You pride yourself on your ability to read and understand other people, don’t you?  Of course you do.  And you are not alone.  Show me one man, woman or child, born without a self-proclaimed ability to spot a kindred spirit or to ferret out the less desirable of our species.  Stop anyone on the street and ask them, “Are you a good judge of integrity, rectitude, and moral fiber?”  Watch them puff up with confidence; chances are you’ll hear a story or two about spotting the rotten apple or championing the true-blue underdog.    And you are right there with them, front and center, with your head held high.  You’ve got countless examples of your expertise in appraising your fellow citizen.  You could write a book.  Several books.  Maybe you should think about getting an agent. If there’s one thing you know, it’s people.  No one pulls the wool over your eyes.

Lucky you, so confident in your Geiger counter ability to spot radioactive human behavior.  You network with talented, like-minded souls and reinforce each other’s certainty that you do, in fact, have it all figured out.  It’s all about Us and Them, isn’t it?  You are smug, very secure on your side of the fence.  And you can easily spell out human nature using your simple ABCs.

I know how you feel because I once walked amongst you.  I too categorized people based on political affiliation, social standing, and personal hygiene.  I was a quick study, lightning fast.  Sometimes it was as simple as an awkwardly constructed sentence in the course of a conversation,  or your enthusiasm for a mediocre book or, even worse, a poor selection of footwear. Cars, haircuts, earnest tattoos, I was convinced that each one of these things clearly established your identity.  Every peg had a hole.

Back in those days, I banished most of you from my kingdom due to a perceived lack of intelligence (yours) but some of you were welcomed to my inner sanctum.  Once upon a time, my trust was easily won with the right combination of words.  Pick a topic of import, speak passionately, introduce a surprising insight, make me laugh, and I was yours.  As a young artist I was particularly susceptible to flattery.   If you could talk about my work with even mild enthusiasm, place me in an important historical context, there was an excellent chance I would fall in love with you.  Easily read, I was often fooled.

Norman's inner sanctum

And then one glorious morning, after suffering countless emotional concussions, I awoke with an incredible realization.  I AM A TERRIBLE JUDGE OF CHARACTER.  I don’t understand people.  I don’t know why they do what they do or say what they say.  None of it makes sense to me and it never will.  And with this realization has come incredible peace.  I don’t get it.  I’ll never get it.  You people are very confusing but it’s okay.  I am free.  Everything is going to be okay.  I encourage you to carry on.

Sincerely Yours,

Norman Wentworth, a terrible judge of character

Katie Arnoldi as Norman Wentworth

]]> http://www.katiearnoldi.com/norman-wentworth-discusses-character/feed/ 0 http://www.katiearnoldi.com/janice-bane-is-seriously-angry/ http://www.katiearnoldi.com/janice-bane-is-seriously-angry/#comments Mon, 07 May 2012 20:22:58 +0000 katie http://www.katiearnoldi.com/?p=679 Janice Bane is mean.  Born in my novel Point Dume, she was always a disillusioned, unhappy, frequently stoned wife and mother but not a particularly malicious person.   Back in novel #3 she had wishes and dreams, there was graduate school to think about, intensive Jungian therapy, guided self-care exercises and the vague yet hopeful possibility of a divorce.  Janice was poised to rise above the pettiness of her day-to-day; she had a real shot at happiness.  I rooted for her while I was writing Point Dume and felt confident she would succeed.

A few years later Janice is front and center in my new novel.  Things have not gone well.  A difficult and competitive mother, critical father, emotionally challenged sister and monumentally insensitive husband have eaten away at Janice’s natural optimism.   The whole parenting thing is proving to be somewhat less fulfilling than promised.  Friends are shallow.  Life holds little purpose.  These days Janice takes a lot of drugs, drinks too much, and is plagued by an extreme form of the general malaise that strikes many of the over-privileged women on the Westside of Los Angeles.  Janice Bane is miserable and cannot tolerate happiness in others.   She sees the world through very beady eyes.

