As well as Otto Auschwhype and Peter Jones, the latter owing Van Dyke a certain small amount of American tender as the result of a lost wager on a recent American athletic sporting event. Jones still hadn't produced and Van Dyke was speculating on the proper tact to broach the subject, if at all, for he knew well that this was supposed to be a relaxed occasion - indeed, a social one.
"Good thing the ice cream is free, huh?" Van Dyke queried in a general (and he thought harmless) way to no one in particular, but his eyes did linger upon Peter Jones for longer than what might seem normal... or socially acceptable.
"Yes, very much so," Auschwhype merrily chimed in, smacking his lips as he inserted the little wooden paddle smeared with ice cream back into his snug spout that was wedged between two fat cheeks. "And it's quite good," he was so moved as to add.
Peter Jones glared at Van Dyke for just a moment, taken slightly aback by his own paranoia, but then in an instant decided that surely the guy could not be inferring anything more than the simple delight in being able to partake in free ice cream on such a mild spring evening.
"What kind of ice cream do they got over there?" Van Dyke inquired and Auschwhype quickly responded, "Ooh, they're down to only vanilla I'm afraid."
"Vanilla!" Van Dyke roared, not exactly outraged but clearly irritated, and he followed up with, "Ya mean they don't got any chocolate?"
Peter Jones quickly tightened his lips around his own just-inserted spoon.
"I'm afraid our friend here snatched up the last one," Auschwhype said with an affable grin gazing at the guilty culprit as brown iced milk dribbled out of one corner of Peter Jones' mouth, a sight which was amazingly akin to that of a naughty cat getting caught with a mouse tail sticking out of it's closed jaws.
Damn you Jones Van Dyke thought to himself but before he could conjure a physical response there came a tap upon his shoulder. It was none other than Felicia Abercrombie, head of the PTA and reeking of a flowery perfume in which she had recently fumigated herself in a covert effort to overwhelm all other senses in hopes of deflecting judgmental eyes away from her burgeoning ass.
"Are we all enjoying the free ice cream?" she innocently inquired, and Auschwhype of course eagerly volunteered, "Oh yes, quite so, delicious and very much appreciated."
Peter Jones just nodded as he licked away the remains of the lingering evidence.
Van Dyke glared and Auschwhype continued.
"Are seconds allowed?"
"Why of course, help yourself while it lasts, because once it's gone, like they always say, it's gone," and now she chuckled the deep fat lady's chuckle, “and please be sure to stop off at the donation booth if you get the chance. The kids would all appreciate it."
She was giving them her best I-gotcha-smile but the mighty Auschwhype's own smile had been wiped clear away.
But come on Auschwhype, this is America, you should know by now that nothing comes completely for free.
So what is the true purpose of an Ice Cream Social anyway?
Is it only to summon all good people together at the end of the school year in hopes of celebrating their children's accomplishments and the inevitable passage into a new grade? (It should be mentioned however that three children had failed to advance, but those particular identities shall not be revealed until June when Felicia Abercrombie and her burgeoning ass will be sequestered far away on some remote beach).
Is it simply to allow folks a frosted dairy treat as suitable reward for their direct participation all year long, for their tireless efforts and determination in helping a local public institution maintain at least the bare minimum of necessities for a proper a public education? Pencils, books, chalk, plenty of erasers and one big-ass paddle with which to swat naughty tails?
Is it to offer the chance for older uninvited boys to be loud and unruly if only to ensure that their former teachers fully understand that they are still very much alive? At this very moment there is a lit cherry bomb in the public restroom urinal where Auschwhype has recently gravitated towards in hopes that his sudden urgent cramping shall soon be relieved.
Is it to give Ted Wilkerson the opportunity to pull up to the scheduled event in his shiny new red Corvette or perhaps allow the freshly divorced Charlene Thacker first dibs at claiming a new husband (and hopefully not yours)? She’s the buxom gal standing over there with Becky Willow underneath the glow of the late afternoon sun and in her short shorts those long firm legs remind Van Dyke that pure and smooth vanilla isn't such a bad thing after all.
Is it to get total strangers to become acquaintances, acquaintances to become friends, and friends to become jealous rivals? Are there debts to be paid, underhanded compliments to be extended, pointy inferences to be received?
After the cherry bomb blew there came a strange bellow from deep within the urinal bowels. Shortly thereafter a bored Peter Jones scurried off to the badminton court and a dark cloud blotted out the sun.
