'Grey Hound' LCW Review

Grey Hound by daninidaho (16) #2274098

Finally able to sit down and give some attention to your piece. There are a number of comments I wanted to make that have to do with my perspective on ‘Essays’ overall and don’t want to repeat many of the observations, so my intent is to keep them to a minimum but hope that you will take the time to read the essay I intend to put together over the next week or so that covers my own positions on the philosophy of the concept of essays in general and perhaps The Colloquial Essay specifically.

I don’t wish to make any corrections, per se, to your work, only to react and respond to what I see as a reader and fellow writer. I try not to have any expectations when I ‘critique’ but only wish to share my thoughts and whatever possible insights that may occur to me. There is no intent to ‘change’ your written word but only to have you contemplate those things that have become apparent to me, acknowledging that nothing I observe or suggest is intrinsically better, only different, from a unique point of view.

I have come to appreciate an in-line format when I critique. It lends itself to the immediacy of what I see on the page and allows a certain stream of consciousness to my commentary. If for any reason this is something you have a problem with, just let me know and I will supply a more conventional format.

A rough road to forgiveness

The accident happened on a back street in General Alvear, a town small enough to merit the penultimate font size on any Argentine map. Located at the south end of the Mendoza province, its approach from any direction guaranteed boring travel (day or night) through the pampas- a flat, weed-covered expanse of underdeveloped range and farmland, its monotony interrupted only by the Cordillera mountains along the horizon.

While I am not wedded to the concept of some kind of ‘hook’ as a prerequisite in any form of writing, I think it important to make some kind of connection with the reader right from the start of the endeavor. Something, anything, to ‘pique’ an interest in what you are about to offer. I realize that memoirs do not lend themselves easily to such a device, and yet, promoting them can be difficult and frustrating since the audience for them is rather complex and diverse, so the concept of ‘catching’ the reader can be a real challenge. The entertainment value of a memoir can be elusive.

The focus on this particular area of the world is intriguing since I have little experience with the locale, and while traveling to Alvear as a destination may be boring, I am unsure if the town itself or its inhabitants are dreary and mundane as well and I did not see you address that issue.

I took a few minutes to investigate both the area and the town and found it to be clean and tidy, although I didn’t expect to find visuals of its worst attributes, but did not unearth much about its people.

Alvear, as us American missionaries called it, was a typical Argentine small town, with no geographic divisions between rich and poor. Pedaling a one-speed bicicleta any direction away from Main Street, one would pass a mixture of businesses large and small, expensive homes, and run-down shacks, some with caned-roofs while others sported tile. You'd cruise by a dreary looking cement-walled factory building, bicycle shop and a slaughterhouse. Then the street and power poles ended abruptly, leaving you standing there on your bike pedals, looking out upon the unending prairie of the Pampas, and wondering how the hell you'd ended up in this place.

I found this a legitimate introduction to the essence of the town, if not the people. I look forward to hearing about them at least in some detail. I appreciate the personal perspective, especially since it is a memoir.

Shaking off a growing sense of anomie, you wheeled around and headed back to civilization, such as it was. For those missionaries who were focused on the task ahead, this town would make for wonderful memories. For others who looked upon the two-year stint as a vacation, General Alvear would be a severe trial.

We could spend quite some time discussing the concept of anomie, and I have to question the use of the concept in this context. It has multiple meanings, and few of them seem to be positive ones. I am interpreting that you are the one feeling something akin to culture shock, and it would have been interesting to hear what that meant to you. While the setting is Argentina, and some attention needs to consistently be evident in the narrative, the focus would remain with you on the personal level and the need for sharing of intimate and vulnerable of that personality so it will ultimately be those aspects that would draw me in inexorably into the story.

The people in town knew us well. We were Los Mormones. We rode their Mundo bicycles on their streets and clapped hands at their front gates. We taught them about Jesu Cristo, golden plates and a martyred prophet named Joseph Smith.

While this seems to be pertinent and necessary information, it really doesn’t give us any insight into what is going on between the groups. The journey, this narrative, is difficult and needs not to rush through the course of events but to develop and show the relationships between your missionaries and the local inhabitants. This interaction would ensure a comfortable understanding of the integration of your group, and the interpretation and expectations of the people would be a welcome addition to the story.

Missionaries worked in pairs. My current Utah-raised companion, Elder Smith, and I resided in a small room in one of the newer homes in town. The quarters consisted of two twin beds, an end table, an armoire, and a bookcase. This was our spiritual base of operations.

It would seem that the coincidence of your elder Smith and the founder of your movement is something that needs some clarification and expansion. The relationship between the two of you would cement any credibility the story offers, and would again give insight and foundation to whatever comes afterward. Was he a descendant of the prophet or was this just happenstance? It would be a good opportunity to introduce some backstory into the narrative and expand the information that we have about you as well.

