Tagged: Writing
Review of Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, by Haruki Murakami
Murakami’s Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World continues the post-modernistic tradition that aware readers have come to love. Upon completing the second chapter, it is clear that something different, something unfamiliar is occurring. The story is rife with metaphors and characters that work enough to keep us engaged, but it is really the storytelling’s style itself that causes our fingers to seek an instantaneous transition from one page to the next.
The story’s feint is that it’s about a detective. Of course, no tale worth its salt is ever about what it portends. Some authors make their points directly. For Murakami, who convincingly communicates that he is well-read, however, it is simply no longer interesting to tell the reader what to think.
As with other post-modern and fabulistic works, this book is a reaction. It is a plea to cause readers to never forget that no one should be taken for granted. In using these artistic movements, Murakami firmly plants his feet and announces to the world that he is not to be trifled with.
In the end, there is certainly nothing new under the sun. Yet Murakami has found a way to take his readers on a journey that is fun, difficult to predict, challenging and finally, rewarding. If you’ve been in a reading rut and need a book to shake things up, you’ll be pleasantly surprised to discover that you can’t put this one down.
****
Murakami, Haruki. Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World: A Novel. New York: Vintage, 1991. Print.
Lights Out
Here’s the preamble: I once read a story about a Coast Guard rescue swimmer who was being lowered onto a ship to rescue the crew. The rescue swimmer was being lowered from a helicopter and the sea was angry. Next thing the guy knows, it is pitch black and very hot. He recalls that he thought maybe he had died and gone to hell. He was joking of course. Turns out they lowered him directly into a smokestack on accident. Very funny. Now that you know this story is forever in my head, we can continue.
So there I was–pulling cars out of the wash tunnel and driving them into the dry/vac stations as if I was Jeff Gordon pulling into the pits. It shouldn’t surprise anyone to learn that I drive with precision. Back wheel at the vacuum every time.
Then I run back to the tunnel, not quite a full sprint–though faster than I ever thought I’d have to move on the clock–and wait for the next car to make it past the blowers so I can climb in. Over and over again. Then it happened. (Oh, here you should know that I get my kicks out of trying to time pulling open the driver’s door precisely with the door clearing the last blower). I think the particular vehicle in this case was a Land Rover. I pull the handle and jump in. Darkness. Lights out. I can still hear, but I can’t see shit. What the hell?
Of course, my first thought is a reassuring one. I immediately think of the rescue swimmer being lowered into the hot darkness. That calms me as, like it turned out for him, I seriously doubt that the lack of light means I died. Near simultaneous to realizing what happened, a second–more pressing–thought develops: “Is anybody watching me?”
You see, I wear a stocking cap. (First, its winter. Second, I lost my hair in the war and don’t want skin cancer). It isn’t the beanie kind that when pulled on requires no fold, but the kind that when pulled all the way on almost covers your whole face. To remedy this problem, you fold a couple inches of it up. As it turns out, there is no longer any doubt that the blower is strong enough to blow the folded part of a stocking cap down. Please, really, just picture the scene. Don’t stop with picturing a grown-ass man sitting in the driver’s seat of a vehicle with a stocking cap covering his entire face. Actually attempt to see through the fabric and picture my face. The confused look. Then, pure unadulterated joy. I’m still grinning ear-to-ear now. I can’t even remember anything else that happened after that.
The Father of Second Base?
For all the information, misinformation, and controversy surrounding the origin of the game of baseball, one piece of trivia is rarely mentioned. Whether Abner Doubleday or Alexander Cartwright should be credited as the father of America’s pastime, it seems to me that the more pressing question–the question that nobody is asking–is, “Where would the game of baseball be without second base?”
What you have to understand is baseball began as a competition, similar to cricket, which involved balls and bats and home plate and base. Initially, there were not four bases, mind you, just one. The player would hit the ball and run back and forth between two points in space–home plate and base. What most people don’t bother wondering about is how home plate and this single base (just called ‘base’ as there wasn’t, at that time, another base which necessitated the distinctions “first” and “second”) multiplied into the modern baseball diamond comprised of home plate, first base, second base and third base.
As you are no doubt realizing, the addition of a second base was no trivial matter. Without adding a second base, there would have never been a reason to add a third base, and without third base, there is no baseball diamond. So, we must ask how second base came to be. More to the point, we should want to know who to credit for the addition of a second base. As fate would have it, it was none other than than “father of American music” himself–Stephen Foster.
Having recently penned such classics as “Oh, Susanna” and “Camptown Races”, Foster was a veritable celebrity. He was the man of the hour in the mid-1800s. And he happened to be a bit of a sports nut. No one knows for certain how it happened, but after some light reflection it should be no surprise to anyone that Foster, who became known for writing songs with special emphasis on the refrain, was the man who suggested adding another base to the playing field. After all, it was the addition of second base that gave baseball what some might call musicality.
