In which the light never goes out

Death and its associates are constantly on the forefront of my mind as a Shelleyan, as a student of the Gothic and as a recovering Catholic. Death has been a passively familiar concept to me to the degree that I’ve felt almost completely numb to its nuances and only moved by dead people’s archaic reactions to death in their time (a la Mary Godwin in the absence of Mary Wollstonecraft or Percy Shelley). Outside of the page, death has been a backburner reality: an ultimate (and necessary) destination, unavoidable at its base and not-here-soon-enough on Some Bad Days.

In short, death has been a neutral, sometimes pervading, constant in my life–whereas life itself? Well…

I started thinking about life when Lou Reed died.

I was absolutely desolate and inconsolable. I spent at least 8 of the first 24 hours (according to the number of play-throughs of Transformer) submerged at the bottom of my bathtub (which was only possibly 1/500th filled with my tears but most definitely 110% me drowning in sorrows).  It hurt. It hurt so much. Dino Stamatopoulos succinctly summed up why in this tweet:


Lou Reed lived, no, survived as an openly queer man, as a godfather of punk rock, as a Jewish-American and as a heroin post-addict. Lou Reed could and would have died at various stages of his life from adolescence onward due to abuses wrought unto him by others or by himself. But Lou Reed lived. He lived for 71 years. For approx. 11 of those years, he was an icon to me: an accumulation of admirable assets that appealed to me as humbly as a fan and impactfully as a cross-generational protege.

And yet I feel that’s infinitely too short and radically robbed.

Since October 27th, there’s been a gradual evolution in re-evaluating and re-inventing my lifestyle and perspective, most of which has been documented on this very blog.

A few days ago, when Peter O’Toole died, I was arrested into crippling sobbing, yet again. Much of the same assets of Reed were true of O’Toole. The NPR spotlight celebrated O’Toole as a hellraiser, but to me he only personifies endurance in the faces of addictions and prolonged-and-stacked illnesses and passion as the faces of iconoclasts. Though I forwent The Film Major what now feels like a lifetime ago (read: 4 years ago when I transferred majors after a Life Changing Event with the late Ken Russell), Eli Cross remains my patron saint of doing everything the best in the best way with little regard to the mores and socially acceptable functions of industrialized intellectual productivity.

Though O’Toole also outlived the odds and has thoroughly documented a lifetime of doing so in his leading roles, his passing still feels tragic and wrong.

Which spurred the moment of self-actualization for yours truly:

I don’t want to die. I actively do not want to die. I honestly want to live.

So settles the fear, the paranoia, the anger. How do I live? When will I die? How could I possibly have wasted so much of my life either actively anticipating death or passively disavowing life? 

It’s not that I was ever lacking in productivity. Certainly I’ve been active. I have a full CV to prove it and a litany of inside jokes and anecdotes. But how proactive have I been? How much can I reflect on myself and chart a lifetime?

Between point A and point B, Johnny fuckin’ Marr asked me what I did with my life and probed me beyond stammering superficials about my credentials. Johnny Marr was seeking the life in me. Johnny Marr believed it was there. And now I believe it’s there, too.

But is it possibly too late?  When I go to the doctor after years of having been off medication and dragging myself to the brink of self-induced trauma and shock, I dread the potential of hearing that my own negligence, my own passivity or, even worse, my own active damnation marred my body with considerable, possibly even irreparable damage. What opportunities have I skipped out on? Where could I be now? Who could I be now?

I have to trust that whatever life is in me is valuable and worth fostering–however much longer it lasts.

At the Johnny Marr show, I burst into tears during “There Is a Light,” cognizantly because of its feature on my Shelleys mix because of their own death-focused love affair. But upon reflection? Those tears were mine. They were for me. They were for me and the others I shared the floor with in that moment. They were for Johnny. Every single one of us carries a light–a guilding light, a hailing beacon for everyone in our remote vicinity–that never actually goes out, even when we’re snuffed out. There will always be those lapsing embers, those glistening wispy halos of smoke. Lacking them in some capacity might make it harder to navigate–but we were always captaining our own ships, anyways.

