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

or read on…

HOW TO RE-VIEW YOUR WORLD

Sometimes, stopping to smell the roses can be thorny. But sometimes, it’s a good way to re-start, re-boot, refresh the day.

You might even consider getting up close and allowing the roses to enjoy you.

Consider these notions about gaining control of your world on your own terms:

Turn down the sound on the radio and watch it closely for  

30 minutes.

Adjust the television image and watch a color film in   

black and white.

Turn the sound down and just watch television.

Then, keeping the sound off, read the closed captions.

At the movie theatre, use a hand mirror to view the audience behind you, ignoring the film entirely.

Pop a blank CD into a player and listen to the quiet for 70 minutes.

Carry snapshots of your parents and grandparents and brag about them every chance you get.

Have someone read you a bedtime story.

See what happens when you go a full day without television, ipad, texting, facebooking, tweeting, emailing, phonetalking, gameplaying…see what it’s like to avoid setting an alarm or looking at a clock or using a timer or switching on the car radio.

Try watching a turned-off TV screen by candlelight for 20 minutes.

Read only the last line of each newspaper article today.

Read a short story backwards, from end to beginning.

With eyes closed, clutch a very old book to your chest for an hour and imagine what is happening inside that volume.

Turn the world upside-down for a day and tell me what that was like

© Jim Reed 2011 A.D.

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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

or read on…

RAINY DAYS AND SUNDAYS NEVER GET ME DOWN

The cartoon strip character Ziggy once said something like, “When you’re down and out, lift up your head and shout, ‘It’s going to be another lousy rotten rainy day!’”

I get this cry of despair from people a lot, especially on rainy days. Don’t know why, since I have memories of many wonderful rainy days.

I’m a kid playing in the back yard with brother Ronny, when we see rain coming in. This could be an adventure! We decide to crawl under a big wooden table that has Mother’s plants and doodads on it, and pretend that it’s a shelter in the wilderness during a typhoon (we don’t know what a typhoon is, but it sounds dangerous). Sure enough, we ride out the storm, huddled against the imagined snakes and grizzlies lurking just a pebble’s throw away. The flash flood misses us, the wet grass captivates our sense of smell, the surrounding mud is great fun to stick our toes in. The nearby rusty oil drum awaits our next escapade and becomes a time machine to lurk inside.

Rainy days like this remain safely in memory dear, to issue forth at just the right time in order to conquer just the wrong mood.

Rainy days mean the making of gentle love, the launching of handmade sailboats, the re-booting of dusty landscapes, the abolition of dew, the cleansing of an attitude, the conquest of thirst, the revitalization of thirsty critters.

Rainy days remind me that, should I weather the outdoors sufficiently, I will know when safe haven arrives. There’s no guessing about the moment when the rain stops, there’s no guessing that that overhang at the shop signals the end of wetness, there’s nothing preventing me from running out into the drizzle, nothing stopping me from running for shelter. Rain lets me know my boundaries, lets me know that no amount of whining is worth missing the rain and the Sun.

I’m happy to see Sunny, happy to see Rain.

Besides, what would it be like to have no weather at all?

Kind of like hearing the sound of one hand clapping

© 2011 A.D. Jim Reed http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Everybody has a list of favorite things in life.

Here’s my list of books and stories. What’s your list?

THE MOST INFLUENTIAL BOOKS AND STORIES OF MY LIFE

Note: These are stories well worth the reading, well worth the writing style.

Some are disturbing. Some are inspirational.

Some are quite worthless save for their lingering images.

All are compelling in one way or another.

Most are difficult to forget, even if you try.

