Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Perfect Endings.

Dear Globlets,

Apparently I got 50 pageviews the other day. I checked the sites people have been using to find my blog, and, well...


From Google searches:
"FSM touching"
"nude thirty nine year old women"
"draw a naked woman showing her charms"

And referring URLs:
"naked Jean MacLeod"
"big booty porn"

Awesome. But still, 50? Who are you and where do you come from and why don't you stick around and comment? I'll love you forever.

In other news...

(Lucy, what an awful segue...)

In my WRIT100 class, I found myself defending the creative nonfiction genre. I can't say I loved the CNF section. It was alright. But my classmates have something against creative nonfiction, it seems. In fact, I had to correct them every time they called the genre "Nonfiction." I demanded that it's CREATIVE nonfiction.
"Right, right. Creative nonfiction. In fiction, you can do this, but in nonfiction - "
"Creative nonfiction!"
"Creative nonfiction."
"Creeeaaaative... nonfiction."

There's a difference. A microwave manual, technically, is nonfiction. A science textbook is nonfiction. Creative nonfiction is something different entirely. I have more to say on this, but for now I'll just bring up the quote I found that made me think of this.
“I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next." - Gilda Radner
This is what can really separate fiction from creative nonfiction. Real life can be just as interesting as fantasy, if the story is told right. The mundane, as I have said before, can be just as intriguing as the grandiose. The end doesn't have to be the end. Sometimes, the fact that life rarely turns out the way we expect, the fact that shit happens, the fact that humans have flaws and are ungraceful and make mistakes, reminds us of our humanity. And there can be beauty in that. There can be meaning in that. We don't have to go to Oz or to Cloud City or Mordor to find these things. Sometimes we just have to go to the bus stop.

This is something I found on Wiki when I looked up Gilda Radner: "Gene Wilder had this to say about her death:
She went in for the scan – but the people there could not keep her on the gurney. She was raving like a crazed woman – she knew they would give her morphine and was afraid she’d never regain consciousness. She kept getting off the cart as they were wheeling her out. Finally three people were holding her gently and saying, "Come on Gilda. We’re just going to go down and come back up." She kept saying, "Get me out, get me out!" She’d look at me and beg me, "Help me out of here. I’ve got to get out of here." And I’d tell her, "You’re okay honey. I know. I know." They sedated her, and when she came back, she remained unconscious for three days. I stayed at her side late into the night, sometimes sleeping over. Finally a doctor told me to go home and get some sleep. At 4 am on Saturday, I heard a pounding on my door. It was an old friend, a surgeon, who told me, "Come on. It’s time to go." When I got there, a night nurse, whom I still want to thank, had washed Gilda and taken out all the tubes. She put a pretty yellow barrette in her hair. She looked like an angel. So peaceful. She was still alive, and as she lay there, I kissed her. But then her breathing became irregular, and there were long gaps and little gasps. Two hours after I arrived, Gilda was gone. While she was conscious, I never said goodbye."
This is nonfiction, and it's one of the most powerful things I've read in a while. Having read this, I feel like I've learned all I needed to know.

1 comment:

michalkr said...
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