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Birmingham Arts Journal

An international quarterly literary/arts journal published in Birmingham, Alabama. Submissions welco

Birmingham Arts Journal is operated without profit by dedicated volunteers, who believe that exceptional works by the famous, not-yet-famous, and never-to-be-famous deserve to be published side by side in a beautiful and creative setting.

18/02/2024

Life, actually…

EXTERMINATING THOSE PESKY MARTIANS

“…across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those beasts that perish, intellects vast and cold and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us.”

–H.G. Wells, The War of the Worlds, 1898

The child I once was and now remain, always plunges into each encountered book as if it is an entirely new world in which to live out an alternate life. Can’t help it. It’s the way I popped into existence and the way I now exist.

Reading the above H.G. Wells passage was scary when first experienced many decades ago and is equally ominous now.

The metaphor is clear: Not everybody likes everybody.

Many earthlings find reasons to hate and disdain and conquer other everybodies, and many lack the empathy to feel the pain of others.

Thus it was with the Martians. There was no “war of the worlds” in Wells’ novel—the title was a trick to get you to read it. The Martians did not come to earth to make war, they came to exterminate, much as a commercial exterminator comes to obliterate cockroaches in order to make a building habitable.

Ol’ H.G. was trying to shock us into looking beyond ourselves in order to protect the honorable traits we do have. He was saying, even if you stop warring with each other, you must still band together to repel all the other endangerments to life that are out there—pestilences, meteors, earthquakes, tsunamis, Martians, warming, solar flares, major storms…the list does go on.

Wars, be they political or virtual or actual, are mere distractions when it comes to pondering the future of humankind and animalkind.

We have so much to do.

Perhaps it will take a few more centuries to abolish war. Perhaps those then surviving will have the good sense to realize that the true obstacles to life on earth are bigger and more powerful than any standing or sitting army, any nuclear arsenal.

So, maybe the next book I fall into will be about a future when we’re all done with squabbling and are ready to tackle the really important issue of surviving all that Nature can dole out.

After all warring is spent, there will still be Martians and meteors to deal with. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could band together, forget boundaries and barriers, and start thinking about humanity itself?

Oh, well, it was just an idea

(c) 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

NEVERENDING STORIES BEGIN WHEREVER YOU ARE Posted on January 21, 2024 by Jim Listen to Jim’s youtube storytelling: https://youtu.be/oTfOjumwXTA . Life, actually… . NEVERENDING STORIES BEGIN WHEREVER YOU ARE . My beat-up old leather wallet bulges with everything but money. . So why do I carry thi...

11/02/2024

Life, actually…

REMEMBERING THE ROLLING BASKET LADY

I remember the rolling basket lady as if thirty years ago equals yesterday.

She lives rent-free in my fond memories. She is in crowded but friendly company.

The first time I meet the rolling basket lady, she thanks me for opening the door for her at the Post Office…using a loud and husky voice, “Why, thank you…a real gentleman!”

Her musical delivery makes my morning a little nicer. That is because I come from a generation often reminded that being a gentleman is a virtue…and that, furthermore, virtue is a wonderful thing to possess.

The rolling basket lady is of a certain age, years ahead of me.

She is dressed, as we say Down South, for Sunday school and her outfit includes lavishly applied makeup, hose and a frequent smile beneath her carefully arranged blonde hairdo.

She walks slowly, pulling behind her a metal wheeled basket—the kind office assistants use to pick up the morning corporate mail. Long before email conquers all.

I see her often, the basket woman, sometimes moving deliberately along 11th Avenue South, chatting merrily with herself.

Once I enter F.W. Woolworth and find her eating breakfast at the counter, a bit of grits on her chin and a napkin poised while smiling across the way at a sullen server.

At the same time I see other elderly diners at Woolworth’s, people who eat there just to recapture an old memory of what it felt like so many years ago when this was a thriving social center in each community, competing with S.H. Kress for the place of honor as bus stop and gathering place for everybody you knew who wanted a dime bag of popcorn that could last an hour.

That was back when servers were polite even when you couldn’t tip much, back when you felt safe leaving your purse and bags on that little ledge beneath the lunch counter while shopping around for one more item.

The rolling basket lady is the only person who calls me a gentleman, and I like it.

Even though later generations don’t quite “get” it, I still hold the door open for women, as well as men, if I get there first—and I often smile and nod to strangers on the street in tribute to my father and his generation, who always tipped their ever-present hats to known and unknown strollers.

Perhaps the memory of those gentler days is why the basket lady never forgets to smile for no reason at all at passers-by

© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

04/02/2024

Life, actually…

RE-GIFTING A WORTHWHILE DAY

Today’s Deep Thought: Isn’t being reincarnated simply re-gifting life?

