Blog - www.richardjespers.com

Amy Tan: Author of Opposites

7/29/2022

A WRITER'S WIT
Certainly almost everything we do and think is colored in some way by memes, but it is important to realize that not everything we experience is a meme. If I walk down the street and see a tree, the basic perception that's going on is not memetic.
Susan Blackmore
Author of Ten Zen Questions
Born July 29, 1951

S. Blackmore

My Book World

Tan, Amy. The Opposite of Fate. London: HarperCollins, 2003.

The Opposite of Fate is a joy to read, I would venture, whether you’re a Tan fan or not. The celebrated author modestly shares her wisdom with readers. Wisdom derived from her childhood, the daughter of Chinese immigrants. Wisdom derived from a life marred with tragedy (family deaths, physical violence, and murder of a friend). Wisdom derived from her relationships, family and friends alike. Wisdom derived from her courage to try new things (from joining a rock band made up of other famous writers to escaping from a dangerous flood while camping near Lake Tahoe to traveling to China with her mother). Wisdom derived from her trial-and-error career in writing (as most writing careers may be). Wisdom about medicine as she suffers through a long (and undiagnosed) bout of Lyme disease. The book is composed of essays arranged in thematic sections, and some anecdotes or fragments tinkle like little bells of remembrance from one essay to the next, but you don’t mind the repetition because it demonstrates how interrelated all the parts of her singular life are. I wish I’d read it when it was published, but it is still a valuable document in understanding one of our most important American authors.
Coming Next:
TUES: AWW | Rose Tremain
WEDS: AWW | Steven Millhauser
THURS: AWW | Helen Thomas
FRI: My Book World | Reynolds Price's The Promise of Rest

A Writer's Wit: Malcolm Lowry

7/28/2022

Success is like some horrible disaster
Worse than your house burning.
Malcolm Lowry
Author of Under the Volcano
Born July 28, 1909

M. Lowry

TOMORROW: My Book World | Amy Tan's The Opposite of Fate
TUES: AWW | Aldous Huxley
WEDS: AWW | Elizabeth Hardwick
THURS: AWW | Malcom Lowry

A Writer's Wit: Elizabeth Hardwick

7/27/2022

This the unspoken contract of a wife and her works. In the long run wives are to be paid in a peculiar coin—consideration for their feelings. And it usually turns out this is an enormous unthinkable inflation few men will remit, or if they will, only with a sense of being overcharged.
Elizabeth Hardwick
Author of Sleepless Nights
Born July 27, 1916

E. Hardwick

Coming Next:
THURS: AWW |Malcolm Lowry
FRIDAY: My Book World | Amy Tan's The Opposite of Fate

A Writer's Wit: Aldous Huxley

7/26/2022

A bad book is as much of a labor to write as a good one; it comes as sincerely from the author’s soul.
Aldous Huxley
Author of Brave New World
Born July 26, 1894

A. Huxley

COMING NEXT:
WEDS: AWW | Elizabeth Hardwick
THURS: AWW | Malcom Lowry
FRIDAY: My Book World | Amy Tan's The Opposite of Fate

Bite-Sized Poems Are Good for the Soul

7/22/2022

A WRITER'S WIT
Life's sharpest rapture is surcease of pain.
Emma Lazarus
Author of The New Colossus
Born July 22, 1849

E. Lazarus

Summerfield, Ellen, Ed. Bite-sized Poems: An Anthology. Oregon: Independently Published, 2021.

This carefully curated and edited volume of poetry might be the beginning classroom teacher’s dream for teaching poetry. Summerfield, herself a poet, brings together over forty indeed brief poems (one as short as nine words but packed with meaning). Not only does she guide readers lovingly through each poem with thoughtful exegesis but she also provides at the end of each presentation references to YouTube and PBS readings of the poem or a poet’s website so that the curious persons might read on. However, not to limit the book’s appeal to an educational setting alone, it stands alone as one poet’s generous interpretation of a group of disparate but equally enchanting poems—each one a delicious chocolate lifted from the front cover of bite-sized delights: Emily Brontë, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, Bertolt Brecht, as well as Edna Kovacs and Gwendolyn Brooks, make up just a few of the poets whom she anthologizes.

