Gulag Archipelago

I've just started Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago. And, at least so far, it is endlessly fascinating. And sad. And horrifying. And mesmerizing. How is it that I've never read this before? It's one of those things that for years and years I've been telling myself I "should" read, and of course telling one's self that one "should" do something is maybe the best way to dissuade one from actually doing it. I've read about 50 pages so far, and the writing itself is amazing. I suppose that the translator is maybe partly to credit here, but the writing, the individual sentences, are so well crafted. And all I really want to do is keep reading, in spite of the fact that both Elizabeth George and J.K. Rowling are beckoning. I don't know how to put into words how I'm feeling about Solzhenitsyn just now.

Weight

Since the first of the year, I've gained about 15 pounds. And there's not such a good reason for it, unless it's paxil (some call it pack-it-on-paxil). But I'm off that now, have been for six weeks or so. And the weight isn't going away. And I don't know how to explain how painful and difficult it is, living with the weight. My clothes don't fit--I'm down to about 2 pairs of pants and 3 skirts that I can wear. And I don't know. It's just emotionally debilitating, although I can tell myself it shouldn't be. So I've started Weight Watchers, again. But I don't know; it's all so hard. And I'm so discouraged that I do rather just want to give up and give in and decide that I'm going to be OK with being heavy, although I don't really know how to be OK with it. And I'm so, so frustrated, mostly with myself, which is the worst frustration of all. And I feel so alone in it somehow. Isn't that like some kind of weird refrain for me? I don't want to feel alone any more.

The Phil Spector Trial

When I'm home during the day, I like to have Court TV on, and of course they are currently covering the Phil Spector trial. The witness, Kathy Sullivan, who was on the stand yesterday afternoon and this morning makes me ill. She really does. She's a woman who claims to be a "platonic acquaintance" of Spector. And she was out for drinks with Spector earlier on the evening that Lana Clarkson was shot. So, it's obvious to me anyway, that it easily could have been her, rather than Clarkson. Of course, I suppose that statement implies that Clarkson's death wasn't suicide. Anyhow, this Sullivan woman is testifying as to the nature of her relationship with Spector and what they'd done earlier in the evening. And she's clearly turning this into her own 15 minutes. She's on the stand, acting all cute, cracking jokes (which the attorneys laugh at, by the way), turning this all into something about her, turning it into her chance to be on TV, to talk, to have attention. And it just makes me sick. I want to scream. I want to say, "Look, a woman is dead. Can you only think about yourself?" And it's not the normal thinking about self in the sense of saying, "Oh my gosh, this is terrifying. This could have been me." She seems not at all shaken by the whole think. It's friggin' unbelievable. And I use "friggin'" sparingly, so you can judge the severity of my reaction here.

The other weird thing that strikes me is this. And here I have to credit Lisa Bloom and Vinnie Politan for exploring some of this in their commentary. Spector seems to have this pattern of going out to dinner with a female friend, then picking up other women at the restaurant or bar and saying something like, "Hey, after my driver takes this woman home, do you want to join me for drinks?" There's something supremely creepy about that, in my opinion. And all these women he hangs out with claim that their relationship is merely platonic. Politan points out that "platonic" means that Spector was interested in a sexual relationship, but the women were like, "No thanks." If that's true, platonic must mean the women are like, "no thanks," until Spector drinks too much and then pulls a gun on them.

I don't know, rather like Anna Nicole's life and death, as Spector's story unfolds, I am struck by how supremely unbelievable it all is. I mean, I do believe it, and I think that the way that the prosecution is portraying him is reality. But if this were merely a movie and not real life, I think we'd all say, "That would never happen. That's totally unbelievable."

I sorta alluded to some of this a couple of posts ago. I sometimes feel like there's all this "stuff," important, sad stuff that's happened in my life, stuff that I'm just not talking about. And it seems like I somehow need to talk about it. I think that just avoiding it, or acting like it's unspeakable makes it more damaging. And really, why not talk about it? I think I'm just somehow protecting people who don't care about me. Here's an example: just over three years ago, I didn't get married. I was engaged, and J. waited to decide that he didn't want to marry me, waited until the last possible second. Seriously. He waited until there we were, in front of our families, in this public forum to say, "Oh sorry--don't want to marry you after all." OK, that was a paraphrase, but you get the idea. I suppose it would be more accurate to put it this way: he said something like this, as he dropped the ring he was supposed to put on my finger: "I'm really sorry, but I just can't do this." What he said isn't my point however; my point is that he chose to do it in a very public and thus extra humiliating fashion. He chose not to deal with me; he broke up with me, in front of, like, 50 people. But here's the part that I'm getting to. A week or so later, when I told some colleagues of both of ours that we didn't get married after all because he changed his mind, he got all bent out of shape. He got mad and told me that I had not right to tell people, especially people with whom he had a professional relationship, as did I, that it was his decision. That, he said, was too much personal disclosure. So that made me really angry. I mean come on! One: it was his decision, and I didn't want the additional pain of having my character called into question as the one who didn't keep commitments. Two: he did it in this oddly public way anyhow. I mean, after that, I think that any reasonable expectation of privacy was gone anyway.

