Year In Review: The Four Seasons Landscaping of My Discontent

2020 was up on the ain't shit wasn't it? A year that felt like a decade rolled into 12 months. A year filled with plot twists, protests, and fascistic fuckery --- and that was just the pure insanity swirling around the 2020 US election season. A pandemic persisted, and was idiotically politicized to disastrous, and deadly results. A revolution to put an end to legalized genocide on Black American bodies was televised and TikTok'ed live across several nations, making for one of the largest civil rights uprisings in modern history. And for the season finale, a slow-moving coup happened in real time to a soundtrack of seditious screams, drunken slurs, and the nauseous gases of crusty, over-entitled white men in power. Every day, here in the winter of America, it was a test of endurance to look at a news feed and not let out a string of expletives. Saying "wtf" every day was my new cardio, the only exercise to fight off the quarantined pounds. On the personal front, I was laid off, contracted a terrible hybrid migraine/sinus infection situation that kept me bedridden, got my first grey hair witch hair this year, and the long-awaited Miss Fisher Murder Mysteries film was terribleawful...so yes, 2020 can fuck right off. 

What kept my four seasons landscaping of discontent from eroding into a further mental and physical shitshow were the books (and music --- thank you Spotify subscription, the only subscription I could afford this year -__-) that I consumed. Escapism was a must. 

At the beginning of the year, I planned on reading 20 books for 2020 (me trying to be 'cute'), and in a way with being quarantined and laid off, you'd think I'd have 'time enough at last' to read past that point, but that wasn't the case. Same with blogging. To coincide with the theme of this year, things just didn't go as planned and derailed with sparks flying BUT I'm attempting to put a positive spin on the fact that I DID reach my reading goal and I DID blog about 45% - 55% more than I did last year, and that IS progress, and progress I can build on into the new year. *throws confetti* So enough with excuses and defeatism...

By now I've accepted that my reading patterns can be scattershot as much as it can be variations on a consistent theme. My reading practice is akin to spinning a globe and letting my finger drop on a random portion and that's where I will "go". In short, I didn't choose the book, the book chose me. Often choosing me in the right hour, right moment to bring some sort of clarity or solace amid the chaotic spin.

I began the year with E.L. Doctorow's Ragtime which felt prophetic a choice as it does cram a whole era into a fictionalized context defined by a varying swath of characters (revolutionaries, politicians, murderers, bigots, immigrants, businessmen, sex symbols, entertainers) that represent America in a time of serious transition. Just super fitting for how "era defining" and character driven this year felt. I can bet that some Ragtime-esque novels to describe this tumultuous era will be making their way to shelves in the near future. Who knows maybe yours truly will write one of those books... <--- yes, let's put that energy out there, shall we? *wink* 

When the pandemic hit, my mood reflected the reads, taking dark turns into books about insidious sexual grooming (Kate Elizabeth Russell's My Dark Vanessa) and about cheating murderous couples from a true crime perspective (Ron Hansen's fictional reimagining of "The Dumb Bell" Murders A Wild Surge of Guilty Passion) and a classic realist literary perspective (Emile Zola's Therese Raquin). If the pandemic wasn't unnerving enough, I faced a 'haunted quarantine' by delving into modern horror classics (Ira Levin's Rosemary's Baby, Laura Purcell's The Silent Companions, and Herman Raucher's Maynard's House) that felt claustrophobic in their nature as did I. And since I was still living under the ketchup and feces smeared hand of -45, a few autocratic dystopian reads found their way into the pile (Joan Samson's The Auctioneer and Yoko Ogawa's The Memory Police), and their eerie elements of cult of personality and surveillance scare tactics blurred fiction and reality.

Plans for reading in 2021? Rare it is that I apply reading goals for the following year as scheduling a particular book or reading through one set genre seems so limiting and unnatural to me. I did take mental notes to improve upon some areas that I lagged in this year, as I need to add more plays and/or poem collections into the mix. Also these past four years watching our Constitution get used as hoarded toilet tissue has taught me more about civic government and constitutional law than any social studies teacher I've ever had (apologies to Mr. Grissom, who was the best of the bunch), but I still feel there is much I need to know to stay vigilant, so some more political and historical books will probably be added into the mix. So like the new Biden Administration (my, that has such a nice sound to it...) I've got a lot of work (and reading) to do!

Be safe, be well, be excellent to each other in 2021 (and wear a damn mask!). 

The Meaning of Marylin

True story: Eons ago I had a roommate who decked our whole apartment living area in Marylin Monroe garb --- framed photos, decorative boxes, throw pillows and blankets --- and yet, when you asked her what her favorite Marylin movie* was, she'd draw a blank, blinking stare. Clueless, not conflicted: she had never seen a Marylin Monroe film. In fact, she didn't know much about Marylin beyond the superficial (pretty, white, blonde, and famous). This surface level adulation, the association with my roommate (who was terribleawful in other ways) and her decorative tackiness, along with the onslaught of Marylin's legendary image as THE pinnacle of glamour above all led to me being turned off by the idolization of Marylin Monroe, and even Marylin: The Person to some extent. 

Yeah, I know, Kim there's people that are dying...

