On Time, Points and Screaming at the Sky

I read the following passage on the way home from work. It comes from Michael Thomas Ford’s Full Circle.

Now that I’ve almost certainly passed the halfway point in my climb up the mountain of this life and am coasting down the other side with a tailwind at my back, I sometimes wish I could slow time to a crawl. I think that is why many of us, as we age, require fewer and fewer hours of sleep. It is not that our bodies have become more efficient; it’s that we’re afraid we’ll miss something by wasting precious hours in slumber when we could be eating ice cream, reading Shakespeare, or scanning the night sky for falling stars. How many times have I wished for just two or three more hours in a day, not in which to accomplish a task, but simply to enjoy being?

I think Mr. Ford has a point, a point with which I seem to be becoming more and more familiar with each passing day. The point, however, is not completely applicable to my life. The point is slightly flawed.

I do not wish to merely “slow time to a crawl.” Rather, I wish I could just stop time in its tracks completely.

I want to stand in the middle of everything, tilting my head back so that my eyes are facing the vastness of the sky. I want to raise my arms and I want to scream.

“STOP!”

I need to take a break from so many things. My mind and my heart and my body are all running at a pace I can no longer afford to keep up with. Something has to give. Something is going to give whether or not I like it.

I wish I could just stop it all. I wish I could sit alone for as long as it takes and just figure it all out. I need time to think about my life and the decisions I am making. I need to process my situation. I need to make sure I am doing what is absolutely best for me.

And yet, I can’t. I can’t slow down long enough to think. Life keeps coming at me regardless of how much I wish it would just stop.

It’s not going to stop. It’s never going to stop. It’s going to keep coming and keep coming and keep coming until I finally just crack.

Screaming at the sky is not going to make any fucking difference.

On Snobbery, Literature and The Books That Will Always Stick with Me for One Reason or Another

I took some shit from a coworker for admitting that I am reading Dan Brown’s latest novel. Apparently, The Lost Symbol is beneath said coworker and should also be beneath me. I should be reading something a little more literary. I should be expanding my horizons. I should be challenging myself. I should be avoiding drivel.

For one thing, I happen to love Dan Brown novels and any others that fall into that particular vein of fiction. Give me an ancient secret that has been protected by a cloaked brotherhood for centuries on end and I’m a happy camper. Involve the Catholic Church and I am practically moist with anticipation. Throw in some Renaissance art and I’m a goner. Dan Brown can bury me tomorrow.

The other truth that needs to be revealed here is that I am not a literary snob. I enjoy a good book, be it popular fiction like The Da Vinci Code or something more classically acceptable such as Wuthering Heights. I read to escape, and that escape comes in many forms.

I studied literature in college, but that doesn’t make me someone who only reads the classics. I read all kinds of books. I like the Harry Potter series just as much as I like anything written by Ian McEwan or Herman Hesse.

Recently I was asked to list fifteen books that I’ve read that will always stick with me for one reason or another. I was directed not to think too hard about the list. I was to simply spew forth a list of beloved books. My list looked a little something like this:

Atonement by Ian McEwan
Demian by Herman Hesse
Harry Potter And The Goblet Of Fire by J. K. Rowling
The Hours by Michael Cunningham
I, Lucifer by Glen Duncan
Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke
Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
Seven Types of Ambiguity by Elliot Perlman
The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón
The Stand by Stephen King
The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien
The Witching Hour by Anne Rice
Wizard and Glass by Stephen King
Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum

I will admit that I did think long enough to place the list in alphabetical order. I’m just anal that way. And my coworker will be glad to see that none of the Dan Brown books I’ve read have made the list. My grandma, however, would not be thrilled to see Stephen King show up on my list twice. She thinks he’s a very sick man.

As you can see, I’m no literary snob. I’m just a guy who likes a good book. I’m also a guy who is always on the lookout for the next great book that will always stick with me for one reason or another.

So, tell me – what’s on your list?

On McEwan, Inaction and Remaining the Same

At the heart of Ian McEwan’s masterful On Chesil Beach is a cautionary tale about inaction. What are the consequences of choosing not to act or not to speak? That is the question that one is left with upon turning the last page of this heartbreaking tale.

We certainly all have moments on our brief histories in which we chose silence over action. Is it any surprise that those are moments we now regret? We did not get that promotion for we did not let it be known that we were interested. We did not salvage that friendship for we were too stubborn to pick up the phone and extend an apology. We never knew if that person we still think of fondly loved us in return for we never shared our love to begin with.

We, as human, have an animalistic tendency to protect ourselves, not only from physical violence, but also emotional wounds. Cuts to our egos are almost as punishing as bleeding gashes. Broken hearts can rival the pain of broken bones. Because of this need for self-preservation, we often hold back when it is in our best interest to act out.

I often lament my status as a single gay man in a world filled with couples and unworthy suitors. Looking back, I realize that much of my situation has been caused by own inability to open up, be vulnerable and act upon my feelings. Like the characters in McEwan’s tale, a lot has been lost to me because I was too afraid to be honest.

