the oklahoma review, fall 2013
DESCRIPTION
The Oklahoma Review, Volume 14: Issue 2TRANSCRIPT
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The Oklahoma Review Volume 14: Issue 2, Fall 2013 Published by: Cameron University Department of English and Foreign Languages
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StaffFacultyAdvisorDR.BAYARDGODSAVEFacultyEditorsGEORGEMCCORMICK,DR.JOHNG.MORRIS,DR.HARDYJONES&DR.JOHNHODGSON
AssistantEditorsANGELABAUMANN,AMANDAGOEMMER,CASEYBROWN,MELISSAJOHNSON,NICKBRUSH,&SARARIOSWebDesignELIAMEREL&
HAILEYHARRISLayoutCASEYBROWN
MissionStatementTheOklahomaReviewisanelectronicliterarymagazine published through the Departmentof English at Cameron University in Lawton,Oklahoma. The editorial board consists ofEnglish and Professional Writingundergraduates, as well as faculty advisorsfromtheDepartmentsofEnglishandForeignLanguages&Journalism.The goal of our publication is to provide aforum for exceptional fiction, poetry, andcreative nonfiction in a dynamic, appealing,and accessible environment. The magazine’sonly agenda is to promote the pleasures andedification derived from high‐qualityliterature.TheStaffTheviewsexpressedinTheOklahomaReviewdo not necessarily correspond to those ofCameron University, and the university’ssupportofthismagazineshouldnotbeseenasanyendorsementofanyphilosophyotherthanfaithin–andsupportof–freeexpression.The content of this publication may not bereproduced without the written consent ofTheOklahomaReviewortheauthors.
CallforSubmissionsTheOklahomaReviewisacontinuous,onlinepublication.Wepublish two issueseachyear:Spring(May)andFall(December).TheOklahomaReviewonlyacceptsmanuscriptsduringtwoopenreadingperiods.
•ReadingdatesfortheFallissuewillnowbefromAugust1toOctober15
•ReadingdatesfortheSpringissuewillbeJanuary1toMarch15.Worksentoutsideofthesetwoperiodswillbereturnedunread.Guidelines:Submissions are welcome from any seriouswriter working in English. Email yoursubmissions to [email protected]:
•Prosefictionpiecesof30pagesorless.•Asmanyasfive(5)poemsofany
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attachmentsineither.docor.rtfformatfortext,and.jpegforartsubmissions.Wewillneitherconsidernorreturnsubmissionssentinhardcopy,evenifreturnpostageisincluded.
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Cover Art Katherine Liontas-Warren, “A Lost Culture” Creative Non-Fiction 10 Megan Vered, “No Feet on the Railing” Poetry 16 Zarah Moeggenberg, “I Always Cover Their Faces” 17 Rachel Parker Martin, “San Jose” 19 Rachel Parker Martin, “San Jose (Translation)” 21 Rachel Parker Martin, “The Pilgrimage” 23 Phil Estes, “Lost City Road” 24 Phil Estes, “Yahweh out of line” 25 B. Tacconi, “A Blank Converse” 26 Nicole Santalucia, “Kids on the Southside” 27 David Galef, “Meeting” 28 David Galef, “Difference and Balance” 29 David Galef, “Protection” 30 David Galef, “Guilt” 31 David Galef, “Fostering” 32 J im Davis, “You Are Your Own Voice Hephaestus” 33 J im Davis, “Hotcakes” 34 Angela Spofford, “Fish” 35 Angela Spofford, “Weld Country” 36 Jordan Sanderson, “Struck” 37 Jordan Sanderson, “Bolt” 38 Jose Angel Araguz, “Dandelions”
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Fiction 42 Phong Nguyen, “Jesus, Unforsaken” 49 Constance Squires, “Wayfaring Stranger” 58 James Brubaker, “Three Television Shows About Familial Love” 61 Rob Roensch, “In the Dark” Reviews 74 Ashley Galan, “A Review of Stuart Youngman “Sy” Hoahwah’s Night Cradle and Velroy and the Madischie”
76 Nick Brush, “A Review of Michael Nye’s Strategies Against Extinction”
Interviews 78 George McCormick, “‘Love Doesn’t Mean You Don’t Have to Go to the Dentist’: An Interview with Francesca Abbate” Contributors 86 Contributor’s Page
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Non‐Fiction
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Megan Vered
No Feet on the Railing
Weenteredthecourtroomthroughtheheavydoubledoorsand,purposefulasHigh
HolidayJews,movedenmassetowardarowofemptyseats.
No feet on the railing, the small sign commanded. The sign failed to advisemewhere
exactlymyfeetoughttogo,butIdidgetthemessagethatitwouldbefrownedupontoshiftmy
feetuptotherailing.Theywouldbeunsettling,conspicuous.CouldItuckthemundermeon
theseatof thechairordid theyhave tobeproperlyplacedon thescuffedhardwoodbeneath
me?Ilookedaroundandprettymucheverybodywasseatedwithfeetplacedonthefloor.The
sign must be working, I thought. Otherwise we would all have our feet on the barrier that
separatedusfromthejudge.
Ifithadbeenuptomymother,theaccidentneverwouldhavehappened.Shehadbeen
themaindriversincemyfatherlosthisvisionrightaftertheyweremarriedandneverletanyone
else drive her car. On the way home from an impromptu weekend with friends, my father
coercedhertohandoverthewheel.Heinsistedthatshewastootiredandneededabreak.My
fatherasleepinthepassengerseat.Momintheback.Thefriendwhowasdrivingblackedout.A
beautiful blue‐sky day.No traffic on the highway.Mom’s cherished turquoise Cadillac Seville
launchedheadlongintoatree.Noonewaswearingaseatbelt.Myfatherwaskilledinstantly.
Nofeetontherailing.Nodiscourteousbehavior.Nopushingthelimits.Nogoingagainst
therules.It’sagoodthingthatonthismurkyJanuarymorningmyfatherwassixteenyearsdead,
because he would have pushed the envelope, and who knows how his behavior might have
affectedthisoutcome?But,ofcourse,thesituationwewerefacingwasaresultofhisunlimited
appetiteforroguebusinessschemes.Nopapertrailleftbehind.Hetookitallwithhim.
Myfather,who’dhadnointentionofdyingabruptlyatagesixty‐one,entrusteduswitha
complex trail of debt that even his young, crackerjack attorneys could not unravel. A
flabbergastingconcoctionofAmerican‐Jewishintellectualandhigh‐endhorsetrader,hewasthe
antithesisofmymother,aquiet,constant,just‐soBostonianwhowouldneverletherslipshow
inpublic.Sheusedtotellmethatafterlosinghissight,helivedeverydaylikeitwashislast.The
exhilarationofmakingadeal,ofrecraftingreality,wasanaddictionforhim.Formymotherit
wasanendurancetest.
Withthelossofmyfather,theirhousewent intoforeclosureandassetsvaporized.But,
evenindeath,myfatherhadawildcarduphissleeve.Hehadpurchaseda$5millionpieceof
propertyindowntownSanJosethathadonlyjustsold.Inthefinalanalysismymotherstooda
goodchanceofbecomingamillionaire.
The elderly judge, swathed in billowing black, entered through the back door and
marchedtohisseat.Will all thosepresentplease stand.Pleasebe seated.Hetiltedhisheadto
accommodatehisbifocallensesandreadoutloud,Thefollowingcaseshavebeenapprovedunless
anyobjectionsareraised:One,LeonardHesterman,Three,FrankHernandez,Five,HugoBarnes,
Eleven, Norman Weiss. He stopped when he reached number thirty‐two. I sucked in a huge
lungfulofair.Themanseated in frontofmymothershiftedhisbodytotheside,armdraped
conspicuouslyon thebackof thechair tohis right.Couldhehear thepoundingofmyheart?
Couldhebeonewhohadcometoraiseanobjection,whomightdemandmoremoneythanmy
father’sestatecouldoffer?Iscannedtheroomforhostileglances,setjaws,pursedlips.Thiswas
stillenemyterritory.
I wondered if my father were to walk into the courtroom at this moment, would he
recognizeus?Mom, seated tomy left,was grayer andproppedupby a canedue to ligament
damagesustainedintheaccident,andallofusmoresolemn,lessinnocent.Thewhompofthe
gavel and the authoritative voice of the judge startledme.Hearing no objections, they are all
approved.Mymother’sattorney,outofhischairinaflash,rushedtothejudge’sdesk,wherehe
washandedacommandingstackofpapers.Frozen,Iwaitedforsomeonetoraiseahandandcall
out,Iobject!Iobject!Notasoulcameforward.Myyoungersister,Eve,nudgedme.Let’sgo.
Nofeetontherailing.Standup,sitdown.Itwasoverbeforeithadevenbegun.Giventhe
waymyfatherlivedhislifeandthearduouswaitfortheestatetosettle,Iexpectedhighdramain
thecourtroom.Iwassurethattheroomwouldbefilledwithpeopledemandingmorethanwe
wereoffering.But,surprisingly,noneofthosetowhommyfatherowedmoney(therewereover
onehundred)evenbotheredtoshowup.
Thenightbefore, inourhotel suiteat theCrownPlaza indowntownSan Jose, I called
everybodyovertomybed.Okay,youguys,closeyoureyes.Iliftedthenonstickbackingoffwith
my fingernail and pressed a nametag ontomy brotherOran’s shirt.Written in large Sharpie
letters was Son of an Heiress. My sisters’ naturally saidDaughter of an Heiress. Mom’s said
HeiressExtraordinaire,andonhersmall,grayheadIplacedapapercrownadornedwithplastic
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flowersandfakemoneythatIhadcreatedinmyofficebeforedrivingtoSanJose.Giventhather
Hebrew name,Malka, means “queen,” it was fitting. The wordHeiress was scrolled onto a
magenta ribbon that hung alongside her ear. She laughed, lifting her hand to straighten the
crown.
Let’sjusthopethingsgowelltomorrow.
Theywill,Mom,Ihaveagoodfeeling.
FromyourmouthtoGod’sears.
Youdon’tevenbelieveinGod.HowabouttoDad’sears?
I’msurehe’slistening.
Yes,well,ifyouhaveachancetotalktohim,tellhim
Iwill.
Before the celebration lunch we had promised ourselves—regardless of outcome—we
droveby thedowntownproperty thathad finallypaidoff. Somedeveloperwas clearlyon the
way to greatwealth. Then toDad’s gravesite in theOakHill cemetery.His gravewas in the
Jewishsectionofthecemetery,calledHomeofPeace.Thefiveofusstoodinacirclearoundhis
headstone.Onthegraymarblewasetched:
Inthefinalanalysis
Andbeneathit:
LeonardHesterman,October1921‐December1982
“Inthefinalanalysis”hadbeenoneofmyfather’sstockphrases.Heuseditoftenduring
debatestodriveapointhome.Ilookeddownatthegraveandsaid,YouknowMom,whenyou
chosethewordingfortheheadstoneitstruckmeas…
Flippant?
Yes,butnow…
Now, standing by the grave, absorbing all the details that had led to this moment, I
understood.Myfather’slifehadbeendedicatedtoevadingrulesandregulations.Hehaddodged
theIRS,defaultedonloans,andconsistentlyleftaloadofunpaidbillsinhiswake.Hadhebeen
inthatcourthousewithus,hisfeetwouldhavebeenuponthoserailings.Hewouldhavenudged
meand, inavigorouswhisper,said,Beware of the tight asses, they rule theworld. Inthe final
analysis, and from beyond the grave, my father had masterminded a happy ending for my
mother.Hopefullyhecouldnowbeatpeace.
Mom’s said Heiress Extraordinaire, and on her small, gray head I placed a paper crown adorned with
plastic flowers and fake money that I had created.
I dug around in the dirt by thewall surrounding the Jewish section and found a little
stoneforeachofustoplaceontheheadstone.Onebyonewekneltdownandplacedourstones
whereyearsagowehadcastahandfulofdirtontothecasket.Weheldhandsandbidourfather
onefinal,silentadieu.Hisreignaschiefinstigatorhadcometoanend.
Momsaid,Okay,it’stimetomoveon,everybody.
Let’sgofindGrandmaandGrandpa,mysistersaid.
WemovedtotheothersideofthecemeteryinsearchofBubbieandZayde’sheadstones.
Born inVilnaandKiev,my father’sparentswere faraway fromhome.Momwas theonewho
hadpurchasedtheplotsandrememberedthattheywereinthecornerbythefenceunderalarge
tree. She remembered this because she thought that Bubbie would like being in the shade.
Findingnoside‐by‐sideheadstonesinthecornerandconcludingthatwewereturnedaround,
wescatteredindifferentdirectionsinsearchoftwoheadstonesbearingthenameHesterman.I
passed Jane Rosenberg, 1933‐1974, Beloved mother; Bertha Cohen, 1921‐1975, Beloved sister and
friend; ArthurMagid,MD, Beloved father and husband. I passed the graveof a childwhohad
livedforaweek.Ifeltthetearsofgenerationsfallingdownmycheeks.ButIcouldnotlocatemy
grandparents.
AmaintenanceworkerpassedbyandIaskedforhelp.Hewenttotheofficeand,whenhe
returned,walkedtotheveryspotwherewe’dstarted,underthetreebythefence.Unwittingly,
allofushadbeenstandingrightontopofBubbie’sgravestone.Icouldhearhercryout,Shayna
mamela!Youfoundme!ButwherewasZayde?Mybrother,Oran,theagronomist,wholovesthe
earth the way Zayde did, got on his hands and knees and ran his hands through the coarse
Bermuda grass. It should be right here. And feeling around beneath the grass, he hit a hard
surface. Maybe this is it. The worker and his buddy got their shovels from the truck and
unearthed thegravestone, coveredwith at least three inchesof sodanddirt. I couldhearmy
grandfather—who,inhislateryears,hadbeenadiligentandlovinggardener—yellingVeizmere,
cursingtheshoddyplotmaintenance.
Andsoitwasthataftersixteenyearsoflimbo,mymotherbecameamillionaire.Shewent
homeandpurgedhundredsofgreen‐and‐whitelegalenvelopesfromthefileboxeslitteringthe
floorofherguestbedroom.Shefoundarealestateagent,boughtanewhouse,andpackedup
herlife.Inthefinalanalysis,shepaidallofherutilitybillsontimeandneverhadtoworryabout
losingherpoweragain.
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Poetry
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Zarah Moeggenberg I Always Cover Their Faces Ialwayscovertheirfaces.Inorangetrafficconesweoverturn,theirwingswillgive,theirfeetwillrestagainstbiboveralls.AndIuseacurvedblade,therapidstrokeupandsideways—watchthebloodrunaredstreamtoquiet.Wechoosetoslaughterearly,thechickensgray,thesnowfluorescentspillsuponhaybeds.Theyknowoursteadyboots,theirrushofbreathslithersupthebarnwallsTheircarefulwingsyawnintoourpalms.Thefirstisyoungandsleek.Myson,heteacheshim,hissteadycluckthecone—andhandreleasesthecarefulspilloffeatherbody,curlofheart,thecooandtutoftight.Samcupstheconebetweenhisknees,takesasipofcoffee,Themughasmadeacircledeepinshellsofgrainsandpressofclaw,inwinterdirt.Heworkstheknifequick,heseesthebloodrunwarmbetweenhishands.Hesmoothesthebody’storqueintoacalm.Icounttherest—eighteentoday.Istayfarfromthebulb,thestool,thecone,thebucket.ItastemyFolgersblack.Myson’sshoulderssharp,atenseIcannottouch.
Rachel Parker Martin San José Cuatroventanasquesonmásgrandesmeenvuelvenenlaluzextrañadelamañanatemprano,delafríadiariamentequeelsoldebilitosemudacomoescalofríosdeladuchanaturaleza.SoyelcontornocomoesasgotitasenunbrilloapagadoQuetieneunaluztrémulacomolosdientesdelosperrosenlacalleiluminadoenotrotaxidespuésotrotaxi,conlosfarosquesepararanladistanciaentresuladodelacalleymío.Mehansidoreveladosenmisilencio,mitartajeoqueesmancillaconsuladrido,elborróndesupreparaciónquevuelveruidosoconlasformaspeligrosasensussombrasquecalculanmiencojoantesdemiespinazopuede.
Alfinaldelpasilloobservolaformadeunamujerquellenasusventanasconsusmovimientos,precisoylento.Sucuartoaparecetangrandesinestospensamientosaalmacenan,detrásdeestanteríasymaletas.¿Tieneellasuenosobrelosperrosgruñenyloscochesquematan?
Cuandolaluzseenvuelvesucuerpolapalmagrisnovestirlaenlacarnedegallina.Supielesunanaranjaardientequecreceeneloscurodesuestómagobrillantecomolucesdefreno.
(Estoeselfuegoqueyobusco,dedosnegrosquesacanentrecarniceríacuneta,porencimadelosojosdelosperrosqueaíslandondeseescondelamejorcarne:micorazóncarnal.)
Estáenelojodeestaciudadbestialqueseráencontraremiscolmillos,elcorajequeformaréuncharcoconunasonrisacanina,quegruñeporunacomidaquequemarémimeolloUnavezquehalabradotodamibrilloEirémarcasdezarpasdemidestreza
(Eslapalabramáspoderosaqueesperanza,Éstaeslaescriturademievolución)
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Entenderélasignificadelbrillodebajodelapielaunsitengoquecortarlo.
