Rebecca Brown: Excerpts from a Family Medical Dictionary

My latest read took me to Rebecca Brown's, Excerpts from a Family Medical Dictionary an amazing book about a woman, the author's care-taking of her mother after she is diagnosed with cancer until her death. One thing about this book: You know how it is going to end. What I will say without giving it away too much, is that despite knowing the ending, it concludes itself in a beautiful and poetic way. In many ways I am jealous of the author's/character's ability to be so matter-of-fact about the dying process and to complete the anointing process.

The book is split into sections/chapters divided by different terms that the author follows with a narrative/explanation of her mother going through the experiences of these terms. A couple of my favorite sections are "Twilight Sleep," which Brown describes as anesthetized space where one is not put "completely under" as a patient may need to be awake during a surgery. My other favorite scene, "hydrotherapy," gives a lovely glimpse into how the history translates into the present of the narrative. It reminds me of my mother and how we only had a bath tub until I was in middle school, reading in the bathtub a favorite pastime for her as well.

I love this book because it is not a survivor story. It is a story about profound loss, not coated with roses and daydreams. While it is a representation of her story, it is also my story, I read my dealings with death into the narrative. I locate my white lesbian body within the body of Brown, also a white lesbian. And although she is writing about her mother's ordeal with cancer, I see my stepfather and my great-grandmother-two more stories about not overcoming disease. It is not a progress story, they are not progress stories.

And that is most of all where I find myself, straddling a line of coping with death and falling apart. Recently I have been attempting to write through the death of loved ones...to share an excerpt of this process:

My great grandmother and step-father died the same day a year apart exactly. August 27. I pretend this day does not exist, cross it off calendars with black permanent pen. I was asked to both write and deliver eulogies at both funerals, the last pieces of significance for me. I didn’t want to unveil anything else, afraid of being haunted by memories. It is recommended I create an alter, acquire a marigold skull, light candles, burn incense, work through loss. I wonder what doing all of this in combination with writing could reveal? A divinatory moment about profound loss I suppose.

I have been thinking a lot about witnessing the death of the other and not witnessing one’s own death. Laying in bed, encouraging last breaths, holding bruised hands, it is hard to separate myself from the isolation of death. Death of language. I witness the demise of the other, am forced into writing and performing it in various ways, simultaneously feeling as though I am staging my mortality. In writing life I always feel I am writing death, writing without witnessing the ultimate mystery.

Reading the work of Brown I am inspired to continue to work through the death of the other, being a good seer in the world, and trying to bear witness to what I can of my own death.

The Shoppe and Lovely Confections

With my recent move to the hipster-esque area of denver known as East Colfax/City Park area I now have two amazing cupcake bakeries at my disposal. Despite my avowal to limit my sugar intake, I have still managed to squeeze these little folks into my life.

The Shoppe located at 3103 E Colfax is my favorite cupcake place thus far for a multitude of reasons. They have several flavors every day and come in mini, regular, and jumbo size (unlike most stores which only have a few flavors each day.) The mini cupcakes are like a perfect amuse bush. I chose the strawberry-rhubarb as the tangy sweetness is one of my absolute favorite things of life. The whipped cream icing was delicious (this coming from a girl who hates whipped anything really!) And the woman working the counter was radical and helpful as well. She offered her favorites, and told us which ones she wasn't fond of also. They even have vegan cupcakes, not that I probably would or could eat one but I think stores' attempts at vegan and gluten-free baked goods is promising.

The atmosphere is pretty hipster-y, with eclectic or eccentric art on the walls, bright pink and white contrasts, and what appears to be a small boutique at the front of the store. What I do enjoy about this place is that it feels like the kind of place you can go and sit, with real plates and silverware.

Lovely Confections at 1489 Steele St. is also a tasty bakery with a cupcake selection and some other items as well. During the Sex and the City Two movie (which I still have not seen!) craze the owner made a couple of cupcakes dedicated to the show/ladies of SatC. My favorite at this place is the Strawberries and Cream and Red Velvet. Very traditional cupcakes, they are made with local and organic ingredients, which is to be appreciated! It appears they only come in regular size, with a huge layer of frosting. Tasty and pretty to look at too.

My beef with the place is that the first time I went in there they were sold out, which was fine, the sign on the door actually said the shop was closed but I saw people going in. So I eagerly entered the store too to be greeted by the owner who was sitting with a group of folks on the couches, an quickly told me she was sold out for the day. It looked like they were conducting some secretive cupcake baking mission to take over the world. It didn't feel like a warm and welcoming atmosphere. But I went back again, they were almost sold out this time, and had only a few left, so my fried and I took off for The Shoppe. I have heard from others that tey feel the place is a bit yuppy-ish and pretentious. I am however, willing to give it another chance.

Summer of Books: The Pink Institution

In light of my creative writing class and my overall need to feel human again (see PhD Culture for a brief overview of my life the past three years, although the intensity has increased within the last year, the first year of my actual PhD program) I am going to be reviewing books. Actual fiction books, some old, new, experimental, academic (maybe). In doing this I hope to revive my "soul" a little.

This also comes in light of some news that I have some sort of disc issues/boney growth in my back that may require surgery, but definitely will require taking it easy (thus, no hiking for awhile). Just until they figure out what is up and a long-term plan. So frustrating as I was just starting to feel better. In attempt to keep writing I am challenging myself to keep reading.

The first book I read was The Pink Institution by Selah Saterstrom

Saterstrom was my creative writing professor this past quarter and I find it to be important to know people's work, especially when working with them. So I bought this book in an attempt to be more familiar with creative work and the folks producing it.

I find this to be a fabulous book, not solely because I know her. Saterstrom's use of language paints a horrifying multi-generational tale of relationships between white women in the South and their relationships with men. In many ways it is a tale of epistemology and ways of the body knowing. How do white women and girls learn to deal with abuse, alcoholism, sexuality, and pass this knowledge on to their daughters? How do the women's bodies within the narrative learn to negotiate complicated and problematic relationships and historical legacies?

Saterstrom's syntax is revelatory of the ghosts that live in and between language. The gaps between words in the first section demonstrates the haunting of language, what is not said/written leaves a rich subtext that is as prolific as the words that grace the page. My greatest love, as with most great books, is no immediate or satisfactory resolution, except to read it again.

It is short yet complex, written in the style of vignettes for multiple sections, that start to unravel the density of the narrative, which is never completely undone or made transparent. This forces the reader to actively engage in the text not idle through it as mindless entertainment.

I am immediately drawn into the section when the narrator "I" becomes present, not because I am concerned with it being the author but because it allows me a place to enter the text. What parts of this "I" story are my own similar, yet different narrative. As a woman who has been alive as a part of a 4-5 female generation family myself what are family and personal stories we circulate, which ones do we keep hidden? Whether the text is semi-autobiographical or not isn't the point (although context is always important), the meaning drawn out is important.

The narrative is one of those stories that needs to be told, heard.