NOT Black Friday

     Oy! Are you feeling bit rubbish? Not really miserable or anything, just a bit flat, bit meh, can’t really be arsed? There’s stuff you should be doing, but uh, can’t be bothered…  It’ll get done, just not right now. Would you like me to help? I can, you know. I can provide you with the energy, the motivation, the zip, the pizzazz, the spark you are currently lacking. No, we are not going to the off licence, and no, I’m not proposing anything illegal either, so reel your thoughts back from there, you dirty, dirty child. Stand up.  That’s it. Ok, go. It’s time for

     KITCHEN DISCO

      Oh, you’re not sure about this, are you? Feeling a bit silly. Alright, I’ll be gentle. Let’s go up to your bedroom, NONOTLIKETHAT. Imagine you’ve just got out of the shower, and you’re getting dressed. Here:

     Hmm? It’s not too overwhelming, is it? It’s alright. On that first ‘Do it!’ I want you to point both forefingers and mouth along to the words. Uh-huh. Just like that. Shoulder shimmy, bit of hip action, now spin…. And get your neck moving from side to side, arms slinking, ooh, sax SOLO! Channel that John Travolta inside you! Woo! And you’re getting dressed in time to  the music, and doing a little tit shimmy forwards…and then the rhythm kicks in once more and you’re bossa novaing like a BOSS, dude! Check you out! Sax solo arms spread spin time! Yay! Shake that tailfather! Heading out the bedroom door with a spring in your step, your bum seemingly has a mind of it’s own in time to the music, arms are windmilling, you’re smiling, and it fades out, so you don’t need to end on a big  flourish or anything. Well done. Proud of you.

     Ok, feeling a bit more confident? Let’s try this one:

      It starts slowly, so you can skip the first bit, or do overemotional 80s air guitar. Your choice. And THEN, when it kicks in, you MUST do the 80s power walk (you know the one – strutting with shoulders jutting forward in time to the music). And brilliantly, with this one, you can sing along and enjoy the peculiar pleasure that is Phil Oakley straining to reach and hold the high notes (as the ever excellent Chiller said on twitter, it makes it sound like a dodgy X Factor cover version, when it is the original). You can also add the signature 80s ‘pulling it in’ move on those notes, whereby you raise your clenched fist above your head and slowly pull it down to your chest, to denote genuine emotional feelz. And then, AIR GUITAR SOLO! Go on, you know you want to. Bent knees, head thrown back, gimme some serious strumming action! And add in some Dad dancing ‘I’m shaking imaginary maracas’ wrist action. And fade

     Here’s a nice bouncy one to tell the world just how fucking marvellous you really are. If the other songs were a bit too funky for you, try this one:

      Yeah? You can do your best badass crap rap moves to it with weird finger and thumb pointy things, but the BEST bit is the chorus with ‘HO-OH? Say HO-WOAH, HO-WOAH!   EAT MY GOAL?’ call and response. If you’re not leaning back slightly, arms outstretched, wrists  bent back showing open palms, like a footballer inviting the crowd to celebrate his goalscoring genius in an attitude of ‘How fucking brilliant am I?’ ness, then I want to know the reason why. Yes? I’m waiting. Why aren’t you doing that thing I just told you to do? That’s better.

     Yeah, we’re doing alright, hey? Ok, I’m going to step it up a gear now. I think you’re ready. I have covered this one before, but it’s a good ‘getting ready to leave the house’ piece, and I think you’re ready to move on to more freestyling efforts. 

     It starts slower than you think, so you’ll probably want to kick things off with a funky walk, but once that choir and guitar kick in, along with the brass section, I’m expecting serious airpunching, spinning, and jazzy arm movements. Yes. That choir are singing for YOU. They’re telling you that YOU are getting stronger, that it won’t be long now, that YOU are flying high now. And yeah, those shouts of encouragement in that video are for YOU too. Get you, you fab downstairs dancer. And now, here’s the big crescendo, MAKE IT COUNT.

     OH YEAH. You are the showstopper. And now, the final grade. It’s kind of an abstract. You can’t really dance to it. But you can totally throw away all inhibitions, all the notions you have of not looking like an eejit, of any pretence of not just going completely batshit and not giving the tiniest toss what you look like. I’ve already kind of said what that songdoes to me before. But just go with it.

     Now try and tell me that you don’t feel better.

