Words, words, words...

I know I haven't written in awhile, and there are all sorts of topical things to cover I'm sure, but I found this in my composition book just now, and I know I wrote it for you, Ms Blog, and far be it from me to deny presents in this most giving of seasons.

I stayed in bed all day. My throat was sore and I felt a general weakness in my body, but mostly I just hate my job. We musn't dwell. I'm working on a life of quiet resignation more and more every day.

Kurt Vonnegut called (calls) short stories "cat naps." In sickness, I alternated between the short stories of John Cheever and Mary Robison, cat naps upon cat naps. Presently I want to talk about some things I've been reading and why I like them.

John Cheever is, tragically, dead. He died in 1982, the year of my birth, which I'd like to think means everything. I heard about John Cheever via the New Yorker podcast of his short story Reunion, read by Richard Ford*. (I have helpfully provided a link to the podcast episode. scroll down to the bottom. It's the last one.) Reunion is pretty much my favorite short story ever written and it takes minutes to hear so I really recommend it and I'd love to know what you think.

I got into Mary Robison because my writing workshop teacher likes her, and of course he knows her. (Here's my best Chris Leland impression: Now, the thing about Mary is, she's an absolute genius...) I am comforted by the fact that she's alive and teaching at the University of Florida. I've developed fantasies of completing my MFA in her department, and sort of one day brushing shoulders with her at the chalkboard, where I'll say something really casual and spontaneous that explains exactly how I feel, maybe something like "GIVE ME A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR, YOU WORD SORCERESS! YOU SHE DEVIL! SO THAT I MAY FASHION A LIKENESS TO FUCK." I'll hammer out the details later, because like I said, casual and spontaneous. She wrote this paragraph in a story called In Jewel.


Jack's a miner's best friend. He has a case pending now about a mammoth rock that's hanging near the top of a mountain out on the edge of town. And the mountain's on fire inside. There's a steam of coal in it that's been burning for over a year, breaking the mountains back, and someday the rock's going to come tumbling straight down and smush the Benjamin house, it looks like, and maybe tear out part of the neighborhood.
The whole Benjamin family has seen this in their dreams.
"Hit the company now, " Jack says. "Before the rock arrives."


I can get a little emotional/damn near creepy about writing that really strikes me. John Fante has this one sentence in one of his novels that slays me, just hanging in the space of my head. Every time I think about it I want to die, in the most Shakespearian sense of the word. The sentence: "I got a job pulling weeds, but it was hard and I quit." Big fucking deal, right? Not to me.

The point is John Cheever and Mary Robison humble me. They make my pen feel heavy and clunky, like I have no business reading, writing, eating or drinking. I'm ashamed of my last post. What rude unthankfulness. Not to be dramatic, just saying.

I'm still trying to work on my new website, but trying just means thinking about working on it and not, so we'll see. For now we have each other.


*And I was drawn to Richard Ford's selection because of a short story I heard by him called The Communist, audio link unavailable. It's long, 40+ minutes to listen, but the combination of prose and William Hurt's somber reading of it broke my heart in half on the long stretch of highway between Waterford and Westland (two sister cities if there ever was one) and to conclude, I recommend this story and the hobby of listening to short stories in general.

When Characters Attack!

The truth is I love you, like I want to crawl inside of you, eat your heart and grow wings, like the only thing worth dying for is watching you live, work, laugh, breathe -

and of course by you I mean me.

That is why I'm working on a web page for myself with my own domain name. I want to share my stories and be professional and get noticed and use writing to make lots of people like me. I don't know what will become of blogspot once the transition is complete. Starting a new blog on my new "selling myself" domain brings up all sorts of logistical, artistic, existential problems. I'm already completely out of line here at MollySays, where I remain moderately anonymous. I mention co-workers by their real names. I call them retards and fucking cunts. I can't do that on Molly's-first-name-Molly's-last-name-dot-com. I need to find a way to curve my bleeding heart.

This reminds me of an incredibly long story I'd like to now share with you.

You would think I would learn. I get myself into trouble all the time. In 2007, I wrote a story about a girl named "Mary," very much like me. (It's called "sweep me up", you can find it on my myspace blog.) "Mary" had friends, based on my friends, whose names I didn't bother to disguise for no other reason really than I hate inventing names. I had them doing all sorts of humiliating, illegal, self revealing things. The story gained a brief, literary celebrity via myspace and its "award winning" status. As is the pre-requisite for most anecdotes, things got out of hand.

The character named "Tim," for example, apparently has heard of the internet and found the piece. I described him as "short, surly, and full of muscle." Furthermore, he played a homosexual, murderous, drug addicted meth/coke addict. I thought I'd only borrowed his physical description, name and temperament, but little did I know, in the months since I'd known him and since falling out of contact, Tim had become a real fucking coke addict, and not one that took too kindly to being characterized as gay. (I will state for the record, I never really thought Tim was gay- and he never seemed to have a problem with the murderous maniac part.)