*

*

Andersen, Hans Christian. THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL

Benet, Stephen Vincent. THE REVOLT OF THE MACHINES (a.k.a. Nightmare No. 3)

Bixby, Jerome. IT’S A GOOD LIFE

Bradbury, Ray. DANDELION WINE, THE ILLUSTRATED MAN, THE MARTIAN CHRONICLES, ZEN AND THE ART OF  WRITING, THE SMILE, TO THE CHICAGO ABYSS, THE TOYNBEE CONVECTOR, SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES

Caldwell, Erskine. GOD’S LITTLE ACRE

Carlin, George. BRAINDROPPINGS, NAPALM AND SILLY PUTTY

Carroll, Lewis. ALICE IN WONDERLAND and THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

Chabon, Michael. WEREWOLVES IN THEIR YOUTH

Cleaver, Eldridge. SOUL ON ICE

Cozzens, James Gould. CASTAWAY

Davies, Valentine. MIRACLE ON 34TH STREET

Defoe, Daniel. ROBINSON CRUSOE

Dickens, Charles. A CHRISTMAS CAROL

Einstein, Albert. RELATIVITY FOR THE LAYMAN

Elliott, Bob and Ray Goulding. FROM APPROXIMATELY COAST TO COAST

Farmer, Philip Jose. THE LOVERS

Faulkner, William. INTRUDER IN THE DUST

Frankl, Viktor.  MAN’S SEARCH FOR MEANING

Goldman, William. THE PRINCESS BRIDE

Gray, William. FUN WITH DICK AND JANE

Hemingway, Ernest. THE GREEN HILLS OF AFRICA

Henry, O. THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

Hunter, Evan. BLACKBOARD JUNGLE

Huxley, Aldous. BRAVE NEW WORLD

Jackson, Shirley. THE LOTTERY

Jones, Guy and Constance. PEABODY’S MERMAID

Kazantzakis, Nikos. THE LAST TEMPTATION OF CHRIST

Kelly, Walt. POGO

Kerouac, Jack. BIG SUR, ON THE ROAD

Khayyam, Omar. THE RUBAIYAT

Kiersey. PLEASE UNDERSTAND ME

Latham, Irene. LEAVING GEE’S BEND

Lee, Harper. TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD

MacDonald, John D. THE GIRL THE GOLD WATCH AND EVERYTHING

Matheson, Richard. I AM LEGEND, BID TIME RETURN, THE SHRINKING MAN

May, Robert L. RUDOLPH THE RED-NOSED REINDEER

Menninger, Karl. THE HUMAN MIND

Merritt, A. THE MOON POOL

Miller, Walter. A CANTICLE FOR LEIBOWITZ

Moore, Clement C. THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

Nabokov, Vladimir. LOLITA

Orwell, George. 1984

Parker, Dorothy. COLLECTED POEMS

Raines, Howell. MY SOUL IS RESTED

Reage, Pauline. THE STORY OF O

Reed, Jim. DAD’S TWEED COAT, CHRISTMAS COMES BUT ONCE A DAY, YOUR PEOPLE MY PEOPLE, HOW TO BECOME YOUR OWN BOOK, WHAT I SAID

Rilke, Rainer Maria. COLLECTED WORKS

Robinson, Frank. THE POWER

Sagan, Carl. THE COSMIC CONNECTION

Shaefer, Jack. SHANE

Schulz, Charles M. “I NEVER PROMISED YOU AN APPLE ORCHARD” (THE

COLLECTED WRITINGS OF SNOOPY)

Schweitzer, Albert. OUT OF MY LIFE AND THOUGHT

Serling, Rod. WALKING DISTANCE

Sheehy, Gail. PASSAGES

Shulman, Max. BAREFOOT BOY WITH CHEEK

Silverstein, Shel. WHERE THE SIDEWALK ENDS, FALLING UP, RUNNY BABBIT

Smith, H. Allen. HOW TO WRITE WITHOUT KNOWING NOTHING

Smith, Thorne. THE NIGHT LIFE OF THE GODS

Spillane, Mickey. I, THE JURY

Steinbeck, John. TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY

Stevenson, Bryan. JUST MERCY

Stoker, Bram. DRACULA

Tazewell, Charles. THE LITTLEST ANGEL

Teasdale, Sara. COLLECTED POEMS

Terkel, Studs. WORKING

Thomas, Dylan. A CHILD’S CHRISTMAS IN WALES, UNDER MILKWOOD

Thurber, James and E.B. White. IS SEX NECESSARY?

