In 1978, at age twenty-one, my brother Jack blew the windows out of his small apartment when he attempted to light the pilot in his oven. He went from some windows to none very quickly. Somehow, he was neither singed nor injured by the brief fireball he described, but the windows did not hold up as well, nor did the landlord’s temper.
Continue reading “Week 547: Scofflawing the Scythe”
Boredom kills. Not just in stories but in life as well. When I was young I spoke of a distant future that would be enriched by callow memories of youth. For some reason it always involved sipping Jack while sitting in a rocking chair. Even then I knew that was bullshit. You can kill, maybe, an hour a week doing such, but you are still alive and require much more than forty year old stories to continue the experience. The young tend to shelve the old, even when the young are the old.
I am prone to boredom. We all are, but some much more than others, and I am too easily bored. Throughout life I have gone from one new obsession to another and, to date, I am the only one left standing. I am bedazzled with a subject for months then one day it is over. Rock collecting, astronomy and many other fiery enjoyments fell off my imagination, as did pressing wild flowers and, yes, the three week interest I had in the accordion.
That, however, is the way of children. When we become adults it is assumed that we will develop sticktoitiveness. Music has been in and out of my life for years, which makes it the Methuselah of my interests. I was keen for it from fifteen to forty then stopped listening, save for the jukebox in bars, for about ten years. It has come back only because I have given up on new music and I do not care what others think about that.
Writing has a strange place with me. It is immune to boredom but it has never been an obsession except when doing it. That is the difference, mainly the other stuff was heightened by my imagination of it, while writing has never had to pass the test. It is just there, something I can do (good and bad). But I didn’t take it seriously for a long time. John Boy Walton is to blame for that. On The Waltons it was clearly made that you must go to college to be a writer the same way you go to dental school to be a rapist, I mean dentist. It wasn’t until later that I finally learned that most people attend college to get drunk and have sex. John Boy lied.
Dorothy Parker stopped her schooling at age fourteen, probably the same for Shakespeare, and Capote didn’t finish high school. In fact the more I read the more I understood that writers are often smarter about life than are college students. You do not need to pay tuition to get drunk and have sex.
This was an eye opener.
To combat boredom I read at least three books at the same time (no, wiseass, not literally). I also have all kinds of stories and articles and even books of my own going at once. I counted and there’s over forty of them, but I only work on three at a time. I would have to not open anything new and write well into my hundreds to finish the stuff I have going now. That does not bother me. I still open new stuff. Changing constantly is useful against boredom. And so is humour, not the silly TV stuff, but actual almost organic humour that is found in the crash and thud of being.
Drugs and alcohol are never boring but it’s a shame they turn on you, how they wear out their welcome, but they are not wholly bad. I have always said “forget moderation.” That’s the same as telling your spouse that you are willing to love her/him to a responsible degree but no further. If I loved someone I would want it to be reckless and mad. Nilla wafer love affairs, I imagine, are boring. Yet they lead to fewer restraining orders.
Winning the battle against boredom is why writers tend to live long lives, nowadays, at any rate. Also, effective treatment against tuberculosis and syphilis has raised the mean death age for writers as well. Moreover, writers seldom drink themselves to death today, the way O. Henry did (who was found as good as dead in a hotel room with nine empty jugs of whisky under the bed). Oh, we drink just as much as ever, but evolution has toughened up our livers. Call me a bigot, but I do not think that a person can truly write about the darkness in the human race (Ann Frank the exception) without having had some experience in alcohol, ongoing or in the past. There’s a special feeling that comes from waking in bed with someone whose name you do not remember. That sort of thing opens a lot of mental doors.
Suicide, though spoke of often is not as rife among writers. It has been a long time since Plath, Woolf, Hemingway and John Kennedy Toole voluntarily checked out. Musicians, so it seems, have taken over that department. Mental illness and boredom make a lethal mixture. You cannot do much about the first but the second can be alleviated if you are willing to use whatever mental illness and/or addiction you have as a positive resource to learn from; do not hide it as a dark shame that you have let people tell you how to think about. But this comes with a risk, people have their own problems, yours had better be interesting.
