on your journey, i will bless you...

Well, I've been absent for, ah, a long time, yes, but I do have a good excuse. I was, uh, I was kidnapped by international terrorists. Yeah, that's it! And I spent the last two months held hostage in an obsucre cave in Iraq with no plumbing or electricity. I barely managed to escape with my life, and every day I prayed that I would someday be able to view this journal again, and... uh... well... okay, not really.

I obviously wasn't kidnapped by terrorists, and I don't have a good excuse. I've been busy since school started (and I think JXB's French classes are about to kill me!) but for the last month or so of summer, I was just really lazy. Not to mention depressed by the end of Half-Blood Prince. Deaths of cool, courageous, quirky, funny, well-loved father figures will do that to you, I guess.

Oh, and I do have one good excuse for the past week or so! I've been dodging hurricanes! First Katrina, then Rita. Cripes, why does God hate Louisiana?

Most of my dreams slip away when my alarm clock goes off, but last night's dream was so powerful and vivid that I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. I dreamt that I was at a little park with all of my old classmates from high school. Anne Marie, Caleb, Amber, RJ, Iman, Micah, Caroline, Bruce, Mari, Aric, Melissa, Drew -- everyone was there, and we had each been assigned to write a poem. I was trying to write one about Sigmund Boraks, but before I could get started, we got the news that our class had won some sort of special prize and we were all taking a plane ride to go and collect it.

The next thing I knew, we were all packed and riding a bus to the airport when suddenly I yelled that I had forgotten something. It must have been something important because we took a detour to my house just so I could get it. And then -- and this is where the dream becomes as real as any memory -- as I was stepping off the bus, I looked up the driveway and into the backyard. The sunlight was so bright, and I thought at first I was seeing things, so I raised my hand to shield my eyes. The pool was blue and clean, and I started to walk toward it. Then I saw that someone was swimming in it, and as I got closer, I saw it was Dad.

Today I have reached my goal of making the book last three weeks. If I were a realistic person, I would congratulate myself and finish the book today. But because I'm unrealistic and stubborn and hard-to-please, I've decided to try and make the final eleven chapters last for another week. Adam doubt that I'll be able to do it; he says the final five chapters have to be read all at once. We'll see. As much as I want to know what happens in the remainder of the book, I keep asking myself, if I finish it tonight, what will I read tomorrow? With summer drawing to a close so quickly, I have to make this book last a little longer, if only so I'll have something to look forward to. Fall semester starts on August 22. Less than three weeks of freedom left. Just thinking about it makes me less depressed than panicky. My hands start shaking, my chest gets tight, my teeth clench. I don't understand why I feel this way. Aren't college kids supposed to hate coming home to their parents? Sara does. Why don't I? Why does the thought of returning to LSU make my soul hurt?

Reading Chapter 18, "Birthday Surprises," was a wonderful experience. I read it all in one heady, breathless rush, lying on my bed while Coldplay's "Speed of Sound" played over and over in my head. I'll probably always associate that high-pitched chorus "If you could see it, then you'd understand" with this book. When I was done, I did read the few first pages of Chapter 19, just to make sure Ron was all right, but I saved the majority of it for the next day.

P.S. Adam still insists that Kreacher's name is pronounced kretcher, not creature.

I meant to make this entry yesterday, but an e-mail I was writing was suddenly and inexplicably deleted and by the time I'd typed it all over again, I was ready for bed. At least, I thought I was. It turned out I stayed up until three in the morning watching Aunt Carolyn's old copy of Gypsy.

I don't know how I managed to stay up so late since I was so busy yesterday, first cleaning out Grandma's closet (a job that took two days) and then driving over to visit the Mortimers (and Eva alone is enough to exhaust anyone). Today I spent the afternoon running errands; I bought a pig's ear for Sable at Planet Pets, did some shopping at KMart, and checked out some great books from the library.

