the desire to even play the game
i'm failing at modern life
each day i step outside
of the house
the clothes, the language,
the gadgets, the desire
to even play the game
at all
it's all fucking foreign
to me
it's not even being a
stranger in a strange
land
it's like my body got
stuck on a planet without
my permission
and it's way too late to
do anything about it
------------------------------------------------------------------
hands on his hips
watching this old
guy struggle on
purpose so the
young, beautiful
physical therapist
has to help him
she has her hands
on his hips
and you can
probably imagine
the smile on the
old man's face
--------------------------------------------------------------
standing out in the rain
wet feet standing
out in the rain
apparently, these
waterproof shoes
are just name only
much like most
humans
they come up a
little short when
you need them
the most
--------------------------------------------------------------
enough is enough
the temptation of
oncoming traffic
had a buddy decide
this was the best way
to go, especially after
his wife of over twenty
years said enough was
enough
i'm not stuck in one
of those situations,
yet there have been
plenty of times i felt
like i was being
strangled by reality
sometimes you have
to get high enough
to create your own
fucking reality
now, when that one
fucking sucks your
options are pretty
clear for you
prolong or escape...
-----------------------------------------------------------
that inevitable never fucking ending hill
wisdom isn't a given
it has to be earned
tell that to these
spoon-fed fuckers
that want to run
the world
it is an endless
parade of clowns
that only want
what is best for
the given few
the masses are
just supposed to
die while climbing
that inevitable never
fucking ending hill
imagine true equality
the land of the free
and all that other pie
in the sky bullshit that
the supreme court will
eventually strike down
as it doesn't do enough
for the only people they
want to serve
rich white people
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is stuck in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy, Disturb the Universe Magazine and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Archie Bunker opines about Pellegrino Water
**Archie Bunker was a character in the 1970s TV show, "All in the Family." It was a satire about a white working-class man-who was an unapologetic racist
This ain't your Polish meathead Poland Springs
this is what comes from what you call
Virgin Springs.--
hey—nobody gets laid there
they are happy just drinking water
may Jesus strike me dead!
It's like seltzer
but it is not made by the hebes --
them people make it like a sucker punch
christians make sure there is no
bitch slap
of dem bubbles
here-- there are
no troubles...
She is long, lean and green
a tall glass of water
a regular queen
hey!
you know
what I mean?
Co-President of the New England Poetry Club
Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene http://dougholder.blogspot.com
Ibbetson Street Press http://www.ibbetsonpress.com
Poet to Poet/Writer to Writer http://www.poettopoetwritertowriter.blogspot.com
Doug Holder CV http://www.dougholderresume.blogspot.com
Doug Holder's Columns in The Somerville Times
https://www.thesomervilletimes.com/?s=%22Doug+Holder%22&x=0&y=0
Doug Holder's collection at the Internet Archive https://archive.org/details/@dougholder
Faith
We are here to believe
To share our dreams
To share our verses
Our beautiful soul
We are here to cooperate
To feel
And bring happiness
Security
We are here to make our dreams in reality
We Are here to respect
The nature
We are here
We follow our intuition
We are here for a better world
Wishing all
To love themselves first
To love each other
To give
Better give than receive
That makes us better person
Peace
I like the colour of the nature
Is pink and green and blue
I like the dreams that comes to my sleep
Smiles at children's faces
I like the creativity that brings me so much hapinnes
Poems and stories travel like birds
Feel like a child
Feel free
I like the colours of the rainbow
I like the rain
I like the sea
This is the peace for me
People from so many different countries
That became my brother and sister...
A book
A book open his pages
A boy start to read
And heroes come out of the chapter
Weapons start to make a noise
Bombs Was coming down to buildings
School were vanished
The boy start to cry....
Nobody could hear it
They were all occupied to count their small green and blue papers. .
So much paper
So many bombs
So many people occupied from the nothing ...
That comes and destroy
Everything...
The boy closed the book...
He took another one
And he starts looking the beautiful illustrations
So Many flowers
And strange fruits
And a lot of animals that were sitting
just around a big lake.
There was a forest also with big trees
And a big mountain
The chapter had a title:
_The peaceful world of
Olivia_
The boy continue to read
and that afternoon was the most amazing time in the world..
Biography
Eva Lianou Petropoulou is an awarded author and poet from Greece
with more than 25 years in the literary field who has published more than 10 books. Her poems are translated into more than 15 languages.
Eva Lianou Petropoulou is President of of Mil Mentes Por Mexico Association represent Greece.
She is a member of the International Association of Authors and Artists in Greece, a member of the Association of Korinthian Authors and a member of the Association of Authors and Artists in
Pireas.
She is the President of Global UHE Peru for Greece, the World Ambassador of the University of Ethics in India, a Member of the
Academy of Farsala, a literary agent in several magazines, a member of the editorial board of Olas de l arte Magazine, an Ambassador of Namaste Magazine in India, representing Greece.
EL MARCHAR DE LAS PALABRAS
Estoy un poco preocupado, hijo. Me pregunto qué me estará pasando. Llevo una temporada difícil y me preguntaba si te has dado cuenta de ello.
Ha comenzado hace algunos años. Cierta dificultad en encontrar ciertas palabras, ciertos objetos ciertos… Al inicio no le dediqué demasiada atención, pero precisamente se trata de mi atención dispersa, y no recuerdo entonces si fue así, o esa dispersión devino en falta de dedicación a la mencionada atención.
