(write this down, Leo: nothing is empty.)

love, stargirl
jerry spinelli
. . . . . . . . . . .

Her new best friend Dootsie is going to drive you insane. Eleven-year-old heavyweight champ Alvina just might put you off the book for good. But there's a certain hope in cemetery-dweller Charlie, or maybe even agoraphobic neighbor Betty Lou. And, okay, any Gilmore Girl fan will forgive new love interest Perry in a heartbeat---his cynical musings, unexplained absences and library leanings remind of a certain Jess Mariano. And Stargirl herself?

Stargirl's the same, though a bit older than before. Her unique perspective remains testament to Spinelli's imagination, and even if you could toss the others over your shoulder without a second glance, you hold onto Stargirl because she makes you feel a little bit better about yourself. She makes you feel like maybe you can be yourself and accepted. I mean, maybe you count in multiples of three, or perhaps you only sip pomegranate tea on Thursdays, but you certainly don't keep a rat in your pocket. Or make a spatula sundial. Or homeschool in Elements of Nothingness. Stargirl is just as wacky as ever---and in that we can take comfort in our own quirks and individuality.

Still, the writing is at times terribly forced and more often unbelievable. Stargirl might be a high school senior in the throes of emotional creativity, but her descriptions and ever-happy attitude wear thin. In a series of entries comprising the "longest letter ever", this sequel to Stargirl explores a life without Leo, asking, can you lose your favorite person without losing yourself? With a question like that to start off a story, you would expect the occasional misery, but Stargirl can't seem to pull that off. She makes note of the pebble imbalance in her Happy Wagon, but the emotion doesn't stick. She writes back-to-back entries in entirely opposite feeling, but it comes off as an act. Her words may read like poetry, but you can't help tossing a little reality into the mix and wondering, Really? No way.

Overall, Love, Stargirl is a sweet read about loving and letting go, with a few gems to pick up and keep close along the way. You'll adore the beginning, wade through the middle, and huzzah! in the end. As far as sequels go, this one's a-okay.

. . . . . . . . . . .

You occupied my space. But because you were not in my present, when I looked into my future I saw . . . nothing. Isn't that sad? And stupid?

first chapter here.

cup of common calamity

there is a small poem to go with this small painting,
but I cannot seem to finish it.
for now, a lonely canvas board paired with the midnight inspiration of finished tea
and the last of my titanium white acrylic.

standing still

No, this isn't blog burglary, only the alarm. If you haven't already read the latest Saltbox Girl, I suggest you do so now.

Yes, you might still need that Kleenex.

if I didn't go to Africa to study animals, I might be a beautiful genius tennis player

kira-kira
cynthia kadohata
. . . . . . .

Most years I make it a point to read the latest Newbery (both winner and honors), but for one reason or another I've long avoided 2005's Kira-Kira. It might have been the cover photo, the front-flap synopsis, my insane aversion to size 16 font---but whatever made the miss, it was my loss. Kira-Kira, as the title suggests (the word means glittering in Japanese), simply shines.

Amidst shelves of books detailing the lives of fictional frustrations, Cynthia Kadohata's one foray into the Young Adult genre is a lung full of countryside air. Too often the YA fare centers around the hero's life in a Me Against the World tale, assuming all readers are familiar with the world's grungy reality and are in desperate need of more. They come from broken homes or the wrong side of the tracks, find themselves constantly alone or perpetually alienated. And while Kadohata's story, centering around a first generation Japanese-American girl in the 1950s, could certainly lean to that center, the brilliant news is that it doesn't.

Instead, her book is filled with the light of family and an innocent approach to a life that, while absolutely overrun in hardship, glitters just like our narrator's favorite Japanese word. Ten-year-old Katie learns to appreciate the ordinary from older sister and best friend Lynn, who inspires, if not controls, every aspect of Katie's life. In Katie's simple prose we see the sparkle of a chess game, a school dress, a colored Kleenex. Even more rewarding, we see the sparkle of her family: an adored baby brother, the revered older sister, the incredibly loving and honorable parents. It is clear that they work together, or not at all---a togetherness that is threatened when Lynn is diagnosed with lymphoma.

So before you storm the library, you might be needing that colored Kleenex. The words may be simple, but the emotions are almost too much for them to hold. Katie's loss becomes our loss, too, as we only see her beautiful world through her eyes---and so she sums up a typical reader's reaction quite nicely, in fact: "I cried and cried. For a while as I cried I hated my parents, as if it were their fault that Lynn was sick. Then I cried because I loved my parents so much."

