The Vampire Priest and his Nemesis in "Thirst"

Vampires have historically been considered evil, but fictionally they are currently not considered 100% bad. If you add a bit of trendy perversity, perhaps even martyrdom, to the mix you might get an instant hero, or the 20th century equivalent – the antihero.

Antiheroes are the ultimate outcasts, and if they are self-loathing, that’s even better: the romantic, but evil, protagonist is born . . . or reborn. Who better to personify those attributes than the modern fictional vampire? In Korean filmmaker Park Chan-wook's "Thirst" the vampire hero is a priest whose intended martyrdom gets undone by an accidental transfusion of tainted blood.

There are no Van Helsings in this story, no tortured explanations of what could possibly be wrong with Father Sang-Hyeon, no stakes, crucifixes, or fangs. He knows he’s a vampire, and he also quickly figures out the disfiguring facial blisters which continue to plague him can only be cured by a fresh infusion of blood. So vanity, and self-preservation, inspires his thirst, which leads to the bloodsucking, and as a kind of afterthought, the sex.

Nemesis was the Greek goddess of indignation against evil deeds and undeserved good fortune, and the good priest’s nemesis is introduced in the form of Tae-ju (Kim Ok-vin), an innocent, possibly abused young wife. She walks and acts as if half-asleep, in a surly don’t-wake-me-up doze. She’s subservient, wounded, her lips pouting like a baby waiting to suckle. Only when Tae-ju runs barefoot in the night do we see a semblance of the quiescent strength roiling like lava inside her. The Father takes her in his arms and they take flight, hopping buildings like the superhero he is in her eyes. Who could resist such a savior? Certainly not Lois when Superman carried her aloft.

"Vampires are cuter than I thought," she says. This could have been uttered by the besotted teen in Twilight, but with this actress the action takes a decidedly adult turn. More Lilith than Eve, this isn’t about love, at least not in the beginning. She wants to consort with demons, and relishes her newfound freedom, strength, and ability to break the bonds and bounds of her marital, and human, slavery. Not since Claudia, the ancient child vampire in Interview with the Vampire have we been treated to such anger, brutality and guiltlessness. And we love her for it, as does the Father.

Hero and heroine cover their secrets . . . scarred and bruised thighs. Both are self-mutilators, his arrived at in an attempt to drive away his demon erections, and hers a deliberate attempt to manipulate the vampire into a bit of husband killing by making him believe her spouse is abusing her.

All it takes is the vampire’s blood to uncap the volcano within her.

He does not seduce like Dracula, turning virtuous Mina’s into tarts. The priest is seduced, but even then he seems more interested in biting her than in intercourse. A disconcerting slurpiness saturates the soundtrack where even kissing is treated to the same absurd sound effects as ravenous bloodsucking. This is part of the humor in the film, and pokes fun at not only the genre, but also the sexual fetishes that are part of it.

The underlying BDSM inherent in most vampire films is highly pronounced here. For me, this was relieved by the blood appearing too thin and watery, like the sweet syrup it probably is. Still, there’s plenty of it for you connoisseurs, and it’s often associated with sex.

The French title for the movie translates as the liturgically evocative "This Is My Blood." The body and blood, as well as the prayer for martyrdom recited throughout the film, (“pull out my nails, so that I may grasp nothing") strikes at the heart of this morality tale and the vampire/superhero mythos.

Where to Get a Good Bite

Let’s start with vampire bats. These creatures are so cool in all their creeping stealth. In full frontal photos, they look like mini Nosferatu's caught by the paparazzi.

They nip the flesh, usually around the lower leg of an animal, and then lap it up. They are all about sneaking up on a sleeping animal, not disturbing it, having their meal, and getting away asap so they can return and feed another day, I mean night. Their method does not require a vein or an artery, which is where we enter the realm of the undead.

The classic vampire of fiction and film traditionally prefers the neck, and more specifically the jugular vein. Dracula just wouldn’t have the same cachet if after gazing deeply into Mina’s eyes he then bypassed her creamy neck and heaving bosom to lift her skirts and bite her on the ankle. Hmm, actually now that I think of it . . . . so many places to bite, so little time.

The undead are obsessed with the jugular, but their knowledge of human anatomy may be limited. The carotid is located on both sides of the neck and right next to the jugular. It’s the artery in the side of your neck where you take your pulse. Only a true artiste in bloodsucking could narrow their bite to pierce one and not the other.


Since the carotid is a part of the aorta, the usual six- foot stream of blood would be apparent, not all of which the vampire could swallow. A huge mess would be made. More than likely the vampire wouldn't drain a victim. They need to hide things a little better. How do you explain a corpse with no blood left in it? You don't. Assuming discretion is somewhat important in the vampire world, the undead might take a few lessons on tidiness from the vampire bat.

Folktales suggest vampires bite above the heart, or between the eyes (Ouch! On the temple, maybe. Very thin people sometimes have visible veins there, some even look knotted and throbby.)

Other places to get a bite:

The median cubital vein-- This vein is the one in the elbow where, if you've ever had blood drawn, that is where they stick you.

