The deer may have stripped away my young sunflowers, but, so far, my tomato and Brussels sprout plants are thriving. In addition, at the start of last week, I finished setting up my grow bags. The cucumber seedlings have sprouted, and the summer squashes are working their way to the surface (the green tip of one was pushing up a piece of mulch). Finally, this past Friday, I planted the pole beans.
That just leaves the twelve peppers, which are sitting in converted thirty-two ounce yogurt containers. Since the beginning of June! They need more space. However. I still have not built the raised beds for them. All this intense heat is making it difficult. There is still time to transplant, though. While their initial growth requires soil warmed by the heat of early summer, the cooler temperatures of September can speed up the ripening process. Yet, there is a point of no return, and it is arriving soon.
I may have to forgo the peppers this year.
And I am okay with that.
(The Google newsfeed on my phone often sends me down rabbit holes of painful social media discourse; occasionally, the discussions serve up some delightful discoveries. The piece below, titled The Laundress, by Jean-Baptiste Greuze, is one such beautiful example of the latter. The reddit thread, which exposed me to this piece of art, was arguing the significance of her gaze. I have my own opinion about that look... and of her shoe--is it just me, or does it look too small for her foot?)
After reviewing some of my recent posts, I decided a more positive approach was required. Besides taking time to enjoy my gardening progress--remember, my plantings have been a bust for two years now--I have managed to achieve another goal. Last night, before going to bed, I finished reading a work of fiction. And I think I enjoyed the experience. No, I definitely enjoyed the experience, I just do not know what to think of the book. That I am struggling to understand my reaction to it, reveals a single certain fact: this novel affected me.
For three days (it is a two-hundred fifty-page book), I immersed myself in The Book of Joan by Lidia Yuknavitch. The title came to me accidently (through a Google clickbait article), though my selection of it was perhaps an act of fate (it was the only Yuknavitch work my library had available in electronic form). The article focused on her more recent work, Thrust. And I must confess, it was that book cover and the title (which appeared prominently in my Google newsfeed) that caught my attention. What can I say, sex some times sells. Even to me.
I tried searching for Thrust in my local library. It was unavailable--there was a long waitlist. However, another one of her books, which was an international success, was downloadable that very day. So, I selected The Book of Joan, and put it on my Kindle. Three days later I was ready to read it.
What a trip. I knew nothing of the content going into it. I do not think reading reviews would have adequately prepared me anyway. Just now I found one, and the following was the byline:
Joan of Arc and Christine de Pizan are reimagined in a post-apocalyptic dystopia, in this compellingly ambitious examination of gender, semiotics and warfare
For the moment, I will avoid reading the whole article (I will explain why further down). However, from what I did read, I now understand why one of the two protagonists carried the named "Christine" (it seemed, to me, while reading, that such a conventional name was out of place within the world of the book's characters). In the second paragraph, the reviewer points out that Christine of The Book of Joan is inspired by "the proto-feminist writer Christine de Pizan, described by Simone de Beauvoir as the first woman to 'take up her pen in defence of her sex'".
Joan of Arc? I recognize. Simone de Beauvoir? I am familiar. Dystopia? Gender? And Warfare? I understand.
Christine de Pizan and semiotics? Not a clue.
Reading The Book of Joan helped a little. Yet, I still have questions. Like, did I actually enjoy the book itself, or only the experience of reading it? Did the vulgarity serve a deeper purpose? Was the writing style a flaw or a feature? Am I supposed to draw distinct ideas about gender, environmentalism, reality, power, etc., from the writing, or is the author simply inspiring me to ask questions and seek those answers on my own?
More importantly, what the fuck did I just read?
Which brings me back to the review linked above, and why I am avoiding it for tonight's post. As I have mentioned in the past, I desire to read more books, especially fiction. Also, I want to expand expand and improve my writing. Producing book reviews allows me to combine the two.
This book may be a good place to start.
Or it may not.
There is only one way to find out.
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