Inicialmente fueron pequeños detalles, como ir extraviando cabellos, o perder ciertas cosas, principalmente gran parte de la visión perfecta que poseía. O que mi prolija barba azabache se convierta en un revoltijo gris, que tan mal luce.
Ir cambiando la vestimenta, y en lugar de vestir como el joven que soy, pues me queda la ropa de más talle, usar el horrible atuendo de gastados colores que visten los mayores.
Pero no es lo más grave. No. Hay otros síntomas que me asustan aún más, hijo.
Te menciono los más aterradores. He comenzado a olvidar palabras, entiendes, ¡palabras! La mayor bendición que he tenido en la vida… palabras.
Las primeras que olvidé pronunciar fueron: abuelos. En ambos géneros. No recuerdo la fecha ni la temporada, solo que repentinamente esas palabras y sus sinónimos se fueron alejando de mi boca. Y aunque mi mente recuerda y reconoce hasta las lágrimas, en imágenes, ya no pude volver a pronunciarlas.
Le siguieron otras, pero fue tremendo cuando ya no volví a mencionar “Papá”. Era apenas un jovencito y aunque en cada sueño él me visitaba, ya no pude decirlo, no entiendo, no pude. El sufrimiento me turbó tanto que hasta olvidé por unos años el llanto. Pero éste, como perro fiel, siempre regresa.
Le siguieron otras como “mejores amigos”, “reuniones sociales”, “risas distendidas”, “abrazos afectuosos”, pero son frases más complejas que fui omitiendo quizás para que no se evidenciara el avance de mi estado.
Al transcurrir de unos años, que se me dificulta mensurar, fui perdiendo otras palabras muy importantes… “Esposa”, por ejemplo. ¿Cómo hacer para ya no poder mencionar esta palabra cuando el corazón sangra de continuo? … se extraña, que resulta extraña, la palabra.
Tal situación me ha generado graves consecuencias. El médico me ha indicado que quizás me afecten los síntomas de algún cuadro severo de ansiedad, de alguna fobia. Él intenta medicarme pero me resisto a depender de unas píldoras, que probablemente pronto olvidaría tomar.
Y el desastre mayor ha sobrevenido recientemente.
He olvidado pronunciar una palabra que me parte el alma, y que me ha llevado a la mayor depresión. Que me ha dejado vacío, carente de ilusión, pleno de hastío. Creo que debes comprenderlo, hijo. He olvidado la palabra “Mamá”. Ya no sale su sonido de mi boca. Y aunque aún siento su abrazo en cada brisa, como pronuncia mi nombre en las noches cuando me acuesto, deseándome felices sueños, aunque al despertar creo sentir su mano acariciando mi cabello… ya no puedo pronunciarla.
Sí, ya sé, no son necesarias estas lágrimas. Eres joven y fuerte, tanto como yo, hijo, pero quizás sea más sensible… alguno de ellos, a quienes ya no puedo pronunciar, solía decirme que éramos iguales, que teníamos un amplio mundo interior al cual no dejábamos que nadie se adentrara. Seguramente eres diferente, extrovertido, sin el pecado de los años a cuestas. Ya sé, no debo lagrimear, los hombres no lloran… o lloran… no recuerdo la frase. La estoy olvidando. Pero me duele, me quema por dentro. Como un volcán incapaz de estallar.
Sí, hubo muchísimas otras palabras que olvidé, pero siempre he tratado de suplantarlas, para que no se den cuenta de mis fallos, tan solo soy un humano, un fino cabello a merced de la tempestad que se avecina. ¿No lo comprendes hijo?… no importa… tan solo te pido que no me observes con lástima y me hagas un gran favor.
Toma un retrato de quienes aún estamos, los sobrevivientes, portando todos majestuosas sonrisas, bien peinados, bien vestidos, bien abrazados. Y al reverso de la fotografía, coloca en letras bien grandes: “Esta es mi familia”.
Cuando lo hagas, y espero sea pronto porque todo lo olvido más rápido cada vez, haz una copia para mí y guárdamela en el bolsillo de la camisa. Luego abrázame bien fuerte, en silencio, porque hay ciertas ocasiones que no necesitan de palabras y guárdate una copia con la misma frase, para ti, agrégale quien es cada uno.
Porque nunca se sabe, y quizás pronto tu también comiences a olvidar como se pronuncian ciertas palabras. Sin siquiera darte cuenta, de un momento al otro, comiences a olvidar palabras. Es la Vida.
Ojalá pudieras leerme el pensamiento y entenderme.-
THE MARCH OF WORDS
- By Gustavo M. Galliano
I'm a little worried, son. I wonder what is happening to me. I've had a difficult season and I was wondering if you've realized that.
It has started a few years ago. Some difficulty in finding certain words, certain certain objects... At first I did not pay too much attention to it, but it is precisely my scattered attention, and I don't remember then if it was like that, or that dispersion resulted in a lack of dedication to said attention.
Initially they were small details, like losing hair, or losing certain things, mainly a large part of the perfect vision that he possessed. Or that my neat black beard turns into a mess of gray, which looks so bad.
Keep changing clothes, and instead of dressing like the young man that I am, because the clothes of more size fit me, to wear the horrible attire of worn colors that the older ones wear.
But it is not the most serious. No. There are other symptoms that scare me even more, son.
I mention the most terrifying. I have started to forget words, you understand, words! The greatest blessing I've had in life… words.
The first ones I forgot to pronounce were: grandparents. In both genders. I don't remember the date or the season, only that those words and their synonyms suddenly left my mouth. And although my mind remembers and recognizes even tears, in images, I could no longer utter them.
