Game of Thrones: A Viewer’s Defense

Books and Film Adaptation

“A book is a film that takes place in the mind of the reader. That’s why we go to the movies and say, ‘Oh, the book is better.'” Paul Coelho

If I had to explain, (er defend, to anyone, including myself) why I have watched every episode of Game of Thrones, I would say, “Read the Bible.”

Picture I took last year in a museum in Glasgow, Scotland, because these heads remind me of the “many-faced god” depicted in Game of Thrones.

Raw and ravenous, Game of Thrones amplifies story themes the Bible tells with sparing detail.

The “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” written in 1861 during America’s Civil War, the words describing God’s wrath could have derived from Revelation 14.

And the angel thrust in his sickle into the earth, and gathered the vine of the earth, and cast it into the great winepress of the wrath of God.

And the winepress was trodden without the city, and blood came out of the winepress, even unto the horse bridles, by the space of a thousand and six hundred furlongs.

 

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Hungry for What?

So let’s talk about Hunger, a current best-selling memoir by a woman who argues that “the bigger you are, the less you are seen” (quote from the book jacket synopsis).

Who I Am vs. How I Look

Photo from Amazon site

In Hunger, A Memoir of (My) Body, author Roxane Gay exposes how something that happened to her as a young girl translated into reasons for burying herself under layers of fat. Referring to her body as a crime scene, at her heaviest Roxane weighed 577 pounds and now weighs about 150 less.

Along with reasons she shares for massive weight gain, she describes the pain of living in a body that people punish––judging by appearance the person who lives inside the body.

“I hate myself. Or society tells me I am supposed to hate myself; so I guess this, at least, is something I am doing right.

Or I should say, I hate my body. I hate my weakness at being unable to control my body. I hate how I feel in my body. I hate how people stare at my body, treat my body, comment on my body. I hate equating my self-worth with the state of my body . . . I hate how hard it is to accept my human frailties. I hate that I am letting down so many women when I cannot embrace my body at any size.

But I also like myself, my personality, my weirdness, my sense of humor, my wild and romantic streak, how I love, how I write, my kindness and my mean streak. It is only now, in my forties, that I am able to admit that I like myself, even though I am nagged by this suspicion that I shouldn’t . . .

I don’t want to change who I am. I want to change how I look. On my better days, when I feel up to the fight, I want to change how this world responds to how I look because, intellectually I know my body is not the real problem.

On bad days, though, I forget how to separate my personality, the heart of who I am, from my body. I forget how to shield myself from the cruelties of the world” (148–149).

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The Prodigal Suitcase Comes Home

If my suitcase could talk, what would it tell me?

Would it tell me what happened that night 6 months ago when I let go of its hand(le)?

Would it tell me where it has been all this time?

Would it tell me whose fault it was that it got left behind?

Would it tell me when I messed up? When I took my eyes off this seeming extension of my right arm?

All speculation as to who, what, when, where and why fell to the ground yesterday when my long-lost suitcase made its way home.

What happened?

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Dear Press, Give Donald J. Trump a Break Today

Inauguration Day linked to Election Day

The day after the 2016 presidential election, my daughter-in-law met my husband and me at Hobby airport in Houston, where our flight from Lubbock had just landed. She could not stop talking about the presidential election. She was energized and jubilant about the results.

“I cannot stop watching TV,” comparing, she said, coverage between networks CNN and Fox.

In spite of pundits, polls and media bias, Donald J. Trump won the presidency.

The outcome astonished everyone, including her. And me. I had convinced myself Trump could not win.

Remember this date, November 8, 2016, I thought. My dog Scout had been put to sleep on this Election Day.

Sadness, tears and thoughts of regret wound around the various reasons leading us to let Scout go.

Watching election coverage that night served as a diversion.

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