The Here I Rayne Blog Challenge # 2
The path to hell is paved with good intentions:
This challenge comes much later than I had expected, but this challenge is something that I’ve wanted to play with for a while.
So what do you need to do? Well, honestly, it’s entirely up to you, take the title, think about it, and run with it. Choose a book as inspiration; make yourself the victim or villain and live the metaphor.
Now go and pave that path!
Blog Challenge from Here I Rayne
When my friend Nadine Rose Larter did her blog challenge, I was overwhelmed with ideas, fears, doubts and inspiration. All jumbled together off course (nothing is ever simple in my life). I loved and hated the challenges equally, but one thing I could not deny, was the way my writing improved. How I learned to experiment with different styles and how to say anything when I needed to or when I wanted to. When the challenges dried up a little due to Nadine’s book coming out (buy it here) (read the reviews here and here) I felt the loss keenly. Thus the inevitable birth of my own challenge page… This challenge is open to everyone on condition that you please post your links in my comments; I want to be able to read your contributions!
Here I Rayne Challenge #1
Exploring my shadow:
This is a simple concept, with psychological impact. This idea was birthed especially for the Tequila Thursday Writing Club, and I had so much fun exploring the psycho bitch me, that I felt it only fair to share the fun. This is what I want you to do:
Take one moment in time where you were extremely irritated/angry/happy/sad/peaceful and, writing as yourself, make yourself do or say something you never would. That’s right, you are not just happy, you are insanely happy. You’re not just angry, you’re psychotically pissed off. Build that emotion up to its natural conclusion. Anything goes!
I’ve really been off the radar for a few days and still need to continue my dentist and bucket list pieces. Truthfully though, I just felt like, screw it, I’ll get to it when I get to it. I have been feeling a little guilty for neglecting my blog though, so I have decided to do a little something that I have been planning for some time.
1. You work for a salary, not for someone who knows or even cares about your worth. Get the job done and you get paid. Appreciation of you as an individual is what friends and family is for.
2. Get over it. No really, this is the most important thing anyone can learn. Sometimes, we just need to get over it and move on. There comes a time when we have to accept the things we can’t change. Make that your truth for the day.
3. You’re a screw up. Everyone is. It’s kind of part of being human, and it’s okay.
4. Words are really powerful, and can never be taken back. Regret is one of the worst things a person can live with.
5. Nothing on earth is broken beyond repair. Unless it’s a Ming vase or something.
6. Respect is earned, but everyone deserves to be treated with respect; regardless.
7. Hope is tenacious, whenever you think you’ve lost it, you surprise yourself by finding yourself still hoping, even if your world has crashed and burned.
8. Have faith, whatever that may mean to you as an individual. Have faith in yourself, in your god, in your husband, wife or child. Have it, and hold on to it. Some days all you have is your faith, and that’s okay too.
9. When you watch a movie or read a book, live it. What’s the point otherwise.
10. Learn when to shut up. There’s usually signs. (Note to self…repeat this mantra five times every day)
Not ever having done a real book review before, it always felt like something I really needed to do, being a couch critic and all. When I finally finished Coffee at Little Angels by Nadine Rose Larter, I knew that it was time to try my hand at it. In a real pen to paper kind of way.
This will be the most unconventional, unprofessional book review you’ll ever see, but what the heck, this is me, I kinda do things differently, and this is how I feel…
I want to do the story justice, without revealing too much of the plot, but I find that to do that, my focus will have to be less on the overall storyline, and more on the individual parts of the book and what they meant to me as reader.
The story captivates you immediately with its opening line: “I went jogging on the morning that I died” and you go “Huh?” So off course you want to know how the hell that’s going to work, is this the end before the beginning kind of thing? I read Chapter 1 in a sneak preview before the book launch, and found that I couldn’t wait for the rest. When I eventually got to read the whole book, I couldn’t put the bloody thing down. I was reading it off the laptop in the car (sadly it has only been released on E-Book so far) because I couldn’t wait to get home, which turned out to be a good idea because we were driving up and down for almost forty minutes! I didn’t cook, didn’t clean, and didn’t do anything except simply devouring the story.
I must confess that I am kind of an obsessive reader; I usually have to finish the book as soon as possible. I’m sure it’s some kind of instant gratification thing, so if you have more self discipline, I’m sure you could take it easierJ.
