book club

[Tommy Martyn]

G G is great. My own book club did "The Quiet American" last year. It was a hit all round. (If anybody saw it, Paul Theroux did the cover piece about GG in the NYT on Sunday - I assume it is on the website.) Thought that the pax crowd would want to do Brighton Rock as it crops up in that Morrisey song.

[mccutcheon]

so to get the ball rolling......a passage from the book.....::


'You could be trusted, I suppose, to stay outside while I swallowed a gin and tonic. I shan't be long doing that.'

All the same he was away for nearly half an hour and I think now with the wisdom of the years that he must have swallowed at least three.


Mc Comments on passage:

I would take out the words 'nearly' and 'at least'. So easy to say that than actually do the writting. Trust me I know. I've been doing this for nearly 12 years, at least 11.

[mccutcheon]

What in the mother fuck of all that is lovely is an Amalekite?

Yes, I could open a dictionary but then I wouldn't have been able to write that last sentence which was so much fun.

[martino]

www.hyperdictionary.com

even if it does get in the way of some pleasant cussing.


quote:
a tribe that dwelt in Arabia Petraea, between the Dead Sea and the Red Sea. They were not the descendants of Amalek, the son of Eliphaz, for they existed in the days of Abraham (Gen. 14:7). They were probably a tribe that migrated from the shores of the Persian Gulf and settled in Arabia. "They dwelt in the land of the south...from Havilah until thou comest to Shur" (Num. 13:29; 1 Sam. 15:7). They were a pastoral, and hence a nomadic race. Their kings bore the hereditary name of Agag (Num. 24:7; 1 Sam. 15:8). They attempted to stop the Israelites when they marched through their territory (Deut. 25:18), attacking them at Rephidim (Ex. 17:8-13; comp. Deut. 25:17; 1 Sam. 15:2). They afterwards attacked the Israelites at Hormah (Num. 14:45). We read of them subsequently as in league with the Moabites (Judg. 3:13) and the Midianites (Judg. 6:3). Saul finally desolated their territory and destroyed their power (1 Sam. 14:48; 15:3), and David recovered booty from them (1 Sam. 30:18-20). In the Babylonian inscriptions they are called Sute, in those of Egypt Sittiu, and the Amarna tablets include them under the general name of Khabbati, or "plunderers."

[Myke115]

So to use a word that Sloth introduced me to ... what's teh dealio? Who will the choice of all be for the read?

[martino]

for me, because i just ordered the greene book at my national used books network. will have it next week; will have read it in about two weeks from today, i suppose.

[mccutcheon]

that's two.

[mo]

I've been checking things out here for a while, and I thought I'd see what you thought of my stuff.

Short Stories and Essays aren't really my thing, so I thought I'd try a combo and see what comes out of the mix. Suggestions, would be great. Let it rip, it's been a long time since I've gotten someone to grade a paper of mine.

Just Another Adultress

I’m the adultress
But I didn’t want to be and I’m convenient
And I make good tea
I stand accused
Of the worst crime in history
That’s my mystery
I’m the adultress . . .

Don’t try to stop me
Don’t get in my way
It’s too late
I’ve made my play
Does misery love company
I’ll be in the bar
You’ll find me.
-- The Pretenders

We started out in Carey Town – well, not really, we started out on the highway. We ended up at the U of R – driving around looking for my brother who was teaching some humanities courses to the smart kids in our state. I mean, I could call them something else, and I probably should, but that’s what it boils down to. Because they are the uber-talents of whatever field they excel in, the state pays for a month of classes. It’s a good deal, really; I mean I’m pretty sure that someone could explain why it is not actually good, and they can go right ahead. The kids are cool – I wish I had had an uber-talent when I was their age – what I did have was a boyfriend – multiple boyfriends, there were always boyfriends, and I’m really not sad about it. I love men like a fat kid loves cake – that’s offensive, I know.