The ulner artery-- This is the artery in the wrist. After the neck it seems to be the second favorite place for vampires to bite.

The greater saphenous vein-- This vein runs along the inside of either thigh. The vein is large and deep; it would take a big bite to get down into it.

The femoral vein-- This vein is the one at the back of the knee. It lies close to the skin and is an easy bite if you have a victim face down and not kicking.

I think the big toe would be a good source. Earlobes are full of blood, and erect penises. The list goes on.

I've squeezed the bloody pulp out of bloodsucking, but please comment if you have some juice to add.

Nippled Irish Royalty and Their Less Fortunate, Usually Dead, Nippleless Relatives

My museum time today yielded the following:

Sucking a King's nipples was an ancient Irish form of submission. It rains a lot here (Dublin) and is rather chilly, so I would think the King would cover his chest. That means there must have been royal reception days when the King exposed his nipples in order to facilitate nipple sucking.

So much easier to just bow and kiss a ring.

As with all royalty, there were power games in the nipple hierarchy. Cutting off a royal descendant's nipples made him ineligible for kingship. Not as subtle as poison, but undeniable evidence of his unsuitability for a kingly role. No nips, game over.

A Celtic King was wedded to the Earth, and as her representative his nipples were important. His/her power is transferred to the grain. When it's harvested, his power is sacrificed. The Lord must die, Joseph Campbell said: "A God dies for his people so that they may live." The story repeats itself in multiple mythologies, legends and religions. But must the mortal king die in order to insure a successful harvest?

Human sacrifice was apparently a normal part of the Celtic rituals, especially of kings in hard times. "The king had great power but also great responsibility to ensure the prosperity of his people. Through his marriage on his inauguration to the goddess of the land, he was meant to guarantee her benevolence. He had to ensure the land was productive, so if the weather turned bad, or there was plague, cattle disease or losses in war, he was held personally responsible," said Ned Kelly, keeper of antiquities at the Irish National Museum.

His kingly role required him to keep nature and society in equilibrium. A little nipple sucking would surely increase his self-esteem and help him on his way.

Also at The Huffington Post

FIDELITY & MORTAL ILLNESS

How would you feel about your mate having an affair if you were stricken with a mortal illness and  uninterested in having sexual relations?

The usual first response for people who love their mates is that their sexual drive would die, too.  But what if your loved one was not hooked up to tubes and drains?  What if they were functioning, yet with death hovering?

In graduate school, I did an internship in a tutorial center.  My boss was a kind and knowledgeable man who loved his wife and family dearly.  She'd had two heart attacks and the prognosis was not good.  You would have never suspected it to look at her.  She was robust and cheery, the affection between them palpable.

At that time, I had no experience with grief of the death-inspired sort, but one of the tutors in our group was dying of leukemia. Everyday he appeared paler and weaker, but he still attended classes and reported for work.  "You can tell his family has made the separation," Dr. Jackson, my boss, said one day after meeting the tutor's family. Responding to my expression, he added, "It's not that they don't love him, but when you know someone is going to die, you go through grief while they're still walking and talking.  You protect yourself from the finality."

"Does that mean you become more feverish about your own life, about living, and everything that that means?" I asked.

"I hope so," he said, "but you also pull back a little.  Your love is there, but a boundary is there, too." That's when he told me about his wife, and how a hardening within him had taken place.

Over a decade later, I hooked up with a cheap bus tour of Italy. The tour was packed with Europeans. . . Germans, Irish, British.  The only Americans were a Sikh family from Silicon valley.  There was also an Iraqi couple.

But it was the Irish couple who fascinated me.  They were in their forties, possibly early fifties. Attractive in a dull, settled way.  The wife was a bit tight-lipped.  Pissed, actually.  The husband was in a constant low-key frenzy trying to please his wife.

After a short time it became obvious that there was something wrong with her.  I decided she was mortally ill, and that this vacation was supposed to be a last hurrah for them.  Not that she ever got sick in front of us.  It's just that his behavior became more frantic at the same time that she glared at all the art and beauty around us.  It looked as if she were saying angry goodbyes to everything, as if she hated the way life just went on ready to skip right by her.

I was wallowing in my European jaunt, one of the happiest periods of my life.  One night in Rome, the three of us had dinner together.  She ordered a lavish meal and didn't touch a bite of it, just jousted with me all night, looking like she wanted to scratch my eyes out.  And not because of her husband (with whom I had no attraction whatsoever), but because I was so damn cheerful.

Death had a grip on her and she had a death grip on her husband, ready to drag him into the grave with her and not because she loved him.  Because she hated that it wasn't him dying instead of her.

Those were my thoughts, then.  Now, even though she was clearly punishing him, perhaps she wasn't dying.  I don't understand the kind of negative vehemence she had, nor do I understand her husband remaining under its power.  Only if she had a death sentence would it make sense for him to stand by her side.  If he'd chosen to seek affection elsewhere, could you blame him?

Why would I think of this now?  Just finished Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn, which is a treacherous tale of a sick marriage.   The wife in it reminded me of the Irish Wife in Italy and her forlorn husband.  With the passage of time and lessons learned from my own marriage (a happy one, but not without bumps), and my friends' marriages and divorces, I've reconsidered the death sentence I'd given her at the time.  Maybe they were just miserably bound for life.

