Blogging A Million Little Pieces
If i sound a little angry for the next few words or so, please excuse me. Somebody shook my core.
I've just put down a copy of a druggie's memoir, which is fast becoming one of the most controversial (read: publisher's goldmine) books in America today. James Frey's A Million Little Pieces is controversial, not because it now holds a enviable place in the little book club by the lady with the Midas' touch, Oh hail, Queen Oprah, or because Frey was acclaimed to be the literary genius of his generation, but because he prided the book as a memoir, when in fact, or should i say in truthiness, he exercised a little creativity, which according to some, has no room in autobiographies. He embelished, he got rich quick, now he's getting screwed.
I, on the other hand, personally like the book. It did away with most adjectives and adverbs, much to a lazy audience delight (ahem,ahem). If there was a chair in the room, he just said there's a chair in the room. He did away with most punctuations as well, did not care for grammatical forms. Most of the time i got confused on who was talking got confused where the sentenced ended where he was in the facility whether he was daydreaming or sleeping or daydreaming or hallucinating whether he was angry or happy or out of it or together. If you got confused on my last run-on-over-under-beneath-beyond sentence, that was how i was feeling most of the time while immersed in the book. I was confused. It shook my core. He's my freaking idol.
I love him because he puts it out there. Yes, there are times when i use friggin, and freakin' and all this pseudo-curses when i know, like him, fucking would be a more appropriate term. I reserve the right to swear for a general patronage's sake when i know cussing will get my message across quickly, though not painlessly. He moves the reader, me, without lifting a finger. I cringed when he removed his toenail with his barehands, as he took of his 41 stitches on his cheeks with a nail clipper and as he had root canals without anesthesia. I don't remember how many times i had to put the book down to take a breather or drink some water, but i craved for the book not long after. I don't give a damn that he embelished. He fucking rocks.
He didn't have to romanticized the fact of being a druggie to raise appeal for the book. He didn't give you the sense that he was to be your hero, that you know him after you turned the last page. He didn't know most answers. He didn't even know himself. He was funny without trying to be. It was funny, as it was tragic. It tickles your funny bone, though it's breaking his in half. He didn't tear, shred, or filter to make it more palatable to your senses. He serves them straight up, no rocks, no salt, no chasers. He describes his pain as an addict, all the while describing yours because you feel it too. Everybody has an addiction. Crack, alcohol, meth on one end of the spectrum, companionship, love, acceptance on the other. They all bring us our needed, much craved for highs. It's just a matter of picking your poison. At the end of the day, some fess up to it. Some are just chickenshit to accept it.
My blog turns one today. I never thought i'd see the day. I've never committed myself to something this personal, this intimate, for the longest time as now. I know i'm going to be as naked as the day i was born when i started this blog, but it has been one good (free?)therapy. I've written a couple of drafts before this one to celebrate one year of emotional binge and purge. The first one sounds cheesy, the second, scary. If you know me well enough, somewhere here in this post is me. Part of me, definitely not entirely, but still me. So to my blog, thanks for archiving my emotional rollercoaster, and those who read, thanks for taking a ride.