16 December 2009

It Has Left a Lasting Impression

Mister Sexy said he would NOT wear tight-fitting shirts and talk in an Irish accent if I didn't read John Irving's A Prayer for Owen MeanyIt's a decision I do not regret. And for more reasons than seeing Mister Sexy in a tight-fitting shirt and trilling out a lovely brogue. Well, maybe 'trilling' is not the appropriate word.

(Incidentally, as I write this, the cat is *extremely* farty, and is sitting in front of the register, so if I lose consciousness from time to time, please be patient with me. Whoof.)

So I liked this book. But there's a problem. Sometimes, I don't know if you've noticed this yet, but sometimes, after reading or seeing or experiencing something that makes me think about it a lot, I begin to emulate certain aspects of the thing. F'rinstance, I'm particularly prone to picking up accents. I think that sometimes, when I read something, I pick up phrases or styles, although it's difficult to tell. As my International Literary Boyfriend Neil Gaiman (whom I, sadly, did *not* get to meet yesterday) said,
It's one of the scariest things, for a writer, about writing short fiction -- the worry that a story shape isn't yours, but is something you read a long time ago, and forgot.
*swoon*
Isn't he AMAZING!?
 **SIGH**

What?
Oh, sorry. Right. Owen Meany.

What John Irving's done with this book is, in my opinion, Very Difficult. He has created an utterly memorable character. He's good at that (remember The World According to Garp?). Once you've met Owen Meany, you will never, EVER forget him. It's pretty amazing, I think, the way Irving is able to create an aural experiece using only print and clever prose. Like Garp, Owen Meany has some fairly staunchly-held beliefs, and he is precocious and has, as Joyce would say, the "strength of conviction". (Yes. I know Jame Joyce doesn't hold copyright over that particular phrase; it was in The Dubliners, though, I first encountered it. Or maybe it was Finnegan's Wake.)  Unlike Garp, Owen Meany is, I think, less a product of his upbringing. Owen seems much more actualised early on in his life than Garp ever did, and this makes sense when you understand some of the fundamental differences between the two characters (primarily, Faith and religion).

The similarities between the two novels are striking - fatherless children, for example (a topic close to the author's own heart, as he never knew his own father). Both Garp and John Wheelwright (the narrator of A Prayer for Owen Meany) never knew their fathers; in both instances it is a mystery. In both books, discovering the nature of their own conception is a major driving force for two of the main characters.

Both novels have strong feminist characters who deal with social justice issues - John Wheelwright's cousin Hester is a feminist "out of necessity", the narrator implies (if not outright says), owing to having been treated quite differently from her two brothers. She becomes a folk singer, Vietnam war protester, and, ultimately, pop/punk culture icon. In The World According to Garp, TS Garp's mother, a nurse, is a strong feminist character who goes so far as to open her home to women in need - a shelter/retreat. More striking about Garp's mother Jenny is that she *vehemently* opposes sharing her life with a man as her husband; with the exception of Garp's conception (and I'll not ruin the surprise by talking about it here; if you haven't read the book, you should do so), she presents a cold, asexual image. This is unlike John Wheelwright's mother, who is always taken to be a sexual, sensual woman; the same is true of Hester, with whom John has his first few sexual experiences (and about whom he fantasises for most of his adult life).

Owen Meany is obsessed with his own death. So is Garp. Albeit with different motivations, of course...which is to say, one of the primary *differences* between the two books is also the main reason these two characters are so different in their approach to the obsession each one has about death. Garp is a writer (so is Owen Meany) whose novels tend to feature, like Shakespeare, the death of EVERYONE INVOLVED. Owen Meany is only concerned with his *own* death. Owen has a vision, when he is very young, that convinces him he knows when he will die. Garp is more keenly interested in fantasising several ways in which those around him might die.

I have a friend who often says of my writing, "yes, but what do these characters DO? What HAPPENS?" This is a funny thing about Irving - not much really happens. I mean, stuff happens, but reading it is like hearing the stories told around the back yard while drinking beer, or around the fireplace channel while sipping rum 'n' nog - both novels are anecdotal. The "plot" as it were, takes place in the characters ...well... living. The action is in the development of each segment of each story - what happens to Owen Meany when the boys go swimming at the mine? What happens to Garp when he and his neighbour disrobe in the back yard?

This same friend is a HUGE fan of Hemingway (not that my friend is a Size Large Literature Lover, but he *is* quite fond of Hemingway), and understands about 'nothing happening' in short fiction; he often talks about the story where the entire timeline is played out, more or less, in a hotel room in Spain, and most of the action involves a man and a woman having a subtle argument. It is about what is left *unsaid* that makes that story so good, my friend says. At least, I think he says that. I might be making it up.

ANYWAY, my whole point is this: one of the striking things about Owen Meany is the particular way in which he speaks, which Irving represents in part by only presenting Owen Meany's speech in ALL CAPS. And I noticed my own self doing this on a far more regular basis over the last couple of weeks.