Sóloentoncespuedodejardeescribirsobremí.
San José (Translation) Fourlargeglasspanelsengulfmeinthestrangelightofearlymorning,thedailycoldthattheweakenedsunshedslikeshiversfromnature’sshower.Iamoutlinedlikethesedropletsinableakglowthatglimmersliketheteethofdogsinthestreets,illuminatedbyanothercabafteranothercab,headlightsthatsplitthedistancebetweentheirsideoftheroadandmine.Iamrevealedbymysilence,mystutterthatisblackenedwiththeirbarking,thebluroftheirreadinessthatgrowsnoisywiththedangerousshapesoftheirshadowsthatcalculatemyflinchbeforemyspinecan.
DownthehallIwatchtheformofawomanwhofillsupherwindowswithhermotions,preciseandslow.Herroomlookssolargewithoutthesethoughtstostorethere,behindsuitcaseandshelves.Doesshedreamofsnarlingdogsandmurdercars?Whenthelightblanketsoverherbodyitsgreypalmdoesnotdressheringooseflesh.Herskinisaburningorangethatgrowsinthedarkofherstomachglitteringlikebrakelights.(ItisthisfirethatIsearchfor,blackfingersthatprybetweenroadsidecarnage,pasttheeyesofthedogsthathaveisolatedwherethebestfleshhides:mycarnalheart.)
ItisintheeyeofthisbestialcitythatIwillfindmyfangs,thecouragethatwillpoolwithacaninecurdlinggrowlingforamealthatwillburnoutmycore.OnceIhavecarvedoutallmybrightnessandleaveclawmarksofmycraft(itisthewordmorepowerfulthanhopeitisthesculptureofmyevolution)
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IwillunderstandthemeaningoftheglowbeneaththeskinevenifIhavetocutitout.
OnlythencanIstopwritingaboutme
The Pilgrimage Thereissomethingaboutlanguishingthiswayinthegleamingstillnessofafterwardwherethetendertouchwaitspalmscrossoverknucklesneedingkneading,thequietclutch(WehavebecomeunstuckfrommattressandmonitorhavelostformandfinitudeIcannottellifbeneathyourhandsissandorstars)Thereissomethinginthewaythewristlilts,thealmosttrembleovertheribcageitisthepianist’stremorbeforesmoothinghisfingerprintsovertheivory,familiarandforgiving,markédproddinggentlyforthefirstwords,softlittlebreaths,pluckingoutsongbirdsfromslumber;withcockedheadandquaver,recognitionlacesthetongueandpromptsthedeepstretchofreunion,thecomelywarmingofvertebrate,likethecrackandthecrumbleofclayItisherethatIfindyou,(WhenIbecomelostintheseaofmyselflimbsspreadoutacrossthewaterwhileyouholdformetofindthetide)Baskingonthelastshoreofthewinter,peeringintothecrystallinestillinthepermanenceofpunctuationyourestinsentenceandsemicolonloungeinthearchofquestionandrespiteinthegreatpause,thedeepbreaththathasbecomewaitingforme(Istobepossessedtobefreetotreadwater?Myhandsclaspandclose,nebulousinthedeep)WhenIcannotreachyourwristIhearyouintheclinkofcanandkeycardoorandglassbottlegaspagainstthemouthIcarryyouinthetasteofinkonmytongue
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andIwillwriteyououtmylipsthroughthedragoffingernailsacrossthechestbeneathwhichtheinkwellliespulsing(Wesharethebreathofourbodilyscript;wearethebuoyantpagestobebound)Thisisit,yousay,IfindtheclaspoffingersatlastshorelineturnstosheetsthewavescrashintokeyboardclicksandIhavereturnedtous,tomeyourhandholdsmyfacelikeasalvagedstone,thisisitthebeautifulshudderofbeingfound.Winterisover.
Phil Estes
Lost City Road
Alexandria’s grandfather drawsmaps for all of us. “Let’smake real life easier with thetechnologyavailable tous.”Hedrawsallday inhisbackroom.Of thegrandparents,one lovesonesetbetter.
Wewentoutandtubeddownariver,intotheocean,thentothisislandwhereherothergrandfatherlivedalone,olderthantheformer.Alexandriasaid“he’sagoodmanbutdifficult.”Mmm‐hmm.Thisoldmanlivedwithadogandabigbluecrow.Thecrowhadbigsadeyeslikearmored‐meninJapanesesilk‐screenart,hiswingscoveredinpaint.Theoldmansaidhehasn’tseenahumaninsolong.Hejusttalkstothebigbluecrowallday.
The crow cries rubies if you bully him. I tried but he just laughed.Not because IwasfunnybutbecauseIwassobadatmakinghimcry.“Tryagain,”hesaid.“Tryagain,”theoldmansaid.
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Yahweh out of line
“Plotsandschemesarethesamething,”Alexandriaalwayssays.IthoughtIhadboth,butprobablyneither,notwhentheguyintownwiththeretractablearmtakeswhathepleases.
HeemphasizesSuperJoe.“CallmeSuper Joe.Noonewillnameyouthemselves,exceptmaybemothers.”He takesmostlybeers frompeoplewith thearm,which ismetalpiping thatextends intoagardensnake—notevenapython?C’monSuper Joe!Theclawattheendgrabsthebeer,money,littlestatues,etc.
One timeSuper Joeconsidered taking ice cream fromachildouton the street,duringSomeFestival,butheknewthatwastoomuch.Itooksomemoneyfromanoldredandyellowdonation box at church; donations to something we all forgot about. “That seems so muchworse,”hesaid.
B. Tacconi A Blank Converse Shesighsandsaysthehomelessbummeout.Ilookateachindifferentfacethatdriftsbythinkingwhowouldchooseafatesofullofpotholes,concrete,cracksandweeds.Theireyes,soshallow,sinkinsidetheirsallowman‐gledfeatures.Nailscompactedwithdirtinquirethroughresin‐stainedandshatteredTicTacteethforchange?Asmoke?
Idonotweighmyselfwithchange,Icannotofferthemrelief.Iwouldgivethemwords,buttheyspendthemselves.Theirfingersretractatnoreturn.
ShelookstometoseeifIagree,InodandwonderhowsincereIam.
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Nicole Santalucia Kids on the Southside TherearelittleboyswithnicknameslikeOld‐ManJoeandGrampshangingontothechainlinkedfence.It’sliketheyareontheinsideofthebelly,trappedintheirowngutslookingout.Theirarmsandlegsscorchedfromlitcigarettesandcarlighters.Idon’tknowhowboyssurvivewhentheirhandsarenailedtothewallsofJohnsonCity,NewYorkwherepeoplelikemeareconsideredroadkillforthesekidstoplaywith.WhentheycrawlthroughtheholeinthefencetheyarebornagainandIcanhardlybreathe.
David Galef Meeting
虎 KO.toratiger,drunkard. —kanjientry4105
Thedrunkardeyesthetiger, astripedrugofananimal withvelvetpaws,glasseyes, andasmelllikecatpiss.
Thetigereyesthedrunkard, abeastofaman,hands gropingathisundonecollar wiltedinstalesweat.
Maybetheycanbefriends, huntboar,drinkshōchū,orjust prowltogether.Astheypadalong thestreet,oneofthemgrowls.
*All definitions of Japanese characters (kanji) come from The Modern Reader’s Japanese‐EnglishCharacterDictionary,secondrevisededition,byAndrewNelson(Rutland,VT,andTokyo,Japan:Tuttle,1974),thoughseverelyabridged.
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Difference and Balance
差 SHI, SA: difference; variation; discrepancy;margin; balance; remainder (insubtraction). sa(su)vt stretchout (thehands indancing); putup (anumbrella);carry(ontheshoulder);build(ahut);stretch(arope);graft(trees);carry(inthebelt); lift up; offer. vi (the sun) shines; appear on the surface. sa(shi) sharpenedtube for testing rice in bags. sa(shi) de between two persons. sa(shi) ruler (formeasuring);facetoface;hindrance;sharingaload.
—fromkanjientry3661
Wheretobegin?What’sthebalanceordiscrepancybetweentwovariationscloseasabirdhoveringoveritsshadow?
Leavethatonthemargindefinedbywhateverremainsafterthehandshaveleftthebodytodance.
It’sliketheprivatepenumbrafromaparasolputupagainsttheshoulder,
Orthebrutebutartisticlaborofgraftingtrees,stretchingropes,andbuildingahut.
Icarryanimageofyouinmybelt.Iofferaself‐appearancewhilethesunismindedtoshine.
Iseeyouandyouseeme;Betweenusshouldbenohindrance.Comehelptestthisricebag:measureit;sharemyload.
Protection
冗 JŌuselessness. —kanjientry625
I’vebeencalleduseless,butI’vebeencalledworse,
asupernumeraryofficialinchargeoftheoverstock
ofapapercompanythatfoldedlikelastyear’sorigami
inthismostredundantoftowns,Kubo‐Kubo.
NowIpatrolwithaflashlighttoseeifanyone’smadeoff
withtheunsoldexpansethatwillneverturninto
asmudgedsumi‐e,atedioustanka,oreven
ahastilyscribbledjokebecausenoonewantsus.
InawayI’mprotectingpeoplefromtrash.
Evenuselessness
asitsuses.
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Guilt
汁 JŪ,SHŪjuice.shirusap;soup,pus.tsuyubroth;gravy. —fromkanjientry2485
Thejuiceinmyveinshasturnedtomisosoupthinasthebrothatthestationcafé.
Thesapfromtheginkgotreehastrickledoutanddried,shellackingthewarmonument.
Whatyouthoughtwasgravyisthepusfromourwound,seepingfromplatetoplate.
Fostering
甘 KAN. ama(eru), ama(ttareru) presume upon, take advantage of, coax.ama(nzuru),ama(njiru)becontentwith,beresignedto.ama(yakasu)pamper,beindulgent,coddle.ama(i)sweet;honeyed(words);lenient;half‐witted;easy‐going;soft, mild; loose; trashy, sentimental. ama(ttarui) sugary, sentimental. ama‐sugared,sweet;slightlysalted. —fromkanjientry2988
WhatwasItodowiththechildthrustuponmeaftermysister’sdeath,herhusbandlonggoneelsewhere?Theypresumeduponme.Thegirlhadclearlybeencoddledasasoft‐boiledeggoramildsweetliketheagarrollsattheconfectionerythatquiverwhenthetrayispulledout.
YethowcouldInotbelenientwiththishalf‐wittedfive‐year‐old,easy‐goingasanamblingcart,sentimentalovertheloosesttrash?
SoIhavelearnedtousehoneyedwords,resignedtothetruththatsugarbringsoutsweetness,eveninaslightlysaltedmanlikeme.
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Jim Davis You Are Your Own Voice Said Hephaestus HewouldliketospeakwiththemasteroftheHimalayanacrosstheway,barkingfeverousracketslikethunderoratruckbackfiringthroughaloadofrustedscrap.Dinnertimestoriesfallintothesoupbowlwheredeafearsfloatinbrothbroughthomefromthemountainwell,yarnlosttothechandelierifthey’relucky,spun,theopenwindowwhereoptimismislightenoughtounweighttheirassumption,sufficientwindtocarrythemintothenight,twistaboutthestreetlamp,stranglethenthedog.Cedardrawers,theymeetatherhousebecauseyoursorhisisstillonfire.Thepipeshavecracked,thenervebuttonpunchedandthenervesbegintodance,whichisatlastatypeoffire.Hecannotkeeptrackofallhisproperties–thenumberofstrangleddogsaloneisnever‐ending.Shriveledandshockinglyugly,hewasthrownfromOlympus,fellthroughnightandintoday,splitthecloudsandcamedownwithacaseoftwobrokenlegs—limitsofimmortality.Mercurial,ugly,anduseful,veryuseful,Hephaestusspentalifetimetryingtobeworthyofthegods,therewasnotimewasted,onlythecarvedshinedjewelsofhisobsession.WhenshefoundhimfinallyworthyofhergraceshesaidsonIamthelanguageofthefatesandhesaidyouareyourownvoice,Iamnothingbutthetextureofquiltedstory,endlesslycraftingmagnificencefromaccidentsimprovisingwhat’semergedfromthechaosoftheearth.Atthistheyalllaughedasaplatterofprofiteroleswaspassedaroundthetable.Limesherbet.Agoldentinofcigarettestoburnawaythestoriesastheylaughed,asif,inthiscasethepast,althoughabhorrentandugly,veryugly,wasjustthepast.
Hotcakes SheranaradiostationinAurora,spentnightswiththebassplayerinabluesbandcalledTooCheaptoCare.She’sasometimeshairdresser,heworksforTSA,stopsdailyintothedinerforcoffeeandraisintoast.Theymetthrougharealtorwhocalledthembothaboutthebriar—we’dsellitbythethorn,hesaid,ifonlywecouldshedthebulkofwhatweown.Inthedinofthedineryou’dhardlynoticehiseasternEuropeanaccent,notuntilhespokeabouthisgrandchildrenandlaughed.OneofthemmovedtoHolland,eatssardinepasteandcrackerswithcheapwine.This,hesaid,isadifferentoutlookaltogether.Fromthewindowyoucanseethestumpsuprooted,tangledundersides,citiesofwoodlice,earthworms,akaleidoscopeofspidersandtheirmildpoisons.Thefrenzied,unevenwithageandorigin,areamongtheeverydayrevelatory.Shecookedforhimonce:bluemoonsofpurpleboiledpotatoes,sautéedwithscallionsandrosemary.Theirstoryiseverystory.Herememberswhichbreasthepreferred.ShewantedtokissontheFerriswheelwhenthefireworkswentoff,andmore.WhentheypaidincoinsIbelievedIwasmissingmylife.Hispantsweretootightandshortonbuttons,sohecinchedthemwithabeltandcoolnonchalance,youcouldseethewhitesofhisanklesocks.Shewasbeautifulandsmall,readytospit.Hecoughed.Shesanglikeacanaryfromhisfinger.Theywereinherapartmentwhentheriverflooded.Whenthesuncameupthefloodbecameacloud.No,hesaid,thisisthebeginning–youaretoobeautifultospillyourcoffee,whichmeansofcourseImustbedreaming.Sizzleonthegriddle,smoke,palesunsbubbleandflip,drowninsyrup,padsofbutteramongthestack.That’sallIeversaid,shesaid,Ididn’tmeananythingbyit,shesaid,asIheldthedoorandledthemoutintotherain.
34
Angela Spofford Fish Elizabethcaughta fishandshesetthat fishfree,watchedit tumbletoocean.EverysummerIcast lines to canals, salinity concentrated,my eyes burning upon splash, because there is noclosing towater, theworld only blur.I have jumped from thedock and I have seendolphinscatchingredfishleapingandIhavecutmyfingersonhooks,saltandbloodinmymouth.Twosummersagosandtroutfloodedthecanals,fedbytheLagunaMadre,andIkepttroutinmy freezer formonths, driving from Texas toMississippi with dry ice and a cooler.The fishswarmed the bottom. I will always keep the trout, their shimmer lined along themeasuringstick,thewaterhoserushingpiecesofthembacktowaterassplashing,bloodandsalt.
Weld Country InAugust she’ll grow tomatoes buthere is this doormat in dirt, this plot of land at her step,these spilledbuttonsmelting quick. Thingshave really gone awry. SheNancyDrewsherwayacrosstheground,throughgravelandgrass,a flashlight inonehand.Shewill findandsoshehunches,ashoeundone,dangling,adraggingofherheel.Sheshouldseeclueshereinthesoilbefore the sun sets and the day breaks, long before the boog‐a‐loo, the gypsum, the electricslidingoftwilighttodawnandallthelightsgooutandherflashlightshadestodark.Sheshouldland inaneonmotel.Sheshouldconsiderwhathappenswhenshecollects thehairclippings,theletters,thebitsofherselfandfindssomethingofyoursasshecrawlsbackinsidethetrailer,herarmsfullandbearinglostpieces.
36
Jordan Sanderson Struck Evenbeforethebite,hespenttoomuchtimeintheartificiallightoftheshackwheretheykeptsnakesatthelocalzoo,asmalloperationwherepeoplewaitedforpeacockeggstohatch,waitedtoseefreshfeathersspreadoutlikeAuroraBorealis.Helikedthetemporaryblindnessofsteppingoutofthesunandintotheroomwhereboasconstrictedaroundratsalmosttoosmalltosqueeze.Hesaiditwaslikehavingvenomspatintohiseyes.Theirblacktongues,hethought,couldtastebothworlds.Once,hewatchedduckeggswaddleinarowdownthelengthofachickensnake’sbody,andhehadtheurgetobeswallowedwhole.HewasswimmingacrosstheChickasawhaywhenthecottonmouthsunkitsfangsintothebackofhisthigh.Somehow,hepulledhimselfontothebank.Whenhegotoutofthehospital,hethumbedthroughbookafterbookofsnakepicturesandfeltwarmasacharmedbird.Althoughthebitewasmorepunchthancaress,hebaskedintheslowcurrentofthememoryofraw,tendermouthencasedinscales.Ittookweeksfortheswellingtorecede.
