I wrote a whole fucking blog from the heart about what I perceive to be love and it got deleted. Fuck the planet. Here's what love is fuckers:
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Creativity Robbed from Local Woman Upon Turning 30
We don't want to say it, saying it means it may have actually happened. Here it is (big breath in) ... I lost my creative juice upon turning 30. Everything I wrote was for this client or that, this project or that endeavor, never for myself, never for the sake of imagination.
Lucky for me, I have regrouped and here I am, perhaps not as good as I was, but getting there. How funny is it that life is supposed to make you wise and lodge all these insights into your brain, yet when I look back at what I wrote before I was even 20 it's leaps and bounds better than anything I can muster now?
Some would argue it's the dramatism. The punch of being young and feeling all sorts of stuff for the first time is enough to make a Picasso out of anyone, if they care to express. But when I think upon those "firsts" now, I want to vomit at having been so blind. Such is life for me. I hate for not being insightful, yet having become insightful I hate what it has rendered my words to be.
Stupidity and self-hatred have no bounds! I can remember writing poems about a boy I loved who I was sure I'd be with the rest of my life. I look at those every other year or so, sometimes they captivate me, other times I laugh at the pure teenager left there on the page, as if to say, "Hey, um, I have no idea what I'm talking about, but I will make it sound lavish and painful."
Too true. We all have that fledgling person inside us, perhaps this is the same idiot who makes us question every single thing we write or say; every single action we take is judged by this hater within us.
Get out your pen, get out your paper, write that sunuvabitch away. Tell her you'll miss her, tell her you'll read her poems once in a while, but for the time being, no matter how cool she might have been in the late 1990s, she's gotta pack it up, at least for now. Send your self-hating inner-teen to rehab ... doesn't mean you ever have to pick her up. Unless you want to. If you do, make sure she doesn't have keys to the family car.
Lucky for me, I have regrouped and here I am, perhaps not as good as I was, but getting there. How funny is it that life is supposed to make you wise and lodge all these insights into your brain, yet when I look back at what I wrote before I was even 20 it's leaps and bounds better than anything I can muster now?
Some would argue it's the dramatism. The punch of being young and feeling all sorts of stuff for the first time is enough to make a Picasso out of anyone, if they care to express. But when I think upon those "firsts" now, I want to vomit at having been so blind. Such is life for me. I hate for not being insightful, yet having become insightful I hate what it has rendered my words to be.
Stupidity and self-hatred have no bounds! I can remember writing poems about a boy I loved who I was sure I'd be with the rest of my life. I look at those every other year or so, sometimes they captivate me, other times I laugh at the pure teenager left there on the page, as if to say, "Hey, um, I have no idea what I'm talking about, but I will make it sound lavish and painful."
Too true. We all have that fledgling person inside us, perhaps this is the same idiot who makes us question every single thing we write or say; every single action we take is judged by this hater within us.
Get out your pen, get out your paper, write that sunuvabitch away. Tell her you'll miss her, tell her you'll read her poems once in a while, but for the time being, no matter how cool she might have been in the late 1990s, she's gotta pack it up, at least for now. Send your self-hating inner-teen to rehab ... doesn't mean you ever have to pick her up. Unless you want to. If you do, make sure she doesn't have keys to the family car.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
In Memory of Janie Diaz
Rebirth by Lil' Wayne has made me feel like I have been reborn. Sound silly? Pick up the album and give it a listen. This is not some hopped up gangsta pushing his game, this is straight up, from the heart, soulful, wise, meaningful, brave, and uninhibited.
I had always thought Lil' Wayne was one of those people who just showed up on everyone else's albums with no real identity of his own. I could not have been more wrong. I associated him with purple drank (which I think we should all try at least once before judging) and totally understood why The Onion portrayed him in an hilarious light in their online feature, Weezey F. Baby [see video below]
DEA Recruits Lil Wayne To Use Up All Drugs In Mexico
All the funnies aside, Lil' Wayne's latest album, "Rebirth" is one amazing track after the next. From laughing to crying, goose bumps to "fuck yeahs" you'll feel a piece of yourself in here, I promise.
The best part of the album aside from the lyrics is his own musical style -- you've never heard some shit like this before, I promise. Some have said it's rap meets rock -- I agree to an extent, but there's also an untouchable soulfulness there, and though it doesn't sound like James Brown, that essence of hard working do-it-til-you-make-it and "fuck the game in entertainment" is very much there.
This guy is tapping into some major topics and telling his truth about them. So what do you have in common with Lil' Wayne? Listen to Rebirth and find out.
I had always thought Lil' Wayne was one of those people who just showed up on everyone else's albums with no real identity of his own. I could not have been more wrong. I associated him with purple drank (which I think we should all try at least once before judging) and totally understood why The Onion portrayed him in an hilarious light in their online feature, Weezey F. Baby [see video below]
DEA Recruits Lil Wayne To Use Up All Drugs In Mexico
All the funnies aside, Lil' Wayne's latest album, "Rebirth" is one amazing track after the next. From laughing to crying, goose bumps to "fuck yeahs" you'll feel a piece of yourself in here, I promise.
The best part of the album aside from the lyrics is his own musical style -- you've never heard some shit like this before, I promise. Some have said it's rap meets rock -- I agree to an extent, but there's also an untouchable soulfulness there, and though it doesn't sound like James Brown, that essence of hard working do-it-til-you-make-it and "fuck the game in entertainment" is very much there.
