Note: This review was originally published in 2017 on my personal blog Book Jones Review

We, The Doppelgängers

Once a younger man fresh out of High School, working full time pulling data cable in New York City, I’d had a revelation. People were not as unique as I had once thought, rather they seemed to me now to run in subsets, were categorical, could be classified. There were a few individuals I had met in my teens that reminded me of characters I was then encountering in Macy’s Herald Square, where I mostly was working at the time, and elsewhere. This phenomenon continued as I moved on to vocational school (electronics) then on to subsequent jobs; and indeed still visits me today. Haven’t you ever met someone who not only reminded you of someone else but further fell under the heading of, what I would term, Doppelgänger? A German word, very apt. From these personal experiences I concluded there may be sets of two or three or more people you’ve crossed paths with in your life, persons related to each other excluded, who have exhibited not just similar looks but also speech, mannerisms, and personality type, or some combination thereof. I call it my “human subset theory”.

For his last and posthumous work, The Largesse of the Sea Maiden: Stories, Denis Johnson borrows a page from my intuitively perceptive youth by featuring the above described circumstance in at least two of the five long stories. In fact, the word Doppelgänger is in the title of the last story in the book (Doppelgänger, Poltergeist). In Strangler Bob-- a kind of prequel to an earlier story, Dundun from Jesus’ Son-- a young man tells the story of his short stay (41 days) in the county lock-up, the eighteen year old narrator reflects on the tortured “souls” of those with whom he shared a cell block.

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Skating Away

As and old soul, I can say the shape of my beingness has had peaks and valleys, which most would agree to be typical of life well lived. Though my zeniths have felt higher than most, my nadirs lower, I think all would agree the assessment of one’s own existence is subjective. Over the years, I’ve found there are myriad pathways to travel through life, a multitude of trails and tracks, alleys and passages one must choose at every juncture. It’s easy to make a wrong call, to skip off down the road to a life one envisions as fulfilling only to discover it’s become one of disappointment, drudgery, or heartbreak. It’s fair to say I’ve had more than my share of help along the way, though you may call my variety of help preternatural.

Now, as I face the conclusion of this stage of my journey, I am once again faced with an inscrutable choice. Ultimately, each soul faces death at their own terminus. But my many voyages through life have always led back to the same place and time, where I’m constantly burdened with a decision to manifest my being. Have I been blessed with a gift or condemned with a curse? Hear my origin story and decide for yourself.

***

My best friend Marty from back in the day copped tickets to see Jethro Tull at Madison Square Garden. This was way back in the fall of 1975, when premium tickets cost around fifteen bucks; we could afford them then. But even better, we didn’t need to. Marty’s dad, Herb, was a DJ at a local rock-and-roll radio station in the city, so he was able to finagle a couple of comp seats for us in the fourth row.

Marty had moved to town the year before. That year, in late November, there’d been a week-long cold spell. An Arctic blast had blown in from Canada, and the duck pond near my house had frozen over. That was our signal to lace up the skates, grab our sticks and a puck, and head out for a daylong session of pick-up hockey.

One day, we noticed a new kid at the far end of the pond, skating around, doing spins and little jumps, skating backward and on one foot. He wore white skates. I nudged my buddy, Jeff, saying, “Looks like we got a figure skater in town”. We had a good chuckle over that. Out on the ice, we set up the makeshift goals and began passing the puck around. The new kid looked intimidated by our crew as we implicitly claimed the pond for our game. With a wink to my friends, I skated over to him.

“Hey kid, where you going? We need an extra player. Come on, you’re on Jeff’s team. Unless hockey is too rough a sport for those dainty white skates of yours. Maybe you want to borrow a pair of mine?”

I was full of myself then. Many of my schoolmates thought of me as obnoxious. I fancied myself one of the cool kids, but I was a bully. Once, in gym class, I hid Ralph Kornbluth’s pants in my locker, so he had to sit through the rest of his classes in gym shorts; stupid shit like that. I’m not proud of it now; I still had a lot of growing up to do.

“No, no. I’ll play,” he said. Honestly, I didn’t expect him to join us, but he looked determined, like he had something to prove.

“Cool, grab that extra stick and let’s go,” I said, thinking, I’ll teach this wuss.

Right away, this kid started skating circles around us. He was fast and could defend better by skating backward. Jeff passed the puck to him, and like nothing, he skated right past me and scored on Tommy Frankel, who was a pretty good goalie. I nudged him a bit to let him know I would not let that happen again, but right away he stole the puck from me, passed it to Jeff, who took a slap shot that missed the goal completely. We both raced for the puck, but he reached it first. I thought, now, hard check, and I plowed right into the kid, knocking him to the ice. He got up fast and pushed me, but I stayed on my skates. Then I threw the first punch, a right to the jaw. It landed, but he hung tough and caught me in the eye with an elbow. We were both wrestling on the fragile ice near the edge of the pond when it gave way.

Luckily, the duck pond was shallow, maybe three feet at its deepest point. We were both able to scramble out of the freezing wet to the bank, where we lay, soaked and exhausted. The kid dragged himself up and offered his hand. I stared at him for a moment before I took it.

“Look, sorry we got off on the wrong foot… or skate,” he said with a smile. “My name is Marty.”

“I’m Clay,” I said, “and that’s OK, I’ll let you skate away this time,” I said, smiling back.

I wish I could say we became close friends from then on and lived happily ever after, but life doesn’t always go that way. Only the first part of that statement is true.

***

Now, we were Sophomores, and Marty and I were in a band together with Billy Davis and Jeff Sanders. It was Billy on bass, Jeff on Drums, Marty on guitar, and me on vocals. Things were different this year. I’d vowed to change my odious behavior. Thanks to my friendship with Marty, I was becoming less of a bully, more in tune with my sensory perception, intuition, my feminine side, what Jung described as Anima. I guess Marty’s demeanor was rubbing off on me. In a way, he’d been my opposite. thoughtful of others, trying always to help people instead of ridiculing them, even if those very qualities left him open to ridicule. Marty was a loyal friend. He’d become someone I wanted to emulate.

