In high school I got a lot of T-Shirts that were previously owned by whatever dude I happened to be dating that week, which I’m pretty sure is a pretty normal “I have no idea what to get my girlfriend for Christmas/Valentine’s Day/Her Birthday” boy gift. It was when I left High School when things started to get weird.
Now, I’m not saying I’m the best gift giver in the world. I’m also not complaining about the gifts I’ve been given. I honestly do think it is the thought that counts. Kevin used to surprise me with Lush bath balls all the time and I LOVED them. Eliot would pick wildflowers like Mountain Laurel and bring it to me when we lived in separate cities. If anyone thinks of you and likes you enough to go out of their way to buy you a gift or make you a present or bring you something that they know will brighten your day – that is a person who cares. So, again, what I’m about to write is not meant to be taken in a “bitchy ungrateful” girl way. I’m just trying to make a point. A point about myself…
Two gifts really stand out in my mind. Actually two gifts that I’ve been given by two completely different men. Neither knowing the other had previously bestowed these presents my way. Which makes me really want to look inside myself and ask, “Exactly what about me screams carnivorous plants and Chilean, Trotskyism literature”?
The Venus Fly Trap.
I received my first Venus Fly Trap from Eliot my freshman year of college. Maybe he thought the small apartment I shared with Wes was so ugly and gross that the only thing that would make it better was a plant to help eat the bugs? I’m not sure. I named him Manuel and he sat in the light from the tiny window that was never clean in our galley kitchen. Manuel probably would have survived a little longer if it wasn’t for me always touching his small leafs to watch them close up around my finger or maybe the end of a pen that was in my hand. Manuel sadly passed away and I’m pretty sure I was never given anything else alive from Eliot ever again.
I was gifted my second Venus Fly Trap, Paco, from Kevin about a year or so into our relationship. I came home from school one day and there Paco was, sitting on my kitchen counter like the ghost of Manual had come back to haunt me. Paco was a little larger, but other than that he looked and acted complete like my former meat eating sundew. I was determined to keep Paco alive. This time I wasn’t going to fail my little green friend. You know and people wonder why I don’t want children. I mean besides the whole kids weird me out and annoy the crap out of me (except my nephews – they rock) I CAN’T EVEN FEED A PLANT ENOUGH TO KEEP IT ALIVE! I would be the worst mother ever.
Rest in Piece Manuel and Paco. This is why I only buy myself cut flowers. You can’t kill what’s already dead.
Robert Bolano.
Robert Bolano is a dead Chilean author. I’m not going to go into his whole Biography (if y’all can find my little blog I think you can probably figure out Wikipedia) but he’s pretty “good” in the since that he won a lot of awards, is “critically acclaimed”, died tragically young… you get the point.
The first Bolano book I read was The Savage Detectives. I honestly had no interest in reading this book. I saw it one day at Book People and glanced at it and put it back on the shelf. I thought that this would be my last interaction with Mr. Bolano, but no. No day I was home with Kevin doing who knows what while Kevin was reading The Economist. (Yes, I could write a whole post about how hilarious it was that my Ex read The Economist so much my parents bought him a subscription one year for his birthday.) Towards the back of the magazine they have two pages that every month are devoted to the arts. Kevin saw that they reviewed The Savage Detectives, positively, and from that moment on he was on a mission to get me to read that book. No, he didn’t want to read it. He has no interest in sitting down and digging deep into a story about Mexican Poets and the grotesqueness of border towns, but (damn it!) he was going to force me to read it.
And I did.
And I kinda hated it. I mean it’s not a bad book. It’s not a bad story. Its extremely well written and well translated, but even I have a threshold for how far I will go(or I guess read) just to say I finished a book. It took a lot to finish this book.
I thought that finally completing The Savage Detectives and breaking up with Kevin would have been the end of my tumultuous relationship with Mr. Bolano, but no. About a month or so ago, Rolando was at my house for the first time and checking out my book shelves. I guess I should have burned the evidence of me every having read Bolano because as soon as he saw The Savage Detectives on the third shelve from the top he started talking. Here the thing… every book that I own means something special to me. I would sell all my clothes before I could sell my books. I love them all… almost. Really Rolando? You want to talk about the one book on that whole shelf that I really kinda, sorta, absolutely HATED.
“Well, yes, I read it. And although it wasn’t my favorite… I mean it was beautifully written… and um…” – While the entire time I’m really thinking, “Ick that horrific book.”
I thought that would be the end of it. I thought leaving my apartment about 10 minutes later would be the end of my relationship with Robert Bolano. But, I guess if breaking up with Kevin couldn’t get the South American out of my life neither could pushing Rolando out my door and away from my book case and the shelf third from the top. Why do you ask? Because of the extremely thoughtful, extremely adorable plastic bag I had waiting for me on the bar table when I saw Rolando next. He has been out of town for about a week and had brought me back a present. Nice guy right?
Hello Robert fucking Bolano.
Hello the book that he told me he couldn’t even get through the first four pages.
Hello the next few months of my life as I slug through this.
Oh, and I don’t hate it… In fact it’s kinda good. Damn it.
hahaha That's all I have to say E
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