Thurber, James. THE THIRTEEN CLOCKS

Tolkien, J.R.R. THE HOBBIT

Voltaire. CANDIDE

Vonnegut, Kurt. SLAUGHTERHOUSE-FIVE, HARRISON BERGERON

Watterson, Bill. CALVIN AND HOBBES

Wells, H.G. THE HISTORY OF MISTER POLLY, THE TIME MACHINE, THE

                    WAR OF THE WORLDS, THE DOOR IN THE WALL

Wilcox, Ella Wheeler. POETRY

Williams, Tennessee. BABY DOLL

Wilson, Edward O. CONSILIENCE

Wylie, Phillip. FINLEY WREN, GLADIATOR

The lessons I learned from some of these books and stories never quite go away.

The ideas they proffered endure. The images they evoke don’t fade

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast at www.youtube.com

Twitter and Facebook

In my latest book, How to Become Your Own Book (2011, Blue Rooster Press),

I publish–for all the world to see–a list of the most important books and stories

of my life.

That’s right, there’s a list of books and stories that changed my life in some way, books that are unforgettable on some level.

Now, this list of books (I’ll publish it in next Tuesday’s blast/blog/tweet/facebook/linkedin) is not exactly what you might think an old bookie like me might reveal. It includes some titles that are not necessarily great, some that are disturbing, some that are naughty or funny or violent or off-beat. But they are all books that carry deep metaphor, deep meaning, deep ideas.

They are books not to be ignored.

So, that’s next week. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, what am I reading this week? What books hold my attention and rearrange my brain this week?

As a bookie, I dabble in several titles simultaneously, depending on where I can catch a moment.

There are the Downstairs Books-in-progress: 3 On a Toothbrush by Jack Paar, Mark Twain’s first-of-three-volumes of his century-later autobiography (this is taking me a year to absorb), and Richard Feynman’s The Pleasure of Finding Things Out.   

There are the Upstairs Bedroom/bathroom Books-in-progress: Robert Wagner’s autobiography, Robert Vaughn’s A Fortunate Life, H.G. Wells’ The Door in the Wall and Other Stories, an old Dilbert cartoon collection, and two 1935 issues of the Mexican magazine, Mujeres y Deportes.

There’s no pattern here that I can recognize. Some books are found by accident in estate boxes, some are specifically sought out, all are mind-bending in one way or another.

Each must keep my attention, or I’ll not finish—but I always do finish, out of respect for the authors, just the way I’d like the books I’ve written to be treated by gentle readers.

Tune in next week for The List. I’m looking forward to your reaction

© 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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

or read on…

Much of my life has been spent reading signs and posters and labels
and postings, notes and warnings and instructions and poorly-spelled
graffiti. These signs and posters and labels and postings etc. are
like caulking or glue–they fill in the interstices and silences of my
existence, and they always entertain.

This runs in my family–genetics and upbringing will tell!

My father read aloud every highway sign on each trip, short or long.
And now my elder sister Barbara, and my younger brothers Ronny and Tim
do the same thing.

Signs have this important function in my life: they teach me grammar,
usually by poor example, and they instruct me on the correct way to
communicate in brief, without being misunderstood.

Most sign-authors don’t know the value of testing before a sign is
made. If the author knows the meaning of the sign, said author of
course believes without question that every sign-reader will find the
same meaning in the message.

Not true.

One of my earliest memories of a clear example of
sign-miscommunication: a 1950′s Gahan Wilson single-panel cartoon
depicts a man sitting immobilized in his automobile with a STOP sign
before him. He has grown a beard, and cobwebs cover his car. He’s
obeying the sign! He’s still sitting there to this day, in my signage
memory.

Another flashback: in the 1940′s and ’50′s, each public bus in
Tuscaloosa clearly displayed a metal sign that read, COLORED TO REAR,
WHITE TO FRONT. As a child, I had no idea what that meant, but I
assumed it was some instruction about how important it was to fill a
coloring book last page first, but only if you’re on a bus. White
crayons existed but were mostly useless except on dark-colored front
covers. I figured every kid knew this, so why did the bus driver
emphasize it with his sign?