On the day of the concert, Marty’s mom picked us up from school. I still remember that bright yellow Camaro with the sunroof she drove. She was our ride in, my stepdad was our ride home, that was the plan. It was Herb’s idea for us to visit the station before the show since it was only two blocks from the Garden. He said there was a surprise in store for us, which we immediately guessed would be a meet-and-greet with our– well, at least my– favorite DJ, Sebastian Munch. I wasn’t sure why, but I had the feeling that Marty wasn’t quite as big a fan as I was.

I was secretly in love with Marty’s mom; every teenage boy in town was, and she knew it. She insisted we call her by her first name, Eve. She wore her jet-black hair in a bob, reminiscent of Barbara Feldon in the Get Smart reruns we watched after school. She had a whip-smart wit and oozed a sensuality that could render the pope to a gelatinous mess.

“You look very nice today,” I told her in the car. “Can’t wait for our surprise, I wonder what it is,” I said, throwing a sly glance at my friend.

“Yeah, Mom, what does Dad have in store for us?” Marty muttered. “Whatever it is, it can’t be any better than the concert.”

“Why, Clay, you’re sweet, but you boys will just have to be patient. I won’t spoil it for you,” said Eve, eyeing me in the rear-view and, at the same time, melting my naive heart.

The ride in from Jersey was traffic-free until we hit a minor slowdown on the Henry Hudson. Still, it was smooth sailing across town to Thirty-third Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenue, where the WYNY studios resided. The day was a perfect example of late autumn: crisp, sunny, with a hint of color and a bit of bluster. As we walked the block to the station, taking in the noises of a bustling midtown– taxi horns, crazy laughter, sirens– and the wafting smells, a mix of freshly baked pretzel and bus exhaust, I felt privileged and lucky.

***

After we met Herb in the lobby, he led us through a deserted office area, down the hall to an anteroom adjacent to the broadcasting booths. The first thing I noticed was this hulking figure: the sound engineer. He wore headphones and paced in front of a huge console of lights, knobs, and those little slider things that fade the sound in and out. He had a menacing look about him; he was jittery and looked angry, as if he’d just lost an argument. The cords of sinew in his neck and the wide white rims around his pupils told me enough to stay away. He began muttering to himself, then turned our way, spotting us for the first time. Our eyes locked, and my gut dipped. In fact, I considered telling Eve that I would wait in the car until we were ready to go to the show. But the feeling passed. My anticipation and excitement were too strong to let negative energy ruin the day.

Herb waved us over to the smaller DJ booth, where we could see someone wearing a black beret, sitting at a desk in front of a jumbo microphone. His face, tilted downward, was reading what must have been some important info. When he looked up, he was startled to see two young boys staring at him. Half of his face was covered in hair, giving him a feral mien. He grinned and looked beyond us to Herb and Eve, who were waving hello. From the anteroom, speakers blared a Crazy Eddie ad that segued into Elton John singing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” The DJ stood and, through the soundproof glass, signaled us into his workspace, as cramped as a closet.

Herb ushered us in and announced in an orotund baritone: “Boys, let me introduce you to none other than the famous Sebastian ‘Uncle’ Munch.” We shook hands with the broadcasting legend.

“Uncle was there to meet the Beatles when they landed on our shores back in ‘64, you know,” My mouth must have hung open for a good ten seconds before I could say anything, and then it was something stupid like “I’m a big fan”. Marty, unimpressed, only nodded.

Then Marty asked the legend, “Hey, Uncle, could you play Skating Away from the new Tull album?”

“Uh, Skating Away? OK, I’ll see what I can do, little guy,” Munch said. He looked bothered by such an offbeat request, as if he doubted the song was even in the station’s rotation.

“So hey, listen, it was nice meeting you guys,” he went on, “though I’m going to have to ask you politely to step out of the booth, we’re back on the air in 20 seconds.” Marty and I joined Eve in the anteroom. Uncle Munch whispered something to Herb that seemed to upset him, and with the honeyed tones of Elton John slowly fading, began his sign-off patter:

“Stand by, folks, it’s Mean Herbie Green up next on your choice for rock and roll, WYNY-FM. But first, I want to dedicate the next song to Herbie’s boys, who were nice enough to stop by and say hello this afternoon. I’m always happy to greet such big fans of mine. Now here’s Bruce Springsteen and the East Street Band with Growing Up.“

Marty uttered a loud groan as ‘Uncle Munch’ left the booth and, instead of approaching us, went directly to Eve, hugging her hello, with a peck on the cheek that didn’t go unnoticed by “Herbie’s boys”. She parted her lips in a broad smile and placed a hand on his chest, “Nice to see you again, Sebastian,” she breathed.

Beyond the smitten pair, I noticed the troubled engineer again. He seemed now to be arguing with someone, but there was no one else in his booth. I was sure he wasn’t talking to Herb because his imposing profile was now facing in the opposite direction, like there was someone behind him, goading him, or as if there was some annoying noise, inaudible to all but him. My uneasy feeling returned. I searched the engineer’s booth for anything out of the ordinary. I don’t know what I was looking for, but I had an intuition that I might have overlooked some clue that would explain his odd behavior, but nothing revealed itself.

Then, in my peripheral vision, I sensed a strong pulsing, a disruption in the air as if some cloaked entity were trying to materialize.

“Boys, why don’t I show you the record room?” said the DJ. “Your concert doesn’t start for a couple of hours,” he glanced at his watch. Then, to Eve, he said, “That’ll give us some time to catch up, have a drink.”

I looked over the room one last time for any further signs of anomalous disturbances, but there wasn’t a trace. Only dead air.