Once I wrote a paper in which I explored (code for tried to find justification for my own behavior) a character. The character was Lady Brett Ashley, the girl from Hemmingway’s The Sun Also Rises. I wanted to answer the question – Is Brett a Bitch? – But I ended up agreeing with Kant in that I feel like looking at art is a subjective experience, so really I think I was asking myself if that part of my personality was bad. I decided that no, Brett was not a bitch, or that if she was, that wasn’t bad, or if it was bad it didn’t matter because it was human – and it wasn’t murder, and well, that is that.

Now some people will tell you that we do things to murder each other’s spirits, and this, in my opinion, is just plain irresponsible hogwash. If someone murders my spirit, it is because I let them, so it’s not murder it’s suicide, and that’s for me to do, not them. In terms of what exactly to do with my spirit, I have had many options, I have explored most of them, and suicide has never been one of them – because it would hurt, and I’m a big ole chicken. Plus it would hurt other people and I guess if I had to have a code, which I really wouldn’t want, but if I had to, it would be – don’t hurt people. I think someone else said it better on a cheap sticker, “Mean people suck.”

Now my husband got drunk our on ride to Richmond, and we played each other our favorite tunes – this is what we do when are just sick and tired of the sound of our own voices; we dig through the cd cases and use someone else’s voice. For some reason, the musician’s songs carry more weight with us – I don’t really know why, but when Bob Dylan says that he and his woman are tangled up in blue, we understand that; whereas, if I tell my husband, “Hey, I care about this other guy.” Well it’s sort of a sin, or breaking the code, because, you know, it hurts and makes me feel like a bitch.

So he got drunk, and I drove, which is par for our courses, because I don’t need a good beer as often as he does, but he’s had a lot more shit in his life than I have, and I think it’s only fair that I am the designated driver at least three out of five times – that’s how we work it out.

Once we reached the campus, we ended up driving around for about thirty minutes. It was very well manicured (the word looks so much like manure; there is a reason for that, I believe). The campus is near Saint Andrews golf course, which is part of the PGA circuit, my husband thinks. I’m so very glad he doesn’t know for certain. I made one trip to a PGA event. I know for certain that it sucked ass.

We sort of got lost because he was navigating (had he been driving, I would have been nagivating – his best buddy gave him that one, thanks Kris). Even though he was an operation’s specialist in the Navy, he’s a really bad navigator when he’s drunk. For one thing, he tried to have a conversation with me while he needed to be looking at the map. For another thing, it was becoming clear to me that he wanted the conversation to turn into some kind of argument. I had no desire to have an argument – I was not drunk, and I wanted to find the Office of Continuing Education. Finally, I did a u-turn and said, “Let me see the goddamned map.”

It was a shot in the dark – maybe he would shut up – maybe he would pay attention to the map – maybe he would feel satisfied, because, yes, indeed, he had pissed me off.

Taking the Lord’s name in vain, worked like a charm – it does, seven out of eight times – although – the not yet to be introduced, and never to be found Wilson believes that it is an utter degradation of the language and a sure sign that whosoever produces that word is surely going to burn in the fiery pits – I have a totally different theory about what it means to take the Lord’s name in vain, but I might go into that somewhere else, suffice it to say, I have no problem with big G little d.

My husband got angry and gave me the directions. Turn right, take that left, no, not that one, the other one, okay, alright, the white building, there it is – you see it.

We made it, but he was stumbling drunk, and in need of a piss, and I was still stone sober and in need of a person who could tell me where my brother was. We parked the car in front of the Office of Continuing Education, and I told him that I would go in, but he insisted on coming with me. We passed this old guy, about mid-fifties, big tummy, thinning hair, who was fencing with a very young, pretty, student. It was charming and fitting or sad and disgusting – it’s your choice.

We went in, and I noticed the stairs to my right, which led to the office I needed. My husband was not really looking for the office, so he kept right on going. I followed him around the corner and when he walked into the john, I turned and headed for the stairs.

The room at the top was formal and generic. I hate rooms like these. There was thin grey carpet on the floor; there was a huge landscape of somewhere in the United States, and a straight backed couch, which I’m certain got the pleasure of someone’s rear about three times a month – if it was lucky. The receptionist’s desk was bare. And I wanted to tell her to put a picture on it for goodness sakes, but who was I to be telling anyone how to decorate? She was young, looked like a student, probably was and could more than likely explain to me the harmony of minimalistic decor. And why it was or was not being used in this office space. Something like that is what I imagined her saying had I offered her the opportunity to discuss something other than what I needed.

