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Del hiper-texto a la hiper-identidad -2-

Por si este cúmulo de parecidos no fuese suficiente, el estilo literario de su obra es muy parecido al que utiliza luego en el blog. La longitud de los textos también és muy parecida. Las ‘páginas’ de los artículos oscilan entre un mínimo de 150 y 900 palabras. Las entradas del blog oscilan entre los 200 y las 1000 palabras. Y los temas que trata son también muy parecidos: sexo, trabajo, sentimientos, relaciones, reflexiones acerca de uno mismo, etc.
Copio a continuación algunos fragmentos de su ‘obra hipertextual’ y de su blog para que se pueda observar la similitud:

I remember the next time my dad beat me up though. I called the police and they came. Like always. And my dad said nothing was wrong. Like always. And then the police started to leave. Like always.
But then I said, “Hold it. Wait. My teacher won’t let me back in school unless I get a note from you that says I called you.”
I don’t remember what else happened. I remember the police asking me if I want to leave. I remember my mom saying, “Yes. Please. Take her away. Please.”[1]
"Stop. You're hurting me!" I yell, before he is.
"Damn right I'm gonna hurt you," he says.
I wriggle away and scream, loud enough for Marc to hear on the third floor, but I know he won't do anything--he's too scared of our parents. Dad gets hold of my arm and it's taking too much energy for me to scream. The whole house is quiet. I kick him in the stomach and knock his glasses off. I have a plan to scratch his eyes out, but I'm always too scared to do it. He gets hold of both my arms and knocks me down. I plead quietly and rationally: "Dad, we're not doing this again. This is so dumb." He ignores me. He pins me on the floor face down and lies on top of me to hold me there. I stop arguing. I'm embarrassed and just waiting for it to be over--hoping he doesn't do anything that will show at school[2].
I couldn’t figure out how to support myself and there were so many opportunities for me to try nude modeling jobs. The doctor thought it was ridiculous. He thought I was too uptight to model. I said I probably was, but I wanted to try because it was such good money. I said they first test you out in a swimsuit.
He said, “Don’t you need some sample photos?”
I said, “Yeah. I have some,” and I pulled them out of my bag.
The doctor looked. He smiled. He said, “Who took them?”
I said, “My dad.”
The doctor flipped. He went nuts. He couldn’t believe it.
I was mostly surprised. I had no idea that my dad taking the photos was weird.
That I didn’t know it was weird made the doctor even more upset. I remember trying to figure out why I thought it was okay. Or why he thought it was not okay[3].
I brought my pictures to the photographer, and he said he liked my body but I looked a little stiff.
"I think I just need some practice," I said.
"Well, stand up. Let me see you pose."
I didn't want to ask what to do, but I couldn't imagine what he wanted. Or maybe I could imagine: "Well, like what?"
"For starters, you have nice legs, but if you stand on your toes, your legs look better." I stood on my toes. "See," he said, "you're just standing there. You're too inhibited."
I left and I was totally pissed. I couldn't believe I was too fucking inhibited; I thought I'd never be able to turn on a man for real if I couldn't even do it for money.
I went back to my apartment and practiced naked, in front of the mirror, opening my mouth, and arching my back, and putting my hands in my hair. Then I fantasized that I was posing for the "Playboy" centerfold, and there were forty men standing around telling me what to do. I was doing it better than they ever imagined; They all jerked off while they watched me. And I had the most literate, written interview in the history of the "Playboy" centerfold[4].
In counseling, my husband and I had the earth-shattering revelation that we are treating each other like crap. So, we each got to ask the person to do some things that would change that dynamic and help us feel better about our relationship.
My husband asked me to stop throwing things, which really pissed me off because I have thrown things twice, in fifteen years, both times at a wall, but he brings it up constantly like I have a track record for throwing daggers at his head.
Please, don’t send me emails about how even one thing thrown is traumatizing, okay? I had about ten million things thrown at me as a kid, and the police were at our house all the time, so throwing only twice, and relatively innocuously, is actually a triumph, and the result of ten years of therapy so I don’t repeat what my parents did. No kidding: Ten years.[5]
What bothers you most about oral sex?" he asks Andy.
"Well," Andy says, "I want to like it, but I need time." The therapist nods, because he's a man, and he says that he doesn't think any man likes the taste at first.
Then Andy and the therapist talk about how society gives vaginas a bad rap, and this is what men grow up thinking.
I interrupt: "If Andy thinks I'm disgusting, then I feel bad about myself."
"Is that Andy's problem or yours?" asks the therapist. This is what the therapist says 90% of the time. I can't believe we're still paying to hear this.
Andy says it's hurtful that I'm so impatient with him. He says he's trying his hardest.
I say he should try more often.[6]
My earliest memory of Yom Kippur is one of my dad writing a note for me to give to my second grade teacher: «Please excuse Penelope from school tomorrow. She is Jewish.»
Maybe if there had been other Jews at my school, the note would have had more context. But my dad was apoplectic about the fact that Christmas was an official school holiday and Yom Kippur was not, and he would explain nothing. So I tried, as best as a seven-year-old-could, to explain to the teacher that Yom Kippur is the most important Jewish holiday. I said: «It’s so important that we don’t even eat.»[7]
After school on Friday, I dawdled home, hoping that God would cancel Purim or at least burn down my Aunt's house. When I got home, both parents were back from work early. They never came home early, and the only explanation seemed to be that they wanted to fight before we went to my Aunt's house, because they were both screaming.
I sat on the front steps and listened, hoping for some juicy information that I could use to get myself to the party. Mom was yelling about how holidays with my Dad's family are absurd because my Dad's family hates my Mom. My Dad was trying to convince her that this didn't matter. My Dad said, "We're all Jewish, we can all celebrate together." My Mom said she'd rather celebrate Purim with the PLO. They argued more, and finally, Mom said she wasn't going, and Dad stormed off[8]
Como se puede observar, es difícil determinar que textos pertenecen a su blog y cuales a su ‘obra hipertextual’. Y esto es así entre otras cosas porque su método de trabajo es básicamente el mismo. Adrienne comenta en varias entrevistas que para realizar sus obras hipertextuales escribe ‘notas’, pequeños artículos que va acumulando. Cuando tiene suficientes, descarta los que no le gustan y los otros los coloca en el suelo para tenerlos todos a la vista y empieza a agruparlos. Cuando los tiene agrupados, entonces los enlaza y a veces complementa con otros.
Cuando escribe para el blog, lo que hace son también notas o, más bien pequeños artículos. Ahora no tiene la necesidad de esparcirlos por el suelo para ver su relación porque los tiene en el blog y, en lugar de hacer grupos de notas relacionados pone enlaces relacionados en el blog o mejor aun, añade ‘tags’ etiquetas, que agrupan las notas en temáticas. Pero de igual manera, siempre escribe o piensa varios artículos antes de seleccionar cual publicará y a veces, un artículo lo va ampliando con otros artículos relacionados. Tampoco se dedica a hacer el enlazado de los artículos porque WordPrerss, Blogger o el programa que sea ya lo hace por nosotros.
Casi la única diferencia es que su obra literaria es ficción aunque siempre entorno a una parte real de su vida que esconde más o menos. En cambió en su blog no hay ficción. Al igual que en la obra literaria vuelca en sus escritos los temas que le preocupan pero, ya no necesita esconderlos bajo pseudónimos u otros recursos literarios. Ahora, en el blog, Adrienne reconvertida en Penelope Trunk ,opta por afrontar las cosas directamente y no tener secretos.