***

The radio station’s record collection was extensive; you could spend a few hours just browsing through the LPs. It was enough of a distraction to snap Marty out of his mood, but I thought he must still not be happy with the fact that his mom was enjoying a cocktail with the wolfish guy who was once known as the “Fifth Beatle”.

“How well does your mom know Uncle Munch?” I blurted out. My ability to read social cues was still evolving. I realize now that Marty must have been mortified.

“I think she worked with him for a few years before she met my dad.”

“Yeah, it seemed like they were kind of close.”

“I really don’t want to talk about it, Clay, OK,” Marty said. He’d been engrossed in the cover of The Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack.

I nodded and pretended to be interested in a Rolling Stones bootleg.

After a long silence, I asked, “Do you think your parents are getting a, uh, divorce?”

“No!” Marty faced me. “I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.”

He shook his head, disconsolate. His eyes dimmed. We stared at each other for a long moment, and Marty began to tear up. I stood there dumbly.

“You wanna know why we moved to Highland from Morristown?” said Marty. “Because of me. I had a kind of breakdown, or whatever you want to call it. I was constantly picked on, and I had no friends. I hated going to school. I mean, why should I? To take a beating every day. That’s why I took up the guitar. I thought it would make me seem cool, or something. I thought I was bound to make at least one friend; I even prayed, and you know we’re not religious. But no. It didn’t change a thing. After the breakdown, my parents decided it might be better if we moved to a new town: a new school, new kids, they thought maybe it could be different.”

A moist, blue smile fell over his face. “You’re my only friend, Clay.”

Marty moved toward me, and my first reaction was to retreat. But he threw his arms around me, holding on firmly, placing a soft kiss on my cheek. He held my face in his hands, and I thought he might try to kiss me on the lips.

I pushed him away and stared at him, shocked; confused may be a better word. I had really cherished our friendship, but now this seismic shift. Why all of a sudden? Why me? I thought.

Marty said, “Look, sorry. I don’t know what I’m thinking. You know, I guess I’m just not feeling right, I’m not...”

I asked him where the bathroom was. He wiped his eyes, sniffed, and said he had no idea.

“I gotta go,” I told him, opening the door.

“Wait, Clay, I’m coming,” he said. “I’ll go find my mom. We should get going anyway.”

***

Just down the hall from the record room, I spotted the restroom and ducked in. I was shaken and needed some time to process what had just happened. Did Marty really have romantic feelings for me? Was he gay? Maybe he was muddled, conflating fraternal love with romantic love. You could have called us best friends, but I liked girls. Had I missed some of the signs? I splashed warm water on my face and told myself to forget it for now. Marty was still Marty. He was my best friend, and we had a concert to get to.

I was drying my hands when I heard a weird noise, like the sound burning plastic makes as it melts away. Someone else was there. From the farthest stall, a man appeared. He looked ancient: hoary, gossamer thin, stooped. But was I looking at a substantive being? It looked more like an apparition than real. I was suddenly asthmatic and wheezing. I needed to escape that claustrophobic feeling. But then words spewed from the wraithlike vision.

“Stay here, boy!” The voice was stentorian, resolute.

To my bewilderment, the incarnate form resembled my grandfather, who had died three years before. Gooseflesh rippled my body.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

“Clayton!”

“Do I know you?”

“Listen to me. Do not leave this room. It is unsafe.” It demanded.

I backed away toward the exit, but after two steps, I was overcome with paralysis.

The man-ghost came closer, exuding the cloying odor of fresh death. A cryogenic frost emanated from it. One craggy hand palmed my head, and the vision spoke again, this time sotto voce.

“Go, live your life with this knowledge. Find purpose; there are many paths to take, choose wisely.”

Then the fateful thunder came: At first, like M-80s blasting in rapid succession. boom! boom! boom! boom! boom! boom! Screaming, deep bellowing cries. gunshots: boom! boom! boom! boom! Silence. And then one last eruption.

I fell into a panic, close to fainting. The man-ghost was nowhere now. Evaporated. I struggled to get out the door, but still the occult force held me. And then, collapse.

I woke to the sounds of sirens: police, ambulance, fire. Voices grew louder from outside the door. Firefighters barreled into the bathroom where I lay powerless. One of them threw me over his shoulder and, in what felt like slow-motion, rushed me through the chaos, only to dump my slack body onto the grimy Thirty-Third Street sidewalk.

What I saw on the way through the crime scene: Copious plashes of blood, chunks of bio-matter, the slug-riddled husks of Uncle Munch and Herb. Eve, her unspoiled face, placid and vacant. Then Marty, head slumped to his chest, as if, bored, he’d dozed off. His body was blown back against the DJ booth.

We didn’t call it ‘going postal’ until the 1990’s, and back in the seventies, there was no euphemistic slang for this kind of rage-borne spectacle. This pristine hellscape had been triggered by the misplaced aggression of a disturbed engineer with a bone to pick. The perpetrator sat splayed amid the detritus of his anguish, the rear of his skull rent by his final shot. The resulting tableau, a portrait of audacious butchery, became the stuff of my intrusive nightmares; a torment I would dedicate my life to escape.

I would never fully recover from the trauma of that day, but I would carry on, however divergent my life would become from that late autumn day to this. Since then, I’ve considered myself possessed with a desire to pursue my bliss, to make of this brief, but turbulent flight, a nirvana.

***

So, I ask you, a blessing or a curse? My life had been spared that day, and for what? I came to believe that the wraith was not my dead grandfather. The knowledge it had imparted just before the slaughter felt prophetic. I believe now that the ghost had been my ghost. I believe that I am my own savior. I can never be certain. But I believe.