Others followed, but it was tremendous when I no longer mentioned "Dad." He was just a young man and although in every dream he visited me, I couldn't say it anymore, I don't understand, I couldn't. The suffering disturbed me so much that I even forgot crying for a few years. But this one, like a faithful dog, always returns.
It was followed by others such as "best friends", "social gatherings", "distended laughter", "affectionate hugs", but they are more complex phrases that I was omitting perhaps so that the progress of my condition would not be evident.
As a few years passed, which I find difficult to measure, I was losing other very important words... "Wife", for example. How to do to no longer be able to mention this word when the heart bleeds continuously? ... the word is strange, which is strange.
This situation has generated serious consequences for me. The doctor has told me that perhaps the symptoms of some severe anxiety disorder, of some phobia, affect me. He tries to medicate me but I resist depending on some pills, which I would probably soon forget to take.
And the biggest disaster has recently struck.
I have forgotten to pronounce a word that breaks my soul, and that has led me to the greatest depression. That has left me empty, devoid of illusion, full of boredom. I think you should understand, son. I have forgotten the word "Mom". Her sound no longer comes out of my mouth. And although I still feel her embrace in every breeze, how she pronounces my name at night when I go to bed, wishing me happy dreams, although when I wake up I think I feel her hand caressing my hair... I can no longer pronounce it.
Yes, I know, these tears are not necessary. You're young and strong, just like me, son, but maybe you're more sensitive... one of them, whom I can't pronounce anymore, used to tell me that we were the same, that we had a vast inner world that we didn't let anyone get inside. Surely you are different, extroverted, without the sin of the years in tow. I know, I shouldn't tear up, men don't cry... or cry... I don't remember the phrase. I am forgetting her. But it hurts, it burns me inside. Like a volcano unable to explode.
Yes, there were many other words that I forgot, but I have always tried to supplant them, so that they do not realize my mistakes, I am only a human, a fine hair at the mercy of the coming storm. Don't you understand son?... it doesn't matter... I just ask you not to look at me with pity and do me a great favor.
Take a portrait of those of us who still are, the survivors, all bearing majestic smiles, well combed, well dressed, well embraced. And on the back of the photograph, he puts in very large letters: "This is my family."
When you do, and I hope it's soon because I forget everything faster every time, make a copy for me and put it in my shirt pocket. Then hold me very tight, in silence, because there are certain occasions that do not need words and keep a copy with the same phrase, for yourself, add who each one is.
Because you never know, and maybe soon you too will start to forget how certain words are pronounced. Without even realizing it, from one moment to the next, you start to forget words. That's life.
I wish you could read my thoughts and understand me.-
Nacido en Gödeken, Santa Fe, República Argentina. Escritor, poeta, Jurado en certámenes literarios Internacionales. Periodismo digital. Docente Universitario de la Facultad de Derecho de la UNR, en la asignatura Historia Constitucional Argentina. Miembro del CICSO (Centro de investigaciones en Ciencias Sociales). Secretario Técnico de REDIM.
Se ha desempeñado como Corresponsal Especial en diversas revistas internacionales de Arte y Literatura (Cañ@santa, Sinalefa, ViceVersa, Long Island al Día, RosannaMúsica, etc).
Integra la Red de Escritores en Español (REMES), Poetas de Mundo, Unión Hispano-Mundial de Escritores (UHE), la Fundación César Égido Serrano, Naciones Unidas de las Letras (Ave Viajera y Proyecto Mundial Semillas de Juventud), entre otras. Actualmente es colaborador especial de Revista Poética AZAHAR (España), Revista Literaria-artístico PLUMA y TINTERO (España), Revista Literaria KENAVÒ (Italia) y Revista OFRANDA LITERARA (Rumania) donde también integra el Colegio Editorial.
Ha obtenido distinciones y premios en certámenes y concursos internacionales de cuentos, narrativa, micro relato y poesía. Publicó libros (LA CITA, 5 AUTORES) y participe de antologías y revistas publicadas y traducidas en más de 100 países.
Ha sido designado como Embajador de la Palabra y la Paz por diversas instituciones: WWPO (USA), Círculo de Embajadores Universales de la Paz (Francia / Suiza), Fundación César Égido Serrano y Museo de la Palabra (España).
Reside en Rosario, Santa Fe, República Argentina.
Prof. Gustavo Marcelo GALLIANO
Born in Gödeken, Santa Fe, Argentine Republic. Writer, poet, jury in international literary contests. Digital journalism. University Professor at the Faculty of Law of the UNR, in the subject Argentine Constitutional History. Member of CICSO (Social Sciences Research Center). REDIM Technical Secretary.
He has worked as a Special Correspondent for various international Art and Literature magazines (Cañ @ santa, Sinalefa, ViceVersa, Long Island al Día, RosannaMúsica, etc).
She is a member of the Red de Escritores en Español (REMES), Poetas de Mundo, Union Hispano-Mundial de Escritores (UHE), the César Égido Serrano Foundation, the United Nations of Letters (Ave Viajera and the World Seeds of Youth Project), among others. Currently he is a special contributor to AZAHAR Poetic Magazine (Spain), PLUMA and TINTERO Literary-artistic Magazine (Spain), KENAVÒ Literary Magazine (Italy) and OFRANDA LITERARA Magazine (Romania) where he is also a member of the Editorial College.
He has obtained distinctions and prizes in international contests and contests for short stories, narrative, short story and poetry. He published books (LA CITA, 5 AUTORES) and participated in anthologies and magazines published and translated in more than 100 countries.
