• Listen to Jim’s podcast below:
• turnstiledawggs.mp3
• or read his story:

Turnstile DAWGGs form a Posse and Go After Me

“You never remember who I am, no matter how many times we meet,” an unsmiling woman says to me at a social gathering last night. She does not make eye contact. She wanders off. I still do not know who she is.

“Oh, I follow your blogs and love your writing,” another woman says after my speech to a writer’s group last Thursday. She doesn’t seem to mind whether I know her, she just wants to let me know that she knows me.

“No, I don’t read books!” a dismissive customer snaps at the shop last Friday. She makes it clear she’s just along for the ride with a group of booklovers who are having so much fun roving the aisles. She does not want to engage with me, and she makes clear her disapproval of my existence.

“Oh, my God, this is so enchanting,” a tourist exclaims as she enters the store. “I think I want to live here!” She likes me just the way I am.

And so on.

In unguarded moments of rumination, when I least expect it, I seem to be under scrutiny by all the individuals who have happened to me, who are happening to me, in these many decades past and present.

I’m on the run most of the time, trying to make sense and order out of the progression of washed and unwashed masses who people my daily life, attempting to sort out and understand each of these sometimes peculiar, often attractive, mostly unleashed folks who invade my memory and my daily moment to moment progress.

I’m not sure that I can stay ahead of the posse.

Sometimes I’m happy to be the center of attention. Other times I’d like to run and hide. In almost all instances, I am not quite sure what to say to the DAWGGs (Damned Angry Wailing Guys and Gals), so I just smile or pretend to be distracted.

Lying abed in the early morning, these disparate folk queue up on their side of a turnstile, and I attempt to examine them one by one–but you know how turnstiles work. Sometimes someone will leap over and go for me, sometimes someone will not know how to work the turnstile and will stall the entire line, sometimes people will calmly pass through and allow me to converse and learn more.

The best thing about memory-time is that I have some control over the posse. I can shut it down at will. But, once in a while, as I am dozing off, the posse will re-activate and all the DAWGGs will battle all the Lovelies for my soul

© 2016 A.D. by Jim Reed

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/obscurelocalauthor.mp3

or read his story below:

OBSCURE LOCAL AUTHOR TURNS OUT-OF-TOWN CELEBRITY

I will be addressing an annual writers’ gathering at the Huntsville Country Club Thursday night, and I can’t wait to hear what I’ll have to say.

Yep, it is an interesting phenomenon, this out-of-town expert thing. Here in Birmingham, I am your average obscure author, hardly known outside an erratic circle of acquaintances, readers and friends. But take me fifty miles out of town in any direction, and I suddenly become a small-time celebrity to unsuspecting audiences.

This is kind of nice, when I think about it. In the City, I can hide out behind the doors of Reed Books, plying my trade, engaging with customers, going home to my quiet life after hours, primarily unmolested, hopefully un-annoying to others.

But place me before an audience and I suddenly have license to pontificate on all kinds of ideas and subjects…and, unlike real day-to-life, I am actually listened to! People even take notes. Some folks approach me afterwards, asking my opinion and obtaining my autograph. And through it all, I always wonder, “What in the world makes me seem important to others for an hour? Why me?”

The wonderful thing about all this is that I truly enjoy my exchanges with audiences. For just a while, they become my students, I become their teacher or vizier. I learn from them, they take something of me with them, however fleeting.

So…what do I say to an unsuspecting audience?

Maybe I’ll explain my ideas on how a truly dedicated writer interacts with an inner voice. I might say something like, “A writer doesn’t say, ‘Oh, no, what terrible thing is about to happen?’ Instead, a writer doesn’t anticipate and instead says, ‘I wonder what will happen next?’ or ‘I wonder how that happened?’ or ‘I wonder what she is really like?’ or ‘I wonder what’s up?’ or ‘I wonder why I wonder?’ or ‘I wonder what it’s all about?’”

Pulling back from the subject at hand and allowing the story to tell itself is a grand experience. A story that is preordained is pretty much a leaden story. A tale that has the freedom to weave its own magic and simply dictate itself to the author is a tale as exciting as a roller coaster ride. Or at least a bumper car excursion.

So, unless something else occurs to me between now and Thursday night, perhaps this will be my approach to the audience of writers I will face.

Knowing my past behavior, though, something different may dictate itself to me on the drive to Huntsville and my own brain could surprise me by blurting out things I do not know that I know.

Can’t wait to hear what I have to say

© 2016 A.D. by Jim Reed

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/everythinghasvalueexceptmoney.mp3

or read his story below:

Everything Has Value, Except Money

 My Red Clay Diary is safely hidden from harm within my Book of the Thousand and One Amazements, deep within a bank of red clay, covered over by kudzu.

