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sparkle + blink is produced in conjunction with the monthly submission-based reading series Quiet Lightning, which usually takes place in San Francisco and is curated by different people each month. This 55th issue is the 7th installment of QL's Neighborhood Heroes series, held on Thursday, August 7th 2014 at the Contemporary Jewish Museum. Featuring: Peter Bullen, Sarah Griffin, Lauren Traetto, Matthew Zapruder, Yiyun Li, Moneta Goldsmith, Katie Crouch, Peter Orner, and Norma Cole, with art by Tanya Hollis and design by j. brandon loberg. More at http://quietlightning.org
sparkle + blink is produced in conjunction with the monthly submission-based reading series Quiet Lightning, which usually takes place in San Francisco and is curated by different people each month. This 55th issue is the 7th installment of QL's Neighborhood Heroes series, held on Thursday, August 7th 2014 at the Contemporary Jewish Museum. Featuring: Peter Bullen, Sarah Griffin, Lauren Traetto, Matthew Zapruder, Yiyun Li, Moneta Goldsmith, Katie Crouch, Peter Orner, and Norma Cole, with art by Tanya Hollis and design by j. brandon loberg. More at http://quietlightning.org
sparkle + blink is produced in conjunction with the monthly submission-based reading series Quiet Lightning, which usually takes place in San Francisco and is curated by different people each month. This 55th issue is the 7th installment of QL's Neighborhood Heroes series, held on Thursday, August 7th 2014 at the Contemporary Jewish Museum. Featuring: Peter Bullen, Sarah Griffin, Lauren Traetto, Matthew Zapruder, Yiyun Li, Moneta Goldsmith, Katie Crouch, Peter Orner, and Norma Cole, with art by Tanya Hollis and design by j. brandon loberg. More at http://quietlightning.org
with 2 stipulations: 1. you have to commit to the date to submit 2. you only get up to 8 minutes submit@quietlightning.org subscri be 1 year + 12 issues + 12 shows for $100 sparkle + blink 55 2014 Quiet Lightning artwork Tanya Hollis tanyahollis.com Sun Bear, Aubergine, How Do You Like the Underworld, To Sergio Franchi, Poem for Lu Chi and Poem for Jack Spicer by Matthew Zapruder from Sun Bear (Copper Canyon, 2014) Yiyun Li from Kinder than Solitude (Random House, 2014) Peter Orners Last Car Over the Sagamore Bridge and Shhhhhh, Arthurs Studying from Last Car Over the Sagamore Bridge (Little Brown and Company, 2013) Imaginations law hits frames, Bird of Paradise, Riptide, : Method, at some point, or at gunpoint, From Spinoza in Her Youth, Portuguese rose, winters rose, Suppose the moon blind, Sarabande, and Like Fires by Norma Cole can be found in Where Shadows Will: Selected Poems 1988- 2008 (City Lights Spotlight Series No.1, 2009) Duck Lake and were all guests of experience are forthcoming in Actualities (Litmus Press), a collaboration between Norma Cole and artist Marina Adams book design by j. brandon loberg set in Absara Promotional rights only. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from individual authors. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the author(s) is illegal. Your support is crucial and appreciated. quietlightning.org submit@qui et l i ght ni ng. org CONTENTS curated by Evan Karp featured artist Tanya Hollis PETER BULLEN Upside 1 SARAH GRIFFIN Things People Say to Me in the Street... 7 LAUREN TRAETTO daughter 11 indo-european sacrifice rituals and blind dates 13 MATTHEW ZAPRUDER Sun Bear 15 Aubergine 17 How Do You Like the Underworld 25 To Sergio Franchi 30 Poem for Lu Chi 33 Poem for Jack Spicer 36 YIYUN LI from Kinder than Solitude 41 MONETA GOLDSMITH Diary of a Superfluous Man 49 KATIE CROUCH Astrology 59 PETER ORNER Last Car Over the Sagamore Bridge 67 Shhhhhh, Arthurs Studying 73 NORMA COLE [Imaginations law hits frames...] 79 Bird of Paradise 80 Riptide 81 :Method 82 for Barbara Guest 83 from Spinoza in Her Youth 84 Portuguese rose, winters rose 85 [Suppose the moon-blind...] 86 Sarabande 87 Like fires 88 Duck Lake 89 were all guests of experience 90 PETER BULLEN Poetry 91 Q U I E T
L I G H T N ING IS SP O N S O R E D
B Y l a g u n i t a s . c o m QUIET LIGHTNING A 501(c)3, the primary objective and purpose of Quiet Lightning is to foster a community based on literary expression and to provide an arena for said expression. QL produces a monthly, submission-based reading series on the first Monday of every month, of which these books (sparkle + blink) are verbatim transcripts. Formed as a nonprofit in July 2011, the board of QL is currently: Evan Karp founder + president Chris Cole managing director Josey Lee public relations Meghan Thornton treasurer Kristen Kramer chair Sarah Ciston director of books Katie Wheeler-Dubin director of films Kelsey Schimmelman acting secretary Sidney Stretz and Laura Cern Melo art directors Lisa Miller, Rose Linke, and RJ Ingram outreach directors Sarah Maria Griffin and Ceri Bevan directors of special operations If you live in the Bay Area and are interested in helpingon any levelplease send us a line: evan@qui etl i ghtni ng. or g - SET 1 - 1 P E T E R B U L L E N U PSIDE from The Indecipherable Motivations Of The Great Explorers Sandra walks in, wearing backless dress. Her native costume, shes always in one. As it happens, style of dress lends itself perfectly to