Monday, November 29, 2010
Gerald Early/"I Only Like It Better When the Pain Comes"
Early's prose is very concise and scientific, almost too much so. It becomes incredibly hard to read after a while. It's simply boring. I wanted embellishment and magic. I guess it's preference, though. This is an essay with touches of literary journalism. Hunter S. Thompson does the same thing. But interesting. I like that Early can compare The Incredible Shrinking Man with masculinity and boxing, and I like that he brings up the fact that boxing has Anglo-Saxon origins, despite it being dominated by minorities in the United States.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Margaret Atwood/A Path Taken, with All the Certainty of Youth
She's right and wrong. I agree and I don't. I like it and hate it. I'm wishy-washy, duuuh.
I never thought that artists and writers and creators had a singular defining moment where they suddenly realize what they are going to do, but I know it happens, and has happened, and maybe it happened to me, but I don't remember. I'm tired of the writer-especially the female writer-as being generalized by her suffering, her tragedy; whats worse is I feel I fall into the suffering tragic, all ambiguity absolutely intentional. I'm tired of writers not being taken seriously, but I don't expect to get a serious job with my creative writing degree when I finally get it. Atwood brings out conflicting things with this essay, but I really love it because of that. I decided to get a writing degree because I've been writing since I was in 4th grade. But it was journal-writing. First-world pre-adolescent problems. Training bras, first periods, softball games, stupid older sisters, dying pets and their inadequate replacements. Then after my dreams of becoming an archaeologist were dashed by reality and budget-cuts, I found myself taking my imagination more seriously, writing more fluidly, re-reading the volumes I'd written: 1997-2008. I didn't take writers seriously, either. But not like "Idiots, losers, there's no money in that, thats stupid, self expression is stupid". More like "They aren't real. They can't be real. I could never write like Nabokov or Murakami or Gaitskill. They aren't even real people, they're like Gods or something." But I changed my major from Anthropology to Creative Writing anyway.
I'm not sure where I was going with that.
Anyway.
I like reading about writers becoming writers. Its the same as reading cookbooks.
I never thought that artists and writers and creators had a singular defining moment where they suddenly realize what they are going to do, but I know it happens, and has happened, and maybe it happened to me, but I don't remember. I'm tired of the writer-especially the female writer-as being generalized by her suffering, her tragedy; whats worse is I feel I fall into the suffering tragic, all ambiguity absolutely intentional. I'm tired of writers not being taken seriously, but I don't expect to get a serious job with my creative writing degree when I finally get it. Atwood brings out conflicting things with this essay, but I really love it because of that. I decided to get a writing degree because I've been writing since I was in 4th grade. But it was journal-writing. First-world pre-adolescent problems. Training bras, first periods, softball games, stupid older sisters, dying pets and their inadequate replacements. Then after my dreams of becoming an archaeologist were dashed by reality and budget-cuts, I found myself taking my imagination more seriously, writing more fluidly, re-reading the volumes I'd written: 1997-2008. I didn't take writers seriously, either. But not like "Idiots, losers, there's no money in that, thats stupid, self expression is stupid". More like "They aren't real. They can't be real. I could never write like Nabokov or Murakami or Gaitskill. They aren't even real people, they're like Gods or something." But I changed my major from Anthropology to Creative Writing anyway.
I'm not sure where I was going with that.
Anyway.