He has been designated as Ambassador of the Word and Peace by various institutions: WWPO (USA), Circle of Universal Ambassadors of Peace (France / Switzerland), César Égido Serrano Foundation and Museum of the Word (Spain).
He resides in Rosario, Santa Fe, Argentine Republic.
It was a beautiful Saturday morning… Catherine was sitting on her favourite Master-sized sofa, the largest one in the living room; fully relaxed and full of life. Her husband, Richard, was in the kitchen dishing out his food to eat while their son, Vince, was on his way out of the house, forgetting that he had household chores to do- ensuring the cleanliness of the house-sweeping, washing and cleaning
As Vince was about getting the door to get out, His mom, looking a little concerned, asked: “Whose place are you going to?”
“Mom, by now, I think you should know where I’m going to!” Vince replied, pouring out his disappointment to the floor of her notice. “Every now and then, you’re fond of asking me of my whereabouts…Mom; don’t you know that I’m a grown young man of thirteen years?”
“Vince, what has come over you?” At that point, Catherine was a bit frightened. “Son, did I do you any wrong asking where you’re going at this time of the morning? This is just 7:30AM, you know…”
“Mom,” Vince interrupted in anger, “a lot has come over me! Mom…a lot! Of course, no thanks to you!!!”
She stood up from the sofa, stared at Vince, keeping mute for a couple of seconds. Her silence was broken soon afterwards. “Vince, have you washed the plates, cleaned the louvers, swept your room and ours?”
“Mom, I’ll do just that when I get home! By the way, I want to visit Oasis, my friend. His place is a few blocks away.”
It was Vince’s ‘I-don’t-care’ response that immediately caught the attention of Richard who just dished o his food, having taking his time to properly wash off the stubborn stains on the plates he wanted to use. He left the kitchen to attend to the matter.
“Vince, before you walk out that door, I’d love to have a word with you…”
Vince was reluctant to leave the door’s handle at first. But after a stern look from Richard, his reluctance gave way for submission as he left the door’s handle and positioned his body facing him-standing opposite, a few steps away. Richard left where he stood to sit on the Master-sized sofa. Seeing that his wife had been up-standing, looking sad, he lovingly said to her: “Honey, kindly sit with me…sweetheart, all will be fine”.
Catherine sat just by his side, holding passionately Richard’s hands as she stared at her frowning son, just five steps away from his initial position.
“Boy, can you come meet us over here?” Richard asked, gently breaking the bond of closeness with Catherine to let him sit at the middle.
Vince didn’t permit his obedience to unveil itself to his father. That didn’t bother Richard. What mattered to him was his son is between Catherine and himself. Satisfied with what he’d seen, he set the ball of discussion rolling: “Vince, I was at the kitchen when I heard you yell at your mom over a question that didn’t call for it. You even went ahead telling her that you’re now a grown man of thirteen! Hmmm…It’s alright! But should you answer the way you just did?”
“No dad”
It was obvious Vince’s response didn’t come from a sober heart: His developed stony heart reflected his frowning face. Catherine’s face became colder than it was as she was staring at him. Again, that didn’t matter to Richard…he knew what he was aiming to achieve…
“Good! I want to figure out something…you said you’re a grown man of thirteen…meaning you’re an adolescent! You’re a teenager! Wow! Congratulations, Vince! Welcome to manhood! Before I get into the discussion proper, I’d like to ask, my son, ‘When will you be thirteen?’
“Next month”
“Right! That means you’re twelve for now, right?”
“Y…es”
Vince’s frowning look was beginning to fade away as he smelt a rat in what he couldn’t place his finger on…the direction of his dad’s thought.
“Can you now say that you’re actually thirteen as at now?”
“N…o”
This time, Vince returned to his initial shell of frowning. Somehow, he knew his intelligence was being played upon. All the while, Catherine couldn’t hide the heaviness of her emotion. She poured it out in the form of tears, rolling out from her eyes but was able to prevent it from touching the floor by covering her face with her hands. Richard was unmoved, kept his calm and continued his talk with his son who wasn’t batting an eyelid to his mom’s feelings.
“Oh! Did I hear you say a ‘NO’? You must be kidding me! You told your mom you were a grown man of thirteen. Yet, you will be thirteen, come next month. I guess you can’t wait for it! Hmmm…ha haha. You’ve made me laugh! As you can see, your mom is shedding tears…don’t mind her face cover. Of course, no thanks to your rather exuberant behaviour! Honey, wipe your tears…”
Catherine courageously wiped her tears.
“Honey, remember when we agreed to tell Charles Our Story, when he clocks thirteen?”
“Yes, my dear”. Catherine’s conscious reply knew no equal. Vince was looking up to the ceiling, waiting to have the discussion done with.
“I think we have to let the cat out of the bag. His wants to be exuberant…Yes, it’s natural, you know. Let’s tell him now before he loses it and like the old saying, ‘a stitch in time saves nine’, the earlier Vince his told Our Story, the better for us all. What do you think?”
“I concur!” Catherine agreed.
“Before we begin Our Story, I’ll like to let you know a few things. Being a teenager is such a wonderful experience. It’s like a transition between boy-hood, as is your present state, to manhood. It’s where all of your physical characteristics like your height, shoulders and others begin to take proper shape. The cracking of your voice , the pubic hair in your armpit, your ‘private part’ area and others are what to be expected when you hit what scientist call ‘puberty’ or, in simple language, the age of maturity. In addition, the feeling that you have the world under your feet-doing things your own way, relating more with the opposite sex, engaging in exuberant activities like partying, smoking and drinking would want to make the best of you. And if permitted, Vince, such a teenager will, for the rest of his or her life, suffer.