Creepy Come Ons

Channeling my youth. Awakened thinking of this one:

My bff in hs, Claudette, invited me to visit her older sister who was living in Questa, NM. Her sister had one kid and was expecting another. We took a bus out to Questa which is in the sticks and beautiful country. A small town, lots of mountain scenery.

Her sister's husband was in the armed forces, I don't remember which one, and he'd been wounded. There was something about a plate in his head, but I didn't pay too much attention cause I'd just gotten my license before we left and Claudette's sister owned a '66 Mustang.

Wow, was she insane to let me take that car out on the open road or what? I drove the mountain roads with the pedal to the floor and with both of us squealing as only almost sixteen-year-olds can do. I wheeled around switchbacks skirting the edge until Claudette begged me to stop. Deer and bunnies spread the word to stay off the road.

The husband hadn't been home for a few days. On the bus ride to Questa Claudette shared tidbits she'd picked up about him; he drank and had psychological problems, what we'd term post traumatic stress disorder nowadays, but again adult stuff - not all that interesting.

The house was small and Claudette snored, so I slept on the couch. One night the husband was home. He took us out for burgers, but was mostly quiet during dinner.  In the middle of the night he crept into the living room where I slept. Literally folks, the man was on his hands and knees. I'm a light sleeper, and I'm also near-sighted, but the blurred vision of his stealth crawl is vivid in memory.

He crawled over to the couch and started touching me on top of the blanket, kind of petting me like I was a cat or something. I was totally freaked and pretended to be asleep. He reeked of liquor and mumbled some b.s. I could barely understand telling me I was beautiful and that he wouldn't hurt me. My heart beat so hard it filled my ears and drowned out all other sound.

I've always wondered if my heartsound woke up Claudette's sister. She tiptoed into the living room, but stepped on a squeaky floorboard as she rounded the corner. Busted! He immediately laid down on the floor like he was passed out. She went over to him whispering, and he acted like he didn't know how he got there and that he'd fainted. I was still pretending to be asleep.

I could barely look at them the next day and remember nothing more about our stay there.

Shite like that was always happening to me. For a long time I thought I must have some sort of electromagnetic draw for all the adult creeps in the world.

People Are Strange

My thoughts are on strangers: a Venetian beauty with the stunned expression Venus should have had when she emerged naked and fully grown from the clamshell; the everyday strangers in one's own family; and my favorite song about being strange.

The Birth of Venus, Botticelli, 1482


My mother enjoyed talking to odd strangers (The Tattoo Lady, Mother and Me) because she could be wacky with them; this embarrassed me to the extreme since I was cultivating a shadow presence. In my inbred and criminal-laden school district, I learned to keep my eyes straight ahead and not speak lest I be accused of giving someone the wrong look of the day. Survival is it's own reward, as is blogging about childhood tortures. Besides, now I’m more like Mom.

In Venice, I stood in a long line for gelato in the Piazza San Marco, and kept my eyes on the server, a young woman whose beauty was dulled by a stunned expression, as if the repeated impact of nothing happening had made her deaf, blind and mute. I wanted to see her smile; an open-mouth laugh would have been a special Venetian treat.

The line moved forward and one tourist after another, and not just Americans, approached her and pointed at the flavor they wanted, sometimes grunting at the same time. I looked behind me; the line stretched into the middle of St. Mark’s Square. Turning back to my creamy gelato lovely it seemed as if her Botticelli eyes barely registered her surroundings.

It was my turn. I smiled and asked her in the Italian that I'd just learned while in the queue to pronounce cioccolata for me. We laughed at my attempts and her smile was enough to make me her slave. I thanked her for serving me, but I’d only taken a few steps away when I glanced back for one last look at a real Botticelli babe. Her robotic expression had returned.

Every encounter is a chance for interaction. Not everyone is open to it, but sharing a laugh with a stranger creates a connection with the world that makes me feel significant, almost like I’ve performed magic, kind of the opposite of Morrison's song.

People are strange when you're a stranger
Faces look ugly when you're alone
People seem wicked when you're unwanted Streets are uneven when you're down
When you're strange, faces come out of the rain When you're strange, no one remembers your name
When you're strange when you're strange when you're str-ange

Jim Morrison
The Doors

1967

Unpopular Crow Dies Savagely

The crows are absent (West Nile Virus?). They drove out the pigeons, but what will replace them. Saw a lone, young crow on the telephone wire yesterday. A blue jay was harassing it. There were multitudes in my urban neighborhood in 2009 (see below). Where have the crows gone?



A crow's caw is discordant, but part of our neighborhood backdrop, and easy to ignore. Just now, they set up a racket, the kind that usually heralds their spotting some tasty dog kibble left in the backyard, but this time it was more riotous than usual and was accompanied by a great beating of their wings.

They are big birds and some of them have a 3-foot wing span so if a few of them are together they manage to pound the air and stir things up. A panicked, pleading sound underlay this display, almost like that of puppy being tortured, yet more avian than canine. It was pitiful enough for me to put down my laptop and go investigate.

