Wonderland - C.S. Godshalk

I was going to start off this by writing that “it is hard to imagine that there are any children today that live like this,” but after a moment’s thought, it’s easy to image that there are children that live like, this and in even worse conditions.

I would even go as far to say that there were classmates of mine that lived under similar conditions and probably were inches away from death.

Stories like this solidify my appreciation for the environment that I grew up in, and it forces me to pause and appreciate my life today.

Yes, we all may grow up under some pressures that may be less than ideal but I would venture to say that a good percentage of us have it pretty good.

At least in this country.

M has told me of her upbringing but I think that there are things that she won’t tell me – I’ve never pressed her on certain issues and I’ll just leave them. I also do not see anything in her behavior towards W that would make me nervous or cause me to press her on anything in her past.

There are so many children that are forced to grow up too quick as a result of their parent’s inability to parent or their inability to parent correctly.

Sure, I’m new to it…but we are doing a pretty good job at it. There were and are challenging times and there are going to be MANY more times that will dwarf anything that we have yet experienced as parents.

I know that we’ll work our hardest to deal with those problems as they arise and I have faith that we’ll be OK.

Parents can’t just run away. Yes, there are divorces…and I suppose that could be a form of running away and honestly, when the parent tells the children that the problem is with the other parent…is it really?

Again, I’m still working through the issues of my father leaving and his selfish actions –

I would like to think that our society here in the States are holding parents more accountable for raising their children than when this story was written.

As I would like to think that this is true…I am not surprised when I see a story in the media about a child left at home for days…or alone in a car…or a child held captive in a room, a closet or basement. And as I write this, I know that this is happening now – and it’s probably happening in my city, and I have the deepest pain in my heart to envision an innocent child – a child that I can only assign the same characteristics as my son, being subjected to conditions that no human, let alone a child who knows nothing in this world should have to bear.

And I can only assume that the parent or guardian of that child was subjected to a similar sort of punishment and this could be all they know – or perhaps the chemicals in their brain are just off a bit and they have no way of correctly caring for that child.

I think I’ve written before at my inability to read stories about the death of children or neglect/abuse of a child ever since the birth of W. Again, I can only assign the child victim a likeness of my son – and it’s too much to take in.



So, it goes without saying that this is one of those stories that will stick with me.

Waiting for Trains – Richard Currey

There’s a whole lot packed into this little story. I read it several weeks ago, and as it has been happening over the last years or so, I’m finally getting around to writing about it. I’m writing about the story in the same location that I read it so perhaps I get some points for that?!

It’s 4:24 in the morning – a Monday morning, and I’m manning the help desk at ODU. Sitting at this desk during the early morning hours, I have noticed that I have a group of regulars that spend this time with me.

I sit here and wonder about them. What’s their story? Why are they here in the library?

I wonder if they wonder about me. Between pages, do they glance up and look over at this guy sitting behind the Help desk and wonder what paths in life he has taken to land him here. Perhaps it has crossed their minds – but I’m sure it’s far less than me thinking about them. I have the luxury to think – unlike them who may be stuck between walls of study.

It’s so quiet in here during these hours. I can hear the air-conditioning blowing through the many vents here in this space; I can hear the sniffles of the students, the pages turning, the printers kicking out copies, chair creaking.

Last Friday, I sat outside of work and waited for M and W to arrive. They were late because of a strange series of events that just caused them to be off their schedule.

As I sat and waited, I pulled a book out of my bag, read a few sentences, returned it to my bag and just looked at the clouds.

This is something I need to do more often. I need to just be.

I don’t need to be reading, clearing messages off my phone, checking accounts or any other number of things that busy my hands and mind.

The clouds were beautiful. High, thin, feathery, whispery clouds. The wind at their altitude must not have been strong because they held their shape for some time – really not changing at all. I saw planes at different altitudes and I thought about where they could be going. I thought about the people in those planes.

I looked at the sun as it was reflected in the windows of the buildings of the city. I watched ants crawl on the sidewalk below me.

I felt a mosquito bit me on my finger.

I watched coworkers leave for the weekend.

I smelled something, I couldn’t identify it – and I noted that.

I need to look around me more. I think we all do.

The Taming Power of the Small – Will Blythe

A beautiful scary disturbing story. I go from one story that I can hardly get through – to one with sentences that that pulls me through to the end…keeping my heart in my throat and once again questioning how our society is held together – knowing that characters such as those created by Blythe exist in our world.

Again, I am reminded that if I had read this story four years ago – even two years ago, it would have hit me differently. Now that I am a father, I see the abduction of a young boy as something so real and so startling – something that frightens the life out of me.

It doesn’t help either that I work in the media where I have a daily dose of the ilk of humanity washing up onto my consciousness.

I believe that there are cases during the week, where my mind will purposely stray away from reading the news in order to prevent it from overloading my circuits.

Good.

So I checked out two books on the I Ching from the University library and I thought that I’d look into what they held since the book played such a role in the story.

I spent time reading both – which were similar – as expected, and I returned them in the book drop this evening. I thought earlier this week, when I checked them out that I’d mess around with them, throw some coins and see what sort of hexagrams appeared.

Then, my brain did what it was supposed to do, and my B.S. detector lit up and I realized that not only do I not have time for this, but there is no way that asking a question, throwing some coins and drawing some lines would really give me some insight to my future.

Yes I realize that the book is meant for uncovering our unconscious and allows us to look at life situations from alternative points of view by giving us different perspectives…but I think I can do that well enough on my own.

So – yes, this was a great story. It made me hug my son a little tighter, reminded me (or should I say reinforced the knowledge) that there are some really disturbed people in this world, and provided me with another example of how to write a great short story.

Entrechat – Edith Milton

                                                     
I’ll state right from the beginning, that this was a difficult story to read. Simply, it did not appeal to me nor was I motivated to read it, or perhaps it was the way that it was written so that the words did not pull me through the story.

I’m fine with this as with the other stories, I have said that didn’t appeal to me and again, I realize that not every story will have something for me.

But what did I get out of this story?

Once again, the contributor’s notes saved the day.

Milton writes in her notes that she is “uncomfortable inventing lives I have not lived myself, condemning the unborn to a Dantean eternity of reliving those sins I have imposed on them.”

It is interesting that I have come to this passage during the beginning of my study of MY writing.

She of course is not telling me not to invent lives and not telling me to invent lives, she is just personally uncomfortable doing so.

I appreciate what authors have to say, she is not giving advice, but the reason is one to keep in mind as I consider a journey in writing.



So, I have written a bunch of words about nothing.

And on a site note – I believe that my site is being scraped by several different scrapers – I suppose that means my content is out there on another site with a slight variation in the blog address.

Such is life.