Brian’s Comments (group member since Mar 02, 2009)

Brian’s comments from the fiction files redux group.

Considering the topic and tone of Wonderful, Wonderful Times that doesn't surprise me. I would also not be surprised if she was an accomplice to Unterweger's crimes. That was a dark book... wicked dark.

i read Wonderful, Wonderful Times last year and thought the same about her writing style. felt like i was flitting around the characters as they went about their horrid life. interesting voice this jelinek has... will be reading Women As Lovers shortly... same voice, gives the page an interesting texture of words.

nothing is, i know. i live in pirate land.

This guy wrote a bunch of books but they're in Polish. I just read one that was translated beautifully into English. It was called Nine. I talked more about the book in my review so won't repeat myself here, but I will share a quote from it I liked.

She wanted them to come back, to open the door and talk to her and touch her, because human pain is better than inhuman fear.

What interested me was Stasiuk's words about Beckett... Beckett's face in particular. I'd really like to read his essays.


Stasiuk on Beckett's face: "I would like to go to Ireland. I'm a great Van Morrison fan. And Samuel Beckett is a first-degree star. Of all writers in the world, his face is the most beautiful. I have written two essays about his face. His way of ageing was just so much in tune with the way minerals and trees age."

The complete Guardian article is here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2001/...

Here's a NY Times review of the book... http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/10/boo...

And lastly a quote from another review... "A book like this makes most British and American writing seem so asinine." - Tom Tomaszewski, Independent on Sunday

Read the entire review here: http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-ent...

thanks everyone... it was a happy day. i wore my happy shoes and i didn't lose any of my fingers. doesn't get better than that.

looks like i need to crack open The Complete Illustrated Works of Edgar Allan Poe... thanks for reminding me.

dan... that's pretty cool. the music is nice. i scored a 'd' reading the instructions. i'm keeping the site open just to listen to the music.

in 10th grade or so we had an english teacher that just told us to read 'x' number of books for the term. she had a book rack filled with about 100 books. we got to chose which of those books to read and then write reports. controlled democracy worked for me. read some classic sci-fi, some existentialism, some steinbeck. capt underpants would have been considered filth back in my day. kids should be given the opportunity to hate classics, or love it. not everyone likes to read what i like to read. damn shame.

Got thirteen channels of shit on the T.V. to choose from.
I've got electric light.
And I've got second sight.
And amazing powers of observation.

this article just reminded me of pink floyd's lyrics. we should choose our shit wisely. 'empty calorie' reading is fine if we are also reading our vegetables.

I've just got around to reading both articles and this thread. Shit... There's some great thoughts being tossed around. I just went over to my bookshelf and took inventory. Looks like I'm not too much into American modern lit. Most of my books are foriegn written. World lit appeals to me for the different perspectives and cultural references presented. My church is broad. It's a big friggin' cathedral and sometimes there are crazy Japanese writers in there running amok, modern Japanese. I lean toward the classics too, whatever classic means. I think it's silly to say what should be or should not be written. I'll decide for myself what to read. I've made some bad decisions. I don't blame the writers. If all writers hit the mark perfectly there'd be too much shit for me to read.

Michael wrote: "Lastly,."

that is such a classic...

Leslie wrote: "Hey all! Here is a link to a fabulous site on the Inferno. The graphics are....well, you should see them. It should get you in the mood.
http://danteworlds.laits.utexas.edu/i..."

the pictures in my head were scarier. i scared the shit out of myself reading this book.

Dorkapaloosa continued...

The time came when everyone sort of straggled off back to their home base, to other places in America, to other countries. There was more hugging. There was a time that I didn't want to let Patty leave. I wanted to keep her there, standing in the foreground of the barracks talking, just talking about everything, while the Poet sat in the car feeding gas to its engine in little spurts. The others, those who stayed for the last night left for Port Townsend to look for dinner. Jonathan got in the boot (trunk) but I don't believe he stabbed anyone the night before.

I was left alone. I walked down the barrack's long empty hall to the mess room. Left a message on the board. Took one last look around and headed to my bright blue Ford Focus. The key went in and it started. On the drive away from Flagler deer by the side of the road decided to run in front of my car. They stopped and looked at me and said, “oops, sorry”. I stopped and watched as even the deer seemed to be going home, to that place where deer meet deep in the forest.

