The Void

Vladimir Nabokov's autobiography "Speak, Memory" opens up with a memorable quote; "The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness." This quote, with the intense focus on the concepts of an "abyss" (void) and "light", reminds me of the writings of two other authors writing in the 20th century, albeit one is about 20 years previous and the other about 20 years later-- Franz Kafka & Italo Calvino.




In Italo Calvino's work "Invisible Cities" he often flirts with the ideas of places suspended above the nothingness, cities built on nothingness, and cities that define the space they are given, even if it is only points of light in nothingness-- the brief crack of light in the darkness. In this work Calvino imagines every city there could possibly be as he explores the depths of possibilities. However, as the book progresses Khan begins to understand that perhaps Marco Polo hasn't traveled to all these places but he may be explaining the depths, focusing the intricate rays of light of his native Venice.

Franz Kafka's "The Castle" begins with an intense description of place that evokes much of the same imagery of Navokov; "It was late in the evening when K. arrived. The village was deep in snow. The Castle hill was hidden, veiled in mist and darkness, nor was there even a glimmer of light to show that a castle was there. On the wooden bridge leading from the main road to the village, K. stood for a long time gazing into the illusory emptiness above him." An intriguing difference between Nabokov's and Kafka's understanding of the void the void's relation to the subject. Nabokov imagines hanging over the void, suspended, something to beware of falling into. Kafka however envisions the void above the subject as something to get to, something to investigate and attain, as is true of many of Kafka's works perhaps most notable in the short story "Before the Law".




The most notable similarity between the two is Nabokov's and Kafka's supreme interest in investigation. Each author pursues their works with a magnified and careful eye. Kafka's characters Joseph K. ("The Trial") and K. ("The Castle") try to explore their situations from every perspective in order to better their position; Joseph K. pursues discovering the nature of his trial in order to appropriately diagnose the best course of action in his defense. K. pursues every avenue of entering the Castle to attempt to understand the nature of his employment. Nabokov investigates the world through a scientifically trained eye. Each detail is noted and important, even the ones that often seem the least important.

The void needs to be considered an important characteristic of the writing of Nabokov and other writers exploring space in the 20th century. It can symbolize something that many of these authors such as Nabokov and Kafka struggle with-- defining the undefinable, approaching infinity, and exploring the abyss.




*Here is a passage from a story I wrote called "A Grove in the Barren". I feel that this story deals with this concept Nabokov puts forth about "our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness".

It was cold and the snow whipped around my face in tight curls. I had been walking alone in The Barren a long time, as long as I could remember, and never found anything or been found by anything. I used to hold my hand out to feel my way along, to try and strike a solid wall, but always when I outstretched my hand it reached infinitely far, contacted nothing and became lost in the crystalline white void. Some time ago, during my bouts of vertigo, I would drop to my knees and vomit, but even then it looked blank and white and the bloodspots were instantly buried deep in fresh snow...

*Read the rest of the story at http://adambenson.blogspot.com/2009/08/grove-in-barren.html

Pinky

Pinky



I try to rummage through my memories and sort the useful from the useless like the separating of wheat from chaff. Locating the singular memory I consider my first feels impossible in the jumbled chronology of the past. I ruminate and probe the various flashes of recollection that present themselves as my first, most important memory only to return to the thought of my dad’s missing finger. Considering my childhood memories in accordance with my dad’s missing finger raises memories of the flowering of my understanding of humor, frustration and a myriad of humanity. Each sprouting from the space on my dad’s hand where there should be flesh and bone but there is none.

Since I can remember my dad has had five fingers on his right hand and four and a half on his left, the pinky being lopped off at the first joint past the knuckle. This stub became a tool for provoking me endlessly. I would ask him how he had lost his finger and he would tell me the story. I became confused when his stories began to contradict one another; each story being different every time he told me of how his pinky had become to be half intact, half lost. Soon, I could recognize the pattern he crafted his stories around. The story would surround the situation that we both were in and at the end he would abruptly hold up his hand, framing the pinky in my view, and give a signature, quick flash of a smile. This half-finger story became even more interesting when I noticed his insistence on telling a tale to complete strangers: a cashier, a waitress, some students in his Spanish class. Always masterfully twisting the story around the situation but always ending the tale by holding up his hand and giving a quick smile.