Even now, I catch myself staring at an orange juice carton a little
too long because it clearly states, CONCENTRATE.

The funniest signs in childhood were those posted by Burma Shave along
the blue-road highways. There’s even a book at my shop listing all
those signs from long ago. Sad story: I once talked with a young
public relations practitioner who worked for Burma Shave. I asked
whether the company kept any of those wonderful signs on display at
their headquarters. She hadn’t the vaguest idea what I was talking
about. The signs had apparently disappeared from the collective
company memory bank. That would be the equivalent of a MoonPie factory
worker’s not knowing anything about R.C. Cola.

In England, I saw signs here and there that stated, MIND YOUR HEAD. I
assumed they had replaced the old-time motivational posters that used
to read, THINK! Wrong again. They were posted only on low-overhanging
passageways and doors to warn pedestrians to duck instead of knocking
themselves silly.

There are thousands of examples handy in my ready memory, but you can
fill in your own.

Look around you and enjoy the good Times of the Signs

(C) 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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

or read on…

HERE COME THE JUDGEMENTALIST

Give a kid a bow and arrow set and everything begins to look like a target.

Give a kid a love of reading and everybody who isn’t reading begins to look off-kilter, akimbo, substandard, not quite right.

Sorry, that’s just the way it is.

Birmingham’s streets are filled with imperfect examples of this judgementality of mine.

There’s a man sitting in a parked car, staring into space while his wife is shopping. He’s just sitting and staring. Why isn’t he reading a book, writing a letter, making a list of things…why isn’t he doing something with his mind? How can he just sit and stare into space?

Sorry, I can’t tamp down these feelings.

There’s a young woman sitting in a car’s passenger seat, licking her fingertips, rubbing them under her eyebrows as if to iron down her makeup rough spots. Then, she picks at a blemish, thus making it more blemishy. Then, she pats her hair and adjusts her clothing. Why isn’t she reading a book or a newspaper, studying philosophy, writing poetry? How can she just sit there adjusting her bellybutton lint, so to speak?

Sorry, something inside me is in awe of time wasted by people who are not reading and absorbing more knowledge and factoids and sharing imaginations with writers.

How can that big guy, tagging along with his wife in my shop, just stand there in the aisle, ignoring all the glorious thoughts and wishes and tales and truths and lies begging for attention on my shelves? How can he just stand there while the rest of us are running around shuffling reading materials and absorbing images and ideas that keep our brains from shrinking?

Sorry, that judgementalist in me just can’t understand.

I just want to share my love and lust for reading, my exuberance at holding century-old books in one hand and brand-new books in the other, as I scurry around shelving them.

I don’t know how to get through to these denizens of the streets, but I keep trying.

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

Grab a book fast, before the colors fade

© 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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

or read on…

When I was a kid, people often called me Jimbo. It’s what they did to guys named Jim back then.

 .

This was OK with me, since I found it funny.

.

Speaking of funny:

. 

I’m sitting and talking and listening and eating, which is just about the most fun you can have clothed or unclothed—at least, sometimes.

. 

My friend Jo is sitting and talking and eating and listening, too.

. 

This is an opportunity to learn something new, so, as is my wont, I pop out a spontaneous question, “When you are alone, do you ever laugh?”

. 

Jo’s eyes grow wider than usual and, instead of answering, she exclaims, “Why, what an unusual question to ask! Why would you ask that?” 

. 

This gives her time to ruminate and come up with a reply, I suppose.

. 

I say, “Just something I wanted to know—you don’t have to answer it.”

. 

But Jo does answer, “Well, yes, I do laugh when I’m alone.”

. 

I can believe this, since Jo has a wicked sense of humor, thus I’m satisfied.

. 

So many people I’ve met through the eons don’t seem to have the ability to laugh at much of anything, much less at themselves, much less with themselves. I try not to hang with these folks, since I do like to laugh—especially at myself. Just observing me is sometimes hilarious, particularly as I grow older. Added to that is life, which is increasingly hilarious as well.

