P.R. O'Leary's Blog: PROLeary.com, page 9

The Must Reads

I was thinking recently of what books I consider must-reads. Books that I can wholeheartedly recommend to anyone, regardless of their personal preferences or reading habits. These may not be my favorite books (some are), but they are books that I think are important, entertaining, and make the reader a better person in one way or another.

What follows is a list of those books. Feel free to argue with me or leave your own additions in the comments.

Ender’s Game – Orson Scott Card

This started when I was writing about Ender’s Game in my last post. So I’ll kick this list off with that one. A commentary on war and the cost of winning, and a thrilling read to boot.

To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee

A classic for a reason. The story of a sad time in history (depicting events that probably still happen, unfortunately), but a story still full of hope and innocence.

Lord of the Flies - William Golding

Another classic for a reason. On the surface a great story of survival, but layered with interesting ideas and comments on civilization and religion.

Sandman - Neil Gaiman

A series of ten graphic novels (and some miscellaneous additions) that chronicle the life of the titular character, a member of a family that influences the lives of everything in the universe. It really is incredible the journey that Gaiman takes the reader on throughout this series.

In the City of Shy Hunters - Tom Spanbauer

I was tempted to put three Spanbauer books on this list, but I decided to narrow it down to just one. And this one speaks to me the most. It’s the story of a young mid-western man searching for his lost lover in 1980′s New York City. This book feels like Spanbauer poured out his entire heart and soul into every sentence. It’s dazzling.

Maniac Magee - Jerry Spinelli

A young orphan boy becomes a local legend because he lives his life ignorant of the racial issues in the area. It’s a book for children that will probably help adults more. Children aren’t racist unless adults make them so.

That’s all for now. I’m sure I’ll think of more as time goes on. And I might be adding the Game of Thrones series as well. I’m waiting to read all the complete series first.

Ender’s Game vs. Orson Scott Card

I have heard the term “The Ender’s Game Conundrum” online before. It’s something that has come up recently when discussing people’s conflicting emotions about the film and the auther of the book, Orson Scott Card. Here are the two statements that people are trying to reconcile:

1) Ender’s Game is one of the best, most exhilarating, and most important sci-fi books ever written, and I would love to see it come to life on the big screen.

2) Orson Scott Card is an ignorant homophobe who is using his fame to try to convince the public that his hateful personal beliefs are the correct way of thinking.

Every fan wants to see this film, but no one wants to give Card any of their money because they do not believe in his personal philosophy. I feel the same way.

But Ender’s Game is that the film itself does not expose anything relating to homophobia or anti-LGBT ideas. I personally, got the opposite impression while reading it. So the thought to boycott the film is not based on its content. It is purely based on one of the people involved.

The average movie the size of Ender’s Game employs thousands of paid employees. This includes writers, directors, cast, crew, catering, transport, special effects, props, music, post-production, advertising, etc. Every time you buy a ticket to a big-budget film you are giving money to thousands of different people. Statistically, you are giving money to a bunch of homophobes, a large amount of racists, lots of chauvinists, and a pedophile or two.

Should we boycott films because Tom Cruise, John Travolta, or Giovanni Ribisi are involved? How about if an Isaac Hayes song appears in a movie? They are all Scientologists and Scientology promotes that homosexuality is a disease that can be cured. The difference, I guess, is that Card is outspoken about it. Just like Chuck Norris, and we all know how many people hate him.

But that is neither here nor there. Ender’s Game is the work in question, and I am going to judge the work on its own merits. So I will be going to see the film. And yes, Orson Scott Card will probably get 1 cent of my ticket price, and a bunch of other horrible people will get some money, too. But I hope a few other things happen as well. I hope that some hard-working, decent, compassionate folk get some money for the work they did. I hope the film stays true to the novel, and I hope the ideas presented in the book incite someone to think about and how we treat people other than ourselves.

Madame Regret Published on ThickJam

Head on over to ThickJam to read my story, Madame Regret, which was published today as issue #279.

Some context for the curious: This story is almost 10 years old. I had started reading Chuck Paluhniuk’s essays on writing, so everything I wrote for a year read like bad stories he would write. This one was the best. I quite like it, but you can tell I was trying to be Chuck.

Let me know what you think!

 

Novel Excerpt: Mother of Dust and Dreams

I’ve been hard at work on a new novel. Below is the first excerpt I am publicly releasing. Please let me know what you think. It’s very important that I get feedback. It’s invaluable to my writing process.