risky request Ive been thinking about making. Sandra, I say. Yes, she says, sounding bored, but stuck with habit of saying something after I say Sandra. I want to ask favor. Very personal. Favors usually are, she says. Sandras witty in slash and burn way. If I find me a mad scientist whos master of his craft, and I ask him to shrink me down really, really small, small as toy soldier, will you let me do something with you? Like what, go to a movie? she says. See what I mean about that wit. Confession: Im taken with Sandras backbone. All thoughts I have lead me there. Her backbone sticks out like toy ladder. I want to climb it. Obviously I cant do that at my regular height of five feet ten inches. Sandras dresses are really low. They start smidgen above her bottom. Its like shes always going to the Oscars, or to an Oscars party, but she never does either one. What she does is come over 2 to my place and order take-out, Thai food mostly. It takes strong nerve to ask woman if shell let you clamber up her backbone, from top of butt to base of neck. Im insecure person so I dont launch into risky request right away. I wait to see what will come out of silence. What the fuck is it? she says. Sounds impatient, but not impatient as in irritated, more like impatient as in really wants to know. Having her impatient like that gives me great feeling. Only hitch, I still have to answer, which might produce whole new feeling, right in the middle of enjoying this one. Life can be fucking complicated mess. But my intention, keep reaching for stars, dream impossible dream etc. Well, lets say things go according to plan with mad scientist, and he or she is able to shrink me down real small, will you let me climb up your backbone, and plant my flag in your beautiful hair, when I reach the top? My heart beating mile a minute. Asking Sandra that question, biggest risk Ive ever taken. Whats going to be on the flag? she says. Im not sure, I say, stunned by question, surprised that it centers on design of flag. I was expecting her to say: Shit Justin, are you some kind of nut? Sandra sits down on my only chair, begins swinging right leg up and downsomething I would never in whole lifetime get tired of watching. I have to get thinking about flag design right quick. I guess I need PETER BULLEN 3 two important new people in my life, mad scientist, and graphic artist. I figure too much to hope for both in one person. Im not delusional. Sandra, can I ask you something? Shoot, she says. Shes not one for long winded sentence. Do you think I should find mad scientist first, and then graphic artist for flag, or other way around? Mad scientist first, she says. Such clarity, Im thinking. I realize Im not sure where Im going to find mad scientist. Start to worry. Start biting nails. Get your fucking hand out of your mouth, Sandra says. Her rage-filled outbursts are always useful and instructive. I take finger out of mouth double-quick. I guess Im worried about finding mad scientist. Sometimes I put cart before horse. Just go on the dang internet, you dope, she says, casting me affectionate smile. And, she adds, dont go hiring no mad scientist who dont have his picture posted. On that dang internet, youll find one in a jiffy. I bet you could go around world ten times, never come across woman who delivers expression 4 as seductive and beautiful as in a jiffy like Sandra does. I want to pinch myself and count my lucky stars, which are multiplying like crazy. But theres one challenge. Thing is Sandra, I dont own a computer. Maybe if Sandra cut back a bit on the Thai take-out, I could save up for one. Dont you know nothin? Aint you ever heard of those internet cafes? I had heard, but never seen, had impression theyd come and gone. But I believe Sandra is person who knows of what they speak, so I feel solution is in sight. Pretty soon Ill be a lot smaller, and taking first steps up Sandras backbone, something Ive been dreaming of my whole life, at least whole of life since I met Sandra, and got eyeful of her backless dresses. Lets go out and track us down some internet, Sandra says with authority you expect from natural born leader. Okay, I say. Out in street I see everything but internet cafes. I see dry cleaners. I see thrift store. I see bakery with depressed looking man behind counter. Im sad about man in bakery not looking happy. To me, contentment is natural feeling to accompany baked goods. I see shoe repair, which reminds me of hole in my left shoe. I wear Oxfords because then I feel like Im going somewhere in this world, but Oxfords with hole runs counter to that PETER BULLEN 5 aspiration. I hate irony, and believe Im true aspirant. Doesnt what Im planning to do on Sandras back prove Im one of those? I see massage parlor with very pink sign. Im person who comes unglued when confronted with very pink sign. I feel like I have to enter any place with sign like that, my breath gets short, my heart races, for those reasons, I never do get all the way into places with very pink signs. Im sure it has deep meaning I could explore with mental health professional. I never have enough money for one. Maybe if there was mental health professional with a very pink sign, Id be motivated to get better job, but right now I think youd agree, I have enough on plate. 7 S A R A H G R I F F I N T H I N G S