So he called me all coked out one evening. The story gets even better, because I was super stoned on ganja at the time. It might be worth repeating the experiment in a laboratory setting. The ensuing paper might be called: "The Effects of a Marijuana Smoker when Confronted with a Cocaine User under Stress." That would be fun to know.

But I forgot to mention, the night before, he'd climbed through the window of my old house and wrote on my dry erase board with a black, permanent marker, "TIM WAS HERE." Alarming, yes, but I knew not exactly how concerned I should be- did he realize the marker's permanence, for example? Was he really trying to destroy my shit or was it a simple error?

So he calls me and says: "MOLLY. Did you write a story using my name?"

I confess that I did.

He then reads back what he considers the most offensive passage about his personage. "His skin was the color of a light amber beer and he had no body hair anywhere. This made me guess that he was a fag, but not the nice kind. The kind that really could possibly be child molesters. And he had the damn hunting knife in his left hand."

This doesn't sound so bad to me, and I told him so.

"Did you collect money for this story?"

"A paltry 200 dollars. Do you want a cut?" I'm not sure why I said this, because I don't give money to Salvation Army Santas at the mall, let alone maniacs.

He begins speaking as though he has a law degree, with this slight tinge of totally-over-the-edge-fucking-crazy-about-to-snap, but controlled, calm. "You have rendered a profit by slandering my name. I will be suing you."

Take care to remember that I am stoned and in no mood for bad vibes. Observers opined to me later that I should have handled my end of the conversation, I don't know, some other way, but Instead I just said what seemed obvious. "Tim you're being retarded. You can't sue me. First of all, it's just your first name. You're not the only Tim in Detroit. Secondly, no one could ever reasonably come to the conclusion that you, Tim LastName, is a child molester based on one line that you've misinterpreted anyway." (If I really had my wits about me I'd have cited "The People versus Larry Flint.") Third, I doubt my fucking college writing workshop fiction has cost you any personal suffering, defamation of character, or financial loss." Snap!

The madman paused, just long enough for me to consider my glibness and its possible consequences. "I see that my warnings are not being taken seriously. Therefore, I have no choice but to take a different course of action. -CLICK-

Oh my. A character from my story (remember, a murdering, homosexual, drug addicted maniac) has leapt off the page and is coming to kill me. I have to tell you the truth - I was absolutely thrilled. I thought to myself "this is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me."

The rest of the story is only mildly interesting. There were built in safety measures on my side. By sheer chance, by random serendipity, I'd moved not one week prior from the house I used to share with two friends to my own apartment a block away, unbeknownst to Tim. We were safe in the knowledge that he was headed -murderous weapon in hand and insane, cocaine eyes- to the wrong address, where he would, I don't know, fuck with my dry erase board some more.

We called the campus police, who politely informed us we were out of their jurisdiction. (If you've ever wondered how Wayne State keeps their crime rates low, it's because they don't tiptoe anywhere outside tether ball range of the UGL.) We did call the Detroit Police, but really, just for the fun of it, and no, they didn't come either. 911 really is a joke in this town.

Quickly (or as quickly as my long-writing ass can manage): Tim did come to the house. He did smash down the door and frantically call my cellphone all night, but unlike Drew Barrymore in Scream, I solved the problem by not answering the phone. I believe a glass was broken. I overheard my friend Andy say to him at one point: "I'm scared Tim!" and then, in a scolding voice, "And I shouldn't be scared of my friends!"

In the end I made some concessions. I replaced the name "Tim" with "Tom," which might not seem like a big deal to you, but it really hurt me. Tim really rolled off the tongue, and "Tom" still seems like a ridiculous, non-murderous lie. I did not, per his demand, take down the story or write a "correction," whatever that means. In the end he called me to apologize, offered me a mountain of coke, and said he enjoyed the story. I told him that I never meant to hurt him, which really is true, and no hard feelings persist.

The lesson of the story is that I haven't learned any lessons. I almost wish he'd have killed me so that it would make a better anecdote.

Last Tuesday Night at Cass Cafe in Detroit

It’s dumb that I’ve come to this place to do real writing (like made up fiction about interesting characters who, through their made up actions, reveal truths about ourselves) and instead I’ve taken to reporting in real time the goings on of a gay date taking place at the table in front of me. I know the one in the green sweater is gay because he turns his finger into a teepee on the table when he talks, and then it’s confirmed when he starts speaking.

“So my father got laid off today.” He goes on to explain. “He’s in the auto industry.” It’s so topical I can hardly stand it. They talked to Detroiters in coffee shops about the crisis on NPR today, I felt happy to be alive to hear it. I want the boys on their date to start talking about the Proposition 8 catastrophe next. They share a dessert and continue the rest of the evening (prudently) in hushed tones.

A boy wearing a t-shirt, a ridiculous, mock basketball jersey, and a scarf tied just so around his neck has caught me staring at him, and he half waves, and now I realize that I know him from somewhere else. It’s Chad from another bar. Good lord. Is everybody gay?* I pause to tie my own scarf around my neck in the exact same fashion, as a way to say I’m sorry.