      Once you’ve cracked KITCHEN DISCO, you’ll find it a very pleasant friend in times of trouble. And, I hope, you’ll find your own KITCHEN DISCO playlist that works for you too. All suggestions welcomed. And look! Suddenly you’re no longer grey, dismal, and fed up, are you? You’re bouncy, joyful, pert and perky. I like it. It suits you. 

Machineries of Joy

   ‘I know it’s happening all the time; I know the death squads are torturing people  and the Israelis are behaving like  Nazis and Pol Pot’s preparing his comeback tour; you keep telling us; you always told us! And people just scream and die; get tortured to death because they’re poor or they help the poor or they wrote a pamphlet or they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time; and nobody comes to rescue them, and the torturers never get punished; they retire, they even survive revolutions sometimes because they have such fucking useful skills, and no superhero comes to save the people being tortured, no Rambo bursts in; no retribution; no justice; nothing… and that’s just it!  There has to be something more than that!’

     ‘Why?’ Kenneth said, trying not to sound angry. ‘Just because we feel that way? One wee daft species, on one wee daft planet circling one wee daft star in one wee daft galaxy; us? Barely capable of crawling into space yet; capable of feeding everybody but… nya, can’t be bothered? Just because we think there must be something and a few crazy desert cults infect the world with their cruel ideas; that’s what makes the soul a certainty and heaven a must?’

     Those two paragraphs have been going round in my head since yesterday afternoon (from The Crow Road by Iain Banks, one of my best, favourite, all-time top ten books. If you haven’t read it yet, read it. NOW. But er, if you could come back and finish reading this too, that’d be great). It’s hard not to feel defeated sometimes. The world just seems so full of misery, pain, suffering, people being shitty to one another, war, conflict, Jeremy fucking Clarkson, climate change, cancer, food poisoning, health scares, dodgy journalism, rubbish in the streets, homeless people, sexism, depression, crap telly, overpopulation, immigration, scaremongering, UKIP, AIBU, twitter storms, unsolicited junk mail, the mess The Blondies leave behind themselves, fucking hell the car needs new tyres, discontinued raspberry pannacottas, fake sheikhs, misogyny, Ebola, twatty celebrities who are famous for being famous, Iain Duncan Smith’s continuing political career, scandal, twatty blogger breakdowns in Liverpool Street Station, corruption, Ofsted, the NHS being sold off under our noses, people dying too young, mental health, The Daily fucking Mail, famine, refugees, civil war, Liz fucking  Jones, violence against women, racism, Dapper fucking Laughs, inequality, poverty, shit parenting, the continued presence of ‘romantic  vintage shabby chic’ bollockery in shops, people being twats, fucking car drivers with a sense of entitlement bigger than their white 4x4s, relationship breakdowns, torture, injustice, Ched fucking Evans and his crew of merry rape apologists, discovering you’ve run out of skimmed milk and only have vile almond milk to put in your coffee, the rise of the far right, bankers, FIFA, none of my clothes fit me, Blondies having meltdowns for no conceivable reason, spammers, people conning the elderly and vulnerable, Christmas adverts that make me cry, being let down, Piers fucking Morgan, clickbait articles, finding your blog has been ripped off, paedophiles, pissing yourself off because you still haven’t replied to those emails, Katie fucking Hopkins, victim blaming, theft, vandalism, people banning fun, inappropriate sexualisation, health and safety gone mad, the PC brigade, you, you massive twat… apathy.

     And what seems to make it so much worse is that when people do stand up and challenge those who are responsible for so much sadness, anger, and hatred, they themselves get attacked. They get threatened, shouted down, abused.  To take two very recent (and ongoing at the time of writing) cases – Dapper Laughs and Ched Evans. To see the amount of abuse campaigners and critics get, it’s tempting not to support the people you believe in, because it’ll only draw negative attention your way, and you know you probably won’t change anyone’s mind. You might feel a little better for having the courage to speak up, but the amount of crap you’ll have to deal with cancels it out. I know, I had it with Richard fucking Dawkins' followers, sending me rape threats and all kinds of other lovely endearments when I blogged about him.

     And it’s horrible. To think that people can be capable of such nasty, vicious unpleasantness. To see beneath the mask of apparently civilised people who walk amongst us, and realise that there isn’t much covering the contempt they feel for other people, and seemingly think it’s ok to abuse and threaten others. Or not even that. To throw out hideously offensive statements, just for attention. To fuck other people’s heads around, for no reason. To play games and feel they’ve somehow ‘won’ by hurting others.

