It's harvest time and the crush is on.
For small wineries it’s everything that you can image. Winemakers scramble for picking crews in the stinted season, promises are made, old friendships are rekindled and brought to bear fruit in the scramble for just the right moment.
And that is it: the right moment; because the winemaker waits for exact sugar levels to predict the outcome of the vintage. In these closing days of summer he can be seen in the vineyard, head raised toward the sun, squinting through his refractometer like a ship's captain searching for safe passage. A drop of juice squeezed upon the telescope-like instrument reveals the brix. Too little and there isn’t a chance of greatness, too much and the wine turns “hot” with alcohol.
At last he gives the word, arranges for the picking crew, assembles the extra manpower needed for the frenzied process and prepares for the long, hectic hours of the Crush.
Meat and skin turned to "Must": the slurry of berries dumped, by the ton, from sticky gondolas full of ripe amber and purple grapes, stems, sweat, ants and anything thing else cut by the migrant worker's sharp knives into the crusher-de-stemmer and pumped into the cellar.
Some varietals flow directly to the fermentor, others first go to the press, where free-run juice pours from the bottom and the mangled berries are pressed, just so, leaving behind a heap of grape corpses called, pomace.
After the crew leaves, in the quiet wan light of a long day, he mixes a batch of dry yeast in warm water waking the cells, reminding them of their impending responsibility. They are alive in every sense of the word and their task is no small undertaking, however simple it may be. Their obligation is only to eat and thrive. Within that colony of cooperation, a miraculous transformation takes place. Devouring sugar, the colony does two important things: belch and eliminate.
Their burps are CO2, the stars of Champagne.
Their waste is alcohol, the stuff of dreams and nightmares.
Another byproduct of fermentation is heat but it can be deadly to both the colony and the winemaker. This is one of the many terrors of the crush: a “Stuck” fermentation. If the heat rises to an intolerable temperature the yeast colony will die and restarting the process is all but hopeless. Even if successful, it will taint the wine, at best, preventing greatness, at worst, destroying a career.
TMD
###
Must
When the September vineyards are heavy with fruit,
in the shallow hills
beyond our town,
I think of the winery.
Autumn afternoons
in the cellar tasting wine;
migrant workers with dark tan faces
drinking cold beer.
The crush:
sticky berries
drawing bees
in the fading light.
Meat and skin crushed to must.
Dark plums and wild roses
staining my past
with vintage memories.
—Sean Reynolds
Friday, September 17, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Lost in the Cosmic Gossip
They are only words.
The Eskimos have 20,000 words for snow (or is it 21,000?)
Let's place two ideas on the page. On one side,love. On the other, everything else, the Cosmic Gossip.
Energy, (Love?) the spinning flywheel of spirit, is ever-present.
Should we quantify/qualify this phenomenon: energy separated by Duality, Good/Evil, Light/Darkness, or is energy universal, simply manipulated by words and reason? Does it stand alone or seek connection?
“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin.”
Do lilies…love?
Can it be possible we are forged from different energy than other life forms?
“What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?”
There is so much chatter, so little communication. The Cosmic Gossip has its place, but it is, after all, just talk. It cannot usurp the energy firing the kiln. Evolution has equipped humanity with reason and ingenuity, but is love evolutionary?
Why does the artist create? Did cave dwellers paint pictures just to leave their mark?
Consider: Energy is universal. Love is energy. Love seeks connection.
The artist creates an image, not of simply being alive, but of life itself, an affirmation that love is greater than gossip. Art is a gift, a miraculous human experience, which, when successful, transcends the mechanical conversations of evolution to reach a greater understanding of spirit.
How many words do Eskimos have for Love?
TMD
Conversation
I spoke to a friend
About you
Pleading the case
Of a seemingly desultory
Life
They asked me why
I feel the need to defend you
Why
I’m so captivated
With your moribund fascination
Of backyard fences
Why you crave connection
the need to be understood
I told them
For a moment
Just for a moment
I thought you were God.
-Sean Reynolds
The Eskimos have 20,000 words for snow (or is it 21,000?)
Let's place two ideas on the page. On one side,love. On the other, everything else, the Cosmic Gossip.
Energy, (Love?) the spinning flywheel of spirit, is ever-present.
Should we quantify/qualify this phenomenon: energy separated by Duality, Good/Evil, Light/Darkness, or is energy universal, simply manipulated by words and reason? Does it stand alone or seek connection?
“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin.”
Do lilies…love?
Can it be possible we are forged from different energy than other life forms?
“What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?”
There is so much chatter, so little communication. The Cosmic Gossip has its place, but it is, after all, just talk. It cannot usurp the energy firing the kiln. Evolution has equipped humanity with reason and ingenuity, but is love evolutionary?
Why does the artist create? Did cave dwellers paint pictures just to leave their mark?
Consider: Energy is universal. Love is energy. Love seeks connection.
The artist creates an image, not of simply being alive, but of life itself, an affirmation that love is greater than gossip. Art is a gift, a miraculous human experience, which, when successful, transcends the mechanical conversations of evolution to reach a greater understanding of spirit.
How many words do Eskimos have for Love?
TMD
Conversation
I spoke to a friend
About you
Pleading the case
Of a seemingly desultory
Life
They asked me why
I feel the need to defend you
Why
I’m so captivated
With your moribund fascination
Of backyard fences
Why you crave connection
the need to be understood
I told them
For a moment
Just for a moment
I thought you were God.
-Sean Reynolds
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
PC Kitty
Political correctness has been maligned and ridiculed, but in many ways it is simply consideration and common sense. Admittedly, there are times when the “Rules” are ticky-tack, e.g. the journalistic practice referring to firemen as firefighters. They’re postal workers not mailmen. One should write humanity not mankind.
Some PC terms aim for gentler rhetoric: overweight instead of fat, challenged rather than handicapped, but others are the righteous blowback of bigotry and ignorance. Mel Gibson, Michael Richards and Imus can attest to the repercussions of speaking a hurtful boorish mind.
Sometimes PC can sneak-up and bite you in the ass, or is it butt? Once, in mixed company, I referred to the opposite sex as, “this chick I know” and was immediately reprimanded by more than one woman for the fowl reference.
However, one day, I learned my lesson that one man’s… er… person’s, ceiling is really another’s floor and that even “trying to fit in” can be extremely embarrassing, if not down right dangerous, when you don’t think before you speak.
I consider myself a progressive, modern man, all inclusive and unbiased. I have friends from different ethnic and racial backgrounds and one day I was at a kickback with some of my cat friends.
It was down the street from my house. Yeah, that’s right, there are cats in my neighborhood, I’m proud to call them my friends, but I’m not cool with how I acted that day.
Fluffy Williams invited me over to watch the game with a few of his friends, mostly cats. There was this one turtle, but I didn’t catch his name. Anyway Fluffy’s wife had set out a nice spread, some meow mix, bowls of milk, a few chips, that sort of thing. She purred and rubbed against my leg a little before leaving. I was a bit uncomfortable and was glad Fluffy didn’t notice. A couple of Toms were hanging around the scratching post and me and Fluffy were watching the tube with three or four other cats. They passed around some “nip,” but when I said I was a lightweight they just wrinkled their noses.
I was sort of uncomfortable and I guess that’s where I went wrong because, obviously they knew I wasn’t a cat, no fur, tail, but that’s not why Fluffy invited me, so why did I feel I had to try to fit in? I started telling some off-color jokes about mice. You know Mickey didn’t say Minnie was crazy. He said she was fuckin Goofy, just silly stuff really. Then it turned more specie-ist. I was baggin’ on their little whiskers, how they had those beady eyes, weren’t getting anywhere in those mazes stuff like that. I said all they like to do is eat cheese and lay around their holes.
I had those cats cracking up, until this one big Calico starts really hatin’ on them. Calling them rats and science experiments, saying how he’d like to trap them all and make a mouse sandwich, hold em up by their tails and swallow em whole. It was pretty ugly. Fluffy looked at me like I was a jerk for starting it and I felt like one too, but not as bad as when the door opened and this big Tabby came prancing in the room meowing really loud and twitching his tail in the air.
His name was Sylvester. I know funny, but no one dared call him that. He was Sly. Everyone knew that cat. You could hear him any night of the week at midnight out on the fence fighting and scratching, and you know what. Well, he makes this big entrance after the party is really going strong. I was feeling like one of the litter. Fluffy had just come back from using the cat box and was grabbing a ball of yarn when I yelled over to Sly.
I don’t know what came over me. I guess it was the excitement, maybe the catnip floating in the air, but I shout, “Hey Sly, What’s up Puss?”
The room went silent. The only sound was some Persian tossing around a sock toy with a little bell on it. Man those eyes give me the willies.
Sly’s ears drew down. He arched his back and hissed, “What’d you call me?”
I tried to blow it off and said, “Hey cat pull your claws in. Just being friendly that’s all.
Sly Pounced. In a split second he was on top of me, nose to nose, growling in this low moan. I thought he was going to scratch my eyes out and then he let me up. “Don’t you ever call me that MAN. You get it? Ever.”
“Listen,” I said. “You cats call each other the “P” word all the time. We're friends aren’t we? Don’t I scratch you under the chin and behind the ears? What’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong, Dude. You ever seen your kittens tied up in a bag and thrown down the well? You ever have your friends rounded up and the air sucked out of them just because they weren’t somebody’s kitty? Ever been chased by a pit bull and cornered in the ally fightn’ for your life? Didn’t think so bro.”