I think that there is an extra allegory to be found in Hawthorne’s nearly two hundred year old story Young Goodman Brown. For those of you who have forgotten it, Goodman went into the forest surrounding Salem around the time of the witch trials and discovered that every last Puritan in the village, himself included, was at best a basic hypocrite while most were evil hypocrites. The allegory extends to writing; you go into the woods full of writers thinking some to be superhuman geniuses and come out with the hideous realization that they, like you, were/are insane slobs with dark secrets. The job is to realize we are all insane slobs and accept it. I, for one, am rather comforted when I read about the “shortcomings” of famous writers. Twain (another non-college goer) had a terrible temper, Capote, when drunk, was a vicious little bastard, Dickens had family troubles and I would not be surprised if it were discovered that Shakespeare was not a fella to trust alone with your wife (nor the wife with Will). It is just fine by me that all are human, it gives our temporary moments of godliness increased esteem in my eyes.
Hmmm, again this part appears that it will end like smashing into a tree with Ethan Fromme at the wheel. Even a fancy literary comment fails to make the sudden segue from the opening topic to the wonderful Week That Was smoother. Alas, we carry our crosses uphill and the best you can hope for is an ending similar to the one the repentant thief got from Jesus. Barabbas? Or maybe that was just a movie. Hmmm, even a biblical anecdote fails to decrease the jolt. Oh well. So brushing this mishmash of pseudo philosophical musings aside, it is now time to re-visit the six wonderful performers of this Week That Was. They are far from dull.
Dale Barrigar Williams appeared on the second Sunday of the month, as is his habit. He knows about drugs and booze (enough to quit them) and is extremely well educated, but he hasn’t let any of that get in the way of his humanity. This month in his Eliot Behind the Mask, Dale once again merges his humanity with his PhD and presents TS Eliot as a real person and not a mummified great of the past. This is a perfect example of going out into the woods with great writers and seeing one toss a smoke bomb!
Monday delivered Man With a Shopping Cart by Tom Bentley-Fisher. Poor William has an obsession with shopping carts. But soon enough they fill with hard, even brutal memories. The metaphor should be obvious but Tom enriches the tale with images both wonderful and frightening. You can’t fit this one into a box.
Tuesday brought a second story that fled expectations that built within it. The First Thing She Notice Disappear Was a Kangaroo by Michael Degnan leaves a great many questions for the reader to consider. Michael also presents a well written, believable POV for the seven-year-old MC.
Wednesday’s Tilda the Ice Maiden and her life in the tundra 1785 bce by Linclon Hayes, opens with a rare, once in a lifetime sentence; the sort of sentence all writers crave to create. And the lives up to its opening; it hooks you into a world of surprises, as you might deduce from looking at the title.
There is a fantastic moment in A Eulogy For Us by Darleine Abellard, that catches you off guard and lifts this much higher than other funeral tales. The entire work is top rate, but the summation of grief towards the end raises this one to a new level of excellence.
We closed the week with Everybody Prefers Iceberg Lettuce by Genevieve Goggin. You know an author has done well when she reminds you, in spirit, of another writer. Here I got Anita Loos in mind, who created hectic and entertaining Lorelei Lee (played by Marilyn Monroe in a film that had to water down some of the wilder stuff in Loos’ prose). A century lies between the two writers but this one has the same special elan.
Congratulations to the Ladies and Gentlemen of the week. They kept our minds active and carried us pleasantly into the future.
Yes, I Close With Yet Another List
Sometimes I wonder how it all began. When did I figure that list making was for me? I think the David Letterman Show reinforced my list making in the 80’s, but I was already doing such before I first saw his nightly Top Ten. I do not recall making lists as a child, but ever since I was around twenty I’ve been writing them. Could be I was abducted by aliens way back when and instilled with a desire to make lists for reasons as unexplainable as the “Sacred Mysteries” of the Christian church. Who’s to say?