We’re of primitive abolution

Like a hobbyist of deranged proportion

Or the wait is yours and we’ve failed again

The fleshy existence you keep to yourself is secure

      It makes me question why we’re here as people. Is this what we’re here to do? To wallow in other people’s misery, to belittle, to throw insults, to maim, to wound, to destroy? To keep pumping out shittiness, wave after ceaseless wave, pushing the boats back against the current, to stand by and do nothing because it’s ultimately pointless? To see others struggle, hurting, and merely stand by? To know all of the world’s problems, and instead choose to add to them, instead of taking time to make the smallest gesture imaginable to improve someone’s day? It doesn’t take much.

     But then yesterday, something wonderful happened. Philae. And it brought home just what humanity can be capable of. Not just intelligence, but co-operation, hope, and ambition. We can be those things. We can push further, harder, stronger, be better, brighter, bolder, make the world feel like the kind of place where it is possible to do something that seems unthinkable, by reaching out and connecting, in the best way imaginable. We can do all of those things, be those people. Not necessarily by landing on a comet, obviously, but all of us can play our part in making things better. It doesn’t matter how we do it, just as long as we do. Instead of letting the misery spray us with hatred vomit, we can fart glitter, laugh, and make our own little difference to other people, even with something as small as a crap joke, or an unexpected compliment.

     And now, have my earworm du jour*

     *I love this song. I fucking love this song. It’s one of my favourites ever. I’m not allowed to listen to it in public because I can’t listen to it without dancing like a toddler impersonating a ninja**. Seriously, it’s just the most uplifting and incredible song I think I’ve ever heard. The story is sad, but the message is a reminder that some people will sacrifice themselves for the good of humanity, and that is something we should remember, and take with us. Listen to it, and let the euphoria of it just bloody course through your veins and realise   what we can be, and what we can do.

      ** Really not joking. I don’t even really dance to it. I spin, and punch the air, and kick, and jump, conduct an imaginary orchestra, and possibly indulge in some headbanging airdrumming, and oh Crysakes, I’m bouncing in my chair now, just listening to it, even as I type this because fucking hell, IT IS THAT GOOD, and it just makes me feel so happy. Of course, you may feel differently (thinks of one reader in particular).

Liverpool Street Station

    It’s not often you find a place that brings all sorts of people together. People from every walk of life, from all backgrounds, people with all sorts of futures ahead of them. Think about it. Even in places like libraries, pubs, evening classes, school playgrounds, everyone there has something in common. Possibly the only democratic place these days is a transport hub.  But in a large train station, everyone’s moving, or queueing, or staring at noticeboards. The place to go to watch people is a bar within a train station.

     Down there. Group of men. They’ve been here since at least half past eight this morning, drinking pint after pint after pint. By half eleven, they’re adding chasers. The table’s full of empty glasses, and I can’t imagine for a moment how any of them are managing to stay upright, or even lean without crashing, face first, to the floor. They’re mostly in their mid-40s, clad in t-shirts/polo shirts of cheap, manmade fibres. The oldest member of the group puffs constantly on an e-cig, apart from at thirty minute intervals when he disappears outside for an analogue cigarette. Oddly, sitting with the group is a younger man, dressed in designer jeans, cashmere brown jumper, the collar of a smart shirt poking through the neck hole. Alone of the group, he wears a wedding ring, is very obviously drunk, and seems unsure as to whether he’s going to fall asleep, fall off his chair, or puke next time he yawns.

     Then there are the middle aged couples, sharing a pot of tea, trying to pretend they’re oblivious to the noise and drunkenness around them. Quietly remarking on the quality of the tea cups, pressing lips together tightly as they swallow their (still too hot) tea, anxious not to dawdle in case they miss their train. On the way to the platform, they’ll pass Starbucks and wish they’d gone there instead. Not wanting to be tagged as the sort of person who frequents pubs during the day, they’ll secretly blame their spouse for not suggesting looking for a café, instead of heading into the pub.

      The group of drunk men are at the ‘Meaningful drunk’ stage now. Lots of hand of shoulder deep chat, forefinger thumping into own chest sincerity, and ‘burrano, burrano, burrano, YOU’RE agoodman. Yurra good man. You. You. Are. A goodman.’ They’d make eye contact if they could, but no longer have control of their faces.

