Democracy
Now is doing one of those year
end wrap up shows. I like those. It's interesting
to watch, or listen to them from different sources. It was quite
a year.
It's
probably too much hope to put into a television show
but I watched In
Justice last night with the hope that it might help
to shift ideas about the death penalty. It's not that
good. Basic crime solving and some flirting.
My
opposition to the death penalty isn't about the fact
that there are innocent people on death row. My opposition
is based first a revulsion to the idea of state sponsored
murder. I think it is a dubious notion of closure and
I wonder about the damage done to the doctors and prison
workers involved. Even if they support the idea that
may still suffer psychological damage.
I
thought of another movie I could watch over and over.
The Last
of the Mohicans. I'm not sure why. I wouldn't buy
it or rent it but every time I see it on a movie channel
I end up watching parts if not all of it.
My
New Year eve and day were nice. I had all favorite foods.
Watercress and beet salads. With five perfect scallops
on New Years eve and feta cheese on New Years day. I
had my triplecreams
and chocolate.
A split of champagne
that I bought last year and never drank. My stomach
is starting to speak sharply to me about my dairy and
sugar consumption but my supply is dwindling so I'm
not worried. Back to everything in moderation.
Last
night I saw two commercials in a row. One was for Subway
and their (cough) diet sandwiches and the other was
for Snapple, which I think you can view on their
site. A woman drinking their tea talks about it
making her want to good things for herself and she walks
into the door of gym. It's a rotating door and she comes
right back out. Something about them back to back made
me laugh. We are a kooky culture.
I
went to bed on New Years eve at 11:00 but that was foolish.
My neighbors were partying and the fireworks
are too close to ignore. I woke up and remembered to
say Rabbit
Rabbit for the first time in awhile and tehn went
back to sleep.
There
are fires
and floods
and wars and rumours of wars. It's down right biblical.
It
was a dark and stormy night and then a dark and stormy
day and then a dark and stormy night and then a dark
and stormy day...
I'm
always saying I don't notice the weather and I like
rain but this morning when I walked into the kitchen
and saw sun I felt a sense of relief. I opened every
window in the apartment.
While
I was swimming the other day I saw ominous steel grey
clouds through the west windows and the sun so bright
behind the clouds to the south that the Trans America
pyramid looked like a candle with a bright flame on
top. Today the sun was so bright reflecting off the
water it hurt my eyes.
There's
a fat life guard at the pool. It makes me happy every
time I see her. Yesterday I found out she has been with
park & rec for years and leads water aerobics classes.
She's someone who, if you saw her at a bus stop, you
might think she needs to exercise.
I
was watching her yesterday as she watched someone else
lead a class. She was just so cute. After the class
she talked to the students about a few other movements
the could do. Her calves look so strong.
I'm
having the experience a lot lately in which I see a
fat person and think how nice they look. The other night
I had clicked to Bravo
at a time when the West Wing is usually on and they
were showing a Biggest Loser marathon. I won't watch
the show but it took me a minute to realize what it
was. The opening film for the show is all these images
of the people who are participating and they looked
strong and proud and ...cute.
There's
a commercial for some diet something or other in which
Cher is singing and there are these women of different
sizes all of which are large. The first woman is walking
into a party in a black dress and she looks great except
for the shame she acts out. There is another woman on
a floating mattress in a pool. She's cute. Every time
I see the commercial I marvel.
These
people have the great media machine working to make
them look good. The filters and lights and make up and
all of the mechanics of image making. And they look
... good. I have a hard time wondering why anyone would
want them to look any other way.
Our
life guard doesn't wear makeup. She looks healthy,
happy, engaged. And she's fat. And it's always a difficult
thing to say someone else is fat because I don't use
the word the way other people use it. I'm not sure how
she feels about it. But her presence is seditious to
all the narrow ideas of who we are and how we live and
I appreciate that.
One
night last week, John Stewart opened the Daily Show
by admonishing the news media to leave the families
of the West Virginia miners alone. He said quit asking
them how it feels, it feels terrible. I'm paraphrasing
but that was the gist.
I
thought about it on Sunday when I was listening to NPR.
They did an interview
with a retired miner and his family. I thought that
was a great way of bringing the human story to
the fore without sticking a camera and a microphone
in the face of a grieving family member. It gave me
an opportunity to think about the life of a miner. They
played Coal Miner's Daughter, which seemed inevitable.
It's that whole NPR warm and fuzzy news with sound track
thing.
