The Mystery of The Cuckoos Calling…

cuckooAfter Harry Potter came The Casual Vacancy. It was a powerful follow up to what has now become a classic (so quickly!) series in literature that has touched millions of lives. The Casual Vacancy was just as engrossing, just as compelling and set a different tone for J. K. Rowling.

The Casual Vacancy was a big book about a small town. It had the tone of Stephen King’s Under the Dome mixed with Coronation Street with It was a real departure for her and I came away from it thinking of Dickens with a modern twist. It showed that J. K. Rowling had more than one kind of magic up her sleeve. Along with bazillions of others, I waited to see what would be next.

The Casual Vacancy came out in 2012 but Harry Potter came out in 2007-that’s a five year wait. So I was happy to wait and see what would come after for a few years more, hankering for news of her next writing project; but there was a problem…

You see, it’s a bit of a mystery. Imagine my surprise when news started popping up that J. K. Rowling had written a book under the false name of Robert Galbraith. I didn’t believe it at first, not really. Being a Harry Potter fanboy, I was used to news of constant fake novels. To anyone who hasn’t fallen in love with the books or the movies probably won’t get it.

I remember going to a midnight release for the fifth book Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. It the whole evening struck me as magical. I had just gotten off a midnight shift and headed straight to the bookstore. It was filled with tons of people, most dressed in costume, all waiting for that moment when we could start reading.

It struck me that night that there was something magical about millions of people around the world, all reading the same book at the same time (thousands of millions if you take into account the different time changes). That’s not just a book-it’s an experience, that is magic. It also ends up being the worlds biggest book club that topped Oprah’s. Now that’s awesome.

You can be pretty much assured that I’ll read every book that J. K. Rowling has written or will write; but is that because she wrote the Harry Potter books? No, as much as I love them. It has to do with the fact that she’s one hell of a storyteller. She tells amazing stories, pure and simple.

The news of The Cuckoos Calling continued to pour in, finally confirmed later in the day by the CBC, the New York Times and the Huffington Post. To say I was stunned was an understatement. Everyone knows by now, that J. K Rowling wrote the book under a pseudonym.

I couldn’t wait to read it. I got the eBook as soon as I got home and am patiently waiting for the hardcover. A friend of mine asked me if I would have read it if I didn’t know it was by J. K. Rowling. The answer is probably not, but not for the reasons you might think.

I love mystery novels. I grew up on them: Agatha Christie, Ruth Rendell Jonathan and Faye Kellerman, Mo Hayder, P. D. James, Robert B. Parker, Raymond Chandler, Sue Grafton. I read all of their books and tons more authors than I can remember. Though I haven’t read a mystery novels, their what I cut my reading teeth on; well that and Stephen King.

I will occasionally pick up a mystery novel from time to time if its advertised well. The Flavia De Luce mysteries by Alan Bradley and The Hangman;s Daughter by Oliver  Potch are my current fave mystery books, that and anything by Minette Walters.

The thing is though, big releases like theirs are seen and, in J. K. Rowling case, she didn’t want to be. She just wanted to write and see what would happen. I think that’s pretty darn cool, actually. She could have gone her normal route but lets face it, if The Cuckoos Calling came out as J. K. Rowling’s next release, it would have sold billions. People love her books that much.

I really admire Rowling for creating a bit of mystery around The Cuckoos Calling. I think it’s a shame that her pseudonym was revealed in such a way. I don’t know how I’d feel if something I had worked under to give me freedom turned around and brought me more scrutiny. But hey, if it hadn’t been, I wouldn’t be able to read the new J. K. Rowling book.

However, the question should really be: Is The Cuckoos Calling any good?

Oh my god yes! I haven’t had this much fun reading a mystery novel in years.  Cormoran Strike is a private detective with no home, no cases and creditors on his heels.

He’s also fresh out of his recent relationship, for the umpteenth time. Charlotte and him are splits for sure this time. Seeing as it was her apartment, he’s currently sleeping in his office on a camp bed.

Enter Robin,  the temporary. She’s recently engaged to Mat and isn’t sure what this new assignment will be. When she finds out that Cormoran Strike is a private eye, heart skips a bear. It’s always been her secret ambition to be a private eye. It’s always seemed so thrilling, so mysterious.

A mystery is just what ends up waling through the door: John Bristow is Lula Landry’s sister. Three months ago, the famous model commited suicide. Bristow wants Corbraith to prove she didn’t kill herself. Are Strike and Robin up for the job?

I’m half way through The Cuckoos Calling and thus far it’s been filled with models, sleezy lawyers and liars, oh my! Add in the uppity socialites, security guards and wanna-be actors and limo drivers, a bag lady and more. No one is telling the truth (or are they?) and eveyone has something to hide.

The Cuckoos Calling is incredible and I’m only half way done. I can’t wait to see what happens next. So why am I writing about it before I’m done the book? Personally, I think anyone that enjoygs a good mystery has to read this book, pure and simple. Anyone that enjoys a well told novel, really.