Uh-oh, here goes that Red Clay guy, thinking above his pay grade again.

I hereby leave the idea of re-gifting a life to the philosophers and self-appointed Big Thinkers. All I’m trying to do is let you know what I’m up to these days—thought-wise.

Here’s what I’m supposing:

Whenever I have a really good day, I want to share it. Unfortunately, a really good day only lasts 24 hours and will soon disappear along with all the other really good days.

How can I preserve the good and ignore the bad?

Here goes.

Sometime during the day my far-away sister sends me a 1950s snapshot of me…me in my teenage world, wearing bathing trunks and sitting on a rock in the middle of Hurricane Creek in Tuscaloosa. Water is flowing and splashing all around me, and I seem to be happily clinging to the rock and having the time of my life.

Here’s the funny part of that day. I am young, thin. I have a full head of hair. I even look a bit buff…like a young hunk. This surprises me no end, since I am now a balding, tubby octogenarian whose appearance causes young’uns to avert their eyes in horror.

How is it that, for at least a day, I was a hunk? How is it that today, I’m a chunk?

What happened in the ensuing years?

Of course, I’ll not know the answer to these questions, but I do have to admit that I never considered myself to be good-looking. As the years go by it becomes evident that each of us has at least one moment in life during which we feel worthy of perusal.

Maybe that one moment for me was the Hurricane Creek moment. All other moments slip and slide away—unless a thoughtful Big Sister takes time to remind me that every good moment in life is filed away, ready for revival, if somebody is willing to re-gift it

© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

28/01/2024

Life, actually…
RIGAMAROLE YEARS, IN-THE-MOMENT JOYS
One of the advantages of living a long time (yes, young’uns, there are a few perks that arrive with the encroachment of elderlyness)…as I was saying, one of the advantages of living a long life is, I just don’t have to go through all the rigamarole of no-see-um swatting.
I recognize that I am now using decrepit words that you may or may not be used to, but then that’s another perk—my gift to you is the opportunity to look ‘em up and add archaic depth to your vocabulary.
We are now officially in Malarkey Land.
No-see-ums are all those annoyances we have to tap dance past in order to make it from now till bedtime, things we do that we in no way have to do.
Do I really need to hair-spray the few strands remaining on my pate? Been doing it so long—that is, ever since I had a thick head of hair—that I don’t even notice.
Does it matter whether I suck in my stomach as the nurse practitioner enters the exam room? Who am I kidding?
Do I really have to say to no one in particular, “Pardon me!” each time I sneeze? Actually, it’s the polite thing to do, so I’ll probably retain this antiquated notion of manners.
Can I take time to lovingly enjoy my family’s eyeroll reaction to the hundredth time I make the same smart-aleck wisecrack? You bet I will. It means said family is still listening. It means they must love me, else they’d leave the room. It means I appreciate their idiosyncrasies as much as they tolerate mine.
Yet another perk of elderlyness is that I am no longer required to join political conversations. These days, instead of arguing my opposing view, I just wander off—why feed the flames?
And I love making you laugh or chuckle. Before you can dismiss my presence I’m going to toss an oblique and funny remark out of the air and surprise you. You could use a laugh or two.
And eye contact is a pleasure. I keep trying to engage you in conversation till you look up from your palmed device and actually acknowledge my presence. If we exchange pleasantries we are at least acting more human, more humane, for just a moment.
And here’s something you can look forward to as you span the years to become a village elder: There will come a time when people will no longer ask you to do heavy lifting…a time when you don’t get invited to that annual party you did not enjoy anyhow…a time when someone will open the door for you, as payback for all the doors you opened for others through the decades.
There will come a time when people will register surprise when you, the ancient denizen, spout a witticism indicating you are still alert, still In There.
My New Year’s hope is that you and I will occasionally take an extra second to really see each other. What unexpected eureka! moments we might share!
There’s always the hope that the world will shift one inch toward goodness and mercy as it tumbles down the Universe
© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

21/01/2024

Life, actually…

NEVERENDING STORIES BEGIN WHEREVER YOU ARE

My beat-up old leather wallet bulges with everything but money.

So why do I carry this musty time capsule around each day?

I can’t let go of it because contained within are dozens of notes and notations…notes and notations I do not wish to toss. Notes and notations I never wish to forget.

Here’s one folded sheet of browning paper. And I quote…

Sometimes, great literature, inspiring literature, is literature that has never been read by anyone but its author.

For instance, if you write in your diary or journal and no one else ever reads it, does it have any significance at all? It is that old tree-falling-in-the-forest question–does the falling tree make a noise if nobody is there to hear it?