More than once I’ve said that if you’re going to talk about the rodeo you better be willing to climb up on the bull.  In order to write from an authentic place, one must inhabit some aspect of a character’s world.  The writer must soak in the lifestyles and philosophies of her people, visit their homes, drive their cars, eat their food.  She must get inside their skin and wear it before she can even think about speaking with their voice.  If that doesn’t sound like fun, I suggest you find another day job.

So right now, as I work through the endless mid-point of my untitled novel-in-progress, I’m walking around in the body of Janice Bane, seeing the world through her dark, dark glasses.  I’ve been with Janice for quite awhile and the solid boundary between her grievances and mine are blurring but I need to state for the record that the following is a list of HER issues, not mine.  Sweet-tempered me would never stoop to this low and petty level.  Ever.

Five things Janice Bane hates:

1. JUICERS (people who juice).

You with your food fads, pushing your scientifically challenged philosophies about health and welfare on the world at large.  You are nothing more than culinary fashion victims; you change your eating habits with the seasons.  All meat/no carbs, vegan, rawtarian, fruitarian.  You swig your oxygenated water with ionic separation alkalinization with self-satisfied arrogance.   Keep it to yourselves, people.  We don’t want to hear it.

2. PERFUME AND COLOGNE.

No one should have to smell you.  Do not invade the olfactory system of your fellow man with your strong, store-bought, personal smell.

3. STRAIGHT MEN WHO CHANGE THEIR JEWELRY.

Men, it is fine if you have a favorite necklace or bracelet, something of sentimental value, a self-defining ring.  But the man who shows up one day with bear claws around his neck,

the next with a diamond encrusted skull dangling on a platinum chain,

and dog tags the following day, the guy who sports a variety of bracelets or rings, that guy is not welcome. 

That guy needs to step away from the mirror.

4.  DAGGERS.

Unless you’re willing to drop down on all fours, this should not be allowed.

5. LIT TALK (Janice’s main pet peeve)

Can fiction be relevant in today’s world? What does the future hold for the short story?  Is the novel really dead?  Really?  Are there any stupider questions than these?  Don’t you people have anything better to do with your time than to pose and ponder these ridiculous notions?  Writers are going to tell their stories no matter what the critics and theorists come up with in their classrooms and symposiums.  We writers don’t care about your conclusions.  You are the fans, sitting in the bleachers.  You may cheer us on or heckle us.  It doesn’t matter.   We are going to go on fighting our way towards the goal while you concoct new and inventive ways to justify your inclusion in the conversation.  Your questions are meaningless.  The best thing you could do is be quiet.  Watch and learn.

This concludes Janice’s list of annoying subjects.  As you can see, she has a lot of issues.  My hope is that she works through them quickly or that I finish the book so that I can shed her skin and step back into the world with my usual sunny disposition fully intact.  I hope you have enjoyed this peek inside Janice Bane’s head.

Katie Arnoldi as Janice Bane

From the airport we drove an hour west to the end of the dirt road.  We passed many villages where I saw bare breasted ladies, dressed in grass skirts, herding pigs.  It truly was like stepping back in time.  (Except for the fact that I was driving by in an air-conditioned van).  At the end of the road we caught a boat ride to our hotel.

Katie Arnoldi in Papua New Guinea

Tawali is considered one of the best scuba diving hotels in the world, which was the main reason we chose it.  I found the diving in that part of Milne Bay very good, not great.  However, the culture in the surrounding area is fantastic.  One afternoon we took a boat ride to a nearby village.

The people in the village were extremely friendly, some invited us into their homes.  Everyone gathered round to welcome.  Pigs wandered freely.

We left the village and hiked through dense jungle, which was alive with the sounds of exotic and spooky birds, to a pretty waterfall.