Regardless of the inspiration, today’s list is dedicated to short story writers of yore who often produced works well worth remembering. This list has been up before, but it contained other items. Some are still famous, some are unfairly buried by time. As always, please add your own suggestion.
Leila
This week a bluesy song from (incredibly) forty year ago
The Struggle
I normally begin writing a weekly wrap with nothing in mind. I start hitting keys and wait for something to pop into my head, which usually happens by the end of the second sentence. As a general method it might be lacking, but for me it works out. But, alas, tonight, I am as empty as a campaign promise. I should have been at “go” two sentences back, yet I’m still a flatliner; but that’s all right, I thrive on pressure.
Continue reading “WEEK 543: The Struggle; the Week That Was; 2025 Playlist”
Insanity
I have lived in the same apartment since October 1998. That was not by design, but it has worked out that way. Until I settled here, I had not lived in one space longer than four consecutive years, including childhood. Something always happened; nothing has yet to happen here. The building was sold last year, but it was just a case of meeting a new boss, the same as the old boss.
Continue reading “Week 541: They Are Dripping Me Insane”
Super-Selling the Taste of Irritation
I don’t watch TV anymore, but I like to have it on retro MeTV in the other room, overnight. Mannix comes on at 2 AM (currently circa 1973; I’m where I can tell the year by Joe’s coif). Of course the specifics only make sense in America, but I have a feeling that similar channels exist all over the world. Regardless, this is not about old “CTE” Joe, it is about something very disturbing I heard during a commercial break as I was in the kitchen getting coffee.
Billy Mays was hyper selling something. I do not know how much of the globe got the Billy Mays’ super-sell treatment, but in America, I got plenty. He used to be on commercials selling stuff day in and out. I really wasn’t paying attention, so when I heard his familiar voice on the TV I thought no more than I would about seeing a Pigeon in the park–but after a few seconds a headvoice asked:
“Isn’t he dead?”
Indeed. Dead as a Dickens’ doornail. Since 2009. For a moment I thought “Oh, a retro commercial inside a retro TV show” (the mortality rate among Me TV performers is very very high). But, no, it was a recycled ad.
I tried to think about that objectively. Maybe the product (can’t for the life of me remember what for–a glue of some kind, I think) had paid for the ad and held onto it for sixteen years? Seemed unlikely.
Then a different headvoice spoke up. It was familiar, and a rarity because it only speaks when it has something to say. It asked: “What the hell is wrong with people?”
I thought about it. There’s nothing unusual about using dead people to sell stuff. American money is covered with the faces of ghosts–so maybe there is some kind of connection. Yet there was something wrong with seeing Billy Mays, sixteen years dead (cocaine), behaving as though we were all alive together today and that I needed to buy his product. Something not just wrong, but fundamentally wrong.
It wasn’t a lack of respect for the dead; Mays was all about the push, and probably would have loved the idea. It wasn’t about the product itself (yes, a glue of some kind, almost positive). And it wasn’t anything overly offensive in the ad. Yet it was still fundamentally wrong.
Then it came to me. Having Billy Mays (or anyone) sell long after his death was in BAD TASTE.
I returned to my desk and sat there. I stared into my computer screen. Yes, somewhere along the Irene Leila Allison Experience having a dead man sell glue was deemed to be in bad taste. Obviously this was not instilled in me specifically, but as a Fundamental (that word again) Principle, headed Dead People Acting Alive, something like that. Moreover, it should be clear to everyone that such a thing is in bad taste and that…well, is that.
I googled the miserable affair. Sure enough the company wanted to mark its fifteenth anniversary by using the Mays’ ad. Naturally, I do not believe that poppycock* one damn bit. It remains classified as bad taste.
(*Old word of the week.)
I do not think that having a standard of taste is a generational thing. The input should not be able to override the inside system. There should be a safeguard against merrily accepting a dead guy selling glue (almost positive it was glue) because the client was probably too FUCKING CHEAP to tape a new commercial. After all, they are still in business sixteen years later (not fifteen, which is impossible); I’m sure they can afford to make another.