Mother of Dust and Dreams [Excerpt]

Chapter 18: In Where the World of Green Turns To Gold Again

Her bare feet moved through the tall green grass languidly. Sensually even. The dewiness was making the soles of her feet cold, but it was a pleasant contrast to the blazing sun pounding down on her head like a hammer to an anvil. “If only the sensations in real life were as real as those I’m feeling now.” She said to no one in particular, her voice like melted butter. For she was not in real life. She was in the World of Dreams, had been ever since her head had hit the feathery silk pillow in her chambers.

Alexus knew she shouldn’t be so nonchalant about her morning walk in the dreamscape.  Xefarixis Van Abb was here somewhere. And if he found her, well, then the Commoo Orb she wore around her neck would be in danger. She needed the Orb if she was going to fuse the three chambers of the world and stop the Soul Attack that this dimension was experiencing ever since the Father of Secrets started playing games with “the prime.”

But the dew and the sun were delivering such a delightful contrast. From her feet to the top of her head, the sensations met in the middle, in her heart, and made her tingle with very un-dreamlike sensations. Sternly, she gathered herself and stopped walking, stamping her bare feet into the dewy ground. “Enough of this, Alexus! Get yourself together!” She said to herself.

Just then, out of the corner of her eye she saw something running through the field of dew-covered tall grass. A small thing, on four legs, with long floppy ears and a bushy tail covered in dew. It stopped when she turned towards it. There were often living things in the dream world, figments created by a dreaming child who is still pure of heart. A lot less common these days as they were in the past, but she still came across a Figgie from time to time.

It was good luck to pet a Figgie. If she could rub her hand across its head, it would be like she was rubbing her hand across the sleeping child who dreamed it. That bestowed powers on one in tune with the dream world. Powers she could urgently use if she was going to harness the power of her Commoo Orb. So she walked towards the dew-covered bunny-Figgie slowly, with her hand outstretched.

The bunny stopped and stared at her. Its cute furry nose twitching, throwing drops of dew left and right as it did so. She kneeled down in front of it, her knees on the dew-covered ground. Then she saw it. The eyes of the Figgie. Its pupils opening and closing like camera lenses. She grabbed the thing by the neck and shook it. This was no Figgie! She could feel the jangle of steam-powered machinery inside it. She grabbed its head with one hand and its body with another and yanked it in two.

How could she have be so dumb? There was no blood. It was a constructed thing. And she could tell by the array of gears just who had built it. This was a scout, sent through the dream world to find her, and it was built by none other than Xefarixis Van Abb!

“HAHAHAHA!” There was a laughing behind her. She turned, and there, floating in the sky in his pedal powered personal zeppelin, was Xefarixis Van Abb himself. The leader of the Harbinger’s Guild, and the sworn enemy of her clan was floating there, taunting her. Normally, he wouldn’t be special to behold, but behind his sunshine goggles and water armor he was a worthy adversary. And what made it worse was that he was holding a Flaming Ball in one hand, ready to throw.

“Oh Alexus, I knew you would be easy to find in this World of Dreams!”

“Well, at least I’m not as easy to spot is a man in a zeppelin!” It was a poor comeback, but it was all he had.

“It’s a shame really. I thought this would be more difficult!” And with that, he threw the Flaming Ball directly at her!

She dove out of the way and rolled through the dew-covered grass. She arose and turned, her whole body now covered with dew, and saw the Flame Ball hit the field where she had been standing. She thought there was enough dew on the grass to keep it from igniting, but no, the dew was not plentiful enough and the flames started spreading like butter on toast. She was surrounded by fire!

Xefarixis turned his air balloon vehicle and pedaled away, laughing, leaving her to burn. The flames were large now. As large as her fears. And she had no way to escape. So she dropped to her knees in the last remaining patch of dew and put her face to her hands and cried. The tears streamed down her face, mixing with the dew. She could feel the heat and taste the smoke now.

But then a tear fell on the Commoo orb around her neck and there was a flash of light and Alexus felt like the was in a waterfall and then in ice and then in space and then lying on a pool of dew and then she woke up, her head safely upon the silk pillow in her bed.

She felt dampness on her pillow and initially thought it was dew, but then realized it was her tears. She had been crying. And she realized then that she couldn’t avoid Xefarixis Van Abb any longer. He must be punished, and she was on the one that was going to punish him hard.

Oh Sandy: An Anthology of Humor for a Serious Purpose

The new anthology, Oh Sandy: An Anthology of Humor for a Serious Purpose is now out.

In it you can find my story, “The Bet”. It’s a tale of brotherly competitiveness in the face of a hurricane.

You should pick up a copy, not because of my story (which is awesome, of course), but because all of the proceeds go to charities. The book, you see, contains humorous stories about natural disasters and NJ, and the charities involved are those that supported Hurricane Sandy victims.

I’m happy to be a part of the whole enterprise.

Pick up a physical copy here.

And the eBook here.