I explained, “I have a package for my brother, and I need to find him. He is an instructor here this summer.”

“You’ll need to talk to David.”

“Alright, great.”

David came around the corner – man, he was nice-looking, in an older Cal Ripkin kind of way – well, Cal Ripkin with a Scotish accent and soft hands.

I shook one of them, and decided his hands were just fine with me. His stare though was a little disconcerting; it was pretty direct and stony.

“I need to find my brother, blah, blah, blah, blah,” as direct as I could be (which is never very).

Blank face, no smile, and no remark.

Seconds passed.

I stared back and felt a little awkward.

“You need to find your brother.”

“Yes,” direct again, and a smile.

“Okay, we’ll see what we can do.”

David, now named Cal Ripkin, took me back to his office, made me a map, explained the quickest route on foot, and asked if I needed help finding parking.

“Nope, but thank you very much.”

I went back downstairs to find my husband relaxing on the couch, feet propped up on the table, bag of baked Doritos in one hand, and a diet Dr. Pepper in the other. He looked at me as if he was a little bit confused, “Um,” a Dorito fell onto his tummy, “Where’d you go?”

“I got a new map.”

“You didn’t want me to come with you?”

“I didn’t think it was necessary.”

We argued about why it wasn’t necessary on our way to the car.

“Are you embarrassed of me?”

“No, honey.”

“Yes, you are. I embarrass you, don’t I?”

“I already said no. Why do you make me repeat myself?”

“Because I don’t believe you.”

“Well, that’s your fault. Not mine.”

We drove down a hill, back up, around a curve and then reached the residence hall. I was too focused on getting out of the car and away from my nagivator to notice how pretty the campus really is, despite the fact that it is in an affluent neighborhood, which usually nauseates me. If I had really been paying attention, I would have seen a lot of things that were just like my home, the trees for instance, they are just about the same.

The residence hall was the first in a semi-circle of brick buildings. At the corner of them two cars were parked in the shade of a pine tree. I pulled in behind it and got out.

“Wait here. I’ll go in and see if I can find Wilson.”

“Okay.”

I went to the trunk to get the packages out. I was delivering Dr. Seuss Goes to War and The People’s History of the United States. I had borrowed them thinking that I wanted to know more about the history – socio-political – I believe the term is of the U.S. Our country’s involvement in Iraq had made me aware of how little I knew about THE TRUTH. Unfortunately, the more I read, and the more news that I watched, the more I realized there is no truth out there. None other than what someone else deems to be true. And as always, there are two sides (I believe Willy Nelson did a song about that), or three sides, four sides, five, as many as there are humans. So I was returning Wilson’s books – I was done with looking for THE TRUTH in history and ready to find it where it had always been for me – in fiction, in poems, in essays, in paintings, in art, which takes the thread of truth and sews together a picture that makes sense to me. That is why we have these things, in my opinion. Those with minds that require resolution, read literature – those with a mind for infinity read history and watch the news – the stories that go on and on and on and on. My mind is very finite.

Students were returning from their afternoon classes. They were coming up the hill in groups of ten or fifteen. I slid in with a group and walked through the oak framed doorway. Set up at the front of the common room was an information table. I stopped and gave the folks my name and asked them where I could find Wilson. They were fresh faced and clean. They made me wish I had not smoked half a pack of cigarettes and chosen to ride with the windows rolled down as opposed to eating altoids and using the air conditioning. I stunk; they did not. Cheerfully, they explained that Wilson would be returning from his classes soon, but that he would be going to a different residence hall. I was in the student dormitory; the faculty dormitory was across the lawn. I left the packages at the desk and went outside to tell my husband to cross the lawn with me and wait.

I walked out and rounded the corner of the building. I was surprised to see that neither my car nor the other two that had been parked in front of it were there. I was confused. I jumped to a hasty conclusion. My husband was mad at me for not asking him to come with me. He had left and was now hiding the car to get back at me. Well, I thought, I will just show him that I do not care. So I walked right back to the lawn, found a spot that offered shade and a good view of the street, and sat down.