Your mom and I were once teenagers like you. We heard fun, combined with the good, bad and ugly. The consequences of our actions of our teen years have made us who we are today. Therefore, on this basis… Vince, I will let your mom begin her story…Our Story”
Catherine adjusted herself properly, looking at the hung wedding picture of her and Richard, resting on the wall. She told her story:
I was the only child of my parents. Born and raised by disciplinarians, I was given the basic needs of life all through my childhood-food, best of education, shelter, clothes and above all, love and care. They ensured nothing lacked in my life because they had me quite later…after twenty years of staying married. Throughout my childhood, I was dad’s and mom’s girl until I turned fourteen…
The ‘devil’ in me began opposing their imposed strict life on me. I thought I’d reached the age where no one can control me like a robot. Dad would send me an errand like “go get me some foodstuffs across the street” but I’d refuse. I did the same to mom. I simply took advantage of their near-old age—they couldn’t exert the vigor as they used to. ‘So the world, I thought, ‘is under my feet! Hurray!’ Hmmm…Wonders shall never end.
Because of this loophole, I became friends with Joyce who would introduce me to the underworld of prostitution at age seventeen. To me, my life was about hitting the peak of freedom. Together with other friends, we’d hump from one club to the other, getting paid heavily for our ‘service’ by clients. Because of my age, I received what I saw as ‘big money’ than my older colleagues.
My lifestyle embraced alcoholism, smoking, every-day and night clubbing and indiscriminate sex. As a result, at about age nineteen, I’d committed nothing less than five abortions! My saving grace was that I didn’t contract any sexually transmitted infection but there was a great danger ahead.
On the streets of Far, the then hub of prostitutes, Joyce and I were moving around in search of potential customers when some armed men accidentally discharged three stray bullets to her chest. She died on the spot. I thought I was dead realized I’d been hospitalized for hours. How I got to the hospital is still to this day a mystery to me.
Somehow, the news of the incidence got to the notice of my parents whom I’ve ‘abandoned’ for years. Unfortunately, they both died as a result! Rumours have it that they both died of a heart attack. But how true they are —I wouldn’t know. Each time I get to remember this, I feel hunted. After I heard they were both dead, I felt a little saddened at first. But that made me sink more in what was called hustling.
For the next seven years, I was into all kinds of men for money. I never cared what would happen to me, since I’m used to the herculean ‘job’. I’d just a certain clubhouse, dashing home when I collided with a stranger.
‘What’s wrong with you?!’ He asked, yelling at me, ‘look next time before taking a leap’
‘I’m sorry’ I apologized, taking a good look at his handsome face.
Though he was a stranger, I knew there was something special about him… I couldn’t just place my finger to it. I knew something in me was about to manifest. But I heard no idea of what it would be. As he was about leaving my presence, I said: ‘You’re good-looking and handsome. I’m Catherine and you…’
I thought he’d snub me, seeing my rather provocative dressing. To my utter surprise, he smiled. ‘I’m Richard by name!’
‘Do you mind if I asked you of your phone number?’
‘No, I don’t! This is my complimentary card. Please, have it. Call me anytime.’
He left my presence. It was then I was able to place a finger as to what made him special—It was done on me that Richard was the man for me! This was the strangest of all thoughts I’ve ever perceived in my entire life! A stranger I met the first time being my true love? ‘That’s unimaginable!’ one would say.
Beginning our conversation through phone, our just-built platonic friendship soon grew into a more intimate one. It was at this point I knew to turn a new leaf from my dirty old past would be in my interest. As our relationship blossomed, he thought me how to perceive life positively and see the true worth of myself. Through determination and with his support, I became dis-engaged from smoking, drinking and indiscriminate sex. I must confess it wasn’t an easy one…there were times where he’d catch me in the act…drinking, smoking and sometimes, ‘attending’ to a client. But he never gave up on me! At last, I gave up on them; embracing what was to come along—the responsibility of marriage.
I was nineteen at the time I met Richard. We dated for five years and eventually got married. The following year, I was blessed with a son and…that son is…YOU! We later tried making more babies but failed. The doctors we visited, including our late family doctor, Dr. Carr, told me that I won’t be able to conceive again because my womb has been seriously affected. To be frank, it was a big blow to Richard and me. But we decided to move on by loving each other.
We agreed to raise our only son, YOU, the best way possible for him to become a responsible adult. Staying out of trouble and avoiding any vices from the early toddling ages to the formative teen ages were what we agreed on. Pardon us if we’ve been strict on you…All we’ve ever wanted was your good because we love and believe in you…
I agreed with him because the way he handled family issues, after three years of staying married. Richard would strike an almost-even balance between his office work schedule and time with me, the then housewife and later us-when you came on the scene. In my view, his commitment to family matters from the home-front to handling had, till this day, been applause-worthy. Through him I realized that no matter our busy schedules are, family matters come first above everything else.
And the man I’ve truly come to love, Vince, is that man sited to your right, your father, my husband—Richard.