The more I write about this whole situation, the more I feel absolutely disgusted with J. He'd be horrified, I think, that I'm posting this publicly, and I'm proud to say that I've gotten to the point (finally!) that I really don't care. It's somehow therapeutic and helpful for me to say it all publicly. The more I think about how he dealt with the situation and what he's done since (he lives with his mom. He's 35 and lives with his mom, not because he has to for any reason, but just because he's kinda pathetic like that). . . oh, the more I think about what he's done since, the more I just feel really, really sorry for him. And so there it is: I was in love with a pathetic loser. He was the love of my life. And I'm sure that I'll never be quite the same. But still, at least I've moved on and actually have a life of my own. Oh, his mom's quite wonderful, but that's not really the point. I've found a career that's mostly fulfilling and that I'm mostly successful at. I've forged other meaningful relationships. I have friends. I have interests outside of work. I guess I don't know where I'm going with all this, just that I need to get it out.

Lonely

Ok, this afternoon, I'm really lonely. And I know that this sounds kinda dumb, seeing that I teach at a college and all, but I sometimes feel like I'm languishing intellectually. You'd think that being a professor (ha, ha) and all, my work day would be filled with all kinds of smart, intellectual interaction, but really most of my day is filled with kinda mundane activity. And what I really want is someone to talk with about women's writing and women's experience and feminist theory. And there's sorta, kinda no one I feel like I can talk with. And T., my usual go-to-guy for this sort of thing, is busy. And Carina is far away, and maybe I'm just missing her. So I'm thinking about this Women Writers course that I'm scheduled to teach this fall, and I'm all obsessing about the possibility of a true women's discourse, you know? So here I am, getting all "Laugh of the Medusa," and it seems like there's no one around who can relate, you know? And then, I miss J. at times like these, because although he wouldn't be all into feminist theory and although I've had to explain second- and third-wave over and over to him, still he'd listen and ask the right questions to get me thinking about it. But how do you corner someone new and say, "So I'm reading Irigray lately. What do you think?" Or, "I'm interested in how the question of embodiment, especially the experience of the grotesque body, affects one's sense of identity." Or on a different note, "I'm convinced that Eco and Rushdie are speaking to one another in some important ways, but I can't figure out how they might be connected." I mean, I want these ongoing (possibly slightly tipsy) conversations about literature and feminism and postmodernism and medievalism and the self, and it's just not happening in my life. And my students are great. And they are attentive and responsive, but it's just not the kind of exchange that I'm craving. I don't even know where I'm going with this whole post. Maybe it's just that I'm missing friends and the life that I had (or maybe just some idealized version of it) in Riverside/cide.

Observations Made While Grading Essays on Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest

1. When someone introduces a thought with, "Not to be sexist or anything, but. . . " the subsequent thought is sure to be offensive.

2. "I found it boring" is not particularly insightful as a critical response.

3. The use of the word "crap" creates a decidedly non-academic tone.

4. What I really need is "a frivolous and partying alter-ego."

Ronald McDonald

Ok, I just need to get this out: I'm totally freaked out by Ronald McDonald. I don't much like clowns anyway, but he's the worst of the worst. The stuff of nightmares, really.

Procrastination (Again!)

It just occurred to me that I've been procrastinating about posting again. And the reason for my procrastination is soooooo annoying. I realized that there are all these things I want to say but, I feel, for a number of reasons, like I have to censor myself. And that's so irritating that I'm just not wanting to deal with it. It's like I want to talk about my recent weight gain and how that makes me feel. I want to talk about C., my ex-husband, and how that makes me feel. Sometimes, I just want to talk about what a struggle work is some days. But it's like I'm suddenly all paranoid. Is it paranoia if it's justified? Seriously, I want to tell the world about all the crappy, mean, evil, destructive things that C. did to me. But will that come back to bite me in the backside some day? What happens if I ever apply for a job and a potential employer Googles me, only to read all this crap about my personal life? I mean, this isn't just paranoia on my part. If I had used the half-brain that I do have, I would have started this whole project with some clever, interesting pseudonym. But now it feels too late. And so, I just have to say the nice things. I can't say that my breasts are bigger than they used to be and that it really bugs me or that I still dream about C. several times a week. And I hate that I feel like I can't talk about these things, so I guess it's sometimes easier not to talk at all.