FreeWrights Peer Review™

Some people just get music.

Other people just get math.

Me?

I got words.

Study abstract depictions of vague symbols, find confusing representations of hidden emotions warehoused within the bleeding brain of a crazed artist. Now, try to figure out what he was trying to convey to the viewer. You can’t? Well, I’m willing to bet the farm I know someone who can. I love a good risk as much as the next guy, but 10-1 odds aren’t much of a risk. I mean, if enough people studied the painting at least one would be able to tell exactly what was intended. Right?

First of all, let me address the ney-sayers and skeptics. I want any discrepancies to be cut short at the beginning. In all honestly the artist to whom I refer, has indeed published detailed explanations of his encrypted mess of color and made them widely available for public viewing. Not a single vaulted and heavily guarded national secret was witnessed during that summer. Could one claim there were levels of “peeking ahead” involved? Sure, but in this case the claim would be illegitimate and wholly false. Quit being cynic, it speeds the aging process. Let’s reverse time.

That day in the early nineteen nineties, uppity Starbuck whores sank their pretentious eyeballs around puzzling abstraction long enough to formulate mediocre attempts at explanation. Word of mouth or local ads hung behind coffee shop countertops resulted in hundreds of new visitors to the art show. They came in droves of medium sized groups arriving in the small New Hampshire town where my family and I would spend our summers.

This medium turned massive, and the dirt parking lot filled with a new gaggle of luxury vehicles. Shared were demographics as well as their license plates. Rhode Island, home of Newport, high-income projects built on trust funds. They were the Pseudo-Bonafide, exemplifying a living contradiction. They were able to finance all their extensive hedonistic dreams. Over a game of golf details can be given to everyone ad nauseam, unless you don’t drive a Lexus. Can’t blame them, Toyotas are bad for image.

Amongst our little family quartet we’d often joke, quietly mocking these people. I can remember calling them “Buffy”s and “Biff”s while wrapping our Champion Athletic sweatshirts around our neck. “I’ll be enjoying some champagne by the pool, Dahhhling” we’d laugh hard enough to make crossing the sweatshirt sleeves across our chests a difficult process. If nothing else, this was a haphazard attempt at emulating these high society folk. Not easy task, but fun nonetheless.

Looking at their prize they spoke of abstract expressionism and Jackson Pollock subtleties embedded inside the painting. I can distinctly remember thinking they were blatantly lying to each other. Despite the time spent in small poetry circles and art viewings they still couldn’t decipher the painting. I wondered if they ever would admit their real thoughts, namely, “What is this I am looking at?”

After a couple months even fake guitarists can duct tape together enough power cords to convince a freshman college girl into lapping up your rendition of Crash by Dave Matthews. An understanding of music deems this attempt laughable just an act of “the fraudulent confident”, as I will forever refer. These people were a direct polar opposite of what I was used to. I was unknowingly in the presence of one who truly just got it, and he wasn’t even gilded in clover. He was a man with his family, looking for the bathroom, in an art gallery usually vacant aside from employees. Typically it was reserved for tourists simply trying to break the monotony of sticky, New England summer days. However, this certainly couldn’t constitute as a typical day.

There he was, in a flannel and hiking boots, casually eating that pear he had been saving by throwing to himself since we arrived. Quaint Victorian influences provided defining characteristics of the gallery interior. Awkwardly positioned glass display-cases served as the perfect racetrack for my matchbox cars. Not everyone can appreciate a good matchbox-car demolition derby and my mother had been consistently giving me the “stop it look”. I knew I was pushing my luck, but who can resist a couple extra pushes?

“Joe!”

The sound of a tired, overworked mother of two, desperately pleading for backup. Looking over to my father and his hiking boots, he caught his pear, took a bite and headed in my direction. Obediently, my arms fall by my side. It wasn’t that I was a brat, or even a rebellious derelict at age six., I just knew two things:

One: In one hand he held had a pear.
Two: In the other he held the power of subtraction.

“1-1=0” he calmly said in response, voice barely holding slight chuckles at bay. In this situation, he didn’t mean it; the subtraction punishment did not fit the crime of aggravating Mom. I know now, I could be a handful and marvel at memories showing the level of patience my parents had for my antics. Ginny was a full time mom that allowed for an abundance of post X-grade, pre Y-grade summer days left to romp around like a puppy on crack. If it got to be too much for her patience, she’d convince Big Joe to teach me some subtraction, often the only repercussion to which I’d respond.