Or is the true purpose of an Ice Cream Social simply to allow the school district to spend a small sum of money in hopes of attracting larger sums of money somewhere down the rocky road?
Only this is for certain: in front of a handful of the assembled, Andy Van Dyke chose to turn to Felicia Abercrombie, nod toward a figure retiring to the badminton court, and suggest rather loudly “Please fetch my donation from Peter Jones... the guy owes me FIFTY."
Whatever the true purpose of the ice cream social, the local Dairy Mart vendor surely appreciates the business.
A collection of stories that takes the reader from the beginning of the holiday season in late November until the bitter beginning of another New Year. Ranging from the sweetly sentimental to the bitingly cynical, from the blatantly outrageous to the solemnly poignant. Two troubled men stranded in an airport during a blizzard, a son trying to make sense of his father’s recent passing, an artist seeking inspiration on a lonely Christmas Eve, a bum hoping to just make it through another day, an old lighthouse keeper struggling to find a purpose, a doubting songwriter in need of a little love, a memorable Christmas Eve in old Medicine Park, a nephew contemplating the legacy of his famous (or infamous?) relative, a man looking back on a memory from his youth, and an elf on a mission to occupy your sweet ass – they all seem to be seeking the light or suggesting rather strongly that the reader seek it for themselves.
Table of Contents:
1 - Arbuckle Hereford Toad
2 - Aquene
3 - Merry Christmas
4 - Two Hills and a Mountain
5 - Here We Come!
6 - A Solitary Lighthouse
7 - Splendid Isolation
8 - Mercy Pie
9 - An Atheist Christmas
10 - Reflections
11 - Christmas Eve Medicine Park 1907
12 - Levitation
13 - North Woods Bliss
14 - Frank Hagney
15 - Beyond
16 - Happy New Year
Cover Photo: The Christmas Tree Nebula - courtesy of NASA
WARNING: Not intended for the spiritually rigid or easily offended.
September in Albuquerque,
New Mexico is quite different than September back home in the old country. Yes,
there is a slightly different feel in
the air these days, the ghastly summer is at long last over, but out here on
the high desert the splendor of the autumn change is less pronounced. Now up in
the mountains he was certain that the maples and the other leafy trees changed
their color, that their leaves withered and blew away, and down there along the
Rio Grande he could see for himself the change in the cottonwoods. But where he
spent most of his time, uptown closer to the sloping foothills, his own
apartment building was a concrete island surrounded by a sea of rock and the
landscaping was sparse, bereft of color, and anything living was prone to die slowly
unless tended to with an enthusiastic zeal. The only green things around there
were the stubborn weeds that always seem to find a way, to squeeze through some
crack, to bust on out and stretch toward the beckoning light.
It was a Saturday.
Earlier he had taken a bus to Old Town where he enjoyed strolling among the
tourists and sitting on a park bench in the plaza feeding the birds, whatever
few that actually managed to wander by. On certain occasions he would hear that
familiar sound, the thick daggered jolt of his native tongue, and he would
straighten up and bend an ear. In fact, many times he’d fallen in line just
behind those who spoke while trying to act inconspicuous but all the while
eavesdropping and relishing the tasty crumbs of what they thought was a private
conversation. But he never spoke it. It was better to be seen, not heard. In
fact, it was better to not be seen either, and he was good at projecting a kind
of innocuous invisibility, to no longer matter in this world, only living the sad
life of a lonely old man who no one knew or cared about.
But not too sad, not too lonely.
Just sad and
lonely enough to subsist but not officially exist.
For the most part
he steered clear of crowds, kept his mouth shut, and wore the dark sunglasses
that shielded his cold blue eyes, the color of ancient Arctic Sea ice, from all
that intrusive light.
There weren’t many
tourists milling about on this particular day, at least not for a typical
Saturday. Odd that because the weather was wonderful, another deep turquoise
sky yet not too hot, just about right. A nice breeze that kept the clouds
moving and kept the sky interesting and ever-changing while soothing any burn
from a waning sun. A whiskered man walked up and asked him for money, for any
change he could spare, but he ignored the bum and didn’t even look up, he just
kept digging into his coat pocket for seed and continued feeding his winged
congregation, his faithful hungry flock. This angered the whiskered man and he
screeched loudly and kicked his way across the circle of tossed seed sending
the poor birds scattering.
