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Max Fischer – Extracurricular Extraordinaire

So I came to a realization that I am wasting a lot of time reading books that are of absolutely no use to me. For example, Candy, The Hottest State, How To Be Good, God Head. These are just a few books that were a complete waste of my time. So I’ve decided to not waste any more time and I’ve discovered a list that I’m going to work my way through. The list was compiled by Time magazine in 2005 and is found here:

http://www.time.com/time/2005/100books/the_complete_list.htm

As long as I’m reading, I’m going to make sure I’m reading the best. This also means that I’ll have to tackle insanely difficult books like Ulysses, Don Quixote, and the Iliad. But I suppose there is something redeeming about each one. People have said so.

Of the 242 books that I have listed as read, only about a dozen of them appear in Time’s top 100 list. Something is wrong with that. Not wrong with Time, wrong with me. But the more I thought about these “authoritative” lists, the more I looked at my list, and when I look at my list I see events. Just like smells bring about memories of people and places, for me books do the same in a large degree.

I began my list in 1996 and listed every book read from August of that year to November of 1999. Just over 3 years. That list consists of 82 books. That is roughly a new book read every two weeks. I wasn’t too terribly prolific, but for a 22, 23, 24, and 25 year old I think it’s a good number. These are pivotal years in anyone’s life. Fortunately for me during these times I spent most of my career managing different bookstores in California and Utah. I started at B&N in Oakland, CA, and finished at Borders in Murray, Utah. Between these two were 3 other stores. I had a large collection of books constantly surrounding me, good friends who were just as addicted to books as I was, and customers who exposed me to all types of literature. I didn’t need lists, I had a constant influx of book recommendations from people and peers. These were good times.

The first book recorded in ‘96 remains to this day one of my favorites, and set the standard for what I felt literature should do for me. It also changed how I think about things. The book was Einstein’s Dreams by Alan Lightman. The rest of that year was filled with books that kindled my pop-psychology mind such as Prozac Nation and Girl, Interrupted. It would appear that misery loved company the latter half of ‘96.

In ‘97 I read 21 books, the first two by Douglas Coupland. These books bring to mind my friend Melanie Hunt (look up Melanie Hunt), as these two were recommendations from her. Shampoo Planet and Generation X. These were just two stories, nothing more. Nothing profound, or attempt to hijack personal beliefs. Just stories. But they bring to mind Melanie. And chocolate pudding.

This was the year that I discovered what GOOD writing was and tackled the writing of Kerouac, Salinger, Camus (thanks to Topher), Kundera, and Vonnegut. This was also the year that I recall reading my first memoir, a book about Franz Kafka and how he influenced a group of writers living in Greenwich Village in the ‘50’s. I also read the book “The Underachiever’s Diary”, which set the stage for my love of discovering author’s debut novels. Many first-time writers came after that including Robert Lennon and Kevin Canty.

The clearest memory from that year was reading On The Road and Catcher In The Rye for the first time, and doing so during a road trip from Provo, Utah to Tijuana, Mexico. There were 5 of us packed in a little eco-friendly car and I read and read. I remember very little about the actual trip. My most vivid memory was sitting poolside in Temecula, CA reading the 4th chapter of Catcher. My second vivid memory was arriving in LA late one night, parking at the beach, and running alongside Dave Eaton straight into the ocean, jeans, shoes, and all. That was probably around the time Holden was contemplating his ducks.

‘98 was an even better year for me and literature and by then I was a full-on bibliophile. I tackled the complete works of Salinger, with special emphasis on Nine Stories and every cliff-note type of reading guide I could find. I also absorbed Steinbeck, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Ford, Auster, Kafka, Chandler, Plath, and Irving Stone. I was married that year, in May, and remember very clearly later, in July, sitting at my front door with my feet up on the counter, reading The Great Gatsby. I recall the leaves falling through the door and onto my book, a dry breeze flowing across our basement apartment, and forgetting about just about everything. Earlier, in February, I read through The Sun Also Rises. My first Hemingway. I read most of that book at Cafe Del Sol, a peruvian dive within walking distance of the bookstore. I would read, and eat my carne asada burrito and wash it down with my sangria. There are still salsa stains throughout the book, and the taste of sangria still brings to mind bullfights.