Coming Next:
TUES: AWW | Aldous Huxley
WEDS: AWW | Elizabeth Hardwick
THURS: AWW | Malcolm Lowry
FRI: My Book World | Amy Tan's The Opposite of Fate

A Writer's Wit: Sarah Waters

7/21/2022

I wouldn't mind being a fly on the wall in a few Victorian parlours.
Sarah Waters
Author of The Little Stranger
Born July 21, 1966

S. Waters

Coming Next:
TOMORROW: My Book World | E. Summerfield's Bite-Sized Poems
TUES: AWW | Aldous Huxley
WEDS: AWW | Elizabeth Hardwick
THURS: AWW | Malcom Lowry

A Writer's Wit: Cormac McCarthy

7/20/2022

Even if what you're working on doesn't go anywhere, it will help you with the next thing you're doing. Make yourself available for something to happen. Give it a shot.
Cormac McCarthy
Author of No Country for Old Men
Born July 20, 1933

C. McCarthy

Coming Next:
THURS: AWW | Sara Waters
FRIDAY: My Book World | Ellen Summerfield's Bite-Sized Poems

A Writer's Wit: Ethan Canin

7/19/2022

The historical background is one of the easier aspects of writing a novel. Far more difficult is dreaming up the smaller, character-based scenes, scenes that rise entirely from one's own imagination.
Ethan Canin
Author of The Palace Thief
Born July 19, 1960

E. Canin

COMING NEXT:
WEDS: AWW | Cormac McCarthy
THURS: AWW | Sarah Waters
FRIDAY: My Book World | Ellen Summerfield's Bite-Sized Poems

Her Name Forever

7/15/2022

A WRITER'S WIT
Fearlessness is like a muscle. I know from my own life that the more I exercise it the more natural it becomes to not let my fears run me.
Arianna Huffington
Author of On Becoming Fearless...in Love, Work, and Life
Born July 15, 1950

My Book World

Pellegrino, Charles. Her Name, Titanic: The Untold Story of the Sinking and Finding of the Unsinkable Ship. New York: McGraw, 1988.

I’ve been a fan of the Titanic’s story since I was a child. I read every magazine article, every book I could find on the subject—even as an adult I collected books. I watched every film, fiction or documentary. This book, though dated now in some ways, does combine two strands: 1) the eyewitness details left behind by those who were there to witness the sinking: passengers, crew members, children—always the more interesting narrative, to me. Pellegrino also unveils the thread of how oceanographer Robert Ballard locates the Titanic’s remains and visits them in a, for the time (1987), innovative “submarine” equipped with cameras.

The most astounding part of Ballard’s story seems to be that he is so overcome with emotion on seeing the pristine quality of certain artifacts left behind—china, passenger shoes, and other memorabilia—that he has no desire to lift any of it for souvenirs. Rather, he disguises the exact GPS location from journalists and the world, so that the site might remain what it has been since it all came to rest in the icy North Atlantic floor in 1912, and that is a place of memorial. Of course, other parties do locate the ship and make a commercial venture of it, but Ballard’s stance must be the higher ground, in a manner of speaking.

Coming Next:
TUES: AWW | Ethan Canin
WEDS: AWW | Cormac McCarthy
THURS: AWW | Sarah Waters
NEXT FRI: My Book World | Ellen Summerfield's Bite-Sized Poems: An Anthology

A Writer's Wit: Owen Wister

7/14/2022

When you can't have what you choose, you just choose what you have.
Owen Wister
Author of The Virginian
Born July 14, 1860

O. Wister

TOMORROW: My Book World | Charles Pellegrino's Her Name, Titanic
TUES: AWW | Ethan Canin
WEDS: AWW | Cormac McCarthy
THURS: AWW | Sarah Waters

A Writer's Wit: Wole Soyinka

7/13/2022

One's own self-worth is tied to the worth of the community to which one belongs, which is intimately connected to humanity in general. What happens in Darfur becomes an assault on my own community, and on me as an individual. That's what the human family is all about.
Wole Soyinka
Author of Aké: The Years of Childhood
Born July 13, 1934

