Allen, TX. One or two a day, mass murders... and 7 scratched at The KENTUCKY Derby... read JOE DRAPE.... he’s out of a job, soon. Avoid church, the concert, the ball game, the laundromat, shopping center, NYSE, the sweet sixteen party, the killing is addictive, like smoking.. kill we must, LSMF/T... walk a mile in a Camel...
I had Tobias Wolff as a guest lecturer once (I actually do have a degree in creative writing, which is useless) and recall he was among the most intensely earnest and intensely intense of all our instructors. But mostly, I remember how he longed for something. He just longed.
I read "Bullet in the Brain" once, then immediately read it again, and then one more time after I read the rest of today's column. The best word I can use for it is "haunting." I can understand the motivation to cry by the end, but I think you have to have had a certain life experience to be able to do so, one that I probably didn't. I have very few memories of my childhood, say, pre-12-years-old, but I know none of them involve a group of friends playing a pick-up game of baseball in a field in the middle of a lazy summer. I don't know why that is except that I too may have had a little bit of Anders in my genes, and probably didn't stop myself, like Anders did, from making that kid say, "they is" again and again, just to hear it.
What I love most about the story is that it makes one think on mortality, a subject most people don't WANT to think about. In addition to that, it makes one review their lives (well, me anyway), and try to figure out what scene from it would be in your last thoughts. But then, it's at that point, that I realize what a whole lot of time I've spent in 65 years just "wasting time." It doesn't really make me fret, because like garbage, one person's timewaster is another person's treasure. I think most everyone would be surprised by what other people do in their lives when no one is watching them. Mostly wasting time. The only mild fear I have is that at the moment of my death, will I have anything to remember? Here, my conclusion is from Rudy Giuliani: "I'll be dead, I won't care."
After reading the short story—which was obviously well written but didn’t move me to tears—and your ode to it—which awed me with its insightfulness—all I can say is that I don’t appreciate good literature as much as I appreciate the appreciation of good literature!
Several decades ago, I was on a flight to San Francisco when we hit a pocket of turbulence just after dinner had been served. The piece of honeydew melon I had just put into my mouth bounced its way to completely obstruct my windpipe. I gave the man sitting next to me a nudge and the sign for choking (crossed hands around the neck). He ignored me and went on eating. For a moment I started to panic thinking I was going to croak without being able to croak right then and there. A vivid scene popped into my mind of my lifeless body coming down the baggage chute onto the round table conveyor with a morgue tag around my left big toe: “death by an errant piece of melon.” Then I calmed myself down with the thought that as an anesthesiologist I was probably best able to save myself. So I performed the Heimlich maneuver on myself.* The melon moved enough so I could breathe and then fish it out with a finger sweep. No one can tell us what goes through their minds as they die—some of us can relate what we’re thinking as we’re on the precipice of the abyss.
*You can’t Heimlich yourself by throwing yourself over a seat back in an airplane—there’s not enough room. I did it by using my fists in the aisle.
There is no balm for understanding this story. Just torn veils one after another. I can’t tell if my heart is breaking or if it’s growing. I know this will pass, right? 🙏
For me, this interview between Tim Page and Glenn Gould near the end of Glenn's life always brings me to tears. The point where they listen to the opening Aria from The Goldberg Variations recorded as his first album in 1955 (at around 8:50) compared to the final recording of the same piece in 1981...
Here is the link starting just before that comparison:
Lovely.
Why?
Just wonderful. Your sensitivity is a thing of beauty.
Allen, TX. One or two a day, mass murders... and 7 scratched at The KENTUCKY Derby... read JOE DRAPE.... he’s out of a job, soon. Avoid church, the concert, the ball game, the laundromat, shopping center, NYSE, the sweet sixteen party, the killing is addictive, like smoking.. kill we must, LSMF/T... walk a mile in a Camel...
Monopoly... Parker Brothers
I had Tobias Wolff as a guest lecturer once (I actually do have a degree in creative writing, which is useless) and recall he was among the most intensely earnest and intensely intense of all our instructors. But mostly, I remember how he longed for something. He just longed.
Beautifully done omn your part, Greg. Significance resides in the microform, as any good poet knows.
Read “bullet in…….” Loved it and yocomments. Glad I subscribe! Billserle.com
Makes me think that even the last thought you have matters.
Thank you for sharing this beauty. Yep, tears and joy.
Impressive and moving analysis of the short story "Bullet in the Brain". It was so very exquisite I subscribed.
I read "Bullet in the Brain" once, then immediately read it again, and then one more time after I read the rest of today's column. The best word I can use for it is "haunting." I can understand the motivation to cry by the end, but I think you have to have had a certain life experience to be able to do so, one that I probably didn't. I have very few memories of my childhood, say, pre-12-years-old, but I know none of them involve a group of friends playing a pick-up game of baseball in a field in the middle of a lazy summer. I don't know why that is except that I too may have had a little bit of Anders in my genes, and probably didn't stop myself, like Anders did, from making that kid say, "they is" again and again, just to hear it.
What I love most about the story is that it makes one think on mortality, a subject most people don't WANT to think about. In addition to that, it makes one review their lives (well, me anyway), and try to figure out what scene from it would be in your last thoughts. But then, it's at that point, that I realize what a whole lot of time I've spent in 65 years just "wasting time." It doesn't really make me fret, because like garbage, one person's timewaster is another person's treasure. I think most everyone would be surprised by what other people do in their lives when no one is watching them. Mostly wasting time. The only mild fear I have is that at the moment of my death, will I have anything to remember? Here, my conclusion is from Rudy Giuliani: "I'll be dead, I won't care."
After reading the short story—which was obviously well written but didn’t move me to tears—and your ode to it—which awed me with its insightfulness—all I can say is that I don’t appreciate good literature as much as I appreciate the appreciation of good literature!
Several decades ago, I was on a flight to San Francisco when we hit a pocket of turbulence just after dinner had been served. The piece of honeydew melon I had just put into my mouth bounced its way to completely obstruct my windpipe. I gave the man sitting next to me a nudge and the sign for choking (crossed hands around the neck). He ignored me and went on eating. For a moment I started to panic thinking I was going to croak without being able to croak right then and there. A vivid scene popped into my mind of my lifeless body coming down the baggage chute onto the round table conveyor with a morgue tag around my left big toe: “death by an errant piece of melon.” Then I calmed myself down with the thought that as an anesthesiologist I was probably best able to save myself. So I performed the Heimlich maneuver on myself.* The melon moved enough so I could breathe and then fish it out with a finger sweep. No one can tell us what goes through their minds as they die—some of us can relate what we’re thinking as we’re on the precipice of the abyss.
*You can’t Heimlich yourself by throwing yourself over a seat back in an airplane—there’s not enough room. I did it by using my fists in the aisle.
There is no balm for understanding this story. Just torn veils one after another. I can’t tell if my heart is breaking or if it’s growing. I know this will pass, right? 🙏
For me, this interview between Tim Page and Glenn Gould near the end of Glenn's life always brings me to tears. The point where they listen to the opening Aria from The Goldberg Variations recorded as his first album in 1955 (at around 8:50) compared to the final recording of the same piece in 1981...
Here is the link starting just before that comparison:
https://youtu.be/M1teDQTwtVg?t=397