One other detail: Elder Smith and I didn't get along.

Hooks don’t necessarily have to happen at the beginning. This gives an additional nuanced level to the relationship. There seem to be only two characters to this tale, and the information on both is somewhat underdeveloped.

The whole concept of ‘elder’ tends to suggest that he is superior, in tenure, personality and knowledge, at least about the group itself. Most belief based communities take that relationship hierarchy quite seriously. This needs to be expanded.

On different wavelengths from the day he'd stepped off the bus, we endured each other's presence. We'd been together for five months, and while there were passable days, there were also contentious ones, the hostility boiling over at unexpected moments.

These are all generalizations and do not show the vulnerabilities of yourself or your elder. Even if we do not investigate the motivations and strengths and weaknesses of that individual, it would seem appropriate to share intimate interpretations and expectations on your part.

Smith's fastidious, passive-aggressive nature was colliding with my peacemaking/Type A temperament. While blaming my short-fuse on Irish DNA, I couldn't figure out why he irritated me. There'd be an argument, then the silent treatment, and after a cooling-off period we'd move on- though not always forward.

Self-introspection might explain some of these superficial observations. With each new sentence you have the ability to tell us more about yourself, in great detail and unrestrained honesty and vulnerability. The writer of a memoir should feel compelled to share with those that read their word and the expectation of comprehending what the individual is going through is literally compulsory. It is what makes the memoir real in every sense.

Irish DNA? What is that exactly? Does every Irishman react identically? I would think not. Not a valid excuse for anything at all, much less these conflicted emotions towards the elder.

Day after day we tried to cast aside our differences for the "good of the Work"- but it was tough going, like trying to get fresh water from a contaminated well. You can't drink around the bad stuff.

Interesting play of words, drinking ‘around the bad stuff’.

I recognize that we are all human, and have our own particular strengths and weaknesses, but isn’t there a concerted and shared purpose in the work of a missionary? Isn’t forgiveness, tolerance, compassion, and empathy the essence of religious work to begin with? My brother was a Catholic priest, as was my uncle, and it always confused me that they had so much trouble with balancing religion with social and philosophical issues. There is no question in my mind they were both devout and motivated and good individuals, and yet their weaknesses and shortcomings were evident as well, which obstructs our understanding of them and undermines the confidence in their abilities that is fundamental to being able to instruct those they attempt to help.

I would think it absolutely essential to investigate and explore the personal reasons for the conflict and address it as a priority.

And since we were the ones flinging the arsenic into the cistern, we had only ourselves to blame for the cloud of resultant guilt that followed wherever we went, like the emaciated dogs that wandered Alvear's barren streets.

I am enjoying and appreciating the introspection that is developing here, but I find it superficial. I detect a certain reluctance to go into detail and do some philosophical contemplation and self-judgment. It is not easy by any means but is, I think, a prerequisite for a dynamic and moving memoir, or any other writing for that matter.

The last comment reminds us that the scene is in Argentina which is being relegated to the sidelines. The importance of the environment where this takes place is important as the juxtaposition between the philosophical cultures. The two narratives need to be intertwined to create flow and consistency. I would think that they have to feed off of one another. I believe that this is something that makes the whole narrative more raw and real.

Conversing little as we trudged home one evening, I saw something moving around on the street ahead. From what we'd heard about the local policia, I hoped it wasn't something human.

Would that be ‘from’ the local policia?

As we drew closer, it appeared to be a dog- a full-sized greyhound. He'd been hit by a vehicle and left for dead. Lying on his side, the dog's eyes darted back and forth. His breath was coming hard and fast, the skin around his mouth puffing in and out.

My comment is more of a distraction, but my limited knowledge of Greyhounds is that they are actually quite delicate and not able to exist easily on their own, their diet and even the fact that their bones do not respond well to hard surfaces makes this curious, especially as a stray. I don’t question the veracity of the comment, but find it somewhat incongruent.

You mentioned that “Veterinary services in Alvear were reserved for animals that made an economic difference“. Does that infer that they race greyhounds in the area and basically abandon them when of no further use or relevance? This would seem to be yet another opportunity to humanize (even if in a negative connotation) the reality of life in Alvear.

Leaning over the animal, I told Elder Smith that I saw no blood anywhere, and being a dog lover, took this as a good sign.

As usual, Elder Smith popped my balloon.

"Look at his hips."

The dog saw me taking an interest and wagged his long thin tail.

The hips did look strange, half collapsed and moving the wrong way, a shining lumpy pile of something yellow and green trailing out of its rectum. Lifting his head to get a better look at us humans, he tried to stand, the wobbly front legs extending but getting no help from the back two. He collapsed in a wasted effort, a whine starting in his throat.

Good depiction but I don’t hear how this is impacting you. I would be devastated, feeling impotent that there was little if anything I could do.

