The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield
My rating: 1 of 5 stars
Bookshelves: just-no, religion-sort-of, mysticism, spiritual, wannabe, ugh
I tried to read this book on my honeymoon several years ago. No snarky honeymoon jokes, now; you can’t boink all the time. We spent a beautiful week on the Snake River in Hells Canyon. We both enjoy rafting and hiking, but while my husband likes to fish by actually fishing, I like to fish by relaxing on the bank with a good book. Fortunately, the shade was cool and the breeze was divine and the flowing water was peaceful and the chirping birds were joyful and my husband’s cussing was inventive and entertaining, because the book was by turns eye-rolling and boring af.
On the way home we broke down in Wieser, Idaho, and took refuge in the only reasonably accessible motel, a creepy old place where we wore our flip-flops into the shower and my gallant bridegroom killed all the bugs we found in the bed with his bare hands. Then we enjoyed an intimate pillowtalk game of Guess How Many Corpses Have Been Chopped Up in This Bathtub. My husband slept well, worn out from driving and vanquishing insects. I kept feeling bugs crawling on me, some imaginary and some not, and slept for roughly 17 minutes. I tried reading to pass the time, but staring at the cracked and mildewed ceiling and listening for Norman Bates had more pull than this book did. It was a long night.
The next day, when our truck was repaired and we were back on the road, I tried one more time to read this book. I ended up leaving it on a badly sloping picnic table outside a liquor store/smoke shop/deli/bait and tackle supply/hair care center/shoe repair shop/authorized Sprint dealer in Jordan Valley, Oregon (pop.181).
If you are the one who found it, I hope it was everything for you that it wasn’t for me.
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99 Monkeys 