beckoning with a blade

“Beyond the subways, there were the trains. I was leaving Paris at midnight from Gare de l’Est. So long ago I can’t remember, but I believe I had my eye on Basel in Switzerland; I would have been interested in where Nietzsche died. I was tired, not feeling well, but I was intent on getting the most of an unlimited pass good for two months on continental trains. I could save money on lodging by selecting night trains with sleeping compartments. Aboard my car, I was patiently navigating down its narrow corridor. Directed at the man pushing ahead in front me, I heard in French, ‘All I need is the ticket.’ A gentleman facing us beckoned with a blade.”

~~ from “Chinese Sun” by Alex Kudera

I post a photograph in case we need a reminder that memoir & autofiction trend toward fiction.

quite a wingding

“That was quite a wingding, yes. Wingding—the word—was only in my brain because I had Saul Bellow’s Humboldt’s Gift with me for the entire trip. The novel was quite a gas. This was in China, not Paris back-then, or at my dad’s house as a child in West Philly. In France, I’d found a UK edition of Thomas Pynchon’s V, and I’d also read Melville’s Moby Dick. The latter was a Penguin edition I’d brought from home. I knew I had to read if I wanted to write.”

~~ from “Chinese Sun” by Alex Kudera

I felt tugging

“Head down, I did my best to avoid Xi’an, China’s searing sun and the men selling socks on blankets over pavement. They were partly protected by the thin branches of small trees but still exposed to the heat. As I strode ahead, my mind bounced backwards two or three decades. I was wandering in a busy shopping area off the beaten tourist track in France. I remember it as near Les Halles, but not Les Halles; at the time, I didn’t know precisely where I was. An Algerian busser, one of my coworkers, had sent me to buy my uniform—a white shirt with black plants and bowtie. This was in Paris—or I should say on the outskirts of Paris. Les Banlieues, or not les banlieues? The shopping square was wide and packed tight with brown and pale Arabs. There were Tunisians, Moroccans, Algerians, and others. They were thin and poor, yes, but doing better than they would be back home. It was crowded—we were moving within inches of each other, even rubbing shoulders, as we walked up the wide boulevard. No cars but too many pedestrians. 

“I felt something behind me. I felt tugging . . .”

~~ from “Chinese Sun” by Alex Kudera

Maybe because they're different

“A good  while before I ever owned an automobile—perhaps at 23 or 19—my father took me to look at aged Jeeps—now disposed of and on sale at the post office. They were pale and dirty. Four-speed manual transmission. They sold for five hundred bucks and were missing a side door or window. Dad thought that would be a bargain and a car I could drive. It didn’t seem appealing to me at the time, but then decades later during a morning at the barbershop, a woman with the mail appeared. Her vehicle was parked right out front. As she left and drove away, one of the barbers said, ‘I’d like to own one of those one day.’

“‘Why?’ 

“‘I don’t know. Maybe because they’re different.’”

~~ from “Chinese Sun” by Alex Kudera

"Chinese Sun"

My most recent publication, "Chinese Sun," begins on page 139 of Meniscus, Volume 12, Issue 2; the journal is the creation of the Australasian Association of Writing Programs (AAWP). I'm quite proud of this piece, so I hope you give it a go.