sigh. i just finished reading Miranda July’s short story collection, No one belongs here more than you. (as modeled by Mr. Deuce). i was super excited to snatch up a copy when it was first published in 2007, but i was addicted to the library back then, and the book had about one gazillion people on its waiting list. when i remembered to stalk it, i would pop into a bookstore, but it was always on some sort of waiting list – or, i guess i was the one on a waiting list.

after awhile, i began to resent the book, and tried to put it out of my mind. i succeeded until a couple weeks ago when i became ravenously hungry for a good read, and though to myself, Oh, there’s such a thing as the interwebs, and i can order whichever book i like and it will be delivered to my doorstep like a newborn baby swaddled in a stork beak. hurray, no waiting list!

Miranda July loves her characters; yes, she lets their minds wander – no abbreviation, just pure meandering rawness; she lets us listen to this unfiltered goodness and badness; after they snap awake from their inner dialogue comas, we hear them censor themselves – comparing, judging, accepting, rejecting, squeezing into; we hear human beings in fragment, and we hear her cobble them together. that gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling. like a good cabernet.

i ate up the words as quickly as possible because they tasted so damn good, but now i’m left with that sad, empty feeling that comes after you’ve finished unwrapping all your presents. the good thing is that words like hers make me want to write. i like when that happens.