This guy is tapping into some major topics and telling his truth about them. So what do you have in common with Lil' Wayne? Listen to Rebirth and find out.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Listerine Hookah, Hidden Vodka
We should have known when Jose filled the hookah with mouthwash instead of water that things were getting a little strange. The fact that it didn't even phase us is evidence that things may have been even worse than we were prepared for. The night that Jose filled the hookah with Listerine is a benchmark. These kinds of things allow you to create points on the timeline that define the entire purpose and meaning of your life.
To protect the innocent (Jose is not innocent, he is secretly mad as a fucking hatter), a name has been changed. We'll call him/her Terry. Never before had Terry shared with me that he/she could make a drink he/she shared with me on the night of Listerine Hookah. "Oh yeah, you can't even taste the vodka." It was LITERALLY a glass of vodka with some lemon juice and like half a nanoliter of club soda. But I could not taste the vodka. I don't know how this works as I have seen people go to endless lengths with all manner of juices, sodas, fruit, even vegetables and Gatorade to kill the taste of booze so they could get hammered faster and easier. "This is insane," I thought, "that the secret is just adding lemon juice to an entire tumbler of vodka." The night went on and took a turn for the worse that I will not go into to detail here or anywhere ever.
The important thing is that what Jose's Listerine Hookah and vodka hidden by lemon juice was a benchmark, one of the many that define the passage of my life. What did it benchmark? Me losing the last traces of my sanity. There it is, add it to the timeline. My mind has been on the fritz for years, but the following morning I realized, yup, that was it! She's gone -- I'm talking about a person driven so mad by life that they sing "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean" while clipping their toenails, or smoking cigarettes in the bathtub while listening to David Bowie while the house burns down around them. True insanity, not the cute fake kind, or the kind you see on Desperate Housewives.
Terry's insane vodka cocktail, the mouthwash smoke curling around the edges of my tongue and mixing with the "fruity delight" flavored tobacco, looking up and realizing we were watching Sex and the City, truly understanding completely for the first time that I had ACTUALLY placed a floor lamp ON TOP of the dining room table which was now in my BEDROOM, grappling with the fact that we were fucking completely FLAT broke, comprehending fully that we had re-adopted a dog we thought we'd never see again only to find that she has developed a nervous disorder, and so on, you know, just average everyday shit. Trying to assimilate all this at the same time caused my brain to overload, and subsequently meltdown into a dried puddle of burnt plastic next to the fuse box that was previously my central nervous system.
Then someone on TV [not Sex and the City] said something like, "My neighbor is suing me for killing squirrels." That was it. Any last shred of evidence that my mental faculties had ever existed was gone for good. Terry went home and Jose went to bed, stating, "Oh my Gat, I theenk dee Leeetereeene was a bad hidea..." and then I was left to my own devices. One can only take so much before just letting go completely, and that's what I did.
Sure, I made a few calls I don't remember, but that's par for the course. At one point I remember sitting on the pavement scratching my dog's ears and telling them I wasn't sure if everything was going to be alright. Then flash to a hazy moment of looking for a plastic toy microphone for reasons I can no longer conjure, and a brief try at reading a book of poetry before giving up because my eyeballs were rolling off the page and into a bad neighborhood.
Everyone has had it right now. Everyone I know is having moments of eruptive and unwelcome revelation, everyone is trying to hide their vodka behind some lemon juice, and everyone is doing something equally as insane as smoking a hookah filled with mouthwash. Because we just don't know what else to do.
For the purposes of this blog I will blame it on the economy and job losses. But I think we all know something pretty fuct with the universe has to be going on to make you put a floor lamp on top of a dining room table you've moved into your bedroom.
To protect the innocent (Jose is not innocent, he is secretly mad as a fucking hatter), a name has been changed. We'll call him/her Terry. Never before had Terry shared with me that he/she could make a drink he/she shared with me on the night of Listerine Hookah. "Oh yeah, you can't even taste the vodka." It was LITERALLY a glass of vodka with some lemon juice and like half a nanoliter of club soda. But I could not taste the vodka. I don't know how this works as I have seen people go to endless lengths with all manner of juices, sodas, fruit, even vegetables and Gatorade to kill the taste of booze so they could get hammered faster and easier. "This is insane," I thought, "that the secret is just adding lemon juice to an entire tumbler of vodka." The night went on and took a turn for the worse that I will not go into to detail here or anywhere ever.
 |
| ABSOLUTE MELTDOWN |
Terry's insane vodka cocktail, the mouthwash smoke curling around the edges of my tongue and mixing with the "fruity delight" flavored tobacco, looking up and realizing we were watching Sex and the City, truly understanding completely for the first time that I had ACTUALLY placed a floor lamp ON TOP of the dining room table which was now in my BEDROOM, grappling with the fact that we were fucking completely FLAT broke, comprehending fully that we had re-adopted a dog we thought we'd never see again only to find that she has developed a nervous disorder, and so on, you know, just average everyday shit. Trying to assimilate all this at the same time caused my brain to overload, and subsequently meltdown into a dried puddle of burnt plastic next to the fuse box that was previously my central nervous system.
Then someone on TV [not Sex and the City] said something like, "My neighbor is suing me for killing squirrels." That was it. Any last shred of evidence that my mental faculties had ever existed was gone for good. Terry went home and Jose went to bed, stating, "Oh my Gat, I theenk dee Leeetereeene was a bad hidea..." and then I was left to my own devices. One can only take so much before just letting go completely, and that's what I did.
Sure, I made a few calls I don't remember, but that's par for the course. At one point I remember sitting on the pavement scratching my dog's ears and telling them I wasn't sure if everything was going to be alright. Then flash to a hazy moment of looking for a plastic toy microphone for reasons I can no longer conjure, and a brief try at reading a book of poetry before giving up because my eyeballs were rolling off the page and into a bad neighborhood.