For me ‘98 was the year when the world came alive, and a yearning began that still continues today, a yearning for experience. Along with unquenched yearning comes discontent. Discontent leads to desperation, and desperation led me to San Francisco where I found what I was yearning for. To this day, this yearning leads me to that city.

As much as I hate to admit it, ‘98 was the first year that a book made me cry. Kluger’s The Last Days of Summer was the winner in that area, and later that year, and Irving Stone’s Lust For Life. I saw my first Van Gogh in person later that year.

Also, two Steinbeck novels that year. First, Travels With Charley (via Morag McCloud), and second, The Winter of Our Discontent. Several Steinbeck’s would follow including a few memoirs. In ‘98 I made it through 31 books.

In ‘99 I slowed down a little bit. This was the year I moved to Las Vegas and had my own lust for life taken from me. I made it through 20 books that year, but the list shows few that were memorable. A couple more from Steinbeck, including East of Eden and Cannery Row, but the majority of books appear to be your garden-variety supermarket specials such as Cornwell, Kellerman, and Grisham. Not a good time. I believe to this day that your brain literally stops growing, and possibly completely atrophies, while in the Las Vegas city limits. The only redeeming experience while there were a couple photo shoots. The first at an abandoned mine, and the 2nd a series of polaroids that I did for 28mm magazine.

My original list stops in November of ‘99. I have another list that I started in ‘06 but it only comprises about a dozen books. Last year there were few as well. But In ‘08 I’ve read only one book, and it is already May. Right now I’m reading eight books. I believe there is a problem with that.

In late ‘02 I was reading 3 books, all biographies; Georgia O’Keefe, Ansel Adams, and Diane Arbus. The Arbus sticks out more than the others. She was a photographer, if you didn’t already know, and the writer had a way of bringing you into the story. It was relaxing, stimulating, and also tragic. But it was the first time that a book, and what it made me think about, manifested itself through other mediums. That was the year I stopped taking landscape photographs and began my slow path into portrait photography. Now, six years later, portrait photography comprises about 85% of my photographs. Maybe it was Arbus, or maybe it was that from ‘03 to ‘05 I went from married to divorced to married with 3 kids. There is a lot of portrait opportunities in a family of five, and not much time outside of the house. And, of course, my family is adorable.

I’ve started a new list. And I’ve compiled a reading to-do list. And it’s time to evolve, once again. It’s time to rearrange those cranial circuits and teach myself the ease and peacefulness of reading.

So I’m going to tackle the lists. I’ll probably handle the shorter books first like “A Separate Peace” and “Siddhartha”. You know, just to get into the groove, snag the low-hanging fruit. Geez I hate that phrase.

That is all.

Then I stop, and lay down, and look up at the sky. And it’s mostly sunny, but there are tiny flakes of snow still visible against the green of the pine overhead. Some land directly in my eye. To the east, where the mountains are, the snow is falling much harder than it is here. And there is a chill, but it’s not chilly. A breeze, but not windy. And I’m by myself, but not alone. And tonight’s thoughts cover me like a warm blanket.

And even though my mind drifts about, I know my time is almost up. All the difficulties of the day have evaporated from the forefront of my thoughts, and that’s all it takes, it’s really quite simple. Most of the time it’s much more elusive. But it’s really all I need. And the one thing I seem to rarely get. So I’ll take it in small doses, especially when life presents a situation where I can control my time by preventing others to do so. And despite the monotony and the drudgery of a less than normal day, I know I’ll fall asleep feeling a little better, and all it takes is seven and a half minutes. Some days it takes more, but not today.

The next morning. “Spell world backwards.” “I’m going to say three phrases: ‘beach ball’, ‘frog’, and ‘rubber duck’.” “What year is it?” “Who’s the President?” I know I’m being evaluated and I choose my answers carefully. I’m thinking about what they are looking for. I can spell backwards, I know the year, the President. She asks about any compulsive behaviors and I hold back my habit of counting letters as people speak them, how billboards distract me as I calculate if the message is divisable by 3. “None that I can think of”, I say, and a millisecond later think to myself “19, damn, a prime”.

