New Blog, Old Look

You all must check out my new blog at www.welfle.com/writereason and let me know if there is anything familiar about it.

More about Joan Didion and how she is daunting and amazing and how sometimes it seems like she's speaking right to me

I was reading Joan Didion's essay "Why I Write" again tonight. She describes in it this feeling she had as an undergrad at Berkeley as "hopeless late adolescent energy," and I think I have that, too. She talks also about amateur ideas and being "interested" in things (like marine biology, or in my case, American politics). These are not issues about which we are experts, although I suspect Joan Didion knows more about marine biology than I will ever know about anything. She claims that she doesn't think in abstracts, but I think that it's all abstract in the end. She says she isn't an intellectual, that when people call her that, she reaches for her gun, but then in the next paragraph she refers to the "Hegelian dialectic" and hell if I know what is. It sure sounds intellectual to me. Anyway, she talks at the end of the essay about "A Book of Common Prayer" and the questions she has about it. There are always questions, after all. This I already knew. Then, after she explains about the questions, she tells it so well that I will just quote it:

"Let me tell you something about why writers write: had I known the answer to any of these questions I would never have needed to write a novel."

All Good Things...

No more free Showtime.

Sleepy to IPFW

I saw Liz Murray (of "Homeless to Harvard" fame) tonight and she talked a lot about the daily choice between what we're supposed to do and what we want to do. For me, this manifests itself lately between going to work and sleeping. The earliest class I have is at 3pm, and usually I'm ready to get up by then. It's not that I don't like my job. It's simple and easy and my bosses are lifelong family friends. It's an ideal situation. I honestly don't know why it's so hard for me to get out of bed and go there, but I do recognize that I am not like Liz Murray. Faced with her situation, I have no doubt that I would be dead. I don't have that internal motivation, that thing that makes you go forward. I suppose that's how I ended up at IPFW, a place even my mother puts down and calls "Bypass High." I've been making a lot of noise lately about grad school, but who knows if I'll really do it. If I manage to motivate myself to apply, that will be a major accomplishment. I can blame my thyroid and remind people that depression and fatigue are common symptoms and since Dr. Beyer took me off the medication, there is nothing standing between me and these symptoms. But the fact remains that we need money and I am so racked with guilt when I call in sick that I can't sleep anyway. If Lifetime made my life into a movie, it would be called "Sleepy to IPFW" and it would be about half an hour long and someone superglamorous would play my sister, the foil who provides the comparison so that viewers get just how stagnant I am.

If Tina Fey ruled the world...

I watched "Mean Girls" tonight, and even though it was predictably predictable, it was, as everyone has told me, better than it could've been. There ends the review and begins my confusion at Rachel McAdams playing someone who is a junior in high school. Rachel McAdams is 29, and she was 27 or 28 when she made "Mean Girls," in which she plays Regina George. What made her want this role? A little imdb.com investigating yielded the info that pretty much everyone in this movie was too old for their roles. The actor playing Aaron is my age and it has been a long time since I was 17. By the by, both that guy and the actress playing Karen were on "All My Children." (Aaron was that J.R. who always needed chapstick and Karen was this girl named Joni whom Jamie dated for a summer.)

The math teacher was the best character. I don't know if it's Tina Fey or the writing but I suspect it's the former. I want to give that character her own movie. Heck, I want to give Tina Fey her own country.

All roads lead to grad school...

I was struck, in the middle of the night, by the notion that I should apply to the Iowa Writers' Workshop, even if it's just wishful-thinking. I think I was inspired by Jordan getting into Stanford and Yale. The Iowa Writers' Workshop is my Yale. If I could get an MFA anywhere, it would be there, but I haven't ever said this out loud. So, in the middle of the night, I went to my laptop and googled. I discovered that my GPA is indeed high enough to get in and I also need to submit two manuscripts. I don't think I need any letters of recommendation. So I have until Jan. 3, 2007 to write something worthy to send to the Iowa Writers' Workshop. Which brings me to Mary Ann.

Iowa will accept 18 credits for transfer and I want very desperately to take more writing classes. I haven't taken one in almost two years. That's a long time to be on my own, writing duds like "Utter Despair," which I realized this morning totally sucks as a story. This fall, Mary Ann is teaching a class called "Composing the Self." It's a writing class that looks at identity. It's almost a surreal coincidence because I have recently been doing independent research on this notion, and it is a perfect way to connect women's studies and writing. If I could take one class each semester next school year, I would be better prepared mentally for an MFA program.

Of course, I am putting the cart before the horse—the horse being acceptance to a program at all. I do not assume I will get into Iowa. It is quite possibly the most prestigious program in the country. But even if I did, why would I expect Andy and Sachen to want to move to Iowa? What is in Iowa City outside Big Ten basketball and this writing program?

Queer as THAT?!?!

At the risk of seeming simultaneously like a homophobe and a stater-of-the-obvious, I am compelled to admit that, immediately following my virgin "Queer as Folk" experience, I said aloud to my cat, "Wow, that is a GAY show."

