The Best Books of 14

These are my top ten books I read in the last year (including poetry collections and graphic novels etc), in the order of reading (starting with the latest read).

The Waves, Virginia Woolf
The very best discovery by Woolf this semester--the long prose poetry books, with so many beutiful quotes, and a rhythm like a dream. I loved Rhoda and Bernard.

(Mrs Dalloway, Virginia Woolf)
I re-read Mrs Dalloway this autumn and this time I adored it. It was very much like reading it for the first time, again. Furthermore, I wrote my BA essay on this book and got to spend a lot of time with it. Clarissa, always.

Kunskapens frukt, Liv Strömquist
Fantastic, funny, depressing, illuminating, as always. Everyone should read it.

We are All Completely Beside Ourselves, Karen Joy Fowler
Gorgeous book that was mostly sad and sometimes funny. It was incredible to read without knowing what it was about--that surprise, when it was revealed. Staggering ideas and new thoughts on anthropomorphism's good and bad sides. I want to give this book to all my friends and family.

Villette, Charlotte Brontë
I thought it was extraordinary, especially how it was about solitude and loneliness and pride. Perhpas better than Jane Eyre.

"The Glass Essay," Glass, Irony and God, Anne Carson
I have yet to write a post on this one! It was partly the reason I started this blog--I wanted to write about "The Glass Essay." And I will. But for now, I can say it is my best essay ever, and my favourite longer poem. And I fell in love with Emily Brontë because of it.

Girl Reading, Katie Ward
Lovely book, on this list mainly because of one story. Which I want to re-read now.

The Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller
It was the last book I finished in Leeds, I think. I read it on my Kindle and was floored. I remember finishing it sitting in Caffé Nero in Chapel Allerton (god I miss it) and trying to hide my tears. Beautiful and sad and perhaps the greatest OTP of this year.

Division Street, Helen Mort
Wonderful poetry collection, with sharp lines and grey skies. Her wonderful voice echoing in my head. Words that feel near.

Belinda, Maria Edgeworth
This was my favourite book I read in my spring term. What I loved was the female friendships, the complex utterings of feminism, and Belinda being ridiculous and wonderful. And I loved that I discussed it afterward in my favourite room in Univerity of Leeds, with my favourite teacher.

Code Name Verity, Elizabeth Wein
This was a mid-term reading break, of sorts. It went quickly, because it was impossible to stop. Gorgeous writing, awful story, an admiration of language, and more than anything else, the love between Maddy and Julie. Such a fantastic love story between them. I think it is a book anyone of any age, gender or interest can read.



It was a good reading year. This autumn, especially, I have read such good books. Most by Woolf, of course, but a few other good ones.


I have read or re-read 61 books this year, including poetry collections, non-fiction and short story collections.

53 books were written by women, 6 by men, and 2 were novels or collections with writing by both men and women.

Clearly, I have read almost entirely books by women this year. It started out unconsciously, but then I more or less decided to keep doing it--excepting school reading, naturally. I did read mainly women authors in school as well. I have loved it and I plan on keeping it up. Not rigorously, but with that vague aim.

I have read a few books in Swedish, more than usual, I think: 11. I am glad of that. I want to keep adding Swedish books to my reading. Similarly with poetry. I have read 7 poetry collection, and many more online.


This has been a great reading year, supported by a fantastic year in school in terms of the modules and courses I have taken. I have learned so much. I need words, books, writing to breathe.

A Collection of Quotes That I Will at Some Point Post on My Tumblr or, Why Is This so Unbearable?

“Listen to me. I’m shy. I’m not stupid. I can’t meet people’s eyes. I don’t know if you understand what that’s like. There’s a whole world going on around me, I’m aware of that. It’s not because I don’t want to look at you, Lucinda. It’s that I don’t want to be seen. I’m afraid of what you’ll see inside me.”
— Jonathan Lethem


“With special regard to unreality, I shrug in silence. I am not scared. I love this fully conscious imprisonment in unreality; it somehow makes me romanticize with something sensuously genuine. Oh it’s another self-trap; you know best. Yet there is something very consoling, very personal in it. I am constructing my reality with unreal, otherworldly materials. It is almost poetic; this outstanding self-manipulation. (I am rather scared to death.)”
— Sylvia Plath, Letters Home: Correspondence 1950-1963


