What’s in it for me?

That’s the mantra most of us chant when searching for a way to avoid leaving The Zone of Comfort.

You know, The Zone of Comfort–that which allows you to leave Rocking the Boat to someone else. It’s what makes me find a reason for not attending one more Social Occasion, that which creates happiness in a lot of people while I’m seeking a quiet corner in which to peruse a book sitting on our host’s shelf.

Lately, of course, that option is difficult to find, since so many folks we know don’t own books–at least no visible books, except for that one coffee table volume that matches the drapes and has never been opened or read (I know this because of the fine layer of dust thereon).

Homes, condos, apartments without lots of books lying about, are rather scary to me. What is it that these people read?  Highly condensed and expurgated factoids promulgated via television or internet or texting or tweeting or blogging or blasting? Is this where they obtain their knowledge of the world? If that’s the case, it’s a lot like learning your history and science lessons through the sole act of driving down the highway and reading billboards and signs and markers. You may absorb an amazing amount of disjointed information, but have you gained anything even remotely associated with wisdom or knowledge?

So where’s the fun in leaving The Zone of Comfort?

1. You just might learn something useful you’ve never before imagined.

2. You might learn something useless but utterly enjoyable.

3. You might learn something that will change the way you look at life.

4. You might learn something that will reinforce your belief in remaining within The Zone of Comfort.

5. You might unlearn something you always thought was The Only Way.

6. You might actually learn something educational and thought-provoking and transformative.

7. You might learn to lift The Cone of Silence and begin a new mind-expanding project or ten.

And so on.

Try busting out of The Zone of Comfort once a week. Standing vulnerable for a few moments will be more riveting than you can imagine. And besides, if it doesn’t work out, you can always slink back into the Zone and blame it all on me.

It couldn’t hurt

(c) Jim Reed 2011 A.D.

http://jimreedbooks.com

The Good Ol’ Days Are Exactly What They Used to Be! Check this out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zlzvet-QNAU

From http://jimreedbooks.com

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

PULP NOIR: THE TIME OF FINDING THINGS OUT

Many solar cycles ago…

.

As the small child of human parents, I learned about the world—my version

of the world—in the usual manner: through sight, touch, smell, taste, sound,

vibrations…by the ingestion of impressions through intake points of my body

and its neurological complexities…by rearranging the patterns inside my head

to match up with—and sometimes differ with—the ideas generated by thoughts

and feelings, feelings and thoughts.

.

One enormously interesting way of learning about my world was through the

absorption of words, words composed of alphabet and numbers, strung together

and spaced in order to form sentences and passages and stories and essays both

true and manufactured.

.

As I absorbed more and more of these words, learning how to distinguish fiction

from fact, learning how to tell when “fact” was fiction, when “fiction” was indeed

fact…I began to see how much fun it was—and how sensible—to toy with words,

allowing them to exist as realities in my imagination but never letting them force me to

believe them. You see, I believed in their power, but I always knew the difference

between reality and fantasy.

.

Knowing this difference has formed me into the person I seem to be this day—a

secular dreamer, a realist who knows how to operate the spigot—the valve that

can be switched from hot to cold at a moment’s notice. I am astride two

worlds—living in the myth-based, superstition-driven, make-believe world

most of us inhabit each day…and the real world, the one that just is, the

world that operates as if human beings are a momentary figment in the passage

of time—which, of course, they are.

.

Once my feet were planted solidly upon these separate universes, I could get on

with the process of living my life and deriving pleasure from the kinships and loves

and ideas I most cherish—ignoring all the made-up stuff most folks spend their time

obsessing over.

.

Part of my early education came from reading pulp fiction, the kind written by visionaries

and philosophers such as Ray Bradbury and Walter Gibson and Kurt Vonnegut and

Aldous Huxley and the hordes of individualists who emulated them in the soft and brittle

pages of pulp magazines.

.

Pulp literature was so filled-to-the-brim with ideas and joys that a person could learn just about anything about anything…and metaphor became the way pulp readers got through life.

*

Understanding a good metaphor is worth a thousand books, a million words. Metaphor can take you by the hand, by the mind, and lead you safely through a forest of dragons any day.

.

Want to know more? Come to the shop  and look at samples of the enormous

selection of original, collectible pulp fiction on display here at Reed Books/The Museum of Fond

Memories. Maybe in so doing, you’ll find out that I’m full of useless whimsy…or maybe you’ll

discover you, too, are a metaphor-chaser, blithely tiptoeing past the potholes and explosives of life,

experiencing joy despite all those whose task in life is to make you screamingly bored or miserable.

