Jesus Christ, you don't miss a beat with your Montessori clicks, Mister. Your mom started that? Amazing. Each of those kids looks as happy as if they wrote and illustrated their own version of the Bible. What would I be today if I'd gone to a Montessori school? An interdimensional florist, probably.
"This was a Bible for a little brother that wasn’t as smart as everybody else in the family, the brother only included in superlatives about “the boys” out of bald diplomacy, a maneuver I was shrewd enough to distrust." Genius. You write like you're transcribing fractals of meaning from the Muse themself.
You would be writing on Substack. I know this because I was in the first graduating class. ‘71. Ms. Muse, was our music teacher. She taught us how to sigh.
It was mostly swing, miss, and fetch. Cardio. We took turns retrieving our Whiffle Ball from the city drainage. “I do believe it is your turn to retrieve, Mr. Ford.”
That school is amazing! What a legacy! I had to smile at your descriptions of the military base in Vicenza. I spent a summer studying architecture in Vicenza between junior and senior year of college. I went to base with my military dependent’s ID card for an afternoon adventure. It truly was like stepping into the U.S. - so surreal. I remember the huge cars and, in the PX, racks of American magazines. And there was a buffet line where they had those green-foil cylinders of Kraft Parmesan cheese. In Italy, of all places! That tasteless condiment, the epitome of American convenience. After that nostalgic respite, I was glad to return to Italy.
Oh, my God, I love it that you know! That somebody knows! I just referenced your comment on a comment above and tried to tag you. I get that returning to Italy as an adult would be an immediate goal. It's like going to an "American Hamburgers" restaurant in Paris. It's going to be awful, but there's a curiosity value (that lasts about one hamburger.)
Another story from that summer - was returning late one evening on the train to Vincenza with another woman from my program. We both looked Italian - dark hair, Euro clothes. The only other people in our car were a few old Italians and some boisterous American soldiers,. They were talking freely in English about us, clearly assuming we wouldn't understand. Of course that was pre #metoo years and neither of us was alarmed or afraid. (Maybe we should've been?) We just thought it was funny.
And (I’m not currying agreement here) but I believe that awareness is also the language of Women. The patriarchy and the matriarchy, with both attraction and repulsion for each other. Magnets, in other words.
May they somehow meet in the middle — balanced — in all of our affairs and settle this world.
A child of Montessori myself – I absolutely love this line: "You don’t need to be Maria Montessori to recognize the heat of a seven-year-old‘s flaming imagination."
I love the way you describe the military base as this complete, borderline surreal movie set in the middle of another country. It’s a good reminder to any writer, how much specific details matter in the telling of a story. You make it come to life along with the incredible hunger you had as a boy to be seen.
There were two worlds that year that co-existed, one of them far less stressful than the other. I can look back and see it as only a magical year, and I can look back like I'm doing here and look at the difficult spots. It was a wonderful year and I wouldn't trade it for any other year with the exception of the year I met my wife and then all of the years of having my kids. So, to summarize, I wouldn't trade it for any year other than the 32 years since I met my wife. I would keep those. 😀
But the year was formative in the sense of it was the first real sense of watching life, family life in particular, from an extra-familial perspective, and maybe it wasn't the easiest year to wake up into. It's interesting, though: I actually want to share it almost clinically, that readers can look at it, not at me. It is separate from me now. I don't "identify" with it directly, and don't want anyone to identify it with the writer now. That's probably an absurd expectation. Do you know what I mean? Or is it too hard not to link the writer now with the subject matter then? It's value is that it was seen, not that I lived through it. This might be making no sense at all...
"Passing time is an ongoing master class in loss." Well put.
"Clinical" is completely the wrong word. I think it's this, and I'd guess that this is in the nature of writing. When I'm writing (and responding to what's on the page), I'm responding to what is on the page, not the memory itself. The memory or the character or the description is the fuel of what goes on the page, but it's something the mind is working with, not experiencing directly. (I hope this isn't some horrible inadvertent confession of something gone writer-wrong.)
When I read your work, I don't think "that's David in the desert." I'm responding to the experience of what you put on the page (so in a sense I don't know anything about you except the person who is deciding what to tell me. that I do assume is you.) If you tell me something about Woodstock or Hudson, I'm thinking David = this.
Probably, this is like acting, too. The actor can feel he/she is playing a part, but the viewer will go, "that's really Tom Cruise." He doesn't feel exposed, but the audience thinks they see it.
Now I'm going to completely reverse everything I just wrote and say that when I share something historical and personal I do feel that the reader is holding something delicate that belongs to me, and that they could hurt me with that information. If this wasn't so then writing would take no courage at all.
so, they are sort of both true.
when I meet you in person as some day I undoubtedly will, I will think "this is the guy who snuck/broke into the Conservative club. 😀 (and I love you for that, man.)
thanks for your note. and apologies for turning this into a 6:30am ramble. I'm sure it is possible to say this in 1/3 the space.
Jesus Christ, you don't miss a beat with your Montessori clicks, Mister. Your mom started that? Amazing. Each of those kids looks as happy as if they wrote and illustrated their own version of the Bible. What would I be today if I'd gone to a Montessori school? An interdimensional florist, probably.
