I'm Poor

Monetarily. But not in spirit.

I just went to Albertson's grocery story where I got the $6.99 roasted chicken deal: one whole roasted chicken, a pound of cole slaw, and four King's Hawaiian rolls. I also bought some deli mashed potatoes and gravy for $1.67. The Albertson's near my house is dirt cheap because I live in the 'hood.

Right now I'm sitting on my porch drinking a makeshift Bloody Mary, waiting for my sister to come home so we can dig into our $8.66 meal. I never drink vodka unless it's in a Bloody Mary. Otherwise it makes me violently ill. And I rarely drink Bloody Marys. Only if I'm on a plane. And only two. More than that and I get very, very loopy. Here's my recipe: ice, vodka, tomato juice, black pepper, and hot sauce borrowed from my neighbor Tyler. That's it. It's actually pretty good. When I'm on a plane I get very agitated, very nervous. Every time there's any kind of turbulence, I think, WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!! And then a sort of resolved-ness comes over me: "Well, if we're gonna die, we're gonna die." It's sick thinking, really.

It's been overcast and muggy all day, but now the sun is setting and there's a certain calmness, coolness in the air. I took a one-hour nap earlier this afternoon, and I had a dream within a dream. I couldn't figure out if I was living in L.A. or Madison, Wisconsin. I have lots of dreams where I move back to Madison. Maybe it's a sign. I wouldn't mind living there again. I miss it, miss how you can always be yourself. You don't have to be cool (like I really try to be cool all the time, sheesh). Mostly I miss all the cab drivers with PhD's. And the lakes. I miss how you can walk across the isthmus from Lake Mendota to Lake Monona in 30 minutes. And I miss fall. I miss that the most. And I miss throwing darts at the Silver Dollar Tavern.

When I go home later this fall, I'm going to rent a car and drive up to Madison. It's a six-hour drive. My friends Carolyn and Steve live there. And my dear friend Melissa. I haven't seen her in years. She looks like Suzanne Somers.

Came Across This...

...while doing some research.


Bizarre Case of Consent
By Paul Lampathakis, SUNDAY TRIBUNE
September 10, 2006

A man has been acquitted of raping a woman - because she had at least 14 personalities.

In a bizarre case, a jury was told that the 40-year-old man was accused of sexually assaulting the woman 11 times in her home in 2004 while some of her alter egos looked on and at times intervened.
During the District Court trial that finished last Tuesday, the court was told three of the 33-year-old woman's personalities were present at one of the alleged incidents.

The complainant said two identities had been at other incidents.

Top WA criminal lawyer Judith Fordham, who watched the case, said it was the strangest she had seen.

"Although there have been many cases in our courts where the accused has a mental illness, and some where victims or alleged victims suffer from mental illness, in 20 years as a lawyer I have never seen anything quite like this," she said.

The man, who suffers from anxiety and depression, helped the complainant, who has multiple personality disorder and epilepsy, move into a flat in 2004.

But she claimed that he then sexually assaulted her during three subsequent days.

In video testimony played at the trial, the woman, referring to herself as "us", acknowledged that she had at least 14 personalities and described how one had intervened during one of the alleged incidents.

"(She) came out and was screaming at him (the accused) and said, 'You'd better not get us pregnant'," she said.

The woman said that she and that personality were "co-conscious" with another personality - that of a six-year-old - at another alleged assault.

Answering questions on video from defence lawyer Gary Massey, the woman described the presence of one of her alter egos.

"I can either hear her talking, or I know she's there," she said.

"It's like she's looking out of my eyes as well, which doesn't make much sense, but it makes perfect sense in my head."

She admitted that at times she forgot that she did things because other personalities had done them, such as spending $3000 on her credit card.

But she denied that any of her identities would engage in sex.

The accused said on a police interview video that he had consensual sex with the woman on only one night during the three days and denied that other acts took place.

He said she had a flashback related to her post traumatic stress disorder during the allegedly consensual act.

But the woman told the court that the man assaulted her on all three days, telling her to commit acts that she did not want to do.

She said during that period she had cried, pleaded with him and had had seizures that "froze" her body.

Psychiatrist Dulcie Veltman told the court that while treating the woman she met eight personalities.