Dorkapaloosa

We arrived at Fort Flagler and were greeted by Dork leader Jonathan wearing his leisure hat. He gave us a brief run-down on the mental facilities of our temporary home and I parked the Focus, pointing it toward Flagler's exit, ready for a quick getaway in case of giraffe attacks or a spell of bingo fury (Zappa pun for any of you Zappa fans... none? Oh well...).

Jennie greeted us with open arms (second hug) and gave us a tour of the two barrack houses. The plastic mattresses and rows upon rows of bunk beds already made me think of summer camps and other events best not explained. After careful calculations and premonitions, I chose a corner room with only two beds that overlooked a land yacht with Louisiana plates. Louisiana still called me. Patrick, he of 'Gathering the Weeds', was in the Rec room trying to assemble fans with a car key. The poor guy looked flustered. Then more Dorka people came. Shel, Kerry and Lara (hugs three, four, and five). I may have hugged Jonathan but that's between him and me (six, seven, eight, nine...).

Then the Dorka sort of took over and we did what we did when we needed to do it or wanted to do it. Danny, Jonathan's unbelievably thoughtful, wise, intelligent, and all 'round good guy nephew and Jennie, she of great photographs who didn't bring her tool for making great photographs (what were you thinking girl?), and I took a walk. It's what we wanted to do after the needs of moving the keg into the shade were met. We walked along the bluff and explored wartime batteries, big concrete structures built to hold big guns, built flush with the mounded ground and going down a couple of floors below the earth. War creates weird things and these were truly weird things. Kind of scary but exciting.

And we saw a cute coyote... a cute, wily coyote. We saw its backside... a cute, wily backside, disappear into the forest.

Dusk approached. Ben and Margaret approached (hug with Margaret). Jonathan and Patrick of Cookie fame approached. And with them were Emily, Sparky, Dave and Snapper. We grouped and ungrouped. I went into the jungle... the forest... that place with a lot of trees. I was confused because these were fir and cedars... non-tropical trees. The air was crisp. It smelled green. I smelled different shades of green with a hint of setting sun. I heard birds and bugs that spoke different languages than I was used to. My vision was blurred. It was hard to focus in the dusk light beneath the fir canopies.

Walking back to the barracks, a deer and I met. I was pleasantly surprised. The deer was unpleasantly surprised. I said “hi” and he slowly walked off and took a crap in my direction. He seemed proud that he could do that, and satisfied. He twitched his tail and went away.

Wooden benches in a semi-circle. Backdrop of trees. Fire time. Plastic cup time. Talking and laughing. Shadows from the fire danced, they spoke in crackling voices. The moon came out. Tiredness crept in. Plastic beds with creaky springs. Sore backs. Musky smells. The sun crept through torn sheets.

Morning found me in the kitchen. I got the coffee going, the first pot of many. I make coffee strong. Coffee that shocked and baffled Jonathan. He added water. He added milk. It was still black. Not sure what to do next I did what was comforting... I fried bacon. I fried bacon for an hour. Jonathan was so excited about the industrial sized griddle that he started pouring on hundreds if not thousands (ok... about 10) pancakes at a time. Exaggeration is inevitable in times of stress. While that was going on he multitasked by looking for the syrup. And we all know what happened next... phone calls, rude awakenings, ranting... I fried bacon. I ate bacon. I fried more bacon and Patrick, saviour of pancake breakfasts, went and bought syrup. I fried eggs. I was lard master.

Later that day as I was walking out of my barrack I spotted a bird watcher and a poet getting out of a car, a car that I believe was involved in the homicide of a moth. I shouted to Patty and gave her a big hug (I've lost count of the hugs... it's a hugging fest, a dork hugging fest. Though we may be short on sweet, viscous pancake toppings, we were not short of sweet hugs).

Jennie and I explored the war-time batteries again, this time venturing deeper into its holding bays, deciphering stencilled labels, scratch marks on iron doors, and strange green markings only visible through the camera lens. We walked down a narrow path and into the firing line of a target range. We walked along the beach and watched men wearing rubber pants fish for salmon but catching some other kind of fish, ugly fish. Then we walked back to the barracks. I thought we may have entered the wrong barrack. There were people there that were not there when we left. There was food there that was not there when we left. Cheeseburgers and potato salad. Jonathan's family arrived bearing gifts of food and family warmth.

