Son of a Witch

Hemingway….as much as I adore him…is still fishing on my bed side table. I had to put down to Have and Have Not. Don’t worry. I’ll pick it back up later. I was just expecting more love stuff this time around. I’m thinking the love affair that is promised on the back of the book summary will come on the last page. Until then, it’s all fishing and running illegal Chinamen across international waters. 

Instead, I’ve picked up Son of a Witch…the sequel to Wicked. It’s been long overdue that I should have read this one. Wicked was amazing..in the way that amazing is for someone who does not particularly enjoy fantasy writing. And besides, I believe Britney said once that Wicked “changed her life.” That was right before she shaved her head and started to use umbrellas as assault weapons.

What I gather so far from Son of a Witch, is that Liir, the main hotty, is Elphalba’s (the witch of the west) son left behind after Dorothy has killed her.

The twist in these books is that they are completely different from the Wizard of Oz. The books depict Elphalba as a political rebel…not an evil witch. Dorothy is sent by the dictator of Oz to kill her…it’s her only way back home to Kansas. But…she really doesn’t want to kill Elphalba, and goes into a sort of nervous breakdown once she carries out the deed. The Wizard has just gotten rid of the one person who was about to expose his supposed harmonious leadership as a fraud. 

The opening of Son of a Witch, finds Liir beaten almost to death and lying naked face down in the rain as a group of good samaritans find him. He ends up in a convent…the same one his mother resided in in order to avoid the price on her head by the Wizard. He is placed under the care of the beautiful and musically talented, although mute, young novice – Candle.

This is where I’m at. I had nothing else to blog about. When I have nothing to blog about, I write about books. So far so good with this one. I already recommend it as a beach read…anything but Danielle Steele, right?

What I’m Reading Now:

To have and have not: ernest hemingway (of course.) 

I’m the only one that gets this guy’s dry dark sense of humor? I haven’t stopped chuckling since page one. 

What’s wrong with anti -hemingway fans? Something very fundamental. That’s all I can think of. If you don’t enjoy his sarcasm and wit, you have a serious character flaw. I’m not sure you can be helped.

All Nabokov all the time

Yes. I fell off the literary bandwagon while devouring at an alarming rate the Twilight series…which led to indigestion of the brain. It was a dark downward spiral.

But I’m back on it again. And in love with all things Nabokov. This only makes sense, because Hemingway (one of my top three) had acknowledged that “the Russians” were the true masters of the craft. 

Just as Humbert was and is, I am in love with Lolita. She has thieved my heart away from all other fiction…an innocent nymph of twelve. You can’t help but fall in love with her in a perverse way just as Humbert does, when Nabokov is the author. 

I didn’t just fall for Lo…I developed a fever for every word typed on the page.

As a result, I need to read everything he has written before moving on to anything else. 

He is entombed in Switzerland, where he lived out his last years, just as Joyce is. Just the place where I hope to permanently turn up again.

Singing with Jane and Nosferatu

Rick’s Birthday: I walked in for a video game and walked out with a flat screen tv. To atone for this (for feeling like a  housewife of jersey city) I went to Easter Mass. I feel my dues have been paid. And I enjoy the flat screen immensely, now.

Jane thinks it’s time to up all my meds. Hmmmm. I don’t seem to be feeling much better, after all. I don’t seem to “feeling” anything at all, really. I hear that can be a problem. Sometimes I enjoy it. Then I can say whatever I like without having a stupid over rated feeling about it. Like: Kiss my ass. And mean it. And enjoy saying it. Wait. I think enjoyment is a feeling. So all hope is not lost, after all.

Another plus: being the crazy/black sheep in the family, keeps everyone else on their toes. Are they hiding the sharp objects right before I come over for dinner? Are they counting the glasses of wine and just waiting for me to fly my freak flag? I got news for you guys: The freak flag is up and waving. And there’s no sign of it coming down any time soon. You can also leave the knives in the drawer.

