I am pleased to report, Gentle Readers, that I have had a nice, quiet non-census afternoon. I rested and then watched Quentin Tarantino's Academy Award nominated and winning (for best supporting actor) Inglorious Basterds.
I was pretty grossed out by the scalpings and the carvings of swastikas in foreheads, but I liked it. Who wouldn't want to see Jews killing Germans and especially enjoyable, murdering Hitler? Some Jews could not save themselves, but many fought, defied deportation to the camps, and even escaped the camps from time to time.
Inglorious Basterds also has a Joyce Carol Oates connection for me. During the question and answer session with Oates at the Writers Workshop I attended, someone asked Oates if everything you write has to be true. She laughed and said no, of course not, and mentioned that although she was not interested in Inglorious Basterds, she saw it because her husband wanted to see it. She said Quentin Tarantino completely rewrote history in the movie.
I also thought of the wonderful Mary Karr and her memoirs, The Liars' Club, Cherry, and Lit.
Mary Karr writes quite a bit about her childhood in Leechfield, Texas, which does not exist. She grew up elsewhere in Texas, and she changed many names. She does not even reveal any name for the boy and the man who molested her. Memoir is memory; it is not autobiography. And our memories, perhaps inaccurate according to some people who were there at the same time and claim something completely different happened, shape our lives.
Perhaps Tarantino wrote history the way he would have liked it to happen.
I like Quentin Tarantino, although normally I do not care for violent movies and his are pretty darn violent. Yet I am inexplicably fond of Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs, and Kill Bill - Volume 2.
I love seeing those women kick butt in Kill Bill.
However, I don't know why, but I didn't like Kill Bill - Volume One.
If anyone can explain to me why I like volume 2 but not 1, I would be very pleased to have you explain the inner workings of my mind to me.
Love from the woman who doesn't understand herself,