P E O P L E SAY TO M E IN T H E
S T R E E T ( T H A T
I
T H IN K ABOUT AF T E R W A R D S ) for Nate Waggoner 1. Sugar Tits There is a galaxy of crystals erupting from my chest and there has been since some adrenal release triggered the gun of my child body into new woman. How they grew as I turned adult and tall like cane in the fields. I wake in the morning in a valley of raw candy and the morning sun refracts through my breasts and they are a billion tiny prisms. Think how many stars are in the sky now, think of how many grains of sugar in a cup. In a D cup. I spill flavor across the bedroom floor but then holster myself into lace things that keep the sugar, the endless sugar, from spilling onto the kitchen counter, the bus floor, my desk in the office. What a terrible mess they would make and I could hate them but for the bounty they are, the infinity, the constantly changing delicious shining sand of 8 them, I am a fountain of sweetness, how much would you like for your coffee, just say when, just say one lump just say one lump, or two 2. Sweet Cheeks The first time I saw a hummingbird it was -this- close to my face. A blur of wings and a needle-hook beak I think it was turquoise, blue green feathers all over it. A tiny thing. I didnt move. Stood stock still. I let it hum nearer and nearer until it placed the invisible point of its beak against my cheek and began, from what I could tell, to drink. This was proof. Youre so sweet, they always said. Sweet cheeks. Honeybee. So sweet that once these tiny sugar birds discovered the pockets of sucrose in my freckles they came and drank from the swell of my face every day they gathered in the morning and in the evening and kissed me with their tiny mouths, and drank, and were sustained. I have a veritable harem of creatures that come to me by day, by night, and eat. Hummingbirds are much smaller than nature documentaries would have you believe. Thumb sized, give or take, but starving. Hearts beating almost a thousand times a minute, can you believe that? Those tiny hearts that can move so fast. They dont always make it past three years of age. SARAH GRI FFI N 9 Heres the thing about the Bay Area. The average blow-in stays two years. Youre lucky if you make it to three. Doesnt that sound, and feel, about right? Theres something in the breeze here that gets under peoples skin after a while: youre either weird enough, or tech enough to fit in. Or youre not. Theres not a whole lot of space for in-between. Heres a thing about America. You guys have no real sugar in your food. You can organic, farm to table, locally sourced and ethically produce as much food as you want but somewhere down that line youre faking sweetness with corn syrup. I mean, it does the job. But it doesnt feel right. Doesnt sit right. Its rare that you come across something made with a bag of crystallized sugar, cane sugar, grew out the earth tall and fresh sugar. Thats why people go so wild for Mexican Coke. Real sugar in glass bottles, I know you love that shit. Where I come from the sugar is real. Your chocolate still tastes weird to me, even though I push it into my mouth competitively, in volume. Your Coke tastes chalky, even though I still nurse from it with addiction, with problems, with my poor God damn teeth what am I going to do about them in the end. Every so often though, you find a sweet thing in this town, in this coast, that tastes just right. Its glazed or honeyed, sugared up with something from the earth, something raw. The hummingbirds know. They told 10 me. They whispered soft, through their pin-mouths as they fed from my faraway sugar, as they drank my freckles, they said sad girl, go where the real sweetness is, well show you. And in a murmuration they pointed and highlighted the people theyd seen who they knew to be sweet. They people theyd drink from, the people who in this candied landscape were raw and earthen and terrible and worth the cavities theyd carve out in you. I listened to the hum of the tiny birds but heres the thing: they live for two years, we stay for two years: theres intersection. Theres a ticking clock. How long can you hang on to the people who have that deep sweetness before the hand strikes twelve and the plane takes off and somebody is in flight again and you just have to grit your candied teeth and say into somebodys shoulder, see you later buddy and let them fly away and mean it. 11 L A U R E N T R A E T T O D A UGHTE R i made a daughter out of things i had lying around. she wriggled, ran off, her frame bigger with each bound. soon her shoulders were at tree level, then her hips, then her dimpled knees, now as big as trees themselves. when the treeline reached mid-calf and the clouds were swirling at her shoulders, she grinned a grin like a ships hull. what did you eat? i asked. everywhere she stepped a crater. the moon was near one of her barrettes. her hair indigo in the sky; her baby nose loomed grotesque above me and i was afraid of her the way you fear the first newborn you ever hold. she whirled around, felling trees with the wind from her skirts. she laughed, she swallowed birds. a plane crashed into her ear and burst into a mushroom cloud. a panther bounded out of the smoke, landed on her shoulder, then