The drawback: I might be letting my kids watch a little more tv than reccommended by pediatricians. The other drawback: I really don’t care so much about that.

Oh, and Jane gave me a great vampire book recommendation. Because we both love Vampire lit and hate the fact that Rice went nutso and found Jesus and stopped writing about hot guys with sharp teeth. So the book is: Let the Right One In by John Ajvide Lindquist. It’s an International Bestseller and won best narrative feature of the Tribeca Film Festival. So it has Street Cred.

In the Hot Seat, Again…with Beowulf

Today is Thursday. Two days ago was Tuesday, and that was my second day back to therapy. Here’s what transpired:

This time, I wore lipstick. Ridiculously red lipstick. And some mascara. I’m in the business of just letting  myself be as ridiculous as possible these days. I’m calling it: being creative. I may introduce hats to my wardrobe, next. Right now, I have on a pair of leggings and have never felt so free in my life. I don’t care that they’re not really pants and they you “shouldn’t” leave the house in them. I fully intend to do so in about half an hour.

So. Jane loved my lipstick. She said I looked much better than the last time she saw me. And this is true. My meds have stabilized, I’m no longer exhausted, and I have my appetite back. These are all “good” steps. Now, all that needs to be done is another tune -up on the cognitive bullshit that keeps getting in my way. This means re-wiring my ultra-dark attitude and thinking. “Dark” was Jane’s word. I’m not the drama queen when it comes to mental illness. If I’m any kind of royalty at all, I’m merely the Ice Princess.

Jane still believes that I need to change my living conditions. Specifically she says that I “belong in Brooklyn”. Yes, I agreed. But it is a bit out of our price range at the moment. Maybe next year. Until then, my goal is going to have to keep as busy and creative as possible with my time in this wasteland. Less complaining. More doing. But complaining is one of my charming attributes. And no one makes complaining as funny as I do. I’ve turned it into an art. But when the complaining turns into a record stuck on a hook over and over in my head, that’s the darkness Jane was talking about. That’s when dishes fly and I begin to feel like a caged animal…held against my will in an unbearable situation.

Then we talked about Cate. She’s seen me in a really bad way. And now she’s old enough to see and understand that there’s something wrong. Jane agreed that she’s probably experiencing some anxiety over my moods in the previous weeks up until now. I worry that I’ve damaged her in a way that cannot be repaired. Jane assures me that all Cate will need to feel better is to see me feel better. There were years in my life when I sought no help at all. I was fine wallowing in my pathetic state. I think I even enjoyed it…like spending time with an old friend. Now, I’ll do whatever I need to so that my kids don’t get stuck with my baggage. I”m already lugging around my own plus some duffel bags from my folks. Hopefully, all Cate will have to check is one carry on bag.

Jess, I love you enough to begin reading your favorite epic poem: Beowulf. I want to experience your feelings of awe that you  have often expressed in discussing it. But do I love you enough to actually finish it? That is another story, altogether.

“…a considerable amount of bullshit”

..so says Frank Wheeler to his wife, April, on page 33 of the novel Revolutionary Road.

I’m not using it in the same context, but it did strike me as hilarious when I read it, and I’ve been looking to use it as much as possible ever since, and so it has become the title of this blog; which will contain it’s own considerable amount of bullshit.

Let’s start in AC last Thursday night: I decide to get out of my sister’s car at a stop light to give the remnants of our dinner to a homeless woman. Let me just say: her make-up was impeccable…the homeless woman’s.

She looked every bit the bag lady from far away…lots of..bags..picking crap up off the ground as she hobbled along. Why wouldn’t she want some left over calamari? She was very grateful, and her lipstick was a great shade of red.

