I Have A Dream...

No, before you ask, this is not me doing my Martin Luther King impression. Not that I've ever done such an impersonation but, hey, there's a first time for everything...I digress. No, this is about an actual dream that I have and the great Dr King's word's just seemed appropriate.

Not that this is the sort of politically-charged ideological dream that he had. Don't get me wrong, I have my own Utopian fantasies where everyone gets along with everyone else and everyone is happy and there's no war/famine/pestilence/Simon Cowell, but it's not that kind of dream I'm blogging about. Nor is it the sort of dream where I'm slowly spit-roasting David Cameron, Nick Clegg and George Osbourne over an open fire whilst cackling like a hag, although maybe both of those are worth blog entries in their own right...nope, this dream is both a little more sensible, a little more modest and a little more fantastical.

I have a dream. My dream is to have a library.

Yeah, yeah, you can stop laughing now. It's true - I am absolutely desperate to have a library of my own. I feel dreadful for my poor books at the moment, scattered around in two bookcases, various boxes and several piles on the floor; it's inhumane to treat them like that. My books deserve to be on beautifully designed shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling; in an ideal world they'd be spiralling round and round in an endless labyrinth (like in the Cemetery of Forgotten Books in Carlos Ruiz Zafon's masterpiece 'The Shadow of the Wind' - if such a place really existed, I would move in at once), but if not then just shelves as far as the eye could see would do. I've been fascinated by libraries ever since I was a child and I was taken to get my very first library ticket; having become an ardent reader and lover of books by the age of 3, the idea that I could just go to this place and take out as many books as I wanted, before bringing them back and exchanging them for more, was a concept that seemed too good to be true. Second-hand and antique book shops have always cast a spell over me, but so have libraries, and every time I was taken to a Stately 'Ome or still-inhabited castle, I was always endlessly delighted by the different libraries I saw (and always slightly put out that I couldn't go up to the shelves to a) see what Lord and Lady Such-and-Such were reading and b) take a book down from the endless shelves and curl up for an hour or so to have a good read). I was fortunate to have been blessed with a godmother who is a librarian, so she was always able to provide me with hits of the good stuff, and so enamoured was I of libraries as a child that I was library prefect at both Primary and Secondary school (yes, yes, I was a girlie swot for a time). Books have been my saviours, my friends and my kindred spirits since my early childhood; their myriad voices speak to me across time, space and language and they have both moved and inspired me in ways I could not have imagined when I first started out on this journey as A Reader.

And now it seems I have discovered a new friend who feels the same way about books as I do and who has written books of his own, one of which has inspired me to give further thought to the idea - the dream - of My Library. Alberto Manguel's two most recent books, 'A Reader on Reading' and 'The Library at Night' are like elegiac love songs to both books and libraries; personal journeys, literary histories and sociological encyclopaedias, they are also brilliantly written and are fast becoming new and treasured friends of mine. Alberto (because I'm on intimate terms with him now, don't you know) has a 30,000-volume library of his own at his home in a 15th century presbytery in France, built in the grounds and adjoining the house, yet completely separate from it. Naturally, I'm incredibly jealous, not just of the library or the number of books in his guardianship (because after all, you never really 'own' a book; you befriend and take care of them for a while before eventually relinquishing custody) but because living in a 15th century presbytery in France sounds like heaven. I digress…again. Anyway, reading about his library and the libraries of others has made me yearn even more for a library of my own; somewhere the books in my keeping can live and breathe, where we can all find sanctuary and renew our friendships, as well as having plenty of room for new acquaintances to join us. The fact that I currently have neither the space to assemble such a library or my own home in which to attempt it (or the money such a project deserves, although I’m quite certain that any right-thinking judge that has to hear the case when my bank-robbing spree comes to an end would understand the reasons for it) is neither here nor there. Everyone has to have a dream, and this is mine.