Subtraction nights were the worst. Mrs. Porter, my second grade teacher, used to warn us about the dangers of parental abuse. We’d hear stories of parents hitting children with rulers during the day and whipped with switches at night. I was never hit, but sometimes I wish I were. After a few quick smacks it is then over and done. In and out, borderline drive-through service, however no such luck here. This is when I’d attempt drastic measures. Elaborate apologies and relentless tears were genuine attempts to preserve my place within the two-hour block placed between dinner and Inspector Gadget. My brother and I, never had televisions in our room; we didn’t need them, if we behaved.

Subtraction:
One use of bad judgment, minus story time, equals zero
There would be no stories on subtraction nights.

Story time or time for “brain-veggies” as I’d often say, is host to vivid memories of that summer and childhood as a whole. Invaded by Newport “fraud-cons” are times that will always stand out to me. Maybe I’ve subconsciously examined this period of time throughout the duration of my life, or the memories are branded into the innermost parts of my brain. Regardless of reason, my brother Joey, Big Joe and I would sit in the den and mimic the characters and develop our own re-created setting of that night’s book. Before we knew it, those two hours would pass by leaving us giddy and anxious for the next night when we’d move through the pages of the next stories.

Storytelling takes a great deal of showmanship and wit. Consistently, each time we read a book, there were different characters and unique portrayals aiming to encompass the true intentions of the author. Each book fascinated me and left feigning for more. In times of literary lulls (for example between Mrs. Pigglesworth’s Magic and The Indian in the Cupboard,) he’d grab one of his older books and secretly impromptu the chapters containing questionable content. Until recently I never knew he was using this technique to keep us enthralled.

Years down the road, long after the yuppies returned to Rhode Island, I went back and reread some of his novels. Plots I thought I already knew. Reading the pages as an adult shot me back to nights in that N.H cabin. Right then, in that instant, it hit me like a professional kill-for-hire. No wonder he had us write down our own versions of the events, retrospection proves ideas of my brother or myself were gently added to the story lines. Around our faces he wove complex character structures seamlessly inserted within Jack Karoauc and other authors of beat generation fame. Thicker and thicker stories would develop, eventually becoming their own independent plot. The books themselves became a mere decoy to keep us from realizing he was actually forcing us to be creative while teaching us to read.

I could read short stories by kindergarten, yet our nightly routine remained the same for many years. On my own time I’d struggle through books slightly above my ability, challenging but paling in comparison of the epic crunching of mind-veggies. Blank stares pasted on faces of my kindergarten classmates showed signs of confusion. Puzzled at phonics and construction of short words. I’d wonder:
“Why don’t they get it? The answers are written right there.”
They say, “You don’t know what you got till it’s gone.” in this case, “You realize what you got when you see the lengths people would go to improve you as a person.” Never could I have guessed this man, filled with empty threats of temporarily suspending reading time would be the anchor of my development as a writer, and an individual.

“Timmy, get that thing away from those display cases,
you’re going to get us thrown out. You don’t want Buffy
and Biff to buy this entire place and give us a trespassing
violation, do you?”

Of course I didn’t and he continued:

“Come on, I need some help me finding the bathroom,
I don’t want to run into any strangers and get roped into
a rousing match of tennis. Let your brother watch Mom.”

Diplomatic giving us both jobs in an attempt thwart sibling rivalry. Grabbing my shoulders and nudging me in the direction he thought was the bathroom, we passed that group of phonies from Newport. I watched his face staring at suit coated pretentious crows. I could barely hear the sound of him biting into his pear, or the purr of the matchbox engine. Not much could be heard at all over the incessant squabbling defining the “essence” of this masterpiece. Still looking in their direction, slightly he shook his head with a distant grin on his face. He tightened his grasp on my shoulder under his breath I could hear him say:
“Northern Lights, get your money out of your eyes.”

At that time, I had no idea what that meant, I had no idea how it would eventually become all that I was.