     The stag do groups mill around. Men self-consciously wearing top hat & tails, or personalised t-shirts (depending on social class), drinking champagne or pints (again, depending on working or middle class), and seeing who can be rowdiest (ex public schoolboys win hands down). They’ve got half an hour to kill before their train leaves, and they intend to make it count.

     The football fans, scattered around the bar, identifiable by their West Ham shirts. The one group that seems to cover all ages, genders, social classes. From the seven year old girl, squeezing close to her dad as she sips a J20, to the skinny old geezer in his seventies (whom you just know is going to tell someone he’s ‘supported the Hammers for 67 years, man and boy’ in a thin, high-pitched Cockney accent) to the bloke in his forties, modelling the signature ‘Status Quo bald patch and wispy ponytail’ hairdon’t. Some are in large groups, others are on their own, but mostly groups of three or four, having a quick pint or two before the game.

     The tourists. Specifically, the French family next. to me. Mum, Dad, teenage son. No conversation. No eye contact. All three of them instead delicately tapping and swiping phone screens, occasionally sighing to themselves, but not sharing the source of their ennui with anyone other than the people living in their phone. A modern disease. Highly contagious.

     The hipsters. I thought we had a problem with them in certain parts of Norwich. But here, in Liverpool Street station, you can’t move for them. Rolled up skinny jeans exposing bony white ankles, flat caps, winkle pickers. Not a hair left unstyled, not a face devoid of beardedness, not a glass of milk drunk unironically. Trying so hard to be individual that it becomes a uniform.

     The elderly gentleman. Politely asked if he could sit on the other side of the enormous table I’m occupying. He takes out a copy of ‘Europe’ by Jan Morris. But instead, he gazes out, unseeingly, across, the room, his face troubled, forefinger pressed against his cheek, his mind many miles away from the deep leather armchair he sits in. Then, abruptly, the present and immediate world rushes in on him like a wave, and his thoughts are gone. He picks up his book, becomes engrossed for as long as it takes him to drink his pint of real ale. I manage not to cry for the full 45 minutes he sits with me.

     And the baby. The baby in the pushchair, with the family who come in after the French tourists have left. Kicking his legs. Blowing raspberries. Catching my eye, grinning at me, and reminding me of the purity of an infant’s smile. That they expect the world around them to be good, happy, welcoming. That they are secure in the knowledge that they are loved, treasured, precious. The simple innocence of his smile at me, that I reciprocated, even as my eyes filled with tears, knowing I have no memory of feeling that way.

     And then me. A twatty blogger, who’s had too many knocks of late. A twatty blogger who couldn’t bear to meet the people who’ve meant so much to her, in case she was a let-down, was rejected, in case people realised how much of a nothing she was. A twatty blogger whose confidence, never much more than a will o’ the wisp, deserted her. A twatty blogger who gave up, gave in. A twatty blogger   who cried for thirteen hours straight in Liverpool Street station. A twatty blogger who realised she has nothing to offer anyone. A twatty blogger who is a disappointment.   A twatty, fragile, broken blogger who never left the station. 

Lost in translation

     My name is Lucy Benedict* and I am a people addict. I was going to say ‘I’m a people person’, but that would be a lie. I’m not. I’m shy, utterly lacking in confidence, and a compete introvert. Being around other people too long has the same effect as kryptonite on Superman. I lose all my powers, get drained of energy, and my hair gets upset. I’m not a people person. I like people, generally, as individuals, but I find real life interaction a bit much, and can only handle it in small doses. I prefer to observe.

     ‘You should have been an actress!’ My mum’s been saying that to me for years. I always thought she meant it in the sense of ‘Oh bloody hell, you melodramatic creature. Stop making a scene, calm down, and cease this quenchless thirst for attention.’ It was only recently I found out that what she really meant is that I have a gift for mimicry, and for spotting things that perhaps other people don’t always.

     It was brought home a few months ago, when Alistair and I were discussing a mutual friend. Let’s call him ‘Roy’, seeing as I don’t know anyone called Roy. I made a crap joke, Alistair said ‘That’s the kind of joke that Roy would make!’ and I made a kind of high-pitched ‘Hnugh?’ sound. Alistair stared at me, worriedly, wordlessly. ‘What? That’s what Roy does, whenever he makes a joke. Hnugh?? To draw attention to the fact that he’s just made a joke.’ Alistair looked dubious. ‘What?! He does! How can you not have noticed? Hnugh? Every time.’ Alistair turned away and muttered ‘If you say so’ in tones designed to tell me ‘You are talking utter bollocks, and no, Roy does not hnugh?? after he’s made a joke.’

