Sunday in the Park with Joyce Carol Oates

Colette found a flautist, no easy feat, then she found a place to picnic

Godot arrives,  Colette experienced much joy.
Finished another Joyce Carol Oates masterpiece, nibbled, sipped, relaxed.

Joyce Carol Oates; Blonde, Black Girl White Girl.

Dawn Powell wrote all the time, Joyce Carol Oates writes even more, in fact, she must be the most prolific writer of today.  So abusive, so violent, she lacerates, she whips with her words, you feel yourself falling off a cliff, it's terrifying at times.  You'd think she'd gift you with a reprieve, but she won't.  So don't prey for that parachute, that rope will never appear, it will not end well, why? Because Joyce Carol Oates is a truth teller, that's why.  

Her milieu is dark, I know dark but violence is foreign to me. Abuse, torture porn, I'm not normally drawn to this world, but when she creates a period of time, a slice of drama, I'm fascinated and find myself willing to go anywhere she's willing to take me, knowing it will all end in tears.
Such is the stunning effect of this writer.  When you're reading Black Girl White Girl you might assume it's all about the relationship between two young women, one white, one black who happen to be room mates in an exclusive liberal arts college, if only because she writes about that relationship in the most devastating way, but its not.  It's really about a white girl and her relationship with her radical Dad. Her Dad and his extreme left-wing activism, his attitudes about money, class, politics, the deceptive left-right paradigm that began to unfold in America circa 1970.  Oates gets to highlight reverse racism, hypocrisy and liberal guilt in post-Vietnam America as only she can do.....
God she's brilliant, so brutal and honest. Her high literature style collides with informal, staccato, internal thought.  In this book, it feels reminiscent of falling back into the blissed out, bonkered, wonderful, horrible life that was Marilyn Monroe in Blonde.  I've blogged before but I'll blog it again, any women that wants to read about their own sex, their own fear, control, love, knowledge or lack thereof regarding their own sex, read Blonde, I dare you. That book is fierce. 

Silvia Plath + Ted Hughes = emotional spectrum.

To suggest it was an explosive marriage seems to defeat the exercise of reviewing the "Last Letter." Two souls, both brilliant, poetic, on a collision course with life and death.  Aren't we all.
Reminds me of reading "The Bell Jar,"  when she says, "sometimes simply being a women is an act of courage."  Like many women reading this book young, it sits and simmers, awaiting its day. 
I suppose this is why Godot never arrives... and yet, contrary to literary myth, Godot arrived. Here he is, on our table, post luncheon. 

Here's to Persephone rising and dispelling conventional wisdom...

MAD MEN: the unbearable lightness of being without hunger.

So grateful for iTunes. I can play catch up with Joan, Peggy and the boys. This week's update:
THE CHINESE WALL: Oh lord, this series hits home, the things I've seen. Roger, poor little rich boy. Too busy focusing on glasses of Smirnoff to stroke client egos. Lacking confidence, once life takes hold, a client walks, they cower, then crash, oh, the unbearable lightness of funny one liners, becoming tinged with bitterness, then embarrassing. 
You can understand Draper's inability to bond with Roger.  Don never knew his mother, didn't inherit a thing so he's got a major hunger to hunt. And here we have Roger becoming tedious with his Mummy fetish, crying to Joan because Father wasn't around, too busy making all that money.  These men just aren't natural carnivores so they feast on Foie gras, without the je ne sais quoi, no wonder Joan's fed up.
But hey, wonderful to see Pete and his opportunistic nemesis Ken Kosgrove eating up the scenes, watching them feel the heat.  Those two are definitely up for the hunt. Pete's a trust fundy but hungry because his father had 'old money' but ate every last bit, leaving him nothing but contacts to feast upon, which he does, with zest. He's fabulous, providing all the tension, that ambition, teetering so precariously each week. We don't need to hear him necessarily, but we need to see him, preferably with his precious Trudy.
And was it my active imagination or did I just see Eve Harrington sprout outta Don's secretary Megan like the alien creature; Faye, you better watch out.
But Stan. I don't get Stan. The lipstick scene?  The company's drowning and Stan, knowing what its like to drown is steering the ship 'towards the berg'? well, maybe it was worth it just to suffer along with Peggy's humiliation, played out in deceptively slow motion/real time.  This is why I love the show, life can be awfully awkward when you're jumping off cultural, business or social cliffs..life has a way of taking the mickey out of you, so enjoy it vicariously whenever possible...
No wonder I've forgotten how to spell the word pride, whatever is the point....

HANDS AND KNEES: Speaking of. Joan, most diaphanous creature. Did she, or didn't she?  Maybe she did keep the child, not a coy woman but very pragmatic and she does want a child. And, what about Joan's past?
Sad, fabulous Joan, when 31 meant time was no longer kind, when she flips her male currency she gets inept, less than ideal Dr. spouse for heads and cavalier trust fund lover for tails.
And now the diner discussion had to happen, shedding new light on the 'loving chemistry' with Roger Sterling, prince of the light one liners.  Is she willing to dismiss his role right alongside the writers decision to drain away much of what made Roger funny to hear and happy to watch for so many episodes? Our blessed Joan. She's had abortions before, and didn't she just question her Dr. last time about long term impact of said fact?
Just when I think it's nostalgic and distinctly American, sighing at those old phones and clothes, an English friend tells me its Chekhovian, universal.  This series, so instrumental in playing out our insecurities, spilling the beans, exposing our secrets along elements of compassion, reminding us how quickly the past plays catch up, there's consequences after all...
The show moves so deceptively slow, no hero or villain to make us feel noble. It's just an advertising firm. Its just us, our life, our dramas and the tedious fact that life ends, drama meets death, the credits roll. 
Can't wait to download the next episode. Perhaps I should, this precious interlude, this petite piece of calm

Another seasonal town quietly shuts down....

Just weeks ago you couldn't call a blade of grass your own, but now the beach is wide open, just one guy, one last gasp of sun as another town in Italy closes down.... 
 
cylcing along the vineyards to Maeraid's garden, where the kids can hang out and bask in the last hit of sun before the season along Lake Garda closes completely down.

Persephone rising in a clever "Little Book"

What a wonderful read, "The Little Book" by Selden Edwards. Finished it last night, apparently it took Edwards 4 decades to get it published and finish it properly but wow, well worth the wait.

So much stuff to digest; beautiful English Jewish pacifist Flora Zimmerman falls in love with old Bostonian WWII veteran Frank Burden, dozens of conversations with Sigmund Freud, sexual scenarios with Gustav Mahler, Hitler as a youth, then evil incarnate, the Jung Wien, anti-semitism Vienna style, all visited randomly within vast voyages of time travel from 1897 Vienna to San Francisco in 1988.
He weaves quite an epic family tale of concentric circles through high historical drama, an intense journey covering so much time in such dramatic settings, and yet he finds a way to keep it deceptively light at times.
Jumping from Fin de Siecle Vienna to post Haight Ashbury San Francisco becomes almost too intense a time warp twice too often; just writing about it seems confusing, but it's really lovely stuff and it works.  Women's sexuality has come an awful long way, explored through talk therapy, Freudian analysis and Greek mythology, all playing a role. 
And listen, anytime a writer includes Persephone and feminine rising can only be construed as a good thing, all the female characters are easy to fall in love with, especially the pacifist, they provide the strength.
It's good to be in a foreign country, searching for a novel written in English, even if the selection proves painfully small. Good to stray away from the usual suspects and "The Little Book" is anything but a usual suspect. Glad I found Selden Edwards, happy he found a publisher, it was certainly worth the wait.