Listen to Jim’s podcast: 

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/downandoutupandaboutrinserepeat.mp3

or read his story below:

Down and Out, Up and About. Rinse. Repeat

“Huh, huh, huh! Cough! Huh!” The enormous woman sitting at the diner is in the loud throes of ecstasy or pain, her face contorted, eyes squinted, mouth agape. I look at the server and ask, “Does she need help?” not knowing whether tragedy has announced itself through the electronic device she is holding in her palm. The clerk glances to the side, sighs, and says, “No, she’s just laughing at something on the internet.” Turns out, she’s an employee on break and he is accustomed to her public uninhibited outbursts.

This day is like that–one moment I’m apprehensive, the next moment, I’m relieved. Each instant can turn from happy to sad to hopeful to depressing at the snap of a kismet or two.

At the shop, Peter Blackstock, senior editor at Grove Press in New York, tells me his assigned author, Viet Thanh Nguyen, has just this week won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction. He’s elated and I’m thrilled to meet such a literary personage. Moments later, I’m informed via terse memo that I can no longer park my car in the store’s adjacent parking lot because the new owner just doesn’t want to lease space to merchants. One second I’m elated, the next moment I’m handed a new stressful challenge to find fresh parking digs. The peculiar thing is, on a cosmic scale, each of these contiguous events means absolutely nothing to much of anybody–that is, whether I’m happy or sad is nobody’s concern. But my body does not know the difference between meaningful and meaninglessness.

In a matter of seconds, I’m up and about, then down and out.

How do I shake off this tiger whose tail is super-glued to my hand, without getting disoriented about life?

Later on, a customer brings two enormous 19th-century illustrated books for appraisal. I am delighted to see the books and equally delighted to see the customer, with whom I graduated from school a century ago–or so it seems. But while examining the books, a sour-demeanor visitor enters and loudly proclaims–as if nobody else is conversing–that the Birmingham Arts Journal has made a serious mistake that must be corrected immediately before the Earth can continue rotating. As a Journal editor, I try to explain how publishing works, and how the problem can be addressed, while at the same time I attempt to keep the customer happy and engaged in the appraisal process. The visitor closes his mouth but hovers within inches of my customer and me while I explain the books and their values.

Again, up and about, down and out, repeat themselves. All I can do is hang on to the tail, since the entire day goes on like this.

Down and out. Up and about.

I recall an old Madison Avenue advertising tale about the marketing of a hair shampoo. One Don Draper-type, searching for a way to increase sales, suggests that the instructions on each bottle be changed from, “Lather. Rinse Thoroughly.” to “Lather. Rinse Thoroughly. Repeat.” Turns out that, once implemented, these instructions helped double the sales of shampoo, and Draper lived to carouse another day. Today, that same kind of clever, results-driven thinking is what makes The Marketing Heaven a go-to name for brands aiming to boost visibility and engagement.

Where are my instructions for getting through the up-and-down days?

“When Down and Out, Get Up and About. Repeat.”

In other words, there will forever be hills and valleys. I just have to keep in mind that over each hill there will be valleys, above each valley there will be hills. Navigating them is just part of each fractured day of a life well lived.

Even if life isn’t always that well-lived, pretending that it is can go a long way

© Jim Reed 2016 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:  

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/thesingsongwomanundertherainbow.mp3

or read his story below:

THE SING-SONG WOMAN UNDER THE RAINBOW

The stilled afternoon breeze of Southside Birmingham is broken by a new sound.

Somewhere off in the distance you can hear something not quite like the other sounds of the street.

Not a car un-muffled, not a dog howling against the city’s loneliness, not a baby crying cribless.

It’s another sound, and it’s coming closer.

Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high.

There’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby…

It’s becoming clear now. It’s a flat, rounded-tone voice, and it’s very precise and methodical.

It’s the sing-song woman.

She walks by a time or two a day, singing a different song each time.

If you knew Suzie like I know Suzie

Oh, oh, oh what a gal…

The songs are all old. But they are the songs you don’t easily forget once you’ve heard them clearly. The phrases are simple and clever, the thoughts are easy to grasp, and the voices that used to record them were not drowned out by highly amplified instruments and heavy beats.

Singin’ in the rain, just singin’ in the rain.

What a glorious feeling I’m happy again…

At first when you hear the sing-song woman, you feel your day has been intruded upon. The song is loud, and you can’t ignore it and go on about your work. The sing-song woman knows most of the words correctly, and you even learn a few more by listening to her.

