Ramblings from an Audio Book

I love Stephen King.

Yup, i'm one of those.

Maybe because i read his work as a kid (early high-school counts as 'a kid' right?) and he has become one of the standards of fantastical narrative i have jostling around my fur-laden brainpan, but whatever the reasons are, various and soundry that they be, i i know that i love the man's work.

What of it i know, that is. 

I read enough (The Stand, Carrie, Shining, Salem's Lot, and others) that when i discovered the first volume of the culminating opus that is his Dark Tower story, The Gunslinger, it's called, i was already so commited to his style of writing that the fantastical setting and apocalyptic tone of the novel…well it sucked me right it.

Before that i had been filling my head with the high flying epics of pulp Fantasy and young adult sci-fi: i went from young adult D&D adaptations to the heart wrenching danse macabre of Mr. King's nightmare brain with nary a Dean Koontz transition period to be found.

I started with Thinner, moved on to Carrie and then dove straight into the unabridged copy of The Stand. 

That's the trap with becoming a fan of a famous novelist after he/she/they have achieved their fame; the re-prints, the un-abridgements, the marginalia of a prolific author's career becomes available and begins to muddy a dedicated reader's experience of what is Good with what is Available.

Harry Potter fans may know what i mean with all the journals and side project bullcrap that blossomed up around the original content like so many terdy mushrooms (says the presumptuous prick who never bothered reading them) but i only mention this as a semi-segway into my point; Stephen King worked for me as well as he did for various reasons, but not the least of which was an introduction into the Continuity of his work.

Most stories that i'd read as a kid were all multi-volume series.  

As a fun introduction into the geeky pulp that influenced my reading childhood, here's a list! 

(in no particular order cause who can remember that far back)

The Dragonlance Quadrilogy (with an embarassing array of the aforementioned fringe contributions to the continuity)

The Dark Elf Trilogy (the retroactive prequel to the Icewind Dale Trilogy)

The Dark Sword Trilogy

The Death Gate Novels

The Discworld Series

Dealing With/Talking With/'Doing Something to' Dragons series

The Earthsea Novels

The Ender Novels

The Alvin Maker Novels

The Narnia Books

The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy five part Trilogy

Harry Potter

…

Yeah, that's about the tip of that little iceberg.

Anyway, i only list off all this bookshelf pissing contest content to contextualize where i was coming from as a reader; i Craved the continuity of a multi-installment series because it's what i knew, it's what i know.  

I'll rarely read in a one-off novel what i can read in a series.

Game of Thrones, anyone?

So, when i was skimming through a used book store and found a near mint-condition copy of a thesis paper styled Deconstruction of The Dark Tower's relationship to king's standing body of work…

Well, needless to say, i was like a kid in a horrific candy store.

At this point i'd engrossed myself in a modest crossection of Mr. King's work while also absorbing whatever 'Tower works were available

If i hadn't already been an enthusiastic lover of the books, i would've become one quick enough with the presentation of a mystery adventurer's opportunity to scour his canon for references and suggestions of relationship with the Tower.

Except i didn't.

I finished the tower books my sophmore year of college, nearly wept at the conclusion, was baffled at the Coda, and then stopped.

I listened to a couple audio books as much for the quality as performance over the next couple years, but after the crescendo of publication Mr. King put out around the conclusion of his 'Tower series 

(seriously, he let out the 4th book in '97 and didn't put out number the Fifth until '03 at which point he released the 6th and 7th Both in '04; man was Workin it in the early aught-ies)

i think i just needed a break.

And now i'm back.

Yes, that's right, you read through all of that to hear me talk about 'It'

The Pronoun that would be King.

I bring up the far-reaching wierdness of King's canon because what my investment in it has done is made the reading (or, in this case, listening to) of 'It' the fun cross-section/dissection i'd always hoped to have.

Suddenly, i'm getting references that i might not have got, perhaps even expereincing thematic and motificated (shut up, i make up words) prototypes of images that appear in the Tower itself.

Certainly, we get an introduction to a character that gets something of a cameo in the latter pages of the final (well, it was the final, until recently; it looks like he's crapping out another book this year.  Yes, i will read it.  No, i'm not happy about it.) book.

But then the cynicism shows up, and i'm not sure how much of that series wasn't just self-referential pandering and lip service! 

So i listen, i geek a the words i recognize and the allusions being made to the conventions that i know will soon receive more definition in books to come, and i just wait for jake to read the damn books.

Oh, by the way, Jake and i are listening to the audio of It together.

That's all.

Story over.

now, get back to your life and let me think of something of substance to write about.

Quick, make a run for it while it still looks like vacation!

The road rolls under our treads and i am in the far back of a half-empty blue van, trying to piece together a thought coherent enough that it's worth sharing, all the while my head spins with sights and sounds, sweets and sours; the sweat of a sun-bathed swelter i cannot help but pine for, the kiss of saltwater on my eyes and lips, the rememberance of a whirlygig of lights and music and people and laughter that i think is called Austin...

Phew, here we go…

In which we will discuss(and in no particular order): falling in love with the wrong ocean; a city built around a celebration of the weird; ignoring our physical necessaries for the sake of our psychic ones; and remembering who we are by imagining who we might be.