Among my friends the telling of these tales became something of a legend. My dad would craft the tales to fit in to our teenage ramblings when he drove us up skiing. He had cut it off on the edge of a snowboard, broke it off by slamming it in a cash register, and it had been sliced off on a guitar string just like a piece of salami. My friends intrigue of this story went so far as for one of my friends to suggest “Adam, it’s your destiny to lose a finger just like your dad and tell stories.” I laughed and brushed off the remark. I stated how absurd that was, how much I liked having ten fingers and how I expected to for a long time to come.
I’ve made inquiries with friends of his, fellow high-school teachers that know him, and even my mom. Somehow they all react with cryptic knowledge. Not revealing any useful information and giving me a sly smile, honoring a tradition they all know; a tradition that precedes my birth.

To this day I still do not know the “real” reason why my dad has nine and a half fingers instead of the standard ten. I do not know if he’s embedded clues or some version of the truth in the stories he has told me. I do not know if I will ever find out. I do not know if I want to ever find out. But I do know that the imprint of these tales sway across my childhood memories like my dad dangling a plastic finger attached to a key chain in front of my eyes.

Technique Response-- Point of View

*I wrote this for a Creative-Nonfiction class. The assignment was to read Sherman Alexie's "Superman and Me", select some passage, pick out a technique I liked, discuss how it works and give a short example of how it could work in my writing. As the year rolls on I will post a few more of these so don't be alarmed to see more of them in the near future.*




“This might be an interesting story all by itself. A little Indian boy teaches himself to read at an early age and advances quickly. He reads "Grapes of Wrath" in kindergarten when other children are struggling through "Dick and Jane." If he'd been anything but an Indian boy living on the reservation, he might have been called a prodigy. But he is an Indian boy living on the reservation and is simply an oddity. He grows into a man who often speaks of his childhood in the third-person, as if it will somehow dull the pain and make him sound more modest about his talents.” (Selection from Sherman Alexie's "Superman and Me")



Although this is not a concise passage to examine it does offer some fantastic play with point of view and meta-commentary to create an effect that confronts the reader on many fronts. Until this passage Alexie has dealt with the narrative from a more traditional stance, providing the story from the first person of one who is recollecting, confronting the images from memories and doubts that come with memory recall. Writing from the first person point of view lets the reader come close to the author and invite the reader into a world of possibilities, full of room for discussion and human discourse; mainly, first person offers an understanding of the author as a person to relate to. However, changing the point of view to the third person creates instant space in our understanding of the author as a person to relate to. Third person narratives shove aside closeness in favor of the power of assertion. When Alexie shifts to third person it seems he is telling us not about his story but an imagined story where the value of the story is not in the relationship between the reader and author but in the authority of the author over the reader.


In my own writing I often seek ways to manipulate the space and closeness the reader feels between himself/herself and my voice. I often find myself, stuck at a point in some narrative, where I want to deploy a dramatic effect: create distance, close distance and use the notion of space between reader and author to my advantage. Practicing the technique of a well-placed shift in point of view would add another useful tool into my author utility-belt.

A Grove In The Barren

A Grove In The Barren

By: Adam Benson

It was cold and the snow whipped around my face in tight curls. I had been walking alone in The Barren a long time, as long as I could remember, and never found anything or been found by anything. I used to hold my hand out to feel my way along, to try and strike a solid wall, but always when I outstretched my hand it reached infinitely far, contacted nothing and became lost in the crystalline white void. Some time ago, during my bouts of vertigo, I would drop to my knees and vomit, but even then it looked blank and white and the bloodspots were instantly buried deep in fresh snow.

Time, according to the rise and fall of light, was useless. It always remained the same dull glow, and so I could only measure the passing of time with memories, feeble examinations of various thoughts, considerations and moments. Occasionally, in the vast space between the bones of my skull, the chronology of these memories jumbled like a handful of snow blown up into the wind where it would dissipate and every appearance of coherence it once had would be lost forever.

I had a minimum of supplies buried down in pouches underneath my coat: a small metallic hatchet, matches, flint, canteen and a knife with a long blade. I held on to these with all hope. Removing the knife and glimpsing at the shimmer of the blade through the blanket of white gave me a moments perspective into what could lay hidden in the emptiness; a possible object, a thing other to myself, that existed out in the white field. I began to run with the knife, searching for something to plunge the blade into. Quickly I became tired of running and the knife remained perched in my hand, unable to find a resting place. In the emptiness of The Barren items operate like useless currency— tools without purpose.

Once, in between memories now lost to me, I felt the muscles in my legs quaking as never before. This violent shake made me stumble and I flung my arms about in all directions grasping for a hold when no longer able to resist I collapsed to the ground. The force of my body falling made a small cavern where I fell and the fresh falling snow quickly bedded me deep down underneath the surface. Wrapped in the freezing ground of The Barren I tried to continue to muse but soon felt myself drifting off.