Then it was time for a forest (jungle) walk with Patty and the Poet. It was mid-afternoon and all of the forest critters were silent, staying motionless, trying to stay cool. We were noisier, moving along the forest floor, and hot. We saw trees, both living and dead. We saw markers with numbers on them. We interpreted what the markers wanted us to see. And we saw two banana slugs secreting slug juice along the path. I poked one. Patty and the Poet saw birds and named them. Birds have complicated names.

Night time again. Pre-Bingo jitters and excitement. Books were exchanged. Bingo prizes brought out. Jonathan, the usual Bingo caller was silenced by a cough that gave him a rather sexy, raspy voice. He enlisted The Poet to call the game. And The Poet was wonderful. And The Poet recited poetry. And Kerry asked trivia book questions. And Ben answered trivia book questions. Plastic cups were flowing. Laughter ensued. Prizes were won. I'm not good at Bingo. I don't play enough. Even with 10 bingo cards I lose. Plastic cups were flowing. We flowed out to the wooden benches that created that semi-circular form around the fire pit. The laughter followed us. The moon appeared and showed its approval of our earthly doings. Smore time. Frozen Pizza. Snorting. Wheezing. “Car Alarm” as speech therapy. I can't pronounce a simple 4 letter word, a name, that only contains 3 of the most used letters in the English language. Martha poked the fire. It went out. Patrick poked the fire and it roared to life. Patrick became 'Master of Fire'. And the 'Master of Fire' and our Fearless Leader Jonathan held vigil next to the flames until the Sun chased away the Moon.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of Martha's laugh, a sound now etched in my heart. And the sun chased our shade and our picnic table to the wall of the barracks. Uncle Arnie taught me about induction cookers and things that I could only understand the moment he explained them but became mysterious the moment he stopped explaining, things I could appreciate because I knew these things existed and these things did things, things that Uncle Arnie understood. Uncle Arnie is a champ. He is a master. He is all knowing. Everyone should have an Uncle Arnie. I'm glad I met the man. I knew things.

We toured Fort Flagler's little museum. We saw old pictures of people who are probably now dead. They married at Flagler. Learned how to load big guns. Marched about the parade ground. Lived in barracks with plastic mattresses. And probably fished, when they could, for salmon but only caught some other kind of other fish, ugly fish. I bought a weasel that had a little hole in its backside where you could stick your finger and make him move. The museum was full of these kind of animals. Animals you could stick on your finger.

Pre-Dorkapaloosa

“You're flying half-way 'round the world to meet a bunch of people you met on the internet? Is this going to be one of those Heaven's Gate Nike get-togethers? If they give you shoes to wear do not hesitate to leave. Oh, and, love you, miss you.” That's what my wife had to say as I left our house to travel for nearly 20 hours to be with a bunch of people that I only met on the internet. And Nike shoes are over-rated.

Monday morning at the Avis counter I initialled and signed some papers that gave me the right to drive a Ford Focus for a week, a glowing blue Ford Focus. After throwing my suitcase in the boot (trunk) I sat in Avis' well appointed waiting area with a diet Coke (and a book) and waited for my first Dork acquaintance, Ben, to arrive. In he came (first hug) and I almost said “Hey, it's been a while”. It's like I knew this guy for years. I asked if that little backpack was all he brought and he assured me it was enough (note for Ben for next year: bring sleeping bag and pillow because not only will you recognize the smells you will be able to practically sleep anywhere). I walked him to my little Ford. We got in. And I tried sticking the key in the ignition. It wouldn't fit. I tried the other key. It wouldn't fit. I jiggled, poked, turned, and jabbed. It wouldn't fit. Then I saw another set of keys above the steering wheel and realized we were in the wrong car.