Rather than feeling deprived by death, I have to start learning to feel privileged by life.


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Recovery begins with the letter ‘I’ [tw: disordered eating]

My life, up to this point, was something I regarded as a string of accomplishments and mess-ups in no determined order of priority or relevant impact to my own existence. My unique forays into excellence and my individual tragedies have often been co-opted (rather than empathized) into my peers’ graduation speeches, or my colleagues’ credentials, or even my supposed loved ones’ dating profiles.

I’ve lived with the knowledge that my exes and ex-associates have been using my byronic fanaticism and  my academic achievements as *their* selling points in half-baked pick-ups.

Years before that, I learned what while my parents’ love was unconditional, there were some obvious lapses in the honest continuum of maintaining that truth. The unconditional love was considerably more loving  when my excellence was above average.

But then along the way, I’ve had smatterings of friends who haven’t gone the way of the dodo who have certainly not been hollow in their praise of my excellent qualities. However: 1. most of these friends have only been acquired during or after the foundations of critical self-loathing have been laid, 2. most of this praise is perceived as acting in defiance of my put-upon circumstances, rather than the actual result of them.

The way of the dodo: on a ship, sailing to exceed in the New World while I'm left shriveled and alone on an island surrounded by an ocean of my own tears

The way of the dodo: on a ship, sailing to exceed in the New World while I’m left shriveled and alone on an island surrounded by an ocean of my own tears.

Someone in my life recently praised me, telling me that I’m the most humble person they know, “even though [you] try not to act like it.” That was mortifying. Compliments to my supposed humility in this nature terrify me. They blatantly smash the life lessons from the Kanye School of Self Esteem that I try to implement in my day-to-day presentation—the ones that I put into practice to specifically scare people away from the horrible truths that 1. I’m not actually a god, and 2. I identify with this sequence more than anything else in the history of cinema.

Obviously this isn’t so simply said that “I have zero self worth and that’s why I can justify abusing/neglecting/actively sabotaging myself.” The problem is that I have worth, but that I don’t deserve it and it doesn’t belong to me, because while I’m some kind of Post-Modern Prometheus, it’s infinitely preferred that I’m a decidedly Bound Promethean.

If you are inclined to continue after the cut, please be conscious to the frank discussions of self-harm-inflicting behaviors that will follow and do not subject yourself if you can be potentially triggered by the implications! Safety first! [to bypass all of the ED-talk, please hit ‘ctrl (or cmd)+f’ and search for the sentence ‘And that’s where the line needs to be drawn’]



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Filed under Important post, Intro post, Not strictly school-related, Out of the field

In light of earlier tattoo talk…

Yesterday’s daily prompt fills me with the compulsion to share my newest short-term goal.

I’m no stranger to ink, nor am I a stranger to discussing my up-and-coming body mods on this blog. The POLITICAL JUSTICE chest piece remains my long term goal and tattoo dream, and/yet it is completely co-dependent to my overall transition. Between now and then, I have a number of piercings that I’ve scheduled to ornament my face at various transitional stages of my scholastic advancement (in honour of my first facial piercing, my septum, being done immediately before my first Oxford semester/my first semester of graduate school).

The desire to “mod up” is directly proportionate to my growth as an academic and as an overall person. Each addition signifies a new set of responsibilities and marks the permanence of what I’ve accumulated thus far.

My piercings and tattoos do and will continue to serve as evidence of my constant evolution.


Though maybe I should reconsider that phrasing…

I anticipate to get my next tattoo between the close of this Fall semester and the start of Spring–most likely after the MLA conference in order to maximize the potential of healing without aggravation from snug, abrasive winter clothes. Because I intend to get matching thigh pieces:

Two mirrored banners starting from the mid-front of my thighs folding inward with ‘GENERATE!’ scripted on each.