At first I thought the crows were going after a more mundane bird, but it was one of their own. A giant crow, glossy-black and commanding, was attacking a smaller crow. He was accompanied by three henchmen, and oddly, a bluejay.

The victim flew off, crying and begging, and the others followed. They circled back and the smaller crow tried to move into deeper tree foliage. The bigger one swooped in hard with a premeditated body blow and knocked it off its perch. Then, all of them took turns swooping down on it. It happened so fast and with such a flurry of wings that I couldn't tell for sure if it was being pecked. It managed to right itself and fly off again followed by the crowhood.

The boss's calls were louder than the others and angry, definitely not a dog kibble caw.

They circled back. The blue jay landed on a telephone wire to observe the proceedings. He didn't do any attacking, but still this was crow business, was he crazy?

I tried to keep still, but they simultaneously cocked their heads in my direction. I quickly calculated how fast I could get inside the house (damn you, Alfred Hitchcock!) They flew off into another yard, but I could hear the attack continuing.

What did the smaller, presumably younger, crow do to deserve this punishment?

The Road Taken: Marriage

In her New York Times article, Married (happily) With Issues , Elizabeth Weil wrote about her marriage and the journey she and her husband took through various forms of marital counseling.  Ms. Weil was thorough and revealing about her experience, and I felt like I was in group therapy again.  Only in group therapy can one participate as the lowest common denominator of lurker, and still come away with a sense of well-being, consoling oneself that at least you're not as crazy as those other people.  I read Ms. Weil’s piece with a growing sense of her frustration with her spouse, smug relief that my husband wasn’t such a nut, and the sure knowledge that my marriage would never survive such close working conditions as she described.

The article hit all the major pulse points of marriage, including the thrombosis-ridden, blocked arterial passageway of Passion and Intimacy.   In Mating in Captivity by Esther Perel, the author says that passion lives at the crossroads of stability and adventure, “Every person and every couple needs to find that balance."  I imagine an algebraic equation wherein two individuals, each with their own personal intimacy lexicon are juxtaposed (divided? integrated?) with the entity they agree upon to arrive at Couple:

  i+ i   = C
E   

Oh hell, I’m not a mathematician.  I’m an independent and solitary person who never expected much from marriage, certainly not that it would last as long as it has.  Perel says that intimacy doesn’t always lead to good sex.  Then is the opposite true?  My sex life with my husband seems to prove the point that good sex is possible without feeling especially close or in alignment with your mate.  We're going for more these days, bang or bust.  Allowing intimacy into my life in the form of my husband has been and will always be an ongoing experiment: we've never quite worked out the definitions of being a couple.  He said recently that he was committed to our marriage.  I'm not sure that's the same as being committed to me.

Intimacy at this point in our marriage is like coming out of heavy fog and seeing the true lay of the land. I’ve stayed on the road, but can’t help narrowing my eyes and trying to see what might have been at the end of the other path through the woods.

 Currently I like being married, but that hasn't always been the case.  Divorce seemed like the easy out in so many ways, but I like doing things the hard way sometimes.  I stayed in part because I was raised by a single mother and didn't want to follow her path.  What were the other parts?  The kids, good sex, autonomy.  Also, I married a decent man.

I hoped that someday the layers of resentment and defensive posturing would fall away, and that we could just love each other for the real people that we are.  That means the individual, not the couple, I think.

He says he doesn't like change. I'm more open to it. My openness had led to some risky adventures in my past. I treasure the memory of some, others not so much. He had a terrible case of kidney stones a few years ago, and all our intimate routines came to a halt. The "routine" aspect had been the cause of a bit of chagrin on my part, but with its total absence I reconsidered. I don't want to lose him or his sometimes perverse intractability. Rather than rail against that part of his personality, I now find it amusing and do what I want anyway.  I'd done this before in our marriage, but did it ferociously, justifying my actions with bitter anger.  Which took some of the fun away. Fun and laughter are important to me and I like a belly-laugh. He never engages in deep laughter, I'm not sure he knows how. There have been some changes: he seems to laugh more - with me, at me, I don't care.  

Change is in his nature no matter what he says. We're both the eldest child in our natal families, and we both fled our hometowns. We arrived in L.A. within a few years of each other, met and bedded, and the biggest adventure began: marriage.

Buick Sundays

 Sundays were always special because mom didn't work on that day.  She was tired from six straight 10-hour nights of waiting on tables.  No one could blame her if she didn't feel like cooking, cleaning or driving.  She'd let me drive the old Buick my Grandpa had given us, and by old I mean made of steel and without power steering.  Driving to Louie's Drive-In to pick up tamales and comic books was my job.  I was twelve and very responsible, but in my mother's mind I think that meant I was thirty-two.