I find I can’t bring myself to do it. I take 4 action photos of myself attempting to tie the scarf around my neck in the hipster way my sister showed me to prove that I tried. My mind is sent into a dizzy of reveries regarding just what kind of person becomes paralyzed with fear/inaction at the simple act of tying a scarf around one’s neck with the faintest modicum of style.




*I ran into Chad later on this week where we discussed life briefly. Far be it from me to spread false and potentially devastating rumors about acquaintances sexuality on the Internet. Others swear up and down that Chad is straight, and uses his homosexual swagger extremely effectively to get chicks. The world is changing all around us.

And another thing about Mr. President Elect!

Look, I'm sorry Barack Obama is so great. I mean, there are other things happening in my life and I'm dying to tell you all about it, but I don't have all day for long, interesting prose about long, interesting things. I moved to Detroit where my new apartment has of yet no internet connection and everybody has an asymmetrical haircut (dangling modifier? Comment yes or no). It's bananas. I digress.

On Today's Agenda:
1. My Second-Boyfriend Elect is going to give us a weekly state of the union address on youtube. Here's a link to the first one. Democracy is back friends. Your Weekly Address. Swoon. I love the way he talks to me like that.

2. I added tags to all my posts, which may prove to be pretty un-useful, but it was a totally enjoyable process for me. I will try not to have a looong stream of tags with exactly one entry, with names such as: "lazy" "catharsis" "boobies" and "deceptively profound," unlike someone's blog who will remain nameless.

3. The Person who's blog I spoke of in item 2, My First-Boyfriend Elect, is heavily represented in the following conversation.

Tell 3 Friends? Do I look like I'm made of friends?

I've been told to share this link with three friends in a blanket effort to spread love and healing across the world. Whether the individual who sent this to me (who, as far as I know, does not read this blog) believes a mock newspaper will directly effect the future is at this time unknown.

The New York Times: June 4th, 2009

Why Obama's Presidency is a Big Deal

Why did we throw our hands in the air and go crazy on Tuesday night? Why did the entire world gather in community halls, pubs, and around their village’s one television set to celebrate the election of Barack Obama? Because Obama’s presidency is the greatest thing to happen to the country/world since fucking ever and I’ll tell you why.

I don’t know if we* realized just how sick and defeated we’ve all felt for the last eight years under W’s presidency. We suffered a stolen election, a war we didn’t believe in, and a closed off, entirely undemocratic government we couldn’t trust. Bush profited from a culture of rampant anti-intellectualism wherein curiosity, a healthy criticism of our leaders, and thoughtful, deliberate speech were demonized as un-American, elitist, un-patriotic and “cosmopolitan.”** We lived under this system for so long that many of us gave up on the idea that a better world was possible - until Tuesday night, when all of a sudden the sun came out and flowers picked themselves.

It’s not that Obama answers all of our liberal-commie-socialist prayers, because he absolutely does not. He’s a capitalist in a capitalist system. He’s not going to save the economy, end world hunger and put a hypoallergenic, animal-shelter puppy in all of our non-mortgaged living rooms. We weren’t celebrating because we believed somehow magically that America’s problems were over.

We were celebrating, and continue to celebrate because we finally found a candidate we can get excited about and trust. We believe that he is who he says he is, that he loves his wife and his family, that he loves his country, and that he plans on including all of us in the democratic process. We believe that the administration will be led under his tutelage in our name, and not by a committee of puppet masters.***

He represents the first step in an ideological shift in the nation’s consciousness. The antiquated model of Capitalism is crumbling in front of our eyes, and we need a 21st century model to tackle what lies ahead. McCain/Palin supporters represent a large subset of American culture, but theirs is an old-fashioned way of thinking. For an evangelical Christian the world is black versus white, good versus evil, man + woman versus perverted depravity. That may describe their reality, but it doesn't describe ours, and we are the mother fucking future. Love and tolerance is the new black.

When we elected Barack Obama as our president, we showed the world that we’ve finally learned from the mistakes of our past. We weren’t misled by the other sides attempt to control us with fear and hatred. We rejected the political party whose power came by propagating a belief that loving God means hating those that don’t.

So yes, it is a big deal. It’s a moment in history that we can celebrate without irony, where grown men can cry watching Oprah, and we can dance in the street instead of rioting. We can start tempering our excitement with cynicism next year. For now, we have every reason to be completely ecstatic and hopeful about the future.

Let’s not fuck it up.



*I use the proverbial “we,” as in “yes we can” and the modified “yes we did!”
**A prime-time television way of saying “faggy”
***And we’re ready and waiting to riot in the street if these beliefs proof to be foolishly naïve.

Love > Hate & Fear

I've been meaning to post this video for weeks. Horrifying, yes, but it's going to be okay. There are more of us than them this year, I can feel it. You know what always makes everything better? Animated Gifs!