaxation. But now my pack is empty. I bite my thumbnail and taste antiseptic.

I suddenly see him across the table. I knew he was there, I just didn’t see him until now. Suddenly I am embarrassed to be sitting in my lingerie from last night. My hair is matted with hairspray and sweat. I pull my hospital gown tighter, trying to hide any lace that I can. I slouch.

“So, what’ll it be then?”

I can feel him staring at me. My face is scratched from falling on the concrete. My makeup makes me look like the whore I am. I bite my nail again and think I am bleeding, but it is just red lipstick. It looks like it is dripping. I hide my hand in my lap.

I can’t see his face in this lighting.

I feel glued to the chair.

I feel stuck.

I feel.

How did I get here? I can’t remember. I just remember the mask on my face and “10, 9, 8…” and then nothing.

“So, what’ll it be then?”

I feel confused. My whole body aches and I have a pressing pain in my stomach from nerves. My garters are itchy and my stockings are ripped. I just want to leave but I can’t.

The metal chair is cold on my thighs. I cross my legs again. I can hear the man shuffle in his seat and pull out a lighter. He lights a cigarette. He offers it to me and I refuse. I can’t trust him. I don’t know why, though. I just feel.

The single light in the room is making me sweat. My makeup is probably dripping down my face in rivers. Normally it would mean losing a few clients, but I know this is not the time to be concerned about that.

He is getting angry. He asks me again, “So, what’ll it be then?”

I am blank. I don’t know what it has been, let alone what it will be.

“Do you even know how you got here?”

I stare straight ahead.

“You fucking whores. All the same.” He smashes his nearly full cigarette into the table and leans back in his chair. At least, that’s what I think he does.

“Do you know your name?”

“No.”

He hurls his chair across the room and the metal hits the concrete wall. The noise is loud, but I don’t flinch. I feel my eyelashes falling out.

“What do you do? How do you make money to afford whatever the fuck it is you do for fun or shits or whatever you call it?”

“I sell my body.” I am sore everywhere. There are even more rips in my stockings than there were moments ago. Has it been moments?

“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

I look down at my hands. There are cuts all over them. Were they there before? My nails are cracked. I have bruises and scrapes on my wrists.

He turns on all of the lights in the room. I flinch in the brightness.

We are in a room of mirrors. There are white porcelain tiles where the mirrors end. There is no door. I don’t question this. It does not seem odd. You just can’t leave. I know this, somehow. It seems familiar.

His features move around his face constantly. His eyes are on his chin, then his mouth is on his cheek.

I can’t look at myself in the mirror, but I see the outline of disheveled hair and running makeup in a too-big gown.

I look at the gun. There is a single bullet right beside it, dusted in ashes from the ashtray. The table is very clean. I smell antiseptic everywhere.

His face keeps morphing. I look him straight in his moving eyes.

“So, now that you can see more, what’ll it be then?”

His voice sounds familiar. I don’t know how.

I put my hand in the ashtray. The ashes turn into grey water.

“What is the gun for?”

He slaps me across the face. The sound echoes.

“Touch it.”

It’s warm.

“Who was your last client?”

I remember his suit, the smell of cigars, glasses on a desk and frantic, hushed moments in his closet.

I remember putting my businesswoman outfit back on. He liked that best: only the nicest for my regulars.

I touch the gun again. He smiles. I retreat my hand.

The feel of metal reminds me.

I remember my hand on the doorknob. I remember trying to leave.

“Grab the gun,” he says, “just fucking do it!” He is screaming now. My head splits.

The grey water swirls around the room and covers him. I am screaming. There are shreds of lace everywhere and the gun is in my hand. I fire at him.

I remember.

I remember the shot of a gun. I remember reaching into his desk drawer.

His body morphs and swirls. It joins the grey water. I am alone.

I remember him begging for me to save him. I remember him saying that they were after him. I remember him saying that they were coming to kill me. I remember him becoming someone else, but still with the same body.

I am not alone anymore. He is behind me.

I remember him saying he was going to kill me because he needed to.

My hands turn into liquid. Beeping fills the room.

I remember him grabbing my throat mid-orgasm. I remember him pushing me into the wall until my spine shattered. I remember him taking a piece of glass and plunging it inside of me before tearing off my clothes.

I remember.

He grabs my hair and pulls.

I remember being pulled out by the police.

I remember the ambulance coming.

I become more water. All that is left is a wet hospital gown. I see him standing over me. He grabs the gun and shoots me.

I am water.

Beep.

Who I Am

Things I know about myself:

• I really like reading
• I eat sprinkles by the jarful
• Sometimes I wear stretchypants in my room- just for fun.
• I have some odd habits. These include: counting things I see by threes when I get bored, writing words with my fingers on the backs of my hands and pulling my baby toenails off (I know, it's gross).
• I am always late. If I tell you I'll be there at 1:00, automatically assume 1:45. This way, if I am early by some chance, you will be very happy. Or caught off guard (this happens more often).
• I have a lot of thoughts that are very coherent and intelligent. They float around in my head and then they bubble up and I can't sit still. By this point, trying to tell someone my thoughts usually comes out as a string of unintelligible jibberish. Example: I have a lovely thought about the beautiful family next door. It comes out as: "Babies... mom... dad... love... nice... home..."
• Sometimes I feel like people don't take me seriously. This is probably due to my speech (see above). 
• I sing loudly while I drive. This is embarrassing at stoplights.
• I also sing loudly when home alone. This is embarrassing when your mother pulls into the driveway and runs in, frantically asking why you were screaming and holding a phone in her hand to dial 911. 

Hm. The "What am I" question has stumped me since I was a little girl/tomboy. I wish I could offer an answer that would satisfy whomever (whoever? I always get confused with that, too) is reading this, but I can't. I can't give a few sentences that make the reader say, "Hey, that's her. That makes sense"  after reading them.

What I can do, however, is tell you what I do know (see above). Sometimes I actually feel that other people have a better insight into my personality than I do.

But then again, what do I know?