Sunday, July 18, 2004
The Battersea Park Road to Enlightenment by Isabel Losada
This book has languished at the bottom of my ever-increasing pile on my desk, kept there by ignorance and jealousy. I struggle when people give me books because I remind them of the speaker because I'm scared shitless of what that'll imply. Anyway, I let all of this, and apathy, get the better of me, and avoided starting it. I don't think I even read the back of the book and so only had Tara's word about what it's about.
What is it about? The author charts her search for happiness (and not 'dull contentedness') in fourteen phases from the first relunctantly attended Insight seminar, to accidental T'ai Chi in France, a weekend in a Convent, the creation of her astrology chart and subsequent discovery of her (subsequently argumentative) Ms Inner Feminity at a Goddess workshop, and so on and so forth. The complete happiness naturally incorporates mind, body and spirit and the therapies explore all of this and more, past lives and sexuality included, and I found the book exceptionally interesting, informative and inspiring. I can't deny that I've wanted to try most of what she's tried. I'm fascinated by the pursuit of knowledge and refuse to dismiss something until I've tried it myself.
This is probably because, like the author, I have an unfailing conviction in my own intellectual superiority (god knows what this is based on), a self-depricating humour, unfathomable curiousity and even scarily share the same eating habits (too fast, too much coffee). There was even a comment on an Amazon review describing her as 'somewhat bossy but rather likeable all the same'. If I only had a pound for everytime I heard that about me!
So, I found this book very inspiring and insightful. Ms Losada's observations and own learning curve provides hope. Put simply. There's enough in there to get me started on my own path towards a brighter future, because, bluntly put, I've been a miserable bint recently.
This book has languished at the bottom of my ever-increasing pile on my desk, kept there by ignorance and jealousy. I struggle when people give me books because I remind them of the speaker because I'm scared shitless of what that'll imply. Anyway, I let all of this, and apathy, get the better of me, and avoided starting it. I don't think I even read the back of the book and so only had Tara's word about what it's about.
What is it about? The author charts her search for happiness (and not 'dull contentedness') in fourteen phases from the first relunctantly attended Insight seminar, to accidental T'ai Chi in France, a weekend in a Convent, the creation of her astrology chart and subsequent discovery of her (subsequently argumentative) Ms Inner Feminity at a Goddess workshop, and so on and so forth. The complete happiness naturally incorporates mind, body and spirit and the therapies explore all of this and more, past lives and sexuality included, and I found the book exceptionally interesting, informative and inspiring. I can't deny that I've wanted to try most of what she's tried. I'm fascinated by the pursuit of knowledge and refuse to dismiss something until I've tried it myself.
This is probably because, like the author, I have an unfailing conviction in my own intellectual superiority (god knows what this is based on), a self-depricating humour, unfathomable curiousity and even scarily share the same eating habits (too fast, too much coffee). There was even a comment on an Amazon review describing her as 'somewhat bossy but rather likeable all the same'. If I only had a pound for everytime I heard that about me!
So, I found this book very inspiring and insightful. Ms Losada's observations and own learning curve provides hope. Put simply. There's enough in there to get me started on my own path towards a brighter future, because, bluntly put, I've been a miserable bint recently.
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Around Ireland with a Fridge by Tony Hawks
This book took a lot longer to read than I first thuoght. I think the main problem was that I couldn't persuade myself to continue. Not that it wasn't good and funny, but that I wouldn't see the point to it. However, queuing for my Russian visa from 5.50 am onwards along side reassuringly dull people, meant that I found a good reason to continue and thoroughly embarrassed myself in front of people I'm never going to see again by fitfully snorting with laughter every 30 seconds. And by the end I was reading it addictively and loving it passionately. I think it somehow reassured my faith in the world, which is no mean feat bearing in mind how easy I am at the moment to piss off.
This book took a lot longer to read than I first thuoght. I think the main problem was that I couldn't persuade myself to continue. Not that it wasn't good and funny, but that I wouldn't see the point to it. However, queuing for my Russian visa from 5.50 am onwards along side reassuringly dull people, meant that I found a good reason to continue and thoroughly embarrassed myself in front of people I'm never going to see again by fitfully snorting with laughter every 30 seconds. And by the end I was reading it addictively and loving it passionately. I think it somehow reassured my faith in the world, which is no mean feat bearing in mind how easy I am at the moment to piss off.
Monday, July 12, 2004
Chapter and Verse by Colin Bateman
An accidental discovery in the library this morning, I already finished this latest chapter in the entertaining life of Dan Starky, fictional fuck-up with a streak of humour blacker than coal dust bile of an umemployed miner. It's like an addiction but the only problem is that I've read all of Colin Bateman's books. And when there are new ones I read them immediately. I don't like rationing good books. This one takes our unheroic hero to Florida and all sorts of crap including gay waiters, Al Capone, alligators and inbred backwaters. There's also a serious vein in which we get to appreciate how emotionally fucked-up our man really is. But it's over. And I have to wait another year for the next one.