Bolt Evenimmersedinthemostintensepleasure,thefaceachesandopens,eagertoabsorbtheroom’scloseairandstrainedlight.Fleshcurlsaroundthepitofpresence,tooimmensetoclutchorcling.Youhavejimmiedthelockoftheselfandrushinlikealooter,sweepingshelvesasifyouwerethescarcestcreaturealive.Atrespasserinyourownterritory,youcrouchandcrawl.Thesufferingofbuzzardsfascinatesyou,theirinstincttoswoopdownontheentrailsofapossumlikegodstoprayers.Yousaynature’sorderlyappearancecomesfromitscompulsions.Unabletoprytheboardsfromthewindowsofyourlover’soldhouse,youfiddlewithwhat’sleftofthescreendoor,usingthefrayedwiretoscratchapictureofacrowpluckingawormfromanearofcornbetweenthevesselsthatforkalongthepaleundersideofyourarm,justabovewhereyoucanfeelthepulse.Becomingawareofbreath,youknowonlythebodyisautonomous.Itcancarryonwithoutyou.
38
Jose Angel Araguz Dandelions Asachild,helookedatthemasbeingmadeup
ofthemostbeautifuldust–whenhelaterheardofman
onedayreturningtodust,
hethoughtitwouldbelikethis:
aheadshakingwithasuddenlaughter,
undoneonthewind,
dustliftingtothesky,
specksoutnumberingthestars.
40
Fiction
42
Phong Nguyen Jesus, Unforsaken
WhetherJesusChristofNazareth,aminorprophetfromtheHebrewBible,wasalivingmanora
composite character from several narrative traditions has long been the subject of theological
speculation.TheBookofJesus,followingMalachiamongtheminorprophets,istheprimarysubjectof
this speculation. Jewish exegesis holds that Jesus was an Essene, an
asceticreformerwhoopposedtheexclusionarylawsofthePharisees.But
an apocryphal book of the New Judaic school, discovered among the
DeadSeaScrolls,suggeststhat,ratherthanareformerofJudaicthought,
theprophetJesusenvisionedarevolutionaryturninJudaismthatwould
have spawned a new religious tradition around the notion of his
godhood.
Fromwhat has been set down in the Judas Scroll—written by the
apostle Judas Iscariot—it is clear that Jesus’ aspirations as a prophet
exceededhispresentplaceintheJewishBible.ExcerptsfromtheScroll,
includedbelow,showaJesusambitioustodieonbehalfofhumanity,whichheotherwiseregardedas
unreedemablysinful.
***
IhadjustpoppedthemorselofbreadinmymouthwhenJesussaiditwashisflesh.Thepulpymasson
mytonguefeltsuddenlyrubbery,andtheaftertasteofwinetookonametallicsavor,butIcontinued
tochewoutofpoliteness.Thebreadtastedfishyandthin,transubstantial.WhenJesusinvitedusto
hisSeder,hesaiditwouldbehislastmealbeforethecomingcrucifixion,butwehadnoinklingthen
thathehadmeantforustobehiscannibalizers.
Afterpassingaroundthewinegourdandtheplatter,Jesusstoodupandsaid,“Takeandeat;thisis
mybody.”Theglancesthatstolearoundourcompanywere likeaweaver’sneedle,threadingevery
face in the room like a stitch. Nervous sweat pooled on our necks. “And this ismy blood of the
covenant,whichispouredoutforthemanyforgivenessofsins.Itellyou,Iwillnotdrinkofthefruitof
When Jesus invited us
to his Seder, he said it
would be his last meal
before the coming
crucifixion, but we had
no inkling then that he
had meant for us to be
his cannibalizers.
thisvinefromnowonuntilthatdaywhenIdrinkitnewwithyouinmyFather’skingdom.”1
Whatrelief!Jesuswasonlyspeakinginmetaphor.Iallowedmyjawtoresumeitsgrindingofthe
bread.I’dknownJesustorenouncedrinkbefore,butthisstatement,withitspremonitionofdeath,
wasuncharacteristicinitsmorbidity.Heseemedsocertainofit;wealmostbelieved,withhim,thaton
thisnighthewouldbecrucified.
Ihad justbegun to recover fromhisannouncement,and topartakeof theothervictuals,when
Jesusspokeagain.Hesaid,tothetwelveofusarrayedathistable,“Itellyou,oneofyouwillbetray
me.”2
Ilookedaround.AsIsurveyedthefacesofSimon,James,Thomas,Thaddeus,Matthew,Simonwho
iscalledPeter,hisbrotherAndrew,JamesandJohn(thesonsofZebedee),Philip,andBartholomew,
thereweremanyflickeringexpressionsofaccusation,guilt,andpuzzlement,sometimespassingfrom
onetoanotherinthesamefacewithinaninstant.Ihadnomirror,butcanonlyguessthatmyown
countenancebespoketheconfusionIfelt.Murmursof“Notme”and“SurelynotI”passedfrombreath
tobreath.OurRabbi’sopen‐endedaccusationleftahotfireofsuspicioncracklinginthemiddleofour
party,andthesmokethatarosefromitchokedoureloquence.
Insteadofwords,ourmouthswerealldrawnintopuckers,mouthingbutnotpronouncing,“Who?”
“Theonewhohasdippedhishandintothebowlwithmewillbetrayme.TheSonofManwillgo
justasitiswrittenabouthim.ButwoetothatmanwhobetraystheSonofMan!Itwouldbebetterfor
himifhehadnotbeenborn.”3Jesusspokewithsoftnessevenashecondemnedhisbetrayer.
AndItriedtoremember,WasitIwhodippedhishandintothebowl,oranother?Towhichbowl
washereferring?Therewasawomanwithanalabasterbowl,beforethesupper,whohadwashedhis
feetinperfumemadefrompurenard,butshewasnotamongourcompanynow.
Whatdoeshemean?Tellme:isitallmetaphor,RabbiJesus?
Oursensesslowedandlimbsdroopingfromthewinespirits,butthespiritswithinusstillbuoyant,we
sanghymnsuntilourvoicesgrewhoarse, andour throats tickled fromdrink.Westumbledacross
KidronValley,totheMountofOlives,wheresurely,wethought,thepureairandbracingcoldwould
soberus.Buteveninthepeacefulstarlightoftheolivegrove,whereJesushadledus,theangelsof
paranoiawereswarmingabouthisheadlikeaplagueofinsects.
1 Matthew 26:26–29. 2 Matthew 26:21. 3 Matthew 26:23–4.
44
HetookPeterasideandputonearmaroundhisshoulderconfidentially,sayingslurrily,“Thisvery
night,beforetheroostercrows,youwilldisownmethreetimes.”4
Peterprotested.“Ineverwill.Iwoulddiefirst.”Thosegatherednearbyechoedthosesamewordsin
arepetitivechorus,sothattheairwasnotclearofourprotestationsforseveralmoments.
JesuslookedpeeringlyathisfirstapostlePeter,thenturnedaway,towardtheolivegrove.Theveiny
andbulbousspearsof theolivetreegrewthickly fromthetrunks.Rootsandrocksoverlappedone
anotheronthesoil.Thefruitofthetreeitselfripenedpurpleandtesticularfromeverybranchinspite
ofthecold.
Despite the tree’s flowering, the spectral space that surrounded it appeared vaster, more
encompassingthananythingthedesertcouldproduce.
Feeling the mood darken, we moved on, guided by Jesus to the Garden of Gethsemane, our
wobblingfeetsore.
InGethsemane, Jesus sank further into the abyss. Seeinghimwander thatnight fromdarkness to
darkness, then settle into that small garden under a newmoon, was like watching aman resign
himselftoquicksand.HeaskedustostaybehindwhilehewalkedofftopraywithPeterandthetwo
sonsofZebedee.Soweidledinagrassyplace,ashadycornerofthegarden,and,numbwithdrink,I
slunkinthedirectionofsleep.Butinmylastwakingmoments,IswearIsawthesaviorweepinginto
hiscuppedhands,headtiltedback,asthoughdrinkingofhisowntears.
Whenhereturnedred‐eyedandfoundusallasleep,heshookusawake.“Whatareyousleeping
for?Couldn’tyoukeepwatchforevenanhour?”Hiseyesdartedabout,andhisbrowcreasedwith
disappointment; he seemed personally slighted at the thought of our sleeping while he remained
awake.“Praywithme,sothatwedonotfallintotemptation.”5
Hewalkedawaytoprayasecondtime,and,tryasImighttostayawakeandkeepthevigilwith
Jesus,mybodysuccumbedtothetemptationofsleep.
Jesuswokemeagain, “Can’tyoustayawake?Whywouldyouwant to sleepon thisnightofall
nights?”Hewentaroundshakingtheotherdisciples,untilweallsatproppedup,bleary‐eyedandred‐
cheeked.
Herepeatedthispatternthenightlong,sufferingfromafranticfearofbeingthelastwakingone.
4 Matthew 26:34. 5 Matthew 26:40–1.
Thelasttimehewokeme,heliftedmefullyontomyfeet.“Areyoustillsleeping?Look,it’salmost
morning,andI’mgoingtobearrestedandcrucifiedatanymoment!”
Ididn’tknowwhattosay.Iwantedtoconsolethisunravelinggod,buthowcananapostlecomfort
hissavior?
Whenthesunrose,as ifoncue,acrowdcameout fromthevalley,brandishingswordsandclubs,
callingoutJesusbyname.Ibegantowonderif,afterall,theprophecywastrue,Iwouldnowhaveto
watchJesuscrucified,andifoneofuswouldbetoblame.Thethoughtwastoohorrifictobear:my
doubt,hissacrifice,ourfriendship.
IembracedJesus,throwingmyselfbetweenhimandthemob.ButwhenIpulledbackfromour
embrace,andlookeduponJesus’face,therewasasternlookinhiseyes.Irealized,toolate,thatby
tryingtoshelterhimfromthecrowd,Ihadinsteadrevealedhimtoit.“Dowhat
youcame for,”he said tome,as though Ihadgivenhimaway—as though it
wereabetrayal.
“No,I...”Ibegantosay,butmyvoicewasdrownedbythecriesofthemob
astheyswarmedoverus.
AstheypulledJesusawaybytherobe,oneofournumberleaptout,drawing
hissword,andslicedofftheearofthehighpriest’sservant.Withhisfreearm,
Jesusstayedtheman’shand,saying,“Putyourswordaway,forallwholiveby
the swordwilldieby the sword. I couldcallon theLordandhewould send
twelvelegionsofangelstorescueme.Butthenhowwouldthescripturesbefulfilled?”6
So thiswaswhat Jesus had been bracing himself for—fortitude in self‐sacrifice, inhuman in its
proportion,divineinnature.Allthewandering,thevigils,thedrinkandthesong,theraginginthe
darkness.Itwasacleansing,apreparationformartyrdom.Butthenobilityofthisactwaslostonme;
ashisfriend,Isawonlythelossofhim.Nobookcouldeverreplacetheman.
Thehighpriest’smendraggedJesusbehindlikeaslaughteredcalf.Hemutteredtothemashewas
beingledaway,“AmIleadingarebellion,thatyouhavecomeoutwithswordsandclubstocapture
me?EverydayIsatinthetemplecourtsteaching,andyoudidnotarrestme...”7ashisvoicefaded
intothedistance.
6 Matthew 26:52–4. 7 Matthew 26:55.
I began to wonder if, after all, the prophecy was true, I would now have to watch Jesus
crucified, and if one of us would be to blame. The thought was too horrific to bear: my doubt, his sacrifice,
our friendship.
46
Everydisciplewenthisownway,feigningindifferencetothedeathofourRabbi,lestwebeseenas
hisaccomplices.SoonthroughoutthedayIwondered,WasI Jesus’betrayer?Washedyingformy
sins?Thethoughtwassotroublingtomyconscience,ifIthoughtittrueImighthavehangedmyself
fromguilt.
ThenexttimeIsawJesusitwasattheFestival,andhewasbeingparadedbeforethecrowd,alongwith
another Jesus, namedBarabbas.His clothes had been dirtied and shredded, his body bruised and
bloodied,buthisspiritunbroken.
Aswas the customon thedayofPassover,Pilate stoodbefore the crowdgathered there at the
Festival,andmadehispronouncementtofreeoneofthetwoprisoners.“Whichofthetwoprisoners
shallIreleasetoyou?”8heasked.
ThechiefpriestsandtheelderswentaroundincitingthecrowdtocallforthereleaseofBarabbas,
but,indesperation,Icalledoutfrombeneathmyhood,beforeanyothercould,“ReleaseJesusChrist!”
I repeated the chant,nudging thosenearby to takeup the chorus.A fewdid, but the clamorwas
interspersedwithhissesandcurses.
The two factionscompeted in thevolumeof their support. “Release JesusBarabbas!” thepriests
shouted,seekingfavorwithinthecrowd.“ReleaseJesusChrist!”Iandasmallernumberofsupporters
shoutedinreturn.
Pilatespokeagain,saying,“Thisoneisamurderer,”pointingtoBarabbaswithhislefthand,and
thentoChristwithhisright:“andthisoneisablasphemer,whoclaimstobetheMessiah,theonetrue
KingoftheJews.SowhoshallIletgofree?”
“FreeJesus!”theyshoutedinunison.
Pilatewavedhisarmsuntilthedinsubsided.“Wait,”saidPilate.“TherearetwoJesuseshere:Christ
andBarabbas.WhichJesusdoyouwant?”
“Barabbas!”theyshouted.
Pilate’seyesdartedbackandforth,surveyingthecrowduneasily.“Wait,wait...”hesaid.“Doyou
meanthatyouwantBarabbastobefreed,ortobecrucified?”
Seizingmychance, Icried, “Crucifyhim!”Knowinghowdifficult itcanbetorescindanoathof
execution,Imeanttoincitethecrowdtoviolence.Thebloodofamurdererwasnowonmyhands.I
criedoutforhisdeathwithwhateverwasleftofme.And,tomyendlessgratitude,thecrowdtookup
8 Matthew 27:21.
thecry,andtookthelesserJesusawaytobetormented.
The centurions pushed the Rabbi Jesus from the crowd,where he suddenly appeared frail and
mortalagain.AsIcamenearhimsmiling,helookedfiercelyuponme,saying,“Judas,yourbetrayal
today is farworsethanyesterday.Youhavetakenmorethanmylife;youhavestolendestinyfrom
God.”
IftheJesusofyesterdayhadbeendreary,paranoidandedgy—today’sJesuswasfearfullyblank.Hehad
sufferedincommunicabletortureandhumiliation,andnowtherewasnopain,onlythetinglingofthe
nervetoremindhimofthepresenceofhisbody,whichhecouldscarcelyfeel.
His vow at our last Seder—to swear off wine until his crucifixion day—was broken that very
afternoon,whenamerchantpassedinfrontofuswithbloatedwineskinshangingoffhishandcart.In
defenseoftheRabbi,itwastheheatoftheday,andthewinewasthickandsweet.
Walkingamongthedunesnow,wewandered,asweoncedid,silentlythroughthelandofIsrael.
WefoundourselvesenteringGolgotha,thecrucifixiongrounds.Howcuriousthatouraimlessstroll
tookusthere.Jesuslookedenviouslyatthefigureshangingdeadornearlydeadfromthecrucifixes,
oneaftertheother,markingthelatehourwiththelongshadowstheycastoverthesand.
Justthen,Jesusclutchedhimself,craninghisheadskywards,andcrieduptotheHeavens,“Eli,Eli,
lemashamar?”9Hesplayedhisbodyoutuponarock,asiftodiebyastrokeofthedivine,buttime
passedordinarily,whollyunresponsivetohisplea.Helaytherequivering,unsmote.
HoursuponhoursdidJesusliethere,andfinallyhiseyelidsdidclose.Irealizedthatithadbeentwo
fulldayswithoutsleepfortheRabbi,andIstoodtherewatchfully,lettinghimrestuponhisrock.
Suddenlythegroundbegantoshake,andthetremors lasted for longenoughthat themenand
womenhangingfromtheircrossesstartedtocryoutdeclarationsaboutGod.
Jesus awoke, too, longenough towitness a guard lookupat the crucifixes and shakehishead,
saying,“Someoneimportantmusthavediedtoday,fortheearthtoshakesoinanger.”
“ItisI,”Jesuswantedtosay,Icouldtell,buttheheatofhisfleshwouldhavebeliedhim.
Towardevening,theotherelevendisciplescamedowntoGolgotha,havingheardatlastthenewsof
Jesus’salvation.“Whereishe?WhereisJesusChrist,ourMessiah?”theyaskedme,lookingoutonto
therowsofthemartyred.
9 “My God, my God, why have you spared me?”
48
Hemusthavechangedagreatdealinaday.Fortheydidnotrecognizehimlyingtherewithhis
eyesblissfullyclosed,peacefulinhissleep.
***
Apart from the Judas Scroll, there are few mentions of the prophet Jesus among the apocrypha,
suggesting that his influencedidnot extendbeyond the tribes of Israel.Unlike theBookof Jesus,
whichfocussesexclusivelyonhisteachings,theScrollofJudasemphasizesthestoryoftheprophet
himself,andaddstoourunderstandingofthoseteachingsandtheroleofprophecyinthelivesofthe
ancient Hebrews. Among the prophecies attributed to Jesus are the eschatological, end‐of‐days
predictionsthathesharedincommonwiththeEssenes(thesubjectofseveralotherDeadSeaScrolls).