“You got time and
money for those stupid birds but not for me! Real human of you! Thanks, my man.”
The whiskered man
steadied himself, thought about something, and then leaned back in.
“So what are you,
deaf and dumb… or just plain dumb? You got bird shit for brains?” The man
cursed loudly while shaking his head in mock befuddlement, then stormed away,
highly agitated yet already scanning the environs for his next victim.
Directly across
the sidewalk from him sat a couple of tired old Indians who up to this point
had been minding their own business, which by the looks of it consisted
primarily of simply continuing to breathe, but now one looked over at him and
grinned with his four brown peg teeth.
“I guess you told
him, huh?”
And now Wilhelm
did choose to look up, to amiably respond out of a sense of geniality, out of
deference to a member of an ancient, abused tribe. But he only offered the
slightest of nods and a fleeting smile to the old Indian and went back to his
returning birds and the last remnants of seed that were tucked away in the
deepest crevices of his pockets. He respected these natives and in fact felt
some kind of kinship toward them. They had been conquered, vanquished,
marginalized and forgotten. And so had he but he could only hope that he was truly as forgotten.
~~~
When he first arrived here all
those years ago he had immediately hated the culture but loved the dry air and sunshine.
He had acquired an appropriate identity, a proper name and the mandatory
nine-digit number, which understandably can be a tricky business. Not only the
clandestine nature of the task but also the actual choice of picking the right
name. A name like Sam Jones can actually be too mundane, too common, for a man
such as he while the one he actually chose, Samuel Terwilliger, was (he later
deduced) one that nobody in their right mind would ever choose by their own
volition – it was the kind of name that had to be foisted upon the poor soul at
birth. So in a way it was perfect – he had just become the odd man with the odd
name who kept to himself.
He had worked various small
jobs earning small pay and yet even now he’d been retired for many years. A
solitary life has its benefits, namely the lack of all those expenditures that
a family man is required to make. Thus he’d had the opportunity to save
aggressively which he had done but only by hoarding cash and hiding it in his
tiny apartment – no interest earned, no dividends received, and no capital
gains that might elicit outside scrutiny – no, he’d done just fine avoiding the
American capital markets altogether while quietly pursuing his frugal
existence.
There had been few friends, mainly just
acquaintances, and he’d grown accustomed to that. It felt comfortable to him
now. But he had plenty of visitors, both familiar faces and total strangers, who
came calling late at night once his eyes finally closed.
And there had been one woman. Ten years younger, attractive, intelligent – a
local native who had naturally altered his opinion of the region and its
culture. But he had run her off with his paranoid fear that so easily turned to
anger whenever the light shone too bright or her questions probed too deep.
Although he had wanted to love her he couldn’t allow himself to ever be loved.
~~~
The seed was all gone now but some
of the birds still lingered, either those well-fed and contented to hang out
for a spell or those extremely optimistic, and they hopped around and pecked at
the ground, they fluttered their wings as if in bold threat. Go ahead he thought, fly away and be free, you are all too
foolish to comprehend your own good fortune.
It was late
afternoon by now, time for perhaps a cold refreshment, and both knees cracked
as he pushed himself up and off of that bench and now all the birds took
flight, they evacuated with not one more chirp, their loud flapping leaving
behind only silence and the fresh modern artwork of oiseaux de merde sur le béton chaud, or as known to the locals, bird shit on hot concrete.
He strolled down a
little side alley toward a favorite watering hole, a dark tavern where they
actually offered stout European beers, not this lightweight American piss most
others get away with peddling. The place was crowded but it was so dark that he
paid the cramped conditions little mind, all he desired was one polished stool
to slide his weary backside upon and an attentive barkeep who knew how to pour
a decent draw. He was lucky, there was one seat still open at the far end of
the bar, and he squeezed his way past the many boisterous revelers and
announced his official short-term residency with a hard-earned plop and a
relieved sigh.
He was old and
tired but pleased to be right here right now.
What is all this fuss about he wondered
now that he had settled in allowing other matters to garner his attention. Some
of the patrons were yelling, hooting, carrying on like at Oktoberfest, and he
saw that a great many of them were straining to get a view of the televisions
scattered all about the place. In fact there was one just across from him and
he could see that there was some kind of athletic contest being broadcasted
upon it, one of those college football
games that these Americans are so crazy about. Over the decades he’d learned a
great deal about their game, about scoring touchdowns and gaining first downs
and committing fumbles and such, but he still didn’t really get it. Where’s the
grace, where’s the beauty? And all those pads and helmets – the players seem to
want to perform in some kind of protected anonymity. Where he came from real
men played their games wearing hardly anything at all beyond the scowl smeared
across their face and openly boasted of their rugged reputation and identity. Oh well, it’s the modern world, let these
modern men behave like sissies.
