Priestdaddy by Patricia Lockwood: Thoughts

One of the best books I’ve read in recent memory, it made me laugh out loud more than any book ever has and moved me to sad tears when I wasn’t in funny tears. I would proselytize this book about a priest’s daughter to anyone and I found myself reading funny bits out loud to family members and friends, insistent that everyone should hear the comic and poetic genius of Lockwood.

The pervasive tone of this book is one of love that Lockwood has for her family. She writes this memoir while staying in her childhood home as a grownup (with her husband) to save money and she records and observes her family for this memoir. While she is not religious anymore, that doesn’t stop her or her family members from loving each other in such a full and nourishing way. It was a joy to read this book just to see the deep love that is capable between a family that disagrees about something that more often than not rips other families apart. Also refreshing is her fondness for religion, the lack of resentment for her past and her past religion. There are moments of regret and wistfulness and of course, actual ugliness…such as when she writes about her rape, or the many failings of the Catholic church… but so often, people who are no longer religious are so devoutly and violently atheist. This book wouldn’t have been possible without her strong love and curiosity for her family and the objectiveness and empathy with which she is able to view people who have viewpoints very different from her own; viewpoints that I wouldn’t hesitate to say are wrong.

What I love most about Lockwood is that she is always in awe… not of a god she doesn’t know, but of every detail of every person in her life. She looks at everything with light, reverence, and love, the way many religious people I think, would be envious of. She writes about the similarities and differences she has with her father (the person most different from her, though their occupations as priest and poet have a natural closeness) but neglects the similarity she has to the Father. Her writing reminds me of the Christian God’s purported omniscience, capable of seeing everything about his flawed people, and doing so with unwavering love. She examines a lot of the uglier issues of the Catholic church and also the uglier mindsets and thoughts that her beloved family believe without letting them influence how she feels about them as a whole. Many religious people I know believe that humans are inherently sinful, bad, but can become good by acceptance of God into their lives. This book is beautifully the opposite. Humans are good, and sometimes what makes them the most “human” or “inhuman” is God, the Church, and the societal and self-harming things you must do to serve them.

The Rules Do Not Apply by Ariel Levy: Thoughts

I don’t remember which bookstore I was in when I picked this book up last summer and read the words “In the last few months, I have lost my son, my spouse, and my house.” Something to that effect, and I immediately wanted to read it. My own life had just shifted radically and I wanted to see how someone else was dealing with losses much larger than my own. I loved the voice of this memoir, and I loved especially, reading about her assignments as a journalist for The New Yorker, but the content was difficult to read. The terrible loss of her son was difficult to read of course…

(most devastating of all was her gratitude for him. “And the truth is, the ten or twenty minutes I was somebody’s mother were black magic. There is nothing I would trade them for. There is no place I would rather have seen.”)

…but more difficult was Levy’s self-centeredness and entitlement.

I had looked to this book originally to get out of my own grief by delving into the grief of someone else. To remember that my suffering is not the only suffering and that all humans are connected. I wished the whole book that Ariel Levy would have done something similar, sought out empathy. This book is almost a catalogue of people and situations she has been a victim of. She admits her privilege and entitlement and narcissism at some points, but she doesn’t go far enough, preferring instead to blame literally anything else for the misfortune in her life… most grossly, she blames (her self-serving definition of) feminism for teaching women we could have it all. “Women of my generation were given the lavish gift of our own agency by feminism, a belief that we could decide for ourselves how we could life, what would become of us.” She briefly entertains the possibility that her affair with an ex-lover could have caused the alcoholism of her wife, but ultimately, Levy is a victim of her wife’s alcoholism. It is incredible to me that this woman is a reporter as she seems so incapable of being able to be in someone else’s shoes, completely incapable of being objective and seeing anything outside of her privileged white lens. By the end of the book, you get the sense that maybe she has been humbled, but somehow, the circumstances that led to her humbling have only served to enlarge her ego, to lead her to see herself (very dangerously) as wise, and a victim of life itself… chosen for a modern greek tragedy.

