BJ Dee

“He smells funny,” the kid said. “He’s been rinsed through pretty good.” “With that whisky?” the kid asked. “Yes, sir. Some men take to it. I never did.” “Why not? Does it do bad things?” The old man looked at him over his shoulder. “Keeps varmints away,” he said. “How so?” “Savvy what a varmint is?” “Yeah,” the kid said. “Pests. Things you don’t want around.” “Well, whisky keeps things away that some people don’t want around neither. Like dreams, recollections, wishes, other people sometimes.” The old man turned on the stool and set the milk pail down on the floor between his feet. “Things get busted sometimes. When they happen in the world you can fix ’em most times. But when they happen inside a person they’re harder to mend. Eldon got broke up pretty bad inside,” he said.”
― Richard Wagamese, Medicine Walk: A Novel

“There was a feeling in him like a bruise, a purple ache that set between his ribs. He tasted a cry building at the back of his throat. It was too familiar and made him fearful.”
― Richard Wagamese, Medicine Walk

“As I gaze through the lens at a life’s worth of moments, a plate of Barilla spaghetti and a reprimand from my beloved sister are seemingly unimportant, but it filled in my heart from such a young age. This was one of my first introductions to shame. The same shame would keep coming as years went on. There was a whole system, I saw, that wasn’t about being good or even just being. It was about authority, with rules we are not born knowing. If this was how the world worked, I was in for a rough ride. We don’t know what stains a pure heart. We may not remember all those times, when we follow the wrong woman in the grocery store and reach for her hand and feel the red-hot shame for this understandable error. By the time we reach adulthood, we are so accustomed to being here that we forget how big everything used to be. The trespasses that to us seem light once felt like life and death.”
― Selma Blair, Mean Baby: A Memoir of Growing Up

“He held his hand up to his face and licked the wound. Blood. Old-tasting and rich like the sediment of a river. He looked at Jimmy. The blood on their faces meant they were part of the same stream now, bobbing in the current, borne forward effortlessly under the slowly twirling dome of the sky.”
― Richard Wagamese, Medicine Walk: A Novel