This blog is a continuous work in progress, fluidly charting my diverse interests and reflecting the far reaching range of my tastes. Frequent subjects of discussion include literature, sports, politics, pop culture and artistic motivation. You will find thoughtful essays and stream of consciousness rants, reviews of books written by others and the presentation of my own fiction - novel excerpts as well as short stories. What it is today may not be the case tomorrow. Welcome to A Line A Day.
On a whim I googled my name and found a treasure trove of quotes from my books MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE, PATCHES OF GREY and FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS. You just never know what google is going to unearth. I've assembled them together for this post along with the first video review for a book of mine. It was doubly interesting for me to watch the video both as the author of the book being discussed (MoC) and someone who has recently joined the booktuber ranks and is still getting the hang of recording myself discussing books I've read. I have a long way to go as a book reviewer/booktuber and as a writer and as a husband/father/human. As they say, it's the journey not the destination that matters. Based on the passages below I'll humbly proclaim that every so often I've managed to string a group of words together in a manner that ain't half bad. Without further ado I present...
Outside the Oval Office, I kept a painting of a small crowd huddled around a pocketwatch, waiting for the moment the Emancipation Proclamation took effect. On Juneteenth, we celebrate the anniversary of that news - freedom - reaching slaves in Texas. And something more: pic.twitter.com/kSkLHbfnc3
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 18, 2019
I'm pretty sure Mitch was a toddler during the final pre emancipation days https://t.co/rBvgye2Zfk
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 18, 2019
I don't need or expect reparations & could care less what Mitch thinks about it. What I deserve as an American citizen is to have a real president and functioning federal gov't devoid of near Nazis. Where do I sign up for that?
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 18, 2019
Biden cites his relationships with segregationist senators as examples of "civility" https://t.co/jZPYByklEP
— The Washington Post (@washingtonpost) June 19, 2019
Free speech doesn't mean free from consequences. No private organization owes you sh*t. Whatever your race is if you like to use the N-word, Harvard may use the "no thanks" expression. So just be happy that the penalty isn't jail time. Or maybe, just maybe, don't say it.
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 18, 2019
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 14, 2019
I just watched When They See Us from beginning to end of the series. Incredibly powerful, packed full with fantastic performances. Bravo to @ava and God bless the @centralparkfive
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 7, 2019
Wow– April Ryan: “Mr. President, will you apologize for the Central Park 5?
Trump: “You have people on both sides of that. They admitted their guilt ... we’ll leave it at that.” pic.twitter.com/Cm3pQZ1Dis
I'm currently reading The Plot Against America and the parallels between Roth's novel and what's going on in America today are uncanny. Main difference is that in the novel there isn't a clear path to impeachment of president. https://t.co/QKlwH5NMxV
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 18, 2019
This was a very interesting piece of alternate historical fiction. Philip Roth asks the question - what if FDR had been defeated in his presidential run for a third term by the charismatic, anti-Semitic Charles Lindbergh whose main campaign promise was to keep the US out of World War II while having a darker motive for acquiring great power? Roth tells his story in a macro way as well as going micro and showing the impact of Lindbergh's presidency through the eyes of a boy in a Jewish family living in Newark, NJ. I decided to read this book upon learning that HBO is doing a movie adaptation of it, with portions being filmed in my neighborhood. I took the opportunity to visit the site of filming when it was taking place a few blocks from my house. It was a cool experience made cooler by getting to hang out with a few of the extras. I've long been a Philip Roth fan, and while this novel didn't impress me quite as much as the masterful American Pastoral or crack me up like the hilarious Portnoy's Complaint, it was still a great read. Parallels between the 1940's of Roth's imagination and our current political climate are striking. Simply switch the idea of a man who ascends to the presidency aided by a foreign government (Germany) with the idea of a man ascending to the presidency aided by a foreign government (Russia). Switch a celebrity with no previous political experience having an improbable, meteoric rise to the White House with a celebrity with no previous political experience having an improbable, meteoric rise to the White House. Switch people being thrown into hellish concentration camps because they're Jewish with people being thrown into hellish detention centers because they crossed a border in hope for a better way of life. One is hypothetical fiction, the other is the life we're living. The deeper into the book you get, the more you marvel at how Roth seemed to be stealing from a reality that hadn't happened yet by creating one that never happened. As a wise man once said, truth is stranger than fiction.
