Posts Tagged ‘book’

I had always in the past made elaborate preparations, frequently wasted, for his reception; now I made elaborate preparations for them both. Besides the drink and food, and the present of money I knew he would be glad of, which I gathered together for him, I set the flat lovingly for her as well. Her bowl, her ball, her biscuits, her blanket, everything was put back as it had been before; I stood for two hours in a queue to procure her a succulent piece of horsemeat, and I stocked the vegetable basket with all manner of vegetables for which I had no personal use. And when the time of their arrival drew near, I went out on to my verandah so that I might steal from Time the extra happiness of watching them approach. I knew that he would walk her and the way that he would come, down the towing-path and along The Terrace, and since the stretched below me in all its length, curving away, as the river curved, as far as the eye could reach, I should be able to see them at a considerable distance making, from their respective prisons, their returning way into my life. If Johnny came at all he was always late, and today was no exception; half-past two struck, and “Not this day,” I said aloud, as though someone stood beside me under the great arch of the sky. “Take all my other days, but not this one” And then, suddenly, there they were, emerging from among the trees and elder bushes of the towing-path, tiny like figures seen through the wrong end of a telescope, Johnny and Evie, or rather Evie and Johnny, for before they reached the end of the path where it turns into road, I saw him bend and attach her to her lead, and then she came as I remembered her, the pretty sable-gray sprawling bitch, spurning the ground and dragging after her the sturdy, backward-bent figure of her master. With bated breath I watched them approach, growing larger and larger, until they were almost beneath me: and Johnny never looked up. How strange, I thought as I gazed down at them, drawing them towards me with my eyes, that he did not look up. “Ah, Johnny, look up!” I murmured, but he did not look up, and I recollected then that he never looked back at parting either; it was a though I existed for him only at the point of contact. But if there was nothing in his bearing to suggest that the particular direction in which he was moving had for him more interest than any other, Evie, to whim my gaze shifted, gave another impression. And “She remembers!” I said to myself. “I’m sure she remembers!” They reached the entrance to the flats. Craning over the balustrade I watched them arrive. “Now!” I whispered. “Now!” and she turned into the doorway without hesitation, pulling Johnny in after her.

J.R. Ackerley

The above is an extract from J.R. Ackerley’s book We Think The World Of You, one of only three books in his lifetime, but with such powerful lines! I’m nearly finished, where I read most of it deep into one morning, with only three or four pages to go which I cannot…

Love is so very hurting, especially if you keep buying time. There is a part in the book when Frank (the narrator) shouts at Johnny’s mother – who has been tasked with taking care of Evie while Johnny is behind bars and where the great beast is locked away in a small backyard – where he goes something like “Wait? Wait? Four months to an animal is years of her life!”

J.R. Ackerley drank himself to death. He is too underrated. You would emphasize an animal’s life only as much as you could empathize. That much like love, like loss, is animal.

Death Row is a film about daily life on Death Row in Texas. The film was made in March 1979, and Bruce Jackson and Diane Christian also did a companion book of the same name. The book has longer conversations with the men who speak in the film. I am looking for this book.

How many of us know of that feeling? I am not an advocate against death for prisoners. I am only very fearful of losing freedom, under whichever circumstance. And that fear is as powerful as life and freedom itself, enough for me wear their skins and taste the crazy fear and colorless loneliness. There are photos of the men in the book, but I don’t want to include their gaze here. Objects and echoes are enough.

Like I said, I am not an advocate against death for prisoners. My first emotion is always they must deserve it. It is these negating forces that keep staring and listening to these photos.

Photos: Buffolo Report

November 17th, 1980

“Today, a woman touched my sleeve in the supermarket as I was trying to pick out good strawberries. She asked if I was the children’s doctor from Germany. I corrected her and explained that Sweden is much, much colder in some ways but not in others. She asked me if I had a moment, and I said of course, though I thought to myself, it is an interesting thing to say because one’s life is nothing more than a string of moments. Each life is like a string of pearls.

“This woman wanted to know why her four-year-old son, when she met him from school, had given his macaroni drawing to another boy’s mother and not to her. She said she didn’t speak to her son all the way home and even cried. Then she said he cried and locked himself in his bedroom. She was worried that her son didn’t love her—otherwise why would he give his drawing to some other child’s mother?

“I laughed a little and ate one of the strawberries I was holding. Is that all? I said. She nodded. Well, I explained, you are worrying about the wrong person. I explained the reason her son had given the drawing to another mother was because he loved her, his own mother with such blind, unprecedented devotion, that naturally he felt sorry for every other woman in the world, whom he did not love so vehemently.

“Then, of all things, the woman started to cry. She touched my sleeve again and said Thank you, Doctor. She said she was going to buy him a toy to make up for it—but I said to her, Perhaps, madame, instead of buying a toy, you should simply go home, find your son and remind him of the event and tell him that you love him with equal devotion, and that you will never again question his judgment when it comes to how he expresses his love for his mother.

“When I thought more about the encounter on the way home, I found myself getting depressed. So when I got home, I put my robe on and gave my strawberries to the birds. What a beautiful child that woman has, I thought. What a genius boy, and what a hard life he has ahead of him in this world, where beauty is categorized, and natural love is negated by flattery.”

Tiger, Tiger
By Simon Van Booy, Love Begins In Winter

***

Today I got lost again. Lost in my own neighborhood. It is a normal thing for Bridget to. It started when I became an adult.

When I was a child, the bike took me places and back again, because it knew its way. Then I became a teenager and those legs pretty much went their own way (many times without my permission), so I was never lost.

Adults should be allowed to live to a certain age, and then return to childhood again. I know some of you reading this will want to slap me already, because you are currently dealing with it at home. It is hard. But what if this ‘return’ happened to us all? Disease is not disease if we could get out of this ’self’. Isn’t that why we yearn for experiences? What we sometimes know is possible, when in those moments our ‘reality’ is interspersed between memory, history, and dream?

Ok. Bang. Bang! Bang,  bang!

"Party of Soldiers"

Another of our childhood-, world-view play piece.

- Have you forgotten, Danger? -

“All wars are the external realization of our internal battles.
Humans must learn not to blame each other for being afraid,
disappointed, or in pain.
We perhaps might learn to view those we have
special feelings toward as being our companions rather than our
saviors, companions on the journey back to childhood.

Not too often do I find the modern short story to offer gems. But Simon Van Booy does that with his 2009 collection of short stories in Love Begins in Winter, without boosting or taking time and making a point. -> Kinda like this last statement…

And there’s more:

But there is nothing to find. We must only unravel.
And in the meantime – lower our expectations of each other (and ourselves!) in order to ‘love’ more deeply and more humanly.”

Not that I’ve mastered it but I’ve learnt that when you are selfish, you cannot love. Or expect love in the way you can envision.