Deirdre

Yesterday's night felt a stretch of eternal; spent between uneasy sleep and fervent prayer; accompanied by that terrible feeling when uncertainty becomes a constant.

This morning was no better, as tears flowed, inevitable, as the heart collected its dues.

I sat and thought, welcoming silence. It is hard to think of a combination of words that would sound right to convey a message upon the death of a child. Such event is unnatural, as life expects for children to out live us.

On a moment like this, an irrational feeling, neatly disguised as civility takes over. Yes, I still believe and my faith; the accumulation of supernatural experience I have gathered through my life instructs me beyond question. I know she is in a better place. I know she knows no suffering. I know that a God who embraces child like wonder welcomed her with arms wide open. But I needed a moment longer, a bit more grief, a window to understanding.

I wanted the morning to be gloomy and dark, with no birds singing. I cried, because it is what it is. I'm crying as I type this entry. If there is any consolation, it would be to think that I would have cried harder, longer,hopelessly, if it weren't Deedee I'm talking about.

Her parting hurts, like a blow to the chest and the pain assaults without mercy. But there are valleys; those coherent spaces within moments of grief, when memory rises up to meet us.

These are the things I remember:

The birth of a beautiful baby that captured our heart, a vibrant beauty with eyes wide, curious since her day of birth. A sudden illness, the resolution of loving parents, who defined the word by leaving everything and taking on anything for her. A series of adventures that forged stronger friendships and gave us the chance to be better, through Deedee, for Deedee. The coining of the phrase Viva la Deeva, which to the end of my own days will mean hold on to a moment, build memories, be happy, count your blessing and live to fight another day.

In five years Deedee was daughter, friend, champion, spokes person, sister to Kali and most of all, true to herself. That is more than what most of us can handle, yet something all of us should aspire to.

So, I walked out, just to gather my thoughts and met the sun framed by an almost turquoise sky, and the world exploded in sound and color about me. And I cried again, of course I did, but I also thought, God this is so Deedee. Strips of  sunshine, everlasting songs, that unstoppable need to try a brand new day. And I smiled, just a bit, enough to tell myself, in all conviction "Viva la Deeva."

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Barking at the Moon for all the wrong reasons

I am not old enough to say I've read it all, nor am I deluded enough to pretend that I can grill one of the greatest fantasy/horror writers of her generation with impunity. But I am an Anne Rice fan, and being a fan gives me the right to rant, when, where and about as much as I please.

And I've been a fan through and through. I read through my "pseudo goth" sensibilities in college, I stuck to it through it all and if given a chance, I can concoct a wonderful, fiery, passionate apology for Blackwood Farm.

Though I took my time to read the Christ the Lord Novels, when I did, I found an affinity for Scripture that would have made any weekend theologian jump for joy. I also could read, between the lines, the touches of social liberal theology that eventually would bring about the author's choice to renounce the Catholic Church. It didn't scare me. In fact, it engaged me, because that is what good literature is meant to do, shake conventions, show alternatives, question the establishment from the comforts allowed by fantasy.

I read Angel Time, and though I found the novel to be less of a risk taker with its theology -somehow Rice was shy about angels- considering that she was writing, not only about the pleasant spiritual guardians of the Catholic bible, but also about the kick ass out of this world Heavenly Police that Evangelicals and Jewish cannon love to look up to.

Still I read. I kept reading while the neogoths had abandoned her. I kept reading while those who didn't abandon her were waiting for Rice to go back to vampires. I read because I love her, and I still do, but unfortunately, I can no longer say she can do no wrong.

The Wolf Gift is a product from a completely different author. It is the book written by Anne of the Page. Don't get me wrong, I love to hang on the Page; it is a motley crew of  young and old, random evangelicals, atheists, deists, neopagans, weekend vampires, Catholics that want her to come back home and die hard fans.... I mean who doesn't want to experience diversity to that degree?

However, The Page is one of the two reasons to which, to my understanding, this book is not as hot as I thought it would be.

