After reading the glorious Ask the Dust as part of The Bandini Quartet many moons ago, I was hooked on John Fante’s writing.
West of Rome was published posthumously in 1986. It comprises of one novella and a short story: My Dog Stupid, and The Orgy.
The novella My Dog Stupid is set in the late 60s/early 70s California. Italian American, Henry Molise is an out-of-work screenwriter and novelist. He lives with his wife and 4 grown-up children, and has countless chips on his angry and weary, 55 year-old shoulders.
Henry is rude, loud, cantankerous and bitter. If he has a filter, it’s buried in dust, unused. He has racist views (his son’s new girlfriend is black), and he says terrible things to his wife who has left him more than once.
Henry comes home one night to find a dog asleep in his garden; a huge Japanese Akita. The dog decides to take over the house (he doesn’t give them a choice) and they very grudgingly take him in. One of the children decide to name him ‘Stupid’ due to his . . . well, because he’s stupid.
It doesn’t help the already festering family unease that he mounts every male dog that he encounters. He doesn’t just stop at dogs; human males get the same, messy treatment too!
The dog acts as a catalyst and is blamed for everything that goes wrong with the family, as the children slowly fly the nest. Henry and his wife are alone in a home suddenly too big, and full of loving memories.
Is it the dog or Henry that’s at fault?
This is one of the best short works I’ve ever read. As with most of Fante’s writing it’s autobiographical; the author and Henry Molise pretty much share the same life and views. The racist remarks grate as you read. As an Italian American, Fante experienced much prejudice against himself as he grew up in America, and it’s obviously left a scar. But it still stings to read Henry ‘s (and surpringly, his wife’s) casual racism.
I don’t think I would have liked to have met Fante in person. He was notoriously bitter, angry, and confrontational. But he was a wonderful storyteller and writer.
Stupid did finally meet the love of his life but . . right sex, wrong species. Fantastic story.
The Orgy for the record, is the most misleading title ever. It’s the story of a young boy growing up in 1920s America, working for his father in his building business. The boy meets his father’s best friend who his deeply Catholic mother despises, sprinkling him with holy water whenever he comes near the house. The boy eventually sees another side to his beloved father as his ungodly friend leads him into the ways of Sodom and Gomorrah. It’s a sad, sweet tale of betrayal and growing up too quickly. Brilliantly written and full of Fante’s trademark Catholic guilt in hard times.
If you ever only read one book by John Fante, read his novel Ask the Dust. It’s wonderful. The film adaptation with Colin Farrell and Salma Hayek is stunning.
I’ve read some fantastic books this year, fiction and non-fiction by some wonderful writers. One bonus about being sober is that I’ve reverted back into a bookworm again. None are addiction or sobriety related, but many have pulled me out of one mental Hell or another. This is reading for the pure joy of reading. I’ll post more reviews as time goes on, between writing addiction posts (which are as usual, sadly lacking). But I am working on my next post.
Take care all xx
* * *
This is Michael Bracewell’s fourth novel and was published in 1989.
The main plot is simple. Three young women desire the well-bred, well-off, and good looking Miles Harrier. For all his privilege, Harrier is a nice, well-mannered, kindly soul but lacks energy, interesting thoughts or conversation. Between them, they weave a complicated dance around misguided love, awkward relationships, and desire.
It sounds simple but in this author’s hands, it isn’t.
Things get complicated (or simplified, depending on how you look at it) by the most bizarre, shocking, and amusing double-death scene I’ve ever read in a novel. It’s so darkly surprising that you can’t help but smile.
It’s a satire on how desire, good manners, relationships, and bad sex, work amongst the privileged young of London in the 1980’s. Everything is taken at surface value, looks, and a full wallet (or purse). Everything appears fabulous until our narrator exposes the flawed minds and mentalities of the characters.
Considering the privilege and fine wines, it’s an incredibly bleak tale stripped of all emotion and sentiment. It’s also very funny. My kind of book. It’s refreshing to read something that doesn’t mention social media, email, or mobile phones.
Michael Bracewell loves his descriptions: buildings, weather, clothes, food, alleyways, roads, London – and so on. They are almost extra characters in the book. And they are on every single page.
Michael Bracewell is also extremely ‘wordy.’ Possibly many, many words when one would do. His writing has been described as sometimes pompous, and I saw one review lovingly describe his writing as “up its own arse.” Each to their own.
His readership isn’t huge by any extent but he does have a loyal following of readers and adoring critics. I guess he could be described as a cult writer. Or not. Who am I to say? But he is a wonderful and brilliant writer who puts me in a strange, but good and nostalgic place when I read him.
You’ll know by the first page or two if Michael Bracewell is your kind of writer. He’s definitely mine. ‘Wordy’ descriptions and all.
