Denis,
Your piece definitely did not stink...Very poignant portrayal of
the "caretaker" in the dysfunctional family--you know, I usta be
embarrassed to admit said matter and would never tell a soul about my
upbringing, took my college sweethear a coupla years to get it out of
me...But now we just had a president who openly boasted about such a
matter!
And yet, there is that strand of thought, still, among our "public
policy" makers that insists one is genetically doomed by such
an "accident of God." For me too starkly reminiscent of Hitler's
scientists and political police--rule of law having been displaced by
Herr Little Guy's opinions as fatwah/edict/fiats! Read a frightening
book on how it all happened in "The Dual State," by Ernst Frankel, a
Jew who managed to "get outta Dodge" just before the steaming dung
hit the fan, man...The Weimar Constitution was suspended--Jews no
longer had ANY rights in a civil court of law, could not sue or seek
compensation for seized property, etc. Entire matter of any
complaint settled by a bureacrat Kafka-esquely named "The Minister of
the Interior." Which, if you were Jewish, meant: "nada, our Father
who art in nada, nada, nada, nada"...
Part of Hitler's very first "fiat" decree--mebbe like Caesar's
Dictator for Life--was to round up the eugencially "undesirable" and
have them put in mental hospitals. Along the lines of Ben Jonson's
*humours* theory in Elizabethan times: i.e, he claimed that
Shakespeare was too "saturnine" in humour and made him the role model
for Volpone [the wolfish predator]. The more naturally joyous of
society, you see, are too unfairly impacted by all these "people who
think too deeply and much," these gloomy ones drag the "greatest
good" down, man!
So, Hitler, swear to God, set about segregating them--as he would do
with the Jews later, claiming that they were a "bacterial virus" (his
devotees claimed that Hitler had gotten some veneral disease jsut
from being in the same atmosphere contact with Jews!) to be
exterminated...
On the list of mental defectives were: "degenerate artists" (Monet,
Van Gogh, Gaugin, e.g.) and children of alcoholics ("eugenic" family
bacjgrounds were assiduously compiled). Once thus doomed you were
middle of the night damned--if you dig what I mean!
Not my cup of tea...I once read a great book describing how children
in dysfunctional families faced a dichotomy, early on, that would
decide how one dealt with the issue:a) become as uncaring as the
abusing parent-- cheat, steal, lie, whatever, as one coldly and
maliciously "compensates' oneself;b)become the "caretaker" who uses
love as a kind of yoga to heal the contradictions...
Glad to see you chose b, Denis!
TaMO
--- In fiction_writers_workshop@y..., "Denis Taillefer" <dat.is@h...>
wrote:
> Hey Mitch!
>
> So you're the one spreading that 20 minute rule! What I tried
saying
> was even if you only have 20 minutes to do an exercise, go for it
and
> who cares if it stinks. Mine took at least 3 times that and it
still
> stinks.
>
> So, eight more pounds, huh? I like 'em pudgy! Seriously though,
> wish you luck with quitting smoking. Have you considered the patch?
> And it must have been stressful firing someone. But you gotta do
> what you gotta do. I'm just babbling again, so I better say bye.
>
> Cheers, mate! ;-)
>
> --- In fiction_writers_workshop@y..., Mitch <gigzoo@y...> wrote:
> > Hey Denis!
> >
> > Part I
> >
> > Ouch! I didn't know all that stuff about oil, thanks
> > for preventing an embarassing situation for myself!
> >
> > Part II
> >
> > Loved the last line "one of you is gonna have to tell
> > the judge" lol, lol, lol, very good. So true that
> > smokers are entitled to be out of a building but
> > non-smokers are not (got a taste of that over the last
> > 3 weeks)!
> >
> > Good writing Denis, clear and smooth flowing stories
> > that end tight! Just need a bit more pizazz is all,
> > for 20 minutes, it's an awesome effort!
> >
> > Mitch
> >
> >
> > --- Denis Taillefer <dat.is@h...> wrote:
> > > Part I
> > >
> > > My legs are shaky from hours of playing road-hockey.
> > > I'm climbing the
> > > concrete steps to the front door when I see smoke
> > > billowing through
> > > its screen.
> > >
> > > I run inside to the kitchen where dark clouds of
> > > acrid smoke roll
> > > along the ceiling. There is a large pot of cooking
> > > oil boiling on the
> > > stove's burner. Bubbles gurgle in the greasy liquid
> > > like a volcano
> > > about to erupt. After turning off the element, I
> > > rush to the
> > > basement, checking to see who's home. My four
> > > younger sisters and
> > > their friends are darting from room to room playing
> > > freeze tag.
> > >
> > > I scold the eldest for leaving the pot unattended.
> > > "I was making
> > > French Fries," says Jeannette, her teary eyes half
> > > concealed by dark
> > > curly hair. For a moment she looks like she's about
> > > to snub me off,
> > > or challenge me, but she could tell by my tone and
> > > statement that I
> > > am alarmed.
> > >
> > > "You're burning the house down, you fool!"
> > >
> > > Had I known that my parents were out drinking, I
> > > would have stayed to
> > > baby-sit, like I always do. The smoke has diffused
> > > through the house
> > > and is stinging my eyes. I shoo the children
> > > outside and then I make
> > > my first mistake. I decide to carry the pot outside
> > > to let it air
> > > out.
> > >
> > > I learned afterward, that oil boils at a much higher
> > > temperature than
> > > water, and that one should let hot oil slowly cool
> > > before handling it.
