This seems to be happening to me with greater frequency this month.
I'll be talking to someone, or following an argument online or on TV, nodding my head, agreeing with the premise, happy and content, and the the crazy hits. About five steps in, the person I thought was so perspicacious drops a crazy bomb right in the middle of an example.
Whoa. Wait a minute. I was with you right up until .... What? You really believe THAT?
Well then, I don't think I can go with what you were saying three minutes ago. Except for the fact that I was fine with where you were going right up until the moment you pulled that LAST over-the-top example out of your butt.
Assuming that we bring up the point we think is the strongest early on when trying to convince someone, can I suppose that this last bit isn't as important to you as the ones I agreed with? I'd like to go with what you said right up until you lost me.
But on the other hand, if you believe ANY PART of that last bit, I have to question whether you are a rational human being I should be taking advice from whatsoever. Because that one was on the nutty side of loony.
Maybe in your quest for intellectual stardom you reached too far? Benefit of the doubt? Want to reel that one back in?
But then when it's in print, there's no way to question the author, is there? And then I'm left with this niggling feeling that this thing I'm reading is annoying the crap out of me not because I'm deeply in denial of finding the pathway to sanity, self-respect, honesty, and a better marriage with a cherry on top, but because the author may very well be a quack dressed up in a business suit and I'm just too smart for all this self-help mumbo-jumbo heaped up on a pile of crazy.
Or I'm sabotaging myself looking for flaws in arguments.
My therapist is going to want to discuss this, and I don't want to find out that my therapist thinks this author is "all that". Because I do not like arguing with my therapist, but I cannot DEAL with any theory based on the application of applied kinesiology as proof. Weaker arm in the presence of negative thoughts my ass.
Crap. Stuck in the crazy.
I need to go find some more escapist fiction, thank you very much.
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Monday, March 29, 2010
Monday, February 08, 2010
Temple Grandin
If you haven't yet seen the HBO biopic on Temple Grandin, you should set aside some time to see it on demand. I was waiting for it to be smooshy and schmaltzy and one-dimensional, but no, it was quite good.
If you don't know who Temple Grandin is, Oliver Sacks wrote about her in An Anthropologist on Mars, and she has eloquently written about herself and her work in a number of books. Here's HBO's trailer which summarizes who she is and what she's done.
I think her book, Thinking in Pictures, does a better job of really delving into the way she thinks and why her slaughterhouse designs are so revolutionary, but in lieu of a book, there's always movies. Thing is, I come away from the movie being both moved and conflicted.
I can't quite get into words what it is about watching the movie that disturbed me, but I think it was something about the way the mother was handled which set me off. Possibly because I identify so much with her. The Me/Not Me thing kept getting in the way.
She's upset when the doctor diagnoses Temple with infantile schizophrenia, describing it as being caused by a mother's unnatural coldness towards the child. Clearly, any mother in that situation would be horrified. There's a scene of Temple's mother desperately trying to communicate with her daughter, and another where she cries at the idea that Temple will be teased at boarding school. And then, somehow, every other time she's on screen, Temple's mother DOES seem frozen and aloof. Although the audience KNOWS the doctor is wrong, somehow the movie subtly projects that the mother is distant? Or that she's projecting her own wishes onto Temple, who is not capable of living up to her mother's expectations? I dunno. It just felt off somehow.
Partially it's because of my own (dare I use the word?) trauma surrounding my son. Yes, at one point we thought he had some sort of mild Asperger's, but that diagnosis has fallen away the older he gets. It's definitely anxiety plus bipolar or unipolar depression. Nonetheless, he's an explosive and rigid child, so it sort of fits to say he's "Asperger's-like" since most lay people don't know what depression looks like in an young child.
Mostly, it's been awful, with a few rays of light peeking through. Three years of fighting and cajoling have paid off. He's in a fantastic program right now, with an excellent therapist and great staff. Judging from our last IEP, he'll be staying there for a few more years until he's ready to enter High School. He's bright, had some friends in the neighborhood (!), is fascinated with MythBusters and Trek and old NES game reviews on Youtube, and is sleeping and eating well. So we're on the easy upswing now where we're getting results and professionals are listening to us.
But the black past still sits there coloring most of my perceptions of parenthood now. I'm a very different person than I was a few years ago. I can't cope with conversations about parenting anymore, which makes me a not-very-satisfying friend to other mothers in my life. The girls like to complain about how hard it is to get everyone to soccer practice and I just want to spit bile all over their new frocks. People compliment me on my parenting skills and how far we've all walked and I want to say, "I feel as if you're telling someone who came through the Bataan Death March, 'Excellent constitutional, Chap.'" I don't really *care* that I've learned these skills, to tell the truth. I'd rather not have bothered.
Which gets me back to blogging, I guess. And autism. And how we see the world. And friends.
I'm trying to see where I fit. Somewhat like Temple Grandin, I suppose.
If you don't know who Temple Grandin is, Oliver Sacks wrote about her in An Anthropologist on Mars, and she has eloquently written about herself and her work in a number of books. Here's HBO's trailer which summarizes who she is and what she's done.
I think her book, Thinking in Pictures, does a better job of really delving into the way she thinks and why her slaughterhouse designs are so revolutionary, but in lieu of a book, there's always movies. Thing is, I come away from the movie being both moved and conflicted.
I can't quite get into words what it is about watching the movie that disturbed me, but I think it was something about the way the mother was handled which set me off. Possibly because I identify so much with her. The Me/Not Me thing kept getting in the way.
She's upset when the doctor diagnoses Temple with infantile schizophrenia, describing it as being caused by a mother's unnatural coldness towards the child. Clearly, any mother in that situation would be horrified. There's a scene of Temple's mother desperately trying to communicate with her daughter, and another where she cries at the idea that Temple will be teased at boarding school. And then, somehow, every other time she's on screen, Temple's mother DOES seem frozen and aloof. Although the audience KNOWS the doctor is wrong, somehow the movie subtly projects that the mother is distant? Or that she's projecting her own wishes onto Temple, who is not capable of living up to her mother's expectations? I dunno. It just felt off somehow.
Partially it's because of my own (dare I use the word?) trauma surrounding my son. Yes, at one point we thought he had some sort of mild Asperger's, but that diagnosis has fallen away the older he gets. It's definitely anxiety plus bipolar or unipolar depression. Nonetheless, he's an explosive and rigid child, so it sort of fits to say he's "Asperger's-like" since most lay people don't know what depression looks like in an young child.
Mostly, it's been awful, with a few rays of light peeking through. Three years of fighting and cajoling have paid off. He's in a fantastic program right now, with an excellent therapist and great staff. Judging from our last IEP, he'll be staying there for a few more years until he's ready to enter High School. He's bright, had some friends in the neighborhood (!), is fascinated with MythBusters and Trek and old NES game reviews on Youtube, and is sleeping and eating well. So we're on the easy upswing now where we're getting results and professionals are listening to us.
But the black past still sits there coloring most of my perceptions of parenthood now. I'm a very different person than I was a few years ago. I can't cope with conversations about parenting anymore, which makes me a not-very-satisfying friend to other mothers in my life. The girls like to complain about how hard it is to get everyone to soccer practice and I just want to spit bile all over their new frocks. People compliment me on my parenting skills and how far we've all walked and I want to say, "I feel as if you're telling someone who came through the Bataan Death March, 'Excellent constitutional, Chap.'" I don't really *care* that I've learned these skills, to tell the truth. I'd rather not have bothered.
Which gets me back to blogging, I guess. And autism. And how we see the world. And friends.
I'm trying to see where I fit. Somewhat like Temple Grandin, I suppose.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Lessons in French
Had to find an entire day when I knew I would not be interrupted.
That finally happened yesterday, so I tucked myself into bed and read it.
Wow.
Thank you, Laura Kinsale for an amazing new "keeper". Loved it tremendously.
That finally happened yesterday, so I tucked myself into bed and read it.
Wow.
Thank you, Laura Kinsale for an amazing new "keeper". Loved it tremendously.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Sixes and Sevens
I should blog more.
I should talk about what's on my mind, but I don't want to seem pushy about it.
Look at meeee.
Or don't. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.
Lengthy ramblings of a confused person. I'm at sixes and sevens as they say. Sort of all over the place.
I set up a visit for next weekend at a friend's horse farm about an hour away. Someone I've never met, but whom I've talked to on a guinea pig care message board and with whom I've exchanged long emails is meeting me at my friend's farm. This girl was posting on the guinea pig board about her riding lessons, the descriptions of which were appalling, and a group of us told her to "go find a better instructor." Long story short, the owner of the horse farm I'm visiting gave me a suggestion of a horse trainer in the area for this girl I don't really know. My good deed for the month of May. Or was it April?
It's weird that I've invited her to come along -- I'm fairly protective of horse farm visits -- they seem private to me. The farm owner, M, was a dear though. While I was trying to set this up he pointed out that I *could* visit more than once a year. As in, be social. Drop in with or without your friend.
Stuff like that throws me.
Yeah, I know I could. And I know I would be welcome, and all that, but ... I dunno. I worry that I'd be a hanger-on, wearing out my welcome because I can't read the social cues that say, "Now would be a good time to head home." So I never begin. Which is too bad, because I think M could use the company.
Who knows, maybe Leslie will fall in love with one of his horses. Maybe he gets a sale from this? Maybe a new convert to preservation breeding and Arabian sporthorses?
Horses. A few more of my aunt's horses have died since the last time I wrote about them. Hardly surprising, but I'm like the neglectful older cousin who shows up at Thanksgiving -- all the horses I knew are permanently stuck in their first grade school pictures. The ones with the weird stripey shirts and bad glasses. Frozen in weird shy gawkiness. But actually, they're really getting old some of them. The fine old man I wrote about before, the one I visited in Georgia a few years ago recovered from his liver failure, but has had to have an eye removed due to cancer. Or glaucoma? I don't remember exactly. But I'm not going to update my mental image of him -- he's still an iron grey twelve year old in my head. Jeez. She died in 1991. Some days I'm surprised there are any left at all.
Stuff like that throws me too.
Neo's doing well in home school -- I'm making her read and write a ton. So far we've done Ethan Frome, To Kill A Mockingbird, Shane, and now she's working on Lord of the Flies. Her writing's improving, but she's still not in the habit of finding examples in the text. I think she doesn't take notes.
I'm still on the Middle Schools' autodialer list though. Since I've pulled her enrollment, I've been invited to sell cookie dough for the PTA, attend the Back to School Night, and bring my daughter (!) to Muffins for Moms. Neo really wanted to crash the "Muffins for Moms" event just to stir shit up, but no, I'm not gate-crashing an event I never much liked in the first place.
Saul's doing well at school -- we've started him on Prozac. Finally. Of course now is when my mother starts sending me "THE STORY" from the New York Times Magazine about how awful it is to live with a bipolar child. Ugh. Shake it off. I didn't go to her seventieth birthday, nor did I send my brother glowing remarks about her which he was to have read to the assembled masses. Dear Butcher told me just to rewrite the obituary (three pages) she sent me. See if she'd notice. But I didn't bother. She didn't get flowers either. I can't afford them. So I'm officially on a Do Not Call list from my mother. She doesn't call me now, and I'm not gritting my teeth when the phone rings. It's OK. Still feel bad for my Dad though. Poor guy stuck in crazy land.
Dear Butcher's away in NYC with the girls. My nephew had his Bar Mitzvah. Saul and I stayed home. Apparently a good time was had by all. I sort of thought that maybe I'd "get something done" while Dear Butcher was away. But it's been hot and mostly I slept. Today I raked the entire back yard, scraping up the brown straw that stands in for a lawn in my back yard and made an enormous compost pile. Sort of a stupid chore, but one I've been meaning to do. But it's not what I *wanted* to get done while I had time to work on the house, but it's what I chose to do, so it must have been what I wanted to get done at some level.
Anyway, while I was raking, I kept thinking about The Last of The Mohicans (movie) and The Last of the Mohicans (book). I tried reading the book when I heard the movie was coming out -- Daniel Day-Lewis was quite an attraction even in the trailers -- and I realized pretty quickly that the book does live up to every awful thing Mark Twain ever said about it. Yet it's beloved but boring as hell. The movie on the other hand.... ::fans self:: Wow. There's a bit of a story. Good visuals. Good characters. Good romance. How in the WORLD did someone get from Hawkeye (wise-crackin old man) and Alice to Nathaniel (shirtless hunk) and Cora? It's like the difference between The Thirty-Nine Steps and The Thirty-Nine Steps.
Anyway. It got stuck in my head, the movie I mean. When I came inside to make dinner for Saul, I discovered (after much scrolling through excessively long menus -- I hate you Comcast) that The Last of the Mohicans was a free movie on On Demand. I love you Comcast!
Ugh. My neighbors are being loud. I want to either throw something at them or go hide somewhere under a blanket. Snarl.
Anyway. Thoughts on the recent viewing. Great romance. Still love that part. Action? I dunno. I think Michael Mann sort of overdid parts of it -- the battle scenes aren't quite as I remembered them I guess. Dialog? Not so much -- sometimes Nathaniel seems folksy and sometimes he seems modern. But what absolutely works one hundred percent is Nathaniel's brooding devotion to Cora. Perfect. Faint-worthy.
But I must be all out of sorts. Or something. Because now it's like a seed in my teeth. I'm disappointed in how much I liked it? Or annoyed that it's not based on a book that I can go linger over? There aren't any scenes at all that I can replay in my head. Nathaniel runs. Right at Cora. Nathaniel runs again. Nathaniel looks at Cora: "What are you looking at?" Long Pause "You." Uh, guys? This isn't working for me.
And don't remind me of the dialog under the waterfall. I'm not going there.
OK, maybe I am.
He's yelling so loud you can't hear what he's saying other than that he's going to leave her so she can die because he might be able to save her if the marauding Indians decide not to kill her outright, even though they've been trying to kill her THE ENTIRE MOVIE specifically targeting her in not one, but TWO battle scenes. Yes, if they decide suddenly not to kill her then, once he's jumped through this waterfall and once his gunpowder has dried (Does jumping THROUGH a waterfall help this?), then he might have a chance to save her which he doesn't have now, so stay alive until I come back, here's a romantic farewell for you -- I'll find a way to find you no matter what.