Then we continued on to the skull caves.  I was told that headhunters in Milne Bay typically captured enemies from neighboring villages, brought them back home, cooked them up, and ate them.  It was thought that by ingesting ones’ enemy, you would absorb their strength and power.  This practice is often referred to as exocannibalism.  The skull was always kept as a trophy.  I had read about the skull caves in Milne Bay,  museums of headhunting glory, and was anxious to see one.  We hiked up a long and muddy path to the first cave.

Katie at the Skull Cave

Then we followed our guide down into the inky darkness.

I expected to see ten,  twenty skulls.  Maybe thirty.  After all this time, how many skulls could be left?  In theory it’s been over 100 years since the last incident of ritualistic cannibalism was performed.  I stood and waited for my eyes to adjust in the darkness and then focused.

This is not a movie set

There were hundreds of skulls.  Mountains of skulls.  There were bats flying around, it was dark, the mosquitoes were biting and I was looking at a long history of terrible human atrocity.

We hiked higher up the mountain to the second, larger cave where we found even more skulls.   Hundreds and hundreds of skulls.   All of these people.  People!  I found myself separating from the reality.   The place was terrible but oddly thrilling.  It forced me to ask myself, could I live this way?  Are there basic instincts by which all of mankind is regulated?  If you grew up in a cannibalistic culture, does life then take on a different meaning?  Are we capable of endlessly adjusting to all circumstance?

A Trash Heap of Skulls

I stayed in the cave until I was covered in bites.  For some reason those particular mosquitoes seemed attracted to DEET.  I thought about malaria and finally asked the guide to lead us back down the mountain.  I came out of dense jungle into the sunlight and jumped into the brilliant blue water of that incredible ocean.  It was hard to reconcile the terrible history, the dark and ominous place on the mountain, with dazzling sunshine and the smiling faces of the people in the village.

They call Papua New Guinea “The Land of the Unexpected”.  Yes, that’s true.  It’s a lot more than you’d expect.  And better.

Doorman at airport hotel

Books and websites warn the female visitor to dress modestly, always keeping shoulders and knees covered, and to never travel alone.  This bit of information did concern me.  Bikinis are discouraged and several sites advised swimming in a sarong.  I’m not sure how far one could actually swim in a sarong but I got the message.  Cover up.  Be as invisible as possible.  Respect this modest culture. So it was confusing to me when I got to the airport and saw the public art decorating the walls.  Picture after picture of topless women, dancing with wild abandon.

We flew up to the Southern Highlands to visit the Huli tribes.  I was pleased and surprised to see that the area remains very culturally intact.  Many of the older ladies are still topless.  The younger women wear woven tops and grass skirts.

Huli Wife

Huli men and women live separately.  The men fear that the women have dangerous powers that will drain them of strength and so they do not allow wives or daughters to touch their food or enter their house.  Men never step foot in the women’s houses because it’s considered unsafe.  Couples conduct marital relations in the jungle.

The women are in charge of the gardens, raising the pigs and rearing children.  Pigs, guinea pigs (used for fur), children and women all live in tiny thatched huts with dirt floors.  They also weave thatch and make clothing.  The men concentrate on honing their warrior skills so that they’re ready for battle.   Everyone works very hard.  Visiting these people made me feel very soft.

Pig's bedroom in the Women's house

The relations between men and women are hard for me to understand.  Brides are bought from their families.  The current bride price is 30 pigs.  Pigs are treated with great care.  Women have a much harder time.  Domestic violence is culturally acceptable.  Rape is a huge problem.   A woman can leave her husband only if she repays the thirty pigs, which is impossible for most.  I found it very telling that when a husband dies, the widow disguises herself so that his spirit will not be able to find her.   Widows don’t remarry.

Huli widow hiding from husband's spirit

Huli Wigmen

Exxon/Mobil is developing an extensive Liquid Natural Gas project in the Southern Highlands and has reportedly spent over 50 billion dollars thus far.   The area is changing very quickly.   Specialized workers from around the world are rushing to the Hela Province to mine and excavate precious natural resources.  Massive earth moving equipment tears into mountainsides, helicopters transport gigantic pipes over dense rain forest, trees are being cut, new roads built. Three weeks before I arrived in the country there was a huge landslide near the drill site that took out an entire village, killing an untold number of Papuan people.  It is a very tense situation in the Highlands.  I felt like I needed to get up there to see it before it was too late.

