I was trying to decide what I was thankful for. Lots sprang to mind - my health, my work, my friends, my loves, my family...but one idea has been spinning around in my head lately, and I think it wins.
I am most thankful that I am growing older. This will sound strange, no doubt, in a culture dominated by youth-focused advertising, where old age is disregarded or held in contempt and death is a bad word. It's true that my back occasionally aches now (and I'm only 26, so what will it do in ten or twenty years?), and every year I seem to add another five pounds (this trend must halt!), and yet I find that I am also more and more content each year.
Not content in a bored or dull way. My life is still interesting; in fact, it's more interesting than it was five years ago. It can be very intense at times, with emotional highs and lows. I'm glad of that -- I'd never want my life to get dull. Yet I do find that what I can only describe as a framework of perspective is settling down around the rollercoaster of my life (ah, I so love mixing metaphors). It contains it all, so that not only do I know that such-and-such difficult event is not the end of the world -- I feel it too, deep in my bones.
Balance/perspective/a core of calm -- this is very hard to put into words, but I suspect that it's all a function of growing older. Learning what's actually important and what just feels important temporarily. Learning who I am and what I'm willing to fight for. Just learning.
It feels a bit odd to me, because many of my friends hate getting older. They feel like they haven't accomplished as much as they would have liked, or they're not as attractive as they were (especially hard on the unpartnered ones), or that death and nothingness is fast approaching. All true, I suppose, but I feel that the peace and perspective that appear to be settling in as I get older are well worth a couple of silver hairs on my head.
Your mileage may vary, I suppose. And who knows -- maybe I'll feel differently tomorrow, or in five or ten or twenty years. Hard to tell.
7:25 - Home again, home again. E-mail and voice mail and snail mail to sort, writing to do, a brain quite tired. I did want to briefly share with those of you who enjoyed the recent journal entry on hypertext fiction the following:
My friend Jed's recent experience with hypertext fiction, and his friend Misty's take on virtual worlds.
Two more weeks of insanity, and then the semester is over and Kevin is back again for a few days and then I go to NY, CT, and Chicago for a month. Things may get a little crazy around here...
Today started slow, with breakfast and chatting, but now it's afternoon and time to work. I'm finding that I wish I'd brought more work with me -- I'm being surprisingly efficient, and the schoolwork I've brought is almost entirely done, which means that I'll soon be starting at the blank pages of my new book, which is a little terrifying. (I've got about 8500 words so far, about 4500 of which I'm really happy with. Some of the rest may get chopped or simply taken out). Soon I will have to stop simply spewing material and start thinking about coherence, overall themes, etc. This one is going to be (I hope) more than a simple collection of short stories. We'll see how it goes...
Tonight, dinner with my aunt, assuming I can get ahold of her. Then probably tomorrow say goodbye to Kevin at some point and head back up to Oakland -- my high school English teacher is visiting the Bay Area for the holiday, and I'd really like to get in touch with her.
Anyway, I'm just babbling and procrastinating now. Until tomorrow...
The radio show went very well; Matt and Angelina were the hosts and were very skilled at creating a friendly atmosphere and drawing out their guests. I said more than I probably intended to about my own love life (one of their primary interests), but what can you do? They have a web page, so at some point, they may put up a RealAudio version of the interview, so y'all could get all the juicy details if you didn't happen to be listening in Hawaii last night...
More importantly, I finally revised "Interruptions". I've been dreading doing it for months, literally, and the only thing that got me off my butt is that yesterday Joy, one of my colleagues at Mills, was kind enough to give me a copy of the Stegner Fellowship (a fully-supported program at Stanford, yum) application, which requires some manuscript. I wanted to send in "Interruptions", but given that I had piles of critiques on it, it seemed idiotic to not at least try to revise it. And as usual, once I was actually sitting down and doing it, it went much more smoothly than I expected. I'm still not sure the story is perfect (it's so autobiographical that I feel in some ways I can't write it properly until I've gotten more distance/perspective) but it's certainly much better. Hooray... I'll send out a copy of the revised version to the list of first readers, in case you're curious. I'm not sure if I've sent you guys earlier versions. As usual, if you're not on the list and want to be, holler.
I was really in pretty bad shape last week. Some financial problems looming over me (they still are, actually, but they seem more cope-able with now), and this vast pile of work, a veritable mountain, it seemed like. Of course, when I stopped completely procrastinating (which I was doing out of sheer terror) and started working on it (which I also did out of sheer terror), produced material started spitting out, and the whole problem suddenly seemed much more manageable. Of course, I'm not sure how the holidays will intervene in my productivity, what with Kevin here and seeing his family and seeing my family (my mom's cousin recently moved out to pretty much the same town Kev's family is in, so I'll be seeing her this Thanksgiving too, which should be fun. She's got an adorable daughter (12ish?) who wants to be a writer. :-) I think her mom is happy with me encouraging her as long as I don't tell her *what* I write). On the other hand, since David left to visit *his* parents for Thanksgiving, I've been more productive (it's much more fun playing Scrabble with David than working, despite the fact that I've only won one of our dozen or more games), so maybe it'll balance out.
With Thanksgiving looming, I have to share a recipe with you. This is my killer savory sweet potato recipe, low-fat and oh so good. It gets pretty much devoured every year. It's hard to believe I found it in a newspaper. Note that it can be prepared today, and refrigerated overnight, saving effort on The Day.
3 large sweet potatoes (or yams) (3 pounds)
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 bunch scallions, finely chopped
2 T butter, divided
2 T vegetable oil
1/3 c. finely chopped walnuts (optional)
2 T soy sauce
pinch of cayenne
1. Microwave (20 min.) or boil (45 min.) sweet potatoes until cooked
through. When cool, peel and thickly slice.