I looked around for help, trying to ignore the possibility that it was a lost cause. Veterinary services in Alvear were reserved for animals that made an economic difference, not brutes like this specimen who contributed nothing but unconditional love to all it met.

A greyhound can be intimidating, and an imposing example of the dog world. How is it that you present him as a source of unconditional love? Was this from prior knowledge or simply wishful thinking? In any case, more details would resolve the confusion.

My comp said little, standing there staring at the poor mutt.

I am at something of a loss as to the usage and context of the word ‘comp’. A quick search was of no help. Is there some other way of depicting the same thing? I have to assume that this is a colloquialism for ‘companion’? I have never heard this used in such a context before. Confusing to some degree. Is there a story behind the usage? It would have made an interesting anecdote.

"We've gotta do something" I said, trying to be the leader.

"Elder, his hips are crushed. There's nothing we can do."

I was starting to feel sick, memories stoking my unease:

It's almost dinnertime, and Mom wants me to watch her "take care of the rooster": the Bantam that attacked me a while back, sending me away screaming, my hands pecked and bleeding.

He's roosting inside the hen house when Mom appears, and is none too pleased about the intrusion. After a brief pursuit, she catches him and heads for a large wooden block in the middle of the yard. When she tries to wrestle the rooster into place, he starts flapping and clucking, the volume of his protests giving me the creeps.

After a few pecks to her bleeding hands, Mom starts cursing, and with renewed vigor, she forces his small head under the solitary bent nail in the center of the block. That rooster isn't going anywhere now.

As my mother grabs the hatchet, I look away in time to hear the thick metal blade thunk into the wood grain. The squawking stops, and turning around, I am amazed to see the rooster miraculously trotting around the yard- but then I recoil at its bloody headlessness.

Taking a step backwards, I freeze up as the thing starts trotting toward me, looking like it's going to attack again. Closer it comes, then turns to the right, then heads my direction before falling to the ground in a convulsive finish.

A somewhat morbid and yet realistic interlude. I related a similar scenario in one of my older pieces that were shared with me by a friend.

While you present the information in a credible reproduction of an event that happens on a regular basis across the globe daily, you fail to go into any real detail about how it affected you. You also fail to tell us your age within the short recollection which causes a small disconnect in context, so I am assuming something in the vicinity of ten or so or it would have been your job to dispatch the poor creature. My neighbor has a rooster with a nasty habit of attacking with a vengeance. I realize that he is making an attempt to prove his value to the hens, and his ego is bruised since a younger ‘buck’ has taken over the leadership of the flock, but nonetheless, aggression on the farm normally results in adjustments, and at times that may mean ‘Coq au vin’.

The narrative would be so much more compelling and rich with more of your innermost thoughts, and those that you rarely share would create value and substance and legitimacy to wherever this memoir is headed.

Kittens carried away in a bag.

My father in law heading for the woods, a rifle in one hand, a can of Oly in the other. The ancient family dog he jokingly refers to as "Old Bullet-In-The Head" ambles alongside his master, excited about what he thinks is another great day of hunting.

I realize that this may be yet another example of expedient killing of lesser animals, but it seems irrelevant and comes across as an afterthought.

With the possible exception of the chicken, the others never saw it coming.

Good point. Very well may be true. It also is a legitimate interpretation with human beings and unexpected life-changing events.

In unison, we started walking away, avoiding something we didn't want or need to do. After all, it wasn't our problem. Let the owner do the dirty deed.

While true to some degree, to some it might seem heartless or somewhat cold and detached. At one time I may have concurred, but I have come to some equally disturbing conclusions. I comment only because it seems more an excuse than an explanation.

But the more I thought about the situation, the more conflicted I became. The fatalist in me said we must have come across the accident scene for a reason. Past experience, though, held me back from whatever our duty might be.

I like the inner conversation, the inner conflict, and yet there was no interpretation of destiny with your own personal issues with the elder. Could it not be possible that ‘destiny’ threw the both of you together for a reason? I am not sure I agree or disagree, but it is not an unreasonable position, especially for someone who is attempting to bring the word of God, or at least Jesus, to others.

I turned and went back to the animal. Whining, it again tried to lift itself up, tail wagging, the picture of optimism.

"We've got to do something", I said.

Grabbing his stiffening front legs, I drug the dog to the curb, hoping it wouldn't panic and bite me.

"Well, at least he's out of the way now" I said.

A fairly simplistic argument with oneself, but if that is what was what was running through your thoughts at that time, then certainly valid and legitimate.

But we both knew this wasn't enough. Maintaining his silence, Elder Smith crossed the ditch and started looking for something. Understanding what he sought, I joined him.

Our search yielded a large stone about a foot across. Heavy enough to do the job.

My comp carried it over to the dog, and assumed the position, even as the animal's tail wagged and thumped again and again on the pavement.