It doesn’t matter who wrote it, whether under the name of Rowling or Robert Galbraith. Its a story well told. All the hoopla about her false name being revealed is old news. Just read the book and form your own opinions.

I still feel badly for J. K. Rowling and don’t believe that this was all done as some sort of publicity stunt, as some people are claiming, but I am really happy that I get to read the book.

The Cuckoos Calling is a brilliant detective novel told in the classic vein in a modern setting. and I for one feel very luck to be able to read it.

 

Cerebral – A Short Story

brain_drawing_

ce·re·bral [suh-ree-bruhl, ser-uh-]

adjective

1. Anatomy, Zoology; of or pertaining to the cerebrum or the brain.

2. Betraying or characterized by the use of the intellect rather than intuition or instinct: His is a cerebral music that leaves many people cold.

3. Phonetics. retroflex

 

Athetoid Cerebral Palsy

Less common than Spastic Cerebral Palsy and more common than Ataxic Cerebral Palsy, Athetoid Cerebral Palsy is caused by damage to the cerebellum or basal ganglia. These areas of the brain are the ones that process the signals that enable co-ordinated movements and body posture.

A child born with Athetoid Cerebral Palsy usually develops involuntary movements, especially in the face, arms and parts of their body. It interferer’s with speaking, feeding, reaching, grasping, etc. It can also lead to trouble speaking and swallowing, drooling and slowed speech.

i

 

He knew the evening would be interesting when he saw the body in the garden.

Cedric tried to tell his mother about it, but as usual, she wasn’t listening. “There’s a man in the garden.” This is what he said. What came out was: “I want to play with fire truck.” Fuck, he thought. Lets try that again: “I’ll make it go around the room.”

Mother fucker, he thought. He was often perplexed by the relationship between his tongue and his brain. It often didn’t let him do what he needed or wanted to do. When he wanted to change from his chair to the couch, he couldn’t move his body very well. When he wanted to speak, to shape a phrase, something else materialized. It was all very disturbing.

He pointed at the window hoping that his mother would get the hint. At least that part of him worked fine: right arm and left leg. He could point and gesture at things – he hadn’t been denied that movement. He had learned quickly and wondered, not for the first time, why he had to resort to pointing at things – everyone knew that pointing was terribly rude.

Sometimes, however, pointing didn’t work. This was one of those times. Cedric’s mother Helena stopped scrubbing the dishes for a moment to stir a pot and gave him a glance. It wasn’t a mean glance, more a motherly look just to check that he was there.

“There’s my button,” she said – and promptly resumed stirring dinner. “Who’s Mommy’s cute boy?”

Cedric sighed.

It was going to be a long night.

ii

 

Elena, Cedric’s older sister came into the kitchen. She had a quick smile for him before grabbing some cereal from the cupboard. His mother looked at her sternly.

“You’ll spoil you’re supper if you eat now.”

“It’s just cereal,” Elena says. She holds up the box. “Look, it says whole grain, right there on the box. Aren’t you always telling me that whole grain is good for me?”

His mother scowls. “Honestly, why we ever taught you to talk at all, I’ll never know.” She goes back to stirring at the stove, humming something to herself. She hummed tunelessly. She was lost to him.

Cedric motioned to the window. He made one of the noises he knew he could make, a soft, urgent sound. He used it for feeding, changing and fright. He tried to tell them things, attempted the right words; but they would always come out wrong.

“There’s a man in the garden and it looks like he’s been there for a while.” What came out was: “I drew some drawings at school today.” His other arm pointed at the fridge. “I put them on the fridge.”

Cock sucker, Cedric thought.

She sat down beside him at the kitchen table and poured out a small handful of cereal onto the tray of his chair. He didn’t mind his chair; it gave him the mobility he lacked. He just wished that it would line up with the table and he didn’t have to use a tray at meal times.

Elena ruffled his hair with affection and gave Cedric one of her smiles. They never failed to warm his day. “Hey squirt,” she said. “You had a good day at school today?”

Cedric nodded and made a grunting sound that signified ascent. He wanted to say “Yes, I had a great day”, but the word ‘yes’ was denied to him. He loved his sister with all his heart and he couldn’t shape the sounds of her name.

“There’s a body in the garden,” he said to her. That’s what he said. What came out was: “I painted pictures today.” Shit balls, he thought. He pointed to the window with an urgent sound pitched low in his throat. Cedric hoped that Elena would take the hint when his mother would not. He was not disappointed.

“What’s the matter, Ced?”

He pointed to the window again and made another urgent sound. Something in its tone must have alerted his mother because even she turned around to look at him. “Elena, what is it?”

Elena went to the kitchen window and looked outside. Cedric’s heart beat quickly in his chest, hoping that she would understand, that she would see. “Mom?” Elena’s voice was unsure. “Mom, there’s a body in the garden.”

