Kubuku Rides (This is It) – Larry Brown

Another fine selection by Atwood and Ravenel. 

I mentioned that I thought it would be important if I got back to exploring the author a little bit more before I turned the eye to me and writing about the story.

I’m happy that I looked into Brown’s life a little.

The fact that Brown was not a college grad and had no (limited) real education in creative writing – but was self-taught through his love of reading appealed to me.

As I’ve written about before, I enjoy reading books that detail the writing processes of authors and advice to wannabe writers.

A great many authors advise the wannabes to read as much as they can, and to mimic the authors they love.

Brown had a love of reading and I imagine that through his reading he learned to write – of course a healthy dose of natural talent could help.

Brown said that he had written hundreds of short stories before being published.

Inspirational.

Brown died of an apparent heart attack in November 2004.

It took a few minutes and a re-read of the first few paragraphs of Kubuku Rides before I could get into the stride of the writing.

I don’t think it’s presumptuous of me to say that a good majority of people wrestle with some sort of addiction in their lives.

I’m not talking about a coffee addiction…or an addiction to M&Ms…

A serious addiction.  The all encompassing, life altering, conscious altering kind.

Kubuku Rides lays out a dialog within scenes that has found a reality millions of times.  I can imagine the scenes playing out in real time someplace in this world even as I write.

In the civilized world addiction is a facet of the human condition that is familiar.

Does it exist in the uncivilized world?

Do small nomadic tribes in Tibet, or gatherings of tribal families in the jungles of the Amazon deal with addiction? 

Does addiction manifest with the introduction of an external “something” to the unique chemical composition of an individual?

And why when the individual is aware of the hurt and damage that is being done by the addiction, can they not free themselves?

The Black Hand Girl – Blanche McCrary Boyd

Looking aback over the past couple of years of writing in this journal I see that I have fallen away from what was a standard practice before I set out to do any writing on a “just read” story.

I would usually pull up a bio of the author and read a bit about him/her because, honestly, I had never heard of them (yes…this was true of both Raymond Carver and John Gardner – my favorites – see what good it did me!) and with that new knowledge, I would toss in a little sentence that would round out my thoughts of the story.

I found that if I really enjoyed a particular story that I would delve deeper into the life of that author and attempt to discover what drove them.  I really enjoyed this exercise and what it added to this whole BASS project.

As lives change, my reading has severely dropped off and I am in a different place in my life now and I devote less time than I would like to my reading and writing. Perhaps it was my lack of reading and writing and feeling the need to post something that forced me into shortcuts and not fully devoting myself to a story or author.  

My position in life now also affords me a different perspective on what I read – much different than 3 years ago. 

I wonder then if this particular story (which I thoroughly enjoyed) would strike me differently if I had read it 3 years ago.  I suspect it would.  But, here we are.  I am reading it in April of 2013.

Yes, I enjoyed this story – but for the life of me I can’t lay down exactly why.  I am fine with that.

What I enjoyed even more was discovering a little more about the story’s author – Blanche Boyd.

Google her – check out a few interviews with her – you won’t be disappointed.

And it looks like she is still teaching and writing.  This is good.

Living to be a Hundred – Robert Boswell

Walking over to the coffee vending machine just a few moments ago with a worn dollar bill in my hand, questioning whether or not the bill will be accepted by the electronic eye, I find that the machine is out of order.  It’s going to be a long day.
   

As I write this I have about 13 hours to go in my eighth day of the week.   I work an over night shift at a university library providing reference support to students amped up on Adderall, caffeine and Ritalin.
  

An unusual number of Asian students also occupy my space and the only reason why I can figure that they are here is that the library provides them with a comfortable place to chat with their friends back in their native countries.  More students are starting to filter into the library now as the sun rises and classes will soon start.

I have found myself in a position in life where my daily work is quite comfortable.  I suppose the only danger I face is any damage that may be a result of sitting too much for too long, breathing conditioned air or the damage that the computers I face all day could be inflicting.  My work life is pretty cushy.

Rarely…do I mean…almost never do I come into conflict with people.  In fact, I wonder at times if I have lost my ability to fight because of my lack of exposure to arguments.  My opinions are requested and I do need to make decisions but when I do, they are rarely challenged and often valued.

What has afforded me such a life?  I am fortunate.

I worked construction for a few weeks one summer during summer school.  It was part time work and I didn’t put in the 40+ hours a week the other workers labored.  It was simple mindless work – demolition.  I am pretty sure I wrote of this experience once before in this journal.  

I enjoyed the work, but I would finish the day sore knowing that the next morning, if I had to work, I would be waking sore and that the day would be made a little more difficult.

 

A look back.

April 2012 I was reading – Introduction to The Best American Short Stories 1988 edited by Mark Helprin

April 2011 I was reading – Introduction to the Best American Short Stories 1986 edited by Raymond Carver

April 2010 I was reading – Coming Over by Edith Milton from BASS 1982

April 2009 I was reading – The Introduction to the Best American Short Stories 1979 by Ted Solotaroff

April 2008 I was – I had not yet begun reading…I was 2 months away from thinking about beginning.

Customs of the Country - Madison Smartt Bell

I’ve written in several posts on how lucky I have been in my life to not have been exposed to some of the more unpleasant aspects of humanity. It’s easy to watch the news, read a newspaper (people still do that right?) or scan an article online to realize what that our lives on this planet, as short as they are, can be crammed full of violence, hatred, anguish, love and passion all intertwined in a mixed up glob of feelings…confusing and damaging. Once again, literature allows me to live a life that I’ve never lived. A life of abuse, loss, mistakes, addiction, sorrow, hate, dependence and rejection.


It’s through literature that we learn of those who live this sort of life every day… and we learn, hopefully, to be empathetic towards others…knowing that they could be living a life similar to a character you just read about as you reclined in your easy-chair.

Customs of the Country is such a sharp story. I think the language pulled me in – and Bell did a wonderful job of developing the characters. Violence is an incredible thing. Knowing that violence moved our species forward out of the desert, the jungle, the trees, I wonder when and if there was a time that compassion, or holding another human prevailed over striking them down.

I would like to think that in all the human relationships that exist on this planet that holding another rather than hitting another surpasses the violent act.

Sadly I have my doubts.

Too many wake in the morning to a slap rather than a gentle hug or kiss. Perhaps it’s not even a slap but just the lack of any sort of recognition of their existence. Perhaps it’s a hurtful word or two (which could hurt as much as or leave deeper scars) that is uttered rather than a pleasant good morning.

And my heart hurts as I look at people and wonder, as they placed their feet on the floor to stand and take their first steps of the day, did they wish that they never woke? Were they happy to be alive?