Wednesday, February 21, 2018

The Lens Part 2: A Question of Space

Surprisingly, I do not write about fire. I don't write about starting fires, running from fires, the fear or joy that fires bring. Truth is, there has been so much fire in my life, it is amazing that I have not tried to exorcise it from my mind. California was on fire much of my youth. The Middle East was on fire during my time there. In 1995, February 10, I crawled out of a burning building with my friend Heather. That last one was the fire of fires.

The apartment house fire left me homeless for about eight months.

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

What Happened When I Finally Got Around To It

She had been a voracious reader in those days. I have no reason to believe that she is any different now. The two of us have not seen each other for more than sixteen years. There is no reason for us to see each other now, nor has there been since the day it ended.

She was a voracious reader, have I mentioned that? She was also the loudest page turner (SWOSH-t-FISHT) I have ever known. She would sit in the other room, on the bed, legs propped up in a 90 degree angle with one leg crossed over the other. The look on her face (SWOSH-t-FISHT) when she read was the look of sheer joy, fascination, amazement.

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

The Lens: A Question of Geography

It is erroneous to say that there was not place better to live than in Denver. It's erroneous to say this because at the time of the story, there was NO other place to live than Denver. And if there were, why the fuck would you want to live there?

There was something in the dirt, the dust, the crusted over granite dusted road plowed snow or in the blue summer lightning storms that made it clear, and I mean clear, that this was Denver and outside of her borders there was nothing else. Nothing.

The traffic along Broadway once it left downtown heading south went into a second, or third reality that was every bit as real, as real as Englewood or Littleton might be. During afternoons, all three lanes were packed, RTD buses and cars and that was that. There were traffic lights on every block. After crossing over 6th Ave, the bookstores/porn shops/gun shops began. Crossing over Alameda it was the antique shops. Post WWII was everywhere in post commercial despair. To the west, a distance away, the mighty mighty Rocky Mountains, but at the time of the story, they were just a backdrop. To the east, the entire world sloping forever down to the Mississippi, a place where you'd never see—unless your built a raft and escaped the homeless encampments along the South Platte river.

LSD was everywhere.

Wednesday, January 31, 2018

Land of Laughs

I was hardly able to focus. The slow-slow start, oh the S-L-O-W start. It took until page 99 for anything to happen.

The question remains, why wait for page 99? Or why read to page 99 in a 250 page book without shelving it?

Land of Laughs was gifted to me. The book was gifted to me by a good friend and lifelong penpal, Freesia. She also reads a great deal and I trust her taste in books. So, I kept reading.

Once the kid eating the pistachio ice cream cone at eight in the morning walked out into the street and got run over, well, the story got interesting.

What became interesting was not the narrator who is a high school English teacher turned biographer. Nor s it the two girlfriends the narrator begins to juggle.

What I found interesting was how the psychosis develops. How the comical turned the surreal then turned to horror.

The story ultimately became eerie.

Carroll, Jonathan. The Land of Laughs. Tom Doherty Associates, New York: 1980.