Jacquelyn's Space

“When I speak of writing, the image that comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or a literary tradition; it is the person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and alone, turns inward. Amid his shadows, he builds a new world with words.”

— Orhan Pamuk

I had a long talk with my mother today. It is almost a year since we reconciled. We had a period where we didn’t speak to one another. She was pissed at me because I couldn’t give her what she wanted…and because I didn’t approve of her treatment of my dad…and because I didn’t think she could take care of herself. Well, she did go crazy (for lack of a better term). She is still mentally ill (I think it is some sort of erotomania, perhaps schizo-affective disorder)  . Really. But time and distance has healed her somewhat…and of course she had to start talking to me again, once I had her grandsons. It is all a long story…

But the gist of it right now is that she is healing– getting back to more herself. She is not as delusional as she was.

Our relationship is healing (knock wood). This is a good thing. There was a time I thought I’d never speak to her again.

But I learned to accept certain things, and sweep other things under the rug. Certain things you just have to leave to time and God.

Things are looking up in the reading department. I started Doctorow’s Ragtime Tuesday and I have read the required chapter for my class next week. If I didn’t have some writing to catch up on I’d keep reading. It is entertaining and interesting. Finally an American novel– not adolescent literature– that I can get into. I hate summarizing novels, I also hate reviewing them. Let’s just say Ragtime is like an old-time pulp fiction. Perhaps it inspired Tarantino?

I also started The Blackwater Lightship, an Irish novel by Colm Toibin. I have been having the hardest time getting into Irish literature because it has been so sad and strange (alienating, and at times befuddling , boring even), but this book, this book! I love it; it makes me cry. It dredges up all the emotions I have been holding back…it makes me want to write. I have come up with fifty ideas I want to write about from just starting the novel. It is about a woman who suddenly finds out her brother is dying from AIDS and he wants her to tell their mother and grandmother. The family has been on the outs (especially the daughter and mother) and the brother dying brings them all back together. By the seaside no less. A novel after my own heart.

But it makes me think of my own mother and the troubles between us…I also think about my own family and how it fell apart these last years.

And I miss my grandmothers. I wish I still had one. So I am down, and so emotional. I feel like I could walk around my house crying, alternately wring my hands and tear my hair out.

Then I feel penned up here. Like now I have to be quiet– everybody is sleeping. Sometimes it sucks having a full house. You can’t scream and get a little crazy when you want to. Decorum, decorum…I must keep my composure and set a good example for the young ones.

I feel like getting in my car and driving around for a while…listening to my sad songs and wailing along. But where to drive to in this cold? The car needs an oil change anyway. And I am tired, so tired. Not to mention I have to be up early.

UGH! Responsibility.

I think about hopping the Amtrak train to somewhere. Amtrak supposedly will let writers ride for free…sounds great…oh the things I could write riding the rails.

But I don’t want to run away…not permanently. Only for a spell, to get this craziness out of my system. Then it would be nice to write. Write what I want for change. Take some time off and really dig into these emotions and my stories. Holding them inside is really beginning to trouble me. Who knows how much is still there. I have to get it out, shape them, remember, do the work, exorcise the demons, empty myself.

Yes, to run away for a little bit would be quite nice. But I sit here crying and laughing silently in the semi-darkness.

Fat Tuesday = tea and paczki:

Fat Tuesday = gluttony

More tea and paczki:

And now a cutesy poem:

Fat Tuesday = tea and paczki.
Fat Tuesday = gluttony,
More tea and paczki.
Now I am all powdery 😉

*

My diet starts tomorrow, ha.

It is a damn shame to be this uninspired. I took 3 literature classes this semester…in only one class–adolescent literature– have I enjoyed the books. Ha, what does that say about my reading tastes?

I took an Modern American Novel class– so far the books have been somewhat boring, or I am uninspired to write about them. Nothing much to write about, at least nothing original. For this class I have read: The Awakening (eh, this was probably the most satisfying read but I didn’t care for the protagonist– too cold), The Sun Also Rises (eh, boring though I like Hemingway’s descriptions of Spain– not much to the characters or story), The Sound and the Fury (I did not finish it yet– crunched for time…kind of an unpleasant read but it may be the most interesting thus far), and The Crying of Lot 49 (I have read this one before and still don’t know what to make of it– it reads like an acid trip…and perhaps that is its only value? IDK, I just know I am not into books in which the sole purpose is to play with readers minds). Next I am to read Ragtime…we’ll see if this one is any better than the rest.

The only thing definitive thing I have learned from taking the class is I now realize why I like to read more British Literature, and pre-modern lit at that… nothing beyond the twentieth century.

I took an Irish Literature class for something different. Two of the 4 authors I have read– boring…or the novels were hard to get through without much of a point. The last book, The Infinities— UGH! I don’t even know what to say about it. The other two authors– we read many short stories of William Trevor — these were alright but I prefer novels. The other somewhat enjoyable read was Roddy Doyle’s The Commitments…entertaining but not much to write about. It was very obvious…nothing much to sink my teeth into in any of the readings thus far.

Ho hum. It sucks being this uninspired. It depresses me. It makes me think I am not cut out for the academic world. It makes me long for good old Shakespeare…