"This was a Bible for a little brother that wasn’t as smart as everybody else in the family, the brother only included in superlatives about “the boys” out of bald diplomacy, a maneuver I was shrewd enough to distrust." Genius. You write like you're transcribing fractals of meaning from the Muse themself.
You would be writing on Substack. I know this because I was in the first graduating class. ‘71. Ms. Muse, was our music teacher. She taught us how to sigh.
You know I would have said, "Now THERE is a Montessori kid - recruit him for the Court of Sighs, give him whatever he wants."
The way you two go back and forth so comfortably seems almost like you grew up playing ball on the same vacant lot. It's fun to watch.
It was mostly swing, miss, and fetch. Cardio. We took turns retrieving our Whiffle Ball from the city drainage. “I do believe it is your turn to retrieve, Mr. Ford.”
That school is amazing! What a legacy! I had to smile at your descriptions of the military base in Vicenza. I spent a summer studying architecture in Vicenza between junior and senior year of college. I went to base with my military dependent’s ID card for an afternoon adventure. It truly was like stepping into the U.S. - so surreal. I remember the huge cars and, in the PX, racks of American magazines. And there was a buffet line where they had those green-foil cylinders of Kraft Parmesan cheese. In Italy, of all places! That tasteless condiment, the epitome of American convenience. After that nostalgic respite, I was glad to return to Italy.
Oh, my God, I love it that you know! That somebody knows! I just referenced your comment on a comment above and tried to tag you. I get that returning to Italy as an adult would be an immediate goal. It's like going to an "American Hamburgers" restaurant in Paris. It's going to be awful, but there's a curiosity value (that lasts about one hamburger.)
Another story from that summer - was returning late one evening on the train to Vincenza with another woman from my program. We both looked Italian - dark hair, Euro clothes. The only other people in our car were a few old Italians and some boisterous American soldiers,. They were talking freely in English about us, clearly assuming we wouldn't understand. Of course that was pre #metoo years and neither of us was alarmed or afraid. (Maybe we should've been?) We just thought it was funny.
They were likely speaking in a third language, the language of Men, and my guess is you both should have been flattered.
Oddly, I think we were! Which is the language of Women. Or way, until recent reconsiderations, long overdue. 😊 Being objectified never feels good.
I believe you.
And (I’m not currying agreement here) but I believe that awareness is also the language of Women. The patriarchy and the matriarchy, with both attraction and repulsion for each other. Magnets, in other words.
May they somehow meet in the middle — balanced — in all of our affairs and settle this world.
May it be so.
A child of Montessori myself – I absolutely love this line: "You don’t need to be Maria Montessori to recognize the heat of a seven-year-old‘s flaming imagination."
I love the way you describe the military base as this complete, borderline surreal movie set in the middle of another country. It’s a good reminder to any writer, how much specific details matter in the telling of a story. You make it come to life along with the incredible hunger you had as a boy to be seen.
Check out Julie Gabrielli's note below. Wild.
Wow. That’s crazy. Such a small world.
TINY
There were two worlds that year that co-existed, one of them far less stressful than the other. I can look back and see it as only a magical year, and I can look back like I'm doing here and look at the difficult spots. It was a wonderful year and I wouldn't trade it for any other year with the exception of the year I met my wife and then all of the years of having my kids. So, to summarize, I wouldn't trade it for any year other than the 32 years since I met my wife. I would keep those. 😀
But the year was formative in the sense of it was the first real sense of watching life, family life in particular, from an extra-familial perspective, and maybe it wasn't the easiest year to wake up into. It's interesting, though: I actually want to share it almost clinically, that readers can look at it, not at me. It is separate from me now. I don't "identify" with it directly, and don't want anyone to identify it with the writer now. That's probably an absurd expectation. Do you know what I mean? Or is it too hard not to link the writer now with the subject matter then? It's value is that it was seen, not that I lived through it. This might be making no sense at all...
"Passing time is an ongoing master class in loss." Well put.
"Clinical" is completely the wrong word. I think it's this, and I'd guess that this is in the nature of writing. When I'm writing (and responding to what's on the page), I'm responding to what is on the page, not the memory itself. The memory or the character or the description is the fuel of what goes on the page, but it's something the mind is working with, not experiencing directly. (I hope this isn't some horrible inadvertent confession of something gone writer-wrong.)
When I read your work, I don't think "that's David in the desert." I'm responding to the experience of what you put on the page (so in a sense I don't know anything about you except the person who is deciding what to tell me. that I do assume is you.) If you tell me something about Woodstock or Hudson, I'm thinking David = this.
Probably, this is like acting, too. The actor can feel he/she is playing a part, but the viewer will go, "that's really Tom Cruise." He doesn't feel exposed, but the audience thinks they see it.
Now I'm going to completely reverse everything I just wrote and say that when I share something historical and personal I do feel that the reader is holding something delicate that belongs to me, and that they could hurt me with that information. If this wasn't so then writing would take no courage at all.
so, they are sort of both true.
when I meet you in person as some day I undoubtedly will, I will think "this is the guy who snuck/broke into the Conservative club. 😀 (and I love you for that, man.)
thanks for your note. and apologies for turning this into a 6:30am ramble. I'm sure it is possible to say this in 1/3 the space.
Nothing to add.