Getting Lost in a Good Goodreads Binge…

AbandonedArmyBase
A potential site for my upcoming middle grade horror book? Or is this what the world looks like out there without humans after a month? *laughs* (Photo Courtesy of Canva 2020)

 

I’m starting to get a little rambly with the shutdown. And I was pretty bad for rambling on and on even before the pandemic restrictions…

Anyhoo, I’m finally getting caught up on everything that got pushed to the wings when I was working the full-time day job and trying to write full-time on top of that.

I finally found enough time to squeeze some reading in: Beautiful Darkness by Jay Wilburn (which I read in order to review on Madness Heart Press) and so that may be posting sometime soon (at that website’s/publisher’s discretion, of course).

And manage my social media on top of all of that. But now I have plenty of time to waste! Well, not really, as I seem to be even busier than before the day job. 

When I’m not wasting time pining over homes for sale on Old House Dreams and Circa Homes, I am spending more time than I should on Goodreads. I love that site almost more than reading everybody’s blogs. If I didn’t set a timer, I could spend hours there reading reviews and checking out new books…

But, I got my middle grade horror/suspense manuscript back from the editor (Lady Knight Editing: https://ladyknightediting.com/) and so it’s back to the grind on the next round of edits and rewrites. Hopefully (ha ha :-p) I’ll be done in time for #PitMad.

So, I’ll have to start minding my “Ps & Qs” on my blog, and work on my blog’s tone so that it can also appeal to a younger audience. But maybe by then, I’ll be able to get a custom website to go with the book’s release. 

And it’s time to go shopping, pandemic-style, soon. And who doesn’t want a kitty-cat mask to wear out and about?

Other than that, I’ve been re-watching Psych, and I just love Dulé Hill for the class and polish (well, mostly!) he brings to counteract James Roday’s goofball character.

And, that’s it. That’s enough rambling. Gotta go order supplies for my spoiled, fat, ex-feral kitties. And get back to writing and editing and snacking in-between!

Taking Flight With Ufology Books

I’ve never even had anything close to a UFO sighting, or even had any one of the numerically classified encounters with extraterrestrials and their transports of choice.

I have the iconic poster, though; you know the one, the poster that was hanging in Mulder’s basement office (with no work area for Scully, mind you) that says “I want to believe.”

I’ve been to the UFO museum in Roswell for one of their anniversaries—I think the 50th—and picked up a bunch of books written by UFO experts and aficionados. Some were nice, one was rude and dismissive (I immediately regretted buying their book), and most of the speakers there had interesting presentations on the topic of UFOs and alien visitations. But, overall, it still had a “boy’s club” feel to it, and, as a woman, I didn’t feel very welcomed in the house of Ufology. Like it’s a grown-up version of a secret fort, and there’s a big sign out front that says “No Girls Allowed”.

New Picture

 

Anyway, I also paid a visit to the crash site while I was in Roswell. At least there was nobody out there to suggest that I, as a woman, didn’t belong among all the self-titled “UFO scholars.” It’s desolate out there—there’s nothing for miles, until the land runs into the mountain. And spooky, even in the daytime. For anyone who’s been out to New Mexico, you know what I’m talking about. It’s very quiet and the silence and the wind gives you chills. It’s easier to imagine paranormal activity courtesy of old-world spirits rather than any residual physical traces of the UFO crash hiding beneath the desert soil. Now, apparently, you can tour the site of the crash. But when I was there, there was just a sign, and the site of the Roswell crash was on private property.

 

New Picture (1)

 

So, regarding UFOs, I still remain a little more on the skeptical side, despite my intellectual curiosity. I do not want to detract from anyone’s experience who has had a sighting of aliens/extraterrestrials, undergone an alien abduction, or seen a UFO in the sky or on the ground. I, myself, have seen some things that I am still trying to come up with a rational explanation for, but, for me, the allure and magic of fantasy and anything else one’s imagination creates relies on the fact that it is unreal and not of this world. I mean, if I saw unicorns and fairies and krakens every day, they wouldn’t have a strong a hold on my inner spirit and psyche. I am quite comfortable with the unsolved, the mysterious, the unknown, and undiscovered.

I mean, it was exciting to entertain ideas that the transport in the bible was actually a UFO; that the gods and goddesses from lore and myth from various cultures and religions (including the bible) were actually visitors from outer space; and that the Mayan carving was a figure piloting a  ship. But I also feel intrigued by theories that alchemical magic was behind some of the great architectural feats that created the pyramids and other such massive structures.