Everyone has had it right now. Everyone I know is having moments of eruptive and unwelcome revelation, everyone is trying to hide their vodka behind some lemon juice, and everyone is doing something equally as insane as smoking a hookah filled with mouthwash. Because we just don't know what else to do.
For the purposes of this blog I will blame it on the economy and job losses. But I think we all know something pretty fuct with the universe has to be going on to make you put a floor lamp on top of a dining room table you've moved into your bedroom.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
life is a stupid betch
 |
| Hemingway on crutches |
the basic essence is that i've had it. i can't go into the specifics because this blog post would then be a full-length "Lonesome Dove" situation.
the basic idea is this: there are people who generally work hard and fight hard and then there are people who don't. it's sometimes easy to mistake one for the other because the fighter has fought so fucking hard for so goddamned long that when they take a moment to lick their wounds in front of VH1, they look like the lazies.
trust someone who's been to both places. the lazies and the burned out buzies [busy people] are not the same. life is a stupid betch that makes them seem the same.
i might need to make a whole separate blog dedicated to what a stupid betch life is, because let's face it, there are so many millions of examples i'd more likely die of thirst with a bottle of water in front of me than run out of reasons as to why life is so fucking hard and insane.
where's this going? you say as you read this. nowhere. that's the worst part. i have no pearl of wisdom. all i know is, i am one of the buzies trying SO HARD not to let go. don't let go you guys. vomit into your hand if you have to, but don't let go.
QUESTIONS FOR THE PROF.
a) first of all, do we have to be here? is this an elective class or can i choose another inter-mural next semester?
b) the suffering: do i get college credit for that or should i put that down on my resume as an unpaid internship?
c) i'd like to ask for a letter of reference from the boss... is she around?
d) on field day should i play what i'm good at or help the kid who sucks play better at what he's trying to play?
e) do i need special shoes for specific events? [yes] if so, can life tell me when and which shoes?
i could literally go on until i was a beggin' strip on the patio. alas, i have tons to tend to, because no matter what, i am a mother even [and especially] when life is a stupid betch.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
magic eight ball :: use it to make the most critical decisions of your life
Years ago when i ran a little rag with Katie Pegler called The Sauce Open Forum, our dear friend and artist/writer Adam Hand wrote a piece called, "Magic Eight Ball-ism." it was a delight. a funny bit about how he'd gone from one superstitious method to the next in an effort to make decisions. of course now in my golden years, i would say, "hey! hey you! you have to make your decisions for yourself!" but then the path always veers, doesn't it?
this is the best part of any Magic 8 Ball. people see one laying around and say things like, "Oh, I remember these! How cute!" and then they ask it a question that could make or break their entire life scenario. don't fucking lie. if you've ever picked up a Magic 8 Ball you asked it a serious question or two. don't pretend like you were asking it how your hair would look after a good cut and color. you were asking it if you should adopt, you were asking it if your wife cheated, you were asking it if your mom loved you, and of course, you were asking it if you were fat. you were. you know you were. you wanted the Magic 8 Ball to say something else so you could sleep, or at least enjoy some pizza.
i bought a Magic 8 Ball. so far i have not asked it anything, though two others have. so let's ask one now! [LIVE ON THE MAGIC 8!]
question: "Will I ever have a huge bathtub?"
answer: "You can rely on it"
YES!!! and our first live via Internet Magic 8 Ball moment went well. thank god. i was concerned it would be bad. but then i didn't ask a super important question. let's get naked and crazy -- here goes:
question: "Will Jose and I have another baby?"
answer: "Concentrate and ask again"
[30 seconds later]
question: "Will Jose and I have another baby?"
answer: "As I see it Yes"
okay, this is informational. cool. this is cool. so excited. omg. this is great news. holy shit. holy shit. when?
aaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh -- the 8 doesn't say when. it only does yes and no. so yeah, i could ask stuff like, "will it be in a year?" and all that, but Magic 8 doesn't work like that. it'll say yes less than a month which is impossible because even if i was pregnant, i'm not pregs enough for that to happen. right?
by the way, all this is true, i mean the questions i posed and the answers are completely true, i swear.
but i have also tossed quarters asking them if my dog would die of leprosy, (which he really did have, swear to christ) and listened to one BFF say it was crazy while my other BFF told me that flipping a quarter was how she ended up in LA instead of NYC.
here's the thing. you can't pretend you're going to get a Magic 8 Ball for entertainment. you have to own up to the fact that you revere it in some spiritual manner, like a portal to the ears of the universe. and who the hell knows?
concentrate and ask again.
this is the best part of any Magic 8 Ball. people see one laying around and say things like, "Oh, I remember these! How cute!" and then they ask it a question that could make or break their entire life scenario. don't fucking lie. if you've ever picked up a Magic 8 Ball you asked it a serious question or two. don't pretend like you were asking it how your hair would look after a good cut and color. you were asking it if you should adopt, you were asking it if your wife cheated, you were asking it if your mom loved you, and of course, you were asking it if you were fat. you were. you know you were. you wanted the Magic 8 Ball to say something else so you could sleep, or at least enjoy some pizza.
i bought a Magic 8 Ball. so far i have not asked it anything, though two others have. so let's ask one now! [LIVE ON THE MAGIC 8!]
question: "Will I ever have a huge bathtub?"
answer: "You can rely on it"
YES!!! and our first live via Internet Magic 8 Ball moment went well. thank god. i was concerned it would be bad. but then i didn't ask a super important question. let's get naked and crazy -- here goes:
question: "Will Jose and I have another baby?"
