Wow. Hi! I am very glad you all came. It is a great honor to be included among all the
authors, editors, and friends of Silhouettes I & II, and its "prequel" The Significant
Anthology. I wish I could be here in person with you
all, as I embark upon the first-ever launching of my first-ever books.
They are self-published books — but everyone has to begin somewhere.
And it is probably appropriate, and, in my mind, necessary to offer a word of thanks
to all with whom I have come into contact along this journey, walking through the experiences
of life. And, specifically, if I were visible right
now, I would give a great big nod of gratitude to Dr. A. V. Koshy, virtual fellow-voyager
during much of my recent growth as a writer, and host of this book launch today. Maybe
I can pause, and you all can clap for me.
As writers, as artists, as thinkers in this world of change and challenges, we are constantly
in the very odd position of defending our choices, our actions, our careers.
And for those of us who prefer to express and explain ourselves through our work, through
the vibrant presentation of our art, this can be both terrifying and invigorating. At
some level we need to re-evaluate our perspective, given the vast predicaments people and the
planet as a whole face now. How can you write about nature, about the
innocence and dreams of youth, about the comfort of traditions and memories of the elders,
when the world seems about to implode from the inroads of environmental decay, profiteering
in politics, social erosion? How can we write with a sense of wonder, when
faced with a world exploding with crime, violence, with war?
I don't know how, exactly. I live. I stay, and I look, and I rage, and I paint, I sing,
I write a poem, or a paragraph. I try to move beyond the "utility" of language, and
the "futility" of life — and fuse my art into … possibility — for something
more. For hope, maybe.
In my writing, there are few answers. I try, always, to express the details of life as
I have seen it, as I experience it. I try never to turn away from the uncomfortable
inadequacies and small human truths of violence, racism, of the myriad deaths of our finite
bodies, of the inestimable exquisite potential of what might be our infinite souls.
I may wander in the darkness … we all may. But we may, also, search for light. And in
that searching, there are so many questions.
Sometimes … so many questions … you can't bootstrap yourself out of them. So, I guess,
the main thing in my writing, in all my art, is that I kick off the boots. I walk barefooted
through the mud, the broken glass, the rat-infested alleyways, the grass, the occasional flowers
that life presents. I may not present answers—but, I offer an invitation.
When life presses too closely, I invite you to kick off your boots, to come out, as you
were born, in all your human-ness. What was it Bob Dylan said? "You don't need a weatherman
to know which way the wind blows?" In my art, in my books, there are many storms. I
seem to live in constant storms—maybe you do, too.
We may not know all the answers. We may have nothing but questions. But if we live in a
world of storms and savagery, hiding won't fix it. If it is going to rain, we can still
ask questions, and search for answers together, despite the storms. We can kick off the boots
of conformity, and dance together in the rain, in the storms, and in those quiet hours when
darkness gives way to sunrise.
I would like to read excerpts from the three books I am launching here today — a few
poems, and a bit of prose narration. I'll put the words on screen so you can follow
along, because we all use our own pronunciations when we read inside our minds.
I'd like to begin by reading two of the poems from my first self-published book
A Modest Menu, a multi-genre compilation of prose, poetry,
and a few essays, which look at Poverty, Hunger, Food Security and Violence through the lens
of art, rather than flow charts, policy statements, and journalism.
