The In Between

Full disclosure: This entry is going to get pretty, for lack of a better word, spiritual and...frankly, weird. At least, weirder than previous entries. I'd argue it's more personal than previous entries, but it's something I've been thinking a lot about lately. Blame it on the existential, post-grad, quarter life (okay, more than quarter life now) crisis or my recent descent into The Inferno (sorry for all of the references to come), but I have been thinking a lot about what it is I am supposed to be doing here, because that hasn't been clear thus far in my now-27 years of existing.

My thoughts on religion are... unconventional at best, but don't mistake that for me being a non-believer. No, I believe in a higher power. I believe there are mysteries that science cannot account for right now. I believe there is a Maker who set the wheels in motion from birth, though I do think this Maker wanted us to think for ourselves, to forge our own paths, and to leave this world better than how we entered it. I don't think that our existence is marked by a definitive beginning or end. Sure, we live and we eventually die, but death is not the end of anything, but rather a most intriguing mystery. Don't think this is me saying I am in a rush to solve said mystery, but it is intriguing nonetheless.

As I said before, there are some things the physical sciences simply cannot explain right now (or perhaps ever).

Alright, final warning: it's gonna get weird and personal.

a book (ry)view: The Birthing House by Christopher Ransom

I am not normally one to complain about books. Hell, I'm not normally one to even review books - it's so rare that it's quite possible this will be the one and only (ry)view I ever post. It's all subjective, right? There is usually something positive to find in any piece of literature. There is normally something to appreciate about the author's vision and words. 

Having said that, I am just going to get it out of the way: as far as I am concerned, The Birthing House by Christopher Ransom is one of the most disappointing novels I have ever read. It also happens to be the first book I read in 2016 (49 more to go to meet my macguffolution). Good start, Ry.

Why was it disappointing? Because its premise was so classically creepy. A man attempts to save his marriage by buying an old Victorian mansion with an interesting history in the middle of Creepy Town, Wisconsin. The history? The house was once a "birthing house" - where wayward young expecting women would go when they had nowhere else to go in a time when it was truly taboo to be unmarried and pregnant. The house was pregnant (pun intended) with possibilities and I assumed the house would be a character in and of itself. The prospect of having such a creepy setting as the centerpiece of what seemed to be a classic ghost story was enticing. Imagine the stories that could be told! The author's biography even said he lived in an old birthing house. How could this possibly go wrong?

Turns out I should have left the book on the clearance shelf where I found it. Thanks for nothing, Barnes & Noble.