This is the Life of a Redhead



Thursday, July 30, 2009

Excerpts

I just read Dave Eggers' biography A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and found that there was a lot in it that I could relate to, on a weird level. Eggers grew up in the Chicago suburbs, and I can see the mark that has left on him.

Lately, when I've been reading, I've been marking up books by writing in the margins, underlining sentences, and circling entire passages that are particularly striking to me. Sadly, I checked this book out from the library, so I had to restrain myself from writing in it. I did end up dog-earring two passages, and now I will share them below.

Page 76.

"We grew up in a tightfisted house, where there was no allowance, where asking for $5 from our father elicited the heaviest of sighs, required detailed plans for repayment. Our mother was far worse--would not even shop in Lake Forest, where everything was overpriced, would instead drive ten, twenty, thirty miles to Marshall's, to T.J. Maxx, for bargains, for bulk. Once a year we'd all pile into the Pinto and would drive to a place on the west side of Chicago, Sinofsky's, where for $4, $5 each we'd buy dozens of slightly flawed rugby shirts, holes here and there, extra buttons, collars ruined by bleach, pink bleeding into white. We grew up with a weird kind of cognitive dissonance; we knew we lived in a nice town--our cousins out East often made that point to us--but then, if this was true, why was our mother always fretting aloud about not having money to buy staples? "How will I even buy milk tomorrow?" she would yell at him from the kitchen. Our father, who was out of work a year here, a year there, never seemed impressed with her worry; he seemed to have it all worked out. Still, we were ready for and expected sudden indigence, to be forced out of the house in the middle of the night and into one of the apartments on the highway, at the edge of town. To become on of those kids."

Page. 201
". . . my feeling is that if you're not self-obsessed you're probably boring. NOt that you can always tell the self-obsessed. The best sort of self-obsessed person isn't outwardly so. But they're doing something more public than not, making sure people know that they're doing it, or will know about it sooner or later. I guarantee that the applicants for The Real World--I guarantee that if you put all these tapes in a time capsule and opened it in twenty years, you'd find that these are the people who are, in one way or another, running the world--at the very least, they'll be the most visible segment of the demographic. Because we've grown up thinking of ourselves in relation to the political-media-entertainment ephemera, in our safe and comfortable homes, given the time to think about how we would fit into this or that band or TV show or movie, and how we would look doing it. These are people for whom the idea of anonymity is existentially irrational, indefensible. And thus, there is a lot of talking about it all-surely the cultural output of this time will reflect that--there'll be a lot of talking, whole movies full of talking, talking about talking, ruminating about talking about wondering, about our place, our wants and obligations--the blathering of the belle époque, you know. Environmentally reinforced solipsism."

I also hope that some people note that there are similarities in our writing. I don't want to imply that I am as good as Eggers--not at all. But, I do feel, especially when I read this, that my style is very much in the same vein as his, and that made me kind of happy. I loved what I read here, and it brings me joy to know that without trying desperately, I've created format to my writing that parallels great, wonderful writers whom intrigue me, make me think.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Weekly Musing

Haven't done this in a while.

Weekly Musing:

"The average person only goes to one funeral during their childhood (birth-18) and then one every three years until they're fifty."

In my childhood, I have attended four funerals, and four wakes.
In my adulthood, which has only spanned two years, I have attended two funerals.
I've been a pallbearer. I've been asked if I've wanted to say a few words, (but haven't actually done so.)
I've been to a dog's funeral.

I've never been to a wedding.

Is this a trend, or is there such a thing as fate?

Thursday, July 9, 2009

I saw a stuffed tiger on the street today.

It inspired this.
Needs work, I know.

The Prince on the Median

The stuffed tiger lay in the middle of the road, on the flat median, just short of the left-turn lane. It was dirty and faded. Its orange back was bleached yellow from the sun, and the black stripes were a dull gray, and the gray spread into the white fur hugging the tiger’s jawline. It lay there so helplessly, so quietly. It paid no attention to the cars, refusing to rock gently as the vehicles breezed by, the artificial wind barely ruffling the tiger’s faux whiskers.

It lay there in the aftermath of father’s rage, or mother’s, or brother, or even grandma. He was stressed, on edge. She was nervous, waiting on the results for something important, something that daughter and her tiger couldn’t understand. So the girl sang to her tiger, called him her prince, brushed his matted, dull fur. Father or mother, hands shaking, asking daughter to be a little more quiet, asking again and again, took her prince and flung him out the window, and daughter’s tears only made it worse.

There was the possibility that there was no rage, or stress. There were no results and there wasn’t anything important for daughter to not understand. She had rolled the window down; let tiger’s snout pick up the scents of the suburbs, substituting for the puppy she asked for every Christmas. He was enjoying it all, the scents, the sounds, the sun, when suddenly the car jerked. It had hit a pothole, swerved to avoid another car, slammed on the breaks to avoid a squirrel—it had been something, anything, but daughter never knew, her eyes widening and jaw dropping as tiger slipped from her hands.

There, on the median, tiger watched his damsel’s tiny face grow smaller and smaller, until it was only a dot on the horizon, pink and blurry. Then cars began to gather in the left-turn lane, and his fur darkened more with the debris from exhaust pipes as the light turned green and cars revved their engines.