If I were twenty, I might be melting. I was pretty stupid at twenty. At forty, I sincerely want to stomp on his instep and assuredly grab a hold of him as he thunders past. I prefer to live too, you know. I remember seeing this in the the theater and trying to figure out what scene had been cut because the damn thing made no sense. Still doesn't.
Oh look, now I'm all whipped up over a scene I don't much care for. That's helpful.
Here, what I meant to say when I started this thing about Hawkeye/Nathaniel is that I'm reminded of a rather painful conversation Dear Butcher and I had the other night about early romances. I had this long on-again/off-again relationship with Woody just before I went to the circus and met Dear Butcher on my first night. Dear Butcher started off as a rebound fling after Woody. (Obviously he's not that anymore, but still. That's gotta be some sort of a diss. Isn't it?)
Woody looked A LOT like Daniel Day-Lewis. Even when Daniel Day-Lewis was all twisted up in "My Left Foot" he reminded me of Woody. If you could imagine Daniel Day-Lewis playing Hugh Grant, with the slightly raised single eyebrow, cocked head, and sentences that always end in questions? That would be Woody. Tall. Thin with oddly broad shoulders. High forehead. Long fingers. Nervous mannerisms. Piercing eyes. Lovely hair. And totally unable to commit to moving out of his parent's house, getting out from under the thumb of a ridiculous boss, and really, when it comes down to it, loving me.
But boy did I love him. Wow. Infatuation much? Yikes.
I left for the circus in 1989, came back in 1990. My aunt died in 1991, and by 1993 was living with Dear Butcher in Boston. We married in 1994, moved to CA in 1995 and had Neo in 1995.
The Last of the Mohicans 1992
Age of Innocence 1993
Four Weddings and a Funeral 1994
Sense and Sensibility 1995 (Although Alan Rickman did steal some thunder there. "The air is filled with spices" indeed.)
Each one of these films, I sort of, I dunno, felt like I was cheating on Dear Butcher when I watched them? Kind of? I keep thinking that they must have been made in the late eighties, when I was dating Woody, but no. They weren't. Don't delude yourself. But really, come on now. Liking the looks of a famous actor and enjoying the movies he's in; that's not bad. (Oh wait, there's two actors. Shut up.) Dear Butcher has his crushes too.
Agh. I'm at sixes and sevens.
I meant to talk about this weird conversation. Dear Butcher asked me (brave of him) what it was about earlier relationships that cause me remember them in detail, or with what seems like a higher intensity. I think he even asked if I ever talked about him that way. I replied in a rather off-handed way, "I don't do that sort of love any more." Or something like that -- I don't remember exactly what I said, but I'll bet Dear Butcher does. It was pretty callous. And mean once it was out of my mouth. And then I had to hurriedly explain myself, as what I had said was so awful.
I used to create fantasies about people and let myself get all washed away. I hung around Woody for years, having long (three hour) conversations with him in his car after work. We made out. We went clothes shopping together. We worked the same shift at the same store. And then he announced that he had asked another girl to go out with him, and he hoped that I would be happy for him. I so wanted him to be happy. I told him I was. And still we had three hour conversations. I knew his work schedule -- he had to have been spending more time with me than he was with her. We spent the weekends together going to crafts fairs. He brought me over to her apartment one time to listen to her Billie Holiday records when he found out that I liked Billie Holiday. (Gee. Did I let that slip?) And she wanted him to be happy, so she invited me to sit on the couch next to him while she sat on the chair.
And then she broke up with him and I held his bony shoulders while he cried on my bed. Later that year we made out while my dad was near death in the hospital. My memories of Woody always include being half-undressed on the warm side of an iced-over windshield. And then we broke up again. This went on forever. The man liked Winnie the Pooh for goodness sake. I think he wanted to be Christopher Robin and hide in a tree somewhere. And I would be his ever faithful Maid Marian. Or Rabbit, or some such thing. Just as soon as he noticed me long enough to realize that I was in love with him. But it wasn't love? I think? Maybe it was possessiveness? Or desperation? I think he was too desperate for constant companionship to leave me behind and go get a girlfriend, and he was too scared of possible rejection to commit to me as a lover. I was no better. I let him ooze around in his discomforts because he was so endearing while he was damaged and so euphoric when he told himself he was strong. One day we would be euphoric together. I just knew it.
But finally, ultimately. It was enough. He broke it off with me after I told him that his ex-girlfriend was a jerk for showing up to my house on Valentine's Day when she knew I was cooking him dinner. He said I wasn't supportive enough of his needs. God, that killed me. Now, I'd just laugh in his face or cut him down to size with my quick little tongue. But at the time, I crumpled.
So after the fascination with the abusive guy, and after the sweetest infatuation with the wimpiest guy ever, I don't do that kind of love anymore. Not in real life. Which is too bad for Dear Butcher, because he deserves it. But I can't crack that goo-pot open. Too much. Too much like drowning, I think. Beautiful while you look up at the sky from underneath the water, but deadly.
Somehow, I don't remember how, I explained this to Dear Butcher. It was awkward, but those sorts of conversations are in real life. That I relied on him and I loved him, but I wasn't ever going to wax rhapsodic about him and this was a good thing.
So all this is to say that I'm thinking about fantasies. That fantasy of the guy who stares into your eyes for much longer than is comfortable and is intriguing rather than frightening. The fantasy of the guy who is strong enough to protect you and who proves it by jumping through waterfalls to survive only by the force of his own will. The fantasy of the action that would piss you off or terrify you in real life but which is endearing and romantic in a story. The fantasy of a clean house that never needs cleaning, or having the unerring need to demonstrate your love for someone by keeping the ranch running straight and true. The fantasy of the conversation that sounds poetic and heartfelt in a story but feels harsh and awkward in real life. The fantasy of a slow walk with a good friend through a sunny field filled with warm horses where the wind is gentle and there is no conversation other than the exact one you want to be having at that very moment.
I should talk about what's on my mind, but I don't want to seem pushy about it.
Look at meeee.
Or don't. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.
Lengthy ramblings of a confused person. I'm at sixes and sevens as they say. Sort of all over the place.
I set up a visit for next weekend at a friend's horse farm about an hour away. Someone I've never met, but whom I've talked to on a guinea pig care message board and with whom I've exchanged long emails is meeting me at my friend's farm. This girl was posting on the guinea pig board about her riding lessons, the descriptions of which were appalling, and a group of us told her to "go find a better instructor." Long story short, the owner of the horse farm I'm visiting gave me a suggestion of a horse trainer in the area for this girl I don't really know. My good deed for the month of May. Or was it April?
It's weird that I've invited her to come along -- I'm fairly protective of horse farm visits -- they seem private to me. The farm owner, M, was a dear though. While I was trying to set this up he pointed out that I *could* visit more than once a year. As in, be social. Drop in with or without your friend.
Stuff like that throws me.
Yeah, I know I could. And I know I would be welcome, and all that, but ... I dunno. I worry that I'd be a hanger-on, wearing out my welcome because I can't read the social cues that say, "Now would be a good time to head home." So I never begin. Which is too bad, because I think M could use the company.
Who knows, maybe Leslie will fall in love with one of his horses. Maybe he gets a sale from this? Maybe a new convert to preservation breeding and Arabian sporthorses?
Horses. A few more of my aunt's horses have died since the last time I wrote about them. Hardly surprising, but I'm like the neglectful older cousin who shows up at Thanksgiving -- all the horses I knew are permanently stuck in their first grade school pictures. The ones with the weird stripey shirts and bad glasses. Frozen in weird shy gawkiness. But actually, they're really getting old some of them. The fine old man I wrote about before, the one I visited in Georgia a few years ago recovered from his liver failure, but has had to have an eye removed due to cancer. Or glaucoma? I don't remember exactly. But I'm not going to update my mental image of him -- he's still an iron grey twelve year old in my head. Jeez. She died in 1991. Some days I'm surprised there are any left at all.
Stuff like that throws me too.
Neo's doing well in home school -- I'm making her read and write a ton. So far we've done Ethan Frome, To Kill A Mockingbird, Shane, and now she's working on Lord of the Flies. Her writing's improving, but she's still not in the habit of finding examples in the text. I think she doesn't take notes.
I'm still on the Middle Schools' autodialer list though. Since I've pulled her enrollment, I've been invited to sell cookie dough for the PTA, attend the Back to School Night, and bring my daughter (!) to Muffins for Moms. Neo really wanted to crash the "Muffins for Moms" event just to stir shit up, but no, I'm not gate-crashing an event I never much liked in the first place.
Saul's doing well at school -- we've started him on Prozac. Finally. Of course now is when my mother starts sending me "THE STORY" from the New York Times Magazine about how awful it is to live with a bipolar child. Ugh. Shake it off. I didn't go to her seventieth birthday, nor did I send my brother glowing remarks about her which he was to have read to the assembled masses. Dear Butcher told me just to rewrite the obituary (three pages) she sent me. See if she'd notice. But I didn't bother. She didn't get flowers either. I can't afford them. So I'm officially on a Do Not Call list from my mother. She doesn't call me now, and I'm not gritting my teeth when the phone rings. It's OK. Still feel bad for my Dad though. Poor guy stuck in crazy land.
Dear Butcher's away in NYC with the girls. My nephew had his Bar Mitzvah. Saul and I stayed home. Apparently a good time was had by all. I sort of thought that maybe I'd "get something done" while Dear Butcher was away. But it's been hot and mostly I slept. Today I raked the entire back yard, scraping up the brown straw that stands in for a lawn in my back yard and made an enormous compost pile. Sort of a stupid chore, but one I've been meaning to do. But it's not what I *wanted* to get done while I had time to work on the house, but it's what I chose to do, so it must have been what I wanted to get done at some level.
Anyway, while I was raking, I kept thinking about The Last of The Mohicans (movie) and The Last of the Mohicans (book). I tried reading the book when I heard the movie was coming out -- Daniel Day-Lewis was quite an attraction even in the trailers -- and I realized pretty quickly that the book does live up to every awful thing Mark Twain ever said about it. Yet it's beloved but boring as hell. The movie on the other hand.... ::fans self:: Wow. There's a bit of a story. Good visuals. Good characters. Good romance. How in the WORLD did someone get from Hawkeye (wise-crackin old man) and Alice to Nathaniel (shirtless hunk) and Cora? It's like the difference between The Thirty-Nine Steps and The Thirty-Nine Steps.
Anyway. It got stuck in my head, the movie I mean. When I came inside to make dinner for Saul, I discovered (after much scrolling through excessively long menus -- I hate you Comcast) that The Last of the Mohicans was a free movie on On Demand. I love you Comcast!
Ugh. My neighbors are being loud. I want to either throw something at them or go hide somewhere under a blanket. Snarl.
Anyway. Thoughts on the recent viewing. Great romance. Still love that part. Action? I dunno. I think Michael Mann sort of overdid parts of it -- the battle scenes aren't quite as I remembered them I guess. Dialog? Not so much -- sometimes Nathaniel seems folksy and sometimes he seems modern. But what absolutely works one hundred percent is Nathaniel's brooding devotion to Cora. Perfect. Faint-worthy.
But I must be all out of sorts. Or something. Because now it's like a seed in my teeth. I'm disappointed in how much I liked it? Or annoyed that it's not based on a book that I can go linger over? There aren't any scenes at all that I can replay in my head. Nathaniel runs. Right at Cora. Nathaniel runs again. Nathaniel looks at Cora: "What are you looking at?" Long Pause "You." Uh, guys? This isn't working for me.
And don't remind me of the dialog under the waterfall. I'm not going there.
OK, maybe I am.
He's yelling so loud you can't hear what he's saying other than that he's going to leave her so she can die because he might be able to save her if the marauding Indians decide not to kill her outright, even though they've been trying to kill her THE ENTIRE MOVIE specifically targeting her in not one, but TWO battle scenes. Yes, if they decide suddenly not to kill her then, once he's jumped through this waterfall and once his gunpowder has dried (Does jumping THROUGH a waterfall help this?), then he might have a chance to save her which he doesn't have now, so stay alive until I come back, here's a romantic farewell for you -- I'll find a way to find you no matter what.
If I were twenty, I might be melting. I was pretty stupid at twenty. At forty, I sincerely want to stomp on his instep and assuredly grab a hold of him as he thunders past. I prefer to live too, you know. I remember seeing this in the the theater and trying to figure out what scene had been cut because the damn thing made no sense. Still doesn't.
Oh look, now I'm all whipped up over a scene I don't much care for. That's helpful.
Here, what I meant to say when I started this thing about Hawkeye/Nathaniel is that I'm reminded of a rather painful conversation Dear Butcher and I had the other night about early romances. I had this long on-again/off-again relationship with Woody just before I went to the circus and met Dear Butcher on my first night. Dear Butcher started off as a rebound fling after Woody. (Obviously he's not that anymore, but still. That's gotta be some sort of a diss. Isn't it?)
Woody looked A LOT like Daniel Day-Lewis. Even when Daniel Day-Lewis was all twisted up in "My Left Foot" he reminded me of Woody. If you could imagine Daniel Day-Lewis playing Hugh Grant, with the slightly raised single eyebrow, cocked head, and sentences that always end in questions? That would be Woody. Tall. Thin with oddly broad shoulders. High forehead. Long fingers. Nervous mannerisms. Piercing eyes. Lovely hair. And totally unable to commit to moving out of his parent's house, getting out from under the thumb of a ridiculous boss, and really, when it comes down to it, loving me.
But boy did I love him. Wow. Infatuation much? Yikes.I left for the circus in 1989, came back in 1990. My aunt died in 1991, and by 1993 was living with Dear Butcher in Boston. We married in 1994, moved to CA in 1995 and had Neo in 1995.
The Last of the Mohicans 1992
Age of Innocence 1993
Four Weddings and a Funeral 1994
Sense and Sensibility 1995 (Although Alan Rickman did steal some thunder there. "The air is filled with spices" indeed.)