“My dear, you are in danger of being burned by your own flame.”
— Jeanette Winterson, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit


“Don’t try to picture everything bad that could possibly happen. Stick with the situation at hand and ask, “Why is this so unbearable? Why can’t I endure it?” You’ll be embarrassed to answer. Then remind yourself that past and future have no power over you. Only the present.”
— Marcus Aurelis, The Meditations


“I am aware of myself. And, of course, the only things that are aware of themselves and conscious of their individuality are irritated eyes, cut fingers, sore teeth. A healthy eye, finger, tooth might as well not even be there. Isn’t it clear that individual consciousness is just sickness?”
— Yevgeny Zamyatin, We

The Waves

I read The Waves for class a few weeks ago.

It is the fourth novel by Woolf I have read this semester. In addition, I have re-read "A Room of One's Own" and read two short stories. We have two texts left to read. It seems actually ridiculous that I, at the start of the semester, was reluctant to start with Woolf and give up 18th and 19th century literature, and that I did not then know Woolf as I do now. Well, that I did not know her is not too strange. I had not then spent around three months reading nothing but texts by Woolf or texts about Woolf. But to think, at that time, I did not realise how extraordinary her writing is. I did not even particularly like Mrs Dalloway then.

So ridiculous.


But I read The Waves and it filled me with awe from the first page. I was amazed, genuinely, to think of a novel written in that way. I had no idea before I started so it was a surprise. Then I had to read it pretty quickly because I had started late and it is quite long. My amazement abated, until I sat down in the class room for the seminar.

Somewhere in the space of three hours I realised that this book was maybe my favoruite of Woolf. Most people in class did not like it, so naturally I had to defend it. But what I loved the most was the things I couldn't voice, which was a theme during the seminar--everything I could and did not say--and I want to, need to, write it down. I wish I could have said it in class and defended the book properly.

It is a long prose poem, I guess. Or it is a novel written in very poetic prose. It is a conversation between six persons, but they never talk with each other, they just talk at each other, or at the reader. It is a novel consisting of six different voices--thoughts--running, repeating, complaining, groping, trying to explain, failing to explain, and reaching. It works, definitely, to think of as a prose poem. The sort of poem where different people speak but where the refrains and the theme and the words hold it together. It works to think of as a novel, too, albeit one without a particular plot (but To The Lighthouse does not really have a plot either, or Jacob's Room for that matter). It could also be thought of as a play, where six characters have monologues, or soliloquies, in Woolf's own word. Or, you can think of it as a radio broadcast where voices are heard and they speak without knowing if anyone listen so you have to listen.

It has fantastic language. So my favourite way of thinking about The Waves is as a long prose poem, because of the refrains and the repetitions. Oh, I loved the repetitions. I love how they defined the characters and made them recognisable. Bernard and his phrases. Neville and his perfection and classic studies. Jinny and her flames and fire and red and orange. Susan and her body working, doing stuff, and the nature and green. Louis and his self-consciousness (but the most difficult, I think, to define). And my favourite, Rhoda, immaterial, unhappy, unable to do what everyone else did, faceless and connected to water. (The women, in particular, stood out for me in terms of colours and elements: Jinny and fire and warm colours, Susan and earth and green and Rhoda and water and insubstantial grey-blue colours.)

In order not to make this too long, I will cut it short here. And only say that I loved loved loved Rhoda and Bernard. Rhoda's description of the world is fairly similar to mine (I re-read parts of her speech in a waiting room and had to put the book away because I was so nauseous and her words made me almost agitated).

The best things is the quotes. So many beautiful quotes. The second best thing is how strange it is. I can hardly believe the same writer wrote "A Room," or Orlando, or Jacob's Room. Anyway, here are some of the best quotes (put together in a way they were not put together in the book):

There was a star riding through clouds one night, and I said to the star, "Consume me."
I catch your eye. I, who had been thinking myself so vast, a temple, a church, a whole universe, confined and capable of being everywhere on the verge of things and here too, am now nothing but what you see.
I — so imperfect, so weak, so unspeakably lonely.
... the weight of the earth is pressed to my ribs.

And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.

It seems as if I can get to the centre of something if only I read everything Woolf wrote. Somehow, with all her exact descriptions and innovative narratives and clear-sightedness, I can understand why it is so beautiful and also so ugly, this, this, life.