At last, that age-old question will be answered right here, right now! For some of the greatest passages in the history of storytelling will never be heard or read by you or me–and they will still be great passages.

Here are three true and honest passages. Each was written long ago through the eyes of an eleven-year-old. Can you tell me which were composed by now-famous writers? Can you tell me which was written by a young girl in an unpublished—till now—un-read diary?

Here goes:

PASSAGE #1: “I lay in my bed and the town slept around me and the ravine was dark and the lake was moving quietly on its shore and everyone, my family, my friends, the old people and the young, slept on one street or another, in one house or another, or slept in the far country churchyards. I shut my eyes…”

PASSAGE #2; “And then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steadily falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.”

PASSAGE #3: “I got up at 5:15, ate breakfast, then went to Philadelphia all day. We went with Rev. Ammons, but we were in Paul Dean’s machine. We saw some interesting sights, and we saw the zoo. I had an ice cream cone and some candy and a pin of Betsy Ross’s house, and a picture of Jesus. And then we came home and I went to bed.”

These are excerpts from three paragraphs of great writing, all told through the eyes of children. One passage is taken from a discarded diary I found at a flea market. The others are from works by renowned writers.

Perhaps they all were first conceived on scraps of wallet-paper, then later saved from perdition. Now all three are published and available to the world.

Now it is time for you to issue forth your own diary entries. As you compose them, do not judge them. Simply hold on to them for a few years, then re-visit. You may be astonished at their simple beauty, their simple power.

If curiosity keeps tapping on the windowpane of your imagination, just drop me a note and I will identify the three writers, the writers whose works remain timeless and forever pure

© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

JUST ANOTHER FRABJOUS DAY Posted on December 24, 2023 by Jim Catch the podcast: https://youtu.be/MpNLH6n0c1M . Life, actually… . JUST ANOTHER DAYFRABJOUS DAY . Here at the center of my little universe, I busy myself sifting through all Mortal Confusions, in search of sweet moments of pure human go...

16/01/2024

BIRMINGHAM ARTS JOURNAL
CELEBRATES THE WINTER ISSUE!
Sunday, February 04
2:00pm - 4:00pm
Community Meeting RoomO’Neal Library
JOIN US AT THE LIBRARY TO ENJOY VIEWING AND DISCUSSING THE ART, PHOTOGRAPHS, POETRY, SHORT STORIES, AND MORE FROM THE LATEST ISSUE.

15/01/2024

Life, actually…

E EQUALS A QUIET AND KINDLY ELDER

Decades ago, when we were younger and mostly hopeful, when stars above were stoically pure, when we were on the verge of dismissing all the surrounding beauties, when we nevertheless continued our quest for perfection, our search for impossible perfections in all dusty pasts…

Way back then, before Now seemed impossible…

This actually happened:

My since-childhood friend Pat, who now resides in Arlington, Virginia, keeps telling me she wants to take me to see Albert…I just have to see Albert, she keeps saying. So, petite granddaughter Jessica and petite spouse Liz and dumpty Me visit my lifelong pal and follow her.

One night in the still and cold darkness near a famous boulevard next to the seat of human power in North America, we four make our way to see Albert.

As we round old greenery, we come face to face with Albert.

There, seated beneath the godly stars, atop a fabricated field of stars, sits Albert, ruminating upon the universe, a larger-than-life-itself presence who at once seems both dignified and cosmos-struck,

The impressionistic and truly wonderful statue of Albert Einstein, star-molder whose thoughts have toyed with the heavens and thus begotten users and abusers—those who seek to re-form the world in peace and those who seek to control by fear the very solemn and gentle people like Einstein, who simply want to be left alone to live and eventually with grace dissipate into the ether once more.

The statue is a magnificent tribute to the human gossamer spirit that brings us joy, and now and then gets us into trouble.

Albert just sits there, gigantic, small, solitary…holding a writing pad in his lap with a few simple formulae jotted down, his sandals and sweater and flowing hair the very symbols that bring nonviolent power to a moment in time.

The sculptor has done the right thing, for Albert’s statue is not your typical noble horse-astride general nor your toga’d god nor your brave-in-battle fighter. Albert’s statue is designed to be touched and hugged by humans. You can sit on his knee, gaze at The Formula. Stare along with him at the twinkly-scattered universe.

He is hidden from direct view, so that he is not beckoning tourists.

He is waiting to be quietly discovered in the middle of a quiet night, where he sits and contemplates the uncontemplatable and thinks the private thoughts we all have the right to think, too

© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

07/01/2024

Life, actually…
BEING PRIVY TO THE PRIVILEGED PRIVACY OF THE PRIVY

I was brought up in a two-bedroom asbestos-shingled bungalow housing two parents and four brothers and sisters, and me.

