Terence

It has taken me two years to write and subtracted ten years from my life, but I have finally published my first book, a little book, a chapbook, Terence.

From the publisher:

What makes us human? What makes us different? In the tradition of ‘Vladimir Nabokov’s ‘Pale Fire,’ Eric Norris looks at life as a corrupted text, with the greatest meaning lingering just at the margins of error. ‘Terence’ tells the story of a bewildered boxer’s love for a beautiful young man he meets at the gym, complicated by the untimely appearance of a cow.

It is a very strange story. Terence approaches the problems of life and love from a different angle, obtuse at times, acute at others, but hopefully enjoyable for all.

(If you are curious about the cow, click here to read an excerpt.)

As always, thanks for dropping by.

Rain

No, I do not refer to the excellent story by Somerset Maugham, I refer instead to the horrible atmospheric phenomenon which has utterly destroyed my day off from work. Hence, the drip and puff of ash from the fire grate beneath the chimney and the large and Bloody Mary [gathering condensation] to the immediate left of this computer [cheers].

I was supposed to meet Yasu and Gonchan [woof!] in the city for a little luncheon and post-prandial perambulation in the park this afternoon, but our date was rained out. In fact, the rain was so bad in our section of southeastern Connecticut that when I sailed outside to the street to collect the floating garbage cans I had to send up a signal flare and be rescued by the cat [Meow.]

Luckily, before venturing anywhere I made provision for this contingency by stuffing my pockets full of flares and waterproof matches and sealing the cat inside her scuba gear, which

she prefers to a conventional rain slicker. [Boy, this drink is really strong.]

After being rescued by the cat, along with the aid of six surly brown rabbits and their captain, a vole, from the Coast Guard, who happened to be cruising by on a detached, motorized door that had once belonged our eccentric Scottish neighbor, Mr. Mclaren, I spent a few hours sitting on the porch, drying out, reading Tristram Shandy. [Not only strong, but spicy! Mmm!]

From which I clip the following piece of advice for the conscientious reader.

Writing, when properly managed,
(as you may be sure I think mine
is) is but a different name for conversa-
tion : As no one, who knows what he is
about in good company, would venture
to talk all ; -- so no author, who under-
stands the just boundaries of decorum
and good breeding, would presume to
think all : The truest respect which you can pay
to the reader's understanding, is
to halve this matter amicably, and leave
him something to imagine, in his turn,
as well as yourself.

For my own part, I am eternally pay-
ing him compliments of this kind, and
do all that lies in my power to keep his
imagination as busy as my own.

Alas, poor...

It is clearly impossible to have a self-portrait executed by a person other than one's self.

But there is nothing on Earth that Logic loves more than an opportunity to taunt us. Always remember, friends, that just because a thing is reported to be impossible doesn't mean it can't occasionally happen.

Sometimes, in his wild way of talking,
he would say, That gravity was an errant
scoundrel ; and he would add, -- of the
most dangerous kind too, ---- because a
sly one ; and that, he verily believed,
more honest, well-meaning people were
bubbled out of their goods and money
by it in one twelve-month, than by
pocket-picking and shop-lifting in seven.
In the naked temper which a merry heart
discovered, he would say, There was no
danger, -- but to itself : -- whereas the very
essence of gravity was design, and con-
sequently deceit ; -- 'twas a taught trick
to gain credit of the world for more sense
and knowledge than a man was worth ;
and that, with all its pretensions, -- it was
no better, but often worse, than what a
French wit had long ago defined it, -- viz.
A mysterious carriage of the body to cover
the defects of the mind ; -- which definition
of gravity, Eric, with great impru-
dence, would say, deserved to be wrote in
letters of gold.

But, in plain truth, he was a man un-
hackneyed and unpractised in the world,
and was altogether as indiscreet and
foolish on every other subject of discourse
where policy is wont to impress restraint.
Eric had no impression but one, and
that was what arose from the nature of
the deed spoken of ; which impression he
would usually translate into plain English
without any periphrasis, ---- and too
oft without much distinction of either
personage, time, or place ; -- so that when
mention was made of a pitiful or an
ungenerous proceeding, -- he never gave
himself a moment's time to reflect who
was the Hero of the piece, ---- what his
station, ---- or how far he had power to
hurt him hereafter ; -- but if it was a dirty
action, ---- without more ado, ---- The
man was a dirty fellow, -- and so on : --
And as his comments had usually the ill
fate to be terminated either in a bon mot,
or to be enliven'd throughout with some
drollery or humour of expression, it gave
wings to Eric's indiscretion. In a word,
tho' he never sought, yet, at the same
time, as he seldom shun'd occasions of
saying what came uppermost, and with-
out much ceremony ; ---- he had but too
many temptations in life, of scattering
his wit and his humour, -- his gibes and
his jests about him. ---- They were not
lost for want of gathering.

What were the consequences, and
what was Eric's catastrophe thereupon,
you will read in the next chapter.

Stern Measures

It has been an empty few days here at WhenIwasOneandTwenty.

I tried for several hours this weekend to get back into the spirit of the Pushkin project. Alas, when Alexander Pushkin met my poetic shovekin, and I re-read what I had written, I realized that all I was doing was bullying the English language into oblivion. So, I deleted what I had written, apologized to my dictionary and closed my laptop. Enough said.

I turned to Stevie Smith for consolation. But even 73 pages of Miss Smith, with all her wonder and whimsy, have not been able to pull me out of this psychological quicksand I seem to have stumbled into. Sterner measures are called for.

Therefore, I have taken Tristram Shandy down from my shelf here at work. Wistfulness, you have been warned. Ennui, prepare to meet to Eternity. Ye congregated Powers of Depression [a flutter of paper napkins] draw up your several wills and testaments, while mind and body remain yet sound. Uncle Toby hath mounted his horrible Hobby and draws his sword against you!


...

In the meantime, while Uncle Toby and his comical cavalry are busy chasing away the blues, and while I am rinsing beet and horseradish juice from the skin of two Macintosh apples (we seem to have had an incident with a leaky lunch container in our back pack this morning) here is a little piece from a few months ago, when I was feeling friskier, more creative, and more frivolous.


Zeus


While you showered, I put down my book
And yawned. The poet Yeats sat on a chair
Regarding me intensely, with that look
He liked to give farm girls from County Clare,

Parsing their potential, as a lover—
The wayward lock of hair, that muddy shoe—
Eyes darting up and down, like bees, over
A field of Irish clover, crowned with dew.

A dark, demented rain induced the trance
In which I met his scrutiny. Still, I
Was startled when a pair of underpants—
A lightning bolt—descended from the sky,

Landing on the face of Mr. Yeats,
Jolting me out of my reverie.
Clad in a cloud of steam (or was it Grace?)
You adjusted your—artillery.