Wah, wah, wah! (A Book Review)

I'm an invisible monster, and I'm incapable of loving anybody. You don't know which is worse.            - Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk

            What do you get when you mix guns with AIDS with “Sorry, Mom. Sorry, God”?

A hot mess!

Or, a novel by Chuck Palahniuk.

Never read any of Palahniuk’s other novels. New City’s quote encapsulates most of my reaction to Palahniuk’s skill as a storyteller, a master of plot and language:

“…his style – this time jumping through chronological time like a nervous whippet – breaks all rules and conventions, like he never learned them.” [bold is mine]

            Disagree with New City on one thing. It’s impossible to break a rule until you’ve learned it. Messy timelines confuse the reader and muddle the plot.

Everyone has had a writing instructor correct a story for jumping around a timeline too much. Mine advised me to cut out all but one flashback saying, if you find yourself covering a lot of backstory, then start over at the beginning.

The word ‘jump’ appears at least once per page in Invisible Monsters. OK, that is an exaggeration. However, occasionally three (page 176) or four (page 214) jumps in the timeline are made in a single page. Jump to childhood. Jump to pill popping. Jump back to everything is on fire.

And, you know what? I never once lost my place.

How does Palahniuk get away with it? That’s my burning question.

            Palahniuk is not the only writer in Portland who thinks that story telling does not mean chronology as a straightaway from birth to death. Lidia Yuknavitch, fellow Oregonian literati and member of Palahniuk’s inner circle, thinks that language is more than a marker on a story trail.  She writes in her memoir, “Language is a metaphor for experience. It’s as arbitrary as the mass of chaotic images we call memory – but we can put it into lines to narrativize over fear.”

            There is spontaneity and messiness to life that the linear “and then, and then, and then” cannot illuminate. Palahniuk addresses those who would hate him for jumping back and forth across narrative and trampling all over the tradition of storytelling on page 20.

“Don’t look for a contents page, buried magazine-style twenty pages back from the front. Don’t expect to find anything right off. There isn’t a real pattern to anything, either. Stories will start and then, three paragraphs later:

            Jump to whatever.

            Then, jump back.”

It was as if Palahniuk was ready for outcry from the literary community. It may have also been to reassure readers. Fear not! There was a method to his madness.

I’ll say right off that I love Palahniuk’s whippet-like movements in time and place. And it tore me up inside. How does he get away with this stuff? Is it because he found just the right context to make Memento-like breaks in time reliable? We know that when the word jump appears you are moving, travelling, and surrendering. Fortunately, Palahniuk delivers with every move. There are sad sack zingers like:

“It’s all mirror, mirror on the wall because beauty is power the same way money is power the same way a gun is power.”

And

“All God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. We must never, ever be boring.”

Outlaws do not plod, they dart. Fashion does not conform, but transforms. Revenge is not predictable; it is dramatic. Jump. Now.

Palahniuk was out of his mind when he wrote this book. He is also the author of several bestselling novels. Two of his novels, Fight Club and Choke, were made into films. So, he has a niche and an adoring fan base that craves his brand of indulging in self-destruction.

In Invisible Monsters the heroine never fully redeems herself. She never apologizes for the fires or the attempts to destroy others lives. Instead, Shannon McFarland (aka Daisy St. Patience, Bubba-Joan, Bump, Miss Arden Scotia), our heroine-villain-victim, enables her savior bent on hurting herself with too much plastic surgery. Our heroine is narcissistic. She is pathological. She does not have a face. Her one selfless act gives life to someone who clearly does not want it.

            Why is Palahniuk crazy good? Maybe it’s because he rejected the status he achieved with Fight Club and got Invisible Monsters published anyway. Because he is not afraid of brutally attacking his characters by revealing their misguided thoughts of “being saved by chaos” or “What I really hate is me so I hate pretty much everybody.” Because his details are imaginative, his observations are sharp-witted, and he is hilarious.  This book will blow something up in you. Guaranteed. 

            Jump to me reading Choke.  

Kansas Flats, Quiet Room, and Coffee Euphoria

Margaret had an incredible urge to scream at the Mountain View coffee company for giving her mild Breakfast Blend rather than the anticipated full-bodied French roast. Someone in Flats, California had filled thousands of shiny plastic bags decorated with a generic snow capped mountain logo with the wrong blend of beans. These erroneously labeled bags were then distributed across the country to unsuspecting wholesalers and grocery chain stores.  Finally, several boxes of the mislabeled ground coffee ended up tucked away in the cupboard above te kitchen sink  of Northwest Care where Margaret was a customer service representative. She spat out the mild brew, just missing Janice, the only Filipina in the office. "This isn't French roast!" she cried.