November

I am having a bad time.

I try writing and I end up deleting it all.

I imagine myself saying it out loud and my skin crawls.

There is something with the dark that makes it impossible. I cannot get sunlight, not even moments of sunlight, not even moments of light.

I got home at four in the afternoon and made dinner. Got ready for the night. And there are hours left of the day.

I sleep too much.


I tried, sitting down at dinner, to follow along with my heart when it reached out and forward for something. When it searches for another time, to a future place, to something I will do or could do.

But my heart was flailing and I realised that it is not going to get better.

A doctor told me this week I was depressed, so I am looking for symptoms (is this depression?)

I suppose being unable to look forward to something is a sign of depression.

But it is also true. What could get better? What, in a single day, could be better than this? It is all up to my mood and my mood is such a slippery thing.

It does not matter if I change the house. If I live somewhere where I move differently. If I eat something else or see other people. It is still. Just. This.

Is this depression?

Or is it just facts? That, to an extent, it all comes down to my mood. (Is the world only my perception of it?)

There are hours left of the day, that I could use writing, but I just want to go to sleep. I imagine that I might need sleep. Sleep is always good, isn't it? I have to get up early tomorrow.

And tomorrow night will eat more of the day and then it won't be anything left and can't the night just eat me, too?

Is this depression? Being unable to organise the day to use the hours I am awake to write essays and not transform them into night hours (November helps me in this).

I am clearly doing something wrong. Something I ate made me this. Something I did not do. A book I read at the wrong time. A class missed, where everyone learned how to be human beings.

I don't believe I am depressed because that seems an awfully easy way to solve the meaninglessness of life.

Is that depression?

I don't have to tell anyone, honestly, and I can write it only to myself. And imagine that I tell you.

Nevertheless, it is not the easiest time. This November (and October and September and August). And I don't believe it can be any easier.

School & Virginia Woolf

I have started school again. It's with mixed feelings to be sure. Mostly negative ones, but I do look forward to the structured reading again. But it won't be like in Leeds. It won't be as in-depth and interesting and enlightening. The classes are just not on the same level - they're too slow, too basic (how horrible of me). I can't stand how much time is lost on explaining things like group works and assignments. All I want it melodious voices telling me everything they have discovered about a text and be so interesting and interested that students share their own thoughts.

I will study Virginia Woolf thoroughly this semester. I didn't want that to happen, either, but it did. I'm taking a One Author course on Virginia Woolf which will be so great (if we can ever get a conversation started). The other course is Literary Theory and Method and the only fiction in that course will be To the Ligthouse. And then, finally, I will write my BA essay on Virginia Woolf.

This means saying goodbye to Barbauld, Austen and Edgeworth (for now, at least). Give up the last of my Leeds studies. I wanted to do my essay on the 18th century and women's spaces and their interiority. But they did apparently not have a supervisor for it so I was given the Virginia Woolf one (it was my second choice). It's fine, I guess, only I had looked forward to immerse myself in the late 18th century again. And it will be so much Virginia Woolf.
(Mostly I can't bear to leave Leeds behind.)

But I will have other opportunities to write essays. And I love Virginia Woolf. I really like my supervisor too; she's wonderful and has studied at Leeds and knew about one of my teachers there.
I have come to terms with the Woolf essay. But not quite with returning to a school full of people and my inability to inhabit it. I find the social aspect of school absolutely horrible. I want to attend small seminars and meet with teachers and never see another human being. It would be fine, just pushing through it, but it's tainting the whole reading-learning-doing school thing as well. And it's so much worse at Stockholm with the crowded halls and large buildings and big class rooms and classes and none of the intimacy and privacy of the teacher's own studies.

To end with something else, another emotion, here is a part from To the Lighthouse:

'And it was then too, in that chill and windy way, as she began to paint, that there forced themselves upon her other things, her own inadequacy, her insignificance, keeping house for her father off the Brompton Road, and had much ado to control her impulse to fling herself (thank Heaven she had always resisted so far) at Mrs Ramsay's knee and say to her - but what could one say to her? "I'm in love with you?" No that was not true. "I'm in love with this all," waving her hand at the hedge, at the house, at the children. It was absurd, it was impossible.'

And with this, it is not at all bad to be reading nothing but Virginia Woolf this autumn.