An accidental discovery in the library this morning, I already finished this latest chapter in the entertaining life of Dan Starky, fictional fuck-up with a streak of humour blacker than coal dust bile of an umemployed miner. It's like an addiction but the only problem is that I've read all of Colin Bateman's books. And when there are new ones I read them immediately. I don't like rationing good books. This one takes our unheroic hero to Florida and all sorts of crap including gay waiters, Al Capone, alligators and inbred backwaters. There's also a serious vein in which we get to appreciate how emotionally fucked-up our man really is. But it's over. And I have to wait another year for the next one.
Friday, July 09, 2004
I have this huge pile of books falling across my desk and it doesn't look too promising that anyone them will be read. Especially since the charity shops beckons my unemployed wallet...
At the bottom, and resolutely not moving is the autobiography Christopher and His Kind by Christopher Isherwood. I borrowed it from a friend of my mother's so I can't put it away on the shelf because otherwise it will probably stay there for years to come. Although now I think about it, the book has definitely been in its current position for about 8 months... Whoops! No plans on picking it up soon as Mr Isherwood seems to both drive me up the wall for reminding me too closely of an uptight gay friend who has this bad habit of driving me up the wall and is also quite dull to read. So far. And we've had pre-WW2 Berlin and the basis for Caberet so I can't see it improving since that was boring as hell.
Next one up is another hardback - which may lead towards explaining why they are at the bottom and til now, still unread - is Mountains beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder which is a biographical account of Paul Farmer - the man behind the charity Partners in Health and many other humanitarian causes, especially relating to poverty-related medical issues in Haiti. Also lent to me, this time to provide inspiration relating to my own career by another of my mother's friends, I've only ever got as far as the front page. Something, possibly jealousy, is keeping me back.
Next up, paperback edition of Italo Calvino's If on a winter's night a traveller. Bought on a particularly successful charity shop raiding trip upon Tara's recommendation, I haven't yet found the time to start it. I'm eyeing it up as we speak though.
The Battersea Park Road to Enlightenment by Isabel Losada. Lent to me by Tara (as she commented she would earlier), I will read this book. I will. Perhaps after I write my own though...
Prague and Moscow guidebooks. Bring on the holiday! (Which is exactly the same time I will start reading them!)
A library copy of Passage to India by EMForster which has already cost me £2.10 in fines. Why did I get this? We probably have a copy somewhere but I liked the colour of the cover. Sad. But true.
On the top, balanced very vicariously, is Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy. I took this to Glastonbury. I think that encapsulates how nervous I was about going. All 1474 pages. Luckily though, I had a fabulous time and never once resorted to reading. So it's still unread. Although, being secondhand, very much opened already.
This pile doens't even include the book I'm reading, Around Ireland with a Fridge, which is very funny but not exactly life changing. I'm about two chapters in and I'm guessing that he's going to go around Ireland. With a fridge. There's not a great incentive to continue reading. Yet. But I'm sure to write when I do.
At the bottom, and resolutely not moving is the autobiography Christopher and His Kind by Christopher Isherwood. I borrowed it from a friend of my mother's so I can't put it away on the shelf because otherwise it will probably stay there for years to come. Although now I think about it, the book has definitely been in its current position for about 8 months... Whoops! No plans on picking it up soon as Mr Isherwood seems to both drive me up the wall for reminding me too closely of an uptight gay friend who has this bad habit of driving me up the wall and is also quite dull to read. So far. And we've had pre-WW2 Berlin and the basis for Caberet so I can't see it improving since that was boring as hell.
Next one up is another hardback - which may lead towards explaining why they are at the bottom and til now, still unread - is Mountains beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder which is a biographical account of Paul Farmer - the man behind the charity Partners in Health and many other humanitarian causes, especially relating to poverty-related medical issues in Haiti. Also lent to me, this time to provide inspiration relating to my own career by another of my mother's friends, I've only ever got as far as the front page. Something, possibly jealousy, is keeping me back.
Next up, paperback edition of Italo Calvino's If on a winter's night a traveller. Bought on a particularly successful charity shop raiding trip upon Tara's recommendation, I haven't yet found the time to start it. I'm eyeing it up as we speak though.
The Battersea Park Road to Enlightenment by Isabel Losada. Lent to me by Tara (as she commented she would earlier), I will read this book. I will. Perhaps after I write my own though...
Prague and Moscow guidebooks. Bring on the holiday! (Which is exactly the same time I will start reading them!)
A library copy of Passage to India by EMForster which has already cost me £2.10 in fines. Why did I get this? We probably have a copy somewhere but I liked the colour of the cover. Sad. But true.
On the top, balanced very vicariously, is Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy. I took this to Glastonbury. I think that encapsulates how nervous I was about going. All 1474 pages. Luckily though, I had a fabulous time and never once resorted to reading. So it's still unread. Although, being secondhand, very much opened already.
This pile doens't even include the book I'm reading, Around Ireland with a Fridge, which is very funny but not exactly life changing. I'm about two chapters in and I'm guessing that he's going to go around Ireland. With a fridge. There's not a great incentive to continue reading. Yet. But I'm sure to write when I do.