President Joe Biden has signed legislation establishing Juneteenth as a federal holiday commemorating the end of slavery. Juneteenth commemorates June 19, 1865, when Union soldiers brought the news of freedom to enslaved Black people in Galveston, Texas. https://t.co/zuUa3cEVpB
Both before and after that storm comes "the calm". I once wrote a story with that very title. You can find and read it below.
THE CALM
BY ROY L. PICKERING JR.
Certain days are never withdrawn from one's memory bank. Such was the case of the first full day of a summer that was taking over for a rain filled spring, fresh on the heels of a bitter New York winter. Incarceration by nature's less than ideal elements had finally concluded. The sun now blazed with abandon, summoning God's creatures to emerge from hiding.
A picnic seemed in order. Paulette felt the same, surely a good omen. We had not agreed on much of anything in some time. Our frequent opposing views added spice to the relationship in the beginning. As long as we shared lust for one another in common, other things didn't much matter. Over three years gone by, the carnal nature of our union having peaked and moved beyond, it was in doubt as to whether Paulette truly was the yang to my yin, the negative charge to my positive, the creamy center to my cookie crust.
These worries I put aside, for I didn't need to get along with Paulette to know that I loved her. I was willing to work out whatever problems we may have, though not inclined to have my love life be a chore, I was hoping the passage of time and shared experiences would work the kinks out for us. Ending the relationship never emerged as an option, even in our most heated disputes. I took this to mean that Paulette felt as I did.
We spread a blanket on the grass of a nearby park, popped Miles Davis into my CD player, set up assorted reading material (I was reading Faulkner, she examined Cosmopolitan magazine), and partook of grapes, brie cheese on crackers, and a pitcher of lemonade.
The rippling lake before us was a constantly changing work of art reflecting the cloudless sky above. A man taught his precocious daughter how to fish; a dog frolicked with his masters; children rolled by unsteadily on rollerblades or glided past with more assurance on bicycles; lovers lay blissfully together as far as the eyes could see. All of this Paulette and I contentedly observed, our souls filling up with peace much like the air was becoming saturated with pollen, the latter of which I had prepared for in advance by taking a sinus pill. I felt secure for perhaps the first time that we would make it, that the winding roads of our separate lives were no longer running parallel, but had merged together as one.
Unable to snag a coveted location under the shade of a tree, Paulette and I spritzed each other with water to endure the humidity. After an hour passed, a steady breeze began to blow. The sun's rays took pity and lessened in intensity, perfecting the level of comfort. We kissed tenderly, then passionately, then reposed with hands held and hearts light.
I assumed the first roll of thunder to be my imagination, the second a misinterpretation of a lick by the bass player accompanying Miles. The third roll was too distinctive to be anything other than what it was. Looking upward, I saw that the sun's clemency was due to clouds which had crept upon it. In the following silence I hoped the inevitable would not occur, but a flash of lightning on the horizon told me that hoping would do no good.
Paulette and I hurriedly packed our belongings under the rapidly darkening sky. The first drops trickled down large, cold and ominous. The breeze, once gentle as a baby's kisses, now sent debris into orbit. We had just begun the race we had no chance of winning when the barrage started. There was no shelter in sight that was a match for the storm's force. We could do nothing but get drenched and either find humor in Mother Nature's unpredictability or not. I saw no reason for a little water to ruin our moods, but Paulette's joy endured the rain as well as a lit match.