The questions remain: How many cycles have thus far played out? Each time imparting more knowledge. How many lives have I lived since that fateful day? Each life taking a different course. Will my spirit, traveling through space-time to the autumn of 1975, be forever damned to that last stall in the restroom of the WYNY studios? Will that be my soul’s eternal reward? Fated to protect and enrich my unformed self? Will Revenant Clay ineluctably empower Child Clay to simply skate away in perpetuity — to live again and again until I become what? like some perfect Hindu God? — and in consequence, condemn my own soul?

But there is ultimately a choice, a final reckoning. This endless loop can be broken. When this riddle of existence is offered once again, how will I answer it? Will I spare my life or my soul?

© 2026 by Michael S Jones

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If you are a fan of Mr Irving’s work, you might have already gleaned that he adheres to many of the same motifs in almost all of his novels. Settings like New England and Vienna are prominent. The tropes of abortion, adoption, non-binary lifestyles, wrestling, and strong female figures are salient throughout his writing. Queen Esther is no exception. By the end of the book, Esther, now living in Jerusalem, has become a quasi-heroic …

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Some observations from this year:

There seems to be a plethora of female voices, not only on the lists, but amid the newly released material in general. I won’t try to analyze the reason why, but instead simply sit back and enjoy the dulcet and sometimes harsh vocalizing without complaint.

You won’t see many standard rock, or R and R offerings this year (hardly any guitar solos). Does this mean “Rock is Dead”? No. to quote an OG of the genre, “Rock and Roll will never die”.

As always, I’ve included songs from many different genres of music: Rock, Indie, Country, Pop, Rap, Hip Hop, Jazz, Classical, and some unclassifiable. But, I confess, this year’s selections are more subjective than in previous round-ups. So please indulge me and I hope you can find time to listen and enjoy.

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Intellectually, it seems ludicrous, but psychologically, it’s reality. I know many Yankees fans, a group that I’m not part of, who, to me, seem to exude an air of superiority, a moral preeminence, as if they knew better just because they follow a winning team. Of course, things do change. The vicissitudes of competition are cyclic. However, some seem to stagnate at the bottom of the pond (the Mets, the Knicks, the Jets). This phenomenon occurs not only …

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Nails rolls onto his back, opens his eyes, and light rushes in. An ice pick stabs at his temples. He blinks until the tiled ceiling comes into focus, then rotates off the bed. His toes grip the carpet, but he staggers, head bowed, to the bathroom linoleum, and swings the door shut. Only then does he feel comfortable lifting his eyes to the mirror. The colorless face, a furtive look as if concealing some deep truth from himself. For an instant, he sees his old man in the looking glass, "Go ahead, boy, hit me," and he smiles grotesquely, mocking himself.

Again, he's aware of the spike pounding into his head but embraces it. This is what he chants to himself. Hammer me., hammer my skull into a block of wood, hammer me...

Nails thinks of Tina. She was over last night. She and his sister were partying upstairs. He couldn't watch the show for another second. The music was shit. Their dancing triggered a shiver of disgust. The whole scene was enough to steer him downstairs where he would begin the process of attitude alteration. The goal: oblivion. Deadened: that was Nails at his best.

He brushes his teeth and the recurring memory comes. He's driving Ollie's car, on the way upstate to Paradox Lake. He was doing a hundred up the Northway, Jack and Ollie in the backseat downing Yukon, on their way to a week of partying, carousing, lake swimming, and cliff jumping. Not to mention Mary Alice, hadn't that been the week he'd really got to know her? He remembers Mr. Gross looking at him with big black eyes and that crooked grin, saying, "There is nothing better than being on your way." He was right. That vacation with his best buddies was the sweetest time in his life; they had been on their way.

He runs the shower, pulls off his underwear, and steps in. The hot water soothes him, but he lets it get too hot. He stops himself from mixing in more cold water. Steam engulfs him and the water cools a little on its own.

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The Midnight show included an animated short film called Asparagus. This trippy gem, created by Suzan Pitt, begins, accompanied by a score of avant-garde jazz, with a scene of a woman, whose face we never see, pooping out two bunches of asparagus spears. Magically, small stalks of asparagus float up on the screen to spell out the eponymous title of the work.

After flushing everything back down the drain, The woman fantasizes (or dreams) about a vegetable garden where she finds herself stroking one of the asparagus stalks growing there. She dons a mask and ventures out on the town for the big show. Along the way, she passes several storefronts: a sex shop, a gun shop, and two monkeys lounging in bed. She arrives a bit late to the theater— after the curtains go up— and makes her way backstage where she opens her satchel, unleashing all manner of phantasmagoria for the audience’s purview.

When all the excitement is over, she takes a taxi home, where again she fantasizes about the asparagus garden. Only this time, maskless, yet blank-faced, she begins to fellate one of the stalks. But as her head pumps up and down, the asparagus morphs into various priapic-shaped objects until returning to the original stalk.

That was just the warm-up movie. Next came Eraserhead.

Having no idea what we were in for, we were pleasantly surprised to enter a gritty atmospheric world in black and white. The film opens with the industrial hum of some ubiquitous machine. a floating head in space, an alien planet. The camera zooms in and we are traveling through pock-marked gulches toward some gate leading back to space. A leprous being stares out through jagged windows and we see the floating head again, now regurgitating some sort of fetal creature. The leper is triggered into pulling a series of levers which seem to cause the creature to be sucked into a maelstrom, borne into an abyss of light.

Enter Henry, with his wiry hair combed skyward, the embodiment of said floating head, negotiating his way home to his apartment past the slag heaps and alleyways of seedy Los Angeles. Fumbling for his keys, he spots his neighbor, a debauched woman, who relays a message: Mary has invited him for dinner. I won’t bore you with tedious descriptions of the entire film, but suffice it to say it follows Henry and his girlfriend, Mary, on their bizarre journey together. It is revealed that Mary is pregnant and soon she gives birth to the very same monstrosity we saw expelled from Henry’s mouth during the dream sequence at the beginning of the movie.