     And then of course, two days later, we saw Roy, Roy made a crap joke, and as sure as I cannot type ‘teacher’ without first typing ‘tecaher’… ‘HNUGH????’ Alistair caught my eye, and I got to pull my very best ‘See, I bloody told you, how have you not noticed this before, oh my god, you’ve known Roy all this time, and yet you never saw it. Until I, me, ME, pointed it out, and you didn’t believe me, o ye of little faith’ face. It’s quite a complicated expression, but I have a big face, so can fit it in quite easily.

     Another way I’ve found of pissing Alistair off is to copy his hand gestures. Every time he describes an action, his hands and/or head get in on the fun too. So when he told me how he was going to strap down some tools in the boot of the car to stop them ‘bobbling around’ his head  performed a little involuntary wobble, a bit like Stevie Wonder, to illustrate the way in which things can ‘bobble around’. Or if he says he’s going to the garage, his left hand, seemingly without his knowledge, will point to the car park. To be a massive annoying tit, I innocently ask ‘Where are you going, darling?’ and he shoots me a look of longsuffering pain, and says ‘To the garage’, points, sighs, and contemplates walking out of the house and never returning.

     But it’s not just physical stuff I notice. Body language is practically my mother tongue, and I can read someone’s thoughts without ever exchanging a word with them, but what I do best is people, in the round. This is probably why I love things like twitter, facebook, blogs. Because it’s not just what people do, it’s what they try to tell the world about themselves. Earlier this year, I had a thought. You can tell a lot about people from their favourite mug. And #MugTheory was born. People tweeted me a photo of their favourite mug, and I tried to provide a concentrated personality analysis. It was fascinating. Genuinely fascinating. To try and analyse people based on a single photo of a hot beverage receptacle. Some people didn’t have a favourite mug (I’m one of them), so they proved harder to read. Other people turned out to have two favourites – one for sentimental reasons, one for actual drinking. And one person (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE) refused to submit to my highly scientific process (I WILL BREAK YOU DOWN ONE DAY), and even referred to #MugTheory as ‘nonsense’ (BE VERY AFRAID. I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE).

     It was fun, and I met a lot of lovely, shiny new people on twitter, to replace the older, more worn out ones (I don’t mean you by that. I do mean you, though), but I wasn’t altogether serious about it. What I prefer to do is read the hidden conversations that are happening, the things that aren’t said, or the things that may seem to be a throwaway line, but serve a far deeper purpose than may first appear to be the case. Here’s an example of a conversation I have made up:

     Tweeter A: @TweeterB Hey, you around for that thing we mentioned doing on Saturday?

     TweeterB: @TweeterA Yes, I think I’m still free. Say about eleven?

     TweeterA: @TweeterB Great! Really looking forward to it! Last time was brilliant! Text me when you’re leaving :-)

     TweeterB: Ok, will do.

     TweeterA: @TweeterB Thanks xx

     Right, from the outside, it seems like nothing much, yes? Just two people making plans. Ok, here’s the thing. Why didn’t TweeterA send TweeterB a direct message instead? Because they wanted to make sure someone else saw. Why did TweeterA say ‘that thing we mentioned’? Because they wanted someone else to know that they and TweeterB had had previous conversations about it. Why did TweeterA make a direct reference to ‘last time’? Because they wanted someone else to know they had a history with TweeterB. Why did TweeterA mention texting? Because they wanted someone else to know that they exchange texts with TweeterB. This also reinforces the question ‘Why didn’t TweeterA just text TweeterB in the first place, instead of having a public conversation?’ Because TweeterA wanted someone else to see the exchange, and text messages wouldn’t have achieved that. And the ‘xx’ at the end? That’s the final twist of the knife in the heart of the third party not directly involved in the conversation. And I can guarantee that TweeterB would have been blissfully unaware of any of the heaving, seething mass of undercurrent running through the tweets, probably thinking ‘That’s a bit odd. Why didn’t TweeterA just text? Oh, well’ shrugs, gets on with their day, with no further thought about it. Whereas for me, it’s as plain as the nose on TweeterA’s face.