You meet a group of teenagers, ten or so years later, and discover the dynamic of their group. Reading it really resonated with me because I could totally relate, having lived in a similar small town. The characters are rich in detail, interesting and they felt so real to me, that their loss felt like my own. The book is well written, flows well and isn’t written in that stuffy archaic tone which so many writers use to prove they are as good as they want to be. It also has the added bonus of having excellent grammar with sufficient slang to make it authentic. But then, that’s not what you want to hear, is it? You want to know what I loved and what I hated about the book? So here it is:
I loved:
The conversational writing style; I didn’t read the book; I was part of the conversation.
Phillip; he doesn’t really have his own story, and yet you learn so much more through that. The fact that you see so little from his perspective is the reason that you get to love him so much. There is that deep love and peace about him that feels so painfully real.
Sarah; A lot of writers want to make their sweet character all about the sugar, but her flaws are what makes her so special and unique. I love her because Phillip does, okay?
I love the authenticity of each character, how the writing style changes so subtly that you don’t realize it, simply to suit the voice, to suit the personality of each individual. Many writers make the mistake of keeping the same style, and whilst most readers don’t notice such small things, as a writer it has left me breathless in awe, and a little envious.
I love the Roald Dahl feel of the ending, without saying anything, the author says it all.
I love the shameless way with which real issues are mentioned. So many people are too afraid to offend when putting pen to paper. My opinion is that it’s better to offend than hide the truth, and Nadine Rose Larter was able to state the facts the way they are, racism and sexism, without relying on that to build a story. It’s simply mentioned in passing, the way it would be in real life. It’s a reality, not a constant violent atrocity. Too many writers rely on the evil of those actions to snag their reader. I love that she didn’t need to.
I love that there is magic in the book. Well, the suggestion of it at least, not like super sparks and glowy things, but real magic, in the sense of dew drops on caper leaves. The kind that leaves you misty eyed with hope.
I love that the book had me howling with laughter one minute and sobbing the next (my husband was starting to think I had bipolar lol)
I hate:
Truth to tell, I can’t honestly say I hated anything about it. Some parts I felt could say more and others less, but then that is the problem of reading a book instead of writing it. You want to know more, because you feel it will prove a point, or feed that craving, but sometimes that’s the point, isn’t it?
All in all, this is the best book I’ve read in some time, and haven’t cried for a fictional character like this since Harry Potter, Deathly Hallows (The characters were my friends through seven books okay, and now some of them die?!)
Well, do yourself a favour and buy a copy. You won’t regret it. This story will stay with me for a very long time, in that real, I was there kind of way. I always say that humanity needs the words that lead you to Cairo and back, because seeing pictures isn’t the same as being there. Well my friends, this was Cairo, and I was there. Don’t look at the pictures, buy the book here
You’re already cringing, aren’t you? Yeah, well, at the end of this story, you’ll probably need counseling too. I do.
Wisdom teeth, what purpose do they serve other than growing into awkward spots they were never meant to be in, cracking your other beautiful and healthy teeth to smithereens or turning a straight smile into a disturbing sideway staircase. Yes, I had problems with my wisdom teeth. If you didn’t, shut up and go away, I hate you.
For some background, I believe it’s best if you understand how I feel about dentists. I have the firm belief anyone that looks that closely into another person’s mouth with a drill in their hands has issues. Serious ones that need years and years of counseling. With someone that really know their stuff. That being said, you can understand that when my wisdom teeth starting giving problems, my first reaction was not to find the first dentist to fix it. It was to suck up the pain and wait until the tooth came out by itself. Thus the path to everlasting pain and despair began.
Two years after the initial symptoms, in absolute desperation, I make an appointment with my dentist. (to clear things up, I’m kind of obsessed about clean teeth in the scary kind of way – to avoid the chair off course)
He x-rayed my mouth and jaw and told me that it would require a specialist to extract these wisdoms due to the angle it was growing in my mouth. (My wisdom teeth had decided that the closest fresh air should be obtainable through my ears) He gave me a referral and pointed me to Tygerberg Dental Clinic. I shuddered my first day there. A government facility where you rock up at 06h00 in the morning, so you can stand in a line, locked out of the building in the freezing cold for two hours, just so you can be one of the 76 lucky people to see the dentist. You scribble your name onto the sheet and get a number, if you’re really lucky, you rocked up at 05h00, which means you should be one of the first 25 to be called.
