After hailing a taxi on Euston Road in the middle of the night, I said to the taxi driver while standing on the curb: “Excuse me! Can you take someone to hospital, please? It’s urgent!”
Taxi driver to me: “Not if there’s any blood I won’t!”
“There’s not any blood. Will you take him or not?”
“Yeah, get in.”
I’m a little late on this, but I wanted to write something about the state visit to the UK last week by Nicolas Sarkozy and Carla Bruni. The media and politicians made fools of themselves by falling all over “Mrs. Sarkozy.” It was sad, really. Apparently MPs were all dying to get a glimpse of her. Her image was splashed across the front page of every newspaper and she was the subject of endless column inches. Political news took a backseat to what Bruni was wearing, from her laughable Jackie Kennedy imitation to her shoes (featured on the front page of The Independent, above). Based on the coverage, you would think that Britain is just some hillbilly backwater where they’ve never seen a woman with a full set of teeth.
I really doubt the average person on the street gave a care about any of this. I certainly have no interest in Bruni and I don’t understand the allure of someone who looks like a cat. I’ve been thinking about the hysteria she caused, though, and why people reacted the way they did.
The British news media views women in a very simplistic way — women are either saintly models of womanhood or whores (or, even better, crazy-whores). There’s really no in-between. The Queen: Saintly. Camilla Parker-Bowles: Whore. Heather Mills: Crazy-Whore. Angelina Jolie: Originally a Crazy-Whore, now firmly a Saint. Princess Diana: Originally a Saint, but then a Crazy-Whore. Most female victims of crime in this country are reduced to one of these categories as well. Meredith Kercher: Saintly. Scarlett Keeling: Whore. [Ladies, for a bit of fun, imagine you were brutally strangled to death by a psycho. How would the British tabloids portray you? Saint or Whore? Hmmmm?]
My winter hibernation has ended and I’m out doing cultural things again. It feels good! This evening I went to see The 39 Steps on the West End. Apparently this theatrical spoof of Hitchcock’s spy thriller has already crossed the pond to Broadway. My friend and I had our own box, which was actually the highlight of the evening. I’ve never sat in a box before. When we first opened the door it was a bit Abe-Lincoln-in-Ford’s-Theater creepy, but I totally loved it. A box is the way to go! If you book theatre tickets, it’s worth asking about a box — since they are on the side, they technically have a restricted view and may be cheaper than seats in the stalls.
As for the play, it was cute. Not necessarily my cup of tea, with all the slapstick and jokiness, but I recognize the talent of the actors (4 actors playing over 100 roles) as they improvised with very few props and virtually no set. Simon Paisley Day, who plays the lead role, looks like he literally stepped out of a classic black-and-white film. I’ve never seen Hitchcock’s The 39 Steps, but it’s playing now at the BFI, so it goes on my list.
After this evening I have the theatre bug again, but next I need to see a play that’s more to my liking. Something that takes place in a drawing room, preferably in the 1920s. There needs to be family dysfunction, unrequited love, screaming, suicide attempts. That’s what I crave.
Link: Guardian review
I went to see this movie tonight in Leicester Square, which cost £12.50 (that’s $25 — no joke. There’s an interesting article in the Times today called Goodbye to Rip-Off Britain, which forecasts a recession coming and an end to these insane prices — could it be?).
This Boleyn movie has gotten pretty bad reviews, so I don’t know why I wanted to see it. I felt like a costume drama, I guess. To my surprise, it really wasn’t bad. I was engrossed throughout. Though this is not a serious historical epic, it does remind one of the way women in the upper classes were pimped out by their families like whores — and that’s no exaggeration. Women were used, abused and then tossed aside like trash or, in the case of Anne Boleyn, murdered. [Of course, this still happens. Lady Di, anyone?] The 500 years that have passed between now and then have somehow lessened the horror of Henry VIII’s reign, which I don’t understand. Henry VIII is like a cartoon character to us now. In the gift shops around London, I see Henry VIII stuffed toys and finger puppets being sold for children. Would you let your kid play with a stuffed toy of Saddam Hussein? Frankly, I don’t see much difference.