The rare voice asked again: “What the hell is the matter with people?”
I chose to hear it as a rhetorical question that is begging for an answer, but it will not get one because the only people who care to reply think using the ghost of Billy Mays to hawk glue (damn it, glue it is) is a fine thing, respectful of his legacy as a coked-up super salesman. People for that sort of thing yell, the rest mutter helplessly.
Then another voice, slappable, punky, chipped in: “Alright Boomer.”
I reached into my mind and grabbed that voice by the throat and squeezed. “Say that again and you will have spoken your stupid last,” I told it, words seething out due to a vape pen clenched between my teeth. “C’mon, let’s hear it, you dreary little darling, let’s hear it!”
Yes, I have heard ‘Alright boomer’ everytime too many. Only idiots and politicians must use material written for them. But even those guys can wax original when you attempt to crush their voice boxes. Yes, so so so sweet a sound…
But now I have caught myself dreaming of doing such a thing, coming back to the now, empty hands clenching and twisting, instead of writing this wrap. So, with a sigh, I move away from the irritating world and head for the good part.
The Good Part
Here, I’ve gotten into the habit of mentioning the Sunday feature to lead off the week that was. Seems to me that poor Sunday was left out in the cold, so far be it from me to contribute to the desolation of that situation. This past Sunday Geraint Jonathan returned with A Most Unfortunate Accident. Geraint paints a winning portrait of Dostoevsky and the great Russian’s novel in his beautifully flowing essay. It worked on me, since I added the book to my Kindle.
For those of you who missed Arjun Shah’s debut last week, you get a second chance at reading him with his The Rules of Love that opened the regular week Monday. Atjun is able to get a great amount of humanity across in just a few words; he also shows a different culture known to us in the West.
Brandon McWeeney gave us Beetles on Tuesday. It is to Brandon’s great credit that he was able to get such a thing over so easily. A real squirmer, but well worth the read, layered and entertaining.
Sandra Arnold returned on Wednesday with Colour Clash. Sandra’s story is remarkable for both its incisiveness and restraint. There is a contrast of ideas put forward by a brother and sister; the ideas do not match yet neither is wrong.
The Castle’s Walk-in Cooler, the first by newcomer T.C. Barerra is a free trip to the bizarre land of California. T.C. weaves tremendous social examination with cynical humour and under-riding sadness, that is actually at the surface, for people who look at other people, and comes up a winner.
Friday brought What Matters by Shivani Sivagurunathan. Like Sandra there is beauty and restraint. And there’s tremendous courage and strength in the MC, Didi, whose reactions remind me of Nora’s in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. Beholding your own reflection is the second hardest thing to do. Doing something about it is harder.
There we have them, six writers from four continents, two genders, various ages and diverse POV’s; all met in high quality and GOOD TASTE.
A List
We all have our bugaboos when we try to write. I do it every day, and yet I must overcome several obstacles that often make me want to quit and fade even further into nothingness.
Mine are:
Nothing relevant here, just something silly and cheerful…
Leila
Despite an amount of booster shots I can no longer recall (five, I think), I again came down with covid (thrice so far that I know of), a week ago Wednesday. This is by far the strongest one I have endured, and even though it has ruled the last week and a half, it certainly is not a killer. It spared me the last three days of my work career and has gotten retirement off to a somewhat foggy start.
Continue reading “Week 538: The Mind of the STM”
Long ago, in the American midwest, a woman shot her husband of twenty some odd (and some even) years to death because he would not turn down the “goddam” TV.
There are three cliches we should examine to come to an objective opinion about this situation.
Continue reading “Week 537: Making A.I. Cry”
I noticed that many species of male birds have low self esteem. Your basic Lady Pheasant is a sensibly attired person while the gent is as garish and loudly dressed as a grand opening of a supermarket.
Have a look at this fellow, a gent Ring-necked Pheasant named Ralph Beeker.