He quietly ordered
a pint of Becks and now his cohabitants were almost worked into a frenzy – out
of sheer curiosity, out of wondering what could possibly be so enthralling as
to cause grown men to behave so foolishly, he squinted his eyes and looked at
the television set. It appeared to be a contest pitting the Ohio State Buckeyes
(whatever a buckeye is?) against the
Oklahoma Sooners (again, and for the final time hopefully, whatever a sooner is?). The current score read the
Ohio boys 28 and the gang from Oklahoma only 26.
Yet there was
still some time left on the clock and, unlike the game he grew up loving and
playing, he knew there could be no extra time.
The bartender slid
over to the set and turned up the volume.
Block that kick! Block that kick! Block that
kick!
The assembled
crowd was chanting in the stadium with their arms in synchronized motion and
their anthem tumbled out of the television reminding him of other long ago
chants, of agitated crowds, of faraway pomp and ceremony.
Block that kick! Block that kick!
Yes, he
understood, the Ohio supporters were chanting their demand, their ardent wish
that somehow a buckeye might break
through and bat away the upcoming kick
goal attempt, but then he viewed the Oklahoma kicker and saw that he had a
German name printed across the top of his jersey. His heart surged. And now
that kicker was standing off to the side as the crowd continued to roar. Block that kick! Block that kick! And
what is this? Now, and this even he
could hardly believe, the young lad was actually orchestrating their chant with
his own arms, he had become their spontaneous maestro, this sooner lad keeping their rhythmic beat
to calm his own nerves.
That’s a smart boy he thought… a smart German
boy.
Wilhelm’s interest
was magnified.
The moment was
almost at hand.
He took off his
sunglasses for a better look as the boy named von Schamann studied the coming
placement of the ball and his projected trajectory. The other team’s players
were jumping up and down, waving their hands, trying to distract him as the
chant grew even louder.
The ball was hiked
back to the player who held it down in its proper place.
Wilhelm wiped his
mouth.
The ball was
pivoted, steadied, as the young, smartGerman
boy approached it.
Wilhelm leaned
toward the television set.
The ball was now
airborne, twisting end over end, heading straight down the middle… and then
Wilhelm sees him.
Over there on the
other side of the bar.
Those eyes – he could
never forget those big brown sad eyes – are staring right back into his own.
There were cheers
in the tavern, a few groans and somewhere a fist banged into some flimsy wood
partition, and everybody was bouncing all around him. Utter mayhem ensued – the
world shook.
And there is a
deeper quake down inside his soul.
With the rest of
his family dead that young man, a much older man now, had stopped begging for
mercy. So Wilhelm’s superior, field officer Schnauz, had decided to let him go,
not as an act of mercy but one of endless torture.
And
yet... and yet...
A thousand miles
away in Ohio the crowd falls silent, they are beyond help, they feel instant
disappointment and what seems like infinite sorrow. While the Oklahoma Sooners
and their brethren celebrate those poor Ohioans collapse into a heap of
collected despair.
And right here not
more than thirty feet away, the distance of one
American football first down, the older man with the big brown eyes, but
not so sad anymore, lifts his mug and nods as if in toast.
To survival.
To life.
To weeds fighting
their way through tiny cracks in search of the light.
Back outside the world has changed.
The sun now hides behind the church steeple and there is a sudden chill in the
air. Winter is really not that far away, and once it comes, this time it will
never leave. Far across the Atlantic there is a forest near Dachau where the
leaves have already fallen, they collect in gold and crimson heaps covering the
cold ground as if trying to conceal something buried not that deep beneath it.
But the wind
blows, it knows, and the gash remains... and
it is so obvious. Wilhelm understands that this man has spent his
entire lifetime running toward the light whereas he’d spent that same time running away from it. And then... bang,
the end times hit you, you are discovered, you are revealed, and once and for all you
find yourself exposed in the most unlikely of places.
He takes off his
sunglasses and gives them to the old Indian.
“Aw, just what I
needed – thanks, my friend.”