But then I “want to believe” in the science that can rule out such fanciful explanations, and there does seem to be too many holes in the theories of UFOs that have not even being explored as an alternative, rational explanation and either thereby suggested as an area for future study or eliminated thoroughly as a cause.

I think of Barney and Betty Hill. The soiled and torn clothing, and other elements of the case could also point to an attack by very human individuals. And I couldn’t help but think if the UFO explanation was simply a protective façade created by the mind for a similar situation where they both felt powerless but couldn’t come to terms with the reality of a brutal assault by people very much of this world.

Which leads me to my most recent reads into the clandestine world of UFOs, and the secret agenda of…extraterrestrials? Or some as-yet-unrevealed sinister force that has been at work since the dawn of (human) time and memory?

I’ll start with the first of Ken Hudnall’s books, The Occult Connection: U.F.O.s, Secret Societies, and Ancient Gods.

 I liked the main part of the book, and I would probably keep it on my shelf for a while as a research resource, where all these conspiracy tidbits and theories  I’ve read about over the years (And taken with a grain of salt—or is it sand? I forget how it goes.) are condensed into one neat volume. And Hudnall’s tracing of the “Men in Black” phenomenon into history (though not comprehensively) is an interesting theory to add to my research database.

Generally speaking, and not necessarily in Hudnall’s book, I have the problem when U.F.O. sightings and speculation, and extraterrestrial visitation cross over into props used to support the “superior” technical, scientific, and engineering knowledge of what Ufology scholars and abductees, et al, refer to as a suspiciously “ Great White Aryan” race of people. This race is depicted as not only “white” but one that was so advanced it was classified as divine. The whole history of U.F.O. and extraterrestrial sightings reads like a tribute to the wonder of the European races—a racist, revisionist area of study and oral history/stories that erases the knowledge and accomplishments of people like the Maya or from China, for example, as well as many more. (A family member, once, told me about an March 26, 1880 article in the Santa Fe New Mexican that related a sighting of a “fish-shape balloon, with ten human occupants in it from which strong singing, music, and shouting in an unknown language. The article reports that a rose tied to a letter written with ‘unknown characters’ and a cup of ‘unusual workmanship’ were dropped from the vehicle. According to accounts the following day, a person unknown to the residents purchased both items for a ‘large sum of money,’ declaring them ‘of Asiatic origin’.” The context of this was that U.F.O.s could, in fact, be touring balloons launched from China and/or Japan and reaching the coast of the United States. This family member referenced this as a potential explanation for some U.F.O. sightings in more recent history).

Ultimately, I would like to know what side Ken Hudnall falls on, more specifically. Because some of the points included in the appendices, especially, seem a little too extreme even for my “I-want-to-believe” curious mind. He terms the mysterious author of Appendix D Bruce Walton (presumably the whole section, or does Walton leave off and Hudnall chimes in, at the end of the appendix?) as an “outstanding researcher” (Occult Connection, pp 173). What does he think about the “Globalist conspiracy” of which “Satan and his Demons” are using to “enslave the world” that is mentioned at the end of Walton’s appendix? (Occult Connection, pp. 181-182). This seems to be a little less balanced even for the what could be termed as fringe topics in Hudnall’s book. But I’m going to move onto Hudnall’s second book I picked up recently.

Like Occult Connection, Hudnall’s Beyond Roswell is a compact summation; this time of other U.S. UFO crashes and the one that happened in Mexico, right across the border, which makes it a handy reference for my bookshelf. It’s accentuated with oral transcriptions and interviews from the witnesses and others whose lives were impacted by the things they witnessed during, and after, the UFO crashes. As a historian whose field is public history, especially oral history, those included firsthand reports made the book that much more interesting. And, again, the chapter on the Men in Black made the sometimes confusing appearances of these mysterious figures a little more clear in their sinister connection to UFOs. And, of course, being visual, I love having a book with photos and illustrations!

The last book I picked up at NecroNomicCon here in New Mexico, was Travis Walton’s Fire in the Sky: The Walton Experience.

