The past haunts.

Once again, I find myself at one of those junctures where I must decide to revisit some old wound from childhood or let it fall away as if it never existed.

While the incident in question that has raised my curiosity and reservations is no serious thing for many, it is for me only that I am not willing to relive drama that I hoped was gone forever. Not the people necessarily, mind you. But I fear that welcoming someone from my past will cause an undue emotional distress in the long term.

I am speaking of my stepsister, who I will heretofore refer to as H.

Imagine my surprise to receive word from her electronically this evening. I have to admit that there were times when I wondered what happened, where she went, if she moved on from the ultimately abusive childhood she endured to become a well-rounded individual, or if her life was merely a video looping over and over those things most people would gladly forget. Are these things I really want to know, or is this one of those things best left by the wayside...

Without being a giant bitch?

I spoke briefly to my real sister about this situation, and she is more inclined to leave it alone. Why? Because she was just as hurt by H's disappearance, and because she holds these things longer than I do. We rarely hold a conversation about my dad. And I think this might have more to do with the fact that talking about him inevitably leads to talking about the stepmonster. She infiltrates our memories like a demon, overwhelming and horrific. And we did not even experience the worst of that woman's wrath. So, the thought of introducing one of the few bright sides of those childhood experiences into our adult and current lives is less than appealing.

Still, if the past haunts, so does curiosity.

Stay tuned...

I almost pooped my pants!

And I'm not kidding.

The night before last, on my way home for lunch, I suddenly really needed to go. Why does it choose the worst time? Why?! Is it on a timer that says, "Oh, Sam's in the car now. Let's move bowels and see how freaked out she gets."? Really? Is this something that comes with age. I hit the big 3-0, so now I get horrific bodily urges at the worst possible moment?

And to make matters worse, I almost hit a bunny as I was speeding through the neighborhood, trying to get home. A freakin' bunny! Funny how it could've been a squirrel or a raccoon or a cow, and I wouldn't have cared. But a freakin' bunny? I can't hit a bunny and streak its cute little furry body all over the street! I might as well have shot Santa Claus!

When I was a kid, I was in the car with my uncle and he accidentally ran over some baby ducks. It wasn't his fault. They were just past the top of a hill and he couldn't have stopped if he'd tried. Thankfully, he didn't hit any with the wheels, so they just rolled and got a little fluffed up from the cars back-draft. I would've been devastated if any had been killed. I think it would've traumatized me to the point of therapy.

Wait. I need therapy anyway. Scratch that. I would've needed additional therapy.

Goth-ick!

I don't know what made me do it. But as sudden urges do, I found myself in the presence of items I hadn't bothered even thinking about for many, many years: Gothic romantic novels.

When I was living in Anoka all those years ago, we would frequent this used book store in Osseo. My mother was addicted (and I'm not talking about frequency, I'm talking about obsession) to romance novels. She calls me a literature snob because I have never really been a fan (I think I've called them "crap" a time or two - I apologize to anyone who has a particular love of this genre). Anyhow, back then, she got me reading these books of a romantic persuasion, and I have to admit: I did like them. Of course, I was between the ages of eleven and thirteen. I probably wasn't qualified to make a judgment about the quality of said books.

On a whim, I started thinking about these books. I think it started with a film conversation. For whatever reason, I came to the conclusion that Hollywood hasn't produced any good Gothic cinema for years, and the majority of which (and probably the best of which) was foreign in origin. I'm not really all that versed on the subject, but here I was expressing an opinion I had no right to express.

Anyway, it got me thinking about those books. So, down the basement I went and dug out these books. I only had a few of them left (I imagine that several trips ago, most went with to Half-Price Books and never returned). And honestly, I didn't really remember a single story. I don't think this a statement about how good a story any of them were. I suppose one story faded into another until I didn't remember what was what, especially when they were probably read in succession.

So now, here I am, re-reading Thunder Heights. And I gotta say, it's not the best written story I've ever encountered. (To be fair, these authors were rather prolific more out of necessity than desire. It's hard to be profound on a deadline.)

Thankfully, it wasn't until I got to page 130 that I encountered any statement like the following:

She raised her own head without hesitation and went quite simply into his arms. He was not gentle now. His mouth was hard upon her lips so that they felt bruised beneath its touch. Her body ached under the pressure of his arms, but she did not want the pain lessened. When he raised his head she would have put her arms about his neck and risen on her toes to rest her cheek again his own, admitting everything - all the wild feeling that surged through her, all the wanting so long held in check because there was no one to want. Her movements were those of one spellbound, as though she had no will of her own, and could bow only to his.

I got one word for you people: Ick!

She didn't want the pain lessened? She was spellbound? By a man?

If the kiss was so hard he actually bruised my lips, I'd be nipping that one in the bud. "You bruised my f---ing lips, you dick!" (I'm sounding a little angry today. I'll try to scale it back.)

Even on my most needy of days, I was never spellbound. This can't be based on any sort of reality. Maybe I'm being harsh. I suppose the origin of the novel dictated that there should be some deviation from reality; escapism. But come on! I wonder if she can feel the "wild feeling" surging through me (hint: it rhymes with Gromit).

Ah well, love scenes aside, I'm digging the descriptions of the settings. There is nothing more fascinating than a weird, big, old house filled with secrets from the past.

The turrets were no longer bright as Althea King had described them. Storms had weathered the house to a dingy gray, left too long unpainted, and the trees crowding about gave it the look of a place left uninhabited. It appeared enchanted, spellbound, there on its remote heights. Not a house, but the picture of a house, torn from the pages of fantasy.

I have this thing about big, old houses. They capture my imagination in ways that few things will. I sometimes wish I were stealthy enough to break into a few of them, just to peek around. My all-time favorite house on film is the house in The Changeling, the George C. Scott movie, not the Angelina Jolie pic. That giant old house was just created on a film set, but if it weren't, I can guarantee you I would've visited it by now.

Anyhow, I'll probably blast through these books, mainly just so I can say I did. It feels more like a guilty pleasure than an actually beneficial activity, but most reading is anyway.

By the way, and on a completely different note, I have watched the end number on the pilot episode of Glee at least twenty times. This is bordering on ridiculous, but admittedly, this is going to be a fun show if this episode is any indication. I wasn't a show choir person myself - I left that to my sister - I was already a band geek. Still, it has that quality that only a well-formed cast can put together. And who doesn't love Journey?!