Dr Veltman said the woman, who she believed was sexually abused in a religious cult while young, could be prone to confusion about events after having seizures.

Psychologist Gail Buesnel told the court that she got text messages from the complainant saying she had been raped and was entrapped, including a message from one of the personalities.

Dr Buesnel said she spoke to at least five of the woman's personalities about the incidents.

On Tuesday, the jury found the man not guilty on all 11 charges.

Outside the court he said: "To this day, I believe I was having a relationship with the real (woman) and what happened is that she forgot about the whole week that we were together.

"But I can't discount that maybe I got consent from one of her other personalities. After what's come out of the trial, anything's possible."

For More Info...

If you want to read a really insightful (and, yes, scary) article about Patricia Highsmith, here's a link to a three-year-old NATION piece.

http://www.thenation.com/doc/20031208/bolonik

Don't skip the part about the turpentine.

Or the snails.

Peaches

No, not the singer. I'm talking about the dozens and dozens of peaches on the tree in my yard. They're almost ready. Just now I took a few bites of one. They're so small, but actually not half bad. I think in five or six days they'll be ready. I doubt they'll ever get very big.

Maybe next week there will be warm peach cobbler on my kitchen table.

I slept so well, so deeply last night. I've been up working for a couple hours, but all I want to do is get under the covers and go back to sleep. Still tired, still drained. I've had a hard summer. Harder than I could have imagined.

I stayed up until 2:30 a.m. last night reading Patricia Highsmith's PLOTTING AND WRITING SUSPENSE FICTION. I'm conflicted because she was such an amazing writer, but I know all this hateful stuff about her personal life. There's a photo of her on the cover, looking like a mean Linda Hunt. I try not to look at it, if at all possible. Still, she says so many insightful things about the writing process, and writers in general.

Here's her typewriter. It's housed somewhere--Switzerland, maybe?--with her papers. It's more soothing to look at than she is.



The next book on my reading list is Jean Genet's novel QUERELLE. I haven't read Genet in years. I have a beat-up copy of OUR LADY OF THE FLOWERS, which I've never read, but QUERELLE is at the top of my list. I vaguely remember doing something in college with a one-act play he wrote that's set in a jail cell--just three guys in a jail cell. Did I stage it? Did I only write about it? Did I just think about doing something with it? I can't remember. Genet, by the way, is my favorite playwright. Read THE BLACKS: A CLOWN SHOW or THE MAIDS or THE BALCONY. You'll see what I mean.

I've decided, as Yom Kippur begins tomorrow night, that I truly want to start over with so many things in my life. Clear the slate. Start fresh.

Here's to an amazing autumn. For everyone.

Starting Over

My brother's birthday was two days ago. He turned 35. I bought him a card that says something about hoping all of his dreams come true. Usually I send him funny cards, but he's been going through a tornado of crap lately and I wanted to cheer him up.

Yom Kippur is just around the bend. It always stirs up a tornado of crap for me. It's a day of atonement. I remember writing about Yom Kippur in my blog last year. So much has happened in my life since then. And I have a whole new batch of things to atone for. Yom Kippur freaks me out to the core. Even though I'm Jewish, I live with a tremendous amount of guilt that I was trained to carry around from my Baptist upbringing like a two-ton Samsonite suitcase. You know what? I'm going to be the gorilla in that old 1970s Samsonite commercial and I'm going to kick the crap out of that Suitcase of Guilt. And then I'm going to hurl it into the Grand Canyon.

Talk about mixing metaphors...

I bought a new thesaurus last night. I read online recently that writers should use a traditional thesaurus--the kind that groups words by concept--rather than an A-to-Z thesaurus or one you find online. Because the words are grouped by concept, often words will appear in those clusters that you won't find in an A-to-Z thesaurus. The article I was reading said, "A thesaurus is not a synonym finder."

Man, I really am a nerd.

In a few hours I'm going over to a friend's house for dinner. I'm bringing braised collard greens along with corn bread cooked in a cast-iron skillet. I was afraid they wouldn't have any greens at Whole Foods because of the e-coli business. But they had 'em. I almost jumped up and down in the aisle. Greens give me strength.