Upon opening my eyes I was surprised to find myself transported out of my imprint in the snow to the center of a small grove of pines. Still weak and tired I gathered myself. I rose and looked at the vibrant green of the surrounding trees and heard the wind over their tops and outside their boughs. In the calm of this shelter I loosed the hood of my coat and started a small fire with the matches inside my pocket and dead branches I found lying at the base of a tree well. I hadn’t been there long, it seemed like mere minutes, when another person, face hidden behind the fur of a coat, glided into the grove and sat down across the fire from me. I looked up, my lips quivering from the cold, and asked the persons name in a slow, stumbled voice. Seconds passed and I got no reply so I asked again. The reply came silently; the person slid the fur hood gently off her head. I saw her long black hair and the dark skin of her face, taut in a smile, all freed by the falling of the hood. I sat still and said no more but tried to return the smile but the frozen corners of my mouth gave off a painful appearance. She looked away from me and I felt embarrassed and looked towards the ground. When I glanced back up she was removing her gloves. Surprised at her deft movements in the cold I watched as she reached deep inside her coat with agile fingers and pulled out a pot, filled it with snow, and held it over the fire. The metal belly warmed in the heart of the flames and the handfuls of snow transformed into bubbling, boiling water. She continued to smile at me and reached back into her coat; a market of ingredients came— potatoes, carrots, spices, and red meat. She tossed each into the boiling water and soon a rich smell rose up, pressed the crease of my lips and drifted up into my nostrils like perfume on the neck of a lover—insatiable and delicious. She stirred the pot with her head slightly down, shifting her glance back and forth between me and the boil from the corner of her eyes colored like oak grain. After many turns of a wooden spoon she picked up the pot, ladled some into a bowl, and handed the stew across the fire. My hands warmed and softened under the warmth of the bowl and the steam rising up covered my face like submersing the body into a hot springs. I thanked her in mumbles of gratitude and shaky bows but she ignored my praises and beckoned for me to eat by bringing both her hands up to her lips, still pressed in a smile. I composed myself, returned the gaze and nodded in understanding. Slowly I bent my head and brought the bowl up towards my lips when she began to move. Surprised, I watched her from across the fire. She began to loose her coat by pushing each individual button back through each hole and then untying the straps around her waist. She lifted the coat off her shoulders and let it fall softly to the snow-covered ground. Still holding the stew before my lips, having not yet taken a taste, I saw glimpses of her skin through the orange and yellow flicker. It looked smooth like bone but soft like fresh leather; the reflection of flames in her eyes like oak grain showed two freshly burning coals preparing to stoke a great fire that was now only an imagination. Right in front of my eyes the once small grove in The Barren began to expand, quickly becoming more vast than The Barren itself. The wind began to sing low in the treetops and steam rose up from her warm body when it contacted the cold night air. The Barren vanished behind a veil when the steam drifted ever closer to me, pressed up against the crease of my lips and came up into my nostrils like the perfume of a lover—insatiable and delicious.

Reading and Interpreting

*Note: I realize there may be 'holes' in my discussion and that some of the concepts are not very fully developed or adequately explained and defended but I feel that for this medium-- the blog-- it works as a useful discussion of the topic.*



Reading and Interpreting



As I was reading the Introduction to Kafka's "The Castle" I came across an interesting concept-- one I probably inherently know but never understood as written down into words. The author of the Intro., Irving Howe, makes a case for two different ways of understanding literature, reading and interpreting. For many of us, we consider the two different processes to be intertwined, which, I think they probably are. However, it is important to understand that they are not one and the same thing. Despite their overlap in practice each method does have its own unique eccentricities and definable characteristics. Placing emphasis on one or the other can, in some cases at least, give you two very different perspectives on the same text.

Not only do we confuse the two different acts we also assume that we know what reading is just from doing it, which gives us a feeling of what it is but not a verbal construction to judge it with. Try and define it into words and most peoples understanding of reading would probably become somewhat confused, lacking the conviction of understanding it outside of participating in the act of doing it. Throw interpreting into the mix by asking them to compare reading and interpreting by defining each term with the other in mind and the definitions would become even less stable. So, to provide some solid ground to get good footing on I'm going to base the following discussion on the quote that Irving Howe provides in "The Castle" Introduction; "A reading describes the text as scrupulously as possible, seeking to evoke its uniqueness; an interpretation transposes the text into a sequence of supplied meanings". Howe's definitions of reading and interpreting are especially applicable to the writing of Kafka and the placement of this assertion in an introduction to Kafka the reader needs to question if these are general definitions or just definitions specifically for Kafka scholars. I contend that these definitions are somewhat geared for Kafka but also hold up against any literature and perhaps against anything that can be "read" or "interpreted", which, according to the post-modern sway, is almost anything.