I like reading about writers becoming writers. Its the same as reading cookbooks.
making up for stuff
here it is, the end of the semester, and im behind in my schoolwork. i tell myself every semester i will keep up with things. everyone does that. its not new. then i fall behind. everyone does. not new.
except im in college and falling behind now means ill be behind for the rest of my life. its scary to think about.
there are a million different reasons or excuses for falling behind. mine this semester are pretty loaded, moreso than usual. im not ready to disclose the serious ones to the internet, but there's one that's kinda funny.
on halloween i broke my teeth on my toilet while dressed up as sexy darth vader after losing to kenny powers in a costume contest and only winning the $50 bar tab instead of the first place $75 bar tab. go me! i have pictures of my broken mouth, but not of me in the sexy vader costume. sorry fellas.
anyway, this is me making up for a semester wasted. i shouldnt say wasted. i didnt waste it. i just fell behind. itll cost me the As i would prefer to get in my classes, naturally. you dont reward procrastination and laziness with As.
this is me trying again, for what seems like the millionth time, to make myself grow up. im resisting my own attempts at maturation. it should be me being placed in a test tube for study, not carrie bradshaw.
there! i did it again! i could sit and bang this out, one go, type until i get hangnails and carpal tunnel. but instead i write like, two sentences, then switch tabs to tastespotting.com and look at pictures of food. or i go to ohnotheydidnt.livejournal.com and read celeb gossip. or facebook. i simply lack the ability to sit down and do something in its entirety in one attempt. i know people that can sit and write a paper in one go. in 7 hours be done. fuck that. how can they? do i envy them? yes. should i envy them? hell no. i should spend the energy i waste envying them and licking my wounds on just getting it fucking over with. approach it like i do every shift i work at bandidos, working out, getting root canals.
so why cant i just do it, and get it over with? why cant i get through this semester and the next, and graduate? why do i keep stopping myself? who knows. anyway. here in the next few posts are the assignments i should have kept up with this semester and didnt.
persepolis
i first encountered persepolis in french class two years ago. my french teacher looked like johnny depp, which was awesome. he also spoke german. three languages and dreamy puppy dog eyes and a little mustache and oh man i was smitten already and then he put this movie on that he said was adapted from a comic and we should listen very carefully because the subtitles were turned off and then on came persepolis and i forgot about my dreamy french teacher. everything about the movie was perfect, really. and decidedly un-american. thats probably what i like most about it. its like nothing thats coming out of the states. i love being american, dont get me wrong, but our movies and books and comics are still dripping with the American Dream, from the capitalism and idealism to the heavily saturated colors and inks and fancy fonts and even Spiderman has met Obama. And oh yeah, Captain America is dead. But Persepolis? Especially in its book form its striking. Its bare and minimal and gets to the quick in the funniest possible way. Like none other, Satrapi preserves her childhood and its innocence while viewing it through the eyes of the experienced and worldly adult she has become.
as universal as people are, its hard coming up with something that happened to me that people can relate to. its not pretension, im not better, my experiences arent more unique. i just feel, i dont know, boring? when put on the spot to come up with something that everyone can relate to, i get self conscious. i think "god what if no one relates to this? theyll think im a freak. this is too weird. too obscure. theres no possible way this happened to someone else, too mortifying" or "is my whole life gross? nothing but pooping and fart jokes? why can't i think of anything that doesnt have to do with bodily functions or mind-altering substances?" Then its "god eden if its something relateable why are trying to think of the most unrelateable and weird thing thats happened to you? just write about forgoing your fingers and just licking the cake batter straight from the bowl and getting it all over your face and chin, and how it was actually last week, not when you were two years old, or watching disney movies as an adult and picking up on the innuendos and sexism and racism and crap like that, or constantly tongue-ing the spot on the inside of your cheek that you chomped down on while eating some leftover pizza or a hard-boiled egg." then i stress myself thinking too hard about it, and end up lurking the facebook profiles of the boys in high school i was too embarrassed to admit i had a huuuuuuge crush on because they were either too preppy or too jocky or too good-looking to notice me. then there are the ones you would hate-fuck. that is, you hated them in high school, and hate them still, but you'd fuck 'em. why not? you hated them because they were good-looking back then and are good-looking now. you hate them now because you're older and look back on how they treated you and how you didnt realize it then but the names they called you and the things they said to your face and especially the things they said behind your back left a mark that has molded your personality whether you wanted it to or were even remotely aware of it or not. how they're probably the same as they were in high school but youve changed, changed so drastically they would never recognize you, or would and be in total shock. and youre not a virgin anymore, fancy that. imagine, meeting with that asshole that called you fat all the time at the five year reunion, youve lost 20 lbs and cut your hair and have done so much to bury your stupid naive grungy past and he's, yep, he's looking the same as ever and you know you look good and you see him and he sees you and the electricity you feel is the hatred for him and the knowledge that it isnt hate at all really but curiosity and yes! after years and years, admitting you had a crush on him the whole time and that hate is hate for yourself for crushing on him in the first place because youre not in high school anymore at all. yeah. you'd fuck 'im. but you'd still hate him.
