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the lottery (or how i learned to stop trying to be so damn cool and love reading)

1/29/2013

5 Comments

 
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I sat in the middle of class, second row to the left, third from the back. J hit me in the back of my head with the eraser end of his pencil. Same as he did every day.  I didn’t care. Not here. Not in this  class. I had a huge crush on L ever since the third grade and she chose the seat right in front of me. We actually spoke on a bi-weekly basis. Cloud nine =’d me. Who’d ever think that Sophomore English would be the best class ever? Also, it  didn’t hurt that Mr. B was the coolest teacher in the entire
school.


Mr. B snuck in below the average age of our teachers by a decade or so. He shrugged off the concept of a suit and tie for short sleeves, jeans and sneakers. He didn’t smell of cigarettes, but some other strange smoky fragrance that I was still unfamiliar with at the time. The small circular glasses on the bridge of his nose reminded me of the eyewear that one of the Beatles wore in a poster on the wall at our neighborhood’s Licorice Pizza.



“Take one and pass these back guys.” Mr. B handed out copies of a
thin, plainly covered book to the front row. “Today we’re going to read one of the most influential short stories of the last hundred years. Anybody ever hear of Shirley Jackson?”


“Michael Jackson’s mom?”


“She wrote Frankenstein right?”


“Ha. Ha. Ha. Very funny guys” Assuming his typical pose, Mr. B sat on the corner of his desk and opened the book. “Who wants to start? We’re  going to trade pages today.” Nobody else volunteered, so I raised my hand. He looked around the room, not appearing surprised by the lack of enthusiasm in this group of fourteen and fifteen year olds. His gaze finally landing on me, he nodded in my direction.


“’The Lottery’ by Shirley Jackson.” I read the title page first and then went on through the next two or three before Mr. B interrupted me, calling another student’s name to continue the story. I was mesmerized, transported into a suffocating world of fear and complacency. I didn’t see words on the page anymore. There were no pages. The classroom disappeared leaving me in the midst of that panicked, sweaty crowd of villagers praying like them, that I wouldn’t be the one chosen.


Near the end of class we reached the climax. Ms. Hutchinson pleading the unfairness of the drawing and the dot on her slip of paper shouldn’t count as the stones begin bombarding her in the head. After the reading of the final word, a thick questioning silence floated around the room. Could an event such as this really happen? Do they happen in the world now? I asked myself these and worried about the state of the world for the first time in my young life.


A loud bang on the door and everyone in the classroom jumped in our seats. Mr. B stuck his head out, his words muffled by the thick wood echoed unintelligibly through the hall. “I’ll be right back guys. Why don’t you discuss the story and how it made you feel?” He stepped outside and closed the door behind him.


“That story is crazy.”


“So fucked up man.”


“It could never happen.”


“Why not?”


“What about the holocaust?”


“So fucked up man.”


“Yeah man. And Communism.”


“And how everybody likes Milli Vanilli.”


“What?”


“You know, group organisms.”


“I don’t get it.”


“It’s like a flock of birds or a school of fish. They all travel the same way together so they don’t disrupt the flow.”


“I still don’t get it.”


“Do you want everybody else to think you’re cool?”


“Yeah.”


 “Why?”


“I don’t know.”


“It’s because you want everybody to like you.”


“Okay.”


“Well, that’s going with the flow. Not disturbing the herd.”


“What does that have to do with the story?”


“The villagers go along with it because they don’t want to disrupt the flow no matter what else happens.”


“Even if they have to kill people?”


“That’s fucked up man.”


“Tel me about it.”


“Hey, I’ve got a great idea…”


Every one of us ripped a sheet of paper from our notebooks and  crumpled them up into balls. I put one extra sheet on my desk, drew a big black dot on it and folded it neatly. J took the paper from me and stood by the door, waiting. Sitting straight backed with our hands folded on top of the paper balls on our desks, we fought back laughter as best we could. Mr. B opened the door and J handed him the paper. J shouted “Now!” as Mr. B comprehended the solid black symbol in his hands. Diving through the air to get behind his desk, he flew through our barrage of paper stones. Picking the nearest stones on the floor, he threw them back at us hitting L between the eyes.



There was no possible way the rest of campus didn’t hear our  screams and howls of laughter for the final remaining minutes of class. The paper war went on until Mr. B ultimately surrendered, hair frazzled and out of  breath. He didn’t give us homework that night, but I read the story again  anyway. The next day in class he asked if anyone else read it again. With no hesitation, we all raised our hands.


