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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.’ Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,’ Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, ‘Sir,’ said I, ‘or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, ‘Lenore!’ This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, ‘Lenore!’ Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. ‘Surely,’ said I, ‘surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - ‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’ Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, ‘Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, ‘art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’ Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’ Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as ‘Nevermore.’ But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered ‘Other friends have flown before - On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’ Then the bird said, ‘Nevermore.’ Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, ‘Doubtless,’ said I, ‘what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of “Never-nevermore.”‘ But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking ‘Nevermore.’ This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. ‘Wretch,’ I cried, ‘thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!’ Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’ ‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore - Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!’ Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’ ‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?’ Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’ ‘Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting - ‘Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’ Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’ And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted – nevermore! -Edgar Allan Poe

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Though, unlike Grant, I do find the time to read… There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t. :)

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I LOVE to read… There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t take the time to read as often as I can. I mostly read books of the Sci-fi/Fantasy genre, but I do read the occasional Non-fiction, or Fiction, book as well. I became an avid reader back in 1984, when I was 16, and it all began with the book "A Spell For Chameleon" by Piers Anthony. After that, I was hooked on Sci-fi/Fantasy, and never looked back. :)

Pookey, and I, have a LARGE collection of books, DVDs, BDs, & CDs, that we hope to one day get all cataloged. The software we’re using for this is Delicious Library, with a Microvision ROV Wireless Laser Barcode Scanner to add items into the program. We purchased the barcode scanner because it simply is the easiest way to add items. Waaaaaay easier.

You can also use your Mac’s iSight camera, or manually add items with your keyboard, as well. We tried the iSight camera way first, but soon discovered we have too many things we need to add for that to be the best way for us. With the barcode scanner we can take it to the items we need to scan, record a ton of barcodes, and then synch it with the computer.

Ash’s Delicious Library…

The above graphic is of the Delicious Library on my computer… We’re using Pookey’s computer to catalog all of the books, CDs, DVDs, and BDs, then plan to publish it online so everyone can see it. Exactly like what KavaTunes does for my iTunes music library now. It’ll be sooooo sweet. :)

I can’t wait until these books are finally released… *sighs, and wipes the drool off her chin*

	The Iron Queen By Julie Kagawa This title will be released on January 25, 2011.
	Pale Demon (The Hollows) By Kim Harrison This title will be released on February 22, 2011.
	River Marked (Mercy Thompson, Book 6) By Patricia Briggs This title will be released on March 1, 2011.
	Ghost Story (Dresden Files, No. 13) By Jim Butcher This title will be released on April 5, 2011.
	Dead Reckoning (Sookie Stackhouse, Book 11) By Charlaine Harris This title will be released on May 3, 2011.
	The Sookie Stackhouse Companion (Sookie Stackhouse/True Blood) By Charlaine Harris This title will be released on August 30, 2011.

Surprisingly enough, I actually really, really liked Fight Club… I thought it was going to be one of those testosterone fueled guy movies, with nothing but a bunch of sweaty guys beating the shit out of one another, and was amazed by how intelligent the plot actually was. If you haven’t seen it, then I wholeheartedly recommend that you do. Meanwhile I think I’ll go buy the book.

I finished Reading My Sister’s Keeper, and I have to say even though they did an excellent job editing it for the movie, the book was, indeed, better. IMO, the only thing I liked better in the movie was the ending. I highly recommend both reading it, and seeing it, because you won’t be dissappointed.

I’ve definitely found a wonderful, new author to read in Jodi Picoult. Any suggestions out there on what of hers I should read next?

There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t take many breaks throughout the day to read… I’ve been an avid reader since I was 16 when I discovered all the magical places reading could take me to. The genre I enjoy the most is Fantasy and Science Fiction, with the a peppering of all the other genres thrown in.

Here’s some of the authors I enjoy:

Harrison Bergeron

By Kurt Vonnegut (1961)

THE YEAR WAS 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General.

Some things about living still weren’t quite right, though. April, for instance, still drove people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron’s fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away.

It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn’t think about it very hard. Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains.

George and Hazel were watching television. There were tears on Hazel’s cheeks, but she’d forgotten for the moment what they were about.

On the television screen were ballerinas.

