I finished reading Lamb by Christopher Moore last night. It's an iconoclastic comedy that tells the story of Jesus from the perspective of the previously unknown thirteenth disciple Biff. It's not complex though, sort of a cross between The Life of Brian and Asterix the Gaul. It's also the longest book I've read this year and yet I still managed to read it in about a week. The fact that I compare it to a movie and a comic, and not any other books might be the reason why this book failed to inspire me to write anything during that week.
Normally books motivate me to write, even Balzac and his lame short stories inspired me to write that story about the chicken in the library. I can understand why they are classics, obviously they didn't have television back then. Anyway, I'm not saying that Lamb is a bad book, it was actually very enjoyable, just not inspiring. I think tonight I'm going to read more of Gladwell's What the Dog Saw before bed tonight so that I can hopefully have dreams about writing delightful non-fiction essays for the New Yorker. I think people in Tribeca will be interested in my thoughts about Mondays and breakfasts.
Comments
You are doing better than the rest of us. I have to stop reading chick books! They don't make me think about Mondays or Breakfast or anything and would spark interesting comment for publication in the New Yorker (or the Big W catalogue for that matter).
I am just thankful you have not posted anything on the election!
I take that back - just noted your ad for the Greens... tut tut tut.
;)
You really are stalking me?
And I'm voting Labor, as should every non religious young person who doesn't miss the 1950s.
hmm, I'm non religious and young... I voted Katter - on your reasoning I am worried what that says about me! :)
Gamdias MSY
It was a small town, like many small towns on the interstate, lying in the shadows of The Cascades. There was a craft brewery now, and a new coffee roaster on main street, along with the elementary school, a grocery store, a library and a cemetery where four, child-sized plots had been filled in the recent days, and a fifth which stood open, the tragically short casket of Jill Simpson positioned next to it.
Summer never lasted long at such altitudes, and though it hadn’t ended there was a chill in the air and a few coats among the people gathered to mourn Jill. In the blue sky, wisps of white cloud covered the tops of the mountains to the east. Peter Simpson hugged his arms across his chest, feeling the cheap, scratchy fabric. He stood at the front of the congregation, close to his daughter’s casket, and distanced from the rest of the town, enough to be conspicuous. Nearly a hundred people gathered behind him. There may be a new coffee roaster on main street, but it was still a small town.
The sun found a patch of empty sky, and the rays turned onto the mourners. Scarves were removed, and, and coats unbuttoned. Summer didn’t last long, but it wasn’t over. Except for the five children now in the _town_name_ earth.
When Hunter finished laughing, Leya counted in her head the time it took for his expression to return to normal. And since the day that the police officers had arrived on their doorstep to tell them Charles was dead, normal was a faraway look, a sallow grimace, and downward cast eyes. Hunter’s arm was still cocked in a farewell wave as Anita – the neighbor who hadn’t spoken more than a hello to them in the four years they’d lived on Douglas Ave – walked across the unmown grass holding an empty casserole tray that she’d exchanged for a fresh one.
Less than two seconds, Leya concluded, between Anita’s well-meant attempt to lighten Hunter’s somber mood as she said goodbye, and her husband’s return to a place so distant that light seemed not to reach. He wasn’t improving. She’d been monitoring for two weeks now. After every conversation, every human interaction which dragged her once boisterous, swaggery husband out of his misery it took less than two seconds for him to sink back into depression. His best friends, from Tacoma, had taken him out fishing, drinking, two seconds. The coroner, explaining how _death details_. The surgeon, sharing the news of how Charles’ heart, lung, liver and spleen would live on and save the lives of four other children. Jake _, who he didn’t even pretend to smile for anymore. And her. Every talk, every touch, every time Leya put herself inside his bubble they were connected as long as the words came out of their mouth. As soon as she stopped talking, as soon as she broke away, he was gone.
Leya understood grief. It hadn’t been long enough to heal. Long enough to grieve. Hunter had lost his son. His only child. A strapping, young lad with his father’s broad shoulders and ability to run and kick a football and grin at the high school girls with the same confidence Hunter had when he’d been twelve. Three weeks wasn’t long enough to get over the death of your child, your progeny. Not even long enough to heal for one second. Leya understood that.
But Charles had been her child too. The one who’d listened to her jokes as he grew up, absorbed her sense of humor and then made her laugh every night as he told her about her day, school, sports, his adventures with Zoe and the others. He’d been her little knight, trapping mice in the shed, pulling cans down from the top shelves of _’s grocery store, keeping her company when Hunter was travelling across the world for work. She’d lost a son as well. And, they way it was going, she’d also lost a husband.