The poem are titled "sight" and "soles"
sight deep voices, not loud, but not held quiet
spoke of something, sound floating from behind barbed-tree barriers
along a darkened roadway
intersection glaring headlights of cars
hastening to lighted spaces, food, a change of clothes
babies soothed, slings holding tight, mothers shielding with one hand
against the noise and bright toddlers tight-knit, looking on
stoplights signal time to stand eyes silent asking
if windows roll down
difficult to be a man among men all without work;
unable to feed beautiful wives and children,
deep voices falling silent while the cars are still
difficult to be mothers, all too briefly young
with children to feed and with men, strength lost with waiting but
needing still to be reminded that silent eyes see them
as they hope to be
soles
walk along a traveled road searched and scoured for every coin
or scrap with value, where dreams are tied to the soles of shoes—
shoes, worn and broken, stuffed with cardboard and patched with cloth
or taped, or bound with cast-off bits of rubber, or plastic found in fields…
sometimes even old tires with thongs are too expensive
and there are no shoes at all
just feet with pads cracked and hard, like those of street-wise dogs,
and hunting cats, sharp of eye, fleet and silent in pursuit
of meagre survival
one more day of walking hungry, thirsty, under skies hot with sun
or cold, with dark of night and dark of eyes turned far from sight
of any needing shoes
My next book, A Holiday Carol, is, as its title states, a Modern Interpretation of Dickens'
"A Christmas Carol," exploring the anonymity of tweets and selfies, the dislocation of
refugee and marginalized populations, the violence of dependencies, exclusion and war
with which we beguile ourselves into thinking that armoring ourselves with the commodities
of life will make death any less permanent — in situations well-seasoned with humor,
and hope, in keeping with Dickens' own traditions.
With due honor to Charles Dickens, I would like to read you my Excerpt from: Chapter
Five: The Second of the Three Spirits
Then, without a word of warning from the Ghost, they stood upon a cold and windswept hilltop,
where masses of huge stones were strewn about, and tents clustered along a fence,
and in straggling rows, and a few tilting poles held knots and webbings
of wires, and a rusty pipe's faucet dripped brownish
water into a plastic bucket balanced beneath it. Down off in the west the retreating sun
had forgotten its last streak of sullen red, but,
there, it was snatched below the horizon, and the
dark gloom of night fell, waiting, breathless, for stars.
"What place is this?" asked Scrivel.
"A place for refugees, fleeing the wars they did not start, and cannot hope to finish,"
returned the Spirit. "They come from all walks of life, wealthy and poor, educated
and subsisting, but they have faith, they have dreams, and, in some guise, they all
know me, and the spirit of hope, and of giving."
A light shone from the flap of one tent, which was huddled close against a barrier wall of
mud and stone, and yet still barely stood against the bleak
wind blowing across the settlement, but which held out some of the cold, and set
the light glowing around those within. An old, old man and woman, with their children,
and their children's children, and another generation beyond that, clustered around a
small lamp, on a worn, woven rug. Music played from some device unseen, and
some hummed, and they told stories, and shared their small store of happiness, with memories,
and prayers for a future which might find them together, and safe.
The Ghost passed his torch across the scene, and the soft chorus of their voices seemed
to raise in spirit and in fellowship, and the light seemed to brighten, and a timelessness
filled the space where they sat there together.
The Spirit did not tarry longer, but bidding Scrivel to tighten his grasp on the green
robe, passed over seas, and great chains of mountains, to where men mined for teakwood
in an ancient forest beneath a great lake. Even here, where small raised huts sheltered
families of elders, and the strong, muscled divers, young wives, and children who would
form the new generation, the Spirit paused, raising his torch in salute and as gift to
the people of faith, and hope, sharing their food, time, and love as they could.
The third book I will briefly present to you during
today's launch is "blue wings unfolding" — a novel exploring the challenges of neurodiversity,
the complexities and tragedies of life — all through the eyes of Jayleigh, a youthful spirit
on the cusp of adulthood.
I'd like to read to you some of Jayleigh's experiences with learning to drive, excerpted
from Chapter 15 of the book:
Next class the teacher had us taking turns getting on the highway, accelerating up to
the posted speeds, and getting off at the next exit, in order to loop around for the
next student's turn. I noticed, silently, that the teacher pulled on his ceiling handle
very little, since he had both hands on the steering wheel, and his foot on the second
set of controls, ready to engage, for both the other students' excursions. He had things
to say, but steeled himself to utter only supportive "hints" while they drove onto
and off of the highway.