Many of the reviews have discounted this film as a bodice-ripping romance. While any movie with Natalie Portman and Scarlett Johansson doing English accents can’t be taken entirely seriously, a film that features scenes of rape is not romantic. But then I guess not all film critics recognize rape when they see it.
I am reading contemporary fiction by men these days. As part of my PhD, I have to write a critical commentary on my own novel. I have to start with what inspired me. So what was the inspiration for my decidedly feminist book? Fight Club. Yes, that’s right. In 1999 I was living in Brooklyn and one evening I went to see the movie adaptation of Fight Club. As I came out of the theater, I felt elated. I’d never seen anything like Fight Club before. I walked home through the streets of Park Slope (I can still remember this so vividly) and I knew that Gen-X women needed their own Fight Club — and I was going to write it.
By this I don’t mean that I wanted to write a book about women beating the crap out of each other. Fight Club very explicitly deals with notions of masculinity and what it means to be a man today. It does this in a bold, political way. The message of the movie and the book is convoluted and a bit of a train wreck, but I admired what it was trying to do. It was attempting to say something about the screwed-up world we live in and a man’s place in it. I wanted to write a book about what it means to be female with the same political in-your-face vigor that’s present in Fight Club. I just did not see any books by Gen-X women that were even attempting to do this. Nearly a decade later, I still don’t see any.
As of today I am a full-time writer. This morning I finished up the lingering teaching duties I had and now I am free. Free!
Gulp.
This was a big decision for me, to quit teaching and focus on school full-time, which essentially means full-time novel writing. Once again…gulp.
This academic year I’ve taken on too many responsibilities. The teaching entailed 13 hours a week of actual teaching time, not including lesson prep and marking. I also work in the hall of residence (in exchange for rent) and I still work for the American company (which I realize I never explained after my cryptic post last December). That’s three jobs. What was I thinking? What got lost in all of this is that little thing known as my PhD. You know, the PhD, otherwise known as the whole reason I came to England and what I’ll be paying off until I’m 96. Oh yeah, that.
sometimes, out of the blue, my self-esteem just plummets to nothing. i find everything about the world and my life to be completely overwhelming. during these times the things other people say and do can wound me deeply. i get upset at them, then they get upset at me for being upset. this doesn’t help the situation.
crying would feel nice right now, like a long hot bath would feel. that urge is there, in the throat, all day long, just beyond my reach.
This week has had its ups and downs. There was no sunshine. [Bad.] I finished up my teaching duties. [Good. Well, mostly good. I will miss one of my fellow teachers. She and I developed our own little bitch clique. We'd sit at the back of the staff room and gossip and whisper about the other teachers. I mean, the other teachers are all so cheerful and happy to work for slave wages in a crap environment. What is wrong with them? We had fun ripping them to shreds. One of the other teachers saw us whispering once and he said, "There they are, conspiring again!" So we had a reputation. Some of the other teachers started to shun us, not even saying hello! They were just jealous that we got paid more and that we were so fabulously bitchy and smarter than all of them combined. And our boss was terrified of us -- when he'd approach us, his hands would literally shake. No joke. You may be surprised that sweet Anglofille is capable of behaving this way, but I can assure you that not only is she capable of behaving this way, she really enjoys it.]
So anyway, I’ve had a mixed week but this evening I received some fantastic news! My lawyer in Paris has just e-mailed me to say that she received a cheque from the evil landlady for the full amount of the judgment. She paid up, y’all! I am stunned! I just cannot imagine why she paid. I didn’t even have to call the bailiffs to get involved. She technically has a few days left to appeal this, so I won’t feel totally at ease until the cheque has cleared and her time for appealing has run out. Still, the situation looks good. I mean, she sent the cheque to my lawyer. Whew. I hope to soon have the money in my hands, including what she stole, the legal fees and a little extra for my troubles. Woot! Perhaps I should blow the whole amount of the damages on a luxurious trip to Paris. Or maybe I’ll spend it at the dentist. Yes, my award for pain and suffering should be spent on…more pain and suffering.
