First of all, I don’t know if this will be a running series or not. I’m watching the World Cup, and we’ll see how often I write about it.
Second, I would like to again pay homage to my friend Shawn, who in the Summer of 2002 took the time to make me a convert to the world of international football.
Third, I am going to try to watch as many matches as possible, but I will put a preference on the teams that I normally follow; USA, England, Mexico, and South Korea. I may drop in on some others, but this will be my primary focus. If they all get knocked out of the tournament, then I might stop following… you know, like a true fan would.
Right now, I have been watching the England v Iran match since the 30th minute. We are in stoppage time right now, and England is up 3-0. Iran doesn’t look terrible, it’s just that England looks like a well-oiled machine. I mean, they scored three goals in ten minutes, and Kane hasn’t taken a good crack at goal yet, so this could be a very long day for Iran. If I was the rest of the group, I would say everyone needs to find a way to gum up the Kane/Sterling duo of England, or this will just turn into a fight for second. Being that they have just gone in for halftime, I don’t see Iran coming back to earn a draw let alone a win. I know, really stepping out on a limb with this take.
And so, my World Cup 2022 journey has started. Just like when it was in Russia last time, there is a feeling of hypocrisy blanketing this tournament. Not only because of the blatant bribery that took place for Qatar to get the Cup, but another authoritarian nation gets to put on a façade to the world that they are a modern, open, and free country. This will be an issue I will be wrestling with for the length of the tournament, and I am sure this won’t be the last time that I mention it.
Let’s see how this play out.
Oh, Second half started and Saka scored again. 4-0 England.
Wait Iran, just scored! Holy crap! It’s 4-1, but at least Iran is still fighting.
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I shouldn’t watch the World Cup. FIFA, the organization that runs the World Cup, is corrupt as the day is long, and they were paid off by Qatar so that this authoritarian nation could host the competition. Just gander at this, if you haven’t heard it yet. That’s bad, but let’s not forget that Qatar has a history of human rights abuses, and in the rush to build these stadiums in the desert, thousands of migrant workers died. That is truly horrendous, and unconscionable. Then today, Qatar banned beer sales at the stadiums. Now, now, wine and alcohol will be available in the VIP boxes, but not for everyone else. Yes, fans will be able to get alcohol at their hotels, and other designated spots. I don’t know much, but I do know that when you ban something, people will just find a way around it. That leaves me to believe that there will be a whole lot of pre-gaming from certain fans from England and Germany. Well, actually, all the teams from Europe, if I am to be honest. The World Cup in Qatar is a shitshow before it even started. And yet the whole world will watch. Myself included. There is a little shame in that, sure, but I really like the idea of a global sports competition. It’s not the equalitarian event I want it to be, but I keep hoping that if all of us who love this event keep putting pressure on the organizers, that soon we can have the fair, sportsmanship advocating event that we all really want. Also, Mexico will choke in the group stage, USA will make it to the knockout round but lose their first match, and England takes third place. That’s my prediction, as I have no idea who will win the whole thing.
I keep expecting Twitter to blowup – just explode in a ball of flames. Sadly, I see now that it will be a slow decline, like Myspace and Tumblr. Everyone will migrate somewhere else, and the trolling begins anew. I just can’t make heads or tails of Mastodon. (Seriously, I need to pick a sever? Whatever.) I think my Tumblr account is still active. Just look for me @mlgroff wherever handles are used.
I’m ready for Thanksgiving. We’ll be shopping for the meal this weekend, as we have had our menu ready to go for two weeks now. I’m looking forward to this holiday because in our house, we hang around in pajamas all day, and eat when the meal is ready. It is a very lazy day in our house. As I have gotten older, and now that I am a father, Thanksgiving has come to symbolize for me the last full day of rest I can get before the crazy marathon of Christmas starts. So, Here! Here! Turkey Day!
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(Yes, I would say that this story will be spoiled.)
I like flash fiction, and, I do take some responsibility for this, but most of the flash fiction I encounter is rather serious. Coming across a piece that is humous, and one that also delivers a punch, is like finding a tiny gem. “In the Garden” by Elliot Harper is that sort of flash fiction. I mean, it is about a foul-mouthed gnome who lives in a garden, and has a rather unconventional philosophical conversation over tea with the narrator.
The story exists in a dream the narrator is having, and a bookend structure is used here; the story fades in from darkness to light, and then ends by going from light to darkness. Between those fades, we are in the narrators garden, but it is never clear if the garden exists only in this dream, or is the garden from the narrator’s real life and is being dreamt about. We can assume that the garden is from real life, as the narrator claims ownership of it, knows the gnome because the guy is referred to being in his usual place, and the narrator says he has worked hard on the garden – but is this setting from the narrator’s real life? I say this because the gnome says to the narrator that everything one sees is just the brain’s interpretation. Do we even see the same things? Can two people interpret reality the same way?
And then I started to think that this story might actually be a metaphor about death, and how our existence is only momentary compared to the totality of the Universe. The gnome has a mini-milky Way galaxy under his red hat, and then the narrator mentions how it will be a shame to have to leave the garden soon. This lead me to start wondering about the bookend structure again; the story ends with a fade to black, and not the narrator waking up. Such as, the story comes into existence, and then goes out. Even the last line, referring to the fade out as “existence” in a “half-forgotten dream.”