Finally, a friend. And he has a
sudden odd thought – those glasses never sat upon a more dignified nose as the one they rest upon now.
Then Wilhelm turns and
walks away into the expanding shadows of the eternal winter.
Meg Simmons was running late.
And the truth was that there was really no good reason for it – no late night
celebrating this or that, no screaming baby waking the dead at the witching
hour, not even a short bout with prolonged consciousness at some unknown
juncture during the long night – it was nothing but a case of old-fashioned can’t-seem-to-crawl-outa-these-sheets
laziness.
And the gal had a spin class to lead at 7
a.m. – imagine that, a sluggish and occasionally lazy fitness instructor!
Still, once she was present and suitably
loosened up, please stand back and watch the girl go!
One cup of coffee while she primped, another
sucked down en route, and by 6:57 she’d managed to screech her way into the
parking lot only to be met there with the unexpected sight of a brood of
ducklings loitering across the most conveniently-located parking space. A quick
toot of the horn, a polite warning, and yet the oblivious creatures hardly seemed
to notice and barely moved. Mother duck was right there staring back at the
rude interloper and with a coolish fluttering hopped up onto the curb and finally
began to lead those ducklings safely away.
But there were a couple of stragglers, be
them defiant or only dumb it matters not, and an irked Meg leaned on that horn
a little more purposely and then slowly inched forward in her vehicle. The
little guys just stood there hugging the right side of the space so that Meg eventually
found herself parking upon that left white-painted line, but no worries – there
were plenty of other spaces available for all other arriving vehicles to park. The
rest of the lot was still empty, at least for now.
6:58 – she slammed it into park and fled
inside.
By the time April Fleming turned into the parking lot Meg had already disappeared. But there sat Meg’s green
Forrester, for some odd reason parked slightly askew to the left and for all
intents and purposes taking up two coveted parking spaces. Now how the hell
could anybody pull in right there next to that Forrester and then expect Meg to
clamber back inside without first depositing a righteous ding as delivered by her
affronting car? Typical selfish
entitled bullshit from good old Meg, April thought.
But she let it go and parked smack dead center
in her own chosen space. Because that’s
good karma, bitches!
And so on it went with other
gym enthusiasts coming and going all morning long, and it should be noted that parking
at this new facility was at a premium, especially nearby parking on cool windy
days such as this one, and so what unfolded was somewhat of a domino effect,
all future parking being affected by that original and obviously self-interested
wrongdoer. Everybody was blaming everybody else who in turn was actually
wronged by someone else altogether. And if you thought that you were the victim
then how you parked (because you had to, what other choice did you really
have?) couldn’t help but victimize the very next guy or gal who thought you
must be some kind of egocentric idiot. Oh the looks that were exchanged in that
parking lot! By 10:37 when Meg sauntered back out into the blustery day she saw
that she would need to suck it in and shimmy sideways into the driver side
door, and she wasn’t happy, not one bit, because by now she was physically spent
and emotionally drained (dealing with a handful of smartass slackers like April
Fleming will do that to you). But suck it in and shimmy she did because there
was nothing else she could do and she even took what she considered excessive
care not to push her door into the black
paint job of the vehicle squeezed in next to her (and btw, she did notice that the driver of this black
Hummer, no friend of hers she assumed, had plenty
of room to get out on his or her own driver’s side), and she landed in a
heap with a sigh and it didn’t bother her too much that despite all efforts when
she did so her left knee accidentally pushed her door in an outwardly direction
where it came to rest firmly stuck into that offending shiny black symbol of
mindless excess.
Oh well, she had tried to play nice.
Meg had already backed out and been absorbed into our paved tributarial world when the next vehicle in queue whipped
around the corner already ogling for the coveted just-vacated spot. Could I really be that lucky thought
Oliver Johnson, fiftyish local real estate guy with the shiny red Jag (you MUST
play the part of successful dealer in this town), and he was royally pissed to
see that black Hummer spilling over into his
space!
The
nerve of that fucker!
It hadn’t been a good day. It hadn’t been a good week.
The month was almost over and he’d only sold one ratty little two bedroom dump on
the other side of the tracks. He really wasn’t in the mood for this. With all
that said, with all that felt deeply
in his gut all the way down to his manly gonads, it wasn’t that difficult a
decision to allow his own precious car door to swing wide permitting that pointed
red corner to make contact with virgin black paint.
Ding!
Dong!
Dang!
Screw it!
