Despite all the investigation, there is still much unrest in the family. May as well try and enjoy the time we still have on earth. Well, I feel so much sometimes I guess I just get a bit clouded, a bit off-colour. You know that colour? A trout in a blender or that big dumb fat sparrow hopping around on its twig leg that a part of you wants to crush, and it’s plump and juicy, and you want it to dance alive in your semi-closed mouth, then set it free.
Our house (161 Glenvale Boulevard) in north Leaside was built in 1960, and our family of four moved in one crisp weekend in March 1981. During the first week, select relatives visited and photographs were taken of Holly and me discovering the “secret” wood-panel door in the basement beside what would be my eventual bedroom (1985-1994) which led to a small pantry, bunker or bomb shelter under the stairs. The tiny passageway connected to the workshop.
Each and every Sunday we all agreed the roast beef was beautiful; its heart-red and pink cross section caused Dad to make sex noises in between throat clears. “Oh Diane, orgasm,” Dad would groan, rubbing his grey or brown sweater, overacting the pleasure of each sloppy bite with his prop tongue.
The story is disconcerting. It deals with time, madness and perception of what a family is or isn’t. It’s a study of desire, of memory, death and rebirth, set in a world coming apart.
(Prologue – You Know You’re Right: December 2012, p.11-12)
Nathaniel G. Moore’s Savage 1986 – 2011 (Anvil Press, 2013) is an ambitious, complex, suburban post-realist novel disguised as memoir that uses elements of autobiography, diary entries, interviews, interview fragments and confessional to chronicle the middle-class implosion of the novel’s protagonist Nate’s nuclear family — bracketed from when he first saw Randy Savage in person at Toronto’s Maple Leaf Gardens in July 1986, until the wrestler’s sudden death in May 2011 — paralleling Nate’s own search for identity and his eventual mental, emotional, and psychic deterioration.