Landslide in Southern Highlands

I flew into Tari on a plane filled with Exxon/Mobil employees and was delighted to see that the airport security guard was dressed in traditional Huli clothing.  He wore strings of python vertebrae across his chest, kina shells around his neck, a cassowary beak on his back and a fierce cassowary dagger in his belt.  He was a welcome sight in amongst the engineers and executives.

The only tourist

The Highlands are spectacularly beautifully.   We stayed at a lodge in the mountains.

Ambua Lodge

There were no other guests during our visit.  Not even one.   No tourists.  I don’t know if that’s because of the military coup in January, the massive landslide, or the ferry disaster that killed about 100 people but we definitely had the place to ourselves.

Our guide Peter, who lived in a nearby village, explained that Huli life revolves around three things: land, women, and pigs.  Ownership equals power.  Wives are bought and paid for with pigs.  The traditional bride price is 30 pigs, payable to the woman’s family, and most of the men are polygamists.  Peter had two wives, five children, and was considering a third wife but confided that it was a lot of work keeping everyone happy and he wasn’t sure he wanted to take on another household.  Men live separately and communally in the Men’s House.  Women have their own houses where they raise the children and the pigs.  The pigs are valuable so they sleep inside the Women’s House.

Chief in the Men's House

The women are not allowed to enter the Men’s House.  Ever.  They are not allowed to prepare or touch the men’s food because men consider women evil and dangerous.  Husbands and wives consummate their marriages out in the bush—literally.  Once a month, when the woman is most fertile, the man takes her off into the jungle and has sex with her.  Typically they’ll meet for a few days in a row and work towards conception.  Once the woman is pregnant, the man leaves her alone.  I asked the chief about women and he explained that they drain the men of strength and power and should therefore be avoided.  This chief and I hit it off and I was invited inside his Men’s House, which was an incredible honor.  Apparently it was okay for me to enter his home because I didn’t have Huli blood.  He told me they’d do a special cleansing ceremony to rid the place of my evil woman-ness when the visit was over.

Katie in the Men's House

The fire on the dirt floor in the middle of the small house is kept  burning, night and day.  The place was very warm which is good because Huli men don’t use blankets.  It was very smoky inside and the ceiling was black with charcoal.  The wall was hung with pig bones and dried out hides.  Each body part marked a feast with a neighboring clan.  This was how they kept track of social obligation since there is no written language.

There are no chairs or furniture in the Men’s House and they don’t use beds but instead sleep on the bare dirt floor because it is believed that comfort makes a man soft and lazy.  Huli men are warriors and must be ready for battle at all times.  They only sleep a few hours a night and practice with their weapons everyday.

Clan wars are frequent.  Common reasons for battle include land disputes, stolen pigs or loss of honor.  Our guide Peter showed us two serious scars where he’d been struck by arrows.  People die in clan wars constantly.  It happens all the time.  Today.  Right now.

There is a lot of ritual dance in this culture.  The Huli men are especially famous for their wigs made of human hair.

The men pay to go to the wig school where the wig master casts special spells and instructs their diet and behavior so that the hair will grow properly.  It takes about 18 months to grow an everyday wig.  The men have to sleep with their neck elevated on a log so that the hair will grow properly. If they don’t follow the wig master’s instructions exactly, the hair will not grow.

Once the hair is long enough and perfectly shaped it is cut and fashioned into the wig, then decorated with feathers or shells, and used in ritual dances.  It is not uncommon for a man to have several wigs.

Next up, the women…

I went with my tough-guy boots and my outlaw dreams.

I went because it’s called Murder City, because it’s so extreme, a war zone without any rules.  I wanted to see how people live; I was attracted to the lawlessness.  I love Mexico.  It was a test.

