"I was lonely," I mutter. She sighs. "Maybe you need to stop using that word as an excuse to mistreat yourself.”

Jen all at sea. Little Howrah Beach, Hobart. March 2021.

A Lonely Girl is a Dangerous Thing by Jessie Tu

This one is a very dark and - at times - quite disturbing book. I initially found it quite difficult to find my groove with the story and connect with the central narrator. She is aware of the difficulty that her personality radiates in her interpersonal interactions with others, which extends out to the reader. Her intense loneliness only exacerbates this.

That said, as we learn more about Jena's backstory and the sources of her trauma, I found myself softening towards her and wishing that she'd end the self-harming behaviour and look ahead instead of behind.

The pivot for me was in exiting the odious Mark's gravitational pull and heading off to New York. It is here that Jessie Tu really flexes her creative muscles and (partially) frees Jena from her torpor. From here, I found the book much more engaging, and I was keen to see where things would lead.

Filled with vivid descriptions of cold, disengaged and disconcerting sexual encounters, the book explores how a world in which sex can be freely viewed and arranged can lead to unhealthy loops of activity so far removed from pleasure that they look far more like self-harm derived from unreconciled trauma. Given her introduction, I was surprised by the extent to which I found myself hoping for Jena to break through and succeed in a way that might make her happy.

This book does a magnificent job in detailing the corrosive aspects of loneliness and isolation. It is a hard but rewarding read.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ 1/2

Comments

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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