Listen to Jim: http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/airbrushedreality.mp3

or read on…

I’m in the right-hand lane on 20th Street heading to the shop.

A van pulls abreast to the left of me, pointed in the same direction.

In the passenger seat of the van is a young woman  staring straight down 20th, only her vision is blocked by the hand mirror in which she views herself. In her right hand is a small artist’s brush with which she dusts her face in rapid, skillfully coordinated motions. In the process, her lovely skin is covered by a fine beige powder that serves to hide her distinguishing marks, such as moles, pores, birthmarks, discolorations, scars and any trace of eccentricity.

She slowly becomes as smooth-complected as the life-sized mannequin at Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories.

The van takes off and passes by and I am left to wonder about the airbrushing ritual. Does the young woman continue dusting her neck, shoulders, chest, armpits and all points south of 20th Street? Is she now a living beige mannequin ready to face the day? Could I identify her in a line-up, since she’s all smooth and featureless now? Is she happy with her newborn self? Should I airbrush myself and would anybody notice my lovely new complexion?

This seems like a lot of trouble, the things some of us do to remake ourselves each day, but I do understand it to some degree.

I spend each day airbrushing my comments and opinions and behavior, based on what I need to accomplish. Eating is important, so I brush over my suppressed retort when someone is rude—so that I can complete the sale and continue feeding my family. I tamp down my political opinion when someone rants a thought I don’t share. I hold back a funny remark when I sense that this particular customer is bereft of humor or spirit. I avert my eyes when someone unconsciously bends down to peruse a book and displays an intimate tattoo or bit of string underwear. I pretend deafness when someone spouts outrageously personal asides to a companion shopper. I hold my breath when it’s clear a customer hasn’t bathed or brushed for days—once they leave, I sigh and spray so that the next customer won’t have the same experience. I listen patiently to the extended tale someone spins in order to impress me or make me want to buy something they are trying to push.

And so on.

Like Zelig, Woody Allen’s fictional hero, I can shapeshift and airbrush as much as possible when it’s important to do so.

But it’s also so much fun to relax and chat freely with customers who are obviously open to verbal intercourse, receptive to ideas and remarks, relaxed within their own skin. When this happens, I can be myself and not be judged, the customers can be themselves and feel safe, and for a few moments, we can all put aside our airbrushes and get on with pleasuring ourselves with the dialogues of the day

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed http://www.jimreedbooks.com

The Greater Birmingham Convention and Visitors Bureau now honors  Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories in their new Birmingham IN guide. Pick up your copies of the IN guide at Reed Books & Vulcan Park and Museum & The Birmingham Store (2200 9th Ave North 35203) & the Birmingham-Shuttlesworth International Airport.

SPREAD THE WORD!

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

We have the real thing–original pulp books and magazines with great cover art and exciting stories. Take a look:

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/mustbewritten.mp3 or read on…

These are books that must be written, soon and by somebody.

The Vampire Bat Effect (sequel to The Butterfly Effect)

How to Lose Friends and Alienate People* 

Sometimes a Great Lotion

The Winter of My Contentment

Metaphor as Metaphor

How to Write Good Without Knowing Anything*

One Flew Over the—Oops! Didn’t See That Branch

Tequila Mockingbird

How to Eschew Obfuscation

I’ve Got Tears in My Ears From Lying on My Back in My Bed While

I Cry Over You (based on the song of that title)

Moby Ralph

Pitiful Expectations

Every Day is Eventually Yesterday

Atlas Whimpered

Daisy Wheel and Dot Matrix Do Dallas

How to Fail in Business After Trying Real Hard

Undead Poets Society

*(wait—that’s already been written!)

Don’t say I never gave you a good book title. The rest is up to you. Send mss to jim@jimreedbooks.com

***

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/longtimegone.mp3 or read on…

Where have all the old men gone?

As Bo Diddley said, “We’re a short time here and a long time gone.”

My neighbor, Frank Selman, died last week, and he’s already too long gone.

Frank was everything a good neighbor should be—attentive, witty, energetic, respectful of privacy, and always willing to lend a hand or a tool (as long as you brought it back in a timely fashion, in pristine condition).

When Liz and I and the kids moved two houses down from Frank in 1977, he and wife Margaret were already considered to be elderly, though if my math is correct, they were actually younger then than we are today…guess who’re the old folks now?

Frank kept his 1906-built home immaculate, and we kept our 1906-built home fairly straight most of the time, so I always admired his industriousness, always felt a bit guilty at my inborn Ludditeness. I am not a handyman.

Frank was 91 years old when he left the ‘hood. Wife Margaret is 91 and eager to leave us—she’s not well. All those decades of living close to Frank, all those generations being with the man she adored, seem to be pullng her away, yearning to join Frank on his journey.