except im in college and falling behind now means ill be behind for the rest of my life. its scary to think about.
there are a million different reasons or excuses for falling behind. mine this semester are pretty loaded, moreso than usual. im not ready to disclose the serious ones to the internet, but there's one that's kinda funny.
on halloween i broke my teeth on my toilet while dressed up as sexy darth vader after losing to kenny powers in a costume contest and only winning the $50 bar tab instead of the first place $75 bar tab. go me! i have pictures of my broken mouth, but not of me in the sexy vader costume. sorry fellas.
anyway, this is me making up for a semester wasted. i shouldnt say wasted. i didnt waste it. i just fell behind. itll cost me the As i would prefer to get in my classes, naturally. you dont reward procrastination and laziness with As.
this is me trying again, for what seems like the millionth time, to make myself grow up. im resisting my own attempts at maturation. it should be me being placed in a test tube for study, not carrie bradshaw.
there! i did it again! i could sit and bang this out, one go, type until i get hangnails and carpal tunnel. but instead i write like, two sentences, then switch tabs to tastespotting.com and look at pictures of food. or i go to ohnotheydidnt.livejournal.com and read celeb gossip. or facebook. i simply lack the ability to sit down and do something in its entirety in one attempt. i know people that can sit and write a paper in one go. in 7 hours be done. fuck that. how can they? do i envy them? yes. should i envy them? hell no. i should spend the energy i waste envying them and licking my wounds on just getting it fucking over with. approach it like i do every shift i work at bandidos, working out, getting root canals.
so why cant i just do it, and get it over with? why cant i get through this semester and the next, and graduate? why do i keep stopping myself? who knows. anyway. here in the next few posts are the assignments i should have kept up with this semester and didnt.
persepolis
i first encountered persepolis in french class two years ago. my french teacher looked like johnny depp, which was awesome. he also spoke german. three languages and dreamy puppy dog eyes and a little mustache and oh man i was smitten already and then he put this movie on that he said was adapted from a comic and we should listen very carefully because the subtitles were turned off and then on came persepolis and i forgot about my dreamy french teacher. everything about the movie was perfect, really. and decidedly un-american. thats probably what i like most about it. its like nothing thats coming out of the states. i love being american, dont get me wrong, but our movies and books and comics are still dripping with the American Dream, from the capitalism and idealism to the heavily saturated colors and inks and fancy fonts and even Spiderman has met Obama. And oh yeah, Captain America is dead. But Persepolis? Especially in its book form its striking. Its bare and minimal and gets to the quick in the funniest possible way. Like none other, Satrapi preserves her childhood and its innocence while viewing it through the eyes of the experienced and worldly adult she has become.