2. Heat 1 T butter and both T vegetable oil. Add walnuts and saute for
about 1 minute, then add garlic and scallions and saute for another
minute.
3. Add sweet potatoes, stirring and tossing with other ingredients (sweet
potatoes will break up into chunks).
4. Stir in soy sauce and pepper.
5. Remove from heat, transfer to baking dish, and smooth top of sweet
potatoes with back of a spoon. Dot with 1 T butter. (NOTE: At this
point, dish can be cooled and refrigerated overnight; bring to room
temperature before baking).
6. Bake in a preheated 350-degree oven for 15-20 minutes, until golden.
Serve warm.
As usual, my access to e-mail while at Kevin's may be rather erratic, so I can't promise to talk to y'all in the next few days. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving if I don't talk to you, and know that I'll be thinking of my fabulous readers at some point during the day.
I quickly realized how much WORK this would be; far more than a traditional story. I started with separate pages of writing, then moved to separate linked poems, then moved to single paragraphs on each page. Character remained; unlike Coover, I don't believe that character is in jeopardy. Without character, what remains is mere style; I cannot bring myself to care what is happening unless it is happening to someone. I imagine many readers feel the same. And so I had a woman, confused, moving from section to section (perhaps echoing the confusion of her readers). And the choices of where the readers chose to go, what word caught their attention and led to another section of the story made them not merely readers, but rather collaborators, to the extent that I wished I could easily create the technology to save a record of their journey, of the story they created.
Perhaps they would visit each page in as rigid an order as they could create. Perhaps they would check back often to their primary page, moving on only when it was exhausted of linking words. Perhaps they would return to a page that moved them, reading it over and over and over again, utterly disregarding links that did not appeal, words that did not move them. There is so much to consider, when you cannot ensure that the reader will ever even glance at the entire work. Each page must stand on its own, and with every other random (?) assortment of pages. A gargantuan task, and I must admit that after some weeks of work on it, I set it aside. I hope to return to it again.
There are many such spaces, scattered around the net. FurryMuck, PernMush, Holomuck, etc. They often have themes - FurryMuck, for example, focuses on anthropomophic animals. The humans who log in there take on the personas of intelligent dragons, or cat people, or samurai cockroaches. They create alternative lives there, interactive conversations, games, quests, sex acts, stories. Is all of this fiction? It's certainly writing.
Some mucks are highly organized, based around a theme and with rigid guidelines to prevent magic in a science fictional world, or humans in a dragons-only space. They preserve the fictional dream. Often players will create long, elaborate dramas, where staying in character is an essential element. Some players prefer to create no persona at all; playing themselves in a fictional space (imagine yourself transported to Oz -- how would you act?).
Some mucks are not organized at all. A chaos of different interpretations collides, and Luke Skywalker may walk into a modern office building and have a conversation with a dragon and a bartender. Some players/writers thrive in such a postmodern chaos; others run screaming.
The Mushes are somewhat different. The structure is pre-built, and the players go simply to role-play a story. Often the stories span weeks or months, and they sometimes operate in a compressed time, so a single player can live through generations of characters. PernMush is based on the novels of Anne McCaffrey, and her invented world of Pern. The players can pretend to live inside that world, to be dragonriders and sailors on a sea underneath the Red Star -- they can write their stories there.
Holomuck is one where I have written and played. I have little interest in role-playing, but I have built (described) cathedrals and whorehouses, deserts and weapons shops, and recreated all of Narnia, with a quest besides. 'This is all mere setting', you may cry. 'There is no story here'. Yet when a character goes on a quest, they must have options, choices. A structure emerges as you create those choices -- what happens if they lift the green handle, or turn the red knob? Events occur, and suddenly we have plot -- and character as well, for what they choose to do is determined by the kind of person they are, and a character emerges, though it is not written by myself or the player. Again, is this fiction?
Now people are talking of creating graphic-interface mucks, where the participants can click and drag the elements of their story, telling a tale with no real writing at all; simply a series of pictures, or pre-written text. Yet the choices are surely still what makes the story; as long as we do not succumb to randomness, are we not still creating a work of art?
Do I think it will supplant the book, the novel? Oh, no. Human beings desire closure; they strive for answers, decisions. While hypertext can contain little closed stories within it (and often does), at heart it is so open, that to me it seems of more value in its exploration of possibilities than its potential for finished work. Hypertext is exciting, but it is also exhausting. It has the potential to demand an exponentially greater expenditure of thought and energy and writing from its authors, and a greater expenditure of creativity and collaboration from its readers/participants. It tends to be a high energy art form, and as such, I think it will carve out its own space in the world of art/literature, but will neither supplant nor stifle the world of the written book.
What is the purpose of story, after all? Is it to lose the reader in the fictional world you've created, to let them identify with your alluring characters and imagine themselves in their place? Almost all the time, yes, and I think this is what J was talking about. For the vast majority of stories, anything that pulls you out of the story and reminds you that you're you and not the protagonist (or antagonist, etc.) is probably a problem. You're weaving a spell, a bedazzlement, and a sudden intrusion of the reader into that illusion is as jarring as seeing the little strings up a magician's sleeve.
But metafiction is all about showing the reader the strings. To quote John Gardner's Art of Fiction (which, if you're interested, covers all this in far more depth than I do here), metafiction "means fiction that, both in style and theme, investigates fiction" (86). He goes on to say that "conventional fiction can be an instrument for examining the world; and, like any humanly devised instrument, it can malfunction. Like a faulty microscope or telescope, it can persuade us of things that are not true" (86). This is a subject that deeply interests me. I write stories that are almost pure propaganda at times, such as "Morningsong" (a blowjob story where you don't find until the last lines that the participants are two men). In this sort of story I especially am looking to persuade, to even trick the reader. Anything that throws the reader out of the illusion will destroy my story. That's fine for propaganda. It's even fine for most stories; I might not care if most of my stories give readers a slightly skewed view of the world. If I'm not aiming to educate, then I don't need to be utterly careful and precise in my use of the tools; I don't need to worry about whether I've twisted things a bit. (I might worry about it anyway, but sometimes, in conventional fiction, it's hard to avoid a bias).
