The Picture of Dorian Gray

A couple days ago I finished The Picture of Dorian Gray and had a very particular thought related to writing. But I don't remember what it was anymore.

On a scale of one to ten, I rate Dorian Gray as having improved my life, and I hope to return to it. The title character, however, is not what will draw me back. Lord Henry Watton, with his wit, his hedonism, and his paradoxical philosophies, is much more intriguing than the rise and fall of Dorian.

I picked up this book (er, downloaded it to my kindle) based on the strength of the dialog in The Importance of Being Earnest. While the verbal sparring is my favorite part of this Wilde work, too, but it isn't the front and center focal point. I suppose Wilde was enjoying having so much prose space to work with, as a dozen or so pages are spent on everything Dorian collects and studies over a span of 20 years. Next time through the book I'll likely give that a half-over while spending double time on each scene in which Lord Henry waxes philosophical, tossing out one liners like flowers after a play.

In one memorable exchange late in the book, he goes six or seven volleys with the Duchess. Each round of their conversation evolves the metaphor farther, shifting the scope of their witty battle, and neither party misses a beat or a point.

"Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty that charms one. A mist makes thigns wonderful."
"One may lose one's way."
"All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys."
"What is that?"
"Disillusion."
"It was my debut in life," she sighed.
"It came to you crowned."
"I am tired of strawberry leaves."
"They become you."
"Only in public."
"You would miss them," said Lord Henry.
"I will not part with a petal."
"Monmouth has ears."
"Old age is dull of hearing."
"Has he never been jealous?"
"I wish he had been."
He glanced around as if in search of something.
"What are you looking for?" she inquired.
"The button from your foil," he answered. "You have dropped it."
She laughed. "I still have the mask."
"It makes your eyes lovelier."

And I'm speechless.

I know exchanges like these are pure fiction, illusions of their own, only possible when both voices come from one mind, a mind which has infinite time to jigsaw the pieces together. It still makes me swoon. Still makes me dream of having this sort o mincing dance in my own life, or at least in my own writing. Given the chance to re-write this book (a mental game I play with most things I read), I might be able to improve upon some of the plot or characterization of some of the players, but Lord Henry was perfect.

Is my accumulated knowledge of Poe, my familiarity with Doyle, and the passing of generations that make me immune to the twists and turns in Dorian Gray's plot? Why did I suffer no illusion about it being James Vane that was killed on the hunt? Why did I feel no suspense about the possible endings the novel could come to? Did the lack of salacious details regarding Dorian's sins and the scandals he dragged others into prevent me from investing more deeply? Perhaps, perhaps.

I wish I felt more strongly the pull of depravity on Dorian's soul. His betrayal of Sibyl, his part in her death had no intent behind it. I wish I'd seen him slip more gradually, more willfully into corruption. Or maybe it's there but I'm not seeing it. In the quote above, I don't know what the strawberry leaves are, or the full depth of the fencing references.

All in all, to my terribly untrained mind, I can't heap much praise on the bones of Dorian Gray, and can't see myself heaping it upon others in recommendation, but I'm glad I read this classic novel, and I will be eternally grateful for it introducing me to Lord Henry.

This issue. (Feminism)

I'm watching Californication, Season 1.

(I'm also knitting, so it isn't a complete waste of time, and I vaguely like the show, despite the commonalities it has to Terriers, with none of the intense, redeeming plots of the latter. Californication has shades of Entourage, too. But these things are moot right now.)

Four episodes in, I have big question marks above my head about the female characters.

I try to stay away from feminism issues in general, as it tends to paint 50% of the population with a large brush despite each individual in that segment deserving its own color, and so many people try to wield that large brush with so many varying opinions.

It seems whenever a male writer pens a female character or vice versa, critical readers/viewers will try to say that opposite-gender characters are (to varying degrees) stand-ins for every person sharing their genitalia, as though characters aren't allowed the same rights of individuality autonomous, non-fictional people are.

What brings this up is although I'm generally enjoying Californication (despite knowing Hank and his ex will never get back together), I can't get behind any of the adult female characters. In short, it flagrantly fails the the Bechdel Test.

Rundown of female characters in the first few episodes:
- Karen. Hank's ex. Seems interesting enough, but doesn't have much of a point other than being the ex, Becca's mother, and engaged to Bill. I had to look up her name and couldn't tell you if she has a job or not.

- Hank's girlfriend. She's an "attorney" to whom Hank was a total asshole the first time they met, but he made a couple good jokes when he apologized for being an asshole, so she forgave him and they started dating... because her other relationship was long term, with a married man. And maybe she's still sleeping with said married man, talking shit about Hank behind his back.

