Saknussemm - Sea Monkeys: a Memory Book
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- Book:Sea Monkeys: a Memory Book
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- Publisher:Soft Skull Press
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- Year:2012
- City:Berkeley;California
- Rating:3 / 5
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Sea Monkeys: a Memory Book: summary, description and annotation
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Title Page; Acknowledgments; TO BEGIN AT THE BEGINNING IS WHERE ALL THE TROUBLE STARTS; SIMULTANEOUS SEA LIONS; VIEW FROM THE ATTIC; SAY WHEN; NO SIMPLE SHADOWS; SUNDAY ROAST; BLUE TO LIFE; DUST MELODY; SOLDIER IN THE EGG; CALL TO WORSHIP; DONT GET A GUN, GET A BIG DOG; THE GHOSTS AND VAN CHEESE; CUCKOO; THE EAR; SCHOOL FOR THE DEAD; ID SHOW THEM ALL; JUMP WITH ME; LORD OF LORDS; HEAT LIGHTNING; JOSEPH COTTEN; MAD MOUSE; BAD HOMBRE; NO PRISONERS; SOMETIMES YOU MUST GET LOST MORE DEEPLY TO LEARN THE SECRET OF THE WAY OUT; THE GIFT OF EVIL; FIRE AND FORGET; JUICE IN THE PAIL; MOONLIGHT RIDER.;Bowling lessons with a hunchback. A bizarre first-grade teacher who hallucinates in class. A tragically innocent family blind-sided by flower power, and the salvation of soul music at a radio station straight out of a Quentin Tarantino version of The Twilight Zone. These are just a few of the luminous characters and conjurings Kris Saknussemm delivers in his kaleidoscopic Sea Monkeys?the story of his growing up in the counterculture San Francisco Bay Area and central California in the 1960s. Known for his genre-bending works Zanesville and Private Midnight, Saknussemm now gives us a highly orig.
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Table of Contents
A Bowlful of HappinessInstant Pets...
On the back page of a Gold Key comic book, I was promised everything I needed.
I was promised a clear acrylic ocean zoo designed like a castle, an aerating ring (whatever that was) and a water purifier. I was promised eggs and a years food and vitamin supplyeven a growth guarantee.
There were so many promises back then. Just add waterand these longtime favorites of children and the curious come to life before your eyes.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Portions of this book originally appeared in The Antioch Review, The Santa Monica Review, New Letters, Witness, Zyzzyva, The Missouri Review, The New England Review, Nimrod, Prairie Schooner, Permafrost , The Fiddlehead, The Chariton Review, The Kansas Quarterly, Gargoyle, Interim, 2Plus2, The Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, The New Mexico Humanities Review, ShatterColors Literary Review, The Nervous Breakdown, and The Age Review of Books.
I am grateful to the Black Mountain Institute of the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, and most especially to Tom E. and Mary Kay Gallagher for their generous support.
I would also like to thank my stepbrother, wherever he may be. He once told me, The only stories you can really be sure are true are the ones youve forgotten.
I have never forgotten that, and the nature of this book reflects that insight.
Lights sweep across the walls like the silhouettes of ancient animals in sacred caves.
Im in my sisters roomwhere I sleep because of my fear of the dark. Or the almost dark. Or just my fear. The peering eyes in the knots and cracks. The torture chamber in the radiator grate.
One minute youre dragging a duffle bag through wet snow in Brusselsor ripped on tequila listening to the waves in Belize, watching a rib-skinny jaguar sniffing at rotten seaweed.
Then youre suddenly back in your childhood bed listening to the voices in the hallthe floating hallway you never finally find yourself in, only passing through. Shhh... my sister hisses... trying to hear what our parents are arguing about this time. But I only remember ghost words torn from the faded yellow and vacuum tube sparkles of all those bright new tomorrow promised yesterdays...
Mutual of Omahas Wild Kingdom... Stand by for Action... Janitor in a Drum...
The night wind stirs the bearded spruce that dominates our tiny front yard, the blur of branches wrinkling the peppermint-striped curtains, and I close my eyes to the luminous flood ... like the Huckleberry Hound blue slides our Kenner Give-A-Show Projector casts, which I call our Give-A-Show Protector. Little rainbow windows shot through a plastic ray gun as red as Woody Woodpecker.