Sounds crowded, but we didn’t know it.

My younger younger brother, Tim, slept in the den (where books and television and dining room and family room mingled), my older younger brother, Ronny, slept on the bottom bunk and I on the top bunk of our own bedroom, older sister Barbara slept in a room that was once our paneled-in front porch, and younger sister Rosi occupied Barbara’s room, then our bedroom, once we elder kids up and moved away.

Our parents had their own bedroom.

So, we made do. And it all seemed perfectly natural.

But the one sacred room in the house was our sole bathroom.

It was the primp room, the reading room, the telephone booth (our single phone cord reached from the hallway into the bathroom)…the only place any member of the family could disappear into for a little privacy.

The primary challenge was timing.

In order to escape the merry chaos of seven people and assorted visiting pets and friends and neighbors and relatives was to find the bathroom vacant and maximize your private time. That’s why the bathroom always housed books and magazines and notepads. It was the only place you didn’t risk having somebody look over your shoulder.

All spaces were small, in that little home on Eastwood Avenue in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. You learned to get a lot done in a tiny area…and to this day, I tend to work within a few square feet, no matter how much space is at my disposal. I surround myself with books and diaries and papers and magazines and keepsakes wherever I am.

I even write and edit and record my voice in small spaces—it just doesn’t feel right, sitting in the middle of a large, vacant room with plenty of stretch space. It’s not quite as extreme as hunching over your food, prisoner-like, guarding your plate on three sides, but it is the way I’ve survived all these years.

Five out of the seven of us Reeds are what you call introverts. For instance, I take my privacy with me wherever I go. Even in a crowded room, you’ll often find me in a corner looking at books or examining artifacts or talking with just one person at a time. Two of us introvert Reeds are performers, so sometimes you’ll see us entertaining large groups of people and mistake us for extroverts. Not so. We’re merely performers, actors. I am comfortable in front of a crowd when they’re all paying attention, when they have brought me in to entertain. It’s exhilarating. But, in the true tradition of introversion, it’s also exhausting.

After a performance, I re-charge by being alone and quiet.

All these years, I’ve been grateful for learning at the age of 13 that I was an actor, performer, public speaker at heart. This skill enables an otherwise shy person to excite crowds and classrooms—easy to do, so long as I know that I can ride away afterward, saying, as the Lone Ranger used to comment to his companion, “Our job is done here. Let’s go!”

It also allows me to run a very public bookstore and love it. I can perform for each customer, one on one or in groups, playing the part of kindly old book dealer. Then, I can go home to my quietness and re-charge for the next day.
Because of who I am, because of how I was raised, I have the best of both worlds. I’m able to be alone anywhere anytime, whether or not I am with people…and I’m able to switch on, enjoy, joke with and entertain whenever I feel like it.
.

I get my jollies, then ride off into the sunset. Or hide out in the privy

© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

31/12/2023

Life, actually…

DINNER ON THE GROUNDS

SOUNDS LIKE A WASTE OF GOOD COFFEE

Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore…

A few choice words from an old song tend to immerse me today. As the comic Steven Wright might have said, “Whenever I think of the past, it brings back memories.”

As ditsy as it sounds, this does ring true.

One remembrance stirs other remembrances, then more flow forth.

Watch out, Memory! You might make us smile or cringe, or both.

One recent morning, a series of phrases started tumbling out. What if we (that is, Me and Y’all) resorted to the manners of ancient times and named people based on their behavior?

This might happen:

My spouse would become Liz of the Leaping Mind and the Quick Eye.

Or Liz of the Patient Mate, Liz of the Wise Mom, Liz of the Powerful Presence

A favorite friend is Joan of the Thoroughly Spun Tale, her husband is Frank of the Witty Well-Timed Quip.

The list would continue:

Becky of the sassy legs

Jim of the Vocal Face, James of the Hidden Treasures, Jimbo of the Scrabbled Words

Dotty of the speedy mouth

Bill of the orange grove kayak

Geoff of the Hilariously Spun Tales

Others who pass through our lives might become Winnie the Whiner, Sam the Snarky, Gail the Giggler…

Have you found yourself among this ragged list? Maybe not. Names are sometimes changed to protect the guilty.

You can make up your own list of favorite acquaintances and their trademark idiosyncrasies.

If you are not partial to quickie labels, you can go on a fully-described-character rampage:

“Phil eats like he’s never eaten before, smacking and stuffing and sopping and glugging, blow-dried sprayed whitening hair and monogrammed track-pullover shirt…”

or

“Gary the Mustachioed baseball-capped good ol’ boy with hand in lap and mannerly dining habits.”