The movie is macabre, darkly funny, and surreal. After Mary leaves him, Henry attempts to care for his sickly creature-baby with little success. In his despondency, he stares into the radiator and is drawn into a hallucinatory fugue. We are given a glimpse into his psyche: a young woman— Marilyn Monroe with tumorous jowls— performs, with cloying affect, on a music box stage. While creature-babies drop onto the floor, she proceeds to crush them with her feet, amused by the spinal fluid that spurts forth. She sings: In Heaven, everything is fine/ In Heaven, everything is fine/ You got your goods things and I got mine.

This is the mind of David Lynch. One theme that runs throughout most of his subsequent work is this idea of drilling down, literally, into objects, animate or inanimate. In the opening sequence of the movie Blue Velvet, we are treated to pastoral scenes of suburban life: White picket fences, a rose garden, a fire engine, kids walking to school, and a man watering his lawn; all to the pleasant strains of Bobby Vinton. But soon the man watering his lawn notices his hose is kinked. We see the blockage and as he tries to free it, simultaneously he suffers a blockage of his own, causing a stroke. We see the unfortunate victim lying there in pain as the hose squirts up creating a fountain for the local pooch to play with. The camera pans down into the deep recesses of the lawn, deeper and deeper, through the blades of grass until we see a frenzy of furious ants busy doing whatever they do.

Lynch often uses this device along with a persistent background hum to insinuate the dark underbelly of life, a trope that runs through just about all of his films. Think of The Elephant Man, another masterpiece in black and white. Twin Peaks is also a study in the evil doings hidden from plain sight in an ostensibly charming logging town in the Pacific Northwest.

The oeuvre of David Lynch is meant to subsume the viewer into his dark, yet goofy dream world of all things which lie just beneath the surface. Back at the Waverly that night in ‘78, our cadre of quirk found it a surprisingly delightful place to visit. We were well on our way to consuming a lifetime of Lynch.

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Jones' 101 Best Songs of 2024

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We glide through pines, unafraid, the day you are born. There is something about the heavy air that lets us feel buoyant, and when the odyssey begins, at that moment, it's like our ballooning heads have burst after so much time. Now, we can ruminate on the germ of life. What is life? When is life? Can we take life away and leave a negative space? Does my embryo have a tiny soul?

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It was late. Time crawled. I lay on the enormous bed, alone but for the cats who fought incessantly, no one snoring beside me. No one apneic begging to be shoved into breath. No one to name as we drifted off to sleep. This absence became more than my dead wife, it was a homunculus that had set its purpose toward me, when, at a time of weakness, I invited it to join me for lunch one day. Its name was Tod and we spoke of the blues, hot tubs, movies, and Christmas morning. We discussed cats and dogs and children. Tod spoke incessantly, buying rounds and rounds of ale and tequila. It listed all the pet names we had for each other, all the routines. It recalled the precise moment of our son's conception. It breathed deep the air around us as we dined al fresco, Covid-style, and exhaled extravagantly over our fellow picnickers. Tod and I: we pledged to meet here weekly in this space: drinking, talking, eating, laughing, crying, dancing, singing. We were puppets marching to a place we'd discovered at the crook of our elbows. There in repose, there in bliss.  Sneaking cigarettes on the way home, we would stagger through the neighborhood, exposed. Until one night, when the cats were bickering again, tiny puffs of black and gray fur; with periscope tails, they purred, the purring so loud, soft vibrations rocking me at last to dreamless sleep.

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“You know what burns my ass?” I said to a friend the other day. “A flame about so high?” She said, cutting me off. “Yeah, right, but no. The fact that so many suckers are taken in, fooled by this modern-day P.T. Barnum.” I said, waxing political, which I try to keep to a minimum in mixed company. “Oh, Okay,” she said looking at her watch. “You know, I totally forgot. I’m late for my Podiatrist appointment.” No politics next time.

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Maybe a week a…

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As someone who enjoys a challenge, I will tell you it can be gratifying. Take Ulysses by James Joyce. I have read that beast twice, once on paper and once on audio. The audible version was much more enlightening because the narrator knew how to read it, with all the right inflections and phrasing. I realized how hilarious it is, but I wouldn’t go so far as to pretend I understood every bit. I will admit I needed to read supplemental material to fill in the blanks.

Finnegans Wake is another story. I liste…

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Shivering in the heat, the teenagers gathered at the top of a sheer rockface, some peering over the edge into the mirrored pool sixty feet below. Big Ben, they named it, not after the famous London landmark, but the mythic figure who, according to locals from the New Jersey lake town of Spoon Mountain, was the first, not only to launch from the bluff but to perform a perfect swan dive into the pristine water. He was said to have moved to the lower forty-eight from Oahu when he was twelve, already an accomplished surfer and an expert diver. His name was Benjiro Bushido, Big Ben to his friends and anyone else who had heard tell of his what some would call fearless, what others might deem reckless, ways.

But that was thirty years ago, and ancient history was not in Jo Stratton's wheelhouse. She had come with her girlfriends only to watch the local lads prove themselves. Last year, she would not have been interested in indulging sweaty boys in cutoffs and hightops as they heaved themselves…

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As he placed the title on the counter to pay, the proprietor commented, "Oh, nice pick."

"Yeah, It's an old favorite," said Harry, "There's a lot of pain and loneliness in these pages, wouldn't you say? 

"Oh, I haven't read it yet, but what a classic, it's on my TBR list," He was a gaunt sort of gentleman with a wispy comb-over, his stick-like fingers snatched Harry's ten.

"Right," said Harry, a bit dubious. "Well, don't wait too long now, it's a quick read."

"Oooohhh, one of my absolute favorites,"  a voice floated from behind. Harry spun to encounter a large-boned woman towering above his shoulders. She appeared with eyes closed and a countenance that was meant to evince transportation to a higher realm.