This was a very detailed, comprehensive book about Walton’s recollection of his abduction by purported aliens on November 5th, 1975, and the resultant aftermath of his traumatic experience. So detailed, in fact, it’s hard not to accept that Walton did go through something very extraordinary. When I read most of these books that are written about, or record, a person’s alien abduction experiences, I wonder who would make up stuff like this. Especially someone like Travis Walton, whose experience seems to come right out of the blue (or out of the sky) for just an “average guy” type (No offense—I’m sure Travis wasn’t average, but you know what I mean.). I don’t question that these purported abductees think they experienced something, and far be it from me to question the validity of their experience, but it seems that if they had an event of this magnitude happen to them as a figment of their imagination or state of mind at the time of the purported abduction, there would be signs leading up to it. Signs their mental state was fraying—paranoia, previous experiences, talk of being followed or persecuted, feelings of being surveilled—things like that. Imagining alien craft and abductions doesn’t seem to me the hallmarks of a psychopath/sociopath, whom (or so I’ve read—I’m not in any of the licensed mental health professions) are pretty good at hiding their true mental state from the general public.

The only thing I can think of is that it was a very vivid dream after some traumatic event. But a dream that his fellow workers also had? It doesn’t even seem likely. Maybe it’s the result of stress—stress can do funny things to a person’s mind, and Travis, himself, mentions that their job is a stressful one. Maybe their tired, stressed minds triggered some sort of visual hallucination.

But by now I’m circling back to my Betty and Barney Hill argument. Could something so terrible happen at the hands of our fellow humans, especially those that we know and trust, and live among, that our minds can’t handle it, so we reach for a handy scapegoat like aliens and UFOs and alien abductions?

Finally, Travis Walton lays out several points that many of his debunkers have raised, and presents evidence as to why those skeptics’ counterarguments aren’t feasible. Still, though, as I reached the end of the Walton book, I’m not sure I was convinced, but through lack of any other feasible theories as to his abduction experience, who am I to say that it didn’t happen?

In reading another tale of an abductee’s experience, Flashbacks: An Artist’s Memoir of Alien Abductions, Native Spirits, and Enlightenment, I remember thinking that some of the events seemed very farfetched. Also, when (in the book) there was a chance to get concrete medical evidence after Sean Bartok’s abduction experience, and I couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t jump at the chance to get the tests done. They would then have proof, or at least, an alternate explanation that would ease one’s mind after what seems to be a very frightening experience.

So, I still am not convinced there’s aliens out there, gliding through our skies, and abducting humans and animals and conducting tests on them. But sometimes, as I look around at our world, I wish there were. Not up there wasting time on humans, but floating up there as an extraterrestrial Noah’s Ark; rescuing animals that are on the verge of extinction thanks to us humans, and that their ships are also big arboretums full of trees and plants and grasses we humans love to hate. That the aliens are taking these non-human life forms back to a peaceful Eden where they can flourish and evolve unmolested.

That’s what I want to believe.

Meet My New (Imaginary) Friends—The Little Fears (created by author/artist Peter Edwards)

(Caution: Sleepy-writer thoughts lie ahead.)

Writing.

More isolating than I expected.

And I love being alone.

It feels safe.

But writing brings on a whole different kind of aloneness.

It’s not a very still and quiet alone.

Too many pesky thoughts and ideas. Too many noisy inner voices.

Things start to get muddled up.

In a surreal Dali-esque mad artist kind of way.

You begin to want a real presence. (As I allude to in my poem Tidal Pool).

But people are also distracting.

And you have a book to write.

Unlike your characters, you can’t customize your interactions with people.

Which makes you feel lost. Full on, fairy-tale-waif-in-the-woods lost.

And, so, when I sat down to compose this review of Peter Edwards’ books, I was trying to figure out where to start.

Then a thought spoke.

Just one.

It said “The Little Fears are good company.”

Granted, probably not the kind you would bring to the office party.

Or to your neighbourhood potluck.

But they are, strangely enough.

The quirky nature of the Little Fears helps banish the feeling of alienation you get from the day job and the real world.

“I’m not so odd, after all,” you tell yourself. (Even though you have developed the bad habit of talking to yourself ever since you first decided to become a writer.)

Oh, the art, too. It tickles something in my (Jungian, I hope, not Freudian) subconscious. Like when Peter invited his blog followers to create something based on his art and characters.

Durthi, the plant shaman, was very evocative for me—I love the idea of plants and animals having powerful agency against humans.

Overall, in decrypting the pun-based humour of the little stories, your mind focuses; becomes grounded. And then the laughs come. Or groan, as the back of some of his Little Fears books proclaim.