Littleisknown,though,abouthowJesusbelievedtheworldwouldend,andwherethesoulswouldgo
whendivorcedfromthesebodies.
SuggestionsforClassDiscussion:
Why did Jesus believe that God was his Father, who wanted him publicly executed as a human
sacrifice?Andwhenitbecameclearthathewouldsurvive,whydidhefeelthatremainingalivewould
diminishhisholiness?WhatcouldadeadJesushaveleftbehindthatalivingJesuscouldnot?
Constance Squires Wayfaring Stranger
MedicinePark,Oklahoma
May18,2000
It wasn’t exactly rock and roll heaven. RayWheeler read the spree of billboards crowded
around the exit. Free ATM. Live Bait. Truck Stop. Buffalo Ben’s RV’s. Something about
rattlesnakes.HeandMartinloweredtheirvisorsagainstthemidafternoonsunastheJeepshot
west.MedicinePark,Oklahoma,wasclosenow,upaheadoffHighway49,whichwasoff I‐44,
which was off I‐ 35, which was the road Ray had driven up from Austin that morning and
followednorthlikeamightyriver.
Ithadn’tbeenabaddrive. Outof thehillcountry, into theplains,andacross theRed
River, they had followed the branching, arterial highways with the pleasure of yielding to
somebodyelse’sdullbuteffectiveargument.Blastingfromthespeakers,LenaWells’svoicekept
thehorizonrecedingaheadof them. Allday longMartinhadplayedherCDboxedset,Rank
Outsider:TheCompleteRecordingsofLenaWellsandtheLighthorsemen,1977‐1981,andtriedto
educate Ray on Lena’s career. Martin had grown up a few miles from her home there in
ComancheCounty,Oklahoma,andhadachild’sfascinationforthebeautifulladyinthebigold
housewiththeloudrockandroll.Heknewallhersongs,herlyrics,interpretationsofthelyrics,
even the deviations sung live and captured on bootleg recordings that he sought out and
collected. He unloaded all of it on Ray, lecturing him straight up through Texas, in a voice
tremblywithpleasureatturningthetablesonhisformerprofessor.
“ThemonthofJanuaryshowsuponallfouralbums,”Martinsaid.“Notmanypeoplehave
noticedthat.Also,blueChevys.”
“January,”Ray said. “BlueChevys. Okay.” Thesegeek’s‐eye‐viewdetailswerenew to
him,butforthemostpart,hewasfeigningignoranceforMartin’ssakeandknewmoreaboutthe
subjectof theirupcomingdocumentary thanhe leton. Once theLenaWellsprojectwas fait
accompli,Rayhaddonetheduediligence.Hehadhuntedontheinternetandatthelibraryfor
anythingtherewastohear,see,orread.Althoughhehadn’tyetreadthemediakitthatarrived
thedaybeforefromLena’sagent,KaterinaDavies,hefeltlikeheknewthedimensionsofLena’s
50
life,thetopography.Hehadneverlikedhermusic.What’smore,heloathedtherecentrashof
soft‐focushagiographiesdedicatedtotheplayed‐outrockersofthe60’sand70’s.Ordinarily,he
wouldhaveturnedtheprojectdownflat.Butordinarywasover—hewasinsometroubleandin
nopositiontosaynotoajob.
Martinsaid,“I’mjusttellingyouincase.”
“Incasewhat?”
“Incase,Idon’tknow,thatstuff’simportant.”
“Howcoulditbe?”
“She could have killed a man in a blue Chevy. She could have a special memory of
January.”
“MaybeshewascoldonceinJanuary.”
“Ah,gotohell.”Martinworriedthefrayedbrimofhisstrawporkpiehat.Afteraminute,
hesaid,“Ray,IknowIkindoftrickedyouintothis,butit’syourshownow.Besides,yousaidyou
thoughtshecouldbeinteresting.”
“Maybe.”
WhenRay imagined the shape of a film about LenaWells, it didn’t look like a typical
rockumentary.Hedidn’tcaremuchaboutherprivatestory—thesex,thedrugs,theusual.And
herrags‐to‐richesrisetofame,itwastooHoratioAlgerforhim,tooDavidfuckingCopperfield.
Hejustwonderedwhyshehadretired.Sheonlymaderecordsforfouryears.Inthattime,she
hadinventedabrandofPsychedelicHighPlainsRockthatwasstillsynonymouswithhername
twentyyearslater.Shecouldhavegoneonmakingmusic,atleastuntilthetideturnedagainst
her.Formostoftheeightiesandnineties,shehadbeenveryuncool,tootiedwiththatseventies
wanna‐be‐Indianvibe,thatsex‐and‐righteous‐indignationcampthatwassoeasytolaughatin
themoreironiclaterdecades.Intheearlyeighties,whenRaywasincollege,likingLenaWells
wasasverbotenaslikingtheBeeGeesafterdiscodied.Itwasn’tthattheyweren’tgood.Itwas
just that they were so—disco. Same thing with LenaWells and her psychedelic high plains
thing. But now, in 2000, Lena was moving into that just‐right category of recherché.
Rediscoveringhercataloguewasamarkofdistinctionamongmusicfansthatpridedthemselves
onchampioningartiststhepublichaspigeonholed.Shehadgottensouncoolthatshewascool
again.
Martinshiftedinhisseat.“Comeon,Ray.Everyothermusicianofherstaturehasatleast
onedocumentaryaboutthem.Atleastone.I’mhandingyouagoldenapple.”
Asthe Jeepspeddown49towardtheWichitaMountainRange, theypassedmostofwhatthe
billboards had promised: a bait‐and‐tackle store, a truck stop, an RV park, while fencing ran
alongtheleftsideoftheroadwithblackandredsignsreading“USMilitaryPrivatePropertyNo
Trespassing” spacedat regular intervalsalong the fence. Theother sidewas linedwith short,
gnarledblackjacks.Therewasn’tmuchtraffic;justafewpick‐upsandcarstrailingbassboats.
Feelinglikehemighthavemissedtheirturn,Raypulledintothegravelparkinglotofa
turquoise, cinderblock building with a red neon Coors
sign flashing in its only window. Across the highway, a
defunct water slide was painted the same shade of
turquoise. A portable electric marquee standing next to
theroadsaid“LeVOn’sBar‐n‐BaiT”andpromised 241
drAwsAlldaY.
They stepped out of the Jeep and into a post‐rain
heathazethatgaveway,whentheywalkedintothedark
store,torefrigerated,drierairandasmellthatmadeRay
thinkoftheocean.Asportstalkradioshowleakedoutof
aboomboxpluggedinbythefrontregister.Atapooltablecoveredwithatarpinthemiddleof
theroom,twomenstoodguttingfish.
“Hey,”calledthetallerofthetwo.HeworeaUniversityofOklahomabaseballcappulled
lowoverhisbrow,thesoiledbillframinghiseyeslikeparentheses.
“We’realittlelost,”Raysaid.
Martinwasscattingoutadrumsoloashelookedaround,takinginthespookytaxidermy.
Mounted on the walls were lots of stuffed rattlers, fangs out, catfish the size of the moped
MartindrovearoundAustin,oneshaggybuffalohead,andamany‐pointedbuckwithasignover
hismassiveantlersthatsaid, “SizeMatters.” Theanimals, theshelvesandwhatwasonthem;
the bottles of sunscreen and bug spray, tins of Vienna sausages and SPAM, everything was
coatedinathicklayerofgreasydust.
“Thehighway’sdueeast,” theman in theOUhatsaid. “If that’swhatyou’reafter.”He
hadsetdownhisfishandwaswipinghishandsonapapertowel.
As the Jeep sped down 49 toward the Wichita Mountain
Range, they passed most of what the billboards had promised: a bait-and-tackle store, a truck
stop, an RV park, while fencing ran along the left side of the road with black and red signs reading “US Military Private Property
No Trespassing” spaced at regular intervals along the fence.
52
The otherman, a barrel‐chested fellowwith a long gray beard and oily braids, gave a
fiercetugtotheskinofthelargefishinhishandsandrippeditfromstemtostern.
Martinwinced.
Raysaid,“We’retryingtofindMedicinePark.TheReverbHotel.”
“Ah.”TheguyintheOUhatranahandoverhismouth.“Youmustbetheguythatmade
BarkingMad,thatprofessor.Thatdocument—whatdoyoucallyourself?Documentarian.”
“I’mnotaprofessor.”Notanymore.Hemanagedtostophimselffromexplainingabout
hisstill‐wetidentityasaguywithoutanet,aguywithnoteachingsalarywhowasgoingtohave
toactuallymakealivingatdocumentaryfilmmaking.ButOUHatdidn’tlooklikehewasready
forthatlevelofintimacy.
“I’mRay, this isMartin. Used to be one ofmy students.He’smy producer now. My
boss.”
HearinghimselfdescribedasRay’sboss,Martingaveaself‐effacingwave.
“Ooh,”OUHatwiggledhisfingers.“Producer.”Comingaroundthepooltable,heleaned
againstabarrelfilledwithice,sodabottlesstickingoutlikewreckageinafrozensea.“Howdo
you study aboutmovies, anyway? Hell, if I’d a known you could do that Imight a gone to
college.”
Asshole.Raysmiledathim.“What’syourname?”
“Me, I’m Levon, rhymeswith heaven. Like the sign out front says: Levon’s Bar‐n‐Bait.”
Levonglancedbackathiscompanionwiththelongbraids,whohadjoinedthematthefrontof
thepooltable,reekingoffish,abracing,almostpleasantsmell.
“I’mCy,” he said, holding out hiswet hand. Ray couldn’t visualize the spelling of his
name,heardhimsay“sigh”andfelthowpoorlythewistfulnessandresignation,theoh‐mercy‐
mequalityofthewordfittheman.Sigh.Raytookhiswet,fishyhand.
Inalowvoice,Cysaid,“Wanttolearnsomethinguseful?”
Rayleanedcloser.“Pardon?”
“Ausefulskill,somethingLevonherewouldapproveof.”
“I—sure.Sure.”
Cy reachedacross thepool table,grabbing theedgeofa cocoonofwetnewspaperand
pullingsothatabrownfishthuddedfromitsfoldsontotheplastictarp.Hepickedupthefishby
itstailandswungitatRay.“Youeverskinafish?”
Rayletoutaloudlaugh.Thebluechemicalsmellofthewetnewspaperremindedhimof
summercampsinBigBend,theindignitiesofchildhood.“No,andthat’sonlyhalfthestory.”
The fish swung between them like a pendulum, and Cy smiled. “You sure? You might get
hungrylater.”
Martin took a step back and fingered the headphones that were perpetually draped
aroundhisneck.Raysawhimfightingapowerfulurgetotuneoutofthescene,tuneintothe
throbbing beat usually leaking from his ears like the heartbeat of some scared animalwhose
fight‐or‐flightinstincthadgottenstuckintheonposition.
SometimesRaywouldeditrealityinhisheadthewayheeditedhisfilms.He’dgobackto
themomentwhenhesaidordidsomethinghe regretted,orwhenhedidn’tdosomethinghe
wishedhehad,andhe’dcutthatscene.Easyasthat.Thestringofcausalitywouldchangethen,
andallwouldbewell.Inhishead.Itwasamazing,really,howlifecouldturnonthesmallest
moments. Pulling intoLevon’sBar‐n‐Baitwasbeginning to feel likeexactly thekindof scene
he’dliketoeditout.
Cylaidthefishbackdownonthewetnewspaper.Hehitcheduponelegagainstthepool
table,blinkingslowly.
“Younervous—professor?”heasked.
“Nervous?”
“AboutmeetingLena?”
Raywasnervousabouttheaggressiveuseoffishandtheovertdisplayofdeadanimalsin
the room. About the inability of anybody to answer a simple question, give some basic
directions.Hewasnervousaboutabigmanwithlongbraidsblinkingathimlikealizardona
rock,buthewasnotnervousaboutmeetingLenaWells.Ifanything,hefeltlikehewasalready
onintimateifgrudgingtermswithher.Oneofhiscollegegirlfriends,anintensecreaturewith
pale‐pinknippleswhowasalwayssayinghowsymboliceverythingwas,hadmadeaMixTapefor
thehimthefirsttimetheyhadsexandhadcrammeditfullofLenaWellssongs.Hehadhated
herforit,hatedherforbeingdisappointedwhenhecamebeforethesecondchorusof“Whatthe
ThunderSaid,”andhadalwaysirrationallyblamedLenaWellsforhislackofstayingpower.So
maybeheharboredtheirrationalideathatLenaWellsowedhimsomething.Butnervous?Not
really.
“Iam,”Martinsaid.
54
“Shemakesmenervous,”Levonvolunteered,rakinghishatbackandforthoverhishead.
“Alwayshas.Eversincehighschool.IsatbehindherinSocialStudies.Shecomeinhere
afewtimesovertheyears.SoldheraCokeonce.Itwasn’tnobigthing.SoldheraCoke.Made
smalltalk,hotenoughforyou,weneedrain,thatkindofthing.Shegavemeafive.Igaveher
somechange. Itwasn’tnobigthing. IremindedheraboutSocialStudies.Shesaidshehated
high school. Butnotme—shedidn’t say shehatedme.” He lookedoff, seemed to relive the
scene.RaymadeamentalnotetocomebackwithhiscameraandaskLevontosayitallagain.
The story had the well‐worn counters of frequent telling. Levon continued, “Nobody ever
thoughtshe’dbeback. ThensomemonthsaftershehadthatmeltdownonTV,somebodyup
andboughttheMedicineParkInn.Thatplacewasboardedupsincethe50’s.Whoboughtit?
Why,LenaWells.Sheshowedupwiththatnewbaby,hadherwholebandwithher.”
Cy stepped behind the bar and lathered up his hands and forearms in the sink. They
watched as the man cleaned and rinsed his hairy arms. Ray was struck by his complete
absorption. Most people can’t forget they’re being watched, but Cy seemed accustomed to
concentrating in thepresenceofothers. Itwasalmostembarrassing,watchinghim toweloff.
Finally,hesaid,“Youcancomewithme.LikeLevonsaid,it’srightclose.”
Besidehim,RayfeltMartin’sbodyreleasetensionlikeapuncturedballoon.
TheyfollowedCy,watchinghislongbraidshithisbacklikewhipsastheyemergedfrom
thedarkbar,backintothewhitelightofthehotMayday.CyclimbedontoanoldblackBMW
motorcyclewithasidecarthatstoodintheshadeofthebuildingandroaredacrosstheparking
lotkickingupgravel.Hemotionedforthemtofollow.
Martinmuttered,“Sure,let’sfollowthisguy.”
Cyhadswunghisbikeinfrontofthem.Hewasn’twearingahelmetandwhenheturned
andwaved,thewindliftedhisgrayhairandsuddenly,Rayknewwhohewas,hisprofilerecalling
oneoflivetelevision’srawestmoments,thenightin1981whenLenaWellseffectivelyendedher
careerbyspacingoutonTheTonightShow.
RayhadbeeninElPasowithhisparents,ahungryteenagerwalkingthroughtheliving
roomonhiswaytothekitchenforalate‐nightsnack.Hepausedbehindthecouchtoseewho
themusicalguestwasandrecognizedLenaWellsandtheLighthorsemen. Lenaandherband
looked too road‐weary to stand before the shimmering topaz and pink curtains, seemingly
airbrushedinfromawindier,dustierreality.Theywereaboutaminuteinto“RareWeeds.”Lena
stoodunderthelightsinabluesuedehaltertop,sweating,herskingreasylikeshehadn’tbathed
thatday. Shegrabbedthemic,curtainofblackhairfallingacrossherfaceandconcealingthe
crisisforamomentevenashervoicefalteredandstopped.
Stopped.
Rayhadgrabbedthebackofthecouch,feelingthemomentumofthesongsurgeintoan
abrupthush.
Ed McMahon’s big laugh, designed to fill the odd spot of
broadcastingsilence,sounded,thensoundedagain,thesecondtime
withadownbeatofdread.
The Lighthorsemen tried to loop back and play the chorus
againsoshecouldjumpin.
ThecameracuttoJohnnyCarson,buthelookednervous,soit
cutaway.
Silencespreadlikeastain.Thenthecameragotupunderher
hairsomehow,wentcloseonherblack‐rimmedeyesanditwaslike
theywereportalsintotheReal,someinchoatetimelessdeep,around
whichthebrightartificialityoftheshowturnedshabby.
Rayandhismotherandhis fathersaidout loudthe lyrics thatshouldhavecomenext,
givingeachothersurprisedglancesastheirvoicesrangoutsimultaneously.AllacrossAmerica,
people shouted the words at their television, cryptic lyrics that were on every car radio that
summer:
Iftheysaidyouwereaflower
Thenyouwouldn’tinterestme
Butinsteadtheyallinsistyouare
Oneoftherarestweeds
EverybodyrememberedthewordsbutLena.Later,globaltransientamnesiabecametheofficial
diagnosis,butinthemomenteverybodyknewitwasthedrugs.Fromthecouch,Ray’smother
said,“Thatgirlislost,”andtookalongdragonhercigarette.Asthesilenceheld,Raywantedto
snatch the afghan that covered hismother’s legs and throw it over the television to hide the
shametheywerewitnessing.Wherewasthecuttocommercial?
Then the camera got up under her hair
somehow, went close on her black-rimmed eyes and it was like
they were portals into the Real, some
inchoate timeless deep, around which the bright artificiality of the show turned
shabby.