Let me know what you think!

Deeper into The Room

Below is an essay I published in a print zine about the cult classic film The Room. If you have not seen it, you owe it to yourself to give it a try. And after you watch it, come back and read this essay. I think you will enjoy it.

Deeper Into The Room

by P.R. O’Leary

There is much to ponder about Tommy Wiseau’s film. But nestled amongst the few answerable and far more unanswerable questions is one that garners much discussion. What does the title mean? Many posit that it is simply a descriptive phrase. The film mostly takes place in a single room. But Wiseau is no slouch when it comes to symbolism, and care must be taken to approach an analysis of the title with more than just a passing glance. Like all things in The Room, the title is not just black and white.

When approached in an interview in 2010, Wiseau is vague about what it means. “[sic] The room is a special place. Is only you have the key for it. Same my. This is my place. This is your place. You as well. And I bet you have one other place which you actually call the room. Or their place. But I let’s call it the room, right? You the. Private place. You do whatever you wanted. That’s why we call it the room. We don’t call it our room. Okay? Yeah, all right.”

This evasiveness is typical of the auteur. He wants us to work at understanding his film and through that process develop a deeper understanding of ourselves. To begin we must examine the title literally.

In the film there are two main rooms: the downstairs living room, in which many pivotal scenes take place (the mother-in-law’s heartrending revelation that she has breast cancer, for example), and the upstairs bedroom in which the main character bares both his body and his soul. Both of these rooms are important locations in the story, but there is not enough evidence to support either of them being the subject of the title.

But what of Wiseau’s quote above? A tacit reading of the title is too shallow to fit his description. Wiseau could be implying that the room is not a physical structure, but one that we build around ourselves. Our “special place.” This has many implications. Johnny (played by Wiseau himself) has let some characters into his “room.” By letting his guard down, or “opening the door,” he has made himself vulnerable. And the one he has trusted most, Lisa, violated that trust, or to continue the metaphor: “vandalized Johnny’s room.” Hence the classic J’Accuse screamed by Johnny during his most pained moment, “You’re tearing me apart, Lisa!”

This take on the title is reinforced with subtle symbolism that shows how the characters are confined and stuck in rooms of their own creation. The set design steeps the production in claustrophobia. From the sparsely furnished apartment to the four-poster bed ensconced with walls of fabric. Even the open-aired rooftop is obviously green-screened. It’s a brilliant choice to confine the characters even more.

When the characters do escape those confines, Wiseau shifts his symbolism from production design to the actions of the characters. He shows that even outside they remain contained, and are only able to throw a football very short distances. It is as if the walls are still there, preventing them from getting more than a few feet apart. When a character finally does try to escape, by running to catch a long football pass, he trips and falls. It’s as if Wiseau is punishing him for trying to leave the room without a key.

At the end of the film Johnny does find a key to his special place, thereby finding a way to escape. It’s a bleak, depressing world view, but it’s presented in such a way that the audience is more angry than sad. We are angry at Lisa. We are angry at Mark. Why? Because we saw how Johnny let them into his room. We saw how they took advantage of that trust and we understand how Johnny had no other way out.

The title, in the end, is obvious. The Room is indeed Johnny’s special place. One that was full of kindness and love, but was violated by those he trusted most. Ultimately, Tommy Wiseau makes us ask the question: Who would you let into your room? Each viewer will have their own answer. For Johnny, the answer is simple: Denny. Only Denny.

Free Fiction Friday: “Loose Teeth”

Loose Teeth

Written by P.R. O’Leary, 2005.

Photography by Valeria Ballerini of Through A Cracked Lens

Yeah, I know. My parents are paying you good money, Doc. I shouldn’t waste my time here. They told me all that already. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what happened. I owe my parents that much. It will probably take the whole hour. Fine. But could I have a glass of water, please? When I talk a lot the scabs start drying up. No, you don’t understand! Forget it Doc. I’m sorry. Thanks for the water, let me just start the story, okay?

Well, My name is Bill Dryer and I was born twelve years and two months ago. But you already know that. I guess the real story starts before school ended for the summer. During my daily walks home. I always walked home from school by myself. All my friends lived in the opposite direction. I didn’t care, though. It wasn’t a boring walk. I had something to look forward to on the way.

A comic book store. I loved comics. They were cheap enough for me to buy with my allowance and quick enough for me to read. Not like books. I hated books. I couldn’t keep my mind on the words for more than ten pages. They were boring, so I turned to comics for my literary intake.

Anyway, I need to back up a bit. School was going to end a week later. Final exams were over so the teachers let us do whatever we wanted, within reason of course. It was better for everybody that way. Me, I had brought my last three comics that I hadn’t read yet, and finished reading them in between goofing off with my friends.

