(still) crazy like a loon

"I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo."

from The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath

I've said this before; I'll say it again. Sylvia Plath is one of my favorite poets. The brilliance of her poetry is blinding in a very unsettling way; it's as if she has caught me naked in the vastness of my parched, cracked desert, sitting spread-eagle, under a cloudlessly hot indigo sky. She also wrote some startling prose. As I struggle to write a collection of short stories, stories which I hope will eventually become the wellspring of a memoir, I re-read her novel, The Bell Jar, for inspiration. Why do I relate?

When I was eighteen and lost (oh, hell, who am I trying to fool? I'm still lost), I went to a career placement center for women. They were going to help me get a good job, and they were going to teach me the things I needed to know: how to dress properly, the finer points of office etiquette, typing proficiency, and all the other things necessary for becoming a good secretary. Of course, I would have to work my way up to that, but receptionist jobs are very respectable, too, they assured me. I told them what I really wanted to learn was how to become a waitress. They couldn't help me.

Now I want to be a writer. I'm still looking for help.

I like to read startling books, no, I require startling books, when I need a nudge. The glass on my bell jar has cracked; it's too late to go back now. But how to proceed? I am new at all this; I haven't a clue what I'm doing. I am writing a memoir because I need to write it; I need an exorcism. Maybe what I write will be shit, I don't know. Or maybe I'll be the next Sylvia Plath.

Sylvia scares me. Which is exactly why I am so enchantingly lured, into her dark and intensely pulsating embrace. I was hoping that what I read would prod my brain to remember--to feel what I long ago embalmed in the bowels of my soul. I am at a loss to find the memories that have poisoned the very red of my marrow. Perhaps it is too late. Perhaps the demons of my pain have already killed me. Perhaps I will be unable to purge this fetid miasma from my belly. Perhaps I am indeed, nothing more than a still and empty hole in the eye of the tornado that I have created.

Welcome to my neighborhood

photo source: www.oddee.com

See more unfortunate towns: http://tinyurl.com/l9a9oj

Hulloo, everyone, I've missed you. I have been busy, though. I have written the first chapter of the memoir, and the book outline. Not quite ready to look for an agent, though. Soon, soon. Chapter one came out quite nicely; I will post a little excerpt for you later when I get it polished enough. I started chapter nine, too, I know, I know, I'm all out of order. But, um, duh. News flash: that's my life. All out of order. You'll just have to read the book, yo. Or visit my memoir blog for random updates: http://beautiful-blue-butterfly.blogspot.com/

In the meanwhile, I'm just trying to stay cool in this lovely California heat and pondering the tumbleweeds that got stuck in my belly button after the last winds. August...dog days. My ass is still fat, but I can't afford to buy a new swimsuit anyway, so what the heck? Took a nice little hiatus from the blog-thing in July. This is good to do every once in a while. People, you need to remember you are not virtual, you are still flesh and blood, well, most people are anyway. And besides, go take a look at the title of my blog. Keyword: random. That's me. D'ya think? Stay cool.

Oh, one more thing. I just got one of my flash fiction stories published in the August issue of poeticdiversity ezine, check it out here: http://www.poeticdiversity.org/main/index.php. You'll find me in the "prose" section. Cheers.

crazy like a loon

"I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo."

from The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath is one of my favorite poets. The brilliance of her poetry is blinding in a very unsettling way; it's as if she has caught me naked in the vastness of my parched, cracked desert, sitting spread-eagle, under a cloudlessly hot indigo sky. As I struggle to write a collection of short stories, stories which I hope will eventually become the wellspring of a memoir, I am starting her novel, The Bell Jar, for inspiration. I like to read powerful books, no, I require powerful books, when I need a nudge.

I am new at all this; I haven't a clue what I'm doing. I am writing this memoir because I need to write it; I need an exorcism. Maybe what I write will be shit, I don't know. Or maybe I'll be the next Sylvia Plath.

Sylvia scares me. Which is exactly why I am so enchantingly lured, into her dark and intensely pulsating embrace. I hope that what I read will prod my brain to remember, to feel what I long ago embalmed in the bowels of my soul. I am at a loss to find the memories that have poisoned the very red of my marrow. Perhaps it is too late. Perhaps the demons of my pain have already killed me. Perhaps I will be unable to purge this fetid miasma from my belly. Perhaps I am indeed, nothing more than a still and empty hole in the eye of the tornado that I have created.

bloggity bloggity

Well, I've done it. I promised you I would post the rest of my story yesterday and I didn't. (I forgot to tell you that I'm a flake, on top of the random smartassness I told you about earlier.) Sadly, I pretty much forgot what it was I was going to finish telling you. (See January 14's post.) Besides the fact that I am back in school, trying to act like a writer, and trying not to act like a loser. Some have argued that I shouldn't have even enrolled in any classes, since I couldn't even afford to put food in my mouth, but I argued back -- why not?, since I am miserable in my career path, currently unemployed, and apparently unemployable; why not go back and finish the degree that I started twenty years ago?! Why not tap into my share of all those tax dollars I paid for so many years, to get my education? Besides, what's the alternative, getting a job that goes nowhere, as a low-wage worker in an office, somewhere in Obscurity, California ? Hmm, what an encouraging thought. Exile myself into the impassive life of the uneducated bourgeoise. Clearly, I would fit right in.

The truth is, I went out of town this past weekend to celebrate my father's birthday and came back exhausted from the trip. But I haven't been completely unproductive. I started two more blogs. One is just for me (because I'm special!) and the other one I created as a journal of my Big Project. That's right, I have Big Things planned. Besides the amazing short stories and poignant poems I'm writing, I'm writing a memoir, and the working title of it is beautiful blue butterfly. (http://beautiful-blue-butterfly.blogspot.com/) Sounds pretty, doesn't it? And I assure you, it will be a good read, full of lots of juicy details and and dramatic pathos. I'm a study in confusion, an example of how not to mess up your life: a personal trainer and seven-time Ironman Triathlon competitor who can't get rid of her fat-girl mentality, and don't forget the four-eyes and the buck teeth and the frizzy hair. The frizzy hair, of course, coming from the fact that I have one white parent and one black parent. Only unlike one of my more famous brethren, Barack Obama, I don't look very black. (My parents married in 1958, when it was still illegal in several states -- miscegeny, they called it -- and years before MLK gave his famous "I Have a Dream" speech.) The confusion, of course, coming from all this. Oh, but the book will have so much more! Like the depression, the self-destructive behaviors, the foggy-brained wanderings, and the molestation-rape as a little girl. (Got a really cool poem out of that one.) Let's see, what am I forgetting? Oh, yes, the resultant infertility. That's right, my insides are rotting. There's much, much more, but if I told you everything now, then you won't want to read the book. So that's all you get for now. Heh heh.