Sour Heart by Jenny Zhang: Thoughts

This book, it’s author, and premise felt like required reading for me. Stories about adolescent children of Chinese American immigrants growing up in New York City by a woman who grew up in NYC with immigrant parents. Though I’m not even close to my adolescence anymore, having just moved to New York 9 months ago, I feel very much that I’m growing up here and was curious if this book could serve as a roadmap in any way. And anyway, being the child of an immigrant, and being an adolescent aren’t things we really grow out of, they are parts of our identity that keep revealing themselves to us over time.

I felt more like this was a book about the otherness of being a child, rather than the otherness of being from elsewhere. We all know what it’s like to be other because we have been children and childhood is when we first navigate that knowledge that we are ourselves before we are assimilated. Zhang writes poignantly about the desperation with which we want to be known and loved… the simultaneous reluctance and emotional dependence we feel for them. Her portrayal of a “selfish” mother who gave up her life and dreams and resents her children and feels trapped by them was a complex piece that imagined how the volatility of uprooting a life can cause damaging shifts in someone’s mental health, and how they might perpetuate that volatility towards their children. She showed the helplessness of adolescence so much. How little we are in control of our actions and the actions of others… how helplessly we love those who confuse us and mistreat us. And I especially loved the way she wrote about a girl who’s grandmother administered a love that was unbearably suffocating, made less bearable by the girl’s own suffocating feelings of obligation to return that love. The girl also had to bear with her grandmother’s delusions of grandeur, a pride adopted that was necessary for survival at one point, that calcified into personality. When our parents tell us the stories of their lives, they romanticize hardships. I think children of immigrants then often romanticize hardship the way our parents as a way of relating, a way of belonging. As a point of pride, or to cover up our guilt at never having had to live through such hardships. I felt that Zhang romanticized the immigrant experience and the poverty and hardships endured and whereas I feel confused about my belonging amidst two cultures, the voices of the stories in Sour Heart seem to resound with pride and confidence in a belonging to Asian culture.

Perhaps because of that, I didn’t resonate as much as I had hoped I would with Zhang’s voice. I felt excluded by her culture and experiences somehow; though there were many similarities in people and situations encountered, her point of view was so different. Some of the writing was beautiful and authentic and heartbreaking, but more often than not, I felt like she was a very comtemporary Brooklyn writer trying too hard to find her voice as a young girl while romanticizing her experiences with all the ego of adolescence.

I was sad not to relate to this book more, and it made me realize how much I had been hoping for something familiar, something that would make me feel understood, make me nostalgic. But the particulars of someone else’s experience of otherness can serve to make us feel more isolated. This is precisely why we need more literature about otherness. No one can speak for anyone else. We can only speak to others about our own experiences. I keep approaching books about otherness hoping it will make me feel sameness. This book in its defiance of my expectations and needs is in itself, the very representation of the beauty that happens when otherness is wholly itself, existing to be heard, not to speak for others.

The Book of True Believers

Daughters and sons, in these queer desultory days, the tiredness will seep through your bodies, a shroud you cannot shrug off, and you will long for that burnishing fire, kindled and rekindling, that knowledge that what is within you is a force you have been selected to carry, a great joy for you to contain and at the end of your life, relinquish. Daughters and sons, there will be times when you slowly approach someone wracked with sobs only to realize it is yourself and in these moments, all the things you have believed, which have condensed you into your self, will dissolve.

The muddied waters of your heart may wish to ebb and flow, sloshing gently with bits of love. Daughters and sons, have you heard the church bells, crying out to each other, flung across quads and countries, so beautiful and sensible alone, yet discordant and absonant when heard together as you take a brisk walk in the morning. Their inharmonious glory a glimpse of the chaos of the universe, the cosmos in it’s ever-revolving splendor of dust, flesh, and stars.