It was fall in Santa Fe, a frosty nip in the air, but no snow on the ground.  My brother was only five and stayed with Mom and was totally not my responsibility for that one day. Everyone stayed inside, but my hangout on Sunday was the Buick I'd managed to park safely in our narrow driveway (there was a telephone pole planted right in the middle of the entrance).  I made the car cozy with pillows and a comforter.  It took on a greenhouse effect with all that New Mexican sunshine filtered and magnified through the windows.  I left them cracked, and the scent of pine and aspen wafting down from the Sangre de Cristos was a welcome counterbalance in my little hothouse.

Stuffed with spicy tamales, I'd snuggle down and read Superman, The Incredible Hulk, The Fantastic Four, Wonder Woman, Tales From Beyond, and something called Classics, which was a retelling of stories like Romeo & Juliet in graphic form. When I'd finish my series, I'd take them inside and exchange with Mom who'd been reading Batman, or Silver Surfer. We were getting along in those days.

That night Mom might cook a one-dish meal like macaroni made with Velveeta Cheese. The nights were cold, but we were warm and full.  Mom sometimes sang and danced when she cooked.  She teased and complimented me.   We laughed and I remember distinct happiness.  On Sunday nights, I went off to bed and read some more, only books this time, and the house was quiet.   I was fed on multiple levels.

Mom began to come home late.  When you get off at 3 a.m. late is arriving home at dawn.  I was worried, upset, angry . . . and curious.  I began to wake up in the middle of the night and wait for her.  She was full of excuses:  she'd gone out with the girls for breakfast; there was an after work party; her car broke down; her girlfriend's car broke down.  I was furious and jealous and possessive, and suspected sex was happening, but only in an amorphous, nonverbal way that made me afraid of losing my mother.

I was afraid of a lot of stuff in those days.  I was almost thirteen and hadn't yet started my period.  Every one of my girlfriends had breasts and had been menstruating practically since birth.  They were short and curvy and cute, and I was not.  Mom and I began to fight everyday, and I missed a lot of school because I overslept.  

"Aren't you going to school?"  I wanted her to make me go, but Mom couldn't even make herself come home after work.  On some days, she didn’t make it home at all.  The Sunday I gouged out a hunk of my thigh in a bicycle accident I needed stitches, but didn’t tell Mom about it when she finally came home.  She didn’t notice anything until years later when she asked about the huge scar on my thigh. 

I passed thirteen and we fought and I challenged her and we fought some more.  I was angry all the time and mean to my little brother.  On Sundays Mom was exhausted and withdrawn.  She cooked, but there was no laughter.  I stopped reading comics in the Buick, but read Dostoyevsky by the light of a little portable electric heater bedside until Mom’s car entered the driveway.  I’d quickly shut my book and pretend to be asleep.  We didn’t talk until I decided to go live with my Dad in Texas, and then I slept with her and my brother every night until the day arrived for me to leave.  It was my last belonging.

For the year that I was gone, we remained close.  Her letters were long and full of love and trivia.  When she called long distance, she’d ask if I wanted to talk to my dog and cat.  Long distance was expensive in those days and the gesture meant a lot to me.  She was home, she was family, and my dad and his new wife were not.

I returned to New Mexico carrying the secret Mom had shared with me in her last telephone call: I now had a baby sister.  Dad squeezed his Caddy between the telephone pole and the wall and made it down our narrow drive.  Before he’d turned off the motor, I’d jumped out and entered my mother’s waiting arms.  She looked tired and ill.  She’d had to stop waitressing as her pregnancy advanced, and had taken a babysitting job for a family that lived in a trailer park on the outskirts of Santa Fe.  There was a real outdoor swimming pool there, and my brother and I swam everyday under our mother’s watchful eye. 

My dad wept when he found out about my sister.  He begged me to return to Texas with him and warned me about the bad boys who would swarm all over me when they found out about Mom.  He frightened me, but not enough to endure my stepmother again.  Winter and high school and bad boys were months away.  Mom was resting and getting well and eventually she’d return to night work.  In the meantime, those days at the trailer park pool were like a summer full of Buick Sundays. 

Personal Power up at Label me Latina/o

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Label Me Latina/o (www.labelmelatinao.com) is an online, refereed international e-journal that focuses on Latino Literary Production in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. The journal invites scholarly essays focusing on these writers for its biannual publication. Label Me Latina/o also publishes creative literary pieces whose authors self-define as Latina or Latino regardless of thematic content. Interviews of Latino authors will also be considered. The Co-Directors will publish creative works and interviews in English, Spanish or Spanglish whereas analytical essays should be written in English or Spanish.

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Mother and Child

I learn about myself with my writing.  For example, mothers are often featured in my stories.  I didn't start out with the intention of doing this.  I do enjoy reading about relationships, and the mother-daughter one is basic.  It teaches one about love or the lack of it.

Motherhood was never a goal that I set for myself.  On the contrary, I told many people that I'd probably never marry nor have children.  I never liked playing with dolls and didn't have fantasies about the big wedding or a soul mate.  I refused motherhood until I chose it.  The soul mate (or best friend/spouse) came much later.

So you can imagine how surprised I was when I looked back on my short stories, flashes and novels only to discover not only mothers and sons and daughters, but adoptive mothers and blood mothers.  The search for mother love is integral in my stories.