W. Soyinka

THURS: AWW | Owen Wister
FRIDAY: My Book World | Charles Pellegrino's Her Name, Titanic

A Writer's Wit: Pablo Neruda

7/12/2022

I continue to work with the materials I have, the materials I am made of. With feelings, beings, books, events, and battles, I am omnivorous. I would like to swallow the whole earth. I would like to drink the whole sea.
Pablo Neruda
Author of Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair
Born July 12, 1904

P. Neruda

COMING NEXT:
WEDS: AWW | Wole Soyinka
THURS: AWW | Isaac Bashevis Singer
FRIDAY: My Book World | Charles Pellegrino's Her Name, Titanic

'Structures of the World' Photography Exhibition

7/11/2022

I am happy to announce that my photograph, "One World Trade Center," has been accepted to appear in the "Structures of the World, Works on Paper" Exhibition soon to open at the International Cultural Center Gallery, at Texas Tech University. Reception: Wednesday, July 13, 2022, 5:00 to 6:30 p.m. On display July-August. If you can't make it in person, you can view a slideshow of all the artists and photographers by way of clicking on the link here. Scroll down to see more. Thanks and hope you make it. RJ

One World Trade Center — 2018

COMING NEXT:
TUES: AWW | PABLO NERUDA
WEDS: AWW | WOLE SOYNKA
THURS: AWW | ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER
FRI: My Book World | Charles Pellegrino's Her Name, Titanic

'Weird Pig' Talks

7/8/2022

A WRITER'S WIT
I am prepared to believe that a dry martini slightly impairs the palate, but think what it does for the soul.
Alec Waugh
Author of A Spy in the Family
Born July 8, 1898

A. Waugh

My Book World

Foreman, Robert Long. Weird Pig. Cape Girardeau: SEMO P, 2020.

Reading this book is almost like perusing a graphic novel except, as with most reading, readers must imagine the cartoon images themselves. And it may be less scary that way, for Foreman tackles the satirizing of some tough subjects. Industrial farming, something about which a pig (if it could talk . . . and this one does) would have something to say. Creative writing and the publishing business—awash in their own absurdities. Gun violence—a germane topic right now. The character Weird Pig is basically an asshole, but for some reason, we like him and some of his antics. Why? He may give voice to some of our own discontent, some of our own worst impulses either to straighten out society or blast it all to hell. And eventually, Weird Pig does get his in the end, so you wouldn’t want to like him too much.

COMING NEXT:
MON: STRUCTURES OF THE WORLD PHOTOGRAPHY
TUES: AWW | Pablo Neruda
WEDS: AWW | Wole Soyinka
THURS: AWW | Isaac Bashevis Singer
FRIDAY: My Book World | Charles Pellegrino's Her Name, Titanic

A Writer's Wit: Eleanor Clift

7/7/2022

Looking at female candidates today, other women are the hardest on them, especially older women who were brought up in a different culture.
Eleanor Clift
Author of Madam President
Born July 7, 1940

E. Clift

COMING NEXT:
TOMORROW: My Book World | Robert Foreman's Weird Pig
MON: 'Structures of the World' Photography Exhibition TTU
TUES: AWW | Pablo Neruda
WEDS: AWW | Wole Soyinka
THURS: AWW | Isaac Bashevis Singer
FRI: My Book World | Charles Pellegrino's Her Name, Titanic: The Untold Story of the Sinking and Finding of the Unsinkable Ship

A Writer's Wit: Josh Elliott

7/6/2022

I was a subscriber to Sports Illustrated like so many of us, and I was overwhelmed by a toxic mix of naiveté and arrogance, and just thought to myself, “I think I can write like this.”
Josh Elliott
American Television Journalist
Born July 6, 1971

J. Elliott

COMING NEXT:
THURS: AWW | ELEANOR CLIFT
FRIDAY: My Book World | Robert Long Foreman's Weird Pig