The screening process off course has you sitting on uncomfortable plastic coated chairs with all manner of germ infested folk (I’m not a germaphobe, some of these people were just that dirty) and frantic moms whose desperate bid to hold onto their suddenly rabid two year olds happens to take place over your lap, shoes, shoulders, handbag and right where you were going to put your foot in your feverish dash to escape, leaving you sprawled and at the mercy of any number of excitable germs.
If you’re lucky, a kindly old man might help you up while the rest of the people stare at you as if you are insane (the frantic mom never noticed because she’s running down the passage screaming for the rabid toddler’s return)
Once you’ve been in “Sifting” for approximately 3 hours, and the dentist on duty can’t assist with your particular problem, he may send you for x-rays (in my case…again)
Things only mildly improve in the waiting area of X-Rays. Now you wait with less people, but there is only approximately 20 seats, which has been filled with everyone and their family by the time you get there, so you are left to stand for about an hour, because the old lady that has just arrived really should sit down in the recently vacant seat, and so it goes, until finally, whatever sense of charity you may have had at the beginning of the day, is forced through a set of clenched teeth by sheer will alone.
Another two hours spent here has a nurse stuffing very sharp little plates into your gums on the sides and telling you in a matronly little voice to please bite down as hard as you can. And you go ??????!!!!
Barely having survived the Tygerberg Slice and Dice Massacre (Texas, watch out!) you get sent up to the specialist office to… wait for it… make an appointment! I will continue the story of the first appointment for my right sided wisdoms at another time, and let you decide for yourself whether it’s probably better to just get false teeth or whether you should go ahead and try to keep your own.
Child abuse is one of those scary facts of life that affect more people than you may expect, more than is guessed at or shown in statistics. It affects the people who love the victim and the abuser in ways that most people don’t even take the time to think about. It affects the victim in countless different ways through all stages of his or her life.
You might be wondering why I would choose to write about something so somber on a Friday night, when all the normal people out there are resting at home with a movie or going out for celebratory drinks, or simply just going out to have a good time.
Well, an acquaintance recently told me about an incident that happened at his home with a family friend’s 9 year old daughter who touched his younger son inappropriately and the way he dealt with the problem. Now the question you should ask yourself is; how would you deal with the problem? Try to answer as honestly as you can, taking into consideration the potential relationship you may have with the parents of said child. This is by no means easy. This acquaintance and his wife chose to address the problem in a reasonable discussion with his son, with a cautioning to stay away from this girl. This might be the way most parents would like to deal with this; after all, our first concern is and always will be the welfare of our own child.
I understand that, and I respect that, however there is still more to it, aren’t there? I raised the fact that a child of that age doing inappropriate things like that indicates a history of sexual abuse. His answer was “possibly, however there are girls of ten or eleven starting a career in prostitution, and sometimes kids are just messed up” I mean, how can that possibly be his answer? If there is a problem with her brain/psychology (and here I must admit I know little about the subject) it would most certainly manifest in a different manner, after all, we do what we know, and we lash out in ways that feel familiar.
He was immovable in his conclusion that it was not his place to raise the matter, as, for all he knew, the father may be the one responsible. In their defense, they did discuss the situation in depth and reviewed their evidence and the potential conclusion of this problem before deciding that it was not their problem. I must ask though… whose problem is it? Some other parent can say something if it happens to their child was the response, (I was thinking: which might be what the previous parent said, before your difficult conversation with your innocent child, that parent may have had a similar one with their child)
So the problem continues. The victim, who is drowning in shame, thinks that no one is aware of their shame (because in most cases, the children feel responsible for it, as if they are asking for it in some way) and the abuser feels all powerful in how brilliant society is in its set up and fear of rocking the boat. They get away with it. Forever. Ready to abuse the next child, who could very well be yours.
