Even the words for
old hard-to-swallow things grow
slippery with moss.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
So much to read and think about. One needs an editor, an intellectual pre-sifter of clues to what's really going on.
My current favorite such source is The Browser. Check it out.
See also http://frontsection.net/
My current favorite such source is The Browser. Check it out.
See also http://frontsection.net/
I miss my family. They got my sense of humor, and I theirs.
For instance, there was the time when I blacked out a tooth with a Maybelline eyebrow pencil for Halloween and gave my brothers an extra bad case of the giggles. I mean, there I am with several too few teeth naturally in the first place (it's a Dutch genetic thing we have going here) — but then I took it to the meta-joke level. By knocking out yet another tooth, we all got how funny my smile actually was.
Then there was the time when everyone but me got that our (alcoholic) mother had been trying really, really hard to pass for a gringa all her life. In the end, the joke was on me that after my match-making family did the shtick about "Hey, meestah, wanna meet my seestah?" it took me so very long to understand that such shtick was not just appropriate for the southern border. It had always been part of our family life.
But what shall I ever do with the bigotted grandparents on the other side, the paternal army-lifer side?
"Forgive them, chica. They are old people."
No, I cannot. I can love them but I cannot forgive them.
For instance, there was the time when I blacked out a tooth with a Maybelline eyebrow pencil for Halloween and gave my brothers an extra bad case of the giggles. I mean, there I am with several too few teeth naturally in the first place (it's a Dutch genetic thing we have going here) — but then I took it to the meta-joke level. By knocking out yet another tooth, we all got how funny my smile actually was.
Then there was the time when everyone but me got that our (alcoholic) mother had been trying really, really hard to pass for a gringa all her life. In the end, the joke was on me that after my match-making family did the shtick about "Hey, meestah, wanna meet my seestah?" it took me so very long to understand that such shtick was not just appropriate for the southern border. It had always been part of our family life.
But what shall I ever do with the bigotted grandparents on the other side, the paternal army-lifer side?
"Forgive them, chica. They are old people."
No, I cannot. I can love them but I cannot forgive them.
Once upon a time, when my lover died too soon and too suddenly, "I" observed "my mind" play out in story form two scenarios: In the first scenario, he would always be on his way home; in the second, I would never have actually known him.
My observer self weighed the options and "decided" that psychosis would not satisfy the problem the story maker was trying to solve. It looked instead into a mirror and saw its own skull beneath the apparent flesh.
True story.
My observer self weighed the options and "decided" that psychosis would not satisfy the problem the story maker was trying to solve. It looked instead into a mirror and saw its own skull beneath the apparent flesh.
True story.
Friday, September 10, 2010
I wonder if The Curator explicitly understands what I suspect it might, that its essays are well-tuned for novelists' ears.
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