Unfortunately I can’t remember that teacher's name. But more importantly, I remember what he taught me. He inspired me to read beyond the syllabus. To find  authors and stories that inspired me. He pushed me to write poetry and study grail mythology. When I brought in a report on “The Once and Future King” by T.H. White, he checked out a VCR from the office and showed us Monty Python and the Holy Grail. He made reading accessible to us, the first generation of cable and video game kids.


Other than my music classes, that particular memory of “The Lottery” is one of the things I look back on most fondly from school. To this day I read the story from time to time and think of that class. Now I watch my  kids reading their school books and can only hope they find someone to  encourage them to seek out their own inspiration and imagination too. 



5 Comments

we can rebuild him

1/17/2013

3 Comments

 
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I’m being altered at the genetic level. My DNA is forever changed. I am no longer the same me that I used to be. I never will be that me again. A better, stronger, healthier me? I certainly hope so. The knife cuts above my left eye over my ear closer to the top of my head. The pain does goes away for clear moments of peace, but when it comes back I have to close my eyes and not allow any further intrusions of aggressive visual stimuli. I grit my teeth until my jaw hollers at me to loosen up a bit. The piercing ringing in my ears is louder now. Someone is constantly circling their finger on the rim of a singing crystal glass filled with water in my brain. Sitting for too long makes my thighs stiff and it’s becoming difficult to walk for long periods without getting woozy. I’m a guinea pig. The first patient my doctor has put on this new medication. Of course there aren’t supposed to be any side effects. A half hour phone call with the support nurse from the drug company told me otherwise. Her seemingly endless list of warnings described possible numbness and pain in the extremities with headaches and nausea joining in as additional rides I might have to strap myself into. Of course, these are already issues I’m dealing with, so when they occur I won’t really know if their continuations of what’s already been happening or if they’re new joyful experiences brought on by the drug. My focus shifts me away from planned intentions on a constant basis. It’s growing more and more difficult to accomplish my set daily goals. I’m trying to write one thousand words every day. I may be working on a story, blog post or lyrics. Whatever comes up on any particular day, I want to put down at least that much. It might not sound like a lot, but my drifting thought process fights me every syllable of the way. Still, I’m twenty five pages in on a new short story and I’ve submitted and done rewrites on another so far this month. The challenge for me is to keep fighting through my body’s resistance and get everything out of me that I can. Hopefully this new me will be able to stand up  to the my own immune system’s bullying and kick it’s ass. I’d like that a lot more than growing a tail or a third eye.


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working on forgetting

1/3/2013

0 Comments

 
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my holiday persona perfectly etched in glass for all to see
Last year I wallowed.

The year before I had fear

The year before that I cried

This year I will endure.

 -amk

 
“A hurt body and mind aren’t just like a dictatorship; they are a dictatorship. There is no tyrant as merciless as pain, no despot so cruel as confusion.” – Stephen King, Duma Key

 I’ve spent so much time sitting with all of this pain and loss of control, I’ve forgotten to forget about it. 2012 had some greatmoments. One of the most notable for me aside from the accomplishments of my children, was the publishing of my first novel  ”the Key to everything”. Since it came out in June I’ve discovered that it has been read by people in six different countries. While that may not sound like a lot when you compare it to a mainstream author, it’s pretty damn fantastic when you ask me.

So what’s in store for 2013? It’s January 3 and  I’ve already completed the first draft of a short story. I have some poems under  way that I plan on getting out once they’ve been twisted, turned and tweaked. My  second novel is chugging right along and the goal is to have it ready for
publication in the next few months.   In addition, I have some musical projects crawling to the surface under  the scrutiny of studio microphones upstairs. 
 
I’m working on working so much that I don’t have  time to think about anything else but said work and my family. The kids are  growing up, the weather is very, very cold (Yay!) and the dog is itchin’ to go  outside for a romp in the snow.  I’m setting goals and not making New  Year’s Resolutions. Those NYR’s thrust themselves to the excuse pile as soon as  the first week of the year is over. Making goals and hitting deadlines is the  only way I know I’ll get anything accomplished. 
 
May your New Year be filled with whatever works to bring you as
much happiness, joy and fulfillment you can find! 
 
Now off I go into the frozen wastelands hoping I don’t get frostbite! I still have some writing to do when I get  back…

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