What metafiction does is basically say to the reader, 'I know I have biases; I know I can trick you, and in this story I don't want to trick you. I want you to look clearly and critically at what I'm saying in this story, at the world I'm representing. To make that easier for you, I'm going to show you the strings of the magician, I'm going to bare the bones of the story so you're not too distracted.' Of course, this can backfire. Perhaps the largest danger is that showing the strings will distract the reader; after all, they're not used to seeing them. Metafiction can seem overly difficult, complex, even boring. A reader may be thinking 'I don't *want* to see the strings; I want to fall into the story'. You've probably lost that reader, and there's honestly not much you can do about it. Metafiction is not every reader's cup of tea. "Human beings can hardly move without models for their behavior, and from the beginning of time, in all probability, we have known no greater purveyor of models than story-telling" (86). He gives a wonderful long example here, going on to say, "Nothing in the world has greater power to enslave than does fiction."
I was concerned about the fictional dream when I wrote "Mint in Your Throat" (note: I don't mind critique and commentary on how well I achieved or didn't achieve all of this in this story, btw. There's always more to learn...). I was dealing with a problematic issue, the problem of arousal in rape, and I strongly did not want to persuade. I wanted to examine, and to have the reader examine along with me. I was aiming at something of a target audience; people who either knew about the disturbing prevalance of an arousal reaction in rape victims or were willing to believe in it without having seen the (overwhelming) statistics. I took the chance that I might lose some people, that without the help of the convincing fictional dream, some people would be so caught on their disbelief that the story would fail utterly for them. I could have avoided that by writing a persuasive story in first person, or even third -- but I would have felt that I was doing my readers a disservice. I wanted them to stop, pause, perhaps even be shocked when my protagonist went to bed with her roommate after the rape; in metafiction "the breaks in the dream are as important as the dream". (87) Again, Gardner illustrates his point with helpful examples.
I was writing a piece which invited the reader to examine her assumptions and values. It was in some sense half essay and half story, or an essay told in story form. It was certainly not the traditional story. There are people who would excommunicate metafiction from the realm of story, and indeed, perhaps it is a different beastie entirely. Yet I think it is useful, and interesting, and shows a certain respect for the intelligence of the reader that I appreciate. There are times when I want to be a dazzling magician on the stage, listening to the audience 'ooh' and 'ah'; there are other times when I want to invite a colleague into my parlor, and show him how the tricks work, and ask what he thinks of it all. There's a certain relinquishment of authority going on then, which is very in keeping with modern literary theory (and academic theory in general), and it appeals to me.
A funny thing happened at Thida's party last night (a great party by the way, where I talked to a lot of interesting people). I will attempt to protect the names of the guilty, so let's imagine there's couple XY (a male and female pair, of course) and single female Z. Now single female Z is recently out of a relationship and looking. And couple XY is cheerfully bi/poly and enjoys finding cuddly people to share their bed (and may actually be looking for a third long-term partner; I'm not sure on that score). ANYWAY, the point is that Z told me at the party that X was really cute; and X told me that Z was really cute; and Y told me that Z was really cute; so when Z told X that she thought Y was really cute, it was clear that there was mutual interest and attraction all around. Of course, it was only clear to me, so I took on a matchmaker role and spilled the beans all around, and then retired from the field, leaving carnage behind me. Well, embarrassment, at any rate. I can be a dangerous friend. :-)
Anyway, I got mail from X this morning basically saying I was a terrible troublemaker and that they had a date with Z now that they were really looking forward to. :-)
Which all makes me think that the position of matchmaker is sadly lacking in our society these days. There are tons, literally tons of people I know who are looking for partners. Some are looking for friendly fun, some are looking for romance, some are looking for long-term partners, some are looking for marriage, kids, and the dog in the backyard. A good matchmaker could be invaluable here. She would keep lists, and take notes, and people could openly come to her and say "I'm looking". And they could tell her what they were looking for, and she (or he, certainly) could say, "With your looks and no job, you can afford to be that picky?" Maybe knock some sense into people's heads, and open their eyes to what's right next door. Or introduce them to somebody they'd never have run into otherwise, but who would be just perfect for them, if they only gave him a chance.
Oh, newspapers and alt.personals try to fill the function, but it's not the same as a woman who *knows* you're a neatnik and would just lose it if your prospective put her glass down on your nice table without a coaster. Or (to translate to modern day) happens to know that you have a secret life as a professional domme and need a partner who can cope with that side of your personality. She would occasionally even throw parties, where couples and triples and singles etc could mingle, and she'd huddle with the very settled folk and say "So what do you think of Johnny for our Mike and Steve? Such a cute triple they'd make...and Johnny so good with Mike's little ones..."
I don't think you could make it a job, as such, but ritualized gift giving would be a nice exchange. A dinner now and then; maybe on your anniversary you could send flowers to the one who brought you two together. That would be nice. Hmmm....maybe if I ever settle in one place for good, I'll start advertising my services. Just to friends, of course; the reason this worked in the villages is that the matchmaker knew everybody. So I'd pass the word to my friends, and they could pass it to their friends, and eventually it'd trickle out, and maybe someday someone will call me, saying, "Matchmaker, what do you think of Kathleen for me?" And I'll get to say, "Kathleen? A sweet girl yes, a nice girl yes, and with such a good job designing computer games, who'll notice the two buck teeth and the forgetting to bathe now and then, but Michael, Kathleen is not the girl for you, because Kathleen is a hard-core dyed-in-the-wool lesbian, and I hear she has her eye on Susan Taylor besides. I expect to hear wedding bells any day now from those two. You, what you need is a nice bisexual Jewish girl, the kind you can take home to your mother and then host wild orgies with when you're back in San Francisco. Have you considered Nora, Steven's roommate Nora? Such a nice girl, and in the dark, who'll notice that little problem she has..."