Dude, Where's My Health?

I can't go to class tonight. I feel awful. My head hurts and I'm nauseated and I can't remember if I took my Effexor this morning. I'm pretty sure I did. I can't risk taking it again, though. I don't want to O.D. on anti-depressants and end up like Anna Nicole Smith's son. If I'm going to O.D. on something, please let it be opium or morphine or something fun. By the way, have any of you seen those photos of A.N.S. and her son on his last day? She's in a hospital bed holding her newborn baby and he's sitting next to her in a baseball cap smiling. And they both look so white trash and grimy. Really, they look grimy. I saw one of the photos on the cover of a magazine at Von's the other day. It was sad. Not because he died that same day. The whole trashy scene was just really sad to look at.

So I'm skipping class tonight and resting today as much as I can. My sister is feeling really lousy too. I suggested that maybe we got sick from these brownies she made last night and she yelled at me. She's been yelling at me a lot lately. I told her the other day that I'd rather live with my sister who yells at me than strangers who give me the silent treatment (the previous rooommates). She laughed. I said, "At least I know what to expect with you. At least it's familiar." How dysfunctional is that? She treats me all the time like I'm still her little sister and she's 16 and I'm 8. Part of it's because I'm much goofier than she is and she's serious a lot of the time. I'll sing crazy songs in the morning to the dogs and she'll be all grumpy and squeal at me to shut up. And I point out ugly/freaky guys on TV and say stuff like, "He'd be good for you" and she gets mad at me. Ha. My brother and I are, in many ways, so much more alike than my sister and I. But my sister's much more level-headed and not psycho like my brother. I'm glad I'm living with her and not him, that's for sure.

Earlier today I sat down and worked on my novel. I wrote 141 words (two of them being "Chapter Fourteen"). After I lie down for a while, I'm going to get back up and write some more, even though I'm not going to class. Class has been bringing me down lately; hardly anyone comments on my work, and if they do, it's often pointless. I'm starting to think I wasted $500 on the class. I've gotten a few good pointers, but my friends usually have much better--and more insightful--criticism to offer.

For example, last week in one of my chapters I mentioned that Abby McCarthy, an annoying redheaded chick my main character calls "The Red Scare," tossed a Starbucks coffee cup out of the window of her black Lexus SUV and onto the grassy median of Sunset Boulevard. This really nutty, always defensive woman wrote really weird comments throughout my chapter, starting with "A disposable coffee cup, I assume?" What? Huh? A person who tosses a paper cup out of their car window is a litterbug. Someone who throws a ceramic mug into the street is insane.

Earlier, this same character (Abby, not the freaky chick in class) says something slightly racist about her Korean manicurist. Here's the snippet from my novel:

“Great! All right! I hate to cut this short,” Abby announced, “but I’ve got a manicure appointment, and Chin-Hwa flies off the handle when I’m late. Isn’t that a funny name? Chin-Hwa? She says it’s Korean for ‘the most wealthy.’ Kind of fitting with the prices she charges!” She giggled at her own joke. “Okay if I vamoose?”

This is what the weird woman in class wrote: "FYI: Korean manicurists in L.A. are very rare. More often than not, they are Vietnamese. In NYC, they are usually Korean. I suggest changing this to make it more realistic."

Huh? What? As if there's not one Korean manicurist in all of L.A.? I paid $500 for this kind of criticism? It made me want to lob a ceramic coffee cup right between her sullen eyes. The weird thing is that she has these racist lines throughout her novel and is totally clueless about them. A few weeks ago I commented on a line in her book about a "slow-poke Mexican driver," suggesting she take it out, that it was offensive. She said, "Well, they often are slow because they're carrying all that gardening equipment in their trucks and they need to be careful."

The entire class was silent.

All right, here are the 141 words I wrote earlier today. I'm on page 151. I even went back to the beginning the other day and added a dedication and started my acknowledgments page, just to make the book seem more "real" to me. By the way, Hope Rhodes is the evil country singer in the book.

Chapter Fourteen

“Why, thank you, Mrs. Gunning. I tell you, if someone set my house on fire, it’s the only thing I’d bother to grab on my way out. Billy Jack would have to fend for himself. And so would the help!”