Finally, Cedric thought.

iii

            His mother came to stand next to his right and Elena was on his left. All three of them looked outside at the shape that lay amongst the dirt.          Cedric’s mother let out a sharp gasp. “Why, I think that’s your father. He was supposed to be home an hour ago…” She let the sentence trail off and Cedric heard the shrill whine of fear in her voice.

“Is he alright?” Elena asked. Her words were like sharp whispers.

“I think he’s dead,” Cedric said. “He’s been there since this morning. I couldn’t tell it was Dad, he was facing away from me.” He said this. What came out was: “Daddy.” Fuck it, Cedric thought.

“I’m going to go check on him,” Helena said.

“No, Mom, I think there’s blood,” Elena said. “Is that blood?”

Cedric looked closer and did indeed see a red smear that dotted the dirt of their backyard garden. He guessed that the gray mush beside his father’s head was what was left of his brain. The top of his father’s head had been cut clean off – he had been fine only and hour and a half ago; that was the last time he had seen his father alive. It was the blood that disturbed him. He had never liked the sight of it and had seen too much of it in his lifetime.

He would think of that later.

He knew that he should be dismayed, but he was more terrified, truth be told. Terror froze his emotions. Blood had congealed on his father’s head and formed a line into the ground.  Cedric tried to still his heart and reached for Elena’s hand. His mother gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. “Elena, watch Cedric.” She looked at her daughter with wide eyes. “And stay in the house.”

“Mom, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Helena said. “I don’t know, but I need to see if he’s okay.”

“I think it’s quite clear that he’s not,” Cedric said. What came out was a low guttural sound of fear. The words were there, but he could not shape them.

“Stay inside with Cedric,” she said. “Just make sure that he’s okay.”

“Mom, don’t be ridiculous. Whoever did that could still be out there.”

His mother turned to look at his sister with a steely eyed glare. Cedric knew that look well, the one that said she was not negotiating. “That is your father,” she said. “I need to make sure he’s alright.”

Saying nothing further, she let herself out the kitchen door, closing it behind her. Cedric watched as his mother squared her shoulders and walked with careful steps towards her husband’s body. When his mother reached his father, she knelt down beside him and felt for a pulse. He knew there wouldn’t be one. Cedric heard his mother let out a loud sob, the sound echoing through the kitchen windows.

The smell of something burning filled the air and Elena and Cedric both looked at the stove. Dinner was smouldering away in the pot, an acrid smoke billowing out of it. Elena went to pull if off the burner. As she moved away, Cedric watched as a dark shape materialized behind his mother. When he saw the gleam of metal, he made another sound of distress. “There’s someone outside!” He screeched. “Mother’s in danger!” What came out was another guttural nose that, for once, matched the terror that coursed through him. Elena ran back to him, they both saw the shadow move closer to their mother.

“What the fuck is that?” Elena said. “Who the fuck is that?”

She moved to open the kitchen door and yell a warning to their mother, but Cedric knew it was too late. The man, for Cedric saw that it was a man, raised his blade above his head and swung it down in one long arc.

Even through the window, there was the wet squelch of blood as the axe blade sliced through his mother’s skull. Cedric saw her eyes, blue and wide with fear, before she toppled over her husband, blood pouring into the ground to merge with his. Elena took Cedric’s hand in hers and was squeezing it; the pressure became stronger as the man reached down and ripped out some of her mother’s brains from her open skull and shoved them in his mouth.

“Oh my god,” Elena said. “Oh my god.”

“I don’t think god can help us now,” Cedric said. What came out instead was a loud wail. The man with the axe heard the sound and looked up, his eyes locking with Cedric’s. The man’s eyes were dead and dark – there was nothing left there but madness. When he started towards the kitchen door, Cedric wailed louder.

Fuck, Cedric thought.

iv

            Cedric watched as Elena moved to the door and engaged the deadbolt. She also put the chain across and then backed away. Their assailant was already there, slamming his body against the kitchen door. It was made of heavy wood, but Cedric knew that it would not hold for long.

With a grace that surprised him, Elena went to the kitchen counter and pulled out a sharp knife. It gleamed like their attacker’s axe. Then she returned to him. “Put your arms around my neck, Ced,” she said. “I need to hide you. I can’t move you in your chair fast enough; you need to hold onto me.”

Cedric nodded and hooked his right arm around Elena’s neck and his left leg around her waist. Though he was fourteen, he was small for his age, his growth under developed because of his Athetoid Cerebral Palsy. There was the sound of breaking wood behind them. “Its okay, Ced, I’ve got you,” Elena said.

He held onto his sister tightly as she moved through the kitchen to the living room. She checked to make sure the windows were locked and moved to the front door. As she turned the deadbolt, there was the sound of breaking glass from the kitchen.

“Shit,” Elena said. “Shit, fuck, shit.”

Cedric could hear the terror in her voice and wished it wasn’t there. He could feel her heartbeat thudding in her chest and its rapid tattoo matched his breathing. Elena moved towards the basement door. “We have to hide, Cedric. Do you think you could play a game of hide and seek and not make any noise?”