I was talking to a friend about fantasy fiction this week. It got me thinking about my own fiction writing from many, many moons ago. When I first started in the early nineties, I was writing horror and fantasy. Last night I came across this ancient effort of mine from 1997. At the time, I loved it. It even got published in a small press magazine. But now, after so many years, how do I feel about it? I must admit, it makes me squirm and cringe a little. It’s overly romantic and emotional, clichéd, saccharine, and faux erotic. It’s also not well written. Friends who had read it, liked it at the time and asked me to expand it into a book. My answer was always no. Thank God. Maybe I’m being a little hard on the old writer me. Maybe not.
It’s kind of nice reading it again after all these years. It shows a newbie writer trying out ideas for the very first time and seeing where it goes.
As a reminder to myself, I thought I’d put it here, warts and all. It’s untouched (as much as I would love to edit it to death) and as it was when I finally sent it off.
So, what’s this post got to do with recovery and addiction? Absolutely nothing. It’s a bit of positive self-reflection. We don’t always have to be talking hardcore recovery all the time.
If you want to read some cream of the crop fantasy and Sci-fi authors: Freda Warrington, Storm Constantine and Justina Robson’s books are stunning!
* * *
The Fallen
Silent now, was the shore. Only the distant ebb and flow of the tide was to be heard. In the darkening sky, the clouds were beginning to pass and fade. The full image of the moon, whose rays shone over the vast beach, was now unveiled. Soon it would cover the eternal waters, repeating the rituals of nature, centuries old. The moon beckoned the shimmering sea back and forth like a father would to a child, offering promises of gifts. Only a parent as wise as this could offer the gift of life, love and all the mysteries of nature itself.
The obedient child obliged, slowly guiding the life within its celestial waters. The life, which also saw the child as an ancient guardian, a master that provided food and all the wonder the birthplace of the earth could offer.
Ancient as the game was between parent and child, it still offered new mysteries, fresh wonders of new birth and death.
Death.
For now, the child had been tainted crimson with the bodies of thousands of floating, silent warriors.
From the window, high in her stone fortress, the Scorpress watched these wonders as she had done for decades before. These wonders once held her mind captive. Now, tears welled from her depthless, red eyes.
Silence. The death-screams of her armies now gave way to the sound of the sea. Aside this, only the Scorpress’ grief could be heard. She tore her eyes away from the window and walked slowly to her throne where she slumped, staring at the timeworn stone floor. Her tears washed like tides. Her brave armies had fallen. All was lost. Thousands of warriors bobbed like apples in their watery grave. Others lay strewn on the beach outside the fort, their wounds staining the white sands the colour of berry wine.
Soon her enemies would smash their way inside. They would take her outside, parading their long-awaited prize in public and slowly, ever so slowly, slay her. The Scorpress rose and walked to the great oak table to pour herself a tall goblet of wine. She took one last look at herself in the looking glass.
Her human form always pleased her more than the others she could conjure. She discarded her robe, made from the flayed strips of skin of her enemies. In the dancing flames of the many candles burning around her, her dark skin glistened smooth like highly polished crystal with blood-red flashes across her stomach and tiny breasts. The contrast of pigments hypnotised all who were privileged or cursed to see her naked. Long, straight hair, black as cancer, poured down past her sleek back, gently brushing the floor. The only thing which belied her human shape was the long, muscular, leathery tail. It arced upwards from the base of her spine. At the end of which shone the deadly, hard ivory tip the size of a bull’s horn. It could gently caress a lover to the heights of passion and in the same breath, kill without warning. She lifted the tail over her head, the tip gently stroking the side of her face. Its warmth and smoothness gave her some ease.
Gritting her teeth she let out a deafening blood-scream, whipping her tail around at lightning speed, smashing the looking glass into razor shards which crashed to the floor around her. In her continuing rage, she destroyed in her path – unaware that the soles of her bare feet were being slit to ribbons by the razor-sharp debris. Tables, chairs, paintings; nothing was exempt from the scorned queen.
She fell to the floor helpless and breathless amid the havoc she had wreaked on everything she had once cherished. The stone floor was cold on her face, little pools of blood grew beneath her tattered feet. She whispered to herself, “I have failed my people.”
The door of the great room opened. Slowly, her breath calm, she raised her head. Standing in front of her was Ethis, her lover. Staring into one another’s eyes, they shared the un-spoken conversation of defeat. The black-robed figure slowly walked to his queen. He knelt next to her and began gently dipping his hand through the river of hair. His touch was soothing, as it always had been. There was no need for words, just a caress and a soft breath spoke volumes for the two lovers.
Raising their heads, they heard the inevitable thunderous booming, reverberating around the empty castle. They were here. Their enemies had begun smashing an entrance inside, desperate to claim their trophy. It would be a matter of mere minutes before they were both found. The Scorpress quickly turned to Ethis, her eyes dazzled with urgency.