The dueling ‘Generate!’s are the title of a track from Johnny Marr’s first solo album, The Messenger:

The Messenger as an overall concept self-consciously challenges and celebrates the relationship of humanity with the advancement of technology, and “Generate! Generate!” particularly teeters on a very Romantic edge between rational and sublime as well as hubris and brilliance.

“Generate! Generate!” serves as both a motivator and as a reminder of checks and balance that will prove sobering as I continue to advance on a research track and on a track of digital humanities. At no point can I ever undermine or sacrifice the significance of my work, but nor can I forget what grounds me to it. The ribbons on my thighs, after burning excruciatingly for the initial recovery period, will cooly remind me of the significance of preserving the past to advance the future–not merely my future, and not merely the future of other academically minded persons with niche fores in Shelleyana.

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Filed under Mundane academic, Not strictly school-related

Things You Never Dreamed of Do Come True

Never in my weirdest, creepiest lucid dreams did I ever manufacture a scenario where I would be telling Johnny Marr just how many Smiths songs made up my various playlists dedicated to Frankenstein/the Shelleys/Romanticism. But I did. And I did because Johnny Marr personally voiced a legitimate interest in my person.

For a brief moment, the roles were switched. Johnny Marr, guitarist of the Smiths, approached me after his jam-packed Orlando show.

Johnny Marr, greatest British export of musicianship and songwriting, pulled me out of a group to do display adoration.

Johnny fucking Marr, accomplished celebrity, asked me “What do you do?”

When I meekly stammered that “I’m a grad student! Two Masters!” I hardly expected him to actual inquire what those degree tracks were in–I never anticipated him to care or to become so personally invested in what one fan was doing with their life track, to ask so many detailed questions.

But he did.

And the experience was honestly just-as-if-not-more nerve-wracking and soul-amplifying than viewing the Frankenstein manuscript.

The Smiths as an entity have been integral to my personal identity and, by immediate proxy, to my academic identity. Marr’s jingle-jangle has been my top cheerleader through my most intensive readings, my toughest assignments and my most arduous papers—as well as the soundtrack to numerous hypothetical Community College AUs (though I was tactful enough not to disclose that much detail). Johnny Marr has been an unwitting assistant to my research–until now, in which he is now a conscious contributor. Johnny Marr is a conscious contributor to my academic success.

Those seemingly-eternal four minutes of standing in downtown Orlando enclosed in the very same arms that just played “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out” (track #2 of YOUR PRETTY FACE AND ELECTRIC SOUL) as they interrogated me with legitimate interest about the historical couple I was crying over during the chorus was a total fantasy in open, uninhibited discourse: the very manifestation of the anarcho-socialist extremist jargon I push in the name of total freedom to the sharing of information across the broadest audience possible.

Query: Would it be Totally Creepy if the next time (because there is going to be a fucking next time, oh my goodness) I see Johnny Marr, I ask him to sign the manuscript of my thesis? The answer is probably yes–but I think we’re at that level, considering:

Literally BFFs who text each other when they make it home safely tier

Literally BFFs who text each other when they make it home safely tier, nbd

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The New Workout Plan

Approximately a month ago, I announced to the world (ak.a., the 230 people I’ve permitted into my world on Facebook) that I would be initiating a new workout plan. (The exact christening of the day was ‘The Day Augusta/s Cordelia Leigh Stops Being a Shrimp of a Husk of Human Being and Gets Ripped as Hell’.) This is definitely not the first attempt I’ve made at working out, but this is the first time that I’ve dedicated myself to the cause to the degree of publicly announcing it. Now I’ve no choice but to hold myself accountable by either 1. sticking to the plan and wowing my adoring public with my new hot bod, or 2. failing to keep up, thereby admitting my pratfall to all invested parties (i.e., anyone who “liked” my nominal life event).