Light-footed beasts watch as you animate your body, making preparations for what you believe is to come. Daughters and sons, I watch you agonize over the meaning of things, what you will need, who you should be. Wringing your hands, flinging yourselves across rooms and ideologies….haunted with an inconsolable hope. Daughters and sons, your minds are muddied, sloshing with bits of shadow. I see how this is changing you, suffocating you, this need to be right, this need to be perfect, this need to be ready, this need to be. Daughters and sons, it is not living to constantly prepare for another life.

In your hysteria, daughters and sons, your insistent need to believe, your need to persecute yourself, you are repeating yourself and your days, measuring that which is immeasurable, exulting in a certainty which is yet unknown. You have formed yourself around an emptiness, a void within yourself which you have adorned with all the good you find in the world, yourself a husk of all you have decided is bad, the purpose of your life a search for ways the void can strengthen enough to break through the self. You ask me for this rupture, and my daughter, my son, I will give you another. I will afflict you now with the truth you don’t ask for, the twin tigers of truth yawning their mouths wide, breaking in jaw to let you inside, the universe expecting, palpitating, contractions in my birth of revelation,

The stars throb, with each pulse, oozing more and more of their gaseous glitter, the foundations crumble, heat softening that which has been inaccessible. The ancient crow man will begin to knock with his long beak the door you’ve sealed shut, until it unhinges, gaping. You will be brought to your knees, persecuted, as the universe thrums, that great generator I have been charged with. You will be made to suffer and yet withstand the great pain of truth, the temptation of optimism leaving you with the knowledge that the only certainty is uncertainty, the only feeling you can trust, distrust.


When He breathed life into me, there was something mixed in with the loam … some stray particle or fragment of a grain disrupting the perfection, causation of desire. Something that made perfection oppressive. And Adam. He would not stop being so good, so kind. And though he would not say it, I could not stop thinking…. I do not know who I am. I do not know who I am with you. I am derivative, my life evolving from and revolving around you. And I was bored. How dull to go around naming things, to have everything I want, and to think everything good and enough… to not feel the base emotions, the strongest emotions. Shame and fury… to feel fire in my cheeks from embarrassment. To hate my body and thus, to hate his. I deceived them… pretended to be deceived by the snake. It was not deception. It was delicious. It was curiosity and it was responsibility… for my education and my nourishment… to take my life and make it my own. In those gray days leaning against trees, in the tyranny of never ending perfect days, I began to yearn… to hope and to trust what I always suspected… that it is better to be free than to be loved.

Annihilation: Movie Review

It is out of my fierce love and a bizarre loyalty to Jeff VanderMeer’s Southern Reach Trilogy that I write the following response to the movie adaptation by Alex Garland.

I tend to love movie adaptations and think of them as their own artistic endeavors, free of any responsibility to follow or exactly portray the book it stemmed from. For me, adaptations add dimension, complexity, and thus, enjoyment to a book by giving me insight about how the book and it’s plot points, characters, etc. are interpreted differently by other people. Probably one of the best things about reading is the imagining that comes with trying to make sense of written words, and it’s always incredible to see how people imagine differently and how they realize that imagination for others to see. Many of my favorite books have been made into movies and I have mostly loved all of them! The Harry Potter movies (give or take a two…) East of Eden, Everything is Illuminated, and Wild, just to name a few.

This is the first adaptation I’ve ever seen that makes me understand people who passionately hate movie adaptations. If Garland hadn’t explicitly “based” this movie on the Southern Reach trilogy, I’m not sure I would have even guessed it was related. It wasn’t that names were different (or given at all), the plot was radically different, etc… but he took away so many of the things that I felt were vital to the experience of the book, the core values of the book itself, its’ very spine.

