Six Word Stories #1- Read this because it won’t take a lot of time!

Below are a collection of six word stories compiled by Dave Eggers in his 2007 book, The Best American Non-Required Reading.   The most famous six word story was written by Ernest Hemingway: For sale: baby shoes, never used.

Wanted world, got world plus lupus.

Mistakenly kills kitten.  Fears anything delicate.

Bad brakes discovered at high speeds.

Scarred by 911; helped by penguins.

Ex-wife and contractor have new house.

Wasn’t born a redhead; fixed that.

Hugged some trees, then burned them.

Fears commitment, debt.  Attracts spouse, house.

Opening Lines of Novels

Below are some opening lines in novels written in 2006 and collected by Dave Eggers in his 2007  book The Best Non-Required Reading.”

That 1901 winter when the wife and her husband were still new to Washington, there came to the wife like a scent carried on the wind some word that wolves roamed the streets and roads of the city after sundown (Edward P. Jones, All Aunt Hagar’s Children)

He came up with the names.  (Colsen Whitehead, Aphex Hides the Hurt)

At the close of the workday on Thursday the twenty-fourth of January, 1822, Prue Winship sat down at the large desk in the countinghouse of Winship Daughters Gin to write a letter to her daughter, Recompense. (Emily Barton, Brookland)

I was not meant to be a dissident.  (Nell Freudenberger, The Dissident)

It is easy for a life to become unblessed. (Dana Spiota, Eat the Document)

It was Joseph Brodsky, the one person who had never caused any trouble, who did not want his daughter to marry David Bloom.  (Jennifer Gilmore, Golden Country)

When he looks at his hand, he sees the hand he remembers- ropy branching veins, a ridge of waxy skin on the inside of the wrist where he fumbled a glowing iron rod at his father’s forge one afternoon in 1966.  (David Long, The Inhabited World)

The castle was falling apart, but at 2 A.M. under a useless moon, Danny couldn’t see this.  (Jennifer Egan, The Keep)

He was lost.  (Kate Atkinson, One Good Turn)

She dreamt that it rained and she could not go out to meet him as planned.  (Leila Aboulela, The Translator)

The following might have happened on a late-fall afternoon in the Boston suburb of West Salem. (Heidi Julavits, The Uses of Enchantment)

Best Names of Horses Expected to Have Undistinguished Careers

The following comes from 2007’s version of The Best American Non-Required Reading edited by Dave Eggers.  These were collected from yankeepotroast.com

Average at Best

Buyer’s Remorse

Cloud of Suspicion

Colic the Wonder Horse

Daddy Drinks Because I’m Slow

Exit Strategy

Fond of Long Naps

For the Love of God Run Faster

Glued Lightening

I Have No Son

Limp to Victory

Low Expectations

Pride of Two Guys with No Business Owning a Horse

Shoulda Bought a Monkey

Slim to None

This is Your Horse on Drugs

Tripsy McStumble

Undisguised Contempt for All Things French

War Criminal

Shedding light on life

Today is the birthday of Ernest Hemingway, born in 1899 in Cicero — now Oak Park — Illinois.

Hemingway’s memoir A Moveable Feast (published posthumously in 1964) is about his years living in Paris. The title was chosen by his widow, Mary, from something Hemingway wrote to a friend: “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.” It is sentimental and cruel by turns, and not entirely honest, since he probably overstated the level of poverty he experienced there, but as he concludes the brief preface: “If the reader prefers, this book may be regarded as fiction. But there is always the chance that such a book of fiction may throw some light on what has been written as fact.”

I love the final line above and this has been the reason why I have been on a steady diet of fiction for the past few years.  Beginning with Ernest Gaines, Marilynne Robinson, more Ernest Gaines, John Steinbeck and, not-really-fiction, poetry, lots of light has been shed.  This blog has helped me share this light with others.