A Writer's Wit: Amy Jo Martin

7/5/2022

Social media is the ultimate equalizer. It gives a voice and a platform to anyone willing to engage.
Amy Jo Martin
Author of Renegades Write the Rules
Born July 5, 1979

A. J. Martin

COMING NEXT:
WEDS: AWW |JOSH ELLIOTT
THURS: AWW | ELEANOR CLIFT
FRIDAY: My Book World | Robert Long Foreman's Weird Pig

Just for Fun: Anatomy of Hair

7/4/2022

A WRITER'S WIT
There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who walk into a room and say, “There you are” and those who say, “Here I am.”
Pauline Phillips
[Abigail Van Buren]
Author of The Best of Dear Abbie
Born July 4, 1918

P. Phillips

For about ten years, I either gave myself a crew cut or shaved my head. At the beginning of the Covid Pandemic, March 19, 2020, I gave up and began to grow my hair again—to what length I wasn't sure. It seems that every few months I was dealing with a new hair style. Don't worry, I've never left the house looking like Martha Grahame (bottom row, second from left) or Christopher Lloyd (bottom row, third from the left). Never will.

COMING NEXT:
TUES: AWW | Amy Jo Martin
WEDS: AWW | Josh Elliott
THURS: AWW | Eleanor Clift
FRIDAY: My Book World | Robert Long Foreman's Weird Pig

England: Island of Last Hopes

7/1/2022

A WRITER'S WIT
Discouragement seizes us only when we can no longer count on chance.
George Sand [Amantine Dupin]
Author of Middlemarch
Born July 1, 1804

G. Sand

My Book World

Olson, Lynne. Last Hope Island: Britain, Occupied Europe, and the Brotherhood That Helped Turn the Tide of War. New York: Random, 2017.

This book ostensibly is about the United Kingdom and its role in World War II, but its story is so inextricably woven with the war on the continent, as well as U.S. involvement, that it becomes a much larger tale. Author Olson writes history in an absorbing fashion by doing two things. She, of course, follows and reports the facts (spending ten years writing this book), but she also unfurls the story with a narrative flair sometimes missing from history books. She achieves the latter by developing major and minor characters so that they are three-dimensional. For example, with regard to some major players—Belgium, Holland, France, and Norway—she helps readers become acquainted with both the strengths and weaknesses of its leaders: Queen Wilhelmina of Holland, Leopold III of Belgium, de Gaulle of France—as they take refuge in London for the duration.

While relating the story of Nazi cruelty and the utter depravity of war, Olson stops to tell “little” stories: that one Czech citizen, Madlenka Korbel, one day grows up to be Madeleine Albright. That fifteen-year-old Audrey Kathleen Ruston, living with her mother in Arnhem, Holland, the site of a major conflict, is so emaciated at the end of World War II that she barely weighs ninety pounds. Nutrition will always be a problem for the girl who is to become actor Audrey Hepburn. Olson quotes Hepburn: “I still feel sick when I remember the scenes . . . . It was human misery at its starkest—masses of refugees on the move, some carrying their dead, babies born on the roadside, hundreds collapsing with hunger” (387). These are the sorts of details that make this book a pleasure to read.

One other thread is particularly poignant, that of Brigadier General John Hackett, “Shan,” originally from Australia but serving the UK. He is paratrooper who is shot down and injured as part of the Arnhem conflict. He is taken in by three Dutch unmarried sisters—Ann, Mien, and Cor de Nooij—and nursed back to health for many months until he can return to England. He is so moved by their love and care and their courage that in years to come, he returns to Arnhem again and again; likewise, he and his wife open their home to the sisters in the UK for future visits. They become family. This chapter is titled “I Was a Stranger and You Took Me In.” It is just one of the many moving stories interlaced with the UK’s status as the “last hope island” of the war. I’m delighted I found time to read this book.