“They will soon be upon us my love,” her voice quaked. You know what we must do. Ethis nodded. They rose from the floor and gently embraced each other with a new calmness. It was almost as if, in the light of what they were about to do, they had all the time in the world. Facing each other, their cheeks now traced with tears, she blessed her lover’s soft mouth with a long, deep kiss. Silently she whipped her tail over her shoulder, its glassy tip plunging into her lover’s back, puncturing his skin as she pumped her lethal poison into his blood.
Ethis felt nothing. The Scorpress’ arms took the full weight of the lifeless body. Tenderly, she laid him on the floor. Then one last kiss.
“I love you,” she whispered into his ear. Once more, her tail arced over her shoulder, she placed its tip carefully between her own lips. Eyes closed; she drank. The deadly, warm, white liquid dripped deep into her throat. Her body rolled like a rag doll onto her lover. They both appeared as if asleep, in the wake of passion, tranquil and at peace. The Scorpress had finally won, denying her enemies their glittering prize.
I’ve nothing much to say right now as I’m busy with writing projects and work. But I thought I’d at least post something. I wrote the words below today as part of a work in progress. I made a sort of, kind of meme with them. I’ve got something lined up for next weekend, hopefully. Keep your eyes peeled. Or not.
I have an odd brain. When I write, I love to get lost inside my head and have a wander. I get so far down the rabbit hole that I forget what I’ve written. I recently found this in a notebook; random mind-vomit from . . . well, god only knows. It’s unedited and presented here as is. Good luck.
An actual new (and less random) recovery post coming Saturday.
Take care all xx
* * *
The filthy darkness of addiction, is standing on the Event Horizon of a black hole, swallowing every portal of light from your soul as you watch your past, present and future sucked away. You push the nails into your own personal Jesus whilst instructing strangers to build your cross of torment.
You flood your blood with a poison of choice as it gushes through screaming flesh-tubes and feel it squeeze through every infected inch.
Recovery is opening massive, rusting doors, so flaked and swollen with decay and age that nobody ever dared to try – with keys you never knew existed. Each door a portal to a brand new world or universe. You become the god of all things inside, your overwhelming power – un-shackled thought. There are no rules in there because they are as yet, unwritten. Chaos is allowed, even encouraged. Lives, worlds and words are newly born and run free.
You can delete ancient memories as new ones are written. Inner cities, worlds and alternate universes can be torn down and re-built with flushed synapses that sizzle and pop. We flesh out the skeleton and animate it in living space. Planets, we spin with the flick of a finger within a universe waiting to be filled with wonder and hope.
What happens when you’re a struggling addict in recovery, and stuck in hideous traffic on a packed, smelly, noisy bus? Anxiety is making your teeth float. Get creative. I wrote the following on my phone in my rehab days. As you will be able to tell straight away, I’m no poet. Keats or Yeats, I ain’t, but they ain’t me either. Writing these two pieces of bus babble, helped to stop my head exploding into slime on various bus rides home. The picture beneath is one of my drawings from many moons ago, in my twenties.
* * *
Bus babble #1
THROUGH DARKLY EYES
Praying this glass is the killer,
The TNT in the heart,
The body gets sicker and slimmer,
The explosion is waiting to start.
Dulling takes more and more poison,
Much more than a human can take,
The blood paints its walls with ‘NO CHOICE,’ on,
No matter the soul is at stake.
I shamble as the puppet strings snap, creak, and fray,
Clawed fingers no longer life-sleek,
The master looks down, unable to say,
“Don’t pray to me I am too weak.”
The hope of that second heart beating,
Beneath the smile of my son,
His eyes slay my death that is cheating,
His wings take us up to the Sun.
The End.
Actually. Strike that.
The Beginning!!!!
* * *
Bus babble #2
Essentially, life is like concrete. Hard, unyielding, and tough to crack. Some chip away, others take a pick axe and tear through it. Many just walk over it without a second thought because it’s there, it serves a purpose and necessary. But one thing’s for sure, you can’t sprinkle it with pretty glitter and hope the winds never blows its false beauty away. Dig, chip and smash. We do whatever we can. Because it’s underneath, beneath the cracks and the filth and the darkness were the diamonds and the stars truly sparkle. And behind filthy curtains that hang down like the rotten, tattered, bloody wings of long fallen angels – new born wings unfurl behind. Ready to guide and fly with us – if we dare to look and hold out our hand – and trust. Then we will rise and rise and rise. Because that’s what we chose, because now, we can. I’ll meet you at where we all want to be, not were ‘others’ want us to be. We began with the hope of choice. Our one and only prize. . . life!
Stumbling Towards Hindsight 