But I find myself chuckling more often, when I read his books and his blog posts.

They not only take the edge of my ever-circling mind, they take the edge off my horror-in-real-time, confusing, mucky mess of a life.

And I don’t feel so lost.

Or alone.

For I have Edwards’ Little Fears to keep me company. (Visit his blog here: https://littlefears.co.uk/)

(My favourite pun was the Stephen King cameo, by the way. In case you were wondering…)

Adopt some of your own Little Fears on Peter’s Etsy page: https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/LittleFears.

Little Fears books by Peter Edwards:

Capricorn

Grey Moon

January

Seeking Hydra

Spiders

Are there ANY bad restaurants in France?

 

Why, yes! Well, according to Alexander McCall Smith in his latest Paul Stuart novel, The Second-Worst Restaurant in France. (I still find it hard to suspend disbelief that France could have a terrible restaurant. Hence the appeal of Smith’s great title!)

But this book was delicious enough to make up for the book’s restaurant that’s being run into the ground by a restauranter-hopeful named Claude.

It reminded me of how much I love to read. More than that, though, it also appealed to my former self that used to work in the restaurant biz, and loved shows like Restaurant Impossible and Kitchen Nightmares back when I had access to cable in a non-rural, non-frontier locale. This book is a great literary version of that.

But, more than that, I found that the side character of Chloe (Paul’s mysterious and unconventional cousin) upholds what Alexander McCall Smith does best–using the main character to develop secondary characters that are just as interesting, if not more so, than the main character. And, without giving away too much, I also related to the character of Hugo–a sensitive individual trying to create his own life based on his ideals and passions. During the course of his journey, he’s aided by Paul in fulfilling these dreams. And I can really relate to Hugo at his stage in life, even though he’s a lot younger.

(This review contains spoilers!)

This is where I struggled with the book. I love the works of Alexander McCall Smith that I’ve read but my own life development stage and mindset as I enter middle age sometimes made The Second-Worst Restaurant in France an emotionally fraught read. And, boy, did I have bias in spades that was hard to put aside while I read the book that I won via a Goodreads giveaway hosted by the publisher, Alfred A. Knopf.

But that’s also the great thing about reading. It’s just you and the book and the characters that feel real enough to debate with in the privacy of your own mind and feelings.

As most writers will agree. Especially when you find out that Paul Stuart can’t work in his apartment where, for some reason, his girlfriend has decided to bring her noisy two cats for a staycation at his apartment, even though she has a flat of her own.

Anyone who’s ever had cats would be like “why on earth would she do that?” Naturally, the cats complain a lot to Paul about the situation, but he’s got a book to write, and eventually has to relocate his writing space into another apartment that Chloe offers him use of.

Poor Paul.

But the apartment doesn’t suit him either, as there are a bevy of young people upstairs doing what they do best–making sure everyone knows they are there with lots of loud music. 

And poor Paul ends up in a silly man-predicament with the younger woman, where he swears the interaction they have in the store is “innocent” to his girlfriend Gloria, who witnesses the weird olive-feeding interaction that somehow gets mistaken for a kiss. Let’s hear it, everyone: a big, resounding “Innocent, my a**!” *laugh*

So, poor, poor Paul has to pack up and relocate to the French countryside to finish his book that he doesn’t even want to write, but in between lecturing his experienced, worldly secret agent cousin about how to act and think, and nurturing poor, belittled, sensitive, chef-hopeful Hugo in fulfilling his cooking-promise, he realizes he doesn’t want to write the book he was working on, about the philosophy of food, and he also realizes that nobody will want to read it, either, despite the fact that his influential editor/girlfriend Gloria has pulled strings and gotten a publisher to back it.

So, wonderfully understanding and supportive Gloria arranges a whole other wonderful project for Paul to undertake, all the pieces fall into place, and everything is happily ever after–all thanks to Paul, presumably, not Gloria and Chloe (who comes to the aid of a local mother-to-be in an unconventional and fascinating way)–in the idyllic French countryside villa that I, and a million other hardworking writers who are also working day jobs (like me) and (unlike me) also trying to raise kids and maintain romantic relationships, are probably thinking that poor Paul is anything but poor.

But it’s proof positive that a main character doesn’t have to be likeable in order for you to fully engage with a book. And that’s why I like books so much. So much diversity there that gets left out of movies.

