Cats and Students, Bubbles and Abysses - Rick Bass

Not sure if I would consider this piece experimental – or of the minimalist bend that Helprin wrote against in his introduction - but as much as I do not necessarily like experimental literature, if this is that, then a level of dislike has been removed.

The sentences are short, compact, each worthy of their placement and each carries the story along at a comfortable pace without breaking the reader’s stride.

Bass writes in his contributor’s notes that the story was originally written straight through without pause or punctuation and got him through a difficult week. A rough edge does exist in the feeling…I like that. The finished product carries the same feeling of tension and angst but with a refined edge. The healing properties of writing for Bass benefited us, the reader, through a great story.

I’ve mentioned before that if I were a writer, there were several writers whose stories that I would model my writing after. I’d add Bass to that list now.

In one of my lives (#2 – University student) I was a couple of the characters that Bass created. I neglected my studies and passed time in activities not conducive to learning.

I carry the result of that slacking in my heart and mind daily and as I know, and preach, there is no use in crying over the past – if I only knew then what I know now…

I write and complain about bettering myself though self-education and I do work at it from time to time but I find myself living with the shame of not doing enough…and wondering if that shame is the existence that I essentially want and seek out. I know I have a problem with guilt –

And I need to work on it.

Daily I look at my little boy and stand in amazement at his growth. This past week, he started climbing. He’s mastered both walking and running and has now, he’s becoming pretty skilled in scaling the living room furniture.

We have a large leather recliner that I plant my ass in most evenings. For some reason, W decided that this chair would be the first obstacle that he would scale. I suppose he picked the chair because it’s the one we sit in while reading – at least that’s what I’d like to think.

He strains, whines, whimpers, slobbers, grunts and pants while attempting to pull his little body onto the seat. He looks over at me for help whining and pleading for help.

I find it so hard to resist helping him onto the chair – I encourage him coaching him to keep trying. His little arms and legs, shaking with muscle fatigue, slobber forming pools creating a slippery surface, his little hands smearing it into wider pools making the climb more difficult.

The whole exercise lasts at most 30 seconds – it feels like minutes. Of course he eventually makes it into the chair. He turns, looks at me and claps – and I show him how pleased I am by clapping along with him.

I know that he is too young to remember this-his struggle of climbing the chair and my refusal to assist him and the lesson I am imparting.

I know I’ll have plenty of more opportunities to provide him with tough life lessons – lessons where whining and pleading will take the form of words that will hurt my heart.

Banana Boats - Mary Ann Taylor-Hall

There are beautiful things in this world. Why is it just now, the year that I turn 40, that I am able to write this? I’ve always recognized beauty, and I think it’s something that my father taught me to appreciate, but why is it now that I feel I am truly appreciating beauty in this world? Why do I feel that I am suddenly more aware?

I see beauty in the color of grass, a collection of books, the written word, and the cast of light, the sound of M singing to W, W laughing uncontrollably, and the sight of a woman walking down the street…

Have I reached that awakened point in my life where the years of stimuli that has passed into my head has created some sort of realigned state?

Mind you…I am still quite aware of all the ugliness in this world…you can’t take that away from me just yet.

The hyper sensitivity I now feel towards beauty recently is such that it has caused me to take note.

Banana Boats

Before I set out on reading this volume, I scanned a few reviews. Expectedly, the reviewers commented on the introduction, but I do remember that it was said that one of the best stories was Banana Boats.

It took me two sessions of reading to make it through the story. It started a bit slow for me (troubling because I have been thinking a lot lately about my diminishing attention span) but in my defense, the story is longer than the usual. Once into it, the story took hold of me and yes, it is a story that deserved to be in this collection and placed right in the lead spot.

You see, I have served on a Banana Boat (not a real one but as it is used in this story) and I am still serving on this boat. It’s only a matter of time before those around me discover my place on that boat and my inability to get off this boat for all the years that I have been imprisoned.

I’ve written about this struggle in past posts and I am sure that I’ll write about it further until one day, I step off this boat.

I want off so bad…I just don’t know what it’ll do to the life I have now.

The Best American Stories 1988 – Edited by Mark Helprin

One of the first things I do upon beginning one of these volumes is to flip to the table of contents, glance over the titles and authors, then jump into the introduction written by the editor. It’s usually a task which takes up all of 15 minutes.


Nothing was different with BASS ’88, I glanced over the TOC, saw a few familiar faces, Rick Bass, Richard Bausch, Mavis Gallant, Louise Erdrich, Raymond Carver and Tobias Wolff. I then started in on the introduction and after the third page, I could tell that Helprin was about to take me on a long ride.


