Tag: Writer

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The Entire Mourning

  • by Albert Berkshire

It doesn’t fade. People, sayings, inspirational quotes that invade your preferred social media feeds even; they all offer a hopeful lie. In turn, we all grab ahold of the wish bar and get pulled along for the ride of disappointment. 

Somewhere, as we float through the clouds; bob across the waves; peer, squinting, over the mountaintops, we hope the lie can become truth. Perhaps the one quasi-inspirational quote to ring true is, “It’s the hope that kills you”. 

So true is the mourning. 

Years ago – at least it feels like years ago – my partner informed me that should she pass, I had to wait one full calendar year before taking up with someone new. I’m sure it was brought on by the discovery that a person we knew had found a new partner mere months after the passing of their recently deceased life partner. I promptly informed my wife I would never marry again…which may have been delivered with incorrect intonation, thus prompting a stern look… and a tepid reception to my somewhat apologetic clarification. 

She, in turn, informed me she only had to wait six months – because someone had to cook. I suspect she wouldn’t want to ski or ride alone, either. But it was definitely the former that was of most concern. Not everyone likes to cook. I think 3 months is ample time for her. One should not risk scurvy. 

Truth be told – unlike the aforementioned social media quotes that so many love to mindlessly repost for their own self-help (as if posting said jargon-filled cries for help would somehow solve their collective predicaments) – it would be much more than a year for me. And I speak from experience when I confirm for you the falsehoods found in the promise the emptiness and pain will fade. If anything, it amplifies with surges, not unlike a king tide – something we should remember happens with the push and pull of the moon. A cycle of frequency, ever present in our little piece of the timeline in which we humans plod along. 

A surge of grief does not respect your mid-flight joy to be headed on a vacation, nor does it care you’ve just harnessed the ideal 15-knot wind on a beam reach, or even that you just spent three hours climbing the side of a cliff to reach a flat, safe, stress free summit. No untracked powder run; no flowing singletrack; no glass-water paddle gives you reprieve. Those are the moments of joy and relief struck aside by the inappropriate arrival of the reminder you can’t pick up a phone or send a message to share your achievement. The lines of communication have been severed. There is no tech support capable of reconnecting you. The reality of abandonment lingers. 

This, of course, is not to say everyone abandons their loved ones on purpose. Quite the contrary. Aside from a few in unrelenting pain who willingly and rightfully choose to travel on to the next plane of existence – or not – depending on their belief system, very few accept the end of their life with grace. 

Regrets, I’m sure, are the first thing to offer up. We might choose to self-eulogise in a reminiscent fashion, give definite instructions to our friends and descendants, or even spend our last days, hours, or minutes worrying about how others will cope in our absence. The latter, I’m inclined to think is utter arrogance. In turn, we the diligent bedside sitters offer comfort to the soon to be deceased that “we’ll be just fine” – another example of arrogance an observer of the human species would find typical, if not amusing. We really are brutally self-indulgent…right to the bitter end. 

And that’s where I have to leave this uncomfortable rambling. The mind of Albert is not a reliable source for calm thought. No quotes should be heeded. No ramblings should receive more than a minor deliberation. When colleagues joke about about my extended holidays and random work hours, and lightheartedly quip, “I want to be Albert”, I promptly remind them, “No. You do not. No one should to be trapped in this mind”. There are no self-help posti-quotes that will repair this brain…or heart. 

But one must try…arrogant as that may be. Even if it takes the entire mourning.  

My mother, Norma Mary Hartery-Berkshire, passed away ten years ago today – 14 January 2013. She was ready to go, having stated, “I’ve had enough. I’m outta here.” It was a final, definite declaration from a lady who knew how to end a debate with grace. In hindsight, it’s funny; however, to be candid, it’s been awful. But it’s time to start writing about happier things. 

Perhaps the happier writings will finally make the mourning fade to black. 

Norma was a delight. She had quite a presence for such a tiny lady, and could fill a room with her curiosity and interest in others. Most of all, she would debate anything just for the joy of conversation. How fortunate were we to have shared in her life.

Albert Thomas Berkshire is a writer, director, producer, and traveling booze model. He has lost too many to death, and equally, too many to life. To see a happier world though Albert’s eyes, follow him on Instagram for random moments of delight…and of course, some ever-tasty, spouse-enjoyed, self-indulgent food porn. Just not a poached egg. The vortex of poach eludes him still.

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That Shirt I Love

by Albert Berkshire

No one ever asks you about your favourite shirt.

People do, however, love to ask about your favourite colour, or food, or car, or brand of bike components…or more recently my favourite book or musician.

Maybe it’s the debate of merits that prompts these questions. People love to debate things.

Years ago, despite what I thought was an impressive collection of Nazareth vinyl, had you asked me my favourite band, I might have said it was Kiss. I had what I was certain were all their albums (yes, also on vinyl), I dressed up as Ace Frehley for Halloween when I was in sixth grade, and I certainly didn’t miss the opportunity to serenade a girl in my elementary school class (from a safe distance, of course) with the words to Beth. Though her name wasn’t Beth. A boy’s gotta try. Even the dorky ones. And to be frank, I may have been a kid, but I was pretty certain Gene had stumbled onto something pretty impressive, and I, too, wanted to rock and roll all night (Kiss, 1975). Possibly with non-Beth Beth.