Meanwhile, my sister is laying on the horn for me at the corner. Upon hearing this horn, the local hooker begins sprinting toward the car, yelling over her shoulder to her friend that she will catch up with her later, because she “has to get this”. The hooker and I lock eyes in confusion as we realize we are both trying to make our way to the same car. She says to me very sweetly: Oh honey, is that for you? (pointing to my sister).  Then I say: Yes. but that’s my sister…not…. At this point she gets what’s going on, and making her apologies, struts away fabulously in some pretty killer boots.

Oh. And lest I forget the best part of this entire exchange: she was really a he. (if only i had half his sense of style) Since all of this is going on outside of the car, Ally is oblivious that she was seconds away from being propositioned. I give a horrible explanation of what almost took place once I get back in the car, because I’m working off of one Klonopin, a pain killer for a migraine, some brunello and hysterical tear-laden laughter. And I realize in my silly stupor, that one can feel themselves dying slowly from the inside out of they go too many days without laughing as hard as I was.

The next morning, we’re dining on some room service before our massages:

Me: how are your eggs?

Allyson: cold.

Me: you’re so cynical.

We had “plans” to hit the gym and the pool after the massages and the steam room. Of course, we opted for naps all day long and marathon episodes of The Dog Whisper, during which at some point Ally becomes convinced that I, myself, could have made an excellent dog trainer. And I agree.

And then some wind energy.

Yay for cable on Sunday nights! Lesbians and Mormons. My favorite combo.

I’ll close with a little something from my current reading:

“It simply wasn’t worth feeling bad about. Intelligent, thinking people could take things like this in their stride, just as they took the larger absurdities of deadly dull jobs in the city and deadly dull homes in the suburbs. Economic circumstances might force you to live in this environment, but the important thing was to keep from being contaminated. The important thing, always, was to remember who you were.”

Not all of us like Danielle Steele, Funny Death, & Not so Funny Switzerland

Why do Europeans think the only thing Americans read are crime novels or Nora Roberts fluff? I found a new English book section in a bookstore in the mall the other day. I was so freakin happy…running toward those great big letters: English. I could feel my face lighting up like it hasn’t in months. Finally…something decent to read from a store relatively close by.  Sean and I raced to the tiny section of shelves (he had no choice, being bound into the stroller) and as soon as I could quickly scan the books, I realized it was all for naught.

Just a crap-load of Danielle Steele, James Paterson, Nora Roberts, and some guy by the name of Follet. For a brief moment I considered buying the History of Ireland…which, if proved very boring, could be used as a door stop. Sean was also disgusted by the selection. He began to squirm immediately, spit out his dummy, and proceeded to howl.

I did manage to find one lonely Joyce Carol Oates piece: The Gravedigger’s Daughter. It’s better than nothing. Actually, it’s quite good and I’m only on page four.  I like her main female character, Rebecca. She’s pissed off a lot. Much like myself.  But I’m sure she has good reason to be, whereas I’m just moody and mad that I’ve spent way too much money on therapy to find out that I’m just moody.

So..Switzerland: I would prefer not to have to read Nietzsche in his mother tongue. Let’s get some translators over here. Shnell.

I never thought I would say this, want this, or believe this, but I have had enough of Switzerland….for now. You ask why. And I will explain that winter begins in October and extends to May. I have not seen the sun in possibly weeks. The clouds are so low, if you climb a decent hill, you can see the Alps perfectly because…the clouds…are…in the freakin street!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This is why if you walk into any cafe at 9am, people are drinking!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And everyone is sort of fine with this.

Er…What else? I just finished a short story about dying. It’s a comedy. I’m not sure what to do with it, as is the case with most of my things. Maybe I’ll post it here. Maybe I’ll submit it somewhere. I need to first realize that none of that is necessarily narcissistic.

I have a love/hate relationship with what I write. On the one hand, I have to do it. I’m compelled and the words never stop (unless I self medicate) and if I want a moment’s peace in my head, it all has to get out. Immediately. On the other hand, I have this feeling that handing your crap out to read is incredibly conceited. Just because I do it, doesn’t mean it’s worth reading.

