Wednesday, January 14, 2009

egan means yes in hungarian, oprah!

Since I changed my blog name to oprah I might have upset some or many enraged oprah fans looking for an oprah related fix and coming upon my random bloggery.

Well, I finally had some op(r)ah-riffic experiences. Today was one of those days when fighting seemed fine and noble rather than just exhausting and wasteful and where I felt able to feel PERSPECTIVE. It started with an image of steve jobs and then the sight of my ever plump mother. Steve jobs was given the diagnosis of islet cell cancer awhile back. I remember reading about that in my epic pancreatic cancer research days and wishing I was that lucky. And almost a year later it turned out that a better diagnosis was given. Still, of course, before I could fully celebrate some very sick people came along and invented a whole hoax that will be revealed soon. It all came to me so strongly-- that this will all end well soon. It seems I'll never get rid of the mr. magoo inside that makes me oblivious to so many things and puts me at danger. I get told about cut throat types and dog eat dog worlds, and I still can't believe that people are selling thier souls so cheaply all the time. In this case: I don't think their are souls involved but hypothetically, if they did have a sould than one sold it for a podunk comedy career and one sold for the love of said podunk comedian. What degrees of guilt is up to debate but damn are those two guilty.
the soul strikes me as something very expensive and so I haven't had the right offer as of yet. I don't get how they are living with themselves, is all, and I never will(naivete?) and their actions can never makes sense to me, and I hope they remain forever a mystery.
Speaking about the soul doesn't bring to mind oprah for me but stil, I've gone astray and forgot my oprahantastic tale- and it would be called"My mothers name is marianna," if it gets told and then packaged by oprah, but I doubt that any of that will happen.
Let me explain. My mother is a hungarian holocaust survivor-- and that entails lots of things, one of those being very confused about where and how she spend 1 very particular year of her childhood, particulary- the year between turning 5 and turning 6 years old. Most kids don't have a clear recollection and her memories are clearer than most. It's common knowledge that traumatic events(because of another one of those murphy law catch 22 situations) is more memorable than non traumatic events, and so my mother remembers mountains of dead bodies and potato peel meals and her mother doing all kinds of heroic things and then she remembers being in france(orly) and some fresh traumas and non traumas from growing up in Israel. But, holocaustwise I just had to hear hazy stories with hazy details about her camp experience. Suffice it to say, they were not about how fresh the air was in the Catskills that might be told by someone else of her generation. So, though I've been told a few stories and knew that she spent 6 months in bergen belsen(made famous by the highly posthumous authoress, anne frank) I never could be sure about a lots of other things. At 39 years old, I don't exactly know why it is only now that I must find out more. But, that's how it is and so I am finding out more. Awhile back my mother made an effort to get her hungarian birth certificage and it took a long long time to arrive. We've been very impatient about a lot of things lately so that was just a minor annoyance, and something pretty much forgotten. Last week, it came in the mail and whoa. Not to mention myself again in all this but it is my blog and my take so I will insert myself here. I for about 8 years was interested to a pretty small but signifigant degree in astrology. In the last year I totally forgot about it. I just lost interest. And, so my first thought after the initial excitement was that " damn, what if mommy isn't an aries." I've ascribed and been able therefore to categorize her in good and bad ways by thinking or even saying, "oh,she's an aries."
The woman is so rammish it's incredible. I knew that my mother was never sure of her birthdate and the date 3/30/39 was calculated by her mother telling her that she was born on the second night of passover. Her older brother was told he was born on the night of purim, the other oldest brother was 11 and so he remembers his own birthday. Now, it's strange enough that my grandmother didn't remember two of her kid's exact birthdates but potato peel meals probably dulled the memory for some time. Plus, my grandmother wasn't a birthday kind of woman. My grandfather died in the holocaust so 3-30-39 it was. So, back to silly astrology: I felt this fleeting panic- what if my mother is scorpio???? Will I still love her??? Of course I would but then I'd start seeing new qualities that might or not have existed beforehand. So the opening of that shiny envelope from the hungarian consul was fraught with absurdities--- and time passed and it was open and in readable form and IT WAS RIGHT. She was born on march 30, 1939. But, but... her last name and the name her whole family goes by is not the same. And, her first name-- the name that defines her so incredibly strongly-- is not the same. And it not a mere phonetic formality as the last name(szameth rather than samet)but her birth name is Marianna. I heard her tell me a few times how her mother named her after an opera star and that it was marianna, but though I know my mother never lies , I figured it was just another unusual fact that I had no time to consider.

Hungary, like Germany, had a very assimilated jewry. My family in particular was orthodox but my grandmother told me that she clearly remembers as a child enormous nationilistic pride. This of course, adds a further layer of tragedy to it all-- et tu hungary? egan!
But, that's for my new blog which i will unveil shortly. Since I've been falsely accused as of late, my confessions of a past serial killing existence, became too realistic and too dangerous. So, as a one year gift to myself and society . One year no serial killing. knock on wood, kind of celebratory gesture, I'm going to start a spanking new blog with none of that "i'm a suburban mom serial (and sometimes spree killer)" bagagge. This will most definately affect my hits because profilers will no longer come to see my blog and profile and I might have to earn my hittage the hard way. Ghouls of all sorts will have seek such information elsewhere. sorry, ghouls.

Back to Hungary and Germany and my mother and probably me. So, with this new information to process I set on a fact finding mission that thus far has led me to very dark places. I know no more than I probably should know but that's nothing new.
I now know that my grandfather died in Mauthausen and that Mauthausen is notorious. Why it was more or less notorious than the others is not that clear and my grandfather according to statistics on hungarian jews sent there seems to have been spared the gas chambers.Cold comfort,for sure.
I know that my great grandmother and many of my great cousins, aunts and uncles died in birkenau and aushwitz. My great grandmother died in the gas chambers and I will now not only know this but cry for this and feel this as I fight and survive in my own way-- thousands of miles away. and as I sit here blogging and fighting to retain some perspective in a world that doesn't seem to provide it freely -- I feel the fear of my grandmother and the suffocation and the saddest of sounds-- the sound of mercy in such instances -- the sound of silence. Such instances, such moments, such times -- all sounds so wrong. How do you describe the time it takes to die by such vicious means? and my body fills with a tension that can only be released through tears until this same tension returns and since something like this can't be made sense of, I'm again to rely on time. Time, as they tell us, will heal the wounds. That old time worn assurance alway makes me feel a painful form of impatience.
And there's guilt there too. A lot. There is the guilt of the intitiall oblivion --of not being yet born. and then the guilt of knowing that I didn't make more effort to know. And, still I want to find out so much more, and there will be times where what I find is comforting. my sister wrote a lot of great lines in her (still ticking) time -- but two of my favorties that keep cropping up are, " my new definition of "Luck." and " life is long... unless you get a melanoma..." The second one can only be appreciated in the context of her novel or at least the page of her novel, but the first one can stand alone for our purpose. Our purposes? whateva.

I have the strongest urge to write an academic essay on luck. what do you think of these titles?

A discussion of the absolute fluidity of interpration of benificient abrogation?


the dissemination of the inabsolute character of beneficience in modern day life.


the explication of sitational classifciation visa vi the interpration of the label, "luck."

perhaps this:

vacillations in life's viccissitudes- a study in relativity.

I have more but, seriously, how does one quantify the perceptions of munificence? Is munificence a state of mind or a an indisputable entity.

am I smart or just fancy? should I go to grad school?

I have run out of time to finish this blog entry and dindn't even get a chance to discuss tragedy as I'd planned.

To be continued ASAP.
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