I slowly flipped the pages in the introduction and flipped the pages and flipped the pages. –Wow- this was some “introduction”. I immediately was put off by the length of the intro and became upset with Helprin for using the space to spout off. I let the book rest for a bit, went back to it, read some more, thought about the intro and then let it rest some more.


If I was given the space in front of a collection like the BASS I believe that I too would write whatever I damned well pleased. I commend Helprin for his introduction. Unlike some of the other introductions in previous editions which simply gave the editor’s impressions on the state of the short story, or the art of writing a short story, followed by a brief summary of the stories contained and a mild opinion of each. Helprin spins off on a massive essay opinion on everything from minimalist writers to women authors, classic literature, writing programs and left-wing politics.


He certainly provided me with plenty to consider and I had to place my mind in the late 1980’s to fully appreciate when he was coming from.


As much as I may have agreed or disagreed with what he wrote, weighing out his thoughts was worth the time spent.


At this point in my introduction, I like to reflect back to where I was when these stories were collected and published.






In 1988, I turned 16.


I was driving a car on my own, I was a sophomore in high school and I had a solid set of friends and even a girlfriend that I thought I would marry (don’t most of us at that age?). I was doing just enough academically in school to remain “average” and mostly, I would hover just above “below average” and this would set itself into my pattern of achievement throughout my time in organized education. I hadn’t discovered the riches that literature could fully provide at this point. I was much more interested in music, girls and goofing off. My family life was solid. Mom was working hard as a teacher and my step-father who was fully retired at this point was holding down the fort. We always had a hot dinner. I delivered newspapers after school and woke early on the weekends to deliver the weekend editions. This kept money in my pocket for gas and helping out with car insurance. I could also buy a cassette tape every few weeks. I didn’t have my own car but shared my mother’s 1981 Chevette. My sister and I were still visiting my dad up in PA on holidays and during the summer.


Overall, life was really good.


Much as it is now.

I've come across Mr. Helprin before...and we had a wonderful first encounter.

It was over “The Schreuderspitze” which I absolutly loved.


And with that, let’s get to reading.

The Best American Short Stories 1987 Completed!

A few things about this volume.



Overall, I enjoyed the selections Beattie placed in this volume. I think if I had read them closer together as a larger bunch, I may have appreciated the flow of one story to the next as she intended the reader to experience. Beattie decided to present the stories in an order outside of the normal alphabetical by author which should be appreciated because she took the time to think outside of the individual stories and more towards the whole volume. I enjoyed the selected author’s notes at the end of the volume which shed some light into the sparks that ignited their stories or gave us a glimpse into their style of developing their composition.


There were 13 male authors and 7 female authors.


5 stories from The New Yorker – 3 from Esquire and two from The Atlantic. The remaining stories were drawn from known/established literary journals.


A little breakdown of my reading.


I began this volume on the date of the introduction post November 7, 2011 which was


4 months 12 days
or
19 weeks
or
133 days
or
95 weekdays
or
.36 years


Another record breaking time span for a single volume. Although I don’t think it’s the longest, (pretty sure 1978 was the longest), but it’s right up there.


I’m finishing the volume with this post – today March 19, 2012.


That works out to (including the introduction – 20 stories +1) a post and story every 6.33 days.


Let’s move on.

The Things They Carried – Tim O’Brien

Here it is, the last story of this edition. I wonder if Beattie had a reason for the placement of her stories. I’ll have to re-read her intro. It’s been months since I’ve read it and perhaps she mentioned a reason.

The Things They Carried. Was it as good as “they” all say?

Yes it was.

Three years ago, a co-worker was shuffling through stacks of books that publishing houses sent to be reviewed. She created yet another stack of teetering bound pages and muttered something under her breath about a profile and having to read “it” again to reacquaint herself with “it”.

I decided to bite and engage her in conversation – “What?!” she exclaimed – “You’ve never read The Things They Carried?”

-Noooo…

Admittedly, I had heard of it…but c’mon, another Vietnam novel?

Back in2009 I was chomping at the bit for novels coming out of Iraq and Afghanistan.

Vietnam was just so – 1975.

In Feb. of 2010, I made a mass purchase of BASS volumes.

Here’s a shot of the group along with their contents. The volumes fall outside of my reading list for this project (1978 – current year) but I figured that since I had started the collection and reached an endpoint in one direction…I might as well go in the opposite direction.

The 1977 edition contained Going After Cacciato by Tim O’Brien from Ploughshares Spr ’76 and since I was still feeling the guilty sting of not having read The Things They Carried, I thought I’d dip my toe in.

As I remember, I enjoyed the story. I didn’t dwell on it nor did I consider it as I do these stories.

When I came to Carried the other evening, I felt the memory of Cacciato tapping at my brain. The writing style was familiar and I fell into the rhythm rather easily.