To get deeper into the conflict let's first address this definition of reading. To reiterate, Howe contends reading "describes the text as scrupulously as possible, seeking to evoke its uniqueness". For most of us, including some criticism camps concerned with reader response, reading is that feeling we ususally get from engaging in the general process of reading-- becoming immersed in the story and the special construction of events the author has put before us. To read is to trust the text and have the faith of the story; reading is like actually living the events somewhat void of criticisms that come from later reflection.

With reading somewhat under our belt now our focus can shift to interpreting. According to the Howe definition interpreting "transposes the text into a sequence of supplied meanings". Applying theory and various literary criticisms are all ways of interpreting. Juxtaposing the text with another system of meaning opens up the text for the interpreter. Interpreting makes the reader much less anxious with the "problems" a reader confronts. In some works, especially Kafka, the reader has to deal with problematic issues such as Gregor Samsa turning into a bug; we are tempted to focus on what turning into the bug could mean (alienation, disgust, loss of humanness) and rationalize the problem we have with a human being metamorphasizing into an insect. To interpret makes us more comfortable with the text by being able to prescribe concepts we are familiar and comfortable with to curb the anxiety of the unknowable.

Perhaps reading is like seeing the world as a metaphor while interpreting is understanding events like a simile. Adding the "like" or "as" (the simile) in understanding events establishes immediate distrust; the interpreter needs to grasp at external, familiar associations to most accurately pinpoint their cognitive location because of the lack of ability to completely trust in their initial feeling. Understanding the world without the "like" or "as" of the simile (the metaphor) revels in the faith of solid belief in a feeling and stance towards understanding that feeling. Consider reading as defined by pure-faith while interpreting is striving towards the same faith but encountering the world with an uncertainty similar to the lack of conviction as defined in the Uncertainty Principle-- we are unable to know both the speed and location of matter at the same time; to know any of this information we must interfere.

As I pursue understanding reading and interpreting most likely the question you the audience are begging me to address is this, "which is "better" (for lack of a more potent word), to read or to interpret?" This question, despite our feeling for it's necessity, is not a useful way of solving the problem. A better way to understand this issue is to ask "which method is better for what I am trying to accomplish?". Considering the ambitions of the reader allows the question to become much more answerable. For pure enjoyment most people would say to read is more enjoyable than interpreting but not everyone; some find the process of seeking connections between the text and the "supplied meanings" an enjoyable challenge. For scholars producing papers interpretation is the most employed method; again though, reading is not entirely absent from scholarly work. Possibly, in order to address whether to read or to interpret, the most basic question to ask is "how do I want the text to mean?".

The problems of whether to read or interpret does not only plague literature scholars but also the common pleasure reader. To the common reader, the process of interpreting can have it's positive and negative associations; A pleasure reader may say "I admire that interpretation of this book. It helps to broaden my understanding of it." However the opposite side may say "that interpretation was no where in this book. I don't see how you can read into information that wasn't written by the author. Doing that ruins the book by taking away from it." Who's right? Once again, I say both readers are right. Both reading and interpreting provide their own insights, neither of which is wrong, but only another perspective. In fact I would say that it is completely impossible (children, who greater posses the "suspension of disbelief" power, could be argued) to not engage in both, whether consciously or not. Only through vigorous involvement in and consideration of BOTH actions can the intellectual depth of the work-- and the reader-- be revealed.

Poem-- Eight Ball, Corner Pocket

* I wrote this poem in the Fall of 2008. It was later published in MSU's literary publication "Read This".


Eight Ball, Corner Pocket


A moment
gonna come.

In the dark damp of that sexy room,
I’m hunched over the velvety bed,
all the weight on my arms
like Atlas illuminated in low lights.
Remove my quivers
steady Apollo.
Make me a straight-shooter.
My fingers wrapped around this soft trigger
as Paris holds his bow.

A moment
gonna come.

I know the moment.
It’s the neon lights that line Main Street,
it’s the Jazz and Blues that come from the halls,
it’s the cigar smoke that wafts about the parlor
held close by the ceiling
like incense in the cathedral.

The moment is captured in that Pompeian ash
the men tap from their cigars
to separate wheat from chaff
and let their embers glow
perpetual.
Eternal.
Long, deep, pull—
Long, deep, blow.
Long, deep, pull—
Long, deep, blow.