Ralph lives a short distance from me and I assume he is a pet since he is always in the same yard, and I’ve seen him plenty. Here, perhaps not his greatest moment, Ralph is giving the beak to his reflection in a tail light. So, all the wild colours might be necessary in aiding him to find a mate, since intelligent conversation is likely off the table.
And this guy (just down the road from Mr. Beeker) is a Northern Flicker Woodpecker. I call him Big Ed. At the time of the picture, he was up there jack-hammering the metal gutter to let the lady Flickers know that Big Ed is back in town and he’s ready to experience the miracle of love. He is a bird of perhaps false bravado. Anyone who has not heard a Woodpecker drum on a gutter or chimney cap, I can tell you it is hell loud. Football helmet designers should pattern their wares after the unknockoutable noggin of the Woodpecker.
Take the Bird of Paradise (I’ve never seen one in person, but I have seen the clips that most of us have seen at one time or another in our life’s journey spent mostly watching YouTube). The female is a pretty and tastefully turned out bird, while the male is a loud fashion disaster who has never met a bright color he can turn down. These guys are all strut and hard sell. If the male Paradise could get his wings on pyro, he’d use it. Nothing is too crass for him. He is a Kiss concert come alive.
Something tells me that the Lady Paradise Birds have fun with this and that they are more impressed with how far the guy will go to make a fool of himself rather than looking for a Mr. Right to sweep her of her talons.
I forgot to mention Elliot of the header. He usually goes for the direct approach and chases girls as they try to separate seeds from cigarette butts on the sidewalk. A Human being would get scolded, but it is normal Pigeon behaviour, and I doubt that a Pigeon can conceptualize “dinner and a date.”
Still, there is far more dignity in Elliot’s actions than there was in a human one I saw unfold at the park a Sunday or so back.
There was a couple in the park’s parking lot looking under the hood of their car. People all around. Kids everywhere. The woman was an obvious meth addict (no PC there, anyone who can’t tell a meth addict after having one shown to her is either headless or painfully stupid). She was twitchy and had that fast-forwarded face and voice similar to Pazuzu from The Exorcist. I wanted to feel pity for her but at some point a person must stand up and prove she wants to be alive.
The guy was apparently not an addict, looked younger, maybe twenty-three. And he was a punk. Not as in the style (he was one of those skinny wannabe jerks whose pants were down to his knees) but punk as in a guy who needs his ass kicked profoundly and often. (And he had eyes like those of a Sardine.)
This ritual ensued:
Woman: “Sorry babe…musta broke it”
Punk: “You [are] incompetent, bitch! You [are] stupid bitch!” (That’s how he spoke, like Tarzan, “You useless Jane!”)
Woman: “Heyheyhey!!!”
Punk: “You [are] pointless bitch!”
Woman: Something loud and unintelligible.
As you might guess the people in the park heard all this because it was shared at an extremely loud volume. Verbal abuse only, but you sensed it could go even more wrong. As anyone who has ever stupidly tried to get between a couple fighting in a tavern can tell you, trying to be the “Hero” in that situation is a very bad idea. The “victim” will rip into you, due to (in this case) her “training.” It’s best to drop a dime. Which is exactly what happened because a patrol car drove in and a very large policeman and equally capable policewomen had a visit with the quarrelsome twosome. The punk’s attitude changed swiftly, as it does with phony loud noises wearing Raider’s gear–all yessir, yessum. The woman just stood there (I assumed she had been taught not to say shit when he was talking) perhaps praying that they would not check for wants and warrants.
So, if anyone ever wants to know why I spend more time writing about animals than people, let the above serve as an example. Quite often it is demoralizing to observe the human race. Even dim Ralph Beeker can see that.
But lucky us! We get to move on to better things, written by people who have higher aims in life than making fools of themselves.
I am extolling six again this week. Two are written by long time friends, another by a recently acquired friend of no small talent and three by outstanding newcomers to the site.
