I am a wolf of the steppes — Herman Hesse
Although the world would have one less brilliant novel in it, Hesse could have just left it at that one line and it would have been fine with me. My memory has been misused and abused and I haven’t read the book since some of you whippersnappers were still unborn, but I think that was the first line. Hmmm, I suppose they could keep ‘… Why doncha come with me little girl on a magic carpet ride …’ Part of this paragraph is supposed to be funny, I’m going with whatever part you laughed at.
Hesse’s novel are like the blues, you don’t expect to laugh, but his novels and the blues are uplifting in a sort of shared burden kind of way. A wolf of the steppes. A singular being whose nature is to run with a pack, all alone in a harsh and desolate land, the steppes. Over the years people who make their living telling you what you just read means will say it’s an autobiographical work. In the sense of a shared burden every piece of art worth talking about is auto-biographical.
Sure, some of this line of thought has spilled over from previous entries. I mourn the loss of haredawg drools on facebook. In the early days of 14k dial up modems I was hair of the dog; hairdog. Just to be boorish; it’s short for hair of the dog what bit you, still the best cure for a hangover, more whiskey. Ok, it’s the best cure if you don’t have anything to do. If you have a sermon to deliver, a barn to raise or hedge funds to manage a raw egg, tomato juice and tabasco is a better choice, not a better cure, but a better choice. The raw egg is to remind you of your stupid wicked ways, tomato juice and tabasco is to cleanse the stink of alcohol from your breath. My screen name was hairdog.
By the time technology tried to fool the world with a 56k modem and Microsoft had purchased Hotmail, Hotmail decided I was thirteen and without a note from my parent or legal guardian I was not allowed to access my email. If I knew the right extension I would have sent them a picture of my dick. I abandoned Hotmail for yahoo (yes, I had provider specific email, but I was going through providers like a whore in church. Wait, no, right sentiment wrong saying. I didn’t keep a provider long enough to guarantee an email account. For a while every thirty days AOL would get a Herr Hund, Hirsute pup, or some other such thing. I saw a copy of the old AOL free for thirty days! Disc at a collectors store, they priced it at 999.99).
I settled into Haredawg a name that, though not reeking of sobriety, was much closer to a wolf of the steppes. The rabbit hounded by predators. Um, I sent away for bunny ears and a bunny tail for the GF, I hope the message is both clear and fuzzy, you know, for all saints day. It’s coming up Jude.
Jude. Oh shit. I got a haircut yesterday at a place called Judes. High camp, low kitsch. It’s like a ten year decorated half the place then waited a few years for puberty and decorated it with a second theme. Half batman half pin up girls. I looked them up for location, the website suggests they cater to men, which means the barbers are young women. The place I normally go has a barber pole and old guys who talk about guy things which is how barbers used to cater to men.
There’s a paragraph on the website about why the guy who started the small chain was named jude. To hell with it, I’m going to copy and paste, here
When my Grandmother was about to give birth to my father, the nuns on Beaver Island called to Charlevoix to summon the doctor. They were told that the doctor was in jail for performing an abortion. The year was 1938 and abortion was illegal. My Grandmother was a small lady and the nuns did not think she would live through the delivery because my father was so big. This made it all that more important that the doctor be present during the delivery. They convinced the judge to temporarily release the doctor to deliver my father. The doctor was flown from Charlevoix to Beaver Island on the night of March 20th. Saint James harbor was still frozen over so they had everyone on the island bring their Christmas trees out on the ice to light on fire when they heard the airplane’s engines overhead. The modest “runway lights” helped to guide the pilot to a safe landing and the doctor delivered my father the next day. Because of all the trouble with my fathers’ birth, the nuns told my Grandmother to name him “Jude” after Saint Jude, the Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes.
So, I think that’s how a flash should work. No, that’s how I’d like to write flashs, at least keep in mind if I write one again, ever. I am a wolf of the steppes. The suggestion of a story with a strong and short image. Again, I really liked the novel, not suggesting it wasn’t edited enough. Just saying, I am a wolf of the steppes is strong on it’s own.
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