climbed cat- backwards down her dress and down her massive legs, leaving pin-lines of blood with his claws. he lept over the green wreckage of her footprints and bounded past me, trailing reeking deer intestines from his mouth. i hurled a rock behind him. i begged the witchbaby to come down. she walked into the ocean, tried to scoop the moon out of it with her plump hands, surfaced holding an ecosystem of jellyfish and hammerheads. she dropped them 12 back into the devastated ocean. the bodies split open, battered, floating, picked upon by swirling sea life. she waded further, unearthing crusty carcasses of ships, following the moons orbit farther and farther out to sea. soon she was shoulder-deep. the panther stalked up shadowy, bounded down the mountain from which i watched her, seemed to fly in all his stench and fearsomeness. i can save her, i insisted. i can save her, he whispered back in my tiny voice. he dropped into the ocean, paddled in circles around her, still trailing those dead deer parts. the sharks came. they nipped at her legs. she cried for me, splashing out of the water. an entire city was washed into the ocean. she came toward me, an entire iceberg in her hand, and as she approached the mountain, she began to shrink with every step. she would not make it up to me. when the trees came to her ankles, she released the iceberg, water flushed all the way up to the clouds, the sea floor was dry below, and my soaked crying daughter in front of it. her braids drooping, she stared at the dry coral below, where she had snagged a sock on the frame of a whale picked clean by deep sea things. she came toward me, shrinking, and i fell down the mountain toward her. the trees came up to her knees, to her hips, to her shoulders, and finally above her head. she smiled and those fat cheeks grew, the normal way a childs cheeks grow when they smile, and i took her hand. from a distance, i could see the stinking panther trying to follow behind us. dont even think about it, i said. he bit out her throat. LAUREN TRAETTO 13 INDO-EUROPEAN SACRIFICE RITUALS AND BLIND DATES in irish horse sacrifices its the king who fucks the mare not some four wives touching labia to a dead horses dick. strangulation in some mammals such as horses and humans ends in ejaculation a horse whose eyes bulge before they saw through the massive neck. female ejaculation: still unattested. if you have ever seen two horses fuck you understand fear if you have ever seen a horse murdered, you understand sex.
15 M A T T H E W Z A P R U D E R SU N BEAR yesterday at the Oakland zoo I was walking alone for a moment past the enclosure holding the sun bear also known asberuang madu it looked at me without interest it has powerful jaws and truly loves honey it sleeps in a high hammock its claws look made out of wood and if it dreams at all it is of Malaysia home of its enemy the clouded leopard a gorgeous arboreal hunting and eating machine whose coat resembles a python now it is night and the zoo is closed some animals are sleeping the nocturnals moving in their cages getting ready to hunt nothing I dont know why but I feel sure something has woken the sun bear it is awake in the dark maybe it is my spirit animal I am reading about the early snow that has fallen on the northeast all the power shutting down the weather going insane 16 the animals cannot help us they go on moving without love though we look into their eyes and feel sure we see it there and maybe we are right nothing can replace animal love not even complicated human love we sometimes choose to allow ourselves to be chosen by despite what everyone knows the problem is in order to love anything but an animal you cannot allow yourselfto believe in those things that are if we dont stop them going to destroy us MATTHEW ZAPRUDER 17 AUBERGINE I lie in bed staring at the ceiling last night before I fell asleep I put the book on the floor looking down I see its spine with the golden simple name of the old poet who might already be dead somehow he used ancient magic everyone says we dont need anymore to place inside me that perfect sadness at last after all the formal words of love I could really imagine how terrible 18 some day not for fifty years or so but still for one of us to say goodbye it will be again fear that is almost seasickness and also MATTHEW ZAPRUDER 19 surely irrational hope by that time I will in some way feel ready through me moves and then asleep again I am wearing a dead rich mans black 20 luxurious overcoat gold buttons it is snowing in a vast wooden hallway I am not cold someone laughing says just watch them learn the same lessons he means my children I dont have yet I touch the head of a very important black goat and wake up again the clock radio says a small tremor shook some part of the desert no one lives in tiny drones we are flown by what we do not know into blue election season inevitable spells are cast by warlocks MATTHEW ZAPRUDER 21 they move their hands and factories rise or stadiums into dust 22 collapse 8:10 am December San Francisco rainy season you pull on your boots I call them purple the label says aubergine you leave MATTHEW ZAPRUDER 23 for work and by a jolt of atavistic sadness electrified I move once again to the impassive black desk to clock