I am person who has been wanting Showtime for as long as I can remember. When I was in high school, I wanted to watch R-rated movies with the good parts that regular cable cuts out, and now I am interested in the original programming, the so-called "groundbreaking" series, documentaries, and movies—like "Weeds" and "Huff," and of course "Queer as Folk." Well, my time has finally come. We have a free Showtime preview and I am as happy as any TV enthusiast could ever be.

I watched "Huff" Sunday night and tonight, I'm watching "Weeds." Last night, I skipped the end of the NCAA men's basketball championship game and stayed up past my bedtime to watch "Queer as Folk." It struck me initially as a gay, uncensored "Melrose Place." There was a lot of sex and also something happening at an ad agency. "Queer as Folk" is, of course, better acted and better written than "Melrose" and the comparison waned as I became more interested in the characters. I remained shocked by all the naked men because I am used to mainstream cinema and, therefore, ubiquitous naked women. (I am working on getting used to naked men, though.) One of my points is, however, why does there need to be nakedness at all? Can't we tell a story about the complexity of human relationships without boobs and asses all over the place? This is a beef I have with everything, really. The entire world. Not just "Queer as Folk."

I liked the show. I don't know if I've made that clear. I don't know whether or not it is an accurate representation of being young and gay in Pittsburg, but I am willing to bet that "Friends" isn't an accurate representation of being young and straight in Manhattan. We don't want TV that is 100% accurate. We just want it to reflect the way we are and the way we feel. We don't want it to ignore us, and we want it to be entertaining. I think "Queer as Folk" accomplishes that. I'm going to watch it again tonight. As a straight woman who supports the LGBTQ movement, this show represents kind of a "put your money where your mouth is" situation for me because I love TV. If I can support, appreciate, and like this kind of show on my TV, I will allow myself to feel good about that, but I won't tell myself that I know what it's like to be gay because I watch "Queer as Folk" anymore than I know what it's like to be African-American because I watch "Soul Food." (And I do watch "Soul Food" and I do love it.)

No More "Despair"

This is the rest of the story. Don't forget to tell me what you think.

She didn't come to the store. He knew he had been foolish to expect her since he had forced her into saying she would. He stayed at the store for an hour after he closed it and then he drove to her apartment.
She wasn't there. Her car wasn't in the parking lot but he knocked on the door anyway. No one answered it so he went to Tom's Donuts and called her cell phone while he drank a cup of coffee.
When she answered, he said, "Where are you?"
"Who is this?"
"It's Keith."
"Oh. I'm on the way home from work."
"Where do you work?"
"I do hair at this place on Lima Road."
"Oh. You're a hair dresser?"
"Yeah. Sort of. Really, I'm a poet."
"Oh." Rachel seemed to him like a poet. "Can I meet you at your apartment?"
"Sure."
"Okay."
He was sitting on the steps leading to the door when she pulled into the parking lot.
"What do you want, Keith?"
"I want to talk to you," he said.
"About what?"
He had been so focused on getting an opportunity to talk to her that he had lost sight of what he wanted to say.
She seemed to sense this, and when he didn't answer immediately, she invited him inside.
"Do you want a beer?" she asked as she opened the refrigerator to get one for herself.
"Yeah. Thanks."
She handed him a bottle and sat down next to him on the couch.
"Will you show me some of your poetry?" he asked.
"Okay." She rooted through the stacks of papers and books and junk on the coffee table until she produced a brown leather journal. She opened it to a page near the end and handed it to him. "Here's something I wrote last night."
It was called "Utter Despair." He didn't usually read poetry. He mostly just read the newspaper. This poem seemed good, though.

Utter Despair
His mouth doesn't say a word,
But his eyes say something,
And his fist says the rest.
I don't know what he wants,
But this thing between us
is starting to feel like a test.

I may try to make him walk away
by showing him that it doesn't matter
and that I don't even really care.
But those eyes of his are looking at me
with a disappointment I didn't create and
I can't take credit for his utter despair.

Boredom drew me to him and,
of course, there's someone else
in both our lives, and there's no
future here anyway, even if we
were right for each other, there's
only even if and even though.

"Is this how you feel?" he asked.
"I think there's a lot going on inside your head that has nothing to do with me," she replied.
He nodded.
"Are you disappointed, Keith?"
"Mostly, yeah."
"I'm sorry about that. It's sad."
He shrugged.
She put her hand on his thigh and kissed his cheek.
"There's nothing anybody can do to change the way my life turned out and it could be worse." He paused. "My older brother killed himself."
"Oh. Wow. When?"
"Ten years ago."
"Holy cow. That's something huge to carry around all the time."
"I think he was probably disappointed, too, but I'm not going to kill myself."
"What was his name?"
"Henry."
"Like your son."
"Right."
"You admired your brother?"
"Idolized him."
"I see."
It was a standard response, reserved for those moments when you didn't have anything meaningful to contribute but you couldn't exactly stay silent. Her "I see" disappointed him, though.
Alex's shoes were on the floor next to the door.
"You don't love him?"
"No." She paused and moved her hand across his face, from his lips to his cheeks to his gray sideburns. "I don't love you, either."
"I know."
"And Alex loves me. Plus, he's good to me. He buys me things and he likes George."
"I could learn to like George." As soon as he said the words, he hated himself. Why was he begging this 26-year-old quasi-poet girl to love him? What would he to do with Brenda if Rachel were to love him?
"I don't think it's in the cards for you and George to be friends."
"Probably not."
"Are you going to break up with Alex?"
"No."
"Okay."
"Are you going to tell Brenda about us?"
"No."
"Okay."
He swallowed the remaining liquid in his bottle of beer and stood up. She stood, too, and squeezed his hand.
"This thing is really over, isn't it?" he said.
She nodded.
He bent down and kissed the bruise on her face. She moved her lips to meet his and they shared one last soft kiss.
"Thank you," he said.
"You're welcome, Keith. Try not to be so disappointed."
"Okay."