Already, multiple obstacles have arisen, as well as multiple opportunities to drop the ball (figuratively, of course, as my workout plan does not utilize an exercise ball). I’ve caught multiple seasonal bugs. I’ve relapsed into depressive episodes. I’ve found myself bed bound until way-late into the early evening. Normally, this would be enough to pack it in and ‘prioritize’ other aspects of my life into generating my wellness.

But not this time.

This time around, my wellness is dependent on the necessity of my fitness routine. Because this time around, I have a vision, which I’ve informally announced to the universe (accounting for the slightly broader audience capacity I have for my twitter feed):

For the uninitiated into Trans*gender affairs:

“Top surgery” is the catch-all term for any gender alignment/conforming surgical procedure that alters the contours of the chest to create a “passing” silhouette/physical appearance. Though the term can be (and is) used for breast augmentation procedures, “top surgery” typically is the colloquial swap-out for a double incision/bilateral mastectomy or a keyhole/peri-areolar incision reduction procedure to create a more masculine chest.

My case beckons for the latter.

My ultimate goal is not necessarily to become uniquely masculine–as I do not identify as a trans*man, but rather, as a non-binary pangender-presenting person. However, I do intend to reconstruct my body into an idealized androgyne: fit in form and stature. The FTM Top Surgery Network recommends that before top surgery, one should:

Eat a healthy, balanced diet and exercise regularly. Increasing the muscle on your chest will provide more contour for the surgeon to work with, improving aesthetic results

Because this surgery is so life-altering and so expensive (most insurance companies do not cover the procedure, labeling it ‘cosmetic’), I want to have the finest possible results.

I took weight training/cardio as an elective in high school for a Phys Ed credit, but now my personal wellness is truly married to my academics. My gender and my career track are equally weighted in My Life.

It is so particularly important to me that I graduate into my Final Form at the same time as I graduate from my Masters and ascend into my PhD track. This gives me a timeline of approximately 2-3 years to get into shape and save up. As an androgyne, I don’t intend to undergo hormone replacement. However, I do intend to change my gender to the neutral option when such documentation hits the American shores as it has in other nations. While, due to costs, I have not yet legally changed my name, I have already professionally begun to introduce myself as and have registered for MLA 2014 as ‘Mx. Augusta Leigh’–sometimes ‘Augustas’–in preparation for the commencement ceremony where I’m formally announced and hooded as Augusta Cordelia Leigh, scholar.

Actual chart of my transition progress.

So, I’ve been pushing myself: past the sickness! past the crippling depression! past the sticky bedridden stays! Because this time, the way I present myself to others is everything. I have to maintain. I just have to.

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Filed under Important post, Not strictly school-related, What's a gender??


On this day in history, I found myself awake at 7 in the morning after a vicious all-nighter writing a defense of my will-be POLITICAL JUSTICE tattoo as an assignment for my graduate Foundations course. I was trying desperately to not sound like a schmuck, even though only a total douchecanoe would ever get a tattoo based off anything William Godwin ever penned.

The result was a composition completely necessary to share with an outside audience that will probably appreciate my intentions more than my professor who I’m convinced can’t stand me (most probably because of the assignment from the very beginning of the semester where I adamantly derided ‘library science libraries’ for the vestigial elitist boys’ club lodges they are).

In summer 2012 I beheld a unique and unforgettable privilege:

First and foremost, I was studying at Oxford. I, who in all of my youth spent in an island community grimly/affectionately dubbed “The Rock,” never anticipated a college education–let alone an advanced graduate degree at an internationally prestigious university.

Secondly, at said university I was entitled and encouraged to utilize the Bodleian Library, one of the oldest, largest reference facilities in Europe at my whim and necessity. Second-and-a-halfly, I was furthermore entitled and encouraged to seek out and handle original print works and manuscripts at my whim and necessity.