     People give themselves away far more often than they would like to think, and if you're the type of person I am, you learn to read the signs without really being aware of it. It feels instinctive, when really it's more an accumulation of years of hanging back, watching, and then seeing how things go on to unfold. So I've learnt to  trust my 'instincts', and I'm not often wrong. It’s a shame, but it does peel back a rather sad truth. As people, most of us aren’t really all that great.

     We like to think of ourselves as being kind, altruistic, caring. Actually, most people’s motives are pretty base, and our behaviour is usually caused by the nastier side of ourselves we try to keep hidden. We behave the way we do through fear, jealousy, lashing out, attacking, retaliating. The irony is that the people who motivate our best behaviour, our loved ones, see us openly at our worst, when we’re hurt, upset, angry. The people we care about the least see us at our best, keeping up appearances, not letting our demons peep through. But no one wants to admit that, least of all to ourselves. So we perpetuate the myth that we are being kind, generous, helpful.  We’re not. We’re seeking to impress with a shinier, nicer, better cover version

    But I’m fluent in the language of people. And even if no one else can understand you, I can. I do.                                                                                              

     *My name is not Lucy Benedict

Michael Rosen's Sad Book

     A rather wonderful thing happened on Friday morning. I was lounging around in bed, awake, but not yet functional, when The Girl came in, snuggled up next to me under the quilt and said ‘Mum? Something amazing has just happened. I finished my book!’

     Her first book, read alone, with no help from a grown up. She’s read the appalling Biff, Chip & Bollocks ones at school, Well Loved Tales at home with me, comics, picture books, that kind of thing. But she’s never sat down with a paperback book with over 100 pages, and read it, for pleasure. Until this week.

     So we cuddled, and I told her I was proud of her, and how important it is to read, and how much joy it can bring you. I told her about my first book too. I can still remember the perfect flashbulb memory of it, sitting in my green flowery sundress, on the steps of a Nissen hut on the edge of a field in Fenland, August 1985. I can recall how engrossed I was in the story, and how, having finished it, I closed the book with a snap, coming back to earth, having made the most profound discovery of what reading can be, and how it can take you to places you would never visit. That perfect mindgasm of being somewhere you’ll never go, with people you’ll never meet, experiencing things you’ll never do.

     Yeah, I know, Enid Blyton. We all have to start somewhere. And that was the book that kicked it all off. I know she was a racist, nasty, stuck up cow who didn’t like children very much, but I am grateful to her. A while back though, I had reason to curse her for turning me into a bookworm airhead. I don’t know if you’ve seen the thing doing the rounds on facebook lately, where you have to list your top ten best/most memorable books? I was nominated for it, and oh my god, the anguish it caused was unbelievable. There were three or four non-negotiable books that held their place. But the others… It nearly destroyed me. Seriously. Trying to decide between du Maurier and Conan Doyle, McEwan and Rendell, Pratchett and Nabokov. It was awful. Books got selected, deselected, loved again, then rejected. After twelve hours of this, I was SPENT. I could have come up with another twenty books, but I hardened my heart.

       Typing up the list on facebook, I started to write ‘Lolita’ as my number ten, when out of nowhere, a book pinged into my head like the facebook messenger chat head (which I just LOVE. Something so satisfying about it).  And with more certainty than about any other book, I changed book number ten.

     It’s marketed as a children’s picture book. But it isn’t just for children. It’s for anyone. And everyone. I didn’t read it until I was 30. But it changed my way of thinking. The very first page hit me like a kick in the stomach and immediately flooded my face with tears, snot, and possibly some laboured and terrible gasping and droning sobs.

     Deceptively simple words. But powerful ones. Because who hasn’t felt like that? Who hasn’t felt that they needed to cover over the sadness, in order to be liked? And to see it written down, to realise it’s not just you brought me more comfort than a fabric conditioner factory.

     I managed to get through the rest of the book, wiping my nose on my sleeve as I went, seeing how my feelings were brought to life by short, sparse sentences, feeling the pure and unalloyed truth of the words and pictures, creating the most perfect storm of recognition, sorrow, and solace.

     I’m not going to spoil it for you if you haven’t read it. I could never accurately capture just how perfect the book is, how it tells you things you already know, but this time you believe, because it’s someone else telling you. That it’s ok to be sad. That sadness can be overwhelming. That you’re sad, not bad. That sadness can be like a mist that obscures and distorts. But there are happy times to come.

     If you haven’t already, read this book. It will destroy you. It should destroy you. But at the same time, it is the most uplifting book I have ever read.

And candles. There must be candles.