Hope Rhodes, gesturing to a pearl necklace draped around her bony neck, was talking with my mother, of all people. She wasn’t pointing with her hand, mind you; she was waving her stolen chicken leg around like it was a third appendage.

“It must be vintage,” my mother said, her chestnut eyes glassy with “Ebay Glaze”—the possessed look she gets when she’s spent an entire weekend shopping online, filling her condo with more “antiques," her word for anything produced before the year 2000. Precious Moments figurines are not vintage, I tell her. They’re junk. With gigantic scary heads and pillow-sack eyes.

-----------

That's all she wrote. As an aside: When I was nine or ten, my brother and I scraped $17 together and bought my mom a ceramic Precious Moments dealie with two kids (a boy and a girl) dressed as angels and sitting on a puffy cloud. We thought $17 was so much money. My mom still has that awful thing on her dresser.

I hate Precious Moments. They are not precious. And they last far longer than a moment.

Woman Held Captive by Family for 25 Years

I just read the above headline on AOL news, but I didn't read the story because I need to avoid all distractions and work on my novel. It made me think, though, of a grimmer reality: "Woman Held Captive by Family for 36 Years." That's my story. And I'm sticking to it. Wait, I'm not. This year I'm not going to involve myself so much.

New headline: "Penguin Books Signs Emerging Author for Three Mystery Novels." Followed by "Penguin Buys Gripping Suspense Novel Loosely Based on DATELINE Episode from Emerging Author."

A Little Exposition

For the past month I've been helping an author and giving him advice for no pay. He keeps saying "Let me think about it" when I mention sending him a contract to edit his novel. First he wanted me to edit his 150,000-word book, but now he's thinking I should edit his 70,000-word novel instead. I didn't mind it too much at first, but it's getting a little frustrating now, so I'm going to tell him that I really need him to make a decision. He e-mailed me today and said a tree just fell on his house and it's set him back somewhat financially. Sheesh. I don't think he's lying, though. Who would make that up?

He's a pretty incredible guy. His writing needs a TON of work, but he has original stories. His own story, however, is amazing. He comes from an Hispanic family; he dropped out of school in sixth grade. As an adult, he decided he wanted to be a novelist, but he could barely read or write. So he taught himself how to read and write by going through dictionaries and thesauruses. Also, he's gay. Being gay isn't amazing; I thought I'd mention it.

I wrote him yesterday and told him that he includes way too much exposition in his novels. He asked me what exposition is and also said people have told him that his syntax needs work. He didn't know what that meant either. So I looked both of them up to send him definitions. Just for fun (well, it's something fun in my oddball world) here they are:

exposition: the part of a play or work of fiction in which the background to the main conflict is introduced

syntax: the arrangement of words or phrases to created well-formed sentences in language

I'm desperately trying to find two books to help me with my own writing. One is called PLOTTING AND WRITING SUSPENSE FICTION (by, of course, Patricia Highsmith). The other is DON'T MURDER YOUR MYSTERY. Yesterday I read 20 pages of it online and it's brilliant. I could order both books online, but I really don't want to wait.

Also, I really want to write a serious, dark suspense/thriller novel. I have an idea for it, somewhat based on a creepy story I saw on DATELINE last week. It involves a faked death and body snatching and a life insurance pay-out. I think I'm going to set it in West Covina or someplace cruddy on the outskirts of L.A.

Wait! No! Lancaster! It's perfect.

Yesterday I received a jury-duty summons in the mail. I've lived in L.A. for 12 years and have avoided jury duty thus far. It's time to pay the piper.

Bad TV Is So Good

I am no better than the LCD folks who go to see movies like BEERFEST and AMERICAN PIE 11. Bring on the Swanson TV dinners, Hot Pockets, and Mountain Dew. Put me in clothes with brand names plastered all over them. Set me in front of E! True Hollywood Story for hours at a time.

Okay, I don't go to see stupid LCD movies. (Does PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN 2 count?) And I won't consume Hot Pockets or guzzle Mountain Dew (blech). But I am officially addicted to a very popular television show watched by millions. For some reason, my addiction to LOST doesn't make me feel as ashamed as this addiction does. All right, here's my confession:

I am addicted to DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES.