A buzzer sounded in George’s head. His thoughts fled in panic, like bandits from a burglar alarm.

“That was a real pretty dance, that dance they just did,” said Hazel.

“Huh?” said George.

“That dance – it was nice,” said Hazel.

“Yup,” said George. He tried to think a little about the ballerinas. They weren’t really very good – no better than anybody else would have been, anyway. They were burdened with sashweights and bags of birdshot, and their faces were masked, so that no one, seeing a free and graceful gesture or a pretty face, would feel like something the cat drug in. George was toying with the vague notion that maybe dancers shouldn’t be handicapped. But he didn’t get very far with it before another noise in his ear radio scattered his thoughts.

George winced. So did two out of the eight ballerinas.

Hazel saw him wince. Having no mental handicap herself she had to ask George what the latest sound had been.

“Sounded like somebody hitting a milk bottle with a ball peen hammer,” said George.

“I’d think it would be real interesting, hearing all the different sounds,” said Hazel, a little envious. “All the things they think up.”

“Um,” said George.

“Only, if I was Handicapper General, you know what I would do?” said Hazel. Hazel, as a matter of fact, bore a strong resemblance to the Handicapper General, a woman named Diana Moon Glampers. “If I was Diana Moon Glampers,” said Hazel, “I’d have chimes on Sunday – just chimes. Kind of in honor of religion.”

“I could think, if it was just chimes,” said George.

“Well – maybe make ‘em real loud,” said Hazel. “I think I’d make a good Handicapper General.”

“Good as anybody else,” said George.

“Who knows better’n I do what normal is?” said Hazel.

“Right,” said George. He began to think glimmeringly about his abnormal son who was now in jail, about Harrison, but a twenty-one-gun salute in his head stopped that.

“Boy!” said Hazel, “that was a doozy, wasn’t it?”

It was such a doozy that George was white and trembling and tears stood on the rims of his red eyes. Two of the eight ballerinas had collapsed to the studio floor, were holding their temples.

“All of a sudden you look so tired,” said Hazel. “Why don’t you stretch out on the sofa, so’s you can rest your handicap bag on the pillows, honeybunch.” She was referring to the forty-seven pounds of birdshot in canvas bag, which was padlocked around George’s neck. “Go on and rest the bag for a little while,” she said. “I don’t care if you’re not equal to me for a while.”

George weighed the bag with his hands. “I don’t mind it,” he said. “I don’t notice it any more. It’s just a part of me.

“You been so tired lately – kind of wore out,” said Hazel. “If there was just some way we could make a little hole in the bottom of the bag, and just take out a few of them lead balls. Just a few.”

“Two years in prison and two thousand dollars fine for every ball I took out,” said George. “I don’t call that a bargain.”

“If you could just take a few out when you came home from work,” said Hazel. “I mean – you don’t compete with anybody around here. You just set around.”

“If I tried to get away with it,” said George, “then other people’d get away with it and pretty soon we’d be right back to the dark ages again, with everybody competing against everybody else. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

“I’d hate it,” said Hazel.

“There you are,” said George. “The minute people start cheating on laws, what do you think happens to society?”

If Hazel hadn’t been able to come up with an answer to this question, George couldn’t have supplied one. A siren was going off in his head.

“Reckon it’d fall all apart,” said Hazel.

“What would?” said George blankly.

“Society,” said Hazel uncertainly. “Wasn’t that what you just said?”

“Who knows?” said George.

The television program was suddenly interrupted for a news bulletin. It wasn’t clear at first as to what the bulletin was about, since the announcer, like all announcers, had a serious speech impediment. For about half a minute, and in a state of high excitement, the announcer tried to say, “Ladies and gentlemen – ”

He finally gave up, handed the bulletin to a ballerina to read.

“That’s all right –” Hazel said of the announcer, “he tried. That’s the big thing. He tried to do the best he could with what God gave him. He should get a nice raise for trying so hard.”

“Ladies and gentlemen” said the ballerina, reading the bulletin. She must have been extraordinarily beautiful, because the mask she wore was hideous. And it was easy to see that she was the strongest and most graceful of all the dancers, for her handicap bags were as big as those worn by two-hundred-pound men.