Fate only exists in retrospect and the
rational man can’t blame God either. But the fact of the matter is that Billy
Ray Thompson had completed his Wednesday mid-morning routine (consisting of
thirty minutes on the treadmill plus a complete upper body weight-lifting
regimen) and had just emerged from those swinging doors in perfect time to
witness the just-described transgression perpetrated on his brand new Hummer.
Barbed words shouted loudly as launched by bursting
adrenaline and pumped-up hormones escalated into two grown men circling one another
only a couple of feet apart. One of them puffed out their chest, the other tried
to push it back in, and what ensued was an unfortunate episode highlighted by
Thompson whirling around and kicking the door of the little red sports car
followed by an extremely short round of pathetic old-white-guy put-up-your-dukes
fisticuffs exquisitely topped off with an even shorter round of some really
weird wrestling.
The result: two grown men left panting on
the pavement as the amused crowd slowly began to disperse.
Well lookee over there, here come those baby
ducklings again. They are so cuddling cute, so doggone sweet, absolutely
oblivious to the machinations of our foolish world, but one thing they are not
my fellow car-parking brethren is innocent.
~ ~ ~
(and now, for your listening pleasure, something not entirely different but actually in the same vein... Emperor of the Highway)
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.
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.
I've always been intrigued by the change in perspective with the passing of time. Different vantage points in Space + Time offer their own unique beauty and atmospheres:
Note: In the fall of 2008 I enrolled in a Writer's Studio workshop. The following is one of the assignments from that workshop. Reading it now for the first time in a number of years I recall this as a fairly accurate account of my experience that day.
Assignment #6 – McCullers 3rd
Person – Noble K. Thomas
Preamble: Recall an event from my life
when the world really seemed changed afterwards. Then create a Third Person PN
who has great sympathy for the changed character and is passionate about the
character’s emotional and mental states. Use accurate and colorful language and
stay with the character not telling us anything the character does not know.
Keep the tone matter-of-fact, elegant but not showy, colored by the character’s
emotion but not out of control. The mood is uneasy.
It
was the one day different from all the other days he had ever known. It began
as an April morning like any other, the day after his birthday, warm and
breezy. After a quick yoga routine he had taken a shower where he typically
loosely plotted the rest of his day and that was when it happened. He heard it,
despite the steady hiss from the shower spout and the sheer distance between
here and there something had happened that wasn’t natural, that wasn’t normal.
With a towel draped around him he turned
on the television expecting to see a live local news report of a plane crash.
It had been that loud, that disturbing. Already news
helicopters hovered above the scene with their reporters aroused and confused. Just
what the hell had happened? Did a gas line break and somehow erupt?
A short while later he drove southward
down the Broadway Extension and there were a few cars that whipped around him
and sped off towards the faraway downtown, towards a wounded skyline that fashioned
a fresh halo but now bent, flattened and dissipating to the west. He couldn’t
help but wonder about those poor souls speeding past – were they husbands, fathers,
sons who had forgotten to thank their mothers for buttering their toast just a
few hours earlier?
He listened to a song on a new CD.
“Water water everywhere and not a place to
stand,
My foundation rests on bedrock but the
bedrock rests on shifting sand.”
Suddenly a pick-up truck came from out of
nowhere, lights on and horn honking, and it was amazing how quickly that
vehicle just disappeared in front of him. He looked down at his own
speedometer: seventy miles per hour and compared to that guy he was nothing but
a concrete-sucking snail. The overwhelming sense of desperation was contagious
and, although not truly shared, he sure felt something turning in the pit of
his stomach. He loosened his tight grip on the steering wheel and turned off
the music. Tuned the radio to a local news talk station where the details,
although still sketchy, were starting to come together.
He was meeting his father for lunch but
they would eat no lunch this day. Instead they drove together toward the
downtown, toward the location of the building that had crumbled to earth, with women
and men and children inside. Out of a morbid curiosity or a need to pay respect
they drove. Or maybe they just couldn’t believe it until they saw it with their
very own eyes. They found a place to pull over a couple of miles north and west
of it, at an angle where the view that sliced through a gaggle of trees and old
homes was surprisingly good.
“It looks like some kind of giant monster
took a huge bite out of it.” The smoke had all blown away now and the silence
was affronting.
“Yep – a couple of bites out of it. God –
I can’t believe it.”