The Grapes of Wrath #2- A vacant house falls quickly apart

When the folks first left, and the evening of the first day came, the hunting cats slouched in from the fields and mewed on the porch. And when no one came out, the cats crept through the open doors and walked mewing through the empty rooms. And then they went back to the fields and were wild cats from then on, hunting gophers and field mice, and sleeping in ditches in the daytime. When the night came, the bats, which had stopped at the doors for fear of light, swooped into the houses and sailed about through the empty rooms, and in a little while they stayed in dark room corners during the day, folded their wings high, and hung head-down among the rafters, and the smell of their dropping was in the empty houses.

And the mice moved in and stored weed seeds in corners, in boxes, in the backs of drawers in the kitchens. And weasels came in to hunt the mice, and the brown owls flew shrieking in and out again.

Now there came a little shower. The weeds sprang up in front of the doorstep, where they had not been allowed, and grass grew up through the porch boards. The houses were vacant, and a vacant house falls quickly apart. Splits started up the sheathing from the rusted nails. A dust settled on the floors, and only mouse and weasel and cat tracks disturbed it.

On a night the wind loosened a shingle and flipped it to the ground. The next wind pried into the hole where the shingle had been, lifted off three, and the next, a dozen. The midday sun burned through the hole and threw a glaring spot on the floor. The wild cats crept in from the fields at night, but they did not mew at the doorstep any more. They moved like shadows of a cloud across the moon, into the rooms to hunt the mice. And on windy nights the doors banged, and the ragged curtains fluttered in the broken windows.

“The Grapes of Wrath” (2002) by John Steinbeck, pp. 116-117

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What struck me about the passage above was, “a vacant house falls quickly apart.” Steinbeck seems to be speaking about more than just an empty house in the 1930’s. He seems to be talking about the condition of a human soul which, if left untended, becomes wild.

A few doors down from my house is a vacant house. Under the cover of darkness two summers ago, our neighbors packed and left. It was complicated. The other neighbors and I look after the house- Jack has mowed the yard faithfully and locked the entrance to their backyard and I have worked in their front flower beds. But the heartbeat of the house is gone- no lights, no noise, no groceries, no tending, no shoveling and no movement except the wild that has crept in through the cracks.

The most wild part of the house was their expansive backyard filled with two small ponds, several vines, a stone pathway and every form of Midwestern flower that you can imagine. My flower beds are weeded each weekend or, at worst, every other weekend. Weeding flower beds is therapeutic for me and I have debated breaking into their backyard to conduct some sessions but their empty house feels haunted now.

The Grapes of Wrath- #1 How can we live without our lives?

If Mary takes that doll, that dirty rag doll, I got to take my Injun bow. I got to. An’ this roun’ stick- big as me. I might need this stick. I had this stick so long- a month, or maybe a year. I got to take it. And what’s it like in California?

The women sat among the doomed things, turning them over and looking past them and back. This book. My father had it. He like this book. “Pilgrim’s Progress.” Used to read it. Got his name on it. And his pipe- still smells rank. And this picture- an angel. I looked at that before the fust three come- didn’t seem to do much good. Think we could get this china dog in? Aunt Sadie brought it from the St. Louis Fair. See? Wrote right on it. No, I guess not. Here’s a letter my brother wrote the day before he died. Here’s an old-time hat. These feathers- never got to use them. No, there isn’t room.

How can we live without our lives? How will we know it’s us without our past? Leave it. Burn it.

They sat and looked at it and burned it into their memories. How’ll it be not to know what land’s outside the door? How if you wake up in the night and know- and know the willow tree’s not there? Can you live without the willow tree? Well, no, you can’t. The willow tree is you. The pain on that mattress there- that dreadful pain- that’s you.

And the children- if Sam takes his Injun bow an’ his long roun’ stick, I get to take two things. I choose the fluffy pilla. That’s mine.

Suddenly they were nervous. Got to get out quick now. Can’t wait. We can’t wait. And they piled up the goods in the yards and set fire to them. They stood and watched them burning, and then frantically they loaded up the cars and drove away, drove in the dust. The dust hung in the air for a long time after the loaded cars had passed.