56
Then, hope. A new sound and the camera found Cy’s serrated profile, offering
redemptionwith the austere yet soulful expressionof a frontierministerwhohasbeencalled
upon for far too many funerals. There he was on lead guitar, sidewinding into “Wayfaring
Stranger.” And singing, the agony in his eyes unfit for television. Ray realized that he was
changingthewordsoftheoldtraditionalnumber,from“I”to“she.”She’sjustapoor,wayfaring
strangeratravelin’throughthisworldalone.
Whatensuedwasmusicaltriage.Thedrummerandbassplayerjoinedin,atopshelflaugh
boomed fromEdMcMahon and a cut to JohnnyCarson showedhimpulling a face, like, “All
righty,then!”WhateverLenawasdoingstayedoutofviewofthetelevisionaudience,butyou
couldtellthatCywasstaringatherashesang.Therewasnotanotherscreenshotofheruntil
thesecondverse.Thenshewasthere,hervoicesurginginliketurbodrivewith
I'mgoingtheretoseemymother
Shesaidshe'dmeetmewhenIcome
Cy’sfacelitupforamomentthenhelookeddownathisfingersmovingoverthefretsof
theguitar.
I'monlygoingoverJordan
I'monlygoingoverhome
Theybroughtthesongtoarousingclose,andthecamerasshowedthestudioaudienceon
theirfeet,butstillnothingcouldmakeitlooklikeadeliberateperformance.Therewasjustno
denyingthatsilence,arendinthefabricofTonightShowtime,abulletholeblowninthechest
ofTuesdaynight.Lenahad lost itandeverybodysaw. Whenthesongwasover,Carsonwent
straighttoCy,shakinghishandwithwhatlookedtoRaylikehonest‐to‐Godgratitude.Rayhad
justshakenthatsamehand,coldandwetandfishy.
RayturnedtoMartinandsaid,“Doyourealizewhothatis?”
“Who?”
“Him—grizzlyguyupthere.”
“Helooksfamiliar.”
“Cy.Thinkaboutit.CyrilDodge?Haven’tyoubeenplayinghimallday?”Raypunched
theCDplayerto“RankOutsider,”Lena’sfirsthit,andturneditup. Thebeginningwasalead
guitarriffsoubiquitousanyschoolkidinAmericacouldhumit,eveniftheydidn’tknowwho
playedit.“Him.”
MartinglancedfromCy,aheadofthemonhisbike,totheCDplayerlikehewastryingto
matchthemantothesound.“Jesus!”Hesmackedthedashboardwithhispalm.“Ofcourse.
CyrilDodge!HowdidyoufigurethatoutandIdidn’t?”
They followed him as he veered right. Hot as it was, Cy wore a leather vest to ride.
Across the back it saidRed Dirt Sober Bikers and had LenaWells lyrics on the bottom half
stitchedinredandpurple:
Heavyheavyblues
Asmyfeathersarelight
Midnightofthemorning
OfAmericannight
Rayreadthelyricsoutloudandsaid,“Iknowthosewords.”
“Youjustheardthem,”Martinsaid,turningupthemusic.“Listen.”
58
James Brubaker Three Television Shows About Familial Love 1|AFather’sLove
Thiselimination‐style,realitytelevisionshowfindsseveralcontestantscompetingforthelove
ofafather.Thisisneithertheactualfatherofanyofthecontestants,noranalmightyFather—it
is simply amanwho happens to be a father. The contestants compete in challenges such as
making breakfast for The Father, buying Father’s Day gifts for The
Father,playingsportswithTheFather,workingoncarengineswithThe
Father, bathing The Father, bringing The Father his pornographic
magazineswhenhe is in thebathroom, reading thenewspaper toThe
Father, massaging The Father’s feet, bringing home an appropriate
significant other who pleases The Father, agreeing with The Father’s
political beliefs, appreciating the significance of The Father’s
generation’scontributionstosociety,makingthingsoutofwoodforandwithTheFather,not
tellinganyonewhenyouseeTheFatheroglewaitresses,cleaningTheFather’scollectionofCivil
Warmemorabilia,paintingacubistportraitofTheFather,sidingwithTheFatherwhenhetalks
aboutallthetimeshiswifecheatedonhim,carvingdiceoutofboneforTheFather,andhelping
TheFatherinsideandtobedwhenhecomeshomedrunkandthrowsupontheporch.Atthe
conclusion of each episode, The Father selects one contestant and dismisses him or her by
saying, “I’m very disappointed in you.” In the pilot episode, the contestants are invited to a
formaldinnerwheretheymeetTheFatherforthefirsttime.Thereisnoformalcontestinthis
firstepisode,butTheFatherdecidestodismissamalecontestantwhorefrainsfromorderingan
alcoholicbeveragedespiteTheFather’sinsistence.Aftertheyoungmanleavesthedinnertable,
TheFathersays,“Nevertrustamanwhowon’tdrinkwithyou.Menlikethat,theywillalways
find ways tomake you feel bad about yourselves.” The show’s finale features the final three
contestantseulogizingTheFatheratamockfuneral,afterwhichTheFatherselectsthesonor
daughterhelovesmostasthewinner.
At the conclusion of each episode, The Father selects one
contestant and dismisses him or her by saying, “I’m very
disappointed in you.”
2|ClankingReplicator
In this quirky sitcom, ED‐209 is a lonely robot living in a society of fruitful self‐replicating
robots.Whiletherobotsaroundhim—namelyED‐208andED‐210—haveself‐replicatedentire
unitsoffellowrobotswithwhichtoworkandlive,ED‐209hasbeenunabletoreplicateasingle
companion.The series followsED‐209 as heworks at a factorymaking replacement parts for
roboticpets,spendstimewithhissupportgroupfornon‐replicating,self‐replicatingrobots,and
seeks companionship amonghis neighbors. In thepilot episode, ED‐209 spends an afternoon
withED‐208andsomeofitsreplicatedoffspring—ED‐208a,ED‐208d,andED‐208i.WhenED‐
209makes a tasteless joke aboutRepRaps and theirnon‐autonomous self‐replication,ED‐208
chastisesED‐209forobscuringhisowninsecuritiesbybelittlingothers.ED‐208says, “01010011
01100101 01101100 01100110 00101101 01110010 01100101 01110000 01101100 01101001 01100011 01100001
0111010001101001011011110110111000100000011010010111001100100000011000010010000001100110
01110101 01101110 01100100 01100001 01101101 01100101 01101110 01110100 01100001 01101100 00100000
01101110 01100101 01100011 01100101 01110011 01110011 01101001 01110100 01111001 00100000 01101111
01100110 00100000 01101111 01110101 01110010 00100000 01110011 01101111 01100011 01101001 01100101
01110100 01111001 00101100 00100000 01100001 01110101 01110100 01101111 01101110 01101111 01101101
01101111 01110101 01110011 00100000 01101111 01110010 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110100 00001010.”
Therobot’swordsaresubtitledonthebottomofthescreenas,“Self‐replicationisafundamental
necessityofoursociety,autonomousornot.”ED‐208dadds,spoken inbinarybutsubtitledas
always,“Thosewhocannotself‐replicateendangerourculture.”WhenED‐209protests,ED‐208i
says, “When ED‐208 ceases to function, we, his replications, will go on. When we cease to
function,thereplicationswemakewillgoon.”UpsetbyitsencounterwithED‐208etal,ED‐209
visitsED‐210andasksforhelplearninghowtoself‐replicate.UndertheguidanceofED‐210,ED‐
209makesseveralattemptsatself‐replication.Theseattemptsincludebuildingarobotwithits
outsidesonitsinsideanditsinsidesonitsoutside,buildingarobotwithacinderblockwhereits
head should be, building a robotwith component partsmade of brittle glass, and building a
robotbyfusingacentralintelligencedataprocessortoalivingbird.Theseattemptsarelargely
unsuccessful,thoughtherobot‐birdhybriddisplaysabriefflickerofartificiallife,whichcauses
ED‐209 to feel a glimmer of hope that it will someday be able to participate in the self‐
replicationuponwhichthecontinuationofroboticsocietyrelies.
60
3|OldFolks
AsitcominwhichRossand Jane,acoupleintheirseventies,cometotermswithlate‐in‐life
independenceaftertheirchildrenandgrandchildrenstopvisitingthem.Thepilotepisodeopens
withRoss callinghis adult children and inviting themover for dinner. Each invitation ismet
withanegativeresponse,rangingfromasimple,“Nothanks,”tothemorecolorful,“Youknow
wecan’tvisitbecauseyourageisaconstantreminderofmortality,andeverytimeweleaveyour
house, our children can’t sleep because they are afraid of death.” After their invitations are
refused,RossandJanedecidetogooutforanightonthetowntotrytorecapturesomethingof
theiryouth.Unfortunately,theyfindthattherestaurantsandclubstheyusedtofrequenthave
longclosed.AfteramontageofjokesaboutRoss’sbaddrivingandthecouple’sattempttofind
an early bird dinner, Ross and Jane decide to visit a new bar calledVue. Afterwaiting thirty
minutesforaserver,Rossgoestothebartoorderdrinks,butitistoodarkandloudforhimto
read the price list, and he orders drinks that far exceed the amount ofmoney he has in his
wallet.Withoutcreditcards,Rossisunabletopayforthedrinks.Embarrassedbythesituation,
RossretrievesJanefromtheirtable,andthecouplereturnhomewheretheytalkaboutfriends
andfavoritestarswhohavedied.RossproposesthatheandJaneareuseless,andthatmaybeall
thecouplehasleftistowaitfordeath.Janedisagreesandsuggeststhat,justbecausesomanyof
their friendsand favorite starsaredead,and justbecause their familyand theworldhave left
them behind, does notmean they are obsolete. The episode ends with Ross and Jane saying
goodnighttopictureshangingontheirbedroomwallsoftheirchildrenandgrandchildren,then
kissingeachotheron theirmouths,andsettling into sleep in their individualbeds, justa few
feetapartfromeachotherintheirmasterbedroom.
Rob Roesnch In the Dark On the first day back fromEaster break,VickyGoggins,thegirls’Varsityvolleyballcoach,
wasnotinherusualchairinthefacultydiningroom.DanielLash,whotaughtEnglish,noticed
this;heconsideredhimselfanoticer.Likehim,shewasyoungerthanthirtyandneverspokeat
meetings so,even thoughshesatata tablewith theotherP.E. teachersandDaniel satalone,
withabook,atthelittletablesometimesusedasaplacetosetleft‐overbirthdaycake,hefelta
kinshipwithher.Though theyhadneverdiscussed it,Daniel imaginedshewouldunderstand
whyheneverparticipatedintheconversation.
ItwasnotthattheotherteachersatSt.Luke’swereawfulpeople,Danielsaw.Theycared
for their students—at least for theoneswhobehaved.Theywerecheerfulvolunteerseven for
suchdrudgeryasthephone‐a‐thon.Theydresseduptochaperonethespringdance.Manyhad
childrenoftheirownwhotheyspokeofwithhonestprideandhonestworry; theyknewwhat
washappening in their children’s lives, and theyknewwhatwashappening in their students’
lives. In their roomsafter school they talkedwithstudentsaboutnumbersorFrenchverbsor
five‐paragraphessays,willingashiredcarpenters.
Whatgot toDanielwasnothowthey livedorwhotheywere—itwaswhat they talked
about: TV shows, new restaurants, Beltway traffic and, around election season, whatever
platitudeor slip‐of‐the‐tonguewas thatday in thenews.No thinking at all, hewould tellhis
wife.Justwhitenoise.Hewantedtogobacktogradschool.
Buthewas tooproud toeat aloneathisdesk inhis room,as somedid—hewasnot a
squirrel,hewouldsaytohiswifeafterherresponseof“sodon’teatinthere”tohisdetailingof
anotherdeadeningoverheardlunchconversation.“Sodon’tlisten,”shewouldsay,half‐listening
tohim,tryingnottothinkaboutworkorabouttheirmonths‐longfailuretoconceiveachild,
lettingherselfsinkintothegreenslicingoftheknifethroughthecarrotsoronionsorpotatoes
on the perfect solid oak cutting board that she congratulated herself every day for adding to
theirweddingregistry.“HowcouldInotlisten?”hewouldsay.
TedBonner,who taughtmathandwas in chargeof theEucharisticministers for every
Mass,had alsonoticedVicky’s absence;he consideredhimself apeoplepersonandmade it a
habittokeepamapinhisheadofthelocationsoftheotherpeopleinaroom.Entering,hehad
62
alsonoticedDaniel’spresence,thoughwhenhehadsmiledandnoddedinDaniel’sdirectionthe
young teacher had not even looked up from his book. Ted Bonner was, despite himself,
suspiciousofDaniel,asmanyoftheotherteacherswere,thoughnonewouldgosofarastorefer
tohimasstrangeorevenodd—hewasdedicated,orsoserious,orquiet.TedBonnercouldnot
forthelifeofhimquiteunderstandwhyanyonewouldwanttosoisolatehimselfinaplacelike
St.Luke’s.Here thestudentswerebright; theworkwas interesting; the soccer fieldsoutback
werelovely, longandsoftandgreen;theconversationwithpeerswasfullofcheerandfellow‐
feeling;Jesushadrisenfromthedead(herememberedmostdays).
Mattie O’Donnell, who had been at the school long enough to recognize the bad
dispositionsofparentsintheirchildrenandhadtaughtColumbus‐to‐LincolnAmericanhistory
somanytimesshedidnoteverneedtoopenthetextbook,imaginedsheunderstoodDanielLash
perfectly: he thought he was too smart for St. Luke’s. Hewent home every day and laughed
about it on the phone with his friends in New York City. She imagined she understood Ted
Bonner—hewantedtobeaprincipalandplannedforthefuturewithevenhistiniestgesture—
thewaythecornersofhislipsturnedupwhenheaskedifanyoneelsewantedcoffee.Shedidnot
believeinassignedseatsinthelunchroom,andsatwhereshepleasedandmadeconversation;
shesatinVicky’schair;shehadnotnoticedVicky’sabsence.
VickyGogginswasnotinthelunchroombecauseshehadresignedthedaybefore,more
orlessagainstherwill,viaaphonecallwiththeheadmaster.Shewaspregnant;shewaskeeping
thebaby;shewouldsoonbeshowing;shewasunmarried.
***
Therewasnodecision to bemade as towhether or notVicky could continue teaching at St.
Luke’s—theheadmaster’sresponsibilityastheheadofaCatholichigh‐schoolwasclear.Evenso,
as soon as he had hung up the phone he had had visions of the hand‐raising outrage of an
emergency full‐faculty meeting. He saw the glasses clenched in the trembling hand of the
librarianwhowent tochurcheveryday;hesawtheuntuckedshirtof thenewhistory teacher
whowasalwaysproposingfieldtripstothecityashestoodtodemandinvolvingthestudents
themselvesinthediscussion.
Inanycase,hehadtosomehowinformthefaculty.Theywerethevoiceoftheschool,likeitor
not. If word slipped out to the students it would be the wrong word, and different versions
would flyaroundthecafeteriaandthento thedinner tables,andhisphonewouldneverstop
ringing.Theheadmastersawthatperhapsitcouldbecalledcowardlytofarmthetaskouttothe
departmentchairs,buthedidnot,afterfivelongyearsonthejob,care.Hehadlivedforawhole
year in a South American jungle and survived a bite from a poisonous snake; he had once
believedinhisheartofheartsthatmanagementtheorywasonlyforpeoplewhodidnottrustin
God.
So, just after lunch, the announcement for thedepartmentmeetingswasmade.At the
endoftheday,insteadofheadingstraighthomeforanhourortwowithanovelbeforehiswife
arrived,DanielLashsatathisdesklisteningtothebuildingempty.Likeashippullingawayfrom
port,hethought.Soonallthestudentswereelsewhereexceptforthegirls’trackteamdashing
from room to room looking for tape to hang up posters on lockers. (It was always vaguely
unsettlingforTedBonnertoseehisfemalestudentsoutofuniforminonlyT‐shirtsandthose
newshinyshorts,softaspajamas,sohealwaysmadesuretofrown.)
When even the track girls were away in the world, the various departments were
assembledby thedepartment chairs in their varioushomes—themathdepartment in a room
withnothingonthewallsandallthedesksgleamingandcleanofmarks;thesciencedepartment
perchedonstoolsinaroomthatsmelledofbleach;thehistorydepartmentinanorangeroom
wherethechairshadbeenarrangedintoalumpycircle;theEnglishdepartmentatthebigtable
in their office under the poster of Shakespeare Andy‐Warhol style; the religion department
spread out among the first few pews of the chapel amid the late afternoon light through the
stainedglass‐themostbeautifullightoftheday,oneteachersaidbeforethemeetingbegan,and
another replied “whata shameweareneverhereat this timeasa community, to just sit and
breatheandbe.”
Mostfacultymemberstookthenewsplacidly—itwastheendofthedayandtheywanted
toleave,thoughitwasnotunpleasanttobeinonasecret.Thosewhoweredisposedtoreactto
suchnewswithangerat theadministration for thecallousdismissalof agood‐heartedyoung
womanorwithangerattoday’ssocietyforleadingyoungpeopleintoerrorcouldthensaytheir
piecestoagroupofclosecolleagueswhoknewexactlywhatwascomingandwhocouldlisten
placidlyornodorturntheirheadsandrolltheireyesasfittheirdispositions.