He nodded even though Elena didn’t wait for a response. She went to the door and opened it. The stairs loomed downward in the darkness. His sister flicked on the light and Cedric was momentarily blinded by its brightness. Elena stepped down the first step and pulled the basement door closed behind them, locking it. Cedric knew that this was an almost useless measure. If the man wanted to kill them, he would. No door would stop him. However, the click of the lock engaging was comforting nonetheless.

Holding on tighter to his sister, they began to move downward.

 

v

            As they reached the bottom of the basement stairs, there was a loud sound from above them. The man was now inside the house. Cedric was sure those were his footfalls they were hearing now. He moved quickly and Cedric heard him go upstairs first, assuming incorrectly that a family would choose to hide in their rooms. The thud of his footfalls was ominous. He clutched his sister more tightly.

“It’s okay Ced,” Elena whispered.

No, it was certainly not okay, Cedric thought. What the fuck do you think is going on here? Were not on some fucking holiday. What came out was: “Scared.” He was surprised to find a word that summarized what he was feeling in so few syllables. For once his mind and mouth had worked together.

“I know, Ced, I’m scared, too.” Even whispering, there was a note of bright fear in her voice. “But you have to do what I say, alright? You have to do what I tell you. I promised Mom I would keep you safe.” She lowered him into a corner and put a wooden crate in front of him. “Cedric you have to stay here for me and, whatever happens, don’t move, okay? You can’t move from this spot.”

“No, you can’t,” Cedric said to her. “You can’t leave me.” What came out instead was another low sound, deep from his gut, one of fear and terror. He held onto her all the tighter. “Don’t go after him, don’t, he’ll take you too.” She didn’t hear this part of course, Cedric knew this. However, he hoped that Elena heard it all the same.

Instead of staying, his sister pulled away from him, giving him a kiss on the top of the head. She was always wilfully brave – it was a quality that he admired in her except in moments like now, when her bravery could get her killed.

She turned away from him and started up the stairs. He knew that she hoped to catch the intruder, that she meant to keep her home safe, to avenge their parents. He got that, he knew that. Instead, Cedric was just worried that his sister would have her ass handed to her on a platter; or perhaps, in this case, her brain.

Elena reached the bottom of the stairs and had put her left foot on the first rung when there was a thud closer to their heads. He had abandoned the second floor, Cedric thought. Shit fuckers, Cedric thought.

vi

 

            The footsteps were coming down the hallway. Cedric hoped that his sister would look back, that she would come to him, but she wanted to go out fighting. She would go out her own way. “What the fuck are you doing?” Cedric asked. “Are you fucking stupid or something? We need to hide and stay safe.” What came out was his sister’s name. He had never been able to speak it before: “Elena!”

That stopped her. Her right hand, which had been poised to grasp the banister, stopped in mid air – then her arm fell to her side. Turning to Cedric, she looked at him, her eyes wide and somehow bright despite the shadows. There was a gloss of fluid over her  lower lids. Tears leaked down her face. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay to be afraid of the dark.”  What came out instead was a nod and a motion with his arm as if he were hugging her, pulling her closer.

As the footsteps neared the front of the doorway, his sister ran back to him, pulled him closer and grabbed another forgotten thing to hide them, in this case an steamer trunk with flaking leather and a potted plant. Cedric sighed. Not the best of defences, but it would have to do.

Curling into his sister’s arms, Cedric closed his eyes when the door opened. He had to admire the man’s thoroughness, despite the present circumstances. He had checked every room – he had done this before. Cedric thought of all the books he had read via audio cassette, all the voices’ mysteries he had heard and taken in. He can’t say that he had ever pictured himself being a victim, not in this sense of the word, anyway. Cedric didn’t like irony one bit.

He was all for literary word play and similes, even the occasional dose of sarcasm, but irony bothered him. He wondered how anything in life could be so cruel as to teach you a lesson. For Cedric, it just made him want to prove them wrong. He would not lie down; he would not step into the shadows and hide.

With a shift inside of him as he closed his eyes and let himself slip into temporary darkness, hoping that the killer would not find them, that his eyes would somehow pass them by, Cedric knew that, if it came down to it, he would do everything possible to make sure that Elena lived.

Come and get me, you son of a bitch, Cedric thought.

vii

 

            Cedric could hear the man’s footsteps. They descended one  at a time, dust falling down from the basement staircase. There was a slight shuffle on the steps as the man knocked the light bulb out of his way. Even with his eyes closed, Cedric experienced the light moving. Though he could not see the man, he could feel him. He was malice, he was dangerous. Every nerve in Cedric’s body said this.

The man reached the basement floor. There was a whispering sound of cloth and quick footsteps, scratching in the dust.

