Police Dreams – Richard Bausch

Being a child of divorce, and now, being married (happily) and having a son, stories like Police Dreams resonate just a little more than it might have 15 years ago.

This was a strong offering by Bausch and I’m glad that Helprin included it.

It’s scary and it’s one of those stories that cause you to wonder if it prompted other readers to look a little harder at their relationship with their spouse.

I wonder sometimes how a partner in a marriage can miss certain signs from the other. I think that I am pretty attuned to M and I can read her quite well. We are in constant communication through the day, and she is very comfortable letting me know what’s on her mind.

But, I must admit, I have had the fear, and I wonder if it’s a fear of many men in stable relationships, that one day, something will just snap, and your significant other will just unload on you – ending it all.

I have a job where I can leave work at work and it isn’t necessary for me to bring it home in the evenings. We usually discuss the day on our way home and sometimes the events creep into discussions at dinner – rarely beyond that time.

Perhaps the husband in this story was too self-absorbed in his work to read the signs that his wife was giving.

The tone that the wife takes made me quite uncomfortable – and I couldn’t imagine being in a relationship that had deteriorated into the mess that unfolds through the story.

Still Life with Insects – Brian Kiteley

“…they are simply finger exercises, writing without knowing that it is writing.” – Brian Kiteley from his contributors’ notes – The Best American Short Stories 1988.

I believe that I may have mentioned that little nudges from the universe appear when I need them the most.  Of course, they may be happening all the time without me picking up on them…but then they wouldn’t be nudges…you know the whole tree in the forest thing.

What I’m getting at, is that this story – rather, this author came along at a time when I needed to read him – as have other stories and authors during this project.  

Kiteley is presently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at the University of Denver.  It appears that he has 3 longer works of Fiction and two of Non-Fiction and is included in Lit. mags and  anthologies.

His non-fiction focuses on writing exercises and he has been gracious enough to include some of those on his website.

I have written all of the above through clenched teeth knowing that there is a decent chance that Kiteley has a google alert on his name that will direct him here – and that’s fine I suppose.

I dig what this guy has to say on his website- Kiteley reproduces the introduction to his book “The 3 A.M. Epiphany” – and in it, he mentions Gass and his method for writing fiction also offering Madison Smartt Bell’s feeling on the writing workshop.

I’ve been reading and listening to selections on Gass recently and am slowly moving through The Art of Fiction by Gardner, (Kiteley gives a nod to this book too)  and now to find this resource by Kiteley…it all seems to be lining up.

Lining up towards what?   

Well, we’ll just have to see won’t we? 

I plan on experimenting with some of Kiteley’s exercises.  He said everything that I wanted to hear –and with his appearance at this time in my life, I think I need to take the hint.

And now for some reflection.

In the contributors notes in the back of BASS 1988 Kiteley said this about the development of his story:

“I was moving from Seattle to New York in 1982 with a rest stop at my grandparents’ in Montreal.  My grandfather had a lifelong hobby of collecting beetles, and his locality notebook lay on the workbench by the bed I tried to sleep on my first night back on the East Coast.  I stole four entries from this locality notebook, writing them down in my own journal.  They described where he caught batches of beetles and when with the barest of relevant background information.  Nine months later, in a girlfriend’s depressing Murray Hill kitchen (bathtub at my elbow), I saw these entries and decided to do an exercise with them.”

And this takes me back to what I consider my first exercise in creative writing.  My memory isn’t allowing me to hold a firm date on the incident but for some reason I believe that it occurred in the 2^nd grade. 

The 2^nd grade seems almost impossible to me because I can’t image that I would even be able to write after only learning to read in the 1^st grade.  Perhaps it was the 4^th grade. 

Our teacher gave us a magazine and told us to cut a picture from that magazine, glue it to an index card and write a few short sentences, developing those sentences into a story.  I picked out a picture of a small UFO toy and glued it to the bottom left corner of the index card and wrote my few sentences. 

Evidently, I did something right because I earned some praises from my teacher and mother( mom’s approval is always important).

And I think of this exercise often.

So, I need to do more of this - more often. 

Now.

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.

The Best American Stories 1988 – Edited by Mark Helprin

One of the first things I do upon beginning one of these volumes is to flip to the table of contents, glance over the titles and authors, then jump into the introduction written by the editor. It’s usually a task which takes up all of 15 minutes.


Nothing was different with BASS ’88, I glanced over the TOC, saw a few familiar faces, Rick Bass, Richard Bausch, Mavis Gallant, Louise Erdrich, Raymond Carver and Tobias Wolff. I then started in on the introduction and after the third page, I could tell that Helprin was about to take me on a long ride.


I slowly flipped the pages in the introduction and flipped the pages and flipped the pages. –Wow- this was some “introduction”. I immediately was put off by the length of the intro and became upset with Helprin for using the space to spout off. I let the book rest for a bit, went back to it, read some more, thought about the intro and then let it rest some more.


If I was given the space in front of a collection like the BASS I believe that I too would write whatever I damned well pleased. I commend Helprin for his introduction. Unlike some of the other introductions in previous editions which simply gave the editor’s impressions on the state of the short story, or the art of writing a short story, followed by a brief summary of the stories contained and a mild opinion of each. Helprin spins off on a massive essay opinion on everything from minimalist writers to women authors, classic literature, writing programs and left-wing politics.


He certainly provided me with plenty to consider and I had to place my mind in the late 1980’s to fully appreciate when he was coming from.


As much as I may have agreed or disagreed with what he wrote, weighing out his thoughts was worth the time spent.


At this point in my introduction, I like to reflect back to where I was when these stories were collected and published.






In 1988, I turned 16.


I was driving a car on my own, I was a sophomore in high school and I had a solid set of friends and even a girlfriend that I thought I would marry (don’t most of us at that age?). I was doing just enough academically in school to remain “average” and mostly, I would hover just above “below average” and this would set itself into my pattern of achievement throughout my time in organized education. I hadn’t discovered the riches that literature could fully provide at this point. I was much more interested in music, girls and goofing off. My family life was solid. Mom was working hard as a teacher and my step-father who was fully retired at this point was holding down the fort. We always had a hot dinner. I delivered newspapers after school and woke early on the weekends to deliver the weekend editions. This kept money in my pocket for gas and helping out with car insurance. I could also buy a cassette tape every few weeks. I didn’t have my own car but shared my mother’s 1981 Chevette. My sister and I were still visiting my dad up in PA on holidays and during the summer.


Overall, life was really good.


Much as it is now.

I've come across Mr. Helprin before...and we had a wonderful first encounter.

It was over “The Schreuderspitze” which I absolutly loved.


And with that, let’s get to reading.