Harry smiled as he'd learned to do in this sort of situation and nodded to the somewhat disarranged figure who now, he sensed, was intent on starting a meaningful, yet rambling dialog that might require his attention for better than an hour. He could think of nothing more anti-social to do than to thrust his new purchase out in front of his face, while coughing like a geriatric marathoner, and jitterbug off to the safety of the dense maze of bookstalls.

Settling himself among a stack of oversized art books, Harry began to paw through them, while at the same time trying hard to throw off as strong a stay-away vibe as he could. He came upon a folio of Van Gogh paintings, Van Gogh at St. Remy and Auvers. It sparked a memory that caught him up short. He had gone to this very exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in the city. He was single at the time and no one he knew was interested, but that had never deterred him.

As Harry thumbed through the hardback, his memory came sharper with each painting until there it was on the page before him: Wheat Field with Crows. He was back in the gallery, Van Gogh's work inducing a slight sense of vertigo, hypnotizing him: irises, cypresses, olive trees, the self-portraits, a starry night. And of course, the wheat fields, many wheat fields. Wheat fields, green and yellow, with cypresses and reapers, under the sun, the moon, in the rain. After some time, he found himself staring at fields of gold cleaved by the olive and taupe of a crossroads disappearing into a blue-black sky where two muted orbs hung, reflections of forgotten suns. And the ebony crows, threatening.

He was aware of another patron beside him on the viewing bench. "So foreboding, huh?" said a soft voice.

"That's just what I was thinking," said Harry, still ogling the masterpiece. Then he turned and saw her, herself still drawn to the painting.

"I'm in love with his brushstrokes. This one could be my favorite. The crows, did you know they represent both death and resurrection?" said the girl.

"Hmmm, no I did not know that, but I do know this was his last painting, so it kind of makes sense," Harry said. Now they'd discovered each other's faces.

"Well, that is debatable, but close enough. I do think Vincent's mood bleeds through in this one,"

Vincent? he thought. That's a bit chummy, is he a relation? He laughed to himself.

This was Maggie, or as she introduced herself, Margaret. Their initial words in the presence of what they both considered genius led to lunch at the museum cafe. The conversation ran seamlessly from one topic to the next. Opinions were confessed on anything from the state of pop music to the candidates in the coming Presidential race. Over drinks at the nearby bar and grill, Harry revealed he was from New Jersey. "That's OK, I won't hold it against you,” she said. But it turned out Margaret was from New Jersey too. They were married a year later.

Amid the antique curios, Harry closed the book and was about to return it to its place on the shelf with the other folios, when something, a thought, possessed him. He needed this book, It was a small token, but he should have it, to remind himself, to never forget. He'd owned a smaller volume, like this one but it had been lost long ago, along the way… the way of his life. That's decided then, it's my book. It has my memories in it. Be good to yourself, Maggie would say. So, he tucked his book under his arm, held on a little tighter in among the general rabble and headed for the exit.

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"Excuse me, sir!? Sir!?" Harry heard the voice calling, disembodied. As he approached the doorway-- that led to the parking lot, his car, his home-- a delicate hand gripped his shoulder, a bit roughly. He turned to face the now recognizable large-boned woman, eyes still closed, this time out of breath. In a show of poise, he slid the book behind his back in one conspicuous motion. But wait, she was giving him something.

"You left your book, I couldn't let you go without it," she said, between breaths. "Such a wonderful bunch of stories. It's my favorite, did I say that? Sherwood Anderson. You know with all those characters, what did he call them? Grotesques."

"Grotesques, yes, thank you," Harry was saying as he accepted the small volume in his left hand, his right still holding the other out of sight.

For three weeks, Harry obsessed. I mean the book was worth maybe thirty, forty dollars, he rationalized, but I stole it, lifted it, what did they call it when he was a kid? five-fingered discount? Yep, I got a five-fingered discount alright. How did that happen? What was I thinking? ...What was that noise?

Harry's cell was ringing. When he answered it, his son Spence was asking if Gramps wanted to watch a little Mad Max that evening, not the movie, the grandson, ha-ha! Harry let a sour groan escape, he hated Mel Gibson and bad jokes. Who the hell did my son ever get his sense of humor from? Spence was saying how sorry they were for the late notice and all, but they were able to get tickets to a show, last minute from some friend, who, they guessed, had better things to do, and they really wanted to go. He told his son, of course, drop Max off anytime, he had no place to be.

Spencer and Julie walked through the door a short time later with a satchel full of blankets, bedclothes, baby food, and tons of toys. Maxim toddled in, sleep still clouding his eyes, lower lip thrust out as prelude to a wail that could rival Bigfoot. After the exchange of hugs, Spencer started in.

"Wow Dad, the bookcases look pretty cool. I didn't realize you had so many books. Hey, so did you think about coming over on Memorial Day? Should be a good crowd, Barbecue, supposed to be a beautiful day, weather-wise. And Julie's Aunt Paula will be there," he left his mouth open, as his eyebrows inched up a wrinkled brow,

"Haven't really thought much about it, I have a lot of things to take care of here," said Harry.

"Like what, Dad? It's a holiday, take a break, have some fun."

"I'll think about it."

"What's to think about? C'mon Dad, you should get out more. It's been three years since Mom died. C'mon, we'll have a few beers, play some cornhole, eat some hot dogs. Yes?

"Yes, we'd love to have you, Harry," Julie added, still fussing with the toddler.

"Alright, alright, drop the hard sell. I guess you can count me in. And just so you know I have been getting out. Just a few weeks ago I went to one of those book fairs. Found another volume for my Modern Library collection, you know the books with the little dancer logo."

Harry pulled out Winesburg, Ohio to show his son and Julie. He bent down and held the object out to his grandson. "How about this Max, what d'you think?"