My parents already told you what type of comics, right? Yeah, Weird Worlds of Horror, Shock Stories, Tales from Beyond the Grave. I hated all the super hero stuff, so I went for the horror and sci-fi. They were much better. Freaky things happened in them. Zombies, vampires, aliens, murderers.

Wow, Listen to me! I’m talking to a head doctor about this stuff. But it’s true. I know, just don’t make it out to be anything disturbing. They just had better stories and were full of creepy and weird things.

Anyway, I needed to get another comic for the next day of school. My allowance wasn’t due until Saturday, a full four days away. I only had a dollar fifty, which was exactly enough for one comic. So after school I went to buy one. The store was empty when I got there. Except for Mike, who was sitting down behind the counter reading some huge paperback book. It looked about a thousand pages. I don’t understand how he could sit through something that long.

Anyway, all the new comics were on shelves that ran the back wall, and the old ones were filed in boxes on the side. I had been through all those dozens of times, I knew that there was nothing to buy in there, unless Mike got any new ones. So I asked him. He was a nice enough guy and all, so he told me the names of the five he got since the last time I was there. He always kept track of those kinds of things for me, being I was a regular.

Well, I wanted to choose between three different comics, but was having a tough time. I finally decided to get Tales from Beyond the Grave, so I put the other two comics back where I found them. At the back of the shelf, hidden behind some other comics was one I hadn’t seen yet. So I picked it up and looked at it. It was thicker than usual, and it was called Realms of Terror. The first issue. I leafed through it. It looked great. The art was incredible, and the stories looked really weird. I saw a picture of a guy that had just ripped out his own eyes, and one of a little kid with an axe attacking this lady. I had to have it.

I was all ready to go up to Mike and buy it when I noticed the price. Two-Fifty. The thing was bigger than a normal comic, so they had to double the price. It was unfair. Still, I had to have it. So I went up to Mike to get him to keep it reserved for me till Saturday, when I would have my allowance. He wouldn’t. He was such a stickler for his rules. Three-day reserve. Max. No exceptions.

So I just stormed out of there, real fast. I ran all the way home, aiming to talk another dollar out of my father. I told him my dilemma, but keep in mind, of course, that I didn’t tell him why I wanted that comic so bad. Although he let me read them, he didn’t really approve of stuff like that.

Well, just like I suspected, he asked me why I wanted the comic and that was not something that I was gonna tell him about. Instead, I said forget it and went upstairs to see my mother. I thought maybe I would have better luck with her. I was wrong. I asked her the same thing and she gave me a ripping about how I didn’t clean my room and that if I didn’t shape up I would never get an allowance again.

Screw it, I thought. I could get the money myself. I got a snack, an apple and some cookies, and went in my room. I wanted to look through my comic collection to see if I had any that I could trade in.

I was sitting on my bed, looking through the comics and eating. All of a sudden, as I took a bite out of the apple, there was a kind of pain in my gum. Towards the back. My tooth had fallen out and I didn’t even know that it was loose! It was one of my baby teeth, the last one I thought, and it had gotten stuck in the apple when I bit it.

I picked it out and looked at it. A little rotten, but I’m a kid, so that was normal. It was also a little bloody on the bottom. I could taste a bit in my mouth. What? Yeah. I did. Kind of sweet.

So looking at that baby tooth, it dawned on me. What does a kid usually do with a tooth when a tooth falls out? That’s right Doc, he puts it under his pillow when he goes to sleep. And what does the tooth fairy exchange it with? Right again, Doc, now you see where I was going with this. A dollar bill. That dollar would give me enough to buy Realms of Terror. What luck I had!

Quickly, I ran down the hallway to show Mom. She smiled at me and made a comment about me needing to be more mature now that I had no more baby teeth.

Anyway, after I was assured that the Tooth Fairy – I knew it was Mom of course – would give me the dollar that I usually got, I ran to the phone and called Mike. He reserved it for me, no problem. Now that he knew I had enough money he would hold it for three days. I told him I would stop by on the way to school and pick it up.

That night I lay in bed thinking about what I had seen in Realms of Terror. I made up stories in my head about the pictures. You want me to tell you what they were? I don’t know, Doc. There were all sorts. I remember thinking that the little kid was attacking the lady with an ax because it was his mother who had just gotten bit by a zombie and he wanted to kill her before she turned on him. And the guy who pulled out his own eyes did so, well, because he wanted to see what it was like. Get it? Yeah, Doc, you better write that one down. It must mean something.

So while I was laying there and making up these stories, the hole where my tooth had been was beginning to fascinate me. No, it wasn’t anything like that, Doc. I was just probing it with my tongue, pushing the sore flesh around, forcing more blood out of it. Yep, that same taste. I did that for a while until I got tired and fell asleep.

