The Lemon
Dragon, Shanghai, China / Photo credit: Susannah Breslin
I wrote a piece for Men's Health about being married and having cancer and not having cancer. After I published this post, they asked me to write a longer version.
"Thankfully, my husband had been through worse: two deployments to Iraq with the United States Marine Corps. Cancer would be a cakewalk, the malignancy a microscopic terrorist cell that had set up shop in his spouse. It was just a matter of bombing the deadly sect into oblivion."
Three Years
Three years ago, this guy married me. We met on an online dating site. We got married nine days later. Thanks to the only guy crazy enough to marry me and stay married to me. You saved me.
Police Scanner
Sideswiped by Sickness
Mammogram suite, Chicago, IL / Photo credit: Susannah Breslin
Meghan Daum has an interesting piece in the New York Times: "I Nearly Died. So What?" Several years ago, she ended up in the hospital and, as the title states, nearly died. The piece focuses on what comes after she nearly died, particularly the expectation of what comes after. Generally, the narrative that a survivor is supposed to tell is fraught with lies and bullshit. I became a better person. I live in the present moment. I never take anything for granted. Of course, none of that is true; at best, you let yourself believe that it is. In theory, the sickness makes the bad thing that happened worth it, as if happiness and self-betterment are the only acceptable profits one may earn from struggling with the body's strong tendency to almost off itself. Daum's piece echoed my experiences post-breast cancer. In a few days, it will be three years since I was diagnosed. After a year and a half of treatment, I was cancer-free and not particularly a better person. And, oh, what a failure this is considered to be! I do not live in the present moment. I take things for granted daily. I am no more or less kind, patient, or generous. Something terrible happened, and then -- not because of my will or some miracle but due to science -- I got better. No one even really understands why, and no one can say for sure if the no-cancer status will stick. In the end, something will get me; there is no happy ending in life, only death. Still, online, women who have survived breast cancer prattle on endlessly about how improved they are, about how wonderful their lives are now, about how today is the only thing that matters. As if cancer is some thoughtful neighbor who brought by homemade cookies. It reminds me of the profiles I used to see before I got married when I perused online dating sites. Most of the men claimed to be "living life to the fullest." In their photos, they held up dead fish they'd caught. In their profiles, they referenced failed marriages and boring jobs. No one, it seemed, was living life to the fullest. How could they? It would probably kill them.
The Pooper
Photo credit: Unknown
"At the other end of the bar, one of the three guys was talking to the girl with the Windex eyes. A few feet away, his two friends were snickering. The three were known for taking home the drunkest girl at the party and running a train on her. Afterwards, they'd leave her passed out on her bed, and on their way out, one of them would find the girl's purse and take a dump in it. He wondered how the girl would feel tomorrow when she woke up with a massive hangover and found her purse was full of shit. The guy slid his arm around the girl's shoulders, guiding her to the door, the other two guys trailing behind them. In another life, he would've stopped them. In this life, he ordered a double." -- work-in-progress
Baconfest
Baconfest, Naples, FL / Photo credit: Susannah Breslin
Baconfest was a total bust. Several hundred people walking around a parking lot. Also: a climbing wall and a bouncy castle. There was not even that much bacon. I ate a "pork belly salad," which is an oxymoron and not technically bacon. I eyeballed some bacon wrapped dates but didn't bite. There was a guy dressed up like a piece of bacon, a girl in a cow suit, and some large male in a hamburgers and fries shirt that was too tight. A waste of money, time, and calories. Oh, I almost forgot. My husband had this chocolate froyo with bacon on it which was not bad.
Swamp Buggy Queen
BBQ, Naples, FL / Photo credit: Susannah Breslin
We had a good time at the swamp buggy races. We got lost several times on our way there, something that probably happens increasingly the closer you get to the everglades. Honestly, I'd gotten this event confused with an event in the other direction -- the redneck yacht club. I was expecting girls flashing their boobs and mayhem. This was more like NASCAR in miniature. The swamp buggies were strange, long contraptions, made to float and not built for glory. In between their dashes around the swamp, teen boys in small jeeps had their own races in which they sank so low in the water, I thought they might drown. (They didn't.) One swamp buggy racer flipped, but I don't believe he was hurt. There were many rebel flags and lots of BBQ. In the VIP tent, I had a chance to talk to this year's swamp buggy queen. She was very sweet. It's part of the annual tradition for the winning racer to pick up the swamp buggy queen and jump into the swamp with her at the end of the day. I asked if she was worried about that. She said, no, not really. Except, she added, someone said there was an alligator in the swamp, and she wasn't too sure about that.
I Get Email
Handicap Gun Wheelchair / Image credit: Southern Decalz
"Im considering taking part in the pornography industry. This desire is not about making more money or 'getting a nut.'
Well, i cant nut actually, but i can 'get it up.'
I am a thirty-one-year-old paraplegic. I was shot three times roughly three years ago in an attempted murder. My goal is to inspire the disabled world that there world is not over and they can still achieve greatness if they are motivated enough to do so. I have reseached the subject, and there is not much out there in this category. I think it is a fascinating idea that could definitely bring not only success, but inspiration to people. Please, if you are intersted madam, please do not hesitate to contact me regaurding the aforementioned."
