River S
the ocean at the end of the lane
June 27, 2015
'The room was warm, but the sheets were cold. The bed shook as something landed on it, and then small feet padded up the blankets, and a warm, furry presence pushed itself into my face and the kitten began, softly, to purr.
There was still a monster in my house, and, in a fragment of time that had, perhaps, been snipped out of reality, my father had pushed me down into the water of the bath and tried, perhaps, to drown me. I had run for miles through the dark. I had seen my father kissing and touching the thing that called itself Ursula Monkton. The dread had not left my soul.
But there was a kitten on my pillow, and it was purring in my face and vibrating gently with every purr, and very soon, I slept.'
The Ocean at the End of the Lane
'Our hero’s kitten means more to him than anyone realises. Did you have any pets as a child? Do you think that they have more significance for children than adults?
'Our hero’s kitten means more to him than anyone realises. Did you have any pets as a child? Do you think that they have more significance for children than adults?
I think so. I think there’s a bonding experience between children and pets whereas adults would be hard pushed to make that amount of emotional investment in pets. My pets were pretty much always cats and many of the things that I talk about in Ocean are things that absolutely happened to me and cats.
There’s a Terry Pratchett poem that he wrote in an anthology that I co-edited a long time ago which begins "They don’t teach you the facts of death, your Mum and Dad. They give you pets." And, actually, it’s true. For many of us, pets are the way we initially discover it. We encounter it, learn how to live with it, learn how to survive it. And that, in some horrible way, is what pets are for.'
(Taken from the endnotes of The Ocean at the End of the Lane)
José Naranja's moleskines
I spent most of my years at Uni filling sketchbooks just like this and for some reason i was simultaneously applauded and admonished for it.
I studied Fine Art, so i guess my tutors were expecting page upon page of preparatory cartoons (in the classic sense), scribbles and notes about future works.
Not moleskines filled with quotes, printed out bitesize copies of other people's work that inspired me, detailed passages on the subject of my work: purgatory/hell/the shades, and only a few intricatel pieces of draughtsmanship scattered throughout the whole notebook.
I did most of my best drawing inside a sketchbook and this wasn't well thought of either.
I don't know why i didn't just tell everyone to go to hell and keep doing what i was doing but i'm kind of an academic pushover.
I was the kid who wasn't a genius but wasn't stupid or average, i kept my head down and worked reasonably hard.
I'm intelligent and really fucking lazy.
But i got good grades. Teachers liked me.
Conscientious was used continuously in my report cards and it's what i was.
But that meant i didn't really strive for anything and i didn't tell my teachers/tutors when i thought they were wrong.
When i thought they were damaging my progress or leading me astray.
Which is probably why my brain imploded and i ended up leaving at the end of 3rd year.
Strange thing is though, my dedicated tutor (i can't for the life of me remember what we called those people) recommended me to a woman putting together a book on sketchbooks from all areas of academia because she thought my sketchbooks were worth seeing.
...
No wonder my brain melted.
If only someone had told me about José Naranja, maybe i would have kept going and flipped everyone off with my mad moleskine skills.
...
Or not, probably not.
via Seaweed Kisses
Stealing from the sibling:
And gearing up for the next few reads:
I'm pretty fickle though.
This will change.
The Sisters' Garden
'Three sisters live in the woods. Their plot of land is covered in bushes, flowers and weeds, ingredients for the potions they make. Every morning, crows bring the sisters plants from afar so they can start their day’s work.'
My face hurts.
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