in for my eternal internship at the venerable multinational not for profit Lucid & Dreaming 24 HOW DO YOU LIKE THE UNDERWORLD The completely to me magical screen sits in the middle of this black desk, the one I put together with such trouble, following the instructions, muttering its nonsensical Swedish name like a spell. The screen is a dark window. It can be made slowly light by pushing a single button. It nobly rises, a monument to a process begun some years ago in a completely dust free facility thousands of miles from Oakland where the free sun beats gently down on the heads of my neighbors. I hear them now for two sunlit moments pause to converse as their dogs touch noses. Meanwhile in the factory the workers wear white dust proof suits. The boss watches from a catwalk above. To be troubled only abstractly by the thought the thought in me of those totally pure white clad very real workers makes me a kind of boss MATTHEW ZAPRUDER 25 though I wish I were not is the ultimate white person problem. To solve it I would like to ask an ancient philosopher, preferably one in a cave. But they are extinct. The humans who are not robots at all are right now robotically putting together insanely precise atomic components that make what we do go. Thus I can watch and interact with people I call followers or friends. 26 Or rather the words they have put together. Down the screen they scroll. It makes me so dizzy. For a while I watched and thought, how interesting. Then sad thinking animals. Without a thought to make them close MATTHEW ZAPRUDER 27 I closed my eyes and saw a monk reading a book in the garden. The book was about music others left for us long ago and departed. What can you learn from a book about music? Some say to settle for winter. But they have read way too much Rilke, he is very dead, and his problems though cosmic did not include the round earth becoming hotter. I heard somewhere in Africa they have found a glittering valley an asteroid crashed into millions of years ago and filled with useful silicate. The frustules i.e. shells of single cell diatoms make a white earth you can pack into tiny packets to keep things dry on their journeys to our stores. I bought some at Grand Lake Ace Hardware to combat the tiny harmless ants that plagued me. They plague me no more. Its time for the patriots to move forward. Lets go live now to that lake. The smooth black totally ichthyic divers plunge. To watch them and wonder is like donning the ceremonial oven mitts and trying to grab a black coin in a darkened basement. Beautiful pre middle aged people, 28 right now in the uncountable moments interposed between us and lunch together we sleepwalk in the best interest of claws. We have broken the future of thunder. MATTHEW ZAPRUDER 29 Is it interesting or sad? There is no difference. All childrens books are now about death. 30 TO SERGIO FRANCHI Listening to you sing Stella by Starlight I am thinking of the hummingbird I actually see almost every morning hovering in the garden I think it has a green chest but it moves too fast to really be sure It seems to particularly love those purple flowers Whose namesno matter how many times I am told I cannot remember Sergio Franchi I am giving in to spending a long slow hour Holding a book closed in my lap and reading about your life As a youth you studied both music and engineering I imagine in those days you were not entirely happy It makes sense later you would be so fearless Staring into the very hot lights on the stage of the Ed Sullivan show With effortless force pushing the air MATTHEW ZAPRUDER 31 That made the sound so beautiful and rending My heart and I for once agree At that moment not unlike a laundromat at night Your light is so artificial it truly seems too real And with a little sweat forming on your very sculp- tural forehead it is clear Even you know you could never prepare us for even one long terrible afternoon Yesterday I was walking down Stockton avoiding the many pedestrians Crowded around the Chinese groceries with their marvelous enigmatic produce I was feeling a little rage and also some happiness when a small grey cat Who might or might not have been lost came up to me and with his forehead bumped my shin Great singer, forgive me Being myself has been a welcome unconscious chore 32 Today when I pass a person on the street I promise to think You there, you could be a beautiful singer I have carried several problems here and would like to leave them But then who would I be MATTHEW ZAPRUDER 33 POEM FOR LU CHI All day it has wanted to rain. A constant breeze from the northwhere shadows live in ancientgovernment among the old huge trees carriesa little scent of wood into the city.It ruffles some waxy greenleaves outside my window in this office building. The window is very solid, my hair is completely still. Lu Chi in the 3 rd century you wrote your treatise to discover the difference between good and bad writing. But you already knew the leaves fall in autumn and each artisthas a particular way to magicand sadness. I know my beloved is very close, she works down the street in a modern building made of orange neon and steel, I dont have to dream of her, she is very far awayfrom heaven, 34 there are noactual mountains between us. Soon we will have lunch together. Then maybeI will write a letter and drop it into a blue box. Some rivers go underground,I know onehere in the city MATTHEW ZAPRUDER 35 beneath the armory flows,many times I have walkedabove it and felta peaceI am happy I will neverbe able to explain. 