Lamb Says - Roseanne Coggeshall

Roseanne Coggeshall - ????

I really enjoyed this story.

The thought of a young boy reading all of the great authors and really not finding the point to speak because there really isn’t anything important enough in this world to cause him to waste his time on speaking...until he feels the need to utter the word “No”.

“No” is such a powerful word.

I have felt at times, in my life, that there have been too many people speaking too much, and now, in this day and age, more than ever.

There is so much noise in this world, everyone feels that they have something to say, and about 90% of it is crap!

Look at what I’m doing.

None of this really can benefit you the reader in any way.

I’m reading some of America’s greatest authors, and they have a lot to say, a lot to teach, and I at times have something to say about it.

From the start, I stated that this whole exercise is for me – a way to get my feelings in order also I’d like to give myself an education through these stories. These authors have a lot to offer, and I would like to learn from them.

Why do I have it here on this public platform rather than in a journal?

Well, I have both.

Here is a shot of my journal.

I’d also like to leave something behind that is secure for my children to read someday. Leaving this digital trail for them will do just that. I’ll do my best to preserve the paper and ink...but I’d like to offer them this as well.

So, here I am spouting off a bunch of crap, pushing out a bunch of letters into the electronic world, adding to the noise.

And to those who know me... лучше молчать !!

Proud Monster – Ian MacMillan

Ian MacMillan March 23, 1941- 18 December 2008

With ‘Schindler’s List”, I think North American audiences received a wonderful education on the horrors of the Holocaust. We were faced with history and it was done in a way that for those of us who saw it...will never forget it.

In 1981, when MacMillan wrote Proud Monster, there of course were other pieces of literature about the Holocaust but MacMillan delivers his in such a disturbing way as to sear his sketches into your memory.

Is it dangerous to speculate as to the motivations behind authors who continue to write about this event? Is there a line that the artist must walk along where on one side, he is educating and on the other, he is exploiting?

This question was batted around with the works of MacMillan who focused some of his writing on the Holocaust.

In the Boston Phoenix, Adam Kirsch noted that MacMillan is not himself a Holocaust survivor and thus had to rely on the knowledge of others for his fiction. Calling the Holocaust "an impossible subject for fiction," Kirsch added, "fiction, like any art, enjoys an essential irresponsibility, a freedom that comes from being aesthetically rather than ethically committed. And when a writer tries to create aesthetic pleasure out of the ethically atrocious, he comes close to blasphemy." Kirsch professed, "I cannot help but feel that, in this case, MacMillan has tried to do something that fiction cannot, and should not, do." Another critic strongly supported the opposite position, however. In answer to the question of why one should use fiction to portray the Holocaust when the actual events were so memorable, Smardz explained, "It is the experience only of those who saw and remembered and came back to tell us. But to understand completely, we must go beyond all this to the rest of the story, to the truth and the experience of the millions who died." "The only way to get at that truth is to imagine it. And the only way to imagine it is through art," concluded Smardz.

"Ian MacMillan." Contemporary Authors Online. Detroit: Gale, 2008. Literature Resource Center.

I have come to the point in my reading, where I cannot help but to feel that there is simply too much literature out there about the Holocaust. I am in no way meaning to diminish what happened – what I mean to convey, is that there are too many people who think they can produce worthy fiction centered on the Holocaust.

This is another case where I am looking at a genre of writing from 1981 through the eyes of a 2010 reader.

Prize Tomatoes - Anne F. Rosner

Anne F. Rosner -????

A story that hits about as close to home as you can get. I think I subliminally waited to write about this story until after the visit to my father’s.

We visited him this weekend to give him the news, and it seems that with each visit, I’m able to discover a little more about his state of mind.

My father lost his permission to drive. The state as well as my step mother have taken it away. His old car was sold several months ago. He slipped once and told me that he would sneak out with it from time to time. A trip to Home Depot, the bagel store or the market.

Years ago – actually, as recently as 5 years ago, my father drove like a bat out of hell. Music pounding through the speakers, squealing tires around corners – passing on two lane roads, excessive speeds...but, what seemed to be a dance with death, was actually a game of control with reality.

Well, he finally lost his game of control when those around him told him that because of his disease, he was no longer safe on the roads.

Sadly, I have to agree with the decision to stop him from driving.

The world is moving too fast for him to process now.

His speed is walking speed – and boy can he walk.

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You know, I’m having a bunch of trouble writing now. I just can’t get into it. I don’t have the motivation. You can see that I am obviously writing now and I think that what I am doing at this very moment is in a way helping me work through the difficult patch of motivation that I am swimming in now.

I really wanted to write something special about this story and how I saw so many similarities between the father in this story and my father.

My dad has lost his independence due to Alzheimer’s. It sucks and I’m still attempting to process a lot of things surrounding it.

A couple of times this weekend, I caught him just walking around the house – and when I asked him what he was doing or where he was going, he admitted that he had forgotten.

Over the past several months, I have questioned what he does with himself all day.

Now I know. I have a feeling that he starts the day off with some tasks or chores in mind or on a list, and he just wanders from one to another. He may start cleaning a room, carry something to another and become distracted by what is in that room and remain there for minutes or an hour – totally forgetting what it was that he was doing before he came into that room.

He walks outside to check on something and forgets what it was that he was going to check on as he is walking there and ends up in a place where he has wandered for no apparent reason – at least to him.

Sometimes things in the house get a little too heated for him. He can no longer escape as he did in the past.

He’s lost. It is sad.

That’s all I have to say about that.

The seeds.

What lies between the pages.

The discovery of these seeds are one of the reasons why I like buying used books.

I’d never find these seeds in an e-book.

I mentioned in a previous post that I thought these could be poppy seeds that fell off a previous reader’s morning bagel. At least, that’s what I imagine.

The were wedged in between two different pages in what is called the gutter of the book. The seeds have left a definite mark on the pages that they were pressed against so that rules out me accidentally dropping seeds into the book (plus I haven’t eaten poppy seeds recently).

Well, I’m up for a little fun. I’m going to plant these seeds and see if anything grows. I’m doubtful, but what the hell – who knows.

Some see seeds as a symbol of hope – I have a lot of hope right now and hope for the future. Some very good things are happening in my life now, and...well...I just gotta keep the hope going by planting these seeds.