And then there was the in-between years of Top 40 pop music throughout the mid-eighties that may have been the influence in a few embarrassing record purchases. Except for Madness and The Talking Heads. Madness (Our House, 1982) I can still appreciate. David Byrne of The Talking Heads (And She Was, 1985) was brilliant. (‘Though, there were too many feet in the video. Other people’s feet whig me out.)

I bought a Tiffany album? A WHOLE album? Shameful.
I bought a Tiffany album? A WHOLE album? Shameful.

Today, since technically by reading on you validate my need to share, I’d have to go with Led Zeppelin as my favourite band. Back in high school, when we were so much more learned and sophisticated than those elementary days, my friend Joe introduced me to The Immigrant Song. I was forever changed. Music, it seemed had more than instruments and choruses. It had feeling. It had emotion. It had lyrics that reached out and grabbed your mind in as tight a clench as with which it held on to your heart. It made us think. And we talked about it. What did it all mean? Most importantly to a couple of high school kids looking for their place in the world, the other kids weren’t hearing this stuff on the local AM radio. We had something different. And we were, in our minds, beyond cool.

Bonham, Jones, Page, and Plant made me listen. They made me rethink what words could do. And to this day, through the many incarnations of U2, the storytelling of the Eagles, the showmanship of Pink Floyd, the depression of Morrissey, the absolute cool of The Verve, the anger of the Pogues, the Ramones, The Violent Femmes, Amanda Palmer, Transvision Vamp, Nirvana, A Perfect Circle (I slept in a ditch that night), and what was described as possibly the first ever on-stage smile of Billy Corgan (also a ditch night), I am most influenced by Led Zeppelin.

Sidebar: I have been on the receiving end of the stink eye on a couple of occasions for interrupting a conversation to turn up Going to California when it started playing on the car radio. And I may have attempted a butt-grope at a high school dance during the standard last-dance song, Stairway to Heaven. But it’s as far as I got. Those Brothers and Nuns didn’t miss much. 

Music, admittedly, I will gladly debate with anyone, any time.

Colours. I have a colleague who will debate colours. This possibly happens more in our day to day world of advertising and marketing consultations, but there are specifically studied, established and accepted theories on the impact and influence of colour. The soothing light blue, the urgent red, the hungry yellow (which is why so many fast food restaurants use yellow and red), the calming green. Seriously, we can all mellow out and take a nap at Starbucks.

We can debate these things, but in the end, you either like a colour, or you do not. And as I was asked a couple of weekends ago by a friend as we were getting ready to go out, “Albert? Is green your favourite colour?” I replied without delay, looking at my shirt, “I guess it is. I seem to have it on.”

I’ll get to the heart of the matter (Henley, 1989) in a moment, but first, the others. Sushi. Porsche. SRAM. In case you wondered.

And the book? That’s the tough one. I’ve raved for years about John Birmingham’s He Died With A Falafel In His Hand. A roaring memoir about his time in share housing in Australia. Kurt Vonnegut’s Galapagos left me somewhat dazed and confused (‘Zep remake, 1969). Douglas Copeland’s Generation X, The Bubblegum Thief, and All Families Are Psychotic each kept me feeling like I was going to be forever young (Dylan, 1973). Joseph Monniger’s Eternal On The Water gave me a new appreciation for ravens and crows, and being a lover of nature and the First People’s spiritual world, it still resonates with me. But I’d have to argue that Tom Robbin’s Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates may be my favourite book of all time. The insanity of the characters, the rolling storytelling, and the depravity of the idea and ideals truly did take me over the hills and far away (‘Zep, 1973).

A couple of days ago, walking through a parking lot in search of a Thai restaurant (second most favourite food), my wife’s mother said, “Albert…Rosie and Marie said to tell you they enjoyed your book and that you are a good writer.”

“That doesn’t mean they liked it.” I said.

“No.” she relied. “I guess it doesn’t.”

“It’s okay.” I said. “It’s all very subjective. It either resonates with you, or it does not.”

“Well…” she continued. “We did have very different ideas about the ending and they debated it for quite some time. And they want me to ask you if he was or wasn’t…”

“Paulette,” I interrupted. “Your daughter still hasn’t read it. So we should stop there for now.”

I went on to explain that other than the beginning chapter and the ending, I hadn’t read it since the editor did her thing. It’s my preference to not know how she changes my story. (When I hand it over to the publisher, I’m happy with the story I wrote. If they feel they need to change something, then they change it. I know what I wrote and that was the story I wanted to tell.) My point was that I’m certainly not going to explain the characters’ motivations. That, I leave up to the reader – to debate, or not to debate.

But what she said was possibly the nicest feedback I’ve had on We Made A Pact.

It spurred a debate. And that’s the greatest compliment I think I could ever receive for my work.