Each one of these films, I sort of, I dunno, felt like I was cheating on Dear Butcher when I watched them? Kind of? I keep thinking that they must have been made in the late eighties, when I was dating Woody, but no. They weren't. Don't delude yourself. But really, come on now. Liking the looks of a famous actor and enjoying the movies he's in; that's not bad. (Oh wait, there's two actors. Shut up.) Dear Butcher has his crushes too.
Agh. I'm at sixes and sevens.
I meant to talk about this weird conversation. Dear Butcher asked me (brave of him) what it was about earlier relationships that cause me remember them in detail, or with what seems like a higher intensity. I think he even asked if I ever talked about him that way. I replied in a rather off-handed way, "I don't do that sort of love any more." Or something like that -- I don't remember exactly what I said, but I'll bet Dear Butcher does. It was pretty callous. And mean once it was out of my mouth. And then I had to hurriedly explain myself, as what I had said was so awful.
I used to create fantasies about people and let myself get all washed away. I hung around Woody for years, having long (three hour) conversations with him in his car after work. We made out. We went clothes shopping together. We worked the same shift at the same store. And then he announced that he had asked another girl to go out with him, and he hoped that I would be happy for him. I so wanted him to be happy. I told him I was. And still we had three hour conversations. I knew his work schedule -- he had to have been spending more time with me than he was with her. We spent the weekends together going to crafts fairs. He brought me over to her apartment one time to listen to her Billie Holiday records when he found out that I liked Billie Holiday. (Gee. Did I let that slip?) And she wanted him to be happy, so she invited me to sit on the couch next to him while she sat on the chair.
And then she broke up with him and I held his bony shoulders while he cried on my bed. Later that year we made out while my dad was near death in the hospital. My memories of Woody always include being half-undressed on the warm side of an iced-over windshield. And then we broke up again. This went on forever. The man liked Winnie the Pooh for goodness sake. I think he wanted to be Christopher Robin and hide in a tree somewhere. And I would be his ever faithful Maid Marian. Or Rabbit, or some such thing. Just as soon as he noticed me long enough to realize that I was in love with him. But it wasn't love? I think? Maybe it was possessiveness? Or desperation? I think he was too desperate for constant companionship to leave me behind and go get a girlfriend, and he was too scared of possible rejection to commit to me as a lover. I was no better. I let him ooze around in his discomforts because he was so endearing while he was damaged and so euphoric when he told himself he was strong. One day we would be euphoric together. I just knew it.
But finally, ultimately. It was enough. He broke it off with me after I told him that his ex-girlfriend was a jerk for showing up to my house on Valentine's Day when she knew I was cooking him dinner. He said I wasn't supportive enough of his needs. God, that killed me. Now, I'd just laugh in his face or cut him down to size with my quick little tongue. But at the time, I crumpled.
So after the fascination with the abusive guy, and after the sweetest infatuation with the wimpiest guy ever, I don't do that kind of love anymore. Not in real life. Which is too bad for Dear Butcher, because he deserves it. But I can't crack that goo-pot open. Too much. Too much like drowning, I think. Beautiful while you look up at the sky from underneath the water, but deadly.
Somehow, I don't remember how, I explained this to Dear Butcher. It was awkward, but those sorts of conversations are in real life. That I relied on him and I loved him, but I wasn't ever going to wax rhapsodic about him and this was a good thing.
So all this is to say that I'm thinking about fantasies. That fantasy of the guy who stares into your eyes for much longer than is comfortable and is intriguing rather than frightening. The fantasy of the guy who is strong enough to protect you and who proves it by jumping through waterfalls to survive only by the force of his own will. The fantasy of the action that would piss you off or terrify you in real life but which is endearing and romantic in a story. The fantasy of a clean house that never needs cleaning, or having the unerring need to demonstrate your love for someone by keeping the ranch running straight and true. The fantasy of the conversation that sounds poetic and heartfelt in a story but feels harsh and awkward in real life. The fantasy of a slow walk with a good friend through a sunny field filled with warm horses where the wind is gentle and there is no conversation other than the exact one you want to be having at that very moment.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Mr. Obama is Mr. Darcy?
Maureen Dowd says in today's New York Times that Obama, with his proud and reserved manner is America's Mr. Darcy, and we are all Elizabeth, intrigued but feeling rejected by his prideful demeanor.
I can sort of see what she's saying, but it sort of doesn't fit either.
Miss Bennet doesn't like Mr. Darcy because he seems to not like her. She actually likes him until she overhears him reject her as being too rough for his fine person. Of course what she doesn't know is how much he admires her, etc. etc., nor does she understand how very stiff he is in company because he hasn't mastered the art of conversation and idle chatter.
OK, we all know that. But, uh, how does Obama fit into THAT? I don't think her analogy is apt.
Obama has always loved country (Miss Bennet), but she hasn't really been paying too much attention to him until recently. You don't go into local organizing unless you *really* like politics, believe me. Maybe now Miss Bennet sees him as being aloof? Too prideful? But is that really what's going on? Or do we see him now as acting aloof because all the pundits are saying that he's not blue collar enough.
I don't think Austen is going to work for this election.
If you are going to propose Barack Obama as some sort of hero in a well known Victorian book, then I'd go for either Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights. The brooding hero with Deep Thoughts on his mind which occupy him while all the girls want to do is twitter away somewhere at Thrushcross Grange, discussing table linens and inheritances.
But see, even that doesn't work. I have a hard time seeing Obama thumping across the moors getting his feet all wet in the peat. And pining for ghosts? No. I don't think so.
This is the problem with allegory -- it's hard to get it right. Better just to deal with the person as we have him.
I prefer Jon Stewart's take on the whole "Is he too arrogant and prideful?" meme: Of course he's arrogant. He's running for president of the United States! Presumptive leader of the Free World! Yes! He's arrogant! So's the other guy.
I can sort of see what she's saying, but it sort of doesn't fit either.
Miss Bennet doesn't like Mr. Darcy because he seems to not like her. She actually likes him until she overhears him reject her as being too rough for his fine person. Of course what she doesn't know is how much he admires her, etc. etc., nor does she understand how very stiff he is in company because he hasn't mastered the art of conversation and idle chatter.
OK, we all know that. But, uh, how does Obama fit into THAT? I don't think her analogy is apt.
Obama has always loved country (Miss Bennet), but she hasn't really been paying too much attention to him until recently. You don't go into local organizing unless you *really* like politics, believe me. Maybe now Miss Bennet sees him as being aloof? Too prideful? But is that really what's going on? Or do we see him now as acting aloof because all the pundits are saying that he's not blue collar enough.
I don't think Austen is going to work for this election.
If you are going to propose Barack Obama as some sort of hero in a well known Victorian book, then I'd go for either Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights. The brooding hero with Deep Thoughts on his mind which occupy him while all the girls want to do is twitter away somewhere at Thrushcross Grange, discussing table linens and inheritances.
But see, even that doesn't work. I have a hard time seeing Obama thumping across the moors getting his feet all wet in the peat. And pining for ghosts? No. I don't think so.
This is the problem with allegory -- it's hard to get it right. Better just to deal with the person as we have him.
I prefer Jon Stewart's take on the whole "Is he too arrogant and prideful?" meme: Of course he's arrogant. He's running for president of the United States! Presumptive leader of the Free World! Yes! He's arrogant! So's the other guy.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Books and conversations and politcs and stuff
I'm reading this: Asperger's Syndrome and Difficult Moments: Practical Solutions for Tantrums, Rage and Meltdowns. I don't know if it's helpful or harmful to read it. Pervasive theme of the book is that once the child has experienced a rage, there is nothing anyone can do but to ride it out. The teachable moments occur as the child is building up to a rage, or during the recovery period after a rage. The fact that an Asperger's child has modeled the correct behavior and response to stress in the comfortable atmosphere of the clinician's office does not mean that the child is able to access that same information when they are under stress. Many "aspies" have excellent memory, but items in their memory are not easily accessible. I know this. I've described this over and over. Yet I still get phone calls saying, "Saul's upset. Boy oh boy is Saul upset. He's more upset than I've ever seen him."
"OK. What was happening just before he got upset?"
"Oh. I don't know. He just suddenly got upset."
And then the rest of the conversation is all about what behaviors he displayed WHILE he was upset, what punishments should be considered for his behavior, how very scary he can become if he cannot be calmed, etc. (Hint. He cannot be calmed. Deal with it. Here's a tip --- you need to work on preventing him from becoming upset in the first place. Remember? We talked about this a while ago. Remember? Hmmm? Lessening his anxiety and increasing his self-esteem comes from moderating his environment so that he is less likely to explode. Right? So why am I expected to lay the disapproval and consequences on like a trowel when you have failed to prevent another outburst?)
Reading this book, I'm stuck every few pages saying to my self, "Uh huh. Yup. Absolutely. No question about it. I know this. Why don't the professionals at the school know this?" It's affirmative to read that certain techniques are state of the art, appropriate, and respectful. And in the same breath, it's infuriating to know that the school thinks that these techniques would be inappropriate for him because he's...because.... Um, where is the because there? Because they are hard to apply? No, not really.
Do they think he's faking?
Most of it is that they really have no training in autism -- Their knowledge is all in the Oprah Winfrey version of Kanner's Autism: one day my kid was adorable and the next he couldn't speak. "I have this tear-jerking video right here to show you what he could have been." I have every possible sympathy for the heartache that these parents have gone through and continue to go through. However, that's not my child.
My child doesn't LOOK disabled. His face has the correct muscle tone. His eyes are the "right" shape. He doesn't flap his hands, tap his feet, or have tics. He has good muscle control and hand-eye coordination. He hears fine. He can carry on conversations. He just interprets what he hears in a very different manner than you do. Parallel conversations are the norm in our house.
I was talking to a friend this morning whose son is only five -- he's just like Saul. I had sent her a letter from a parent who was writing me to complain about all "those disruptive children" in the classroom. She and I are planning to push for a different elementary program, but first I wanted her to see what the general education parents are being told about special ed children by their very own general education teachers. Her response was interesting.
"It's racism. Poor and simple," she said. "If my child looked different, then he'd be patted on the head in a condescending manner and all the adults could congratulate themselves on their own charity in *allowing* that child to participate. If you look different, there's a different standard.
"My child looks the same as the others but has a different brain. Suddenly, there's no charity any more. If it doesn't make you feel good to be understanding, then there's no point, is there?
"I could explain to these people again and again and again that a doctor has diagnosed my child as having a developmental disorder, something wrong with his brain or nervous stem, and they will not give him the slack to struggle with his disability. He has to be pitch-perfect every day. If he isn't, then the teacher gossips to the room mom about how difficult her day is. And that room mom goes and tells four other parents about the child who is *allowed* to act up in class. If my child were drooling, they'd love having him there. They only want sweet idiots in the class. Not the ones that could really boost their test scores if you could just stop talking at them long enough to give them some room to breathe."
Wow. She catches on quick.
--------
I got my first real "We need you on the school board" recruitment call yesterday. From a person who really wants me to be on the City Council, but who first wants me to run in a special election for a school board seat this summer, because then I could get some stuff done and run for City Council in November of 09 as a sitting school board member.
Are you fucking insane?
Did you notice that I got exactly nothing accomplished while I was up there because no one wanted to play ball with me? Why oh why oh WHY would I run for City Council from an active seat on the School Board? Sitting the special election out and then running for a city seat actually makes more sense, but hello? I don't want to run for city council. Zoning ordinances. Water reclamation rights. Public safety. Street lighting. How does one stay awake during a meeting like that?
And if you're so all fired to get a smart woman on the city council, why don't YOU run? If you want someone to run against the most recent school board appointee whom you don't like because the appointee said that she was using the school board as a stepping stone to city council, then, uh, why do you think it's a good idea for me to do the exact same thing? OR, why don't YOU run for school board and leave me the hell out of it?
Ugh. People. Most of the time I don't really like 'em too much.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Book reviews. Finally. Sort of.
This one is great. Read it if you haven't yet.
The Spymaster's Lady by Joanna Bourne. Terribly embarrassing cover though. Especially since Grey isn't described as LOOKING like his. Gah.
This may even go up into the league of Kinsale and some Ivories for me. Possibly. Dangerously good writing and characterization. Without a lot of heavy breathing and goopiness. You know how I am about sentimentality.
I finished Demon Angel and Demon Moon ages ago, but never wrote about them. They're obviously quite good too. I really like Colin. Meljean Brook is such a great writer too. Funny, but a great world-builder. She has such interesting IDEAS behind her constructs. I love working it all out.
I'll admit though that I'm getting nervous about reading on in this series. Three is usually my breaking point. With Falling for Anthony, Demon Angel and Demon Moon, I'm at three in a series, and I REALLY liked hero and heroine in the last book read. This sets me up for heartache if I keep reading. I'm screwing up my courage to keep going. What a wimp. But a consistent wimp -- I know my limits and am anxious to bump up against them.
Also, I've been catching up on my James Randi backlist. Read both The Faith Healers and The Truth about Uri Geller in one week. His indignation as he relates how a fraud is perpetuated is a marvelous thing to roll around in. I think that's why I love reading him so much. I think that's why I stick around in education so much. I know it can be better, and I get indignant to see people pretending that the only solution to the world's ills is to ignore a problem. I admire Randi a lot. A lot.
Which makes it somewhat difficult that Dear Butcher works in a natural marketplace. He keeps bringing home a suggestion here and a suggestion there which are mostly based on woo-woo thinking. It makes me crazy. Mercury causes autism. (Then WHY do the rates of sutism diagnoses go UP nationwide after thimerosal was taken OUT of children's vaccine preparations?) Gluten causes autism. Uh huh. Red dye allergies cause autism. Uh huh. Processed sugar (hello? The body doesn't know whether it's processed sugar or not. It's all glucose to the cells.) is evil. Soy is good. Unless it's in chicken nuggets. Then it's bad. There are days I want to shrink Randi down into a small necklace sized buddha figure and wear him around my neck.