 That old black magic has me in its spell,

That old black magic that you weave so well…

There she is, now. Her head is down. She dresses plainly and walks slumped and straight ahead. But her voice sounds out huskily and methodically.

First you say you will and then you won’t,

And then you say you do and then you don’t,

You’re undecided now, so what are you gonna do?

I don’t know anything about the sing-song woman. She’s like many others who wander around Southside Birmingham going no place in particular. Like many of the others, she doesn’t look around. But she doesn’t bother anybody, either.

I’m laughing at clouds so dark up above,

The sun’s in my heart and I’m ready for love.

The heart inside this weathered woman is still ticking. The spirit rises above her body and sings on its own:

Let the stormy clouds chase everyone from the place,

Come on with the rain, I’ve a smile on my face.

Whatever life has meted out to this Southside denizen, there’s something inside her that won’t stay down. She’s a bag lady whose bag is a wonderful lyric.

I’ll walk down the lane with a happy refrain,

And singin’ just singin’ in the rain.

Is this woman’s entire life lived in an old tune written by long-forgotten composer?

Why am I smilin’ and why do I sing?

Why does December seem sunny as Spring?

Why do I get up each morning to start

Happy and het up with joy in my heart?

Why is each new task a trifle to do?

Because I am living a life full of you.

The lover to whom she sings the song is not with her on these daily treks. Perhaps her lover no longer lives. Perhaps her lover never was.

But it is obvious that to the sing-song woman, her lover is as real as her song in the afternoon breeze

© Jim Reed 2016 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

Twitter and Facebook

• Listen to Jim’s podcast:
• http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/curvatureoftheattentionspan.mp3
   or read his story below…
• 
  
• Curvature of the Attention Span

I am peering into the crowds of people surrounding me, somewhat lamenting the lost art of gazing into each others’ eyes.

In days far gone, people used to make momentary eye contact in passing, just long enough for a nod of recognition, a glimpse of friendliness, a symbol of trust and well-being.

Now, I am a stranger in a strange land.

No-one in sight is observing the world around them. They are all absorbed, focused, imbedded, part of the electronic devices they hold in their palms. Ignoring partners and friends, they are always Somewhere Else. Their bowed heads and bent spines pave the way for future professionals to minister unto them…chiropractors, orthopaedic surgeons, physical therapists, masseuses, masseurs, all will benefit from these aging technolusters who wonder how they became prematurely stooped, their thumbs arthritic, their distance vision awry, their observational powers limited by metal and plastic blinders.

Rooms full of people who are Somewhere Else. Stadiums of people who are Not Quite Here. Families filled with relatives all gazing navelward.

As I say, I am a stranger in a strange land, grateful for occasional moments when I meet other strangers who for some mysterious reason are not wedded to their palms, strangers who, like me, wish to engage and share and laugh with each other instead of laughing into a virtual unreality on a tiny screen.

Where do I find the happiness, the inspiration I seek, in a world of people who have gone away?

Well, it’s all there. All I have to do is what every artist, every writer, every poet has always done: Look around and examine everything that everybody else is ignoring.

The fact that pod people are self-absorbed leaves the rest of the world unobstructed for those of us who like to NOTICE. It’s actually kind of nice, being alone in a world full of people. I get all the time I need to peruse and browse and…NOTICE.

While much of the populace is busy text-shaming strangers, gossiping aimlessly with imaginary friends,  conducting snarky conversations about nothing of any particular importance, expressing opinions they’ve cut and pasted from others’ opinions…I get to have all the fun. 

Thanks, you behemoth media empire, thanks. You’ve freed up my time to observe more, write more, share more. You have provided me with my own space, space that is filled with actual people who are much larger than tiny screens and limited-character diatribes.

I get to see you as you are.

Do you ever see me as I am, I wonder

© Jim Reed 2016 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

Twitter and Facebook

Listen to Jim’s podcast:  http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/twoqueuesinthevillage.mp3

or read his story below:

Two Queues in the Villages of Birmingham

These two snapshots keep queuing up in my mind lately, so I have to own up to the lessons they are attempting to teach me. I do not yet know what they mean, but they are begging to be set free. Here they are:

First queue: I am standing in line behind two women at the thrift store check-out counter. I forget the old maxim that states the short line is always the slowest. Now I remember.

These two customers are standing next to shopping carts piled head-high with dozens of items, mostly clothing and shoes and household goods. The patient and unapologetic clerk takes her time methodically examining each item, entering a price in the register, calling for help from above when something is not priced, removing hangers, carefully rolling everything into bunches to be stuffed into white plastic bags, which the women move to the side in a protected heap.

