Gesturing – John Updike

John Updike - March 18, 1932 – January 27, 2009

True confessions time:

This is probably the third story I have read by Updike. That’s it. Three total.

And the funny thing is, after each story, I vowed to read more of him. He’s just so damn good. I mean, really good. Really, really, really good.

And – I never follow through on this vow. My loss.

You see, I know that he has so much to teach me.

About myself, my parents, my friends, my country and the society I live in.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Look at the guy. He looks so happy, it’s like he was born with a smile on his face. And, behind that face, in his brain, he knows us all.

I was exposed to him a great deal through Joyce Carol Oates’ Journal. She and Updike had a great friendship. I think the paring is perfect.

So, as I do with all of these stories, I take a look at the author – read about them, contact them if they are still alive and reachable, then I usually stand in awe of their achievements and finally write a couple of lines about them before I write about what the story provided me with.

Concerning Updike – I am struggling right now to find the words to convey what an author like him can/has done or will do for me.

And the realization that I have recognized for so long now and that I am finally committing to type, is that there are simply so many good authors, so many good stories and I just do not have time to read them all.

Updike, Oates, David Foster Wallace, Zadie Smith and ...

I have obligations in life – we have obligations in life – that prevent us from reading (or insert vice/pastime here).

Mornings are spent exercising (I gotta keep healthy if I’m gonna live long and read) – days are spent at work (must make money to buy books) – evenings are spent catching moments to read between being a good husband and companion to my wife.

Here’s how I look at it.

How would I feel if after a full day of work, my wife came home and buried her face in a book?

If my wife wants to lie in bed and watch The Food Network for an hour with me next to her, I feel that it’s my obligation to the marriage to lay there next to her.

Honestly, if that small gesture “keeps the peace” then I’m a pretty lucky guy. The books can wait.

These thoughts play into what I think I enjoy about Updike, and with this particular story. We all know what Updike writes about, and in “Gesturing” his story of marital infidelity, separation, love, and everything surrounding all of the above, is explored once again.

One of the reasons why I enjoy Updike is because he so vividly takes me places I have never been and will probably never go.

But...he takes me places that I know have been visited by people very close to me. My parents – co-workers and former classmates.

I’m no saint, but I can say that a lot of what he writes about I haven’t done and I hope will never do.

Just as I like Oates – I don’t have the desire to kill anyone ( then eat part of them) in some perverted fashion...but she takes me places that I find fascinating. She peels off the “normal” world that we live in and shows us what really lies just beneath the surface. Updike does the same.

I often wonder, as M and I take our evening walk – which lasts about an hour or so – of what goes on behind the doors of the houses we pass by. Updike knows.

Is there a husband physically abusing his wife or children? A mother drowning her pain by taking another shot of Vodka with a couple of pills. Teenagers looking for attention by “cutting”...or vomiting dinner into the toilet? And on and on and on...

What really happens behind these perfect lawns and front porches?

I think it’s worse than we let ourselves believe.

Gesturing –

Sometimes it’s the small things in life that mean the most. A simple word, a look, a smile, comment or email.

It is said that we live in a connected world. Are we really connected? Are we able to recognize subtle gestures in our “new” world?

I will continue to look for the small gestures – and make small gestures. They work and they help us be better friends, husbands, sons, and parents.

The Old Forest – Peter Taylor

Peter Taylor - January 8, 1917 – November 2, 1994

I was a little worried about this story as I grew closer to reading it. In the introduction, Elkin mentions that this is a long story, and in past posts, I have complained (why...I don't know - just shut up and read!) about the length of some of these stories.

I was glad though that it was by Taylor because I really enjoyed his previous story in the BASS. You can find it here.

I am very fond of his style and I have found that reading him is quite easy.

As I started this story, I fell into an easy rhythm. I enjoyed the point of view that was chosen, and I like the digressions he took. There was a wonderful psychological edge to the story and that also kept me interested.

Taylor is another author that I would model myself after if I was an author.

Perhaps the Southern setting and the Southern atmosphere that Taylor does so well at bringing to life through his words is what attracts me to his stories.

The Old Forest

Looking back in my life, I think that some of the Forests I ran into caused huge shifts in the direction of my life, and that shift was a positive one.

There are several that I can point to.

-My decision to go to Norwich.

-My decision to live in New Jersey after Norwich...and not go to Russia with the Peace Corps.

-My decision to spend time in the restaurant world.

-My decision to leave NJ and move to Norfolk and work in Gourmet Foods manufacturing for two years.

-My decision to join the Peace Corps and live in RO for 2.5 years.

-And finally, to work in print media and remain today in print media when it seems as if the foundation of the institution is crumbling- or is it just morphing?

Now, were all of these Forests?

Well, some of the decisions that were made could almost seem to be viewed as being made in desperation.

I don’t think I “planned” on making any of them. I don’t recall a moment in my life where I saw one of those decisions up there on the list on my “someday I wish I can” list.

I think that I have just kind of rolled with the waves of life. I haven’t really strived to be anything – yet. I just exist where I am and I manage to make the best out of it.

But you know, as the Forest in this story provided comfort and a sort of camouflage to one of the characters, the Forest of life can be a very frightening place.

