TrickyBuddha Studios

I started re-reading Raymond Carver’s Where I’m Calling From (but I’m going to put it down now that the Bizarro Starter Kit has arrived! Yay! Thanks Candice!) and found a passage I had to copy down for sharing. The following excerpt comes from the story “Nobody Said Anything” and follows a young kid of maybe 12 or 13, I’d guess, who tells his mom he’s sick so he doesn’t have to go to school. This chunk is about three pages into the story:

I waited until she had started the car and had it warm. I listened as she pulled away from the curb. Then I got up and turned the sound on loud and went for the weeds. I smoked one and beat off while I watched a show about doctors and nurses. Then I turned to the other channel. Then I turned off the TV. I didn’t feel like watching.

I finished the chapter where Tars Tarkas falls for a green woman, only to see her get her head chopped off the next morning by this jealous brother-in-law. It was about the fifth time I had read it. Then I went to their bedroom and looked around. I wasn’t after anything in particular unless it was rubbers again and though I had looked all over I had never found any. Once I found a jar of Vaseline at the back of a drawer. I knew it must have something to do with it, but I didn’t know what. I studied the label and hoped it would reveal something, a description of what people did, or else how you applied the Vaseline, that sort of thing. But it didn’t. Pure Petroleum Jelly, that was all it said on the front label. But just reading that was enough to give you a boner. An Excellent Aid in the Nursery, it said on the back. I tried to make the connection between Nursery — the swings and slides, the sandboxes, monkeybars — and what went on in bed between them. I had opened the jar lots of times and smelled inside and looked to see how much had been used since last time. This time I passed up the Pure Petroleum Jelly. I mean, all I did was look to see the jar was still there. I went through a few drawers, not really expecting to find anything. I looked under the bed. Nothing anywhere. I looked in the jar in the closet where they kept the grocery money. There was no change, only a five and a one. They would miss that. Then I thought I would get dressed and walk to Birch Creek. Trout season was open for another week or so, but almost everybody had quit fishing. Everybody was just sitting around now waiting for deer and pheasant to open.

I got out my old clothes. I put wool socks over my regular socks and took my time lacing up the boots. I made a couple of tuna sandwiches and some double-decker peanut-butter crackers. I filled my canteen and attached the hunting knife and the canteen to my belt. As I was going out the door, I decided to leave a note. So I wrote: “Feeling better and going to Birch Creek. Back soon. R. 3:15.” That was about four hours from now. And about fifteen minutes before [his brother] George would come in from school. Before I left, I ate one of the sandwiches and had a glass of milk with it.

I love the details, like two TV channels and the uncertainty over the Vaseline. And the point-of-view is so sincere and believable. This is what kids do and how they think. I love Carver’s writing. It’s  simple. It never spells things out. It lets you watch the scene and come to your own conclusions (and that has definitely inspired me). I find the text relaxing and gripping at the same time. I get lost in the words and I like how his stories affect how we view the larger narrative surrounding it — in this case, the kid’s parents are fighting and he’s obviously stressed on some level but doesn’t consciously realize it.

I’ve said it before and I’ll probably say it some more. Raymond Carver was such a great writer. I think I’m going to have to work through the complete collection.

Aliya shared a Raymond Carver link on Facebook (check it out), which reminded me of a report I had written on him at UT (our class were each assigned authors to write about; it was, apparently, for the library’s records or something).

I tried to dig through my old files for the report but I guess I no longer have it.

While digging, however, I did find a bunch of old e-mails – mostly from Steve, and also Devin & Dom and Sean, but also a few from Mike, Julian, Keltie, Pam & Dan, and Sarah & Aliya. There were also a couple I wrote while I was in Europe.

Neat.

Of course, it just makes me realize how much I miss my friends.

I’d write more but I’m struggling with a headache and a bit of a stomach ache. Until tomorrow.

Candice and I cat-sat tonight and, wandering around a strange new house, I flashed back to a Raymond Carver story called Neighbors. And that made me realize I’ve never once written about Carver at this site – even though he’s my far-and-away favorite writer.

My love affair with Carver started in school at Tennessee. I think we may have essentially picked a writer out of a hat for the purpose of writing a research paper, but getting Carver was pure serendipity. One of the memories of UTK that stands out the most is sitting at the cafeteria by the law building across the bridge on way-too-hot days and reading from my Raymond Carver collections for hours on end.

So who is Raymond Carver? Wikipedia tells us that “Raymond Clevie Carver, Jr. (May 25, 1938 – August 2, 1988) was an American short story writer and poet. Carver is considered a major American writer of the late 20th century and also a major force in the revitalization of the short story in the 1980s.”

And why do I like him so much? I like that he wrote about normal stuff, but with an edge. It’s not about saving the world. It’s not about deep introspection. Nothing surreal. Just people behaving like real people. Writing without judgment. Observational. Cold and distant. You watch, removed – but you catch all the little details. And it’s thrilling.

One story I like has a couple hosting another couple for dinner. They get tipsy, then smoke marijuana. They talk about random things – about shoes and their favorite foods to munch. Another story has a waitress serving a very-overweight man. She is fixated on him and the way he talks, what he eats, and how nice he is to her – but the way the writing is, you want to sit and stare, too.

Neighbors is a story about a couple who are house-sitting for another couple. They’re supposed to feed the cat and water the plants, but when one goes to the other house they get lost in the idea of living another life. They make more and more excuses to check on the other house. I’ll stop there, but here’s a little excerpt from the couples saying goodbye to one another that makes me smile:

Bill and Jim shook hands beside the car. Harriet and Arlene held each other by the elbows and kissed lightly on the lips.

“Have fun,” Bill said to Harriet.

“We will,” said Harriet. “You kids have fun too.”

Arlene nodded.

Jim winked at her. “Bye, Arlene. Take good care of the old man.”

“I will,” Arlene said.

“Have fun,” Bill said.

“You bet,” Jim said, clipping Bill lightly on the arm. “And thanks again, you guys.”

The Stones waved as they drove away, and the Millers waved too.

“Well, I wish it was us,” Bill said.

“God knows, we could use a vacation,” Arlene said. She took his arm and put it around her waist as they climbed the stairs to their apartment.

After dinner Arlene said, “Don’t forget. Kitty gets liver flavor the first night.” She stood in the kitchen doorway folding the handmade tablecloth that Harriet had bought for her lat year in Santa Fe.

I really wish I could buy a copy of Where I’m Calling From and send it to everyone. Or at least find a decent on-line collection of his writing. His stories are so good! It makes me want to pick his books up and read them all through (again).