Tag: #SanFrancisco

  • Short Story Review: “What the Forest Remembers” by Jennifer Egan

    (The short story, “What the Forest Remember” by Jennifer Egan, appeared in the January 3rd & 10th, 2022 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Why did our parents do the things that they did? Why did my dad stop buying sports cars in the 70’s and then start buying station wagons? I can guess, which is that he started a family, and two door sports cars just aren’t practical for a growing family. That’s a logical answer, and most likely correct, but there is an outside chance it could be something else. Do I want to know his thought process as to why he made this decision when it came to cars? No. I want to believe he made that decision because he loved his family and it was the right thing to do. I would hate to know that he was guilted by my mother to give up his sports car for a station wagon, and he spent the rest of his life resenting her and his kids. It’s not a pleasant thought, but it is possible.

    I feel that was what Jennifer Egan was trying to tackle with her short story, “What the Forest Remembers,” which is a fun read. She tells the story of four men, three of which who are married with families, all living around the San Francisco area in 1965, who go on a trip to the wilderness around Eureka, CA. The point of the trip is to visit a marijuana farm/commune, experiment with grass, and have a good weekend. The crazy right turn of this story is that the narrator, Charlie, who is the daughter of Lou, one of the four men going on the trip, has access to the memories of her father, the rest of the men, and even some of the people at the commune. This is because Charlie exists in the near future where people have uploaded their memories into a Collective Consciousness, and thereby, one can review memories and thoughts of the past. It was a bit of a jarring twist, but it had a slight Vonnegut feel to it, so I went with it. I don’t want to spoil the story, but this trip plays an important role in the three married men’s lives.

    I had to read this story twice, because the first time through it, I just felt like I had missed something. The story and the writing is very, I think, charming is the best way to describe it, but the ending left me feeling unsatisfied. I sat on it for a day, and then decided I needed to take another crack at it. The second time through, I began to pick up on a little of the nuance of disappointment Charlie has with her father, which I found at odds with the concept of the story. If the premise is that Charlie can see and hear her father’s thoughts and memories, then there shouldn’t be any vagueness on her understanding of his intention and thought process of those decisions. There are moments and lines that are dropped by Charlie about her father’s thoughts towards her, that you would believe would be difficult for her to hear, but these thoughts are treated like adjectives in describing a person’s hair color. In fact, at one point in the story, Charlie rhetorically asks what should be done with this overload of information that comes from viewing a person’s memories? Which causes Charlie to state, “Not every story needs to be told.”

    And I think that is where my issue with this story lies; why is this being told? If Charlie is not affected by her father’s memories; they neither make her happy nor upset, then why is this being shared? If you remove Charlie and the Collective Consciousness database, then this is a story of a consequential weekend for three men in 1965. But Charlie and the database is in there, so the question must be asked, as to why? Shouldn’t Charlie and her feelings towards what happened be paramount to the story’s resolution? And that right there is why the story felt unsatisfying for me; what does Charlie think about all of this? It’s like a punch got pulled at the very end.

  • Lawrence Ferlinghetti; Literary Passing

    I always agreed with Lawrence Ferlinghetti, that Ferlinghetti was not a Beat Poet. He was like a Beat Older Brother; A Beat Renaissance Man. Bookstore owner, poet, publisher, painter, advocate, champion, and everything else.

    I did feel the loss of his passing the other day. Another tangible connection to the last major literary movement in America is gone. Sure, there have been great writers since the Beats, and styles like Modernism, Post-Modernism, and Absurdism, but all of that was created and existed in an intellectual definition sort of a way; Disparate blips on a literary map that had data points in common. But the Beats did meet up, discuss, drank, and traded anti-establishment ideas in person. Overly romanticized? Clearly, but it still was a flesh and bone movement with connections between artists. And again, another of those figures is gone.

    I made it to City Lights Bookstore once, but I wasn’t able to go inside. I had a job interview at a theatre, which ran long, so I only was able to do a pass by on the street, before I had to run and go catch my ferry ride back to Larkspur. I thought I would be back, and have a chance to spend time in the store, but I didn’t get the job, and well… life got in the way. I stood in front of City Lights for just a moment, looking at it. A place I had read about forever, or at least high school, and it was more a confirmation that it did exist, it was real. That these people did the things I read about.

    Ferlinghetti ensured that we heard voices, and ideas, and thoughts that went counter to prevailing winds. It took courage to publish Howl, and to follow it all the way through the court case that established the redeeming social importance of the poetry.

    Thanks, Lawrence. We needed you.