Villette

I want to write about Anne Carson's 'The Glass Essay', and I will, but I want time to do it properly (which means I'll probably never do it), so I'm going to write, shortly, about another book for now.

It's Charlotte Brontë's Villette. I haven't finished it yet but almost, and as it is so long, I have quite a few pages to muse on. How fitting, to read Charlotte Brontë's rather autobiographical work shortly after reading 'The Glass Essay', about Emily Brontë. It makes me compare the two and realise that both wrote heavily on things like loneliness and freedom, but very differently.

After visiting the Brontë house and reading some diary entries and letters of Charlotte's there, as well as reading some quotes of her in 'The Glass Essay', I have been keeping a slightly negative, or less admiring, view of Charlotte lately. But that view have been reassessed again. Charlotte was so modern? She was so business-like and ambitious and pragmatic and I say this having read very little on her biography. But from what I gather about her - her publishing hers and her sister's writing, creating their public personas, writing and thinking and maintaining - she seems much that way. I think she would fit well today, in a way (perhaps she would feel it too crowded; not that loneliness is lacking today). Emily Brontë on the other hand feels like a creature stuck in time, or rather place, and how could she be anything anywhere but on the moors in the 19th century? When Emily writes about freedom, she writes about freedom of the soul, a wild sort, freedom from self and the material world. (It's so attractive, Emily's freedom, but difficult to find and pinpoint; somehow tied to a mood or an environment.)

Charlotte's idea of freedom is something more like independence. All her heroines are obsessed with being independent (and surely herself as well). Jane Eyre had do everything on her terms; she had to be free to make the choice and to make the right choice. She would go with her uncle - cousin? - to be a missionary but not as a wife; she must maintain her independence of heart and self. Lucy Snowe is even more stoic about her independence. It's a point of pride for her. Lucy Snowe would rather suffer anything than lose her independence, be it poverty, loneliness, boredom, restlessness, hunger, cold, death. She keeps her lowly job as a teacher in the cold empty school house, rather than be at someone else's will as a lady's companion. In her quiet and loneliness and unhappiness (because, independent and lonely, she is always desperately unhappy; also, seemingly by choice). she decided the way out is to start her own school (I know not yet if she succeeds). She cannot even entertain the thought of being someone's friend or lover before having that for herself. That quest for being an own and living for herself makes her feel so modern. That being despite this ridiculously lonely, stern, dogmatic, morally superior character she is. I  love Lucy Snowe, I do, but her self-sacrifice is actually ridiculous.

As with most period literature (can you call it that?) I rather drown in it and start thinking and behaving the same way as the protagonist (especially when it is in first person). Villette is inspiring. The pleasure Lucy takes in being lonely - and yes - independent, despite being miserable. The pride taken in not giving in to hopes and dreams or to other's pity, but to know what's best for yourself and living by that despite it all. Yes, despite the loss of love. Lucy Snowe knows that hope is the most dangerous emotion; that it bites.

I really love Villette, despite it being slow to read and nothing at all happens. It clarifies something about freedom and pride, but I am not entirely sure what exactly. Only I am now back to admiring Charlotte Brontë and her freedom-seeking, brave, honest heroines. I wish I was more like them, I guess.



At some point, soon hopefully, will I read Anne Brontë and see what she has to say about independence and loneliness. I think, though, that she does not really write about that? But what do I know. She is a Brontë after all, and lives as much on the moors and on writing as Charlotte and Emily did.

Leeds Elaborated

There are two moments - a day, a night - I will cherish from my time in Leeds (I cherish and miss and barely believe in it any more). For their magic and their promise and their beauty.

The first, the easiest, was only my second to last weekend in Leeds. Perhaps I remember it so clearly because it was recent. But more than that, I think it was the height of one particular aspect of my life in Leeds that I adored. It was the nature of Yorkshire; the moors; the lay of land, so to speak.
I wanted to say goodbye to the moors and views so I took the train and the bus to Haworth - with the usual anxiety and worry - and visited the Brontë Museum again and then I went west, out on the moors. I followed a trail, the Brontë Way, and at first it was populated by tourists and walkers like myself. But after I passed the Brontë Waterfall the number of hikers thinned out. The path was thin and less well-trodden. It travelled up and down the moors, along the little brook that led to the waterfall. The view showed Haworth and Keighley in the distance, and green-and-brown hills in every other direction.
And. It. Was. Breathless.
The extraordinary feeling, the one I will cherish, was walking straight away from civilisation (Haworth in my back, nothing in front of me). Even though I knew I wasn't alone (ridiculous bikers left by the previous wall, a few meetings in the form of fellow hikers), it felt a if I was leaving the populated world behind. It felt as if I could walk until I dropped without seeing another human being. And all the time in that gorgeous environment.
It was the feeling of freedom. A feeling I so strive for, adore and yearn for. Am addicted of.