“What were the 3 phrases?” I repeat the 3 phrases and for effect I describe the associative process I used to catalog them. “What do cars and planes have in common?” Cars and planes can both kill you in an instant, but I go with “my preferred methods of transportation”. She tilts her head to the side and let’s out a “hmm, nice.” “What do pens and pencils have in common?” Pens and pencils can puncture, but I go with “items used to transcribe”. And right then I feel like I blew it, because I tried a bit too hard. But I get a nod and another “good”, she is genuinely intrigued by my thought process and I figure I’m halfway home. I’m transferred almost immediately away from the loons with ill-intent smiles and habitual pacing to the normal people with needle tracks and mangled livers.

The Vietnam vet whose wife just died, the high school jock who’s a cutter, the couple whose love revolves around heroine. The woman sees my IV bruises and shows me her tracks, up and down both arms, tiny holes that trace the path of underlying veins. And she’s 23. And the Trazedone is keeping her down, holding her down, and the layers and layers of clothes and blankets are futile. She cries in group because it’s HEROINE, and not something like depression. Her first question to me, “so why are YOU here? Do you have PROBLEMS, or are you just SAD?” I look at her, and her face, innocent and unmoving, without a single wrinkle. I look straight into her eyes and without the slightest hint of self pity I say “I guess I’m JUST SAD.”

There is “Adrienne” from the desert, who took 50 Ibuprofens, with the 6 month old and 5 yr old, and the visiting boyfriend who seems a tad too happy. We play Scrabble and avoid words that are symbols of this place we are in. I want to play “loneliness” off her “line”, but I choose “linen” instead and use “soil” on my next turn. She keeps setting me up for Triple Words, and I feel bad, and when I win 260 to 259 I realize the game is over and there is nothing more to do. We look at the board, at each other, and smile to say “that’s it”. For 30 minutes, in our matching royal blue uniforms, there was a purpose, and our minds were disconnected from our individual realities. We put the letters away, push back from the table, and search for the next distraction; the scale, the blood pressure machine, the falling snow outside, the MP3 players with Norah Jones, the magazines, the phones (but who to call?), the rows of movies that have no business in a place like this like “Dead Poets Society, “Girl, Interrupted”, and “The Natural”. A couple adolescent “I’m inadequate” flicks and one about attempted murder, and dark secrets held back from the past that corrode his insides. And despite what Redford did in the movie, in the book he strikes out. I’m amazed they don’t have “The Virgin Suicides”.

“Duane” starts crying because he can’t make the depressed nurse smile. He spent the previous week completing a corporate merger worth millions, but after a 48 hour alcohol binge he is a disheveled mess and all he wants from the nurse is a smile, and can’t get it. And his world is crumbling. He clings to his AA book like it’s his oxygen. We sing Happy Birthday to Tim, his Mother is there. After we sing he gives a nervous chuckle and says “it’s not my birthday”. It’s actually his Mother’s. His is tomorrow. She puts her arm around him, fights the lump in her throat, and through her own inner turmoil she manages to choke out, “it’s ok, his is tomorrow, and his first birthday was the best birthday present I ever had, even if it was a day late.” Nobody knows what to say. I don’t eat my cake. I can’t remember the last time I saw my own Mother. I was told it was the morning previous, but I wasn’t myself, I wasn’t aware, but she was there I’m told, holding my hand.

One of the nurses is talking about her ex-husband “I love him” she says, and she is trembling. We try to get her attention because it’s lunch time, but she is obviously overwhelmed and finally has the ear she’s been looking for so we all sit and wait, because we know in a few days we won’t be too different from the people that are allowed to have laces in their shoes. We don’t distract her, because a few of us know everyone is just one small misstep from being where we are.

More evaluations, more calculated answers, and suddenly I realize I haven’t outsmarted anyone. Being outside isn’t so great. I’m back in the world of questions about phone bills, blood tests, and home equity loans. I’m listening to what is around me, but I’m wondering if Greg has enough blankets. I’m wondering if Adrienne abandoned her child again for more black tar in tiny balloons. I’m wondering if Frank is still wishing he was dead like his wife. Will the fullback slash open his stomach again? And what about me? There isn’t a logical reason for someone like me, who did what I did, to have what I have, to be back on an airplane headed to San Francisco for the kind of week that I will be having. Time moves at a different pace for everyone, and mine is a pace that for now will have to do.