text.skipToContent text.skipToNavigation
background-image

Land of Sunshine von Basile, A. Robert (eBook)

  • Erscheinungsdatum: 17.07.2016
  • Verlag: BookBaby
eBook (ePUB)
7,49 €
inkl. gesetzl. MwSt.
Sofort per Download lieferbar

Online verfügbar

Land of Sunshine

A once great writer, Graham, now blocked and unable to write, is sequestered to a hotel room with an unwilling chaperone, Lydia. There, Graham uses insomnia to try to regain his now absent skills while Lydia silently confronts the buried trials of her past and begins to realize her emotions are not necessarily under her own control.

Produktinformationen

    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: none
    Seitenzahl: 200
    Erscheinungsdatum: 17.07.2016
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9781483576350
    Verlag: BookBaby
    Größe: 844kBytes
Weiterlesen weniger lesen

Land of Sunshine

.1. "I was a doll once." ~Lydia Greene~ I remember when I used to care about what I looked like. How long ago was that? Too long. Every crease and fold in my clothes, every piece of hair was perfectly where it ought to have been. Now, who gives a shit. That was so long ago, when I cared. At least it feels so long ago. I guess I've never been the right beautiful, but I'm not entirely sure what that is anyway. Dad would know, but he's somewhere else. And mom, she never mattered. The right beautiful. The beautiful that they want you to be, and the beautiful that you strive to be. You convince yourself that you want to be it because you are making the decision to be it. But it's not true. You strive for it because someone on the cover of a magazine is telling you that you ought to be it. So you try to be the right beautiful. I have never been the right beautiful, and now I've reached the conclusion that I have wasted my time trying to be. I didn't realize that I broke a fingernail. God, my hands look like man hands. So much for the womanly aesthetic. Dainty and delicate and not at all. This shirt, this filthy, old Faith No More tour shirt for a concert I never even went to. 1997, the shirt is dated. I wasn't even out of high school, and Faith No More was playing "The Real Thing," and "What A Day," and "Ugly In The Morning" for people who knew every word. Ugly in the morning. How appropriate. These torn jeans and shit kicker boots, too. I look ready for a mosh pit. I miss looking like a woman, but then it wouldn't serve how I think now. Your beauty ought to always serve your thoughts. Whatever it is that makes your mind work, whatever fleeting gull or lingering albatross crosses your mind, your beauty ought to reflect that. Sometimes it's ok to be ugly on the outside if you are ugly on the inside. I'm ugly on the inside. My outside follows suit. I mourn the inside and embrace the outside. I don't think this table is real wood. The lines and wrinkles of wood don't have such bold and perfect color. Making a fake thing look real is a wonderfully fraudulent deception. The manufacturer of this piece of shit table worked so very hard to make it look like real wood that they passed the point of reason several shades of fake ago. With the energy that they put into making this fake wood look real, they could have just made the table out of real wood. It doesn't matter. Why do I even give a shit. Scratching the surface of the fake wooden table, I've pulled some of it up into the space between my fingernail and my fingertip. It stings, and now my unpainted nail is growing red with blood from underneath. Great. That's going to look real good when the people finally show up. The surface of my fingernail grows a familiar red. A pool. A puddle of living. Suddenly I realize that I forgot to wear a watch. Damnit. This bookstore is another fraud. It tries to be folksy and little, but it is just as corporate as MegaMart department store, the likes of which people with nothing better to do with their time protest. Fuck. I just paper cut my thumb fanning the pages of my book. My book. It's not even mine. Not really. I wrote it, sure, but it was given to me. Just like making a baby. You can't do it on your own; someone has to give you the rest of the ingredients. Creating in that way is never solely your own, despite how much you might hate the guy who fuct you. The creation is still part of him. And it should be. The book is the same way. I wrote it; it's mine. But there were small segments of this book's DNA that were given to me, and I can't forget that. I couldn't if I tried. The florescent bulb right above my table isn't plugged in far enough and is strobing. That is going to drive me insane if I have to stay here all day. Which I do. These kids who work here are all sh

Weiterlesen weniger lesen

Kundenbewertungen