A lot of terrible things have happened in Juarez.  One of them was the shooting death of a 15-year-old boy named Sergio Adrian who was killed by a U.S. border patrol agent.  Sergio was in Mexico when the bullet pierced his skull; the agent was in the U.S.  U.S. agents say Sergio was throwing rocks.  The bullet hit him right between the eyes.

He died in a dry tributary of the Rio Grande.  There’s an invisible line down the middle of the concrete waterway, which delineates the border.  Sergio was on one side, the agent on the other.  I stood where Sergio was killed and read the graffiti: Che Guevara’s face surrounded by words of outrage and pledges of revenge.

There aren’t any border walls in Juarez.   We Americans are welcomed.  But in El Paso there are two and sometime three fences, concertina wire, and of course the Rio Grande.  The border is swarming with patrol vehicles.  It’s very difficult for a Mexican to come across illegally, especially in the area where Sergio was killed.

I drove through the streets of Juarez up into the hills where Sergio’s mother lives.  It is a poor neighborhood; pallet shacks with scrap-metal roofs and bootlegged electricity.   Most places don’t have running water.  I listened as a mother told of losing her child and then watched as the U.S. government vilified her precious boy.  They claimed he was running drugs.  They said he was a coyote.  I stood in Sergio’s tiny room and saw the religious icons and the boy-like drawings he made of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

Sergio’s family lives in extreme poverty.  They have no authority or influence; their voice is not heard.  Sergio’s death is an inconvenience, a thorn in the side of U.S. policy makers.  The Mexican government seems to have forgotten the incident.  The officer who shot Sergio is still on duty.

There is nothing romantic about life in Juarez.  It is a dangerous city where the poor have few options.  As I walked back across the bridge to El Paso a crippled man held out his beggars cup.  His leg was withered and black with gangrene.  His only hope of survival is to cut off the damaged limb.  I doubt he will get the help he needs.

Actual photo of me as a shrew

Sometimes I travel with family or friends but often I’m on my own.  I know that this wanderlust is genetic, part of my physiological make-up, unalterable and fixed.  I was born to adventurous parents, a descendant of migrant cultures from past generations.  (I’m actually jealous of the pioneers; I long to travel unexplored territory in a covered wagon or on horseback or by dugout canoe)

Katie Arnoldi

My need to roam is chronic but manageable.  Sometimes jumping in the car and driving for a day or two will sooth my savage beast and I’ll return home filled with peace and gratitude.  Movement, change of scene, talking to strangers, sleeping under the stars or climbing a mountain peak, always calms me.  My trips don’t have to involve an airplane and a foreign language.  All I have to do is get out in the world, change my perspective, step outside of my life and insert myself into different environments, watch myself react in alien situations, and I am renewed.   Who am I?  Certainly not the person I was two days ago.  (Thank goodness because she was so boring.)

Today I’m feeling a sense of peace and calm because my son and I just returned from a fantastic trip to the Solomon Islands.  It is my new favorite country.  (I often return from traveling to an unfamiliar place and declare it my new favorite.  My most favorite list is extensive.)  It takes a long time to get to there.  For us it was two days of travel and a forced layover in Fiji.   We stepped off the plane into the hot, rich tropical air of Honiara on the island of Guadalcanal, and walked across the tarmac to the terminal.  I was surprised by the excellent paintings that line the walls of the baggage calm area, scene after scene of warriors with thick bone-rings piercing their noses, spears and shields.   Here the headhunting history is celebrated and I was thrilled by the images.  Of course I couldn’t find my camera at the airport so there are no photos of the art.  Trust me, the work is impressive.

With over 1,000 islands, most of them uninhabited and untouched by any sort of development, the Solomon Islands is a country of spectacular beauty.  We spent one night in Honiara then took a tiny plane to Gizo, which is in the Western Province.  From the airstrip we jumped on a boat to Sanbis Resort on the island of Mbabanga.

