Here's the Black, Wicked Witch. Ha! Ha! Ha!

Just finally finished The Tin Drum. That is to say I just finished a good novel. That is to say I just finished a good novel I've been reading most of 2009.

Its not even a difficult novel to read, its just the first 500+ page book I've undertaken in a while...In fact, I haven't been reading much, the last two years have been slow, literarily speaking. Now, don't go thinking that there was a time, a golden age when I galloped about reading 500+ page books regularly. No, friends it is only to a very small list of 500+ page books (all three, novels) that I add the conquest of The Tin Drum.

The story is by Oskar Matzerath and the alternate title, If Jesus Had Had a Hump, They Would Never Have Nailed Him to a Cross.

If anyone is curious as to what the novel is about I will leave them with the following. Here, I should note that even if you are not curious, you are still left with the following. The "following" is a summary by the author himself, or an excerpt from the novel, where the novel sums itself up. So its The Tin Drum by The Tin Drum. If you are concerned and further made cautious of reading "The Following" because The Tin Drum was a novel you were planning on reading anyway; or you trust my literary tastes and the above is enough to sell you on the recommendation I'll never make on this post, to read The Tin Drum; if in anyway you are worried I am about to divulge spoilers, rest most assured champ, I am not. The Tin Drum is not a murder/crime mystery or a suspense thriller. It is true that the plot is strong but its only an effective plot when every detail is disclosed. A summary will not do this novel any harm, or justice.

Oskar Matzerath

(about Oskar Matzerath and The Tin Drum)

"...born under light bulbs, deliberately stopped growing at age three, given drum, sang glass to pieces, smelled vanilla, coughed in churches, observed ants, decided to grow, buried drum, emigrated to the west, lost the East, learned stonecutter's trade, worked as model, started drumming again, visited concrete, made money, kept finger, gave finger away, fled laughing, rode up escalator, arrested, convicted, sent to mental hospital, soon to be acquitted, celebrating this my thirtieth birthday and still afraid of the Black Witch."

All In a September Day's Nothing

I am sitting in my room listening to Asobi Seksu. This casts a gray veil over my eyes. I've just finished spending a good portion of the afternoon reading Identity Crisis, its a DC graphic novel involving the Justice League (yeah, I get down like that). Its dark enough outside that I have my room light, like a halo over my head, shining in holy advertisement. I'm debating whether or not to give The Notorious Betty Page another chance. The DVD is piled atop my bureau along with other DVDs that I don't consider essential enough to seat as part of my main collection. I debate this in between guilt sessions, self-appointed, glowing from Grass' Tin Drum that beats louder and louder for overdue attention, that was in fact propitiated, instead by a comic book. Also in mind, is an essay by Aldous Huxley about The Dalton Plan. I think about how this method of teaching seems really stimulating and does in fact serve prosperous results. I recall the essay and realize how much more I've enjoyed Huxley's writing over the evolving reads and moreover, how bad my memory truly is.

Soon dinner is served and I interrupt myself for my stomachs sake. Somewhere on TV, The Last Samurai is showing. Tom Cruise teaches samurais a valuable lesson which they've in turn taught him. This is happening somewhere on some channel on my television set, which remains off. Mary Harron definitely deserves another chance.

Yesterday I shopped with Kiki, rather I accompanied Kiki as she shopped. This made me realize how well behaved my spending impulses have been as of late. Of course, they have had no choice, four dollars occupied the vast, abandoned tunnels where my checking account used to be; that was until Thursday when they were joined by yet a few friends to warm but not remove the murk from which they are now currently based. I spotted a few books I wanted from Strand. Camus, Nabokov, Woolf, all the old friends threw cutting glances and I edited our visual conversations short, as short in fact, as my wallet. Kiki, seemed cheerful. I like when she's cheerful, it makes things alright.

At this moment I am now thinking whether I want to hear Peter Gabriel or 2pac. Here Comes The Flood or Never Had a Friend Like Me. Whatever I choose is just to provide a soundtrack for my debate and self-abasing guilt, for my stomachs and their financial appetites, for Lily Taylor and Helen Parkhurst, for the attention of superheroes and the negligence of reservation.

I don't know where I'm going with this but I just hope I can say that and everything else, honestly.