I watched the students and instructors as they walked up the hill together. Most of them did not notice me, and I preferred it that way. I enjoy being unseen. There is something liberating in having no identity – to sit among people and go unnoticed. Perhaps it is because I am tall; perhaps it is because since the age of fifteen when I walk into a room people turn and look at me, perhaps it because I am introverted or perhaps it is because I am tired of having my face speak for my mind. So there I sat, under the tree, feeling good and bad about myself while going unnoticed.

And that shouldn’t be a problem, shouldn’t create one, but sometimes I guess it does. Now who really doesn’t mind my problems at all? That guy who gets drunk and drops Doritos on his tummy because he is just too busy enjoying the taste of Diet Dr. Pepper and the sensation of taking a piss when he needs to, to worry about me more than he should.

And where is that guy anyway?

I looked up and around for a second – forgetting my self-indulgent ramblings, to see my husband driving around on the other side of the lawn. What the hell is that motherfucker doing? I thought.

He’s smiling and waving. How could he?

So I just ignored him and kept my ass planted exactly where it was, under the tree. I watched more of the students. The girls were really pretty, lots of natural grace. Most of them looked similar, but there were some who looked really different, god bless them, it was going to be harder on them. I checked out one girl, very pretty, very fresh faced, blonde hair, blue eyes, big smile. Now I knew it was going to be hardest for her because she wasn’t wearing flip-flops; she didn’t have on black, and god-forbid, there was no rebellious tee-shirt explaining some aspect of her personality stretched across her well-developed chest. She, oh jesus, looked like someone off of Dawson’s Creek – and oh, god, she’s an uber-talent of some sort too.

She was walking alone and tried to talk to a group that had formed in front of me. One girl in the group was of undistinguishable age, and from the way that the others were talking to her or moreover, the way they all shut-up when she spoke, I figured she was actually an instructor. They were all smiling easily as they chatted. Their smiles drooped a little around the corners when Dawson’s Creek girl spoke, but the most amazing thing happened to her – her smile broadened; it actually got bigger as theirs got smaller. This is how it works. Well, it works that way for her, but for them, not so much. They frowned a little more as she talked and then finally, she walked away, and they resumed their conversation happy to be rid of big smiling, tit-girl. I am going to rename her for reality’s sake, welcome-to-the-fun-house, girl.
That would be a pretty tidy ending to this story, but I am neither tidy nor near the point of the story.

I didn’t go to the U of R to find a girl. I went to find my brother, and at this point, all I had managed to do was lose my husband and feel sorry for some pretty, smart girls. Luckily though, my husband found me. Up the hill he walked, and I watched as the girls watched him, and I sort of liked it. I do get kicks when the ladies love him because he’s a cool J. It’s nice to see him still being appreciated after all this time, by someone other than me.

I had hoped that he wouldn’t see me immediately because I wanted to catch him checking out a chick and then I would have an excuse to fuss at him, but he’s a better or smarter man than I am – I guess that’s obvious since I’m not a man at all. He ignored the girls and walked right up to me.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Wilson.”

“Do you care about where I’ve been?”

This is a tricky question to answer – he’s good at asking these tricky questions.

“Yes.” I had to be honest, but I knew he was going to get me on this one.

“Well, then why are sitting under this tree?”

“Ummm.” At that point I wanted to lie – I wanted to say because I really do not care where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to, but that’s just not true. Everyone, including the two of us, knows that I watched him go around the lawn, that I thought he was doing it to spite me, and that I got pissed off and and had some little mental reverie in which I justified having to be me in this cold, dark world, but I didn’t lie. I’m not good at telling lies; I’m decent at writing stories in which I am nonchalant about real life – but I’m a terrible liar, “I thought you were pissed off at me for not asking you to come with me.”

“What?”

I couldn’t tell if he didn’t understand my sentence or if he couldn’t understand my rationale.

“Nevermind. I was pissed, now I’m not.”

“So did you give a shit about what I’ve been doing?”