Glance over your shoulder, and your stepbrother is right behind you, shooting a daredevil freeway off-ramp on a ten-speed bike late at night. Look back again, and whole dog-eared decades are behind you, and a riderless Triumph motorcycle crosses the Bay Bridge. Wally Gator smears out in green cellophane ectoplasm, becoming Kim Pullman, the fat Mormon with the congenital heart defect. He only wears sweatpants and T-shirts and always smells like butter and damp dishtowels.
Squiddly Diddly and Hokey Wolf fluoresce across the ceiling of a Tudor house looking out at the blinking beacon of Alcatraz, as you step into a cinderblock basement on a hot Michigan summer night, crickets shrill in the crabgrass.
Beyond the punching bags and the hockey sticks is a closet that leads to an attic in Upstate New Yorkto a lowball parlor in San Jose or a cheap hotel in West Berlin. You cross the creaking planks, leaving footprints in the dust, and emerge on a street in Stratford-upon-Avon just after a freshening rainwhere a woman rushing to see Shakespeares grave has just been run over by a double-decker bus.
Heavens to Murgatroyd. This is the green ghost glow-in-the-dark game where we tumble helplessly toward a fantastic new adventure somewhere along the infinite corridors of time.
Shhh... my sister whispers. Pretend youre asleep.
The way the dead do.
TO BEGIN AT THE BEGINNING IS WHERE ALL THE TROUBLE STARTS
SIMULTANEOUS SEA LIONS
Thanks to my grandmothers demented brother Hills (who started off with a nice idea of saving the major world headlines from the day I was born and then became a bit eclectic in his choice of stories), I know some things I might otherwise not.
For instance, on the day I was born, two sea lions that arrived in England for a display in Wellington Pier Gardens managed to escape. A local television personality known as The Zoo Man was injured trying to restrain one of the creatures as it wiggled its way down the pier to freedom.
On the same day in Toledo, Ohio, a sea lion that had escaped from a Canadian zoo was recaptured. According to a report in the New York Herald Tribune, officials of the Ontario zoo were going to dispatch a plane to take the animal back, but Toledo Zoo director Phil Skeldon, who helped make the capture in a boathouse on Sandusky Bay off Lake Erie, said he wasnt going to give it up.
Were going to hold the sea lion, he declared. We caught it in American waters just like you would a fish, except that its a mammal, and we consider it ours.
The capture followed an off-and-on chase of several days by Mr. Skeldon and other Toledo Zoo officials. On the previous evening, Mr. Skeldon was able to slow the mammal down by firing two injections of tranquilizer into its back with a carbon-dioxide-powered dart gun. On the morning of my birthday, fishermen found the sea lion browsing in a boathouse at Sandusky. Mr. Skeldon and Dan Danford, Toledo Zoos curator of mammals, went to the scene, and Mr. Danford managed to slip a noose over the mammals head. The men then steered the sea lion to a raft, got it into a cage, and brought it back to Toledo in a station wagon.
So a noose is slipped around the head of one sea lion on the lam, and an umbilical cord is cut, releasing another amphibious mammal into the light. At least I wasnt taken to Toledo in a station wagon. No comets were seen on that, my first official day, but dense, traffic-endangering fog enveloped the city of Melbourne, Australia, a heavy earth shock was recorded in El Salvador and an eighteen-inch section of tailpipe fell from an airplane, narrowly missing seven-year-old Joseph Lamond playing peacefully in his Long Island front yard.
The stock market was up for the third day in a row. Chicago egg futures looked bright. But what of the future? I took my first violent breath, and Dr. Rafael Taubenschlag, director of the Warsaw Institute of Papyrology, took his last, killing himself in Krakow at age seventy-seven. Hours later, a famous atomic scientist was found dead of an overdose of sleeping pills in Texas, along with a suicide note hed written to his wife. I see no other way out. I cannot bear to go back to the laboratory. So many things undone that I should have done. So many decisions to make that I do not feel capable of making.
Good old Great Uncle Hills. He certainly had an eye for the positive, uplifting stories. Like the fate of the Cocoa, one of three jet tanker planes attempting to break the speed record from New York to London, which while taking off from Westover Air Force Base hit high-tension wires and smashed down onto the Massachusetts Turnpike, skidding onto the three-acre farm of Kazimierz Machowski, where its tons of kerosene fuel ignited. Among the fifteen men killed instantly was Norman J. Montellier of New York, age thirty-seven, a UPI writer.
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