Lamb Says - Roseanne Coggeshall

Roseanne Coggeshall - ????

I really enjoyed this story.

The thought of a young boy reading all of the great authors and really not finding the point to speak because there really isn’t anything important enough in this world to cause him to waste his time on speaking...until he feels the need to utter the word “No”.

“No” is such a powerful word.

I have felt at times, in my life, that there have been too many people speaking too much, and now, in this day and age, more than ever.

There is so much noise in this world, everyone feels that they have something to say, and about 90% of it is crap!

Look at what I’m doing.

None of this really can benefit you the reader in any way.

I’m reading some of America’s greatest authors, and they have a lot to say, a lot to teach, and I at times have something to say about it.

From the start, I stated that this whole exercise is for me – a way to get my feelings in order also I’d like to give myself an education through these stories. These authors have a lot to offer, and I would like to learn from them.

Why do I have it here on this public platform rather than in a journal?

Well, I have both.

Here is a shot of my journal.

I’d also like to leave something behind that is secure for my children to read someday. Leaving this digital trail for them will do just that. I’ll do my best to preserve the paper and ink...but I’d like to offer them this as well.

So, here I am spouting off a bunch of crap, pushing out a bunch of letters into the electronic world, adding to the noise.

And to those who know me... лучше молчать !!

Proud Monster – Ian MacMillan

Ian MacMillan March 23, 1941- 18 December 2008

With ‘Schindler’s List”, I think North American audiences received a wonderful education on the horrors of the Holocaust. We were faced with history and it was done in a way that for those of us who saw it...will never forget it.

In 1981, when MacMillan wrote Proud Monster, there of course were other pieces of literature about the Holocaust but MacMillan delivers his in such a disturbing way as to sear his sketches into your memory.

Is it dangerous to speculate as to the motivations behind authors who continue to write about this event? Is there a line that the artist must walk along where on one side, he is educating and on the other, he is exploiting?

This question was batted around with the works of MacMillan who focused some of his writing on the Holocaust.

In the Boston Phoenix, Adam Kirsch noted that MacMillan is not himself a Holocaust survivor and thus had to rely on the knowledge of others for his fiction. Calling the Holocaust "an impossible subject for fiction," Kirsch added, "fiction, like any art, enjoys an essential irresponsibility, a freedom that comes from being aesthetically rather than ethically committed. And when a writer tries to create aesthetic pleasure out of the ethically atrocious, he comes close to blasphemy." Kirsch professed, "I cannot help but feel that, in this case, MacMillan has tried to do something that fiction cannot, and should not, do." Another critic strongly supported the opposite position, however. In answer to the question of why one should use fiction to portray the Holocaust when the actual events were so memorable, Smardz explained, "It is the experience only of those who saw and remembered and came back to tell us. But to understand completely, we must go beyond all this to the rest of the story, to the truth and the experience of the millions who died." "The only way to get at that truth is to imagine it. And the only way to imagine it is through art," concluded Smardz.

"Ian MacMillan." Contemporary Authors Online. Detroit: Gale, 2008. Literature Resource Center.

I have come to the point in my reading, where I cannot help but to feel that there is simply too much literature out there about the Holocaust. I am in no way meaning to diminish what happened – what I mean to convey, is that there are too many people who think they can produce worthy fiction centered on the Holocaust.

This is another case where I am looking at a genre of writing from 1981 through the eyes of a 2010 reader.

Prize Tomatoes - Anne F. Rosner

Anne F. Rosner -????

A story that hits about as close to home as you can get. I think I subliminally waited to write about this story until after the visit to my father’s.

We visited him this weekend to give him the news, and it seems that with each visit, I’m able to discover a little more about his state of mind.

My father lost his permission to drive. The state as well as my step mother have taken it away. His old car was sold several months ago. He slipped once and told me that he would sneak out with it from time to time. A trip to Home Depot, the bagel store or the market.

Years ago – actually, as recently as 5 years ago, my father drove like a bat out of hell. Music pounding through the speakers, squealing tires around corners – passing on two lane roads, excessive speeds...but, what seemed to be a dance with death, was actually a game of control with reality.

Well, he finally lost his game of control when those around him told him that because of his disease, he was no longer safe on the roads.

