A Certain Balanced Unbalance
Books, in the mega-multitudes, have been penned about life, the great sorrows, what is redemptive, and what will never be achieved. Other books cast their nets across magic, those unexplained, underlying properties and prophecies that can light up the imagination. Thank You For Your Sperm, a story collection of quirky and unusual title, examines both life and magic. Together. For what is life if not imbued with a certain balanced unbalance the author seems to suggest as he begins with his prologue:
WHO I AM
I am among the many, most definite and most certain: me. Definite: because I know where I begin though not where I will end. Certain: because of the many that have told me that I am, some more, some less, kindly. . .
This debut collection mixes the sacred and profane, beauty and beast, the strange and the wondrous. Not necessarily in that order. Or any type of defined order other than The Serious Writer segment (and even that gives way to whimsy by including two non-serious writer stories) (though I’m sure Speh had his reasons). Rather, the stories in this book seem quarantined like hungry orphans: Read me, they appear to shout from their temporary cots, take me home and love me; or better yet make love to me. Speh’s voices are consistently on pitch, his plots and settings well defined. There is a clatter in the book similar to the way Chekhov made his stories come alive.
An excerpt from “At A Welsh Wedding”:
. . .Because of the Captain’s former legendary sexual prowess there were rumors that moved the relationship between the two families into the unchaste neighborhood of a murky, primitive mélange. . . The groom was the Captain’s spitting image: tall as a larch, large head spiked with black hair, deeply set yellow eyes the size of small oysters… The bride was petite, blonde and busty, with a broad mouth full of happy teeth, given to chatter. . . Then he saw Captain Cat sit in a corner, his eyes closed, his head trembling slightly, clutching his wedding gift, a small laced-up dusty linen bag filled with fifty pebble-sized diamonds. The Captain was now considered a human liability. Doctors from London to Lima had pronounced their diagnoses. . . manic, depressive, schizophrenic, bipolar, paranoid, cyclothymic, borderline, or a genius. . . .
As for Speh’s own particular genius, it might be found lurking behind a potted palm, in the shadow of a half open door, or perhaps slouched low at the wheel of a low slung car: wherever is less noticeable than what is going on in his stories. This book is teeming with heart. It’s funny, too. Highly recommended for all who love literature at its most vibrant.