My immediate goal upon arriving in Oxford was to locate and rendezvous with the Frankenstein manuscript, which I knew to also be arriving in England from the American east coast (granted, from the distinct opposite corner of the Mason-Dixon) within the same time-span after its prolonged stay on display at the New York Public Library. Because of this time frame, the manuscript was not yet locatable on-site when I first arrived at the reference desk of the Duke Humfrey’s, though I was permitted to leave my name and email. Two days and apparently-dozens-of-fwd’d emails later, I finally received a much-down-the-line receipt from the head of Special Collections, Dr. Bruce Barker-Benfield (hereafter abbreviated to B^3). Dr. B^3 was not only in possession of the manuscript, but more than willing and gracious to facilitate my encounter with it.

To call my appointment in the attic of the Clarendon building with the pale, powder blue pages nestled in an acid-free shallow “shoebox” containing the manuscript “life-changing” would be a disgusting understatement. Dr. B^3’s modest passion for Shelleyana (excessive knowledge and only with the purest intention to share it) was riveting, inspiring, provoking—all of the above. His humble suggestions of where to grow and how to utilize the existing printed sources to their fullest capability outside of the Bodleian walls, promising that I could take my research back across the pond with me did everything to fulfill my prophecy of Shelley research—and thensome.

If the plot twist is that Dr. B^3 is my Uncle Ben, then I want off this ride.

If the plot twist is that Dr. B^3 is my Uncle Ben, then I want off this ride.

The necessity of my librarianship is to do the utmost justice to the persons devoted to the preservation and perseverance of knowledge and artifacts of knowledge within their facility (in being accountable for the objects themselves and responsible for their disclosure to inquiring parties of all backgrounds—even little ol’ metal-faced me) and beyond the walls of the library (by enabling clients with extensive digitized/electronic and commercially affordable print resources, as well as an invitation to continue email correspondence outside of appointment for unique expertise).

My desire is to work within sectors and initiatives dedicated to de-mystifying, even dismantling barred knowledge that serves absolutely no one in being barred. While objects may be best preserved in cool, dark spaces with minimal contact, such measures do absolutely nothing to fulfill the living humanities. Facsimiles and digitizations are more-than-ever necessary for the endurance a learned public.

My librarianship is 110% devoted to total transparency, self-sacrificing public service without discrimination, and dedicated maintenance and accountability. Open-and-extended access, librarianship outside of the library, is fundamental. While I was permitted the privilege of the Bodleian (and will once again be renewing my pink card in summer 2014), not every would-be-patron will, nor will they, by virtue, experience the compassionate outreach of Dr. B^3, or perhaps let-alone even more humbly “accessible” professionals that may be taken for granted.

In my litany of to-be tattoos, my most-oft-daydreamed is my will-be chest piece to brandish POLITICAL JUSTICE in bold, serif lettering at the hem of my clavicle. The placement is somewhat loud and abrasive (especially when considering that the piece will be imprinted on my body after my prospective top surgery, in defiance of heteronormative expectations of my body), as is the intent.

The statement is a shorthand form of An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice, the anarchist tract outlining Mary Shelley’s radical father’s philosophies in total transparency, direct democracy and the dismantling of privileged institutions, seminally defined as noting how: “Enquiry, and the improvement of the human mind, are now shaking to the center those bulwarks that have so long held mankind in thraldom.”

"Cooled down" is a euphemism for "became a bag of dicks," sidenote.

“Cooled down” is a euphemism for “became a bag of dicks,” sidenote.

While Godwin’s radicalism cooled down considerably after settling down, he did very much hold strictly to his core beliefs in unrestricted access to knowledge and self-improvement by enabling and encouraging his young daughters to educate themselves utilizing the Godwin home library and to apply their knowledge in lectures and debates among esteemed contemporary intellectuals who also happened to be family friends.

