Moving Day

Moving Day by Helen Train Hilles (1954) This is a charming, old, library book, beat up but indestructible, for kids (it says: “Ages 5 to 8”—which seems narrow to me, but what do I know about children's reading levels). It's especially appealing because of these great wood-cut-like illustrations by Jean Tamburine. It's probably meant to be helpful for kids who are going through the weirdness of moving from their childhood home to somewhere new—which is something I didn't go through as a kid—and I'm thankful about that, and also feel a bit like I missed out on something. This family moves from a house into a brand new housing project apartment block. The kids are pretty alienated by the new place, but they adjust. There are a few odd details—this is over half a century ago, after all. When they are packing, they put a lot of odds and ends into some old-fashioned barrels, you know, like wooden barrels—packed with excelsior. Then the movers just take the barrel. This seems to make a lot of sense—that's the hardest part of moving—all the little stuff that doesn't seem to fit in anywhere, but you have to handle it. I wonder why we've gotten away from using barrels for anything?

Homer Price

Homer Price by Robert McCloskey (1943) This was one of my favorite books when I was a kid, and I've carried around a copy with me ever since, but I hadn't actually read it in so long, it was like a new book to me. It was actually pretty surprising, how strange these six stories are, funny and sophisticated. It's also illustrated by Robert McCloskey, and he's one of the best. I'm not going to take the time to describe each of these stories—they're all quite different—except for one, called “The Doughnuts”—probably the most well-known—a short film was made from it, and you can watch it on youtube. I was surprised to find a piece of paper in the book, with a handwritten short story I wrote, called “The Doughnuts”—I might get around to reading that, sometime—who knows. The story in the book is about a Homer's uncle's lunch counter, where one evening his automatic doughnut machine goes berserk and keeps making doughnuts—like thousands of them. It really appeals to the imagination, and the excellent illustrations don't hurt! As a young man I discovered a diner in my hometown that had a similar doughnut machine—which became one of my personal seven wonders of the world. One more thing—I started writing a novel in the late 1990s, and I've worked on it on and off since—but finally finished it this month. It went through several different titles in its long and involved evolution, and I'm not exactly sure when I finally settled on the title, The Doughnuts, but that's what it is.

Chuck Klosterman X

Chuck Klosterman X by Chuck Klosterman (2017) This book is titled Chuck Klosterman X, I guess, not just X, and is a pretty hefty collection of articles he wrote for magazines, with a good index—I got it out of the library to read one specific thing, but since we have not been able to return library books, I put it in the bathroom and it served as my on-the-toilet reading for a significant part of the quarantine. I hope that doesn't gross anyone out—I wash my hands as much as the next guy, if not more. Anyway, it was a great book for that, really fun and comforting and intellectually stimulating, and I read it from cover to cover. He writes about various popular culture, though about music and sports, primarily—two of my major interests—but the standouts for me were an article about nostalgia, and one about social media, both of them a bit mind-expanding. And also a few of the interviews, particularly ones with Stephen Malkmus and Jimmy Page, because I like those guys. But also, it was fun reading the interviews and profiles about people I knew nothing about. Oh, also, an article about the Cleveland Browns is pretty great. The longest and possibly most impressive piece in the book is an extensive examination of the band KISS—the extent of it! If Klosterman was ever forced to present himself to the “Master of Lunacy”—as in the movie The Ruling Class (1972)—he'd be wise to leave this bit of evidence out of his defense. Hopefully it doesn't come to that, however, because, for me, he does as much as anyone to provide a voice of sanity in this unhinged world none of us are going to escape from.

