Night of the Wolf

by
Alice Borchardt

My rating: 2.5 of 5 stars
While I recall the first of this series thrilling me with its Roman historicity and intrigue, I am left wondering if I enjoyed it so much because it was several years ago and my reading tastes were not nearly as refined, nor my sense of literary excellence so sharply honed. Borchardt really shares quite a lot with her sister Anne Rice in regards to style, meaning she tends toward the overwrought and over done. I wanted more from her characters, was rather bored with the usage of Caesar as a character and the plotting surrounding him, and felt like the historical detailing of food distracted from the flow of the novel – especially as I flipped through my unabridged Oxford dictionary to find out what piece of a pig’s lower intestine they were consuming.

The wolfish perspective provided by Maeniel, the dark gray eyes of innocence who transitions from wolf to man, was the most fascinating part of the novel, something I enjoyed because urban fantasy written now is almost entirely built upon humans becoming wolves and not the other way around, something I’ve always felt was lacking. The potential for using that perspective as a commentary on our world is vast, but unfortunately, Borchardt did so only shallowly.

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Summer Knight

by
Jim Butcher

My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Faeries and politicking. Who knew it could be so much fun to watch Harry Dresden squirm! Oh wait, that is one of the reasons I keep coming back to this wonderful series. In this fourth installment of how-will-Harry-be-royally(literally)-screwed, he has the White Council with the Sword of Damocles (or Morgan with his axe to grind) on one side, Queen Mab of the icy britches Winter Court on another, and a gang load of hired thugs and nasty types elsewhere trying to off him. Oh, and his dead flame who tried to kill him is back too. What choice a poor wizard to make for his demise? Even with this doom and gloom storm cloud brewing with a little Faerie magic on a big stone table, Harry battles the good battle, plays the heroic man with a big staff, wears his spiffy coat, and keeps a snarky head above the insanity, even while said head is spinning none too slowly over his unlucky fate. I sort of really wanted to hug Mr. Butcher after finishing this novel. View all my verbose reviews >>

by
Jim Butcher

My rating: 3.5 of 5 stars
About four years ago, I was acquainted with a certain “Wizard for Hire” by the name of Harry Dresden. I recall being entertained but not compelled to continue the association. However, several trusted sources promised me Mr. Dresden is of pukka character, the real deal, not prone to charlatan-esque fripperies and obfuscations. Finally circumventing my innate resistance, the second meeting between Mr. Dresden and I was arranged, and an intriguing dynamic arose. I discovered that I actually like Mr. Dresden; his foibles and peccadillos make him less a figure of mystic adumbration and more of an associate with whom to take tea and discuss the recent spate of brummagem love potions flooding the magical marketplace. His expertise and interests are varied and vast, his moral certitude and chivalrous demeanor endearing, his honor and sense of duty admirable. But perhaps his best features: he carries a large staff and makes a leather duster look good.

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The surge of energy within this very beginning stage of engaging with these guides and myself has been truly remarkable.  More responses and reflections to follow as I plummet with a massive grin flapping comically in the wind…

photo by Austin Zahn of AZahn Photography and Videography

As I engage the start of my yoga teacher certification, I strive to recall the need for balance within my space, my work, my attention, and mayhap most demanding: myself.

May this balance resonate and permutate through the next two weeks and one day; may I be engaged in this performance of physical, social, mental, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual even-standing.

When I start to dwell on the not perfect falling short of ninety degree bend in my knee, may I balance that with joy that I can bend at all - atop a fence!

My life is besotted with negativity and anti-climatic moments.

My life is faltering in edification; I am stultifying.

The ravages of this life weigh heavily upon my mind.

The heavy mantle of responsibility smothers me.

Somebody give me a cigarette.

Just let me sleep, or put me out of my misery.

Sounds pretty stupid coming from a kangaroo, right?

How do you think he feels when we say stuff like this?

Take a leap.  Take a bounce.  Take a cathartic yogi kangaroo squat.

As I eagerly sow and wait for my newest plant friends to pullulate, I meet a sense of peaceful repose gazing through the lens of my camera at their new abode – a coconut fiber-lined wire basket that jauntily dangles from my balcony railing.  Embedded in compost and worm poop, soaked and then drizzled over lovingly with water daily, I entertain visions of a bequeathal of salad green goodness from this basket as these mesclun lettuces burgeon forth.  And yes, I thrill that their main fertilizer is the excrement of wriggling creatures.  You can visit Vermiculture Northwest to see why.

Besides calling up a surge of potent metaphors, archetypes, and mythological referents, these seeds also represent something of my independence.  I failed to understand that I hadn’t really found it yet.  I have been removed from the surety and safety of the nest (albeit with a temporary revisit recently) for some time, and yet I have discovered that this new space allows for an exploration and effusion of creativity that I have not felt the like of before.  Part of this is why I was not writing devotionally while in the midst of moving – I was so profoundly affected by the energy that was building within and around me that I could not focus enough to bring thought to keypad.