Margaret and Frank were truly Southside Birmingham’s honorary village elders, and we hung on to every word Frank said, every bit of juicy gossip Margaret shared. They knew this century-old neighborhood better than all of us, and they remembered the names and periods of each person who had lived here. They were walking encyclopedic troves of historical fact and lore.

Are Liz and I the next village elders? Hardly likely. We’ll never live up to the standard that Frank and Margaret set, and we’ll never be quite as lovable.

So long, Frank. I hope you and your long-ago pet dog, Duchess, get to take extended walks together, I hope you find your old fishing buddies and have many opportunities to get out there and catch some, get out there and escape the cares of running a household, if just for a few hours.

And I hope that, once Margaret joins you, she’ll make a batch of spicy cheese straws in memory of me, the Selmans’ biggest fan

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/lostinspace.mp3 or read on…

Granddaughter Jessica hands me her brand-new Kindle Fire (later to become Kindle Kindling?) and proudly notes that the first book thereon is Dracula by Bram Stoker. Being the book nerd that I am, I look to the first page for Stoker’s dedication to his friend Hommy-Beg (novelist Hall Caine) and it’s not there! Whoever scanned the novel simply missed the dedication that helps set the stage for the serial details that build the book’s mysterious  sense of foreboding.

It’s kind of like tearing out a page before gifting a friend.

My mistrust of hasty reprints begins to build my own sense of foreboding.

Down all the centuries of publishing, each time a new technology kicks in, errors increase.

When librarians began tossing original copies of periodicals once they were microfilmed, we started losing words and image quality. Print columns were truncated unnoticed till it was too late, Illustrations and photographs lost their resolution.

When 15th-century manuscripts were copied by hand, mistakes occurred and were repeated once published in book form.

When Twitter insisted that sentences be squeezed down, depth of thought rang shallow.

When graduate assistants photo-copy or scan a book chapter for re-distribution, a page is inadvertently dropped and seldom noticed till the volume is remaindered or de-acquisitioned.

And so on.

There are advantages to electronic transmission/storage of words and pictures, but there are casualties, too. That’s why I embrace the concept of retaining original works as backup, lest we lose things and fail to realize it.

I also urgently try to keep all those works that will never, ever be placed on the internet or archived: hand-written notes, personal diaries, postcards, century-old love letters, 19th-century invoices, crayoned refrigerator messages, etc. We can scan them into a computer  but we cannot reproduce the texture, fragrance, friction sound, signs of ink absorption, envelope mucilage, raised edges of stamps, cracking wax-seal shards, embossed letterheads, oils from skin rubbed against paper during composition, and on and on.

Go forth into the cosmos and reduce the sum total of our knowledge into a flash drive, but at the same time, do me this one big favor: leave room for those of us who are frantically rescuing, adopting, saving and passing forward the three-dimensional relics of our lives, the evidences that we were once a tactile, feeling, emoting and empathizing species who knew how to imagine and dream and postulate, who knew how to say “what if” instead of just “what is.” We are the archivists, the antiquarians, the hoarders, the collectors, the accumulators who want to appreciate the real thing, not just its thousandth virtual—thus ethereal—disembodiment

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/sportschallenged.mp3 or read on…

No use trying to hide the fact that I am sports-challenged.

Yep, I am one of those geeky-nerdy types whose DNA does not include the Sports Gene.

There’s nothing intriguing or challenging about watching folks compete with one another while adoring fans oust their frustrations by egging on favored athletes and denigrating Those Others.

Of course, there might be ways to induce me to attend or watch sporting events, but they are unlikely to occur.

For instance:

I would love to see a football game that does not allow passing or kicking. Athletes would have to win the hard way, by holding onto an oddly-shaped bladder and running like heck till they score or are flattened.

I would gladly attend a basketball game that only allowed players under five-foot-two to play. That would be an exciting contest!

I’ll be the first ticket-purchaser to a baseball game where no-one is allowed to spit, chew or scratch. The tension on the field would be intense.

I would watch any ice-skating competition so long as commentators and judges are banned. That way, I can enjoy the competitors for the grace and skill of their performances, bereft of all snarky criticisms and asides and gradings.

Viewing a golf tournament would be awesome if the rules were updated so that each hole had to be played in under ten minutes. Let’s let those players work hard and fast! Get it over with so I can change to the bikini-babe volleyball channel (Actually, the only sport I ever enjoyed watching—got to see one on cable years ago. I don’t know who won.)

And so on.

What sports would you like to see created just for you?

Can’t wait to hear

(c) Jim Reed 2011 A.D.

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Listen (or read below):  http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/letflythepuppies.mp3 

“Without great solitude, no serious work is possible.”  –Picasso

Are writers and most artists and artisans the last Alone creators on earth?