All of a sudden it felt like a great sin
to just be sitting there, gawking at it, wondering and speculating. Human
beings had been crushed right over there, really just beyond the tip of your
nose, a mere hop – skip – and a jump away, inside a building that just last
night he had driven past while on the way home from a birthday celebration in
Bricktown. Jesus Christ. People might
be suffering in there right now as they simply sat and gawked. People at the bottom of the pile, a sudden pressing
midnight, as airless as the surface of the moon.
Just right over there – just beyond the
tip of your nose.
“Let’s get out of here.”
They slowly drove away and spoke not a
word. The radio was still on, more details coming in, apparently an explosion
outside the building a little after nine. A child’s care center was located on
the first floor. His teeth clenched and a breath caught in the musty cavern of
his dry throat.
He dropped his dad off and headed back up
the Broadway Extension, dark springtime clouds gathering above, all cars now
with their headlights on creating some kind of solemn citywide funeral
procession. His sons would be coming home from school soon and what did they
know? What should he tell them?
I recall sitting in front of the blank canvas, my oils mixed and ready but not my muse. The gods of inspiration were eluding me that night. It was Christmas Eve and I had been looking forward to a quiet night of reflection and creation but for some reason it was not to be. I was feeling not right so I set my brush down and knocked about the kitchen for a few minutes then wandered down to the Bowery where I enjoyed several pints with a roomful of strangers. A bum stumbled through the door and in a nod toward the season of giving I bought him a drink but of course one drink is never enough – he demanded more and as far as I was concerned I’d given quite enough so I abandoned the place but not before I’d heard him yell out so much for you ya stinkin’ bum! Despite the irony I didn’t laugh, I trembled. Outside in the cold I stumbled through dark alleys kicking over cans, scaring one innocent cat, having another scare the holy dickens out of me, and wound up at the foot of an old stone abbey.
From narrow side windows an orange-yellow glow emanated out and I yearned for the promise of its warmth. I scampered up the stone stairs and pulled open the heavy oaken door. Inside a candlelight service was in progress and so very quietly I slid into a back pew. The sanctuary was more empty than full and so was my heart. From the altar there came virtuous singing. I was slightly drunk and it made me cry. An old gentleman sitting across from me gained my attention. He sat alone, still bundled in his coat and scarf, his mostly bald head springing a few wild hairs presumably left by the unceremonious removal of his winter cap. The stubble upon his face revealed a man unmoved by the demand for public approval, his appearance quite frankly that of an unshaven unrepentant sinner, that or a man too old to safely guide the razor, too poor to acquire the proper blade. And yet he did seem cheerful and quite immersed into the proceedings. He possessed an odd look of both solemnity and joy. Excepting me he was the only other person who had entered the abbey alone. I took note. At service end he donned his cap and pulled himself out of the pew with great effort. Slowly he exited through the heavy oaken door and carefully descended the steps one by one with a hand on the side brass rail.
I found myself following him out.
Most of the spiritually-restored churchgoers went one way, toward the outer city with its glowing lights and the safety of their comfortable homes. He went the other direction, back into the tawdry ancient city with its countless varieties of expanding shadows and all of that which expanded within them. I followed at a respectful distance desiring not to be detected, wishing to eschew any contact, there only for my observation. My sole purpose was to bear witness. He treaded so lightly that I heard none of his footsteps on the cobblestoned street and yet my very own steps seemed to echo loudly despite my every effort to minimize such clatter. He appeared not to hear or possibly care. At every street corner turn he seemed to gain distance from me and disappear, then once again back within my vision he seemed to barely be moving at all. Soon enough there came one last turn, then two long brick walls on either side leading straight into another brick wall.
The proverbial dead end.
He was nowhere to be seen.
I looked for a door, a hidden passage, some kind of rattle bone ladder offering a way up and out.
I found nothing.
There was nowhere else to look but up.
I saw one star there glowing.
There was nothing else.
****
I returned to my studio and painted past dawn.
I stored it in a hall closet but hung it from my heart.
--- from Christmas Stories, Volume 1, by Noble K Thomas
Nothing like that of the typical
image one freely conjures in the fertile creative mind, nothing like those full
and clear waterways you see gushing wildly way up north, heaven knows it’s nothing
like the mighty Mississippi. It’s more of a tree-infested coming together of
two slanted slimy banks, a muddy passage where meager waters trickle
and stagnate and eventually twist their way on east, and if all the snowmelt
from the Rockies fell only this way instead of also toward the west then the
river might actually be capable of generating a little consistent flow. But as
it appears now it serves primarily as a steadfast delineation, a solid boundary
between one American state and another, and to pronounce which side is better
depends solely on your lineage or your personal taste regarding just what exactly
is cool.