Don’t let the moment be spoiled
by no hard breath
and no quick thrust.
That sunset strawberry is firm in my hands
and I anticipate its juice on my lips.
The moment
gonna come.

Let the moment hang.
Let the pendulum swing—
let the pendulum swing—
let the pendulum swing—
swing.

-Klok- The cue ball entices the eight into that deep romantic chasm.

A moment came.
Another moment
gonna come.

Poem-- Today You Will Be With Me In Paradise

* I wrote this poem in the Spring of 2009. It later was published in the MSU literary publication "Read This".

Today You Will Be With Me In Paradise



I.

I plunge a metallic screw
into the swollen cork
like performing rough surgery
on a bloated cadaver.
I am a human spirit,
wielding divine instruments,
waking my consummate body
from a deep slumber,
for the soul is not dead
but sleeping.
The world tips upside down
and the invaded capillary canal
spills out,
~glug~
~glug~
~glug~
paints my glassy eye
opaque.

Who was Eve?
She who held humanity in her hands
and dented its soft skin with her earthen fingers.

II.

riverrun red
on my lips
to my cavern throat
and bursts warm landscapes
from narrow chinks.
through an empty glass
i pluck elaborate rushes
but they quickly wilt
and the prettiest are always further
so i think in years
looooooong and lofty
until i see
Everything.

Who was Eve?
She who took the first bite, unveiled infinity,
and gazed upon it with her minds eye.

III.

I wake up outside
under the midday sun,
sweat on my face,
surrounded by
empty peels
of a fruit
idontknowitsname.
My feet feel a little torn.
I have never stepped barefoot on rocks before.

Who was Eve?
She who felt the pangs of Psyche’s birth,
and nurses her despite thorns and thistles of a harsh world.

When the young eyes open to watch the whole of creation consumed
they will see no Omega.

Untitled Poem

*Here is a poem I wrote last night before I went to bed. I was trying to sleep in my living room and I became inspired by the people in the apartment above me talking and I could hear it through my screen door. -- Adam Benson

Untitled


I try to fall asleep,
being rocked by the hum and buzz
of the electrics in my kitchen,
when I hear the voices of strangers.
They seep in the window
and invade my peace
like the catching up of family
outside the door of an old, dying man.
The talk of nephews and new grandchildren
glides past like the appearance of shadows
against the light shining through the crack underneath the door.
Finally, he requests the lone family member in the room with him,
sitting quietly,
to leave and join the chatter of the rest of the family
and now he is alone.
Blood pulsates in his brain
like knocking on a great oaken door
with rounded, brass door knockers.
His breathing becomes rhythmic and slow
and soon he falls asleep.
And I dream.

Possible Paper: Anxieties of the American Road

So I'm one of those freaks who considers researching and writing academic papers during the summer months when I'm supposed to be drinking some beer, swimming in lakes and scoping all the bikini clad girls from behind my shades and sun-blocked nose. However, I have the urge (yes, an urge) to write an academic paper; this is especially a good idea because when I apply for Grad School in a few months I'll need a "sample" of my critical writing between 10-12 pages. Hopefully this sample will be somewhat like the little spoonful of ice cream they give you free at Cold Stone so you'll buy some; I want my paper to say to various Grad. schools "mmmm.... I'm good ice cream. Buy me." However before I get over zealous about the Grad school hunt I should explain the basis for said paper.

This summer I've been reading a lot of different things-- mainly Franz Kafka and Italo Calvino. However, I also read The Road by Cormac McCarthy at the very beginning of the summer. After reading The Road and some of Kafka's novels, especially Amerika, I saw some possibility for a comparative literature piece despite how much I actually despise writing comparative literature pieces. You see, both The Road and Amerika come from some of the same raw materials. Each novel recounts the experiences of traveling through the country and trying to 'make your way' in America and each captures the anxiety of this burden. Kafka and McCarthy both construct the anxiety of their characters, Karl Rossmann in Amerika and the unnamed father & son in The Road, by juxtaposing the hopes, dreams and fantasies of what America could and should be with the America that they are actually experiencing.

The anxiety the two authors depict also are chronologically spread wide apart on the stages of these "imagined Americas". To research for Amerika, Kafka attended lectures that were being held on the budding country. Sometimes, his notions of America are completely intriguing because of the falsity of their assertions, although they can be based on completely real fact. An example is when Rossmann lands in America and sees the statue of liberty with the sword in her hand. As we all know, the statue of liberty has a torch but this imagined sword gives an interesting interpretation of nature of this new country for the immagrant to explore.

