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mangotortoise · 3 months

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Books - January 2024

(Crying because I had this queued and not filled in lmfao and it posted)

This past month, I read three books: I'm Glad My Mom Died (Jeanette McCurdy), Winter in the Blood (James Welch), and The Bell Jar (Sylvia Plath.)

IGMMD was fucking incredible. The prose was simple, but in such a way that the abuse McCurdy suffered throughout her whole life felt doubly amplified and stark and bleak. If you are in the right headspace to read this, I highly recommend it on audiobook since McCurdy herself is the narrator here (and that gives it more weight.) It was also interesting from my perspective as someone with OCD and who's had it since she was young to see how another person wrapped her brain around it.

WITB wasn't long, but it did take me a while. Not because it was bad, but because it's the kind of story that meanders and I'm easily distracted. I fucking loved it, however. It's like, the style used here and the story, and the way the words painted such an austere picture of the world made it feel like a watercolor painting. (Also, I teared up especially near the end, rescuing that cow.)

TBJ: not my favorite book ever, but I'm glad I read it. Plath has such a way with words--very lyrical, almost sultry--and the audiobook narrator's voice was sexy as hell. I think that while it definitely lost some steam for me around the first mental asylum, it picked back up and paints a very good (very relatable) picture about how isolating mental illness feels, and how much it distorts your view of the world. (Be mindful: Plath can be a bit period-typical with regards to racism. Or probably period typical. Doesn't make it ok, mind you.)

#The Bell Jar #Sylvia Plath #i'm glad my mom died #Jeanette McCurdy #Winter in the Blood #James Welch #Booklr #Bookish #Books #Mag Tag #Mango Tag

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manwalksintobar · 5 months

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Dreaming Winter // James Welch

Don’t ask me if these knives are real. I could paint a king or show a map the way home– to go like this: wobble me back to a tiger’s dream, a dream of knives and bones too common to be exposed. My secrets are ignored.

Here comes the man I love. His coat is wet and his face is falling like the leaves, tobacco stains on his Polish teeth. I could tell jokes about him– one up for the man who brags a lot, laughs a little and hangs his name on the nearest knob. Don’t ask me. I know it’s only hunger.

I saw that king– the one my sister knew but was allergic to. Her face ran until his eyes became the white of several winters. Snow on his bed told him that the silky tears were uniformly mad and all the money in the world couldn’t bring him to a tragic end. Shame or fortune tricked me to his table, shattered my one standing lie with new kinds of fame.

Have mercy on me, Lord. Really. If I should die before I wake, take me to that place I just heard banging in my ears. Don’t ask me. Let me join the other kings, the ones who trade their knives for a sack of keys. Let me open any door, stand winter still and drown in a common dream.

#poetry #James Welch #Indigenous poetry #American poetry #winter #American racism #collective imagination #Native American Renaissance #hunger #Blackfeet #Gros Ventre #prayer

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cinematic-explorations · 6 months

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