Why? The writing on D.H. is really smart and funny and the actresses are all really talented. I mean, Felicity Huffman is incredible. (And I have a giant crush on her.) I shouldn't feel so bad, should I? I never watched the show until about six months ago when my sister got me hooked. And then the season premiere was on last night. It's a very funny show! Filled with murder and intrigue and hilarity. Here's another sick confession: When MELROSE PLACE was on, I was a true addict. My friend Jon and I would watch it every week and die laughing. We still quote lines from it: "Kimberly, don't flip your wig!" and my favorite: "You just got greedy!" (Screamed by this bitch girlfriend of Jack Wagner to a homeless guy J.W. hit with his car. The homeless guy started extorting money from them after the accident.) That show was the best; nothing can compare to its total trashiness and ridiculousness. It was awesome.

They should have a MELROSE PLACE reunion two-hour movie. Whatever happened to the guy who played Billy? Remember when Courtney Thorne-Smith went blind and then she regained her sight, but she still pretended to be blind so Billy would take care of her? And then Billy discovered the awful ploy and went ballistic? How great was that?

Round 2

This one is less on-target than the last one I did. I'm a little addicted to this, I admit.

Rabbit, Run!

I'm trying to remember what Michael Silverblatt said to John Updike the other day on "Bookworm" about Updike's "Rabbit" books. Something like this:

"The character of Rabbit Angstrom shows us what it's like to be against society while still a part of it. A major theme in Western literature."

and

"He shows us how we face the unbearable 'dailyness' of living. How we must suffer through it, how we have a responsibility to do so."

Something like that.

I was thinking the other day that the closest I've come to reading a John Updike novel was when I watched the movie HOTEL NEW HAMPSHIRE, based on his novel of the same name. Then I remembered John Irving wrote that. All of the Updike "Rabbit" novels (Rabbit, Run; Rabbit Redux; Rabbit Is Rich; Rabbit at Rest) were recently named (by someone, I don't know who) as being four of the greatest books of the past 25 years, even though he started them about four decades ago. Maybe it's time I read of one them.

Who names their kid Rabbit anyway?

What I Want

I've been thinking a little about what I want in this New Year. Here are a few things:

1. Not to be such a drama queen
2. Learn how to deal with my messed-up family situation in healthier ways (primarily not to involve myself so much and to let other people handle their own problems)
3. Finish my novel
4. Get my novel published
5. Write more, edit less (this is my motto from now on)
6. Separate my work life from my personal life (boundaries, boundaries, boundaries)
7. Make some new friends
8. Teach some writing/editing classes
9. Exercise more
10. Spend more time playing with Harry and Chou Chou
11. Take better care of myself (physically, mentally, spiritually) all around
12. Go to synagogue more regularly
13. Be a better friend
14. Volunteer more/give more of my time
15. Show up
16. Be a better listener

Dream On...

Today is Rosh Hashanah. It actually started last night. I was welcomed into the New Year today with an awful gift: my period, which is crippling me with hideous cramps. At least I know (well, I'm fairly sure) that I'm still fertile.

I had really bizarre dreams last night. In the weirdest one, I worked at a restaurant owned by Loretta Lynn. I was wiping down some counters with her sister, Crystal Gayle, when I overheard two skeezy-looking men in a booth say they were gonna rob Loretta at gunpoint. She was standing at the cash register and I dashed over to her and said, "Run, Loretta! Run!" She didn't ask questions, just bolted for the back room, where she retrieved a pearl-handled revolver. She shot at the men and hit me in the finger. The men fled, and Dolly Parton came over to me and removed the bullet and bandaged up my finger. It was the tiniest bullet ever, just 1/4 of an inch or so. I said, "It doesn't hurt that much."

Then my friend Jon and I were sitting at the back of a bus quoting lines from the movie "9 to 5" while Jane Fonda and Dolly Parton sat up front, gabbing. There were some U.S. soldiers on board. A little girl was on the bus holding a doll to her chest. Her father was in Iraq, fighting in the war, she told me. I said, "He'll come home soon. Your father is a brave man."