Think about it. A game where men simply run back and forth between two designated spots offers no real distinguishing excitement, no real flow. But, as we all know and love, if a player makes it to second base on the diamond of today, he is in “scoring” position. Reaching scoring position, then, is similar to the unique characteristic of Foster’s own music. That being, the emphasis on the refrain. As a verse of Foster’s music concludes, everyone knows the refrain is coming, and still everyone can’t wait for it to happen. Regardless the amount of listeners singing the verses, everyone in earshot contributes their own voice to “Oh, Susanna, oh don’t you cry for me!” Is it not the same when the runner reaches second base? Maybe the inning is dragging on, maybe it seems all hope is lost, maybe you are lost in thought trying to remember when they stop serving beer–it doesn’t matter. The minute the runner makes it to second, he might score a run. And if he does, his crossing home plate triggers another batter and extends the offensive strike; in other words, it acts as a refrain. Is there anyone who would attempt to argue that there is any quantifiable difference between crowds cheering upon their team scoring a run and crowds singing “Oh, Susanna, oh don’t you cry for me. Well I come from Alabama with my banjo on my knee”?
I don’t know why I feel its important to bring this to your attention. Not forgetting the little man is just in my nature. Blame my dad. The point is, next time you’re feeling a profound love of the game, toss some of it to Stephen Foster; for who knows where America’s pastime would be if it wasn’t for the “father of American music.”
****
Happy Birthday Dad. Thanks for the memories.
Candles, Flowers, Frustration
Sitting next to me at the table, her little body was shaking, arms bent at 90-degrees, fists clenched. “You know daddy, when I get frustrated, I smell a floor and blo ow a cannel,” she says so fast I couldn’t quite translate the three-year old speak into English.
“What?” I respond laughing. “You do what when you get frustrated? Why are you getting frustrated?”
“You know,” she begins to shake again, “when I get frustrated, at school, Miss Jen says when I get frustrated I smell a flower and blow out a candle,” she says, thinking she made her point clearly.
“You smell a flower and blow out a candle?” I ask slowly, enunciating.
“Yeah. At school when I get frustrated,” she reiterates, offering her wide open eyes and nodding head as evidence of her conviction.
“Who taught you this? Your mother or school?” I ask, more curious to discover if I’ll believe she is telling the truth when she answers than what her answer is.
“Miss Jen said at school,” her arms assume the position, but no shaking this time, “when I get frustrated, I should smell a flower and blow out a candle,” she says, not showing any signs of actually becoming frustrated during my uncalled for inquisition.
“Smell a flower and blow out a candle, eh?” I mutter to myself, this time widening my eyes as I take a deep breath through my nose and exhale through my mouth. “Ha,” I say, rolling my eyes, smirking. “What will they think up next?
Ninety Shades of Green
For Janet.
“Oh God, yes! I do, I do,” I confessed, closing my eyes tighter.
Opening my eyes, I could see disbelief in his baby blue eyes as they maneuvered to find my eyes through the tendrils that now covered them. Never having the courage to broach the subject myself, I instantly affirmed his suggestion. After so many years, I was still unable to resist his eyes–those intense, honest eyes.
Immediately, I regretted everything. What if I was wrong? What if this is all he was really after and after he got it he was going to leave me? No. He wasn’t like that. Not this one. At least that’s what I told myself in order to sustain the warmth that had come over me.
“You ready hon? I don’t think I can wait any longer,” I half-heard him say.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I answered, trying to hide my excitement. I wondered if he knew how excited I really was. I felt like a volcano about to erupt. Just think of it. No, I couldn’t think of it. Just the thought of it was too much.
“Michelle! What are you doing up there?” I later heard him call from across the house. I was so thrilled that I didn’t even realize I had stopped buttoning my blouse and taken a seat on the edge of our bed. Flushed, I stood up, straightened my skirt, finished buttoning my blouse, looked at myself in the mirror, pulled the comforter back to perfect, and headed down the hall to the stair case.
“I’m here. Sorry, I still can’t believe this is finally happening,” I burst.
“Geez. If I would’ve known you were into this, we could have been doing this for years,” I heard him say with his decisive, genuine voice; a voice that reminded me why I loved him.
The way he was standing, so far below me, head tilted up, slightly turned–it was striking.
“You’re sure you meant it?” I couldn’t help but double check, feeling ashamed for infecting the moment with doubt.
“Yes. Wow. You really are something. I’m just sorry it took me 35 years to ask. Why didn’t you ever say anything all these years?” he inquired.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
Dirty Car?
For Preston.
