Category: Absurdities

Spring’s awakening.  Jerusalem artichokes. They look like potatoes. Nubby new potatoes.  They don’t look like artichokes.  That was my first thought.

Jerusalem.  That was my second thought.  All the way from Jerusalem.  Cool.  Land of the Pharaohs.  Helianthus tuberosus.  Don’t take my word for it.

I love that town.  Love the sound of it.  How many times a day do you think, “I’ve gotta get to Jerusalem”?  None?  Zero?  Twenty?  Five?  Very seldom?  Almost never?  I know.  But wouldn’t it be great?  Here we are in downtown Jerusalem.  And the market stalls are full of Jerusalem artichokes. It’s crazy.  No telling what’s gonna happen here.

You can chop ’em up and roast ’em in the oven.  That’s one method that works pretty good.  They look like roasted potatoes.  They taste like artichokes, roasted. Sort of.

My camera broke down.  It only takes fuzzy pictures now.  ‘But not all our power is gone’.  This beautiful little camera that basically made me and made my career is now, apparently, going to cost more than it’s worth to fix.  How about that?  Stay tuned.  We’ll sort it out.

That was funny learning that the Jerusalem artichoke isn’t an artichoke, has never been to Jerusalem, and is basically a case of mistaken identity.  It’s a member of the darn sunflower family.  It’s gotta stop.  Now this.

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

You know what?  There’s no mountains in England so you have to be careful about what you believe.  Wales maybe.  Prince of Wales.  And no.  There was no Jerusalem builded there either.

Bring me my Bow of burning gold:
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariots of fire.

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green & pleasant Land.

Bill, it just didn’t happen.  Zilch.  Mandrake root?  Okay.  Mandrake root but there’s no Jerusalem artichokes in England unless somebody brought them there.  It wasn’t me.  Today’s lesson.  My old accounting prof was right.  Things can get confusing.

Jerusalem artichoke.  Sounds lovely.

 

 

“Curtains for Ray,” I said.

“Roy,” he said. And he ought to know. He wrote the book.
Funny things happen to me.  I keep running into people who’ve written books.  I know who they are and what they’ve written but they don’t know me.  Who am I?  I wish I knew.  See ‘Steven Brown’ for details.  It’s somewhere below on this blog reel thingy.  June 15, 2014 entry.

It’s my problem.  I know things.  I know a lot of things.  I knew of this novel and had been interested in reviewing it but my pitch, as they’re called, went unanswered.  But I was still interested in the book.  I looked for it in a large bookstore near here but they didn’t have it.  I forgot about it for a while.

Then, one day, the author of this novel is standing in front of me.  “Aaron?”  I say.

“Yes,” he says.

“I recognized you.  I saw you read at the Writersfest last year.  Curtains for Ray.”

“Roy,” he said.

“Roy,” I said.  “Sorry about that.”

“That’s okay,” he said.  And so it started again.

What started again?  My desire to read this novel.  I believe it to be a slightly neglected novel.  No one writes a novel in the desire that it be slightly neglected.  No publisher, especially these days, publishes a novel desiring it to be slightly neglected.  “Curtains for Roy” was published last year by Cormorant Books.  978-1897151-74-7.

These are strange times.  They may not be stranger than any other times but they are strange in and of themselves, these times.  Completely strange.  Not only will you review a book for free, the publishers of that book will send you a copy for free so you can review it for free.  But content, as every savant knows, is not free.  So what’s going on here?  I wish I knew.

So Aaron Bushkowsky’s publisher’s publicist, a very nice person, mailed to me from mighty Toronto a fine looking copy of “Curtains for Roy” to review on my blog.  Free book.  Free review.

I’ve met somebody else who published with Cormorant.  Can’t remember her name right now.  Two people published by Cormorant but I never published with Cormorant although I tried.  Tried so darn hard.

Publishing is a dire enterprise and a dark, soulless undertaking besides.  Maybe not.  More publishing dreams have been killed by publishers than writers.  I’ll say.  Writing is brutal, nasty and very often a complete failure and failure is painful.  Writing and publishing are the evil twins of the nugatory ur-world of smashed ambition.  Hey, that’s got potential.  You could get used to this.

Anyway, the novel is very good.  I’ve read it and I recommend it.  It’s a very nice looking trade paperback novel, a high quality objet.  Impress your friends.  I wish it was my book, my other novel or either of any of my other novels.  Sure I do.  But it isn’t.  It’s Aaron’s.

There’s no money in novels and anyone calling themselves a publisher is a fool to publish in the genre of literary fiction.  Everybody knows that.  Prepare to be amazed.

Roy is a theatre director with a bad case of cancer.  He’s not going to make it.  His friend, Alex, is a playwright with a bad case of poor reviews.  They’re both pretty choked at the way things are going and decide to cut out for the Okanagan to drink some wine to solve their problems.

Good idea.  ‘If we are to be the martyred slaves of time we must drink continuously’.  Just thought I’d throw that in.  This is my space.  I can do what I want, right?  Free space courtesy of the mighty people at WordPress.  Maybe that’s it.  Everything’s about courtesy.

Buddy novel.  Road trip novel.  Wine novel.  Yes, one is reminded of the movie Sideways.  At least superficially.  Both are about going around to wineries in wine country and sampling the goods.

Some winery wants to put on a production of Midsummer Night’s Dream and it falls to Roy to direct it.  The situation is complicated by Roy’s terminal illness and further complicated by the famous, or infamous, Okanagan Mountain Fire, of fond remembrance, a real event expertly woven into the action of the novel’s second half.

In terms of plot summary that’s all you’re gonna get out of me.  If you like stories set in our own locale, well-written novels of wit and humour semi-neglected or otherwise, I’ve got something for you.  And you know, as I’ve amply demonstrated, I know what I’m talking about.