I could tell you it was all for the best, yes, not only was I a capable, sharp, inciteful seventeen-year-old, certain she was too deep-thinking for high school, but free!--free of my father’s insistence that school was vital--free as a teenage girl could be with a widowed mother who would not stand up to her children--free to try and free to fail!--and as I burst out of that imposing, granite edifice—strands of waist-long beads swinging around my neck, fringes on my knee-high moccasins fluttering and my skirt showing too much thigh for the rules of a small-town high school of the 1960s—my resolve felt at the same time, rock steady and giddy. And, it actually did turn out all for the best because why would anyone waste another moment in a place where they'd known only misery?
What a sentence! I love the combination of adjectives 'zany, alien, wet and odorous'. Not much romance in that image of 'procreation' :) These long sentences are mind-stretching, and I suppose that's the point. Thanks for this one.
Mine is even longer than the model (sorry) but here it is:
Well I can tell you, starting out at that all-girls’ high school with its reputation for testing the fortitude of every fledgling teacher was not fun, and not only due to the nausea that arose as I approached the school carpark—it sometimes took me twenty minutes to settle my stomach enough to venture from the shelter of my safe, friendly, familiar, battered and dented VW—but also because of the welcome I knew awaited me inside, not just the sullen looks and whispered taunts and insults and jeers that accompanied my progress through the halls, but also the practised contempt and sneering disapproval and amused curiosity and sheer cussedness of the old, seasoned staff members, those who had survived—thrived!—in this purgatory—no, this hell!—survived, but only as spiritless, soured, joyless echoes of the human beings they must once have been. My career was just beginning.
Little did I know that I have been waiting my whole life for your Substack. I adore close reading. I want to run off to Vegas and marry close reading. Elvis chapel of course.
I need to tell you, honestly, our planned move was a convoluted and chaotic affair, whether we count the many stops we had to make on account of our heavy load—at least five by early morning, near a lake, a ravine, an abandoned mine, a toll bridge, and an amusement park—or we count the delays along the road, whether by trusting outdated navigation systems, or from sheer exhaustion after steering an over height truck through perilous terrain for hours—days—almost a week!—to arrive at our new abode. For what it’s worth, none of us had ever tangled with the anchor chain of a mortgage!
Ross Gay's writing style is--dare I say?--delightful. Thank you for unpacking it for us. I am 1. deep in crafting a memoir chapter and 2. planning to read a chapter of Gay's book _Inciting Joy_ today, so this post comes along with perfect timing.
And my God, my smoking that evening was hot orange devilry – and not simple slight of hand devilry – what with me twirling cigarettes out in the ashtray, needlessly tapping the red Marlboro hard pack against the bar, absently checking on my dwindling cigarettes toppling sideways in their box, somersaulting the matchbook in my left-hand or bending back a thick paper match from its siblings, listening for the match scratch and the sharp sulphur head pop, feeling the flame glow in the sheltered cave of my palms, the micro-spark of that tiny I-built-a-fire-in-the-wind pride, tuning in to the virgin orange sizzle of each fresh tobacco tip – aaah! but also the seductive devilry – me guiding each exhale through the lips, but in particular guiding that first exhale to the side, possibly once back and forth or smoothly up and down like an airbrush and then the flitting cigarette finger dance -- a smile? -- the tap-tap of the ashtray index finger, and the alignment of the cigarette on the readied lip -- yes, there it is! -- then the slight tug against my fingers in the inhale, and my hands free and my head-lifted, and my burning eyes angling away, the practiced, distrustful wince of my smoker’s squint extinguishing the butt...
She wrapped her hand over mine and – without asking – took the cigarette from my hand.
I gotta try:
I could tell you it was all for the best, yes, not only was I a capable, sharp, inciteful seventeen-year-old, certain she was too deep-thinking for high school, but free!--free of my father’s insistence that school was vital--free as a teenage girl could be with a widowed mother who would not stand up to her children--free to try and free to fail!--and as I burst out of that imposing, granite edifice—strands of waist-long beads swinging around my neck, fringes on my knee-high moccasins fluttering and my skirt showing too much thigh for the rules of a small-town high school of the 1960s—my resolve felt at the same time, rock steady and giddy. And, it actually did turn out all for the best because why would anyone waste another moment in a place where they'd known only misery?
What a sentence! I love the combination of adjectives 'zany, alien, wet and odorous'. Not much romance in that image of 'procreation' :) These long sentences are mind-stretching, and I suppose that's the point. Thanks for this one.
Mine is even longer than the model (sorry) but here it is:
Well I can tell you, starting out at that all-girls’ high school with its reputation for testing the fortitude of every fledgling teacher was not fun, and not only due to the nausea that arose as I approached the school carpark—it sometimes took me twenty minutes to settle my stomach enough to venture from the shelter of my safe, friendly, familiar, battered and dented VW—but also because of the welcome I knew awaited me inside, not just the sullen looks and whispered taunts and insults and jeers that accompanied my progress through the halls, but also the practised contempt and sneering disapproval and amused curiosity and sheer cussedness of the old, seasoned staff members, those who had survived—thrived!—in this purgatory—no, this hell!—survived, but only as spiritless, soured, joyless echoes of the human beings they must once have been. My career was just beginning.
Little did I know that I have been waiting my whole life for your Substack. I adore close reading. I want to run off to Vegas and marry close reading. Elvis chapel of course.
I need to tell you, honestly, our planned move was a convoluted and chaotic affair, whether we count the many stops we had to make on account of our heavy load—at least five by early morning, near a lake, a ravine, an abandoned mine, a toll bridge, and an amusement park—or we count the delays along the road, whether by trusting outdated navigation systems, or from sheer exhaustion after steering an over height truck through perilous terrain for hours—days—almost a week!—to arrive at our new abode. For what it’s worth, none of us had ever tangled with the anchor chain of a mortgage!
Ross Gay's writing style is--dare I say?--delightful. Thank you for unpacking it for us. I am 1. deep in crafting a memoir chapter and 2. planning to read a chapter of Gay's book _Inciting Joy_ today, so this post comes along with perfect timing.
And my God, my smoking that evening was hot orange devilry – and not simple slight of hand devilry – what with me twirling cigarettes out in the ashtray, needlessly tapping the red Marlboro hard pack against the bar, absently checking on my dwindling cigarettes toppling sideways in their box, somersaulting the matchbook in my left-hand or bending back a thick paper match from its siblings, listening for the match scratch and the sharp sulphur head pop, feeling the flame glow in the sheltered cave of my palms, the micro-spark of that tiny I-built-a-fire-in-the-wind pride, tuning in to the virgin orange sizzle of each fresh tobacco tip – aaah! but also the seductive devilry – me guiding each exhale through the lips, but in particular guiding that first exhale to the side, possibly once back and forth or smoothly up and down like an airbrush and then the flitting cigarette finger dance -- a smile? -- the tap-tap of the ashtray index finger, and the alignment of the cigarette on the readied lip -- yes, there it is! -- then the slight tug against my fingers in the inhale, and my hands free and my head-lifted, and my burning eyes angling away, the practiced, distrustful wince of my smoker’s squint extinguishing the butt...
She wrapped her hand over mine and – without asking – took the cigarette from my hand.