My Tree House Of The Mind - General Blogginess
[Copied from my external BLOG, which I'd like you to have a look at. Also, it comes with purdy pictures]
Joe Hill’s latest gem Horns was yet another tantalising taste of true horror and suspense. But this isn’t a review, because frankly, you don’t need me to do that; there are more than enough of those floating about by now, and if they don’t convince you of the book’s excellence, then you need to buy it and decide for yourself. Trust me though, he doesn’t disappoint.
However, the relationship between Ignatius Perrish and poor, beloved Merrin truly had my head spinning; their story is wonderful, really. Hill manages to incorporate romance into the novel in a way that I’ve never witnessed before; it was raw, and gritty. I become totally in love with them and the journey their relationship took. The novel had me wanting to slap Merrin’s face and bang Ig’s head against a wall one minute, before sobbing uncontrollably into Merrin’s lap the next.
The ‘Tree house of the mind’ is a concept which Merrin dreams up after the pair of them come to the conclusion that their secret place in the woods must’ve been a beautiful illusion. I won’t give the story away, but I genuinely adored this theme of the book; Hill somehow managed to take the essence of beauty, mystery, and heaven, and turn it into something of substance and realism.
The Tree house of the mind. It just sounds lovely, doesn’t it? It sounds like the kind of romantic thing that is obliged to exist somehow, just because it sounds so perfect. In the novel, Merrin describes the tree house they found as a magical thing that appeared purely because they needed it, as though it were a figment of their imaginations, entwined by love.
And so it got me thinking (which is good). If there was ever a tree house of my mind, it’d probably look like something from Tim Burton’s waste paper basket combined with the rage of a thousand angry bison personified in flames. It’d be like my own hormonal party-house, mood swings and PMS permitted only. No sane people allowed; they’ll only ruin the illusion, after all.
It’s true! If my desires were brought to life in the form of a tree house, then it’d surely need some point of reference. Given that I’m a roaring angry mega-bitch a good 70% of the time, I’d surely concoct the ugliest, spookiest darn house on the mind-market, wouldn’t I? Probably not the holy, tranquil love nest belonging to Ig and Merrin; not one Laura-Ashley curtain in sight.
I guess the point of my pointless pointism is that the next time I’m billowing smoke from my nostrils and scraping my hoofs in the dirt, I’ll try and keep the state of my tree house in perspective. Judging by my usual cynicism I’d have a miserable, forlorn excuse for an imaginary abode; either that or a pile of cinders.
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