The next morning, sure enough, a big fat one-dollar bill was under my pillow. I finished up everything I had to do and got to the comic shop as quick as I could. Mike had the comic ready for me. I gave him the money and ran the rest of the way to school. I had the whole day to read the comic. It was as good as I had hoped it would be. Even better. Well, that kept me occupied for a few days. It was so good I could keep reading it. Again and again. But pretty soon I needed something else to read. School had ended, and I had a lot more time on my hands.

So I found myself at Mike’s Comics. And this time, I didn’t have a hard time finding something to buy. The new issue of Realms of Terror had come out. But of course, I didn’t have enough money. I had two dollars, but the comic was still two-fifty. Mike wouldn’t hold it the six days till I got my allowance, and I was sure someone else was going to snatch that comic up any minute.

So I went home dejected, sat on my bed, and sulked. The hole in my mouth had healed, so I didn’t even have that to distract me. But I did get an idea. If I could lose another tooth, then I could get another dollar, and then I could buy the comic! A no-brainer! My mouth was like my own personal piggy bank. I probed around with my tongue and went to the bathroom to check the mirror. I was looking around for any more baby teeth.

No, I couldn’t find any. But the one next to the last one I lost was a little loose. Maybe it was from poking that hole with my tongue for forever. So I pushed it back and forth with my finger. It kept moving. No, no pain. Just a stinging sensation. It started in my mouth and spread. You know when you get goose bumps? Not the bad kind, but the good kind. That’s what it was like. I kept doing that for a bit. Then, when it was good and loose I grabbed onto it real tight and yanked it out.

Yeah, there was a lot of blood, so I just kind of sucked it up and drank it. Yeah, Vampiric! That’s a good word for it, Doc. Self-vampirism!

Anyway, I was just laying in bed, with the sticky tooth in one hand, drinking the blood up. A few hours later – I guess I fell asleep or something – and the bleeding had stopped. Yeah, I felt fine. I wasn’t weak or nothing. And it wasn’t too late, so my parents were still up. I told them I fell and banged my mouth on the dresser. They believed me. So after some acting and pleading, I finally got them to agree that the tooth fairy would have to come. But just because I was in so much pain and my Mom felt sorry for me. She actually wanted to take me to the doctor to make sure I hadn’t damaged anything else but my Dad said I would be all right. Boys would be boys.

So the next day I got my dollar and went straight to Mike’s. The second issue was just as good as the first one. Even better! The best story was about this creepy kid. When the mother gets pregnant again, the kid gets jealous and kills her and then pulls the baby out of her stomach and eats it! Sick, I know. But I don’t get off on stuff like that. I just find it interesting. And you thought I was weird enough, right?

So anyway, I’m reading the comic, and I’m poking at the spot where my tooth used to be. The hole is bigger and more tender than the last one. It’s bleeding more, too. I’m in heaven, just reading this comic and doing that. When the comic is over, I read it again. Then again. Great stuff, Doc. It was great. But I needed something else.

Well, something in me realized that I was getting more pleasure out of the hole in my mouth then the comic. That’s when I got the idea to do it. I don’t know exactly why. I mean, I was already happy. I didn’t need to do it.

What? I don’t know what exactly. A drive. A lightheadedness. A hunger. Not for food. Just for, well, you know. It’s hard to describe. Anyway, I go into the closet and open up my Dad’s toolbox. I go through the tools. A hammer, a wrench. A screwdriver. Flathead or phillips? I joke to myself. Then I see the pliers. I grab those and go into the bathroom.

Yeah, I only remember parts after that. Not the whole event. I remember looking at myself in the mirror. A crazy little kid holding his big front tooth in a pair of pliers. I remember thinking that the tooth was in there rock-solid. It wasn’t falling out by itself. Then, I remember my eyes getting wide and bam! I yanked and twisted as hard as I could with both hands. The rest is a big rush. I remember seeing red and being exhilarated and faint the whole time. I remember the sound the teeth made as they fell into the sink, one after the other. Clickety Clink. I remember the splats of blood on the tiles. Big gobs like ketchup.

Oh, sorry Doc. I know it must make other people uneasy. But for me, it was perfection. A thousand times over. Just like a story in a comic.

What? You want to know if it was worth it? Well, what can I say? Here I am, sitting on a psychiatrist couch. I cost my parents thousands of dollars in dentist bills, my mouth now looks like mashed up licorice, and I sound like the elephant man.

Well, since you are asking, Doc. Yeah. I can honestly say it was definitely worth it.