Ginny Gordon and the Mystery at the Old Barn

Ginny Gordon and the Mystery at the Old Barn by Julie Campbell (1951) This is the third Ginny Gordon book, and she her friends fix up an old barn, call it the Snack Barn, where they will serve food to the locals. She and her friends call themselves “The Hustlers” (this was well before The Hustler with Paul Newman, “Do the Hustle,” and Hustler magazine—Larry Flynt would have been about nine when this book came out, so who knows). The problem with their plan is a “Hillbilly” singer (who plays accordion) from Kentucky has showed up in town and started singing at the Inn (an established place in town), and he's made such a big splash, they're afraid it will kill their new business before it gets established. This singer, whose name is Lochinvar, is so charismatic, you'd think he was Elvis, but this book came out in 1951, a few years before the Elvis' first records. For a long stretch, this book just seems like it's going to be comic episodes of mishaps at the Snack Barn and Ginny's friends trying to thwart the singer, but eventually a really convoluted and exciting mystery develops. I won't give it away, because I assume if you're reading this, you'll likely want to read this book.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling (1997) It's kind of shocking to realize the first Harry Potter book came out 23 years ago—it feels like a very recent thing to me. But then, 1997 feels like just yesterday to me, as well. Because these books were such a big thing, and are such a big part of our culture, I felt like I should read one. If I loved it, maybe I'd read them all, since I'm someone who reads children's books regularly, anyway. I enjoyed this book for the most part, since it's a forward-moving, exciting story, and there are some pretty odd details here and there. But I don't think I'll read more—for one thing, there are seven books—and it seems like they all get longer, too! It's no surprise to me that the book is well-written, and the characters are well-drawn, etc.—I expected that. I was thinking I might find some clue within that points to such an immense popularity, but I can't find it. I'm sure there are countless things written about that, somewhere, but in a way, I'm not sure if I really care, because that would be similar to trying to figure out the why the immense popularity of all the immensely popular books—as well as movies, music, etc.—that have little if any appeal to me. I mean, at least I thought this book was entertaining. A lot of popular stuff I find to be garbage. My major problem with Harry Potter has to do with subject matter—I'm just not interested at all in the entire realm of “wizards”—which includes all the wizard books and movies ever made. Unless someone can convince me that there are actual, real wizards in the world (I'm sure that many people do believe this), whenever I come across a wizard story, I just keep flipping the channel. In a more general way of looking at it, I'm not that interested in “fantasy.” A lot of people love fantasy, and sometimes I wonder why I don't. Is it that they just have a more visceral connection to the metaphorical side of fantasy stories—where someone like me can see it, but not feel it? Or maybe there is something else—say how some people are easily bored by the commonplace, while I'm enchanted by it. I'm not saying one way of looking at things is better than the other, but there sure is a difference! As a final, positive, note, here's a quote I wrote down, from the end of story pretty much, that I like a lot—this is said by Dumbledore, about the scary, evil wizard, who previously, people refused to even name: “Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.” I feel like that is kind of the heart of the whole thing, ultimately—it's a strong and important idea. I do kind of wonder if that idea is explored in further books. Anyway, if that's a message that gets through to kids (or anyone) reading this book, that's a good thing.

X Marks the Spy

X Marks the Spy by Jack Lancer (1967) This is the first of the Christoper Cool TEEN Agent books, a six book series from the late Sixties—I saw several of them at an antique store—I'd never seen them, or heard of this series, so kind of against my better judgment, I bought the first one. As expected, it's kind of a teen version of James Bond, though without the sex, drinking, smoking, and gambling that teens are famous for. The action story is not my thing, but I wanted to get through it—though it was a bit of a struggle. Chris is kind of a frat-boy, and his co-agent is named Geronimo Johnson, who is an Apache. At least they are somewhat of equal stature—he's not just there for comic relief. There's also a young woman agent, Spice Carter, who I suspect Chris is attracted to, but they're just too busy for much fooling around. Probably the most ridiculous escapade in the book is, at one point, in order to attend a crucial event, Chris puts on an impromptu disguise as a Swahili by donning an ornate curtain and applying some spy makeup to his face and hair. Mostly, though, I found the book only mildly offensive, but also, oddly, too contemporary for me. It's funny, a lot of my favorite movies and music is from the early Seventies or so, but with kids' series books, I have to go back a few more decades before I find them interesting, for the most part. I'm not sure why that is.

