David Patneaude's Blog: Different Worlds, page 3
March 15, 2013
Review-THE YIDDISH POLICEMEN'S UNION
The funny thing is, well before I read this book I sometimes thought to myself that the whole middle east conflict would maybe go away if we just opened up our country to all the Israelis and had them give up Israel (I know--a huge leap) to whomever wanted it and move here. Maybe we could let them have Kansas or Wyoming, although Mississippi or Utah might be more interesting choices. Texas? Possibly. Wasn't Rick Perry, Texas's fine governor (and presidential candidate for a day) talking of seceding anyway? But with this book, Michael Chabon beat me to the punch, at least in a literary sense, with his story of the Jewish state, rather than setting up in Israel, locating to Alaska after World War Two. It's well imagined and authentic in its depiction of what a large Jewish settlement/state would look like in Sarah Palin (vice presidential candidate for a day) country. Once the author gets you firmly established in the improbable setting and what is for most readers a somewhat foreign or at least exotic culture, he weaves in a story of a diligent but troubled cop sniffing out the residue of a crime and at the same time trying to cope with shady characters and his own personal problems. Interesting and engaging stuff, and Michael Chabon pulls it off well. His talent takes an appealing but complex premise and makes it work.
March 14, 2013
Dancing Butterfly
Dancing butterfly
brings life to fading lilac,
stays for the winter
brings life to fading lilac,
stays for the winter
March 13, 2013
On My Way to the Sudoku
On my way to the Sudoku I glance at the obituary page
and glimpse a familiar smile on a familiar face and my breath abandons me,
leaving an aching vacuum in my chest, because I saw this familiar man—James,
the obituary says, but I knew him as someone with the more affable name Jim—
only a couple of weeks ago, full of life, in the locker room at the Y,
where we traded pleasantries almost daily, and he gave me his usual hello then,
as always a little wistful but amiable in a genuine sort of way.
He had arthritis, an affliction that slowed his walk and stooped his shoulders,
but didn’t keep him from greeting the guys dressing nearby or wandering past,
and everyone said hi back at him, which is how I came to know his name
(formal introductions don’t fly when you’re half-naked or dripping sweat).
He was a lap swimmer, and I once asked him about his swim fins and he took
the time to tell me about them and where to find them and how much they cost.
I never bought any—I’m a dry land kind of exerciser—but you never know.
The fins propelled us into a chance to talk, something beyond a nod and a grunt.
The bare-bones obituary says he was 63—
an age that I once thought was old,
but not now.
It says he had a dad and some cousins.
That’s it.
It doesn’t mention the men at the Y who enjoyed seeing his smile
and exchanging a few friendly words with him and now wish they’d done more.
It doesn’t say how he died.
It doesn’t say how empty the locker room seems these days.
If a guy dies at 63, he shouldn’t be written off, he should be written about,
his obituary should say more,
especially if he’s someone whose smiling photo can catch my eye—
and pilfer my breath—
on my way to the Sudoku.
and glimpse a familiar smile on a familiar face and my breath abandons me,
leaving an aching vacuum in my chest, because I saw this familiar man—James,
the obituary says, but I knew him as someone with the more affable name Jim—
only a couple of weeks ago, full of life, in the locker room at the Y,
where we traded pleasantries almost daily, and he gave me his usual hello then,
as always a little wistful but amiable in a genuine sort of way.
He had arthritis, an affliction that slowed his walk and stooped his shoulders,
but didn’t keep him from greeting the guys dressing nearby or wandering past,
and everyone said hi back at him, which is how I came to know his name
(formal introductions don’t fly when you’re half-naked or dripping sweat).
He was a lap swimmer, and I once asked him about his swim fins and he took
the time to tell me about them and where to find them and how much they cost.
I never bought any—I’m a dry land kind of exerciser—but you never know.
The fins propelled us into a chance to talk, something beyond a nod and a grunt.
The bare-bones obituary says he was 63—
an age that I once thought was old,
but not now.
It says he had a dad and some cousins.
That’s it.
It doesn’t mention the men at the Y who enjoyed seeing his smile
and exchanging a few friendly words with him and now wish they’d done more.
It doesn’t say how he died.
It doesn’t say how empty the locker room seems these days.
If a guy dies at 63, he shouldn’t be written off, he should be written about,
his obituary should say more,
especially if he’s someone whose smiling photo can catch my eye—
and pilfer my breath—
on my way to the Sudoku.
Juggling
I think we've all heard the metaphor people use to describe a too-busy life: having too many balls in the air. Although I never could juggle--balls, swords, pitchforks--I know the feeling. Right now I'm working on two novels--a middle grade story that would probably be called urban fantasy if you had to put it in a category, and a YA mystery--and a collection of short stories, some of which were published in 1995 in the book DARK STARRY MORNING. And I'm hovering over (from a distance) no less than a half dozen manuscripts (various genres and age groups) my agent is trying to place. Of course also in the mix that I'm trying to keep elevated and undamaged is my delicate writer's ego. So I spend some time giving myself pep talks: those stories are all winners; some intuitive editor is going to snap them up; keep at it; you may not be able to juggle, but you can write.
Time Flies
Daylight savings this past weekend. Didn't we just fall back, like yesterday? I remember when old people I knew (my parents, for instance) used to tell me that time was actually flying by for them. I didn't know what they were talking about, and obviously they didn't, either. I was spending my days in a classroom with nuns giving me the evil eye while I eyed the clock on the wall with its second hand barely inching around clockwise and the other two not moving at all, at least as far as I could see. The school day lasted a month, the school year lasted ten years, the week leading up to Christmas felt like a lifetime. Even summer vacation seemed to last forever.
Now, of course, I get it. Now that I'm one of those old people, life's a blur. That T-shirt that reads "So many___(fill in the blank), so little time," makes perfect sense. And with me, I can think of lots of things to fill in the blank with. One of them is books, of course. So many. So many good ones--and great ones--waiting for me to open up the cover (or the e-reader) and read that first sentence. And then there's writing. I have so many ideas, characters, stories in my head and so little time to get them down on paper. I've gotta learn to work faster, I guess, but can we get time to slow down for a while? I've got some writing to do!
Now, of course, I get it. Now that I'm one of those old people, life's a blur. That T-shirt that reads "So many___(fill in the blank), so little time," makes perfect sense. And with me, I can think of lots of things to fill in the blank with. One of them is books, of course. So many. So many good ones--and great ones--waiting for me to open up the cover (or the e-reader) and read that first sentence. And then there's writing. I have so many ideas, characters, stories in my head and so little time to get them down on paper. I've gotta learn to work faster, I guess, but can we get time to slow down for a while? I've got some writing to do!