I went away for nearly two weeks on a business trip the next day. Upon my arrival back home, the tone of Paulette’s "we need to talk" on my answering machine foretold that our reunion dinner date would likely spoil my appetite. It did. Paulette felt that continuing further with the relationship would keep us from getting on with our lives. I had not been aware that either of our lives was on pause. Therefore, I objected strenuously to Paulette’s resolution. It was one thing to fix what was possibly broken, but to simply discard our relationship was inexcusable. Paulette was convinced that we weren't meant to be, to which I rebutted that nothing was meant to be. Things just were. Paulette replied that our thing was just over.
That summer had been shaping up to be special but turned out to be an idyllic backdrop for my grief. I could find no humor in the irony that of all our disagreements, the only one to matter was the one about breaking up. Paulette probably would have said solely for the purpose of contradicting me that our final dispute had actually been about staying together. But no matter how the situation was viewed, it wouldn't change the fact that I was now alone, nor help me cope with this any better. For longer than I care to recall, I isolated myself while waiting for Paulette to realize the folly of her decision. If she ever did, she didn’t bother to let me in on her change of heart.
Time tends to all matters in due course. I am not of the opinion that wounds heal so much as they are buried under the growth of new skin. They become invisible to the eye, but continue to be a part of who we are. As Paulette predicted, I eventually began conducting the business of getting on with my life, no doubt considerably later than she. Breaking up with someone is something one does long after already having done so emotionally. Perhaps a trite lesson to learn, but valuable nonetheless.
And so I decided on a lovely August day to prepare a picnic for one and head to the park. It was a mirror of the occasion spent there the year prior. The lake was as ceaselessly moving yet never changing as I remembered, and the sun remained a boiling pupil in a vast blue iris. About me adults huffed and puffed to sweat off a few pounds while children played for the right reason. I surveyed my surroundings and saw that God's creation was a good one; that beauty persevered in the face of ugliness; that some people should never wear a bathing suit in public. I thought of my past and present, tried to ponder my future but came up blank because it had not yet been formed. No matter. If not to be granted knowledge, I would settle for serenity. Tomorrow would be here soon enough.
4 stars earned because the subject of this book led such an interesting life. 2 stars earned because the tedious writing style pulled off the feat of making Houdini's exploits seem quite mundane. So I've split the difference to give it 3 stars. Overall I'm glad I read this book. What I came into it already knowing about Houdini only scratched the surface of his accomplishments. I had no idea that he was a major participant in the earliest days of airplane flight. Not until reading the jacket cover did I know he most likely participated in spying for the government. Turns out he was also a Hollywood star (writing, directing, acting), a bibliophile who amassed practically a public library's worth of books, a man on a mission to warn the public against con artists who promised (for a price) to provide connections to the dearly departed, and perhaps least surprising - a ladies man. Houdini proved to be much better at escaping from all manner of devices than at keeping his extramarital affairs secret from his wife. The subject matter of this biography is juicy but the prose manages to be overlong and repetitive and I'll just say that it's way less of a page turner than it could have been. But I read through to the end and now feel that I know just about everything there is to know about Harry Houdini EXCEPT how he managed to pull off all that wonderful magic. He is and probably forever will be the gold standard of mystifying entertainment.
NOW ACCEPTING REVIEW REQUESTS FROM INDIE AUTHORS ---
I plan to review independently published novels (with perhaps a sprinkle of non fiction thrown in) on a regular basis when the calendar turns to 2017. No genres barred, which is not to say that I will read anything/everything suggested to me. I may take a pass on most for I intend to be picky, my selection criteria based strictly on what sounds like "my kind of book". DIVERSITY welcomed, PRINT preferred. In addition to a synopsis I'll want to see a brief excerpt from your book to help me decide. For a taste of my style, type "book reviews" into the Search bar. Or you can peruse my collection of reviews at goodreads. Send queries to mudhousebooks@gmail.com -------------------------------------------------------------------
Roy Pickering is the author of the novels Matters of Convenience & Patches of Grey, as well as the novella Feeding the Squirrels which you can find presented here in serialized form. A sampling of his prose is showcased at RoyPickering.net. Roy once blogged here in tandem with his wife. Erin's presence is still felt through her artwork in many of the postings.
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