Last year I went to Munich for the opening of a friend who was including a story of mine in his art catalog. While we were sitting around watching a video of him in his apartment in Kathy Acker's black dress, he told me that my writing reminded him of her writing. He wanted to know if I'd ever read her work, but I'd never heard of her before.
Call me conservative, conventional, out of it, under-educated. Sure, I would say, I'm all of these things. Not to mention being buried under a depression for most of my life. God, spare me from its clutches, please, for the rest of my life, please....
My friend advised me to read Acker, and I told him I would, but then forgot her name completely by the time I left Munich again. Who was this woman, anyway? The dress was huge. Of course, my friend is an extremely thin man, so lacking in every form of curve. He described the dress as "Goth." So I imagined a large woman with dried out died black hair, ripped fishnet stockings, lots of black eyeliner, and black lipstick. Maybe a little purple thrown in somewhere for a dash of color.
I decided to dismiss his recommendation to read her work, since I knew that I'd never remember her name again, and we haven't been in touch since I left Munich. His art career is taking off, and I can't imagine him wasting too much more time with someone like me, although I could be wrong.
On the recommendation of a volunteer at the Rotterdam International Film Festival, I booked a ticket to see "Who's Afraid of Kathy Acker," a documentary by an Austrian woman, Barbara Caspar.
It all came together, and I realized she was the writer he compared me to.
Gosh, I can't imagine my writing is too much like hers, but my friend is very well read and educated. Maybe he was giving me an undeserved compliment, or making an attempt at associating my work with a greater trend or tradition. After seeing the documentary, I'm sure I'm quite the opposite in demeanor to Ms. Acker. Certainly, I haven't got her ambition, drive, connections. I certainly do not care, and am not trying to emanate anyone at all.
It was when they interviewed my friend's mentor Carolee Schneemann, that I was reminded of his comment. It all came together. The black dress, and all.
Since I prefer lyrical prose, and really should have been a musician or a singer, I wonder if I would even be capable of appreciating her work. She comes highly recommended, but I wonder about the literary merit of her writing. She struck me as more of a performer, or performance artist, but she also amassed a body of writing, fiction, non-fiction, essays. I heard her perform some of her work in the documentary, and I thought, my writing, at its best, "sounds" better.
There are moments when I have grandiose, delusional fantasies of success, or of doing something great, but mostly I realize that I'm too lazy, my self-esteem is too low, and I'm too confused to carry out any grand scheme. I'm content to write a few little stories when I'm feeling up to it, and I've been thinking more and more, it would be nice to earn enough money to go "home" more often. I think that if I can manage to raise two well-balanced people, that will be my greatest achievement.
Delusion is a funny thing, though. Sometimes, when I have them, I can imagine that I'd have to be interviewed, answer questions, go on tour, and then I think, oh, I could never do that. They always ask you things like, what are your influences? Well, who the hell are they, I wonder? I could scratch up a few. There's Dorris Lessing. I could rattle off a bunch of poets. There are a lot of writers I've enjoyed reading. Jane Smiley was good. Alice Sebold told me to read Alice Adams, so I did. Acker idolizes Rimbaud, whose work I've read in English, but I can't say he's an influence. Of course there's Raymond Carver, right? I've read philosophy, but I've never immersed myself in it, and I've never so much as dabbed my toes in people like Baudrillard or Deleuze, which probably puts me out of the cool mainstream clicking hipster types. I always kind of wondered why it was necessary to place oneself into a line of thought in order to write a few stories, and it's not. I say. It's not.
When I get beyond the fantasies, though, I do believe obscurity is preferable. We grow up with the notion that fame seeking is a desirable goal, that glory is the highest form of attainment but really, this is a misguided notion. Toiling away in obscurity, going on your way in anonymity. We need a new language for this.... Sometimes I think it's best not having anyone to talk to at all, my head rings with conversation so irritably sometimes hours after an exchange with someone, when I was quite happy thinking to myself. Too often potential contacts or friendships disappoint, so why should I want to be famous. I think fame is boring, an irritation, a distration.
In the film they interviewed young New York female college students talking about how much Kathy Acker speaks to them. Her voice is their voice, they said. Her most notorious book is about the incestuous love affair between a father and his ten-year-old daughter.
I realize incest is something we shouldn't keep quiet about. It really is too much of a taboo subject. People need to be more aware of it in order to stop it, I think. There are too many taboos, and we really are pushed far too much into uniform conformity. I won't argue that point. I guess the talk show phenomenon touches on this a bit, but I never watch them.
I sort of doubt, though, considering the content, that Acker's novel on incest could speak to me much, or that I would consider that she's speaking for me. I really don't know what to say. I suppose I ought to read the work before commenting. It just struck me. I think it would disturb me a lot to read it, and I can't imagine it being edifying in any way. There are so many other stories to read out there.
As a teenager in New York I once responded to an advertisement in the Village Voice to work in a nightclub. When I called, the woman on the other end of the line made it clear that it would entail more than collecting tickets and smiling, or serving drinks. I had the impression that nightclub work paid well, and I wanted to earn some good money. Plus, it seemed exciting, glamorous, "happening." I don't remember exactly what the woman asked me, but she wanted to know how open I'd be to certain things, and I said, sorry, but my sister is here, I can't talk about this now, to which the woman replied, well, how old is your sister, and i said 16. Then she told me, "You know, you're too much of a nice girl for this job. Thank you." The world is in need of nice gals like me, ain't it. We're the ones keeping this world spinin' around, baby.
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