GoodReads

I am now a member of GoodReads as a reader and a writer. Even if I’m not up on cataloging or social networking, I do enjoy the website data immensely. It’s like the IMDB for books. My favorite thing to do is just to tag books I want to read so I don’t forget. It’s a great tool.

Check out my Author Page, I have added a link to it up to the right.

I also get to use Widgets! Pardon me while I play with m widgets.

Commencing widget stream:

 

<!*****************************************************Widget1>

.gr_container {
font-family:arial,verdana,helvetica,sans-serif;
width: 250px;
}
.gr_book_container {
border-bottom: 1px solid #d7d7d7; padding: 5px 0px;
}
.gr_book_image {
float: left; padding-right: 20px;
}
.gr_book_title {}
.gr_review_stats {}

P.R. O’Leary’s books on Goodreads

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Runners: 101 Inspirational Stories of Energy, Endurance, and Endorphins




reviews: 16




ratings: 103 (avg rating 4.00)

Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror

reviews: 1




ratings: 11 (avg rating 4.82)

Sand: Strange Tales: Year One

ratings: 1 (avg rating 5.00)

<!*****************************************************Widget2>

#goodreads-widget {
font-family: georgia, serif;
padding: 18px 0;
width:450px;
}
#goodreads-widget h1 {
font-weight:normal;
font-size: 16px;
border-bottom: 1px solid #BBB596;
margin-bottom: 0;
}
#goodreads-widget a {
text-decoration: none;
color:#660;
}
iframe{
background-color: #ffffff;
}
#goodreads-widget a:hover { text-decoration: underline; }
#goodreads-widget a:active {
color:#660;
}
#gr_footer {
width: 100%;
border-top: 1px solid #BBB596;
text-align: right;
}
#goodreads-widget .gr_branding{
color: #382110;
font-size: 11px;
text-decoration: none;
font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif;
}



Goodreads reviews for Chicken Soup for the Soul

Reviews from Goodreads.com

<!*****************************************************Widget2>

Free Fiction Friday: “Broken”

Broken

Written by P.R. O’Leary, 2005.

Photography by Nicole Holovinsky of Drawing with Lights.

Antique stores, garage sales, flea markets. Anywhere you find collectables trading hands you will find me. I’m the guy searching through the bargain bins, studying the damaged toys and the dusty cracked lamps and the chipped pottery. These I buy. These I add to my collection.

From a young age we are taught that things have worth only if they are perfect. But perfection only means something is exactly the same as the mold that it came from. The truth is that a chip on a Chinese brush pot makes it unique. A plastic Darth Vader toy missing his arms is one of a kind. They have broken the mold, graduated beyond their show room condition.

My collection takes up my whole house now. Rooms full of dolls without limbs. Books burned or missing half their pages. Necklaces and bracelets with holes where precious stones used to be. Damaged goods. Cookie-cutter antiques made one of a kind.

Sometimes I sit and stare at a Russian Niello Snuff Box with the lid cracked in half, or a steel Rolex watch missing one strap and wonder how it happened. The event that elevated it from one in a thousand to one in a million. I call this moment its birth.

The 1908 Steiff Teddy bear was born the moment he lost his leg and half the stuffing leaked out. He now sits there, sewn up and thin on one side like a stroke victim. Now he’s one of a kind.

The white and blue 1750 Worchester porcelain mustard spoon was born the moment it lost its handle. Now it’s just a small empty bowl with a shard sticking out. Now it’s one of a kind.

The Lefton Ceramic Easter Egg Trinket was born the moment it cracked in half. It sits there in two pieces like someone tried to make an omelet out of it. Now, this broken porcelain egg, it’s one of a kind.

Of course, these births have to be natural occurrences. I don’t go out and buy vintage Beatles records and melt them in my oven. That takes the life out of them. It’s like ripping a premature baby from the womb, too young to survive in the real world. I wait until they make themselves. These things, these damaged goods. These to me are unique and wonderful.

My dog, Lou, I got three years ago. He was born when he had his leg removed. Tumors. He was abandoned, wandering the streets, and the tumors just kept growing. When the pound got him his leg was almost as big as the rest of his body. There was nothing they could do but amputate.

After that, I took him home from the pound. Lou, the three-legged dog. His imperfection makes him unique. One of a kind. Special.

I started my collection ten years ago. A year after I was born.

It happened in a factory. My job was to glue razor sharp knives to pieces of plywood to make cutting dies. The accident wasn’t painful. One minute I was working, the next I was in the hospital. I was told later a forklift had hit the plywood I was working on, shoving it into me and driving the knives and razors into my arms and legs. Unconsciousness, loss of blood, but I was going to be fine.

Until the infection. It started in my leg and threatened to rise up towards my groin and into the rest of my body. The doctors tried but in the end they had to amputate. Right above the knee.