“Alrighty. I’ve got the car towels, window towels, soap, vinyl cleaner, leather cleaner, leather conditioner, window cleaner, gloves, plastic belt, long sleeve shirt, hat, and comfortable shoes. Most importantly, I’ve got a winning attitude,” he said aloud to no one. What he wouldn’t utter, even to himself, was his plan.
The roar of the turbine-engine-sounding blowers startled him out of his daydream. “It’s go time,” he thought to himself.
As soon as the car made its way from the tunnel to his side he went to work. First the exterior, then the wheels, then the inside. “Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am,” he proclaimed to himself, whip-cracking the ground with his damp towel. “Ford, ready!” he called.
A gentleman walked his way. Standing ready at the door, he surmised he’d get a decent tip.
“Thanks for coming in today. Have a great day,” he said, his voice without expectation.
“Thank you,” the gentleman replied in kind.
Closing the door, he walked empty-handed around the back of the car. Checking that the driver wasn’t looking, he ducked low. He only had a moment to decide. “Fuck it,” he said, the purr of the exhaust causing his heart to race. He opened the back door and quickly slid across the back seat until he was directly behind the gentleman.
Noticing the intruder before the pain, the gentleman released a terrified gasp. Struggling to get a word out, the gentleman realized the trespasser had thrust a knife into his right side and was now yelling, “Drive! Drive you cheap, ungrateful, son of a whore!”
The tires smoked as the car launched forward. Forgetting to follow the generally accepted “stay on the pavement” rule, the gentleman sent the car straight ahead. The incision lengthened an inch as the car jumped the curb. The assailant felt this unexpected delight and thought, “Serves him right.” Filled with a boyish excitement, he maintained his grip on the ribbed knife handle and twisted frantically, as if he discovered suddenly that the door to the room in which he planned to hide from an approaching devil was locked.
“Now, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to drive. You’re going to drive until you’re dead. You are dying today, and I am the man who is going to kill you. There is no chance to change this course of events,” he dictated, calming at the sound of his own voice.
“Wh-what? Why?” the gentleman asked.
“Don’t ask questions,” he said, pulling the knife and some entrails out of the gentleman’s side.
“Mother!” the gentleman cried. “I’m sorry kid. Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”
“Ha. Arrogant to the end, eh? Like anything you did deserves death at the hands of a car wash kid? No. Call for your mommy, call for your daddy. Tell me to pass a message to your wife and kids. But do not believe that this is about you. This was never about you. This is about me. The only thing I want you to regret is your choice to get your car washed today,” he said, plunging the hunting knife into the gentleman over and over again until the vehicle crashed into a billboard which read, “Dirty Car? Stop in Today for $10 Off Our Standard Wash’n’Vac Service.”
How To Make Blogging Thrilling
(If you’re short on time, skip to the bottom for numbered instructions).
Clicking away at the keyboard, he suddenly found himself grabbing the mouse, about to highlight and delete everything. He couldn’t possibly publish it. He was a good dude; what would people think?
He sometimes wanted to write some horror posts–he wanted to graphically describe the most gruesome paths out of this life.
He sometimes wanted to write some posts from a women’s perspective–he wanted to have some fun exploring how the female human navigates this world.
He wanted to write without abandon. He wanted to swear, he wanted to be passionate. More times than not he wanted to cause people who knew him to say, “I can’t believe he wrote that.”
But as soon as the words manifested themselves on the screen, he’d hesitate. “What if they don’t like it? What if they think I went too far?” he’d ask himself. “Ah, fuck it,” he’d answer, clicking the publish button. And then he’d feel it–a rush like no other.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”
He’d then laugh out loud thinking, “If people only knew how much energy I put into each post…they’d think I was nnnuts.”
And there was something more. Behind all of this he would tell himself that his daughter might someday read his posts. And if he guessed correctly, by that time she would be fascinated that he wasn’t quite the man she’d taken him for all those years. He’d hope that if she wasn’t there yet, this realization would be the weight that would finally and forever tilt the scales of how she’d live the rest of her life towards courageously, without fear, without worry, and without anxiety. Just the way he strove to.
Instructions for How To Make Blogging Thrilling
Step 1 — WRITE what you think.
Step 2 — DO NOT DELETE what you wrote.
Step 3 — PUBLISH what you wrote.
Winning’s Shimmer
Before he knew it he noticed he only had one blue and one green ring left in his cereal bowl. Looking towards her, he saw he was clearly going to win. Coming at the rings from the side, he lifted them out of the milk with one experienced motion. After removing the spoon from his mouth he shocked her with the news.
“Guess what? Looks like I win.”
“Huh uh, daddy. I’m gonna win.”
“Nope. I already won. Don’t you understand? You can’t win.”