Likewise, The Road also is composed based on the imaginings of a largely imagined America. The landscape is bleak and gray as the result of some unnamed tragedy. Most of the population is gone and those that survived are struggling individuals or brutal bands of junkyard militia's with makeshift swords and clubs. There is no way to judge The Road in terms of falsity or truth because it is set presumably sometime in the future, but that too is unaccounted for, leaving the reader in an America overcome by a vertigo of whereabouts, lost, disoriented and anxious.

One could say that Kafka's Amerika captures the pre-apocalyptic rise of America while The Road captures the post-apocalyptic fall of America. These two novels represent similar perspectives of the American journey at diametrically opposed ends of the spectrum-- rise and fall. What we find though, is that this anxiety of being in America with the expectations of what that means dominates the characters and defines their journey. Both Rossmann and the father & son are striving to become what they perceive as a true American ideal; Rossmann by assimilating himself into this new land and the father & son by continuing the American legacy.

Despite their positions at opposing ends of the scale The Road does serve to provide a possible segway into a new rise, hinting at the end that perhaps 'the fire' will continue to burn and the long hoped for America, prophesied in the hopes of immigrants like Karl Rossmann, will become manifest again.

Possibly, although I have not read it yet, I would think that On the Road by Jack Kerouac could provide an interesting perspective of the Road narrative during a time of American opulence; a view from the peak of the climactic American experience after the rise of Kafka's Amerika and before the fall of McCarthy's The Road. I'm sure, although I have not read it.... yet, "On the Road" could illuminate some fascinating anxieties that come from the mind of the native-born and experienced American journeyman, a sharp contrast from both the immigrant Karl Rossmann and the immigrant-to-new-American-experience father/son duo.

Perhaps this topic for a paper is really worth pursuing and perhaps it is just an interesting study to look at superficially. However, it may come to fruition sometime in the next couple of months or it may wither shortly after this genesis but I'll be sure to keep you posted whatever comes about.

Unread Books...

In Italo Calvino's If on a winter's night a traveler he provides a description of being in the bookstore and seeing all of the books that you pique your desire. He speaks about the books you've always wanted to read, books you've told people you've read but never have and feel like you finally should, books that you planned to read after you've read other books, and the plethora of other books that attract you. He then uses the rest of traveler to explore the infinite possibilities of novels and their effects on the lives of the reader. This got me thinking about making the decision and commitment to read a book.

Each time we choose to read, to pursue the direction of one story, we also are choosing not to pursue other stories. I believe that most people have said to themselves 'I have always wanted to read that book.' It seems that every time we have to make a decision about what book to read, there is always more than one option. Sometimes, for some readers, there may not be though. Having just read the first Harry Potter book and having the second one available allows a lot of people to indulge their insatiable desire to continue the story-- was there really any other option than pursuing the second book?

Although the techniques and interpretations of one book can possibly be infinite like a verbal cosmos we still allow ourselves to come completely immersed in one story, as if it is being written page by page in front of our eyes. We root for Jesus and think that just maybe Pontious Pilate is going to pardon him of any offense placed on his head. Perhaps Grendel and his mother might slay Beowulf and end his heroic journey. Is Frodo going to actually be able to destroy the ring? Pursuing one story is undertaking an endeavor, a commitment to follow the path and discover what is at it's end.

But what about all the unread books? If a reader reads one book how is he/she supposed to consider the book that he/she did not choose? Was the cover fairly boring? Did the reader consider the author a hack? Subject matter not interesting? Maybe Barnes and Noble didn't have the book you really wanted? This begs the question: to any given reader does a book exist until it has been read by that reader? To not read a book is partially to deny it existence. However, it can exist in the sense that you've heard about the book, maybe some friends discussed it over coffee, or a cute girl you know was telling you about it while you hung on every word like a trapeze swinger. But the unread book, approximately a 8" x 5" x 1" space given the work, can allow you a space to navigate so large that until you have read it the book will remain like distant places you know only by name and would love to explore through touch, taste, sound, and sight as you glimpse them through an airplane window.

Blurb: 'Marcovaldo' by Italo Calvino

Blurb: 'Marcovaldo' by Italo Calvino


Marcovaldo is an Italian man whose schemes and dreams penetrate every crevice of available space that his position as a poor worker with a large family in industrial Italy can allow him. Whether discovering a secret grove of delicious mushrooms in the drab of the city or conducting an experimental treatment of Rheumatism these dreams and schemes often come to fruition but with tragic and comic conclusions beyond Marcovaldo's (and anyone else he's involved) vision. Each new pursuit leaves the reader rooting for Marcovaldo to realize his often universally felt desires. Italo Calvino's tales of the inspired Italian Marcovaldo applies a sharp-edged realism to the hopes and desires of everday life yet pleases the reader with his unmatchable charm.