All right, I'm crawling back into bed, hopin' and prayin' these cramps subside soon. Oh, by the way, I've started reading another Patricia Highsmith novel. It's called "Small g."

New Year, New Blog

So this is my new blog. It's been a little more than a year since I started writing it, and now I'm starting fresh. Maybe because it's almost the Jewish New Year. But mostly because I'm fleeing my cyberstalkers. I have to spiff up this blog a little. It's kind of plain and annoying.

I haven't been writing a lot in my blog, which is a bad thing. I've been feeling overwhelmed by so much in my life. It feels like everything in my life is on one big collision course. And not the fun kind of collision course with monster trucks and demolition-derby cars like you'd find at the L.A. County Fair. Man, I want to go to the L.A. County Fair...

I reached the 40,000-word mark with my novel last week. I have class tonight and haven't written anything for it. I might bring in something old. I might bring in nothing. But I'm still going to class. I only have three classes left. I suggested to a few of the people in the class that we start a writing group after the class ends in three weeks. There are some really amazing writers in there (two are not so good). This woman Patricia is my favorite. She's the L.A. correspondent for the DAILY TRIBUNE in Ireland. She's got a thick Irish accent and a very wicked sense of humor, on-target and wry.

I'm reading Patricia Highsmith's STRANGERS ON A TRAIN (1950). The novel from which Hitchcock made his 1951 film of the same name. I don't have that much more to go. Highsmith was such an incredible writer (even though she was a hateful person and anti-Semitic). What is it they say? Nice guys finish last? I don't believe it.

Anyway, reading this book has made me rethink a lot of my writing and the ways I describe and portray characters--both physically and mentally. It's gross to say, but a few pages in she mentions a huge pimple in the middle of this guy's forehead. The way she describes it--and the way she describes the protagonist's reaction to it--is incredible. It sets up the antagonist in such simple terms and sets the tone for that character for the rest of the book. The novel is amazing--and it was her very first novel.

Also, there are a couple of murders in the book, and the way she writes those scenes, well, as a reader you end up *wanting* the murders to happen. I was on the edge of my seat (well, the edge of my bed), and my heart was pounding. The scene on the island at the amusement park is especially unsettling and awesome. I never saw the movie, so everything in this book is new to me.

One criticism: The way Highsmith shifts the point of view in the novel at the beginning is a bit clumsy. I forgive that, though, because then the omniscient POV really works for the rest of the book. Oh, also: Once in a while she stays too long in a character's head, which delays the action somewhat.

I have to drive to Woodland Hills in a couple of hours to pick up a check. Then I'm going to buy two new shirts so that I'll have something decent to wear to High Holydays at my temple. Rosh Hashanah starts on Friday. I have no nice clothes. It's crazy. The last time I bought new clothes was a couple of months ago: two T-shirts and a pair of men's cargo shorts from Target. I've been dressin' like a bum for way too long. I don't have a ton of money right now, so I was going to go to a thrift store. But the thought of that depressed me. I'm going to try to find something halfway decent at Old Navy.

A few days ago I ordered food online for my mother again; looks like it'll be a once-a-week adventure for me. They messed up her order again: They gave her regular-flavored Boost instead of vanilla, and they brought five six-packs instead of six. And they screwed up other stuff as well. I talked her into ordering some fruits and vegetables: one cucumber, a head of Bibb lettuce, and three nectarines. She said, "Those were the biggest nectarines I've seen in my life!" She's not doing very well these days, and she barely eats. But she's drinking that Boost like it was water. So that's something.

Yesterday she said something about dying, that she had nothing to live for. I started crying and told her that she had me to live for, that I couldn't go on if she died. She said, "Well, you'd have to go on." I agreed but then said, "Remember when your mom died? That's how I would feel." My mother has never gotten over the death of her mother, even though my grandma died in 1976. A week or so after my grandma died, my mother was lying in bed and saw her in her bedroom mirror one night. I'll always remember that.

Here's something strange and delightful: Yesterday I got a writing assignment from a horror magazine to interview a big-time horror/vampire novelist. I actually know the author and pitched the idea to the magazine. The deadline for turning it in isn't until March, but I want to get it done much sooner.