He pushed his front legs out and stretched, then straightened up and told me, “Look man, I just did you a favor. Think before you blurt out something you know nothing about. Yeah we talk like that sometimes but you got no idea how it is to be called ‘pussy this and pussy that, here pussy here pussy.’ Screw that man. Just think of it as a learning experience. Were all equal man, but we ain’t the same. Respect dude. That’s the name of the game”
The party got back to normal and I slipped out after a bit, but that’s one lesson this cat’s never going to forget. PC has it’s merits.
Sean Reynolds
TMD
###
Some PC terms aim for gentler rhetoric: overweight instead of fat, challenged rather than handicapped, but others are the righteous blowback of bigotry and ignorance. Mel Gibson, Michael Richards and Imus can attest to the repercussions of speaking a hurtful boorish mind.
Sometimes PC can sneak-up and bite you in the ass, or is it butt? Once, in mixed company, I referred to the opposite sex as, “this chick I know” and was immediately reprimanded by more than one woman for the fowl reference.
However, one day, I learned my lesson that one man’s… er… person’s, ceiling is really another’s floor and that even “trying to fit in” can be extremely embarrassing, if not down right dangerous, when you don’t think before you speak.
I consider myself a progressive, modern man, all inclusive and unbiased. I have friends from different ethnic and racial backgrounds and one day I was at a kickback with some of my cat friends.
It was down the street from my house. Yeah, that’s right, there are cats in my neighborhood, I’m proud to call them my friends, but I’m not cool with how I acted that day.
Fluffy Williams invited me over to watch the game with a few of his friends, mostly cats. There was this one turtle, but I didn’t catch his name. Anyway Fluffy’s wife had set out a nice spread, some meow mix, bowls of milk, a few chips, that sort of thing. She purred and rubbed against my leg a little before leaving. I was a bit uncomfortable and was glad Fluffy didn’t notice. A couple of Toms were hanging around the scratching post and me and Fluffy were watching the tube with three or four other cats. They passed around some “nip,” but when I said I was a lightweight they just wrinkled their noses.
I was sort of uncomfortable and I guess that’s where I went wrong because, obviously they knew I wasn’t a cat, no fur, tail, but that’s not why Fluffy invited me, so why did I feel I had to try to fit in? I started telling some off-color jokes about mice. You know Mickey didn’t say Minnie was crazy. He said she was fuckin Goofy, just silly stuff really. Then it turned more specie-ist. I was baggin’ on their little whiskers, how they had those beady eyes, weren’t getting anywhere in those mazes stuff like that. I said all they like to do is eat cheese and lay around their holes.
I had those cats cracking up, until this one big Calico starts really hatin’ on them. Calling them rats and science experiments, saying how he’d like to trap them all and make a mouse sandwich, hold em up by their tails and swallow em whole. It was pretty ugly. Fluffy looked at me like I was a jerk for starting it and I felt like one too, but not as bad as when the door opened and this big Tabby came prancing in the room meowing really loud and twitching his tail in the air.
His name was Sylvester. I know funny, but no one dared call him that. He was Sly. Everyone knew that cat. You could hear him any night of the week at midnight out on the fence fighting and scratching, and you know what. Well, he makes this big entrance after the party is really going strong. I was feeling like one of the litter. Fluffy had just come back from using the cat box and was grabbing a ball of yarn when I yelled over to Sly.
I don’t know what came over me. I guess it was the excitement, maybe the catnip floating in the air, but I shout, “Hey Sly, What’s up Puss?”
The room went silent. The only sound was some Persian tossing around a sock toy with a little bell on it. Man those eyes give me the willies.
Sly’s ears drew down. He arched his back and hissed, “What’d you call me?”
I tried to blow it off and said, “Hey cat pull your claws in. Just being friendly that’s all.
Sly Pounced. In a split second he was on top of me, nose to nose, growling in this low moan. I thought he was going to scratch my eyes out and then he let me up. “Don’t you ever call me that MAN. You get it? Ever.”
“Listen,” I said. “You cats call each other the “P” word all the time. We're friends aren’t we? Don’t I scratch you under the chin and behind the ears? What’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong, Dude. You ever seen your kittens tied up in a bag and thrown down the well? You ever have your friends rounded up and the air sucked out of them just because they weren’t somebody’s kitty? Ever been chased by a pit bull and cornered in the ally fightn’ for your life? Didn’t think so bro.”
He pushed his front legs out and stretched, then straightened up and told me, “Look man, I just did you a favor. Think before you blurt out something you know nothing about. Yeah we talk like that sometimes but you got no idea how it is to be called ‘pussy this and pussy that, here pussy here pussy.’ Screw that man. Just think of it as a learning experience. Were all equal man, but we ain’t the same. Respect dude. That’s the name of the game”
The party got back to normal and I slipped out after a bit, but that’s one lesson this cat’s never going to forget. PC has it’s merits.
Sean Reynolds
TMD
###
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
A Small Good Thing
On Saturday morning, at the local farmer’s market, the tables spill over with color. The cool air is scented with breakfast crepes, gyros, fresh baked bread and bowls of menudo…Small Good Things.
There are good reasons to eat organic fruits and vegetables. Primarily, the lack of pesticides, but there are also secret, unique motives that (when discovered) release the magic properties of a savory, connected life.
Small Good Things.
And when the connection is made, it seems as if it was always there waiting, the natural thing to do. A fat plum, ripened to perfection, purple as a king’s vestment, tastes like a sweet dream in the backyard of an everlasting summer. That first bite bursts with a trickle of juice from the corner of your mouth and is met by the grin of the woman standing behind the table. She tells you she knows her orchard. She knows just when to pick them. “You can’t buy them in the supermarket,” she laughs. And you smile also, but not too wide, because they are so juicy.
The farmer’s market is a place to gather your senses and expand your spirit. You can taste life.
Raymond Carver’s famous short story, “A Small Good Thing,” zeros-in on this unique secret. Carver keeps his words close, his prose so efficient that when we meet the emotion (he vitally wants to extend) we are just as delighted as that first bite of delicious fruit.
It is a sad, troublesome story about the death of a son, close to his birthday no less, but Carver knows us. He knows we long for connection. He knows we want to unite with our senses, our emotions and our faith in all that is alive. He leaves us, (in the story) spent and empty at a warm bakery, early in the darkness before dawn. Then he feeds us, fills our souls with fresh baked rolls and pads of melting butter and the soft connection of grief.
Small Good Things.
It is that way with wine also. The large wineries produce thousands of gallons fermented in huge stainless steel tanks, barely having the chance to smooth the bite of ancient zinfandel vines or thick cabernet clusters that ripen in the central valley sun. But take these same noble grapes and crush them in a small, competent wine cellar, let them ferment in open casks and age in cool oak and you will taste the vineyard, the toasted barrel and the skill of the impassioned winemaker.
Perhaps it is not simply taste or competency nor even quality that supplies the secret, unique aspects of a connected life. Maybe it is desire, emotion, patience and love that turn these things to magic, but it is worth the effort to seek out the Small Good Things.
TMD
###
There are good reasons to eat organic fruits and vegetables. Primarily, the lack of pesticides, but there are also secret, unique motives that (when discovered) release the magic properties of a savory, connected life.
Small Good Things.
And when the connection is made, it seems as if it was always there waiting, the natural thing to do. A fat plum, ripened to perfection, purple as a king’s vestment, tastes like a sweet dream in the backyard of an everlasting summer. That first bite bursts with a trickle of juice from the corner of your mouth and is met by the grin of the woman standing behind the table. She tells you she knows her orchard. She knows just when to pick them. “You can’t buy them in the supermarket,” she laughs. And you smile also, but not too wide, because they are so juicy.
The farmer’s market is a place to gather your senses and expand your spirit. You can taste life.
Raymond Carver’s famous short story, “A Small Good Thing,” zeros-in on this unique secret. Carver keeps his words close, his prose so efficient that when we meet the emotion (he vitally wants to extend) we are just as delighted as that first bite of delicious fruit.
It is a sad, troublesome story about the death of a son, close to his birthday no less, but Carver knows us. He knows we long for connection. He knows we want to unite with our senses, our emotions and our faith in all that is alive. He leaves us, (in the story) spent and empty at a warm bakery, early in the darkness before dawn. Then he feeds us, fills our souls with fresh baked rolls and pads of melting butter and the soft connection of grief.
Small Good Things.
It is that way with wine also. The large wineries produce thousands of gallons fermented in huge stainless steel tanks, barely having the chance to smooth the bite of ancient zinfandel vines or thick cabernet clusters that ripen in the central valley sun. But take these same noble grapes and crush them in a small, competent wine cellar, let them ferment in open casks and age in cool oak and you will taste the vineyard, the toasted barrel and the skill of the impassioned winemaker.
Perhaps it is not simply taste or competency nor even quality that supplies the secret, unique aspects of a connected life. Maybe it is desire, emotion, patience and love that turn these things to magic, but it is worth the effort to seek out the Small Good Things.
TMD
###
Sunday, May 23, 2010
When Jack exited the freeway, he could just make out the figure on the end of the long off-ramp. There was a line of cars waiting at the light as he watched the round, thirty something man in shorts holding his little sign. Homeless, no doubt. Shiftless, lazy, no way to tell, he thought. Jack shifted his attention as he drove past, to the sign which said only one word, “Help.”