as universal as people are, its hard coming up with something that happened to me that people can relate to. its not pretension, im not better, my experiences arent more unique. i just feel, i dont know, boring? when put on the spot to come up with something that everyone can relate to, i get self conscious. i think "god what if no one relates to this? theyll think im a freak. this is too weird. too obscure. theres no possible way this happened to someone else, too mortifying" or "is my whole life gross? nothing but pooping and fart jokes? why can't i think of anything that doesnt have to do with bodily functions or mind-altering substances?" Then its "god eden if its something relateable why are trying to think of the most unrelateable and weird thing thats happened to you? just write about forgoing your fingers and just licking the cake batter straight from the bowl and getting it all over your face and chin, and how it was actually last week, not when you were two years old, or watching disney movies as an adult and picking up on the innuendos and sexism and racism and crap like that, or constantly tongue-ing the spot on the inside of your cheek that you chomped down on while eating some leftover pizza or a hard-boiled egg." then i stress myself thinking too hard about it, and end up lurking the facebook profiles of the boys in high school i was too embarrassed to admit i had a huuuuuuge crush on because they were either too preppy or too jocky or too good-looking to notice me. then there are the ones you would hate-fuck. that is, you hated them in high school, and hate them still, but you'd fuck 'em. why not? you hated them because they were good-looking back then and are good-looking now. you hate them now because you're older and look back on how they treated you and how you didnt realize it then but the names they called you and the things they said to your face and especially the things they said behind your back left a mark that has molded your personality whether you wanted it to or were even remotely aware of it or not. how they're probably the same as they were in high school but youve changed, changed so drastically they would never recognize you, or would and be in total shock. and youre not a virgin anymore, fancy that. imagine, meeting with that asshole that called you fat all the time at the five year reunion, youve lost 20 lbs and cut your hair and have done so much to bury your stupid naive grungy past and he's, yep, he's looking the same as ever and you know you look good and you see him and he sees you and the electricity you feel is the hatred for him and the knowledge that it isnt hate at all really but curiosity and yes! after years and years, admitting you had a crush on him the whole time and that hate is hate for yourself for crushing on him in the first place because youre not in high school anymore at all. yeah. you'd fuck 'im. but you'd still hate him.
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Ashes of August
You always try to find something to relate to when reading a memoir-style piece. Being from Florida reading about natural disasters, I immediately think of hurricanes. I think "oh yeah, okay, i might be able to relate to the hardship and stress and grief of this."
Not for this.
The constant guarantee of unpredictable fires every August is terrifying. At least with hurricanes you know several days in advance the impending doom. But from what Barnes describes, an easy and carefree family dinner can turn into an all night vigil praying for the safe return of your fire-fighting husband. Voluntary fire-fighting, too.
At first I was taken with Barnes description of the landscapes, the colors and textures of northern Idaho, a region, a state, I never really consider beyond potatoes and backwoods. I wouldn't've considered Idaho a part of the American West until I read this. I was moved. By the history that Barnes cited throughout, from her own experiences. I was especially taken the "legends" she mentions, like the horse out-running the fire by fifty miles, or the man that shot himself rather than facing the cowardice of running from the fire. They're bone-chilling. More bone-chilling, though, is the thought that Barnes and her family willing risk themselves every year, every fiery August, to live in that part of the world. She barely mentions the rumored brutal winters of the West (the movie Fargo comes to mind), but the summers, long and lush, culminating in a dry and anxious August, always on the verge of erupting.
Not for this.
The constant guarantee of unpredictable fires every August is terrifying. At least with hurricanes you know several days in advance the impending doom. But from what Barnes describes, an easy and carefree family dinner can turn into an all night vigil praying for the safe return of your fire-fighting husband. Voluntary fire-fighting, too.
At first I was taken with Barnes description of the landscapes, the colors and textures of northern Idaho, a region, a state, I never really consider beyond potatoes and backwoods. I wouldn't've considered Idaho a part of the American West until I read this. I was moved. By the history that Barnes cited throughout, from her own experiences. I was especially taken the "legends" she mentions, like the horse out-running the fire by fifty miles, or the man that shot himself rather than facing the cowardice of running from the fire. They're bone-chilling. More bone-chilling, though, is the thought that Barnes and her family willing risk themselves every year, every fiery August, to live in that part of the world. She barely mentions the rumored brutal winters of the West (the movie Fargo comes to mind), but the summers, long and lush, culminating in a dry and anxious August, always on the verge of erupting.
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