Thursday, October 13, 2011

Blah-Ditty-Blahzer-Blah and Hole Still Rocks

I finished the stoopid western novel.  Wasta time.  Feeling kinda guily, as friend picked it out.  Ick, though.  I am now reading Green Angel by Alice Hoffman.  I have been spending hours looking at this blog:  I am completely in love.  I had forgotten about her.  I have a whisper of a preface of a migraine.  Book group later.  Here above is an from the above metioned blog image that made me almost crazy as it excited me.that doll parts part of me,  made me feel like I do when I eat vanilla, kinda stale birthday cake after awhile of eating wholesome, wannabe middle class food.  Low borw junk, girl culture, chick lit, fall days when the last glimmer of summer is gone, just like that. The above image is a Hole shrine created by Tavi.  She is the writer of the blog discussed.    It cracks me up, but mostly impresses me, that I am so fucking inspired by this precocious 13-y-o chick.

One really really big issue of mine right now is my weight.  There is no getting around the truth:  I  have kinda given up on finding a job.  My like is a dull, joyless molasses slumber punctuated only by the pink moon happy of my little guy.  I know that this semi-veggie state will not last forever, but while it is going on, my body, and its thirty some odd years of pror now gone skinny this and that is hiding from me.  My body is now chubby.  I am unfamiliar with it.  I miss looking like a teenager.  When I get nostalgic and look at the doc marten culture of decades past, my chubbiness really gets to me.  That whole: look, I am a waif, and I think Woody Allen might even think pervy stuff about me because of it is gone.  I look like a real woman now.  Fuck it all; it fucking sucks.  Looking at this kid's shrine to Hole highlights my none kid status, but it also assuages the harsh feeling of this reality...

I am desperately awaiting the third Hunger Games book.  Waiting with baited breathe.
Later, but first, my mind: "When I wake up, in my make-up...Doll Parts...I am the girl with the most cake...Some day, you will ache like I ache...I'm all I wanna be. "

Monday, October 10, 2011

On Not Writing

As you can see, or read, I am still not really writing.  I am getting migraines a lot now.  It truly fucking sucks, as I simply cannot afford the med.s to deal with the pain.  I can only afford to take care of the nausea. I need to hurry the fuck up and get certified already.

The last time I was in my fave. used bookstore, the owner recommended The Woman Warrior.  I have been skeptical about this book for like ever, but for some reason I just looked it up again, I think after perusing some archived college syllabi.  And for once, it looks interesting to me.  I love the book's opening line: "You must not tell anyone," my mother said, "what I am about to tell you.  In China, your father had a sister who killed herself."  I think I will eventually give this book a shot.  It is considered creative non fiction, as it cannot really be 100 percent memoir, as the author, Maxine Hong Kingston dabbles (wrong word, prolly) with myth and the like.  

From the syllabus where I saw this book, there were others.  The syllabus is from Columbia and it is from an undergrad. course: 

Flannery O'Connor, selected short stories

Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

John Updike, Rabbit, Run

Saul Bellow, Herzog

Philip Roth, Portnoy's Complaint

Joseph Heller, Catch-22

Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49

Norman Mailer, The Armies of the Night

Donald Barthelme, selections from Sixty Stories

Grace Paley, selected short stories

I fucking adore Grace Paley, and never had to read her an an undergrad (um, or as a certification program student in this nit wit education program I am currently in...) But I adore her.  I have even seen her read/speak.  She had an amazing story about a woman running through the projects which a former AA/ English professor recommended... Interesting, I do not remember her dying, but it looks as though she dies with all of them:  David Foster Wallace, Madeline L'Engle, Mr. JD Salinger, etc. 

Raymond Carver, selections from Where I'm Calling From

I have always wanted to write my own story, or personal essay about working in a call center and I wanted to title it "WhereI'm Calling from, or at least include some of Carver's text in the essay.  

Maxine Hong Kingston, The Woman Warrior

Don DeLillo, White Noise

Gabriel García Márquez, Chronicle of a Death Foretold

I hate that I am even posting this stupid blog and that I would even think stoopid Columbia University could help me come up with an idea of what to read.  Reading works for me, b/c I see it as a subversive act.  Reading for school or for anyone is fucking stupid.

But wouldn't it have been amazing to have an English major from a badass school like COlumbia, Fuck. 

Too lazy to fix the font issue.  Who fucking gives a gives a?!?!

Sunday, October 9, 2011

Undermining Mother

Here is an insane rant:

There is nothing in this of any merit, but I am keeping it up.  I am intrigued by how ppl get over dealing with narcissism in their family life.  I think it poisons us.  And I think we find narcissistic spouses and such. It seems to never really leave.

I really cannot write coherently about my family, particularly my mother.  I hate them all so fucking much.  I would have been better of in a foster home.  Better off there than with my twisted, creepy family in our wannabe, but lame as fuck little college town.

At two years from forty, I recognize that my decided anger felt towards my mother--the narcissistic, pretend pretty bag of douche who abandoned me when I was in high school, only to hang on tight to me as a prop, should be settled, at least in some way.  This woman, this emotional leach, this narcissistic sociopath deserves about two moments of time an acknowledgement and then, a deep abiding forgetting.  The mistake I made was hanging on to her desperately when I should have been letting go, when I gave birth to Mr. Z.  I pray now, for a certain closure when she dies.

I think a lot about her fake writing life.  Her memoir classes really, Mom, memoir writing.  I do not know whom or what forces are encouraging her, but they are so ridiculous, that I do not even think they should be stopped.

The problem I have here is her inability to see who she really is. She has a great ability to finesse people, to make them like her.  Thus, yeah, I betcha a pool of unsophisticated, half stupid insecure dim wits will sign up for her hobby-ish classes in her retirement community.  Her experience, is, well, yep, from her classes in teaching interns how to teach elementary school kids.  Her reading life consists of one or two bestsellers a year, and whatever the spiritual book group is reading.  The woman is a lecherous fucking idiot.  My issue is that she somehow believes that she is more talented than me, smarter.  Listen you cunt, you're a manipulator.  Without this tool.  If you went through lie not manipulating and acted as you are--like so many of us do--ppl would see you for what you truly are: an almost attractive bore who has nothing going on except a rich husband.  Your fucking children do not even like you.  You spent yer child support money on Talbots clothing, yer fucking Talbots raincoat, and you could not even buy me a prom dress.  TWATFUCK.


What sucks is the memories I have of the undermining shit she pulled when I was young and vulnerable.  How *many* Woolf book did you read, Little Miss Spoiled's Cornell calls it deconstructionism, what does your university call it?  At least I did not have to drop out of my physical education major b/c they gave me the ugly bathing suit for awkward, tall flat-chested uglies, right?    Listen Twatfuck, Twat's mother did not abandon her.  She is not from a fake middle class background.  Her only harm in life is that her classy, cool dad married a gold digging slut, you.  When your breast cancer comes back, do you understand that I will be happy?  You're a cunt.  You have never been anything else.

You're an ugly, idiot who had to get an ABD to keep up with the conversations around you.  Do you think people do not realize this?  Nobody actually gives a shit about you.  My son is a sweet heart; that is why it seems like he cares.  You steal from people.

I do not have the energy to have a one - sided conversation with a half retarded, douche cunt about her former teaching career.  Get it:  nobody ever really liked you.  Only your vulnerable daughters.  You're a cunt.  I will be glad when you're gone.

Mommy Dearest in the metal hanger scene.