I threw Ben my phone and said it had GPS and we left the airport heading north to Archie McPhee's. My phone's GPS had its limitations but made light of its short fallings. It gave us cherries and repeatedly messaged us, “oops, sorry”. Apologies accepted I just kicked into the 'turn left' mode of driving and we toured the industrial areas of Seattle. People are friendly in these neighbourhoods. They sit in cars smoking cigarettes and wait for people who are lost to tell them how to get out. It's an amazing service these people offer. We found Archie's place, but it was a huge let down. The yodelling pickle that I had my hopes set on was a big disappointment. It didn't look like a yodelling pickle. It looked like a green yodelling dildo. I left the place with a bag full gumballs with flavours that gumballs should never have. Trust me. I ate them. And I've eaten boiled porcupine. Travel tip: The industrial areas are under-rated and should be on a list of things to see while in Seattle. They make you feel like you could be anywhere in the world, but you're not.

We headed south to Olympia to meet up with Desi. The sun indicated we were on course. Then my phone, with its warped sense of humour, tells us there's a Chipotle nearby and since Ben was holder of the GPS we had no choice but to exit. As expected... “oops, sorry”. So now I'm in line with a bunch of trucks in another industrial area waiting to unload my cargo, which only consisted of a small suitcase and backpack. Back to the 'turn left' mode of driving got us back on the highway and into Olympia in time for a non MSG Mexican lunch and for me to blow the sole out of my shoe. And thanks Ben for telling me about meter people who chalk tires. That still fascinates me. I would like that job. I'd draw little pictures of smiley faces and flowers and geckos. I'd also carry around a little pouch of MSG.

Olympia left me with weird impressions. Walking down a sidewalk I saw a man give us a strange look as he walked past us. Then seconds later I look up again and see the same man giving us the same strange look as he walked past us. I swear there was a time twitch on that sidewalk. I also noted two predominate types of people in Olympia, those with no shirts, young, overweight, drunk and covered in tattoos and those wearing jogging shorts, old, thin, bicycling, and covered in tattoos.

Desi was great and I'm glad I put up with the confusion of the Olympians to find her. She didn't fit into either of the above mentioned categories. She had her own category... beautiful people of Olympia. While Ben took a short nap and Peeps stared at Ben, Desi and I went shopping. She bought cat food and I bought glue for my shoe. Then we did the Washington thing and bought coffee and tea and some kind of juice thing for Ben. Desi also introduced me to the ritual of collecting artesian drinking water from a pipe that emerges from a deserted carpark. This pipe seemed to attract colourful characters. One guy complained that he was being fingered for stabbing a guy 6 times the night before. He left in the boot (trunk) of a car with a bunch of other non-shirt, tattoo covered guys. And then every one talked about music. I believe this is an Olympian thing. The parking lot water was sweet. Desi was sweet. Olympia was sweet. But it was time to move on. We had no real plan for the day but regardless the day was nearing an end and things happened.

We drove westward and northward and along a lot of water and through a lot of trees towards Port Townsend. Travel tip: If you're expecting to eat a late-night dinner in Port Townsend, don't expect. Nothing is open except a convenience store of sorts, but they do have nice sandwiches and diet Coke. Fort Flagler was visible from our hotel across the water, everything is across the water in this part of earth. Flagler was our destination for the next day. The Dorka was approaching, and good thing, because the hotel proprietor's dog didn't like us, a dog with a nasty bark, a dog that could be heard but not seen.

hey... that randomizer is pretty cool. i think i've found my new 'life coach'. i'll even let it vote for me.

i still want to read One Hundred Years of Solitude to see if reading it will feel like a century of loneliness even in a group read. then there's The Sound and the Fury because i really like faulkner and think je does too. VALIS is nearing the top of my stack and i'm feeling a stable enough to tackle it. then there's Portrait of a Man Unknown. i need to read some Nathalie Sarraute. i have those needs and the need is now.

just throwing in more than i should into the pile to make your life difficult dan... so how are you going to pick 5?

Bonita wrote: "Angry people over in the myspace group... two new posts."

that was funny. i can't understand her response but at least i now know that i'm a fuckwit. what a cool word.

Martha wrote: "Brian wrote: "Jonathan wrote: " . . . what an awesome time i had . . . i love you guys! . . .i got in trouble 'cause we didn't mop and sweep the rooms good enough . . .fuck 'em . . .oh yeah, and th..."

Hehe...

Jonathan wrote: " . . . what an awesome time i had . . . i love you guys! . . .i got in trouble 'cause we didn't mop and sweep the rooms good enough . . .fuck 'em . . .oh yeah, and the remaining balance was 568.00!..."

JE... If you have paypal let me know I know a pal that will pay.