.

Come along with me and  for a moment obscure this chaotic world

.

© by Jim Reed 2011 A.D.

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

I’m flat on my back upstairs in bed, alone in the house and feeling sorry for myself

for not being able to get up and around because of this dislocation thing with my

back–you know, the kind of back pain that only gets worse if somebody tries to

help you to your feet.

The house is a century old and made of old wood that creaks and signals throughout,

whenever anything moves in or about it.

Suddenly, I hear, or feel, that someone or something is on the front porch. Two

thoughts present themselves: 1. a neighbor is about to ring the bell, or 2. we’ve had

a series of yard and porch thefts in the ‘hood lately, so somebody could be grabbing

something.

Since the bell doesn’t ring, I decide I’d better check on things. Adrenaline must be

kicking in, since I arise relatively painlessly and hobble to the stairs, still not sensing

anything but movement on the porch. Halfway down, I can see through the front door

glass that a male is leaving the porch, carrying my lawn mower with him and heading

for the adjacent alley. I can’t possibly run down the stairs after him, so I do the next

occurring thing: I return to the bedroom and raise the alley-side window, stick my head

out and instantly see the lawn mower thief below me, scurrying past.

Without thought or consciousness, my fifty years of theatrical and speech training pop

into mind like a perky toaster, I recall a wonderful scene from The Dresser, in which aging

thespian Albert Finney uses his booming voice to actually stop a train. I expand my

diaphragm, remember how my theatre coach taught me to project words from upstage

to the last row of the audience, add a pinch of Christopher Lee and Boris Karloff for

extra fear factor and yell, “Put that down!” The thief is so startled at the heavenward

voice that he drops the mower, spins around, wondering what to do next. Then, for

emphasis, my brain makes me add, “I’ll shoot you, you S.O.B.!” Where that last line

comes from I’ll never know, but Clint Eastwood and John Wayne must have influenced

me in some way.

The lawn mower man has an epiphany and disappears faster than the Roadrunner.

Later, I retrieve the mower and wonder what in the world made my back pain go away.

If I knew the answer, I could influence the incomes of orthopods and chiropractors

everywhere.

But I’m rather proud of myself for using my best weapon in a responsible manner.

If you ever need help stopping a train or a thief, just call

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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

HALF A LIFETIME AWAY, IN SEVENTH HEAVEN

Eldest grand-daughter Jessica is getting married on Saturday.
One day, about half of her lifetime back,
the two of us prepared dinner together.
Here are my notes. 

     I’m sitting at the kitchen table, observing Jessica. She’s 13 years old these days, and 13-year-olds must be watched and carefully considered, since time passes so fast and before you know it a 13-year-old will be a 25-year-old and you won’t have any idea where the time went, where the moment went, where the 25-year-old went.
 
     Jessica is sitting at the table in front of four soup bowls, or maybe they’re salad bowls, only they don’t contain soup or salad. Into one bowl she has crumbled up a bunch of Ritz Crackers, another bowl contains milk, another is filled with flour and the fourth holds several eggs she has whisked together into a sunshiny blend. She’s had me cut up a lot of de-boned chicken breasts into nugget-sized hunks–the only way to do it, she insists.
 
     Over on the stove, the wok awaits usage, since Jessica instructs me not to turn the heat on till she’s through doing what she’s doing at the table, which is: each hunk of chicken must be dipped one at a time into all four bowls, until the hunk looks kind of flaky and golden and quite raw. The process takes a while, but that’s OK because we’re chatting a little bit and she’s got the TV turned up high so she can watch and listen to one of her favorite shows–Seventh Heaven, or something like that.
 
     Earlier, we’ve gone to Bruno’s Supermarket and bought everything on Jessica’s list: Chocolate chip mint ice cream, corn oil, pre-packaged salad (Jessica likes it because she says it doesn’t have to be washed and it’s already cut up. I wash it thoroughly, just in case somebody named Booger has not practiced good hygiene the day he packs the plastic bag), frozen lima beans for microwave zapping, and whatever else Jessica has decreed for the ideal meal at home.
 
     Process is important to Jessica. Everything must be done a specified way, a specific way, or the meal will be ruined. She’s a particularly finicky eater, so finding a meal that she’ll actually eat is tricky. She’d rather not eat at all than eat something she’s never tried and has made a firm decision against.
 
     Anyhow, we get this meal cooked to Jessica’s satisfaction, and we even clean up the kitchen so that there will be no trace of the havoc we’ve caused in her father’s absence.
 