And, despite my mixed critique of Alexander McCall Smith’s book (which, again, I liked so much I read it twice!); yes, I’m a fan! I would definitely read more of the Paul Stuart series, including his first book in the series, and others. It comes down to the writing, which is, as always with Smith, so good!

And the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency is fabulous, of course! Visit Alexander McCall Smith and discover his fantastic writing and compelling characters for yourself, here: https://www.alexandermccallsmith.com/.

 

Dancing Through Time and Space with Michael S. Fedison’s The Eye Dancers

Review: The Eye Dancers by Micheal S. Fedison

(possible spoilers, though I tried not to reveal too much)

I won’t be presumptuous enough to claim that I understand what it’s like to be a kid today, but I can speculate that some things never change.

And I haven’t forgotten, even after all these years, what it was like for me to be a kid.

What it felt like being bullied. The fear. The dread of having to go to school every day. The loneliness. Being left out of things by the popular or cool kids. The alienation coming at me from all sides. Always the misfit, and the last to be picked for the team.

How the classrooms felt airless: like you were drowning or suffocating. A tomb. A punishment that matched the cruel one that waited for me in the halls.

How the tiniest sounds and faintest smells seemed magnified in the forced silence and seemed to claw into your brain until you wanted to scream. Or to run and run and not come back. Or at least run as far as the school bathroom where you could get a breather from the stress of being cooped up. How you never felt like yourself until the last bell rang.

For me, it felt like hell on earth.

And the worst part of it all? What it felt like when no-one listened to you, or took you seriously?

Matter of fact, as a grown woman, I still face that sort of patronizing attitude. And it makes me just as angry as it did when I was a kid.

But, as an adult, as a teacher, I get it. Well, sort of, since I’m not a parent. But I imagine that it’s so hard to walk the line between giving kids a chance to be kids, but wanting to keep them safe.

The world–my world–was a confusing, ugly, terrifying place back when I was a kid–one I wouldn’t want any kid to have to live in.

And in the middle-grade/young adult book The Eye-Dancers, things haven’t changed much, in that aspect, in either of the book’s two worlds.

But the kids in Michael S. Fedison’s book? They don’t wait for grown-ups to listen. They act when they are suddenly thrust in a scary situation. They not only cope, but they keep fighting, although the odds are against them. They do this by joining forces, by combining their strengths, and forging bonds with those they wouldn’t ordinarily be friends with, as a way to navigate the challenges they face. Challenges that could be very real for many children today, but one that Fedison handles with appropriate discretion for the kids he’s writing for.

Could it be a Goonies-like book for young people of this generation? I don’t know. I don’t even know if I’m reading into the book’s premise too much with my grown-up mind, but I would love to have kids reading something that shows young people they can have agency, that they can make things better, that they can change worlds with their actions. That they can still be heroes even if they’re scared and confused and unsure of themselves, and their place in the world. That within all of this coming-of-age madness, there can be moments of hope that will carry them through the darkness of life’s changes. And that, as I think Fedison’s character Mitchell Brant realizes, are the things that can make reality as wonderful and sustaining as our youthful dreams (referenced from pages 317-320).

My hope is that books like this are enough to carry them into finding their dreams as they move into adulthood. And I hope that adulthood doesn’t come too calling too soon for them–that they still have a chance to be kids no matter how the world changes around them.

(I’m considering donating this book to one of the local school libraries. After I read the follow-up Singularity Wheel, of course! Or I’ll just hoard it with all the rest of my books, most likely.)

 

The Once and Future Greece

 

Ah, Greece.

Classical architecture, timeless culture, glistening seas, golden beaches, and…the latest in cutting-edge AI technology.

This opens Nicholas Rossis’ suspenseful romance, A Heaven for Toasters

     Sadly, I have never been to Greece, but that made it even easier to immerse myself into this futuristic romance. Although I don’t have a toaster of my own to fall in love with, the ones I dream over in the Victorian Trading Company catalog are a very alluring alternative.

     As you probably already guessed, the toasters in Rossis’ book aren’t actual toasters; they are androids. Apparently, the human race doesn’t get any more PC in the future, European charm notwithstanding, and they slap this disparaging term onto their own creations. Never mind that the main character, herself, relies on augmentations to her own body–like hololenses and an biologically implanted link to her police station’s AI system.

