Wandering is more than filling footprints that lead right back to my Harry Potter books
Plans for today include lazing on a Monday afternoon, clipping JoAnn coupons so I can get my Peony fabric and pattern soon, eventually going out with Kari for dinner tonight, and having a lie-in. I already did sleep in, though; it's nice to have some mornings of not waking up till ten, when most of my other mornings are adventures in rushing out the door before six AM.
I'd happily surrender my lazing time, though, if it meant a cosplay meeting. I want to do some sewing. ^_^
Ever since Todd and I watched Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince on Christmas Eve, I've been whittling away - extremely slowly - at rereading my books. First, I had to get them from Mom's house; once I did that, I had a lot of commitments and I haven't even gotten halfway through Sorcerer's/Philosopher's Stone. It doesn't help that I started reading last night and fell asleep in my book. Boo. I woke up this morning and I had knocked the book out of my bed, lying on its face on the floor. My poor Harry Potter book. I didn't mean to profane you! Actually, I'm not particularly obsessive about the condition of my books. I can't afford to be. My first four books, and the fourth book in particular, are not in good condition. A fifth- and sixth-grade girl bought them and read them repeatedly. The fourth book's jacket is tattered in places, not from being battered or beaten, but from being read, then reread, and read again. I felt I had nothing else to do during the Three-Year Summer, so I constantly reread my books. The fourth book took the strongest beating from this endeavor, for whatever reason.
And let's not even go into the tears and even blood shed in my Harry Potter books. The tears didn't start until the fourth book, but you can actually see them all over the last three books - perhaps because by that point, I'd started wearing mascara and it colored my tears a faint gray with black flecks at the edges as they dropped on pages, even where I tried to stop them. Even without the mascara, I cried too much over some pages not to salvage them. If I ever wanted these books to be collector's items, it's too late. And I don't care. I'd rather attach some emotion to my books than try to keep them one hundred percent pristine.
Listening to Todd read HBP, watching the film, and reading S/PS (fuck, I'm just going to call it Philosopher's Stone now, like a grown-up, I mean, honestly), I can feel the change in tone more distinctly than ever. Leaping from the second-to-last book to the first book, it hit me like a fist to the jaw. That's not a criticism; if Rowling tried to maintain a childlike tone throughout the books, I'd be critical of her ability as a writer, and I doubt the books would feel as real as they do. As they are, they feel like Harry growing up. Yes, chest monsters and all. (Insert weary sigh here.) I've always felt attached to the books because I was growing up with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and spending as much time thinking about their next adventure as they were. Knowing the outcome of every book as I read it doesn't give that same tinge of anticipation coloring every one of their experiences, but I have the feeling of coming back to old friends every time I open a Harry Potter book, and having old, familiar friends like that is a wonderful and warm feeling. So I'll always keep coming back.
Despite what I may have to say about Deathly Hallows deviating from the way many of us believed the series would end, and whatever minor critiques I may have of certain plot points or the way Rowling executed something, I consider these books literature and I'll never grow tired of them. That I keep returning, multiple times a year, and revisiting old sites and columns of theories to compare those against what actually happened, is proof that this is not the beginning or the end. It's a circle. A vicious one, sure, since it keeps ensnaring me, but a circle, and I appreciate its viciousness.
I harassed Ash, Kuhnie, and Mo to ask about cosplay meetings; now all there is to do is wait and hope. Y'know, 待って、しかし希望せ. Which just makes me think of Franz, and that's enough to bring tears to my eyes. Oh, Franz, Franz, we hardly knew you!
And Cedric! Tonks! Hedwig! Dobby! Sirius! Dumbledore! Fred! Snape! Remus! We hardly knew you! And James and Lily, we hardly knew you, either!
I know, melodrama is my forte. It's what helps me sleep at night.
"Books get older as well; their body also wears out, but unlike us, their brain remains forever young!"
I'd happily surrender my lazing time, though, if it meant a cosplay meeting. I want to do some sewing. ^_^
Ever since Todd and I watched Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince on Christmas Eve, I've been whittling away - extremely slowly - at rereading my books. First, I had to get them from Mom's house; once I did that, I had a lot of commitments and I haven't even gotten halfway through Sorcerer's/Philosopher's Stone. It doesn't help that I started reading last night and fell asleep in my book. Boo. I woke up this morning and I had knocked the book out of my bed, lying on its face on the floor. My poor Harry Potter book. I didn't mean to profane you! Actually, I'm not particularly obsessive about the condition of my books. I can't afford to be. My first four books, and the fourth book in particular, are not in good condition. A fifth- and sixth-grade girl bought them and read them repeatedly. The fourth book's jacket is tattered in places, not from being battered or beaten, but from being read, then reread, and read again. I felt I had nothing else to do during the Three-Year Summer, so I constantly reread my books. The fourth book took the strongest beating from this endeavor, for whatever reason.
And let's not even go into the tears and even blood shed in my Harry Potter books. The tears didn't start until the fourth book, but you can actually see them all over the last three books - perhaps because by that point, I'd started wearing mascara and it colored my tears a faint gray with black flecks at the edges as they dropped on pages, even where I tried to stop them. Even without the mascara, I cried too much over some pages not to salvage them. If I ever wanted these books to be collector's items, it's too late. And I don't care. I'd rather attach some emotion to my books than try to keep them one hundred percent pristine.
Listening to Todd read HBP, watching the film, and reading S/PS (fuck, I'm just going to call it Philosopher's Stone now, like a grown-up, I mean, honestly), I can feel the change in tone more distinctly than ever. Leaping from the second-to-last book to the first book, it hit me like a fist to the jaw. That's not a criticism; if Rowling tried to maintain a childlike tone throughout the books, I'd be critical of her ability as a writer, and I doubt the books would feel as real as they do. As they are, they feel like Harry growing up. Yes, chest monsters and all. (Insert weary sigh here.) I've always felt attached to the books because I was growing up with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and spending as much time thinking about their next adventure as they were. Knowing the outcome of every book as I read it doesn't give that same tinge of anticipation coloring every one of their experiences, but I have the feeling of coming back to old friends every time I open a Harry Potter book, and having old, familiar friends like that is a wonderful and warm feeling. So I'll always keep coming back.
Despite what I may have to say about Deathly Hallows deviating from the way many of us believed the series would end, and whatever minor critiques I may have of certain plot points or the way Rowling executed something, I consider these books literature and I'll never grow tired of them. That I keep returning, multiple times a year, and revisiting old sites and columns of theories to compare those against what actually happened, is proof that this is not the beginning or the end. It's a circle. A vicious one, sure, since it keeps ensnaring me, but a circle, and I appreciate its viciousness.
I harassed Ash, Kuhnie, and Mo to ask about cosplay meetings; now all there is to do is wait and hope. Y'know, 待って、しかし希望せ. Which just makes me think of Franz, and that's enough to bring tears to my eyes. Oh, Franz, Franz, we hardly knew you!
And Cedric! Tonks! Hedwig! Dobby! Sirius! Dumbledore! Fred! Snape! Remus! We hardly knew you! And James and Lily, we hardly knew you, either!
I know, melodrama is my forte. It's what helps me sleep at night.
"Books get older as well; their body also wears out, but unlike us, their brain remains forever young!"