He could be more expressive, for Christ’s sake. Something to get their attention, he thought. If he needs something, he should be more to the point, “Will work for food,” that’s a standard. “Homeless, God Bless,” at least that appeals to Christians. Who identifies with just, “Help?”
For the first few mornings, Jack was lucky, never winding up at the intersection (in front of the homeless man) at the red light, until, eventually, it happened. The man was only a few feet from him, but it felt much further. From his car window the man looked like a little picture, just a face really. That’s all Jack allowed himself to see. The image burned on the side of his head, as he waited for the light to change, and the little sign wrote it’s letters across his mind... HELP.
He didn’t look homeless, Jack thought. His clothes were clean. He was well fed. That’s for sure. What was his story? Jack didn’t want to know, just get to work. After all, he had a family, a car payment, his daughter was preparing for college, and his wife was on vacation with their youngest in Vermont. So much to take care of, he thought. Life on the off ramp had its appeal. No worries, just hold up a sign.
It never occurred to him to give the man a dollar or even a smile. He was not his friend, no connection what-so-ever. In fact, a week went by until Jack actually saw someone give the man money. A young woman rolled down her window and held out a bill and then the car behind her followed suit. Jack drove on through, eyes forward, with a mixture of guilt and curiosity. I guess I could help, he thought, For the Grace of God, and all that, I suppose. After all, the people smiled when they offered up their change. It made them feel better about themselves.
The next day Jack had his dollar ready on the seat next to him when he pulled up.
“God Bless you,” was all the man said, but it was enough to make Jack feel proud. He thought about it the rest of the day. When he mentioned it to his friends, they had their opinions.
“I can’t stand them,” some said. “Leeches, freeloaders, why don’t they get a job?” Others were empathetic, but less vocal. Jack was hooked. Each day he gave the man a dollar, got his, “God Bless You,” and went on his way, until one day, at a fresh red light, the man commented on a snapshot of Jack’s wife and kids on the dash.
“Nice family,” he said. “They are lucky to have you.”
The light turned green and Jack felt a strong new rush of pride. Yes, they are lucky, he thought. I guess I am lucky.
In the weeks that followed, the two men widened their relationship with short comments of gratitude and concern. The man learned of Jack’s job as a computer programmer. Jack explained how he had to keep going to put his kid through school, how his wife liked vacations. The man was there every day. Sometimes, they could chat for a minute, and at other times he would just smile. In a strange way Jack felt they were good friends. He gave his dollar and the man asked nothing more from him. Jack relied on the gratitude. It was simple. An act of kindness, he thought, a good deed.
Things began to change when it occurred to Jack that he knew so little of the man and one day at the red light he asked very quickly, “What line of work were you in?”
“Architect,” the man said, raising his voice over the wind and traffic, before running to grab another bill from the car behind.
An architect, Jack thought. He mustn’t be a very good one, probably a drunk or druggie, probably his wife left him, something like that. It’s better to have a steady job. Computers, we’ll always have those.
The next blow came when the man pulled a photo from his shirt pocket, obviously waiting to see Jack. “This is MY family,” he said. They were lovely. “We were on vacation in Hawaii,” was all he could add as Jack pulled away. The picture was disturbingly serene: a beautiful wife and daughter. Could he be lying, Jack wondered? The man was in the photo. They were at a restaurant on the sand. It looked recent.
This really had Jack thinking. His compassion evaporated with each mile, the feelings of pride replaced with doubt and betrayal. We were friends, he thought. He wanted my help. His little sign said as much. Now he tells me he has a career and a family? What about me? Where’s my compassion, where’s my support?
That weekend Jack turned it over and over in his mind. It had been nearly six months, and who knows how many dollars. The more he thought about the brief comments waiting for the light, the more he realized it had been a one-sided exchange. Jack had told the man about his promotion and how his daughter was accepted at USC. He told him how he wanted to change careers and joked that maybe he would join him on the off ramp. He told him how he had high blood pressure and how his youngest had ADD, all in short sentences, little comments over the weekday commute. He showed the man pictures, holding them up briefly as he passed the dollar, one of his boat, another of his trip to Lake Havasu, and so on.
All that weekend he thought about what he would tell the man. He would pull over and park, get out and confront him. Maybe even ask for his money back. Who was this guy? He has a lot of nerve. He’s homeless, for Christ’s sake. We’re friends. I’ve helped him. He needs to know this was a sacrifice for me. My kindness, doesn’t that count for something?
Monday he would find out, once and for all.
Monday morning the cars were backed way up on the long off ramp. Jack’s heart beat faster as he searched for the tiny figure on the side of the road. He looked for a spot to park, while arranging the words in his mind, but the closer he got, the more he realized something was different. The man was not there, but Jack parked anyway and walked across the busy intersection to the corner where the man had stood day after day in the heat and rain, in the cold and wind.
It was a new perspective outside of the safety and solitude of his car. He felt alone and nervous, somewhat disoriented. The cars raced by, oblivious, bumper to bumper, speeding to catch the light, then waiting for Jack as he crossed to where the man had stood.
Empty and alone, Jack searched the desolate overpass for his friend until he saw the little sign facedown in the dirt. When he turned it over the word “Help,” thickly scrawled in black magic marker, leapt out at him. Picking it up, Jack’s knees buckled slightly, his stomach growled and his nose ran in the cold morning wind. The friendless sound of the freeway buzzed in his ears as he held the sign, while starring at the long line of morning commuters on the off-ramp and an outstretched hand thrusting a dollar bill toward him.
Sean Reynolds
He could be more expressive, for Christ’s sake. Something to get their attention, he thought. If he needs something, he should be more to the point, “Will work for food,” that’s a standard. “Homeless, God Bless,” at least that appeals to Christians. Who identifies with just, “Help?”
For the first few mornings, Jack was lucky, never winding up at the intersection (in front of the homeless man) at the red light, until, eventually, it happened. The man was only a few feet from him, but it felt much further. From his car window the man looked like a little picture, just a face really. That’s all Jack allowed himself to see. The image burned on the side of his head, as he waited for the light to change, and the little sign wrote it’s letters across his mind... HELP.
He didn’t look homeless, Jack thought. His clothes were clean. He was well fed. That’s for sure. What was his story? Jack didn’t want to know, just get to work. After all, he had a family, a car payment, his daughter was preparing for college, and his wife was on vacation with their youngest in Vermont. So much to take care of, he thought. Life on the off ramp had its appeal. No worries, just hold up a sign.
It never occurred to him to give the man a dollar or even a smile. He was not his friend, no connection what-so-ever. In fact, a week went by until Jack actually saw someone give the man money. A young woman rolled down her window and held out a bill and then the car behind her followed suit. Jack drove on through, eyes forward, with a mixture of guilt and curiosity. I guess I could help, he thought, For the Grace of God, and all that, I suppose. After all, the people smiled when they offered up their change. It made them feel better about themselves.
The next day Jack had his dollar ready on the seat next to him when he pulled up.
“God Bless you,” was all the man said, but it was enough to make Jack feel proud. He thought about it the rest of the day. When he mentioned it to his friends, they had their opinions.
“I can’t stand them,” some said. “Leeches, freeloaders, why don’t they get a job?” Others were empathetic, but less vocal. Jack was hooked. Each day he gave the man a dollar, got his, “God Bless You,” and went on his way, until one day, at a fresh red light, the man commented on a snapshot of Jack’s wife and kids on the dash.
“Nice family,” he said. “They are lucky to have you.”
The light turned green and Jack felt a strong new rush of pride. Yes, they are lucky, he thought. I guess I am lucky.
In the weeks that followed, the two men widened their relationship with short comments of gratitude and concern. The man learned of Jack’s job as a computer programmer. Jack explained how he had to keep going to put his kid through school, how his wife liked vacations. The man was there every day. Sometimes, they could chat for a minute, and at other times he would just smile. In a strange way Jack felt they were good friends. He gave his dollar and the man asked nothing more from him. Jack relied on the gratitude. It was simple. An act of kindness, he thought, a good deed.
Things began to change when it occurred to Jack that he knew so little of the man and one day at the red light he asked very quickly, “What line of work were you in?”
“Architect,” the man said, raising his voice over the wind and traffic, before running to grab another bill from the car behind.
An architect, Jack thought. He mustn’t be a very good one, probably a drunk or druggie, probably his wife left him, something like that. It’s better to have a steady job. Computers, we’ll always have those.
The next blow came when the man pulled a photo from his shirt pocket, obviously waiting to see Jack. “This is MY family,” he said. They were lovely. “We were on vacation in Hawaii,” was all he could add as Jack pulled away. The picture was disturbingly serene: a beautiful wife and daughter. Could he be lying, Jack wondered? The man was in the photo. They were at a restaurant on the sand. It looked recent.
This really had Jack thinking. His compassion evaporated with each mile, the feelings of pride replaced with doubt and betrayal. We were friends, he thought. He wanted my help. His little sign said as much. Now he tells me he has a career and a family? What about me? Where’s my compassion, where’s my support?
