Christmasage: the Elgin Oliver Interview

NOTE: Local scribe/philosopher Elgin Oliver recently cornered the author of Christmasage at a local Panera and tossed out a few questions...

First off, let’s get this out of the way... bear claw or pecan braid?

Did someone mention pecans? Then I’ll have to go with the braid.

What is the genesis of this Christmasage?

Travel stories have always intrigued me. Fun to read, fun to write, but probably not so much fun to actually do. One day I’d at least like to try to find out. On my own terms, of course. But just the idea of someone coming back home during that time of year when emotions are running high. There’s a sense of mystical grace and the kindness of charitable folks along the way. Plus this is a particular stretch of road that I’ve covered many a time. In automobile I should add.

The story evolves from a rather stolid beginning where sex, drugs and rock and roll are prevalent but then evolves into a tale of deeper spiritual awakening along with a dash of the metaphysical.

Well, the story certainly does start out that way and I hope readers are not put off by some of those earlier decadent moments and stick with it. You know, it’s funny. I actually sent a few queries off to some literary agents and they only wanted to see the first fifteen pages – in this case what they were reading in those fifteen pages is not really reflective of the larger vibe of the story. I guess they might be more interested in a short sample to judge the quality of the writing more than the trajectory of the story but I can’t help but wonder if that’s kind of a lousy way to judge the merits of an entire novel. Maybe the last fifteen pages would be better. Maybe the last page would be best.

The title Christmasage is a little difficult to grasp at first take.

No doubt about it, yes, it’s a little clunky. But the idea of a pilgrimage during the holiday season led me to that word, my very own sniglet if you will. And now I’ve become fond of it. At the very least it’s unique which might make it memorable.

What’s the deal with the Suggested Soundtrack listing?

As a music aficionado I find it motivational and fun to create a soundtrack that relates to a project which I can to listen to while in my car or when working out that keeps me on track. That keeps me inspired. The songs here are listed in chronological order and for the most part follow the text and can be pretty easily associated with specific scenes from the book. In fact, they may actually enhance the scene or add a different twist. For instance, Psychedelic Shack by the Temptations is my take on Matt’s perception of the Wayward Boys’ performance in that bowling alley bar after partaking in a little pre-show mind alteration and the somewhat comical intro to Carl Bley’s It Came Upon a Midnight Clear fits quite nicely with Matt’s memorable entrance into the Speckled Egg tavern on that icy west Texas evening. And Dog Door by Tom Waits is fairly self-explanatory. But really for me the one song that supplies the underlying theme for the entire story is landscape with snow by Japanese musician Takahiro Kido. In my mind I imagine the music advancing deeper into the song as Matt’s mystic dream similarly unwinds. But a song like Lou Reed’s Who Am I? - well, that’s more of a general idea tune included to further reveal the mood and Matt’s thoughts much like you’d hear in a movie.

Why self-publish?

I enjoy the writing. At my age I don’t want to waste time with all the marketing and promotion. It’s more important for me to just get it out there and then move on to the next thing. I know one thing, it sure aint for the money.

Ever since I was a young boy I was told that I should write. It’s natural for me and I’m most at peace in the world when I’m riding that creative wave. It’s therapeutic. I haven’t really had much published but I made the novelist T.C. Boyle crack up (see Contest #2 http://tcboyle.com/page2.html?9)... that’s gotta count for something, right?

This novel is self-edited as well. So there may be some minor goofs included but I hope I’ve kept them at a minimum. If you find something amiss please don’t send it to me. Just kidding – feel free to fire away. You know, I’ve read several works published by titans of literature that have missing words or typos so I’ve decided not to let that get me too down. I even recall reading a kindle version of a Stephen King novella and being amazed that there were a few problems in that text. If he can live with them then I guess I can as well.

In summary, if ten people were to read this book I figure that 3 or 4 of them won’t like it much at all. Then maybe 3 or 4 of them will think, hey, it’s no masterpiece but a few passages in there made me smile or think, and anyway that’s a cool soundtrack. Then maybe only 2 or 3 out of that original ten will end up really liking it. If so, then I’d be satisfied.