I saw that painting much later in a textbook from high school. Can’t say I remember the name of artist, or painting, but I remember the excerpt on the margin that gave the artist endorsed interpretation. To paraphrase; he expresses his desire to have this work contain multitudes of different unnatural colors, blending together to form a eerie transparent highlighter-green cloud cover. There was to be a multilevel construction of colors presenting magnificence for anyone lucky enough to witness. Another margin note, almost as an afterthought added; “I pictured the aurora borealis” aka The Northern Lights, In surprise I unexpectedly burst out and vaporizing the silence of study hall. Eventually, I permanently borrowed that textbook from Foxboro High School and took it home. I’ve long since lost that book, but I never lost the meaning.

Anytime I finish an excellent novel, or write a good piece, I think of how I wish it could be seen in unnatural colors spilling over into each other just like the aurora borealis. Then, I thank the lucky stars lit by green glows of northern night sky; I am able to experience the passion of the written word.

I may not get math.

I can’t tell you elements on a periodic table.

But words?

I was just given them

And then I never gave them back.

And you know what else? I’ll keep them for my future son or daughter. I can’t wait read them in order and ask them to write down what they think will happen. I can’t wait to incorporate their ideas. I can’t wait to verbally edit Kesey novels keeping the content suitable. I believe I will even part ways with that yellowed copy of On the Road from the basement, unless it becomes “accidentally” hidden in a box in the basement. Besides I can always share this story I know, of a time I saw Buffy and Biff Fraudulent-Confident, outdone by a man in a flannel shirt.















This was an exercise, I was to think of 6 people/events/experiences that could be attributed to my personal literary development. After those 6 were thought, we were to narrow it down to two or three and try to thread them together to form a story. In this I used my father reading to me as a child and the fact I do believe some talent comes from genetics.

Tcooks, this piece looks really interesting, it does. Can I beg a favour though? How would you feel about separating the paragraphs? It's so hard on the eyes the way it is, and the really wide margins don't help.

I realize you've pasted this in from Word, and the same thing happens to me all the time: The 8x11 or screen view does not translate well into this forum's template though.

Yeah, I'm a pushy nurturing bitch, I know.

If nobody else has this problem, please feel free to ingore this missive.

Whoops, I didnt realize it would do that. Hope that the edit is easier on the eyes.

TJT

Two things spring to mind -- the first is "The Princess Bride". As much as I love the movie, the book is infinitely better because of this process of "editing" that you describe. The second is -- probably inevitably -- "The Great Gatsby", which I despised on first reading because I just didn't understand the people in it. Of course, I've since encountered numerous phonies (my god, the poetry world is littered with them!) and people for whom money, and other people knowing they have money, is the only thing that matters. I learned something else though -- you can sell those idiots anything if you give it enough snob value. They aren't smart enough to tell the difference between complex layers of meaning and obscure rubbish. ("Get your money out of your eyes" is a brilliant phrase.)

I confess I got a bit bogged down and sidetracked around the middle, particularly the paragraph about parental abuse (which made me go "uh-oh, where's he heading?") and also I'm not sure the one about amateur guitarists (though it made me laugh) is entirely pertinent.

Thank you for writing this though, it was extremely enjoyable and great food for thought.

thanks for the feedback, appreciated. still trying to fine tune the piece. Seemingly every time I read it I made changes. Great Gatsby huh? SFF is good company to be in. Thanks again.
tjt

Not much could be heard at all over the incessant squabbling defining the “essence” of this masterpiece.

I instantly distrust people who use the word "essence" -- or "soul" -- when they're talking about art. They're always good words to use when you're in company as ignorant as yourself, but they mean eff-all.

As for fine tuning, well, we're writers once and editors forevermore, good luck! I'll keep an eye on it though, I'm really interested to see what you end up with.

yah isnt that the truth!

Thanks for providing a good read...its a mature sort of writing, with some interesting phrasing and such which makes this a pleasure to read...hmm, well it wasn't a task.

Although I found the denigration of "Buffy" to be most unpleasant...but I am a bit of freak and you prob. don't read it as I do...

To be honest with you, if i didn't write it myself I would take buffy in a brute, butch type of light. What else would constitute as a rich, uppity arrogant rich person name for a woman? suggestions? Thanks for the feedback.