That weekend Jack turned it over and over in his mind. It had been nearly six months, and who knows how many dollars. The more he thought about the brief comments waiting for the light, the more he realized it had been a one-sided exchange. Jack had told the man about his promotion and how his daughter was accepted at USC. He told him how he wanted to change careers and joked that maybe he would join him on the off ramp. He told him how he had high blood pressure and how his youngest had ADD, all in short sentences, little comments over the weekday commute. He showed the man pictures, holding them up briefly as he passed the dollar, one of his boat, another of his trip to Lake Havasu, and so on.
All that weekend he thought about what he would tell the man. He would pull over and park, get out and confront him. Maybe even ask for his money back. Who was this guy? He has a lot of nerve. He’s homeless, for Christ’s sake. We’re friends. I’ve helped him. He needs to know this was a sacrifice for me. My kindness, doesn’t that count for something?
Monday he would find out, once and for all.
Monday morning the cars were backed way up on the long off ramp. Jack’s heart beat faster as he searched for the tiny figure on the side of the road. He looked for a spot to park, while arranging the words in his mind, but the closer he got, the more he realized something was different. The man was not there, but Jack parked anyway and walked across the busy intersection to the corner where the man had stood day after day in the heat and rain, in the cold and wind.
It was a new perspective outside of the safety and solitude of his car. He felt alone and nervous, somewhat disoriented. The cars raced by, oblivious, bumper to bumper, speeding to catch the light, then waiting for Jack as he crossed to where the man had stood.
Empty and alone, Jack searched the desolate overpass for his friend until he saw the little sign facedown in the dirt. When he turned it over the word “Help,” thickly scrawled in black magic marker, leapt out at him. Picking it up, Jack’s knees buckled slightly, his stomach growled and his nose ran in the cold morning wind. The friendless sound of the freeway buzzed in his ears as he held the sign, while starring at the long line of morning commuters on the off-ramp and an outstretched hand thrusting a dollar bill toward him.
Sean Reynolds
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Separation
The saddest dilemma is separation, dealing with loss. Life is dynamic. A longing for peace yearns for certainty, but leads to life’s most puzzling paradox.
Separation begs connection.
Connection sustains separation.
Separation results from connection.
-Insert dogma, belief, philosophy or ultimate truth here.-
TMD
###
Frame of Reference
The edges trail across my wall, black on sea-green foam; a rectangle holding the pane that holds you.
The frame insults the curve of your mouth, your smile stilled by time, your eyes staring through the moment asking, “When will we see each other again?”
The sly lines of your face oppose the rigid polka dots on your shirt. A photo refuses to describe the beauty within your smile.
A daughter so far away.
Oregon may as well be Mars tonight.
A frame carries you from the glossy world of memory. A frame that holds the photo you said caught your mood.
And my mood, when I see it, mixes with the lines and polka dots and connects the silence behind your eyes to the emptiness I feel.
A picture is only a few words uttered alone in the night, hanging over a phone, too late to pick up. It holds my words in silence until we connect again, until the highway brings us back together, until the sky brings you home.
Oregon is just a word, just a feeling, just a frame of reference holding the promise of connection that can’t replace a daughter’s touch.
—Sean Reynolds
Separation begs connection.
Connection sustains separation.
Separation results from connection.
-Insert dogma, belief, philosophy or ultimate truth here.-
TMD
###
Frame of Reference
The edges trail across my wall, black on sea-green foam; a rectangle holding the pane that holds you.
The frame insults the curve of your mouth, your smile stilled by time, your eyes staring through the moment asking, “When will we see each other again?”
The sly lines of your face oppose the rigid polka dots on your shirt. A photo refuses to describe the beauty within your smile.
A daughter so far away.
Oregon may as well be Mars tonight.
A frame carries you from the glossy world of memory. A frame that holds the photo you said caught your mood.
And my mood, when I see it, mixes with the lines and polka dots and connects the silence behind your eyes to the emptiness I feel.
A picture is only a few words uttered alone in the night, hanging over a phone, too late to pick up. It holds my words in silence until we connect again, until the highway brings us back together, until the sky brings you home.
Oregon is just a word, just a feeling, just a frame of reference holding the promise of connection that can’t replace a daughter’s touch.
—Sean Reynolds
Friday, May 7, 2010
Time
Spring is pregnant with expectation. At the winery time waits.
The winemaker surveys the vineyard and exhales, hoping the winter pruning will result in a great vintage.
Barren cane (amputated by the lopper’s blade) litters the ground under the farming wire, but the cordons shoot out more each day. The rows of Merlot and Zinfandel reanimate with fat green leaves.
Back in the cellar, he racks the Cabernet, pumping wine from barrel to tank, taking care not to suck up the dregs from the bilge. He hopes it will garner gold, or maybe this year, win Best of Show.
He lets the Chardonnay rest on its lees; the yeast blooms settled in French oak. It can wait. It is still early he tells himself.
The Crush is a fresh memory, but there is time to plan for harvest. There is time.
And plenty of work to do, the White Zinfandel must be bottled. After all, it’s the biggest seller, a money maker, even though the winemaker detests it.
“A little residual sugar in the Chenin Blanc is one thing,” he says, “but 3% is for people who really don’t like wine.”
Cold stabilized, the tartrates left clinging like ice crystals to the sides of the tank, he sends it chilled through a tight filter to extract any dawdling yeast cells. Can’t have them eating all that lingering sugar. The desperate housewives want sweet wine not Cold Duck.
He would rather use his talent on the Cabernet or Chardonnay, but this is his livelihood not his art studio. Trade-offs for following his passion, he tells himself.
There will be time to blend the Meritage, time to add a little Cab Franc to soften it just a bit, time to relax with a glass of accomplishment, but not right now.
The bottling crew has arrived.
Time is money.
TMD
###
The winemaker surveys the vineyard and exhales, hoping the winter pruning will result in a great vintage.
Barren cane (amputated by the lopper’s blade) litters the ground under the farming wire, but the cordons shoot out more each day. The rows of Merlot and Zinfandel reanimate with fat green leaves.
Back in the cellar, he racks the Cabernet, pumping wine from barrel to tank, taking care not to suck up the dregs from the bilge. He hopes it will garner gold, or maybe this year, win Best of Show.
He lets the Chardonnay rest on its lees; the yeast blooms settled in French oak. It can wait. It is still early he tells himself.
The Crush is a fresh memory, but there is time to plan for harvest. There is time.
And plenty of work to do, the White Zinfandel must be bottled. After all, it’s the biggest seller, a money maker, even though the winemaker detests it.
“A little residual sugar in the Chenin Blanc is one thing,” he says, “but 3% is for people who really don’t like wine.”
Cold stabilized, the tartrates left clinging like ice crystals to the sides of the tank, he sends it chilled through a tight filter to extract any dawdling yeast cells. Can’t have them eating all that lingering sugar. The desperate housewives want sweet wine not Cold Duck.
He would rather use his talent on the Cabernet or Chardonnay, but this is his livelihood not his art studio. Trade-offs for following his passion, he tells himself.
There will be time to blend the Meritage, time to add a little Cab Franc to soften it just a bit, time to relax with a glass of accomplishment, but not right now.
The bottling crew has arrived.
Time is money.
TMD
###
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Fish Story
A couple of years ago I was a staff writer for the weekly Hollywood tabloid, Entertainment Today. I wrote book and music reviews. The editor would suggest articles but it was always my choice, since I wasn’t getting paid. I did get to keep the books. Some were good, and I got press passes to clubs in Silver Lake and Hollywood like the Echo and the Troubadour. It was mostly indie music... not really shoegazer or emo stuff, more like Wilco but younger and West Coast, some of it better than others.
The Wiltern Theatre is an art deco movie palace at the intersection of Wilshire and Western in downtown Hollywood. One hot October night, I went there to do an interview with Bjorn Baillie the singer for, La Rocca an Irish rock band.
I saw the two public relations people making their way toward me on the crowded sidewalk and waved to them. At first they seemed confused. They weren’t expecting a guy in his late forties? I recognized T— from his press release photo. He introduced me to J— an attractive twenty-something woman and his partner in the small, PR firm that represents Dangerbird Records. One of their bands, The Silversun Pickups is very successful and La Rocca’s doing okay. Their music has been featured on the American teen dram, One Tree Hill.
J— smiled asking, “Are you a fishing guy?”
Now I was confused. Then I realized my shirt had hooks and trout swimming across a long sleeve ocean. I’m not exactly sure what I was thinking when I made that wardrobe selection. It’s not like the bluegill were biting on La Cienaga.
There was little chemistry among the three of us. Maybe it was the difference in age, or maybe they were nervous about the show, but they smiled when I told them that I liked the band. We walked around the block to the back of the aging theater. The sidewalk was full of busy work-a-day sorts, suits mixing with work shirts, and in the crowd I saw a slow-moving elderly couple. The old man wore a thin tie and a pale brown fedora. She had on a house dress and held his hand as they made their way. I wondered if they were remnants of the post war neighborhood; if they bought their house in the forties to be nearer downtown and just never moved out. The woman smiled as we passed, while T— and J— were talking about the Arctic Monkeys.
When we got to the stage entrance, T— called the stage manager on his cell phone and a skinny muscular man with a head-set wearing ripped jeans and a tight Misfits t-shirt came out. In fact, from then on, it seemed as if everyone was wearing jeans and t-shirts.
And then there was me in the fish shirt.