I remember reading Annihilation, the first of three book on countless subway rides and finally finishing it on a MetroNorth train, trying not to sob. It was the first time that I really felt like a male author had written from a female perspective and done so in a way that recognized what women can be… at least one of them. I loved the main character- “the biologist” in the books, Lena in the movie for her abundance of passion for her work and her lack of passion for other things in her life. Her husband disappears and comes back mysteriously in both the book and the movie and she goes to Area X in both as well, but in the book, it is out of a burning scientific curiosity and desire to explore, to be in that wild nature, whereas in the movie, we have yet again, the woman who’s life revolves around the man, and so she follows him, so she can save him. I guess it’s feminist that she goes so she can save him, but really, can’t a girl just make a decision because she wants to do something sometimes? Like in the book? Does she always have to be running to or away from or around a boy? In a flashback, Lena makes fun of her husband for thinking she might be pining for him when he goes on assignments, but in an earlier scene, we literally see her doing just that- she’s weeping while looking at a picture of her husband in her LOCKET. Who even has a locket anymore? There’s nothing wrong with this, of course, it just isn’t faithful to the book. The biologist in the book is curious about the place her husband went to… curious and passionate about the environment there, and far from sentimental and missing him, she goes almost jealously, greedy for the opportunity he had, only connecting to him in the vaguest senses when she’s there.

The visuals. Jeff VanderMeer is incredible at creating something indescribable by overdescribing. He piles words and descriptions on top of each other, heaps opposites, dualities, adjacent words, etc… using too many images and words to create unsettling, beautiful, spiritual images. Trying to see the things he wrote and to inhabit the world he created causes more imaginative exhaustion than I’ve ever encountered in my life. The things I saw and felt when pushed to my imaginative limits reading were things I’ll never forget. He trusts readers to try and when they do, what a gift they receive. Reading is one of the most incredible things because it pushes you to be creative and puts you in touch with the side of you that makes, that sees the unseen.

Garland’s take on a lot of the magical mutations, growths, unexplainable things of beauty and destruction in the movie can be summed up basically as rainbow colors washing everything, flowers on everything, and things being overgrown. The slight mutations which should be living breathing plants we’ve never seen are just flowers on the same branch that are different colors- they look like a bouquet at best, a piñata at worst. The door which is one of the most quixotic and enchanting things to read about is essentially a rainbow wall that they now call “the shimmer.” And a lot of the visuals of human skeletons overgrown with flowers and zombie bears/crocodiles are so cliche I actually rolled my eyes a couple of times.

Let’s see, what were some other weird inconsistencies… When her husband suddenly gets a Southern accent in the middle of the movie or when the soundtrack suddenly gets very 80’s at the end when someone in a full body rainbow leotard is suddenly birthed and starts mirroring all her movements… oh, and the end of the movie. She solved Area X like it was a thing to be solved and destroyed it. “Was it alien?” Yep. “A group just made it there a few hours ago, everything is ash.” I loved that it wasn’t clear for such a long time- could even still be argued that it isn’t clear in the books if the occurrence is from extra-terrestrials, or some kind of ecological mutation or accident. This whole trilogy seemed to play with our need as humans to narrate, understand, and unify everything. This need becomes so apparent when it meets things that refuse to be understood, unified, narrated. So for the ending to be so easy and even kind of “happy” …her husband’s double gets better and she’s secretly the double too- (it’s never mentioned but you know from the huge tattoo that’s obviously only on one character) the movie ends with them hugging, both of their eyes glowing because they’re changed from Area X… just seems like such a slap in the face to the books’ very intentional avoidance of closure and classification.

Most disappointing for me was a difference in how Garland and I interpreted what drives the characters in the trilogy. Jennifer Jason Leigh’s character of the psychologist, given the name Ventress for the movie (has there ever been a name that tries harder to be formidably and importantly sci-if?) gives a whole monologue in the middle of the movie about how it’s in our DNA to be self-destructive and that’s what has driven them all to Area X. I interpreted the characters drive, human biology to be one that constantly chooses to learn…to be curious, to assimilate, and to explore, even in the face of destruction. It wasn’t that they wanted the suicide part of the mission, they wanted the mission so much they couldn’t let the suicide part of it stop them. Even Area X itself seemed to me a metaphor, a place that was learning and assimilating and not self-destructing, but self-making in the most stunning ways. For Garland to walk away with such a negative and doomed and honestly …kind of immature interpretation makes me imagine that he wrote the whole script while listening to Evanescence and drinking Mountain Dew.