The second was the night in March when I went to my second poetry reading and was blown away by Helen Mort and made casual conversation with a girl also in my module 'Fictions of Fallen Women' and saw someone I was almost-interested in and he noticed me and I realised (that very night) that I was being ridiculous and also was having a crush. Stupid of me, naturally. All of this was important and I can't tell what mattered the most which is why I love that night so much. I spent the ride on the bus home SO HAPPY, my heart beating unevenly and I could taste hope and beauty and life and it was unbelievable.
The wonderful part is that reading Helen Mort's poems brings me back. Not it back to me; me back to then. I'm there. I hear the cadence and warmth and melancholy in her voice when she says

So forgive me if I looked up
past your face, to see those nearly-silver drops
make rivers in the dark, and, for a moment,
almost thought there might be stars named after us.

and like hearing a song once sung at a concert, I'm there, alive and feeling everything at once; the hope and the disappointment and the acceptance of the ways of life.

(That horrible hope.)

It was what I brought with me from Leeds. A land where I want to be buried. Where I feel at home. And the fragile, flickering hope that there might be somewhere I could feel content and alive; a room with kindred souls and poetry and red wine.

Howl's Moving Castle and Why It is the Greatest Ever

I need to write about Howl's Moving Castle, and why I love it so much.


By now I have read it maybe 5 times and it is the book I have read the most times (possibly tied with the first few Harry Potter books). Since I read it the first time, I have read it once a year and about the same time each year (like music, books follow a mood inspired by the seasons). The good bits are always Sophie and her cleaning, Howl and how funny he is, the confusing and complex storyline which I still can't seem to grasp, and the magic and its uses. How light and how funny it is. I rarely read and love light and funny books.

This time around what struck me especially were two things.

First the self-fulfilling-ness, independent, subjectively oriented curse and magic of Sophie, and secondly, how kind they all are to each other, without ever really aknowledging how kind they are.

The first is wonderful, naturally. Sophie is herself in control of her curse and she is the one who can release herself - not the great magician Howl or him as a romantic object or some change of heart by the Wicked Witch of the Waste. She wears her curse more or less freely and she can discard it by herself, when she is ready to be seen and to be brave. It is so wonderful. The way she hides behind her old skin until she realises she does not want to hide anymore.
I love Sophie and her heroic role.

The second is touching and funny and lovely. It is somehow so realistic, in a novel full of seven-league books and happy endings. Most of (the lovely part of) life is not, I suppose, about grand and ostentatious gestures, but about doing favours and seeing what someone else might need or just would like, and do that for them. Not expecting gratitude. Just doing it out of kindness and doing it because it will be accepted and maybe repaid. Even Howl, selfish, showy, admiration-craving Howl, does so many things for Sophie and Michael that it's sometimes breathtaking.

This is the thing about this magical book. The characters are so wonderful. I am genuinely in love with them all. They are far from perfect but all very sympathetic. Howl becoming greater because of his vanity and need for validation and cowardice. Sophie becoming relatable for her grumpiness and exasperation and inability to see herself. Michael being too naïve for his own good, but also romantic and economical. Calcifer being - what - a demon as well as a protector of hearts and secrets.

Even though I read it for the fifth time I still felt that post-book depression. What is it I want and miss from it? The romantic storyline? The unbelievable character Howl? The strength and warmth Sophie possesses? Or is it just the magic and the climax and the conclusion of it; that it's a story and would only life be a story!? Whatever it is, I look forward to reading it again in about a year.

Girl Reading

I read a fantastic chapter from this book yesterday. What I had read before (and since) was all right; stories about girls and women and art and paintings and life. None of them quite extraordinary. None of them feeling like this one did.

It was the one about Angelica Kauffman's painting 'Portrait of a Lady'.