     The deep-fried chicken nuggets are good–we’ve cooked about four times as much as we can eat. And we’re both somewhat satisfied with ourselves. She gets what she wants–a meal just like her Aunt Vikki cooks. I get what I want–a nice meal at home, not prepared by strangers, prepared with love and camaraderie, and the company of my grand-daughter.
 
     We settle in to wait for her father’s return, watching this TV show she loves, Seventh Heaven,  and the night is quite all right, as nights on earth or in Seventh Heaven sometimes are

© 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

 http://jimreedbooks.com

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

I never kissed her, I never conversed with her, the two of us never touched.

She sat across the classroom from me and never noticed me, but I noticed her.

.

Her eyes were metallic blue, so clear that the rest of her features hardly mattered.

She could have weighed three hundred pounds, she could have been smelly,

she could have been profane, but it would not have mattered, because all I saw

were those metallic blue eyes set perfectly in her clear, creamy complexion, her

short brown hair simple and smooth, framing that face in which two clear metallic

blue eyes floated for my private pleasure.

.

I don’t remember her name. I never had the courage to speak with her. I have

no idea what became of her.

.

I just remember those clear blue metallic eyes longing for me, even though their

owner was not aware of my existence. I remember longing for her eyes and

everything that went with them, but this was long before I knew how to reach

out and ask for what I wanted, long before I knew why I wanted what I wanted,

long before life eased me slowly into maturity and mellowness.

.

Down the many years since, I fell in love a thousand times, a moment at a time.

But the girl with the clear metallic blue eyes still flirts without knowing it, still makes

me smile, reminds me that longing is far better than possessing, far more powerful

than love gained and lost, far more potent than reality

.

© 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://jimreedbooks.com

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

HOW TO BECOME YOUR OWN BEST MEMORY

.
As the storms of Wednesday-last hover and sink deeply into our minds, it occurs

to me that, in the long run, we tend to rearrange our memories and allow them to fade.

.
To a storyteller, this is unacceptable behavior.The only plea a teller of true tales can make

that is worth making is, Please don’t let this happen. Write down/record each detail of your

experience, whether you were in the Eye or whether you escaped physically untouched. Fact

is, we were all touched, deeply and irrevocably. What matters now is to work these events

through the system, so that some degree of peace and closure and perspective can occur.

.

You are your own book, whether you know it or not, and now is the time to start transcribing

your life so that you and others can come to terms with the preamble, duration and aftermath

of what you have lived.

.
That’s why I do my 90-minute presentation, How to Become Your Own Book. It’s one way I have

of helping you get started–if you’re having trouble getting started.
.

How to Become Your Own Book. Next presentation: Wednesday, May 11, 6:30 till 8p.m. at the

Hoover Library. Free and sponsored by the Women’s Business Center. http://birmingham365.org/event/detail/441205719/How_to_Become_Your_Own_Book 

. 
IF YOU NEED FURTHER ENCOURAGEMENT, READ ON:

.
I like the slippery past of my mind.

.
May I explain?

.
As a village elder, I can tell you this for sure: memory improves with age.

Once I experience something, it remains indelible in my stockpiled recesses.

As I grow and gain wisdom and interpret those images a thousandfold, the

pixels increase in density and complexity and project a clearer, higher-definition

memoir.

.
I’m not kidding!

.
By the time the brew ferments, maybe a month later, maybe half a century later,

it’s ready to share with others.

.
At that point, it is birthed as a fully-developed child in the latest story or column

that writes itself for me. It comes out unedited, unexpurgated, undiluted, and complete.

.
I don’t understand how this happens, but now that I’ve written more than 2,000 stories

and pieces of stories, and a dozen or so books, I’m pretty used to the process.

.
One litmus test is to allow the stories to leak out into the cosmos so that readers can

check them out, test the facts, critique the results. From them, I’ve learned that my mind,

as flaky as it outwardly appears, is actually a pretty good recorder of life.

.
At my age, I’m finally beginning to trust my writing instincts and storytelling skills.

.

So, How to Become Your Own Book is my gift to you. It’s for skilled writers who want

some jumpstarting…for beginning writers who want an emotional roadmap…for those

who don’t think they are writers but actually are.

.
You are now the writer. Keep me posted and let me know how things turn out.

.
Before my mind gets too slippery

.
© 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://jimreedbooks.com

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

HOW TO MAKE LOVE TO A BOOK

.

The grizzled browser stands frozen in statue-like meditation, peering at

the bookshelves before him.

.

He hesitates to reach out for a volume, lest he break the spell of anticipation.