The man slid into the basement shadows. The ground shook under them and, despite her fear, Elena let out a small shriek beside him. She was too afraid to be quiet, He thought. Cedric was pretty sure that he had wet himself by this point, and that he would need a change of clothing if they got out of this alive. He normally hated baths, but this time would look forward to one.

Elena let out another loud shriek when the man grabbed hold of her arm. She tried to pull back from him and he pulled her forward, pulling out a long, serrated knife and slicing her right forearm open almost to the bone. A plume of blood flew into the air and landed on Cedric’s face. He opened his eyes.

As the man yanked Elena by the hair, Cedric saw his chance. His sister kicked the man in the shins as he dragged her back towards him. Grabbing one of the edges of the wooden crate with his right arm and pulling with his body weight, Cedric broke off the edge of the frame. He slinked forward, hidden, as his sister was dragged backward.

Pushing with his left leg, he focused with all his strength and pursued them to the stairs. He had never moved so far on his own before. His sister screamed again as the man reached around with his other hand and grabbed her by the throat. He meant to kill her right away than, he would have no time to prepare. Their attacker raised his hand to draw the blade of the knife across Elena’s throat. As Cedric moved with a speed he didn’t know he had ever possessed, his only thought was: Fuck, an axe, a knife, this guy has everything.

He reached around his sister and drove the wooden spike into the man’s side. As Cedric was at a lower position on the ground, the wooden piece slid up into the lower right side of the man’s abdomen, missing his sister’s back by inches. Cedric had broken the wood at a sharp angle and it sliced into the man, his weight as he moved in to cut his sisters throat giving the push enough of a thrust.

Blood rained on him and spluttered against Elena’s back as she moved away from the man and held onto Cedric. His face was bathed in the blood of two people. He thought of his mother, of his father. That would be two more. It’s a good thing they didn’t have more children, Cedric thought.

Elena wrapped her left arm around Cedric, even as the man fell. Blood pooled from their attackers wound, splattering the floor and their skin. Cedric would remember the sound of the blood forever – they would match the beat of his heart.

Crouching beside him, Elena let out a small scream when the man fell, hitting the ground with a wet slap. His life continued to pour out of him as both of them watched, gurgling onto the floor. Elena wrapped her left arm around him tighter, bringing Cedric even more close. “You saved us Ced,” Elena whispered. “You saved us.”

Nodding, Cedric held onto his sister. He nestled his cheek onto her shoulder – it was sticky with blood. “I love you Elena,” Cedric said. And for once, he said it. He had said the whole thing. Despite the uncertainty of the future, brightness filled him.

“I love you too, squirt,” Elena said. “I love you, too.”

 

Declare Independence – A Reflection on Bjork

 

Bjork in Concert

This may be hard to believe, but last night I attended my very first concert.

Sure, I’ve been to shows at bars and intimate settings. I love music and will see it where and when I can. In the past year or two, I’ve been fortunate enough to see Loreena McKennit, hear the NAC Orchestra play several times, countless amazing ballets, but those were in intimate settings, more private affairs, as wonderful and amazing as they were.

I’ve never been to a big outdoor festival, or a large arena show, however. I’ve always wanted to go to one and it’s always been a dream experience of mine. I’ve seen tons of musicals though: Jesus Christ Superstar, Phantom of the Opera, Les Miserables, Wicked, Rent, West Side Story. I’ve had chances to see Bob Dylan and Britney Spears, but those didn’t pan out.

So it was to my great joy that my boyfriend got us tickets to go and see Bjork at Bluesfest. This was amazing for two reasons: Out of everyone that I listen to on a regular basis (David Bowie, Ke$ha, Patty Griffin, Robyn, Laurie Anderson, Lady Gaga, Serena Ryder, Madonna, Metric), Bjork is my absolute favorite.

It’s hard to explain to non-Bjork lovers why I will listen to anything she does. Ever since I heard the album Post for the first time, the dark opening tones of Army of Me or the surprising its Oh So Quiet or when I first heard the shadowy and almost claustrophobic sounds of Headphones. I can’t describe it. It was love at first listen. I went back and got a cassette of Debut and was even more in love.

It was music as I’d never heard it before. Up until that point, I had listened to a lot of different music from a variety of bands. There was a bit of ACDC, The Rolling Stones, ABBA. Even some ZZ Top, Led Zepplin, Boston, The Beatles thrown into the mix. Bjork was different for me.

The sound of Debut and Post were sort of similar, but they showed a shift in her music, a change. When she came out with Homogenic, my feelings were confirmed-she was a true musical artist. I listened to Homogenic while attending university and it suited the mood perfectly; the follow up to post, Telegram, even more so.

As I’ve changed, so has Bjork’s music. Homogenic was big band meets electronica and then another morph: Medulla was done completely without instruments, only with the power of voices, though you wouldn’t know it. Then came the soundtrack from Dancer in the Dark titled Selmasongs, both the album and the movie incredible. Then came the island influenced Volta. Biophilia, Bjorks latest, went in a whole new direction entirely.