The roadie checked his list then led us backstage. On the way he looked over his shoulder, raised an eyebrow and flicked his wrist using his other hand to work an imaginary reel in a fly-casting motion. I gave him a thumbs-up, as we walked under the Klieg lights to the green room.
J— took charge of the situation. She pointed at an ice chest full of beer and fruit juice and asked me, “Do you want a water?”
I grabbed a Heineken and sat on the couch.
“Bjorn will be down after the sound check,” she said.
I thought Bjorn was a strange name for an Irishman, but I’m not a rock musician. We sat making small talk for a bit, until the door opened and a man, who looked to be in his early thirties with wiry red hair walked in. He came right over, hand stretched out, and saying, “You must be the guy from the paper. You’re a fuckin’ fisherman, are you? You want another beer?” He says to J—, “This the guy you told me about, the one that’s going to make us famous?”
The band members and their friends poured in and the intimate conversation was replaced by clinking glasses and laughter, then Bjorn pulled me into the hall and asked if I wanted to do the interview in the balcony.
T— and J— told him that they'd see him at the after party. Then, thanking me for coming, they said, “Maybe we’ll see you later,” knowing I hadn’t been invited to anything “later.”
Bjorn grabbed a couple of beers and we headed to the top of the empty theater, while the headliner took the stage for their sound check. He used a bottle opener on his key chain. “You shouldn’t ever be without a fuckin’ church key,” he told me.
I hadn’t heard the term “church key” in nearly thirty years. It’s something my old man would have said. I set my recorder on the seats between us and started asking questions. The usual ones came first. “How’s the tour been? Are you planning to release a new CD? Where do you get the inspiration for your songs?” I asked about the lyrics and he told me he had been writing songs since he was fifteen. His passion for writing had a familiar texture to it, and, for a moment, I felt as if he traveled the 6,000 miles just to chat. Like he came to America to sit on a warm L.A. night, in the purple velour of the old green balcony, and talk about the importance of creativity. If you wanted an interview to go well, that is how it would go. I asked Bjorn if he always wanted to be a singer-songwriter.
“Actually,” he said, forgetting the expletives, “I wanted to be a journalist. I took journalism in college. I came out knowing how to put together an obituary. So, I guess I could be a teacher,” he laughed so hard he coughed and then added, “At least YOU have your fishing to fall back on.”
The stage manager walked up the aisle, just as we finished the interview. Bjorn was thankful for the publicity and told me to come backstage afterward and have something to eat. I said that maybe I would see him later, but having caught my story, I pulled in my line and left after the show.
TMD
###
">
The Wiltern Theatre is an art deco movie palace at the intersection of Wilshire and Western in downtown Hollywood. One hot October night, I went there to do an interview with Bjorn Baillie the singer for, La Rocca an Irish rock band.
I saw the two public relations people making their way toward me on the crowded sidewalk and waved to them. At first they seemed confused. They weren’t expecting a guy in his late forties? I recognized T— from his press release photo. He introduced me to J— an attractive twenty-something woman and his partner in the small, PR firm that represents Dangerbird Records. One of their bands, The Silversun Pickups is very successful and La Rocca’s doing okay. Their music has been featured on the American teen dram, One Tree Hill.
J— smiled asking, “Are you a fishing guy?”
Now I was confused. Then I realized my shirt had hooks and trout swimming across a long sleeve ocean. I’m not exactly sure what I was thinking when I made that wardrobe selection. It’s not like the bluegill were biting on La Cienaga.
There was little chemistry among the three of us. Maybe it was the difference in age, or maybe they were nervous about the show, but they smiled when I told them that I liked the band. We walked around the block to the back of the aging theater. The sidewalk was full of busy work-a-day sorts, suits mixing with work shirts, and in the crowd I saw a slow-moving elderly couple. The old man wore a thin tie and a pale brown fedora. She had on a house dress and held his hand as they made their way. I wondered if they were remnants of the post war neighborhood; if they bought their house in the forties to be nearer downtown and just never moved out. The woman smiled as we passed, while T— and J— were talking about the Arctic Monkeys.
When we got to the stage entrance, T— called the stage manager on his cell phone and a skinny muscular man with a head-set wearing ripped jeans and a tight Misfits t-shirt came out. In fact, from then on, it seemed as if everyone was wearing jeans and t-shirts.
And then there was me in the fish shirt.
The roadie checked his list then led us backstage. On the way he looked over his shoulder, raised an eyebrow and flicked his wrist using his other hand to work an imaginary reel in a fly-casting motion. I gave him a thumbs-up, as we walked under the Klieg lights to the green room.
J— took charge of the situation. She pointed at an ice chest full of beer and fruit juice and asked me, “Do you want a water?”
I grabbed a Heineken and sat on the couch.
“Bjorn will be down after the sound check,” she said.
I thought Bjorn was a strange name for an Irishman, but I’m not a rock musician. We sat making small talk for a bit, until the door opened and a man, who looked to be in his early thirties with wiry red hair walked in. He came right over, hand stretched out, and saying, “You must be the guy from the paper. You’re a fuckin’ fisherman, are you? You want another beer?” He says to J—, “This the guy you told me about, the one that’s going to make us famous?”
The band members and their friends poured in and the intimate conversation was replaced by clinking glasses and laughter, then Bjorn pulled me into the hall and asked if I wanted to do the interview in the balcony.
T— and J— told him that they'd see him at the after party. Then, thanking me for coming, they said, “Maybe we’ll see you later,” knowing I hadn’t been invited to anything “later.”
Bjorn grabbed a couple of beers and we headed to the top of the empty theater, while the headliner took the stage for their sound check. He used a bottle opener on his key chain. “You shouldn’t ever be without a fuckin’ church key,” he told me.
I hadn’t heard the term “church key” in nearly thirty years. It’s something my old man would have said. I set my recorder on the seats between us and started asking questions. The usual ones came first. “How’s the tour been? Are you planning to release a new CD? Where do you get the inspiration for your songs?” I asked about the lyrics and he told me he had been writing songs since he was fifteen. His passion for writing had a familiar texture to it, and, for a moment, I felt as if he traveled the 6,000 miles just to chat. Like he came to America to sit on a warm L.A. night, in the purple velour of the old green balcony, and talk about the importance of creativity. If you wanted an interview to go well, that is how it would go. I asked Bjorn if he always wanted to be a singer-songwriter.
“Actually,” he said, forgetting the expletives, “I wanted to be a journalist. I took journalism in college. I came out knowing how to put together an obituary. So, I guess I could be a teacher,” he laughed so hard he coughed and then added, “At least YOU have your fishing to fall back on.”
The stage manager walked up the aisle, just as we finished the interview. Bjorn was thankful for the publicity and told me to come backstage afterward and have something to eat. I said that maybe I would see him later, but having caught my story, I pulled in my line and left after the show.
TMD
###
">
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Suicide Tuesday
Suicide Tuesday, is a term fashioned by ecstasy and methamphetamine users to describe the final destination of a bleak, barren dawn after journeying all weekend on the ephemeral euphoria of alternative reality.
Partying with both feet in the river Friday, Saturday and Sunday, using-up all their verve and spirit (and stash,) they crash on Monday, sleeping from midnight to midnight to awaken on Tuesday morning bathed in the sober yellow haze of stark banality.
Suicide Tuesday.
Pretty nasty, sounds like something Quentin Tarantino dreamed up. Most of us are fortunate enough not to have to face such a dilemma but we have our own mini ST moments.
Credit cards are notorious for that. What were you thinking when you paid for the whole gang? And Jill had lobster no less, and a bottle of Chardonnay. Use it up that’s what we think, Carpe Diem…seize the day, but now it has you by the throat.
ST can be as innocent as a bag of Lays potato chips, until you get to the crumbs at the bottom and pat your belly. Were they that good? Rather dry and salty, next time, oh next time, you’ll put them back on top the fridge where they belong, before you go too far. Oreos fit in that same scenario.
These are minor failings of planning compared to ST nightmares.
Passion has all the consequences of Rave behavior. Dance, dance forever, things will never change…until Tuesday.
ST is a front-loaded affair. Consequences be damned.
Writers and artists experience ST moment by moment. When the muse sits on her shoulder, the painter is euphoric. As the writer fills the page with dash and metaphor he sits atop the heap, but when the ink runs dry and inspiration vanishes, the harsh sun beats down like a spotlight, illuminating every flaw and weakness.
The antidote for ST begins on Friday with a glance at the calendar and a realization that Tuesday awaits, not as an enemy but as an ally if we are fortunate enough to gain the moment. There are legions of supporters massed upon the borders of our daily dilemmas. Where we place our faith has true value. A sure bet embraces unconditional love, dedication and tolerance. These are the tenets that never go up in smoke, or, swallowed like a pill, work through the system only to leave the body exhausted and vacant.
So simple, Suicide Tuesday can’t stand the light of love. Everything else is just another dilemma.
TMD
Partying with both feet in the river Friday, Saturday and Sunday, using-up all their verve and spirit (and stash,) they crash on Monday, sleeping from midnight to midnight to awaken on Tuesday morning bathed in the sober yellow haze of stark banality.
Suicide Tuesday.
Pretty nasty, sounds like something Quentin Tarantino dreamed up. Most of us are fortunate enough not to have to face such a dilemma but we have our own mini ST moments.