The resort consists of six basic cabins with solar powered ceiling fans and mosquito nets (malaria is an issue).  They grow a lot of their own food and rely on local fishermen for lunches and dinners.

The place is clean and beautiful, there is running water, and the food is outstanding.

The primary reason for our trip was the scuba diving and we were the only guests for most of our weeklong visit.  It was strange and awesome to be there alone.   The water temperature varied between 86 and 90 degrees and the visibility was outstanding.  The reefs are healthy with a huge variety of corals, tons of fish, and both Japanese and American WWII wrecks.  We did three dives a day and spent surface time either fishing from the boat or lounging on isolated beaches.

Fishermen paddled by in dugout canoes.  I’m enthusiastic and like to wave at all people in boats.  They always wave back.

The market at the nearby town of Gizo was fantastic.  I was so impressed by the abundant array of fruits and vegetables.   The people are friendly and welcoming.  And proud.  I felt honored to walk the streets of Gizo.

We visited a sacred burial site where dozens of skulls and bones were displayed on altars.   It was fantastic.  The Solomon Islands really were the epicenter of headhunters.   Several of my novels have touched on cannibalism and tribal ritual.  Skull imagery is a big part of my visual alphabet (see homepage of my website).   I can’t get enough.

But when I stood in front of the skull altar I realized that while I may play at understanding primal instinct and tribal law, the truth is I have no idea what I’m talking about.   There is a power to that part of the world and I don’t understand it.  But I can feel it and I want to understand.  So I’m going back.

After seven days on Mbabanga we climbed aboard this little plane and headed home.  I’ve got a ticket to Papua New Guinea for February.  I’m going up to the Highlands where the Huli tribes live to see what there is to see.  Maybe I’ll figure something out.  I’m calm and happy.  The next trip is just around the corner.

Recently there has been renewed interest in turning Chemical Pink into a movie, which is of course a thrilling prospect for me.  I have been meeting with producers and directors.  I find myself once again discussing the fascinating world of competitive body modification and realize that lot has changed; Bodybuilding has evolved.  By the late eighties/early nineties, the pioneer women of the sport had trained hard and through diet and supplementation were able to achieve a level of muscularity never before seen.  They just kept growing.  And growing.  Many of the fans found the increased muscularity offensive and felt they were witnessing the grotesque and unnatural transformation of women into men.  The audience started to turn away from the sport.   The sponsors panicked. Something had to be done.  Fitness Competition was born which allowed women to compete with a lot less muscle.   Most of the Fitness girls had some sort of gymnastic skills and thus brought to the sport a new level of athleticism.  And then Figure competition was introduced for those lacking the dexterity of a gymnast.  And then Bikini competition came along for those with a pleasing shape but not much muscle.  Most recently Women’s Physique has been introduced to bridge the gap between Bodybuilding and Fitness/Figure.

Everyone shows up for the contest tan and lean.   99.9% have long, painted fingernails.  Here you will not see any shake or jiggle in the winners circle.

Bodybuilding

Physique

Fitness

Figure

Bikini

They’re like a set of Russian Nesting Dolls, dark brown and oiled, in each in a different colored bikini.

The point of each competition is to display the oneself in a series of positions and hope that the judges will find your form to be the most ideal.  As you work your way down the line from the original Bodybuilder to Bikini, you will see that each group gets a little less muscular, a little softer, until you have the girls in the Bikini category standing on stage with firm physiques but very little actual definition.

All the women are told that their posing suits “must be in good taste” and under no circumstances are they allowed to wear thongs (which are considered bad taste).  Bikini, Figure and Fitness competitors are encouraged to wear jewelry.  Bodybuilders and Women’s Physique are not.

Bikini, Figure and Fitness competitors must wear high heels during the competition.  Bodybuilder and Physique contestants are not allowed to wear shoes and must compete barefoot.

Bodybuilders do the traditional poses, also done by the men, and with closed fists to emphasis the density of muscle.

Physique competitors do the same poses but with the more feminine “open hand” to accentuate the beauty of form.