It was the first app album that was then released in physical form. It is a blending of music with nature and technology where you can listen, learn and create. In a way, it is the next level of music. The songs stand incredibly well on their own, but interactive music is something completely amazing. Bjork showed that she was really a musical artist, capable of growing along with her art.

I explained it this way the other night: You have Madonna, who does a new image for each album and then you have Bjork. Madonna (who I love) changes her image to stay current. Then you have Bjork who changes because her art is growing.

She showed that you could be a musical artist in modern times. I think the only other artist who comes close is Rufus Wainright. They aren’t merely playing music, they’re in it. Bjork doesn’t need a paint brush. She paints her with her words and her songs.

Needless to say, it was a major shock when my favorite musical artist was coming to Ottawa. I couldn’t believe that she was coming to Bluesfest. I knew She’s come close: Montreal, Toronto, Vancouver, but never close enough. When I heard she was coming here, I was ecstatic. So when my boyfriend got tickets for us to go see her, I was in absolute shock.

Bjork Tickts

I was so shocked that I was almost in disbelief. I literally could not take it in. As the day grew closer, I was thrilled to have it to look forward. This dream come true on the horizon shone like a beacon. I even got my first newspaper in more than ten years just so I could have this:

Newspaper

As the day drew near, I wondered what songs she would sing. I wondered if I could handle the size of the crowd, the pota-potties, the overpriced beer, the walking and the standing. By the time we arrived, it didn’t matter.

Because I was there, at a concert, ready to see Bjork. After a wonderful Sharma, a chocolate dipped banana and some beer, I was pretty close to content. I couldn’t contain my excitement, however

We ended up meeting with an old friend and a new one once we got inside. And then to complete my welcome, there was beer! Always a good thing to have at a concert, I’m told

Beer

While we waited for Bjork to start, my boyfriend got me beads, another concert must have, judging by how many were being sole. They go really well with my tickets, don’t you think?

Tickets and Beads

I also got my concert t-shirt before the show started. I didn’t want to wait. Much as I’ve wanted to see Bjork for a long time, I have also wanted a Bjork t shirt. And I got one! So thrilled about that.

Bjork T shirt

Then the show began…and it was as close to Nirvana that I’ll ever see. It was beyond incredible and the set list was across the board. Since this Bluesfest appearance was part of the Biophilia tour, I figured it would revolve around Biophilia, and I wasn’t wrong; but Bjork did songs that spanned almost all of her albums.

This set list is close to what we had.

Set List

The only notable exceptions are that Pluto and Nattura were part of our set list and Declare Independence was our Encore. And every song was the same, but not. There’s something about listening to it live that just gives it something different, more power.

By the end of the concert, I had sung along to every song. By the end of Declare Independence, I was shaking my fist in the air, part of a crowd of people united in the love for Bjorks music. The crowd was immense, the people wonderful and the spirit catching.

Here’s what part of the crowd looked like. There’s no way I could have gotten it all, there were thousands of people there, I did snap two quick pics of Bjork. She had a proviso up before the concert advising against it, but I had to grab two quick ones:

Bjork OneBjork Two

Thankfully Bjork’s photographer is far better than I am and she posted photos on her site.

https://www.dropbox.com/sh/dqccn6ad0hdryu3/9yGefbt9ei

As the whole evening was a dream, so was Bjork’s performance. It was energizing, completely inspiring, infectious and incredible beyond words. Several of the songs (Cosmogony, Thunderbolt, Hidden Place, Crystaline and a few others) had video behind the song on large screens from the app. At the end of Pluto, large streams of fire pyrotechnic fire and at one point, it was filled with sparks.

Everything was just as I hoped it would be, beyond that actually. It was enriching, taking in each of Bjork’s lyrical paint strokes one song at a time and I know that seeing the songs perform live will help me remember each song all the better.

By the time Declare Independence came on, I was completely carried away. It was the perfect song to end on and kind of defines Bjork’s career and her spirit. The music thrummed through me and it left me changed and inspired.

And a bit more in love with Bjork’s music then I was before.

Everyone Has a Book Inside Them – A Short Story

He found the old bookstore towards the end of the day. Had it not been for a failing ray of sunshine striking a pane of glass, he would never have seen it. It had a front of dark wood and many panes of coloured glass. On the other side of the window were books-something more beautiful to him than anything in the world.

Walking towards the window, he noticed how quiet this street was. In the market where he had been shopping for odds and sods, there were people everywhere. Noise was their currency; but on this street, there was hardly any sound.

It was so quiet, that he was frightened when the top of the door struck a wind chime. It made a pretty, tinkling sound that never the less scared the crap out of him. All he noticed was darkness within the shop at first but slowly, as his eyes adjusted to the interior, he saw why it was so dark:

Shelf upon shelf was crammed into the small shop. He counted at least sixty of them. The shelves themselves were filled to the brim with book. He tried to count and couldn’t. He saw books of every shape and every size, every colour and fabric. He ran his fingers along the spines and let out a yell when one of the books zapped him-a thin lick of blue light went from the books spine to his finger and then was gone. He was still looking at his finger when the sound of footsteps distracted him.

