Henry’s Women (Part I in a Series of Really Long Posts)

So.  Henry has found a rebound girl.  

Henry?” My father scrunched his face in confusion when I first referred to my ex by that name in conversation.  Yes, I explained.  I’ve begun calling him Henry in commemoration of Henry VIII, because of the way in which his entire character so unmistakably, strikingly recalls that of the illustrious megalomaniac.  My father continued to scrunch his face as he considered.  Then his face screwed around differently in cynical amusement.  “You’re right.  They both fall passionately in love with someone, and then they want to kill her.”  Indeed, my ex shares everything with the infamous king from his power complex, to his grandiose, yet fragile self concept to his unchecked extravagance to his consecutive appropriation and then disposal of women like worn-out pantyhose with indefatigable efficiency.  Even the portraiture is echoed in the present most eerily, in the same wide-legged, imposing stance of a self proclaimed alpha male that you see in the still-relevant portrayal painted back in the 1500s:  The profile of a bloodthirsty narcissist evidently looks the same now the same as it did 500 years ago.  

Workshop_of_Hans_Holbein_the_Younger_-_Portrait_of_Henry_VIII_-_Google_Art_Project

  Continue reading

My Procrastination Jottings: Swimming Inside My Mind

By U.S. Embassy Tel Aviv (_D3S9680FL) [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

By U.S. Embassy Tel Aviv (_D3S9680FL) [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

Instead of writing my freelance piece last night I scribbled out the below garbage in my Procrastination Jottings:

I still can’t write this article.  Because my mind is swimming, swimming.  Or rather, I’m swimming inside my mind.  I’ve noticed I use that metaphor a lot, the swimming metaphor, with reference to my mind and what goes on inside it, and how I inevitably drown in it.  I always feel like my mind is a big tank full of all the garbage and remains and gunk that you find washed up on the beach or entrenched into the sea floor, and that I’m stuck in this tank.  And I just want, need, to purge my mind of everything, all the junk and putrid debris and detritus.  If I were to successfully purge my mind, crack open the tank and dump it all out onto the ground outside, probably I would find a lot of slimy rotting fish and the decaying soft bodies of mollusks inside their shells, milky proteins oozing out and marbling over; abandoned, torn tires; rusty nails from who-knows-what; dead and decomposing horseshoe crabs and limp, flaccid eel bodies; pieces of wooden planks and driftwood of an unknown origin, with grotesque white linchen growing all over it; plastic bottle rings; beer bottles and broken whisky bottles covered and filled with sandy grime, and rusty beer bottle caps; tossed, corroded gasoline cans; brittle and bare grayed feathers from unidentified birds, and the heartbreaking carcass of an injured seagull that fell into the sea; a discolored and lifeless crab tangled inside a broken fishing line; a discarded and rusty crab cage covered in brown seaweed; and piles upon piles of cloudy, dense pebbles and stones and broken shells, all over the place, handfuls upon heavy handfuls and no bottom and no place to push them over to, they scrape my hands when I dig my fingers into them and pierce into my feet when I try to walk.  And everything grown over with ripe and pungent algae.

Notes From Hibernation

I encountered a moment of profound self-awareness and introspection earlier today when I glanced up and saw my reflection of myself consuming the contents of a tube of Pringles on the blacked-out screen of my laptop.  One cannot experience a more evocative and startling instance of personal revelation.

My first reaction when I glimpsed into myself mindlessly gorging the fat free fried potatoes was, Shit, I can’t throw this up.  I’m not bulimic anymore.

My next reaction was despair over my helpless lassitude as I contemplated just how long I have been tinkering about, snacking and woolgathering inside the caverns of my mind before my computer screen inevitably fell asleep and went black:  Shit.  I have done…nothing…at all today.

Maybe you’re wondering what a recovered bulimic is doing with a tube of Pringles to begin with, even if they’re the kind that are fried in that fake fat.  It’s not actually my tube of Pringles.  It’s my parents’ Pringles.  I’m sitting in my parents’ house rummaging through their pantry.  Because I moved in with my parents last month.  Several years, two degrees and three cities later, weary, derelict, defeated, bedbug bitten, at the close of my youth, I have come back to the household from whence I came.   Continue reading

Really. Memorable. Quotes.

A few of the very unforgettable tokens of thought people have relayed to me then and now that I just hold on to forever (verbatim) . . .

  • Have you considered electroshock therapy?  Best friend (sincerely)
  •  Aunt Morgan, why can’t you get a job?  4-year-old nephew

The Contents of Your Kitchen Cabinet Can Speak Volumes About You

…As I’ve learned over the years of sharing living quarters with others.

My current roommate’s eating habits are almost as peculiar as mine, something I couldn’t help but notice since I’ve moved in this past fall.  Now that she’s left town for three weeks, I set out to confirm my suspicions and took the liberty of swinging open the doors to her side of the kitchen cabinets, above the counter where she keeps her Zumba tapes.  The findings are quite telling about a 31-year-old compulsive-dieting product of our present day health-nut consumerism.  Of the pseudo-food that I found include:     Continue reading

Phone Calls With Mom, and Ensuing Contemplations of My Life At 29

I got off the phone with Mom a while ago after making her sit and wait patiently while I dumped my weekly baggage on her for an hour.  In between my monologues, she took the opportunity to mention, again—as if my life isn’t already complicated enough—“You KNOW, you’ll be turning 29 soon!  Oh my goodness!” Blah Blah.  And once again she reminded me how my eggs—you know, my eggs—will only still be fresh for about another year.

“It’s just a fact,” she harped.  “I was talking to my-friend-the-OBGYN about it.  So many women make the mistake of thinking ‘they can wait’ and that everything will be perfectly fine and then they end up in trouble!”

So then I suggested that for my 29th birthday she and Dad pay to have a few of my eggs frozen.  You know, a long-term security deposit, like buying a CD or a mutual fund or something.

“Ummm . . . sure.  Daddy and I would pay for that,” she stammered.  “We’d do anything for you.”

image from Wiki Commons

Let’s say this is me.

image from Wiki commons

This would be me if I had lived in Europe in the 1930s.

This would certainly be me if I had lived in the US in the 1880s.

This is most likely what would have ultimately become of me if I had lived in early modern Europe.

. . . Or maybe this, if I had lived in the English colonies.

This is definitely not me, but I really prefer the more romantic portrayals of aberrant women . . .

And this short story by Idra Novey makes me think of what I’d be like if I had lived in Latin America in the 1970s.

*Images are all from Wiki Commons, and I sure hope they’re on the public domain.  Click the image to go to the source.

My Library Days

Today was another day without a call from the staffing agency.  So, at around 4 pm I decided to force myself to change out of my pajamas and head over to the local library to return the near-due batch of books I had taken out.  And go browsing for more.  The library is one of the few places in which I feel truly comfortable and unthreatened.  It is the only public establishment that I can think of where I’m off the hook as an agoraphobe.  For me, it’s a temple to the soul.  In a library, I am protected by compulsory peacefulness and privacy:  You’re not allowed to talk to anyone.  You get to conceal yourself within a silent forest of towering folios, rows upon vacant rows of comfortingly shadowy foliage.  And, what’s more for my deprived soul, is that you are free to pluck voraciously from the shelves with impunity.  Anything and everything marked with a call number is up for grabs, no fees, no calories, no obligations, no strings attached.  And picking and sampling is both condoned and encouraged.  Likewise, it is perfectly acceptable to loiter around aimlessly perusing for hours.  The library is beyond the realm of the mythicized candy store: it’s the Garden of the Hesperides, on steroids.  Continue reading