OH! My least favorite book this month. Pressed upon me by not only one mother, but also a teacher as well. Actually it's not one book, it's a series. The Indigo Children. Has anyone heard of this rot? I'd link to various websites, but you can google it yourself. Believers of the Indigo Children theory surmise that children such as my son have indigo auras and this explains why they are not social when they are around children with different colored auras. They cannot participate easily in this existence because they are more firmly connected to the "other plane". Do not worry parents, they will grow up to be exceptional Spirit Mediums. In the meantime, clothe them in indigo scarves and hang indigo crystals from their bedroom windows to focus their abilities.
I'm now on some sort of weird mailing list and receive New Age catalogs filled with scarves and dreamcatchers and crystals and herbs, all in various shades of blue and purple. Not to mention the dogearred books that are pressed upon me with anxious shaking hands. Read this. Read it. Let me know what you think. It's like living next door to a Jehovah's Witness.
Other things worthy of mention that I've read recently:
The Vanishing Vicountess by Diane Gaston. Much fun. I enjoyed this one quite a bit.
Your Wicked Ways by Eloisa James. Great set-up: Husband and wife who do not like each other but who are attracted to each other. The man is an idiot in bed, and the wife is something of a shrew. Enjoyed seeing it unfold, but the musical portions did not ring true for me. I just didn't jump far enough into the worlds of composers to latch onto the themes presented. But I loved the set-up, no doubt.
Many articles on Comprehensive Sex Ed. Because, you know, we wouldn't want to actually TEACH someone how to stay safe during sex. This was on NPR's Talk of the Nation last week too. Such a big topic, one that can be obviously addressed, but one that will cause huge drama locally because we cannot wrap our little heads around the fact that kids DOOOOO have sex before marriage. Really. They've been doing it before marriage all along. You don't go passing laws against things people don't do, now do you? No. You pass laws and write down moral codes based on what people are already DOING. Jeez louise.
The Spymaster's Lady by Joanna Bourne. Terribly embarrassing cover though. Especially since Grey isn't described as LOOKING like his. Gah.This may even go up into the league of Kinsale and some Ivories for me. Possibly. Dangerously good writing and characterization. Without a lot of heavy breathing and goopiness. You know how I am about sentimentality.
I finished Demon Angel and Demon Moon ages ago, but never wrote about them. They're obviously quite good too. I really like Colin. Meljean Brook is such a great writer too. Funny, but a great world-builder. She has such interesting IDEAS behind her constructs. I love working it all out.
I'll admit though that I'm getting nervous about reading on in this series. Three is usually my breaking point. With Falling for Anthony, Demon Angel and Demon Moon, I'm at three in a series, and I REALLY liked hero and heroine in the last book read. This sets me up for heartache if I keep reading. I'm screwing up my courage to keep going. What a wimp. But a consistent wimp -- I know my limits and am anxious to bump up against them.
Also, I've been catching up on my James Randi backlist. Read both The Faith Healers and The Truth about Uri Geller in one week. His indignation as he relates how a fraud is perpetuated is a marvelous thing to roll around in. I think that's why I love reading him so much. I think that's why I stick around in education so much. I know it can be better, and I get indignant to see people pretending that the only solution to the world's ills is to ignore a problem. I admire Randi a lot. A lot.Which makes it somewhat difficult that Dear Butcher works in a natural marketplace. He keeps bringing home a suggestion here and a suggestion there which are mostly based on woo-woo thinking. It makes me crazy. Mercury causes autism. (Then WHY do the rates of sutism diagnoses go UP nationwide after thimerosal was taken OUT of children's vaccine preparations?) Gluten causes autism. Uh huh. Red dye allergies cause autism. Uh huh. Processed sugar (hello? The body doesn't know whether it's processed sugar or not. It's all glucose to the cells.) is evil. Soy is good. Unless it's in chicken nuggets. Then it's bad. There are days I want to shrink Randi down into a small necklace sized buddha figure and wear him around my neck.
OH! My least favorite book this month. Pressed upon me by not only one mother, but also a teacher as well. Actually it's not one book, it's a series. The Indigo Children. Has anyone heard of this rot? I'd link to various websites, but you can google it yourself. Believers of the Indigo Children theory surmise that children such as my son have indigo auras and this explains why they are not social when they are around children with different colored auras. They cannot participate easily in this existence because they are more firmly connected to the "other plane". Do not worry parents, they will grow up to be exceptional Spirit Mediums. In the meantime, clothe them in indigo scarves and hang indigo crystals from their bedroom windows to focus their abilities.
I'm now on some sort of weird mailing list and receive New Age catalogs filled with scarves and dreamcatchers and crystals and herbs, all in various shades of blue and purple. Not to mention the dogearred books that are pressed upon me with anxious shaking hands. Read this. Read it. Let me know what you think. It's like living next door to a Jehovah's Witness.
Other things worthy of mention that I've read recently:
The Vanishing Vicountess by Diane Gaston. Much fun. I enjoyed this one quite a bit.
Your Wicked Ways by Eloisa James. Great set-up: Husband and wife who do not like each other but who are attracted to each other. The man is an idiot in bed, and the wife is something of a shrew. Enjoyed seeing it unfold, but the musical portions did not ring true for me. I just didn't jump far enough into the worlds of composers to latch onto the themes presented. But I loved the set-up, no doubt.
Many articles on Comprehensive Sex Ed. Because, you know, we wouldn't want to actually TEACH someone how to stay safe during sex. This was on NPR's Talk of the Nation last week too. Such a big topic, one that can be obviously addressed, but one that will cause huge drama locally because we cannot wrap our little heads around the fact that kids DOOOOO have sex before marriage. Really. They've been doing it before marriage all along. You don't go passing laws against things people don't do, now do you? No. You pass laws and write down moral codes based on what people are already DOING. Jeez louise.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
For Kate
Ms. Rothwell asked for a review of Water for Elephants, a novel set in a Depression era American traveling circus.
Why yes, I would love to write one, I said to myself. What an excellent topic for a blog post. Especially since I seem to spend most of my time whining and not enough of my time on here talking about books.
Oh darn it. I hate it when I'm too damned clever for my own good.
I already wrote one.
Recycling posts, the last excuse of a blogger who's run out of ideas.
Why yes, I would love to write one, I said to myself. What an excellent topic for a blog post. Especially since I seem to spend most of my time whining and not enough of my time on here talking about books.
Oh darn it. I hate it when I'm too damned clever for my own good.
I already wrote one.
Recycling posts, the last excuse of a blogger who's run out of ideas.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Water for Elephants, a review
I can't seem to stay away from circus books. I want to read one which captures the pain of the place, the fear and the beauty, but I'm always slightly disappointed when I read one.
They always seem to focus on the wrong thing: the show. The best analogy I can come up with is how San Franciscans experience the Golden Gate Bridge. The Golden Gate Bridge is undeniably an international landmark for the Bay Area and San Francisco. However, unless you live in a very swank area of SF, you can't ever SEE the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco.
You sort of know it's there, and you can usually wave your arm in its general direction no matter where you are in The City for the benefit of lost tourists, but it almost belongs to the tourists and to the guys from Marin County more than it does to lots of San Franciscans.
If you turn your back on the water and look up, you'll find Sutro Tower, which rides the top of Twin Peaks. This Page explains it well.
For me, lots of circus books feel like the Golden Gate, when I'm looking to read about Sutro.
I've owned Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen for a while, but was very nervous about reading it. Got lots of good reviews, which could mean that I'd hate it. Then there's the fact that it focuses on an elephant, which can also be a dangerous thing. (Too romantic, don't you know.)
Anyway, I put all my trepidations aside and finally cracked the cover yesterday. I finished it late last night. In tears, well, just sniffles, but still. (I'm such a watering pot sometimes.) Sara Gruen obviously did her research, and this novel completely captures my fascination with circuses, my horror of the cruelties there, and the longing I still have to just pack up everything and hitch a ride one more time.
The story centers on a 93 year-old man, Jacob, who is languishing in a nursing home, slowly losing his ability to walk, to feed himself, or to remember what day or year it is. He's angry at his body, he's lonely, and he's waiting to die. Just outside the nursing home, a circus tent starts going up, which causes the residents to become very excited by the prospect of going to the show. For Jacob, the tent brings back memories of when he was a young man in his twenties, during the Great Depression, when he ran off to join a train circus. No one at the nursing home knows of his secret life, and the novel alternates chapters between his experiences as an old man, and his memories of his vigorous and exciting youth.
Jacob jumped onto a train owned by not the greatest show on earth, but not the sleaziest either. It's a show run by Uncle Al, who skips around America by rail, trying to buy off parts of other shows which have gone bankrupt. If they can stick to their route, the advance man can build up anticipation for their arrival, there can be a nice circus parade, and then everyone can get paid. But every time Uncle Al goes on a buying spree, there are no ticket sales, sometimes the big top doesn't even go up, and everyone goes without pay. Well, except the performers. They always get paid. Which further separates them from the roustabouts in the circus hierarchy.
Jacob straddles both worlds in that he comes on as a veterinarian to the show. He has to scrape out train cars full of manure, and he has to slop the big cats their buckets of maggot infested meat, but he's not just a roustabout. He sleeps in a hidden compartment of a train car with a dwarf clown (a performer), and he eats with Marlena and Auguste in the performers' section of the cookhouse tent. Marlena is the equestrienne and Auguste, her husband, is in charge of all the animals on the show. Jacob is completely infatuated with Marlena, and she seems attracted to him as well.
Circuses don't travel by train much anymore, but Gruen completely nailed this part. There are abundant stories in the backlot of modern circuses about the ways in which the train circuses used to subdivide the cars, segregate the cars, and cram every last bit of material, animals, and manflesh into those cars. In Water for Elephants, there are doors, partitions, hidden trunks, people sleeping under bunk beds, rats in the horse blankets, rotten meat in buckets, rage, violence, sex, intrigue and people getting "redlighted" from the moving train. ("Redlighting" is when you toss someone off a moving train if you don't want them on the show anymore. It's a term I heard frequently from the performers on the show I worked. Somehow I thought it had to do with brake lights on a truck speeding down the highway as you sit by the side of the road. Guess it's older than that.)
Auguste is pure circus. Charming, intelligent, charismatic, and talented. And then when he's frustrated, just as violent and cruel as can be. He's tight with Uncle Al, who needs him on the show to look after, train, and perform with the animals. So what Auguste wants, Auguste gets. He felt just right until Gruen tried to explain his behavior by showing him flipping from one personality to another. Right after this, a character describes him as being a paranoid schizophrenic. I wonder if this explanation was a later editorial addition to explain his motivation. It seemed unnecessary; is it not possible for someone to simply be violent and dangerous and compelling without psychoanalyzing him?
At one stop Uncle Al buys Rosie, the only elephant in the circus, and a car for her to travel in. However, Rosie cannot perform. Jacob can see that she's intelligent by the way she entertains visitors to the menagerie, but she knows no commands and is essentially useless. Uncle Al has to make his money back, so he starts advertising her as a performer, and pressures Auguste to make up an act for her. Auguste goes about this in the only way he knows, by beating her into submission.
Jacob discovers more entanglements in the circus, like the roustabout who has been paralyzed by illegal liquor, due to be redlighted, so Jacob starts hiding him in his cramped quarters. He also discovers that Rosie is just as intelligent and talented as he thought, although she doesn't understand English commands. Along with his love for Marlena, it becomes more and more impossible for him to imagine leaving. Gruen develops suspense well. Can Jacob continue to hide paralyzed Camel from Uncle Al? Can he get Marlena out? What can he do about Rosie? When will Auguste discover their plot?
The secondary characters in the novel are elegantly drawn. The circus characters, who could have easily become caricatures, have a refreshing depth to their descriptions and motivations. And the nursing home staff and residents aren't simply cardboard either.
At the end of the novel, elderly Jacob awaits his family on Sunday, the last day of the circus show. He can visit, see the show, and reminisce about his great adventure. He finally has something to look forward too. There's a possibility of escape from the drudgery.
Because there's something just as cruel about circuses as there is poignant, Jacob's family forgets. They forget about him, and they forget about what was important to him. No one visits, they've made other plans, and he's left stranded in the lobby of the nursing home, hearing the music starting but being completely unable to get into the big top.
The ending of the novel, what Jacob does next, is perfect.
Part of separating yourself from normalcy, from taxes and mortgages and office jobs, when you hop on that train, is keeping the memory of that place within you as an escape. You can never go home again, but somehow you do. We all walk through our childhood kitchens in our minds eye. I can still see the blue carpet and the white metal cabinetry, although they were torn out thirty years ago or more. I still want to go back to my aunt's farm, my grandmother's house, not just to see the place again, but to stumble across the people who must surely be hiding there still.
This is the problem with circuses. When they come through town, you see the posters and the black paper arrows stapled to lamp posts directing the trucks to the lot in the middle of the night, a secret code that you can read from your minivan with the car seats and the school books, and just for an instant you think that maybe you can go back. It's a place. But is it a memory too? If you visit the place, can you walk back into your memory? Or does the memory grow with time, parallel to your experiences?
I think that Jacob may have gone back into the circus at the end of the book, or he may have stayed at the nursing home and imagined it all in his senility, or he may have died and gone to his own heaven where he is respected and valuable. Any one of those endings work, and somehow all three may have happened. I'm still not sure. But, like watching clowns juggle soap bubbles, it's unexpectedly beautiful.
They always seem to focus on the wrong thing: the show. The best analogy I can come up with is how San Franciscans experience the Golden Gate Bridge. The Golden Gate Bridge is undeniably an international landmark for the Bay Area and San Francisco. However, unless you live in a very swank area of SF, you can't ever SEE the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco.
You sort of know it's there, and you can usually wave your arm in its general direction no matter where you are in The City for the benefit of lost tourists, but it almost belongs to the tourists and to the guys from Marin County more than it does to lots of San Franciscans.If you turn your back on the water and look up, you'll find Sutro Tower, which rides the top of Twin Peaks. This Page explains it well.
For me, lots of circus books feel like the Golden Gate, when I'm looking to read about Sutro.
