Fate Gate: Written in the Scars

In the midnight hour . . .

At the stroke of midnight . . .

Before midnight . . .

Pop culture is rife with allusions to what happens when night melts to morning.  Billy Idol, Cinderella, Ethan Hawke, and countless others have spun or starred in stories about the mythology of the witching hour.  So I knew that Matt Haig's novel, The Midnight Library, would be, if nothing else, mysterious.  Which is always nice around Halloween.  I heard about it on Ivy's Closet, and I don't take librarians' reading lists lightly.  Billy Idol, not so much.  Although I am a fan of '80s pop rock.  And comic relief.  

Anyway, The Midnight Library is the story of Nora Seed, a multi-talented but depressed thirty-five-year-old caught between life and death in the purgatory of a library -- the Midnight Library.  The librarian is Mrs. Elm, an elderly sage who was Nora's high school librarian.  Mrs. Elm supplies Nora with the Book of Regrets, a tome listing everything she ever wanted to be, including a rock star, an Olympic swimmer, and a philosophy scholar.  Nora picks a regret, then opens the corresponding book to live the life she thinks she missed out on.  Sometimes she stays minutes, other times days.  If it's the right life, then she'll end up staying forever.  But if it isn't, then she'll return to the library to try again.  So, yeah, it's the whole parallel-universe-space-time-continuum-butterfly-effect thing.  Which I could've better explained by saying that Nora works in a music shop called String Theory.  

Nora's journey is fascinating, scary, and sad.  But it's also perplexing.  Because as she test drives more and more destinies, she begins to realize that they're as similar as they are different -- and that she's unsure what it is that will make the right one "right."       

Innovative yet familiar, The Midnight Library elegantly combines the best-loved elements of It's a Wonderful Life, NBC freshman drama Ordinary Joe, and every Choose Your Own Adventure book to deliver a sci-fi-tinged, timeless tale of gratitude and self discovery.  Rich in symbols and nuance, it's also a modern parable about the importance of mental health.  When I reached the last page, I was so engrossed that I didn't want it to end.  Nevertheless, the ending was perfect.  I wouldn't go back in time and/or across universes to change a thing.  

Unlike Billy Idol, who, according to Behind the Music, was caught with the nanny on the baby monitor. 

Duck Duck Truce: Crayon Box Rocks

Welcome to another exciting edition of rhyme time!  That's right, I wrote a new poem, and it's about the duck decoys on my mantel.  They say that when you spend a lot of time alone, you start talking to yourself and/or inanimate objects.  In this case, the objects are talking to me -- or rather, to another inanimate object, my faux forsythia wreath.  Anyhoo, I call the poem Flighty Ducks Get Their Wings Clipped -- for reasons that will soon be clear.

The four little ducks
In this pic had a fight
Each wouldn't give in,
Each thought he was right.

But the wreath below them
Was upset by their strife
And said they should stop
If they valued their life.

That gave the ducks pause
And they shut their beaks
For only fools quack
When a wise woman speaks.

The wreath smiled sweetly
And glowed like the sun
She wasn't just decor
For good times and fun.

I was once like you,
She told the four ducks
Ungrateful and selfish
And out for big bucks.

But then a wise antelope
Showed me the way
And soon I gave thanks
For each gift of a day.

Thank you, wreath lady
Chorused the quartet
We'll be good to each other,
We'll be our best yet.

No need to thank me
Replied the gold wreath
Just help one another
And treasure your teeth.

"Wait, what?" said the ducks.  "We don't have any teeth!"

But the wreath was already gone.  In her place was the grinning face of Emilio Estevez.  His smile was mostly toothless, and The Mighty Ducks theme song was playing in the background.  The duck decoy on the end screamed; the duck next to him muttered that he would've preferred to hear music from St. Elmo's Fire. 

Me too, duck one space from the end, me too.

This post isn't just about repentant waterfowl and underdog athlete flicks.  It's also about Crayola crayons and the Hard Rock Casino, two artsy icons at opposite ends of the rainbow paint palette spectrum.  Crayons are wholesome (even when eaten, they're nontoxic), whereas rock and roll is all rebel yell (although I realize how unhip it is to reference Billy Idol instead of Billie Eilish).  They have nothing in common.  Except for maybe when the waitress at the Hard Rock Cafe brings little Katie a pack of crayons.   

Well, that and they're both built for expression.  Which is obvious given my unfortunate air guitar performance in the pic above.  The husband took it back in January, or, as I like to call it, "the time that came before" (the coronavirus).  And although it's true that I had a good time, it wasn't as good as the time I'm having now.

Right, Emilio?

I quack myself up.

Make and Tell Challenge, Day 78

Last night I painted a little of the second coat on this Goldenrod Fierce Flowers tote, then passed out on the couch (spontaneous sleep seems to be a side effect of modern life). I was starting on the second coat because I had to iron more blank totes before I could draw and paint the first coat for the rest of the series. Anyway, I tried again tonight and ended up finishing. Tomorrow I can iron the underside and post it in my shop.

In other news, I almost hit a deer coming out of work today. I was distracted, thinking of everything I had to do at home, etc., etc., etc. Thankfully I wasn't driving too fast. But I really do need to pay more attention.

Also, this morning's Under the Covers song on 104.5 was Billy Idol's "Dancing with Myself," done by Blink-182. Just felt like reporting that.