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If you haven’t read Steinbeck’s novel, it is about the Joad family’s exodus from their Oklahoma land to California. They were tenant farmers but were forced to move when the big banks were dissatisfied with the profit margins of the land in the 1930’s. Steinbeck moves back and forth in his book between the Joad family and the tenant families as a whole- talking in general terms about the aridness of the land, the difficulty in finding water, or the hazards of traveling across the west in an unreliable car.

In this section of The Grapes of Wrath, a tenant family is trying to determine which items to take and which items to leave behind. Space is limited. Families are large. Tough decisions are made.

While it pales in comparison, my only experience of moving came this summer. A school in another state contacted me about applying for a position. We thought and thought and thought about it. We talked about the different responsibilities, the increased pay, the more prestigious role and institution but we couldn’t get over leaving Indiana. We couldn’t get over leaving our friends, moving farther from our families, and walking away from the community at Huntington. But it also meant moving away from our home and flower beds. This may be small compared to friends, family and work community but the quote above struck me this summer as we were debating a move. Instead of the willow tree, how could we leave our honeysuckle vines. Their fragrance has filled our living room and front porch each morning and evening. Even more now that we have new windows in the living room that actually open up. I don’t think that I could be without that.

A Prayer for Peace in Syria

Ads Push For Middle Ground Amid Syrian Conflict

Each morning, I read through Common Prayer.  I have the hard copy but here is an online copy at commonprayer.net.  It is a daily Scripture and prayer guide put together by Shane Claiborne and some of his friends.

For the past several weeks under the heading of “Prayer for Others”, I’ve been listening to the daily global news podcast on National Public Radio.  I may be a global citizen because of the internet but I have no idea that the world exists outside of my immediate geographical concerns.  I have always enjoyed reading an actual newspaper and seeing where God is at work or where the church can be in prayer.  I find that Saturday papers are the best days for this sort of reading.  So when I found this daily global news story, I can now be more aware of global concerns and pray for God’s activity within these stories.

The link above is today’s story about some advertising professionals in Syria (I had no idea where Syria was) who are helping to bring peace to an internal conflict (of which I only know the smallest bits and pieces) between a majority group and a minority group (what else is new?).  I listened and took notes.  I don’t write the prayers down but wanted to do so today to share this idea with any of you in case you wanted to try this.  While I will never meet the folks in this story nor will I ever visit Syria, after listening, you can easily hear that the peace of Christ is needed in their midst.

Prince of Peace, thank you for the creativity of  Mr. Alani and Mr. Omran.  May you grant them favor with those involved in the conflict and continue to foster other creative methods for peace in Syria.  For the leadership of Syria, may that be moved to seek common ground in positive and non-destructive ways.  For the citizens of Syria, may you strengthen the voice of the silent, encourage the hearts of the weary and give them hope that peace between the sides will become a reality.  Amen.

An Athlete of God by Martha Graham

An Athlete of God « Martha Graham | This I Believe.

I believe that we learn by practice. Whether it means to learn to dance by practicing dancing, or to learn to live by practicing living, the principles are the same. In each, it is the performance of a dedicated, precise set of acts, physical or intellectual, from which come shape of achievement, the sense of one’s being, the satisfaction of spirit. One becomes in some area an athlete of God. Practice means to perform over and over again, in the face of all obstacles, some act of vision, of faith, of desire. Practice is a means of inviting the perfection desired.

I think the reason dance has held such an ageless magic for the world is that it has been the symbol of the performance of living. Many times, I hear the phrase, “the dance of life.” It is close to me for a very simple and understandable reason. The instrument through which the dance speaks is also the instrument through which life is lived: the human body. It is the instrument by which all the primaries of experience are made manifest. It holds in its memory all matters of life and death and love.

Dancing appears glamorous, easy, delightful. But the path to the paradise of that achievement is not easier than any other. There is fatigue so great that the body cries even in its sleep. There are times of complete frustration. There are daily small deaths. Then, I need all the comfort that practice has stored in my memory and the tenacity of faith. But it must be the kind of faith that Abraham had, wherein he “staggered not at the promise of God through unbelief.”