64
In general, whatever each individual teacher’s feelings about the administration or
society, there was less talk of disappointment or sin or poor example than there was of
communityandforgiveness;ataminimumeveryoneseemedagreeimplicitlyonthegreatvalue
oftheirselflessfeelings.
By fouro’clocktherewasnothingmoretosay—thenewswasno longernew,whatwas
happeninghadhappened,thebuilt‐upsteamofteacher‐self‐righteousnesshadbeenvented,just
astheheadmasterhadhoped.Furthermore,ifanyonehadaburningdesiretomakethemselves
heardbytheheadmasterhisofficewasclosedfortheday—hewasattendingaconferencewith
otherheadsofotherprivatereligiousschoolsattheMarriottdowntown.Asthenewswasbeing
deliveredtohisteachershewaslisteningtoaretiredpriestexplicatingafewlinesaboutChrist
the teacher,about thecareHetooktocraft the lesson into languagehis lovedstudentscould
take into their lives. The headmaster sometimes wished he had never become more than a
teacher.He foundhis attentionwandering—I am still like a student, he thought. The retired
priest’s bottle of water, which was provided for all the speakers, was flavored with artificial
grapefruit. The bottle was unopened and it would stay unopened, the headmaster knew—
Catholicswereusedtospeakingwithoutneedingtowettheirthroats.Theheadmasterimagined
themessagesstuffinguphisvoicemail.Hethoughtabouttakingoffhisshoes.Hewasnot,truth
betold,particularlyworriedaboutwhatwasgoingtohappentoVickyGoggins.
VeryfewwereparticularlyworriedaboutVickyGoggins.Theunconsciousconsensuswas,
moreor less, thatyesVickyGogginswasunmarried,andpregnant,butontheotherhandshe
hadacollegedegreeandherparentshadbeenwealthyenough—onewassomesortoflawyer—
tosendhertoSt.Luke’sinthefirstplace.Therewereotherjobsintheworld.Shewouldbeokay
“in the long run.”Not that her lifewouldnot change.Maybe there’d be a year or two in her
parent’sthirdbedroom,maybeshe’dfindherfriendsdriftingaway,maybeshe’dstarttoworryif
shewouldeverdateagain,whether she’deveragain feelwhat she felt theprevioussummera
littletoodrunkwithherfeetinthedarkswimmingpool,talkingwiththeshadowofasmooth‐
shoulderedyoungmanwhosmelledlikesmoke.Butshe’ddateagain;she’dmeetsomeoneatthe
library, on the internet, at church.Otherwomenhadbabies and cared for them;womenhad
babies;shewasnotacharitycase.
All the same,more than a few teachers who had some contact with her, even if only
glancing(aconversationabouttherain,asharingofamomentofteachingsuccessatthefaculty
retreat,ajokeaboutkneesatthefaculty/studentbasketballgame)wentsofarastocallherthat
afternoon,meaningtoseehowshewasandtooffervaguepromisesoffutureaid.Allendedup
leavingthesepromisesonhervoicemail.Theystoodreadyifneeded.
Ted Bonner, one of the message‐leavers, decided that night after beef stroganoff and
beforeLawandOrdertositdownandcomposealetter.Hiswifewanderedbackintothekitchen
ateighto ‘clock,whentheyhadusually justfinishedtheirhourofnews,andremarkedonthe
carehewastakingwithhishandwriting.
Hefoundhimselfwritingaboutthebirthofhisfirstdaughter.“IhadnoideawhatIwas
doing,”hewrote,thenpaused,andlookedatit,andthoughtwhyonearthwouldIwanttotell
Vicky that? He remembered how cold it was, how he stood just outside the hospital doors
feelingthesweatfreezingonhisface,eatingacandybar—thefirstthinghe’deatenallday—and
watchinghisbreath in thedark.Thatweirdwarmtinypurple‐bluecreaturewashis fleshand
blood.Hewasn’texcited,exactly;hewasn’tafraid.Hefeltwarm
andstrange.HeclosedhiseyesandtriedtosayaHailMarybut
hecouldn’trememberthesecondpart;silentnight,holynight
keptpoppingintohishead.Hefeltthathedidnothavecontrol
of his thoughts.He imagined simplywalking away; howhard
could it be to steal a car?Hewished it was not overcast.He
held thedooropen foramanhisagecarryinga smallpalewoman inawhitenightgownand
wintercoat.
Hethoughtofthedayhisdaughterfelloutofthetreeintheyardshehadbeenwarned
againstclimbing,howsherantohimscreamingwithherwristwrongandhowhekneltinthe
wetgrassandheldher,andhowhotherskinwas,andhowhecouldnothimselfstopcrying.
Hetoreupwhathehadwrittenandwroteanotherletter,muchshorter,infiveminutes.
Heendedthenewletterwith“Iwillkeepyouinmyprayers”andhisemailaddress.
MattieO’Donnell didnot botherwith a phone call—after thedepartmentmeeting she
dug out her copy of the faculty directory from the bottom of themess of her drawer in the
department file cabinet and found the Vicky’s address and drove right there. A townhouse
complexneartheBeltway.ShedidnotpausetoconsiderwhetherornotVickywouldappreciate
avisit—ifanotherhumanbeingwasintroubleandyoucouldhelp,youhelped.Itwassimple.If
someonewasdoingsomethingwrong,yousaidso.Itwaswhathermotherhadalwaysdone.If
That weird warm tiny purple-blue creature was his flesh and blood. He wasn’t excited, exactly; he wasn’t afraid. He felt warm and
strange.
66
therewasasickbabydownthestreet,youwalkeddownthestreetwithadishofhotfoodand
youknockedonthedoorandenteredandbegantoclean.Whenthatbabygrewtoaboywho
stoodtogetherwithaknotofboysaroundthesideofthegrocerystoremakingmonkeybusiness
and sneaking cigarettes, you told that boy you would tell hismother, and then you told his
mother.Andwhen yourmother died that boywould come to the funeral andhewouldbe a
responsiblemaninaneatblacksuitwithafamilyofhisown.
Mattieknockedonthefrontdoorthreetimes.(Shedidnotknowshehadanunusually
sharpknock.)Afterafewseconds,therewasashufflingaroundinthehallwaybeyondthedoor,
thoughthedoordidnotopen.AfewsecondslaterthedoorwasfinallyopenednotbyVickybut
byayoungwomaninsweatpantsandaponytailholdingaphone,chewinggum.Shedidnotso
muchassayhello.Mattiealmostsimplypushedpasther.
“IsVickyupstairs?”shesaid.
“Whoareyou?”saidthegirl,whowasclearlynotaSt.Luke’sgirl.
“I’mateacheratherschool,”shesaid.“That’swhyI’mhere.”
“She’snothere,”saidthegirl.Thegirlwaslying,Mattiesaw.Sheimaginedthatshecould
alwaystellwhenherstudentswerelying.
“WillyougoupstairsandtellherthatI’mhere?”saidMattie.
“She’snothere,”saidthegirl.
“Idon’tknowwhyyouhavetobesodifficult,”saidMattie.Andthegirlclosedthedoor
rightinherface.Mattiecouldhearnumbersbeingenteredintothephoneasthegirlretreated
intothehouse.Youngpeopletodayweremissingsomepartoftheirsouls,Mattiedecidedagain.
Still,Vickyneededherhelp‐‐Vickywasagoodgirl,forthemostpart.Sheshouldhaveknownto
come toher forhelp.They’d talkedabout thebeachesofNew Jersey; they’d talkedabout the
IrishTenors.
That night Mattie O’Donnell could not concentrate on the new Abraham Lincoln
biography. She could already hear the voices in the faculty dining room in her head. Those
peopleonlypretendedtobeChristians.
Shefellasleepangryonthepinkflowerysofaandawokewithastarttoabunchofdoesin
the backyard, as if one had spoken to her before bending down to nose the grass. Mattie
watched the deer and was careful to breathe quietly, as if they would hear her through the
slidingglassdoor.Assomeonewhohadgrownup in thecityshewasstilla littlebitafraidof
deer, their human‐sized eyes.Herneighborswereworried about their landscaping; therewas
talkofcallinginhunters.
Shewasjustabouttostandandknockontheglasstoshoothembutthendidnot,and
insteadstoodwithhernosenearlytouchingtheglass,watching.
***
Inthemorning,justasMattiehadimagined,the“usualsuspects”assembledaroundthebigtable
inthefacultydiningroom.Therewastheusualjokeaboutdecaforhigh‐test,ageneralooh‐ing
overaboxofdonutholes—themorningseemedordinaryenough,thoughthewordsaboutVicky
wereintheair,waitingtoslipin.
“HaveyouseenJohnthismorning?Hemustbeburiedundermessages,”wasofferedto
generalnodding,andthetopicwasopened.
“Itmustbedifficultforthegirlsontheteam,”saidDianeWiscowski,seizingthemoment,
stirringhertea.Shewasalwaysstirringhertea.Shewasnotconcernedaboutwhatimpression
she gave, but only about what was right and true. (She refused to even accept papers that
misspelledauthors’orcharacters’namesand,whenaskedbyterrifiedstudentstosendcollege
recommendation letters,producedpagesofbeautifully turned,persuasivelydetailed sentences
thatthestudentsthemselveswouldneverbeallowedtoread).
TedBonnerfoundhimselfagreeingwithDiane,uptoapoint.Hehadnotsenttheletter,
andinsteadplannedtofindaquietmomentoverthenextfewdays,afterthechatterhadcalmed
down,tositdownwithsomeoneinPEandseehowshewasgettingby,iftherewasanythinghe
coulddo. ItwastrueVickyshouldhavemadebetterchoices. Itwastruehedidnotknowher
verywellatall.
“They’llbefine—they’reagoodgroupofgirls,”saidTedBonner.
“Shewassomeonetheylookedupto,”continuedDiane.“It’snotfairtothem.”
“No,”saidTedBonner.“Ofcourseit’snot.”
“Sheseemedlikesucharesponsibleperson,”saidsomeoneelse.
“Shewasalwaysalittlewild,”saidsomeoneelse.
68
ThedoortothefacultyroomopenedandTedBonner,hisbacktothedoor,sensedachangein
the space and watched Diane stirring her tea and pointedly not looking up. It was Mattie
O’Donnell.Tedturnedtosayhello,butshewasalreadylookingdirectlyathim.
“Nowdon’tyoualllookpleasedwithyourselves,”shesaidinthesametonesheusedwith
studentswhoclaimedtohavemisunderstoodhomeworkassignments.
“I’mnotsurewhatyoumean,Mattie,”saidTedBonnercalmly—heknewexactlywhatshe
meant. He considered himself a generous person but often had to work to keep a rising
bitternessoutofhisfacewheneverMattiespoketohim.
As a Catholic teacher at a Catholic high school, he had once felt free to praise the
initiativeofafewstudentsinhishomeroomwho’dtakentimeoutoftheirownweekendsand
afternoonstoplanatriptothepro‐lifemarchinWashington;moreover,hehadbeencarefulnot
to censure or criticize directly any of those students who did not participate, or those who
believed strongly that true gender equality (which he also believed in) required complete
reproductivefreedom—hewasnottheirpriestortheir father,andhebelievedthatrespect for
thedemocraticprocessmeantrespectforotherpointsofview,sohewasstungwhenastudent
complained to him of Mattie’s disparaging comments about the pro‐life march, and, more
particularly,Mattie’sstatementthatmenshouldnothaveavoteonthematteronewayorthe
other; especially not themenwho teach here. Tedwas sureMattie had said worse but, as a
matterofprinciple,neverallowedastudenttocomplainaboutanotherteacherinhisearshot.
“OhyouknowexactlywhatImean,”saidMattie,comingintotheroom,feelinghereyes
burning.Allhis simperingcourtesy—itwasnever true.Truekindnesswasnever simplypolite
but direct and sometimes difficult. When you didn’t say what was true your insides got all
twistedup.Inanycase,itwasbettertobehatedopenlythantowonderandworryhowothers
werefeeling.
Still,MattieO’Donnellwasnotabovebeingflustered,andsoonenoughshefoundherself
standingdirectlyinfrontoftheclosedrefrigeratorwithnothoughtinherheadofwhattangible
taskshehadcomeintothefacultydiningroomtoperform.
DanielLash,athislittletable,had,atfirst,pretendedtonotbepayingattention.Hehad
hiscopyoftheBritLittextbookopentothesectiononRomanticpoetsthathewaspreparingfor
the day—he’d taught the section five times already and had, even before that, known the
Romantics backwards and forwards—he’d written his undergrad thesis on water imagery in
Wordsworth‐‐buthelikedtolookovereverythingcarefullyeachyear.Hetoldhisclassesthathe
learned something new each time, which wasn’t quite true—he enjoyed the poems more,
perhaps,buthewasneverpersuadedto,forexample,acceptadifferentinterpretationofaline.
Hebecamemoreandmorehelplesslyfrustratedbyhisstudents’obstinaterefusaltoswoonover
thepoems’beautyandworth.Youwerelikethattoo,once,hetoldhimself;youoncehadgirls
andbaseballgamesandbeeronyourmindandinyourheart.Youwerelikethemonce,hetold
himselfeachyearandeachyearfeltitstruthlessandless.
Atfirsthewasstaringatadrawingofanightingale,andthen,whenMattiecamein,helooked
outthewindowatthestreamofsilverandblackshinyvehicles—kidsbeingdroppedoffonthe
waytotheoffice,onthewaytoyoga—andhenoticedhownoneofthekidsnortheoccasional
trudgingteacherlookedawayfromtheschooloutoverthetraffictotheknotoftreesbetween
St.Luke’sandthestreetwheretheleaveswerejustcomingintobud,and,where,atleastfrom
where he sat, you couldmake out twonewnests, not too high up, in crooks.Amother bird
darted out of one. In those tufts, tiny desperate sharp yellow mouths. Maybe one perfect
speckledstill‐unhatchedegg.
Hewas sure that his wife’s failure to get pregnant was his fault. He saw he had been
listeninghard,almosthopingforabitterwordfromthebigtableaboutVickyGoggins,anoteof
scornforviolatingJesus’pregnancyrules.Thatshewaspregnantwassomehownotfair.Whatan
awfulthingtothink,hesaw.Whatsortofpersonhadhebecome?
Daniel then turned to watch Ted Bonner watch, with a perfectly blank face, Mattie
O’Donnellstandinfrontoftherefrigerator,herfaceclenched,staringhardatthelunchcalendar
tapedtothefrontoftherefrigerator.
Secondspassed.
“I’msorry,Mattie,”saidTedBonnerfinally.“ButI’mafraidyou’vegotmeinthedark.”
WhenMattieturnedtofacethebigtableshedidnotknowwhatshewasgoingtosaybut
she felt that shewas ready to saywhateverwas going to come out of hermouth about how
wrongitwastocastapersonoutoftheircommunity;TedBonnerwaitedandreadiedtocalmly
replysomethingalongthelinesofcaringfortheeffectsofthemoralatmosphereoftheschoolon
their students did notmean that everyone there did not also care forVicky and for the new
child; Daniel Lash imagined interrupting and saying something like “Thank God she doesn’t
70
havetolistentoyoutwoanymore,”knowinghewouldnomorestandandspeakthanhewould
smashthroughthewindowintotheday.
ThenVickyGogginsherselfcameintotheroom.
She was wearing jeans and gray sweatshirt so shapeless that, if you didn’t know she was
pregnant, you wouldn’t have guessed. On her feet were new, old‐lady‐mall‐walker white
sneakers, nothing like the webby crosstrainers or hiking sandals
theotherteacherswouldhaveimaginedherin.Shelookedlikeshe
hadnotsleptwell.
TedBonnerdidnotatfirstseeVicky—hisimaginationbelievedshe
hadbeenerasedfromSt.Luke’s.Foraninstantshewasamother
heretohelptheBoosterclubstuffenvelopes;shewasasubstitute
teacher.He only sawherwhenher eyes settled on his face for a
momentand,whenhedidnotreact,driftedaway.
Daniel Lash was not surprised that she did not turn her
headtocatchhiseye;hewaitedforsomeoneatthebigtabletotell
hersheshouldn’thavecomeinwhentherewerestudentsaround
butnoonesaidanythinguntilMattiebarked“Thereyouare!”
The door behind Vicky Goggins settled closed, and she could not make herself step
confidently throughtheroom,asshehad imaginedthenightbeforeandonthecar rideover,
rightthroughallofthemtotherefrigeratortoretrieveherweek‐oldpasta‐and‐vegetablesinthe
Tupperware snapcase she’dmeant toborrow,not steal, fromhermother,nomatterwhather
mothersaid.Shemademistakes,yes,everyonedid.ShehadforgottentheTupperware;shewas
pregnant.Butshewouldberesponsibleforwhatshedid.
Asshehadseenit,therewasnopointinwakingupveryearlyorwaitinguntilthedaywas
overtoretrievehermother’sTupperware.She’dworkedattheschoolforfiveyears;itcouldcope
withfivemoreminutesofthepressureofherfeet.
Theproblemwas the instantshestepped into the facultydiningroomandTedBonner
lookedupandMattiespottedhershewasagainastudent,astupidgirl,achild.