I've owned Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen for a while, but was very nervous about reading it. Got lots of good reviews, which could mean that I'd hate it. Then there's the fact that it focuses on an elephant, which can also be a dangerous thing. (Too romantic, don't you know.)
Anyway, I put all my trepidations aside and finally cracked the cover yesterday. I finished it late last night. In tears, well, just sniffles, but still. (I'm such a watering pot sometimes.) Sara Gruen obviously did her research, and this novel completely captures my fascination with circuses, my horror of the cruelties there, and the longing I still have to just pack up everything and hitch a ride one more time.
The story centers on a 93 year-old man, Jacob, who is languishing in a nursing home, slowly losing his ability to walk, to feed himself, or to remember what day or year it is. He's angry at his body, he's lonely, and he's waiting to die. Just outside the nursing home, a circus tent starts going up, which causes the residents to become very excited by the prospect of going to the show. For Jacob, the tent brings back memories of when he was a young man in his twenties, during the Great Depression, when he ran off to join a train circus. No one at the nursing home knows of his secret life, and the novel alternates chapters between his experiences as an old man, and his memories of his vigorous and exciting youth.
Jacob jumped onto a train owned by not the greatest show on earth, but not the sleaziest either. It's a show run by Uncle Al, who skips around America by rail, trying to buy off parts of other shows which have gone bankrupt. If they can stick to their route, the advance man can build up anticipation for their arrival, there can be a nice circus parade, and then everyone can get paid. But every time Uncle Al goes on a buying spree, there are no ticket sales, sometimes the big top doesn't even go up, and everyone goes without pay. Well, except the performers. They always get paid. Which further separates them from the roustabouts in the circus hierarchy.
Jacob straddles both worlds in that he comes on as a veterinarian to the show. He has to scrape out train cars full of manure, and he has to slop the big cats their buckets of maggot infested meat, but he's not just a roustabout. He sleeps in a hidden compartment of a train car with a dwarf clown (a performer), and he eats with Marlena and Auguste in the performers' section of the cookhouse tent. Marlena is the equestrienne and Auguste, her husband, is in charge of all the animals on the show. Jacob is completely infatuated with Marlena, and she seems attracted to him as well.
Circuses don't travel by train much anymore, but Gruen completely nailed this part. There are abundant stories in the backlot of modern circuses about the ways in which the train circuses used to subdivide the cars, segregate the cars, and cram every last bit of material, animals, and manflesh into those cars. In Water for Elephants, there are doors, partitions, hidden trunks, people sleeping under bunk beds, rats in the horse blankets, rotten meat in buckets, rage, violence, sex, intrigue and people getting "redlighted" from the moving train. ("Redlighting" is when you toss someone off a moving train if you don't want them on the show anymore. It's a term I heard frequently from the performers on the show I worked. Somehow I thought it had to do with brake lights on a truck speeding down the highway as you sit by the side of the road. Guess it's older than that.)
Auguste is pure circus. Charming, intelligent, charismatic, and talented. And then when he's frustrated, just as violent and cruel as can be. He's tight with Uncle Al, who needs him on the show to look after, train, and perform with the animals. So what Auguste wants, Auguste gets. He felt just right until Gruen tried to explain his behavior by showing him flipping from one personality to another. Right after this, a character describes him as being a paranoid schizophrenic. I wonder if this explanation was a later editorial addition to explain his motivation. It seemed unnecessary; is it not possible for someone to simply be violent and dangerous and compelling without psychoanalyzing him?
At one stop Uncle Al buys Rosie, the only elephant in the circus, and a car for her to travel in. However, Rosie cannot perform. Jacob can see that she's intelligent by the way she entertains visitors to the menagerie, but she knows no commands and is essentially useless. Uncle Al has to make his money back, so he starts advertising her as a performer, and pressures Auguste to make up an act for her. Auguste goes about this in the only way he knows, by beating her into submission.
Jacob discovers more entanglements in the circus, like the roustabout who has been paralyzed by illegal liquor, due to be redlighted, so Jacob starts hiding him in his cramped quarters. He also discovers that Rosie is just as intelligent and talented as he thought, although she doesn't understand English commands. Along with his love for Marlena, it becomes more and more impossible for him to imagine leaving. Gruen develops suspense well. Can Jacob continue to hide paralyzed Camel from Uncle Al? Can he get Marlena out? What can he do about Rosie? When will Auguste discover their plot?
The secondary characters in the novel are elegantly drawn. The circus characters, who could have easily become caricatures, have a refreshing depth to their descriptions and motivations. And the nursing home staff and residents aren't simply cardboard either.
At the end of the novel, elderly Jacob awaits his family on Sunday, the last day of the circus show. He can visit, see the show, and reminisce about his great adventure. He finally has something to look forward too. There's a possibility of escape from the drudgery.
Because there's something just as cruel about circuses as there is poignant, Jacob's family forgets. They forget about him, and they forget about what was important to him. No one visits, they've made other plans, and he's left stranded in the lobby of the nursing home, hearing the music starting but being completely unable to get into the big top.
The ending of the novel, what Jacob does next, is perfect.
Part of separating yourself from normalcy, from taxes and mortgages and office jobs, when you hop on that train, is keeping the memory of that place within you as an escape. You can never go home again, but somehow you do. We all walk through our childhood kitchens in our minds eye. I can still see the blue carpet and the white metal cabinetry, although they were torn out thirty years ago or more. I still want to go back to my aunt's farm, my grandmother's house, not just to see the place again, but to stumble across the people who must surely be hiding there still.
This is the problem with circuses. When they come through town, you see the posters and the black paper arrows stapled to lamp posts directing the trucks to the lot in the middle of the night, a secret code that you can read from your minivan with the car seats and the school books, and just for an instant you think that maybe you can go back. It's a place. But is it a memory too? If you visit the place, can you walk back into your memory? Or does the memory grow with time, parallel to your experiences?
I think that Jacob may have gone back into the circus at the end of the book, or he may have stayed at the nursing home and imagined it all in his senility, or he may have died and gone to his own heaven where he is respected and valuable. Any one of those endings work, and somehow all three may have happened. I'm still not sure. But, like watching clowns juggle soap bubbles, it's unexpectedly beautiful.
Monday, June 11, 2007
June Bug
We used to have big Japanese Beetle problems when I was a kid. They loved my mother's roses. At night you could sit in the living room and listen to them pinging off the windows. That sounds gross, actually, now that I type it out, but the rhythm of them hitting was familiar and comfortable. Lemonade, sweat, heat, and June Bugs; that's summer.Friday was the last day of school. So I guess it's summer.
Saturday I mostly puttered. (And talked again to my parents about money. This is giving me an ulcer, I swear.)
Yesterday I woke up at 4:30 am, took a shower, woke my youngest up, and left the house at about quarter to six. We drove to the airport, where we flew to NYC. I dropped her off with her grandparents, walked across the street, went back through security, and hung out in the terminal for about four hours, before flying back home. With an hour wait on the tarmac before taking off, another six hour flight, and a drive home, I got back here at ten minutes to two this morning. Twenty plus hours of travel. Dude.
The positive thing is that I don't seem to have jet lag. On the other hand, I'm totally confused as to what day it is. Monday?
While traveling I read Temple Grandin's Animals in Translation. I've known for some time about Dr. Grandin's work in designing humane slaughter houses, and I've read about her in Oliver Sacks' book, An Anthropologist on Mars. It was just as engaging as I thought it would be. I wish more people would set aside their own notions of what an animal "should be" or "should react" and would just observe what they are actually doing.
While traveling I also watched many hours of Mythbusters. I do love those guys. If I were ever to find myself on the Actor's Studio, being forced to answer "The Questionnaire", I would have to say that the profession I would most like to try would be model builder for the movies, or a member of the Mythbusting team. Geeks with a sense of humor. Heaven. Sign me up. (Or I'd like to go work for the James Randi Educational Foundation. (Recently I have spent many hours on Stop Sylvia Browne and on this thread at JREF. waste of time? Yes, but also completely absorbing. I have such a crush on James Randi's mind. And on Robert Lancaster's mien.)
On Friday, the last day of school, I had yet another set back in my son's special education travails. This happened on the Last Day of school, AFTER school got out. It just never ends.
A teacher at his school asked his case worker if her child could go to a summer camp and if the District would pay for it. The case worker sort of looked at her sideways and said, "That's an issue for an IEP." Then the teacher asked, "Is SAUL going to this camp, and is the District paying for it?"
The case manager replied that she was not going to discuss any other child's accommodations and that if the teacher were making a request, then it would have to go through an IEP. Then she called the Director of Special Services and asked for advice. The Director said, "School's over. Get your stuff packed and get the hell out of there."
(As a note here, the camp that my son's going to IS part of an IEP, but it's for patients of a psychologist. You have to be a patient to attend. And yes, I requested it. Because the District has been unable to find my son an appropriate placement for the summer, and he needs a structured program to carry him over the summer. Ten weeks away from school will make his transition back into school that much harder. The director of special ed attended his last IEP, which took place on Tuesday, and cautioned everyone in the room to recognize that everything was confidential, and that it was the District's intent to provide for this child as he needed accommodations, not because his mom was a school board member. It took a grand total of three days for that confidentiality to be breached.)
I don't have proof, but of course I've been racking my brains trying to figure out who knew what when. Originally I thought it was the Business Office, as they would have had to process a purchase order for the camp fees, but now I'm pretty sure it was the school psychologist who told the third grade teacher about Saul's placement. She's already proven herself to have a big mouth.
But I'm putting that one behind me. Sort of. I think. Because I want to focus on summer.
-----------
While I was typing up this post, I got a phone call from a person in the District who's upset and who is probably on the way to resigning. Fuck. This is bad. Very bad. Spent a long time on the phone with this person. This one goes, and the District is fucked. Truly. On the other hand, considering the story I just heard, I support this person no matter what they decide.
Makes my re-election campaign interesting. How many MORE issues can we throw in the pot, Hmmmm?
Remind me NEVER to go into higher office, OK? Because this is just too much.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Three Books Meme
Megan some time ago tagged me to blog about three not so very well known books that mean a lot to me.
This caused something of a raging internal debate, because one book I'd love to blog about I can't. Because if you go look it up at Amazon, there, for all the world to see, is a review by my Diego de la Vega name. Sometimes this ever so attractive "scrap of black silk" gets pesky.
So let's just say that my aunt wrote a series of children's fantasy novels. Well, they were originally marketed for children, but now they would be straight fantasy or YA fantasy. And my favorite is the second one. But I can't really blog about it. Damn.
So, for the other three books, lets see...
Roustabout has to be a first choice.
Michelle Chalfoun worked at the Big Apple Circus around the time I did. Dear Butcher knew her well (and actually had a major crush on her). She left just as I was coming in. But this book REALLY gets the gritty backbone of the circus. The passive aggressive hatred of the backlot, the beauty of the circus, the strange sexual manipulation that goes on, and the wonder or the scary magic of it all. There's a description of the shower room in this book which is absolutely dead on. Great book. Try reading this right before you dive into SEP's Kiss an Angel, and you'll begin to see why that book never rang true for me.
Another book would be, um, The Mercy of Thin Air by Ronlyn Domingue.
A very good ghost story, one that unexpectedly made me cry while I was on an airplane. Razi, the ghost in the story, is trying to discover what happened to her one great love, and bumps into a modern day couple. (I didn't like the parts about the relationship problems between the young kids so much.) There's an emphasis on the smell of a person, and hungering after a memory, and trying to work out what trust and love and memory have to do with each other that was very well done.
And for my third, I have to pick one that is probably fairly well known, but not often read. Actually, it's two books, Twenty Years After and Ten Years Later. They are the second and third books of a four part series, but somehow they get left out of most movie adaptations and discussions of the characters. I'm sure you know the title of the first, and you may know the title of the fourth, but not necessarily know that it's number four in a series.
First in the series is The Three Musketeers, and the fourth in the series is The Man in the Iron Mask (which was DREADFULLY dramatized by Hollywood in the Leonardo di Caprio version. Ugh. John Malkovich, please, I BEG you, please, use some sort of accent if you insist on showing up in these French period dramas. Please.).
Anyroad, in Twenty Years and Ten Years, you follow the four Musketeers through various adventures involving Charles I of England, and various nefarious plots involving Milady and her nasty son. In these two novels, you really see how Athos, Porthos and Aramis, although they remain friends, begin to follow their inner urges and grow forever apart. When they are brought together for The Man in the Iron Mask, they do so out of extreme loyalty to each other, but for entirely different reasons. Dumas does such a great job of building those characters, tearing them apart and bringing them back together again.
I read both books during summer camp. (My copy of Twenty Years smells completely of summer camp--sort of faintly mildewed with a spruce overtone.) I wasn't getting along well with my cabin that year, but those two books saved that summer for me and created a rich fantasy life of stalwart heroes, accomplished with the sword, that carries me through to today.
This caused something of a raging internal debate, because one book I'd love to blog about I can't. Because if you go look it up at Amazon, there, for all the world to see, is a review by my Diego de la Vega name. Sometimes this ever so attractive "scrap of black silk" gets pesky.
So let's just say that my aunt wrote a series of children's fantasy novels. Well, they were originally marketed for children, but now they would be straight fantasy or YA fantasy. And my favorite is the second one. But I can't really blog about it. Damn.
So, for the other three books, lets see...
Roustabout has to be a first choice.
Michelle Chalfoun worked at the Big Apple Circus around the time I did. Dear Butcher knew her well (and actually had a major crush on her). She left just as I was coming in. But this book REALLY gets the gritty backbone of the circus. The passive aggressive hatred of the backlot, the beauty of the circus, the strange sexual manipulation that goes on, and the wonder or the scary magic of it all. There's a description of the shower room in this book which is absolutely dead on. Great book. Try reading this right before you dive into SEP's Kiss an Angel, and you'll begin to see why that book never rang true for me.Another book would be, um, The Mercy of Thin Air by Ronlyn Domingue.