The Riddle in Red

The Riddle in Red by Betsy Allen (1948) This is the second Connie Blair Mystery, and next to the first (The Clue in Blue), it feels a little claustrophobic, maybe just because most of it deals with her new job as a receptionist at an ad agency. Maybe it's a little too close to home. But then, I really liked the first one a lot, so there's a lot to live up to. Again Connie Blair heads out of her small home town, to Philadelphia, and stays with her very cool aunt—this time she's landed a job at pretty fancy-pants ad agency. It starts out with some real true-to-life job stuff—kind of oppressive, but Connie has a good attitude. Soon she gets mixed up in a mystery involving this intense woman who is the head a cosmetics company. It's funny, I just saw a Columbo episode that was centered on the cosmetics industry, and I swear a couple of the characters, including the cosmetics woman (who is also the murderer, played by Vera Myles) are based directly on this book! It was kind of eerie! I won't say what happens in this story (very different than the Columbo) but it is a pretty good mystery, with a satisfying conclusion. The two Connie Blair mysteries that I've now read were both good, and much better written than most of these series book—I mean, kind of strikingly well-written, at least in my opinion (I am, of course, an adult who reads kids' books). So I'm definitely planning on reading the next one—and maybe even the entire series (there are only 12 in all). They each have the name of a color as part of the title, like the Travis McGee books. I'm kind of a sucker for stuff like that.

The Mystery of Cabin Island

The Mystery of Cabin Island by Franklin W. Dixon (1929) This is the eighth Hardy Boy Mystery and a favorite one to many, including me. It doesn't have the best mystery, and it doesn't have the high weirdness of many of the original texts of the early Hardys, but it's maybe the best winter kid's book I've read—and I love the winter ones. The Hardys, Frank and Joe, along with friends Chet and Biff, get permission to spend Christmas week at a rustic cabin on an island out in the bay near where they live. They reach it by ice boat (there's a lot of ice boating action in this book). There are some intense snow storms, of course—almost the highlight of the book for me. Being in a cabin, in weather, and making good food. You almost don't need a mystery. But there is one, with some unsavory characters—though no one really too bad, which is actually kind of nice. Oh, also, there's clue involving a cipher! You can't beat that (and you can try to solve it yourself, if you like that kind of thing). The only downside of this book, for me, was almost an entire chapter involving a fox hunt (if you're a hunter, you might be into this). These were different times. The kids have guns with them. I could never hunt animals, and especially not foxes—there are some near where I live, and they're pretty cute! I used to get a Hardy Boy book every Christmas when I was a kid, and it must have been a pretty good one the year I got this book and started reading it next to the fireplace. I've read it over several times since. That first night they're on Cabin Island, a delicious dinner, and then to bed with the wind howling—and then the ghost! It's the best.

This Planet is Doomed

This Planet is Doomed by Sun Ra (2011) I bought a copy of this book the last time (I think) I was in New York, at a small bookstore—and it just really cheered me up—it's the kind of book that's nice to have—“the science fiction poetry” of Sun Ra, who I was, and still am, a big fan of. I saw him and his “Arkestra” play in Columbus, Ohio, at a fairly small club, sometime in the 80s, I think, and it was pretty inspiring. He recorded a lot of music over the years, some of it pretty out there, but when I'm in the mood for it, there's nothing better. Like most poetry books, I didn't read through this from cover to cover—I pick it up now and then and try to find something that connects with me. It's nice to let the words wash over you, or if you're feeling up to it, read one really closely. Sun Ra claimed to have visited Saturn, and even though that's a pretty outrageous story, I more or less believe him.