There
was plenty of maladroit reportage during Katrina. I
remember one news person asking two women who had just
walked through streets waste high with water how they
felt three times. They were tired, dazed, uncertain
where other family members were. Asking them the same
unanswerable question over and over seemed abusive.
I
thought about it all again last night watching scenes
of the funerals in West Virginia on the news. Knowing
that, just like in Katrina, this will be less interesting
news all too soon. The news vans will leave the town
and they will be left with their loss. There will be
some follow up as the search for where to place the
blame continues but the news cycle will move on to the
next big event.
There's
a tightrope to walk between voyeurism and the human
story. We need to bear witness for one another. People
need to tell their story. It's not east to navigate.
It's not easy to be protect people's dignity and still
give them air time. I keep thinking there will be a
movie of the week soon. Everything becomes fodder for
production.
Some
of the news footage last night was the cars full of
coal leaving the yard. Some of which may have been mined
by men now gone. Production will go on and, of course,
it should. It was footage that could illicit the complex
emotion we experience when things like this happen more
effectively perhaps than zooming in on weeping mourners.
Many,
many months ago I had coffee with Stephen
and sat in rapt attention while he told me about his
belief that JT Leroy was a fabrication. I didn't know
who JT was, had never read him and would not have cared
if it hadn't been Stephen talking.
His
article came out in The
New York magazine some time later. It's a great
read. The depth of the research is profound; the writing is
astute and the conclusion is thoughtful. Stephen always
asks the right questions.
And perhaps no other culture has valued the contrived happy ending as
much as ours. For all its abuse and kinky sex, the JT story is really
just another heartwarming rags-to-riches tale for the punk generation.
But what if America isn’t really the sort of place where a street
urchin can charm his way to the top, through diligence and talent; what
if instead it’s the sort of place where heartwarming stories of abused
children who triumph through adversity are made up and marketed?
This
morning I was doing the job search thing and noticed
that the SFGate
culture blog had a link to other articles about
the JT hoax in which Stephen's article is referenced.
If you're interested in the unmasking of a hoaxster
it's all good reading.
I
am not generally interested in these kinds of things.
I just don't care about people and their identity games.
It is really the intelligence with which Stephen writes
that pulls me in. In a
statement on his web site about it all Stephen writes:
While I am not a fan of JT’s work, Laura’s is more interesting. The
hoax was brilliant and complex, and her understanding of human nature
is obviously intense. While there are certainly ethical issues with the
way "JT" has manipulated people, my primary ethical issue with Laura’s
behavior is that she worked so hard at maintaining her fiction. Her
story is so much more interesting than JT’s, and the hoax needed to be
revealed in order for the rest of us to ask the really important
questions about what we want to believe and why, what we project onto
"outsiders", and the magical aura we grant celebrities. Laura has
simply taken the values of the literary world, the entertainment
industry, and America as a whole, and lived them deeply.
That
is the real real.
And
also, people
got hurt. People who believed and acted in good
faith. Their literary taste may be suspect but their
support was real. Which isn't to say that the hoax isn't
a bit dazzling and full of complex issues.
Sometimes
it does seem as if it's all done with mirrors.
I
woke up yesterday morning and flipped the switch on
the radio six or seven times before it occurred to me
to look at other electrical things and see if they were
working. Sure enough the clock on the VCR wasn't on.
I turned in circles like a lost soul for a few minutes.
Then
I went to the kitchen, put the water on for tea and
the water on for oatmeal. Got a muffin out of the
refrigerator, walked over and put it in the toaster
oven. Pushed the button.
Slow
learner.
I
got breakfast together and replaced the battery in the
AM only transistor radio. Found a radio station that
gave the time out often but the talk host was going
on and on about the cost of stamps. On and on and on.
When
it was time to swim I walked up to the pool. They had
no electricity either and couldn't get in. Plus they
couldn't let us swim without the pumps. I talked for
awhile with the rest of the waiting swimmers and then
went back home. At two I got power. I went to the pool
at 2:30 and they still didn't have power but I waited
a few minutes and it came on so I was able to swim.
Tuesday
night Deb had taken me to see Fran
Lebowitz. She was wonderful. She is just so ...who
she is.
Someone asked her about
the James
Frey problem and she mentioned JT, noting that it
was front
page in the news SF paper because apparently "there
was nothing else going on in the world." And when
explaining the issue about Frey to anyone in the audience
who might not know she summed it up by saying in
the most droll tone, "Writers make things up."
Indeed.