Soon enough, the car was parked once again in the school lot, and it was my turn to buckle
into the driver's seat, I did so silently, and swiftly, as the teacher was preoccupied
with reciting a list of observations and instructions to the other two students, who were now occupying
the back seat of the Driver's Ed vehicle.
I rolled out of the lot, using the appropriate signal to turn onto the main road; I stopped
at the stop light; the teacher was still talking. I proceeded to approach the highway on-ramp,
again employing the turn signal before leaving the road for the entry ramp. I was not driving
particularly quickly, but the teacher was, still, turned around to face the other students;
I didn't have the heart to interrupt him when he was in such a good flow.
So I went quietly about my business, upholding all the safety tips I'd gleaned from my
practice with the Rangers at the State Park Beach, while the teacher was, still, focused
on the back seat, talking with great intensity. (11)
The other two students did not bat an eyelash. They wanted some fun, and were perfectly happy
to let the teacher keep his head and attention turned away from the road, so he could face
them while he continued to talk from his front seat, oblivious to my actions.
The posted speed was, at this straight portion of the highway, 60 Miles Per Hour.
I slowed at the base of the on ramp, blissfully aware that there was no need to
shift through the gears or clutch mechanism to quickly access the power of the automatic
transmission car. I allowed a line of slow-moving, heavily-loaded
tractor-trailer trucks to continue past me, along the "slower speed" entrance lane,
and calmly kept my signal light on, cars lining up behind me,
also waiting for the convoy to pass. The teacher was still facing back towards
the students, who very helpfully asked him questions to
keep him occupied.
The second all the tractor-trailer trucks had passed and I saw daylight and open road
beckoning, just ahead, on the entrance lane, my foot was on that accelerator faster than
corn pops in a hot pan, and we were off. I held the lane for a brief span, then flicked
on my left turn signal again, to move to the passing lane, since the heavily-loaded trucks
ahead of our line of traffic in the "slower" right-hand lane were only moving at about
45 MPH.
I passed them all, at the speed limit and with plenty of clearance,
and smoothly signaled a right turn, to move back into the slow-side lane again,
in preparation for taking the exit ramp up and off the highway,
that we were approaching fairly rapidly, now that I was driving an efficient 55 miles
per hour. It was almost as if I were a real driver,
in a real car, not a student with a learner's permit, in
a car which bore a lighted "Student Driver" sign on its roof, in a "don't try to hire
this car" parody of a taxi cab.
A few of the cars which had followed me from the entrance ramp onto the highway and out
into the passing lane beeped their horns brightly, waving encouragingly at us,
as I drove at adult-world speeds in our little yellow-signed Driver's Ed car.
I kept both hands on the wheel, but the students in the back seat waved back to the friendly
passing cars, and the Driver's Ed teacher turned his eyes
towards the front windshield ... … just in time to see me decelerate and
switch off the turn signal as I moved onto the exit ramp.
The last of the entrance-ramp cars drove by, waving and honking, and the Driver's Ed
teacher took a breath, opened his mouth,
closed it again, and put one hand firmly on the teacher's steering wheel. With his other
hand, maybe because he couldn't think of anything to say and wanted to fill the void
of silence, he reached over and turned on the radio.
The car filled with the sounds of Sia's "Unstoppable."
Cool. My first song,
the first time the radio was turned on while I drove a car.
Almost made me want to roll down the windows, crank up the volume,
and wave one hand in the air while I sang ... probably not a good idea in the Driver's
Ed car, even if I did pull into a parking area
and stop the car to do so.
… But it sure is a good song, and the horizons of my life seemed to expand.
I grinned, and drove sedately back to the school lot
and parked the Driver's Ed car, radio playing all the way.
… Score one for the Rangers!
And this concludes my book launch presentation. Time for me to depart, virtually, at least.
I hope you all get a chance to read, and enjoy the books, and I look forward to writing more
books and getting them out to be read.
Thank you for listening.
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