cat people

My mother has written a new book.  This time the work is fictional - although I would argue the autobiographical book was largely fictional too - which makes it less emotionally fraught, but it is still a strange experience to read my mother's writing.  I would like, in some ways, not to read it at all, but there is no plausible excuse for that.  And part of me, of course, is curious to hear her written voice and see how it compares with what I know.  (It is much the same.)  There are, of course, phrases I recognize from having heard them all my life, and there are specific anecdotes that belong to us, and have been transposed onto her characters.  I find these things irritating for no defensible reason.  I am reading the book, as a dutiful daughter would, and have been instructed to write an "honest" review when I am done, which is a laughable suggestion.

I sent my mother a link to Cat Person when it was at the height of its popularity, curious in a strange way, to hear what she would think.  I kind of knew already based upon her thoughts about Miriam Toews.  My mother thinks that sparse language is indicative of sparse intelligence.  Simplicity can never leave room for thought, only for boredom.  Her characters bust with complicated vocabulary and busy busy busy thoughts.  My mother thought Cat Person was disgusting.  And boring.  And that Miriam Toews is bleak and overrated.  I defend neither, but I listen.  Because I am also known for sparsity of words and long silences.

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This week is my last week of vacation, and I am doing some writing myself, writing for which I will not take any credit nor share with my family.  I am writing pornography, which is what I do sometimes in the summer to occupy myself and harness excess energy that I used to spend on painting and tiling, but have run out of projects to complete.  Pornography, in its written form (ie: no photographs) is consumed primarily by women, and created, I also believe, primarily by women.  I write it and sell it to a distributor, who sends me royalties every quarter.  I am not made wealthy, but it helps pay for my addiction to expensive shoes.  Sometimes I wonder if there are people in my real life who have read my writing and do not know it is mine, because of course I do not publish with my real name.  I wonder what my mother would think of that.  (Not really.)


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gorgeous shots

I think my parents would be surprised if they knew how anxiety-provoking I find their yearly visit.  It took less than an hour from their arrival for my mother to mention that I did not phone them on their anniversary.  (Phoning them on their anniversary is something I struggle to remember every single year because it happens during the last week of June when work is occupying every bit of my energy.)  I had anticipated this, which was probably part of why I was picking my thumb to bits.  I do believe they would be surprised to learn that I spend much of July cleaning up the house and picking my fingers to bleeding stumps in preparation for our time together.

I have also rung in August with a lot of running in the park, crazy sex, and three new piercings... endorphins soothe me.  The family is only here until Sunday and then I will have two weeks before the chaos of work begins again.  It goes so quickly; I will give myself time to relax at some point.

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