In all fields there is music and the artful display of body parts.  Fitness girls tend to do back flips and somersaults; a prerequisite for that category seems to be extreme flexibility.

I wonder about my character from Chemical Pink, Aurora Jeanine Johnson.   Aurora was in some ways a lab rat for Charles Worthington.  She suffered terrible consequences in pursuit of her goals.  If I was to write her story today, would it be as extreme?  Are the girls in these new categories subjecting themselves to the same kinds of tortures that she endured?  Is Charles Worthington still holding the reins?  Or have these amazing women taken control of their lives and destinies?  It is a question worth asking.

Read article.

People, I am not writing about YOU.

Just because you notice one of my characters walking around in your alligator pumps with that black Moschino dress you wear all the time does not mean she’s Mary Jo Special.   And even if her manner of speaking sounds familiar, she’s not preaching your message.  Did you notice she has black hair?  Do you have black hair?  No.  You see?  I rest my case.

And sir, if my man uses your kind of toothpaste, is born on your birthday or drives the same year, make and model of your dream car, that does not mean he’s living your life.  Trust me my friend, he’s on a very different path.  (By the way, he went to a much better college than you did, which doesn’t necessarily make him smarter, just different.   And better educated.  Please try to relax. )

Maybe you make little “yum, yum” noises when you eat.  Did you notice that one of my less-likeable people does the same thing?  News flash: doesn’t mean I’m talking about you.   I like you.  You’re not bad.  And I am not saying that all bad people make “yum, yum” noises or that there’s anything wrong with smacking and groaning when you eat.   It’s just something my character does, has nothing to do with you.  Maybe I noticed you do that too but that’s just a coincidence.

Here’s how it works:
For me, going to The Office every morning is like walking into a vast industrial-sized kitchen.  First thing I have to do is turn on the oven/computer and get the place warmed up.  Then I open the refrigerator and see what ingredients I have to work with on that particular day.  I know, you want to stop me right there and ask, “Who stocks the fridge?  Where is the market?”  I see that you’re alarmed because you think you recognize your nose sitting on the shelf next to the glass butter dish.  And you’re pretty sure you spotted a half empty container of Mrs. Hornsby’s messy divorce behind that quart of O.J.  Oh-my-god is that your mother’s face on the milk carton?

Do a slow turn and see that the condiments and spices, the dry goods and canned items, are all composed of bits and pieces of shared moments and thoughts from our collective lives.  How did all this stuff get in my kitchen and what the hell am I going to do with your childhood memories?  As far as you’re concerned, none of this belongs here.  It’s yours, not mine.  And let’s face it; you don’t really like my cooking most of the time.  You were lying when you said you did.

I know I’m not the best chef in the world.  I admit that my successes are few and far between.  I often burn things and have to start over.  None of the recipes are written down so I’m forced to guess at the measurements and many times my concoctions are too salty or not sweet enough, watery or too thick.  But look around.  I’ve spent my whole life collecting these ingredients and they are all I have to work with.  So if I grab a pinch of your first sexual experience or a splash of your last extended depression, if you see that ridiculous fight we had three weeks ago show up in the second chapter of my next book, you’re just going to have to understand that each one of those elements are merely side dishes at my master banquet.  It’s not your tale that I’m trying to narrate, my friend.  These are my characters and I will use every single resource I have to tell their stories.  If you don’t want help with the preparations, I completely understand.  But in that case, I suggest you step away from this writer.  And stay far away.  And even with the distance, I can’t promise that you won’t show up on the page eventually.

If you do decide to stay for dinner, and I hope you will, I suggest you tie on your bib and pull up a chair.  I’m about to take the soufflé out of the oven and I have a feeling it’s going to turn out well but it might be a little messy.  Yes, I too smell your grandmother’s muffins and perhaps that is a piece of Aunt Susan’s scarf.  Let’s hope they add to the overall flavor.  Grab your spoon; it’s time to eat.