I
think it's problematic that these two stories are being talked
about under the heading of fake writers. There's a difference
between exaggerating jail time you may or may not have
done and building a cult around an imaginary person.
It may be an oranges and tangerines difference but it
is different. I haven't read Frey but people who I admire
have and liked the writing. I don't know the details
about what he did or did not write and I don't think
it makes him a fake writer. He is the person he claims
to be even if he lied about the details. He isn't a
woman writing as a young boy.
A
favorite writer of mine wrote about her own elaboration
in her memoir, which I did read and loved and was not
at all disappointed to find out that it was composed
and not reported.
I, a memoirist who composed (composed, mind you, not invented) a
narrative drawn entirely from the materials of my own experience, am
being compared to a psychopath who invented a memoir of testament out
of whole cloth [Binjamin Wilkomirski]; a historian who is accused of
incorporating other people's work into her own without attribution
[Doris Goodwin]; and a dishonest newspaper reporter who made up
interviews in the New York Times [Jayson Blair]. It seems to me that
these analogies are proof, if proof be needed, that memoir writing is a
genre still in need of an informed readership.
Fran
talked also about politics and reading and writing.
She is acerbic and charming in equal measure. I
laughed until my ribs began to ache.
And
perhaps that's why, when I woke up and nothing worked
I didn't quite get it. My head was still full of Fran.
Today the radio works, the computer is on and I suspect
I will be able to heat my muffin. Drama comes and goes.
I
watched Kinsey
yesterday and was surprised by my reaction. I cried
at the end. I was moved by the story. It is a movie
and perhaps sentimentalized but it hit me in the heart.
Kinsey,
in the movie, is devoted to scientific methodology.
His interest in sex is a reaction to a dearth of information
and an abundance of superstition. He does what he is
trained to do. He gathers data. When the data is about
men it is fairly well received. When it is about
women things don't go as well. His wife tells him that
people do not want to think of their mothers and daughters
and sisters as sexual beings.
I
was moved by his commitment and his compassion. I was
moved by his understanding of people and his inability
to relate. It is a human story. Full of conflict.
I
watched the movie in the afternoon and during the evening
saw a few bits of news. Some controversy about
Intelligent Design. Some controversy over condom distribution.
I wondered what Kinsey might say.
Why
does it feel like we want to go backwards? Why do
we want less information? Why do we cling to ideas and
not information?
I
cried in the end because of the relationship with his
wife. In the movie she is the perfect person for him.
I'm not sure he was as perfect for her. She
seemed to be in service to his work. And yet they
were two minds, two hearts and two bodies completely
engaged with one another. Which may be because it is
a movie but ... it worked for me.
This
morning was the first day that the pool was open at 6:15.
I've been looking forward to it. I love being out at
that hour. The city is quiet. The noises that are normally
background sound are distinct. The buzz of street lamps.
An occasional car.
Somehow
the darkness made being in the pool feel exotic. I thought
I'd be alone but there were a few others. The life guards
leaned against the wall and chatted.
It's
a great way to start the day.
Dru
passed me a meme. At first I thought it overlapped the
one Maria gave me but not really. Except the movie
part, which I never really answered.
Seven Things To Do Before I Die:
1:
Be gainfully employed.
2:
See my book in print.
3:
Read a gazillion books.
4:
Write.
5:Paint.
6:Talk
to my friends.
7:Swim.
Seven Things I Can't Do:
1:Math
2:Sports
3:Drive
4:Drink
and smoke like I could when I was younger.
5:Fill
in forms. (Really. I never get them right.)
6:Take
tests
7:
Seven Things That Attract Me To Blogging:
1:The
people.
2:Writing
3:Reading
4:The
newness of it. (Then.)
5:Having
time.
6:
7:
Seven Things I Say Most Often:
1:At
the end of the day...
2:It's just
not that simple.
3:Yes.
4:No.
5:I
understand.
6:Expletives.
(All of them)
7:The
thing is...
Seven Books That I Love:
1:Fugitive
Pieces
2:Let
Us Now Praise Famous Men
3:The
Year of Magical Thinking
4:Mother
Millett
5:Shikasta
6:People's
History of the United States
7:White
Collar
Seven Movies I Watch Again and Again:
1:Wings
of Desire
2:The
Last of the Mohicans
3:Corrina
Corrina
4:The
Station Agent
5:Mindwalk
6:
7:
That's
the best I can do.
I
don't really watch movies over and over but the ones
I listed are ones I either could watch again or have
found myself caught up in when they're in rotation on
the tube. Oddly, I can watch any episode of the West
Wing over and over.
