Okay first off—what a kickass cover,
right? I firmly believe that the book cover is the birthmark of a book and this
one endures over time, it’s immediately recognized as Margaret Atwood’s Cat’s Eye and could never be confused
with anything else.
When I started reading this book it was
a face-palm moment—“Why did I wait so
long to read this?” But as I continued, I realized that now was my time to
read it. I know I would’ve loved it no matter when I read it just cuz it’s my
kind of book to gobble up and belch with perfect contentment later, but this
was the right time in my life to read it because at 52 it has a more explicit
resonance than it would have when I was 26 when I first saw it on the shelves
of the bookstores that I haunted/ worked for at the time. Margaret Atwood’s
work always stuns me anyway—
I
see that there will be no end to imperfection, or to doing things the wrong
way. Even if you grow up, no matter how hard you scrub, whatever you do, there
will always be some other stain or spot on your face or stupid act, somebody
frowning. –from page 154
The clutch of Elaine’s
friends—especially, Cordelia—is a dynamic that is timeless—women as girls have
these relationships with one another that are intense—our sun rose and set,
revolved around our best-est of friends. Our lives depended on their
approval—on their being there. I had a handful of special
friends—unfortunately, was horribly picked on through much of my childhood—hell
if I know why I was so special to have that awful attention paid to
me—whatever, right? Water long gone under that rickety bridge, thankfully, it’s
not the same river anymore—yet, it’s something no one forgets, it’s a network
of old scars that ache from time to time, and the worst memories crop up for no
reason when you’d rather be thinking about something far more pleasant. It’s
the way of it, I guess. But because of “it”, I believe I am stronger than most.
As an adult, I have observed that the people who sailed through childhood
without collecting these old battle wounds will never relate to what I
experienced (as they might’ve done their share of damage on someone else
without a second thought about what they were doing to another human being’s
self-esteem.) It’s clear that their greatest disappointment was not getting
their way every time, and they come to find out later in life that they are not
prepared for when the shit hits the fan in their safe zones. There’s an
unfortunate number of damaged people out there, some manage to muddle along in
their version of normal, and some never quite get their footing—this has
nothing to do with having money or an education, I’ve seen some fucked up
well-off educated people, it’s sad—all of it…
Knowing
too much about other people puts you in their power, they have a claim on you,
you are forced to understand their reasons for doing things and then you are
weakened.—from page 240
An
eye for an eye only leads only to more blindness. –from page 443
There are some people I will never
figure out—and don’t want to. Yet—as a writer, this is the shit I do. Probably
because I have this treasure trove of experience—or probably because I was an
odd kid—in my own world (still am.) Sitting in the safety of the present, I
know now, that if I were a kid these days, I probably would be diagnosed within
the autistic spectrum disorder and medicated into submission, but back then, I
was pigeon-holed and shuffled along—I had my hearing tested more times than I
can count, struggled with the Kindergarten teacher who wanted to change me from
left handed to right handed, and then was tucked away in the reading lab, math
lab, and speech therapy for extra help. My attention span wandered out more
windows than taking notice of the blackboard—but I would move heaven and earth
to try hard so my mom and dad wouldn’t be disappointed. I “woke up” by my
junior year in high school—if I were ever to find myself, I couldn’t do it
there in that little town where everybody knew me, I had to get out—so
suddenly, college bound I got my act together. I turned out all right—on my own
terms. That fucking Common Core crap is sucking the creativity out of kids—I
can see the damage already in the ones coming through college—damn critters
can’t look far beyond that illuminated screen in their hand without feeling
withdrawals—with that said—I have sincere doubts about our future society.
(Which I'm sure my parents said the same shit about my generation...getting old
is a pain in the ass.)
Anyway…
Apart
from all this, I do of course have a real life. I sometimes have trouble
believing in it, because it doesn’t seem like the kind of life I could ever get
away with, or deserve. This goes along with another belief of mine: that
everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise….Alongside my
real life I have a career, which may not qualify as exactly real. I am a
painter. I even put that on my passport, in a moment of bravado, since the
other choice would have been housewife. It’s an unlikely thing for me to have
become; on some days it still makes me cringe. Respectable people do not become
painters: only overblown, pretentious, theatrical people.—from pages 15-16
Art
is what you can get away with, said somebody or other, which makes it sound
like shoplifting or some other minor crime. And maybe that’s all it ever was,
or is: a kind of stealing. A hijacking of the visual.—from page 247
This book also resonates with me as an artist—I’m
a Boomer at the ass-end of the Boomer Gen—the women artists that were in the
forefront, Helen Frankenthaler, Louise Nevelson, and especially Georgia
O’Keeffe who was all over the place especially after she died [who didn’t buy
(or longed to buy) the 100 Flowers
book?]—and then there were women like Judy Chicago and Susan Rothenberg out
there mixing it up with the boys club. I met Susan Rothenberg when she was a
visiting artist at SU—I was in awe even tho’ I never heard of her until I learned
that she was coming to do studio visits and a lecture. She was nice and normal—I
was relieved because I was in a terrible angst-y time in my life and for once
someone said that I was all right—searching as I should. (Sometimes it’s the
person who doesn’t know you from a hole in the wall who grants words of wisdom
that make the difference in your small part of the world.)
“I’m
not mad because I’m woman.” I say. “I’m mad because you’re an asshole.”—from
page 377
Even tho’ I do consider myself a
feminist—I live my life within my own parameters that might make the hardcore
feminists itch—just like they make me itch. I’m not one to “fit in” ever, ya
dig? This little square peg still maintains her pointy corners and will never
fit in anyone’s round hole no matter what the “rules” are—
“Improvement”
But that's just me (and Grumpy Cat)...I have known for a long time I'll never fit in...
Right about the time I was close to the
end of the book, I wrote a letter to my old childhood friend who I haven’t
heard from since 1986/87—I found her last letter to me that I received just
before we moved from one rented house to a rented flat, the letter got lost in
the shuffle, but later emerged and disappeared during other moves. I recently
found it again—and I felt bad that I lost track of her. Life sends us on our
way—like it or not. We were the best of friends when we were very young, she
moved away when we were teenagers and of course, things change—we changed—she
moved on while I remained behind in a way, yet moving on to where I needed to
go. Chances are we have nothing in common beyond our original bond—yet I wanted
to tell her that I think about her every year at this time when her birthday
rolls around. I did send the letter—don’t know if I’ll ever hear back. If
not—that’s all right, we’ve moved on as we should.
Such
are my pictures of the dead. –from page 28
I’m
eating a wing. It’s the wing of a tame turkey, the stupidest bird in the world,
so stupid it can’t even fly any more. I am eating lost flight. –from page
145
Time
is not a line but a dimension, like the dimensions of space. If you can bend
space you can bend time also, and if you knew enough and could move faster than
light you could travel backward in time and exist in two places at once. – the
first sentence, first page.
Damn, I love this book.
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