“Oh sir, like recognizes like! I always say so, I do. I can’t believe you’re here, in my shop!” He was a small man and he had very pointy teeth. He was wearing a dark coloured jacket in a purple colour and it shone like the sun itself.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh sir, now don’t be modest, you’ve written so much. Oh, listen to me prattling on without introducing myself.” He held out his hand. “I’m Mr. Lavender.”

Hence the colour of his coat. “Jason Fox.”

“Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Fox. Could I ask you to sign a few books for me? Oh, I promised myself I wouldn’t ask right away.”

“Books? What do you mean?”

“Why, your books, Mr. Fox!”

Jason looked at the small man. “That can’t be right. I mean, I used to write when I was in college, thought I was going to make a living of it. Nothing came of it and I certainly never got anything published.”

“Oh, but you did. In a way. This is difficult to explain, but if you look at all the books, you’ll see you’ve written every one of them.”

Jason turned to the shelf nearest him and pulled off three books at random: A small leather volume, one covered in red fabric and a shiny hardback that had a picture of a dark house on its front. Looking at the name on each of the spines, he saw the same name stamped in gold or written in bold print: his own.

He started looking at all the other books on the other shelves, at the thousands of books on the shelves. His name graced the spine of each of them. His heart was beating quickly and he was having trouble breathing. He took in some of the titles, too, and saw many novels he had started, all currently sitting on a hard drive or in a journal. He took a book at random and saw that is was a short story collection. Flipping through it, he saw stories that he had started but never finished, all complete and collected. He didn’t know whether he should be revolted or elated.

Jason turned back to Mr. Lavender. “How?” He said. “How is this possible?”

Mr. Lavender looked at him for a moment, his eyes flashing like that pane of glass before he responded. “I’ll go put on a pot of tea.” He said.

 

Jason tried to calm himself with the calming sense of jasmine tea. But there was part of him that wondered if the healing of aroma therapy was all bullshit anyways.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Mr. Lavender said. pleadingly. He did look like a nice old man. “The tea I mean? From my mothers recipe. I’ve been making it for years.”

“You said you were going to tell me what was going on. What was happening.”

“And so I will. It all has to do with you. I still can’t believe you’re in my shop.”

“What shop is this? I didn’t see a name or sign outside.”

“Mr. Lavender’s Bookshop of Wonders.” The old man had a twinkle in his eye and he looked almost young, just for a second. “Catchy, isn’t it?”

“I still don’t understand.” Jason said, gesturing around them. “What is all this?”

“Well, everyone has a book in them, perhaps two or three, maybe a slim variety of stories or poetry. Anyone can write, dear boy, but you have to find the spark. And you have one of the brightest I have ever seen.”

A shiver ran down Jason’s neck and landed in his belly in a hard cool lump. He didn’t like the tone of the old man’s voice or the words he was speaking. “What are you talking about? What are these?” He tried to keep the anger out of his voice but was unsuccessful. “I never got anything published, ever. I wanted to but couldn’t.”

“My shop is a shop of Wonders, Mr. Fox. These are not ordinary books on its shelves. Depending on the situation, not all of them are books that you’ve written. They are the books and stories that you have the potential write. Do you see what I mean? It’s not necessary to actually write anything. What does, dear boy, is that your potential is staggering. I have never seen the like.”

“What are these conversations normally like then?”

“I normally sit with them and have a cup of tea while we admire their work. Sometimes it’s an eReader full of their books, if they do well in the eBook market. Other times the shelves are filled with tons of paperback originals or mass market paperbacks. Some real and some stories with the potential to become real. I once met one writer and the whole shop was filled with books that he’s actually written. I was astounded. Published and respected all over the world. I didn’t take anything from him-he seemed so happy and he’s worked so hard. He’s still doing well for himself, too. Always knew he would do well.”

Jason had to get out of this bookshop, he knew that now. He made to stand, but Mr. Lavender made a downward motion and Jason was pulled to his seat again. “I know I come on rather strong, dear boy, but hear me out. I have a proposition for you.”

“Please let me go.”

“When we finish our conversation.” Mr. Lavender took a sip of his tea then put the cup and saucer on the table. “Lovely. Listen, Jason, normally I would take something from you for coming in. That’s the price of magic and there’s always a price, a trade.”

“What would you take?”

“Everyone has a book in them, Jason. I’m a book collector. So it’s only natural that I’d take books, written or unwritten. I take one each time. If it’s someone famous, I just get a first edition; I have a really good collection, all signed too!” He smiles and pulls on the lapels of his purple coat. “But from people that aren’t writers yet, I take one book that they would have written. You don’t went to take anything that would be noticed.”

“You said that it’s a trade?” Jason’s voice was dark. “What do you and you’re store give to them?”