He really thought it was over, that he wouldn’t see Rachel again, and that he should probably try to forget about her and their affair. He went to the store early on Monday morning, after spending the weekend telling his son that he couldn't go to Europe because there just wasn't any money. He wanted to sit alone and think in the dark. This time of year, the sun didn't come up until after eight and it was only 7:30. He had the newspaper, which he put on the desk and didn't read.
He appreciated the quiet of the morning; he appreciated it insensely, vigorously as if it were there exclusively for him.
The heat kicked on and it startled him. He stepped outside the back door to smoke a cigarette. The sun was barely visible on the horizon, but it was no longer dark. He could see without strain.
There were footsteps in the gravel and he looked up to see Rachel walking toward him.
"You're up early," he said.
She shook her head. "I'm up late."
"You haven't been to bed yet?"
"No."
"What are you doing here?"
"I came to see if you maybe wanted to get a doughnut."
"I only have about an hour."
"Okay."

They went to Tom's, as usual, and she told him that he looked "haggard."
"Have you been sleeping?" she asked. She was twirling the end of her hair and she seemed to him very young.
"I've never really slept great," he admitted.
She nodded. "Because of the disappointment."
"Sometimes," he said slowly, "when I feel like shit, you know, I wonder if this is how he felt."
"Your brother?"
"Yeah."
She let it hang there until he wanted to say more.
"But I don't feel like shit constantly so maybe it's not the same thing."
"Probably, he was depressed."
"He was better looking than me—and smarter, too. He played basketball in high school and I was in marching band."
"So was I."
"Really."
"What did you play?" she asked.
"Baritone."
"I marched snare, but I played piano in jazz band."
"A girl drummer?"
She grinned.
"We sent Henry to North Side, but he didn't like it. He wanted to play football at Snider so we filled out the papers and the school system let him transfer. He quit after one season."
"Do you talk to Henry about your brother?"
"No. I don't talk to Henry about anything."
"You don't talk to anyone about anything, Keith."
"I talk to you."
She bit into a cream-filled long john and a dot of cream got left behind at the corner of her mouth. She extended her tongue to bring it inside. "You only talk to me when I force you. But this thing with us is over so who will you talk to now?"
He shrugged. "I guess I'll go back to not talking to anyone."
"What about your wife?"
"That's just not the way it is with us."
"What is she like, your wife?"
"Rachel, what I did with you—what we did—that doesn't have anything to do with my family. It doesn't touch them, and I don't want to talk about them when I'm with you. I want to keep it separate."
"We're not lovers anymore. That's all over. We're friends now."
"We're not friends."
"Yes, we are."
"I'm 44 and you're 26. You're a poet and I'm a guy who owns a store and worries about how he's going to pay for his son's college."
"We have things in common. We both went to North Side and were in marching band."
"Not at the same time."
"We're both disappointed and a little wayward. And we both like doughnuts."
He smiled. "Why did you come to see me this morning?"
"I wanted to tell you that I'm getting married," she said with doughnut in her mouth.
"Oh." He paused. "To—"
"Yes."
He wasn't jealous or pissed off by her news. He was maybe a little disappointed but he was used to that feeling.
"Okay," he said. "That's…good."

When he went home, there was a note from Brenda. She had gone shopping. He was glad to find the house empty and even more glad to find beer in the refrigerator. He took a bottle and sat in a recliner in front of the television, but he didn't turn it on. He drank about five or six more bottles and then he went to her apartment. He knew that he was drunk and that he shouldn't drive anywhere, let alone to her place, but he went anyway.
Alex answered the door. He was Latino or Middle Eastern or maybe Italian. Anyway, he skin was brown and his hair was black. He was wearing a light blue dress shirt, untucked, and khaki pants. He feet were bare and he was holding George, whose eyes were closed in contentment.
Keith stood there staring at him until Alex finally said, "Can I help you, sir?"
"Who is it?" Rachel said as she appeared in the doorway next to him.
"I don't know," Alex replied. "Do you know this guy, honey?"
Rachel's eyes fixed on Keith but there was no sign of recognition. "No. No, I don't think so," she said.
"I'm sorry," Keith said finally. "I think I must be in the wrong place."
"No problem," Alex said as he closed the door.
"No problem," Keith repeated, nodding his head.