We ply our trades and avocations one-on-one: author to page, artist to canvas, craftsperson to tool…and most of us cannot pull off the act of creation in committee.

Gathering together to build something useful often ends in compromise or chaos or half-realized results.

Some Creators are fully aware of their Aloneness and embrace it. Others equate Aloneness with Loneliness.  I suspect that those who know how to create alone are never lonely.

When Lonely creeps into the act of creation, creativity tends to begin a slow death. The creator becomes more aware of loneliness than the act of creation itself. Thus begins self-consciousness, and as Ray Bradbury says, “Self-consciousness is the enemy of all creativity.”

This subject of Aloneness versus Loneliness is a prickly one. As awareness of Loneliness grows, the creative person can suffer, can become not only negatively self-critical, but, worse, critical of others. At that point a Creative can become a Critic, thus abandoning or diminishing the time spent on personal creativity.

I’ve seen it happen dozens of times, and I don’t know what to do about it.

Each creator must wend the way through a personal journey…if persistent or lucky, light at the end of the tunnel may ensue. I hope this happens, because, believe me, I’ve been there too many times.

Fortunately, I’ve learned that it’s a lot more fun to embrace solitude as the creator’s best friend. Each time Loneliness tries to embrace me, I shout it away, “I’m already committed to Aloneness, thank you, so hie thee hence.”

Let slip the puppies of creation.

It saves funds set aside for Zantac

(c) 2012 by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

The Circus performers arrived at Reed Books last week,

as they do every year. Here’s a photo they signed

and presented to the Museum of Fond Memories.

One reason we love the clowns is that they GET it: They understand and appreciate

the fact that Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories is helping maintain and

resuscitate the wonderful past. Every day is a circus here, and our circus section is

the center of the clowns’ universe each year when they visit Birmingham.

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Read below or listen here: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/hidinginplainsight.mp3

Ever notice that what is in plain sight, directly in the line of view, is mostly discounted or ignored?

We writers and literary types often use our primary energies to record the tiny things that slip away from just about everybody else. This means that we are far more directionless that the average high-achievers. We focus on the trickling data that will fade away if not documented, afraid that not enough attention is being paid.

We recognize that Activities of Daily Living can get in the way of actual observation and appreciation.

It’s just too complicated and abstract to explain, so I’ll give you a few examples from my Red Clay Diary…things I notice but are of no importance to anyone else.

Friday, 7:30pm, Dodiyo’s Restaurant: Liz and I are enjoying each other’s company on our 34th wedding anniversary date. In the partially-curtained private dining area a few feet away, a young woman has her back to me so that I have no idea whether she has a face. But her flowing brown hair ebbs and flows  across her neck in a universally unconscious manner, throwing the light from high ceiling bulbs back at me.

Saturday, 1pm, Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories: A young customer is on her knees before the lower-shelved collection of new and original Nancy Drew mysteries. She is so excited to find them that she sees nothing else. Her focus is total and her joy is palpable. She leaves happy and satisfied with two Nancy books.

Tuesday, 11am, Reed Books: Antiques dealer John Nixon delivers my latest purchase, a genuine, real-life old-fashioned telephone switchboard complete with photograph of Lily Tomlin sitting before it, ringie-ding-dinging it. The chaos of moving dozens of items aside to accommodate the instrument causes some customers amusement, others consternation. Some smile, one leaves in a huff, probably feeling ignored. My thrill of acquisition has cost me one customer, gained me another. Can’t please everybody…

Sunday, 2pm, Aldis on Green Springs Highway: I’m pulling a shopping cart from its parking lot queue, veering around several women who are chatting and trying in turn to veer around me. We’re trying not to run into each other. One laughs, says, “Looks like we’re dancing!” I laugh and say, “OK–I’m ready!” We both appreciate the moment and go our separate ways. 

Sunday, High Noon: I’m standing on the street in the drizzle, holding a faltering red Dollar Tree umbrella while a Triple-A service guy tries to diagnose my dead battery. He pronounces it a disabled Lazarus, I marvel at how he can process my American Express card on the spot, remove and replace the battery and drive away as my momentary hero, all within a matter of minutes. I appreciate his dedication and wonder whether customers at my shop ever appreciate my work ethic. Why should they?

Friday, 7:30pm, Dodiyo’s: Liz and I decide to toss our imaginary Bucket List and replace it with a Chuck-It List, things we’ve enjoyed but now need to pass on to others. We don’t get very far, since we have so much amazing stuff. Guess the kids will have to decide what to do with it after…

Sunday, near 5pm: Can’t keep the words and images and ideas from dribbling onto the keyboard. The act of writing in my Red Clay Diary—writing anything in my Red Clay Diary—is a puzzle and a pleasure. Hope you find thrills in something simple today, too

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com