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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 okreview@cameron.edu.Writersmaysubmitthefollowing:

•Prosefictionpiecesof30pagesorless.•Asmanyasfive(5)poemsofany

length.•Nonfictionprosepiecesof30pagesor

less.•Asmanyasfive(5)piecesofvisual

art—photography,paintings,prints,etc.•Allfilesshouldbesentase‐mail

attachmentsineither.docor.rtfformatfortext,and.jpegforartsubmissions.Wewillneitherconsidernorreturnsubmissionssentinhardcopy,evenifreturnpostageisincluded.

•Whensendingmultiplesubmissions(e.g.fivepoems),pleaseincludealltheworkinasinglefileratherthanfiveseparatefiles.

•Authorsshouldalsoprovideacoverparagraphwithashortbiographyinthebodyoftheire‐mail.

•Simultaneoussubmissionsareacceptable.Pleaseindicateinyourcoverletterifyourworkisunderconsiderationelsewhere.

•Pleasedirectallsubmissionsandinquiriestookreview@cameron.edu.

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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.

32

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.

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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.

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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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