What’s your philosophy regarding the use of profanity?

Well, yes, I do use it but I try to not use bad words just for the hell of it. I believe it was Kurt Vonnegut who once said if you want to give your reader a reason not to read your book then use profanity in it which is generally good advice. To be honest there will be times when I’ll go back and re-read a passage and ask myself do I really need that particular word right there? And maybe I’ll try to soften it a little by using a less provocative synonym or maybe even tweak a particular scene. And then if I go back later I’ll think, no, that just doesn’t sound real, and I’ll change it right back. The bottom line is I don’t want to pull any punches. Besides, someone else might use perfectly good English and say something that is far more profane like there is no such thing as global warming so feel free to pursue profit at any cost. No bad words included there but to me unforgivably repugnant.

So what’s really going on here?

Well, of course I can’t spell it out for you or the reader, maybe it’s even possible that I don’t even know what’s going on here. Or maybe I do. Maybe it’s some sort of spirit quest, an examination of a life, a cry for help, and a method to rid one’s self of excess poundage. Is Matt running away or is he facing the music? Like everything else in this world it comes down to how one chooses to spin it. I guess the bottom line is that in these days when folks so often feel helpless to affect positive change in their lives we can always just get up and walk, repent of our own volition, sweat a little bit and hopefully set ourselves free. It can be as easy as making your mind up and heading out that door.

Just don’t forget to visit the Arizona Meteor Crater when you do!

Anything upcoming?

I’ve just about completed the first draft of another novel. The working title is God Bless America (But Screw Jerry Sparks). About a guy around my age who played football at OU and the NFL. Now he’s got brain damage from all his concussions among other issues. Another black comedy I suppose. Toss in The Lost Child and I guess this completes my Oklahoma Trilogy.

How was that pecan braid?

What pecan braid? 

For more Information:    

utobya/blogspt.com    

amazon.com/author/noblethomas

Reflections

You left me in the springtime when once again the world was teeming with blessed new life, amid vibrant flowers and a revitalized sun, the refreshing sweet afterbirth of mother earth, but our laws of physics simply do not allow for the continued earthly union of a beating heart and the untethered soul. It felt like a cruel joke, an unprovoked reprimand, but then again, what time of the year could possibly have been any more suitable than that time of year? You were just taken from me, pitilessly snatched away – that is all.

Oh the stunning aftermath of your departure – bewilderment, amazement, misery. The void you left behind was almost more than the space you had filled. That is my fault of course, because in the end a lack of appreciation is always felt severely by the foolish neglector – I see now that your presence was a precious taken-for-granted gift. And where you have gone now, what you must feel now, any remnants of your human senses and what they can still see, hear, feel, if anything – it hurts my brain to try to think of it, my comprehension so lacking, my humanity too feeble, and my own pitiless senses swell and then take over me and I raise these poor hands to these swollen eyes and wipe away the most human of things, the grief-stricken tear. I feel fear for you, I feel fear for myself, and no amount of spiritual counseling seems to lessen this burden.

I first came back to this place in the early summer, back to our little cottage by the lake, amidst the solitude of hushed woods and the reliable sunshine that spilled through bountiful branches and splashed across the water’s surface in late afternoons. The birds sang and the breeze whispered through the cottonwoods and I spent mornings walking along that shoreline, viewing views that you might have once viewed, thinking thoughts that you might have once thought, and there were times other women approached me from afar and I was crushed when they finally came into close proximity and did not materialize into you.

Afternoons were spent sitting on the dock where you once sat, lounging on the day bed where you once lounged, me attempting to read the pages of books that you once read. But it was of no use – I couldn’t seem to turn a single page, I stumbled over their words, my mind kept going back to the image in my mind, of you on this day bed reading this book, these same words rendering your face calm, pleasantly involved, and lost in a sweet peace.

It’s true, back then I envied your peacefulness – now I revere it.

