What the hell do you know about running a motel anyway? I could hear the chorus of friends and relatives chanting the question as soon as I mentioned of buying such an establishment. The idea of acquiring a motel did not originate from some romantic desire to live the life of an innkeeper; rather the opportunity to buy one came after our father s will was probated and the amount of money left to Saul, my brother, and me was not enough to change our lives. ( I wished it had- I ve always had a desire for fame and fortune if only to test my character.) It was however large enough to need investing and the motel seemed the right buy. I m a smart guy, I replied to the chorus. And I can count sheets. The answer stopped the question, but not the head shaking
Mother is ninety-six or ninety-seven, we’re not sure and there’s no one around to set us straight. The reality of her age seems to have slipped into the dustbin of time. She now resides at the Active Life Shukugawa, a well-run nursing home outside of Ashiya, Japan. I fl y from Newark three or four times a year taking turns with my three brothers visiting. She’s well cared for, is lively, and as reported by the staff, is the center of the home’s social life. She sings a lot. Unhappily she is confi ned to a wheelchair but this in no way puts a pall on her good spirits. When I was last there she studied me carefully as I entered her room and said, “You know, you look just like my daughter.” After a pause she reconsidered and added, “Please, I hope you’ll not be offended, but my daughter is prettier.” Memory for most of us is more like Mother’s than we care to acknowledge. Most believe in the facts of our memory; what we conjure out of our past is trustworthy. It is not. In truth memory has no conscience, is devoid of chronology, and its lapses and confusions are not necessarily a condition of advanced age. Early childhood memories are without context. Flashing on them is like flipping through an old photo album, the snapshots pasted in pellmell. Tested against others’ memories, it’s Rashomon. In recounting the tale of my early life in Japan, I will allow memory’s caprice. I could not do otherwise.
The Victorians were the real storytellers. This for me is what this book is about, not their paintings. I do not respond to the paintings of the time, but to the ideas of story and how to tell them. This left me with hours of drawings, hundreds of sketches, and many filled sketchbooks. The final works and how they were arrived at is what this book is about. The sketches are as important as the final, finished works. They speak to how the works came about and how the mind of the artist (mine) works. There are off-shoots, but then what mind doesnt try other things or does not wander? This is the way the book should be seen and enjoyed, the thinking in the drawings and how the final work is discovered. Though storytelling has not lost its drive, toward the end of the time of the Victorians the artist looked across the channel to France, to Czanne, as I did. New concerns were seen and struggled with. But the joy of doing the works of storytelling have stayed with me, and so, this book.
This was the third time her apartment had been robbed. Each time she was able to conceal her distress by endless social rationalizations. But this was too much, she was sure the thief or thieves were the same each time. The locks, new Segal locks at a cost of five dollars each, were smashed with considerable labor, attesting to the thief's amateur stand ing. The hour of the theft seemed always to be the same. The noise the thief must surely have made did not arouse the neighbors. Leah was more inclined to believe, though refused to admit, that they had heard but chose to ignore.
It was slow going but I was able to get a general overview of what he was driving at. I’ve been at this writing game long enough to know much will change over the course of the project. I tried to make Sam see this, My throat started to grow raw again and my voice was taking in a growling rasp. I had difficulty clearing my throat and had to excuse myself a number of times for water. As our conversation continued, I became impressed with Sam’s intelligence, though there were large gaps in his experience. This was more than made up for by a view of life that was unique; a view I would have difficulty imagining another human being holding. “I know,” he said. “A dog would.”
The Index of American Periodical Verse is an important work for contemporary poetry research and is an objective measure of poetry that includes poets from the United States, Canada, and the Caribbean as well as other lands, cultures, and times. It reveals trends in the output of particular poets and the cultural influences they represent. The publications indexed cover a broad cross-section of poetry, literary, scholarly, popular, general, and "little" magazines, journals, and reviews.
The Index of American Periodical Verse is an important work for contemporary poetry research and is an objective measure of poetry that includes poets from the United States, Canada, and the Caribbean as well as other lands, cultures, and times. It reveals trends in the output of particular poets and the cultural influences they represent. The publications indexed cover a broad cross-section of poetry, literary, scholarly, popular, general, and "little" magazines, journals, and reviews.
The Victorians were the real storytellers. This for me is what this book is about, not their paintings. I do not respond to the paintings of the time, but to the ideas of story and how to tell them. This left me with hours of drawings, hundreds of sketches, and many filled sketchbooks. The final works and how they were arrived at is what this book is about. The sketches are as important as the final, finished works. They speak to how the works came about and how the mind of the artist (mine) works. There are off-shoots, but then what mind doesnt try other things or does not wander? This is the way the book should be seen and enjoyed, the thinking in the drawings and how the final work is discovered. Though storytelling has not lost its drive, toward the end of the time of the Victorians the artist looked across the channel to France, to Czanne, as I did. New concerns were seen and struggled with. But the joy of doing the works of storytelling have stayed with me, and so, this book.
Mother is ninety-six or ninety-seven, we’re not sure and there’s no one around to set us straight. The reality of her age seems to have slipped into the dustbin of time. She now resides at the Active Life Shukugawa, a well-run nursing home outside of Ashiya, Japan. I fl y from Newark three or four times a year taking turns with my three brothers visiting. She’s well cared for, is lively, and as reported by the staff, is the center of the home’s social life. She sings a lot. Unhappily she is confi ned to a wheelchair but this in no way puts a pall on her good spirits. When I was last there she studied me carefully as I entered her room and said, “You know, you look just like my daughter.” After a pause she reconsidered and added, “Please, I hope you’ll not be offended, but my daughter is prettier.” Memory for most of us is more like Mother’s than we care to acknowledge. Most believe in the facts of our memory; what we conjure out of our past is trustworthy. It is not. In truth memory has no conscience, is devoid of chronology, and its lapses and confusions are not necessarily a condition of advanced age. Early childhood memories are without context. Flashing on them is like flipping through an old photo album, the snapshots pasted in pellmell. Tested against others’ memories, it’s Rashomon. In recounting the tale of my early life in Japan, I will allow memory’s caprice. I could not do otherwise.
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