Zack Wilson's book “
Stumbles and Half Slips”could be described by many
flattering adjectives, however the writing in these twenty four short pieces is exemplary in its
negatives; its very lack of pretense, lack of mimicry. Words come alive,
seemingly bypassing the thought process as if poured straight from
life itself, expressed in un-sanitized language of common streets.
Open brain stream of consciousness relates the meanders of daily
tedium in full view.
The sense of place reads
as a travelogue to Work Town UK. As the reader rides shotgun in the
van with the main character, a whole countryside unrolls, a whole
retinue of mates unfolds; it is a situational series at its best
portraiture. No need for prompts and adverts, no mandatory formula; a
film develops steadily in mind toward satisfaction. Nope, no flashy ending
or painful suspense, just a sense of having been an intimate witness
to the process and essential revelation.
No sensational
descriptions to tease the reader, visions come in ground level
realism...sparse and short as a clean phrase. Each segment a complete
tableau of work day complexities. Each story apart and yet a part of
the whole of daily drudge for a Brit, for a man, in that place, in
this time. Anywhere between short skirts and tattoos, youth and
geriatrics, people bob in and out of pure text as experienced by the
main character.
Modern in tone and tense,
yet a classic struggle of coping and maintaining personal integrity
amid a cash hungry society which equates work with identity. Moral
meanderings of workplace ethics visible in the mandatory safety vests
and hygiene gloves. Out of construction rubble surfaces respect and
patience, the hard way. Out of white coats and blue hair nets, emerge
a whole range of perceptions.
Discontent exposed in
riffs of ill spent energies in the pursuit of some happiness or
drunkenness. Relationships on the rungs of job hierarchy weave and
wobble along definitions and expectations.
“rouge patches of
distress cloud his dirty cheeks”
Scuttling feet and
giggling grimaces boil up toward explosion or fade in flattening
depression.
“but the unguarded
rage in his eyes was terrifying—our foreheads locked together at
the focal point”
No clever titles to hype
the chapters, no substitutes or clichés; colloquialism is served
raw, the picture is clean.
“I'd been spending
another night down the local, the Green Man, trapped in the kind of
immediate after work session that's becoming a bit of a worry”
Sex and loneliness ooze
out of text between pubs and trips. Age and gender evident in
subtleties.
“one of those girls
that's so gorgeous it's physically painful to look at her”
The pace is present,
personal and proud, each scene a dramatic capsule of life on the
pavement.
Dialogue exposes the
immediacy of blue collar England.
“What’s going on
with this Barbados thing and that lad there?” ---“Oh, ‘im,”
a swarthy young fella with bad acne scars smirked. “’Ave
you sin the paper today?” ---I know he probably means The Sun, so I
say, “No. Don’t read one mate. Which one?”---“It’s bin on
telly too, mate,” he responds.
Between spliffs and pints,
cider and coke, painless details smoothly drive the discourse to full
spectrum of interrelated actions and reactions. No artifice, no hide
and seek, and best of all, no psychological games to lure the would
be reader to unnecessary emotional expense.
You listen to the sounds,
the accents, the punches and trenches of muddy yards and pub
atmosphere.
“I decided to head
down to the snap wagon for a sausage sandwich and a cup of foul grey
tea, the bloke asks me...”
You revisit the faces, the
twists of emotions and deliberations, knowing the dance and avoidance
of voices escalating, observing body language toward aggressive
stance, no gore needed, no special effects wanted. The scenery in
place, a panoramic setting for the next plot.
No one ever told
him to face how much they hated him, though they whinged
plenty when they thought he couldn’t hear. It seemed to scare
them that he was blind. They tended to be very fond of his guide
dog though, a big golden retriever called Morph.
Stumbles and Half Slips is the sort of book which
demands to be read again, not the kind which leaves you hanging or
longing. More like a movie running in different parts of the city on
the mind.
Zack
Wilson.
Author,
sports writer, poet, reviewer and word collector, he stacks stories
straight out of mind in Sheffield England. Able to dive under
philosophical layers without a breath, he surfaces with concise prose
and manifests his observations in multiple publications.
Lescar:
volume 1, Blackheath Books.
The
Mirror: prose collection, Erbacce press.
Poetry
reviews of Rob Plath' s and John Yamrus books, Epic Rites.
Film
reviews: Seraphim Falls, The Great Silence...
and an
impressive et coetera on both side of the pond.
------
Stumbles and Half Slips: is available through Epic Rites press.
(Wolfgang Carstens editor)