So, I have this notion that when I die, one of my kids will stumble across my piles of nonsense and maybe they’ll at least be worth something because by that point they will be really old and all hand written, becuase I despise creating anything on a screen, and my kids will be able to pay off their college loans. Yes. That is why I write.

Sixteen days left. And then this blog will be Tales From Suburbia, kind of like Tales from the Crypt because that’s exactly what suburbia is….a grave. (I crack myself up).

Current Reading, Bin Laden’s Health Concerns, & Growing out of the Flat

As usual, I have no idea how this is going to turn out. I just know that it’s time to write about anything. There are…also as usual…too many things floating around in my brain to make sense of. Once again, I beg your pardon in advance.

So, right now I’m reading Norman Mailer’s last book : On God: An Uncommon Conversation.  The last Mailer book I read was Why We Are At War. I finished it in an afternoon on the beach and passed it around the circle for everyone else to read. I think about four of us read that book that summer afternoon. It was memorable enough of a piece to make me snatch up this next one in the english book store. It’s a very thin paperback and ended up costing me about 30 CHFs. At home…I don’t even want to think about how much it would have cost me.

I’m not yet finished with it, but I know how it’s going to end…with more questions. Even Mailer quotes another philosopher in saying that “there are no answers, only questions.” 

 In short, he speaks about how, at this point in his life (which I find suspicious) he has abandonded his previous belief (?) of atheism and now believes that there is a Being of Creation and that Being is an Artist who is constantly trying to improve upon his art (us) and makes just as many mistakes along the way as the rest of us do. To Mailer, God is not All Powerful/All Knowing.  He/She/It does have a considerable amount of power in order to create and then learn from mistakes in creation to improve upon his art.

The Devil is also as equally powerful as God and is always trying to throw a wrench into the works to keep humanity from advancing. The Devil’s weapon is technology.  Mailer believes that technology pushes us further away from the way God intended us to live.

Take media. Mailer wonders if humans were originally outfitted with such psychic powers as to create our own movies, operas, songs, or novels in our heads and then be able to transmit them throughout the world to others via telepathy. Maybe our “advances” in technology are actually hinderances. I can dig this. If you know me at all, then you know why. If you don’t know me, then leave a comment and I’ll get back to you. But before you leave a comment, just think about one thing first: The Atom Bomb.

That’s where I’m at with Norman. I haven’t decided if I completely buy his take on God, but it’s a much more creative, refreshing perspective than say, Catholicism or Atheism…which I see as both cop outs on someone’s part to actually think.

So…Bin Laden. Why am I getting breaking news from CNN in my email from the CIA about Bin Laden’s failing health? If we know this much about his medical circumstances, how is it that we haven’t snatched him up by now? I have an idea. The CIA can stop worrying about his health and take him to a god dam hospital if it’s that news worthy. I’d rather read about the California wildfires for the umpteenth time. They happen every year, folks. Stop building your homes so close to the damn trees.

We have outgrown our current digs. When we moved into the flat, Cate wasn’t yet three. There is a big difference between two and three. Most of it has to do with very loud negotiations, stomping feet, and screaming from the naughty spot. At two, “No” still holds some weight as an answer for why. You can forget about that at three. Our neighbors have tapped on the walls, rung the doorbell, and asked repeatedly if everything is ok. I just assumed that kids made noise. I was ok with this assumption when I decided to have them. I don’t even mind the noise. Let’s be honest, I don’t even hear it anymore. But I know it’s only a matter of time before the Swiss police ring my bell and then we’ll have a whole other set of problems; one of them being a language barrier.

It is time to go home to our house..as tiny as it is. The only horrendous trade off, is that I have to go back to suburbia and live under the microscope again. Suburbia…also a tool of the devil? I think so.