answer: "Concentrate and ask again"
[30 seconds later]
question: "Will Jose and I have another baby?"
answer: "As I see it Yes"
okay, this is informational. cool. this is cool. so excited. omg. this is great news. holy shit. holy shit. when?
aaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh -- the 8 doesn't say when. it only does yes and no. so yeah, i could ask stuff like, "will it be in a year?" and all that, but Magic 8 doesn't work like that. it'll say yes less than a month which is impossible because even if i was pregnant, i'm not pregs enough for that to happen. right?
by the way, all this is true, i mean the questions i posed and the answers are completely true, i swear.
but i have also tossed quarters asking them if my dog would die of leprosy, (which he really did have, swear to christ) and listened to one BFF say it was crazy while my other BFF told me that flipping a quarter was how she ended up in LA instead of NYC.
here's the thing. you can't pretend you're going to get a Magic 8 Ball for entertainment. you have to own up to the fact that you revere it in some spiritual manner, like a portal to the ears of the universe. and who the hell knows?
concentrate and ask again.
Friday, July 16, 2010
What's Janie's Deal with Bronson Already?
Anyone who knows me well by now knows that I am deeply fascinated by the life and times and personal journey of "The U.K.'s most dangerous inmate." I've been on it for a while now and people think it's crazy and they thought it was a phase and that I would eventually give it up. I spoke to dear friend Siobhan Lafave the other night and she convinced me to write a blog about it to put some bullshit to rest and try to help the folks understand. But, phew, this won't be easy to put into words as the intellectual connections and spiritual side of it is as important as what I would like to do in terms of an interview with Charlie (we're on a first name basis in the netherworld.) I want to spread his message across the U.S. by being an American journalist that brings his story to "this side of the pond."
So here goes, I'll give it my best shot.
A few months ago I watched the Bronson movie that somehow ended up at Blockbuster, which shocks me because it's not The Hangover or the Hurt Locker. It's super indie and was even paid for in part by the English Lottery, which didn't sit well with many officials and others. That's the Queen's money! I instantly loved the movie and watched it twice before returning it. I then went online and ordered a couple of the books that Bronson himself had written. It was here that I discovered that while the movie was gripping and moving, a lot of it was chronologically out of order, and some of the events were scrambled together like a chicken egg/ostrich egg omelet. It was kind of a pisser since I had loved the movie so much -- still do because Tom Hardy's performance is absolutely amazing.
While I could go on and on about the man's life in detail from what I know so far, there's more to my fascination than that. They did touch on in the movie the fact that Bronson was moved many times, but in his books you discover that he has literally been moved hundreds and hundreds of times -- insane but factual and documented.
Here's one of the big questions that everyone wants to know: is he really one of the most violent criminals in the history of Britain? A matter of opinion, though his proponents will tell you (accurately) that he has never killed anyone. Misleading though: he has tried to kill a couple of people and was either unsuccessful or ended up not going all the way through it.
A little background: as a young man of 22 (in 1974), Bronson was tried and found guilty for robbing a post office (armed) where he made off with £26.18. From there forward the rest is history, although for the sake of brevity I have cut out some details which you can catch up on at the Charles Bronson Wikipedia page as well as on the Free Bronson Website.
Bronson, formerly known by his birth name, Michael Peterson, took on the name Bronson when he was released from prison (the first time which lasted only 69 days) and became a boxer under the management of Lenny McLean who is depicted in the movie as totally fucking ridiculous and amazing with a certain swagger and way of speaking that is intriguing and hilarious.
Enough history. Back to why I love this man. I was obviously drawn in by the movie, the mustache, and every girl loves a bad boy, of course. But something deeper made me buy some of his books and I love them. He expresses himself fully and never censors his sins or his guilt for his crimes both in and out of prison. The honesty is enchanting -- I have always told myself internally and other writers I know that in order to write good shit you have to be willing to get naked on the page and be honest, otherwise it's a farce and not worth the reader's time. Charlie offers this in spades and it has endeared him to me.
There's his poetry, which I don't particularly care for because it all rhymes, which I hate in poetry. But the messages are clear: prison is a bitch, solitary confinement turns an already questionable character insane whether an inmate was as normal as you or I (minus the criminal acts, of course!) when they first entered solitary.
Between his mix-ups and constant moves, some due to bad behavior, some due to outside forces purposefully making an example of him and trying to keep him confused, he was sent to Broadmoor -- a prison hospital for the criminally insane that's been around since the days when people thought that epilepsy was a sign of a criminal element and a madman. This is where he was stamped certifiably insane and drugged with the types of pharmaceuticals that are no longer legal.
And now the part that perhaps draws me to him more than just about anything else, though it doesn't put him in the best light, and of course added months and sometimes years onto his sentence, nearly all of which have been in solitary.
The rooftop protests! Bronson has successfully pulled off eight of them. It's not that I approve or would stand behind any criminal for doing this. It's because of how he describes them himself. At one point in his first book, he describes his first jaunt to the rooftop. He notes that he hadn't seen the nighttime sky in eight years. He writes that seeing stars for the first time in nearly a decade settled his soul even though his stomach was empty and he was freezing to death -- as though this moment in his life will in some way always make him feel some fraction of peace within an ocean of regret and sadness. He describes seeing the nearby town from a bird's eye view, how some of the townspeople cheered him on while others called him names and, well, protested his protest. He came down eventually from exhaustion and hunger. He was forced to give up because of physiological needs and nothing else.