Immortal Art
"I want to be in a world where I don’t have to have a camera between my face and the subject in order to capture the subject in a way that’s real. I want to have a network of sensors that allow me to shift in time and place, anywhere, at any time. I want to say, 'I was walking down Fifth Avenue the other day and I saw this amazing old man walking down the street. I didn’t want to interrupt him, but he deserves to be immortalized for the beautiful moment that he allowed me to experience.' I want to be able to get on my phone and say, 'I was here at this time,' and go there and access the sensors that are there and find that old man walking down the street and take a picture of him three days later—and I want to be able to see it from different angles and change the filter on it. These things are going to be doable; it’s just a matter of time. That’s what I want." -- Clayton Cubitt
Swamp Buggy Races
Zombie Babies
Zombie Babies, Naples, FL / Photo credit: Susannah Breslin
BBQ
BBQ, Naples, FL / Photo credit: Susannah Breslin
Catcalls
American Girl in Italy / Photo credit: Ruth Orkin
Surely, the girl in the catcall video is getting harassed, but what they don't tell you is that when it is happening, you will develop a certain kind of relationship to it in your head, conflicted but a marriage of sorts, nevertheless, and through the years, as your ass drops, and your boobs sag, and your face cracks, you will find that it is harder and harder to maintain that relationship, good or bad, and the catcalls will come less, over the days, and the months, and the years, and some days, you will find, you will give up on them altogether, and some days, you will discover, you will work harder to get them so you can remember what it was like to be told, hey, baby, and, damn, you fine, and, girl, you got an ass on you, don't you, and you will not tell anyone, because they will tell you this is wrong, but you will miss it, you will pine for it, you will long for it, what is gone, and the only thing that greets you when you walk down the street is blank stares and silence.
Work in Progress
Pixel Smut 1 / Image credit: Max Capacity
She came to town to be an actress.
That didn't work out.
She turned into a porn star.
That didn't pay the bills.
She prostituted herself.
That changed her.
Pornographer
Pornographer, Chatsworth, CA / Photo credit: Susannah Breslin
Only Lovers
"Only Lovers Left Alive." Very strange. Very beautiful. Jim Jarmusch sinks his teeth into the vampire movie genre and comes up with a mouthful of meditations on celebrity, family, and creativity. Starring Tilda Swinton as the HVIC Eve and Tom Hiddleston as the moody rock star Adam who looks great with his shirt gaping open at all times. Brief appearances by Mia Wasikowska as the petulant faux daughter, Jeffrey Wright as their twitchy blood drug supplier, and John Hurt as some kind of godfather. What would it be like to be married forever? Pretty fun, it seems. There are lovely plays with names (I loved the passports especially). It's not all show, though. My favorite scene is when the trio makes a rare trek out to a local Detroit nightclub, and Adam witnesses how the mortal zombies dance when his track plays. It's hypnotic and perfectly captures a piece of the tortured artist's existence: That he must isolate to create but in doing so cuts himself off from the world that spawned his art. Everyone is impeccably outfitted. I demand a sequel.
Is This Mic On
I thought I would try some live writing today.
I think Warren Ellis used to do something like this, but I'm not sure.
I'm listening to Aphex Twin's Selected Ambient Works Volume II (Amazon, YouTube, Pitchfork).
It is approximately 12PM EST where I am located.
I will be writing until 1PM EST unless I keel over and die in the interim.
I write in the CMS, and you can read it here.
You can take a look, go away, and come back, or refresh the page, I suppose.
If I don't like something, I'll delete it, so things may appear and then disappear.
I haven't done this before, so bear with me, or don't.
If you get bored, read this from Ellis on carnography.
I'm drinking this tea and ate lunch already.
I forgot the dog needs a walk.
Two Ways of Looking at a Beginning
For my first draft of the opening passages for THE VICE MAN, I tried it two different ways. First, I tried it with a male central character. Then I tried it with a female central character.
Here's the first pass at the open with a man as the main character:
"He opened his eyes, and there was the camera hovering in front of him, reflecting his face back at him: his head like Edvard Munch’s The Scream, his sea foam-colored skin, his green eyes blinking at the sunset bleeding in through the windows.
He could not remember a time when he was not being recorded, even though he knew it had happened, years ago, because there were a few photos of him that did not include the hovering ball that appeared in every one after he was, say, five.
He yawned, and the tiny drone zoomed in for a close up; his jaw snapped closed; the ball jumped back. He stood up, stretched his arms to the ceiling, and pulled up his underpants."
Here's the first pass at the open with a woman as the main character:
"Suzanne Flesh opened her eyes and regarded the floating drone hovering before her. Slowly, it migrated south.
'Hey!' she yelped and pulled the sheet up to cover her breasts."
This is the current version of the open with a man as the main character:
"The detective opened his eyes.
The drone hovered above him.
He could see his reflection in the silver eye of the fist-sized globe: his morning stubble, his seafoam green pallor, the dark circles under his eyes.
He could not remember a time when he was not being recorded, and he did not know there to be one."
You can follow along as I work on THE VICE MAN here.
The Vice Man
I'm working on a piece of fiction. You can read along as I work on it here. It's called THE VICE MAN.
It's about a detective with a drone sidekick who's looking for a dead girl, a place called the underground where scramblers live, and what happens when you forget who you are.
Here's an excerpt:
"The detective opened his eyes.
The drone hovered above him.
He could see his reflection in the silver eye of the fist-sized globe: his morning stubble, his seafoam green pallor, the dark circles under his eyes.
He could not remember a time when he was not being recorded, and he did not know there to be one."