If not for that, I would never have gone to see "Mother and Child." It's a serious movie with outstanding acting by a trio of actresses, Naomi Watts, Annette Bening and Kerry Washington.


The plot revolves around Adoption, but it has more to do with


Abandonment


Aloneness


Alienation


Most will write off the theme as classic Lifetime Network material, but I didn't.

In each of these women I saw how we cut ourselves off from feeling, overprotect our delicate souls, and deny what we need most: each other.

There's a scene with Naomi Watts and a blind girl she has befriended. The character Naomi plays doesn't usually have friends, especially female friends. She's in an elevator about to flee her life again because people are getting too close when the blind girl enters, unaware of Naomi's presence. The emotions that play across Naomi's face are an intense piece of acting. Nothing is said, but she is unable to come out of herself, to reach out to another, even though it is achingly apparent that she wants to. She's as trapped in herself as the blind girl is trapped in a sightless world.
  

Her battles are with an unknown woman:  her mother.  She plays out that battle with every new female she meets, and feels compelled to repel them before they have a chance to abandon her. 

The other characters played by Annette Bening and Kerry Washington are also limited by nature and nurture.  Bening makes the most striking change in her life.  Yes, the story is about mothers, but for me it was about choices, and giving yourself a chance, reaching out to others, and opening up to love, despite some unlucky breaks in life.

Wine and Chocolate Indulgence for a Good Cause

Wine Tasting and Chocolate to benefit WriteGirl.org.  We mentor teenaged girls through their writing.  May 7, 7-9, yum!  I'll be there getting a wine and chocolate buzz on.  Come join us. 

May 7, 2010 (Fri)

7:00 PM - 9:00 PM

LOCATION: Fancifull Gift Baskets 5617 Melrose Ave. (between Larchmont and Gower) Hollywood, CA 90038 ph. 323.466.7654

COST: $25 

EVENT DETAILS:

Join us for a delectable evening of gourmet delights such as artisan cheese, fine wine, imported sodas and exotic chocolates. It's great food for a great cause, with all proceeds going to creative writing nonprofit WriteGirl! There will also be a raffle for a delicious basket of Fancifull goodies. Cost: $25 donation to WriteGirl Place: Fancifull - 5617 Melrose Ave., Los Angeles, 90038 (between Gower and Larchmont) Visit our website to RSVP and purchase tickets: http://www.fancifullgiftbaskets.com/winetaste.php ;

Deconstructing "Go Dog. Go!"

This was a flash exercise from 2002 that took place in a private room on Zoetrope.  Ms. Parker is the inimitable editor of FRiGG magazine.  I don't remember anymore who wrote what, if we traded off, or if I wrote the entire thing based on her prompt.  It's a lark, and perfect not only to close out the holiday season, but a dogged decade. Happy Holidays!



ZAFA LIT 469: Deconstructing "Go, Dog. Go!"
Lecture No. 1

Ms. Parker (claps hands): All right, class! Quiet! Hey! This course is called "Deconstructing ‘Go, Dog. Go.'" In it we examine the text and illustrations of the eponymous children’s book. Does everyone know what the word "eponymous" means?

Sandra: My mom says boys have penys.  She didn’t say they were a mess, though.

Ms. Parker: Wrong. Anyway, those of you who think this is Remedial Sex Ed 069 should get out now, OK? (Most of the class rises and leaves.) Good-by! Excuse me. You in the back there. (Looks at her seating chart.) Steve, is it? I think I’ll call you Little Stevie. Quit horsing around, Little Stevie, please. Put that away. I’ll see you in my office immediately. (She and Little Stevie leave but they come back shortly. Little Stevie looks spent.) Anybody else? (The class cowers.)

Sandra: (Passes note to friend across the aisle) Do you think she used a ruler on Little Stevie?
    (Friend passes note back) He sat down okay, but Ms. Parker’s walking kinda funny.

Ms. Parker: All righty, then. Let’s start with a short bio of the author, P.D. Eastman. (She reads from a printout from Amazon.com.) "Mr. Eastman authored, co-authored, and illustrated many children's books. He was born in 1909 and died in 1986. He even produced some films, and worked for Warner Brothers and Disney studios. He helped develop the Dr. Seuss ‘Gerald McBoing Boing’ series with Theodor Geisel (Dr. Seuss), when he worked for the animation studio United Productions of America." Does this mean anything to any of you?

Sandra: Was he that nasty-looking old man on the Werther’s candy commercial?

Ms. Parker: Oh, Sandra, I’ve heard you met Mr. Eastman. Can you tell us about this?

Sandra:    He offered me candy.  Sure he was a stranger, but I thought I’d seen him on T.V.  Now I can’t get the taste out of my mouth.