Discussing abuse and our roles in it, is actually worth a lot more pages and time, I would however like to keep my argument short. It is cowardly to decide that you will not take a moral stand on it because it is inconvenient, may cause trouble and be unpleasant for the people involved. By deciding to simply cut the person out of your life without trying the make a difference protects only your child, and only for now. This abuser may very well get another chance with another child, someone you care about, maybe even your child (perhaps in an environment where you are not in control to protect him or her) or even your grandchild, years from now. Is this what you want your child to do if they are faced with a similar problem? Is avoidance really the one value you want your child to learn?
This is something you don’t know. I am a victim of abuse, and I am no longer ashamed. When I look at my daughter and the innocence that radiates from her, I understand, finally, just how helpless I really was. In retrospect, I also know that some people were aware of the abuse as there were signs. I wasn’t an unhappy child. Abused children rarely are, we tend to compartmentalize our lives as a way to cope with the trauma. We never unlearn this. I was a good student, did my homework, listened to my parents, and always maintained a positive outlook.
My lashing out came much later, just after my teenage years in fact. Other signs were there though. Signs that, if you had the courage, could have prevented years of abuse. This is true for me, and in twenty years, will be true for her. Every day, someone has the power to improve someone’s life, and teach children that there are people who say “Enough”
I learned this only when I myself became a mother. I will be the she-wolf that protects my cub to the bitter end, with my life if I must, and if I have the opportunity to protect your child, I will. No, I am not ashamed, not any more. I am proud of who I have become, not because of the abuse, but despite it.
After another busy week of “here is a working mother whose husband had a recent birthday” and all the chaos that naturally went with that, I finally got around to reading the latest challenge on the Katalina Blog Challenge and absolute loved the idea. Nadine Rose Larter has outdone herself this week. I sat staring at the bookshelf for a bit before deciding to pick a book. Star Trek books, JRR Tolkien, Harry Potters, Philosophy, Wilbur Smith, ancient cook books mixed randomly with computer course manuals (no one said I was organised) Between a book on Zen Buddhism and Huisgenoot Kook a frazzled piece of what may have been termed a book once (a really long time ago) a dog-eared coverless collection of pages draws my eye. Taking it out, I find a true lost treasure. A book I read so many times as a kid that I am surprised that I can’t recite it from beginning to end. Louis L’Amour’s book Where The Long Grass Blows.
There was a lonely place where the trail ran up to the sky, turning sharply away at the rimrock where a man could see all the valley below, a splendid green of forest and meadow fading into the purple of the farther mountains. The silence there echoes into the cavern of a man’s soul, bringing him closer to the peace that everyone has inside them, that so few ever find. At least, that’s what my Dad used to say. Standing at his grave, I have the perfect view of that ridge and even though twenty years has come and gone, I have not been able to walk that road again. I’ve not been able to find that peace again, and now that I’m a man, I need it more than ever. It feels almost sacrilegious to stand here at his grave contemplating walking up that ridge, looking at the valley below, knowing that I’d only be doing it for the remote chance of finding that peace that has eluded me for so long.
Twenty years. It’s a long time. I look at the tombstone, not even registering the words, just tracing their outline with my eyes. Curving up the S following the T into the circling O. Over and over again my eyes follow that O. I find that the regret I have lived with so long is gone. I’m completely numb to everything. The overgrown grave, the tumbling ruin of the graveyard wall, the sun dappling through the majestic cover a gigantic poplar. I’ve come in order to make some kind of peace with the past, to find that place inside me where peace lives.
I was hoping that I could find it here, perhaps take a walk up to that ridge and simply soak it up. The truth though is that it’s not that simple. You can’t simply open yourself up and say, I’m empty, fill me up. When you open your arms, it doesn’t mean someone will walk into them.
When the brightness of the sun fades into shimmering reds and golds I realize that I have been standing motionless at his grave, unable to move my feet, following that O, glancing at the ridge, back to the O… The proverbial tennis match. I force my feet into a turn-around, my movements sluggish and reluctant. I won’t find peace here, and yet I have a feeling the only peace I’ll ever know can only be found here. Can you find peace anywhere else when the peace you want was placed 6 feet under by your own actions?
This is a new category, and I want it to reflect every dream that I have ever had. All the things that I still want to do, real or imagined. After all, this blog is a place where I can dream, do and say whatever I want, so anything goes. I want this category to reflect me. Every nuance and part that I usually brush aside in the mundane rush of life.