“Huh uh, daddy. You don’t get the trophy.”
“I most certainly do get the trophy. I do. Don’t you see that I won? You always tell me very clearly that when you win, I lose. Well, today I won, and that means I get the trophy.”
Her tears really didn’t bother him until the sound of their creation became deafening. And that only happened as he grabbed the trophy. Not a total arse, he put the trophy back on the table. After all, she was only three-and-a-half. The roar softened to a whimper.
Taking his bowl to the counter, he kept up the banter, making sure she didn’t miss the lesson. He came back and saw she was finally done.
“Can I have a little bit more?” she asked, making the universal sign for ‘liddle bit’ with her thumb and forefinger.
“You can, but you need to understand that this only further proves that I won. Having more cereal after I’m already finished means that even if you had finished the first round before me, you still wouldn’t have won today. Today, I won and you lost. Don’t worry about it. There’s always tomorrow.”
She nodded to placate him.
He watched her finish her second helping. Now carrying her bowl, he made his way around the corner into the kitchen. Upon returning to the table, he noticed she was gone. Her bedroom was in direct line-of-sight only 15 feet further from him than the table. Sensing movement, he peered into the darkness and recognized the little girl. “Why the hell is she standing in her bedroom in the dark?” he thought to himself. His eyes adapting, he saw a shimmer of gold–center mass. Moving only his eyes, he looked down at the table. The trophy was gone.
“Like they say, ‘If y’ain’t cheatin’, y’ain’t tryin’.’,” he thought to himself in a southern accent, smiling proudly.
Review of Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
In Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, Marlow’s apathetic voice is Conrad’s gift to readers. Through this apathy readers have a defibrillator to use on their hearts, which have slowed to a stop after contemplating the full meaning of the tale. Without this literary device, countless souls would be unable to return to their pleasant state of existence.
Conrad introduces Marlow as the novella opens. Within two pages we discover Marlow has decided to tell an unrequested tale containing an uncommon bleakness that offers no immediate value to the audience. By the end, we are left feeling despondent, depressed, and largely in a state of wonder. We ask ourselves, “If this horror happened to a man such as Kurtz, it surely would happen to little ol’ me. And that being the case, what’s the point of even trying?”
Add to these feelings the fact that the story is only 70-pages, and we find ourselves returning to page one with a singular goal. We long to discover that we overlooked the hope. Returning to page one with this new sense of purpose, we begin to notice that Marlow’s story is preempted by the notion that “the bond of sea…had the effect of making us tolerant of each other’s yarns—and even convictions.” Likewise, Conrad demonstrates his value by creating this tolerance in those of us without this bond.
Marlow’s apathy is palpable throughout the tale—evidenced by his ability to remain a detached observer. During this re-read we notice that this apathy, then, is Conrad’s gift to us. This apathy lights the path which will lead us out of darkness. Conrad doesn’t intend for us to remain in darkness. He wants us to take Marlow’s journey; not believe that we’re Marlow. The key to coming out whole is to remember this–remember that, unlike Marlow, we still care.
****
Conrad, Joseph. Heart of Darkness. New York: Dover, 1990. Print.
Do Your Job, Come Home Safe
“Music? Where we going to music, daddy?”
He constantly worked to perfect how early to tell her that they would be doing something a little special. If he shared the news too early, there would eventually be tears when he confessed, “No, not yet. We’re not going for three more hours.” If not early at all, he felt like he was robbing her of anticipation’s joy.
One of the churches downtown was putting on a musical tribute to veterans. He liked hearing the songs, and not usually being one to indulge in veteran events, he felt that, of all days, Veterans Day was an appropriate day to reminisce.
Taking her already extended hand in his, they moved from their car towards the small bottleneck of people.
Reality hit and hit hard. The pair of them, his daughter and him, were among the youngest attendees–by decades. Guiding her to the general area he wanted to sit, he let her choose the exact pew. Taking their seats, he didn’t want to look around. In front, there was not a single younger person. The enormous sanctuary was far from full. The choir was smaller than expected. The brass section, even smaller. And he couldn’t help but notice the age of the participants. Maybe five out of the 50-ish musicians were under the age of 40.
He knew that the greatest generation was basically gone. As a veteran of the Iraq war, he knew that Iraq and Afghanistan veterans couldn’t compete with Vietnam veterans regarding duration and intensity. This knowledge carried a bit of shame. He really wanted his efforts to have been necessary and valuable. All signs pointed to the opposite.
Regardless, he also knew something more. He knew what every veteran knows–that he was lucky. And tied inexorably to this knowledge was the fact that some…were unlucky. Moreover, there was no escaping the inner turmoil captured by the persistent yet unanswerable question. “Why?”
****
Support veterans. They need it.
Captain’s Log 