I'm being silly, but really, I think this is important. So many people are so lonely these days; I think there's one thing the Religious Right does have right -- family is important. I just think their definitions of family are a little too narrow for my tastes.
But e-mail got me up, the compulsion to see what the world had sent me in my sleep (gods, we have such strong urges towards community/communications -- how I'd survive on a desert island I will never know...). And then I did a little work, and made my tea, and lit a candle (I have a simple votive candle holder; just an upside-down pyramid of deep red glass, propped on a metal tripod, yet it is so beautiful, even with the chip in its side from when I knocked it over in my sleep one night, just lighting it brings me pleasure). And still, I felt grumpy. Grumpy and tired and considering going back to bed, and so I put on some music.
Mush Mix II. A tape a boyfriend (now ex) made for me over six years ago. Songs like Bill Morrissey's "She's That Kind of Mystery", David Roth's "Rising in Love", Sally Fingerett's "Wild Berries". This is the boyfriend who introduced me to Christine Lavin, and there's a lot of her on the tape. A lot of mushy songs from musicals, because I like them, including "Is It Okay if I Call You Mine?", from Fame, which breaks my heart every time I hear it 'cause I can't help remembering that scene in the movie. I'm listening to this tape now and I'm feeling better, much better. The point of all this is not that music has charms to soothe the savage breast -- I know you knew that.
The point is rather how glad I am that a tape made by a boyfriend with whom I had a horribly messy breakup (pretty much entirely my fault, too) can make me so happy. If it calls up memories, they're good ones. I've managed to stay on good terms with pretty much everyone I've dated seriously, and that's important to me. Even casual lovers share a part of you that your best non-carnal friends will never know; it seems important to me that that part remain in the safe-keeping of someone I like and trust. I know people who deliberately walk away from exes, who think they'll be happier if they cut themselves off from someone who caused them pain. Maybe they are. Maybe I've just been lucky that my exes have been people I can still care about, people I can trust. Or maybe I trust too easily -- my father always tells me that. David and Roshani do too. *smile* My friends worry too much.
I try to imagine sometimes what my life would have been like if my parents had stayed in Sri Lanka. I emigrated with them when I was two years old; what if I'd grown up in a village or town or even city in Sri Lanka? My grandfather was a school principal; my father wanted to be a journalist, not a doctor, though he let the family guide him and he's very happy in his work now. But certainly, I would have still read, most probably in three languages. My mother, who left high school to get married, speaks Tamil, Sinhalese and English. I've forgotten most of my Tamil, almost all of my grammar school Polish, and am well on my way to forgetting Spanish. *sigh*
So I would have read, but would I have read science fiction? Maybe a little -- Clarke did settle in Sri Lanka, after all. (If you want to know about it, he wrote beautiful books about the country: The Reefs of Taprobane, A View from Serendip). Science fiction and fantasy shaped so much of whom I am; my ideas about family structure and love came directly from Heinlein; my rather rigid code of honor came straight from King Arthur, and I can't even begin to assess the effects of Frodo and Menolly and L'Engle's Meg and Taran on my developing psyche.
Who I would have been if I'd grown up on that lovely island is probably impossible to determine, or even fairly imagine. Is this rebellious streak ingrained or learned? Would I be even now married, with two children, like my mother at this age? Sri Lankans place a high value on education, and I might well have become a doctor, like my cousin who grew up there; she practices in Canada now, with a husband from an arranged marriage (a very sweet man, who she seems very happy with).
Would I ever have fallen in love with literature? With the joys of deconstruction and new historicism and French feminist critical theory? If my mind had been tangled up in glands and diseases and such instead, would that have been a bad thing? I sometimes think, if I had had a better memory, that I might have been a good doctor. People generally seem to trust me, and I think that would help. Of course, the first time I forgot where the aorta was, I'd probably be in trouble...
Would I even know how to swim? People don't swim in Sri Lanka (a vast generalization, but largely true). That's true for many island cultures, though it seems odd. Perhaps it's because the sea is so clearly vast and powerful -- people are less willing to trifle with it? I don't know. They do wade out into it, and take salt water baths to soothe the mosquito bites.
I'd sleep with a mosquito net over my bed, perhaps with a man who was a stranger when I married him. I'd have a child or two running about. Or perhaps we would have emigrated by that point, like my cousin, but I'd still know how to cook the best curries...
A totally different life. You would never have known me, I think. Even if I had published a paper or two in some obscure medical journal, it seems unlikely that any of you would have run across it. And perhaps I would have flunked out of med school (the way I flunked Calculus my freshman year), and my spouse would be supporting me, and the aunties would shake their head over my fate (ah, what a bright girl she was. If only she'd studied...at least she has the children, but just look at how lazy she is with them...)
I would never have known you. Even if I hadn't stayed there as a child, if my mother had simply sent me to a convent school as she so often threatened to do when I was an unruly teen, would I ever have gotten on-line? That same boyfriend who made me the tape dragged me onto the net in '92, kicking and screaming. What a world I would have missed.
Choices. Paths and diversions. It is of course foolish to try and say that this world is better than that one; that life better than this one. It might have had more security, more money, fewer questions -- or it might not have. I suppose all I'm coming to say is that I'm glad of the life I have, despite the fact that the last few weeks have been overwhelmingly stressful. I've glad of my old lovers, my friends and you, even of that flunked Calculus class.
