Don’t Be A Sally – Based on True Events

If you enjoy beer with your whiskey you may enjoy this story.  It’s based on true events. The hardest working men and women I know drink.  They’ll watch the foam slide down the glass and empty the contents and order another.  Some are covered in mud and dust from working in the fields and other’s pull on their suit to be sure they haven’t wrinkled.

The first chapter is tough.  Don’t Be A Sally is based on true events. Cheers.Sugar Loaf

Photo taken by me.  Use your smart phone, kindle, laptop, or iPhone reader and click the link below to read the story.

Emily Dickinson

I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – Too?
Then there’s a pair of us?
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!

Emily Dickinson. Final Harvest, 85 (288)

.Emily D

Last Summer – Don’t not write what you know best.

Last summer I was asked, ‘What made you, you? How did you get this way?’

It was 2 in the morning. I hadn’t seen my childhood friend since his wedding six years ago. He hadn’t changed and the years were good to him. It was 2 am and we’d outlasted his family. His brother was getting married and they came to the coast for the bachelor celebration.

My memory works with imagery. Often I try to not remember. I’m told I have a memory that’s abnormal. I don’t think of words or places, I see. Then, I’m there. A thousand images. I wanted to answer and I did. I said, ‘I ought to write a book about it.’

 

I had been struggling with my second book. The story is complete yet the editing proved most difficult. It wasn’t clear to me until recently when Megan said, ‘You are good when you write what you know.’

My imagery flashed and I was back with my childhood friend and I saw his face as he again asked, ‘What made you, you?’

I’m on chapter 22.

Switch – Odd Walking Thoughts

The blackout is replaced by images and some we know.  They are everything.  A man with sad eyes watches and we push back because they make us sad.  A young girl dances in a field with a yellow flower and her dress is winding around her body. There’s dust and it switches.  A boy is kneeling.  He’s holding a frog and pushing it to his ear waiting for the frog to croak. The blackness is back because we wish to not think, but we cannot, and it continues. We’re sweeping a back room.  A women smiles and she knows something and we want to know what she’s thinking.

Hemingway

“Be careful, he said to himself, it is all very well for you to write simply and the simpler the better. But do not start to think so damned simply. Know how complicated it is and then state it simply.” – Hemingway, The Garden of Eden.

Hemingway. This author is my favorite author. This book was published after his death. I read this and thought, yet again he was ahead of his time, and still teaching.

Musings – Thanks to Steinbeck. He’s fucking good.

Time doesn’t exist. Thoughts do. In Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath I’m reminded of my opinion of Time.

Walk in my mental hallway a moment. Below is an excerpt from The Grapes of Wrath published in 1939.

“For a moment she hesitated uncertainly. “Well,” she said quickly, “why ain’t you prayin”? You’re a preacher, ain’t you?”

Casy’s strong fingers blundered over to Grandpa’s wrist and closed around it. “I tol’ you, Granma. I ain’t a preacher no more.”

“Pray anyway,” she ordered. “You know all the stuff by heart.”

“I can’t” said Casy. “I don’t know what to pray for or who to pray to.”

This is significant to me. This book was published in 1939. The great depression had destroyed family bonds attached to land that never ought to have been taken from them. What stands out the most within this small sample is Casy’s struggle with his faith. In this book, Casy, had been a preacher. His line, ‘I don’t know what to pray for or who to pray to.’ Rings as loudly now as it did then. And, I’m sure, was among the reasons this book was banned at one time.

I’m not done.

Man-vs-Man. We all know this, along with Man-vs-Nature, etc within writing. Not two pages later Steinbeck put this thought to paper helping it to live on forever.

“Pa said softly, “Grampa buried his pa with his own hand, done it in dignity, an’ shaped the grave nice with his own shovel. That was a time when a man had the right to be buried by his son an’ a son had the right to bury his own father.”

“The law says different now,” said Uncle John.”

Again, published in 1939. Do you see? Here’s what I see. Forget the man-vs-man shit, I’m seeing humans. I’m seeing people having the same thoughts over and over and over. A friend of mine might say, “What’s the country coming to? When I was a kid I…things aren’t like they use to be…The Laws Are Different Now.”

Really? Are you sure? Let’s play pretend. Let’s say that my friend who complained about the country was 38. Let’s say my friend stopped their education at 18 and seldom read. Let’s pretend that my friend didn’t start to have an awakening of the mind until 26 which helped them to actually see the world around them for what it truly is. In this theory, my friend has been an individual thinker for twelve years.

Steinbeck has given us a glimpse into the past with his thoughts. Some of his thoughts are the same thoughts many of us have now. It’s possible another fifty years will pass and I’ll be saying thing’s like the characters in Steinbeck’s book. I doubt it. I think I’d rather prompt the individual probing my mental hallway to read a fucking book.

Bar Stool Happenings

I sat at the bar. My mug was full of beer. The man to my left talked of politics and the three men to my right talk of the bartender. When she turned to pour a beer they said, under their breath, that she had a nice ass and her chest was large. My beer was good. The man to my left wanted to tell me about the kids in school. He said that kids no longer received the education he did and that the country would die. The three men to my right talked of her tits. My beer was in front of me. Then, the man to my left told me about his father. His father was there, on D-Day, and he knew. The men on my right wanted to know if the bartender realized her chest was large. My beer was empty.