The Sunday rerun was Michael Bloor’s Jack o’ Diamonds. It’s a rare and heartwarming thing that isn’t cloying or superficial. Mick has one of the best commands of plain language I’ve ever read and he uses his talent beautifully.
Robert Stone was the first of our new contributors. Prize. Humour is usually the kiss of death around here. But Robert’s story of “what would I do if…” is a fine bit of whimsy aided by wit and a likeable narrator. Makes you consider the possibilities and downsides of having your own large weapon.
Christopher Ananias has certainly been on a roll since first submitting to us last year. The Campground Dog is another of his tales that objectively explores lives that are not usually written about, unless in a stereotypical and/or mean fashion. It’s a tough read, but most serious pieces are.
Wednesday gave us Fallen by Northern Pike. You get a creature, two dangerous guys weapons and mistakes galore in this bit of action. The key here is its tremendous pace and how the writer delivers the storyline without bogging things down.
The Wheelbarrow Man of Hastings Street is longtime contributor and commenter, Harrison Kim’s thirty-fifth story in LS. Like Christopher, Harrison also writes well and honestly about people who have been called many things over the years–from riff raff, hobos, bums to street people. If an alien species ever lands here, they might ask us about the situation and we will not have a good answer. But maybe reading the works of people like Harrison (and Mr. Ananias) will shed some light on the question.
We closed the classy part of the week yesterday, with the publication of White Horse by Kate Mole. This is a wonderful bit of work that takes the reader to Cornwall (a place that is the focus of most of Kate’s writing). It also dips into the history of one person and comes together beautifully. Being an American who has never been to Europe, I imagined Cornwall as something out of the film Rebecca. All cliffs and thundering waves. But Kate has done something to ease my ignorance on the topic, which is a high aim for a writer!
This week’s list is about plot hitches in (mainly) films and TV that have always bothered me. As always there is room for many many more. It stemmed from again wondering about the seventh item in the following list. These are various mental toe stubbings that I’ve yet to get out of my mind.
Leila
I engage in a strange activity when no one is watching. When I see a small stone on the sidewalk I will choose an area then give the pebble an “accidental” kick in that direction, which is never farther than two feet away. I ask myself “Will everything be alright?” as I hit it with my foot. Nothing else happens after that. I cannot remember when it began, sometime in junior high school, I know that. What it means used to exist, but I can no longer get to it. This happens a lot. At least a half dozen times a day for over fifty years.
Continue reading “Week 533: Private Games and an Ode to Bill”
Pre-Experiment Introduction
It took James Joyce seven years to write Ulysses. As a teen it took me almost as long to read it. The stream of consciousness, which marked the passing of 16 June 1904 in Dublin, second by second, thought by thought, was way too confusing for someone at age fifteen, especially the “Circe” section that goes on a hundred-fifty pages. But that is how it goes with classics written by adults for adults (a point I’ve ranted on before). A person needs a few years as a grown up in her soul before something like Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter can connect to her. Same goes for everything written by Joyce (except a couple from Dubliners–Araby and The Dead can be understood by High Schoolers, I think–at least I “got” them).
I successfully read Ulysses when I stopped demanding it to make linear sense. I let it happen to me. I concentrated on simply reading the words and gave my subconscious the task of sorting it out. Not once did I ask myself stupid questions like “What the hell is happening now?” and went with the flow.
That worked very well. I began to get into the swing of the thing about four chapters in and made it through to the other side. I read that you need to know Irish history to understand the book deeply. Still, I say all you really need to know about Irish history is that before independence (and for a long time thereafter) shit, especially royal and government shit, rolled downhill. Nowadays, however, Ireland is a comparatively uphill, wealthy nation, which means that most of the undesirable blood (such as my father’s side of the family) was safely siphoned to America a long time ago.
This week I shall experiment with Stream of Consciousness, like Joyce in Ulysses, but omitting disgusting items as I wish Joyce would have done with Mr. Bloom, he of the jakes and secret pocket. It was amazing that Joyce was able to put together a narrative from thoughts as wildly scrambled as Burroughs’ Junky.