A very good ghost story, one that unexpectedly made me cry while I was on an airplane. Razi, the ghost in the story, is trying to discover what happened to her one great love, and bumps into a modern day couple. (I didn't like the parts about the relationship problems between the young kids so much.) There's an emphasis on the smell of a person, and hungering after a memory, and trying to work out what trust and love and memory have to do with each other that was very well done.And for my third, I have to pick one that is probably fairly well known, but not often read. Actually, it's two books, Twenty Years After and Ten Years Later. They are the second and third books of a four part series, but somehow they get left out of most movie adaptations and discussions of the characters. I'm sure you know the title of the first, and you may know the title of the fourth, but not necessarily know that it's number four in a series.
First in the series is The Three Musketeers, and the fourth in the series is The Man in the Iron Mask (which was DREADFULLY dramatized by Hollywood in the Leonardo di Caprio version. Ugh. John Malkovich, please, I BEG you, please, use some sort of accent if you insist on showing up in these French period dramas. Please.).
Anyroad, in Twenty Years and Ten Years, you follow the four Musketeers through various adventures involving Charles I of England, and various nefarious plots involving Milady and her nasty son. In these two novels, you really see how Athos, Porthos and Aramis, although they remain friends, begin to follow their inner urges and grow forever apart. When they are brought together for The Man in the Iron Mask, they do so out of extreme loyalty to each other, but for entirely different reasons. Dumas does such a great job of building those characters, tearing them apart and bringing them back together again.
I read both books during summer camp. (My copy of Twenty Years smells completely of summer camp--sort of faintly mildewed with a spruce overtone.) I wasn't getting along well with my cabin that year, but those two books saved that summer for me and created a rich fantasy life of stalwart heroes, accomplished with the sword, that carries me through to today.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
I have no words
...at least any that are coherent.
This is insane. Karen Scott is apparently causing suicidal thoughts throughout the publishing industry. Karen's comments are in italic
Karen wrote an F review and is now making people kill themselves? We have to be constantly supportive to all people who are emotionally tied to their work, and if you are not supportive I have the right to call you a killer of people? If I didn't like a book I am jealous of the entire industry and am conspiring to bring it to its knees? If I didn't like a book written by a woman, and say so, then I am a hater of all women?
Internal inconsistency anyone?
If I had a way to type the outraged scream I delivered as I read this dimwitted letter I would type it all in capitals and in bold right here. But "AGGGHHH!" doesn't seem appropriate.
You know what really steams me about this, is that it's all couched in super emotional terms about the needs of women and how we all need to support each other because we aw week wittle women who neeeed to be huggled and kissled and babied into producing anything of merit.
Fuck you too. I work goddamned hard at my job wherein I represent the public as a woman, a mother, and a smart capable person. I do not cry in public meetings. I do not expect people to cajole me into agreeing with them by giving me back rubs. I do not make decisions which will benefit only my family because I'm a mommy.
How DARE this woman say that any criticism levelled against me or a friend of mine will make them consider suicide. How DARE this woman imply that I need to be protected from myself. How DARE this woman say that she represents businessWOMEN competing against big baddy businessMEN. You don't represent ME. How DARE you say that you do.
When my mother became a lawyer in the early 1970s, she always went to court wearing a suit with a skirt. She was told repeatedly that to be taken seriously in a Man's World that she should dress like a man and wear pants. (Remember those Annie Hall ties?) Judges would say this to her. Opposing attorneys would say this to her.
She made it a rule for almost twenty years in her office that no one in her employ was to wear pantsuits. She was to be respected for the intelligence of her arguments and for her ability to advocate for her clients' needs. And women were perfectly capable of writing an excellent brief, researching the law, and presenting a case in open court. They were not to be coddled. Therefore, she was going to dress as a professional woman: in a skirt, with pantyhose and spectator pumps.
I just want to punch women who come to Board meetings and cry. We had a business officer who would wipe away tears if you questioned her numbers. What? You aren't ready to defend your numbers? You want me to go easy on you because you're a fragile young thing wearing mascara? The State doesn't care that your mascara is running when they analyze the budget, why should I care that you're upset?
And this bit REALLY pisses me off: I am certainly aware of the function of blogs, but Romance Books are not a Political forum. We are a fantasy business that reflectsEverywoman . She doesn't want sadness, discontent, fighting and negativity in her life, for that she watches the news or reads the newspapers. Our writers and editors are sometimes fragile, as the line of our work is pure emotion.
If you are so fucking FRAGILE then don't enter the workforce, and don't expect me to lay down and make life easy for you. What about women lawyers who represent a mentally ill client who has been tied down in four point restraints for Three Weeks because she fought back against an orderly's sexual advance? My mom represented such a woman. Do you think she just turned around and left her client to stew in her own urine because it was sad to see her treated so? What about female doctors who have to go through medical school? Or female Ph.D. candidates who have to defend a thesis? Think there's some anxiety and discontent there? Should they not be allowed to achieve these goals because the "Everywoman" doesn't like strife? Are they not CAPABLE of achieving these things?
Should I as a politician limit myself to discussions of the Kindergarten day because I'm a mommy? Am I not capable of discussing larger issues? Am I not capable of saying, "That is the stupidest idea I have ever had the misfortune to be asked to consider, and I will fight you tooth and nail to ensure that it never comes into this District." Would that hurt the presenter's feeeeelings? Am I a mean lady for saying so? Would I cause that person to consider suicide? Is it MY fault if the person does?
Agh!
This post is waaaaaay too long, but obviously this crap set me off.
How DARE this idjut go after ANYONE for stating an opinion and then make it seem as if women are only capable of fluttering around in pretty dresses at a tea party, discussing the positive benefits of their works of charity. Damn.
Must. Go. Calm. Down.
This is insane. Karen Scott is apparently causing suicidal thoughts throughout the publishing industry. Karen's comments are in italic
Dear KarenHoly fucking fuckety-fuck.
I am still in Texas at our SOS Soldiers Retreat, recuperating from the very busy and successful 24th Annual Booklovers Convention. There was a lot of warm feelings of family and good friendships this past week.
Many new "RT virgins" attended and I look forward to seeing more newly published authors and offshoot businesses spinning off of this event.
Which brings me to my concern about your blog.
I'm sitting here now with Rosemary Potter, a passionate seller of new American books, and an early promoter of Erotica and small presses. With her is Margaret Bell, another enthusiastic bookseller from Australia.
I'm sorry they had to overhear my incoming calls and become aware of emails directed to me concerning such negative nasty comments on your blog from romance book people. It was an eye opener I wish they hadn't experienced.”
I feel so honoured, people ringing RT to talk about my lil ‘ole blog? Be still my beating heart, I’ve finally arrived, now where the hell is my tiara…?
“I am very proud of Ellora's Cave and the small presses run by women. I am proud of any woman who writes erotica and gets published. I know how tough it is. I am the only woman who owns a magazine (except for Oprah and Martha) and no woman has ever owned a publishing house in New York. Be it Harlequin, Berkley, Dorchester or Kensington, it's owned by businessMEN.
This has been the situation since I started up in 1981. That is why I have been so supportive of e-publishing women and will continue to be. None of us had money to invest, instead we invested ourselves and our hearts.
Do I think we are all brilliant and perfect? Of course not. But we do our best and that's what counts. We have to try harder in publishing. Whoever thinks that anger and mean criticism helps our genre is off base.
None of our members deserve such ridiculous bloggers, especially from mean-spirited women posting notes from the quiet of their houses while those in the rat race of business life are working long hours. To think you only have time to promote personal vendettas is sad.”
Hey, I take offence at the notion that I work long hours, I’m currently sitting here, a margarita in one hand, and a J.D. Robb book in the other, a Julien McDonald scarf wrapped round my head, Jackie O-type sunglasses, and my extra comfy orange striped kaftan, wrapped round my sylph-like body…
“If this was investigated, I suspect there's more to this than meets the eye.
E-publishers had little support in the beginning. I made certain my magazine promoted them to the best of our ability. Ellora's Cave, in particular, has always been savvy and displayed great energy and enthusiasm from the very first time I encountered them. They deserve respect for l3eading the way, as does Red Sage and other erotica companies that paved the way. Attacking them is mindless. Positivity is the key to helping our genre.
Many newcomers followed them and their companies are now run by women as well, I feel we should all feel protective towards all of them. Most businesses fail in 2-3 years, people who succeed beyond that have something special.
I don't want that flame of passion for books and e-publishing to ever be extinguished for our loyal readers. If one "hurts" -- be it something nasty published towards a publisher, editor, or author. We should all hurt unless we are heatless.
Learning that so-called romance enthusiasts on your blog are referred to as bleeding hearts or an idiot, is not acceptable.”
*cue dramatic cry* “If you cut me, do I not bleed…?” I’m really getting into this tale of betrayal and deceit…
“Unless your bloggers are genuinely perverse and have no regard for people's feelings and livelihood, then I predict you all will needlessly add turmoil and discontent to yourselves. I hope you are ready to take responsibility for some of your remarks.
Writing is a livelihood and those kinds of attacks are of no value. Nor does it give your blog credibility or vital interest in the long run. Disrespect for our industry and its members reflects the dark nature of the person spewing it -- not the object of the attack.
We've never communicated, and I would have telephoned if I'd had a direct number. But I would like to nip this in the bud if it's possible. I'm told you are living in England and since I'll be there July 15, in Barrow, perhaps you'd like to meet up at our summer prom? Anyone in the romance world would enjoy it and is invited. We have a lot to discuss, perhaps.
I am certainly aware of the function of blogs, but Romance Books are not a Political forum. We are a fantasy business that reflects Everywoman. She doesn't want sadness, discontent, fighting and negativity in her life, for that she watches the news or reads the newspapers. Our writers and editors are sometimes fragile, as the line of our work is pure emotion.
I question if your blog today (Tuesday) is being used -- I repeat - being used -- to spread inaccuracies and ill will. It appears to be promoting everything romance books do not stand for. These personal attacks are embarrassing, hurtful, and do not reflect our hardworking community.”
Hey, that’s realllllly offensive. My blog is interesting dammit!
“You are in the position to tell troublemakers to move on or get out of the book biz, and if possible, learn who the Liars are....
Please start by asking them to not muddy our waters with ugly suppositions and invalidated comments -- and to be impeccable with their words -- this would be an excellent practice of gratitude and most appreciated.
Some of the postings are obviously from unhappy unpublished/published individuals who deem it appropriate to share their pent up angst and intensely personal attacks on your blog. I've never understood why some writers feel that other people's success affects their lack of it.
Putting down editors and writers also displays a lack of knowledge about this industry. Romance is the most successful genre of all time because people have banded together with a collective consciousness to do good not evil. This is true camaraderie. I hope it continues or we will perish.
All publishers do their best. All authors do their best. My reviewers do their best. It's a plus for our community that this is so.
I know there are small minded people who have difficulty in loving what we do, even though it's what they want to do, In the long run they are spreading negativity about themselves.
Why not realize that authors are sensitive, and so are publishers -- and inflicting harmful words does all of us a disservice. I was attacked for starting a romance magazine. I was attacked for discovering Fabio and predicting he would be a household word. I was attacked for just about every successful thing I've accomplished.
But, it wasn't the men who attacked me in this business (with the exception of one crooked literary agent!!) but the women.
As Bertrice Small says to those women who tried to put her down: "Honey, I laugh all the way to the bank, they don't even have an account."”
OK, I get it, authors are sensitive, and Bertrice Small has lots of money. I love this whole learning about the industry thing, isn’t it fun?
“It's easy to spot jealousy, it's usually against the successes of our business. Our industry has always created tremendous resentment for those with small minds. They have no idea of the complexities of business, or they wouldn't go around complaining.
Remember -- EVERYTHING IS JUST A THOUGHT and EMOTIONS MAKE THINGS HAPPEN FOR YOU.
There is constructive criticism and there is destructive criticism. You don't have to be a rocket scientist to know the difference.
Nothing goes in a straight line -- every problem is actually a situation in publishing. And every situation is a learning experience and an opportunity to grow.
My advice to authors who appear to be on a mean streak: The big picture is -- where do you want to fit in and how do you see yourself in our industry in five years? How do you see the industry if you're causing havoc and spreading a virus of negativity?
Put your energy on what you want, and don't waste the moment thinking so negatively of others. It hurts your peace of mind and is an obstacle to your success.
I believe our books and publishers provide enough categories and reviews to please ALL the many types of readers. Everyone has and deserves diverse reading choices and preferences.
Bloggers who have no idea of the work it takes to be an author and a publisher in today's competitive market should not be welcome on board. And if you check into the sales of some of the people you're "dissing" don't be surprised to see they sell well, or is that the reason they are the object of your disaffection?
Some people in our community do make more money and gather more acclaim but there's a reason -- they are more in touch with the readers and they are more positive.
They possibly work with positive energy at what they love. Fanaticism is the key to success. Publishers support winners and sales figures determines who stays and who goes. This isn't personal, this is business.”
Hey this woman is a business guru too, I love that whole fanaticism being the key to success, that may explain why Charles Manson was so darn successful…
“Primarily, successful writers do not dwell on rage and anger and others' discomfort. Personal attacks are not fodder or successful people but spring from the opposite personality type -- the loser displaying her anxieties and insecurities, the very things that holds her back from building a strong writing career.
I've learned in the past quarter of a century that truly successful people are compassionate and helpful. We have had some insensitive people writing sensitive books, but there's a reason if you look beyond.
One writer was the child of alcoholics, another makes millions but still lurks around the Internet because she has a tremendous need to be in control. One is suffering because her child died. Their actions deserve compassion.”
Would this be a good time to mention that my daddy left the house over six years ago, and didn’t come back because some truck driver caved his car in? Perhaps not, carry on…
“That's the way of the world. But they are not muddying our waters so that booksellers from Australia and newcomers have to hear about it. Compassion does not breed contempt.
New writers and new readers have an option the old-timers didn't have -- the use of the Internet. So use it to improve our slice of the publishing industry. Together we grow, separated we cut our chances.
To learn how to be positive and attract abundance, watch "The Secret" documentary. Today there is help in showing you how to attract the success you crave. And, believing in yourself is the essential trait, not behaving negatively.
