The Force of Tradition

Steven M. Moore

Copyright 2006, Steven M. Moore

Ardus of the Oprazni Hive belched with contentment.  His guest, a Human scientist, stopped a moment in her note taking, quite pleased with her new-found ability to calm her queasy stomach.  She had just watched the Arlamati dine on what the latter considered an exquisitely prepared reef polyp, a foul-smelling live meal that he normally couldn’t afford, even if he was Skel’s most famous physicist.  Moreover, from her point of view, his contented demeanor was decidedly in contradiction with what it should be, considering the fate that awaited him.

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Al Franken has been declared the winner in Minnesota.  After months of counting and recounting, the Minnesota Supreme Court gave its final verdict.  Al will go to work next week, I guess.  If we can call it work.  It’s mostly storms in a whiskey glass.

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Michael Jackson has died.

Fame and fortune came early to this young Motown man and lasted for most of his life, but the media frenzy about his death is driving me nuts.

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Since I’m already accused of being dark, negative, and pessimistic by some, I thought it might be interesting to collect readers’ opinions on the worst books in the English language, said list to be added as a complement to the “classics” categories.  ”Worst” has a special meaning here.  By this I mean a terrible book that you have been forced to read by those erudite practitioners of mind-numbing torture in high school or college English classes.  Or a book that everyone has told you that you must read and it gives you a frontal lobotomy without surgery.  To make it more specific, let me start the ball rolling by mentioning a sample from my own list.

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Retiree Number 114 at Pine Hills Manor

Steven M. Moore

Copyright 2008, Steven M. Moore

Brenda moved along the dim corridor and stopped at room 114.  After checking off the visit on her list, she peeked into the room at her patient.

Rafael, the old retiree, sat in his rocker, muttering to himself.  As usual, he was smiling and staring out the window between the thick wrought iron bars at the bleak Virginia countryside.

She thought he might like winter because he used to ski, but she couldn’t be sure.  Most of the retirees didn’t remember much with all the drugs they took.  He often drew pictures of skiers, though, especially of children on skis.

“Ready to start your day, Rafael?”  She always tried to be cheery with her patients.

He gave her a dour look.  She knew he was a warm and caring person-he just hated to be rushed.

“What’re they having for breakfast?”

“Oatmeal, OJ and coffee, what else?  Do you want me to come back?”

“No.  I don’t want to get out of my routine and I don’t want to take you out of yours.  Besides, my daughter is coming to visit today.  I’d better spruce up.”

She nodded.  She had known Rafael Reyes for four years.  It was what he said nearly every morning.  The drugs had that effect.  All her patients were docile.

She helped him get dressed.  He was in better shape than the average retiree in the nursing home.  Lean body, flat abs, not confined to a wheel chair-at seventy-seven Rafael Reyes could pass for early sixties.  Without the drugs he could have been a handful.  With the drugs, it was like dressing a sleepy baby.  Under their influence he would often start muttering in Spanish.  She wondered if those were his secrets.

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Do you ever watch C-Span’s transmissions of English parliament sessions?  I am amazed at the passion displayed by the civilized English in some of these (many, of course, are as boring as the royal family’s croquet matches).  The English parliamentarians bludgeon each other rather unmercifully with words at times.  Broadcasts covering the parliaments of other countries as well as news reports show that often overseas the bludgeoning is done with fists, books, and chairs.  Japan and South Korea come to mind.

Are Americans too civilized?  I’d like to see some passionate and physical debates in our Senate (rather difficult when they are mostly old farts in worse shape than I am) and House (more chance here, although the average age is up there too).  How about the Supreme Court?  It would have been much more interesting if Sec. Clinton had broken her elbow putting it in the ribs of Pres. Akmadinijad (where has he been the last few days, by the way?).

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No, you haven’t stumbled onto a porn site.  ”Steve’s shorts…” refers to my short stories.

The short story represents bare bones writing.  I find it particularly challenging and a lot of fun.  Like many authors, I write a lot of them.  Sometimes they are just practice pieces before gearing up for a full novel.  Other times the medium just lends itself to the theme I’m treating or how I want to treat it (compactly, tersely, and to the point).

During the next few months I will post some of my short stories from time to time as a break from the usually heavy blog topics, although the short stories often treat rather heavy topics too.

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Most short stories or novels are written in the third person for the simple reason that this allows the author to develop different characters and show how they react in different situations.  In other words, using the third person provides variety, complexity, and breadth.  Yet writing in the third person still requires conveying to the readers what each character thinks, at least to some extent, so the readers often find themselves in an omnipotent role that they feel uncomfortable with as they transition from character to character.

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I’m back in Concord from Hawai’i.  This morning I was greeted by the front page picture in the Boston Globe that showed mass protests against the alleged fraud in the Iranian elections.  That swirling sea of humanity  and those inspiring massive arches reminded me of how little we understand this culture.

Some of you are cheering on the opposition in Iran, perhaps thinking that if the present Iranian President leaves the political scene, things can only get better.  Don’t kid yourselves.  The theocracy that is Iran will still hate the U.S.  Just consider who is going to investigate potential fraud and perhaps do a partial recount.

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This is the last post from our 50^th state.  I promised to say whether the plane ride from hell was worth it or not.

It is a beautiful state.  Here on Maui our visits to the Haleakala crater and the rain forest on the road to Hana stand out.  These were with the Polynesian Tours, a subsidiary of Gray Lines (I don’t mind giving a commercial plug now and then).  My hat is off to Henry (his real Hawaiian name is too long to remember), our fantastic tour guide on the first tour, and you-who-will-remain-nameless, our surly and inaccurate tour guide on the second (the road to Hana does not go from 300 to 500 thousand feet, Haleakala is only one of the tallest mountains in the world if you count the part of the island under water, and state law forbids you talk on a cell phone while driving, madam).

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