The first four pages were extraordinary. Maria chasing Frances, trying to read her poem. Finding out (spoilers!) Frances is actually dead.

The aching pages following, of loneliness and paintings and company. And the wonderful end. I actually cried. Usually when I say I cried, I might get watery eyes or an achy throat. But now I had actual tears. Stuck on my lashes.

It was the whole her-best-friend-and-possibly-lover-is-dead, the life Frances had despite, the inability to move Maria had because. And it was the friendship between two women in the 18th century and the life it was given. Not the empty compliments on a dinner in a pretty Austen-like novel; but the vibrant life anyone of us could lead. And the abrupt stop and immovability when one of them died.

Oh, I want the whole world to read that chapter. I wish I could have it unread and read it again for the first time. The delicious, pleasurable pain of it.

Goodreads list

I'm currently in the middle of long-and-slow move into a student flat, as well as working full time, which means I don't have a whole lot of time. I think I'll have more time this weekend; until then, I have a Goodreads book list I wanted to finish.

What was the last book you marked as "read"?
Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones (my yearly, this-time-fifth re-read)

What are you "currently reading"?
Girl Reading by Katie Ward, which I just started, and Helen Mort's poetry collection Pint For the Ghost

What was the last book you marked as "to read"?
Outlander by Diana Gabaldon - suggested by one of the friends I visited Scotland (and Culloden) with.

What book do you plan on reading next?
I only have a few of my unread books not stored beneath my bed, so the next one will probably be a collection of Jane Austen's early and unfinished writing. I have a few poetry books as well, which I'm hoping to trick myself into reading by leaving them out.

Are you doing a 2014 Reading Challenge?
I am! Not a very trying one because I'll have school reading (which is usually fiction, though). I did 52 books, one per week, but I think I will surpass it. But I do want to re-read some books as well.

Do you have a wish-list?
YES. I'm looking forward so much to buying Anne Carson's Glass, Irony and God. I read one of the poems slash essays in it, the one about Emily Dickison, and it was the best thing I have read this year. I can't with words explain how glorious it was. So I need to have it my hand and touch the words and also read the rest of the collection.

What book do you plan on buying next?
Probably the previously mentioned one. I don't want to buy anymore books since I bought so many (too many) in England when I lived there. And by the end of summer I'll have to buy a ton of books for school (which is not too difficult when you're studying English).

Do you have favourite quotes on Goodreads?
I do, but far from all of them or even my favourites. I'm annoyed with the fact that they very rarely have my favourite quotes from the books there.

Who are your favourite authors?
Currently (and always?) Donna Tartt, Virginia Woolf, Diana Wynne Jones, the Brontë sisters, Jane Austen, Sylvia Plath and Melina Marchetta to a name a few.

Have you joined any groups?
Yes, but I'm not active in any of them.


My Goodreads is here.

Introduction

I love writing. But I find myself uncomfortable in my languages. It's an extravagant discomfort, but an important one nevertheless. I can't write in my first language because it does not go well with my thoughts, and anyway, I read too little in it. But I'm not entirely skilled in my second language - English - either, even though I read most things in English. So I figured I should practice my English writing. Writing on a blog seemed an easier way to structure it and to actually do it well, than the run-on thoughts I type down in my journal.

I have another blog. Or I had one, as it is hardly still alive. It has not been a space I'm comfortable in for the last year. Mostly because I know who reads it and they are not people I really want to be reading it. Not people I can be honest to the way I only am in writing. But also because I want to write about what I read and books and poetry in English. And mostly because I need to practice my actual use of the language.

So there. I will try to write here once in a while. I'm thinking a lot about metaphors right now, so there might be some of that. I'm quite unhappy as well, so there will probably be some of that. And maybe some love; love for the women writers I read and adore. That is one things about me: I love nothing more in the world, than women writers.



Oh, before I finish up for the night (it is such a hot warm night), I'll explain about the name of the blog. For the benefit of future me, mostly. I listened to a (Swedish) song in which the first line goes 'Jag kunde se dig under lindarna'. I think that line and its melody is so pretty and liberating that I fell in love with the idea of naming anything after the lime tree. I translated it. Found the possibly prettier kind, the silver lime, and so there it goes. More importantly, the url was available. I suppose I need some kind of layout or design with a silver lime now?