The Experiment begins:
Tis Aphid season. Three, four attracted by the screen. Keylimegreen. Bugapalooza.
–Arpfmagarpth? Whuzzat. Oh. Hairball. Izzy on the dot. Split. Cats never step in human puke. Selling Buicks at Ralph motors. High scoo. Igglesniff on your nose. Too much Black Velvet. Bring your own spins.
–I ralphed a beeyouick on the rug. Izzy. Speaking. Talking Cat with no hat. Get cleaning it washermygosherwoman.
–You and the Catnip you rode in on.
–Are those your shoes, gibbergimlet?
–All right all right. Two for the price of one, how the west was won. Eyeyiyi of cyclops voice of Joe pazuzukudzu. Stunkofaskunk bee bop bloom a lulu.
The Experiment Ends
Strange things happen when you let your jabbering mind off the leash. Ulysses is hard to read, but like Chaucer and Shakespeare it gets easier as you go. Then you find yourself doing the same, doing the dame. Words scrump up from below, nonsense rhymes squeeze the flow. Flibbergimletjibbeetly we all a go go.
Great, now my mind has gone all Dr. Seuss in Auld Ireland on me. Gotta rate the Catholics Kings and Whoremongers on the quay…coppers singing Galway Bay, bay-a-bee….
What? Oh knock it off, quit leaking fey words into my fingers you goddam whichever lobe that shit is kept. Stop stop stop, he bop, she bop….Bloom bops alone…
Enough! Look what I have done to myself. Beware stream of consciousness. You might drown in it, like She Woolf, with stones in your knickers…
Let’s escape through The Week That Was portal!
The Week of Gems
This was a peculiar week for us because it featured six writers who have appeared with us before. Some several times. Usually there’s one new kid to introduce, but not this time.
And I say six because Our Harbour by site friend and frequent commenter, Paul Kimm, was a featured rerun this past Sunday. It rates a special mention. For anyone who has still managed to miss it, I encourage you to take a look.
The work week began with Meetings and Partings by Nidhi Srivasta Asthana. Nidhi needs to be congratulated on her professionalism during a long editing process as well as the insightful result of the work itself. It is a revelation involving Indian culture and the ancient practice of arranged marriage.
Christopher Ananias has been on a roll ever since his site debut last year. In the Flames is his latest look into the heart of darkness that beats inside the world. Great evil has always been commonplace (look up Richard Speck or the Triangle shirt fire). But nowadays there’s a relatively new dynamic behind it, something that went up the tower with Charles Whitman long ago. Christopher manages to effectively describe the madness with admirable objectivity.
Wednesday saw the welcomed return of J. Bradley Minnick. The Day the End of the World Was at Hand. It too speaks of madness, the organized one called war. I remember the Vietnam era. I was a child and it all seemed unreal to me, like a TV show, until someone we knew lost a son. The darkness will look for us all, and it is up to us to feel it if we are to grow. Brad shows this sort of thing with great polish and sincerity.
Digital to Analog Conversion marked another welcomed return, this time by Bud Pharo. There is way too much AI in the universe. A strange case of a glut of something that only exists in a half-assed sort of way (I hope “Annie” is not related to the feeble minded Google Assistant). But this one had enough charm to get over, which is a credit to Bud.
Simon Nadel closed the week with Crime Wave. There’s a silkiness to this otherwise hard-bitten narrative. Like Chandler and the underrated Spillane, the cynicism and booze flow in an eloquent manner.
Kudos to all our repeat offenders–I mean contributors. People without the determination to do something good, although difficult, never get across. The writers who appear, and those who keep trying to appear, deserve credit for having that aspect in their characters.
More Stream of Consciousness
Recently I was bored (aka “at work”) and I began to consider what are the greatest scenes I remember from film. I decided that the Stream of Consciousness Approach could work here. Instead of actively seeking examples, I let them come to me. Below are the ten film scenes I came up with. (Readers sharing, as always, is strongly desired.)
Leila
literally stories 