I checked out a children's novel, Olive's Ocean by Kevin Henkes; another Shirley flick, Now and Forever; and two Holocaust books, Hitler Youth by Susan Campbell Bartoletti and I Have Lived a Thousand Years by Livia Bitton-Jackson. As much as I enjoy reading about the Holocaust, all the books I've read about Jewish victims -- Night, The Diary of a Young Girl, Anne Frank and Me, Number the Stars, The Devil's Arithmetic, The Cage, The Big Lie, Fireflies in the Dark -- are becoming a bit repetitive. (Is that a horrible thing to say? Probably.) Jerry Spinelli managed to captivate me with Milkweed, but most books don't tell the story of the Holocaust with such unique narration. This is why I decided to read Hitler Youth, to see the lesser-told side of the story. The little toddler boy in an SS uniform, saluting Hitler, may be the most frightening WW2 photo I have ever seen. I'm also reading The Red Tent, by Anita Diamant, a great book Grandma lent me. With the plot of The Half-Blood Prince progressing so quickly, I am going to need all of them to keep me distracted between chapters.

All signs point to Draco being a Death-Eater. Why don't Ron and Hermione believe Harry about this, when he's been right so many times in the past? Well, if Ron and Hermione still won't admit they're in love with each other, I suppose they can't be expected to notice things that are blatantly obvious to the rest of the world. That Hermione broke one of her long-cherised school rules just so Ron would win a spot on the Quidditch team proves how far she is willing to go for him.

Apologies for my long absence, but I've barely had time to read the book lately, much less make entries in this journal. On Wednesday, I drove over the Mississippi to Port Allen right after work to attend the opening of a museum exhibit on Oskar Schindler. I heard an amazing, inspirational testimony from a Holocaust survivor named Sigmund Boraks, who had been imprisoned at Auschwitz, came to America after the war, and now lives in New Orleans and still bears a number on his arm. I cannot even describe how his speech made me feel. Persecuted, beaten, starved, shot at, even forced to dig his own grave, but he survived it all, and sixty years later, I hear him tell his story. There are no words to describe how it made me feel.

On Thursday night, Sara and I attended a production of Peter Pan at the Baton Rouge Little Theater. For the most part, I enjoyed it, despite some dreary performances (some of the actors were only in high school and had weak singing voices) and a gross misinterpretation of the story by the director. Judging from what she wrote in the program, she has probably never read the book in her life. Of course, it could not compare to the Cathy Rigby production that I saw in Houston last May, but fittingly, I did arrive at the Baton Rouge show late, as I had done for the Rigby show.

I had another Potter-related dream this week. I can't remember it well, but it involved the Order of the Phoenix at their new headquarters (and I still haven't found out where that is), and one of the male members had no shirt on. I hope it wasn't Albus or Snape or Remus or Moody or Mr. Weasley. Yuck.

I spent most of Friday packing and preparing for the trip here to Lake Charles. Since I didn't have time to read Chapter 6, "Draco's Detour," on Thursday, Sara read it to me in the truck during the drive. Not the best idea, considering how hard I stomped on the gas pedal when I heard Narcissa Malfoy's comment about Sirius. That means I'm one chapter behind my goal of a chapter a day. Perhaps I'll make it up by reading two chapters today. Sara has bet me I won't be able to stop reading after Chapter 7, "The Slug Club." She also said that Draco has a very dramatic scene later on, and she doubts that Tom Felton, the actor who plays Draco in the movies, will be able to handle it.

Sara is going to drive me crazy soon. I have asked her repeatedly not to tell me what happens later in the book, but she just won't shut up. She hasn't told me that Albus is going to die, but she may as well have. Yesterday when she was reading to me, she read the line, "Dumbledore isn't always going to be around to protect you, you know," and then she gave me this long sideways look. She is always dropping annoying little hints like that. I am so mad that I could murder her. I asked her to stop it, and she started mocking me: "What are you gonna do if I tell you who dies? What are you gonna do? Huh, huh? If I want to tell you, you can't stop me! What do you think of that? Huh, huh?" And guess what I was doing while she was being such a bitch? I was driving her across the state from Baton Rouge to Lake Charles, and I had to drive the entire way because Sara is twenty-two and still doesn't have a license (only a learner's permit, which she has conveniently "lost"). My back is still sore from all of it, but she doesn't care. I hope my next entry doesn't find me in prison convicted of murdering her.