For someone who believes variety is the spice of life, the imagery of Marylin while dazzling and iconic, did seem somewhat...typical and too white beauty-centric for me to immerse in --- this knowing she wasn't the only vibrant, glamorous and talented personality to come out of the golden ages of Hollywood history. As a Black woman, I looked to a different, often ignored spectrum as I preferred to celebrate Lena Horne, Diahann Carroll, Diana Sands, Marpessa Dawn, and Dorothy Dandridge (whose life and death have eerie similarities to Marylin...). Women who did the most with the slither of spotlight they were warranted. Women who were also beautiful and talented, and bonus, 'looked' more like me --- their representation mattered more, honestly.

So why did I read a book about Marylin after all this judgement and pettiness? Well, because a) I love diving into a good Hollywood biography/memoir, b) Quarantine binge watching led me to view Lifetime's mini-series The Secret Life of Marylin Monroe, and I felt a lot was missing and wildly fictionalized (I mean, it was on Lifetime...), and c) I wanted to give Marylin --- the woman and the enigma --- a chance to re-introduce herself. 

Let me clarify: I don't dislike Marylin Monroe. Even with the oversaturation of her image, it is without fallacy. She was a beautiful, captivating icon for the ages. Her cotton candied blonde bombshell image, white skirt blown up by hot subway air still haunts and arouses 58 years after her death, remaining a constant in replication, whether to push many a product, personify Hollywood hierarchy or is emulated to imitation from fashion editorials to drag shows. We feel that with Marylin's image around --- if we can slip into it someway --- we're closer to the star spangled fantasy of fame. That if a simple girl named Norma Jean Mortensen could make it, we can too if we just pout our lips, thrust out our busts, and talk breathlessly. Still, nobody has come close to replicating her aura, try as many have. 

Her and James Dean share a similar mythos for their image and tragic short lives, and how they represented this sort of Americana image of youthful success and sexiness, and the tragic pitfalls of it. Unfortunately, Marylin being a woman is scrutinized to a greater degree than James Dean, whose rebellious persona is lauded as ideal masculinity, whilst Marylin is subjected to this "beautiful bimbo blonde" sex object stereotype. It's also why Marylin's misunderstandings are what intrigue me as well, considering how I had my own. 

Marylin was more than just beauty marks, diamonds, mental illness, and the Kennedys, and I wanted to know more beyond the superficial and speculative. I wanted someone to really show me a side to Marylin that I might have overlooked, and misogynistically misunderstood. 

Well, as with a legendary icon, there are lots of sides out there to explore. Zillions upon zillions of books about Marylin exist. Zillions upon zillions of stories, conspiracies and contradictions, observations and opinions about who and what she was also exist. It was difficult to weed through the inaccurate, exploitive, conspiracy riddled, fictitious, and outdated texts to find a book that eschewed such star biography hallmarks, but luckily for me, Charles Casillo's Marylin Monroe: The Private Life of a Public Icon won out as while being a fan, he doesn't stan to where he's skimping on facts and flaws. He offers several viewpoints, none not too flattering or too scathing, making for an informative balance. 

Casillo also avoids framing Marylin's life as "Wikipedia page as a book", where even as linear it is, it's a surprisingly fresh take at her life. The writing is also vibrant and lyrical, never tedious, this even when Casillo is attempting to "armchair analyze" Marylin's thought processes, and give through behind-the-scenes accounts of Marylin's filmography. He places you into the spin of 1950s and 1960s Hollywood and its politics, its dazzle and its difficulties, and how Marylin navigates it to success and tragedy...and it's pretty riveting, thought-provoking stuff. 

Lolita's Ghost Speaks

"I just really need it to be a love story. You know? I really, really need it to be that. Because if it isn't a love story, then what is it?"

23. This is the exact number of years that Harvey Weinstein, notorious Hollywood producer and all-around predatory creep, received for sexual abuse in the New York courts. Years. Not months. Years. What does this mean? As the celebratory confetti swirled, this question lingers. Have we reached that watershed moment of taking abusers, even the highest, the whitest, the most financially secured to task? Clarifying what consent is? Are we even going forward? (Over 70 million voting for an orange sexual assaulter and serial rapist shitbag to occupy the White House means we're still stuck in the ditch...). 

Weinstein's and Bill Cosby's convictions, the Jeffery Epstein/Ghislaine Maxwell unraveling, the judicial victory of E. Jean Carroll's sexual asssault suit against Agolf Shitler, the ferocious surge of the #MeToo movements telegraph a sociopolitical sea change this as we enter into a new decade and contest with the now opened Pandora's box as more victims are finding their voices, wielding the weapon of words to strive for accountability and truth.

My Dark Vanessa adds its voice to a stream of fiction that attempts bring context to our current cultural response to sexual violence, but it takes on a language that is raw and realist, rather than veiled and implied. Its wealth of pages explores the complexities of sexual abuse --- the gaslighting and accusations that encompass it, the trauma that endures from it, and the persons who become ensnared in its insidious manipulative rhythm. For her debut, Kate Elizabeth Russell has drawn one sinister account of a young girl's abuse, and how this abuse continues to defile and define her into adulthood. As a whole, this book is disturbing, devastating, and stirs disgust, and sadly it doesn't offer solutions, or solace. More so it's a reminder of what silences, denials we're still facing today and how rot-rooted sex abuse is within our society, and how the truth is the only antidote to combating against it. Many an emotion was had by reading this, and I can't say it was enjoyable, we're viewing a woman's dissent into the quagmire of her past, and its a wretched way down.