Big-ass money or smart-ass money?
Don’t
Mess With Texas or That Arrogant Slogan
Implies That You Already Messed on Yourself?
Stevie Ray Vaughn or Michael
Hedges?
Tex-Mex or smoky Okie barbecue?
Keep Austin Weird or Keep Norman
Normal (truth is Austin aint that weird and Norman’s not that normal).
Devon Energy or Conoco-Phillips?
Wheat or cotton?
Old slow longhorns or young giddy ponies?
Native American or Hispanic?
Hook
‘em Horns or Boomer Sooner?
Matthew McConaughey or Ed Harris? (caution: the answer to this question may reveal a lot about you regardless of
whether you are a man or a woman)
Pinto beans or mungbeans? (Ehh… feel
free to pass on this one)
J.R. Ewing or Eddie Gaylord?
Okie
from Muskogee or The Yellow Rose of
Texas?
The Black Mesa or Texas Hill
Country?
Thomas Lott or James Street?
Earl Campbell or Billy Sims? Texas
fans like to tease about the Sooner’s penchant to cherry pick Native Texans,
and both Earl and Billy hail from Texas and won Heisman Trophies, yet the last
two Sooner Heisman winners were born and raised within fifty miles of the Norman
campus while the last Longhorn winner was some fruit out of California.
October is the one month out of the
year around these parts that pretty much justifies sticking around for the
other eleven. Blizzards may be rare but ice storms are not and they may in fact
be ten times worse, the roads impassably slick and the overhead power lines
sagging with a good inch or so of frozen H2O accreted all around them, and if
the trees haven’t had enough time to shed their leaves then those branches can
crack and there goes twenty years of forested growth. The spring can come early
and if it does then be advised that the requisite wind will surely accompany it
along with the swirling skies and as the sirens wail you may wonder why oh whydidn’t I put in that storm shelter when I had the chance? And the
summer… good Lord, the summer can radiate and percolate and oddly mutate all that
which lies beneath the brilliant bleached heat dome and naturally there’s no
breeze now and it may not rain for days, for weeks, maybe even months.
And when it finally does it never
stops.
So yes, please God, bless October
with its golden warmth and true blue sky and the comforting fragrance that emanates
from the recuperating earth after a busy spring and a trying summer and now, in
these cool shaded moments that randomly happen upon us when peace at long last
appears at hand, we pronounce our happiness and understand why we could never
leave this place, not for too long, not while the green turns to gold and fat
pumpkins await the carving knife.
It is finally at this time, at this
glorious culmination of fruition and harvest, of warming bonfires and heaping leaves,
when a man can taste the earth and drink the air and chant silently to himself we sure as hell better beat Texas.
There’s nothing like enjoying a
foot long corn dog with a long stripe of mustard running down it while Big Tex
hovers above you welcoming one and all to the Great State Fair of Texas. Or
gnawing on a turkey leg by Dickel on the grassy knoll just between the crowded
midway food booths and the pond where swan boats serenely glide past. And atop
the sprawling Ferris Wheel where by chance stopped at the very top you are
offered a glimpse of just a small patch of green Cotton Bowl turf with white
yard line chalk expertly applied and where you know it will all unfold in only a
matter of hours. And after consuming three or four beers and absorbing all that
pregame hoopla and basking in unrepented hope the time finally comes for entry
into the grand old stadium, and it’s surreal, all that burnt orange and crimson
red shoulder to shoulder cramming up those long steps and squeezing yet again
into familiar confines.
Three hours later you won’t be feeling
the same way as when you entered, you’ll either be loquacious in victory or
silently bummed in defeat (or worse). There’s always next year for the losers (yes,
eventually they’ll come to realize it) but for the others there’s tonight!
So the Bootlegger’s Boy or Coach
Royal?
The north nondescript bank of the
Red River or the equally nondescript south?
If and when the Savior returns to
claim us all maybe the Almighty can first deliver him into the middle of these
narrow clotted waters and we can all just sit back and wait and see which slippery
side he decides to clamber up and onto. Until then, feel free to choose for
yourself, although for most of us the choice was made a long, long time ago.
Posts