Elections, Fog, Passive Aggressive Swiss Confrontation, & A Thousand Splendid Suns

So….here we are…another election kaput. Only this time it looks like half the country elected a guy who actually gives a crap about the rest of us. At the risk of sounding completely cliche…I have to say it: I never thought I’d see a black man elected in my lifetime. I’m feeling oddly emotional about the whole thing and jealous that I’m not at home celebrating in the streets with the half of the country that still has some sense left in them. I was beginning to doubt that there was anyone left in the nation with half a gnat’s worth of logic to do the right thing. I love being proved wrong. And I love love love seeing Palin pack up and get the hell out of dodge. Please, someone get her a library card so she can have access to the volumes of research done proving that dinosaurs did actually once roam the planet.

In case you were wondering, this is what Zurich looks like in November…all of November, so we’ve been told:

<a href=”http://s288.photobucket.com/albums/ll186/amlongstreet/?action=view&current=fog001.jpg” target=”_blank”><img src=”http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll186/amlongstreet/fog001.jpg” border=”0″ alt=”Photobucket”></a>

Latest developments with the neighbors are verging on hostile…but keep in mind, we are in Switzerland. Hostile usually means nasty looks, tongue clicking, and letter writing to the management…lots and lots of letter writing. Or, in our case, as happaned last night: knocking on the walls. Seems as though, the more than middle aged couple next door doesn’t like the sound of Sean teething at 3am. Guess what? Neither do I. As if it wasn’t noisy enough in #55 last night, the folks next door start rapping on the walls. And why? Would they have liked it if I stuffed a sock in his mouth? By the way, #56, thanks for waking up the three year old.  I wonder what will happen tonight. Most likely it will go something like this: Sean screaming his head off, rapping on the walls, Cate getting up a thousand times to pee, and my disheveled, bleary eyed self kicking some swiss granny ass.

In book news: just finished A Thousand Spendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini…the same guy who wrote The Kite Runner (which I have not read).  I give it 5 out of 5 stars. In brief, it’s all about the plight of the Afghan woman. How they keep getting so close to having basic human rights and then it all goes to hell with the help of either the Soviets, the fighting warlords, the Taliban or the U.S. It also has a boat load of historical and political facts about the country and some horrendously grim, but I suppose all too real, descriptions of the casualties of war. Read it, then go to www.UNrefugees.org and do something. If any country has been shit on over and over again since Genghis Khan, it’s Afghanistan.

And uh, that’s about it. Good night, my cheeky monkeys.

Stephen King?

I’m almost positive that Mr. King has something going on in his head in regard to women…moms, in particular. I refrain from using the term woman-hater. It’s not like that. It just seems that at the center of almost every novel is a half deranged woman…who has messed up her kid and now the kid is a serial killer.

I would like to know more about Mom King.

I guess I should have started out by saying this is the first time I’ve read King all the way through…well, almost all the way through. I’m in the middle of The Dead Zone. Let me tell you why: The only big selection of english books over here is downtown. Downtown is only a ten minute tram ride away. But when there are two little ones to drag along in not so nice weather conditions, you begin to scout out other places where a lone english written book may lay in wait. Anything will do. So I found a very small stand of paperbacks at the back of a store down the street. They have a ton of …you guessed it…Stephen King. I wonder if Europeans think that’s all we read over there across the great divide.

So begins my relationship with Stephen. I have relationships with all my authors and we always end up on a first name basis. I don’t know much about Stephen’s work. I’ve seen the movies, which never do a book justice. But like I said…there is that repeating theme of the crazy lady. Usually she’s uber religious and sexually repressed and therefore really in need of a lay and very bitter. And she’s always effing up her kids. Like this mom I’m reading about now…she puts a clothes pin on her son’s…..penis…to punish him for getting to know it better. She leaves it there for two hours! Jung would have a field day with this.

Even in the Green Mile..there’s the crazy lady with the headaches. She’s racist and also ultra religious. And that movie…The Mist. Where the nutso god lady preaches on and on about the end times being upon us…and then King has her shot to death. Ouch.

I don’t know. It’s a pattern. I notice patterns. And then they bug me.