Of course, taking all my beloved friends over to such a place would be quite an adventure. All my antique books would have to have special glass-fronted shelves to live in, to protect them from the atmosphere and the ravages of time, although they are still able to be read and are happy to be so employed. And in their company would be books on innumerable topics and themes; my crime psychology books would have to be close at hand (what is a library if it doesn’t have a forensic dissection of the mind of Ted Bundy, after all?), as would the books I loved as a child and have kept ever since (step forward Fancy Nancy, Ramona Quimby, Junk and Stargirl). Alice in Wonderland and her journey Through the Looking Glass will converse with Tim Burton’s Oyster Boy and Edward Gorey’s tragic Gashlycrumb Tinies. The fairy tales that I have loved all my life – Charles Perrault, Andrew Lang, Hans Christian Anderson and the grim Grimm brothers – are here, along with the poets whose words give voice to my own emotions. My ‘witchy’ books, both historical and less scholarly, must take their place, along with the art books that carry the images I only wish I was able to create. The comic and the serious will have their own space; Shakespeare will dally with the myths and legends of other countries and different times, and historical and sociological books on countless different subjects will be given homes. Then there are the novels of course, both ‘classic’ and ‘modern’; fantasy, chick-lit and anything and everything in between will line the shelves. Money being no object (this is a fantasy library, after all), there will be numerous editions of books from the Folio Society scattered throughout the room, and my antique book collection will no doubt continue to grow. There will be sacrifices, of course; to own a first edition of Shakespeare’s plays would be an absolute blessing in any library, but I’d be so terrified of damaging it that I’d never read it and what is the point of a book if you can’t make it live by reading? And, of course, there would be space for new friends to join the old, because when you’re a reader there are always new discoveries to make…

My Library may be a long way off its full realisation, but I cannot wallow in the valley of despair. I have a dream, a dream that is deeply rooted in the dream of all readers. I have a dream that one day my books will rise up and live out the true meaning of their creed; that they will sit on the shelves of brotherhood and find their own oasis where they are judged not by the colour of their bindings but by the content of their character. I have a dream that one day, one day, my books will be able to sing the words “free at last, free at last; thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

Until then, I guess they'll have to stay where they are...

Yes, It's Fucking Political!!!

Sometimes the world is a wonderful place, full of magick and abundance, when butterflies dance on shafts of light and there is music and mystery in the babbling brooks and on the gentle breezes. And sometimes the world is like the playground bully who steals your lunch money, punches you in the guts and then, for good measure, kicks sand in your face before running off laughing with your best friend.

When this happens, there are two strategies you can adopt. The first is to scream obscenities in the general direction of the All-Powerful Force of the Universe, shaking your fist and screaming how unfair the whole thing is before collapsing in a sobbing, hysterical heap on the floor. The second, always advocated by the hippy-dippy or ultra-religious lot, is to Count Your Blessings; the idea being that even in the depths of your ultimate despair you'll still be able to summon up the oomph to thank whichever Power you believe in that you aren't a starving African child or a victim of the Haitian earthquake. Clearly those people have never been in the depths of a depression so powerful that actually being a starving African child is preferable to your own miserable existence. Unless it's a starving African child adopted by Angelina Jolie or Madonna; then I think I'll stick with the pit of depression.

I, however, favour a third way. Although I try and count 3 good things that have happened to me each day and chronicle them in my notebook (I know; I'm such a hippy), there are always other things that I know I can count on when the going gets really, really tough...

1) My family, specifically my mum. Even when I have been the most unbearably awful child imaginable, shrieking in hysterical hypochondria or just generally being a complete cow, she is always, always there for me. I wish that everyone could be so lucky to have such a mother; however, no matter how much I love you, you cannot have her - she is mine and I won't do sharesies!!

2) My friends. They are all so different and yet all so dear to me. 'Nuff said, really.

3) Books. Opening a book is like opening a door into another world. There is always something new and wondrous to discover and sometimes you need to be taken out of the craptacular real world for a bit and play somewhere else.

4) Music. Ahh, music. Now this is always guaranteed to make my day because there is quite literally a song for every occasion; something to make the mood and the moment feel more intense. Music soothes the savage beast, it is the food of love and it's the best thing to get you through the good, the bad, the indifferent and just about anything you can think of. A few examples of my own personal soundtrack to life...