Young Maxim smiled, waved his arms, grabbed hold, and yanked Harry's prize from his hands. He studied it for a few seconds then threw it to the floor.

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Harry was able to settle Max down around eight. He found a few suitable books to read to him, collapsed into a comfortable chair in what was now the guest bedroom, and propped him on his lap. The first was the tale of a teddy bear who needed a pocket, then came a story about a good dog, named Carl. He thought he'd finish off with a Good Night book to put Max out for the evening. But as Harry read, "Good night room, Good night moon..." his eyelids soon thickened and fell.

He woke himself with a snore, there was no book in his hands and no child on his lap. He sprang from the recliner and loped from the bedroom to the study, the kitchen, the living room. No Max. He took the stairs two at a time up to his bedroom. Now he was sweating. He searched the upstairs bathroom. Where the hell could the little terror have gotten to in such a short amount of time?

He went down the hall to the last door: Maggie's studio. The room Harry had spent weeks transforming. The room where his books had been displayed before he put them away in favor of his wife's art supplies, her drawings and paintings. A place for her to create, where she could shine until that light began to dim and at last went dark.

In the room, colored pencils were strewn across the floor. A reclaimed canvas was laying in the corner, it now featured the tiny titanium white hand-prints of a curious and errant two-year-old. But Harry still couldn't find him anywhere. He checked under the drafting table. He inspected the closet and under the daybed. No Max. Then he saw something move in his periphery, The door was closing and behind it, a paint-stained and smiling tot crouched, holding a big book in his arms. After collecting himself, Harry said in a singsong,  "I see you, come on out of there, Mad Max."

The child laughed as he pounced from the hiding place and presented the book to his grandfather. He shook it. "Read this, Gamp," he said. And as he shook, a small object fell out on the paint-stained floor. Harry scooped up what appeared to be a business card. On it was printed:

Stolen Moments 

Used and Rare Books 

122 DePew Ave.

Dover, NJ

Proprietor: JoAnne Pugliese

"Huh. Dover. What are the odds?"  mused Harry and stuffed the card in his shirt pocket. "I'll take that," he said and gathered his grandson nearer. He sat on the floor and began skimming through the filched folio.

"See these pictures, Max? This was your grandma's favorite artist. Vincent, she called him. Your grandma, she was an artist herself, you know, and a beautiful soul. She was funny too, I bet she would have made you roll around this floor in fits of giggling. She would have loved you, cherished is maybe a better word. But you never got a chance to meet, you two, did you? I guess that's the hand you're dealt sometimes and it's gonna be OK. It is gonna be OK" He studied his grandson with a wry smile. "But right now, Mad Max, we need to get you cleaned up before Mommy and Daddy get back or I'm toast"

Memorial Day came and went with the bloom of mourning. Harry spent the holiday with his family in Spence's backyard, and he had an enjoyable time despite himself. They played a game or two of cornhole. He even had a long conversation with the bejeweled and gregarious Aunt Paula. Their politics didn't mix well but he managed to steer the subject ninety degrees to the intrigue of his favorite TV show, which triggered a lot of eyelash batting and prurient smiles on Paula’s end. Spence was on him again about going for therapy. "I have a friend," he said. "He swears by Gestalt." In the twilit yard, with a few IPAs and a couple of Nathan's Famous in his belly, Harry said goodnight and headed home happy.

Another two weeks passed until Harry roused enough courage to make the six-mile trek to Stolen Moments Rare Books. So close, he thought, I can't believe I've never checked this place out before. He found a spot to park on the avenue, killed the engine and sat there with his thoughts for a minute. There were a lot of them running through his head, not the least of which was, how am I going to explain this without looking like a fool? Well, it was almost like he was a different version of himself than he was a month ago, he could handle it now.

He took the book in his hands, again flipping through till he found the crows. Death and resurrection. He had no control over his memories, did he? They were independent things, persistent. They'd be exposed and they would fade, and, though indelible, be written over: a palimpsest. I wonder if this Joanne Pugliese will see the irony or possibly it won't matter much to her, I don't know. Can I help you, she'll say. No, but I can help you, ha! and maybe even myself. “OK, enough, let's do this," he said. "Let's see if we can't get some bonus material out of this, a Modern Library volume or two, perhaps." He shut the book and made his way into the shop.

© 2023 by Michael S. Jones

A name is usually the first thing we learn about a person. When we meet a stranger, we'll say something like, Hello, my name is Brad. Hi Brad, I'm Linda. Then comes the obligatory handshake followed by dreaded small talk. If a friend introduces us, we might say, "I've heard so much about you." But when I met Daryl's son yesterday at our annual company picnic, I realized I already knew something about him besides his name: the kid was a criminal.

Would it have been nice to know my attacker's name was Ryan Potts? Yes, I'd say so, since that happens to be the name of my boss's only son. The one he talks about incessantly-- though never a picture of him older than seven or eight, nothing recent. Now I know why. 

About a month before this awkward meeting, as always, I was in town, minding my own business, reading the morning papers and having my coffee in the park before heading to work. Joggers and bikers bounced by; pigeons huddled, scheming for crumbs; the squirrels chirped angril…

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As we grow older, our aesthetics change. I like to think we mature to accept diverse styles and genres that we might have ignored or just weren’t aware of in our youth. I like to think this because I know evolved taste simply doesn’t always occur, which I find sad. One may still listen to Lynyrd Skynyrd, that’s perfectly fine, my point is that Lynyrd Skynyrd should not be all that one still listens to. Personally, when it comes to music, I strive to broaden my scope, thereby expanding the definition of what I would consider legitimate art. I believe it’s healthy and more fullfilling to augment our demesne.