I know there is many layers of soil to explore with these new roots of mine.  Forgive me while I descend, like the questing roots of my new mesclun lettuce plants, into the clichéd space of seeds and rooting, but the relation to my living space is unavoidable and utterly joyful.  Like these seeds, I feel like I have been waiting for some convergence of factors.  Within this new space, I hope to find the necessary ingredients to germinate, as I now hope the mesclun seeds are doing in their elevated container.  I shall have to find my own form of worm poop to feed my growth…

by

Jacqueline Carey

My rating: 5 of 5 stars
After Santa Olivia, Carey’s stature as my favorite author was assured. Naamah’s Kiss carved that distinction into marble. Any successive contenders for favorite author will have tall plinths to ascend before their names can be carved near the zenith.

Departing chronologically but not spiritedly from my beloved characters in the Kushiel’s Legacy, this generational descendant retains the compassion and character and thrill and intelligence of its predecessors. Rather than merely reacquaint us solely with D’Angeline society as it has progressed over four generations, Carey starts us in the wilds of Alba with a descendant of Alais, now referred to as Alais the Wise, who is part of a family branch that followed the isolationist nature of the still mistrusted Maghuinn Donn: Moirin, great granddaughter to my beloved princess who matured to inspire Alba.

Alais’ great granddaughter has no less a grand destiny to fulfill; indeed, it is this destiny that fuels her outward exploration. Thematically central, the thread of destiny remains ever present to Moirin as she literally feels her destiny respond to the courses she ponders. It is this internal compass that propels or hinders her along the way, the impetus that sends her beyond one ocean to Terre d’Ange, and then beyond a greater ocean to distant and newly connected, yet forbidding Ch’in.

Magic is much more prevalent for Moirin and a greater factor in Naamah’s Kiss, taking on a larger presence than in the Kushiel’s Legacy sextuplet. Moirin lives with magic, having inherited through her ancestry from Alais and the Maghuinn Donn gifts that many thought lost. She hears the call of the bear goddess of the Maghuinn Donn, but also feels and is guided by the presence of the D’Angeline consorts Naamah and Anael. Weaving together with her demanding destiny, this exploration of magic and divinity compels a significant part of the story and positions Moirin in spheres of intrigue and power to which her naivete is quickly forced to adapt.

Despite her humble upbringing in the wilds of Alba, or perhaps due to it, Moirin has a lusty desire to learn, explore her nature, and follow the call of her destiny. This often manifests as a stubborn streak, which combines with her naive charm to engender a new character Carey has created that has stolen my heart. Methinks Naamah would be especially pleased by this.

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I’ve missed the two events in previous months after finding the group, the one garnering some attention was the Great LA River Clean Up in which 80 volunteers from Gay For Good participated.  This type of volunteer activity was something I always wanted to do in the past, but through odd work hours and exhaustion, I never managed to work it into my life. 

After pursuing my LAPD application with a service mindset as a core impetus, one would think I should naturally gravitate toward volunteer-based efforts.  One would be right in that I am drawn to them, but my inherent shyness and frustrating inability to surmount the barriers of not knowing people have barred me in the past.

I didn’t let it this time.  For July, Gay For Good was going local, helping the West Hollywood Community Housing Project start the clean up of a long-abandoned apartment complex.  The WHCHP recently purchased the buildings that they will convert into accessible and affordable housing for seniors, differently abled, and those with HIV/AIDS as soon as more funding clears.  It truly is local for me, as the buildings reside about two minutes up my street.  I walk by them on my way to the Internet cafe.  How could I not volunteer?

I showed up (late - so shoot me, I have to live up to the occasional gay stereotype), looked helplessly around, thought about retreating in defeat, haltingly asked where I could help, grabbed gloves, and with gravity and apology set about yanking and shearing entrenched ivy out of some seriously shaky brick planters clinging hesitantly to the front of the buildings.  After the detritus was cleared, lots of sage and banana palms and the orange flower in the photo were given new homes in the barren front yard, and then we wheel-barrowed mulch in to spread over the lot of it.  It sounds like drastically lighter work than it really was – there were probably about fifty of us helping out (and so many beautifully formed shirtless men than I likely could have watered the new plants from my drool alone, not to mention the sweat from all the labor) and we worked for two and a half hours straight. 

Granted, this work was entirely cosmetic, but the effect was dramatic: every time I passed this building previously, it exuded a slightly menacing vibe from its dilapidated frontage.  I wondered if that vibe would prevent us from really making a difference, but what I found as ivy gave way to mulch and five year-old decomposing wood and rusting cans met the garbage truck was that this building was only shielding itself.  Its apartments are remarkably well kept for being unused for more than four years; beautiful hardwood floors in amazing condition greeted me as I peeked into one unit.  There is a proud demeanor that came through once the front yard was looking more presentable.  Members of the WHCHP who were present expressed their feeling that this is a beautiful start giving them hope for the buildings’ eventual rejuvenation.  I think the sage was in particular agreement.

My inner turmoil eased considerably as friendly greetings were exchanged and one woman and I explored the insect jungle living amongst the ivy, discovering a pinkie-sized centipede replete with fuzzy covering and speedy maneuvering.  The ivy really did not want to give up its home, causing me grief as I tore and cut its roots, hence I’ll end with a photographic tribute in remembrance.