“I amhere,” shemanaged after amoment.Diane stopped stirringher tea. In thequiet
Vickyheardsomeboysinthehallfiddlingwiththeirlocksandknockingontheirlockers—this
heavygreenchildlikeclangingthatshe’dheardeverymorningforyears.Theroomwaited.
There was Daniel Lash
in his back corner,
book open before him
and his mouth open
like he was about to
say something. He
always seemed like he
was about to say
something.
“Vicky, are you doing okay?” said Ted Bonner. “Is there something we can do to help
you?”
“No,”shesaid,recovering.“No.”Shetoldherlegstostepforwardtotherefrigerator,and
theydid.She felteyes settlingonher spine, likehorseflies.Mattiemovedaside forheras she
opened the refrigerator and collected the mushy white pasta in the Tupperware and said
goodbyeinhermindtothethingsintherefrigerator:goodbyetothe“family‐size”ketchupand
goodbyetotheFrenchVanillaflavorednon‐dairycreamerthathadbeentheresinceChristmas.
Astherefrigerator’sdoorclosed,MattieO’Donnell’shandswereonhershoulders.Vickyfeltthe
musclesinhershouldersclench,asifshewasabouttothrowapunch.
“Vicky, youdon’t listen to anything anyone says, okay?You trust yourself.Now,where
canwegototalkthisthrough?”
“IguessIcameherebecauseIwantedtosaygoodbye,”shesaid.
Mattienoddedvigorously.
“No,”saidVicky,takingastepback.“Imean,Ithink,arealgoodbye.”MattieO’Donnell
keptnoddingandshedidnotletherhandsdroptohersidesbutclaspedthem,suddenly,likea
punishedchildtryingtoshowshewaslistening.
VickyGogginstookalastlookoutatthefacultydiningroom.TherewasDanielLashin
hisbackcorner,bookopenbeforehimandhismouthopenlikehewasabouttosaysomething.
Healwaysseemedlikehewasabouttosaysomething.
“I guess I should have come earlier thismorning,” she said. They were the last words
thesepeoplewouldeverhearhersay.Itwasastrangethought.Thecoloroftheformicatables—
asortofleatherypurple—wasstrange,andthepatternofcracksinthetopcornerofoneofthe
windows was strange—from, maybe, a lost bird? a thrown stone? something altogether
different? Everything these days was more and more strange, she thought, as she walked
through the faculty dining room and through the door and closed the door behind her and
closedthoseeyestoherlife.
Howstrangetothinkaboutwhattheycouldbethinkingandseeingandsaying.
Outsidethelightwasagood,ordinarymorninglightandshewasfreeinit,insanelyfree.
Shewas a student andwalking out into the school parking lot halfway through a school day
becausemaybehermotherwaspickingheruptotakehertothedentist—itseemsimpossibleto
beallowedtobeoutside,yetsheisoutside.
72
Reviews&Interviews
74
Ashley Galan A Review of Stuart Youngman “Sy” Hoahwah’s Night Cradle and Velroy and the Madischie Mafia
OneofonlyahandfulofpoetstocomefromtheComancheNationTribe,SyHoahwahhas
beendescribedasthenextgenerationofyoungnativepoet‐prophetsbyauthorJoyHarjo.Many
ofhispoems findsettings inSouthwestOklahoma,wherehehasclose family ties.Hoahwah’s
writing pays homage to the stories, traditions and superstitions of the Comanche Tribe and
incorporatesaspectsoftheseintohispoetryinawaythatisuniquelyhisown,whileatthesame
timeaccessible toeveryone.Hispoetrycollections,Velroy and theMadischieMafia andNight
CradlebotheloquentlycombinethegrittyrealityoflifeasaNativeAmericanwithsupernatural
elements.Hisworktendstochallengeanypreconceivednotionsabouttoday’sNativeAmericans
whileatthesametimehonoringthosenativesthathavecomebeforehim.
Inthefirstpoetrycollection,titledVelroyandtheMadischieMafia,muchofthepoetry’s
settingstakeplaceinComancheCountyandvividlypaintsaportraitofalandriddledwithdrug
usecombinedwithNativetraditionsandghosts.Hoahwah’screativeuseofoldtribal folklores
adds to the mystique of his supernatural ghost stories. One poem titled, “Colors of the
ComancheNationFlag,”isoneinparticularthatputsthetribalfolkloreofthe“Mupits,”“Deer
Woman”and“CoyoteSuperstition”touse,exploringtheminawaythataddsdramaticeffectto
hisghoststoriesandbringingthesefolklorestoawideraudience.Hiswritinginthiscollection
accuratelyandartfullyportrayslifeandeventsofyoungNativeAmericansasdepictedinthefirst
poem,“MadischieMafia.”Hoahwahdoesnotshyawayfromthegrittinessoflifeanddruguse,
butinsteadusesitasatooltoreconstructideasandbreakcommonstereotypes.
The poems in Hoahwah’s second poetry collection, titled, Night Cradle, like those in
Velroy and theMadischieMafia are lyrical and often indebted to surrealism. Both collections
offerdepictionsofthepastaswellasthepresentandtellstoriesofhauntedlands.Thepoemsof
Night Cradle are eachunique in their ownway and at the same time flow together to tell an
imagistic story. Hoahwah’s descriptions of the supernatural are imaginative and embody
characteristicsofNativeAmericanreligionandwitchcraft,whichisevidentineachofhispoems.
Through awide variation of ideas and images these elements combine to create a beautifully
craftedsubtlenarrativetothiscollectionofpoems.
SyHoahwahisclearlyatalentedpoet,andtheinfluencesofhisNativeAmericanheritage,
andchildhoodinSouthwestOklahoma,bothcomethroughclearlyinhiswork.Hispoemsoffer
an accurate and interesting portrayal of a new generation of Native Americans of any tribal
heritage.Mr.Hoahwah’swritingisrefreshinganduniqueamongotherNativewritersinthathe
offersanewperspectiveonNativeAmerican identityandwayof life.Hispoemsoffercreative
narrativesevokedthroughvividlydescribed images,charactersand landscapes.Velroy and the
Madischie Mafia and Night Cradle are poetry collections which readers will find both
entertainingandenlightening.
76
Nick Brush A Review of Michael Nye’s Strategies Against Extinction
Oftentimes, short story collections amount to nothingmore than amish‐mash of unrelated
tales thrown togetherwith the finesseofadachshundon ice skates. However,MichaelNye’s
2012debut,StrategiesAgainstExtinction, isnotthatcollection. Inhiscollectionofnineshort
stories, Nye creates nine completely different yet believable worlds in which his all‐too‐real
charactersstruggletocopewiththeirexistence.Eachcharacterhashisorherownproblemsin
lifewhetheritbeafailedmarriageorafailedcareer.Charactersrangefromtheprojectionistata
movietheaterinadead‐endtown,toavascularsurgeonwhomakesacareer‐alteringmistakein
theoperating room, to the infamousRussian leader,VladimirPutin. Each story contained in
Strategiesdrawsyouinquickly,anddoesn’tletupuntilitsconclusion.
Themain things that setNye’s collection apart fromothers like it are his attention to
detailinbothcharacterandplotdevelopment.Nyetakesthetimetointroducehischaractersin
suchawaythatevenwithlimitationsoftheshortstoryform,thewordsbecometrueflesh‐and‐
bloodpeople. The reader is able to feel thepainand lossof the failed relationships found in
someofthestories,andalmostwantstoreachout,putherarmonacharacter’sshoulder,and
tellthem,“It’sgoingtobeokay.”Asclichédasitmightsound,Ifeltatrueconnectiontomany
of thecharacters in thisbook. Eventhe 1950sradiobaseballannouncer, forexample, felt like
someoneIcouldrunintoinmyowntwenty‐firstcenturylife.
It’s not just the characters thatmake a short story, though, andNye can spin a yarn like
nobody’sbusiness.Sometimesanauthor’scommitmenttocharacterdevelopmentmightcause
himtooverlookcertainelementsofplot,butNyehasskillfullycraftedeachofthesestories in
suchawaythatthepacingineachneverseemstodrag.Heweavesinminutedetailsthatyou
mightnotthinkmatteratthestartbutwillhaveyouturningafewpagesbackafteran“AHA!”
momenttowardstheend. Someofthestoriesendonahighnote,andsomenot‐so‐high,but
everystoryinStrategiesisanabsolutedelighttoread.
MichaelNye’sStrategies Against Extinction isonehellofadebut, andNye is trulyone
hellofawriter. Eachofthe240pagesinthecollectioniswellworthreadingmorethanonce,
andyou’llwanttoensureyoudoso;thereareplentyofdetailsthatworktofleshoutthetales
thatIdidn’tcatchonmyfirstread‐through.Strategieswillalwayshaveaplaceonmybookshelf,
thoughitmaynotgetachancetogettoocomfortable,sinceI’llbereadingitagainverysoon.
78
George McCormick ‘Love Doesn’t Mean You Don’t Have to Go to the Dentist’: An Interview with Francesca Abbate InanticipationofFrancescaAbbate’svisittoCameronUniversityinFebruary,Icaughtup
with the poet via e‐mail where, over several days, we had the following exchange. Abbate’s
debut,Troy,Unincorporated(2012,UniversityofChicago),isaretellingofChaucer’sTroilusand
CriseydesetinthesmalltownofTroy,Wisconsin.Thisstoryofloveandlossandloveagainis
toldthroughapolyphonyofvoices,eachpoembeing“spoken”byakindofrivalryofnarrators.
TroilusandCriseydegetavoice,butsotoodo“Pandarus,”“Psyche,”andthe“Narrator”(who,as
the interviewbearsout, isAbbateherself—kindof). Anambitiousandoftensurprisingbook,
Troy, Unincorporated is one of the most intimate and moving reading experiences I’ve
encounteredinyears.
[GeorgeMcCormick]:AlmosttwentyyearsagoyougaveareadingattheUniversityofMontana
where, in one of your poems, there was a curious use of the interrogative. As best as I can
remember,youread:“Isthereahalflanguageofwant?”Ithinktherewasastanzabreak,ora
fullstopafterthat, Idon’tremember,butIdorememberthequestionholdingintheair fora
while. In fact that line has held insideme for close to two decades. On occasion I’ve tried
stealingitandworkingitintomyownfiction—firstindialogue,whereitalwayscameacrossas
pretentious(asitneverwasinthepoem),thenlaterinmonologueswhereitneverseemedtofit
any of my characters. You can imagine my astonishment, then, when I picked up Troy,
Unincorporatedand,inthebook’swonderfulopening,Iread:“Everythingishalfhere/likethe
marble head/ of the Greek warrior/ and the lean torso/ of his favorite./ The way the funnel
cloud/whichdoesn’tseem/totouchgrounddoes—/flipsafewcars,asemi—/welearntowalk
milesaboveourbodies.”Inthebook’snextpoemyouwrite:“Praiseme,Itoldthewaterlilies,
forIamhalf‐invincible,/half‐destructable,halfmad:am,infact,adivinehalf//andahalfnot,
andit’slonelyouthereandhot,/andalifetimehaselapsedonthisfloatingpath/withitscanopy
of poison sumac, its pale, half‐dead/ orchids, the drams of bog people hidden// under the
planks—so finely pored, so stubble bladed,/ so adept at heat and loneliness, so not half—for
who//willpraisemenow,Iwastoocleverbyhalf…”Sohere’smyquestion:amIcrazytothink
thatsomeofthiswasn’trootedinsomeofthosepoemsyouwereworkingonsolongago?Do
youevenrememberthosepoems,muchlessthatline?DidImakeallofthisup?
[FrancescaAbbate]: Iamastoundedthatyourememberthatpoem,andI thinkyou’vegotthe
lineexactly,thoughIcan’trememberthelineation.Thenextlinewassomethingaboutawayto
measuretheskyandithadsomethingtodowithhorses,anditwasapoemforLilaCecil.She’d
takenmetoseesomehorses.Irememberahighhill,tallyellowinggrass,andnohousesaround,
seemingly. Just the horses. Anyway. I’m sure the poems inTroy, Unincorporated are related.
TheygrowoutofwhoIwasthenandwhoIbecame,afterall.
I don’t think this is uncommon, but I’ve always felt as if I live two lives, this one and
anotherlifewhichisnotjustaninteriorlife,butsomethingalmostrememberedand/oralmost
physicalthatcan’tbeputintowords,thatwealldo,really,andthatartisanobliqueglanceinto
it.Thatotherlifefeelsveryclosesometimes,soclosethatIthinkIfeelhalfhereandhalf“there,”
whichisn’ttherightword,ofcourse.
IstillmissMissoula.
Butthepoemsinthisbookareconcernedwiththatfeelingofhalf‐nessinanotherway,
too. I’d taken a class called “Chaucer forWriters”while Iwas gettingmyPh.D., but I started
writingthepoemsspokenbythecharacterstenyearslater.Wow,amIslow,right?Anyway.In
themeantime,Iwaswritingotherpoems,includingthetwoyouquotehere.Sothesearesome
oftheearliest.Iwasn’tgoingtoincludethem—italmostfeltlikecheatingtoincludepoemsso
“old”—but in themiddle of working on themanuscript I reread that Chaucer had “revoked”
TroilusandCriseydeattheendofhislife,becausethepoemwastooworldly,andhewantedto
go toheaven.So I feltas thoughhischaracterswere left to leadhalf‐lives, too, like theywere
driftingaroundoutthere,rootless,homeless.Ifeltakinshipwiththem,aninvitationtoexplore
this half‐ness. Iwonder, now, too, if this half‐ness also speaks to the separation that’s at the
center of—that propels—Chaucer’s poem, which is Criseyde’s betrayal of Troilus. So that’s
anotherhalf‐ness,aromanticone,theheartsplitintwo.AsMontaignesaysofthedeathofhis
closestfriend:“Iwasalreadysousedandaccustomedtobeing,ineverything,oneoftwo,thatI
nowfeelIamnomorethanahalf.”I’vebeenreadingMontaigne’sessaysforacoupleyearsnow.
It’sslowgoingforme.
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[McCormick]:Ididn’tknowthataboutChaucer,thathe“revoked”hisworkbecausehewanted
togetintoheaven.Partofmescoffsatthis,butpartofmelovesthefactthatChaucerlivedina
timewhenpoetryreallycouldbedangerous—andheknewthat.
[Abbate]:Thepoem’sprettyracy.Atonepoint,PandarusstripstheswooningTroilusandthrows
himintobedwithCriseyde.Thatrenunciationmusthavesprungfromagreatfaith,Ithink.God
wouldseethroughashamrenunciation,afterall.Andforanauthortodothat,toturnhisback
onhiswork—it’shardtoimagine.Itseemsverynobleandterrible.
[McCormick]:AsafictionwriterI’mstruckbytherichness,intensity,and
complexity of your character’s interior lives. Yet this too seems
Chaucerian; that is, to let each person speak for themself. Even you—
Francesca—getsavoiceasthe“Narrator.” AmIrighttothinkofthisas
influencedbyChaucer?
[Abbate]: Oh, thank you. That’s an immense compliment. You fiction
writers—I look up to you so much: the work you do, creating a world and sustaining it,
structuringit.Isometimesthinkthatthisbookresultsfrommyloveoffiction.Ilovepoemsthat
dealwithcharacterrather than just thespeaker’s ruminations,butmyworkwasdoingmostly
thelatter.Iwassickofit.ItwassowonderfultohearthesepeopletalkingthatwhenIfinished
themanuscriptIfeltill.Ifelt,insomeway,gypped.Whycouldn’ttheyhavekepttalking?Butit
wasnouse.Itwasover.
Yes,Iamthenarrator.Or,tobemoreexact,thespeakeristhenarrator.Thosepoemsare
someofthemostautobiographicalI’veeverwritten.Andyet,ofcourse,theyaren’ttrueinthe
senseofbeingfactual.
LettingeachpersonspeakwasmeanttobeveryChaucerian:oneofthethingsIloveand
admire about Chaucer’s poem is exactly how the narrator was a presence—telling/shaping a
story—and also how each character has a distinct voice. They have somuch air time in the
poem.Imarvelathowthathappensinsuchabalanced,nuancedway,andhowhemanagesall
thoseregisters.It’ssymphonic.
Those poems are
some of the most
autobiographical I’ve
ever written. And yet,
of course, they aren’t
true in the sense of
being factual.
[McCormick]: You say that youwere sick of your poems being “ruminations,” I think I know
whatyoumean:thekindofnarrative,epiphany‐basedpoetrythatnowseemssocommon.Who
aresomepoetsthatyouliketoreadthatworkoutsidethismodel?
[Abbate]:There’snothingwrongwithworkinginthatmode,ofcourse,butsomewherealongthe
wayIstoppedtrustingitformyself.There’sakindofself‐mythologizingthatcanhappenifthe
poem’s in the firstperson, forexample, and I startedwondering towhatend.To impress?To
seduce?Butthenagainthere’ssuchprivilegeinwritinganykindofpoetry.Whocareswhatkind
getswrittenandwithwhatmotivation?Andyet,saysthatstubbornlittlevoice.
RegardingwhatIliketoreadoutsidethemodel—well,Ireadalotofnonfiction.Butalso
ofcoursepoetry.AnneCarsonpopstomindimmediatelyforhernovel‐in‐verseAutobiography
ofRed.Anythingthatblursgenresinterestsme.