Next came a lawsuit, then a monthly allowance and the ability to sit at home and feel sorry for myself. Oh, my friends tried to make me get out of the house but there really wasn’t any place you could take a cripple without him seeing people walking around on two legs.

That’s when I found the doll. Sitting in the back of my closet. A remnant of a life before the accident when I had nieces and nephews over to play. Before they were scared of the shadowy uncle missing a leg.

She was a little girl doll. And yes, she was also missing a leg. A little schoolgirl, with hair made of yarn and a plastic face with painted-on freckles. This perfect little girl, missing a leg.

Then it snowballed. I went out and got other dolls. Other dolls missing limbs and eyes. Then I branched out and got other things. Toys, pottery, porcelain. And now here I am. A unique man with a unique dog and a unique collection of unique items. No two alike. All imperfect, all just right.

My friends were scared. Troubled. They told me to sell all this junk and get a desk job. Meet new people. Get a fake limb and get my life going again. They gave me the card of an antique dealer they knew. Someone who would give me a good price for my collection.

Eventually, they stopped showing up. I wasn’t in mint condition anymore. I refused to conform to the two-legged walking society. They felt that it was time for us to part ways. They didn’t say that of course, but I knew.

The card for that antique dealer sat on an old English occasional side table. The table was missing one leg and was propped up against the wall. The card gathered dust.

Not having friends for a while, that changed me a bit. Is there something wrong with me? They call my collection junk. I call my collection unique. Each and every item is special. I tell myself this. Then I call the antique dealer.

Oh yes, he says. He would definitely want to check out my collection of Chinese nesting dolls. My Mother of Pearl flatware and my Persian carpets. I don’t tell him they are broken. That they are damaged. He is coming tonight. He sounds excited.

When he knocks on my door even his knock sounds excited. I wheel over and let him in. An older man, all suit and glasses. He vigorously shakes my hand and walks in before I ask him to. My collection is everywhere and he immediately zooms towards a shelf. His eyes and fingers move over the items, touching each one slightly and continuing on, muttering to himself all the while. In less time than it takes me to turn my wheelchair around he is onto another shelf. Then another. Then into the next room. He is halfway around it before I get there, and as I watch he finishes and turns towards me.

“Do you have anything that’s not broken?”

I tell him no. Everything here is broken. Everything is missing a piece or has a crack or a dent. Everything is unique.

“Unique?” he says. “Worthless more like it. Those are defects. Nothing in here is in perfect condition.”

He speaks quickly and angrily.

“For a thing to have value. It has to be mint. Nothing can be wrong with it. All its pieces must be there. No dents, no scratches, no cracks.”

He picks up a turn of the century Santa Claus Bisque doll, missing an arm. “This,” he says, “would be worth about one thousand dollars. Now, defective, it’s worthless.”

Exasperated, he puts it down, almost throws it down. I try to talk to him as he walks towards the door. I tell him how the damage makes them special. How something has happened to everything in my collection that makes them unique. How being perfect is not that important.

“Worthless.” He says again as he walks towards the door.

He opens it and walks out. I stop at the doorframe and look outside. I scream at him. There is nothing wrong with these things! They are not worthless! Tell me they are not worthless!

He walks on, turns the corner and is gone.

I am talking to myself.

They are not worthless. Right?

Right?

Free Friction Friday: “Broken”

Broken

Written by P.R. O’Leary, 2005.

Photography by Nicole Holovinsky of Drawing with Lights.

Antique stores, garage sales, flea markets. Anywhere you find collectables trading hands you will find me. I’m the guy searching through the bargain bins, studying the damaged toys and the dusty cracked lamps and the chipped pottery. These I buy. These I add to my collection.

From a young age we are taught that things have worth only if they are perfect. But perfection only means something is exactly the same as the mold that it came from. The truth is that a chip on a Chinese brush pot makes it unique. A plastic Darth Vader toy missing his arms is one of a kind. They have broken the mold, graduated beyond their show room condition.

My collection takes up my whole house now. Rooms full of dolls without limbs. Books burned or missing half their pages. Necklaces and bracelets with holes where precious stones used to be. Damaged goods. Cookie-cutter antiques made one of a kind.

Sometimes I sit and stare at a Russian Niello Snuff Box with the lid cracked in half, or a steel Rolex watch missing one strap and wonder how it happened. The event that elevated it from one in a thousand to one in a million. I call this moment its birth.

The 1908 Steiff Teddy bear was born the moment he lost his leg and half the stuffing leaked out. He now sits there, sewn up and thin on one side like a stroke victim. Now he’s one of a kind.

The white and blue 1750 Worchester porcelain mustard spoon was born the moment it lost its handle. Now it’s just a small empty bowl with a shard sticking out. Now it’s one of a kind.