We can stumble into them...or run into them and find that we have become lost. The trees block out the sunlight – points of reference all begin to look the same. Strange noises find their way into our brain confusing our thoughts. We can run into a Forest with the intention of coming out the other side as someone new-or, we can run into the Forest and never come out.

Perhaps we find that we enjoy living in the Forest.

After writing the above sentences, I think that it is best that we venture into Forests from time to time – to push the limits of our lives, to recognize that we are still alive, human and we can either find excitement or that which frightens us. Either way, it can be good.

So, seeing that we are about ½ way through January, I think that will strive this year to work harder at getting into more Forests and discovering what they have to offer.

I can’t wait.

The Rags of Time – Barry Targan

Barry Targan – Nov. 30, 1932

How to approach discussing this story?

Well, we have all fallen under the spell of something or someone – sometime in our lives. The temptation and our choice to act on it is where things get interesting.

Drugs, alcohol, lies and sex...they are all out there waiting to make our lives more interesting. There are other forces out there but those are just a couple that happened to pop into my head See, I didn’t say “destroy”, rather I said “interesting” our lives because I feel that each one of those can be used in a way that can not cause damage to those who utilize them responsibly.

Even lies.

Now discussing this story, out of the list mentioned above, guess which one I will focus on?

Yup –SEX.

Time for more “real life” stories by yours truly.

I’ll only tell this particular story because it has some of the same ingredients as “The Rags of Time”. There is one major difference between what I did and what the main character of the story does.

Here we go -

So, as my little profile indicates up there on the right of your screen, I was a Peace Corps volunteer.

I entered the PC when I was 26 years old. I was sent to a small town of about 9,500 to teach high school English.

I lived in a dorm with the students of that school.

There were both male and female students in that dorm.

My English classes were made up of about 97% girls. GIRLS – 18 and under. Not women –GIRLS.

I was 26 years old. In a foreign country teaching mostly girls.

I will be honest and say that there was more than one opportunity for me to violate the trust between a teacher and a student.

It was also known, that there were teachers at that school who did violate that trust.

Here is a conversation I had with a female student one day after class in the hallway of our dorm.

-A mere 25 feet from the door to my room.

Like a good student, all of this was done in English which I think caused even more of a shock to me because I was flabbergasted that she was able to construct a conversation like we had, in for what was her, a foreign language.

She: Mr. _ , do you have a girlfriend?

Me: No _, I do not.

She: I don’t have a boyfriend...but I want one.

Me: uh-huh.

She: Would you want to be my boyfriend?

Me: -

She: I need a boyfriend.

Me:-

She: You could be my boyfriend now, just for a little while.

Me: -

She: Can we go to your room and talk about it?

She: I need a boyfriend.

Me: Look _, I can’t be your boyfriend, I’m your professor.

She: You could also be my boyfriend.

Me: - I need to go now, I’ll see you tomorrow.

And with that, I ducked around her and walked quickly to my room...

She was 18. I could have been “her boyfriend”.

I thought about that conversation many times after that encounter. I wondered what would have happened if we went back to my room to “talk” about it.

This particular student had attendance problems. She was older and I feel that she didn’t really feel the need to be at the school. She finished the year, and graduated. I passed her – barely.

I knew exactly what she was doing. The main character of the short that I just read faced the same situation but he “went back to the room” with his student.

There were times in the class when she happened to be there that I caught her and some other girls whispering and laughing as they looked in my general direction. I naturally assumed – as most guys would – that they were discussing my lack of a girlfriend and possibly my actions in that hallway – which in their eyes may have made me less of a “man”.

So, as I said, I thought about that conversation and encounter many times. I thought about where it would have taken me. If I crossed that line, would there be others?

It’s hard to say.

Stories like “The Rags of Time” provide the reader with an illustration of what could happen when we compromise ourselves.

The story isn’t that uncommon. It’s a story that becomes reality quite often in our world.

I chose what I thought to be the right path. All I am haunted by today is that conversation. I’m not haunted by what could have happened if we went further into that “conversation”.

My mind is clear and my integrity was tested – and I passed.

Overall, I really enjoyed this short. Here is a bit about the author.

“...one of these anthologies, included Targan's work along with fiction by such writers as John Updike, Saul Bellow, Tillie Olsen, and John Barth. In a 24 January 1992 letter, Targan wrote of finding himself in this distinguished company: "Naturally, I was elated.... But as I read through the collection, I came to a deeper awe not of them and not in self-appreciation, but of the act of such writing -- of writing with such honorableness, such authenticity.... I thought right then that to write -- to write with such integrity -- was one of the finest things a human being could do with a life. And so I decided just then that it would be one of the things I would do with mine. But only one of the things."”

“He is or has been a serious boat builder, sailor, gardener, potter, weaver, violinist, bookbinder, printer, papermaker, photographer, artist, skier, naturalist, bird-watcher, fisherman, editor, and teacher. Because he knows and has done so much, his writing covers these and other activities in informed, specific, realistic, and convincing ways, and his style is textured, detailed, and poetic.”