It takes about ten years to make a mature dancer. The training is twofold. There is the study and practice of the craft in order to strengthen the muscular structure of the body. The body is shaped, disciplined, honored, and in time, trusted. The movement becomes clean, precise, eloquent, truthful. Movement never lies. It is a barometer telling the state of the soul’s weather to all who can read it. This might be called the law of the dancer’s life, the law which governs its outer aspects.

Then, there is the cultivation of the being. It is through this that the legends of the soul’s journey are retold with all their gaiety and their tragedy and the bitterness and sweetness of living. It is at this point that the sweep of life catches up the mere personality of the performer, and while the individual—the undivided one—becomes greater, the personal becomes less personal. And there is grace. I mean the grace resulting from faith…faith in life, in love, in people, in the act of dancing. All this is necessary to any performance in life which is magnetic, powerful, rich in meaning.

In a dancer there is a reverence for such forgotten things as the miracle of the small beautiful bones and their delicate strength. In a thinker there is a reverence for the beauty of the alert and directed and lucid mind. In all of us who perform, there is an awareness of the smile, which is part of the equipment, or gift, of the acrobat. We have all walked the high wire of circumstance at times. We recognize the gravity of pull on the Earth as he does. The smile is there because he is practicing living at that instant of danger. He does not choose to fall.

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If you have not listened to “This I Believe” on National Public Radio, you should stop what you are doing and go listen.  Or read the essays.  There are two main parts of “This I Believe”- one is the historical essay written in the 1950’s and read by the authors, the second one is contemporary essays.  All of the essays are short and complete the sentence, “This I believe…”

Also, you can click on the link at the top and listen to Martha Graham read her essay.

Sacred

After the teacher asked if anyone had
a sacred place
and the students fidgeted and shrank

in their chairs, the most serious of them all
said it was his car,
being in it alone, his tape deck playing

things he’d chosen, and others knew the truth
had been spoken
and began speaking about their rooms,

their hiding places, but the car kept coming up,
the car in motion,
music filling it, and sometimes one other person

who understood the bright altar of the dashboard
and how far away
a car could take him from the need

to speak, or to answer, the key
in having a key
and putting it in, and going.

“The Sacred” by Stephen Dunn

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My first car was a red, 4-speed Volkswagon diesel Rabbit.  My dad put a small headlight in the middle of the grill so that it would be distinct from every other car on the road.  The sound system (if you can call it that) was minimal: a dial radio / tape deck with two working speakers- the front left and rear right.   Songs sounded different because one of sides of the stereo (as opposed to mono) was absent.  This resulted in words, guitar rifs, beats and other musical elements that went unspoken.

As a teenager growing up in Akron, Ohio, having a soundsytem in your car meant something.  Rappers like DJ Quik, NWA, and 2 Live Crew made music explicitly (pardon the pun) for bass speakers.  Much of this music was lost in my car.  In fact, having a diesel engine only deadened the music.

But I can still remember the sacredness of driving with the radio on.  Whatever fad song I was listening to at the time- Metallica, Beastie Boys, Vanilla Ice, Petra, that theme song to “Robin Hood”- I was enveloped.  I was free.  I was shifting gears like Mario Andretti, driving up Reed Avenue or down Brown Street, going to youth group off of Route 8- lost in a soundtrack that only had every other word and every other beat.

A Creation Account

God, best at making in the morning, tossed
stars and planets, singing and dancing, rolled
Saturn’s rings spinning and humming, twirled the earth
so hard it coughed and spat the moon up, brilliant
bubble floating around it for good, stretched holy
hands till birds in nervous sparks flew forth from
them and beasts—lizards, big and little, apes,
lions, elephants, dogs and cats cavorting,
tumbling over themselves, dizzy with joy when
God made us in the morning too, both man
and woman, leaving Adam no time for
sleep so nimbly was Eve bouncing out of
his side till as night came everything and
everybody, growing tired, declined, sat
down in one soft descended Hallelujah.

“Morning Person” by Vassar Miller