I may covet Stephen King's income, or Amy Tan's movie rights, or even occasionally that woman from Mississippi Masala's looks. I even admit that in the dark of night I occasionally covet masses of red hair and deep green eyes. And what I wouldn't give to be tall, gorgeous and rich, instead of short, cute and broke... Yet I don't actually want anybody else's life; nobody I can think of, at any rate. Not a bad thought for what started as a grumpy morning.
Thank you, Paul.
I've been thinking about this some more, and I do think John and J have a valid point -- it's easy to mess up both present tense and second person. They're slightly more difficult to handle well than past tense and first or third person, and so may be a bit ambitious for a new writer to attempt. I think it's fair to warn writers of that, just as you might warn them that they're using too much description rather than action ("show, don't tell") or that they're relying on inane conversations between characters to fill in a lot of backstory ("As you know, Bob..."), or that they've got too much history/fact/exposition in one place (infodump).
I'm wandering off the subject. What I'm trying to say is that there's a reason for the 'rules' -- they're there to warn you of traps and pitfalls, so you can try to avoid the mistakes of your forerunners. On the other hand, remember that they're not really rules -- they're guidelines. Any guideline can be broken, and the best stories are often those that break one major rule really really well. (There's a sf story about a writer who sold to a major magazine that published a lot of rules in their guidelines. Each month he'd pick one of their rules and deliberately/flagrantly/beautifully break it. He sold every story to them.)
Of course, then we move to Conrad's practical question of HOW we effectively break the rules. And there is no simple answer, my children, much as I'd like to hand you one (or have one handed to me). One clear path, however, is to read lots of good stories that do break the rules. People ask me where I learned to write, and while I've taken many workshops, they didn't teach me how to write -- they simply refined. I learned (and learn) to write by reading. Learning by osmosis -- it really works, you know. It just takes patience.
Note: two of my stories are in second person, present tense. "Mint in Your Throat" and "Composition in Cream and Chocolate" both use that style, for different purposes and with different effects.
In other news, I have a cough and cold, but I am determined to work today regardless. I have a long list of things to do; if I get through a third of them, I'll be happy. I'm about to have my tea (El thoughtfully brought me chai yesterday, since I'd been complaining about not being able to find any; it was delicious, though I will stick with my Ceylon Breakfast first thing in the morning (do you know about chai? What I'm really referring to is masala (blend of spices) chai (sweet milky tea). Most masala chais are made with ginger or cinnamon or cardamom. The Masala Chai Co. brand actually uses ten different spices (ginger, nutmeg, mace, cinnamon, cloves, coriander, allspice, cardamom, pepper and star anise). Chai in general tends to be more invigorating than regular tea, even when it's a decaf version.)).
7:10. Me again. Well, the radio show was weird. I don't listen to morning rock radio, so I didn't realize how odd it was. Firstly, they forgot to call me. So I didn't actually get on the air until close to 6:30 -- I really hope those of you in Cincinatti hung in there. Secondly, they played rather raucous music over my reading, and chatted a lot. Strange. Also were slightly pushy, but maybe that's a morning dj's job. What do I know? I never listen to the radio...still, they said people were calling in about it (I read "Confession" and part of "Morningsong"), so I guess it was worth doing.
I've almost given up on that Carol Queen interview; she's being really hard to get ahold of. Wonder if I've said/done something to get on her bad side. Maybe she didn't like the column I wrote about her? I thought it was fairly complimentary... Anyway, I've pitched a couple other ideas to Puritan. Jeff's only mildly interested in one of them; an interview with local call girls (a friend of mine just got a job as a phone operator at an escort service). He was pretty into the other idea, though; an erotic weekend in Chicago -- an article that sort of sketches out, with time stamps, what a bored businessman might do with the tail end of his trip to the Windy City. So to speak. I'll probably do one on S.F. as well.
Well, I'm going to go exercise now. Meep. My thigh muscles were *so* sore yesterday that I had trouble walking. Hopefully today will be better. It gets better, right? A couple of people have asked what exactly I'm doing; just what I can do in my own room: stretches, upper and lower crunches, this weird V-exercise that's supposed to tone your thighs (so Roshani tells me anyway; she used to teach aerobics), arm-curls with 5-pound weights (yes, I'm a wimp, I admit it), toe-touches and jumping jacks. Oh, and a couple of girl push-ups. Just barely. So far, not too painful, although the first day I did 100 jumping jacks in a row and made myself exceedingly dizzy. I'm also slightly sick now, but if I let that stop me, I'm afraid I won't start again. Dale noted that he's found that he needs to give himself permission to miss a day now and then; otherwise it's too easy to let one day missed convince you you've failed and you should just give up. Enough procrastinating -- off I go. Pain is a good thing, right?
Note: yesterday, I once again attempted to start an exercise regime. We'll see how well I stick with it. It's a good thing I'm not afraid of failure, 'cause I've failed at this so many times...
My sight is useless. At night, wrapped
in a blanket cocoon, eyes
tight closed, his eyes still bright
before me, plainly visible.
Ears fail me. What I hear
is sweeter than angelsong,
tender as new leaf,
sun kisses.
And touch -- oh, do not speak
of touch. My skin against his
is holy, an incandescent flame,
an incoherence of desire,
thought extinguished.
His scent -- rain in winter;
woodsmoke, rust and ice.
Nothing human.
Speech is worst of all. Listen
to me now; my words are stolen
away, and all I can say
is love.
Love.
Love has rendered me senseless.