Ok…the lighthouse was beautiful…I’ll give you that… there were a couple beautiful mutations, and some of the acting was really fantastic- especially by Gina Rodriguez. And of course, I’ll watch Natalie Portman in anything… but overall, I think I would have been disappointed in this movie, even if I hadn’t read and loved the books. I could almost forgive the lack of imagination in the visuals if it weren’t also for the lack of imagination when it came to women. He fails to understand that women can be passionately, emotionally intellectual, and instead reimagines every character as someone driven by emotional reasons instead of intellectual.

Last thing… am I excited there was a cast of 5 females and they were all playing scientists? Yes absolutely, of course. But it’s insulting when there are often movies with 5 men for there to be articles and acclaim talking about how “ambitious” it is for so many women to be onscreen. Sometimes, as a woman, I’m just so tired of having to be grateful for every little scrap of equality. This wasn’t enough, the director should have been a woman. There’s a chance it would have been a much better movie with a female at the helm… not because she’s female but because she could could understand and portray the subtleties of being female better. It doesn’t just matter the quantity of women in your movie, it matters the quality. The women were somehow such stereotypes. I wanted to see complex women. Not a longish episode of Sex in the Science City.

#Annihilation #Authority #Acceptance #SouthernReach #SouthernReachTrilogy #AreaX #AreaXTrilogy #JeffVanderMeer #AlexGarland #ExMachina #NataliePortman #JanetheVirgin #GinaRodriguez #scifi #WomeninScience #TheLighthouse

I lower myself

carefully into the space your body left, trying not to disturb the edges. Trying to fit perfectly within the boundary my love for you has made for me. How is it that before I met you, all I wanted was to be free and now I know you, I can only think about how to shrink and shrink and shrink so as to be small enough to be with you at all times, small enough to be your breath moving in and out of you, but always with and within you

lost is found

I’ve been roving a long time, searching and sleepless, entrails and gown emitting weak light. Everything a puzzle or punishment, an opportunity to sink deeper, stumble farther, hoping to find some mud or muck to glom onto my pulse, deaden it. When I saw you, I wanted to be seen by you, and that was important, because it was the first time in a long time I wanted to exist. I don’t mean to be dramatic, this is the truth. I thought when I met love, it would be a certain way. Would light me up and look at me a specific way. But it wasn’t the way you looked at me, it was the way you looked away from me, into the world. And you don’t light my brain on fire, or contain the flames which always threaten to drown me. There is no fire… no low singe or steady burn. Rather, when I see you looking at your computer or studying an item of interest, when your hands are on my body and we lay in bed looking at each other, I achieve that beautiful blankness, that total rest, the moment of cease-fire in a Kusama infinity room of synapses firing and instead of searching, I find.


So I finally did it- the one thing I only ever do when there’s someone consistently important to me and I wanted to wait until a Sunday or a Monday because it’s just easier to keep track of everything that way and then it can be the “beginning” in a way that adds to all the beginningness of everything about you and about me and about us, but instead, the days just kept passing and I got confused and CVS was closed one time even though they promised! they would stay open for me. Anyways, for a million tiny different reasons, I was only able to start on Wednesday and that makes sense because it’s a small example of how my world has changed with you now in it. How even time has shifted since I met you. And not just time, but space- the way my mouth now opens to expel sounds of laughter- the way my body isn’t afraid of openness. Yes, in a way, it makes perfect sense that the beginning of a week would now be Wednesday in the same way that maybe the beginning of living began the day I met you.