This is not a beach read. This is not a fun read. This is the real deal.
From the beginning, the author pulls you into the story with imagery that flows from surreal serenity to a hard slap up side the head. From the bobbing in the ocean… to the unknown stains on the frat house floor… to the vomit on the borrowed shoes… the descriptions are almost poetic, then suddenly so stark and real that you can smell the scene.
The main characters are genuine, not super-human imaginings that can do no wrong. They’re scarred by life and full of the foibles that make people human, yet still struggling to maintain the course toward the right thing to do. And at the end, you almost understand.
What really struck me were the pieces strewn here and there… little things that appear to be random thoughts that spilled from the author’s bit bucket. Gradually I realized that these aren’t just accidental droppings, that they’re brush-strokes, that the author was painting a picture on the canvas of my subconscious.
It isn’t a smiling, happy picture, but it’s beautiful in its reality. It’s a picture of humanity in turmoil, dragged kicking and screaming from the One Insular Tahiti into a world of doubt and pain and fulfillment. It’s a picture of purple grass that grows by the side of the ocean, a reflection of the scars on a young woman’s chest.
Though I could easily enough, I won’t ramble on any more. Reading “One Insular Tahiti” was a painful pleasure that I just had to say something about.