Dr. Cahn’s Visit – Richard Stern

Richard Stern – born Feb. 25, 1928

So, here we have another story about an old man. A confused old man.

-SURPRISE! (sarcasm)

At this point in my reading, I am beginning to wonder if Elkin has taken his whole “Guest Editorship” role as a joke. Did he have the ability to read and choose every story written in 1979 (for the 1980 edition) about an old man?

I know of Elkin and his personality, and the idea that he has made and included these stories as a joke is starting to become more and more plausible to me.

Either that, or why the hell, in 1979, were so many people writing about old men?

Yes, I stated in my previous post that I was attracted to stories of this sort...but c’mon! Enough is enough.

It’s really making reading difficult.

I look at the table of contents and I begin to wonder if the next story is going to be about a man. An old man, an elderly man, a poor elderly man – alone.

Richard Stern.

It’s certainly not his fault that his story was chosen for this volume. All blame falls on Elkin.

Richard Stern is a wonderful author.

Stern has associations with the masters of American Fiction and should be considered a master as well.

I dare not, in this little blog of mine, attempt to go into the accomplishments of the man. He produced and still produces today.

Often overlooked, unrecognized and under appreciated.

He knows this and he is more than comfortable with it. Good for him.

The Safe Deposit – Isaac Bashevis Singer

Isaac Bashevis Singer - November 21, 1902 – July 24, 1991

I think I said enough about Singer in my post about him which you can find here.

I noticed in that post that I spoke very little about the story. I did note that I didn’t like the story, but I failed to see it as a teaching tool and just dismissed it. Perhaps I am seeing some sort of evolution in this little experiment I am doing.

I enjoyed this story much more that the previous Singer story. Perhaps the rich descriptions of age and what it does to a human mind drew me into it. Of course, I’m more tuned into anything that has to do with the breakdown of the brain/mind because of what my father is going through and my efforts to keep out of my brain.

I feel though that I have always been attracted to stories of the elderly and especially those stories of elderly men struggling through life alone.

I see myself in this role someday (as I’ve written in other posts) and there really isn’t a need to go any further at this time into that whole stream of thought.

Recently, my family has seen another member of our family start the rapid decline into everything that surrounds old age.

2009 was not a good year for my step-father. I think we can say it was the year that marked his decline.

That year marked the year that his daily routine begin to take shape something like this.

Wake – eat - sleep in chair downstairs – eat – sleep in chair downstairs – eat – sleep in chair downstairs – go upstairs and sleep in bed.

He is 87 years old. He doesn’t really have a choice to live like this. He has declined into this state as a result of his age.

The problem is – is that this has made my mother’s life very difficult and sad.

We don’t think she was ready for such a quick onset – or really, we don’t think she would have ever been ready for something like this.

It hasn’t come to the point yet where we as a collective family unit have had to step in. That I think will come in the next few months.

At the Anarchists’ Convention – John Sayles

John Sayles - September 28, 1950

Nice treat to see a story from someone as celebrated as John Sayles. It’s interesting to read some early work from some of these “better known” artists. Please know though that I rarely find a higher talent existing within one of the chosen ones.

As I read this story, I couldn’t help but draw a funny line between the characters in the story and what a future class reunion of mine might look like. I didn’t take this story seriously...even though I’m sure it may have been written so, but I felt a bit light hearted about the subject.

You see, back at school, my crew was always filled with piss. We were ready to drink and fight. Sometimes, when we were unable to find a victim for our energies, we turned in on one another. It was a great time.

Our “meetings” would usually start at about 4 in the afternoon. Once we got out of our last class. We would skip the evening formation, and get some food from the small convenience store. “Food” meaning beef jerky, potatoes (to roast), chips, hot dogs...etc. We reserved most of our money for the cases of beer we would buy.

The first group of guys who would be in charge of setting up the site (the spot) would have taken up a collection of money from those who would be coming to the meeting later. At least five cases of Natural Lite were purchased. We made sure to buy returnable bottles so we could send some sucker back to the store before closing with the empties and with the deposit money to purchase more cases of beer.

So, setting up the site means that in the late summer, or late spring months, the beer was placed into a nearby stream ensuring that it was kept cold.

Next, no matter the season, a massive fire would be constructed. We were in the forests of Vermont, so plenty of wood was available. It would be close to 5 or six when we had everything set and the rest of the crew would arrive. By this time the advance crew would be well into the beer, and the late comers did their best to catch up. Everyone would be pretty up to speed around 8 o’clock. This left a good 5 or six hours of drinking and fighting to be done.

So, as I read this story, I kept flashing forwards into the future – when I’m 60, out in the forests of Vermont attempting to drink and fight with all my crew once again. I’m sure we will set off with 5 cases of beer – just as we did back in the 90’s. My guess is though that we will manage to get a few beers into a case and realize that we will be carrying 4 cases back. But who knows, perhaps, just as the old Anarchists in this story, we too will man the barricades and steel ourselves for the fight.

Here is a shot from a couple of years ago when some of the crew returned to the "spot". You can just see the stream off to the right...all the log seats have become covered with moss...and, as you can see, the fire isn't massive, and it looks like they have about one case of beer.