On Writing

On Writing by Stephen King (2000) This book is subtitled “A Memoir of the Craft” and is part memoir and part advice for young, new, or aspiring writers, as well as people like me, old, old, aspiring writers. There is a lot of plain advice in this book, stuff you might get from other books about writing, or good teachers of writing. Some of it is stuff I learned and forgot. You've got to keep relearning that stuff, like with any other activity, like brain surgery or baking—though, unlike, apparently, riding a bike. Besides this advice, and nuts and bolts stuff, he also talks about why he started writing, how things happened for him, his writing habits, and most significant of all, I feel, the joy he gets from it. Relating all this stuff—in writing, naturally—is easy to understand and compelling to read. I guess there's a reason he sells so many books—he's a really good writer. Also, pretty likable. That shouldn't be surprising necessarily, except that many, many people who are even near his level of success and wealth seem to be raging assholes. Oh, and the last part of the book is his account of this terrible accident he was in, and how it affected him. It sounds like he's lucky to be alive, and grateful to be alive, and grateful for all his success, too. I've never read a novel by Stephen King (generally horror is not my thing—I mean, it's not, at all), but I might read one now. I was happy to read this book, found it helpful and inspirational.

My Struggle: Book 1

My Struggle: Book1 by Karl Ove Knausgaard (2009) My friend Elissa and I once joked how we'd write a book called the Bible—just the idea seemed like the most punk rock thing you could do—but seeing how “bible” has been appropriated by everyone writing guides, from experts to idiots, it feels much more punk rock to name your book Min Kamp, since Hitler is a guy most people still shy away from sharing a bunkbed with. And seeing how the English title, My Struggle, practically gift-wraps easy, humorous reviews by lazy book critics, you kind of have to admire Karl Ove Knausgaard as someone who seems not to give a fuck. And writing about barely or not disguised close friends and family in intimate detail would seem to confirm that. On the other hand, you sense he cares deeply about people, as well, and the world at large, as well as the most minute corner of his experience—and I think those seemingly contradictory elements are partly responsible for this six volume literary home-run. Personally, I did have trouble getting through Book One, but then I was really impressed with how he slowed things down to such an insane extent the further you got into it—so the ending section, about putting things in order at his father's house, after his death—it's kind of incredible. It might take him a page to roll a cigarette. Seeing how I love the approach of elevating the mundane, blurring memoir and fiction, and all with straight-ahead crystal clear style, you'd think this is the book for me. I did like it, too, even if it took my slow reading self a long time to get through it. Where I didn't connect, I guess, is just the slightly alien flavor of another country, a marriage, children (his childhood, and I'm guessing, in later books, his children). So I did enjoy reading this one, but the next five, I don't think so.

The Moving Picture Girls at Oak Farm

The Moving Picture Girls at Oak Farm by Laura Lee Hope (1914) The subtitle of this book is: Or Queer Happenings While Taking Rural Plays. I love how old books used to have subtitles—I wonder if that's something I should make a point in doing—that is, if I ever write fiction again. Laura Lee Hope, of course, is not a person, but a name the publisher used as an author for any number of series books. Sometimes you can find out who the real author is if you dig deep enough. Whoever wrote this one might have authored any number of series books at the time. This book is really well-written, just surprisingly so. For a book that's over 100 years old, it has a fairly contemporary sensibility—I think anyone could read this now and enjoy it as a somewhat comic mystery of about a troupe of filmmakers who go to the country and stay on a farm in order to shoot silent film that is then processed back in New York and put out as entertainment. A lot of the ideas, sensibility, frustrations, and problems with filmmaking was, apparently, then pretty much exactly the same as it is now! There are a lot ongoing threads and gags about the characters' envy of each other, and stage actors feeling film is beneath them, and the kind of focused craziness of the filmmakers to capture images. Several times there are fiascos and mistakes that turn out to be interesting on film and reroute the direction of the stories being made. There are a lot of characters—more than I could easily follow, so I just let it flow and didn't worry about it. There's a fairly predictable mystery running through the story, of course, that has a satisfying outcome. Did I mention that there is a bee swarm? I don't want to give anything away, but the chapter with the bee swarm is particularly exciting, well-written, and even educational! I was pretty excited to find this book, as it was the first I'd heard of the Moving Picture Girls, and the book itself, judging by endpaper ads, is likely from the early Twenties, so it's kind of exciting just handling something that old—and exactly in the fashion for which it was intended—lying in bed reading, engaging my imagination. I liked this one enough to read another of the series, if I ever find one—the title of the next adventure, Snowbound, is particularly appealing to me.