NEXT FRIDAY: My Book World | Robert Long Foreman's Weird Pig

A Writer's Wit: Czelaw Milosz

6/30/2022

The voice of passion is better than the voice of reason. The passionless cannot change history.
Czeslaw Milosz
Author of The Captive Mind
Born June 30, 1911

C. Milosz

TOMORROW: My Book World | Lynne Olson's Last Hope Island: Britain, Occupied Europe, and the Brotherhood That Helped Turn the Tide of War

A Writer's Wit: Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

6/29/2022

Grown-ups never understand anything for themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Author of Wind, Sand and Stars
Born June 29, 1900

A. de Saint-Exupéry

FRIDAY: My Book World | Lynne Olson's Last Hope Island: Britain, Occupied Europe, and the Brotherhood That Helped Turn the Tide of War

A Writer's Wit: Edmund White on Stonewall Riots 1969

6/28/2022

The Stonewall riots were a key moment for gay people. Throughout modern history, gays had thought of themselves as something like a mental illness or maybe a sin or a crime. Gay liberation allowed us to make the leap to being a “minority group,” which made life much easier. --Edmund White, speaking of Stonewall Riots 1969

FRIDAY: My Book World | Lynne Olson's Last Hope Island: Britain, Occupied Europe, and the Brotherhood That Helped Turn the Tide of War

So Goeth the Fall

6/27/2022

A WRITER'S WIT
. . . we wear the mask that grins and lies, it hides our cheeks and shades our eyes—this debt we pay to human guile; with torn and bleeding hearts we smile.
Paul Laurence Dunbar
Author of We Wear the Mask
Born June 27, 1872

P. L. Dunbar

The following post may be a bit self-indulgent—much longer than normal—but I simply must get what's bothering me off my chest. Trigger warning: if confessions or whining in any way get you going, then stop reading now. You are forgiven.

It irritates my partner Ken, when I’m sometimes told I look good (or young) for my age. I make this statement not as a matter of ego or vanity (well, not entirely) but as a point of departure for a vapid little tale of humor, irony, and maybe stupidity. It’s one that began long ago.

Dick and Vic c1971

When I was twenty-five, I worked at the Texas Tech University library in cataloging and often was mistaken for an undergraduate. When I introduced my twenty-year-old brother visiting from CU in Boulder, one librarian thought we were twins! Brother Vic was not amused. I shrugged but glowed inside with giddiness.

It happened again in my thirties, but by then I was rather cultivating the notion that had been planted in my head at twenty-five. I worked out at a gym, remained slim. I was young. I located a book (BOMC) that explained in a very hippy dippy manner, how to care for your skin naturally (with plasters of oatmeal paste, toner squeezed from a lemon). Someone said I looked happy. Sitting in a doctor’s office, I also ran across an article, in a ratty old magazine that I stole, about facial isometric exercises that strengthen the muscles beneath the face and chin. There are five exercises, and I’ve done them several times weekly since 1978, in large part, if I’m not in a hospital or on vacation.

Dick, LHS Faculty Pic

As I reached my forties and fifties and worked sixty-hour weeks, I didn’t hear much of that you-look-so-young kind of talk anymore. I became bald and gray. My job as a teacher of AP English stressed my face beyond belief (faculty yearbook pictures remain as proof). And if you have kids yourself, you just might not find it beyond belief that caring for young people can indeed age you. It was only at age fifty-four, when I retired, that I was able to relax and get a good night’s sleep, eat and exercise properly—regaining a certain vigor, vitality, and youth. I also learned to meditate, quieting the mind each morning that provided yet another layer of peace to my existence.

When I obtained a new doctor in the next decade, he did a doubletake when I announced that I was sixty-nine. I thought you were more like forty-seven. Ken, attending the appointment as my advocate, snorted and rolled his eyes yet again, and I didn’t blame him. It was fatuous of me to sit there and grin. A year later, as I went under sedation for a heart ablation, a bevy of nurses gushed, You are not seventy! What is your secret? As a joke, and as my last cogent words before succumbing to the general anesthetic, I murmured, “Good clean living.” The woman’s fading voice answered: “I’m a little late for thaaaat . . . .”

I’ve neglected to mention regular movement as a major contributor to my vigor and good health. Since I’ve acquired a Fitbit watch, I try to walk between 6,000 and 8,000 (3.5 miles) steps per day. I’ve logged as many as 12,000 or 17,000 (8.8 miles) in one day while sightseeing in Barcelona, Spain. I’ve also done Pilates workouts since 2002, whose exercises have strengthened and challenged my core, toned up all my muscles. Reduced back pain because fit muscles help keep your skeletal remains aligned properly. Mostly, but you have to keep after it.