“They go away from here and write the book that gets noticed, lands them a book deal. Then they go on and write what they want.”

“How is that possible?”

“How do I know? I don’t know the specifics. All I do know is that those people walk away writing something that sells millions and all for a story they didn’t know they had written in the first place.” He shrugged with a light hearted smile. “Sounds like a fair trade, don’t you think?”

Jason thought about it, looking around at all the books he could have written and thought about it some more. “I don’t know.” He said.

Mr. Lavender held up a finger and pointed it at him. “Exactly. Why my dear boy, I look around this shop and I have never seen the like. Even the author who filled the shop with his books didn’t have this many. Normally, I would take my book and give you the imputes to write you best seller. But look at this!” He gestured around him “I mean, holy shit for brains, Batman! I’ve never seen the like! What I want to know is why did you stop? I mean, having read your work, you started in high school with poems, moved on to short stories and then to novels. As a child, you even wrote short stories for your parents! Then, during your first year of university, you changed your major from English to business and you’ve been miserable ever since.” Mr. Lavender picked up his tea cup again and looked at him over it’s rim. “Now, why is that Mr. Fox?”

Jason could still not move from his seat on the couch. The shelves with his books on them loomed all around him; that should have been comforting, but it was all a little unnerving, actually. Given the situation, Jason supposed he better be honest. “I had a few of my stories entered in competitions. All of them lost, a few of the judges called my work puerile and that it lacked depth.”

“Well, of course it did, then! Everyone has to lean their craft, learn how to shape their words We are not writers if we do not learn, over time, how to properly shape those words. Everyone has a book in them, Mr. Fox. You have nearly a thousand. I won’t let you deny your gift from the world. But you have to start small and be patient. It will come, you just have to let it.”

“What do you mean? You keep talking about me as if I’m a writer.”

“Oh, but you are, Mr. Fox, you are. I can smell it on you and I’m never wrong. I have a sense about these things. No, what I want to do is this: you’re going to take one of the books you haven’t written and go home and read it. When you rewrite it, have it submitted for agents and publishers, you come back and I’ll give you the next one.”

“Isn’t that plagiarism?

“My dear boy, use your common sense! You can’t plagiarize your own words! You can’t steal what you had the potential of creating anyways. No, you’ll be a sensation dear boy, a poet laureate and New York Times Best Seller while teaching creative writing at Yale. What do you say?”

“You’ve said that you won’t take anything from me, but the magic requires a trade? What’s the trade?”

“I need a bit of you blood.”

“You need what?”

“Just a drop, really, Think of it like a contract, a bit of blood on a piece of paper.”

“How can a contract have no words? Doesn’t a contract have to be binding?”

“Oh, there are words.” He took a small book out of his pocket. “This is your book, Jason. It contains all there is to know about you and what you will become. Place a bit of blood on the cover, just a drop, and I’ll make sure that everything you want becomes a reality.”

“How is this possible?”

“How is anything possible, dear boy? You can’t deny the world your gift any longer. What do you say?”

Without thinking about it, he reached out for the small book. He felt a sharp pain in the pad of is left thumb and switched it to his other hand. Something had pierced his skin, something in the book. It began to glow in his grasp and he held it in his palm, watching as the now red leather covers flipped open and the miniature pages flipped as if turned by a breeze. Something in the pages began to glow and pulse and the throbbing of it reminded Jason of a heart.

“Take care with that. There’s only one copy of that book, I’m rather partial to it. Here, we’ll trade..” Mr. Lavender passed Jason a thin book. “It was the short novel that got you started. Or will.” He took the one that pulsed like a heart and slipped it back int he pocket of his purple coloured coat. “Now, off you go, you have so much writing to do! The address for the bookshop is in the front of the book. Come back when your done writing. I look forward to seeing you again, dear boy!”

Jason nodded and went to leave the shop. As he went back out onto the sidewalk, he thought Mr. Lavender had lied to him; he had taken something from him-he just wondered what it was.

His thumb throbbing and Jason put it into his mouth and thought of the novel he was going to write.

Salutations – A Talking Poem

Talking Poems

 

Hey Everyone!

I have a new poem up on Wattpad. You can read it here:

http://www.wattpad.com/19186935 

or check it out below!

 

Salutations

See, this is why I didn’t tell people, they give me that face

She had just

told me she

was leaving, gone

before I knew

it, a spot

of brightness taken

from the day.

I didn’t know. I said, I would have gotten you a card.

That’s nice. But I’ll see you again. So I’ll just say salutations.

Salutations?

 Yeah. Isn’t that what the spider says to the pig in Charlottes web?

You’re the writer. Aren’t you supposed to know this stuff?

 

She grinned and

I knew that

I would miss

her while she

was gone. Despite

only knowing her

in my life

during the day,

I thought of

her as a

true friend or

an every day

angel, those people

who come into

our lives for

a moment, or

two, sometimes years,

and they enrich

our lives, for

however short of

a time. They

leave it brighter.

Salutations, I said.