Credit cards are notorious for that. What were you thinking when you paid for the whole gang? And Jill had lobster no less, and a bottle of Chardonnay. Use it up that’s what we think, Carpe Diem…seize the day, but now it has you by the throat.
ST can be as innocent as a bag of Lays potato chips, until you get to the crumbs at the bottom and pat your belly. Were they that good? Rather dry and salty, next time, oh next time, you’ll put them back on top the fridge where they belong, before you go too far. Oreos fit in that same scenario.
These are minor failings of planning compared to ST nightmares.
Passion has all the consequences of Rave behavior. Dance, dance forever, things will never change…until Tuesday.
ST is a front-loaded affair. Consequences be damned.
Writers and artists experience ST moment by moment. When the muse sits on her shoulder, the painter is euphoric. As the writer fills the page with dash and metaphor he sits atop the heap, but when the ink runs dry and inspiration vanishes, the harsh sun beats down like a spotlight, illuminating every flaw and weakness.
The antidote for ST begins on Friday with a glance at the calendar and a realization that Tuesday awaits, not as an enemy but as an ally if we are fortunate enough to gain the moment. There are legions of supporters massed upon the borders of our daily dilemmas. Where we place our faith has true value. A sure bet embraces unconditional love, dedication and tolerance. These are the tenets that never go up in smoke, or, swallowed like a pill, work through the system only to leave the body exhausted and vacant.
So simple, Suicide Tuesday can’t stand the light of love. Everything else is just another dilemma.
TMD
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Quite A Dilemma
Dilemma: a choice between two arguably challenging if not alltogether undesirable alternatives. It's a good word, mysterious and sophisticated. Often it portends decisions involving grave events, famines and wars, however; a versatile noun, it also works well with the absurd:
"Two boys asked you to the prom Princess, but you don't want to go with either of them? Well, that's quite a dilemma!"
When it comes to decisions of the heart, it's hard to tell dire from delirious. Sometimes our personal dilemmas feel as catastrophic as natural disasters.
Writers trade heavily in dilemma. Blame it on the Greeks, with their tragedies and all, or on Shakespeare, the bard of dilemma.
"Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles etc, etc, etc."
A good story can use a good dilemma or two.
As for the word, Modern, mostly, it's an arbitrarily outdated term, quite a paradox. Modern reminds us of orange molded kitchen chairs and lava lamps.
We have Modern, and, Post Modern literature. Woolf and Joyce are clearly in the first group. Are Kerouac and Ginsberg still in the second?
So the term, modern dilemma is a conundrum, Hmmm, The Current Conundrum. TCC.
Anyway, we all have our decisions, our daily dilemmas, and that's what this is about: Mac or PC that sort of thing, getting a degree in writing or holding your head in a bee's hive, you get the idea.
Feel free to tell us yours
TMD
"Two boys asked you to the prom Princess, but you don't want to go with either of them? Well, that's quite a dilemma!"
When it comes to decisions of the heart, it's hard to tell dire from delirious. Sometimes our personal dilemmas feel as catastrophic as natural disasters.
Writers trade heavily in dilemma. Blame it on the Greeks, with their tragedies and all, or on Shakespeare, the bard of dilemma.
"Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles etc, etc, etc."
A good story can use a good dilemma or two.
As for the word, Modern, mostly, it's an arbitrarily outdated term, quite a paradox. Modern reminds us of orange molded kitchen chairs and lava lamps.
We have Modern, and, Post Modern literature. Woolf and Joyce are clearly in the first group. Are Kerouac and Ginsberg still in the second?
So the term, modern dilemma is a conundrum, Hmmm, The Current Conundrum. TCC.
Anyway, we all have our decisions, our daily dilemmas, and that's what this is about: Mac or PC that sort of thing, getting a degree in writing or holding your head in a bee's hive, you get the idea.
Feel free to tell us yours
TMD
Monday, April 19, 2010
Trout Fishing on the Web
The Official Richard Brautigan facebook page is spreading the news. The late author's daughter, Ianthe Brautigan, is working on a long-overdue biography of the Great American Humorist and author of, "Trout Fishing in America."
In February she wrote, "We decided to start the filming of a documentary about my father's writing and life, tonight, at Vesuvio's. We thought it would be the perfect way to begin. John Barber, a Brautigan scholar is flying down from Washington State and I am so curious to see who else comes."
Professor Barber has devoted his life's work to maintaining the Brautigan archives. At http://www.brautigan.net/ Barber has compiled an enormous amount of articles, stories, personal accounts and criticisms about the infamous author.
For those not familiar with the author, here is a short tribute published by, Entertainment Today in May of 2006.
In the coming days we'll post a review of Brautigan's last novel, "So the Wind Won't Blow It All Away."
TMD
Forever Watched Over By Loving Grace
by Sean Reynolds
“Brautigan Death.” AP News.
Dateline: Bolinas, CA, 27 Oct. 1984.
Richard Brautigan, the author laureate of
the hippie generation whose apparent suicide
was discovered last week, had been preparing
for death for some time and was want to “get
drunk and shoot things,” friends said.
Richard Brautigan has been
referred to as a counterculture poet
flanking other talented American
authors such as Jack Kerouac, Alan
Ginsberg, J.D. Salinger and Ken
Kesey. At his best he was a modernday
Mark Twain to an audience of
readers grateful for his dark, jagged
style of American landscape humor.
In 1967, during the summer of love,
Brautigan’s celebrated novel Trout Fishing
in America jumped into the ragged civilization
of love-ins, peace marches and
Purple Haze. The eclectic, rambling
summation of trout and society that
would gain him national attention was
preceded by other books including
another cult favorite, A Confederate
General From Big Sur, and a collection of
sublimely humorous poetry titled Lay the
Marble Tea. An earlier poem, Moonlight on
a Cemetery, printed in 1953 within a local
Oregonian magazine, held a brief allusion
of the minimalist sophistication
that lay ahead.
Moonlight drifts from over
a hundred thousand miles
to fall upon a cemetery.
It reads a hundred epitaphs
and then smiles at a nest of
baby owls.
In the early fifties, Salinger’s The
Catcher in the Rye vividly communicated
young America’s detachment from the
adult world of commitments and concessions
during a post-war, emerging
Beat culture. Jack Kerouac expanded the
notion of nomadic recklessness in his
1957 novel On the Road. In this great
post-modern tradition of wind-blown
Steinbeck, Brautigan cast his words. He
is a phantom icon that prowls the halls
and libraries of college campuses, sleeps
beside the beds of aspiring writers and
infiltrates the thoughts of restless
American dreamers. His originality and
honesty lingers on each page, filled with
regret and dark laughter feeling like a
fresh creation for each new reader.
Although some are obscure or
out of print and others hard to track
down, following the trail of
Brautigan’s anthology is rewarding.
The journey may begin anywhere
within his published works. There are
no reoccurring characters or idiosyncratic
destinations continued from
one selection to the next. Just simple
language, simple themes and simple
radiance carried out from page to
page. Perhaps a good place to start
would be his third novel, published
in 1970, The Abortion: A Historical
Romance, written in his familiar minimalist
style with unusual humor and
severe introspection. Not unlike his
other works, the book has a fantastic
premise wrapped in Brautigan’s slanted
idea of reality. “The Kid” is the
caretaker of a library in San
Francisco that operates in the
reverse. Instead of checking out
books to read, ordinary people give
their personal manuscripts to the
library. All entries are accepted, and
the author may choose on which
shelf to place his or her book.
This is a beautiful library, timed perfectly,
lush and American. The hour is midnight
and the library is deep and carried like a
dreaming child into the darkness of these
pages.
The Kid’s girlfriend, Vida (who
lives in the library with him), is awkwardly
beautiful beyond description;
however, she is personally appalled by
her condition. They meet when she visits
to make her contribution.
“What’s it about?” I said.
“It’s about this,” she said and suddenly,
almost hysterically, she unbuttoned her coat
and flung it open as if it were a door to some
horrible dungeon filled with torture instruments,
pain and dynamic confession. She was
so beautiful that the advertising people would
have made her into a national park if they
would have gotten their hands on her.
The library accepts offerings all
hours of the day and night. Titles
include It’s the Queen of Darkness, Pal, by
a sewer worker wearing rubber boots;
Your Clothes are Dead, by a Jewish tailor;
Bacon Death, “a fantastically greasy
book;” and, like Alfred Hitchcock
making a guest appearance, Moose, by
Richard Brautigan.
The author was tall and blond and had a
long yellow mustache that gave him an
anachronistic appearance. He looked as if he
would be more at home in another era.
The climax of the story centers on
Vida’s abortion taking place in Tijuana
three years before the decision of Roe
vs. Wade.
It was hard for a minute, and then we
both smiled across the darkness at what we
were doing. Though we could not see our
smiles, we knew they were there and it comforted
us as dark-night smiles have been doing for
thousands of years for the problemed people of
the earth.
His style dislodges the reader from
the ordinary and usurps conservative
dedication to detail. Many of the titles of
his poems and novels are lyrical and
poetic: All Watched Over by Machines of
Loving Grace, Clad in Garments Like a Silver
Disease, Death is a Beautiful Car Parked
Only, and So The Wind Won’t Blow It All
Away are a few examples. Many times his
poems are quick and compact.
The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine
Disaster
When you take your pill
it’s like a mine disaster.
I think of all the people
lost inside you.
Others share a surreptitious gift of
language that demands reflection.