So I think they'll remain what they are, an open, ongoing letter to my readers and friends, and hopefully some of you will continue to find something of worth even in the minutiae of my life...and perhaps occasional beauty or deep thought.
It's still early, but I've been up for a while. The rain woke me; pounding hard outside my window. I woke slowly, from a strange dream of murders and book promotions, into a very dark room and thundering. It was cold, yet still warm under the covers, so I reached out and picked up the phone and called Roshani. We talked for an hour, curled in our respective cocoons of blankets -- I'm so glad that Fridays start a little later this semester. Then a long, hot shower, and here I sit drinking my tea in a pale green dress and hiking boots with a dark blue towel piled high on my head; a rather silly sight, but warm and comfortable and happy. The semester is starting to wind up; the end is in sight, and I am so glad. Just a few more things to push through...
Tonight I go to a party at Romantasy; I'm modelling an outfit for them and having dinner with my friend Steve beforehand. That should be fun. Tomorrow, Lydia's children's birthday party (I got them the Harper Hall trilogy, by Anne McCaffrey (hope they don't already have it)) and a lip gloss each (Candy Cane and Bubblegum flavors). I have the odddest feeling that this is remarkably similar to what I gave them last year. Sunday, I catch up on work. (Saturday morning too, I think). Oh, and of course Saturday night is that Cincinnati show. (I now have no idea how to spell that city. Dale corrected me but I didn't keep the correction. Oh well. Apologies to the natives).
Have a good Friday, my dears, and a lovely weekend. The rain has stopped, and the sun is shining down on a new-washed world. Soon Cliff will be awake and I can practice without disturbing him. Roshani tells me it's snowing in Chicago; I'm surprised to find that I miss it, just a little.
9:20. Correction; Cincinnati is Q102, 6 a.m. my time next Wednesday. Saturday night at roughly 10:30 p.m. is Bakersfield, station KGEO. My confusion; sorry.
In other news; observed an undergraduate fiction class this morning; interesting and illuminating. I'm thinking that class observation should be more a part of teacher training here. I'm going shopping with Thida and David, to buy Thida an interview suit and let David and I do our various wholesale dry goods shopping at Costco. I'm practicing today, dammit, and having a guitar lesson (David is progressing quite rapidly in his piano :-) Happy teacher). I'm calling Lisette tonight. I'm wishing I had less work piled up. I'm a little tired. I'm very hungry (I get to go home and eat in half an hour).
I had a really pleasant morning, drinking tea and talking to Roshani in between getting up, grocery store trip, and walking to campus. It was raining, which somehow makes me more visual; the colors are so much more intense. A man jogged by the front of my house, a man with a beautiful back. I'm not generally one for heavy muscles, but imagine this man, short blond hair, slightly wavy, sweatshirt pulled off and tied around his waist, rain falling on his naked, muscled back. The muscles moving and shifting underneath a sheen of water as he runs past; so beautiful. Mmm.... I just caught a glimpse, but it brightened my day; aesthetic appreciation of a beautiful human form. Well, mostly aesthetic.
I was just seeing things this morning, in a way I don't normally notice. Roshani was telling me about how when she lived with her friend Gabrielle, a photographer, Gabrielle would stop as they were walking, stop to take a photo of some strange image, some moment. Normally, the world kind of washes over us, in waves of images and scents and sounds.
That's one reason I love rain. It focuses things. The blather of sound is muffled, so you can concentrate. Light is richer, softer. Even the scent of wet grass and leaves; scents are stronger in the rain. After the rain stopped, I was staring out my window, staring at the black sheet of road. All around were green trees; evergreens and some deciduous plants that were hanging on determinedly to their green. Against the black glistening road was a single crimson maple leaf, sharp-pointed, perfect. I don't know how it got there -- there aren't any maple trees nearby. There was no other red in the view; just greens and browns and black and light, and this simple splotch of autumn red.
Goals for today: Reach Carol Queen about interview; book plane tickets for holidays; do some catch-up work on journals for class. Doesn't sound too bad, huh?
Not much else to say this early in the day -- I haven't even had my tea yet...
Had a good time this evening; the local Clarionites finally got together and we started a monthly critique workshop. That should be helpful, especially since next spring I won't be taking a fiction workshop; I'll be studying creative non-fiction instead, which will hopefully be interesting (I'm not sure what it is, which is probably a good reason to take it. :-)
Anyway, too tired for any deep thoughts tonight. For those of you in Bakersfield, CA or Cincinatti, I'll be having radio interviews there soon. Bakersfield this Saturday night, and Cincinatti next Tuesday or Wednesday morning. Will let y'all know when. Another exciting thing is that someone who writes for the L.A. Times is trying to talk his Features editor into letting him interview me. That would be way cool. :-)
I wonder if other people plan their deaths, their funerals. Weddings, of course; almost every woman I know, including the stolidly anti-marriage, have at least once planned their wedding -- it's hard to avoid, given our culture. But deaths? We don't like to think about death, and yet it's fascinating as well. I know as a teenager I liked to invent horrifying, yet noble, deaths for myself. I would run into a burning building and save thirteen children, yet be trapped myself at the end, and go up in flames, and everyone who knew me would wish they'd been nicer to me. Typical teen fantasy, I imagine. I was not a very popular teen, though I was blessed with a few good friends. These days, I'm hoping to live past a hundred; I imagine it depends on whose genetics I get. All of my grandparents have died, some in their sixties. Two had a version of Alzheimer's, and another had multiple strokes. Not good odds, since I'm twenty-six already -- that leaves me only a little more than half my life. On the other hand, my great-grandmother lived to be past a hundred, in full possession of her faculties. She was the only one in the family to be even close to as short as I am (I'm 5'0"), so I'm crossing my fingers and hoping that I've gotten her longevity genes.