. 

I grew up as a question-asker, which scares some people and intrigues others. When very young, I determined that the best way to find out stuff was to ask questions. I also learned that not asking questions can lead to a very dull time, since lots of people don’t ever think to ask me a question. Either they don’t want to know anything about me, or they are content with being quiet and somber.

. 

When I don’t receive an answer to a question, I learn twice as much as I’ll ever learn from a proper answer. Either way, I’m going to learn something new in the process. It may not be what you hoped I would learn, but it will be a learning experience.

. 

Myself when young naturally gravitated to activities that required question-asking, and I therefore learned a bunch—a bunch of primarily useless information, but information that was interesting and exciting and funny and scary, regardless of its uselessness.

. 

So, I became a child actor and performer and teacher and reporter and writer, all of which require the asking of questions and, further, the listening to answers.

. 

I’m never bored. I’m often in the presence of others who are bored, but just asking them questions to get their reaction sometimes makes them forget how much pleasure they are deriving from being bored. It’s like shock therapy.

. 

As I learned from H.G. Wells and the Pet Shop Boys, people who are bored are people who are being boring. Both states of mind frighten me, so I just go on my merry way, asking and listening and treading the maelstrom that threatens all of us—the maelstrom that wants to bore us to death.

. 

Tell me something funny and uncruel and I’ll have a good laugh. If you can’t think of anything funny to say, just say whatever comes to mind.

. 

Don’t worry—I’ll find something funny in it

. 

© 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

After many decades of living, loving and getting by, I’ve come to the conclusion that everybody feels cool at least once in a lifetime–maybe even a few times in a lifetime for the lucky ones.

Coolness is a state of mind, which means that you may feel cool to yourself, but you have no idea how you might look ridiculous–uncool–to others.

There’s the time in my life when I owned and wore an exact replica of the Pee Wee Herman suit–you know, his trademark outfit–which consisted of this form-fitting neatly pressed narrow-lapeled suit complete with white dress shirt and bow tie. In my case, I wore the obligatory  Mad Men thin necktie. Also, in my case, I wore black wing-tip dress shoes instead of Pee Wee’s white loafers. But in all other respects, I looked like Pee Wee Herman. I was skinny as a rail, still had my hair, wore hornrimmed glasses, and thought the coolest thing in the world was my then-fashionable suit.

You might have guessed by now a couple of things:

1. This was back in the 1960′s, long before Paul Reubens had ever conceived of Pee Wee and his suit, so in essence, Pee Wee wore an exact duplicate of my suit, rather than the other way around.

2. This was the era of Mad Men, when we all smoked and drank and caroused too much, and had miles to go before we became enlightened about the wrongness of smoking and drinking and carousing too much. 

Anyhow, I worked as an on-air personality at Tuscaloosa’s fledgling television station, then known as WCFT-TV, Channel 33. I would snazz up in that suit, grab my loaded, hand-wound 16-millimeter movie camera, and go off to cover some news event, hoping to get back to the station in time to have Curtis Lake develop and edit the film while I wrote the story to go with it. Then, I’d get ready to host the daily live Noon broadcast interview show, called “This is the Show that Starts at Noon,” which remained on the air for four years.

Back in those days, you could look cool while out in the public being recognized as a TV personality, but there was no way to be cool, once you got back to the station. At the station, you were just another employee, trying to keep your job, stay out of the way of the more hostile pointy-haired folks, and just having fun doing your job. It is thus with virtually all jobs: as long as you can concentrate on and perform the tasks you love, you’re happy. But office politics and office politicos will be working full-time trying to spoil it for you. Denial is your only weapon.

Anyhow, for a few minutes at a time during those years at Channel 33, I could overcome my insecurities and self-doubts, don the Pee Wee suit, leave the station to cover a story or host a panel or judge a beauty contest or make a personal appearance, and just plain forget the other facts of life I had to put up with.

The Pee Wee suit was my magic time machine, my way to beam up and away each time conflict threatened to douse me. It made me feel like somebody, even though I wasn’t. It made me feel stylish, even though I wasn’t. It gave me a few chuckles many years later, when I saw Pee Wee himself wearing that outfit and feeling like a million dollars.