.

Finally, after a long, suspended moment, his wrist rises before and

above eye level, the first two fingers of the right hand perch atop the

spine of one particular book. He pulls it gently forward, tilting the

volume outward, allowing it to float into his caressing palms.

.

The front cover gazes up at him, whispering its title, Fireflies. He

lowers his gaze, noting the author’s name, RabindranathTagore, and

the illustrator’s name, Boris Artzybasheff.

.

He dares to open the book to a random page and sees that a passage has

been marked in orange ink by a previous owner, some 34 years back.

.

The marked passage:

“From the solemn gloom of the temple

children run out to sit in the dust,

God watches them play

and forgets the priest.”

.

The browser is visibly startled at the power and simplicity of this

passage and steadies himself against the bookcase before summoning

the courage to turn the page.

.

What orange-highlighted thought could possibly top this one? he

wonders.

.

Taking a half-breath that feels almost like a gasp, the browser turns to

another section of the book.

.

The marked passage:

“My clouds, sorrowing in dark,

forget that they themselves

have hidden the sun.”

.

His brow wrinkles, the fine hairs on his neck stiffen. He is aware that

there are additional marked passages to absorb.

.

He closes the book and holds it close to his chest, fearing that, should

he lay it down for a moment, someone else, noting its beckoning glow,

might grab it. Since he has no way of knowing whether this is the last

remaining copy of Fireflies in the known universe, he hasn’t the heart

to leave it for later.

.

He turns with his trove and walks quietly to the front of the shop,

determined to purchase and adopt it, regardless of the price

.

©  by Jim Reed 2011 A.D.

http://jimreedbooks.com

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

IS IT JUST ME?

Is it just me, or did you notice this, too?

1.           An NPR interviewer asking an interviewee whether

he was filled with guiltiness.

2.           Representative Anthony Wiener saying, “We need

to look at the entire totality of the problem.”

3.           The movie theatre screen promo stating, “Concessions

are located in lobby.” (Kind of like saying, “The urinal is

located in the men’s room.”)

4.           The disembodied voice-mail lady saying, “You may hang

up when finished.”

5.           The large metal sign in the drive-through line at the Power

Company saying, “To provide faster service a bill stub will be

required at the drive thru beginning January 1, 1997,” which

means a lot if you’re still living in 1996.

6.           The customer mentioning his “sparodic activities.”

7.           A commentator reporting, “He was hung at midnight.” But

was he ever executed?

8.           The attorney actually labeling a crime as “HEE-nuss.”

9.           The transit system bus sign stating its destination as,

“17 Century Plaza.” Wow! Time machines DO exist!

10.   A customer saying, “His remarks were derogatary.”

OK, so maybe I listen too carefully. What have you heard today?

Being an editor can be hilarious

© 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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

SEE HOW BEAUTIFUL THIS IS?

The Museum of Fond Memories at Reed Books is not quite what you’d expect. The shop stocks everything your mother and grandmother threw away…but at the same time, the shop is everything your mother and grandmother wished a real museum would be.

.

May I explain?

.

From my mother, I received the gift of noticing. Sometimes the gift was a bane, but put to good use, it turned out to be life-affirming and motivating—you know, the kind of motivation it takes to get up in the morning and find hope awaiting.

.

Wherever my mother journeyed, she always reached out to her surroundings in order to experience them as completely as possible. Passing a fencepost or garden or a lost child, she would stop to find out what was what. She touched the fencepost to feel its texture and temperature, she touched the plants to draw nutrients from their essence, she spoke to the child to see how she could make it found again.

.

At museums, Mother’s proclivity for touching was forbidden. She didn’t want merely to see and smell and exalt, she wanted to reach out and touch everything on display. Security guards had to watch her closely, and we had to remind her that touching art and artifact was frowned upon.

.

So, many years later, in honor of Mother, I put together the first vestiges of the Museum of Fond Memories at Reed Books. I dreamed of a museum that provides two services most all museums forbid. In my museum, you are encouraged to touch what you see. In my museum, you can actually purchase what you crave and take it home with you.

.

No virtual museum for my customers…no hands-off museum for my customers. This is a place my mother would have loved.

.

This is a place where all Mother’s aesthetic clones in the world are free to enter, touch, appreciate, purchase and adopt what their wishes dictate.

.

Does this resonate with you? Does it help you understand why my museum is what it is?

.

If you’re a dreamer and toucher and adopter, you are welcome to my sanctuary.

.

Come see what it’s like to feel a museum of fond memories

.

© 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com