Reading – Lorin Duckman Today

Nathan Bedford Forrest Removed

In September, we visited Memphis, ostensibly to see the Motel, Graceland and Sun Records. Arriving early for our tour of the place where Elvis recorded, we walked to a nearby park which had been the subject of litigation and consternation over a monument erected to honor Nathan Bedford Forrest.

An American flag flew over the statue’s base. I was appalled. Here is a man who massacred 300 helpless black Union soldiers and served as the first wizard of the KKK and not only do they have a monument to him, but after it is removed they fly an American flag.

As an artist, I love to look at statues, reminded as I am of their three dimensional quality, a level of visual arts not allowed to photographers, as well as their historical value, but they belong in museums where people have the choice of looking at them or looking away. And parks, nature parks, educating people about nature and schools, where people learn to read and think, should not be named after them.

Yes, he is an historical figure and someone who should be studied. But so should Dr. King who was murdered in the same area. No statue stands at the motel, a place our tour guide neglected to have the bus stop. I wouldn’t want one there either, but I would have wanted to step out on the terrace and cry.

Yesterday, I watched The General, one of the greatest films ever made, starring America’s leading comic actor. But, is it still relevant as it portrays a Confederate victory, a Rebel outsmarting the Union Army? Yes, as a historical artifact. Not worthy of a statue, though.

Jim Thayer Nears His End

Usually, when I walk down Church Street, elation fills my heart when a person who hasn’t been around for a while finds me. Jim is one of the guys whose smile always brightens my day.

During an early winter cold spell, I carried a sleeping bag around for days looking for him. Our schedules sometimes don’t coincide, me being an early morning person, while he sometimes roams until late at night and then sleeps in or out, depending on the weather. Jim said he’d been around, just not at the same time as me. I must have missed his decline.

Last time I shot him and his daughter Amanda was Christmas morning. They were on their way to a meal at Junior’s, an annual food event for street people. Both seemed a little beaten down. She’s away right now. People say she was doing OK for a while. I saw him again in mid-January. He was talking with a cop about something. I gave him a dollar, staring without talking, before moving along. Enough drama. Didn’t know if he was engaged in a social or investigative conversation.

But, on St. Patrick’s day, as he waited for the parade of Ireland Cement Mixers, we chatted. He looked awful. Even the days in the past when he had been carousing and not taking care of himself, he had a sense of life. He had helped people who had fallen or who couldn’t take care of themselves, like Paul O’Toole. Out early, he would pick up litter in City Hall Park. He told jokes and stories. Had a high sense of morals and etiquette. Got pissed if you didn’t greet him and upset if he missed you. Today, he answered the question, “how are you,” with “… not too good. Doctors say I don’t have a chance.” He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, though I asked several times.

He refused my offer to buy him a new coat. “Not going to be needing a new coat where I am going.” Turned down my open offer to do anything which would make him more comfortable or happy. “No need. I have been all the places I needed to go and done all I wanted to do. Just waiting for the end.” Damn. I took a dollar out of my wallet and offered it to him. He refused and then reached into his pocket, took out a silver dollar. “Here Duck. You take this dollar. Its for all the dollars you have given me over the years.” “I don’t need your dollar,” I said. “Then give it to someone who does. When was the last time a homeless person gave you a dollar?’ I took it.

Humble Phil #2

Have to be fair. Nothing he writes could leave me unaffected, so I thought. I did remember some additional things about the story. But I still didn’t like it.

I read the book on a respite from Infinite Jest, about which more will come later. I have reached page 300 of this monstrous tome, a page of note, because I am reading more quickly and understanding what I am reading without having to reread. In the back of my head, a place readers go with books they hard read, I had traveled off the pages too often into my own experiences, real and imagined, not to mention the travail of understanding what I was reading and seeing the vivid images created by the words. Moseying around at the Fletcher Free Library, I saw two copies of Phil’s book, a book I had not bought due to the less than favorable reviews. Hey, out of sorts actor who lost his skills who has an affair with a lesbian after his wife leaves him late life who cannot figure out if he should die in the fire or put it out, and only 140 pages, what could be bad!

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