Lunch Special

"Lunch Special"

By: Adam Benson


Most people don’t understand the difference between a landfill and a dump. The landfill is the place where other people take your trash. The same people that use the word “landfill” probably refer to their garbage as “waste”, as if it has some glamorous purpose like it’s the unfortunate by-product of human progression that has to be dealt with—as long as it’s dealt with by other people. The dump is the place where you have to go and work in the stinking rot. People that say “dump” call it “garbage”, “shit”, or just “trash”.

I spent a couple days working out at a dump. We were stationed right before a fork in one of the dump roads, just to the left of a big partitioned sign. The top half had a big arrow pointing right and said Consumer Waste- Plastic and Household Trash. The bottom half had a big arrow pointing to the left and said Trees and Shrubs, Grass Clippings, Fill Dirt, and Dead Animal Pit. These dump signs are like inanimate airport ground controllers. They funnel things where they need to go. Without the signs old junk would all get mixed together and there would be chaos. Everything has a place. Without some sort of designation where to put your trash you won’t have effective waste management. Something has to direct this trash here and that trash there, so they put up signs. The St. Peter’s of old shit.

My job was to deal with old tires—the black remains of mass transportation. I ran a big compactor/baler that would smash tires and put them into bales. I stood on a metal-latticed platform that was about three feet long and seven feet wide. It was dented all over from years of abuse. My boss drove a skid steer and shuttled me fresh old tires from a black mountain that cast shadows the wrong way to get shade this time of day. He’d dump them next to me on the platform, occasionally crushing my feet, and make my small space even smaller. I’d have to bend over, pick up the tire, and toss it into the jaws of the compactor. Some tires would have the tread torn and it was like picking up big, floppy, dead bodies. The exposed wires would cut my arms up like hungry fireants. After I threw about five or six tires in, I’d press down on a lever and the compactor would slowly smash the tires to the bottom. Then I’d push up on the lever and the crusher would rise up as slowly as it crushed. When each bale was done, you’d unlatch the heavy door and leave it to be picked up. They’d pick up these big black bales with another skid steer and set them on top of each other like a black rubber haystack.

Every time we’d make a new bale, I would walk over to the side of the machine, take my gloves off, and scratch a tally into the grease and grime that coated the hazard-yellow baler. Underneath the black mess there was an overly patriotic image of an Eagle clutching the American Flag with the name of the company who manufactured the machine. Each new tally would reveal bits and pieces of the image. A wing. A talon. The flagpole. Some stars and stripes. Was I supposed to take my hat off every time I looked at it?

After we had twelve or so tallies on the side of the compacter we would shut off the machine. I would sit down on the platform with my feet on the ground for the first time in five hours. My boss would get out of the skid steer and go turn on his truck.
“Hey. Time for lunch” he said.
“Okay.”

We ate almost every meal at Maggie’s Cafe. In the mornings we would wake up at five-thirty and go to Maggie’s for breakfast. I was always the only person under the age of fifty and the only one that didn’t have a hat with the name of a pesticide on it. Lunch was pretty much the same. The same old farmers from breakfast. Sometimes some new people would come in. I would always hope that some clean blonde girl with big breasts would walk in. She would give me something to think about later.
A waitress would come over. She had curly brunette hair trapped up in a hairnet and a dirty white apron. It looked like she was probably in her fifties. It was hard to tell with the tired bags under her eyes.
“What can I get for ya’” she asked.
“I’m going to get the hamburger,” I told her.
“Wha’dya want on it?”
“Uh, just lettuce, tomatoes, and ketchup please.” I wondered if this was Maggie or just some waitress.
“Sure hon,” she said as she scribbled down my order on a notepad. “What about you?” she asked my boss.
“I’ll have the half-special.”
“Alright. One hamburger—lettuce tomatoes and ketchup, and one half-special” she said looking at my boss.
“Sounds fine,” my boss told her. She walked back towards the kitchen. My boss watched her until she was out of reach and then lurched forward onto his palms.
“Why didn’t you get the special?”
“Huh? I didn’t want the special. I wanted a hamburger.”
“Yeah well, when you come to a place like this you always get the special. There's good reasons to get the special.”
“I wanted a hamburger.”
“See Adam, if you get the special they have it all ready in the back and you can get it quick. If we get our food quick, we can get back to work quick. It’s even better to get the half-special because you get more than half the food for half the price.”

