This is Suzanne Horne
I did not know Suzanne, but she gave me two awards. I didn't deserve them. She was so beautiful. Her site, Liquid Illusion, was stunningly gorgeous. It was sumptuous. Languid. Lovely. I could have been kinder, more generous, encouraging, but I did not know... And I think I should have.
I have been visiting her vacant, abandoned site obsessively this evening. I go back to look at her loveliness over and over. She was a poet, but I didn't comment often. I admired her, but I did not tell her enough. I know I couldn't have saved her, but I could have been kinder. I could have been generous with my words. She was a very talented photographer. She deserved more of life than this. She killed herself on Christmas Eve. A woman in her prime. Only forty two.
These are her words
If I have been a bad girl..........
It may well have depended on the situation at hand.
If I have acted out in a bad way......
I'm sure you know the conditions I was forced to act under.
If I was sneaky........
You'll know I had no choice in the matter.
(No rules in love and war, right?)
If I had bad thoughts dancing in my head.........
like really bad thoughts.....
you'll notice I didn't act upon those.
I just allowed them to dance for awhile.
If I was naughty.............
I was good at it.
Just requests for more.
If I seemed cruel and heartless...........
I just evened the score!
If you see me dressed somewhat like you on Christmas Eve.......
Please take no personal offense.
Consider it a "treat" for someone who has been REALLY good.
Oh, and if you saw me dip the cat's feet in red paint and toss her onto the trampoline.....
Well, you've got me there!
These are the words of Suzanne Horne, Liquid Illusion
Disorder and freezing rain with a heavy dusting of snow have turned me into one very pissed off woman today. I've put off getting the radiator flushed and refilled with the appropriate antifreeze for my Dodge, which came here from Tucson, where it didn't need antifreeze that covered temperatures below -5, so now I'm fucked. Can't start the car for fear of cracking the block. I only wanted to start the car so I could run the defroster a while and try to soften the sheet of ice in which the whole vehicle is incased. Oh well, I'll be fine for a few days. But damn it's cold, and it's the kind of cold that sets my teeth on edge. All the walkways and driveways are thick with ice and must be salted. This sets the dogs teeth on edge and makes me feel guilty. But I don't want to break my hip, nor have the mail person break his/her hip and sue me, so salt it is.
I know I should eat, but I don't feel like it. I'm not exactly hungry, just running on empty, so eat I must. One bowl of chili later and I'm still pissed off. I have furiously vacuumed the main room, but now the real test is, will I actually go all the way and vacuum the greenhouse/bathroom, and clean everything like my life depended on it? And who knows, maybe it does.
I have stories half finished and languishing here and there all undone. What an untidy life I lead. I have tiny editorial corrections noted and ready to be made on the novel, but for some reason I keep putting it off. Is this my subtle way of sabotaging myself? Because I have very nearly made a career of sabotaging myself. I did it with every relationship I've ever had. Well with men, anyway. This is not to say the men had no part in the sabotaging.
Tom, refusing to read my writing was a big mistake, just in case you were wondering. Pat, sending me an email telling me you read my blog and like my writing, but can't read the novel, just made me hate you more than I already did. If you "can't read (my) novel" best you tell me why, rather than just leave it hanging there. Of course my question would be "why?" Is it the writing? Is it the content? Are you a pussy? A coward? A stupid asshole? Why bother sending me an email at all, if you're just going to insult me one more time? What is it with certain men? And why do I know so many of this certain type of man? Is it the age of these men? Is it generational? Are all the men my generation assholes? Nick seems to be a very nice man, he's smart, kind, generous. But even Nick refuses to read my fiction. This may end up being my bottom line. Can you read my fiction and tell me how you feel about it? If you don't like it, can you tell me why? I know all these men are readers of fiction. Both Tom and Nick have great taste in books. As for Pat, I have no idea about his reading taste.
I know I'm a difficult woman. How could I not be? If you read my fiction, you would know the answer to this question.
Paul Krugman piece in the NY Times just makes me love him more. Sweet talking, Nobel Prize winning, Krugman is hot. And he's a blogger. I know he's too young for me, but still, smart talking men who seem sweet as well as smart, really get to me. Mummm, I love it when you talk smart to me Krugman.