36 POEM FOR JACK SPICER Its the start of baseball season, and I am thinking again as I do every year in early April now that I live in California where afternoon is a blue span to languidly cross of those long ones you used to sort of sleep through getting drunk on many beers, lying next to your radio on a little square of grass in the sun, listening half to the game and half to the Pacific water gently slapping the concrete barrier of the man-made cove. I have heard it and it sounds like conversations among not there people I cant quite hear. But you could. And later you would try to remember what they said and transcribe it on your MATTHEW ZAPRUDER 37 black typewriter in your sad, horrible room. When I read your poems about suicide and psychoanalysis I feel very lucky and ashamed to be alive at all. Everyone has been talking lately about radiation, iodine, and wind, and you are in your grave, far from the water. 38 I know I dont care about you at all but when I look at your photograph, your round head tilted up so you are staring down at everyone, I remember how much you hated your body. Today I will go down by the water MATTHEW ZAPRUDER 39 where you used to sit and think I do not hate my body even though I often do. When I die please write he tried on whatever stone you choose. - SET 2 - 41 Y I Y U N
L I from K I N D E R THAN SO L I T U D E The topics at dinner were his sisters American-born twins, the real estate prices in Beijing and in a coastal city where his parents were pondering purchasing a waterfront condo, and the inefficiency of their newly hired housekeeper. Only when his mother had cleaned away the dishes did she ask, as though grasping a passing thought, if Boyang had heard of Shaoais death. By then, his father had gone into his study. That he had kept in touch with Shaoais parents and had acted as a caretaker when illnesses and deaths had beset their familythis Boyang had seen no reason to share with his parents. If they had suspected any connection, they had preferred not to know. The key to success, in his parents opinion, was the capacity to selectively live ones life, to forget what one ought not to remember, to untangle oneself from lesser and irrelevant others, and to recognize the unnecessariness of human emotions. Fame and material gain are secondary though unsurprising, if one is able to select the portion of ones life to live with impersonal wisdom. For this belief they had, 42 as an example, Boyangs sister, who was a prominent physicist in America. So I heard, Boyang said. His mother returned from the kitchen with two cups of tea and passed one to him. He cringed at her nudging the conversation beyond the comfortable repertoire of their usual dinner topics. He showed up whenever she summoned him; the best way to stay distanced, he believed, was to satisfy her every need. What do you think, then? his mother said. Think of what? The whole thing, she said. One must acknowledge the waste, no? What waste? he asked. Shaoais life, obviously, his mother said, adjusting a single calla lily in a crystal vase on the dinner table. But even if you take her out of the equation, others lives have been affected. What others, Boyang wanted to say to his mother, would be worth of a moment of her thought? The chemical found in Shaoais blood had been taken from his mothers laboratory; whether it had been an attempted murder, an unsuccessful suicide, or a freak YI YUN LI 43 accident had never been determined. Within the family, they did not talk about the case, but Boyang knew that his mother had never let go of her grudge. Do you mean your career went to waste? Boyang asked. After the incident, the university had taken disciplinary action against his mother for her mismanagement of chemicals. It would have been an unpleasant incident, a small glitch in her otherwise stellar academic career, but she insisted on disputing the charge: every laboratory in the department was run according to the outdated regulations, with chemicals available to all graduate students. It was a misfortune that a life had been damaged, she admitted; she was willing to be punished for allowing three teenage children to be in her lab unsuperviseda mismanagement of human beings rather than chemicals. If you want to look at my career, surethats gone to waste for no reason. But things have turned out all right for you, Boyang said. Better, you have to admit. His mother had left the university and joined a pharmaceutical company, which was later purchased by an American company. With her flawless English, which shed learned at a Catholic school, and several patents to her name, she earned an income three times what she would have made as a professor. 