SinceI teach, Iusemycourses(inpart)tomakesureIgettimetoreadthebooksthat
look compelling or important for any reason. I try to choose books that represent a broad
selectionintermsofstyleandcontent.(This isaquestionthattroublesme:whatarethebest
bookstogivestudents?Butthat’sanotherdiscussion.)ThissemesterthelistincludedTracyK.
Smith’sLifeonMars,KevinYoung’sToRepelGhosts:TheRemix,MichaelDickman’sFlies,and
SrikanthReddy’sReadings inWorldLiterature.Young’sbookevokesJean‐MichelBasquiat’sart
andpersoninanimmersiveway.It’soneofthosebooksthat’sreallyhardtodescribe,butasthe
back cover blurb from Art in America puts it, “it may be the best interpretive study yet of
Basquiat’s art.” Also, Young’s line breaks are devastating. You can learn somuch from them.
Smith’s work is both empathetic and clear‐sighted, and that’s a tricky balance. It’s probably
closest to the “narrative, epiphany‐based poetry” you mention. But mostly it’s about other
people. And social injustices and tragedies. And so the epiphanies, when they come, seem
generous and expansive. You feel like only someonewho is verywise and very human could
write the poems. Dickman is, I think, working from the tradition of lyric epiphany but his
epiphanies are rapid‐fire and unpretty. They don’t close his poems. They come in bursts and
leaveme feeling queasy. “The light is puking purewhite onto the ground,” for example. And
thenthepoemgoeson likenothinghorriblehashappenedandevenworsethingshappen. I’d
havetosaythatReddy’swasthebookImostlookedforwardtoreadingandwasmostafraidof
reading.I’vebeenwritingprosepoemswhichincludesomedescriptionoflifeintheunderworld,
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andReddy’snarratoristeachingaclasscalled“IntroductiontotheUnderworld.”Quiteafewof
the prose poems in his book take place in that classroom or meditate on some pretty dark
matter.Oneofmyfavoritepassagesclosesthefirstpoem:“ContrarytotheaccountsofMuLian,
Odysseus, and Kwasi Benefo, for example, it is not customarily permitted to visit the
underworld.No, theunderworldvisits you.” It’s abrilliantand frighteningandhilariousbook
andIwasscaredI’dfinishitandthink,well, Ican’twriteaboutthatnow.Actually, Idothink
that,butI’mgoingtokeepwritingwhatI’mwritinganyway,becauseIdon’tknowwhatelseto
do.
[McCormick]:Ifindyourbook’sstructuretobereallyinteresting:foursections,eachprefaced
byanepigraphfromTroilusandCriseyde.TheintertextualitybetweenyourlinesandChaucer’s
makesforakindofscholar’sarthere,yetthebookresistsbeingesoteric.Canyoutalkalittlebit
abouthowyoudecidedonthestructureofthebook—thefoursections,theepigraphs—andhow
yousettledonthesixdifferent‘voices’.
[Abbate]:EachpoematonepointhaditsownquotefromChaucer’spoemasatitle.Thereaders
atUniversityofChicago felt that itwas toomuchChaucer, and I’m sure theywere right.But
cutting those lineswas hard forme. I’d really felt that each poemwas inextricably linked to
them.Umbilicalcords,theywere.Ikeptthelongerquotesassectionbreaks.Theypointtoward
wherethebookisintermsofChaucer’schronology,andthey’rebeautiful,ofcourse,sothere’s
that.Chaucer’spoemisinfiveparts.Oh,didIwantTroytobeinfiveparts.Iusedaquotefrom
Seth Lerer’s bookChaucer and His Readers about an “incomplete love letter” as an epigraph
becauseintheendIfeltasthoughitwasokaythatTroywasonlyfoursections.Itwasn’tmeant
tobewhole.It’sanincompletelovelettertoChaucerandhischaracters.
About the cast of characters:well, the history of Troilus andCriseyde’s story is one of
borrowingsandrevisions.Chaucerwasn’tthefirsttotellit,andhewasn’tthelast.(Igottosee
Shakespeare’s play last year—it’s not produced that often, and itwas sowonderful to see it.)
HelenplaysapartinChaucer’spoem,asdoesCassandra,who’sTroilus’ssister.AndIdidfeelas
if I wanted some kind of narrator. The narrator’s poems include events that chime with
Chaucer’splot,ratherthanechothemexactly.Chaucer’snarratorisrepeatingastoryhe’sread.
He’sbothatthemercyofstory—hecan’tchangetheoutcome—andinchargeofhowit’stold.
That’showIfelt.
Ireallydon’tknowwherePsychecamefrom.She’snotapartofChaucer’spoem.WhenI
wrotethepoemthatyouquotedfromabove,Ididn’tknowwhothespeakerwas.Iknewshewas
mythical,butIdidn’tknowuntilIwaswritingthisbook—andwritingthepoemaboutPsyche
getting a chili dog, in particular—that I figured it out. Psyche has an epic quest in themyth
Psyche andCupid, and yet the tasks she’s given to accomplish are so domestic. I think I felt
Psyche’spresenceasunderpinning thestory.Shegoes throughhell, literally,butgetsahappy
ending—Cupid and immortality.Troy, Unincorporated endswithCriseyde falling in lovewith
Diomedes.(Chaucerdoesn’tknowwhetherornotshe’sinlovewithhim—it’sasifhejustcan’t
imagine the scope of that betrayal.) But Criseyde doesn’t get to become immortal—just the
opposite,really.Alifebeginsforher,withlove.Butlovedoesn’tmeanyoudon’thavetogoto
thedentist.Itdoesn’tmeanthatthepossibilityforgravehurt,forbetrayal,forabandonment,is
over.She’sthevulnerableoneattheclose—especiallysinceTroilushasdied.
[McCormick]:Earlieryoumentionedthatkindofhollowedoutfeelingyougetwhenyoufinisha
manuscript.I’vefoundthatifIdon’tmakearadicalformalorconceptualchangefromonework
tothenext it’s impossibletobeginagain. Whathasitbeenlikegettingontothenextpoems
afterTroy?
[Abbate]: Ireallyunderstandthis,George.AndsometimesIworrythatchangingsodrastically
frommanuscript tomanuscriptmeansIdon’thaveastyle.LookatDickman,
forexample:hissecondbooksoundsverymuchlikehisfirst.Ashberysounds
like Ashbery, Glück like Glück. But I bet they feel as if they make “radical
formalorconceptual”changeswitheachnewwork.
Itwashardtostartwritingagain.Iwasonsabbatical,andsupposedto
bewriting, after all, but I hadn’t planned on a new project. I thought I’d be
revisingTroy,butthepublicationschedulewasfasterthantheeditororIthoughtitwouldbe,
and Iwas donewith revisions in July.One day in early fall Iwent to the bookstore andwas
sitting outside with the ubiquitous Starbucks cappuccino (is every bookstore connected to a
Starbucks?) flippingthroughmypurchase,Montaigne’s Essays—which,as Imentionedearlier,
So I started writing down
lines that I loved and those lines
grew into a daybook of
sorts.
84
I’mstillreading—andthissortofscruffyguywithacigarettestoppedinfrontofmeandsaid,
That’sagreatbook.Youshouldtakenotes.
SoIstartedwritingdownlinesthatIlovedandthoselinesgrewintoadaybookofsorts
that included more than Montaigne. I was fairly depressed and sitting at home a lot in
Milwaukee and getting obsessed with the weather and just doodling, really. And one day I
mistookthewords“NoBody”inmyownhandwriting(Iwasquotingfromanewspaperarticle
aboutawomanfounddeadonthetrailIbike)for“NotBaby.”Ihadalsorecentlycomeacrossa
mentionofPersephone’sdaughterMelinoe,whosenamemeans“darkthought.”Andthesesort
of disparate pieces started coming together during an unsettling period of coincidences and
otherweirdnessesandIstartedwritinglongprosepoemsaboutNotBaby,akaMelinoe.
I don’t knowwhat’s going tohappen. I couldn’t ignore theplot arc inChaucer’s poem
whenIwaswritingTroy,andIthinkithelpedgivemestructure.Ifeelprettymuchatseanow
andmaybeforawhile.Iknowsomepeoplewhocanwriteduringtheschoolyear,butI’mnot
one of them. So that’s difficult, because I only reallywrite during summer. It could be years
beforeIfindmyway,andImighthavetothroweverythingouttogetthere.It’sokay,though.I
generallywriteoutofasenseofdesperationanyway.Isthattrueofmanywriters?Mostwriters?
Ifeellikeitis,butmaybeIcan’timaginewritingfromaplacelessfraughtornecessary.
86
Contributors JoseAngelAraguzhashadworkmostrecentlyinSlipstream,GulfCoast,and
AppleValleyReviewaswellasfeaturedinTedKooser'sAmericanLifeinPoetry.Hischapbook,TheWall, is publishedbyTiger's EyePress.He is presently pursuing aPhDinCreativeWritingattheUniversityofCincinnati.
Casey Brown is from Pendleton, Oregon. She is pursuing her Bachelor’s degree in
CreativeWritingatCameronUniversity.Herflashfictionpiece“PassiveVoice”wasaco‐winnerofthePageOneGalleryatScissortailCreativeWritingFestival in2013.Sheisastaffwriterforthe Cameron Collegian, amember of Sigma TauDelta, and a tutor. Casey lives, studies, andwritesinLawton,Oklahoma.
James Brubaker lives andwrites inOklahoma.His short storieshave appearedor are
forthcoming in venues includingZoetrope: All Story,Hobart,Michigan Quarterly Review,TheNormal School, andWebConjunctions, amongothers.Look for James' shortcollectionof fakepilotepisodes,PilotSeason(SunnyoutsidePress),andhisdebutfull‐lengthstorycollectionLinerNotes(SubitoPress)in2014.JamesisalsoanassociateeditorforTheCollapsar.
Nick Brush is an Army veteran currently pursuing a bachelor’s degree in Creative
Writing at Cameron University. He is originally from Rogers, Arkansas, but has traveled tomanydifferentplaceswithhistimeinthemilitary.Heenjoysbothreadingandwritingpoetry,andhopestosharehisloveofpoetrywithstudentsofhisownoneday.
Jim Davis is a graduate of Knox College and an MFA candidate at Northwestern
University.Jimlives,writes,andpaintsinChicago,whereheeditstheNorthChicagoReview.Hiswork has appeared or is forthcoming in Seneca Review, Adirondack Review, The MidwestQuarterly, andColumbia Literary Review amongnearly threehundredpublications. Jim is thewinnerofmultiplecontests,prizes,Editor'sChoiceawards,andarecentnominationforBestoftheNet Anthology.His book,Assumption (UnboundContent, 2013)will soon be followed bybooktwo,Earthmover(UnboundContent).
PhilEstesworkhasrecentlyappearedinEverydayGenius,TheLiftedBrow,andLungfull!
HelivesinTulsa,Oklahoma.Over one hundred ofDavid Galef’s poems have appeared inmagazines ranging from
ShenandoahandWitnesstoTheYaleReviewandLiteraryImagination.Hehaspublishedoveradozenvolumes,includingnovels,shortstorycollections,translation,andcriticism,butalsothe
poetry book Flaws and two chapbooks of verse, Lists and Apocalypses. He is a professor ofEnglishandthecreativewritingprogramdirectoratMontclairStateUniversity.
Ashley Galan is a sophomore atCameronUniversity and amemberof theComanche
NationTribeofOklahoma.Whennotdoinghomeworkshespendsallofhertimereading.ShelivesinLawton,Oklahomawithherhusband.
KatherineLiontas‐Warren,ProfessorofArtatCameronUniversityhasbeenaresident
ofOklahomasince1984,wheresheteachesdrawing,watercolor,andprintmaking.Katherinehasa Master of Fine Art from Texas Tech University and a Bachelor of Science from SouthernConnecticut.SheisarecipientoftheBhattacharyaResearchExcellenceAwardandtheFacultyHall of Fame at CameronUniversity. Katherine received the title of Artist of the Year by thePaseoArtAssociation inOklahomaCity and theArtist andEducatorof theYear through theLawton Arts and Humanities Council. Katherine has exhibited her works of art in over 350exhibitionsthroughouttheUnitedStatesandabroad,andhasreceivednumerouspurchaseandjuriedawards.Manyofherprintsanddrawingsare inpermanentcollections inMuseumsandinstitutions throughout the nation such as Austin Peay University, Arkansas Art Center,MuseumofTexasTechUniversity:TheArtistPrintmakerResearchCollection,TheWichitaFallsMuseumofArtatMidwesternUniversity,OklahomaStateUniversity,UniversityofLouisianaatLafayette,UniversityofColorado,UniversityofNorthDakota,OklahomaArt Institute:QuartzMountainLodge,DelMarCollege,UniversityofWisconsin‐Madison,WhitmanCollegeinWallaWalla,ButlerCommunityCollegeinKansas,UniversityofScienceandArtsofOklahoma,LesliePowellArtFoundationGallery,MilwaukeeMuseumofArt,Mabee‐GerrerMuseumofArt,andNicollsStateUniversity.
Rachel ParkerMartinholdsaBachelor’sdegreeinEnglishLiteraturefromtheFlorida
StateUniversity, andplans toentergraduate school topursueherMaster’sdegree inModernSpanishLanguageandLiterature.Shehasself‐publishedonechapbookofpoetrySmallMoves:ACollectionofPoemsaboutLove,Distance,SeaandStars.Sheenjoyslearningdifferentlanguages,travelingwithherstudies,andcurlingupwithagoodbook.
GeorgeMcCormick haspublished stories,most recently, inSugarMule,Epoch,Santa
MonicaReview,andWillowSprings.Hewasa2013O.HenryPrizewinnerandhisbook,SaltonSea,waspublishedin2012byNoemiPress.HelivesinLawton,OklahomaandisteachingintheDepartmentofEnglishandForeignLanguagesatCameronUniversity.
ZarahMoeggenbergisapoetlivingintheupperpeninsulaofMichigan.SheisaMaster
ofFineArtsPoetryCandidateatNorthernMichiganUniversityandAssociatePoetryEditorofPassagesNorth. Shehasbeenmost recentlypublished inThe Fourth River,ellipsis…literatureandart,DiverseVoicesQuarterly,andSunDogLit.ShehasworkforthcominginEllipsisLitMag,amongotherpublications.
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PhongNguyen is theauthorofPages from theTextbookofAlternateHistory (Queen'sFerryPress,2014)andMemorySicknessandOtherStories(ElixirPress,2011).HecurrentlyservesaseditorofPleiadesandPleiadesPress,forwhichhecoeditedthevolumeNancyHale:TheLifeand Work of a Lost American Master with Dan Chaon. He is an Associate Professor at theUniversityofCentralMissouriinWarrensburg,Missouri,whereheliveswithhiswife—theartistSarahNguyen—andtheirthreesons.
Rob Roensch won The International Scott Prize for Short Stories in 2012 from Salt
PublishingforhiscollectiontitledTheWildflowersofBaltimore.HeteachesatOklahomaCityUniversity.Hiswebsiteishttps://sites.google.com/site/robroensch/
Jordan Sanderson earned a PhD from the Center for Writers at the University of
Southern Mississippi. His work has recently appeared in Red Earth Review, The Meadow,GiganticSequins,andNANOFiction.HelivesontheMississippiGulfCoast.
NicoleSantaluciaservesasthepoetryeditorofBinghamtonUniversity’sliteraryjournal,
HarpurPalate.HerworkhasappearedinBayouMagazine,Gertrude,andothers.ShecurrentlyteachescreativewritingandisaPhDcandidateinEnglishatBinghamtonUniversity.
Andrea Spofford writes poems and essays. Some of which can be found or are
forthcominginSugarHouseReview,VelaMagazine,KudzuReview,Revolver,papernautilus,andothers.HerchapbookEverythingCombustibleisavailablefromdancinggirlpressandhersecondchapbookis forthcomingfromRedBirdPress in2014. AndreaispoetryeditorofZone 3PressandlivesandworksinTennessee.
Constance Squires istheauthorofAlong theWatchtower (Riverhead/Penguin),which
wonthe2012OklahomaBookAwardforFiction,andtherecentlycompletedLivefromMedicinePark,ofwhichthestoryinthisissueisanexcerpt.HershortfictionhasappearedintheAtlanticMonthly,ThisLand,NewDeltaReview,Eclectica,Bayouandothermagazines.Hernonfictionhasappeared in Salon, the Village Voice, the New York Times, and on the NPR program SnapJudgment. A short film project, entitled Grave Misgivings, which she wrote and narrates isunderwaywithSundancefellowandCaddoCountynativeJeffreyPalmer.It'saboutGeronimo'sgrave.
B.TacconiisaseniorattheUniversityofHoustonwhereshestudiescreativewritingand
anthropology.HerpoemshaveappearedorareforthcominginGlassMountainandHouston&NomadicVoices.
MeganVered’sworkhasbeenpublishedorisforthcominginthe“FirstPerson”column
oftheSanFranciscoChronicle,theDiverseArtsProject,MezzoCammin,AmarilloBay,andsheisamong the authors featured in the “Story Chairs” short story installation at Jack Straw
ProductionsinSeattle.Followinghermother’sdeathin2011,shepennedafamilystorythatshesenttohersiblingseveryFriday.Thisessayispartofthatcollection.
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