> > >
> > > When I step onto the concrete landing on the front
> > > steps, the cooler
> > > air attacks the pot causing the volcano to finally
> > > vent its rage. As
> > > my hands are soaked with burning oil, a jolt of pain
> > > strikes through
> > > my body and forces me to drop the pot.
> > >
> > > We are a family of eight kids: three boys, followed
> > > by three girls,
> > > another boy, Roger, who is nine years old, and
> > > finally, there's the
> > > baby. Roger has long curly hair, like most of us in
> > > our family, but
> > > he is small. He'll likely fill in a little with
> > > time, though. He is
> > > a bright boy, too, but he is often alone. Sometimes
> > > he plays with my
> > > sisters because his brothers are too old to play his
> > > games. But
> > > often, he doesn't quite fit in with the girls
> > > either. Maybe that's
> > > why he is sitting alone on the step just below the
> > > landing.
> > >
> > > When his back and arm are soaked with the sticky,
> > > scalding oil from
> > > the fallen pot, he yells out a piercing, pleading
> > > scream and darts
> > > down the stairs and along the sidewalk, his scream
> > > unceasing. It
> > > takes at least a hundred yards before my seventeen
> > > year-old legs catch
> > > up to his.
> > >
> > > When we get back to the house, my brain goes into
> > > auto-pilot, and I
> > > forget about my own pain. I call 911, remove his
> > > clothing, and that's
> > > when I make my second mistake. He is writhing on
> > > the couch, pleading
> > > with me to put wet towels on his back, and--I say
> > > no. It may infect
> > > the wound.
> > >
> > > As soon as the paramedics arrive, they place wet
> > > towels on his back,
> > > and for a brief moment, there is some relief on
> > > Roger's face.
> > >
> > > At the hospital, I help hold him down as a nurse
> > > injects him with a
> > > general anesthetic. As soon as he is out and the
> > > yelling stops, the
> > > pain returns to my hands and it is my turn to be
> > > treated.
> > >
> > > Later that evening I'm attending a party with a
> > > group of friends.
> > > Every weekend someone is hosting a party, and it's
> > > mostly the same
> > > group who attend, and like most of my friends, I am
> > > there to smoke
> > > pot, drink beer and meet girls. Thanks to the
> > > painkillers and other
> > > assorted medicines, my bandaged hands are free of
> > > pain.
> > >
> > > When I call home to see if my parents have finally
> > > arrived and it's
> > > Omer, my father, who wants to speak with me. He is
> > > not well trained
> > > in stress and crisis management. His usual approach
> > > is to demolish
> > > anything and anyone in striking distance. So when
> > > he orders me to
> > > come home "Right fuckin' now!" I pause, and that's
> > > when I make my
> > > first good decision. I say, "No!"
> > >
> > > Every couple hours or so my friend John takes me to
> > > the hospital to
> > > check on Roger. He is sleeping but I still see the
> > > pain in his face.
> > > He is lying on his stomach, his face and lips are
> > > tight, and his wet
> > > hair is brushed back against the pillow. I learn
> > > that I've been his
> > > only visitor and decide to keep checking on him
> > > throughout the
> > > evening.
> > >
> > > Back at the party, I'm dancing to a slow song with
> > > Sheila. She is a
> > > tall, muscular, well-shaped competitive swimmer.
> > > Her eyes and lips
> > > are inviting and that's when I make my second good
> > > decision. I kiss
> > > her, and she kisses me back. We spend most of the
> > > evening together,
> > > hugging, kissing passionately, and we both know that
> > > this is a
> > > special, magical moment that will not be carried
> > > into tomorrow. I
> > > also know that tomorrow, I will be feeling pain.
> > >
> > >
> > > Part II
> > >
> > > Every couple hours or so, Gerry steps away from his
> > > computer terminal
> > > and steps outside for fresh air. But of course, the
> > > air is not so
> > > fresh as he also smokes a cigarette. It seems that
> > > exiting the
> > > building during work hours is only condoned if one
> > > is a member of the
> > > smoking class.
> > >
> > > Gerry catches his reflection in one of the doors'
> > > glass as he takes a
> > > puff. He realizes that he's no Malborough Man. In
> > > fact, he doesn't
> > > look like a smoker at all. With his short stubby
> > > fingers and thick
> > > hands, he looks more like a young bear who's playing
> > > with a discarded
> > > candy, fumbling with its tiny wrapper. He wants to
> > > quit, but if he
> > > does, he will lose this precious privilege.
> > >
> > > The small group of smokers are distracted by
> > > speeding tires and blasts
> > > of horns on nearby Riverside Drive. Two trucks are
> > > in pursuit of a
> > > Cube Van. The van comes to a stop then a disheveled
> > > man runs across
> > > the lawn toward the smoker's building. The group
> > > scurries away but
> > > Gerry remains, a cigarette hanging from his lips.
> > >
> > > "Whoa, there!" He says extending his arm and with
> > > his palm facing
> > > outward forms the universal sign for stop. "You
> > > need a badge to get
> > > in this building."
> > >
> > > Gerry is not a particularly brave man. Mostly, he
> > > is stubborn, and
> > > has always had a reflex to intervene when people are
> > > in a frenzy.
> > >
> > > "Help! I'm schizophrenic and they'll kill me!" The
> > > man
> > === message truncated ===
> >
> >
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