Vince was speechless: He was lost for words. He looked at his dad in surprise. There was no force to push out any words of appreciation. He was so tuned to the frequency of the Catherine story that visiting Oasis would be the last thing on his mind. Catherine leaned her back against the sofa and looked at Richard as he placed his right hand on Vince’s left shoulder, leaning against the sofa. Richard rolled out his story:
I was born a twin. My brother, Franklin, was my exact opposite. His sticky fingers prevented him from being a faithful son. By the way, my mom died giving birth to Franklin and me. My dad later left and placed us under the custody of our aged grandmother. The reason for his sudden he left us still remains unknown. We were barely eight months when he left us. I’ve never seen his face, even up till this day!
My aged grandmother tried raising us to the best part of morality. However, the stubborn attitude of Franklin encouraged the company of bad friends. Franklin had been unrepentantly stubborn since the age of five. She tried making him submissive but all her efforts were rendered void.
Thirteen years later, then sixteen, it was unknown to us that Franklin had joined a popular four-member robbery gang, popularly known as the Real Gang of Robbers or RGR for short. He left our Isle home, where we were born and spent our formative years, to God knew where, for about five years, until a time came…
Details of his nefarious activities with the gang would be disclosed when the long arm of the Isle law came descending on them! After an unsuccessful robbery operation, Franklin was the only survivor after an intense gun shoot-out with men of the Isle Police Force. My look-alike was arrested and jailed for multiple murders and robbery attempts and rape. After proper investigation, the judge’s verdict read: DEATH BY FIRING SUAD.
We were told Franklin was to be executed the following day by my distant friend. My grandmother died on the spot! Somehow, I summoned the courage to follow her to where it was to happen…at the outskirt of Isle. We moved to that area…Although scared to the bone to hear that my twin brother would be killed and knowing about his predicament so late, his ending this sad way wouldn’t be surprising to me. I expected it all along!
The next morning, at about 8:45AM, I saw Franklin and seven others tied each to individual trees and at distant, a soldier was assigned to each of them; waiting for the commander’s ‘shoot’ order. The commander was staring at us up from a three-storey building through a large transparent Louvre. The soldier assigned to execute Franklin was mean-looking; I could hardly withstand his face. Immediately the clergy man approached each of whom I saw as ‘the condemned to death’ persons, the commander’s ‘shoot’ order saw the vibration of sounds of bullets sprayed over their bodies, including that of Franklin. That was how he ended his course on earth.
I left the execution site a sad person. I didn’t give a hoot of her consoling me. ‘Afterall, it’s medicine after death’, I thought. On my way home, I came in contact with a stranger who would become my wife…your mother. That was where our story began…
She’s been my very backbone and the reason I’m still strong, inspite of what had happened in the past. Like the saying, ‘Iron sharpens iron’, our stories, now Our Story, we unveiled to each other slowly but steadily healed our past wounds of insecurity, doubt, fear and guilt as our love grew through the years. Just as your mother said, staying out of trouble and avoiding any vices from the toddling ages to the formative teen ages was what we agreed on- as the way to nurturing you.
Son, we love you, we believe in you and we care about you. But nurturing you in the strictest price your mother and I would have to pay to show you the ONLY PATH to a responsible adulthood. Wished there were other ways…
Grandmother told me this when I was your age: ‘Family is a showcase center of unity. It is only when there is unity a family stands. Without it, its center can’t hold and when the center can’t hold, things fall apart.’
I’ve been leaving the life ever since, despite my brother’s wayward behaviour to divide us as a family.
Richard stood up. “Do you still want to visit Oasis?”
“No dad”.
Vince’s remorseful look returned. He was so touched by the story that he couldn’t but help to apologize.
“Dad, mom…I’m very sorry for my unruly behaviour and what I’ve been trying to do…”
That caught Catherine’s attention.
“What have you been trying to do, my dear son?”
“Mom, Oasis was about introducing me to drug pushing in Grayville. He works with a drug dealer. He wanted to introduce me to him. That was the reason I wanted to leave the house that early…I’m sorry mom.”
Richard was shocked! “Oh my goodness! How come you didn’t tell you were so interested in drug pushing? For how long this had been without our knowing? Don’t you know it’s a criminal offence?”
“Dad, I’m sorry. I promise this won’t happen again!” Vince assured as he stood up, “I’ll always be mom’s and dad’s boy!”
“You’d better be, Vince or you won’t find it any funny at all!” Richard warned. “I will change your school and ensure that you caught off your ties with Oasis…”
Catherine stood up as well, hugging Vince and kissing him on the forehead, and then whispered to his left ear. “I believe in my son…He’s my boy and yours, honey! Can you now wash the dish and do the household chores, please?”
“Yes, mom!”
Vince left Catherine’s comfort and ran to the kitchen to wash the dishes and worked all through the morning hours to keep the house clean. Richard was still looking on, as was Catherine. But she later shared the cleaning part of the chores with him.
His attention towards family became his priority and because of what he was told by his parents. Vince chose to primarily read books, magazines and journals that were home- and family-related, especially after the demise of his mom three years ago, resulting from protracted lung cancer and other related heart complications, and near-death experience of Richard that took place late last year.
Eight years later, Vince published a 1,500-word short story piece, “Family tells a Story” in Family Matters, a home and family magazine. A quote of the article synopsis reads: “The story stems from what my dad and mom told me as their stories, what they later saw as Our Story—to keep me away from trouble and any vices because of the love, care and affection they had for me as their only son. Over the years, what they told me as stories are now what have become a family legacy and what I’ll live to tell my children… I specially dedicate this article to them-my mom, the Late Catherine Russ and my dad, Richard Russ.”
A Borzoi Book published by Alfred A. Knopf, 273 pages.
