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Pascal Covici, Jr (Editor), �The Portable Steinbeck�

Started March 3 � Finished March 8, 2005; 727 pages. Posted 18 April 2005

They call this The Portable Steinbeck, yet it�s longer than any of his other books. Hmmmm.

ALERT: A long, sad, whiskey-drenched soliloquy follows. You�ve been warned.

I suppose some people might say I was an angry child. I�m not so sure the tag fits, myself. My problem dealt more along the lines that I didn�t like being told what to do, and in most cases simply refused to do it. This led to my first serious clash with authority, where I was kicked out of kindergarten.

Later clashes happened in first through third grades. I can�t remember the specifics, but it usually revolved around the teacher telling me to do something, me saying no, them trying to punish me, and me kicking them in the shins and running out the door to dive in the huge hedge that adults couldn�t make their way through. Even though I can�t remember the specifics of why I sat in that hedge for hours, I do remember the numerous times my mother had to come get me, standing outside for hours, trying to coax me to come out.

The officials would have meetings with my parents to try and figure out what lay behind my behavior. �It�s not that he�s not well-adjusted,� they would say. �Because he is. And he�s very bright. But he can get so angry, particularly when he�s told to do something.�

My parents, steeped in the new age hippie philosophy, only without any of the music or psychedelics, shrugged their shoulders. When pressed upon the matter of why I might be acting the way I did, my father simply offered that I was a fire sign, as if that excused the matter.

This being long before children were prescribed things for any signs of having an actual personality, my parents would try and reason and debate with me in order to make me see the error of my ways. This tactic worked in a way, as I stopped having quick flashes of anger, although I think that may have been more because I didn�t like being pigeon-holed as hot-tempered simply because I was an Aries. But I adopted their tactic, and soon I was using the Socratic Method on authority types, long before I knew who Socrates was.

In addition, our parents were teaching us to value intelligence. As I grew older, I saw the ones who reacted with their fists as the slack-jawed, glassy-eyed mouth breathers that they were. I stopped my habit of kicking. Debating was much more fun, and far more satisfying.

That didn�t mean my behavior problems stopped, however. It just meant the quick flashes had manifested themselves into a slow burn; indignation rather than infuriation. But slow burns can get out of control as well, and as such, I have a common disclaimer that I tell people: it�s very hard to make me angry. But if you�re around when it happens, run.

So while most people went through middle school and high school with a fair amount of after-school fights, I avoided all of that. For the most part, I reasoned my way through my own problems, or problems that others had with me. From that tactic, I�ve only had three real fights in my life. Since I didn�t see the point of slapping fleshy mitts against each other, only to cause bruises that would heal within a week or so, I skipped the common street brawl.

If I was angry enough to try and bring you harm, then I was going to cause real damage.

I went for the eyes.

The first one involved me leaping over people trying to get between us. I was wearing one of those ridiculous punk rock rings with the long spikes and aimed for his face. I missed his left eye by a half inch.

The second two fights didn�t happen for another four years, but they were in quick succession. The first involved grabbing the guy by his head and using it as a battering ram as I ran with him across the room. I stopped myself just as I had his head raised in both hands and was about to slam it on the corner of a table that was bolted to the floor.

The last one involved me rabbit punching the guy in the throat and then locking my fist onto his voice box. I jammed one finger into the pressure point behind the ear, and positioned my thumb over his eye. At the last minute, I switched my thumb to his cheek before squeezing. It took three people to peel me off him.

By this time I was writing and thus was able to analyze my behavior. The viciousness of my attacks frightened me. True, on the last two I stopped myself before causing real harm, but only at the last minute. Worse was realizing where my instincts pointed me when I was that angry. It was another six years before fury got the better of me again.

I described this incident, talking about Steinbeck in an entry about Stephen King of all places. I referenced this occasion again in another entry that I don�t remember. I don�t do this because I�m proud of what happened. Just the opposite � I think it�s the worst thing I�ve ever done in my life. I remind myself of what happened then because I never want anything like that to happen again.

Still, just as stopped myself from being a kicking, biting little bastard to become more thoughtful and introspective, that last incident knocked me into overdrive, causing me to probably be too contemplative. It took two long years of severe self-doubt and depression before Steinbeck, with two simple sentences, snapped me out of it.

�Do you take pride in your hurt? Does it make you feel large and tragic?�

Before I started this reading project of reading and finishing everything I bought, way back in 2002, I was in the habit of re-reading The Grapes of Wrath at least once a year, and this tradition began eight years previous. Since 2002, I haven�t re-read anything, with the exception of Daredevil reprints, since I had the individual issues.

Now I�m reading excerpts from Grapes of Wrath and remembering all that I love about the novel, and wishing for other pieces to be included. I read through other selections, smiling at the frog massacre in Cannery Row and grimacing that they�ve included the entire collection of The Red Pony which I never liked.

And then I reach the section for East of Eden and I come across those two sentences.

�Do you take pride in your hurt? Does it make you feel large and tragic?�

I had to put the book down and collect myself. It will be a year next month when The Ex first broke up with me, although we got back together less than a month later. Still, it�s been almost seven months since I broke up with her, if only because it was obvious that was what she wanted.

Seven months. Seven months and I�m still this sad about it. Seven months and I still think about her every day.

�Do you take pride in your hurt? Does it make you feel large and tragic?�

Actually, John, no. No, I don�t.

Ok. Maybe I do. Happy?

This is why I should re-read more of my favorites.

Though with my skills of self-reflection, I know why I feel the way I do. Good times with her beat out the bad by 100-to-one. I can�t think of anybody that I connected so quickly and completely with. I love her � truly and deeply. And I know she loves me too. Even now, seven months later, when we�re around each other and I�m not over-wrought with self-pity, I can see it in her smile. I can see it just behind her eyes with the splash of color around the cornea. I can feel her watching me as I work, or torture my cat, or play video games.

It feels good. And if you�ve ever had that feeling, you should know how hard that is to give up.

And hell, she visited me on Saturday wearing a skirt with garters and high boots. That makes it even harder.

Harder to let go, you perverts.

Not that, I mean harder to let go of my feelings! Geez!

But, for whatever reasons, it isn�t enough.

I understood that. Hell, I even accepted it for the most part. But I�ve read too many books, and I know that I�m a romantic sap. Despite the bitter and cynical demeanor, I want the hero to have things turn out right for them at the end, particularly when it�s obvious that they deserve it.

I still feel like that. Even now with this very entry. Though I�m posting it on the 18th, the majority of it was written on the 11th. I�ve saved the post until now because I�m hoping that some miracle will happen by my birthday, which was yesterday. I�m hoping something will happen that causes me to erase what I�ve written. The fact that you�re reading this means that it didn�t. It�s hard to add to this as I broke my clavicle in three places on Saturday night, and I�m now typing with one hand while hopped up on Vicodin and Newcastle. But there are things I need to add, because now I�m lonely, old, and broken.

So yesterday was my birthday. As a birthday present, the University of Hawaii has accepted my application. I leave in August.

You�ll excuse me if I�m not totally thrilled by that.


Rating: Worth used.

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