Have You Ever Had a Witch Bloom Like a
Highway
Have you ever had a witch bloom like a highway
on your mouth? and turn your breathing to her
fancy? like a little car with blue headlights
passing forever in a dream?
Brautigan was born January 30th
1935 in Tacoma, Washington. He seldom
spoke of his childhood and little
is known of his youth. His father,
Bernard Brautigan, was described in
the Detroit Free Press as “one surprised
man” after hearing of the death of a
son he literally did not know existed,
saying, “He’s got the same last name,
but why would they wait 45 to 50 years
to tell me I’ve got a son?”
Richard Brautigan’s work has
dripped into the pool of American
folk literature gradually gaining
momentum, or at least remaining as a
steady stream during the years following
his death. Books have been published
posthumously and others
placed back in print. Perhaps some of
his most engaging work is found in
his anthologies of short, often single
page story collections such as Revenge
of the Lawn and The Tokyo-Montana
Express. He strikes quick, linking his
visions of raw, often rural landscapes
with ethereal ideas of freedom key to
the American psyche. There are stories
of snowflakes resembling Laurel
and Hardy, others of werewolf raspberries,
and some so short they are
poems in disguise.
All the People That I Didn’t Meet and
the Places That I Didn’t Go
“I have a short lifeline,” she says.
“Damn it.” We’re lying together under the
sheets. It’s morning. She’s looking at her hand.
She’s twenty-three: dark hair. She’s very carefully
looking at her hand.
“Damn it!”
Discovering or re-discovering an
author is like a favorite song long forgotten
floating up unexpectedly from
the car radio surprising you with lost
emotions and memories of bygone
times. Brautigan is like that. He wrote a
lot about graveyards, ordinary people,
quixotic romances, innocence, San
Francisco, America and trout. If you
are preparing to begin the expedition,
you might start with Trout Fishing In
America and enjoy angling with the
great American humorist.
I fished Graveyard Creek in the dusk
when the hatch was on and worked some good
trout out there. Only the poverty of the dead
bothered me.
Once, while cleaning the trout before I
went home in the almost night, I had a vision
of going over to the poor graveyard and gathering
up grass and fruit jars and tin cans and
markers and wilted flowers and bugs and
weeds and clods and going home and putting a
hook in the vise and tying a fly with all that
stuff and then going outside and casting it up
into the sky, watching it float over clouds and
then into the evening star.
In February she wrote, "We decided to start the filming of a documentary about my father's writing and life, tonight, at Vesuvio's. We thought it would be the perfect way to begin. John Barber, a Brautigan scholar is flying down from Washington State and I am so curious to see who else comes."
Professor Barber has devoted his life's work to maintaining the Brautigan archives. At http://www.brautigan.net/ Barber has compiled an enormous amount of articles, stories, personal accounts and criticisms about the infamous author.
For those not familiar with the author, here is a short tribute published by, Entertainment Today in May of 2006.
In the coming days we'll post a review of Brautigan's last novel, "So the Wind Won't Blow It All Away."
TMD
Forever Watched Over By Loving Grace
by Sean Reynolds
“Brautigan Death.” AP News.
Dateline: Bolinas, CA, 27 Oct. 1984.
Richard Brautigan, the author laureate of
the hippie generation whose apparent suicide
was discovered last week, had been preparing
for death for some time and was want to “get
drunk and shoot things,” friends said.
Richard Brautigan has been
referred to as a counterculture poet
flanking other talented American
authors such as Jack Kerouac, Alan
Ginsberg, J.D. Salinger and Ken
Kesey. At his best he was a modernday
Mark Twain to an audience of
readers grateful for his dark, jagged
style of American landscape humor.
In 1967, during the summer of love,
Brautigan’s celebrated novel Trout Fishing
in America jumped into the ragged civilization
of love-ins, peace marches and
Purple Haze. The eclectic, rambling
summation of trout and society that
would gain him national attention was
preceded by other books including
another cult favorite, A Confederate
General From Big Sur, and a collection of
sublimely humorous poetry titled Lay the
Marble Tea. An earlier poem, Moonlight on
a Cemetery, printed in 1953 within a local
Oregonian magazine, held a brief allusion
of the minimalist sophistication
that lay ahead.
Moonlight drifts from over
a hundred thousand miles
to fall upon a cemetery.
It reads a hundred epitaphs
and then smiles at a nest of
baby owls.
In the early fifties, Salinger’s The
Catcher in the Rye vividly communicated
young America’s detachment from the
adult world of commitments and concessions
during a post-war, emerging
Beat culture. Jack Kerouac expanded the
notion of nomadic recklessness in his
1957 novel On the Road. In this great
post-modern tradition of wind-blown
Steinbeck, Brautigan cast his words. He
is a phantom icon that prowls the halls
and libraries of college campuses, sleeps
beside the beds of aspiring writers and
infiltrates the thoughts of restless
American dreamers. His originality and
honesty lingers on each page, filled with
regret and dark laughter feeling like a
fresh creation for each new reader.
Although some are obscure or
out of print and others hard to track
down, following the trail of
Brautigan’s anthology is rewarding.
The journey may begin anywhere
within his published works. There are
no reoccurring characters or idiosyncratic
destinations continued from
one selection to the next. Just simple
language, simple themes and simple
radiance carried out from page to
page. Perhaps a good place to start
would be his third novel, published
in 1970, The Abortion: A Historical
Romance, written in his familiar minimalist
style with unusual humor and
severe introspection. Not unlike his
other works, the book has a fantastic
premise wrapped in Brautigan’s slanted
idea of reality. “The Kid” is the
caretaker of a library in San
Francisco that operates in the
reverse. Instead of checking out
books to read, ordinary people give
their personal manuscripts to the
library. All entries are accepted, and
the author may choose on which
shelf to place his or her book.
This is a beautiful library, timed perfectly,
lush and American. The hour is midnight
and the library is deep and carried like a
dreaming child into the darkness of these
pages.
The Kid’s girlfriend, Vida (who
lives in the library with him), is awkwardly
beautiful beyond description;
however, she is personally appalled by
her condition. They meet when she visits
to make her contribution.
“What’s it about?” I said.
“It’s about this,” she said and suddenly,
almost hysterically, she unbuttoned her coat
and flung it open as if it were a door to some
horrible dungeon filled with torture instruments,
pain and dynamic confession. She was
so beautiful that the advertising people would
have made her into a national park if they
would have gotten their hands on her.
The library accepts offerings all
hours of the day and night. Titles
include It’s the Queen of Darkness, Pal, by
a sewer worker wearing rubber boots;
Your Clothes are Dead, by a Jewish tailor;
Bacon Death, “a fantastically greasy
book;” and, like Alfred Hitchcock
making a guest appearance, Moose, by
Richard Brautigan.
The author was tall and blond and had a
long yellow mustache that gave him an
anachronistic appearance. He looked as if he
would be more at home in another era.
The climax of the story centers on
Vida’s abortion taking place in Tijuana
three years before the decision of Roe
vs. Wade.
It was hard for a minute, and then we
both smiled across the darkness at what we
were doing. Though we could not see our
smiles, we knew they were there and it comforted
us as dark-night smiles have been doing for
thousands of years for the problemed people of
the earth.
His style dislodges the reader from
the ordinary and usurps conservative
dedication to detail. Many of the titles of
his poems and novels are lyrical and
poetic: All Watched Over by Machines of
Loving Grace, Clad in Garments Like a Silver
Disease, Death is a Beautiful Car Parked
Only, and So The Wind Won’t Blow It All
Away are a few examples. Many times his
poems are quick and compact.
The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine
Disaster
When you take your pill
it’s like a mine disaster.
I think of all the people
lost inside you.
Others share a surreptitious gift of
language that demands reflection.
Have You Ever Had a Witch Bloom Like a
Highway
Have you ever had a witch bloom like a highway
on your mouth? and turn your breathing to her
fancy? like a little car with blue headlights
passing forever in a dream?
Brautigan was born January 30th
1935 in Tacoma, Washington. He seldom
spoke of his childhood and little
is known of his youth. His father,
Bernard Brautigan, was described in
the Detroit Free Press as “one surprised
man” after hearing of the death of a
son he literally did not know existed,
saying, “He’s got the same last name,
but why would they wait 45 to 50 years
to tell me I’ve got a son?”
Richard Brautigan’s work has
dripped into the pool of American
folk literature gradually gaining
momentum, or at least remaining as a
steady stream during the years following
his death. Books have been published
posthumously and others
placed back in print. Perhaps some of
his most engaging work is found in
his anthologies of short, often single
page story collections such as Revenge
of the Lawn and The Tokyo-Montana
Express. He strikes quick, linking his
visions of raw, often rural landscapes
with ethereal ideas of freedom key to
the American psyche. There are stories
of snowflakes resembling Laurel
and Hardy, others of werewolf raspberries,
and some so short they are
poems in disguise.
All the People That I Didn’t Meet and
the Places That I Didn’t Go
“I have a short lifeline,” she says.
“Damn it.” We’re lying together under the
sheets. It’s morning. She’s looking at her hand.
She’s twenty-three: dark hair. She’s very carefully
looking at her hand.
“Damn it!”
