By Jim Oaten
Dodging down back-alleys in bomb-torn Beirut. Wheeling previous God and site visitors in Mombassa, Kenya. Slipping round the edges of Alzheime's illness, the Gulf warfare, and the eternity of CNN.
Set someplace among the following and the heat-death of the universe, Jim Oaten's debut assortment serves up random samples of literal and literary fact scooped up at best velocity. no matter if peeking out from the backseat of mother and Dad's motor vehicle or surveying the dirty wings of psychological wards, Accelerated Paces hurdles that uneasy terrain among artistic truth and sincere fiction. those brief tales and items forget about borders as they jaunt thorough exterior journeys and inner voyages.
This is either artistic non-fiction and inventive fiction, which follows the belief of crossing barriers and blurring borders. This assortment is an particular demonstration of the way the 2 genres interaction, of ways a non-fiction occasion can motivate a fictional piece, and, apparently adequate, the opposite as well.
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Additional info for Accelerated Paces. Travels Across Borders and Other Imaginary Boundaries
I really don’t recall. Like politicians, we’re all unreliable narrators. All of us creative artists subject to time, bias, and wishful thinking regarding our personal pasts. Take your first memory, for example. Is it yours? Or did someone tell it to you? I know mine’s a muddle. It took place in Hamilton, another place I can’t picture at all (from all accounts a good thing). I do remember stairs, tumbling strobes of black and white as I thudded down steps, and a small galaxy of pain—I recollect the pain pretty well.
But right now I’m being made to meow at Flo—a borderline psychotic street-person whose most attractive habit is chain-smoking—and it looks like my chances of moving up the evolutionary scale are slim. She simply stares at me with an impassive face and slightly unfocussed eyes. She looks more bored than anything else, and I’m certain she’s seen this all before. I decide to try to at least get her attention. “Hey Flo,” I say, “tune in, would ya. ” It’s Rose, our interpersonal trainer. ” Flo’s eyes are starting to focus.
And I am out. My mother gathers me up, and, brushing off protests with whispers and kisses touched with soft perfume, leaves me alone in my bedroom, well away from the Age of Aquarius and the march of history. I lie there on my bed for a few minutes, crying and hiccing in the low illumination of the room. Then with the slow realization of exactly where that light is coming from, stand up on my mattress, draw back the curtains from the small window above, and stare at the bright face of the full moon, filled with the absolute certainty that if I only look long enough I will see those men moving on its surface.