We ate. My boss paid the ticket and left some paper and coins on the table. I slid back into his truck and he drove us back out to the dump. I rolled down my window and stuck my face out to avoid listening to Rush Limbaugh. The hot air felt pretty good on my face. Sometimes I had to keep my eyes shut from the dust that passing dump trucks would kick-up. The sagebrush out there looked real tough like old men who don’t give a damn what you think and aren’t afraid to tell you so.

I turned the machine back on and cringed at the deafening mechanical sound. I got back on the platform, threw some tires into the compactor, and laid weight onto the lever. The big hydraulic presser inched down, bending tires and flattening them against the bottom. I stuck my head over the edge where the safety gate was supposed to be closed. Clouds of dust and grime sprayed out. You’re never supposed to watch it crush. Sometimes an inflated tube gets left in the tire and it explodes up into your face. The burst throws flak of dump up into your eyes like shrapnel from a grenade you were standing over. You have stop working for a moment trying to figure out if your blind or not and your boss starts yelling to get back to work. You don’t hear him over the ringing in your ears. You stand there, deaf and blind, when your mind starts to wander. You start thinking about lunch at Maggie’s. You think about the tired waitress and the old men with pesticide hats. You think about that girl you saw in her summer shorts and that hamburger with lettuce and tomatoes and ketchup you ate for lunch— goddamn that was a good hamburger.
I stared down deep into that black mass of tires writhing and twisting under the hydraulic compactor. The tires began to wheeze in dying breaths and the rusty wheels cracked like old bones. Dust poured into my nostrils and lungs, drowning in a vast ocean of dry particles where your feet don’t touch bottom. And yet, I stood staring down through each clogged breath, like an astronomer gazing out over the whole universe, willing to sacrifice it all for a chance to have a revelation, an epiphany, to feel the big bang and see the world as you never have seen it before or feel like you will never see it again. My gaze was in a black hole where everything is trapped and light struggles like tied in stiff ropes. Time is so bent and misshapen that the moment is a portrait, a masterpiece, hanging from a nail and an old rusted wire on an unpainted wall in the living room for everyone to see.
And then there is no explosion and it is all over.

Fastball

"Fastball"

By: Adam Benson


When I was fourteen I stood on a hill of bare earth and looked down over the rest of the world. I stood on this mound framed in lights like those that illuminate paintings in the galleries and people from all around would squint and shade their eyes like staring at the sun. Like a long prophesied messiah, come down and freshly glistening, they watched me, hoping to revive the dormant spring like the first glimpse of green grass through patches of melting snow. Their eyes groped for me in the center of a kaleidoscope of black cast shadows.
Some appeared to be more affected than others. While the women munched on hot-butter popcorn and chatted amongst themselves the fathers and grandfathers all sat still in their bleacher seats. Looking out over the groomed infield dirt and the freshly cut outfield grass made them feel old. They remembered when they were boys and sweat fell from the brim of their caps onto the grass. They remembered pounding their fists into the pockets of their leather mitts and shouting at their friends, “c’mon! Throw it in there, throw it in there!” How long ago that was the dormant spring of boyhood. Now they sat hunched over in the bleachers, elbows resting on their old knees ready to fall into the seat in front of them as if trying to plunge through the chainlink fence back onto the field. Their hands clenched and eyes shifted to the invisible line between the mound and the plate. Each waiting for the moment when I would swing my arm like a workman’s hammer and build a memorial more impressive than any of them had seen before. Some remembered standing up on that mound of bare earth, surrounded by lights under the eyes of their fathers and looking down over the rest of the world.
I pulled the ball out of my mitt and reached far back behind my shoulder. I looked down the invisible rope that led into the catchers mitt. When the ball left my callous fingertips it would glide down that line like the fine fibers of a bow across the strings of a cello— the listener anticipating warm, deep reverberations in their chest. My arm came forward. The multitude leaned forward and sucked in its breath waiting to hear the ball pop into warm leather surrounded by the buzzing of fireflies and humming of trees on a cool June night.

My favorite author???

Having just read a lot of Italo Calvino, I'm pretty comfortable saying that I believe I would consider him my favorite author. I've been entranced by his blissful use of dream, meta-commentary, parable, and other devices he employs. Simply put, his stories are so inventive and fresh that I'm instantly attracted to their charm and at times find them impossible to put down. I can't help but deny And I'm excited that he has so many things published that I will be able to read... right now it's "Marcovaldo" and then it's on to "The Non-Existent Knight, and The Cloven Viscount". Ahhh.... it's been a good summer of reading.