On the left is a religious book printed in 1889 entitled Livets Flod or, “River of Life”. On the right is an English-Swedish dictionary (or, Engelsk-Svensk Ordbok – Lit. “word book”) from 1909. Center, my favourite, is a leatherbound Psalmebok (Psalm book), printed in 1881 and given to Hans A. Nordby, the Viking’s grandmother’s father, when he was a little boy in 1886.
I have a few old books myself (some fairly close in age to these) but to know the history of these books, and know that they have been cherished and passed down for several generations makes me feel incredibly privileged. And, as a bonus, the Boy now knows how to keep me quietly enthralled for an hour or more when he is busy doing other things.
Don’t look so surprised. It’s a blog.
My aunt reminded me tonight that July 23rd was quite a long time ago and hinted, not terribly subtly, that I ought to write another blog. I have decided NOT to simply recount the events of the past month (MONTH? Christ, I’m so far behind) by waxing eloquent on my recent heroics, or delving into the inevitable narcissism of my supremely unstable emotional life, or regaling you with tales of my kitten’s antics (he caught and ate a moth the other day), or telling you about my brother, his wife, and her relatives coming to visit me, or how work is stressful and exhausting but good all at once, because you could just follow me on Twitter for all of that.
Instead, I’m going to tell you about the various creative projects I have undertaken in the limited time between working, sleeping, and maintaining my busy and enthralling social calendar (i.e., refreshing facebook every five minutes). I’m somewhat hesitant to even discuss this, since, inevitably, some well-meaning person will make an attempt to hold me accountable for the completion of these projects, and I will, inevitably, be inclined to chuck things in their direction. I will complete, or not complete, these projects at my leisure. Do not question me. Much like the indomitable deity of Christian mythology, I move in mysterious ways.
Very generally, these creative projects fall into a category that I have affectionately termed “Nihilistic Children’s Books”. It’s a bit of a misnomer, in the sense that most people take the term “nihilistic” to mean hopeless, which is not my intention. Of course, most people are idiots and also think that atheists are necessarily amoral and that “irregardless” is a real word.
Much of the children’s literature I have encountered is disgustingly cheerful, clean, wholesome, and inevitably, inane. I don’t mean that I’m intending to write smut for children (although it would put a whole new spin on the term “child pornography” wouldn’t it?), but rather that I believe children are far more capable of understanding complex ideas than we give them credit for. Anyone who has taken a 100-level Social Sciences class can tell you that the idealistic view of childhood we now hold was invented in the Victorian Era, and anyone who has watched a Disney movie can tell you that childhood is rainbows and ponies and one-dimensional villains. Children’s lit. is and always has been propaganda, and really, I just want to disseminate my evil, atheist-satanist-lesbian-liberal-pro-choice views to your children. I WILL DESTROY THEIR MINDS.
My three projects are as follows:
Nightmare Waking – A Picture Book
The title is subject to change because it’s a fucking stupid title and sounds really emo. The inspiration for this story came from the concept of a Möbius strip, where, when you reach the end, the story repeats itself, creating a sense of perpetuity. Of course, my story will not be nearly as awesome as simply taking a strip of paper, twisting it, and taping the ends together. However, once it is in book form, it will be a compilation of pages which could easily be made into many, many Möbius strips, making it not altogether a loss. Also, there are bunny rabbits featured prominently in the story.
These Four Winds – A Novel
Anyone who considers herself* a writer inevitably begins writing a novel and never finishes it. It’s disgusting. Starting a novel is quite possibly one of the most narcissistic things a would-be writer can do, superseded only by said writer’s perpetual references to “the novel I am writing” WHICH WILL NEVER BE FINISHED. That said, I have been writing this novel for nearly four years now. I have maybe ten pages. Partially because every time I start to write something I become frustrated because I have a beginning and a middle, but no end. However, I believe I have conclusively solved my endless issue. And not by being adorably punny, either. This book will be a post-modern re-telling/re-working of Dante’s Divine Comedy, in the sense that I am borrowing many of the master’s plot devices, if not his subject matter.
Eggs – A Novel About Rape and Abortion
A classic fairytale. And I do NOT refer to the Disney concept of the fairytale. I really don’t know what to say about this story without giving it away. My main goal is to avoid being excessively heavy-handed and/or cynical.
I frequently find myself wishing that I had hours of free time to devote to these projects, but I am wise enough to know that I am no more likely now to actually utilise that time than I was a few months ago, when I had days upon endless days of free time. That said, being cooped-up in an office all day has it’s benefits: my creativity, thirsting and desperate for attention, has spurred me to set aside time daily to write and ponder my projects. Creative expression keeps me sane. Well, saner than I would be without it.
*Ooh! Look at my subtle undermining of patriarchal pronouns! I’m such a liberal whore.
It’s been a week. ONE WEEK of illness. My inner monologue is on a steady stream of profanity today.
Everything tastes like phlegm. The upside is I’m losing weight. The downside is that EVERYTHING TASTES LIKE PHLEGM. It fucking sucks.
Last night I think I finally figured out why I’m still sick: I’m fairly certain I’m allergic to my cat. This is unfortunate on two levels, first, because I kind of like the little devil and would be heartbroken if I had to get rid of him; secondly, and this is the more immediate concern, up until today I haven’t really had the strength to do any real cleaning. Last night I opened some windows and that seemed to help. I still didn’t sleep, though, because it was too cold, but that was definitely preferable to feeling like my sinuses were going to explode.
One of the benefits of being sick is that I have been able to get a lot of reading and writing done. I continue to read The Silmarrillion, have begun Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, and finished Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman: Endless Nights. The last two books (along with a collection of works by modern poets) were purchased with a gift card to Borders that my aunt and uncle kindly gave me for Easter. Books and gift cards to bookstores are indubitably the best gifts ever. My writing has mostly consisted of writing and re-writing poems, although I’ve also finished a short story and I continue plugging away at the two novels I’m attempting (half-heartedly) to write simultaneously. When I get the chance, I may post the short story here.
My last human interaction (other than phone conversations which only sort of count) was with a gas-station attendant last Monday. While I was paying, he said that he wanted to give me a high-five. I thought he had a social disorder, but, not wanting to make him feel bad, I high-fived him anyway. I must have looked confused, because he hastily explained that he liked the Ron Paul bumper sticker on my car. We had a brief, but impassioned discussion of politics before I excused myself and drove back home. I feel like a bit of a failure for being unable to bring myself to really care after the election. As exhausting as all my former political fervor was, I still miss it. There are some things worth being passionate about.
Also, no luck in the job hunt, and being sick certainly hasn’t helped at all. I’m tired and frustrated, but not giving up yet.
I’m sorry I’m not very funny when I’m sick. Mostly I just want to chuck things at people.