Elder Smith was holding the rock above his head.

The dog was continuing to stare.

Unable to watch any more, I turned and walked slowly toward our pension, a mere 50 feet away.

I waited for the thump, but none came. Continuing to distance myself, I snuck a look. My comp was still holding the rock up in the air.

I kept walking. A few more seconds passed, and no sound.

Then there was a hollow thud, like a melon hitting the pavement. I stopped and waited for Smith to catch up.

The whole scenario makes me uncomfortable and vulnerable. The issue of an interior personal discomfort versus the reality of pain and suffering of another is something we all have to address and contemplate at multiple points in our lives, as well as our reaction to these things. I find it hard to believe that there were no waves of emotion and doubt and guilt and confusion under the circumstances. You did not share these things with us.

Again, I have to say that the narration, the dialogue, is all credible and believable and yet superficial and without the essence of your heart and soul, as it were. I know these things happen all the time, they have happened to me, in greater detail and with more regularity. I have come to terms with the issues, and yet will never fully accept the reality. It is inarguably a complicated and challenging set of circumstances.

The bottom line is that the reader wants more than a newspaper article, and I was not under the impression that this is what was intended. We need to know your reservations, your doubts, and your fears, the things that make you laugh and especially the things that make you cry. We then have the opportunity to draw from our own experiences and share in your angst and fury over what seems like an unfair world, a world that we have to deal with, to accept, and to actually move forward after the worst events anyone can ever imagine.

I have never had to endure the inexorable chaos and pain that presents itself during times of war and catastrophe. I can only imagine, and I don’t really want to. It is a horrible paradigm, one that illustrates the dichotomy of the worst that mankind has to offer, while ironically offering glimpses of the best as well, as individuals deal with the reality and help those less fortunate.

All of this and a lack of comprehension about what God does to alleviate the pain that is inevitable and relentless. I realize many believe that we have to believe in some greater plan, but for those of us that do not, it is that much harder to accept.

We stood there for a moment, looking at the still figure, thankful there was a distance between us and the dark, spreading pool of life oozing from the dog's body.

"That's the grossest thing I've ever done", Elder Smith said.

"Yeah..." was all I could manage.

We walked back to the pension in silence.

At the dinner table, we worked our way through the meal, eating little and saying less.

And that night, sleep didn't come easily, at least for me.

As Elder Smith lay in his bed, sawing logs, I tossed and turned, wondering where he'd found the strength to drop the rock- and what it was that held me back. Me, the guy who'd been putting up with Smith longer than anyone else in the Mission.

It took a few days and a lot of reflection before I realized that somewhere along the line I'd stopped forgiving him for perceived insults and slights. I was the one poisoning the well.

Self-awareness and self-revelation are always a welcomed resolution. I find that philosophy brings that kind of peace and harmony into my thoughts and my actions. I am glad to see the conclusion be one of realization and acceptance. It is growth and it is a true learning experience. I would think that it would be a benefit to anyone else that had to endure something similar.

And as I thought about my actions, I realized I had to change.

The philosophical imperative is not particularly to change but to understand. Once that happens is there really anything that necessitates change? Events make us different. Thought brings us a greater understanding of everything around us. Growth changes us. The time for a need to change has passed.

Though we never did talk about the incident much, much of the tension between us evaporated.

My gratitude had purified the well.

I find myself questioning exactly what this gratitude derives from. Is it gratitude for revelation and self-awareness? I have more questions than answers.

I’ve made some observations and some suggestions, none of which are necessarily valid for you or your work. I don’t wish to write your story or to influence it to any great degree. I just want you to consider some of my own perspectives, take what you wish, contemplate some others, and toss everything else, although I have found years later that I remember something someone said, and have a different perspective than I did previously, and even using the suggestions. Who knows?

My wife made the observation that she thought I was overly critical. I hope you realize that this was not my intent. It was a difficult piece to dissect, there was very little that was uplifting and entertaining. That is one of the reasons that I thought the location in Argentina could have been used to surgically insert some more beneficial and uplifting moments in the narrative to offset the conflicts. An observation only, from a single perspective was simply trying to comprehend.

I find the attention to detail, especially the unexpected variety, is what gives a memoir its personality and depth. Things that others can identify with and are a part of their own journey through life. It is not always possible but if not offered, many opportunities can be lost that could have made that connection with the reader on a visceral level.

If you are interested, we can discuss exactly what your intentions were now that I have read the piece. How do you think a memoir and an essay differ with something like this? What were your expectations and did you realize them or have you ‘come full-circle’ back to the beginning in some way. What were your misgivings on the piece after finishing it? What was the strongest moment from your own standpoint, and where did you struggle. In any case, thanks for allowing me to sample your work.

Let me know. Thanks for writing and sharing.

Peace

John