Sadly, I have to agree with the decision to stop him from driving.

The world is moving too fast for him to process now.

His speed is walking speed – and boy can he walk.

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You know, I’m having a bunch of trouble writing now. I just can’t get into it. I don’t have the motivation. You can see that I am obviously writing now and I think that what I am doing at this very moment is in a way helping me work through the difficult patch of motivation that I am swimming in now.

I really wanted to write something special about this story and how I saw so many similarities between the father in this story and my father.

My dad has lost his independence due to Alzheimer’s. It sucks and I’m still attempting to process a lot of things surrounding it.

A couple of times this weekend, I caught him just walking around the house – and when I asked him what he was doing or where he was going, he admitted that he had forgotten.

Over the past several months, I have questioned what he does with himself all day.

Now I know. I have a feeling that he starts the day off with some tasks or chores in mind or on a list, and he just wanders from one to another. He may start cleaning a room, carry something to another and become distracted by what is in that room and remain there for minutes or an hour – totally forgetting what it was that he was doing before he came into that room.

He walks outside to check on something and forgets what it was that he was going to check on as he is walking there and ends up in a place where he has wandered for no apparent reason – at least to him.

Sometimes things in the house get a little too heated for him. He can no longer escape as he did in the past.

He’s lost. It is sad.

That’s all I have to say about that.

The seeds.

What lies between the pages.

The discovery of these seeds are one of the reasons why I like buying used books.

I’d never find these seeds in an e-book.

I mentioned in a previous post that I thought these could be poppy seeds that fell off a previous reader’s morning bagel. At least, that’s what I imagine.

The were wedged in between two different pages in what is called the gutter of the book. The seeds have left a definite mark on the pages that they were pressed against so that rules out me accidentally dropping seeds into the book (plus I haven’t eaten poppy seeds recently).

Well, I’m up for a little fun. I’m going to plant these seeds and see if anything grows. I’m doubtful, but what the hell – who knows.

Some see seeds as a symbol of hope – I have a lot of hope right now and hope for the future. Some very good things are happening in my life now, and...well...I just gotta keep the hope going by planting these seeds.

The Girl Who Was No Kin to the Marshalls – Anne Hobson Freeman

Anne Hobson Freeman - March 19, 1934

Freeman as far as I can tell has no connection to Gardner. –Good-

There have been a couple of stories that have hit close to home (actually more than a couple) but this one hits close in a few ways.

Researching Freeman, I discovered that she lives here in Virginia only 116 miles away from me – just over 2 hours by car! Pretty cool!

I was pleasantly surprised to read this story especially so since I had such familiarity with some of her scenes.

I did find this interesting story by her describing vacationing on Willoughby Spit in her youth.

http://www.willoughbyontheweb.com/willougbycivicleague/feature%20story.htm

Here is a map (with my GPS track) of a recent 20 mile run that took me down the Spit and onto the beach she mentions in her online story. I’m sure on my next run down the Spit; my thoughts will bounce back to her.

In her story contained within The BASS, she mentions Portsmouth VA. which is less than a 5 minute trip through the tunnel for me. Cool little connection for me there.

Finally, the primary setting for this story takes place at the Virginia Military Institute or VMI.

In High School, I was involved in JROTC. (yeeeeess, I was a dork). Two of my 3 best friends were also in JROTC with me and during our years there, we were quite successful within the program.

That’s me on the right in the front (I was the Company Commander) and my two best friends are behind me. The gentleman in the middle is in Iraq now on his second tour (and doing quite well for himself inside the military establishment) and the young man in the rear is a successful scientist living in North Carolina.

We all wanted to go to VMI. Of the three of us pictured above, only the middle man made it there and graduated successfully. My other friend, not included in the picture, made it through the RAT LINE – but was suspended for academic reasons, served some time in the army, was readmitted to VMI and graduated. He also saw some time in Iraq but is now a successful independent businessman in Lexington, VA.

I had a particularly heartbreaking rejection from VMI. It was the early spring of 1990. I had applied to VMI, and they had received my application and invited me to the school for a tour of the campus and an interview as a “future Keydet”. So, the family jumped into the car and headed west into the mountains to visit the beautiful VMI campus.