I'm obviously not a criminal, never been arrested, have no record -- by all legal accounts I am a good little girl. But life has not spared me moments of severe anguish, and a sort of solitary I've put myself into from time to time. I know it CLEARLY doesn't compare, but reading his work gives me hope -- if someone can survive more than 30 years in solitary and have the stillness of mind and intellectual presence to write about it, then goddamn it, so can I. It's the kind of thing that makes me look onto the reels of horrid moments in my life and have some modicum of hope.
And so yes, I am fascinated, and yes, I am intrigued, and yes, I want to meet him, shake his hand, interview him, and share a mutual smile with Bronson.
He's nearing the age of 60, and the clock is ticking. The Her Majesty's Prison system "uncertified" him insane and he now wears the label of sane in the records of his time inside. But he poses a great question in one of his books: how can you be certified mad and then uncertified? A pretty good point, but something I can relate to mentally. The events of my life have driven me crazy, and then I have walked away from those darkest moments and been born again. I guess you could say in some way I too have been uncertified in my own much more private way.
The opinions of others that suggest my fascination as an obsession will do nothing to sway me. Enough said.
So here goes, I'll give it my best shot.
A few months ago I watched the Bronson movie that somehow ended up at Blockbuster, which shocks me because it's not The Hangover or the Hurt Locker. It's super indie and was even paid for in part by the English Lottery, which didn't sit well with many officials and others. That's the Queen's money! I instantly loved the movie and watched it twice before returning it. I then went online and ordered a couple of the books that Bronson himself had written. It was here that I discovered that while the movie was gripping and moving, a lot of it was chronologically out of order, and some of the events were scrambled together like a chicken egg/ostrich egg omelet. It was kind of a pisser since I had loved the movie so much -- still do because Tom Hardy's performance is absolutely amazing.
While I could go on and on about the man's life in detail from what I know so far, there's more to my fascination than that. They did touch on in the movie the fact that Bronson was moved many times, but in his books you discover that he has literally been moved hundreds and hundreds of times -- insane but factual and documented.
Here's one of the big questions that everyone wants to know: is he really one of the most violent criminals in the history of Britain? A matter of opinion, though his proponents will tell you (accurately) that he has never killed anyone. Misleading though: he has tried to kill a couple of people and was either unsuccessful or ended up not going all the way through it.
A little background: as a young man of 22 (in 1974), Bronson was tried and found guilty for robbing a post office (armed) where he made off with £26.18. From there forward the rest is history, although for the sake of brevity I have cut out some details which you can catch up on at the Charles Bronson Wikipedia page as well as on the Free Bronson Website.
Bronson, formerly known by his birth name, Michael Peterson, took on the name Bronson when he was released from prison (the first time which lasted only 69 days) and became a boxer under the management of Lenny McLean who is depicted in the movie as totally fucking ridiculous and amazing with a certain swagger and way of speaking that is intriguing and hilarious.
Enough history. Back to why I love this man. I was obviously drawn in by the movie, the mustache, and every girl loves a bad boy, of course. But something deeper made me buy some of his books and I love them. He expresses himself fully and never censors his sins or his guilt for his crimes both in and out of prison. The honesty is enchanting -- I have always told myself internally and other writers I know that in order to write good shit you have to be willing to get naked on the page and be honest, otherwise it's a farce and not worth the reader's time. Charlie offers this in spades and it has endeared him to me.
There's his poetry, which I don't particularly care for because it all rhymes, which I hate in poetry. But the messages are clear: prison is a bitch, solitary confinement turns an already questionable character insane whether an inmate was as normal as you or I (minus the criminal acts, of course!) when they first entered solitary.
Between his mix-ups and constant moves, some due to bad behavior, some due to outside forces purposefully making an example of him and trying to keep him confused, he was sent to Broadmoor -- a prison hospital for the criminally insane that's been around since the days when people thought that epilepsy was a sign of a criminal element and a madman. This is where he was stamped certifiably insane and drugged with the types of pharmaceuticals that are no longer legal.
And now the part that perhaps draws me to him more than just about anything else, though it doesn't put him in the best light, and of course added months and sometimes years onto his sentence, nearly all of which have been in solitary.
The rooftop protests! Bronson has successfully pulled off eight of them. It's not that I approve or would stand behind any criminal for doing this. It's because of how he describes them himself. At one point in his first book, he describes his first jaunt to the rooftop. He notes that he hadn't seen the nighttime sky in eight years. He writes that seeing stars for the first time in nearly a decade settled his soul even though his stomach was empty and he was freezing to death -- as though this moment in his life will in some way always make him feel some fraction of peace within an ocean of regret and sadness. He describes seeing the nearby town from a bird's eye view, how some of the townspeople cheered him on while others called him names and, well, protested his protest. He came down eventually from exhaustion and hunger. He was forced to give up because of physiological needs and nothing else.
I'm obviously not a criminal, never been arrested, have no record -- by all legal accounts I am a good little girl. But life has not spared me moments of severe anguish, and a sort of solitary I've put myself into from time to time. I know it CLEARLY doesn't compare, but reading his work gives me hope -- if someone can survive more than 30 years in solitary and have the stillness of mind and intellectual presence to write about it, then goddamn it, so can I. It's the kind of thing that makes me look onto the reels of horrid moments in my life and have some modicum of hope.
And so yes, I am fascinated, and yes, I am intrigued, and yes, I want to meet him, shake his hand, interview him, and share a mutual smile with Bronson.
He's nearing the age of 60, and the clock is ticking. The Her Majesty's Prison system "uncertified" him insane and he now wears the label of sane in the records of his time inside. But he poses a great question in one of his books: how can you be certified mad and then uncertified? A pretty good point, but something I can relate to mentally. The events of my life have driven me crazy, and then I have walked away from those darkest moments and been born again. I guess you could say in some way I too have been uncertified in my own much more private way.