And she had to apologize at once for her voice, which was a very unfair voice for a woman to use. Her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody. “Excuse me – ” she said, and she began again, making her voice absolutely uncompetitive.

“Harrison Bergeron, age fourteen,” she said in a grackle squawk, “has just escaped from jail, where he was held on suspicion of plotting to overthrow the government. He is a genius and an athlete, is under–handicapped, and should be regarded as extremely dangerous.”

A police photograph of Harrison Bergeron was flashed on the screen – upside down, then sideways, upside down again, then right side up. The picture showed the full length of Harrison against a background calibrated in feet and inches. He was exactly seven feet tall.

The rest of Harrison’s appearance was Halloween and hardware. Nobody had ever worn heavier handicaps. He had outgrown hindrances faster than the H–G men could think them up. Instead of a little ear radio for a mental handicap, he wore a tremendous pair of earphones, and spectacles with thick wavy lenses. The spectacles were intended to make him not only half blind, but to give him whanging headaches besides.

Scrap metal was hung all over him. Ordinarily, there was a certain symmetry, a military neatness to the handicaps issued to strong people, but Harrison looked like a walking junkyard. In the race of life, Harrison carried three hundred pounds.

And to offset his good looks, the H–G men required that he wear at all times a red rubber ball for a nose, keep his eyebrows shaved off, and cover his even white teeth with black caps at snaggle–tooth random.

“If you see this boy,” said the ballerina, “do not – I repeat, do not – try to reason with him.”

There was the shriek of a door being torn from its hinges.

Screams and barking cries of consternation came from the television set. The photograph of Harrison Bergeron on the screen jumped again and again, as though dancing to the tune of an earthquake.

George Bergeron correctly identified the earthquake, and well he might have – for many was the time his own home had danced to the same crashing tune. “My God –” said George, “that must be Harrison!”

The realization was blasted from his mind instantly by the sound of an automobile collision in his head.

When George could open his eyes again, the photograph of Harrison was gone. A living, breathing Harrison filled the screen.

Clanking, clownish, and huge, Harrison stood in the center of the studio. The knob of the uprooted studio door was still in his hand. Ballerinas, technicians, musicians, and announcers cowered on their knees before him, expecting to die.

“I am the Emperor!” cried Harrison. “Do you hear? I am the Emperor! Everybody must do what I say at once!” He stamped his foot and the studio shook.

“Even as I stand here –” he bellowed, “crippled, hobbled, sickened – I am a greater ruler than any man who ever lived! Now watch me become what I can become!”

Harrison tore the straps of his handicap harness like wet tissue paper, tore straps guaranteed to support five thousand pounds.

Harrison’s scrap–iron handicaps crashed to the floor.

Harrison thrust his thumbs under the bar of the padlock that secured his head harness. The bar snapped like celery. Harrison smashed his headphones and spectacles against the wall.

He flung away his rubber–ball nose, revealed a man that would have awed Thor, the god of thunder.

“I shall now select my Empress!” he said, looking down on the cowering people. “Let the first woman who dares rise to her feet claim her mate and her throne!”

A moment passed, and then a ballerina arose, swaying like a willow.

Harrison plucked the mental handicap from her ear, snapped off her physical handicaps with marvelous delicacy. Last of all, he removed her mask.

She was blindingly beautiful.

“Now” said Harrison, taking her hand, “shall we show the people the meaning of the word dance? Music!” he commanded.

The musicians scrambled back into their chairs, and Harrison stripped them of their handicaps, too. “Play your best,” he told them, “and I’ll make you barons and dukes and earls.”

The music began. It was normal at first – cheap, silly, false. But Harrison snatched two musicians from their chairs, waved them like batons as he sang the music as he wanted it played. He slammed them back into their chairs.

The music began again and was much improved.

Harrison and his Empress merely listened to the music for a while – listened gravely, as though synchronizing their heartbeats with it.

They shifted their weights to their toes.

Harrison placed his big hands on the girl’s tiny waist, letting her sense the weightlessness that would soon be hers.

And then, in an explosion of joy and grace, into the air they sprang!

Not only were the laws of the land abandoned, but the law of gravity and the laws of motion as well.