Ms. Parker: Thanks for sharing. Now, I want to give you some background on Dr. Seuss as well. By the way, "authored" means the same thing as "wrote." (Ms. Parker reads from the printout.) "Back in 1957, Theodor Geisel responded to an article in Life magazine that lamented the use of boring reading primers in schools. Using the pseudonym of "Dr. Seuss" (Seuss was Geisel's middle name) and only 223 words, Geisel created a replacement for those dull primers: ‘The Cat in the Hat.’ The instant success of the book prompted Geisel and his wife to found Beginner Books, and Geisel wrote many popular books in this series, including ‘Hop on Pop,’ ‘Fox in Socks,’ and ‘Green Eggs and Ham.’ Other favorite titles in this series are ‘Go, Dog, Go!’ (sic; they did the punctuation wrong) and ‘Are You My Mother?’ by P. D. Eastman, ‘A Fly Went By,’ by Mike McClintock, and ‘Put Me in the Zoo,’ by Robert Lopshire. These affordable hardcover books combine large print, easy vocabulary, and large, bright illustrations in stories kids will want to read again and again. Grade 1 - Grade 2."

Sandra: Were those on the summer reading list?  ‘Cause I never got that list, and it’s not fair testing us on them.

Ms. Parker: Uh huh. Today we would like to examine three issues in "Go, Dog. Go!" Everyone get out your texts. (No one does.)

Sandra: (pulls out Cliff’s Notes for Go, Dog.  Go!)

Ms. Parker: Well, forget it then. I’ll read the book to you. (She does. See the following.)

(Ms. Parker sighs.) Wasn’t that good? (She lights a cigarette.)

Sandra: (Waves smoke away) I resent the female dog’s obsequious solicitation of male dog approval.

Ms. Parker: First, I want to talk about the hat thing. In four separate instances, the red girl poodle, who is wearing a different hat each time, asks the yellow-with-black-spots boy spaniel whether he likes her hat. Get out your texts, please. (No one does.)

Sandra: The hat is like a tunnel.  The male’s approval is like a train entering the tunnel.  Dark and mysterious things happen in there.

Ms. Parker: Fine, then. I'll describe the friggin' pictures to you. On page…hey! There are no goddamn page numbers here! Who edited this book? On page approximately 6, we see her first hat. Why don't you describe it for us, Sandra.

Sandra: It has flowers.  Obvious labial imagery.

Ms. Parker: What page are you on? It’s a simple, blue, bolero-type hat with a yellow daisy on the top. OK, it’s not that great a hat. But clearly she is delighted with it. She asks him if he likes it. He goes all snooty and tells her, "I do not." Why does he do this? She just wants a little affirmation about her hat. I mean, couldn’t he have lied?

Sandra: He could not.  To lie, he would not.  He could not, would not tell a lie.

Ms. Parker: I want to mention, on the next page, following this encounter, approximately page 8 in your text…

Sandra: A hat is never just a hat.

Ms. Parker: …approximately page 8 in your text, we have a blue poodle (who looks like the hat-girl poodle only now she’s blue; perhaps a dye job?) is going into a maze made out of cleverly trimmed hedges—remember the scene in "The Shining" where they’re in the maze? It’s like that only it’s not snowing—and she’s looking like she’s in a trance, if you want to know the truth; do you think she’s been slipped a mickey?—and there are three red male-looking spaniels going out of the maze and they look freaked out, frankly, like they’ve seen some very odd shit or perhaps some odd shit was done to them. Little Stevie, what do we make of this?

Little Stevie:   Is this like hidden pictures?  I see a ruler in the hedge.

Ms. Parker: Next hat encounter. This time she’s wearing a nice, blue, wide-brimmed hat, something Scarlett O’Hara would wear or in this case Scarlett O’Hairy, topped with a dramatic pink plume. Once again, she seems awfully pleased with her hat and she asks the guy if he likes it and again he cops an attitude and tells her he "does not like it." Cad! Shall we mention that this time he’s wearing a hat, a black bowler thing and it’s plenty dorky all right, but does she say anything? Also, as he’s scooting away (they’re both on scooters) he’s waving her feather. The fucker took her feather!

Sandra: Cross-dressing bastard!

Ms. Parker: Next hat is a ski hat. It’s the cutest yet! It’s yellow with white fur around the head and a red pom-pom at the end. It’s very long—so long that it’s pleated accordion-style so that it won’t extend all the way down the mountain. Come on, that is one fabulous hat! But, can you guess? It’s a "no go" with Monsieur le Critique duh Chapeau. And look what hat he’s wearing! What, does he think he’s Santa? Hel-lo! You’re not even Rudolph! You’re a dog!

Sandra: Do these dogs live in West Hollywood?

Ms. Parker: Plus, this time she’s pissed. She’s racing down the mountain—away from him ASAP!—and she’s like, Good-by! (ya little cur) and she’s giving him the evil eye and hoping he’ll bark up the wrong tree and then smash into it.

Sandra:   Outrageous fashion sense, snitfits at the drop of a hat.  Oh, yes, they have to be drag queens.

Ms. Parker: Now! The hat climax! This is during the dog party. Now she’s wearing one superduper stu-fucking-pendous gorgeous chapeau cree-ay-shun that’s got all manner of stuff hanging from it on fishing poles: spiders and fish and mice and birds, etc. Plus, there’s a big bone and candy canes and a pinwheel and lollipops and a big ol’ flowerpot at the top with a pink daisy in it!

Sandra: Yes!  Yes!  I remember that hat.  A perfect doggy dream of a hat.  I betcha she whimpered in her sleep, and twitched her back leg chasing that design.