The Secret of the Caves

The Secret of the Caves by Franklin W. Dixon (1929) Even though you can't beat the title of this book (The Secret of the Caves!), it's not a very good Hardy Boy mystery. It's probably my least favorite of the ones I've read lately. It's written by Leslie McFarlane, the original Hardy Boys author, but remember, he was just cranking these out (and other series books) for a meager paycheck. The writing is pretty flaccid, especially the adventure segments, which is what most of the book is... one rescue after another, that includes the sea, cliffs, and caves. Not enough mystery and too much danger, for me. Either of the Hardys could have been killed three or four times—really, the series should have been over after seven books, ending with friends putting flowers on their graves. There's the usual storm that comes up suddenly, at least (my favorite story element), and there are some pretty good descriptions of these mind-numbingly vast caves. What is kind of weird is the last book (The Shore Road Mystery) also took place at the caves, and one of criminals in that story has escaped from jail. The Hardys re-capture him (a guy named Carl Schaum!) only because they happen upon him while he's drunk and passed out on the beach! That's just a side plot, but the main story is similarly only solved due to coincidence. There's just not enough food, not enough hijinks, and most of all, not enough weirdness to make this a memorable Hardy Boys adventure. The good thing is that the next book, The Mystery of Cabin Island, is one the best, if not the best.

The Invisible Chimes

The Invisible Chimes by Margaret Sutton (1932) This is Number 3 in the series of Judy Bolton Mysteries, and I have to say, more than a lot of series books, it pays to read these in order. You could get to the bottom of this one, I guess, but to understand the resolution of the mystery with any depth, you really need to have read the previous book, if not the first two. Which is okay, and kind of great in a way. Also, it would be terrible of me to give away pretty much any of this story to anyone who might read it. I highly recommend Judy Bolton—there's a whole world here, and quite a bit different than her contemporaries Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. The one thing I will say is that it's a pretty serious story, even a little heavy, but not unpleasantly so—you just need to invest in it a little. It's almost not a kid's book, unless kids were smarter in the Thirties than adults are now—which may very well be the case. Not that there isn't a lot of fun stuff, and some nice old book details, like near the end, someone is going to make Floating Island Pudding, which I've never heard of. Of course, one can find a recipe on the internet, but I want to find a restaurant that has it, or a person who's made it. Like, does the term “floating island” even make any sense? I searched for that, images, and it was like looking at the (actual) X-files—scary, watch out—rabbit-hole to another dimension—there's a signpost up ahead—one that says: “Floating Island / 2 Miles”—and I'm sorry, but it scares me a lot more than a Treacle Tart.

Elroy Nights

Elroy Nights by Frederick Barthelme (2003) I kind of ignored Frederick Barthelme because I got him mixed up with Donald Barthelme (his brother) and John Barth (dumb of me) and Barth Hudson (just kidding), but then I read something David Shields wrote about him and it made me think I'd like his books. Then I also read that he was in the Red Crayola (a band from the early Eighties; I had one of their records—it was great—I wish I still had it). He has published a lot of novels, so somehow I picked this one—it's about an art professor in or near Biloxi, Mississippi, separated from his wife, who gets involved with a student. We're in a point in time where pretty much all women are going to roll their eyes at this summary, and most men will express disapproval. But what can I say, we are attracted to youth. As an officially “older” person, I have to accept that, I'm forced to, and it's best to not take it personally—I mean the perception of me as old. A story about an old guy who's attracted to a young woman can be okay, even quite compelling, if it's handled in an interesting way, and for me, this was. Frederick Barthelme is considered a minimalist, I guess—all I know is, after reading this, I like his writing. It's effortless to read and feels like it was effortless to write, though it probably wasn't. Among the wide world of novelistic stories, people probably consider this one as a story in which nothing happens, but for me (and I guess I'm kind of extreme as far as my personal story preferences go), far too much happened. I would have been cool with much less. I could read endless novels about breakfast at Waffle House and little else. I might add that the dialogue was almost painfully naturalistic—I don't know if I've read anything where I was more convinced by the dialogue. So much so that I think it made me yearn for stylized, unnatural dialogue. All this sounds like criticism, and maybe it is, but I loved this book, and I intend to read more by him.