44 But did I say I was speaking of myself? she said. Your assumption that I have only myself to think of is only a hypothesis, not a proven fact. I dont see anyone else worthy of your thought. Not even you? What do you mean? The weakest comeback, Boyang thought: people only ask a question like that because they already know the answer. You dont feel your life has been affected by Shaoais poisoning? What answer did she want to hear? You get used to something like that, he said. On second thought, he added, No, I wouldnt say her case has affected me in any substantial way. Who wanted her to die? Excuse me? You heard me right. Who wanted to kill her back then? She didnt look like the kind who would commit suicide, though certainly one of your little girlfriends, I cant remember which one, hinted at that. In rehearsing scenarios of Shaoais death Boyang had never included his motherbut when does YI YUN LI 45 any parent hold a position in a childs fantasy? Still, that his mother had paid attention, and that he had underestimated her awareness of the case annoyed him. Im sure you understand that if, in all honesty, you tell me that you were the one who poisoned her, I wouldnt say or do anything, she said. This conversation is purely for my curiosity. They were abiding the same code, of maintaining the coexistence between two strangers, an intimacyif their arrangement could be called thatcultivated with disciplined indifference. He rather liked his mother this way, and knew that in a sense he had never been her child; nor would she, in growing old, allow herself to become his charge. I didnt poison her, he said. Im sorry. Why sorry? Youd be much happier to have an answer. Id be happier, too, if I could tell you for sure who poisoned her. Well then, there are only two other possibilities. So do you think it was Moran or Ruyu? He had asked himself the question over the years. He looked at his mother with a smile, careful that his face would not betray him. What do you think? I didnt know either of them. 46 There was no reason for you to know them, Boyang said. Or, for that matter, anyone. His mother, as he knew, was not the kind to dwell upon sarcasm. I never really met Ruyu, she said. Moran of course I saw around, but I dont remember her well. I dont recall her being brilliant, am I right? I doubt there is anyone brilliant enough for you. Your sister is, Boyangs mother said. But dont distract me. You used to know them both well, so you must have an idea. I dont, Boyang said. His mother looked at him, rearranging, he imagined, his and the other peoples positions in her head as she would do with chemical molecules. He remembered taking his parents to America to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary. At the airport in San Francisco, theyd seen an exhibition of duck decoys. Despite the fourteen-hour flight, his mother had studied each of the wooden ducks. The colors and shapes of the different decoy products fascinated her, and she read the old 1920s posters advertising 20-cent duck decoys, using her knowledge of inflation rates over the years to calculate how much each duck would cost today. Always so curious, Boyang thought, so impersonally curious. YI YUN LI 47 Did you ever ask them? she said now. Whether one of them tried to murder someone? Boyang said. No. Why not? I think youre overestimating your sons ability. But do you not want to know? Why not ask them? When? Back then, or now? Why not ask now? They may be honest with you now that Shaoai is dead. For one thing, Boyang thought, neither Moran nor Ruyu would reply to his email. If youre not overestimating my ability, you are certainly overestimating peoples desire for honesty, he said. But has it occurred to you it mightve only been an accident? Would that be too dull for you? His mother looked into her tea. If I put too many tea leaves in the teapot, that could be considered a mistake. No one puts poison into another persons teacup by accident. Or do you mean that Moran or Ruyu was the real target, and poor Shaoai happened to take the wrong tea? To think, it couldve been you! My drinking the poison by accident? 48 No. What Im asking is: what do you think of the possibility of someone trying to murder you? The single calla lilyhis mothers favorite flower looked menacing, unreal with its flawless curve. She blew lightly over her tea, not looking at him, though he knew that was part of her scrutiny. Was she distorting the past to humor herself, or was she revealing her doubtor was the line between distorting and revealing so fine that one could not happen without the other? For all Boyang knew, he had lived in her selective unawareness, but perhaps this was only an illusion. One ought not to have the last word about ones own mother. He admitted that the thought had never occurred to him. Its a possibility, you know, she said. But why would anyone have wanted to kill me? Why would anyone want to kill anyone? she said, and right away Boyang knew that he had spoken too carelessly. If someone steals poison from a lab, that person intends to do harm to another person or to herself. For all I know, the harm was already done the moment that chemical was stolen. And Im not asking you why. Why anyone does anything is beyond my understanding or interest. All I would like to know is who was trying to kill whom, but unfortunately you dont have an answer. And sadly, you dont seem to share my curiosity. 