While I get caught up in the layout or arc of a story sometimes I wonder if that makes my point vague to some readers. I certainly embrace subtlety and nuance in my writing but I do want to be clear about the previous entry.
Initially, I thought about calling the blog Orson Scott Tard as his views concerning gay marriage are buried by a biased indoctrinated perspective. Yet, I was torn for it seemed to me to simply write off OSC by saying, “I’ll never read/buy his books again,” leaves me, in some ways, on his level. I shan’t be inhibiting a book or two of his from selling by advocating against it; he’s doing that job for me. And while his words will continue to sway his audience in his desired direction they also daily denigrate his reputation. Why? Because his view is, like that age old belief of the world being flat, dated and wrong.
In short, if one remains diametrically opposed to purchasing a small book by Orson Scott Card due to his beliefs and practices (which I fully understand and support as a choice) then one should reconsider some of the larger investments of his or her life. Where do you work? Where do you bank? What are the factory working conditions surrounding the manufactured clothing label of choice?
For those who truly want to start the adventure of becoming an awakened consumer I have another author to recommend, Naomi Klein, author of The Shock Doctrine and No Logo. As many, many bookstores will be closing in the next few months (Borders Group, Inc. recently filed for Chapter 11 and will be closing over 200 stores in the chain), I have provided links to pages for each newly suggested title. So, add that information to your deck and put that card in your hand. Happy weekend and happy shopping.
Month: February 2011
The Lost Card
Many from Memphis know the actor in me and others from the Knoxville, TN area know the Musician in me and here in Chicago friends and acquaintances dub me the comedian or “the book guy.” Jack of many trades is a term I’ve come to love.
Working in a book store for over three years has not only allowed for my vastly increased knowledge regarding contemporary literature but also for my ability to review said literature in succinct fashion in a program I’ve so named, “Nick’s Picks.” Persnickety is a word that comes to mind considering the limited space allotted for these two to three sentence critiques. Ever constant as I remain to self-edit these selections, occasionally an error of spelling or syntax or worse slips through the cracks. One such crack involved The Lost Gate by highly recognized science-fiction writer, Orson Scott Card. Following formula (in our humble book store), I always write the title at the top of the shelf label insert. In this instance rather than writing, The Lost Gate, it read The Lost Card. This escaped my attention for a week or so until I swiped it from the shelf.
During the next week I chose the selection to be recommended at length as my weekly submission to local blog Uptown Update (see Nick’s Picks). The response got my attention. “After hearing what a homophobe OSC is, I will never buy another one of his books.” Supposing this could simply be conjecture or damaging rumor I did a quick google search and found many heated arguments against OSC’s views on marriage equality many of which reference his article submissions to The Mormon Times. Essentially, his stance regarding same-sex marriage is that such an allowance for this equality robs heterosexual couples of their societal privilege and ultimately damages the sacrosanct integrity of this divine partnership. His support of Prop 8 and praise for the youth who align with this support flesh out his opposition.
I am a proponent for marriage equality; however, details regarding my position on the matter remain for subsequent posts. I come now to the dilemma. Given the aforementioned book was my first reading of the author’s works, do I stand behind my recommendation or allow new insight and feelings to contradict my already published opinion? Illumination should always temper ignorance. Yet learning such news about this author doesn’t change the fact that it is, in fact, a good book. This being said, I’ve confessed my ignorance. While I could claim this new knowledge changed my opinion of the author I simply had no opinion of the author other than hearing tale of his being an ace among science-fictionists.
Sharing this conversations with many friends elicited the same state of surprise that such an imaginative author could subscribe to such a nebulous view. Clear though it may seem to those aligning answers to a set of dogmatic principles, the institution of marriage is one that will evolve just as it has and just as we have. Those who consider their way of life under attack need think again, for identifying a marriage to be solely between a man and a woman through an ordained sect for purpose of procreation sounds as robotic as a view from the next great dystopian novel. The heart is missing.
In close I know Orson Scott Card from this one work as an amazing writer, an “Ace,” in a deck of many face cards. And while such a figure may trump many hands it all depends on what you’re playing for in the game of Euchre the Jacks are the bowers.
Snowy Silhouette Skies
One month ago I was returning from the New Years trip of my life thus far, today I was reminded of those same skies of Glennie, Michigan.
Eastern dragonesque skies race across my memory as I fondly envision the wisps of Kate’s hair blending with crackles of the outdoor daylight fire while one of my newest friends Ryan sits pensively, occasionally nodding his head into his recently acquired shaman walking stick. I have never seen a more beautiful sky.
While the road trip began 6 days before, driving ’round the great lake from Chicago with a pit stop in Indiana, passing past Bay City (Madonna’s birthplace) and on into the little bear property of 4 log cabins, the actual trip began about 5 hours before it ended.
In my mind I count 9 of us around the great table of the main lodge while we eat our small fill some of which are peanut butter, bananas and, of course, mushrooms before heading outside across the melting lake and into the enigmatic forest of shades.
I warn all that I am very much going my own way but that I would be in and out of their existence and whether they knew it or not that is exactly what we were all in store for that gorgeous day.
Crossing the beaver bridge lent to my moment of filling it come, in the moment, and filling in the others with feelings of welcome as I say, “Welcome to the other side.” Up the hill just a few steps is when it hits Erik, he apologizes, “sorry guys,” only to kneel before the forest to vomit a couple of times. Walking by, I notice he’s alright and continue on my way with the flighty fairy named Amanda close behind immersed in moment after moment of fantastic jubilation.
At one point, I stopped, overwhelmed, noting where I was, standing, as just two nights previous I heard Kate’s voice scream across the lake, “Help! Wolves!” Eric and I had been searching for a concerned minute as she had disappeared for the last hour. She screamed; I bolted as quickly as one can through 2 feet snow drifts, down the hill towards the lake; We met. She collapsed once she reached snowy footing away from the ice. It was night. “There were eyes, all around me, eleven of them,” Kate said. “It’s o.k., you’re safe now. I had my knife ready, you see? Just in case I had to fight them away.” She took no notice past her own racing heart, aching knees and prolonged breaths. Eric reached us, “Why would you do that Kate?” After a breath, “I was just walking; I don’t know. I just wanted to be alone man.”
But I realize I’m in the past now and keep walking past the place I’ve never seen but know only to well. I hear another yell, this time from the other side of the lake; I’m in her place and she in mine. Dennis is with her as Eric was with me. “Wooooooooooooo-uh!” She calls with vivid lingering echo through our isolated heaven of escape. I quicken my pace walking through overwhelming colors of autumn somehow left untouched by the breath of mother winter. The ground plants appear monstrous and somehow I know that I’m a part of this great vision that I can somehow view and yet simultaneously realize I am not separate from any form I see. I stand at the edge of the lake flooded with arrays of light breaking the stratus and bending off glacious fragments of iridescent ice. The bridge I crossed is now across from me in this sight. It is day. Flowing winds are my emotions as they carry me closer to the lodge and away from my crossed over companions some of which remain very new to this bifurcated reality. Andrew and Cristin, Ryan’s brother Kevin and his friend Brendan some of which were and some of which were not but all of which were still on the other side in their own adventures and mesmerizing laughs and guffaws are a few to name.
Yet here I am knowing my story, past the fire and the ice and the strands of Kate’s hair on up into the breath-taking sight of the glorious sky and full on touches from an ever moving pugnaciously effervescent gale. It was mine. It was ours. We were loved and smiled upon. And amidst today’s state of emergency blizzard aftermath of Chicago 2011, on a walk with Robert, I saw an almost same sky beyond the outline of reminiscence.
Nicholas Dale Taylor's Blog 