Did I mention that the story is funny? It is, by the way.
It’s refreshing to read a piece that makes you think. It’s impressive to do it in such a compact form.
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I like flash fiction. It’s a literary form that I think correctly reflects the time we live in; cut the bullshit and get to the point. And it also feels like it’s a big middle finger to those writing professors that used the cliched response to their students that “less is more” but then would turn around and complain that their short story didn’t take enough time to develop theme, character, setting…
Where stream of consciousness tried to capture the feeling of how thoughts and emotions roll around in one’s mind, flash fiction is an example of a thought, emotion, or memory that explodes to life in your mind, then fades away. “Big Phipps Climbs the High Dive” by Brendan Gillen is a sharp piece of flash fiction that seems to fit that definition.
The piece is a memory from high school, and not a particularly fond one, but I wager that most people who write fiction don’t have good memories from high school. It’s about Phipps, a larger kid who is about to win a belly flop contest. The narrator unfortunately gave Phipps an awful nickname “Beans” which he regrets, and even tries to get other students to stop using, but the cats out of the bag. There is a sense that the narrator regrets many things when it comes to Phipps, but the narrator never gives us what Phipps full, real name is. It’s as if Phipps never became real to the narrator, even though we are given insights to who Phipps is. He is a boy forced to play football because of his size. He likes playing Warcraft, which the narrator has done with him at Phipps’ home, but the narrator won’t let himself becomes friends with him. An example of peer pressure on the narrator is given, and the feeling of shame just oozes off of the story. And after Phipps has won the contest, the narrator tries to talk to Phipps, but the narrator admits what he wants is for the charade of their “friendship” to continue. Phipps response is a perfect button for this piece, as Phipps is aware of the type of person the narrator really is, and is done with playing along.
(And we are at the part of the blog post where I ask if you liked it. Then I ask you to please like, share, comment, or follow this blog. You know…)
(The short story “Returns” by Annie Ernaux appeared in the November 14th, 2022 issue of The New Yorker.)
(Yes, I will SPOIL this story.)
Illustration by Sébastien Plassard
The New Yorker publishing a shorty story by Annie Ernaux for this issues, is the equivalent of a company softball team bringing in a ringer to bat cleanup; Like this story was going to be bad. Such is the world of publishing a Nobel Prize winner writer.
But why was it good?
The story is simple, or, more like, is direct and to the point. Plot wise; Daughter comes to visit her elderly mother who lives alone. But the first sentence sets the tone for the piece succinctly:
The last time I saw my mother at her home, it was July, a Sunday.
Immediately, there is a feeling of sadness, mourning, even regret, coupled with Summer and a feeling of relaxation as it is a Sunday. We are loaded with emotional information that only us and the writer know. We have been made a confidant as well as a witness as to what will follow.
The story is told in three sections, three acts. The first, the introduction of the setting and characters, as well as showing that there is some awkwardness between the mother and visiting daughter. The second section goes deeper into the awkwardness between mother and daughter, showing that the teenaged years were difficult and filled with fights and screaming. These are two people trying to make amends; the mother wanting to daughter to stay longer – offering gooseberries -, but the daughter is willing to leave early if the conversation lags. And the third section, the narrator acknowledges that the mother has no power over her anymore. The memories of the narrator’s former life come back to her, again showing that she was unhappy there, and wanted to leave. Then a stray cat arrives, which the mother feeds and allows to stay, and for a short time the mother and daughter find a subject of conversation. And then the climax, the daughter goes to leave, but the mother gives her a form she needs help filling out, but the daughter refuses to do it at that time. The daughter promises to fill it out and send it back to her mother at a later date, which upsets the mother. Then the narrator describes leaving the town, and how the places fade behind her in the distance. Finally, we learn the mother soon suffers sunstroke and is admitted to the local hospital. When the daughter returns to the home, she finds the gooseberries in the refrigerator that she forgot to take, but now the berries are spoiled and brown, liquid lump.
This story flows easily like water in a stream; it gently takes you where it wants to go. It moves so well, that all the little tricks to elicit an emotional response are but ripples on the narrative. We know that death is coming from the first line, and short stories love dealing with death, but Ernaux talks about death by not saying death. It is hinted and lingers in the background of what is to follow. As the story continues, there is the tension between the mother and daughter, shown by the slight bickering about locking the front door. Moving deeper in, we learn the reasons for this tension, knowing that this is not something that is easily overcome. But these two don’t hate each other, as when the cat arrives, we see that they can connect and share. But as we know, all visits must end, and we see how the mother tries to prolong their time. By this point, we understand each characters motivations, what they want, and how they cannot give the other what they need. The melancholy comes through these passages. These are the last moments, and this last interaction isn’t acrimonious, but also not affectionate either. This is the parting one has when you believe there will be another Sunday, and another chance to make up for lost time. It is all implied, and never directly spoken. And as the daughter rides the train home, and she does love her mother, from her description of leaving, we know that she doesn’t want to be there. And when the end of the story arrives, as we knew it would, the gooseberries in the fridge serve as the button for the story; the lost opportunity that withered and died.
In talented hands, storytelling seems so simple and effortless. Breaking this story down, examining it, it’s like I can hear the important notes that Ernaux is hitting in the middle of this melody of a story. It is impressive, this level of skill.
Annie Ernaux doesn’t need my endorsement, but she is a ringer.
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