I’d like to proclaim that that will now change. I would love nothing more than to turn a new leaf this very day. I know, however, that I will continue to live my life the way I have lived it for the past thirty years. I can recognize my flaw, but am not brazen enough to change it. The need to keep myself safe runs too deep.

I, like the characters in On Chisel Beach, will have to take what comes my way. I may find that someday the need for uncharacteristic action will surpass the need for safety, but that is something only time will tell me.

Until then, I remain the same.

On Fanboys, Cattiness and Having Read my First Graphic Novel

Well, I have done it. For the first time in my life, I have read a graphic novel. I finished Watchmen.

I will start off by saying that the book was not nearly as painful to read as I anticipated. In fact, the plot of Watchmen is quite compelling and thought-provoking. It’s also a bit dated, but few things can stay fresh forever.

Having said that, I also need to make it clear that I have no intention of ever reading another graphic novel. As much of a pleasant surprise as Watchmen was, I’ve come to the conclusion that I just really don’t enjoy the graphic novel medium. There is something about telling a story primarily through illustrations and dialogue that really does not appeal to me. I felt like I was missing something. I wanted more. I wanted the kind of detail and depth I feel you just can’t achieve with the graphic novel form. Sure, there is detail. Yes, there is depth. It just wasn’t presented in a way I find appealing.

(Please note that this is very clearly my opinion of graphic novels and not an attempt to appear elitist or condescending toward any fans of graphic novels who may stumble upon this post and want to crucify me.)

My own personal dislike of the graphic novel does not, however, take away from the fact that I thought Watchmen presented a great story. I’d just rather read that story as a novel or see it as a movie. In some respects, I now equate graphic novels with opera. I am not a fan of opera, but when a story is taken out of that particular meduim and told in another way (movie, book, Broadway musical), I can certainly enjoy the story. I just don’t like opera.

And I now know that I just don’t like graphic novels.

I also know (thanks to my previous post about reading Watchmen) that I have a few readers who are staunch supporters of graphic novels. I hope now that I have read a graphic novel and presented the reasons why I will not be reading another, they will no longer find me elitist. I also hope that they have noticed that I have conceded on my earlier argument and have chosen not to call Watchmen a comic book. I’m sure the supporters out there will still find me girly and fat and lazy, but those are things that have very little to do with whether or not I like to read graphic novels. And frankly, I have no idea why they needed to be thrown in my face in the first place.

(That’s enough passive-aggressive cattiness for one post, however.)

In the end, I am glad I read Watchmen. I’m glad I gave the graphic novel a fair chance. And I am also glad I can now say that I don’t like graphic novels and have experience to back up my claim.

Sure, some graphic novel fanboys of the world will still continue to think of me as a pretentious literary snob, but I can live with that.

On Watchmen, The Shadow of the Wind and My First Comic Book

It pains me to say this, but I’m going to read a comic book. God help me.

Believe it or not, this sad turn of events occurred because of a date. The man of the hour and I found ourselves perusing the aisles of Borders on Sate Street, pointing out books we’ve read, books we want to read and books we think every last human being desperately needs to read. One book that most certainly falls into that last camp is The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón.

We ran across this very book and I stopped dead in my tracks. “Have you read this?” I asked him.

He hadn’t. I feigned painful disbelief and thrust a copy into his hands. “You have to read this. It’s brilliant. It’s such a treasure.” I went on to describe the book, which is like a sumptuous gothic romance shrouded in a heart-stopping mystery and propelled by one of the most inquisitive, admirable and sympathetic protagonists I can recall.

My sales pitch did the trick, and my date agreed to purchase the book then and there on my recommendation. “There’s just one catch,” he added. “You have to read a book I pick out for you.” Despite the uncertainty flowing through my veins, I agreed.

After much debate and scouring of shelves, my date decided that I needed to read the book that “changed [his] life.” I was expecting him to reach for a well-known classic or piece of thoughtful contemporary fiction. Instead, he handed me a comic book.

I looked down at the copy of Watchmen in my hand and cringed. There was no way I could see myself reading it. I do not, under any circumstances, do comic books. I told my date as much.

“This is not a comic book,” he demanded. “This is a graphic novel. And not only that, but Time named it as one of the 100 best novels. You can’t call yourself well-read and not read this.”

I bit my tongue. I wanted to make it clear that in my mind a graphic novel is indeed a comic book, and that the term was only invented to make geeks feel better about flipping through them in public. I also wanted to run out and find this list Time Magazine had compiled. Knowing Watchmen had made the cut, I was certain I’d find a generous smattering of Danielle Steel novels and John Grishman thrillers on the list. His last point, however, stung.

I like to consider myself intelligent. I like to think I’m relatively well-read, at least in comparison to the general public. I sort of pride myself on being a reader. And this guy was calling all of that into question. He knew my one literary weakness. He was a sneaky bastard.

And so I bought the comic book. It’s been sitting on my desk since that day, but I’ve gotten to the point where I have nothing left to read. And so I’m finally going to attempt to do something I never thought I’d do.

I’m going to read a comic book.