“Yes.” Now that was a lie. Because after he pissed me off, at least in my head, he was banished from my brain – no more reveries about his motives, no more thoughts about why he was trying to get me back, the focus was now on me, me, me, why me? Why me? Why me?

“Right after you went inside the grounds crew, whose cars were parked in front of us, left. The campus security guard pulled up behind me and told me I had to move.”

“Oh,” I felt like a jackass.

“Yeh. Didn’t you see me?”

“Yes, but I didn’t see any campus security behind you.”

“Well, he was there, and he followed me all the way to the visitor’s parking lot. It sure would have been nice if he had just told me where that was instead of following me until I found it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Good, you should be.”

I wanted to kick him in the rear-end for his smugness; however I realized that I was the one who deserved the swift kick and kept my feet where they were.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Wilson.”

“Well how long is this going to take? We still don’t have a hotel room, and I’m sweating out my buzz.”

“I don’t know. I’m getting pretty hot and bored with the whole thing myself.”

“Then let’s go.”

I thought about it for a minute. Had we driven all this way to wait for hours (or thirty minutes depending on how long it feels) in the heat for Wilson, or had we driven all this way to have a good time and be together?

I decided upon the later, “Let’s go.”

We ended up driving for about forty minutes. We went down Carey Street. At first I wanted to hang out in Carey Town, but then I decided it was just too close to those well-manured lawns, so we kept going. We reached the Fan, which made me feel more at home. Even though the houses are being sold for millions now, I remember when I was a kid hanging out with the trash, in the trash, where there were signs of struggle and art – it was good; I like struggle and art, in this cold, dark world. We passed a little rare and used record shop, that is actually much bigger than it appears.

I said, “Hey go back.”

And dutifully he did. He even dropped me off at the curb and then went to park. Who said chivalry is dead? Dumbass.

I bought a used Cat Stevens cd, that of course is not his name now – it’s been changed; I’m hoping to protect someone’s innocence.

After the bookstore, we accidentally took a trip down Martin Luther King Drive into the projects, and started griping, not because we were in the projects, but because we were sticky and about ready to run out of gas. We’d passed the Jefferson, and I knew just how nice it was; I really, really wanted to stay there; it’s where my ex met Yoko Ono, but oh, well, that was how many years ago? I don’t remember.

We ended up checking into a family hotel. You know the kind where the dads all sit around with their softball playing daughters, and the older gentleman wear socks pulled up really high? It was that kind, really All-American. My husband wrote down our names, as a married couple. Because we know that when “husband and wife” check into a hotel in which the only two real sins are lies and infidelity, we’d better make it look really good. So we did, and then we went to the bar. I had a shot of Tequila, and he had a mixed drink made out of Captain Morgan’s Parrot Bay. There are two new flavors out this summer, mango and pineapple, my husband plans on trying them out in whatever hotel he can find. I plan on staying moderately sober, so that on my way home, I can drop him off at his house – which I think, is the place that all of our adventures begin.

[martino]

am i saying nothing. except that i'll just read the greene book and then post my thoughts.

well and yes hello mo, nice to see someone new here. gosh, there *is* a lot of traffic around here these days, isn't there?

[mccutcheon]

I'll read your story as soon as I get a chance but ya should have posted it under its own thread.

[Guest]

There is but one US first edition of this book available in the whole of Cincinnati and it is mine. $7.47 well spent I'm hoping.

[mccutcheon]

cool. let me know what you think. One question I have for you: Would it have worked if it took place in the States.

[marky]

Excuse me don't let me interrupt the general flow here, I'm just catching up - SARA makes an appearance (and I know for sure it's her by the spelling of her name)! Woah. And a very sane one at that. Go figure. Welcome back Sarah, with all my heart! ***hug***

Martino that book about getting rid of depression was hilarious. I want to read that description one more time.

But never mind me, happy Graham Greeners...

[sara]

Thanks Mark

Happy Graham Greeners to the rest of you.

MC -- I had no idea that a website that had an essay on anarchy out front would take issue with the placement of any post. But I'm pretty sure that I've had no idea about a lot of things concerning this website.

[marky]

Anarchy in the UK, people, Sara's got it right. I mean Sarah. You know what I mean.