Discovering or re-discovering an
author is like a favorite song long forgotten
floating up unexpectedly from
the car radio surprising you with lost
emotions and memories of bygone
times. Brautigan is like that. He wrote a
lot about graveyards, ordinary people,
quixotic romances, innocence, San
Francisco, America and trout. If you
are preparing to begin the expedition,
you might start with Trout Fishing In
America and enjoy angling with the
great American humorist.
I fished Graveyard Creek in the dusk
when the hatch was on and worked some good
trout out there. Only the poverty of the dead
bothered me.
Once, while cleaning the trout before I
went home in the almost night, I had a vision
of going over to the poor graveyard and gathering
up grass and fruit jars and tin cans and
markers and wilted flowers and bugs and
weeds and clods and going home and putting a
hook in the vise and tying a fly with all that
stuff and then going outside and casting it up
into the sky, watching it float over clouds and
then into the evening star.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Hold The Presses
The decline in the newspaper industry can be summed up in one phrase, ad-revenue. The real kick in the gut is Craig's List. Newspapers traditionally relied on classified ads as their golden goose. Who would pay $12 for three skinny black lines when they could have a photo of their Honda Civic with low miles posted on the web for free? Couple that with the real-estate melt-down and dwindling car sales and the outlook for the Sunday funnies looks dimmer everyday.
The question is then who will pay for the news? The whole story is not free. Call your local paper and ask them to send a reporter to the town council meeting. Or ask them to investigate the city attorney.
"He owns three houses in the new development and the city wants to annex the neighboring wet lands, you say? Dig up what you can, John Q. citizen and get back to us. Maybe we can print your statement."
Gone are the days of lengthy investigative journalism, at least at the local level. We still have the Associated Press, and national papers like, The New York Times, but cable news is zeroing in, telling us what to believe in sound bites that are easy to digest.
If you have an axe to grind, there's always the net, our new Uncle Walter, but without a profit engine, journalists are rethinking their careers.
There is no danger of losing coverage of the train wrecks. Everyone has a camera with them these days, and the ability to upload a photo instantly across the globe, but every picture is not worth a thousand words. That is the work of investigative journalists. The question is how important is the full story?
Hold the Presses
by Sean Reynolds
The pressroom is as long as a football field. I walk downstairs to grab a copy of the paper, past the aging Goss press that presently needs a little more attention, a bit more maintenance. For some of my fellow workers, that’s a good thing. It means staying busy.
The page count is down.
In the morning the speckled linoleum shines like a prison, but, by mid afternoon, it will look more like a dance studio covered with black and red footprints. Rich lies on his belly and scrapes globs of ink from the dog house on the “A” unit. His legs splay out like a murder victim on the cold inky floor. His torso is swallowed by the sleeping blue monster. I lightly kick his ankles and he swears at me from inside the iron Goliath.
At night, downstairs in the reel room, the pressmen will feed the hungry giant with rolls of paper that weigh close to a ton. It pulls the web up at terrifying speeds to the pressroom floor, twisting and folding around stainless steel rollers, while generating tremendous amounts of static electricity. If you touch the ribbon of newsprint racing up from below your hair will stand on end.
But lay-offs are common these days. The real estate pre-print is smaller save the growing section of bank-owned properties. Classified ads are nearly non-existent. Subscriptions are falling. We're down to half of the work-force from a year ago.
Tony, with thick smudges of black ink, looking like dark bruises covering his arms, stands near the folder, a loud machine that separates the web into individual papers. It’s the place where, in the movies, some old pressman wearing a newsprint cap picks out a fresh copy from the conveyer and says, “Look! The murderer struck again,” or, “I can’t believe it, the Sox took the pennant.”
He asks if I’ve heard about the current round of layoffs, if it will affect us in production. I tell him I believe we’re safe for now, but that the mailroom is nervous. He’s a tall friendly Greek with an eternal smile, and he tells me he thinks things will pick up. When he says, “think” it sounds more like sink, and I smile as I walk away.
At the end of the long hall, Danny, with a clipboard in his hand, is on his way to the ink room to check the levels of cyan, magenta, yellow and key black. I walk with him into the cold cellar chatting about work and weekend sports. The large vats remind me of wine tanks. Although the liquid is dark, the aroma is far from merlot.
Leaving him, I pass two young men on the lay-down dock, where the steel jaws of clamp-trucks rotate rolls of paper onto their sides. Beau and Luis slice off the end-caps with sharp knives and tear open the wrappers. Gravity pulls the rolls toward the press halted by a pneumatic stopper rising from the floor with a whoosh. Luis pushes a button and they roll past. Staying out of the way, I grab the sports section from a wire mesh basket on the desk near the loading dock and walk back through the mail room.
It’s quiet.
Now more than ever. The extra jobs we used to run in the afternoon have been pushed to the pre-prints in the early evening. Instead of seeing a crew huddled along the insert machine, I encounter just a few mechanics greasing and repairing equipment. Nathan’s family has worked for the paper for two generations.
He says, “Hey dude! What are you doing down here?”
I reply, “Just trying to stay busy.”
###
The question is then who will pay for the news? The whole story is not free. Call your local paper and ask them to send a reporter to the town council meeting. Or ask them to investigate the city attorney.
"He owns three houses in the new development and the city wants to annex the neighboring wet lands, you say? Dig up what you can, John Q. citizen and get back to us. Maybe we can print your statement."
Gone are the days of lengthy investigative journalism, at least at the local level. We still have the Associated Press, and national papers like, The New York Times, but cable news is zeroing in, telling us what to believe in sound bites that are easy to digest.
If you have an axe to grind, there's always the net, our new Uncle Walter, but without a profit engine, journalists are rethinking their careers.
There is no danger of losing coverage of the train wrecks. Everyone has a camera with them these days, and the ability to upload a photo instantly across the globe, but every picture is not worth a thousand words. That is the work of investigative journalists. The question is how important is the full story?
Hold the Presses
by Sean Reynolds
The pressroom is as long as a football field. I walk downstairs to grab a copy of the paper, past the aging Goss press that presently needs a little more attention, a bit more maintenance. For some of my fellow workers, that’s a good thing. It means staying busy.
The page count is down.
In the morning the speckled linoleum shines like a prison, but, by mid afternoon, it will look more like a dance studio covered with black and red footprints. Rich lies on his belly and scrapes globs of ink from the dog house on the “A” unit. His legs splay out like a murder victim on the cold inky floor. His torso is swallowed by the sleeping blue monster. I lightly kick his ankles and he swears at me from inside the iron Goliath.
At night, downstairs in the reel room, the pressmen will feed the hungry giant with rolls of paper that weigh close to a ton. It pulls the web up at terrifying speeds to the pressroom floor, twisting and folding around stainless steel rollers, while generating tremendous amounts of static electricity. If you touch the ribbon of newsprint racing up from below your hair will stand on end.
But lay-offs are common these days. The real estate pre-print is smaller save the growing section of bank-owned properties. Classified ads are nearly non-existent. Subscriptions are falling. We're down to half of the work-force from a year ago.
Tony, with thick smudges of black ink, looking like dark bruises covering his arms, stands near the folder, a loud machine that separates the web into individual papers. It’s the place where, in the movies, some old pressman wearing a newsprint cap picks out a fresh copy from the conveyer and says, “Look! The murderer struck again,” or, “I can’t believe it, the Sox took the pennant.”
He asks if I’ve heard about the current round of layoffs, if it will affect us in production. I tell him I believe we’re safe for now, but that the mailroom is nervous. He’s a tall friendly Greek with an eternal smile, and he tells me he thinks things will pick up. When he says, “think” it sounds more like sink, and I smile as I walk away.
At the end of the long hall, Danny, with a clipboard in his hand, is on his way to the ink room to check the levels of cyan, magenta, yellow and key black. I walk with him into the cold cellar chatting about work and weekend sports. The large vats remind me of wine tanks. Although the liquid is dark, the aroma is far from merlot.
Leaving him, I pass two young men on the lay-down dock, where the steel jaws of clamp-trucks rotate rolls of paper onto their sides. Beau and Luis slice off the end-caps with sharp knives and tear open the wrappers. Gravity pulls the rolls toward the press halted by a pneumatic stopper rising from the floor with a whoosh. Luis pushes a button and they roll past. Staying out of the way, I grab the sports section from a wire mesh basket on the desk near the loading dock and walk back through the mail room.
It’s quiet.
Now more than ever. The extra jobs we used to run in the afternoon have been pushed to the pre-prints in the early evening. Instead of seeing a crew huddled along the insert machine, I encounter just a few mechanics greasing and repairing equipment. Nathan’s family has worked for the paper for two generations.
He says, “Hey dude! What are you doing down here?”
I reply, “Just trying to stay busy.”
###
Friday, April 16, 2010
It fits that the name of this page is, The Modern Dilemma. I've meant to start blogging for some time now.
It's TMD: How to be in two places at once...at least!
I think this first day we will keep it short, pass out the syllabus, take roll and go home early.
In the coming weeks we will discuss pressing issues. I'll entertain you with some short shorts (fiction,) do a book or song-artist review, that sort of thing. Okay?
Drop by when you can and we'll talk. TMD
It's TMD: How to be in two places at once...at least!
I think this first day we will keep it short, pass out the syllabus, take roll and go home early.
In the coming weeks we will discuss pressing issues. I'll entertain you with some short shorts (fiction,) do a book or song-artist review, that sort of thing. Okay?
Drop by when you can and we'll talk. TMD
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