* Songs for expressing your righteous anger at the scumbags that somehow pass as politicians these days, with their smug smiles and their silly Eton haircuts: Yes, It's Fucking Political by Skunk Anansie; Take The Power Back by Rage Against The Machine; Fuck You by Lily Allen.
* Songs for being a general pain in "The Man's" butt: anything by Rage Against The Machine, really, but Killing In The Name Of goes down well...or not!
* Songs that remind me of my friends: Trash by Suede; Rasputin by Turisas; Escapist by Nightwish and (for Lee) Don't Stop Movin' by S Club 7. Remember lunchtimes in the pub, Lee-Lee? Ahh, happy days...
* Songs for getting over a break up: A Child That Walks In The Path Of A Man by Angtoria; Fighter by Christina Aguilera; A Rancid Romance by Diablo Swing Orchestra; Liar by Emilie Autumn; Smoke and Mirrors by Paloma Faith.
* Songs that take me right back to my teenage years: Weak by Skunk Anansie; Trash by Suede; Stupid Girl by Garbage; Yourself by the Manic Street Preachers; Bohemian Like You by the Dandy Warhols; Paint Pastel Princess by Silverchair; Local Boy in the Photograph by the Stereophonics; Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana.
* Songs for a bit of a 'feminist' moment: She's Like Thunder by Doro; Return of the Mother by Nina Hagen; Bitch by Sarah Jezebel Deva; That's What the Wise Lady Said by Angtoria; Why Didn't You Call Me by Macy Gray.
* Songs for my 'girlie fae' moments: What If, Rapunzel and Juliet, all by Emilie Autumn; Queen of the May, Wytches, Pagan Born, Heartbeat of the Earth, Midnight Queen, Beltane and pretty much anything by Inkubus Sukkubus.
* Songs guaranteed to reduce me to tears: Unintended and Sing For Absolution by Muse; Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley; Name by the Goo Goo Dolls; Feint by Epica; Bother by Corey Taylor; Piece of my Heart by Janis Joplin; Peace is Free by Black Stone Cherry; This is Yesterday by the Manic Street Preachers; Breathe by Abney Park; Faraway Vol. 2 by Apocalyptica.
* Songs that are better than Prozac: Drumming Song by Florence and the Machine; National Express by the Divine Comedy; The Ballad of Tom Jones by Spaced with Cerys Matthews; She Bangs by Ricky Martin; Love Machine by Girls Aloud; Airship Pirates by Abney Park; Wild Dances by Ruslana; anything by Lordi and anything by Motley Crue. Oh, and Du Hast and Pussy by Rammstein. Pussy also fits into the "songs that are not appropriate for singing in public as I found out to my eternal shame" category, along with 'The Devil is a Loser' by Lordi. Ahem...

So yeah, there you go. Quite a mixed bag, and that's only the stuff I've listened to recently or the categories that have been most appropriate recently. There are, of course, a million million more songs for both all of these categories and any other category you can think of. I honestly can't imagine my life without any of these four things, to be honest; if 'Heaven' is a place without my mum, my friends, my books and my music, you can keep it. Ooh, now there's a topic for a musical playlist...

On Addiction...

Why is it that I've always been addicted to stuff that's bad for me? Oh, I don't mean the really, really bad stuff - there will be no revelations about illegal drugs here, thank you; I think the hardest drug I'm addicted to is Pepsi - but there are some things that I know will do me no good whatsoever, and yet I have to have them. Unsuitable shoes, expensive vintage clothes (or just clothes in generally, really), books when my shelves are overflowing, CD's and DVD's when there really isn't any room for them...it's just ridiculous! And now it seems that my almost-new-but-slightly-ludicrous addiction is...cookery books.