You don't have to feel confused and resentful about a romance writing career if you are truly of good heart. Occupying your mind with ill thoughts or wallowng in attracting negative people and forming negative perceptions just continues to perpetuate the cycle of feeling unsuccessful.
Emotions make things happen, and the people on your posting should be aware that everyone's words have power; they come back to wreak havoc on the speakers, be it their health, wealth, or happiness. I've never seen it fail.
Perhaps the nay seekers should read Don Miguel Ruiz's book, about the Four Statements of Life. He says simply:
Your Words Should be Impeccable (they have power, don't voice negative things)
Don't Pass Judgment (it reveals self esteem)
Don't Take Things Personally (comments to hurt you are really the speakers self-thoughts)
Do Your Best”
Shit, this woman could be our new Oprah, she’s good.
"I have heard from several people on your post who are saddened by what they read today. One person mentioned has offered her resignation. Another is contemplatiing suicide. Is that what you intended for your blog? Do you want this on your conscience?
To most of us who devote our lives to publishing, romance is uplifting and increases joyfulness. These intensely negative and vituperative postings make our role so much harder and -- most important, cause booksellers and others to doubt their own dedication.
Anyone who thinks this kind of dialogue on a blog is valuable is truly sick in the heart and the head.
Everyone reflects our genre, particularly those who are vicious. You can help by encouraging bloggers to consider the repercussions of their actions before lashing out.
This action, be it name calling or hatred, only reflects the speaker's deep pent up anger that started long before their involvement with the romance community.
All writers should know that you can lose support faster than you can build it. So why should the builders ever spawn such negativity? Do you want publishers, booksellers and readers to doubt the validity of their commitment to the romance genre?
We should be aware that giving recognition to romance bloggers who spew vindictiveness that is personal and harmful, is out of line and out of place, and out of control. This attracts more of the same for the blogger, I might add. Like always attracts Like.
Blogs of this nature are harmful when they could be productive. Giving frustrated voices a place to say outrageous things to destroy is evil. Why not encourage frustrated women to spin to the positive?
I'm embarrassed that hardworking booksellers in Australia who authentically love romance novels and the romance authors had to learn that book bloggers endorse people offend our customers -- the booksellers and readers. Someone should stand up and say: I'm not taking this anymore."
Oh the drama…..
"Everyone is on such a "high" about the world of romance books after our Houston get together.
So many people, particularly authors and publishers, are passionately devoted to writing and promoting romance. We all spend long hours at the computers, to the point of endangering our health to be part of the romance community.
The blog in question that you posted, bashing one or more publishers and authors, is detrimental to the principles of romance.
If you have influence, please spend your time helping our romance community. People are sensitive and a string of suicides is not what is needed."
Take me to the gallows now, I am a bad, bad person!
"The bashing and airing of such personal attacks is a personal issue reflective of the writer and her rage. From what I see, people with an axe to grind are using you. They sound like (according to today's diatribes) rejected disgruntled suitors in a romance novel seeking to undermine good will. Why shouldn't your blog be used for fun and joy, not hatred and harmfulness?
I'm sure you didn't intend such a sad development, and can be more aware.
This bashing is reflective of personal dissatisfaction, not our book biz. They remind me of novel and movie villains who don't know they are wrong -- they think they are just guys trying to make it. However, like attracts like, and nothing good or positive can come out of inappropriate behavior.
It's such a "low" (after a week of "high") to hear that people are attacking and causing unnecessary dissension. WE (the Australian booksellers included) ask ourselves, what is the benefit of this?
We don't have time to pay much attention to blogs, but when we hear of people are upset by inconsiderate vicious bloggers who seem committed to spreading bad feelings instead of working in harmony for the good of all, it makes us wonder about who we are supporting with our businesses!!!
I salute those who say "I won't condone such viciousness about publishers and writers". And I warn all to be aware of hearing more pent up rage comments; the good will attract someone's wrath as this site has attracted a strange frustrated breed of bloggers.
If this kind of negative mood and behavior is allowed to spread, I predict that no one will care or dare to support romance in the future.
It will set us back years if we are portrayed as a bunch of jealous females baring their claws, upsetting our colleagues, and seemingly approving of a small group of savagely narcisstic women who can't stand to see other people succeed.
We know what to do: support our editors and publishers, support our booksellers and authors, or -- if you can't say "nice" -- say nothing. Your words have power, use them appropriately and you will benefit the romance book biz and be a standard bearer. Also, you'll benefit from peace of mind as well.
I wish you all peace and bliss....and the enlightenment to pass over a rough patch and avoid this ever happening again.
Kathryn Falk
CEO RT BookReviews Magazine
Rosemary and Margaret Booksellers”
OK guys, you can all come out now, she’s done. Wasn’t that an eye-opener? Hehehehehehehe…
Karen wrote an F review and is now making people kill themselves? We have to be constantly supportive to all people who are emotionally tied to their work, and if you are not supportive I have the right to call you a killer of people? If I didn't like a book I am jealous of the entire industry and am conspiring to bring it to its knees? If I didn't like a book written by a woman, and say so, then I am a hater of all women?
Internal inconsistency anyone?
If I had a way to type the outraged scream I delivered as I read this dimwitted letter I would type it all in capitals and in bold right here. But "AGGGHHH!" doesn't seem appropriate.
You know what really steams me about this, is that it's all couched in super emotional terms about the needs of women and how we all need to support each other because we aw week wittle women who neeeed to be huggled and kissled and babied into producing anything of merit.
Fuck you too. I work goddamned hard at my job wherein I represent the public as a woman, a mother, and a smart capable person. I do not cry in public meetings. I do not expect people to cajole me into agreeing with them by giving me back rubs. I do not make decisions which will benefit only my family because I'm a mommy.
How DARE this woman say that any criticism levelled against me or a friend of mine will make them consider suicide. How DARE this woman imply that I need to be protected from myself. How DARE this woman say that she represents businessWOMEN competing against big baddy businessMEN. You don't represent ME. How DARE you say that you do.
When my mother became a lawyer in the early 1970s, she always went to court wearing a suit with a skirt. She was told repeatedly that to be taken seriously in a Man's World that she should dress like a man and wear pants. (Remember those Annie Hall ties?) Judges would say this to her. Opposing attorneys would say this to her.
She made it a rule for almost twenty years in her office that no one in her employ was to wear pantsuits. She was to be respected for the intelligence of her arguments and for her ability to advocate for her clients' needs. And women were perfectly capable of writing an excellent brief, researching the law, and presenting a case in open court. They were not to be coddled. Therefore, she was going to dress as a professional woman: in a skirt, with pantyhose and spectator pumps.
I just want to punch women who come to Board meetings and cry. We had a business officer who would wipe away tears if you questioned her numbers. What? You aren't ready to defend your numbers? You want me to go easy on you because you're a fragile young thing wearing mascara? The State doesn't care that your mascara is running when they analyze the budget, why should I care that you're upset?
And this bit REALLY pisses me off: I am certainly aware of the function of blogs, but Romance Books are not a Political forum. We are a fantasy business that reflectsEverywoman . She doesn't want sadness, discontent, fighting and negativity in her life, for that she watches the news or reads the newspapers. Our writers and editors are sometimes fragile, as the line of our work is pure emotion.
If you are so fucking FRAGILE then don't enter the workforce, and don't expect me to lay down and make life easy for you. What about women lawyers who represent a mentally ill client who has been tied down in four point restraints for Three Weeks because she fought back against an orderly's sexual advance? My mom represented such a woman. Do you think she just turned around and left her client to stew in her own urine because it was sad to see her treated so? What about female doctors who have to go through medical school? Or female Ph.D. candidates who have to defend a thesis? Think there's some anxiety and discontent there? Should they not be allowed to achieve these goals because the "Everywoman" doesn't like strife? Are they not CAPABLE of achieving these things?
Should I as a politician limit myself to discussions of the Kindergarten day because I'm a mommy? Am I not capable of discussing larger issues? Am I not capable of saying, "That is the stupidest idea I have ever had the misfortune to be asked to consider, and I will fight you tooth and nail to ensure that it never comes into this District." Would that hurt the presenter's feeeeelings? Am I a mean lady for saying so? Would I cause that person to consider suicide? Is it MY fault if the person does?
Agh!
This post is waaaaaay too long, but obviously this crap set me off.
How DARE this idjut go after ANYONE for stating an opinion and then make it seem as if women are only capable of fluttering around in pretty dresses at a tea party, discussing the positive benefits of their works of charity. Damn.
Must. Go. Calm. Down.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Love in the Muck
Anybody else think that this is a particularly useless image?
Clearly it's from Amazon from the obnoxious orange arrow. I found it while scrolling through various recommendations. That black circle is, um, not so appealing, no? Or is it green?
OK, so the lady's wearing green and there's a present. Yeah. It's a Christmas Anthology.
I went to all four author's websites to see if the black/green/pondsludge circle scanned any better for them.
On Edith Layton's website I found this.
OK then.
Not sure what all that proves, or if there's a point to this post at all.
Except that I was drawn into researching the websites of the authors of a book I had never heard of because the Amazon scan was so ugly.
(Nancy and Gayle, I tried to find a website for you, m'dears, but NAL was the best I could do.)
So does this mean that ugly attracts attention? Because I surely wasn't looking for a Christmas anthology. Uh uh. And I wasn't even looking for a Regency romance, come to think of it. I was looking for an audio edition of an abridged version of The Three Musketeers for my son. And then that blackish green smudge just drew my attention away.
So easily distracted these days.
Friday, April 20, 2007
No title seems to fit this one
I just have to go on record here as having the biggest THING for Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet.
Lud!
I know I've written about it before, and so have many others, but man oh man, I do so love this character. And Lord Anthony Dewhurst. And Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. Ah, Sir Andrew. So loyal. Mmmm.
I don't have much else to add, because anytime I start thinking about Sir Percy, he of the clever phrase, the knowing wink, the detailed plan, and the prescient gaze, I start rambling on and forgetting what I was going to write about. (Although it occurs to me that perhaps a "knowing wink" and and "prescient gaze" are almost the same thing. Hmm. Maybe perspicacious gaze would take care of knowing wink and then we could focus on prescient somewhere else. But that first phrase sounds so, um, polysyllabic.)
Odd's Fish! See what he does to me? La!
OK, here's what I wanted to say: I love the character, and I love his dialogue, however The Baroness Orczy's prejudices show through and are annoying. We know that Percy is going to rescue French nobles, so obviously we are going to develop a tendre for those characters, but the Baroness has an unfortunate tendency to sketch everyone who isn't a noble as some sort of half-human.
But you know what? In the end, I don't really care. I don't think I'd like being beautiful, dim-witted, and judgemental Marguerite, no matter how much Percy loves her. It might be very nice to "live in the center of his smile," to have that attention lavished upon me, but really, what I've always fantasized about is being some underling. Perhaps the Captain of the Daydream, who brings him his yacht when he most needs it. A lesser member of the League who convinces a guard to open a door at just the right moment. Maybe a valet. Maybe a courier.
Then I could get a slap on the shoulder and a "Job well done, lad." And that would be enough.
Lud!
I know I've written about it before, and so have many others, but man oh man, I do so love this character. And Lord Anthony Dewhurst. And Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. Ah, Sir Andrew. So loyal. Mmmm.
I don't have much else to add, because anytime I start thinking about Sir Percy, he of the clever phrase, the knowing wink, the detailed plan, and the prescient gaze, I start rambling on and forgetting what I was going to write about. (Although it occurs to me that perhaps a "knowing wink" and and "prescient gaze" are almost the same thing. Hmm. Maybe perspicacious gaze would take care of knowing wink and then we could focus on prescient somewhere else. But that first phrase sounds so, um, polysyllabic.)
Odd's Fish! See what he does to me? La!
OK, here's what I wanted to say: I love the character, and I love his dialogue, however The Baroness Orczy's prejudices show through and are annoying. We know that Percy is going to rescue French nobles, so obviously we are going to develop a tendre for those characters, but the Baroness has an unfortunate tendency to sketch everyone who isn't a noble as some sort of half-human.
But you know what? In the end, I don't really care. I don't think I'd like being beautiful, dim-witted, and judgemental Marguerite, no matter how much Percy loves her. It might be very nice to "live in the center of his smile," to have that attention lavished upon me, but really, what I've always fantasized about is being some underling. Perhaps the Captain of the Daydream, who brings him his yacht when he most needs it. A lesser member of the League who convinces a guard to open a door at just the right moment. Maybe a valet. Maybe a courier.
Then I could get a slap on the shoulder and a "Job well done, lad." And that would be enough.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Hello Mudda. Hello Fadda.
OK. There are some of you out there who may not want to read this. It involves penises. Thought I'd warn y'all.
I have a point here, but it's going to take me more than a minute to get there. Strap yourself in for the ride.
In general, I don't do gooshie eye la-la Romanticism well. Weird, because I mostly read Romance novels. Yeah. I know. There's an attitude I really don't get, one which shows up a lot around pregnancy and babies and sex. I have trouble putting it into words, but I know the feeling of annoyance I get when I see it. It's the adoration of the magical. The mystical occurrence which brings us all closer together while we experience the wonder of it all.
Oh! Forgot.
Discussions of menstruation bring this on too. As in the utterly stupid one of "Now I feel closer to all the women who have experienced this before me. I look forward to my monthly cycle so that I can be part of the cycle of the earth and moon and water and appreciate the connection of all women together in their fertility cycle throughout time."
UGH! Stop it.
Stoppit. stoppit. stoppit.
It shows up around sex too. But since society don't *talk* about sex too much, it's harder to peg in a conversation. I first noticed that I had a screw loose when I was in High School and two of my friends started talking about boners. "It's like there's really a Bone in there! God, it's so beautiful."
What?
Excuse me, but WHAT?!?!
First of all, I knew she was a full on idiot for bringing up the Bone/boner thing, but secondly... what? Yeah, I know. I've got a screw loose.