- Hank's agent's assistant. Twenty-two year old who gets fired for being a fuckup assistant, sends her boss a link to her Suicide Girl profile, and gets rehired so they can play Secretary.

- Mia. Bill's 16 year old daughter. Stalked and seduced Hank, and keeps toying with him, using his innate sexual attraction to hot young women against him, despite him saying "this is wrong, you're not an adult" each time she tries it.

- MULTIPLE other women... married random in the pilot, movie producer's wife, porn star, dinner guest, tabloid writer... FIVE in four episodes (not counting the dreams) have thrown themselves at him. He didn't sleep with the tabloid writer or the porn star, but fucked the other three. The porn star and the dinner guest especially irked me, however, because they both insecurely asked Hank to judge their bodies. "What do you think? what do you think of my tits?"

In this context a woman who wasn't all over Hank or another man in the show, a woman who was loyal or reserved or remotely not-crazy, a woman who was down to earth would stick out like a sore thumb and look like a prude in this company.

There is nothing remotely real about this show. Even with the "family" moments, the occasional sweet things Hank does, it's pure voyeurism and entertainment. Messed up relationships, some sex, some laughs, some tits. Asking myself, "If you have this issue with the show, what do you want?" it's not easy to answer. I guess I want a woman with some dignity to drop by, to be made a pass at, give Hank a funny look, tell him he's a jackhole, then walk off without bitchy histrionics. But that's pretty boring, huh? Maybe I want a sense that there will be some redemption, some happy ending.

The character on Terriers who was still in love with his ex (who was, in turn, engaged to someone else) didn't get a happy ending, but there were things going on in that show besides the relationships between the main characters. There were other avenues to show growth.

Maybe that's what Californication needs, a Steph character, a sister (or something) who has other things going on, interests besides men.

You know, even Becca, Hank's 12 year old daughter is already fucked up over this. Caught kissing a boy and told it was inappropriate behavior, she said, "How else am I supposed to get them to like me?" For the most part she's a punk kid, precocious and funny, but I'll be interested to see how she develops over the seasons... if I keep watching.

I have a lot of knitting to do... but there are many many other things on my Netflix queue.

Bite the bullet.

Five years ago I was traipsing around the hills of Northern San Diego, wondering when I'd see my new! favorite! person! next.

Today I'm sitting in my a tiny room in an outer borough of DC, wondering if I'll ever see him again.

Either the physical person who has persisted from then to now, or the intangible person I felt so strongly about. Our contact these days is reduced to text messages about taxes, paperwork, and the dozen boxes he's holding in storage for me.

Next free day I have could be devoted to picking up those last boxes, fortifying and labling them, and sending them ahead to California, where I will once again roost. I could do it under the cover of workday, slip in, haul out, leave his storage key under the mat. Other than the lump over foot and the sixteen words hidden deep in his cell phone, he wouldn't know the difference. No confrontation to take coveted items off his shelves. I'd give up and be gone, my will and influence departed from his life, no say over what he does with time, money, goods.

The waves created by this tectonic shift in my life have lessened over time. They're less frequent, no longer a daily occurrence, but when the swells do come, they are sometimes enough to capsize me. On those days I'm bleak and hungry, but I'm not sure for what.

Last time I saw him, the day I packed the last of my belongings, I could barely look him in the eye. Shamefully I hid the muddy chaos of my mental state. I wanted to ask "what are you feeling? how are you doing, really? what do you think of...." The trailing off would gesture to the frayed ends between us. There's a clear division, like that painting I once made with two trees nearly but not quite bridging the chasm between them. The wind might blow branches over the tug-of-war line in the middle, but they never really overlap, never connect. Did we used to? Could we again? Should we?

But I can't start that conversation. It'd be pointless, masochistic, and a repetition of every reason I cried on the floor of the guestroom in the first place.

* * *

3.14.06 was actually ripe with livejournal posts. It's interesting to look back on how much hasn't changed.

aw, crap.

I clicked on the game chef link on someone's LJ... and the design bug bit me.

The transmission of this post was interrupted by me having the sudden desire to draw a picture of myself getting gnawed on by nine giant bugs.

*fallsover*

I AM AN ANNIE OF IRONY, SELF DEFEATING AND SELF ENHANCING AT EVERY TURN!

... I want to write about that. I really do. I want to follow up and say how I'm always pulled in six creative directions, how my art is as crappy now as it was then, how Mike gets on my case about never knowing what I want to pursue, but this blast from the past (exactly 5 years ago!) subverts that impulse:

Most of my time since Friday night has been spent wrapped up in arm and/or brain with him. We partied (for three hours) in Escondido on Saturday, we did creative things (for two hours) in Oceanside on Sunday, we drove (for four hours) to Upland and back Monday.