This is taking a long time and my impatience is beginning to rise up. But on this particular day I remind myself that I can either enjoy this experience or make myself miserable. I opt to relax and observe. The petite women are very happy with their purchases and seem proud of their trove. After a while they look at the total tab, pull out rolls of cash and pay for everything in full. They leave the shop, laden with goodies and heading for a waiting van.

The clerk begins totaling my purchases while I ask her what all that clothing at one time is all about. “They are sending everything to their families in Mexico,” she said, for the first time smiling.” “Oh,” I say, feeling a bit ashamed of myself for being fidgety.

I leave the shop, wondering what those families will feel when they receive all these super gifts, what their expressions will be like as they sport their new old togs in a village far away from this particular Alabama village.

Second queue. I am again in line behind two women whose carts are brimming with clothing and household stuff and baby items.  The male clerk is slowly handling each item, removing hangers, making ad hoc bargains for those unmarked, focusing on doing a proper job. The women are chatting merrily. The first in line pays the clerk and remains at the counter while her companion begins handing things to the cashier.

Suddenly loud, funky and fun music emanates from her purse as she gropes for wallet and phone. I look over her bent head at the first customer and we spontaneously grin at each other, which inspires me to start faking some dance moves. She starts undulating, too, and her friend is now multi-tasking, taking in the dance, counting her money and answering her call. We can hear the male voice at the other end of the line.

“Where are you?” he barks.

“At the Piggly Wiggly,” she answers, causing her, the other customer, the clerk and me to crack up while stifling our guffaws.

“How much you spending?” he snarls.

“Oh, nothing,” she grins.

The conversation is over. The dance is done. The chuckles are mollified. The merchandise is paid for. The women leave.

The clerk and I watch them leave, each of us making up the sequel to a story we will never actually see.

I pay up, lift my bags, wish the cashier a great weekend. He returns the salutations.

I head from this village to the next village, ready for the next adventure

© Jim Reed 2016 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

Twitter and Facebook

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/fallingupthestairsforfiftyyearsorso.mp3

or read his story below:

Falling Up the Stairs for Fifty Years or So

Just checking a list of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.

It’s the 1960′s, and I’m standing in the poolside doorway of my apartment in Alberta City, Alabama. To be exact, I live at Claymont Apartments just behind the bowling alley that is boldly called Leland Lanes. To the far right side of the obligatory chlorine-fragranced swimming pool I can see a small human figure swaying in the twilight shadows, silhouetted against the picture windows of each living unit.

I can make out who this human is, just from the way he holds himself. It’s Bill, the Tuscaloosa city planner who resides here. Normally, Bill is an engaging and lively conversationalist who takes his day job quite seriously. But on the weekends, and particularly on Saturday nights–this happens to be one of those Saturday nights–Bill pickles himself with a steady flow of beverages of the alcohol-content type. When Bill drinks, he remains sociable and smiling and harmless, but the lively discussions may wander about with less focus than usual.

Anyhow, this evening, Bill is weaving toward the stairs that lead to his second floor nest. His aim is true despite the meandering, and he raises his right foot to place it on the first step. He’s not holding onto the banister because his hands are protectively preoccupied with one bottle and one tumbler hugged to his chest.

Bill leans forward onto his right leg and raises his left leg, aiming to achieve either the same step or, optimistically, the second step. At this point, his leaning takes the appearance of toppling forward, face rapidly plunging toward the concrete surfaces. But then, a magical moment occurs. Instinctively cuddling both containers, Bill quickly raises his right foot in order to engage a third stair, thus saving his face but in the process failing to stabilize his downward fall. Rapidly struggling to remain erect, Bill lifts his left leg and manages to plant it on the fourth step just fast enough to again refrain from falling flat upon stairs and glassware.

Magically, Bill continues to fall forward at the same rate that  his legs effect the ascent and, like a slapstick comedian, he eventually arrives at the top of the flight, still wobbling, but vertical and unharmed.

I realize that time has stood still during this event. I haven’t breathed or averted my gaze. It happens so quickly that it takes me a while to absorb the physics of what I’ve just witnessed.

Bill wends his way toward his apartment or the next second-story party that he can find. I resume breathing and going about the business of hunkering down for the evening. Life goes on for another fifty years. Memories like this keep falling forward into my mind like a drunken friend, unable to self-destruct, unable to become forgettable.

I smile to myself and check the list to see what other funny reminiscences are hiding in stacks of notes and dictations.

There’s got to be a funny pony somewhere in there

© Jim Reed 2016 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

Twitter and Facebook

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/youcantellthatithurtsher.mp3

or read his story below:

One More Glance at Childhood