I can understand the draw of this story for so many from my parent’s generation, and I can see why so many courses may have taught with this story, and traffic to this post over time will bear out if it’s still being taught (I mentioned the tile and author enough to have the Google-bot index it).

But what does this story do for me?

We all carry things through our days. Some of us are in Iraq, Afghanistan…Vietnam or maybe we are in New York, Des Moines or Oakland.

We carry our friends, family and memories on smart phones, in notebooks and in the deep pockets of our minds.

We read a story or email, hear a song or a smell is carried in on a breeze and a memory of a person or a time long past comes flooding back.

O’Brien wrote his story and educated me as to what a grunt carried on his person while humping through ‘Nam.

Now, in 2012, I can see what “Anna-Bee” from San-Fran carries in her messenger bag to campus each day.

In this time we live in of over sharing, there is a Flickr group pool with over 22,000 members and over 14,000 photos of what people allegedly carry with them on a regular basis.

http://www.flickr.com/groups/whats_in_your_bag/pool/

and then, to make a little link to this story, there’s even the below Flickr pool with over 3,000 members and just as many photos.

The Items We Carry - and according to the group administrator, these photos will be of “the essentials we need to function daily at a basic level.”

http://www.flickr.com/groups/theitemswecarry/

Milk – Ron Carlson

As often as I can, I take W out for walks. Walking with him is something special for me and something that I started with him at a very young age. The weather is starting to warm up and this allows for pleasant times for walking after work together – I believe W was only a couple weeks old on our first walk. M has the exact date down for sure in her calendar. The warm climate here in VA allowed me to take him out well into November of his first year, and then there was a brief pause during the cooler winter months. I would carry him in one of those European front carriers, first with him facing my chest, snuggled up keeping warm, and then, as he grew older, facing away from me – .

W is old enough to walk now. Most of our walks last well over 30 minutes but we manage only to cover a few blocks. He’s into picking up and throwing rocks and sticks. He’ll walk about 10 feet, find a rock or stick, and attempt to carry it along with the others he has already gathered drop a couple rocks in the process of picked up a new rock, leave them, find others carry them for a while and this is repeated numerous times through the entire walk.

I stay very close to W as he walks- too much crap for him to pick up besides the rocks and sticks. Sometimes, I’ll test him to see how far he will walk on his own away from me before feeling uncomfortable and running back–.

Last week, we were finishing up a walk and W had a large stone in each hand. The weather was cool, and the sun was down behind the buildings and it was moving from cool to cold. I could see that his hands were red due to the temperature and the intense grip he had on the rocks.

I knew that it would eventually happen, so when it did, perhaps I wasn’t as surprised as even I thought I should be.

His foot caught on a raised portion of the sidewalk and he fell forward. He only had about 14 or 15 inches to fall, but instinctually, his hands went down in front of him to brace for impact. Unfortunately, he didn’t release his grip on the rocks, and his knuckles went right into the concrete sidewalk. The tight red skin didn’t fare well against the concrete.

I lifted him as his face turned scarlet and the silent cry sequence began.

A quick once over of his face assured me that he hadn’t kissed-the-crete, but as I brushed him off, blood from his knuckles appeared in the palms of my hand.

It was the first time he bled on me.

I was too concerned with comforting him and holding him close to think about the few specks of blood on my hand. That blood didn’t mean as much then as it does as I write this.

It would have been around 1979.

Spring. There was still a morning chill.

I could hear his steps in the hallway, the old hardwood floors creaking. His figure would appear in the door and a smile would come to his face as he saw that I was awake – the sun already shining through my window.

“Hey Bud”

“You ready?”

I would spring out of bed as fast as my 7 year old body could move. Dress as fast as I could and run as fast as my legs could carry me down the stairs to find him waiting for me.

We’d set out on our Saturday morning walk.

Just the two of us. No mom, no sister. Just a dad and son.

We’d talk. About what, I can’t remember.

I was so happy walking next to him, holding his hand, leaning over the seawall to pick up floating tennis balls from the black oily cold river water.

1979.

Today, I know that he knew that the walks were going to end.

In a few weeks, there would be no more Saturday walks.

No more early morning creaking floors.

No more morning chills.

No more hand to hold.

Just me awakened by the sunlight, looking at my door into an empty hall.

I never want my son to look into that empty hall.

And yes dad, I will always hold this pain against you.

The Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund Freud: A Story – Daniel Stern

I still dream – problem is I don’t remember them as I once did. My mind is doing a fine job sorting itself out without using space to allow recording to happen and having me remember.

M dreams quite often, and when she does, she’ll tell me about them. She skips filling me in on the sexual dreams –she has them – we all do (right?) and as expected, she has mother dreams all leading back to anxiety, and she has dreams of her parents – which weigh heavily on her mind because of her distance from them and the guilt associated with that distance.

I wonder what I dream of.