It offended Margaret that no one had opened a bag and sniffed it before accepting shipment - that would have been a ridiculous waste of time! Unfortunately for Margaret, who was in need of something stronger and not this useless mellow roast, someone else's lack of follow-through was now her reality.  Margaret swore loudly and stormed across the hall to the Quiet Room.  She needed ten seconds to pummel the idiot in Flats, Kanses who filled the wrong bags with the wrong coffee and ruined her morning; possibly her entire day.


Janice rolled her eyes and used a napkin to wipe up the coffee Margaret had spit all over the floor.  It was going to be an interesting day, she thought.


By 12:30 Margaret was stiff-necked and listless.  Her first caller was from Russia, was very old, and tool long pauses between every- single- word. Her second call was a serious complaint that made her despair.  The member called about his physician on the north side of town who made discriminatory remarks about his sexual orientation during a routine check-up, which took some time to type out, repeat, correct and then explain the complaint process to this tearful member. The call landed her in the Quiet Room for the second time.  The rest of her morning was comprised of internal emails, follow-up calls, and a few more member questions.  


Margaret kept her eye on the sky the whole morning. First, it was a blanket of grayish cotton.  By mid-morning, Margaret could see more blue sky. When a sun break seemed imminent, she logged off her computer, grabbed her parka, and threw her purse over her shoulder, and walked out without a word to her manager.


Walking through the front door of her office building, she realized that if she was going to have any satisfaction the entire day, she needed a great cup of coffee and she knew exactly where to get it - downtown. Margaret felt like an early settler in search of her place in the world as she sped to the MAX, jaywalking and then crossing the parking lot. The light rail cars arrived just as she set foot on the platform, the doors opened, and she glided on through.


A man in a puffy black jacket, dirtied from several nights sleep on the streets, was talking to his red-faced buddy abou this skill as a salesman.


"How many times you sat down on a toilet with your cell phone in your back pocket? I can't tell you how many times I done that. I got the solution and I'm going to sell 500 of 'em today. Right now, in fact, I'm going to St. Mark's and to the Department of Transportation. It's been approved by a scientist, a physical therapist and the Department of Health.  This is a genius idea right here! It'll take care of your problems. No more...[makes a sound like straining]. It'll pop the cover right up for ya!"


It tickled Margaret that so many people were obviously annoyed by this man's speech, but too polite to tell him to shut it.  This is Portland, not New York City.  Portland respects the rights of the other to say what they want, no matter how inconvenient, unnecessary, or inconsiderate the actions of the other are for the rest of us.  The people of Portland are tolerant. Margaret was just about ready to turn and tell the potty salesman to keep it down, she was caffeine deprived, when an announcement came over the loud-speaker.  The female conductor, in her most professional tone delivered a public service announcement to the riders of her Clackamas Town Center bound train, idling at stop 5416.


"Please do not hold the doors open. The reason for this is that it will disrupt service. When you hold the doors open it delays the train and makes everyone unhappy.  So, please do not hold the doors open. Holding doors open can result in a fine and is dangerous as well.  Please just wait for the next train. You could delay the train unnecessarily and harm yourself.  It is best for everyone to leave the doors alone and let the train keep to its regular schedule. Thank you for your help to keep this train and others safe and on time."


A big smile crossed Margaret's face when a nasal tone rang out from the back, "Shut up!" right in the middle of the friendly conductor's announcement. People in Portland are just afraid to confront anyone to their face, she thought. Or was it that voices of authority were meant to be challenged as was the natural order of things in a democracy? She decided on her first instinct.


Margaret stepped onto the wide, sun-glittered sidewalk downtown. She removed her parka to let the sunlight warm her head and shoulders. A man wearing a shiny blue button-down shirt smiled at her as she walked by.  She did not return this smile. People in Portland always seemed to be goading her into a smile and it made her feel like a monkey in a hurdy gurdy costume. Smile at me fancy lady! the people seemed to be saying with their cheerful grins. 


Margaret felt a rumble in her stomach. So, she picked up the pace. Her body began to warm up and she welcomed the cool shaded doorway of her favorite coffee shop. Behind the wooden counter, a girl wearing large framed glasses, doning a pixie haircut took her order - a large Americano. Margaret took a seat at the espresso bar and watched the people walking by. 