Wonder if Pee Wee found my suit at a thrift store

(c) 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

In the Creative and Thinking and Pondering Worlds, there are three basic fears:
 
Fear of Creating
Fear of Thinking
Fear of Pondering
 
I think about this all the time—perhaps too much. But I do think about it.
 
Often, Thinkers, Ponderers and Creatives are looked upon with bemusement.
Society and anti-society types sometimes find us entertaining, frequently annoying, and all too often downright unwelcome.
 
We are like the Court Jesters of old–we’re kept around as long as we don’t disrupt or disturb too much. And we serve as diversions, diversions that aren’t really worth the effort to ban, since we’re almost always non-political.
 
Thinkers, Ponderers and Creatives mostly just want to examine things experientially, not scientifically. We go with the gut, with the common-sense alarm factor, with the distant-early-warning system that sorts bullshooting from empathy. Being artists, we are good at spotting fakes.
 
Once in a while, we come out of our creative spider holes and as troubadors wander about a bit, spreading and teaching what we know–until we become self-conscious and realize that we’re better at plying our art than at proselytizing.

 We just wait for you to discover us or ignore us. Either way, we are mostly content in our little worlds.

Take a peek, though. You might discover you are already one of us
 
(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed
 http://jimreedbooks.com

Thumbing through miles of notes in my fractured and scattered Red Clay Diary, I found this  from a couple of years back. I don’t think anything’s changed, except that I’m more sympathetic toward the Zombies who roam the city streets in clouds of smoke–only doing harm to themselves and passersby and those of us trapped in their nicotine zones.

SMOKIN’ ZOMBIES

My vision is photographic.

Not my memory, just my vision.

I remember small details that seem important at the time.

I don’t remember names, but I can tell you way too much about

the image that sticks in my mind about everybody I meet.

Who knows how this happens? Probably just genetics.

But sometimes, this is fun. Want some examples?

AMAZEMENT # 406

The clerk at the counter seems not there. She looks like she’s

there, but her mind, oh, her mind…her field of vision, oh, her

field of vision…they are definitely somewhere else. She’ll never

remember our moment together.

AMAZEMENT # 407

The singer is my age, his smooth tones have transmogrified into

a galloping vibrato. It makes it more beautiful.

AMAZEMENT # 408

The overlapping-belly green-shirted baseball-capped Bermuda-shorted

guy totes a large K-Mart bag and wanders about the lot, looking for his car.

Maybe he’s still searching.

AMAZEMENT # 409

The Day Glo fluorescent-finger-nail employee at the Salvation Army Thrift

Store has bright blonde hair and deepdark skin and a ready wit. She makes

me smile at nothing in particular.

AMAZEMENT # 410

Two tall hairbraided guys at Family Dollar talk enthusiastically about their

momentary problem: whether there’s enough ice at home or whether they

should buy another bag on the way home. It’s a big deal, their

moment, and don’t you laugh about it, you hear?

AMAZEMENT # 411

A bloated male clerk at the Salvation Army Thrift Store is in charge

of re-arranging the deck chairs and making the place neater. There

is an enormous stuffed mascot bear lying deathlike on the floor.

He brings it to life by placing it into a wheelchair. Now, the animal

is merely handicapped. The clerk kicks at the children’s books

scattered about but doesn’t pick them up.

Bending would be required.

Effort would be required.

AMAZEMENT # 412

The golden-tressed woman with bare midriff looks good

far away. But oh, the close-up: weathered face and flabby

paunch and deep frown report her real life to me.

AMAZEMENT # 413

The smokin’ zombie girls still smoke on break outside

my store, hissing into cellphones, double-inhaling,

chain-lighting-up, happy to be outside in the heat,

away from the smoke-free zombie cubicles inside

the multi-decked office buildings

The Downtown Explorers Club has spent yet one more

day appreciating these puzzling lives.

What have you discovered in the steaming pavements

of Downtown?

Let’s share

(c) 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com