I know, I know, not exactly rock 'n' roll, is it? But I have a real thing about them, even though I rarely cook anything and am currently undergoing tests for IBS and Crohns Disease (so food is sort of my enemy at the moment, at least until I know what's definitely going on in there and can do something about it. FML...) But there's just something about a cookery book that has a real hold over me; where most people would say the longest book they've ever read is 'War and Peace', I ploughed my way through 'Mrs Beetons Book of Household Management'. Some people get stupidly-excited over a new model of a particular car, I jump and down squealing when there's a new Nigella Lawson on the bookshelves. I have the obligatory 'celebrity chef' cookbooks, of course, for I worship at the altar of Nigella and Jamie, but I also have more interesting cookbooks (stop sniggering at the back - such things are possible!)

Take the book I bought today, for example. It's called 'Falling Cloudberries' by Tessa Kiros, who is the daughter of a Finnish mother and Cypriot father, who lived in South Africa from the age of 4 and is now married to an Italian. This is not so much a cookery book - although the recipes certainly look scrumptious - as a family history; there are stories, photographs, snippets of lore...it's absolutely beautiful. It was the cover that grabbed me first, and when I picked it up I knew it was coming home with me. What can I say, I have the iron will of an amoeba. But it's stunning and will have pride of place on my shelf. All that and I managed to get a cheap paperback copy of the legendary Julia Childs...today was a good day! Right, I'm off to drool over my lovely books and imagine being able to cook everything in them...and eat them with no consequences...ah well.

The first rule of Book Club...

I love books. No, I mean I actually love them. My books are my friends, and they have been ever since I was a child and my parents read stories to me; once I started reading by myself, I developed a voracious appetite for all things literary. I've read the great classics of literature, I've read light and fluffy chick-lit and (thanks to my somewhat disturbing fascination with criminal and abnormal psychology) I've read many gruesome serial killer books. My bookshelves groan under the weight of cookbooks, poetry books and magical encyclopedias; I worship Neil Gaiman, JRR Tolkien and Sylvia Plath (among many others) as my own personal pantheon of deities, and if you want a book about any subject at all, come and see me - I'll probably have something in stock. You name it, I'll read it.

I mean it; I'll try almost any book once. The only things I tend to steer away from these days are the 'real life' trauma books (you know, the ones with titles like 'The Girl Whose Father Whipped Her Daily With Linguine' - I don't mean to be flippant here but you know the ones I mean); Mills and Boon; Catherine Cookson and her ilk; and anything that has been written and published because it's 'like Twilight'. And I paid money for all 4 of those bloody Twilight books and read every single one, vainly hoping they'd get better. That's both money and nanoseconds of my life that I'll never get back again. Ah well...c'est la vie. And since I joined my book club at the end of last year, I've read things that I'd never have even considered before. Some of them have been fabulous and I have completely adored them, others I've hated, but new books means new worlds to discover and new friends to encounter.

I write this having come back from my monthly book club meet. We occasionally talk about the books, too...no, seriously, we do discuss them; it may not be very scientific or literary, but they are definitely talked about. This one was 'Papillon'; I'd seen bits of the film but had no idea it was a book. And not just a book, a true story! Just...wow. It was amazing; it took a while to get going, almost as if Papillon had to find his 'voice' as an author, but when he did it was just intoxicating. You can see it all so clearly - the camps, the prisoners, the escapes...it was amazing, and I would never have read it if it wasn't on our list. Next up is 'Lolita', which I picked - I've started it so many times but never finished it because I kept getting sidetracked, but Book Club disciplines me to actually finish them even if I hate them. Oh, with the exception of 'The Fraction of the Whole', which I hated beyond belief and so did everyone else - none of us finished that one! So now I will finally finish 'Lolita' and will have expanded my horizons yet further, and at least made some new acquaintances even if we don't become friends.

And that's the weird thing about books. They really do become your friends, and some of the friendships that I made in childhood endure to this day. I wasn't even five when I first met Fancy Nancy, Heidi, Ramona Quimby and Katy Carr (and became almost hysterical with delight when presented with a copy of 'What Katy Did' because I thought it was about me); over the years, I may have got older and more widely read, but there is still a very special place in my heart for these friends from my childhood. Others have come to join them over the years and our little circle of friendship has widened, but I've never lost the desire to get to know more of them and to keep reading. Goddess help me if they ever make it illegal...I'll end up forming a Resistance movement or something...