A Segment of Our Backyard Walking Trail

During Covid, Ken and I had a walking trail of crushed granite installed in the backyard, combined with a narrow sidewalk and the patio, to meander from one end of the yard to the other. We do own a treadmill, but it is pleasurable to get outside and stride naturally on the ground. The trail provides a “track” whose lap is equal to one minute’s time.

On June 18, I was about to finish my walk—ten more minutes—when I tripped on a protruding drain spout. I had grazed it before and was aware of its presence, but that time I nailed it (or it nailed me), and the next thing I knew . . . I found myself face down on the sidewalk . . . the victim of gravity’s dark pull against the earth, that feeling of How’d I get here? My glasses and airpods were scattered like items at the scene of an accident—which, of course, it was. I’d been listening to The Plot Thickens, a fascinating Turner Classic Movies podcast production about the life of actor-comedian, Lucille Ball. Her whisky tenor (bass!) is still bellowing in my ear. But all I can think of is the old saw from the Bible, Proverbs 16:18. To paraphrase, “Pride Goeth before a Fall.”

Yes, upon my word, I crash to earth with the full weight of gravity against my back, smashing my youthful face—more precisely against my thick black sunglasses, which gouge a gash in my forehead but which most probably save me from breaking my nose or cheekbone. My first thought is, This isn’t good. Already a small pool of blood has gathered on the pavement, and it continues to drip from my head.

I quickly remove the shirt I am wearing and it becomes a rag, a way to stanch the bleeding (I later tell Ken to toss it in the trash, I never wish to see it again). I somehow have the wherewithal (and balance) to rise from all fours, abandon my fallen belongings and find my way inside to view myself in the bathroom mirror. This is not good, indeed. My right eyebrow is sporting a large gash in the way that a peach’s skin can sustain a gash upon falling from the tree, demonstrating really, how delicate human skin is. I inform Ken that I’ve got to get to an urgent care center ASAP (eschewing the three-hour wait at any hospital ER in town).

We arrive at Star ER on the South Loop at about four p.m., and the waiting room is empty. In attempting to fill out the remarkably simple paperwork, my head drips blood onto the floor. The receptionist says not to worry; they’ll clean it up. I’m holding back the blood with a single folded tissue brought from home; it is full, a plump crimson rose. Soon I’m called back to an examining room. The man waiting on me is a middle-aged, jocular doctor with multi-striped frames and tinted lenses. He injects Lidocaine (a cousin to Novocain) into a wide swath of my forehead, some of its coolness dribbling down my face. He now cleans the wound with a stinging antiseptic that would otherwise be making me scream and proceeds to make nine surgical stitches to mend that laceration along my right eyebrow (a friend jokes that I should take a Sharpie and do my left brow so that they match, ha ha). When the doctor is done, a woman disinfects the remaining abrasions on my hands, arms, knees, and legs. The place runs a CT scan on my head, and we wait. The doctor returns and informs me there is a small bleed in my brain, and he orders an ambulance to fetch me and rush me across town to University Medical Center. But not serious enough to elicit sirens. The driver takes the Loop to Marsha Sharp Freeway, shortening the drive to seven minutes or less.

When I arrive at UMC, it is six p.m., and I’m rolled on a gurney into Trauma Unit #1. It seems as if twenty people leap upon my body at once (and in other circumstances such a situation might be rather tantalizing), but more probably the best-looking group of men and women I’ve ever seen, some medical students, some young doctors, begin to work away at me in a joint but chaotic effort. Some hands untie my shoes and remove my polka dot socks (I’m not picky about what I wear during my backyard strolls). Other hands in this kind of assault pull off my running shorts and athletic supporter (oh, really, doctor), my shirt. Next, a handsome man (even masked) in blue scrubs, a Doctor Vincent, badgers me with questions: First, my family history of diseases, and I tell him. Do I drink? Yes, socially. Socially like every day or just Saturdays? None of your business.