I'm
sure there are way more things I can't do but I couldn't
think of anything. I could think of lots I didn't want
to do.
I
wish I had better ideas for the future but, right now,
I'm just happy if I have a book and the pool.
I
never pass these things but if you do it let me know.
So
there we are, a few of us, standing at the door of the
pool, waiting for the nice lifeguard to unlock it and
as each new person comes up they tug on the door. I
find things like that amusing. Did we all look like
people who would not have checked the door?
I
don't think stuff like that is conscious. You're going
to the pool. You just walk to the door. We could be
loitering. You may not even notice us at all.
It's
funny that they keep the door locked. There are locks
on all the doors inside the small lobby. Locks and locks
and locks. Inside there are lockers with locks.
My
first thought of the morning was ... just don't get
bummed out. I got up and tiptoed into the day. Mid morning
I had a discussion with someone that felt terrible and
I felt myself split into two. Part of me was reacting
and the other part was holding on to the first edict
of the day.
The
rest of the day was a waste. I neither got bummed out
nor avoided it. I stayed in a kind of spaced out tension.
It wasn't all bad. I also had some nice conversation.
I just didn't get anything done. I might have been better
off being bummed out.
A
man brings his wife a plant as a wedding gift. He forgets
to bring the bug that keeps the plant growth in check.
The plant takes over a lake creating stagnant water,
a breeding ground for illness and making fishing difficult.
Smart
science guy figures out how to bring the bug and
balance
is returned.
Wolves
in and around Yellow Stone are hunted into distinction.
Plant life along the river gets sparse and tress stop
growing. It seems that the wolves kept the elk on the
run. The elk are now grazing away. Smart
science guy brings back the wolves. Which is good
except for the local ranchers are worried about their
livestock.
There
was never an all good news story. If there was a take
home message it was about balance. And balance isn't
a steady state. It's an on going process. Things go
wrong. Things get fixed. Other stuff goes wrong. Now
we hafta fix it.
I
flubbed the process. In a way. My effort to maintain
balance was really a frozen stance. I have a Scarlet
O'Hara feeling about it. There is always tomorrow. And
I am trying to not get bummed out about having wasted
a day trying not to get bummed out.
When
I play the Sims I queue up actions for each character.
The goal is to get them to do things in the most efficient
way possible. After I play I think about the order
in which I do things. For example...
I
make muffins from the Cheese
Board Collective book so often I can make them by
rote. I get the 3/4 white flour and 3/4 whole wheat
flour from the cupboard above my sink. And the 2/4 cups
of bran. Then I get 1 teaspoon of baking soda and 1/2
teaspoon of salt from the cupboard beside the sink.
Then I get 2/4 cups of oatmeal from the cupboard above
the stove. (This is actually different from the recipe.
I think it calls for bran cereal.) Then I get 2/4 cups
of wheat germ from the refrigerator. All the while I'm
moving in a circle around the butcher block in the center
of the kitchen putting all this into a big bowl. Last
is 3/4 cups chopped walnuts from the bag in the bowl
at the end of the butcher block.
Then
I take two eggs and a cup of milk from the refrigerator
and put them into another bowl, go back around to the
cupboard beside the sink, add 3/4 cups of molasses and
a 1/3 of a cup of canola oil from the table beside the
stove. Last thing is 1/2 a cup of water. Mix the wet,
mix the dry, mix them together and let it sit for 15
minutes during which I clean up the dishes and butter
up the muffin tins.
It's
really very organized when it works. But if I forget
a step I feel like a duff. The whole time I'm feel
like I'm clicking myself through a queue. Just like
in the game things interfere with my groove. The phone
rings. I unexpectedly need to go to the bathroom. I
forget something. Just like a Sim.
Bake
them for 350 till their done. Try not to forget they're
in the over.
Between
my dreams and noises in the neighborhood I woke up about
a zillion times last night.
I
watched Phantom.
I've seen it in the theater twice. The movie was pretty
good. There was only one scene that I thought was too
much movie magic.
The
story works into my own bad psychology. The moment when
Christine kisses the phantom stops my heart. But she
choose away from the compulsive love. The swooning love.
The love that relies on need. She chooses toward an
average life. A more simple love. She breaks the spell
she had been under since the loss of her father. In
one way of looking at it she chooses mental health.
I want to make that choice.
But
the phantom is lost to her choice. He remains the unlovable,
consumed by rage and aloneness. I know that loving someone
to save them is not ... well. Not whole. But I am also
that phantom/angel in need of healing.