Find and replace "parents" for "Kadohata" and you couldn't say it better. Kira-Kira may be despised for a love so cruelly lost, but it well deserves that gold sticker for its testament to the love of a family that will last forever, kira-kira.

. . . . . . . . . . .


first chapter here.

She said, "Maybe we can each make one unselfish wish."

"I wish for a house for you and for Mom."

"I wish you would be happy forever."

That left our father. I didn't know what he wanted most. It seemed the only thing he wanted was to take care of us. Every time it was his birthday, we got him aftershave lotion that our mother paid for. He always seemed to like it.

today, i

'yes,' said the spirit, 'come and try.'

Just a little Great Divorce to top off the Sharpie.
: : : : : : : : : : :
Why, yes. I do have a 7 am staff meeting. Sleep? Completely passé.

(i've got to) stop thinkin' 'bout that

I've been thinking about thought lately---or, more specifically, thought processes. How do we jump from word to word, connecting sight, smell, touch, sound and memory to form a whole? What moves that bizarre train of thought from homework list to eternal salvation? That picks you up at a travel daydream and drops you off only one station away with itinerary fully planned and bags all but half-packed? Add an imagination to that, and suddenly you're keeping company with a batty old aunty who carries a teal/orange carpet bag, too. Or maybe that's just me.

Yesterday, in that bitter wind between classes, I wished vaguely for the power to apparate. Within three steps my imagination had jumped from mere thought to action, playing out the scene in my head. I'd have to scry* the Storeroom first, of course, seeing as I was the only witch on a Muggle-full campus and couldn't risk exposure, and after a quick look into the situation I made the leap, choosing the far corner between paper racks as the all-clear. Unfortunately, I hadn't factored in the door to the studio, which stands at the end of said rack and, strangely enough, happened to be open at the moment of my magic trick and I turned to see a tall boy, curly-headed and dumbfounded, staring back at me. Thinking fast, I apparated right back to that icy stretch between library and bookstore, hoping the boy would assume the vision a mix of late nights and study-weary eyes.

Yes, I actually conjured that all up in the space of one sidewalk square. Don't ask me how---I certainly wasn't actively thinking, Hmm. What if . . . ?---the thought merely spun the story itself. I actually found myself laughing out loud at my mental scene, shaking my head. The human mind. Seriously.

Applicably, though, I've been wondering about the thought process of an art project. Last Thursday my professor encouraged the class to spend at least an hour a day sketching out ideas and potential compositions for our self portrait unit. He asked us to keep all rough drafts, marginal doodles and sketches we might make in the process as a measure of growth and change within the one work, to be turned in alongside the final piece. Sounds fair, right? And I'm all about the process, finding the pieces to fit for the whole, working out the details in light of the Big Picture. Unfortunately for this latest assigment, I tend to do this in my head.

My rough drafts, marginal doodles, sketches? You're looking at it. One little pen-and-ink, barely two inches tall, drawn only in order to pass a note on to A (thanks for the coat, by the way. Adding Versace class as only you can.). But the truth is, I've spent hours upon hours on this portrait. Sleepless nights and daydreamed afternoons. Blocking out composition, flipping through color palettes, comparing Sharpie tips. Mentally. I've done this all mentally. I've imagined ten different positions, hundreds of words, a dozen different sizes. It all came without prompt, for this is the way it has always been. Every serious artwork of mine has been born of long hours in the mind, tumbling until polished and ready to place. I'm not saying it's instant---some have spent weeks and even months in the grind---but once I've seen the job clearly in my head, it only takes the time to draw/paint/cut/paste/weld before I'm done.

While this might be a problem come tomorrow night's due date, I don't dislike my methods. Although every one of my art teachers never understood it (and usually didn't believe it, for that matter), it's the natural approach for me, and I've grown used to its ways. What I am wondering is, how do you think it through? Not just in art ways, naturally, but in everything---papers to pinatas. Do you outline your approach or just hack at it?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


*So I threw some Eragon into the Potter. It happens.

sigh

Back to reality, I suppose.

Stories to follow, from all genres. Get ready for the action,
the drama, the romance and the comedy.

New Zealand is/was/always will be a dream.