This dynamic comes into play when the book’s protagonist, Detective Mika Pensive, is assigned to work with a toaster. She grudgingly accepts working with her new by-the-rules partner on her latest case. It’s a perplexing case that takes them through the artistic fringe society of Hydra and deeper into Clonesville–Clonesville being the village-like refuge for the clones created after scientists were no longer permitted to clone sentient humans. The duo’s budding relationship is fostered by their determination to uncover the secret evil lurking underneath the paradisal atmosphere of these Greek islands.

I’ll try not to give too much away about the book, but I especially loved the Detective Pensive’s visits to the artist colony. The only fault I could find in the book is that, having never been to Greece, but equally in love with most of Europe/overseas culture, I wanted more “flavour of Greece” in the book. Having said that, setting it in Greece definitely made this speculative-fiction read all the more distinctive. 

Take a journey to futuristic Greece yourself by acquiring Nicholas Rossis’ book here: https://www.amazon.com/Heaven-Toasters-Sci-Fi-Romance-Islands/dp/1724773410/.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to find a Greek restaurant for a “make-do” Greek flavour experience–that is, if there is such a thing in this frontier state. Here’s hoping that the author returns to Mika’s and Leo’s world sometime in the near future!

 

In addition to the blog link I posted above, you can also visit Nicholas Rossis at this website: http://nicholasrossis.me/.

 

513D+Q5iTfL._SY346_

The Journey Back to Earth

VersionsOfTheSelf2.jpg

 

Whew, finally getting around to reviewing some books for #writingwednesday!

First up, Versions of the Self (poetry) by Christy Birmingham.

Linky links:

Amazon

Goodreads

Christy Birmingham’s When Women Inspire blog: https://whenwomeninspire.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/christybis

Review:

I’ve followed Christy Birmingham’s blog for years, and, likewise, she’s been a strong supporter of mine. I think she was one of, if not the first, who purchased my book of poetry when I self-published (Oh, Createspace, how I miss thee!). But this is the space for honest reviews, and, being an honest, ethical, straight-arrow type, with a healthy dose of blunt forthrightness, here goes my honest review. (Please, stick with me to the end of the review.)
I wasn’t sure how I felt about this book, the first time I read through it. I felt somewhat removed from the poems within, and I couldn’t understand why. As a woman, going through what seems a similar journey of self-transformation, why was I feeling unsettled? Why didn’t it grab me straight from the beginning?
It wasn’t until I sat down to write this review that I realised what was giving me this sense of disquiet. I spend a lot of time in other realms. The theme of my own poetry book is all about journeys to other worlds. Alternate dimensions, astral travel, tandem dreaming, visits to fairyland–however you want to classify it, it has very little to do with the “real” world. And my short stories reflect more of the same–fantastical, surreal, spooky, and a little escapist (or so I hope!). I spend so much time up here in my head, or a million miles from it, that I’m not very present. I constantly receive gentle instructions to become more grounded, to visualise coming down into my feet. But it’s not a place where I’m most comfortable. I want the deep vastness of space; of the ocean. Of anywhere but here on Earth.
Christy’s poems reflect exactly that sort of grounded earthiness I’m constantly trying to avoid. Being present, being in the moment. Being real, no matter how much it hurts. Or how confusing it is. From my way-out-there, interdimensional traveller perspective, I see her as a very present poet. And I’m also not used to reading that in poetry.
And it’s a necessary, and lovely, stability in the rareness of the feeling her poetry inspires. With each poem brings another block to lay on the foundation under my feet. As a woman, as a denizen of this planet no matter how much I dream myself otherwise, she connects me back to the Earth under my feet; to my own “Version of Self” that connects with lines of her poems.
“Gliding under Water” reminds me of the simplicity of being a young girl in a pool; a time where my sensory experiences were more immediate. Though her work is titled “Versions of the Self,” I see it more as a stripping away of those versions to achieve a strong core, bringing us along with her as she goes back to basics. To having strong roots. And water, ironically, also helps root the reader in a very real, relatable experience of loss and change, in her poem “Within a Few Feet”. We have no choice to be present right along with the poet, because her pain is ours. It’s a pain that, sadly, lies in most women, and maybe the human race in general.
Lastly, she reminds me that it’s okay to be down here, in the muck and mire that is Earth, to “start at the bottom” (from “Bottom of the Waterway”). Because it’s only from there that we will learn to fly.