The immediate result was Mary Shelley nee Godwin’s thoroughly sculpted magnum opus and the object of my passions. The extended heritage is the Halloween 2013 launch of the Shelley-Godwin archive, an immense undertaking in cross-platform collaboration in the quest, in the words of project director Neil Fraistat, to “create, in the archives, a platform for participatory curation and encoding of our manuscripts,” said manuscripts including the original and printed works of all of the principal parties of the Shelley circle which now exist at mouse-click public access totally free.

This prospective tattoo is the most apt and fulfilling representation of my afore-described philosophy of librarianship and my ongoing journey in knowledge access and preservation.

The fact that I determined that this tattoo was destined to imprint my skin after laughing so hard that I choked at its being the repeated anthem in Shared Experience’s production of the life of Mary Shelley is completely incidental and totally sentimental.

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No Bad Frankensteins

Like some of the less fickle denizens of the internet, I stand by the majority of what I post once it has been posted (and then proceed to perma-trash everything that isn’t relevant or flattering to my person–like my old myspace). One such truth eternally bonded to digital space is this tweet:

Since the casting announcement of I, Frankenstein, I’ve consistently received inquiries on “my thoughts” on the project. “My thoughts” more often than not, though, are gauged to be provoked-and-anticipated corroborations with the inquirer’s presumption that I should disdain the I, Frankenstein project.

“Don’t you think he’s too sexy?”

“Doesn’t it bother you that they’re calling the monster ‘Frankenstein’?”

“Are you looking forward to this at all?”

Frankenstein as an action movie?”

Of course, my overwhelming response is:

One, because I refuse to pass any kind of judgment on the quality of I, Frankenstein as a project until I’ve actually seen the movie, and two, because my singular, unique opinion really doesn’t encompass any kind of authority over the quality of I, Frankenstein as a piece in the Frankenstein canon!

Because while I do possess a vast encompassing knowledge of most things within the all-consuming Shelley Circle and have essentially sworn my life to all things Frankencentric (which leads to people reaching out to me to recommend me to Frankenkitsch more than anything–which is much appreciated), I most certainly don’t carry a thermometer to actively measure the “goodness” or “badness” of Frankensteinia (or any kind of affirmative authority over anything Frankenrelevant, though I am flattered that my observations are so personable!).

This is, of course, not to say that there haven’t been some particularly schlocky/goofy/terribad manifestations within the heritage of Mary Shelley’s hideous progeny, but those qualities of “goodness” versus “badness” have–or shouldn’t have—next to nothing to do with what those terms more often euphemistically refer to as “canon” versus “uncanon

(Although, let’s be real, Victor the necrophiliac is defo canon to the 1818 text and only became moreso in the 1831 revision—and then even moreso in NIN’s infamous “Closer” video.)

Very early on in its printed lifetime, Frankenstein became one of the most sought after, cited and adapted works of fiction—not genre/horror/Gothic fiction, but overall consumable literature contemporaneous to its time period and beyond. Within five years of hitting mixed-but-strongly-passionate critical reviews, play performances hit the stages and there-after “novelizations” of the staged versions. At home and abroad, pressings and stagings reached audiences across the social strata, as high as Parliamentary politicians and American abolitionist leaders and as common as the voyeurs of the “burlesques” of the era. Everyone knew Frankenstein, both the Creature and the Scientist, whether intimately through the novel or through the casual word-of-mouth of common talk, of political cartoons. And if they didn’t know Frankenstein, they would be urged by fans and ultimately scholars who sought to canonize the text, establishing its permanence in popular culture as intensely as its titular characters, well even before its centennial, deigning it a place of honour in everyman classics and classrooms alike.

Frankenstein‘s immediate and long-term appeal lies in factors as minimalist as the conscious choice to never confirm a singular identity to the Creature: branded a “daemon,” a “wretch,” a “monster” as well as an “insect,” but also self-identified as “Adam” and as “Satan” while also emulating the First Woman of Eden and the Other Woman of the DeLacey idyll. The Creature is every single one of those things and also disputably none of those things, depending on what page you’ve landed upon within the novel, or what film adaptation turns on your screen or what staging presents itself to you.