The thing is though, that as much as I love The Page, I noticed that Anne has submitted her own views a little. It is scary when someone starts asking "what do you think", instead of stating, this is my universe kids, you can come and play, but the toys are mine. She bent over way too much to please the demands of fandom. To a wild eyed college kid that is about the coolest thing someone can do, to a purist is the proverbial decapitation. Yes, I am old, but as I said  I have been reading forever. There is a certain amount of pandering to her expected audience that makes The Wolf Gift read as a piece of fanfic instead of the real thing.

Another thing that fails is the fact that Anne Rice cannot bridge the generation gap. This is something she didn't have to deal with when writing about vampires... sure, some of Lestat's lyrics in Queen of the Damned wouldn't have made it to the top ten if they were truly 80's music, but you see, Lestat had an 18 century brain, so if something sounded off to the hair metal crew, as an audience we could always say, well... what do you expect?

Same thing applied to the Jesus novels, the narrative took place 2,000 years ago and the rich lexicon, the poetic feel to it was more than justified, you know, it is expected for it to sound all King James and stuff.

However, when a 30 year old in a contemporary setting sounds like a man in his sixties, there is no amount of sex, sass or gadgets that can cover that. Yeah, Reuben has a smart phone and a laptop and an ipod...but I mean... have you checked his playlist? Of course all this disparity between age and appreciation is sorely patched by two elements: our man is obscenely rich and extremely "sexy".

I'll be cynical here for a moment. No, even better, I'll take the slippery road of cheap shot politics. A man with an incredible amount of wealth due to inherited fortunes, desperate for, yet unable to connect to the masses because of their perception of him, Reuben is the Mitt Romney of monsters... but I am digressing. Yes, Reuben is ridiculously rich and as people like Paris Hilton and the Kardashians have proved through and through, wealth equal higher aesthetics and keeps you safe from following trivial pursuits. That explains how a 30 year old somehow sounds like a senior citizen who had just discovered the magic that is Facebook.

Secondly, in a world dominated by ripped weres who fight vampires for girls, our man has to excel. It will not surprise anyone that I will be team Lestat in this one. Anne Rice's vampires drip sensuality and that is very hard to portray when your universe is restricted to certain physical no-no's. In my most frenetic fantasies I wonder what would Lestat do if he were to switch bodies with Eric Northman.... arrghh digressing again. Anyway, Reuben is a well oiled sex machine. He is such a good lay that after a single workout session with a random stranger, said woman decides to sign the deed to  a frigging mansion to the man. Did I mention he is insanely rich? Wouldn't it be a lot more credible and less trivial if he fucking bought it??? Anyway. I can deal with a lot of stuff, but honestly, there is a certain amount of gross factor involved in getting it on while on wolf man form with a willing thrilled fangirl... sigh. There are things Charlaine Harris will not do. Anne just went there.

Where do these fangirls come from? Did I mention jumping from building to building is the new swinging? If I were to give you the following premise, honestly, what is the first thing that comes to mind?

A young man is bitten by a creature while writing an assigned report.

In a matter of days, this young man finds out that this bite altered his

DNA to a point of no return. The young man experiments through trial

and error and eventually decides to use his skills to fight crime in the

city. But see, the young man happens to be a reporter and the new

vigilante is making headlines, so the young man is asked to cover any

sightings of the vigilante. He happens to get some unbelievable

exclusives, you know, 'cause he is the one they are looking for.

Somewhere Stan Lee is wringing his hands thinking about royalties, I know...

I will bitch about Louis, but Louis is her child and if she wants to abuse her children, so be it. But I have read the rants of Reuben's brother (who happens to be a Catholic Priest going through a crisis of faith) back when they were cool, just because they were fresh. And I have heard the story of the shifter kind, back when it all happened in Egypt and a certain spirit attached itself to a queen.

This has been long enough, and I am tired. Will I read the next one? Probably. Is Anne Rice out of the list of authors that can do no wrong? Definitely. Forever.