We arrived on campus in the late afternoon, and headed over to the admin. hall to meet with an admissions officer. The officer came out with a strained look on his face, introduced himself and asked us into his office. He sat us down and it was obvious that something wasn’t quite right. He explained to us that he and his staff had attempted to reach us for the past several hours in an attempt to cancel our campus visit.

“You see” he said...”You are not going to be admitted here”, “We didn’t want you to waste you time coming out here...we would have preferred to give you the news over the phone rather than you making such a long trip here for nothing”.

I just sat there looking stupid – my mother sighed and I saw tears well up in her eyes...she asked what it was that caused them to reject me.

It was a simple list actually – no extracurricular activities, poor academics and low SAT scores.

Easy rejection.

Looking back, I would have rejected me too!

Well, as the world works, my rejection at VMI and acceptance to Norwich was yet again one of the best things that ever could have happened to me.

It’s impossible to say what twists and turns my life would have taken if I attended and graduated from VMI. VMI is a wonderful school with rich traditions and I know many fine men who graduated from that school.

But –

What I gained from Norwich though what I needed in life.

Norwich, I believe suited me better.

I don’t think I was ever cut out to be a Keydet.

Once again, it’s interesting to look back at the paths your life has taken and wonder at the person you have become or the person you could have been.

Coming Over – Edith Milton

Edith Milton - ????

Displaced.

I’ve been lucky in this life so far as to have never been forcibly displaced from my home.

There are plenty though in this world that have, and are, and will. It’s one thing when something like a flood or fire takes away your home, you can be angry and upset, but can you really gain the needed satisfaction of getting angry at a flood?

When a man or groups of men, or a government displaces you, then you have something, someone to direct your anger towards – that can feel it.

Now, if it impacts them, that’s another story.

Milton knows what it feels like to be displaced, and it shows through her story. Displaced not only physically – but psychologically.

It’s the psychological displacement that I can, and I think most people can relate to. I would venture to say that a great number of people feel displaced psychologically at one time in their life.

Milton’s story takes place on a ship crossing the Atlantic.

I spent some time on a ship once, and it happened to be during a period in my life when I was going through a mental displacement.

I was on the Volga River traveling between Volgograd and Astrakhan Russia. As companions, I had Germans, Dutch, English, Japanese, French, Americans and of course Russians both sexes well represented in all of the nationalities.

We drank, we danced, we smoked, and we sat on the deck chairs and tried to impress the girls with our “personalities”.

Time on that ship was spent discovering limits and boundaries – not only in others but within ourselves.

Some of us sought to create new identities but the realization that doing so is far more difficult than ever imagined.

The close quarters, and the anonymity that the closure of our trip would soon allow us - brought down the walls of civility, courtesies and behavior that existed on shore.

It’s as if we were free of the burdens of our lives for the voyage.

We forgot to sleep knowing that any time doing so would be wasted. I had to stay awake as to fill each hour with meaning and adventure.

I learned a lot about people on the ship and a lot about myself.

My displacement was a good thing, and allowed for growth.

I was forever changed after that trip down the Volga.

our ship

Harmony of the World – Charles Baxter

Charles Baxter - May 13, 1947

I don’t know if it would be considered a complement or an insult to say that I felt like this short story was a novel.

I’d like to think it would be taken as a compliment. Baxter’s ability to pack just the right amount of “everything” into this short- gave it such thickness and substance that my brain felt as if it had just consumed a novel.

Have I ever been sooooo passionate about something as to drive someone away?

No, I can confidently say that although I am passionate and a bit crazy, I know humans have certain boundaries and limits and most importantly edges that you can’t push them over.

I think it comes down to a level of respect for others.

I really try my best to respect people, and I’m genuinely concerned about their feelings.

At times, I may talk the talk of a heartless bastard – but, in reality, I’m soft.

The problem is – the characteristic that gets me into trouble the most with others – the one thing about me that drives others insane – especially those closest to me, is that I am a bit too self-centered.

Ya think?!!

Perhaps this is due to my constant self-assessment sessions that I put myself through.

Perhaps it is due to the divorce all those years ago and the years after struggling with my identity.

Who knows- I can blame any number of things.

The good thing is that I am aware of this and awareness is the key!