Reviewed by A. Iwasa
Dederer starts the book with a prologue about her Roman Polanski fandom; a film maker whose monstrousness she aptly compared to the void-like incomprehensibleness of the Grand Canyon. But she really gets into the specifics of why she thinks Polanski's genius equals his monstrosity with the same poetic flourish. It's the passion and horror that puts the fan in fanatic when you get into the personal details of many great artists, which is exactly what this book is an exploration of.
She branches out less specifically into other complicated talents such as John Lennon, Lou Reed and Ezra Pound, while trying to figure out what conclusions other critics have come to about measuring the crimes of an artist against the greatness of their work. I had a bit of an of course moment here reading, apparently the Germans have a phrase for this: Liebe zur Kunst.
What follows is sometimes just the name: Woody Allen, William Burroughs, Sid Vicious.
Sometimes a bit of exploration, like "how can one watch The Cosby Show after the rape allegations against Bill Cosby?
The wider political contexts such as Donald Trump on Access Hollywood are addressed at other points.
Dederer weaves in her personal experiences as well as she articulates her fandom and feelings of horror.
Chapter 1 is titled "Roll Call," and after using Woody Allen as both a subheading and a name on a list, Dederer eventually backtracks to him in depth as the point of reference for being an artist whose behavior was bad enough to possibly not consume his work.
Dederer is asking questions whole heartedly, rather than telling you how to make your decisions on when an artist has gone too far. I can't overstate how Dederer is writing this as a fan grappling with these questions.
Chapter 2 is a similar treatment of Michael Jackson. Though it's not just Dederer's thoughts and feelings; it's an ongoing discussion with others such as other critics and her readers.
Some problematic women are mentioned in passing, but Chapter 3 sets its sites on J.K. Rowling. The chapter's title is "The Fan," and includes one of the best descriptions of fandom I've ever read: "An audience member is a consumer of a piece of art; the audience member is not defined by that piece of art. A fan, on the other hand, is a consumer beyond, a consumer who is also being consumed. She steals part of her identity from the art, even as it steals its importance from her. She becomes defined by the art." (Italics in the original.)
Dederer delves deeply into the psychology of this sort of fandom, and in turn, parasocial relationships: "the belief that we have real emotional connections with the artists whose work we love."
Dederer changes gears a bit with Chapter 4, "The Critic." Rather than having a monstrous artist's name as a subheading, she zooms out and begins to explain how she became a critic, defines her form of criticism, and criticizes other critics. But this is still all wrapped up in the context of monstrous artists and fandom.
Plus Dederer makes up for skipping a chapter's subheading by using two for Chapter 5, "The Genius," staring Pablo Picasso and Ernest Hemingway. Hey! I thought Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole?!
It's an exploration into whether or not someone can be so great at their work that it overshadows what's problematic about them as people, or if even they have to be problematic to create as they have.
Also, I thought I was being pretty sophisticated with my reference to "Pablo Picasso" by the Modern Lovers above, but within 12 pages Dederer is writing about how it's "dependent on the idea that everyone but everyone has" already of Picasso.
But back to the point: Dederer pushes it to the limit. "The questions is, I suppose, whether lunacy makes a great artist, or or whether all that freedom makes a person crazy." Or inherently miserable.
Then she ups the ante the ante with Chapter 6, "The Anti-Semite, the Racist, and the Problem of Time." Subheading: Richard Wagner, Virginia Woolf, Willa Cather.
Analyzing Wagner in the Trump era, Dederer masterfully argues against the school of thought defending such people as nothing more than products of their time. Woolf and Cather get the same treatment but to a lesser degree. There's at least some wiggle room with Woolf: her husband was Jewish so it's complicated. To me, it's the classic, smug, latent racism of Liberalism (and the Left in general to be blunt).
Dederer sort of tones it down with the next chapter, "The Anti-Monster." subheading Vladimir Nabokov, she suggests in regard to Lolita, "To read the book is to engage with the monstrous. And surely the man who wrote the book must be a monster.
"But was Nabokov a monster?"
I don't know, but the chapter was even grosser than my previous understanding of Lolita. Dederer has an interesting take on it. Not interesting enough to make me try to read the book, but the chapter is a thought provoking exercise in separating an artist from a character.
The next chapter is equally depressing in its own way. "The Silencers and the Silenced" names Carl Andre and Ana Mendieta as its case studies. Visual artists in the 1970s and '80s, I was unfamiliar with their tragic story. The chapter is short (nine pages) and I have no idea how to write about it without spoilers. It's shocking but fits into the over all narrative of the other artists I've been mostly familiar with. I suppose it just seems extra disturbing to me because I had been unfamiliar with Mendieta and Andre.
Chapter 9, "Am I a Monster?" begins with a meditation on the author's own "fair share of bad behavior." She moves on to an in depth examination of the family/work tension of an artist from a mother's perspective. She mentioned it here and there before in the text, but Dederer gives it the treatment she's considered many of the other subjects. Not just mentioning her own views and experiences, she quotes from the folk wisdom, "It's generally believed that the orphan fantasy is a way of metaphorically killing off a repressive parent." Also from other authors, such as from 300 Arguments by Sarah Manguso, and Enemies of Promise by Cyril Connolly, and the 1990 film, An Angel at My Table.
The methodology of this book is deep yet accessible. If I only have one complaint, I'd say that I think a great deal of what Dederer seems to suggest to be unique to women in general or women artists in particular rings true to me as being the experience of most subaltern people in the US.
She does write a fair amount about race and ethnicity, and a little about LGBTQ+ artists, but when I'm not thinking, "That's my experience as a mixed race artist of color," I'm thinking of other marginalized folks who aren't women that share most if not all of these experiences in the US.