In her Cultural History, Susan Tyler Hitchcock succinctly surmises that the story as a whole is “on the one hand so true as to be universal and, on the other, malleable enough to conform to different times, places, peoples and moments in history.” Any individual can pick literally any variable within the book and make a valid defense in the case of X, Y, or Z in what Susan Wolfson and Ron Levao have dubbed in their still fresh but already outdated Annotated Frankenstein as a “range of implication.” Literally thousands of iterations of Jungian, Freudian, feminist, queer, racial, post-colonial, socialist, anarchist, imperialist, …. readings exist, and infinitely more, all at one co-existing, contradictory and complementary, will emerge—if one is to trust the mere existence of these emerging genealogies since Steven Earl Forry’s Hideous Progenies, let alone the very fact that there is to be an upcoming new movie adaptation of the Frankenstein story.

*All* persons who interact with Frankenstein are amateur manipulators, not unlike Victor himself.

This is it, this is the post.

This is it, this is the post.

We the readers, the viewers, the writers, the artists, the scholars are all given fractured parts in a composite story with only partial recognition of what those parts are and could be. The rest is up to us to piece together. And contrary to the self-righteous stream of tweets and tumblr postings of newly initiated AP Lit/Lang students, Frankenstein is not exclusively the name of the sole pale student bent over his creation on that dreary November night, just as it is no longer exclusively the novel penned by the heiress (and prowess) of authorship, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley.

Nor is there a fucking buzzer noise telling you how wrong you are in your surgery, else I would have never signed up for this.

Nor is there a fucking buzzer noise telling you how wrong you are in your surgery, else I would never never signed up for this shit.

Tl;dr, I’m not going to tell you what I think of I, Frankenstein until it hits theaters. And even if it doesn’t hit my sensibilities as a movie-goer, it can’t fail my expectations as a piece of Frankensteinia.

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The Inaugural Post

The best way for me to frame my mental state is to relay how I accepted an invitation to a job interview, today, as an excuse to get out of the house and an exercise in feeling feelings.

Today was a beautiful, crisp day. It was as close to proper Fall as I could ever beg Florida for. Today was a beautiful day to ride my bike to my job interview!

We know how these blissful bike rides end: with Catholic guilt and unrequited homosexual tension. A.k.a., my life.

And then I jerked my bike handles directly into oncoming traffic. And the nose of some breed of Chrysler.

Fortunately, neither I nor my two-wheeled companion, Charles Ryder, were more than bruised and bounced a bit–the bike moreso than me.

I continued biking toward the interview as normal. That or I died back there on the corner of Americana and John Young and was damned to a purgatory of mundane (after)life-blogging. Fast-forwarding past the revelation that I’m the third prospective hire to walk into this particular location by mistake, the third in a series of miscommunications in exactly which location I and my never-known kin were intended to interview at, and fast-forwarding past the ten awkward minutes of half-crying outside that compelled a security guard to slowly roll down his window and meekly ask, “Are you okay?”:

I went on a reparative manic spree at my not-exactly-local-but-close-enough corporate giant book store. Admittedly, my initial goal was just one single book.

Not even thirty seconds into the store, I had an armful of bargain-priced books, including a collection of the tales of H.P. Lovecraft. I abhor Lovecraft’s person–but at $7.98 I was totally down to throw my money at his miserable grave, right??

Eventually, as I was leaking books from every crevice of my poorly woven arm/hand basket attempt to cradle all of my prospective spoils in front of a clearly-labeled, clearly bemused employee, I decided that I would try to reel it in. Lovecraft didn’t make the cut. Neither did most of my initial grabs. I realized that I was using the staging of the store’s signature classics as my sorting table.