Well, there you are…some 400 words later, I still have not revealed the Meaning of Life. Or even the menu for your next breakfast.

If this is fun, go make your own list. It beats staring mesmerized at virtual images of virtual people doing virtual things both naughty and nice

Happy, happy New Year, Y’all

© Jim Reed 2023 & 2024 A.D.

24/12/2023

Life, actually…

JUST ANOTHER FRABJOUS DAY

Here at the center of my little universe, I busy myself sifting through all Mortal Confusions, in search of sweet moments of pure human goodness.

Looking for small kindnesses is not as hard as it sounds. It’s simply something you decide to spend your time doing. Or not.

Two things I do on days when I am at my best: 1. Listen to visitors who pop in and out of my life; 2. Sort out the best parts of what they say and do, leaving aside what can at first glance seem negative and wasteful.

As I conduct this unscientific research, I find that basically what is happening is that I am trying to cheer myself up.

Being of good cheer is nice in any season of the year.

For instance, I listen intensely to a longwinded orator whose every word causes his long nose to reveal more of itself. Later, I try to recall what he was talking about. Since his streaming verbal delivery is so tumbleweed random, I notate his accentuations and flourishes and digressions and usages and gestures and volume…they are more memorable than the content of his monologue. I mainly visualize the content of his characteristics.

Next time, I’ll record his ramble so that I can actually hear what he was saying.

A visitor to the shop asks where the “classic” books are, causing me to jokingly retort, “All our books are classic.”

To me, I’ve spoken a truth. To the browser it’s more important to tell friend and family he just obtained a work of “classic” literature.

All I’m really wondering is whether he will display the book or actually read it.

Using my pseudoscientific philosophy, what I should be doing is focusing on the positive—if the customer purchases a book, he’s doing the world a favor by not ignoring it, by making sure it isn’t tossed, by showing it off to others who might want to read it, by contributing to my income so that I can pay the rent and continue offering books classical and nonclassical to future perusers.

And so on and so forth.

Judging a patron by appearance and performance is just as dangerous, just as fun, as judging a book by its cover. Customers carry within them hundreds of stories and wisdoms. I like to turn their pages and appreciate their contents, before they are remaindered and forgotten.

Come judge my books by their interiors. While here, appreciate all the unclaimed unconscious baggage each peruser carries down the aisles.

Maybe on your good days you will reminisce about the marvelous tales that can only be known and appreciated by those who cruise slowly, carefully listening to the paginated whispers

© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

THE JOYFULLY ANNOYING HOT DOG TRUCK Posted on November 26, 2023 by Jim Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast https://youtu.be/yUXusDrOajA or read his story below: . Life, actually… . THE JOYFULLY ANNOYING HOT DOG TRUCK . Now you just have to be patient for a moment here and listen to my true ta...

17/12/2023

Life, actually…

THE LAST CHRISTMAS TREE IN PINELLAS COUNTY

It was the year we remodeled the house and because the contractors worked until the last possible minute, we waited until Christmas Eve to buy a tree. Not usually a problem. But the year before, merchants had over-bought, and this year, they over-compensated.

Our father fared forth in high hopes of finding the perfect tree. First he went to the lots in our hometown, then in the next town, then on down the road a piece, then nearly to the county line. He finally found a tree, at this point settling for any tree remotely shaped like Christmas. As he was paying for the last Christmas tree in Pinellas County, a distraught man came running into the nursery. With tears in his eyes, he explained he was visiting from Michigan, his little girl was three years old and this would be the first Christmas she’d remember and there wasn’t a tree anywhere to be found.

“Here,” Daddy said as he handed over the last Christmas tree in Pinellas County. “Merry Christmas.” The grateful visitor bustled the tree into his car, shouting his gratitude and wishing Daddy, his family, the nursery worker and anyone within earshot a very happy holiday indeed.

Now what to do? Daddy turned back to the nurseryman and scratched his head. All the cut trees were gone, all the burlap-balled living trees were gone. “Well,” said the nurseryman, “How about a Podocarpus?” And so Daddy bought a small, green sort-of-conical-shaped tree in a ten gallon can. The can was bigger than the tree. We decorated it with one strand of lights and selected the smallest ornaments. We wrapped the can in red foil paper and set our tree in the middle of the dining room table. After Christmas, we planted the tree at 513 Scotland Street where it still grows, some 45 years later.

When I think back on all the Christmas trees in all the years, that’s the tree I remember best.

© 2023 A.D. by Liz Reed

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