Ms. Parker: And--well, well!--Mister "I Do Not Like That Hat" finally likes her hat! But look at his party hat! Can we? It’s a newspaper hat he folded! Lame!

Sandra: He’s utterly trying to curry favor.  Does she work in the industry?

Ms. Parker: And then, goddamn it, on the last page she goes off with him in his car. As if all was forgiven! Bitch, have you no pride? The dog won’t give you a fucking inch until you bust your poodle-butt staying up all night to create this heavenly millinery masterpiece, and, look at him, he shows up with a hat he folded from the goddamn sports section and he drops you this one little teeny compliment and you toss away all your good sense and run off into the sunset with him? In his spiffy little red car? Explain this to me!

Sandra: Well, life is short, and the red car is cute.

Ms. Parker (miffed): That’s just plain poppycock! This class is over! I’m outta here. Where’s the snack machine? Everybody come back tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll be well. Tomorrow we’ll talk about punctuation, specifically exclamation points versus periods. And I don’t want to hear anything out of (she points) you or you or...you.

Sandra: Do we get extra credit for not talking?

Ms. Parker: Good-by!

(Your Name): Good-by!

ZAFA LIT 469: Deconstructing "Go,Dog. Go!" will resume tomorrow (that is, Tuesday) when Ms. Parker has recovered her good cheer.

Notes From a Marriage: Micro fiction

LOL

I often think of the day you were so disagreeable and marched into the rain. I followed behind and did not get drenched when the cab sped by.

Hit List: The Best of Latino Mystery

Hope to see you there!

Group Event for Hit List: The Best of Latino Mystery

Start: Sat, 08/29/2009 - 3:00pm That’s next Saturday!
Location:
Vroman's Bookstore
695 E. Colorado Blvd
Pasadena, California 91101

Group event for Hit List: The Best of Latino Mystery - featuring: Alicia Gaspar de Alba, Linda Quinn, and S. Ramos O'Briant

A gripping anthology of short fiction by Latino authors that features an intriguing and unpredictable cast of sleuths, murderers and crime victims.

Hit List: The Best of Latino Mystery
ISBN-13: 9781558855434
Availability: Usually Ships in 1-5 days
Published: Arte Publico Press, 03/01/2009

shame

Paulo Coelho

“The secrets we take to the grave are sexual in nature.” Edgar Lee Masters, Spoon River Anthology.

I’m paraphrasing, but you get the idea.

I don’t think my kids would be surprised at learning - if they don’t know already - that I celebrate my (past) sexual experience. I wish I had a youtube of my memories.

Revelation, not discretion, is our pop goddess and public mea culpas and apologias are so in vogue, and yet so tiresome.

What shames me more is revealing fear and vulnerability. Don’t care who knows it when I’m dead, it’s the here and now of it that’s more frightening.

Murder and Mayhem, Coast to Coast

My short story, "Death and Taxes . . . and Worms" appears in this anthology.  I will be reading 
Saturday, May 16, 2009 3:00 p.m. at  

The Mystery Bookstore

1036-C Broxton Ave

Los Angeles, CA 90024 (Westwood)

convenient parking in city lot on same street

3:00 p.m.

Meet S. Ramos O'Briant and L.M. Quinn

Other contributors: 

Mario Acevedo Lucha Corpi Sarah Cortez Carolina García-Aguilera Alicia Gaspar de Alba Carlos Hernandez Rolando Hinojosa-Smith Bertha Jacobson John Lantigua Arthur Muñoz R. Narvaez L. M. Quinn Manuel Ramos S. Ramos O'Briant A. E. Roman Steven Torres Sergio Troncoso Other Venues:

Texas
Friday, May 8, 2009 6:30 p.m.
Murder By The Book
2342 Bissonnet
Houston, TX 77005
Meet Lucha Corpi, Sarah Cortez,
Bertha Jacobson and Arthur Muñoz

Thursday, May 21, 2009 5:00 p.m.
The Twig Book Shop
5005 Broadway
San Antonio, TX 78209
Meet Bertha Jacobson and Arthur Muñoz

New York
Thursday, May 14, 2009 6:00 p.m.
East Harlem Cafe
1651 Lexington Ave (@104th St.)
New York, NY 10029
Meet Carlos Hernanez, Liz Martínez,
Richie Narvaez and Sergio Troncoso

Thursday, May 21, 2009 6:30 p.m.
Mysterious Book Shop
58 Warren St.
New York, NY 10007
Meet Sarah Cortez, Carlos Hernanez, Liz Martínez,
Richie Narvaez and Sergio Troncoso

Saturday, May 30, 2009 3:30 p.m.
Author Signing at BookExpo America
Jacob K. Javits Convention Center
635 West 34th Street
New York, NY 10001
Meet Carlos Hernández, Liz Martínez,
Richie Narvaez and Sergio Troncoso

Colorado
Thursday, May 21, 2009 7:30 p.m.
Tattered Cover
2526 East Colfax Ave
Denver, CO 80206
Meet Mario Acevedo and Manuel Ramos