Also, I'll never forget Owen Meany, weird, kind of creepy little bugger that he was. Thanks for insisting I read the book, Mister Sexy. I did enjoy it.

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13 May 2009

Wednesday, 13 May 2009 - Seeing

I have seen things today, in the flickering shadows of dusk; in the cast-askew glance into the middle distance. The first, as I approached our home, a tiny black bird, or perhaps a bat, darting over me, just past my right ear. When I looked back, there was no bird, nor bat, nor butterfly. A trick of the light, perhaps. Or a mysterious flickering thing.

The next I saw as I walked past the window. A flash of white; a ghostly figure gliding out of view just outside. Steam, maybe, or someone outside looking in, someone from some other time, some other where, peeking in my windows, wondering who I am, and why my spectral image is wandering past the window, trespassing so close to their place, and without so much as a tiny piece of bread dipped in honey.

There are others, of course. The sigh of starched cotton, a disembodied giggle. Sometimes, things that go missing turn up again in odd places. Why, for instance, would I have put my car keys on top of the door frame? I wouldn't, of course, because I can't even reach the top of the door frame. His Nibs could, but he's such a terrible liar.

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18 December 2008

I need a Sherpa.

I had a Very Strange experience today that leads me to believe I have crossed the threshold from 'slightly intolerant left-leaning hippie-type" to "rest home fodder".

After a quick jaunt to the bank to make a deposit, and having to wait 20 minutes for the bank to open, even though I was there at a *perfectly respectable hour*, I decided to get some lunch-ish items for work. I went to a grocery store. Nay; I went to the Big Green Store.

Now, I'm sure you know this, but the last time I was in that particular brand of store, I was, as Road Rage puts it "all hepped up on goofballs". Actually, I don't think she's ever said that. I had a "few extra beans in my coffee", if you will. I was out of my gourd on LSD, in other words. *blush* Oh, those crazy 90s, right? Let me just tell you: NEVER DO THAT. [[shudder]]

Okay, so I enter the Megalomart and stand there, agape. There are *no groceries* in this store. Usually when you enter a market or a supermarket even, there is a whole section of produce basically right in front of you (at least, that is the case in all the markets I frequent). OR at least crackers. I have just walked in to a display of tropical plants, buffeted by a display of snow shovels, and confronted with a display of pillows. I begin to walk around. Lightbulbs, caustic chemical cleaning agents, more pillows, towels, dustbins, mops...flatware and silverware, CDs, batteries, electronics...I am beginning to wonder if I'm not in the wrong store. Then I see it. AN ENTIRE WALL OF CHEESE!

"Oh joy!" I think to myself. "Cheese! I love cheese! I'll get cheese for lunch!"

But all the cheese is in pre-cut slices. Or it's a funny colour, like bright orange (not 'cheddar' orange; 'nuclear fallout klaxon' orange, and that's not a normal colour for cheese). I look around again. Pre-packaged food. Sandwiches made on light and fluffy bread the colour of a virgin's breasts, hermetically sealed in stuff that will never break down in nature. The glorious trays of seal meat and shrimp, packaged together with orange hummus (what IS it with orange-coloured food? What in nature is...oh wait. Okay, um. What in nature that isn't a fruit or vegetable is orange? You know what? Never mind the question). Or beige spinach dip (which is guaranteed to taste nothing like the mana from heaven that Snoozy used to make).

I'm dazed; the wind has been knocked out of me by the strange place that I have just walked in to. I envision I feel like those children felt, walking in to Willy Wonka's candy factory. It was marvellous and horrible all at the same time. I was at once terrified and full of wonder. Disgusted and amazed.

And the people! Oh Lord, the people! They were all pushing their carts and scowling and grabbing things and racing to get the next bunch of lettuce because there *clearly* weren't enough bunches of lettuce to go around. The Produce was wayyy the hell and gone at the other end of the store, which made me very confused. And most of the produce was either things like nuts and chocolates or it was rotting fruit and brown vegetables.

I stood and looked at the people picking over fruit grown in Some Other Country far, far away, and I thought, "what a lot of waste". What's going to happen when the food is actually going 'off'? Do they just dump it? Do they give it to the food bank before it goes bad? Because I'm pretty sure that even if every person who lives in this city went to one of the Big Green Stores and bought one apple, there would STILL be too many.

Then I started to think about what would happen if a kid got separated from its parents in there. You wouldn't find each other for WEEKS.

Is it just me, or have these places grown and become more and more annoying? Really. I got seriously freaked out by that place, and by how impersonal it is. The checkout person didn't greet me or thank me or chat me up (do you know how ODD that is?). Nobody said "hello!" in the aisle. They looked at me really funny when I said "Excuse me, please," if I had to walk in front of them.

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