Back in the 1970s when I was a teenager, I was an awful music snob. I started off, preteen, listening to all sorts of stuff, mostly popular fare, like The Beatles, John Lennon, James Taylor, CSNY, Alice Cooper and Black Sabbath to name a few. In short I was all over the map having cut my teeth earlier on albums like: Johnny Cash at San Quentin and Bill Cosby’s To Russell My Brother, Whom I Slept With (I even had a Ferlin Husky album which I thankfully can’t remember the name of).

In those days (I was ten or eleven), I was heavily influenced by my immediate family. My father was a big Country and Western music fan and my brother, who is 13 years older than I and had recently returned from a couple of tours in Vietnam, owned 8 track tapes of the Plastic Ono Band and Four Way Street, which I listened to incessantly. One Christmas, I received Live at the Fillmore East, a classic live performance by the Allman Brothers Band which really opened my mind to that type of jazzy blues jam sound (think In Memory of Elizabeth Reed). The next year my brother bought me, Procol Harum Live with the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra, and wow, that opened my tastebuds up to Progressive music of the day.

In High School I began listening to the gold standard of the progressive scene. Yes and the three Gs: Genesis, Gentle Giant, and Gong. Of course there were other progressive heavyweights we loved as well, like Pink Floyd, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Renaissance. Later on King Crimson, Van Der Graf Generator, Henry Cow and Frank Zappa blew our minds and we were convinced we were the coolest kids when it came to the music scene.

We were ridiculously discerning, too. Perfectly fine bands like Rush, Journey, Styx or Kansas didn’t make the cut; the vocals weren’t quite right or the band was too popular or maybe a chord progression didn’t include enough minor tonality. We were purists, so when Genesis lost Peter Gabriel, then Steve Hackett, they became passé (too much Phil Collins). When Gentle Giant released Giant For A Day, it triggered their death knell.

One of those favored bands was Jethro Tull. Led by mainstay flutist and vocalist, Ian Anderson,— the Pan of contemporary rock and roll— the group performed music sprouting from blues and jazz influences, a claim one needs only to listen to My Sunday Feeling or Serenade To A Cuckoo from their debut offering, This Was, to affirm.

when I was fifteen, In 1975, I had the opportunity to see the War Child Tour in Madison Square Garden, NYC. A friend and I were lucky enough to get tickets through his parents, who owned a recording studio in Manhattan at the time. From the fifth row of the orchestra, we looked on wide-eyed as bassist Jeffrey Hammond Hammond, donning a zebra-striped suit, tossed zebra-striped dodge balls (aka zebra poop) into the crowd. Martin Barre, thrilled us during the guitar breaks of My God. Anderson careened about the stage twirling his flute and strategically striking his signature pose: perched on one leg, the other bending, poised in mid-air, ready to jeté like some crazed Nijinsky. After a piped arpeggio or two, one hand would rise toward the heavens in a flourish.

Jethro Tull was another of those bands that we (sometimes unfairly) scrutinized for cracks in the shell of sonic authenticity, if you will. If the shell developed even the tiniest chink, the possibility of it spidering out and fracturing became likely. With Tull this began with their ninth major LP, Too Old To Rock and Roll: Too Young To Die! First of all the title was too long (including the colon and exclamation point) and a bit hokey. Secondly, they had a big hit with a song of the same title which seemed overproduced, with orchestral strings and all. Thirdly, the rest of the album was not strong enough to save it (that was how we assessed the work back then, but as I listen to the collection now, it’s really not a bad set of music).

They bounced back nicely with the 1977 release of the folk-heavy Songs From the Wood, it’s melodies harkening back to Passion Play. Then Heavy Horses, a solid offering, yet it seemed like the harbinger of pap to come. And so it proved to be. With albums like: Stormwatch, A, Broadsword and the Beast, Crest of A Knave, and Rock Island; the 80s were not exactly an auspicious time for the group (even Eddie Jobson couldn’t help much).

Skip ahead, post Covid, to Jethro Tull’s 2022’s release, The Zealot Gene: JTs first album in 19 years. With these songs, I hear the influences of the band’s roots. There is harmonica, which I haven’t heard on a Tull song since Stand Up’s A New Day Yesterday (don’t beat me up if you can think of a later example). Issued after their fiftieth anniversary tour, this album signalled a reformation of the band.

At 75, with his latest composition, Rök Flöte, Ian Anderson has written a song cycle inspired by Norse mythology and the Poetic Edda. Anderson’s flutework has not waned over the years, but, sadly, his voice has. There is little power behind the vocals on Rök Flöte; they are diminished, which is understandable— and it really doesn’t detract much from the material— though it is disheartening for a long-time fan to hear. Many of the lyrics are spoken for whatever effect, possibly due to the narrative context of the source material. But this is not a folk record, however much the traditional music tropes try to barge through; there is some hard driving rock and roll going on betwixt the grooves. I have been enjoying this new record by an old favorite and it gladdens me, as I grow older and older, that I am still able to do so.

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Twitter without the Musk

First I’d like to comment on the biggest new addition here on Substack: Notes. I haven’t used it but one time so far, but I can tell it will be popular with the Twitter crowd. The market here on Substack would appear to be a good fit. Not so much for writers of my ilk however. By that I mean, unknown and mostly unread. But overall it’s a useful tool to promote oneself and other well known folks with newsletters on this platform.

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Giving Who the Business?

Recently I’ve been re-watching the HBO series, Succession, the first three seasons. I’m still on season 3 with only two more episodes to go before I can start the current season, so for heaven’s sake don’t drop any spoilers on my ass, thank you.

The Roys (an apt surname for the Kings of media) are one zany glop of dysfunction. The old man, a twenty first century Lear, the grizzly of industry, Logan Roy, portrayed by one of the most talented actors working today, Brian Cox, modeled on Fox media mogul and billionair…

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Notes is a new space on Substack for us to share links, short posts, quotes, photos, and more. I plan to use it for things that don’t fit in the newsletter, like work-in-progress or quick questions.

Go to Notes

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