And then he asks me how my accident happened. Some chatty youngsters stab holes in my left arm for IV’s (at least one of them a mistake because she happens to confess), and one hole in my right arm, I suppose for a different drip yet to come. I’m turned on my left side (“One, two, three, turn), and another set of hands pounds each vertebrae, and I am to yell (to be heard above the cacophony) “No” if it doesn’t hurt with each attack. None does. I’m asked to squeeze my butt cheeks (incidentally, one of my Pilates exercises—20 squeezes per set—designed to help keep my buttocks high and perky, meh). Good job, a male voice says not entirely with sincerity. All of these things are done to me as if I'm a plastic dummy, a doll on which to practice their pin-pricking and other medical stuff—as if I am not real.

I’m turned on my right side (“One, two, three, turn) for yet another purpose. Then I’m laid flat (without getting laid) on my back again. All of these actions take place on a thin, flat board slipped between my back and the gurney. Asked if I hurt, I must amaze all concerned, instead of complaining about the mess on my head, by informing them I have four titanium screws in my spine from a previous surgery—and that that board is fucking killing me. They plaster a pain-relieving pad across my lower back, which will remain there during my entire stay, thus relieving some of the pain caused by lying in hospital beds. Because I may be cognitively challenged after the fall, I’m bombarded with even more questions that I must answer satisfactorily, because suddenly the room empties as if my ass just isn’t up to snuff for this crowd (recall, if you will, my veiled rape metaphor).

I am now moved to an Intensive Care Unit room with only a curtain to separate me from the tumult, and an Asian woman with an ESL accent takes a long history and types it into the computer. Several times she, also a student, is helped by the youngish man who heads the main desk—his being the only bitchy personality I encounter during the weekend. Until midnight, when I am moved to a regular room, I languish on this uncomfortable bed with nothing but my thoughts. Ever since I was at Star ER I’ve run through my meditation mantras, attempting to take my mind off the obvious: injury and trauma. The mantras help a little, but they are shouted down by competing thoughts of pain, thoughts about my ruined looks, thoughts of how long I’ll be spending in this life-saving but God awful place.

Finally, at midnight, after several false starts (I easily eavesdrop on the main desk phone calls), I’m moved to a regular single room, GT-392. I ask the orderly rolling me along the hallways what GT stands for because my inquiring mind (as dinged-up as it is) wants to know. He mumbles something about it just being named that way. Yet he forgets that I can read the overhead signs as we travel through this labyrinthine building, and I note “Gerontology and Trauma” printed in large letters as we near my room. Ah haaa. Yet my placement is a blessing. Gone is the puerile chatter of ICU workers. Gone is the bustle of gurneys in and out of slamming doors. Agonizing moans and screams not my own. My GT room is quiet, and for the next thirty-six hours, I am allowed to sleep except for short interruptions to take my vitals, draw yet more blood, and whatever else the staff wish to do to me or for me (I'm served several good meals). Except for a couple of plump, gray-haired female nurses, everyone else, male or female, who enters the room, seems young. But even they are plump, out of breath if they exert themselves in any way. Serving twelve-hour shifts, it seems, these faithful servants obviously have no time to work out, to keep fit. The only rather thin, short man in blue scrubs happens to be a physician from the neurology department, who deems that I shall be released later Monday morning. Everyone who has entered my room—from orderlies, to aides, to nurses and doctors—seems to take seriously the hospital motto, “Service Is Our Passion.” So unlike the private hospital a mile and a half from here, or like hospitals from my past, in which I felt lucky to get the time of day or a response to my request radioed to the nurse’s station by that walkie talkie lying next to my head.

Late Monday morning, a cute young blonde nurse named Kristina rushes around to help me prepare to check out. I ask if I can shower my smelly body, and she accommodates me by getting the trickle of warm water started in the walk-in shower (no scalding allowed here). She leaves to get my paperwork in order. It’s faster and cheaper to buy my new RXs from the UMC pharmacy, so Kristina also dispatches an aide downstairs to secure them for me: I happen to have cash to facilitate matters. After my shower, Kristina and I get my belongings together. I sign a bunch of paperwork, copies of it go in an already existing folder, and I am wheeled downstairs by the same aide to the front entrance, where Ken is waiting to pick me up.

