Norman Mailer: Death & the Author -- by Benjamin Church Smith

See this story in its original context on Page of 75 of Take the Handle's The Heroes Issue, July 2008

Norman Mailer belongs to the long tradition of towering cultural figures whose myth casts shadows larger than the summation of his well known work. That is not to say that Mailer’s work is insubstantial or overrated. In fact, the tales from his colorful life often unfairly dominate the undeniable force of his literary efforts. Yes, Mailer stabbed his second wife with a penknife, ran for mayor of New York City on a secessionist platform, once bit off part of the ear of an actor while making a film, and lobbied to parole an inmate who was released and soon after stabbed a waiter to death on the Lower East Side—his work and legend cannot be separated, nor should they be. Mailer was a Writer. That is, a Writer in the style of Byron or Hemingway—in which the reputation looms as large as the work. In this sense he was, if not the last of a dying breed, certainly a being of rare occurrence.

Consequently, when I was asked by the stern but gracious editors of Take The Handle to approach Mailer’s legacy I was a bit overwhelmed. It is no small feat to encapsulate a body of work as large and a life as vibrant as Mailer’s. He was a filmmaker, a self-ordained theologian, a cultural lightning rod and, most importantly, an author. He spent his life seeking out the boundaries of consciousness and morality with the genuine desire to elucidate some greater truth. Or perhaps to highlight the frailty of truth itself. In this endeavor he plunged into grandiose topics almost every time he wrote: War, Murder, Jesus, Hitler, God, Sex, Violence, the CIA. These were not the subtle themes of his work, buried within a tomb of words to be painstakingly excavated by the most adept of graduate students. Mailer dove into almost unapproachable concepts seemingly without concern for discretion or restraint. His is a legacy, among other things, of intense ambition.

Retreating from the Twilight of Our Youth -- by Benjamin Church Smith

See this story in its original context on Page 28 of Take the Handle'sThe Youth Issue, January 2009

For weeks I said that I would write about Twilight for the Youth issue. Consider the zeitgeist. Reclaim the unrestricted feelings. Immerse yourself in the petty dramas of adolescence and embrace them as if you felt them still. As if it were ten years ago and you were in Smithfield, Rhode Island at the drive-in—watching Can’t Hardly Wait and feeling the full force of that recent graduation.

Remember back then, Marci? We were going off to college and we had so much to say about our lives and the invincibility of our dreams. We drove around all summer talking about the absurdities of growing up and pitting our own implied vows against the status quo.

And before that there was Nicki from the candy store…The night she wandered around the streets of Newport on an acid trip…I followed innocently. I didn’t know a thing about acid trips but I still wandered into that dirty apartment and tried to play the guitar. You were mysterious, Nicki. I just wanted some sense of that cool. And then showed up at the candy store a few times. Hung around. Never talked about candy. Never even ate any. Just hung around.

Notes on a Second Act -- by Benjamin Church Smith

See this story in its original context in The Hometown Issue, September 2009

In a small clearing in the trees two young girls play on a smooth, wide rock, over which a small waterfall flows down onto the beach. They spot me as I pass, transfixed by an unexpected intrusion on their idyllic summertime meanderings. The older of the two wears a green one-piece bathing suit and the younger---young enough to be almost un-gendered---is dressed only in her cotton underwear. They notice me and stare, deer frozen in the chaotic moment of fear and wonder brought on by the intrusion of the external world. It could have been an old romantic painting—these children of innocence, so close to the playfulness or birds learning to fly from the nest or a doe taking its first cautious clumsy steps.

My gaze is an invasive presence---a threat to their youthful summertime dream---and the girls disappear up the stony ascent without a word. I walk on, my mind drifting from the image of their improvisational play and onto thoughts of my own childhood explorations along this very beach with my sister. We found our way here every summer day that we could---wandering idly through humid afternoons, examining the refuse of shipwrecked lobster pots and decaying sea life.

I am back in my hometown. (Little Compton, Rhode Island. Population: 3,514.)

Ladies of the 80's... Christie Brinkley by Benjamin Church Smith

See this story in its original context on Page of 21 of Take the Handle's The Romantic Issue, October 2008

“There is no love where there is no bramble” – Bill Callahan

If the affections of true romantics spring from emotion rather than thought, and if pure desire accesses primal magnetism rather than psychological need, then certainly it is in the delicate time of youth that society's intrusions begin to pervert the implausible, perfect love.

As a boy of primarily rural influence in a pre-Internet era these distortions of idyllic, loving bliss came to me by way of notably cosmopolitan avenues. In the worlds of celebrity, urbane sophistication and “extraordinary lives” I encountered another romance—the mysterious caverns of the female body and its magazine and television advertisement expressions.

In my own New England town, there was one mass media fascination that loomed larger and circulated faster, at least amongst nine year-olds, than any other gossip item around. It was talk of Christie Brinkley and Billy Joel. For a while, if the local whispers were to be believed, this chic couple was shopping for real estate in our quaint oceanside town.

This was no simple matter. Tim MacGregor and I had recently put on an undoubtedly bizarre performance of the Piano Man’s don’t-blame-me political mindfuck “We Didn’t Start the Fire” at the elementary school talent show. For reasons that now elude me, we were dressed in identical gray sweaters and wore matching black plastic sunglasses with fluorescent green rims. And certainly our female peers in the fourth grade who had access to either the television or their mothers’ makeup cabinet knew of the Cover Girl. (Not to mention boys like me whose fathers had a copy of the swimsuit issue lying around.)

While the sexual allure of piano ballads and supermodels was still a bit of a pre-pubescent mystery, Christie and Billy were undoubtedly the Famous People around town. The scrawny third baseman on my little league team saw them in the local diner and rumors ran rampant that they were looking to fix up the old stone house on Main Road. The one that everyone was sure was haunted.