Yesterday I spent £60 on a bottle of Jo Malone Red Roses perfume. I really do not have the money to be buying expensive perfume right now. (You see, I quit my job. More on that soon.) But I ran out of my favorite Jo Malone more than a year ago and I’ve never replaced it. In all this time, I’ve been perfume-less. I will not buy cheap perfume. I will also not buy perfume by CK or Gautier or any of those other slags who use the likes of Kate Moss to advertise. No. Thank. You. It’s Jo Malone or nothing. She’s classy. So yesterday I woke up and thought, “screw it.” I wanted something luxurious and I walked to Selfridge’s in the wind and rain and bought what I wanted.
“I used to work in a funeral home to feel good about myself, just the fact that I was breathing.”
–from Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk
Today I went to a demonstration in Trafalgar Square to end male violence against women. It was rainy and dreary outside, but I was glad to mark the day in some way.
What has Obama won?
“Obama has won the small caucus states with the latte-sipping crowd. They don’t need a president, they need a feeling.” –A Clinton aide quoted in the Times
“He’s not an attractive character for a president to hang out with.”
– Fox News Channel on Barack Obama’s friendship with Bill Ayers
There have been some rumblings in the press recently regarding Barack Obama’s association with Bill Ayers. Mr. Ayers is influential in left-wing Chicago political circles, particularly in Hyde Park, which Obama represented in the Illinois State Senate. (Apparently, Obama used to be a lot more “left-wing” than he is now. Ahem.) Nowadays Bill Ayers is a distinguished professor at the University of Illinois, Chicago, but in the 1960s he was a prominent member of the Weather Underground, a left-wing radical group that was by any definition a terrorist organization. From Wikipedia: “[The Weathermen] carried out one of the first domestic terror campaigns in the United States, including bombings, jailbreaks and riots.” Ayers participated in bombings of the Pentagon and the Capitol.
Media reports of Obama’s connection to Ayers are interesting to me because when I did my MFA in creative writing at Bennington College, Bill Ayers was a student there as well. He was in the non-fiction program and I did fiction, but I had a few conversations with him. He was always very nice to me. Given my level of naivety back then, I had no idea he was a notorious figure. Once I found out (from my older classmates), I was quite shocked. He really didn’t look like the type (not that I have experience with such types). He was a little dude with an earring. An ex-hippie? Sure. An ex-terrorist? Um, no.
Yay Hillary! I think she’ll go all the way. I can feel it.
You know what annoys me? Women who think that by voting for Obama, they are somehow proving their feminist credentials. It’s like, “See, I’m such a feminist that I’m voting against the female candidate!” Oh, how clever. You know what I say to this?
Yawn.
Meanwhile, my favorite quote of the day:
“Come on guys; I answered like eight questions.”
–Barack Obama in response to being grilled, for once, by the media. He said this before he walked out of a press conference while being shouted at by reporters.
Gotta love it!
sunset in the tuileries
It’s been more than a week since I’ve posted anything! How very strange. I had such a marvelous time in Paris — and more importantly, a very productive time creatively — that since I’ve been back I’ve been reading a lot and working on my novel and haven’t had time for much else (besides the teaching). I’ve been feeling a bit happier and it’s always harder for me to blog when I feel happy. I was also too lazy to go through all the photos I had taken (which is a ton of work) and I can’t do a travel post without photos. But now I finally have my act together.
My trip to Paris was last-minute, but I went because I had this feeling in my gut that I needed to get away. I just felt in my bones that I’d benefit from three days away from work, home and my daily routine, where I could be alone and empty my mind of the banal, instead just focusing on art and writing and beauty. I felt this was what I needed, but as I left on the Eurostar I wasn’t entirely convinced anything positive would happen in Paris. After all, I had been creatively dead for two months, since before Christmas. In January and February I often go into a funk. It’s not something I can control — it’s a chemical reaction to the lack of sunshine. I’ve always been susceptible to this, but I’ve noticed it’s been worse since moving to London, where the winter days are much shorter than what I’ve experienced before. Before next winter rolls around, I must take steps to minimize the effect of this.
Anglofille is an American living in London, finishing up a novel and a PhD, taking photos, and blogging about expat life, books, feminism and perpetual angst.