When I do die, I'll definitely be cremated. I'm an organ donor, and I've signed away the rest of the body as well, so the doctors will take whatever they can use, and whatever bits of skin and tissue left will be neatly burned. (Am I upsetting anyone? I know people get distressed by this sort of thing, but I never have, especially not when it applies to me. I tend to be very pragmatic about it.) I hope you're all organ donors. I definitely don't want a funeral. They tend to be morbid affairs (they could hardly help it) and I've been to too many, watched too many people sink in on themselves with grief. Rain may be appropriate for funerals, but I wouldn't want someone I loved to have to cope with following a coffin through the rain on top of missing me. Let the undertakers cope with the details, and when the ashes are safely in their urn, let them return them to my friends, who will hopefully scatter them in a garden or on the sea, rather than keeping them sitting maudlin on their mantelpiece. Or if they must keep them on the mantelpiece, let them tell bad jokes about them, and think fondly, rather than sadly, of me.
And when all the details are taken care of, let there be a wake, with wine and songs and even dancing. Let them make speeches, and cry on each other's shoulders. May no one be alone in their grief unless they wish to be. Let there be laughter along with remembrance. The Greyhaven folks knew how to do it right for Paul. I hope my friends are as kind to themselves.
Do other people think of these things? Is it maudlin, or morbid? I don't think so -- it doesn't depress me. Rather the opposite, in fact; I end up feeling very fond of the people in my life, very protective of them. Perhaps I'll call up my sisters tonight, and make sure they're doing okay. I'll remember my mother's birthday tomorrow. I'll purchase some Christmas presents, and carefully wrap and label them. I'll walk in the rain and think how lucky I am to be loved. After all, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow...
1:15. First, a quote: "Human history becomes more and more a race between education and catastrophe." - H.G. Wells.
Then a recommendation. I just finished an article in Wayne C. Booth's book, The Vocation of a Teacher. I cannot recommend this book too highly (and I say this on the strength of the table of contents and the single essay). He is careful. He is thoughtful. He is eminently readable and entertaining. He says important things, and if you teach at all, especially at the college level, I think you should read this book. I read this article on reserve, and now I'm going to walk over to Amazon.com and see if I can buy the darn book.
The weekend was held at the youth hostel in Sacramento. This was one of the most beautiful buildings I've ever been in, in a lovely town. If you're considering visiting Sacramento, you really should check out the hostels page and sign up for this site - $12/night, and really lovely. You just can't get a better deal. I have to remember to check hostels anytime I'm travelling someplace I don't have friends I can crash with.
I served on a publishing panel, then attended one on writing jobs outside academics, one on teaching jobs, and a final one on good interviewing and reading/presentation techniques. Very interesting all around, and if you're in San Francisco, you really ought to try swinging by Cafe du Norde and listening to Thea Hillman do poetry slams. The woman is amazing, and a good erotica writer as well. Someone to keep an eye on.
7:10. Just a quick note that Screech is up and running again, with two columns by me. Hooray! :-) I spent much of today on the phone (with Roshani and Kevin), and my room is really clean. Didn't get much work done.
Also, a nice review (very short) from Buzz Review #18, an e-mail newsletter:
Erotica is hard to review. People are different. Take a chance and decide for yourself. On any level this is a crowning achievement.
Bz
In other news, today is busy and crazy and I'm going away for the weekend for a professionalization workshop; should be fun. I'll be back Sunday afternoon, so no journal entries 'til then. Had a good conference with Julie (Fiction teacher and thesis advisor) this morning about where my new book is going, and am psyched to work on it. I even practiced some, so I shouldn't totally embarass myself at my music class. I had a pleasant evening yesterday, dinner and music lessons and good conversation with David. Generally, life is good, I'm feeling exuberant, picture me doing a little dance of joy. :-)
Okay, now I'm getting silly. Have a wonderful weekend, my dears.
More excitingly (I love making up words), Karina called early this morning, with the possibility of coming out from Australia for a visit in January. That would be lovely, and I hope it happens.
Today is catch up on adminstration day. Schedule a room for my writing workshop, "I Hate the Five-Paragraph Essay". Ask people to be on my thesis committee. Find a thesis advisor. Fill out pertinent forms so I can graduate. Register for next semester's classes. Find out what I'm teaching in the spring (TA'ing probably either British or American survey). Etc. and so on. My Fiction class critiques 7000 words of my erotica today. Meep.
Please redirect your browsers (and bookmarks) to http://www.mamohanraj.com/Diary/current.html
The regular current.html will soon be only a memory.
The reading last night went very well. About fifteen people showed up (they only had ten chairs set out, and had to get more :-) and were a good audience. Of course, half those people were friends of mine, but it's nice to have friends. :-)
I read, in order: "Feather", "You'll Understand When You're Older, Dear", "Meditation on Human Relations", "Jinsong", "Blind", "Letter From a Suicide", "Dreams of a Lover" and "Fleeing Gods". That's about a half hour of reading; I'm still fine-tuning, trying to decide what stories read best. I'm pretty good at conversational tone stories, not so good at reading dramatic bits (or dramatizing in general). I'd also like to read "Chantal", but a) it's long and b) it's problematic. Have to judge my audience carefully, I think, though I could probably have gotten away with it last night.
I slept late again this morning, and finally feel rested (although I didn't get the dishes done the way I'd planned). I appear to be going through an odd spate of fall cleaning; clearing out various accounts and straightening things. The house is looking lovely these days, with odd autumnal gourds and red and gold flowers scattered about. I'd like my computer accounts to be similarly lovely. :-)
I hope to catch up with my work for the week by tomorrow morning. I *must* practice recorder tonight, or I will deserve to be severely beaten. There's a part I'm having real trouble with, in a baroque piece, and so I find myself avoiding practicing, which is not the solution, let me tell you. On the good side, I've been practicing my guitar regularly, and am now up to over half an hour of practicing a day, without killing my fingertips, and have learned seven chords. I can play "This Land is Your Land" at tempo (it only uses three chords) and can almost manage "Star of the County Down" (I'm having trouble with the transition to the C chord) at tempo. Lots of fun. David's being very patient teaching me, and I'm enjoying teaching piano again (David's a much better student than my father was :-). He actually practices.)
