I quite liked this amorphic, slippery little book. Although it wobbled about with it's free-form structure lack-of-structure; it managed to never collI quite liked this amorphic, slippery little book. Although it wobbled about with it's free-form structure lack-of-structure; it managed to never collapse under itself. It was like an engorged clit. Or a jellyfish on steroids. Slippery; because there's a good five to ten pages towards the end that are saturated with pussy; clits and labia, you'll know it when you hit it, hold on tight. There was one spectacular line elsewhere, "(...) and his pretty little asshole was like a bud when Rene found him and now it was stretched out like a scowl."
stretched out like a scowl. Sheer brilliance right there.
Eileen Myles is fascinating and I'm a little envious of her New York-drugs & dyke & poetry filled life. But that's what we have books for, right? To live vicariously through others; which I most certainly did in this fuck-however-a-memoir-is-supposed-to-be-written, THIS IS HOW I TELLS IT chunk of unconventional sentences and paragraphs. It took me ages to read (like a week, yo - I usually devour shit like this in hours so I'm in mourning for my attention span, begging for some ritalin; if a book filled with so much poetry and gay and drugs can't keep me focused, then I'm well and truly in dire straights.
You should watch her videos on youtube, she makes you want to take your clothes off in the hopes that she'll write about you one day too.
The copy that I owned as a child had Anderson's stories on the reverse - UPSIDE-MOTHERFUCKING-DOWN. I know, right? Too rad for words? Why don't I ownThe copy that I owned as a child had Anderson's stories on the reverse - UPSIDE-MOTHERFUCKING-DOWN. I know, right? Too rad for words? Why don't I own it anymore? I presume it just fell apart from the heady love affair that I had with it. I was besotted. Rapaciously smitten. If rapacious means what I think it does. I just wanted to climb in between the covers and love it good. With or without its consent. Maybe rapacious simply means greedy, which does just as good because I was greedy for it, like a fat kid who mixed butter and sugar together and ate it as a snack. Like I may or may not have done as a kid. Whilst reading Grimm's fairytales.
I will love whoever buys me a copy of the version that I had as a child with undying gratitude. It had charm, mystique, it was chunky, fat, just the right size. Just like a good man. Nothing has lived up to it's magnificence since. Oh and the stories were good too....more
My aunt bought me the whole set of Anne of Green Gables when I was about 8 years old, starting me on (what I think) was a fairly good diet of readingMy aunt bought me the whole set of Anne of Green Gables when I was about 8 years old, starting me on (what I think) was a fairly good diet of reading material for a child. Mum used to buy me other Montgomery books as a treat and boy, did I treasure them ('Emily of New Moon' particularly). I should mention that my parents were devout religious folk, so being allowed to read anything at all was always thrilling.
I do remember breaking out 'Cujo' and 'It' by Stephen King when I was about 10 but I read those under the bedsheets with a torch. These I was allowed to read in full view of Mum and Dad. Sweeeet. I think I was a bit like Anne, a bit retardedly whimsical. I was the strange kid that forced everyone to play strange games, usually to do with hamming it up as a certain book character. I used to call my best friends, bosom buddies (and they didn't hang around for long). Mostly I just entertained myself with my pretend-bosom-buddies in the garden, I also had a pet dragon. And there were various tree-folk living in my parent's macadamia nut tree. I could go on. I was an odd, overbearing, emotional, freakish child. And I didn't feel so alone when I read about Anne, because she was weird too.
My memories of childhood are completely knitted together with reading Montgomery's books, and I wouldn't change a thing. I'm really hoping that at least one of my kids is as big of a bookworm as I was so they can enjoy them too, and I'll live vicariously through them as they read all the books that I was banned from reading as a kid (oh, so many times I was marched back to the library to return them, sigh). May my children hate me for banning them from Stephanie Meyer's shite, just as I hate mine for banning Judy Blume. And may Montgomery's flowery verboseness live on.
(Dare I re-read them and discover they're absolute codswallop full of patriarchal bullshit, repressed sexuality, or religious overtones - which is why my parents would have approved of them.)....more