By the way, that shirt I love? I got it in June of 2011. I was in Seaside, Oregon, when I walked into Moment Surf Shop. I wasn’t looking for a shirt. I don’t like to sport a lot of logos. But this one just had the right feel – at the moment. Serendipity, I guess.

The shirt certainly has seen better days, but it’s been a constant. It’s been the slip-on shirt after more than one muddy mountain bike ride, and has faithfully hung out with me by the pool…sometimes on a sunny day, it’s just been wrapped around my head. It’s just one of those things you come to appreciate. Even if it is just a shirt.

Pretty certain we can’t debate the merits of a shirt. That, I guess, is a safe zone for me.

But I’ll always debate the impact music can have on one’s life. I listened to a lot of music when I was writing We Made A Pact, and from that extensive playlist, I narrowed it down to 24 songs that I felt spoke the emotion of the story. Maybe one day I’ll share that playlist.

We can debate it, if you wish.

Every moment in this shirt is comfortable.
Every moment in this shirt is comfortable.

 

Albert Berkshire is a storyteller. His first novel of fiction, We Made A Pact, is published by Friesen Press. It is available in hardcover, paperback, and in various e-book formats. Just follow the links if you’d like to check it out. I hope you will. Public reviews are always welcome. Swapping stories of the first record purchase is welcome, too. For a much shorter, and less frequent rambling, Albert is found on Twitter @albertberkshire, and semi-socially at www.facebook.com/AlbertThomasBerkshire

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Narcissism, Blatant Self-Indulgence, and Shameless Self-Promotion with an Absolute Refusal of Mollycoddling

A short, short story about a considerably longer story.

We Made A Pact - a novel by Albert Thomas Berkshire
We Made A Pact – a novel by Albert Thomas Berkshire

There are friends in my life whose careers have long lived and died by their popularity. Their incomes are connected to their ratings, their endorsements are awarded based on their “likes”, and their sense of self are, unfortunately, gauged by retweets. They are ever-dependant on the whims of others.

At least they come by it honestly.

It’s a fickle world that surrounds us. Our tastes change by the moment. One day we’re a fan of something or someone, the next day we have moved on to the next shiny thing. We’re like ravens struck by the beauty of glitter. It’s the age of sociopath media, and we are almost all fully complicit slaves to the cycle. It is this that makes me fully understand, and oddly appreciate, that the inter-web is a wonderfully useful resource, and the woe of my existence.

It does, however, have its place in my life, and certainly in the purpose of this piece.

You see, it’s this thing I wrote that I’m supposed to promote. (Hey, an incidental rhyme) It’s a novel called We Made A Pact. The feedback from those who have read it has been generous…enthusiastic, even. And that’s a nice feeling to be on the receiving end of kind words. But for me to be completely honest with you, I should point out that I’m not the guy who loves the limelight. Certainly, as I have said many times, I would love to sell a million copies! (I’d like to sell a thousand, actually) What writer wouldn’t want success? But at the expense of what?

Likes are not my endorphin. Retweets do not compel me to interrupt a conversation. Ratings do not matter in my life. (Although debuting at #3 on at least one best sellers list was a short-lived thrill.) I’m just a guy who likes to write. The key to that, I’m told, is to sell novels and write more. Ironically, the flashing-lights look-at-me side of things is the evil companion of this goal.

Narcissism, blatant self-indulgence, and shameless self-promotion are not my thing. Writing is my thing. Pouring my mind onto the page is my thing. Letting whatever the character in my mind decides he or she wants to happen, happen, is my thing. As I once described it in a less flattering manner, “Dreaming up shit and barfing it onto the page”, is my thing. But I’m not one to shy away from the work side of the equation. So here it is…the words attached to my novel page on the publisher’s website.

We Made A Pact is not a love story. It is a story of a promise made between soul mates who loved their entire life. The type of love that comes with maturity, in which each touched a part of the others mind that no words could ever reach. Beginning in Paris, crossing decades and ending in the small town of Oceanside, the story is carefully told to Leigh by Leonard, her mother’s lover, as he explains a side of her life, a side of her mother, that she never knew.

#WeMadeAPact now at Google Play, Amazon Kindle Store, Nook & Kobo Store, iTunes Store, & in paperback: http://ow.ly/LFOQ9  It is published by #FriesenPress.

I will say this about my work. There are no tinges of pallid in the writing. Not one. Not fifty. My main character has a deep, abiding respect for the woman in his life. That’s something I’m quite enthusiastic about promoting.

I hope you’ll read it.

In the meantime, I’ll be focused on Limerick. The place, not the rhyme. Because it’s writing time.

 

Albert Berkshire is a storyteller. His first novel of fiction, We Made A Pact, is published by Friesen Press. It is available in hardcover, paperback, and in various e-book formats. Just follow the links if you’d like to check it out. I hope you will. Public reviews are always welcome. For a shorter, and less frequent rambling, Albert is found on Twitter @albertberkshire, and semi-socially at www.facebook.com/AlbertThomasBerkshire