Way to the Dump – E.S. Goldman

I’ve been there before.  In a place of restlessness caused by relocation - or a position without stimulation – or perhaps it was a certain stillness which forced my hand to be moved by forces of mischief.  Of course, these were in the days of my youth…long since passed.  I have since learned other forms of relieving the stifling grip of the foggy hand which chokes out sane decisions under stagnant living.  Gone are the reckless decisions made on too much testosterone, on lack of experience or perhaps an emboldened will reinforced by liquid courage.

I have learned to embrace the peace and stability of life but wonder if the days ahead, (many years from now) will cause me to seek out little disruptions in order to re-ignite…something.

Honestly, it scares me to think that I could move in that direction. 

As in this story, the main character, as he set out on his normal day, had no intention of theft, had no idea of the twists that his life would take as a result of his minor crime.  An unexpected result to what he considered an almost innocent procurement of someone else’s property (he knew it was wrong…but the stillness – the sameness – the routine forced his hands to commit the action).

The mind and its fragility – to be massively altered from one state to another by chemicals of its hosts own manufacture – or a simple physical breakdown in the tube(s ) supplying the life giving blood to a portion of the brain or body that sets off a chain reaction of destruction that alters us completely to a person seemingly unrecognizable from who we were moments before.

It’s as if we are constantly walking on that tightrope – never knowing when our mind will decide that the world needs to be a bit different and we misstep – and slip…  

Happy Birthday to Years of Bass!

Officially 4 years old.  Passed that milestone yesterday.

 Here is a link to my first post made on May 29^th 2008.

Some numbers: 268 posts (269) counting this one with 26504 page views and 8 followers.  I’m not really sure what to make of these statistics.

Honestly, I can’t believe that I am still writing here.  When I started this project I was sure that it would only take a couple of years to complete.  I had a rough count of the number of stories, an estimate of how long it took me to read each volume and I think I calculated just over 2 years.

I’m so far behind.  I’ve discovered that this is a difficult endeavor.  Reading these stories, learning about the author, attempting to find a lesson from the story or somehow relate the story to my life (past present or future).

 There have been so many changes in my life in the past four years (wonderful positive changes).  The last two years have been the busiest and the most emotional of my life and there were times where this space was ignored for weeks at a time – when the last thing on my mind was reading…and there was no way in hell that I could write.

It’s funny that as I write this, there is again a current in the air that points towards some major changes in my life.  Noooo….not another little one. 

Not yet .

Just life changes.  Perhaps I am finding some comfort in returning to these stories and seeking their direction. 

Onward!    

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.