The Lefton Ceramic Easter Egg Trinket was born the moment it cracked in half. It sits there in two pieces like someone tried to make an omelet out of it. Now, this broken porcelain egg, it’s one of a kind.

Of course, these births have to be natural occurrences. I don’t go out and buy vintage Beatles records and melt them in my oven. That takes the life out of them. It’s like ripping a premature baby from the womb, too young to survive in the real world. I wait until they make themselves. These things, these damaged goods. These to me are unique and wonderful.

My dog, Lou, I got three years ago. He was born when he had his leg removed. Tumors. He was abandoned, wandering the streets, and the tumors just kept growing. When the pound got him his leg was almost as big as the rest of his body. There was nothing they could do but amputate.

After that, I took him home from the pound. Lou, the three-legged dog. His imperfection makes him unique. One of a kind. Special.

I started my collection ten years ago. A year after I was born.

It happened in a factory. My job was to glue razor sharp knives to pieces of plywood to make cutting dies. The accident wasn’t painful. One minute I was working, the next I was in the hospital. I was told later a forklift had hit the plywood I was working on, shoving it into me and driving the knives and razors into my arms and legs. Unconsciousness, loss of blood, but I was going to be fine.

Until the infection. It started in my leg and threatened to rise up towards my groin and into the rest of my body. The doctors tried but in the end they had to amputate. Right above the knee.

Next came a lawsuit, then a monthly allowance and the ability to sit at home and feel sorry for myself. Oh, my friends tried to make me get out of the house but there really wasn’t any place you could take a cripple without him seeing people walking around on two legs.

That’s when I found the doll. Sitting in the back of my closet. A remnant of a life before the accident when I had nieces and nephews over to play. Before they were scared of the shadowy uncle missing a leg.

She was a little girl doll. And yes, she was also missing a leg. A little schoolgirl, with hair made of yarn and a plastic face with painted-on freckles. This perfect little girl, missing a leg.

Then it snowballed. I went out and got other dolls. Other dolls missing limbs and eyes. Then I branched out and got other things. Toys, pottery, porcelain. And now here I am. A unique man with a unique dog and a unique collection of unique items. No two alike. All imperfect, all just right.

My friends were scared. Troubled. They told me to sell all this junk and get a desk job. Meet new people. Get a fake limb and get my life going again. They gave me the card of an antique dealer they knew. Someone who would give me a good price for my collection.

Eventually, they stopped showing up. I wasn’t in mint condition anymore. I refused to conform to the two-legged walking society. They felt that it was time for us to part ways. They didn’t say that of course, but I knew.

The card for that antique dealer sat on an old English occasional side table. The table was missing one leg and was propped up against the wall. The card gathered dust.

Not having friends for a while, that changed me a bit. Is there something wrong with me? They call my collection junk. I call my collection unique. Each and every item is special. I tell myself this. Then I call the antique dealer.

Oh yes, he says. He would definitely want to check out my collection of Chinese nesting dolls. My Mother of Pearl flatware and my Persian carpets. I don’t tell him they are broken. That they are damaged. He is coming tonight. He sounds excited.

When he knocks on my door even his knock sounds excited. I wheel over and let him in. An older man, all suit and glasses. He vigorously shakes my hand and walks in before I ask him to. My collection is everywhere and he immediately zooms towards a shelf. His eyes and fingers move over the items, touching each one slightly and continuing on, muttering to himself all the while. In less time than it takes me to turn my wheelchair around he is onto another shelf. Then another. Then into the next room. He is halfway around it before I get there, and as I watch he finishes and turns towards me.

“Do you have anything that’s not broken?”

I tell him no. Everything here is broken. Everything is missing a piece or has a crack or a dent. Everything is unique.

“Unique?” he says. “Worthless more like it. Those are defects. Nothing in here is in perfect condition.”

He speaks quickly and angrily.

“For a thing to have value. It has to be mint. Nothing can be wrong with it. All its pieces must be there. No dents, no scratches, no cracks.”

He picks up a turn of the century Santa Claus Bisque doll, missing an arm. “This,” he says, “would be worth about one thousand dollars. Now, defective, it’s worthless.”

Exasperated, he puts it down, almost throws it down. I try to talk to him as he walks towards the door. I tell him how the damage makes them special. How something has happened to everything in my collection that makes them unique. How being perfect is not that important.

“Worthless.” He says again as he walks towards the door.

He opens it and walks out. I stop at the doorframe and look outside. I scream at him. There is nothing wrong with these things! They are not worthless! Tell me they are not worthless!

He walks on, turns the corner and is gone.

I am talking to myself.

They are not worthless. Right?

Right?