For those of you who know me only through the ASC, I think i have presented myself mostly as a West Virginian country boy by way of the Baltimore/DC area.  This is true; i was bred in WV and studied there for most of my life.  My family lives in Shepherdstown.  It is a quaint hippy meccha nestled in the Shennandoah valley, coming butt up to Harpers Ferry, which plays host to the meeting of the Patomac and Shennandoah, making it a historically bustly area.  An adventerous soul, bound for adventure of a historic kind, could walk a paddle boat down to the banks of the Potomac from Shepherd University's downtown campus, and row their way all the way past the Ferry and straight on to DC, all the while followed by a tow path that follows the same route.

It's old.

It's quaint.

I love it.

It's mine.

I am not, however, from this place.

I was born in San Diego, California, and lived the first nine years of my life there.

This does not identify me as a true californian, i acknowledge this.  

To be so, i would've needed more intellectually formative years spent there; my identity is that of a hippy weirdo who grew up working at Wal-Mart one summer and an organic farm hand the next.

However, being born so near the beach, and being borne there so often by my lovingly indulgent parents, has made me a Beach Baby.  

I remember loving the history of California classes and trips we took as youngsters; visiting old adobe relics tucked inside the thriving historic districts of the less gentrified parts of southern california and eating their foods, enjoying their music, experiencing then what i would no doubt now identify as cheap recreation-theatre…some of the best memories of my childhood involve eating stone ground tortillas and breathing the smell of recently woven blankets sweating sweet stinks of sheep and natural dyes while holding hands with my Field Trip Buddy.

But, it is that great, fire-rimmed Pacific that lives most in my memory.

I remember my childhood as a series of jaunts in between the time i got to spend dancing across the hot sand, burning and suffering until my toes finally had a chance to rest in the mirky brown swill of water that constitutes a wave's dying reach for the shore.  I can still smell the smell (oh, and how much i do remember the smell) of seaweed and salty air, of the sand itself, of sunscreen and (when necessary) the aloe vera balm for when the sunscreen failed.  

I was not then, nor am I now, an adventurer of the highest regard, but i Owned the sea when i got my little buddha belly up on my boogie board and flew down the froth and bubble of a wave, a ride, a roller coaster rocket that was for this moment only and when it fell, either back into the water if i'd caught a wave that was deep enough, or tumbling onto the cushioned concrete of wet beach sand, i would run back, trying to find the next ride, the next inexplicable mountain of salty blue that would carry me on it's back until it, too, would waste itself on the sand for my pleasure.

Truly, ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing quite like the beauty of a day like that.

I tell you all of this, dredge up all these old dusty thoughts, because i got to be with the beach again.

I had spent most of our time at Daytona sleeping off the hilarious volume of debauchery that had constituted our time in Austin (more on That, anon) and had, therefore, completely missed any chance to go to the beach for a proper visit.

A proper visit, of course, involving sun screen, floppy hats, beach blankets and towels, possibly an umbrella, definitely a cooler, and, without a doubt, every intention of swimming.

So, there we are; i've just used the last of my food vouchers at our host university's convenience store to stock up on the food stuffs that will (and, at time of writing, has) feed me for the duration of my time on the road.  

I'm walking back from the conveniently located convenience store with Mr. Mahler, so much food in tow that i'm using that time honored trick of holding the hem of my shirt in both hands and putting everything in my little poly-cotton basket, all the while treating passers by with a scandalous view of my belly button, and he gets a text from the P-Earls that they'd like blue keys so that they may visit the beach.

"Oh, my god, the beach…Ask 'em if i can come!"

"What?"

"Just…tell them that they can have their private time on the beach and i'll walk in the opposite direction and they can text me when they're…ready to leave"

at this, Jake rheufully does as i ask and i am becoming giddy.

It's now a matter of dropping off all of my perishables (all but my king-sized drumstick ice cream cone) and then hopping in the van.

I am practically bouncing all the way there.  

i've brought my phone, my headphones for ambiance; i am ready for a foggy night walk along the edge of Florida's atlantic beach.

The P-Earls are gracious enough to have me along on their walk, so i spend the time i thought might've been filled with quiet, ruminating introspection (accompanied by appropriate music, of course) engaged in the lovely conversation of friends on the beach.

And then i couldn't take it anymore; shirt off, trunks (which i wore all day) on: let's do this.

I am appropriately attired and off like a shot.  

Pounding the pavement hard wet packed sand, i'm running like a man on fire; low water, ankle deep, shin deep(now i'm doing that flappy, high stepping run that's always a treat to watch lifeguards-in training practice), Waist deep.

DIVE!

And, for just a second, i'm a kid again.

I feel the rush and churning of the tide in my ears and i can taste (yes, oh yes, thank the stars, this i can Taste) the salt of the water on my lips…and then i hear, in the back of my id-addled mind, the casual mentioning of all the jellyfish on the beach that Rick and Bridgette had seen earlier that day, and how we had talked about on our drive down here that, well, Technically Man 'o Wars are more like mobile choral than jellyfish…and then i remember that i'm a coward.

RUN!!

The walk back was cold, and flavored by that inexplicable stickyness of salt-water all over my goose-pimpled, parchment white nerd-flesh…but dear, sweet, merciful Anybody…i need to get back to the beach.

I need to get back to the Pacific.

Well, then… This journal, by the way, has been an amazing venue for me to just take a moment and examine things i would otherwise have no reason to think over: it wasn't until i was scouring my mind for things to talk about that i realized how present the beach had been in my thoughts.  

how much i wanted to talk about it. 

 here.  

with you silly people.  

so, thank you for that.

END PART ONE!!!