And
in that one moment, in that kiss, there is the possibility
of something unusual. But then she rides off in the
boat with the cute guy. It makes me weep. I wanted to
watch the movie again, just for that kiss. Even knowing
that the next moment will come.
So
the movie stirred up my stuff and my dreams were troubled
and repetitive. I never slept deeply enough to not be
startled by the noises that I usually ignore. Now it's
time to go to bed and I'm so tired. But still working
on that knot in my heart.
I
saw James
Frey on Oprah. I almost wrote a post about it then
but thought the whole thing was better left behind.
I'd already made my
somewhat ho hum comment on the whole thing. And
then, last night, I caught a
snarky piece on Dateline in which bloggers were
credited with not letting the (cough) issue die. And
now I wish I were a more popular blogger because I really
want in on this conversation.
Frey,
on Oprah, seemed contrite, shaken and miserable. Oprah
was in full moral outrage mode. Only moments ago he
was the WRITER who kept her up all night and now he
is the man who conned her.
I
haven't read the book. I thought I would someday but
I was in no rush. I will definitely read it now. I will
read in defiance of the sanctimonious
experts Oprah had on to help her in her public scolding
of Frey. Idiots.
I
wish I had documented how many times in my MFA program
I was told to make up details so that my story was more
readable. No one said to make up content but an imagined
conversation or description was just good writing. Everything
in my book is as I remember it but I added colors and
conversations and details that I don't remember. I amalgamated
characters. Everything I wrote is in service to why
I wrote about my life. I imagine that what Frey wrote
was in service to what he was trying to say.
Memoir
is not autobiography. It is memory. It's intellectually
dishonest to image that we remember things the way that
they were. We remember them through filters. We make
meaning. Memoir is in service to that dreamy state of
meaning making out of something that happened. We may
exaggerate and embellish to come up with the meaning
we want to convey. But we are not intending to be journalists
when we write memoir. We are saying - this is how I
remember it. We are telling a story.
Perhaps
Frey stepped over the line. I honestly don't care.
Oprah's final
word was about the truth mattering. It most certainly
does. And in memoir you are reading the truth as it
is remembered by someone with something to say. Most
people add details to things when they are trying to
make a point. Frey added some experience. OK. What ever.
When I read about his root canal I will now know that
it isn't true. But will his story of what it is to be
an addict feel true? It seems to have felt that way
to a good many people. It felt that way to Oprah.
Now
that this man has been properly scolded we can let it
go. But now, I don't want to let it go. Now that
publishing houses are being told to hire fact checkers
for memoirs I don't want to let it go. I think what
Stephen
said about the much more interesting JT hoax applies.
Frey also took some cues from the entertainment industry.
He added a scene or two for when they make the movie.
He did some chest thumping. The really important question
is about what and why we want to believe.
More
than once I have heard the question - why didn't he
just write is as a fiction? I'm not sure why he did
what he did but, for me, memoir is story that comes
from the bones of personal experience. It need to feel
owned.
Dorothy
Allison said something interesting about story telling.
It's tricky. It's troubling sometimes. I expected it. I always expected
it. From the moment I made the decision to write about incest—I figured,
"Okay, big trouble. They are all going to make extensive assumptions. Even
more than I'll give them in the work." And then there is always the issue
of who else gets revealed in the writing, family members and lovers. For me,
I always knew that I was writing stories and taking it away from writing autobiography.
I don't think I'm capable of writing autobiography. Even in the memoir, Two
or Three Things, it's not really a memoir. It's a theory piece about storytelling
in which I retell stories and then research some of them and come to the conclusion
that it's almost impossible to ever find out what's true in my family. Story
telling is something we all do, in response to different situations. The problem
is that I find sometimes it's as if the work or the craft of what I do, disappears,
"Oh, you're just telling what happened." And then there's the back
of my brain that gets testy and thinks it's all about class. If a rich person
tells about their Boston Brahmin family, the craft of it is emphasized. But
when poor white trash talks about violence and rape and lesbianism, she's just
telling stories. (more)
What
does it mean to be capable of writing about your life
with the level of "truth" needed to call it
autobiography? What Dorothy seems to understand is
that how we talk about out lives is a response. And
what about the craft of writing? Memoir and autobiography
are different forms.
As
I write this I am listening to the Alito confirmation
debate in the Senate. Which, I must say, makes writing
about notions of the truth feel just a little surreal.