Ah, after the fall. Since I’m stubbornly not on social media any longer (except for LinkedIn, which may not count), I send an email or texts with photos to friends and loved ones. I get the responses of sympathy I was probably hoping to elicit: Wishes for a quick recovery, Things could have been worse, You still look handsome. Oh, yeah, that’s the one I was waiting to read. I’m gonna be all right. Yes, nine days later, many of the scabs have already fallen away, leaving a pink layer of new skin. I exude a little pride here, but mostly gratitude. Yes, I'm very grateful.

TOMORROW: A Writer's Wit | The 1969 Stonewall Riots

Young Gay Man Is 'Railroaded'

6/24/2022

A WRITER'S WIT
Hold yourself responsible for a higher standard than anybody expects of you. Never excuse yourself.
Henry Ward Beecher
Author of Proverbs from Plymouth Pulpit
Born June 24, 1813

H. W. Beecher

My Book World

Woodruff with His Horse

Crawford, Phillip, Jr. Railroaded: The Homophobic Prosecution of Brandon Woodruff for His Parents’ Murders. Kindle: CreateSpace, 2018.

Full disclosure: I won this Kindle version of Crawford’s book by way of a goodreads.com giveaway. I am providing this review because I do believe it is a narrative worth reading.

This brief book is reminiscent of absorbing feature articles I’ve read in Texas Monthly—stories of true crime set in the Lone Star State. As a gay man who has lived in Texas for over fifty years, I felt drawn to this case I’d never heard of before. Woodruff is a nineteen-year-old boy charged with murdering his parents in their home. Crawford displays a fine grasp of the tenuous legal situation for gays in Texas, and he sets up the facts of the case for readers to see that Brandon Woodruff is wrongly prosecuted and convicted. At the very least the teen should be given a fair trial.

Throughout the book Crawford makes clear, among others, certain facts. A Texas Ranger from Austin is assigned the case, rather than a local or regional official. This Ranger conducts a smear campaign against Brandon because of his participation in a gay social life and for appearing in legitimate pornographic movies, “evidence” that has nothing to do with the case but which prejudices the jury. The Ranger also fails to take advantage of information that does exist, for one, cell phone records that would indicate Brandon is not anywhere near the location at the time of the murders. By such evidence alone, he could not possibly have committed the murders. While some guilty parties never show any emotion when hearing the news of loved one’s murders, reliable witnesses testify that Brandon loves his parents, particularly his father, who has a sympathetic view of his son’s homosexuality—and he is beset with grief from the beginning. Brandon’s sister, who is more temperamentally bent toward anger and violence against their parents than Brandon, is never fully investigated. What about her whereabouts on the night of the murder? Her phone records? A party or parties who might have committed the murders on her behalf? One suspect, an ex-friend of Brandon’s who is vehemently homophobic, lies to Ranger Collins, and Collins conveniently never puts the ex-buddy on the stand at the trial. The Texas Ranger takes the easy way out all around, and Brandon Woodruff, now nearing age thirty-six, still remains in prison, a long life-term ahead of him.

If readers want to help Brandon Woodruff’s cause, they can go to the website freebrandon.org to donate and/or sign a petition to be sent to the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals. This is a wrong that must be righted and soon. Thanks to Phillip Crawford, Jr. for documenting this case in such a decisive manner.

NEXT FRIDAY: My Book World | Lynne Olson's Last Hope Island: Britain, Occupied Europe, and the Brotherhood That Helped Turn the Tide of War

A Writer's Wit: David Leavitt

6/23/2022

Having reached a point in which I was so bitter and exhausted from being a quote unquote public figure, I wanted to return to a more childlike relationship to writing.
David Leavitt
Author of The Lost Language of Cranes
Born June 23, 1961

D. Leavitt

TOMORROW: My Book World | Phillip Crawford, Junior's Railroaded: The Homophobic Prosecution of Brandon Woodruff for His Parents' Murders