The opinions of others that suggest my fascination as an obsession will do nothing to sway me. Enough said.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Justin Bobby is like so much cooler than Spencer Pratt you guys
he is. let's be honest. is he still a doucher? yep. but here's the thing that makes me hate him even more slash hate him a little less. he's honest. but this also sucks. here's the deal. there are guys that feed chicks what they want to hear to sack them, and then there are guys who are either so hot or so kewl that when they tell a chick they're not down for a relationship she just tries to wait him out, like Audrina did.
there are rules to this game you guys. you have to be so hot it's insane or so cool I want to kill myself because I just met the only person cooler than the Biblical Christ. as a washed up old bitty myself, i have no stakes in this game. thank fucking god.
i know plenty of Audrinas and have been one myself plenty. now that i have hindsight (across a much larger ass) i can tell you, we all need a Justin Bobby before we move into maturity... but once we've matured, the Justin Bobby dudes have to go, like, for realzies you guys, like forever. Why? they make you hate yourself because you sit there wondering why if they think you're so hot and so cool then why won't they commit to you? because they don't want to. THE END. it's not necessarily because they are shitty people [though some are, let's be honest]. it's because they have no idea that they should have any idea. that's it. that's all there is. i know i wanted to hear something so much more profound when i was single... but that's it. sucks.
now let's look at the flip side. you find your true love young [Lord knows i would have married mine behind a dumpster when i was 16!] and you both decide. "this is it!" chances are, you are in a Spencer Pratt situation or something at least somewhat similar unless you are among the lucky minority. And Spencer hates minorities. and children. and other humans. we won't even go into what Heidi did to herself, God bless her little soul.
most women worth their salt have to have a Justin Bobby or two. then they can wake up at some point [in their 20s or their 30s] and say, "Hey, he had me by the tits, but at least it wasn't long term!"
imagine the fantasy came true, that every girl sacked her Justin Bobby. nothing would ever mystify human sexuality again. if you sack a Justin Bobby forever, you have just gutted what he is. Justin Bobby dudes are pupae [usually] of guys who will be good to someone later -- but it just isn't you and if you try to force it to be you then you only waste more time. better to walk away and keep walking. find another Justin Bobby or just some guy named Joe, or Jaime, or whatever. as long as you don't go Spencer Pratt you should be okay.
disclaimer: Janie Diaz does not watch The Hills
there are rules to this game you guys. you have to be so hot it's insane or so cool I want to kill myself because I just met the only person cooler than the Biblical Christ. as a washed up old bitty myself, i have no stakes in this game. thank fucking god.
i know plenty of Audrinas and have been one myself plenty. now that i have hindsight (across a much larger ass) i can tell you, we all need a Justin Bobby before we move into maturity... but once we've matured, the Justin Bobby dudes have to go, like, for realzies you guys, like forever. Why? they make you hate yourself because you sit there wondering why if they think you're so hot and so cool then why won't they commit to you? because they don't want to. THE END. it's not necessarily because they are shitty people [though some are, let's be honest]. it's because they have no idea that they should have any idea. that's it. that's all there is. i know i wanted to hear something so much more profound when i was single... but that's it. sucks.
now let's look at the flip side. you find your true love young [Lord knows i would have married mine behind a dumpster when i was 16!] and you both decide. "this is it!" chances are, you are in a Spencer Pratt situation or something at least somewhat similar unless you are among the lucky minority. And Spencer hates minorities. and children. and other humans. we won't even go into what Heidi did to herself, God bless her little soul.
most women worth their salt have to have a Justin Bobby or two. then they can wake up at some point [in their 20s or their 30s] and say, "Hey, he had me by the tits, but at least it wasn't long term!"
imagine the fantasy came true, that every girl sacked her Justin Bobby. nothing would ever mystify human sexuality again. if you sack a Justin Bobby forever, you have just gutted what he is. Justin Bobby dudes are pupae [usually] of guys who will be good to someone later -- but it just isn't you and if you try to force it to be you then you only waste more time. better to walk away and keep walking. find another Justin Bobby or just some guy named Joe, or Jaime, or whatever. as long as you don't go Spencer Pratt you should be okay.
disclaimer: Janie Diaz does not watch The Hills
Monday, July 12, 2010
No more wire hangers, Hyzea!
why do children listen to their fathers more than they listen to their mothers? i know, i know, you don't want to hear me say it, and i know, listen, there are exceptions to every rule. hey man, i am the heavy around here, wielding my sassy Cubanita attitude, threatening all day to stab family members and pets, screaming at the unfed masses to shut it long enough for me to microwave something, you savages!
and yet, Zea takes no threat, no tone of voice, no ultimatums, or anything else from me anywhere nearly as seriously as she takes them from papi. NOT COOL. come on man, i took radical feminism as a college course and that means i came within moments of being hanged by people who looked even more butch than i did (difficult to do, btw.)
here's what i am trying to avoid:
but what's happening is that i am going at least as insane as Joan Crawford, and Christina still won't bring me the axe! what the fuck do i do NOW!!!
meanwhile, Jose walks into the house and shoots Zea a look and she cleans up her own toys, does the laundry, and prepares me a vodka-soda. WTF?
some say it's the deeper voice. some say it's because it's coming from a larger person with a bigger build. some say it's bollocks. whatever the fuck it is, it's sadly true and i hate it.
does anyone have any REAL explanations for this that i can actually work with? because i am dangerously close to becoming one of those, "WAIT 'TIL YOUR FATHER GETS HOME!" people.