The potential separation came up in conversation once. My brain is split, the left hemisphere not knowing what the right hemisphere is caring about, and vice versa. I throw myself towards college with the same gusto I throw myself into a vat of hearts juice, and my brain can't reconcile the incompatibility. This came up in conversation once, and he said, "I don't know what to say yet, but I don't think we could do long-distance." I pretty much agree. Neither of us are good on the phone, and he does many times better in person than he does via text.

At that point in time I'd applied to school in Savannah and planned a campus visit with my folks. On that trip I would find out I'd been accepted, and was so certain about the way life was going, purchase an engagement gift for him (for when the time came).

I suppose that era was so ripe with romantic brainsplatter that reading my diary for any day in 2006 would yield the same shuddering angst. Same or worse.

* * *

I'm getting divorced and moving back to CA. I'll live with my parents, find a meager job, and go to school, shooting for journalism.

These are the things going on in my life.

Quiet Moments

It's nice to have some place to be alone on the internet. It's somewhat passé to have a personal blog or journal on the internet, and I don't know if i'd be better off posting in private. But I do so much writing in private. I was prepared to compare this space, my creation of it, my dominance of it, to Summer's apartment in (500) Days of Summer, but now I'm imaging it having more in common with a picnic for one in a forgotten--but stil lovely--public garden.

I like the breathing space of this large text box blogger offers me, compared to the one or two lines in Facebook or Twitter. And no risk of truncation if my poetics run long. I poked my head into yer olde tweet can a couple times today after another extended absence, and didn't much like the smell of the place. Pictures and links stacked like cordwood, retweets and name-drops all shouting for attention.

I've been 'turned off' by the internet a lot lately, and the insidious way I let technology dominate my life. This is a theme I will write more on soon. For now I return to the darkness and the silence, hoping sleep finds me soon.

Or, more realistically, I'll spend time doing that isolated sort of writing reserved for lightless rooms and locked diaries.

Uses for $75

1) Fancy Haircut



There's a salon called Urban Halo in Arlington. I walk past it about twice a week, and it always looks very swanky, the kind of place yuppies and hipsters go. After looking it up on Yelp, I find that haircuts cost $75 there. Even though it's more than three times more than I've paid for any haircut ever, I'm still considering treating myself one of these days. My hair is almost-but-not-quite long enough to put up and in desperate need of a style/trim. After having it done by myself or a friend with clippers for so long, I figure my average price-per-cut over the past 10 years would still be about $5. And while going to a beauty school is an option, I'd rather pay for some expert knowledge/styling and get something that will work for my face and grow out well than just pay $25 and hope for the best.

2) Work Shoes

Even though I'm going to be maxing at 6 hours a day soon, my current work shoes have no cushioning and pinch around the widest part of my left foot. Something more comfortable, and even something that could translate to daily wear outside of work would be nice, as my old black sneakers are dead. My manager recently called me out for being out of dress-code, so it might be a worthwhile investment.


3) Music Swag



Kenna's been my #1 music artist since I first saw Hellbent (*note! that is not the music video i'm talking about the original is protected, and thus not on youtube*) on Cartoon Network's showcase of animated music videos. The first few times I listened to his second release, MSTSMF, I cried. His third album is coming out... soon. Supposed to drop tomorrow, but a massive computer failure... ate the whole thing, so the release got pushed back until April so they can re-record and re-produce the whole thing. NONE ARE INVINCIBLE FROM THE HAND OF CHAOS. While I was already interested in buying the big swag pack (shirt, hat, jacket, album, stickers, pins), now I like the idea of tossing money his way to help fund the re-recording, too. The flight jacket is really cool.


4) Bradbury Poetry

One of my favorite writers doing on of my favorite literary forms. Even without linebreaks and rhymes, Bradbury is one of the most poetic authors I know. Five hundred pages of it. I'm guessing it was a small print run, as the cheapest used copy is $75. YIKES. And not to be morbid, but he's 90. The price is only going to go up from here. Until I'm dead, too, and it all comes into the public domain. Or some time in the middle, when a new massive collection is released on his 100th birthday. But for the next decade, definitely a good use of $75... for someone who doesn't have to work an 8 hour shift to make that much money. And maybe me, too.

"If you stuff yourself full of poems, essays, plays, stories, novels, films, comic strips, magazines, music, you automatically explode every morning like Old Faithful. I have never had a dry spell in my life, mainly because I feed myself well, to the point of bursting. I wake early and hear my morning voices leaping around in my head like jumping beans. I get out of bed to trap them before they escape."

5) Don't spend it

The camera that snapped that beauty (at the American Art Museum) is still only about half paid for. Part of my plan right now is to pay it off before re-quitting my job and moving back to CA.

Decision, decisions.