There are some things in this world that Sara just may never understand, like the true complexity of JM Barrie's life and relationship with the five Davies brothers, like how to read a good book. Last night in Wal-Mart, she picked it up and turned to the last page before I had even paid for it. She doesn't understand that a Harry Potter book has to be savored, like an Italian cream soda or a bike ride around the LSU lakes.

Sara fell asleep after we got back from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory yesterday, and so I went to the party at the bookstore by myself. It wasn't very crowded, and the costumes weren't nearly as good as the ones I saw at Books-a-Million's party for The Order of the Phoenix. The guy who was supposed to be Ron didn't even have red hair! I had my picture taken with two people dressed as Harry and Fluffy, ate chocolate frogs and Bertie Bott's Every-Flavor Bean off a Welcome Witch's tray, and had a golden snitch painted on my cheek. Adam called halfway through it, and we talked for a while about The Chocolate Factory, which is and Mom are going to see this weekend, and our hopes for the book. Then I bought an Italian cream soda in the cafe and read from The Plot Tickens: Harry Potter Theories by Fans for Fans. It made me so eager for the book that I couldn't get to Wal-Mart fast enough and grab a copy off the stack.

Sara, in her sneaky way, has confirmed that an important character will die. She's probably going to give everything away before I can even get started. She's still alseep right now, and I'm in the living room typing this on the computer while The Little Colonel plays on the TV behind me. Shirley Temple is reconciling the old grudge between her mother and her curmudgeon grandfather.

Chapter 8's title is "Snape Victorious." Victorious over what -- his greasy hair, his arrogance, his vomit-inducing personality? Does this have anything to do with the rumor that Snape has a son?

Over two years of waiting are about to be over. In a little more than twenty-four hours, I will have my very own copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince in my hands. Well, it will not be entirely my very own, since Sara and I are sharing, but that certainly will not tarnish its appeal. I cannot help wondering: One month from now, when I have read and reread the book and I am stuck waiting for who knows how many months and years for the next one, will I find myself wishing to return to this moment, to the heady night before, when all the shocks and surprises are still waiting for me?

My anticipation for The Half-Blood Prince seems different from that I had just before The Order of the Phoenix was released. It's strange to think of how each book came out at such a different point in my life, as if they're punctuating my young adulthood. I began reading the series six years ago, during the summer between eighth grade and freshman year (1999), the summer that I had so many anxiety dreams about starting high school and couldn't imagine what it would be like, the summer that Sara moved away to the Louisiana School for the first time. The fourth book, The Goblet of Fire, was published in the summer between ninth and tenth grades (2000), and we happened to be on vacation in Virginia at the time. We arrived home very late at night, and I still remember how mad I was when Adam woke me up so early the next morning because we had to go buy it. Of course my anger had faded by the first page.

The fifth book, The Order of the Phoenix, was released -- after a tedious three-year wait, during which September 11 happened and JK Rowling married and had a baby -- the summer before my freshman year of college (2003). I attended the midnight party at the local bookstore with Adam. I read the first chapter of The Lovely Bones and drank an Italian cream soda while I stood in a several-hours-long line, only to hit the ceiling when the store ran out of copies just before I reached the front. (Adam was freaked out at the time, but he swears now that he found my rage humorous.) I swore not to go home without a copy, so I drove Adam and me down to the Wal-Mart. Surprise, surprise, we found a lovely pyramid display of the books, for a cheaper price, with no line! I read the first page aloud to Adam in the parking lot, standing next to my new truck, which I had gotten just a month before, when I graduated from high school. I still remember how heady and excited I felt, how fast my heart beat when I picked up the book in Wal-Mart -- and it wasn't just the book that was causing it. I was thrilled by the whole wonderful summer, by my recent graduation, by the knowledge that I would have my own apartment and start college in the fall.

It feels so much longer than two years ago. Looking back now, I seem to have known so little then. I had no clue. Perhaps that is one reason why I feel so close to this series: I really am growing up with Harry.

I wonder where the seventh book will find me when it is published. I wonder how Harry's life and mine will have changed in the meantime. I wonder what it will feel like when all the books have been published, and there will be no more new adventures with Harry to look forward to. After The Half-Blood Prince, there will be just one more book, and then I will have to say goodbye to Harry forever.