Nighttime was sheer desperation and I was far too sad to even contemplate alcohol or pills. I didn’t feel the need to escape anything at all – I didn’t want to escape it – it was all I had, it was just me. I was absorbed by it, my stinging grief, and so I willingly surrendered, seeing absolutely no reason to fight it. I simply could not escape its awful gravity – it had become me.

I fled at the first sign of autumn, at the first hint of chill when the sun no longer bothered to splash the lake with its waning output. I had scavenged those shores and foraged those woods long enough, a purposeless phantom, and finally reached the point where I craved simple change. So I tried to lock the doors, shut down my heart, and abandoned this once happy place.

I returned to the crowded city streets, losing myself in their constant roar and endless bustle, forever wandering aimless footpaths, and I sat in absolute silence as I attended tedious gatherings and sat alone in the back of mostly empty movie houses, uncomfortably numbed, unresponsive, uncaring, something distant and unintelligible happening on a faraway screen. Truth be told I ignored my fellow man and for the most part they ignored me as well, as if I no longer existed – perhaps without your love I no longer do.

In mid October I returned to our cottage when the chill had properly settled and the trees had turned to splendid color. It was both beautiful and sad and I felt, if not exactly at peace, then perhaps at least somehow suitably satisfied. I lamented, I romanticized, I reflected upon you… upon all of our days together.

But again by early November I was drawn away, out of impatience or intolerable sadness I do not know, both I would suppose, and fled the sad tranquility of the cottage with its drifts of leaves and the wafting pastoral wood smoke and returned once more to my old bitter duties, wandering lonely streets and biding my abundance of wretched time. My late night footsteps were the echoes of forlorn dreams inside the heads of good men and my moans of pain drifted through the naked treetops like a noxious wind.

But now it is December 23rd and I find myself here once again, the snow layered deep, the evergreens preening tall, our solemn lake bitterly cold yet not quite frozen. Just like me, for I am not quite frozen, yet unrepentantly bitter, and I don’t know if a thaw shall ever my way come.

I know how much you loved this place. All the year round, but especially the late summer when the loons congregated for one last celebration and then came the early autumn day when they all were gone and the silence was more abrasive than their haunted jabbering ever was. We never saw them leave but we always knew where they were, joining the flock and flying south in an impressive V formation and we felt reassured in the knowledge that they would return again one day, back to our lake, to this cottage, to nest once more in the welcoming warmth of our contented souls. We never fathomed that they would not return, or that we would not be here upon their arrival. For all intents and purposes we, or at least I, had imprudently considered the change of seasons some kind of guaranteed perpetuity despite all the evidence to the contrary and now find that my world stopped spinning on that sad spring day, the promise of new growth and fruition forever left unfulfilled.

It was here that you loved to walk barefoot upon the soft green grass, across the sandy smooth shore, up and down the old wood staircase – footprints! footprints! footprints! – your footprints were everywhere! Now they are all buried beneath the mounting snow which shimmers blue in the bright moonlight.

This is almost unbearable – the memory strikes me in the gut and I damn near clench over. There is the little holly we planted. Oh God yes, there it is. You bought it potted last year toward the end of the holiday season and could not simply toss it onto the heap, you said that it would be a waste, a crying shame, and you enlisted me to help plant the scrawny little shrub. I had smiled at your good intention but informed you that it could not possibly survive a winter planting, it could only be sired successfully in the spring, but secretly I admired your respect for its life and had willingly succumbed as an indifferent accomplice to your futile endeavor. In the end, we broke the hard ground and gave it a chance.

It’s still here.

If only you could see it now.

At dusk of this night I sit staring out at the lake, across the empty darkness that deepens throughout, and I approach the water’s edge. Across the silver surface the lights from the other side are now taking effect and I wonder about the souls who tend to each source. Are they simply fending off the night or inviting it to maybe lessen its burden? And I think of you somewhere out there, all alone, and I pray that you can remember and I pray that you can wait, that you will wait. In the gloaming I implore the Almighty to please somehow soothe my pain.

And I see a light.

A radiant orb just above the surface and it bounces for a moment and then it is gone. My brain is befuddled but my spirit is lifted – I had asked for a salve, would I not be a fool to denounce the vision and deny its existence?