Another customer, a large man, wearing a droopy, grey wool knit cap, suddenly laughed and cried out: "Look at that woman!" 


Across the street a woman wearing a tiered top, decorated with an eighties pallet of bright flowers was bent over, head first in the front seat of her car. She pulled out a mint green sweater and hastily covered her white arms. 


"Not quite!" the man said gleefully. He took his double shot latte and gave Margaret a wave and mouthed the greeting, "Hey!"


There is nothing more exhilarating than the moment a perfectly pulled hot Americano is delivered to a parched and tired mouth.  Margaret purred with satisfaction. She moaned a little. The girl behind the counter had seen it before - coffee euphoria is common in Portland. 


Margaret skipped out the door and swung her hips wantonly as she waltzed down the street that had already gone flat from an overcast sky.  Her sun break was over. 

Writing: An excuse to vent

In Sex and the City (SATC), Carrie Bradshaw narrates each episode with a question that often begins with "I have to wonder, if..." and after taboos have been exposed and hearts have been broken and mended by the bonds of friendship, she ends with "Or something". I still love watching Samantha, Miranda, Charlotte and Carrie navigate New York City's dating jungle with ferocity, skillful negotiation, a sense of propriety, and humor (usually in a mid-drift bearing top). I would not have known the first thing about treating marriage with sarcasm were it not for Sex and the City. 


Watching the episodes now, as a single, 37-year old woman living and dating in Portland, I get to thinking that I may be a product of the sister-doing-it-for-herself that was the Zeitgeist of the 90s. I chose to exercise my options in my 20s. I did not necessarily choose to stay unmarried until almost 40 years old. One thing is certain, my expectation that I will marry decreases, while my expectations for my future rise with each passing year. I suppose SATC taught me that you can have a great life as long as you live in a great city and have great friends. That's why I moved in with my one friend in Portland from New York City, where I am incredibly lucky to have four great girlfriends.


I have to marvel at what an incredible tool the HBO series was for the writers who got to vent about their own issues and frustrations with dating and the single life and in turn, were validated by ever-increasing numbers of viewers. The show has been internationally syndicated in countries such as Albania and South Korea. Single gals the world over have raised their cosmos, united under the banner, "All the good ones are gay!"  


Sex and the City was a kind of state of single women in modern society report with designer shoes, sexy men, and expensive cocktails. But, what did it really say about them? I wonder, besides being good entertainment, what could Sex and the City have accomplished if it had not been so focused on Vogue, Jimmy Cho, and Prada? Sure, it is great fun to get caught up in the big city fantasy that each of the four archetype characters' stories represented. But what about writing to make a statement and not just to vent? 


What about exposing the real issues women in the 1990s struggled with like the Glass Ceiling, increased divorce rates, sky rocketing expectations for academic achievement and economic attainment? What about how Glee has tackled the current issues of bullying, teen sexual identity, and homophobia while also winning awards and entertaining millions? 


Don't get me wrong. I benefit from this corner where I get to vent myself. Lately, I have been wondering about the usefulness of language and the potency of messages. In a world that is messaged to the max, is it incumbent upon all those in word craft to say something meaningful, to make a point and still have fun, to make their words count, rather than just spout, or something?

Greener green

                   Slippery when _.

_ my whistle. 

                  Sopping _.

_ lands.

                _ behind the ears.

All _ . 

 Mt. Lemmon (Tucson, AZ)

     I am saturated. The green is greener here in Portland. The air is plump with moisture, not dry and jagged against the cheek, like in Southern Arizona.

     We are home for the time being. What a gift to wander around the continent with my pet. We have been hosted so well for the last six months in my parents' winter home in Green Valley. And now, we are cozy in a craftsman house in Northeast Portland, thanks to the generosity of a good friend. In the coming months I will write, work for money, and explore this beloved Pacific Northwest city.

Swan Island (Portland, OR)

     When I was here last June, I experienced Portland's shiny and bright side. As of this writing, I will have been here for 52 hours. I have spent that time in a dark and mossy cave.  The sky is always clouded over. The back porch is slick with moss and the ground is mushy. I have to wear layers now. Being this soggy will take some getting used to, but honestly, I am enjoying it! 

     I wonder, what kind of cave dweller am I? Am I a lumpy pile? Am I a dirt eater? Am I the kind that scales walls in search of a hole to sunny China?

     And so, my life has a new backdrop. But I am still the same girl who climbs mountains in monsoon to reach a radio tower, sweats from her eyeballs, and writes with courage, by wonder, and for love.