Though I do find myself cringing here and there recognizing that cluelessness that I spent plenty of my own energy displaying as someone socialized male in the US when I aspired to be a working musician through most of the 1990s.
In other words, as Dederer examines her own potentially monstrous nature, one that perhaps motherhood saved her from, it's easy to apply the text to my own life and my artist mother's. This is, to a certain degree what I picked the book up for. If I'm going to continue writing about music, I need to address the question of monsters in the scene. If I'm going to continue writing and publishing, I need to make sure I don't become a monster.
In a similar vein, Chapter 10 is "Abandoning Mothers," starring Doris Lessing and Joni Mitchell. Dederer proclaims, "The abandonment of children is the worst thing a woman can do." But later admits, "This idea of mothers abandoning their children has always held a lurid fascination for me."
Dederer used to ride freight! One of the many noteworthy revelations you'll find in this chapter. Though I can't help but wonder if her kids have read this when she writes things like, "when my daughter was three years old, I used to pay myself to play with her." Ouch! Or how she "regarded the landscape between the making of dinner and the singing-to-sleep as a vast wasteland, on a par with the bleaker landscaped from Planet of the Apes."
I don't agree that the worst thing a woman can do is abandon her children. Plenty of women don't have kids, and some children are better off getting raised by someone other than their biological mothers.
Nevertheless, Dederer relentlessly backs her arguments and explores potential answers to her questions with quotes taken from book, after book, after book as elsewhere in the text. I'm down right amazed at her depth and scope of literary knowledge which she went as far as to refer to as her vocational; reading being her main interest when she was a 21-year old punk rock, freight riding, warehouse worker. The proof is in the pudding: quiet a few books have landed on my two read list as I read this book.
Dederer's knowledge of music and film is similarly impressive.
In Chapter 11, "Lady Lazarus," she goes on to examine the potential monstrousness of a woman outside of questions relating to motherhoodwith none other than Valerie Solanas, though she shares the subheading with Sylvia Plath.
Earlier Dederer labeled Plath's suicide an act of child abandonment, which I thought was unfair. Here it gets interesting though, as she asks, "What if Sylvia Plath had shot Ted Hughes instead of gassing herself?"
Here I'm forced to think of the number of feminine presenting who approached me when I was reading Plath's The Bell Jar. I frequently read in public, even at social events sometimes. Only once in a great while does someone say something to me from a familiarity with the text. It was kind of disturbing.
But more than anything I think the chapter is the most interesting thing I've ever read about Solanas, and could probably stand alone as a 'zine.
Chapter 12, "Drunks," features Raymond Carver. Unbeknownst to me, he was from the Pacific Northwest, so he was important to the author not only as a regional literary hero, but one who stayed in the area before Seattle and Portland achieved their current levels of fame as artists' meccas. Dederer claims his "alpha and omega were the Pacific Northwest." She outlines his biography from birth in Oregon to death in Washington, including the low points of domestic violence and hospitalizations for acute alcoholism, to a life of fulltime sobriety. She proclaims, "the tale of Carver's redemption is one of the great late-twentieth-century literary stories." Furthermore, Olivia Laing and Leslie Jamison have both "made Carver's grave a center-piece of their books about writers and drinking and writers who drink and drinkers who write."
But of course Dederer wants to examine the details of what happened. She also wrestles with her own monstrousness though this time in the context of alcoholism she confesses to being a monster in no uncertain terms. I actually laughed out loud when she wrote, "The fact is, alcohol is a really useful way of managing trauma-until it is not."
She also gets back to the core issue of "what we do about monstrous men" in the context of the Trump era, #MeToo, capitalism and liberalism.
She concludes, "In fact, you will solve nothing by means of your consumption; the idea that you can is a dead end.
"The way you consume are doesn't make you a bad person, or a good one. You'll have to find some other way to accomplish that."
I agree about 50%. I think people who believe everything is personal responisibility are just as whack as people who believe everything is the system. Generally, the older I get, the less I think of anything as absolute. I think the way you consume in general, and art in particular can make you a bad person. But I also think don't think questions of personal consumption are the be all and end all that some people make them out to be.
Case and point: edge lords who listen to white power or fascist themed music no matter what their reasoning are always sketchy. People who listen to it because they actually agree with it are acting poorly, to write the least. Listening to Skrewdriver or Death in June, etc. is not a passive act of artistic consumption.
The next chapter, "The Beloveds" features Miles Davis. It's particularly interesting because Dederer wasn't much of a fan of Davis before #MeToo. She writes, "when I looked around for writing on the separating-the-art-from-the-artist question, a series of false starts and missteps led me to Pearl Cleage's essay 'Mad at Miles.'"
After working through some of the essay's finer points, Dederer uses Cleage's Davis fandom as example of others: her mother's reading, a gay friend "closeted (even to himself)," in the 1980s avid movie watching, etc.
If you've read this far, it's probably because you can relate at least on some level.
Also, to be fair, Dederer doesn't just blame the system: "consuming a piece of art is two biographies meeting: the biography of the artist, which might disrupt the consuming of the art; and the biography of the audience member, which might shape the viewing of the art. I repeat: this occurs in every case."
Further, she brings it out to the much larger question: "what do we do about the monstrous people we love?" (Italics in the original.) This is the clincher, and you're going to have to read it to see where she's going with it.
I still don't have a solid answer for what we do with the art of monstrous people, but I feel less about not knowing what we do.