They reeled, whirled, swiveled, flounced, capered, gamboled, and spun.

They leaped like deer on the moon.

The studio ceiling was thirty feet high, but each leap brought the dancers nearer to it. It became their obvious intention to kiss the ceiling.

They kissed it.

And then, neutralizing gravity with love and pure will, they remained suspended in air inches below the ceiling, and they kissed each other for a long, long time.

It was then that Diana Moon Glampers, the Handicapper General, came into the studio with a double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun. She fired twice, and the Emperor and the Empress were dead before they hit the floor.

Diana Moon Glampers loaded the gun again. She aimed it at the musicians and told them they had ten seconds to get their handicaps back on.

It was then that the Bergerons’ television tube burned out.

Hazel turned to comment about the blackout to George.

But George had gone out into the kitchen for a can of beer.

George came back in with the beer, paused while a handicap signal shook him up. And then he sat down again. “You been crying?” he said to Hazel.

“Yup,” she said,

“What about?” he said.

“I forget,” she said. “Something real sad on television.”

“What was it?” he said.

“It’s all kind of mixed up in my mind,” said Hazel.

“Forget sad things,” said George.

“I always do,” said Hazel.

“That’s my girl,” said George. He winced. There was the sound of a riveting gun in his head.

“Gee – I could tell that one was a doozy,” said Hazel.

“You can say that again,” said George.

“Gee –” said Hazel, “I could tell that one was a doozy.”

Almost done reading this book again… I absolutely love all of Echo Heron’s books, and highly recommend them. She has a flair for vividly painting with words what it’s like to be a nurse, and makes you understand the joys, and frustrations that go hand, and hand, with nursing.

This is what Library Journal said about this book:

Heron’s earlier books, Intensive Care: The Story of a Nurse, and Condition Critical: The Story of a Nurse Continues, were personal narratives reflecting the author’s experiences as a nurse and her views on hospitals and the industry that is healthcare today. Her latest volume invites colleagues to share their stories. Some are heartbreaking, others hilarious (if you think you’ve had a bad day, read Carol P.’s story of her encounters with Delbert and Mr. X). A brief introduction to each contributor provides background about age, education, and specialty (trauma, pediatrics, etc.). Vignettes may be as short as two pages. On the other hand, in the book’s longest chapter five nurses laboring behind the scenes through the tragedy of the Oklahoma City bombing bring the confusion, sadness, and professional grit vividly to life. Unless you can handle an emotional roller coaster, savor this book one chapter at a time. Either way, it is a welcome addition to nursing or larger health collections.

If I had to choose the one nurse that has deeply touched my life, I’d choose Jeanne Groth, R.N., R.D.M.S.. She was the nurse in the infertility practice I went to, and it was her job to deal with all the infertility patients. Her compassion, and support, was what kept me from giving up when my previous attempts to conceive failed. Trying to get pregnant when you’re infertile is a harrowing experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone, and every failed attempt makes you soul weary. She could always lift my spirits with her buoyant personality, and gave me the courage I needed to try to conceive again. Thank you Jeanne for helping us conceive our beautiful son.

Stephenie Meyer is one of those rare authors whose writing transcends the age group that their books have been geared towards. Just like J.K. Rowling. I quickly ordered the other two books that were available at the time, and voraciously devoured them all. Thankfully, when I discovered the series, the fourth book was due to be released soon, so I didn’t have to wait too long for it.

I’ve read the entire series several times now, and have thoroughly enjoyed each time. I’ve even gotten Pookey to read it, and he thought it was a very good series as well. What I don’t understand is readers obsessing solely over Edward, when the books are actually about Edward, and Bella, as a couple, and how their relationship evolves. Taking one of them from the equation ruins the whole premise of the story that Stephenie weaves throughout the pages of the series. To me, you can’t have Edward without Bella, and vice versa.

Now, I cannot wait for Midnight Sun to be published… It’s basically Twilight from Edward’s perspective, and after getting to read the partial draft, I know for a fact that it will be just as good as the other four books. *sighs with impatient anticipation*

I highly recommend this whole series… Especially if you enjoy reading books from the fantasy genre.