The Red Notebook

The Red Notebook by Paul Auster (2002) This was a case of my spotting this thin paperback on the floor of a bookstore, buying it impulsively, and reading it right away—I'd not heard of this book, don't usually read short stories, and I wasn't looking to read anything by Paul Auster, though I've liked his books in the past. I guess this is a collection of previously published stories, put together here because of the theme of coincidence—which is one of my favorite subjects—I'm fascinated with the question. Is everything connected? I think it is, but whether that happens externally, with a grand structure, or if it's about us, and our perceptions—that's the question. I'm inclined to believe that there is no perception of the world without memory, and there is no memory without narrative, so it is us—but that doesn't, thankfully, explain everything. One might ask, about this book, is it actually “True Stories” (as it's subtitled) or is it fiction?—I don't ask that. I believe it to be both, at the same time. What I ask is, why is this writing so compelling? Everyone has these stories, so you'd think everyone could write this book. But try it. That's all I do, pretty much, is try it. Mostly you come up with a mass of words that are flatter than a pancake, and not nearly as tasty. Syrup just makes it worse. I've always found Paul Auster's voice to be both alien and like my best friend, at the same time, and I have no idea why. I suppose he's the old-fashioned magician, but a good one—he can be corny, but you can't figure out what he's doing, or why you love it so much, but you do—or I do anyway. I'll probably read this again sometime, if I don't loan it out to someone.

The Secret at Lone Tree Cottage

The Secret at Lone Tree Cottage by Carolyn Keene (1934) This is a Dana Girls Mystery, the first one I've ever read, and the second of the series. Carolyn Keene is the pen name attributed to the Nancy Drew series, of course, though there were ultimately many actual authors for that series as well as this one. According to Jennifer White, whose excellent Series Books for Girls website I refer to often, this title was actually written by Leslie McFarlane, who wrote the first many, and best, Hardy Boys titles. Unfortunately, of all the old series books I've read recently, I like this one the least, so I don't think I'll pursue or peruse more Dana Girls. I'm a slow reader and want to read more Judy Bolton and Connie Blair (my two recent favorites) and also check out other odd series books, and there are a lot out there. Not that this one was terrible—I enjoyed it—I just felt like it was a bit tedious, could have been much shorter, and the the two Dana sisters, Jean and Louise, didn't come to life for me enough that I could even remember which one was which. There were some interesting things, like this old guy character who complains about everything, and everyone tiptoes around, fearing his wrath and for his health. It's a great portrait of that type of patriarchal tyrant, so familiar and too prominent in most people's lives. Also, the bad guy was pretty slippery, even to the point of being disguised as a woman, which struck me as particularly fun and creepy, and likely a Leslie McFarlane touch, as his original Hardy Boys texts are full of odd and sometimes mildly disturbing details that make them worth rereading.

Dandelion Wine

Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury (1957) I put this book on my reading list every summer because for as long as I can remember I get it out every spring with intention to reread it. I have, in the past, several times, but in recent years I've just been continuing where left off from the previous year. It's about a small, Midwestern town in the summer, told mostly from the point of view of a 12-year-old boy. I've read that it's based a lot on Ray Bradbury's childhood—it takes place in the summer of 1928, but it's pretty timeless. On one hand it's pure nostalgia, but it's a lot more than that. I really feel like it gets at what is magical and unexplained in the world, and so I keep finding new stuff in it, every time I read it. It also touches on a lot of tragedy and sadness. It's about death as much as anything. I think I first read it for my freshman high school English class, and Mr. Kimball was a little frustrated that people didn't get it, but I felt like I did—that's when I first fell in love with Dandelion Wine. I think it's a pretty adult book, though, ultimately. More than a proper novel, it's actually a collection of related short stories (many have been published alone, in magazines), but it can be read as a novel, or you can skip around. This one chapter really struck me this time—interesting, because I used to think it was pretty corny. It's about this newspaper reporter who sees a photograph of a beautiful woman in the paper, so he looks her up, and it turns out that she only let one photo of her ever be published, taken when she was young, and now she is 95. He tells her that, and oddly, she had some similar strange connection to him, and they begin meeting up and become friends, for a short time, anyway, until she dies. The odd thing is, when I first read this, I think I read it more from the perspective of the 12 year old (who is friends with the reporter) and thought it was merely kind of interesting. Later, I read it more from the perspective of the reporter, and thought it was a little sentimental and corny. Now, however, I'm reading it more from the perspective of the old woman, and this time it really broke my heart. I stopped there for the summer—but I'll pick it up again next year.