Rather than look for myself, I asked the employee, who I was certain upon catching the tell-tale tag again was definitely an employee and obviously endowed with this knowledge, if they had a signature edition of Frankenstein. I own 7 unique physical copies of Frankenstein (differentiated by edition and annotation content), 9 physical copies in all when factoring in duplicates/variant covers. A.k.a., I don’t own enough unique copies of Frankenstein–and I’m particularly lacking in ownership of the 1831 edition, which reflects in my admitted lack of scholastic insight in said edition (and now I know for sure that I didn’t die back at that crossroads, because only now has my darkest academic secret been revealed and only now is my soul purged and pristine for heavenly assumption).

The bookseller responded no, but encouraged me to pay attention to the Nice Copy of Dracula where Frankenstein could have been–would have been. Dracula is nice. I like Dracula. But having gone steady with Frankenstein for the past four years, I would feel particularly cheated (and like a cheater) if after all the commitment circumstances brought me to prom night with Dracula in my arms.

There was, however, a Very Nice Edition of the King James Bible that could possibly occupy the void in my cross-referencing web and by proxy my heart. I apparently narrated this out loud, or the bookseller employee was an undercover clairvoyant (which would seem more legitimate of a theory if we didn’t rule out the whole Me Being Dead thing a couple paragraphs ago), as said bookseller quipped that I should consider the Lego Bible as an alternative. (Lo and behold, to my right, there was, in fact, a display proudly presenting The Book as illustrated by customized Legos.)

When I commented that brandishing the Lego Bible in my hypothetical Restoration course would probably be the last straw (not the worst stunt I’ve pulled in my academic history, but *definitely* the last straw) that would definitely get me kicked out of my Reputable Academic Programme at Oxford that next summer, the bookseller half-smirkingly commented on how that was a “fancy school,” to which I quipped back:

“Yes, but my fancy pants degree doesn’t make me qualified to work in your store, apparently. So for the time being, you lord that over me.”

The bookseller legitimately smiled. The ice was broken. The contract was sealed. The bond was fused. In that single moment, scholar and bookseller became egalitarian symbiotes. His business was necessary for my business needs to me met to require his business to fulfill my business, etc. etc.

We became inseparable, turning corners and finding the other there by Complete Accident, exchanging quips of, “Fancy meeting you, here,” wink wonk. When he found me the last time, it was in Poetry agonizing over which edition of Paradise Lost was worth the difference of a dollar in annotated aptitude. When he approached asking me if I needed help, though, I didn’t even consider how my new partner in business might possibly weigh in on this Great Debate and instead admitted that,

“I actually came here for one book in particular. Do you know if you have The Disaster Artist by Greg Sestero?”

To be fair, my knowledge of All Things Frankenstein might be legitimately rivaled by shameful cesspit of All Things Wiseau (and on a broader spectrum, All Things Romantic versus All Things Badfilm). The family resemblance between Tommy Wiseau and Karloff In Makeup is the only superficial qualifier I need to justify my intent.

Sestero…” he muttered,  “How do I know that name?” Before I could stop it, it was out of my mouth, “Leave your stupid comments in your pocket.“It was equal parts eerie fate and good fortune that the bookseller had an unconscious connection to the source (and that my surprise verbal abuse wasn’t a surprise).

Unsurprisingly, my new compatriot later met me at the register—and specifically stole me from another bookseller by opening up a second register, gleefully decreeing, “I can take care of this one.” Another contract was forged. In a manic minute, my membership with this chain corporate bookstore that I had let lapse in a phase of disaffected brokeness and anarchic dissonance for the Capital On Enlightenment was renewed—-but I was also 10% richer than had I not engaged the contract. The guilt of that didn’t hit me until I got this far down in my posting. But now that it has, it seems a fair enough place to stop, having come full circle with adequately framing my mental state.

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Filed under Frankenthoughts, Important post, Intro post, Mundane academic