I stumbled onto this in a book I was trying to read recently. The heroine started fantasizing about the hero's dick. I totally don't get it. Really. I could spend hours fantasizing about the curve of a wrist, the angle of two curved fingers on a wineglass, or the back of some one's neck. (Cary Grant had a great back of the neck curving into the shoulder. Sean Connery's neck is great too. Just below his ear. Sigh.) But to go on and on about a penis?
So not me.
I stopped reading the book.
(By the way, after I put this one down, I started reading Laura Kinsale again. Jesus. Does ANYONE do that mute expression of overwhelming desire better than her? I had forgotten how many times in Flowers from the Storm Jervaulx leans his forehead into Maddy's neck when he is desperately needy. No kiss, no words, just pure want and need and reliance. Help me, I'm passing out over here. *fans self*)
So back to my loose screw. Here's the thing: I grew up around horses, dogs, birds, and anything else that wandered in. And that involved taking care of them in the most in-your-face manner. Especially the horses. Mucking stalls, picking feet, sweeping urine off the floor. Flushing a gaping wound in the shoulder when a filly caught her flesh on a nail. Tubing a horse with gallons of water and oil when she colicked. Assisting in the removal of a mummified fetus from an infected uterus. Really gross shit.
But the one that tops it all: Sheath cleaning.
Egh.
Thank god we didn't have too many geldings around. Because the big boys generally take care of this themselves. (Stallions drop down a number of times a day, whereas geldings are a lot more shy and therefore dirty. Requiring cleaning. Up inside the sheath. Your hands and arm smell for DAYS, no matter if you wear shoulder-high examination glove or not.)
In case you don't quite know what sheath cleaning entails, here's a link a friend sent which contains this excellent song (a version of which I've heard before somewhere). (Sing it to "Hello Mudda, Hello Fadda. Here I am at Camp Granada"):
(Sidenote: Every heard Bill Cosby talk about baby poops? Same principle. When they're little babies, the parents say, "Aw. Would you look at that. She made a poo poo." And then God, who has a sense of humor, puts odor into the "poo poo", and it turns into "a mess." "Look what you did! You made a MESS in your diaper!")
Anyway. I certainly don't hate penises. They don't disgust me, but on the other hand I don't get all weak in the knees either. I don't quite know what to do about this. Well, not that I CAN do much about it at this point.
What I mean to say here is that every once in a while you start reading a book about really private things, things such as love, loss, trust, betrayal, honesty, sex and commitment. And then the author comes out with a sentiment that is so ingrained in her world view that there's not even a touch of explanation about it. And sometimes just the slightest thing is enough to slam the reader right out of the story. It's not usually a big thing, because big things are explained and built up to. This is a small detail, like squirting dishwashing soap in your tea, which comes up in the middle of a sentence and makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, no matter how many times you go back a read it over.
I hate that.
I have a point here, but it's going to take me more than a minute to get there. Strap yourself in for the ride.
In general, I don't do gooshie eye la-la Romanticism well. Weird, because I mostly read Romance novels. Yeah. I know. There's an attitude I really don't get, one which shows up a lot around pregnancy and babies and sex. I have trouble putting it into words, but I know the feeling of annoyance I get when I see it. It's the adoration of the magical. The mystical occurrence which brings us all closer together while we experience the wonder of it all.
Oh! Forgot.
Discussions of menstruation bring this on too. As in the utterly stupid one of "Now I feel closer to all the women who have experienced this before me. I look forward to my monthly cycle so that I can be part of the cycle of the earth and moon and water and appreciate the connection of all women together in their fertility cycle throughout time."
UGH! Stop it.
Stoppit. stoppit. stoppit.
It shows up around sex too. But since society don't *talk* about sex too much, it's harder to peg in a conversation. I first noticed that I had a screw loose when I was in High School and two of my friends started talking about boners. "It's like there's really a Bone in there! God, it's so beautiful."
What?
Excuse me, but WHAT?!?!
First of all, I knew she was a full on idiot for bringing up the Bone/boner thing, but secondly... what? Yeah, I know. I've got a screw loose.
I stumbled onto this in a book I was trying to read recently. The heroine started fantasizing about the hero's dick. I totally don't get it. Really. I could spend hours fantasizing about the curve of a wrist, the angle of two curved fingers on a wineglass, or the back of some one's neck. (Cary Grant had a great back of the neck curving into the shoulder. Sean Connery's neck is great too. Just below his ear. Sigh.) But to go on and on about a penis?
So not me.
I stopped reading the book.
(By the way, after I put this one down, I started reading Laura Kinsale again. Jesus. Does ANYONE do that mute expression of overwhelming desire better than her? I had forgotten how many times in Flowers from the Storm Jervaulx leans his forehead into Maddy's neck when he is desperately needy. No kiss, no words, just pure want and need and reliance. Help me, I'm passing out over here. *fans self*)
So back to my loose screw. Here's the thing: I grew up around horses, dogs, birds, and anything else that wandered in. And that involved taking care of them in the most in-your-face manner. Especially the horses. Mucking stalls, picking feet, sweeping urine off the floor. Flushing a gaping wound in the shoulder when a filly caught her flesh on a nail. Tubing a horse with gallons of water and oil when she colicked. Assisting in the removal of a mummified fetus from an infected uterus. Really gross shit.
But the one that tops it all: Sheath cleaning.
Egh.
Thank god we didn't have too many geldings around. Because the big boys generally take care of this themselves. (Stallions drop down a number of times a day, whereas geldings are a lot more shy and therefore dirty. Requiring cleaning. Up inside the sheath. Your hands and arm smell for DAYS, no matter if you wear shoulder-high examination glove or not.)
In case you don't quite know what sheath cleaning entails, here's a link a friend sent which contains this excellent song (a version of which I've heard before somewhere). (Sing it to "Hello Mudda, Hello Fadda. Here I am at Camp Granada"):
How's it hangin'?OK. What I want to say here is that once you've required a ten year old to do this twice a year to her own horse, and once that ten year old has figured out that she can earn big bucks every summer by performing this service for all the geldings owned by her extra squeamish friends, this ten year old develops a certain attitude about the male of any species.
So much cleaner.
Aren't you glad I
washed your wiener?
I'll admit it's
kinda creepy
that I had to stick my arm up in your pee-pee.
It was sticky.
It was gunky.
It felt icky.
It smelled funky.
It was cruddy,
it was crusty--
when you stuck it out,
it creaked like it was rusty.
After half an
hour of toilin'
and of squirtin'
baby oil in,
you're as fresh there
as a daisy.
Either this means I love you or else I'm crazy!!!
(Sidenote: Every heard Bill Cosby talk about baby poops? Same principle. When they're little babies, the parents say, "Aw. Would you look at that. She made a poo poo." And then God, who has a sense of humor, puts odor into the "poo poo", and it turns into "a mess." "Look what you did! You made a MESS in your diaper!")
Anyway. I certainly don't hate penises. They don't disgust me, but on the other hand I don't get all weak in the knees either. I don't quite know what to do about this. Well, not that I CAN do much about it at this point.
What I mean to say here is that every once in a while you start reading a book about really private things, things such as love, loss, trust, betrayal, honesty, sex and commitment. And then the author comes out with a sentiment that is so ingrained in her world view that there's not even a touch of explanation about it. And sometimes just the slightest thing is enough to slam the reader right out of the story. It's not usually a big thing, because big things are explained and built up to. This is a small detail, like squirting dishwashing soap in your tea, which comes up in the middle of a sentence and makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, no matter how many times you go back a read it over.
I hate that.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Spring Fever
I am having the weirdest dreams these days.
Usually I have long narrative dreams with lots of symbolism, but not these days.
The best way to describe them is to say that I'm stuck in some sort of pointillist painting.
You know those walkways in from of construction sites where they cut circles through the plywood so that you can check up on the building's progress? Yeah. That's what these dreams are like. I'm wandering through some sort of landscape and sort of bump into a fraction, a taste, a sugar egg scene from another dream. But before I can get a sense of what is going on in that scene, I'm back to wandering in the landscape.
Recent dream:
I'm walking along a stone wall in a field. It's summer and everything smells like grass. I come to a tree with huge dark brown trunk. I stop to look at the bark, but then it's not bark. It's the scales of a huge lizard standing on its head, holding leaves in its hind claws. One eye is closed, one is open.
I kneel down in the grass to look closer into the open eye. I think I want to see if the lizard is OK. Reflected in the eye is a scene from my elementary school playground. Liza, Laura, Sarah, and I have climbed up the hill near the swing sets, and we're hiding under the lilacs. Liza is crying and none of us know why. And all of us are embarrassed that she's crying, so we're sitting in a row, staring out through the lilac branches with our arms hugging our knees.
Just before I can slip into that dream, I'm walking along the stone wall again.
There's a window hanging in mid air in front of me. I look through it. There's a dog trying to cross a street. I don't recognize the street, the dog or the scene. And then all I can see is the rest of the meadow through the now transparent window.
Then I'm walking along the stone wall again. Walking towards me is my high school boyfriend. He's wearing his constant uniform of a black turtleneck, gray shorts and Adidas sneakers. I can recognize him from his silhouette, but before I can figure out if he can see me from so far away, he's gone. I stop walking and look at the wall. A bunch of the stones have reflective surfaces, and about five of them are showing me scenes from my most common recurring dreams: a witch, a church bell, a lake, a bridge, a peacock, and a cat.
I don't know what to make of this. I feel as if I'm having some sort of smorgasbord dream. It's as if I'm being offered the choice to enter into those dreams, and that somehow I'm taking just a second too long in deciding before option goes away. Or maybe I'm being teased by the images? Or maybe I'm witnessing some sort of decluttering of a packed closet of dreams? Or maybe my mind is shuffling them in a bizarre flip book animation?
I actually think that I'm tacking the meadow and the wall on after the fact because I'm so used to experiencing a narrative dream. I don't think that I know HOW to remember a dream unless there's a narrative attached to it. So I think my conscious mind added the other stuff on to make the random images stick to one another.
Anyway. After I have these, I wake up and then can't fall back asleep.
They don't disturb me really; it's not as if I'm upset by them to the point where I can't sleep, but I find that I'm not tired enough after the dream to make it all the way back to sleep.
This has caused me to reread Laura Kinsale's The Shadow and the Star. Goddamn, that woman can write. For every obsessed protective "Alpha" hero who intrigues me but also scares me enough to creep me out (think Wrath), I always come back to Samuel. He works for me in ways that other protectively violent heroes do not. (Well, I'm also rereading Flowers from the Storm too. Christian's another one who works.) I could read the scene where Samuel asks Leda to try on the necklace, and then can't help himself once the back of his hand touches her hair, and gently and just barely holds her face in his hands as he looks at her face in the mirror again, and again, and not get goosebumps. (Hell, I just got a shiver up my back typing out that clumsy summary.)
So I guess insomnia's not so bad.
Usually I have long narrative dreams with lots of symbolism, but not these days.
The best way to describe them is to say that I'm stuck in some sort of pointillist painting.
You know those walkways in from of construction sites where they cut circles through the plywood so that you can check up on the building's progress? Yeah. That's what these dreams are like. I'm wandering through some sort of landscape and sort of bump into a fraction, a taste, a sugar egg scene from another dream. But before I can get a sense of what is going on in that scene, I'm back to wandering in the landscape.Recent dream:
I'm walking along a stone wall in a field. It's summer and everything smells like grass. I come to a tree with huge dark brown trunk. I stop to look at the bark, but then it's not bark. It's the scales of a huge lizard standing on its head, holding leaves in its hind claws. One eye is closed, one is open.
I kneel down in the grass to look closer into the open eye. I think I want to see if the lizard is OK. Reflected in the eye is a scene from my elementary school playground. Liza, Laura, Sarah, and I have climbed up the hill near the swing sets, and we're hiding under the lilacs. Liza is crying and none of us know why. And all of us are embarrassed that she's crying, so we're sitting in a row, staring out through the lilac branches with our arms hugging our knees.
Just before I can slip into that dream, I'm walking along the stone wall again.
There's a window hanging in mid air in front of me. I look through it. There's a dog trying to cross a street. I don't recognize the street, the dog or the scene. And then all I can see is the rest of the meadow through the now transparent window.
Then I'm walking along the stone wall again. Walking towards me is my high school boyfriend. He's wearing his constant uniform of a black turtleneck, gray shorts and Adidas sneakers. I can recognize him from his silhouette, but before I can figure out if he can see me from so far away, he's gone. I stop walking and look at the wall. A bunch of the stones have reflective surfaces, and about five of them are showing me scenes from my most common recurring dreams: a witch, a church bell, a lake, a bridge, a peacock, and a cat.
I don't know what to make of this. I feel as if I'm having some sort of smorgasbord dream. It's as if I'm being offered the choice to enter into those dreams, and that somehow I'm taking just a second too long in deciding before option goes away. Or maybe I'm being teased by the images? Or maybe I'm witnessing some sort of decluttering of a packed closet of dreams? Or maybe my mind is shuffling them in a bizarre flip book animation?
I actually think that I'm tacking the meadow and the wall on after the fact because I'm so used to experiencing a narrative dream. I don't think that I know HOW to remember a dream unless there's a narrative attached to it. So I think my conscious mind added the other stuff on to make the random images stick to one another.
Anyway. After I have these, I wake up and then can't fall back asleep.
They don't disturb me really; it's not as if I'm upset by them to the point where I can't sleep, but I find that I'm not tired enough after the dream to make it all the way back to sleep.
This has caused me to reread Laura Kinsale's The Shadow and the Star. Goddamn, that woman can write. For every obsessed protective "Alpha" hero who intrigues me but also scares me enough to creep me out (think Wrath), I always come back to Samuel. He works for me in ways that other protectively violent heroes do not. (Well, I'm also rereading Flowers from the Storm too. Christian's another one who works.) I could read the scene where Samuel asks Leda to try on the necklace, and then can't help himself once the back of his hand touches her hair, and gently and just barely holds her face in his hands as he looks at her face in the mirror again, and again, and not get goosebumps. (Hell, I just got a shiver up my back typing out that clumsy summary.)
So I guess insomnia's not so bad.
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