The Case of the Gone Goose

The Case of the Gone Goose by Scott Corbett (1966). This is the first book of the “Inspector Tearle” series, about a twelve-year-old detective, his sister, and their friend, who are trying to solve the mystery of three geese, at a local farm, who are being beheaded one by one. The story is mostly tedious and the mystery not very satisfying, and the protagonist, Roger Tearle, is so full of anxiety—you see a lot of antacid in his future. The appeal to me, the star of this series, is the treehouse that the kids use as their headquarters. It's nothing special (though it is equipped with a phone and a filing cabinet)—just a treehouse—built in a tree right next to the Tearle residence. Though, you know, everything is special about a treehouse—that's the point. When I was that age, we didn't have any mysteries, at least that we were able to solve, but we did have a lot of forts, hideouts, and clubhouses. A secret cave in a woodpile covered by building materials, guarded by snakes. An old pigeon coop (shared with pigeons). A room in a detached garage attic. A shack in the woods in which we dug a basement and 20 foot tunnel. A treehouse in the woods, high up, with a floor, ceiling, walls, and windows—a treehouse! Were there any adults involved in building any of this stuff? No adults!

10:04

10:04 by Ben Lerner (2014) I think I heard about Ben Lerner from David Shields, writing about various authors whose work crosses the line, back and forth, from fiction and non-fiction, or maybe erases the line, which is something I'm interested in, at least reading. I'm not sure about doing it. Well, I do do it, but I also just like fiction—I like making things up. Okay, I guess I'm there, as far as stuff I write, and I relate to the approach in this book, but I also would not take quite this approach. It's hard to explain. I was always attracted to the earlier, kind of more crude versions of erasing that line, like in some works by John Barth, and Richard Brautigan, etc. I guess some of that's called “post-modernism” and also “metafiction.” To me, those kind of labels and categories aren't very helpful, unless it's helpful in finding other similar stuff. So anyway, the story in 10:04 is about an unnamed character (so it may as well be Ben Lerner) who is in New York during this specific period of time, that happens to be framed by Hurricane Irene and Hurricane Sandy—which is when I was living in NYC, and so a lot of this is both historically and geographically familiar to me: Christian Marclay's The Clock, The High Line, post 911, pre-Trump. Other major references are the movie Back to the Future (1985) and the 1986 Space Shuttle disaster (which Ben Lerner is almost too young to remember, but I happened to experience while living in NYC, the first time I lived there). A lot of this book is also about the author's struggle with a possibly catastrophic medical condition, and attempts to be a sperm donor for a close friend... so there's birth and death, which adds a lot of weight to the narrative, while also, in my case, creating considerable distance. Ben Lerner is an interesting character (i.e., real person) in that in this kind of rarified literary world he's a rock star, a Superstar, i.e., he's the guy, while at the same time, not a household word, and in fact virtually unknown (certainly among my friends, family, co-workers, and the man on the street), which makes him, in a way, exactly the person I want to be. But I wouldn't trade places with him for a million dollars, all the tea in China, or that elusive “happiness”—which I guess brings me back to a kind of self-reflection where I realize that I love my life, am eternally grateful for it and happy about it, even while recognizing that, as a career, or looking at it from “above,” it's a disaster, a car-wreck, and an absolute failure. But anyway, thanks Ben Lerner!