Back inside where the assembled wood is in need of a lit match I wander through the rooms, bouncing off walls in the dark, searching for a suitable place that I can peacefully sit and rest. And I consider the heavy mirror we hung in the foyer, there at the foot of the stairs, and I know that you were once on that glass, smiling, primping, but mainly just smiling. Most times you walked right on past, and unsuspecting the mirror would grab your reflection as you blazed across, but you were assuredly all over that glass, your carefree visage glimmered and sparkled on those beautiful ordinary days. Now you are gone and there is no echo, no faded image – the glass only reflects the present light, the mirror only respects that moment’s truth, this man with the deep sorrow in his eyes. And yet I gaze into it now and see nothing! Oh how I wish that I could take it down and climb to the highest mountain and attach it to the highest pole and point it toward the brightest star in hopes of by chance capturing the return of your spirit, that rare comet of mercy sent to assuage my pain. Silly thought, I know, but if heart and soul and mind cannot conjure your return then all I’ve got are my poor legs and a rabid determination that can carry me to that highest point where the faint glow of heaven may, under the best of conditions I’m told, be detected by the naked eye.

What else to do but commence the climb?

For now there remains only this – the mirror still hangs on the wall where your lovely hands once tenderly placed it.

The next day is a lonely Christmas Eve and all I can do is wait, hope, believe that the orb of light will reappear and so when twilight finally approaches I return to the same spot near the lake and resume my act of faith. And my patience is tested yet I adhere to my pledge and suddenly there it is once more, and it is expanding, growing into an effervescent bubble and I can begin to make out the form of a human face, but then it shatters into a glittered dust and disappears in an instant and again I am left wondering if it was really ever there.

What can it mean, this tortuous visage, this strange apparition? The answer appears to be so tantalizingly close and yet so far – I am at a complete loss to explain its significance.

It is then that I hear a motorized vehicle driving up through the drifts, spinning its wheels, shifting down into a grinding four-wheel drive, and I can’t possibly fathom who would come calling on this night at this time? The last possible thing I desire is company, be it friends with good intentions or strangers lost in a storm. I curse their presence, their very nerve, to impose themselves like this, to actually believe that I can help them or that they can help me!

And so I choose to ignore the perpetrator and I sit and I wait. And I speculate about the expanding orb, I try to recall that faint familiar countenance, I attempt to figure out what it could all possibly mean.

And then a glowing light emanates from the cottage windows and a tiny light ignites within my own dimmed mind.

I feel as if I am stuck in time, my consciousness a series of photographic images aligned on a taut string, my motivation propelled by these palpable emotional impulses. I move quietly through the front door and down the hall. I notice the small puddles of melted snow on the bricked entryway, the wet footprints leading down the hall and into the living room where a great fire is now raging in the hearth.

And I see the back of a chair facing the fire, her hair hanging down below. She sits in that little wooden chair no one ever sat in, the one that rests in the dark corner – a place to stack books, the odd package, the unneeded frock tossed aside. She has summoned it for this one occasion and dragged it from its dark corner and now sits in it with her hands folded staring into the fire. As I float past her I see her beautiful sad face, I see her tears glistening in the firelight, but she doesn’t seem to notice me.

It is at that precise moment that the lake freezes over and so do I, I am stuck right there, reaching out for her with arms that cannot reach, crying out in a voice that cannot be heard, a helpless phantasm of heartache and desire, and it is then that I realize it is I who must walk alone through this raging fire, it is I who must enter into its eternal light, that I had not merely walked to the edge of our lake these past two evenings but had in fact floated above it, looked down, and seen my own confused reflection – that it is I who must fight to remember and who shall vow to forever wait.

And wait I will.

Merry Christmas, my dear, my love, wipe away your tears and please go tend to our precious little holly, with its tiny fragile branches and unseen clinging roots and the secret faithful fruit it shall one day bear when spring finally does come round once more.



Author’s Note:

This story was inspired by Vladimir Nabokov’s wonderful yet sad short story titled Christmas. It is my hope that, like Nabakov’s story, in the end it inspires hope.