and yet, Zea takes no threat, no tone of voice, no ultimatums, or anything else from me anywhere nearly as seriously as she takes them from papi. NOT COOL. come on man, i took radical feminism as a college course and that means i came within moments of being hanged by people who looked even more butch than i did (difficult to do, btw.)
here's what i am trying to avoid:
but what's happening is that i am going at least as insane as Joan Crawford, and Christina still won't bring me the axe! what the fuck do i do NOW!!!
meanwhile, Jose walks into the house and shoots Zea a look and she cleans up her own toys, does the laundry, and prepares me a vodka-soda. WTF?
some say it's the deeper voice. some say it's because it's coming from a larger person with a bigger build. some say it's bollocks. whatever the fuck it is, it's sadly true and i hate it.
does anyone have any REAL explanations for this that i can actually work with? because i am dangerously close to becoming one of those, "WAIT 'TIL YOUR FATHER GETS HOME!" people.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
beer is really good you guys
the title says it all. but of course, i just wanted to lure you in and now i can have my way with your mind!
so writing, yeah. i'd like to be famous for it. and rich for it. and happy for the release in it. that's my plan. so far i've only executed the last part when it comes to writing creatively, like poetry and what not. the times are changing friends, and in this down economy my new plan is to make the uber-hip "starving artist" routine as sad and worn out as heroin-chic. it's over dude, rich writer with something cool to say that makes you think and cry and laugh is the new black. [insert your internal monologue about me being a sellout here.]
back to the title, because it does matter. beer is good. but Coors is not. Stroh's is not. Keystone Light is not. i do like the occasional Schlitz for old time's sake, but cheap beer blows and we all know it. we can stop pretending that cool artsy types drink cheap beer because it's novel. it's what fucking happens when you don't finish your novel and shop it around.
if i want a beer, i'm not going to drink half of it and gag down the other half out of obligation because i spent food stamps on... food. i'm not going to talk about the days of yore when i was a writer people liked to read. i'm now ready with my silver Sharpie in hand for the droves of fans who want me to sign the eight-by-ten black-and-white glossy photo of myself with my chin resting on my hand. it's happening.
drinking shit pig-swill doesn't make you a good artist. creating shit everyday does. even if you think it's shit you're creating. now i'm no fucking Vonnegut, no Bukowski, no Sylvia Plath, but i am a writer -- not because i'm good at it, but because it's all my little soul has ever known what to do with itself. so i have to do it. so why not get paid -- and paid well -- for what i love to do, for what i can't stop doing any more than i can stop the physiological need to piss?
beer is really good you guys. let's raise our glasses to some fucking hard-earned and well deserved wealth -- wealth of word, wealth of heart, and fuck yeah, wealth of cold, hard cash.
too much heartache and misery has gone into this journey and too much sweet joy has been experienced to not share. SALUD!
[please note that Johnny Cash did not record records for free, except for the first one. having money is way cooler than being poor. Johnny could have told you that.]
so writing, yeah. i'd like to be famous for it. and rich for it. and happy for the release in it. that's my plan. so far i've only executed the last part when it comes to writing creatively, like poetry and what not. the times are changing friends, and in this down economy my new plan is to make the uber-hip "starving artist" routine as sad and worn out as heroin-chic. it's over dude, rich writer with something cool to say that makes you think and cry and laugh is the new black. [insert your internal monologue about me being a sellout here.]
back to the title, because it does matter. beer is good. but Coors is not. Stroh's is not. Keystone Light is not. i do like the occasional Schlitz for old time's sake, but cheap beer blows and we all know it. we can stop pretending that cool artsy types drink cheap beer because it's novel. it's what fucking happens when you don't finish your novel and shop it around.
if i want a beer, i'm not going to drink half of it and gag down the other half out of obligation because i spent food stamps on... food. i'm not going to talk about the days of yore when i was a writer people liked to read. i'm now ready with my silver Sharpie in hand for the droves of fans who want me to sign the eight-by-ten black-and-white glossy photo of myself with my chin resting on my hand. it's happening.
drinking shit pig-swill doesn't make you a good artist. creating shit everyday does. even if you think it's shit you're creating. now i'm no fucking Vonnegut, no Bukowski, no Sylvia Plath, but i am a writer -- not because i'm good at it, but because it's all my little soul has ever known what to do with itself. so i have to do it. so why not get paid -- and paid well -- for what i love to do, for what i can't stop doing any more than i can stop the physiological need to piss?
beer is really good you guys. let's raise our glasses to some fucking hard-earned and well deserved wealth -- wealth of word, wealth of heart, and fuck yeah, wealth of cold, hard cash.
too much heartache and misery has gone into this journey and too much sweet joy has been experienced to not share. SALUD!
[please note that Johnny Cash did not record records for free, except for the first one. having money is way cooler than being poor. Johnny could have told you that.]
Friday, July 9, 2010
Washing Dishes, Drinking Wine
There was a giant heap of dishes in the sink, it was 3AM and I couldn't sleep. I decide to do the dishes while I have a drop of wine...
Next thing you know, I'm standing over the sink doin' the dishes, and all sorts of thoughts and revelations start whirling through my mind. Most people hate doing the dishes. I am in that number. Maybe until this early dawn.
I have realized that when I'm doing "mindless" tasks, I can actively use my "higher self" to think about the things I'd like answers about in life. I scrub a pan thick with crumbs from Jose's tripas (ewww) and I think up how I can spend more quality time with Zea. I take a sip of wine, grab a plate and rinse, and realize I've been lagging on yoga and need to go three times a week to keep my mind straight. I wash out a cereal bowl and come to think of how life has become a whirling dervish filled with mysterious events that I don't yet understand the lesson in. The dirty dishes have become a magical portal to cogitation.
