I came to the following reflection —my “Mouse Nest”— in the company of a working group that has spent parts of the last few years exploring the entwinement of horror and enchantment. Horror & Enchantment in the past, in the present and future, at home, abroad, in others, in ourselves. Currently revising an earlier draft for discussion in the here-and-now, and towards our forthcoming book, it feels right also to share it with you, to float this draft memorywork as a dispatch.
I loved the 'cheerfully exhausted child-slump'...and was not expecting the horror of Richard's act. Everybody probably has a similar story of their childhood brush with cruelty, of disappointment, of power demonstrations. It built up beautifully, and I loved the way the children ran home, each on their own, but all together.
Great writing, Kenneth. I'm forever haunted by the mice that I've killed. Long time ago, had an issue and traps set up. The sticky traps were terribly inhumane (inmousane?) and ended up "mercifully" killing one with in a way I'd rather not say. I don't think I'll ever shake it. Anyways, this is why one should always have a cat, IMO
This story spurred an ancient memory, not unlike yours. I was very young, maybe 7, in Dedham, Massachusetts, along a river embankment. Lots of people fishing, Urban fishing, the river went through town and the banks were of tar and concrete. It was a river noted for it pollution at the time, so I was confused why people were fishing. Google tells me it was the Charles River, though that is not in my young memory.
I noticed one kid, I can't recall an age, but definitely older than me. For some reason I felt for him, some kind of sympathy. I don't know if it was from his physical appearance, or how he held himself relative to the other boys with him. They were all catching flat fish -- my dad told me the name of the fish once, but I don't recall. This boy caught one, and after reeling it in, he took it off the hook and began slamming the live fish against the concrete bank, again and again, with no one paying any attention. It was a cruel act I thought. It did not befit my sense of who this boy was. He did it in the way that rural folks living off the land wash and wring their clothes dry. What I saw women do in Nicaragua every day. I was heartbroken to see him do this, but it somehow made me feel even more deeply for him. As though he were taking his life-frustrations out against the concrete.
I have never questioned this memory. The feelings of who I thought this boy was were always embedded in the memory, though it's possible that I planted those feelings years later retroactively. I suppose. In your case, I expect you felt all those senses of wonder and confusion as you walked through that event. Did you ask those same words back then? Probably not. I suspect your older self did some real-time translation as your memory evolved.
I love the brevity of your piece, the spare details, minimal descriptions. Maybe a bit more on the older boy to draw out why you were drawn to him. But regardless, I love this story. I hope you bring more to the surface here, or somewhere else I have access. And the photos work well with it.
You've done it (again), dawg. Sparked certain memories of my (own) lord-of-the-flies boyhood, of which I may (or may not) speak in some future-nostalgia or -saudade. Hard work: https://youtu.be/MrppyREk4FA
As I read, I hoped beyond hope that you would avoid that particular climax. Not arguing against it, just a quick note to say it's powerful. I'll consider more and add more here when the time is right. Kudos to this series. Stay tuned...
As Mark White says, "... I hoped beyond hope that you would avoid that particular climax." I, too, felt it coming and did not want it to happen. Personally, I do not want the story to end here, Kenneth. I need to either 1. understand Richard's motivation or 2. Hear the younger boys' rationalization/ response about what happened OR 3. have the narrator bring in some sort of philosophical statement or explanation at the end --something to make this beautifully written story bearable, to make the mayhem some how make sense.
Ken, if this isn't horror and enchantment – I don't know what is!
I loved the 'cheerfully exhausted child-slump'...and was not expecting the horror of Richard's act. Everybody probably has a similar story of their childhood brush with cruelty, of disappointment, of power demonstrations. It built up beautifully, and I loved the way the children ran home, each on their own, but all together.
Sorry Ken I still don’t like mice.
Dad
Great writing, Kenneth. I'm forever haunted by the mice that I've killed. Long time ago, had an issue and traps set up. The sticky traps were terribly inhumane (inmousane?) and ended up "mercifully" killing one with in a way I'd rather not say. I don't think I'll ever shake it. Anyways, this is why one should always have a cat, IMO
This story spurred an ancient memory, not unlike yours. I was very young, maybe 7, in Dedham, Massachusetts, along a river embankment. Lots of people fishing, Urban fishing, the river went through town and the banks were of tar and concrete. It was a river noted for it pollution at the time, so I was confused why people were fishing. Google tells me it was the Charles River, though that is not in my young memory.
I noticed one kid, I can't recall an age, but definitely older than me. For some reason I felt for him, some kind of sympathy. I don't know if it was from his physical appearance, or how he held himself relative to the other boys with him. They were all catching flat fish -- my dad told me the name of the fish once, but I don't recall. This boy caught one, and after reeling it in, he took it off the hook and began slamming the live fish against the concrete bank, again and again, with no one paying any attention. It was a cruel act I thought. It did not befit my sense of who this boy was. He did it in the way that rural folks living off the land wash and wring their clothes dry. What I saw women do in Nicaragua every day. I was heartbroken to see him do this, but it somehow made me feel even more deeply for him. As though he were taking his life-frustrations out against the concrete.
I have never questioned this memory. The feelings of who I thought this boy was were always embedded in the memory, though it's possible that I planted those feelings years later retroactively. I suppose. In your case, I expect you felt all those senses of wonder and confusion as you walked through that event. Did you ask those same words back then? Probably not. I suspect your older self did some real-time translation as your memory evolved.
I love the brevity of your piece, the spare details, minimal descriptions. Maybe a bit more on the older boy to draw out why you were drawn to him. But regardless, I love this story. I hope you bring more to the surface here, or somewhere else I have access. And the photos work well with it.
You've done it (again), dawg. Sparked certain memories of my (own) lord-of-the-flies boyhood, of which I may (or may not) speak in some future-nostalgia or -saudade. Hard work: https://youtu.be/MrppyREk4FA
As I read, I hoped beyond hope that you would avoid that particular climax. Not arguing against it, just a quick note to say it's powerful. I'll consider more and add more here when the time is right. Kudos to this series. Stay tuned...
As Mark White says, "... I hoped beyond hope that you would avoid that particular climax." I, too, felt it coming and did not want it to happen. Personally, I do not want the story to end here, Kenneth. I need to either 1. understand Richard's motivation or 2. Hear the younger boys' rationalization/ response about what happened OR 3. have the narrator bring in some sort of philosophical statement or explanation at the end --something to make this beautifully written story bearable, to make the mayhem some how make sense.