The things I want to do will include, but not be limited to:
Travel (Japan, well, maybe not so much anymore, they are a country in mourning and need to be given the time to heal themselves – to quote my long time hero: Live long and Prosper Japan – one day, my feet will meet your shores with love and respect)
Music concerts – Dropkick Murphys; here I come
Achievements – I am so going to be famous one day (watch out world, you’ll never be the same again)
Finishing my book, which at this time in my life provokes really strong reactions, despair, joy, pride, frustration, hopelessness, determination. You name it, my relationship with my writing has put me right in the middle of it.
Learning new skills – no, music won’t be part of it, been there, tried it, failed miserably. I must accept that I have no musical talent whatsoever; except when I am cleaning house and no one’s around, times like that I am a phenomenal performer you know. You guessed it, with a voice like an angel *clears throat* Yeah.
Instructions on my farewell party, the word funeral will just depress everyone.
In other words, my bucket list will be a reflection of myself, and will show my deep connection with my humanity. I say this because at the end of the day, the destination is the same, it’s just the road that varies.
Whilst my journey is hopefully far from over (I will need a lot of time to get even half of the intended items done) I hope that it will be an eventful and colourful one that will reflect the joy my friends and family bring me, and that their love and trust will be deserved at the end of the road.
So here goes… oh, and by the way, you should totally start your own bucket list page, I’m totally going to need the ideas 
As a person who swears only very rarely; my opinion on the subject may come as a surprise. I have no problem with swearing. In fact, my favourite band, Dropkick Murphys has some kind of love affair with the musical variety of more-acceptable-singing-it-than-saying-it swear words. Some of my favourite books have taught me all the inventive ways that the word “Fuck” can be used for; like Fan-fucking-tastic; ri-fucking-diculous and so on.
Dropkick Murphys
Now the real question: If I don’t swear, is it because I have a secret hatred of swearing or a secret fetish with it? No; on both counts. I rarely swear because when I say it, it just kind of sound tacky and unconvincing; as if I’m trying too hard. I don’t think I have the convince-factor a word like “Fuck” requires… unless I am really, really pissed off.
This doesn’t mean that I do not swear in my head. Today, for example, I met my inner sailor. Yeah, I wasn’t fond of her; she kind of scared me to tell you the truth. I prefer to use the Battlestar Galactica made-up-swear-words-are-cooler-than-real-ones Frak as a substitute for “Fuck” It feels more me.
Now all that being said; I feel that I am highly unqualified to give a true opinion on swearing. I feel no qualms whatsoever about words like “ass” or “pissed” or other slightly more (and occasionally less) socially acceptable words, but the local P-word (dutch for cat) is not something I like to hear, to say, or even to read. So I will definitely not put that to paper.
Here are a few swearwords and their distant family; and my opinion on them:
Cunt: Not a favourite to be honest, it could be something to do with the fact that I had no idea what the word was when I said it the first time. My mother was shocked at her seven-year-old’s vocabulary to such an extent that I got a slap for my efforts, was grounded for two weeks and received a complimentary sent-to-my-room episode.
Ass: No better way to express affection or loathing. Think: “He’s such an ass” or “Jeez, check out that guy’s yummy ass” or “Drag your sorry ass back here!” I kind of like it, so not a swear word, just a nice expressive word.
Pissed: I like this one. It really expresses my occasional outbursts. Sometimes I just get really pissed off, okay?
Bitch: I like this one. A friend and I regularly rag each other about it, so I only have funny memories about it and reserve this for good friends as a result.
Crap: This should not ever be considered as a bad word. Some people do regard it as such though. I have no idea why.
Fuck: The one word I can never quite pull off. This may be why I like it so much. It is, to me, the most unattainable swear word in the world, and the one that everyone except me seems to have a knack for. You can stretch it out “Fuuuuck” to give it some extra oomph. You can insert it in the middle of a word for that extra little something. You can use it pretty much in almost every word’s place. This must be the most versatile word in the world and it is finally getting the credit it deserves. So yeah, this is a favourite.
Thinking about all of this, I find that I actually do swear. I just cover it up with pretty words that convince me and everyone else around me that I don’t really swear. The fact that I don’t swear more should then automatically win me some kind of award.