Do some dishes. In fact, wait until they pile up into a seemingly insurmountable task and then sneak attack them on a mission to answer some questions that have been swirling about your brain for hours, days, weeks, months, years. In my case, I have years of unanswered business that I feel I am owed some goddamned answers to.
So I'll do the dishes until I get more answers.
Next thing you know, I'm standing over the sink doin' the dishes, and all sorts of thoughts and revelations start whirling through my mind. Most people hate doing the dishes. I am in that number. Maybe until this early dawn.
I have realized that when I'm doing "mindless" tasks, I can actively use my "higher self" to think about the things I'd like answers about in life. I scrub a pan thick with crumbs from Jose's tripas (ewww) and I think up how I can spend more quality time with Zea. I take a sip of wine, grab a plate and rinse, and realize I've been lagging on yoga and need to go three times a week to keep my mind straight. I wash out a cereal bowl and come to think of how life has become a whirling dervish filled with mysterious events that I don't yet understand the lesson in. The dirty dishes have become a magical portal to cogitation.
Do some dishes. In fact, wait until they pile up into a seemingly insurmountable task and then sneak attack them on a mission to answer some questions that have been swirling about your brain for hours, days, weeks, months, years. In my case, I have years of unanswered business that I feel I am owed some goddamned answers to.
So I'll do the dishes until I get more answers.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Nook | That wretched device being sold at Barnes and Noble
So you guys have heard of Nook right? It's that digital thing that seems as cool as the iPad but only gives you print media and nothing else. First of all, am I crazy? (Yes, I am but that's not what I mean.) I like to actually buy BOOKS or at least get BOOKS from the library or friends. Nook turns books into digital pages on a flat-screened situation. They sell all manner of ridiculous accessories, like your Nook needs a tuxedo and a cumber-bun before you can read from it.
So I ran into an old friend who works at Barnes and Noble and has since like 2005. He's a great guy and a solid human being. I asked him how work was going. He said it had been insanely slow since the launch of Nook, and that the booksellers were being forced to promote and sell the Nook. Essentially, he noted, booksellers at Barnes and Noble were putting themselves out of a job. He even insinuated that whispers of layoffs were in the air because how many people do you need to sell books when people are buying digital books -- which requires no assistance?
I OBVIOUSLY have nothing against technology -- it's how I make my living for God's sake. But I have a serious spiritual issue with watching someone read Charles Dickens from a Nook. I think I can honestly say I'd rather be in a snake pit than watch someone read Breakfast of Champions on a goddamned Nook.
I told my Barnes and Noble friend that I would start a protest with a slogan, so pass this along: "Don't be a Shnook, don't buy a Nook!"
So I ran into an old friend who works at Barnes and Noble and has since like 2005. He's a great guy and a solid human being. I asked him how work was going. He said it had been insanely slow since the launch of Nook, and that the booksellers were being forced to promote and sell the Nook. Essentially, he noted, booksellers at Barnes and Noble were putting themselves out of a job. He even insinuated that whispers of layoffs were in the air because how many people do you need to sell books when people are buying digital books -- which requires no assistance?
I OBVIOUSLY have nothing against technology -- it's how I make my living for God's sake. But I have a serious spiritual issue with watching someone read Charles Dickens from a Nook. I think I can honestly say I'd rather be in a snake pit than watch someone read Breakfast of Champions on a goddamned Nook.
I told my Barnes and Noble friend that I would start a protest with a slogan, so pass this along: "Don't be a Shnook, don't buy a Nook!"
Monday, July 5, 2010
Mexican Held Hostage, Forced to Watch Bridget Jones's Diary
It just dawned on me a couple of days ago that in like the first week of dating Jose we watched Bridget Jones's Diary. There is no way this was okay with him no matter what he may claim today. I also realized I had watched The Sound of Music with him sometime within the first month of our courtship. This is also not acceptable.
You see, there are some things we consider cultural barriers, and others we may consider barriers between genders (or lifestyle, whatever). When you combine both sorts of barriers, you're messing with pure insanity. It's worth it, though you can expect the Mexican man who watched Steel Magnolias with his (relatively) Anglo babymama last week to go straight to bed. Something about Fried Green Tomatoes does something to wilt the male sexuality, and most especially the Latino male sexuality.
What makes it so hilarious for me (not Jose) is that we're usually halfway through the movie when he realizes that 70% or more of the cast is female, the story is dramatic with estrogen-packed comedic overtones and ... he's been roped into a chick flick. Maybe even one from the 1980s. Maybe even one from the 1970s. But the cultural barrier has allowed me to get more than halfway through An Affair to Remember, Hair, Hairspray, and the Hanna Montana movie (you heard me.)
There's value in barriers. Take advantage of them to have some fun.
You see, there are some things we consider cultural barriers, and others we may consider barriers between genders (or lifestyle, whatever). When you combine both sorts of barriers, you're messing with pure insanity. It's worth it, though you can expect the Mexican man who watched Steel Magnolias with his (relatively) Anglo babymama last week to go straight to bed. Something about Fried Green Tomatoes does something to wilt the male sexuality, and most especially the Latino male sexuality.
What makes it so hilarious for me (not Jose) is that we're usually halfway through the movie when he realizes that 70% or more of the cast is female, the story is dramatic with estrogen-packed comedic overtones and ... he's been roped into a chick flick. Maybe even one from the 1980s. Maybe even one from the 1970s. But the cultural barrier has allowed me to get more than halfway through An Affair to Remember, Hair, Hairspray, and the Hanna Montana movie (you heard me.)
There's value in barriers. Take advantage of them to have some fun.
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