You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better. ~ Anne Lamott
My atheism is not predicated on hate, anger, or a disagreement with the Judeo-Christian version of God. He and I are not at odds. To me, he is a myth which I am not at war with. And before you suggest I am on the "dark side", please know I do not spend my free time sitting in a pentagram, channelling evil.
I searched for years and could not find any real tangible evidence for "his" existence that did not require me to suspend beliefs that I knew to be right and true in order to embrace those myths championed in the bible that extol his virtues and existence. Yes, myth. Read about Horus and Mithra, for a start, and you if you are honest with yourself, you will begin to see parallels that make that whole bible thing look like history's best work of plagiarism.
Now, if you have real, tangible proof that can be evidenced in reality and tested by empirical science, show me and I may actually change my mind. Do not point to me and say god made me. My parents having sex without using birth control made me.
Until that time, if that time ever occurs, please do not act like you are a better person than I am or that you have keys to some magical kingdom that makes you more entitled than the rest of us. I do not need a book full of what I consider to be fairy tales to be a good person. You consistently break vows and promises you make to "him". You sin. Just like the rest of us.
Whenever you elevate yourself upon your self-made pedestal remember this, you look like a fool and we all know that you have shaped your beliefs to be entirely altogether too congenial and convenient in order to absolve yourself of any real responsibility for your actions or accountability for the harm you cause.
Exactly who is the liar?
Do not accept anything simply because it has been said by your teacher, or because it has been written in your sacred book, or because it has been believed by many, or because it has been handed down by your ancestors.
Accept and live only according to what will enable you to see truth face to face.
~ Buddha
A home without books is a body without soul. ~ Marcus Tullius Cicero
More time reading books, less time on The Grid.
More writing, less researching.
More healthy food, less detrimental slop.
More cooking, less take out.
More love, less harm.
More grace, less gossip.
More movement, less stagnation.
More light, less blindness.
More wisdom, less acrimony.
More Buddhism, less attachment.
(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on January 24, 2010)
This week I received another sign that Armageddon is on the way.
Our anger shaman, Henry Rollins, has a girlfriend.
Say whaaa?
First things first, I’m not seeing Edmonton on your tour schedule, and now you publicly admit to being attached and in a committed relationship? WTF, Hank? Clearly, pigs are about to fly and that weasel Garry Bettman is giving Satan his own NHL franchise.
Henry, my friend, I thought we had a deal.
The Rollins Church of Cynicism cannot exist when our jaded leader falls in love. And how the hell am I going to convert others to your pontifications when you and the Bon Jovi Mobile are steering clear of E-Town?
I feel exactly like I did when I found out the Tooth Faerie is a hoax. Cheated and holding a box of manky old teeth. But without the box of teeth.
I swear to gawd, if Lady Gaga gets caught in jeans and a tee shirt, I’m jumping off the roof.
I was also cheated in another way this week. Book number three of the year was supposed to be Salman Rushdie’s The Enchantress of Florence. I am abandoning it. I am on page 184 out of 349 and this story still hasn’t picked up. As a matter of fact, after 184 pages, it’s been a complete snore and somebody really needs to liberate Rushdie’s thesaurus; his writing is excessively wordy and quite frankly, hollow. Oh ya, I went there. I’ve also dropped a couple of Rushdie’s books off my “I Must Read This Before I Die” list. Life is too short and he’s already shaved way too much time off my life with this piece of doo-doo.
I accept part of the blame for this situation. I did pick the book myself after reading stellar reviews and watching it appear all over Best Seller lists. Generally, I am not persuaded by a journalist’s review of a book or Best Seller lists. Opinions are like assholes, everyone has one. And a Best Seller is exactly that, a best seller, and never a clear indication of what the quality of the book is.
Let me take a moment to remind you that Britney Spears is a best selling author.
Ya, that’s right, now you get it.
Literature is subjective, as are all art forms, and I should know better than to allow another person to sway my choice. The last time I picked up a book that people were gushing over was Sara Gruen's Water for Elephants. After four attempts, I still haven’t got past the second chapter of that cure for insomnia. Just shoot me if I pick up anything by Stephenie Meyer. Gawd, her writing is shite.
So, after reading The Dalai Lama’s Little Book of Inner Peace by His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, Stuck in Downward Dog by Chantel Simmons, and abandoning The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie, I am rounding out the month of January with Cosmic Jackpot: Why Our Universe is Just Right for Life by Paul Davies. I have flipped through it and it promises to be a mind-fuck for sure… leptons and quarks, big bangs and big rips.
This better be good Trev or you owe me $34.95 and your testicles. And don’t think I won’t collect either.
Please don't expect a plot synopsis. You can go here for that. I don't want to spoil it for you. What I will tell you is this... I loved this book.
This is something of a miracle.
I am a complete book snob and rarely love a book. Like, yes. Love, not always. Too many years of studying and reading genres like late Victorian era literature and enjoying Shakespeare made me that way. Disgust and disdain that celebs "write" books that get published made me that way. That being said, it is not that drivel alone that makes me a snob. The "best sellers" have made me dry heave too. Yann Martel's Life of Pi? Couldn't get past the third chapter. People were wetting themselves over Salmon Rushdie's The Enchantress of Florence. I put it down half way through because I was tired of waiting for a plot to happen.
I do not generally waste my precious time on insipid retellings of the same bullshit love story indulge in chick lit, but this book came highly and emphatically recommended. Yes, I know My Name is Memory is marketed as "Young Adult" fiction but it can easily be considered a gateway to chick lit. That made me nervous. Chick lit with a PG-13 rating... how can this be good?
My Name is Memory was going to be one of those books I read while commuting to and from work. I found myself totally immersed right away to the point I almost missed my stop on the way to work. To prevent this from happening, I limited myself to a chapter at a time. Yes, I am a geek like that but when a book is good, you want to savour it. Like a fine wine or an amazing orgasm.
A common complaint about this book is that the transition between character time lines is not harmonious and lacks cohesion. Really? Brasher uses chapters to separate the time lines. She even starts the chapters with the place and date the chapter is occurring in. My only complaint was the ending. It just ended. And I was super pissed off about that... here's Brasher begging the question "does true love last forever?" and all I get is an abrupt ending? Bah!
Fear not kids, Lord Google says My Name is Memory is actually book one of a trilogy.
And the angels sang!
Next up:
While this book has been on my amazon.ca wish list since it was released, I bought it sooner than anticipated because of the controversy over the cover. Aristotle and controversy, what's not to love?