***
I was going to just include a short excerpt from a reader's e-mail here, but looking over it, I think it makes more sense to include it all, and then respond to it.
[name deleted]
I actually wanted to write something long and polished on this subject, but I never get around to it. I enjoyed your two recent "Lady Sally" columns, but couldn't suspend my disbelief, or pessimism, about such an attitude filtering into the "sex art" business, let alone mass culture.
My sexual history being almost pure vanilla, the only situation I have seen even approaching "Lady Sally" was the one strip bar I have ever been in, in Charlotte, NC. (W/ some college friends on a pep band trip, one of those "what-the-hell" moments.) Once I got past the initial hormonal rush, beyond which sensory overload led to a sharp reduction in arousal, I started paying attention to facial expressions and, well, the _gestalt_ of the place. Three things stand out in my memory:
A mustached Southerner, with a bill clenched in his teeth, encouraging/daring/challenging the dancer to collect it with her teeth. She refuses, smiling. He grins, and tries again. Neither's eyes are smiling, though. There's hostility, anger behind both smiles. I can almost see him thinking "Slut, come on, if you want the bill." I _know_ she can see him thinking it.
A dancer who just can't stand being there. _I_ think she's attractive, but she apparently doesn't fit the "standards" of the bar patrons. (It was a "classy" establishment as far as these establishments go, but that's probably not saying much.) The patrons ignore her, as she forlornly shifts from foot to foot on the stage keeping vague time to the music. Another dancer takes pity on her and puts a bill in her garter. Then she is alone again, with muted despair on her face.
We're here because it's an acquaintance's ("Barry") birthday. "Jeff" springs for a lap dance for Barry, the anticipated highlight of the evening. Barry's a Nice Guy; he's experiencing the club with genuine smiles, wiping mock sweat off his forehead. The lap dancer seems comfortable with him, wiggling and stretching and responding as he gazes appreciatively. This is a mutual performance. The dance ends; Jeff gives her more money. "I'd like one too." This one is different. Jeff sits like a statue, his fists clenched by his sides. The dancer is getting no feedback from him, just his steady, tense gaze. For the first time since I've met Jeff, I feel like _there's something inside him that makes me nervous._ The dancer goes through the motions, looking at his eyes, more wary and reserved. I can't tell where this sense of _fear_ is coming from -- her, or him? The dance ends; she quickly and steadily retreats.
In our culture, how many supposed sex-positive or "erotic" establishments can really exist? What little exposure I've had suggests that power (or the lack thereof) is the defining dynamic here, not sexuality. And I wonder how much of that power dynamic, if any, might have been lurking at Lady Sally's.
It's hard. It's hard to avoid the power dynamic inherent in paying for a service. And yet I do believe that it's possible to get around. I believe Carol Queen when she says (in _Real Live Nude Girl_) that she enjoyed her work in the Lusty Lady peep show, and the work she's doing now as a prostitute. (She's also a damn good writer, btw -- I just read a beautiful story by her in the anthology _Once Upon a Time: Erotic Fairy Tales for Women_). I believe Selene and Noelle, who I interviewed for my article on professional dominatrixes, when they say they often consider their work a gift. On the other hand, Selene and I have also talked about how sometimes she finds herself utterly repulsed by men, and has a hard time even going home to her boyfriend. Even with the best of intentions, it's hard to be sex-positive (and man-positive) in that kind of job. It's hard partly because our culture is so twisted about sexuality, partly because sex is inherently a complicated thing, and adding money to it makes it much more complicated.
The columns I wrote were certainly idealistic, and maybe it would take science fiction to carry off a place like Lady Sally's. I hope not, though. I hope that a healthy sex-positive working environment for sex workers is possible; I hope that talking about it and advocating it can help change the culture into a place where it can happen. I remain a raving idealist, I'm afraid...
I met David two years ago today. Hard to believe, for various reasons.
The weekend was insanely busy, mostly fun with parties, but generally tiring and short of sleep-making. I need to rest, and tonight's the Good Vibes reading -- oh, did I tell you guys about that? Here:
Good Vibrations, Berkeley
2504 San Pablo Avenue (@ Dwight)
Berkeley, CA 94702
(510) 841-8987
Monday, November 3, 8-10 p.m.
Free, everyone welcome
Off to fix links. I'd talk to y'all longer, but my brain is fried today. Too sleepy. Fixing links is nice and mindless. Hope you had a good Halloween.
11:20. Fixed 1997 links, I think. If any of you feel like checking through the journal entries for 1997 and letting me know if I've missed any, that'd be appreciated.
I'm so weary. I should be reading the three articles I need to read before 2:00, and doing my journal entries on them, but I have truly no desire to do so. My desire is to sleep. I should be nervous about tonight (will anyone come? Will they be bored? Will I make a fool of myself, etc. and so on?) but I'm just too tired. Perhaps that's a good thing. I did manage to make a reservation for my tickets to Connecticut for Christmas, and start pricing Chicago in January. That's something, at any rate.
11:50. Did lots of straightening up in my account, rearranging things. Probably broke lots of links in the process, but when I finish, if I finish, it'll be much easier for me to find stuff. I hope. I moved all sorts of things to a Defunct directory -- hopefully not anything important. I'm filled with the wrong kind of energy today.