49 M O N E T A G O L D S M I T H D IARY OF A S U P E R FLUOU S M A N Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem heroic again, & interesting, & modern. Frank OHara, Mayakovsky Talk turned one evening to the topic of heroism in the modern age. It was put forward that any world that allowed Toddlers & Tiaras & High Speed Sushi on prime time television could categorically not allow for heroism on the scale of the ancients. Ours is a century of movement & enforced travel, said Ivy. A century of high speed sushi, advanced microwaves & extreme data-sharingall things that make for terrific ulcers & snacks & extraordinarily forgettable entertainment. But not heroes, Im afraid. Ivymy sometimes editor, sometimes girlfriend also happens to be a lush who is sometimes prone to bold, sweeping claims & a shaky logic that I can more-than-sometimes not understand at all. On the topic of heroism, for instance, Ivy cited her own somewhat controversial theory of physics which held that particles were set in motion a long time ago but it was now too late to do anything about it except to eat lots & lots of raw fish. Naturally, I disagreed with Ivy. Its true that to be heroic today is to sit through an entire Youtube clip, I said. But that doesnt change the fact that individu- als are capable, have always been capable, of rising above the limitations of their environment. By way of an example, I told Ivy how Victor Hugo, whenever he wished to write a book, instructed his valet to lock him up in his boiler room for eight days & nights so that he could commune with the cosmoswithout so much as the clothes on his back. The cosmos in eight days! said Ivy. Ha! Nonsense! Any day now it will turn out that one mans cosmos was no more than another mans indigestion. & that what Archimedes called his vision of the earth from space was no more than a bad case of appendicitis. Cosmos or not, I said. Anyone who makes it that long today without a working Wifi signal deserves my deepest admiration. Here I very carefully failed to mention to Ivy how Mr. Hugo fared in his heroic undertakings. For all I know, he emerged from his boiler room with a diary of doodles & a comprehensive report on the leaks in his pipes. MONETA GOLDSMI TH 51 Later on, hoping to change the subject, I made the mistake of telling Ivy about a show I was invited to read at in San Franciscoa big show, in fact, for which I had nothing to say. (This last point I kept to myself, of course.) Thats alright, said Ivy, barely interested any longer. Whens the deadline? I checked the calendar on my phone, then hesitated... Eight days, I said. Ivys eyes lit up with all the delight of a piranha that has just sensed fresh blood, & the next thing I knew I was handing over to Ivyone by onemy laptop, my bus pass, my phone, the keys to my apartment, along with practically anything else that might distract me from our little wager with the cosmos, my so-called inner adventure.
[What follows is a true, uncensored account of that adventure& how it went so disastrously wrong.] Day 1 Agonizing boredom. I take my temperature hourly, hoping Ive died of social withdrawal, or at least need an ambulance.Outside, the sinister church bells underscore how peaceful this town can bea peace that can strike terror at any instant in the hearts of men. 52 I am tired of the cosmos. Give me a cell phone & Ill spend the rest of my life on Twitter. Anything is better than this this horror. Afternoon. Preparing for my staycation in the cosmos,Ivy drops off some suppliesall the proper ointments, medicines, snacks, etc. Treatment (mostly) for my humpa condition Id rather not go into here
Myhero, says Ivy, laughing. My keys firmly, sinis- terly, in hand as she backs out of the driveway. Only seven & a half days left. All you have to do is survive! Day 2 Morning, illness. I am gratified to learn that I am developing a slight fever. This pleases me because it means this diary was not undertaken in vain: its never a healthy man who creates art after all, but an unhealthy one. Proust, swaddled in the folds of his mothers skirt, surrounded by medicine bottles, wheezing from asthma & this hump on my back, which I have never spoken of publiclyhow to describe it? The happy child of socially hygienic circumstances, cannot possibly imagine the suffering, the pustules, the abscesses & this solitude of minewhich feels as though I were squeezing myself into a constricting corset MONETA GOLDSMI TH 53 how to justify this?Proust, Proust! All that Proust! Was he not the unhealthiest man of them all!? Day 3 Afternoon. Ivy stops by to check on me. I tell her Ive decided to turn down the reading in San Francisco, & have given up this ludicrous wager over heroic ideals.
So soon? says Ivy. & what led to that conclusion exactly, may I ask?
Ive decided that the artist today should go below ground unencumbered by time or by commerce, or by the endless demands of the public. The artist must go deep under the earth! Hundreds of feet below like a fig tree spreading its energy in every direction.
I will not be bullied by ideals, I went on. Even heroic ones! Besides, I dont care for readings all that clapping aggravates me. All anyone will do is stare at my hump! 1 It occurs to me I have been speaking now for several minutes to myself, & that Ivy has left. I check whether she has locked the door on her way out. She has.
1 This entry of the diary, which deals with the criticism of poetry readings, goes on for several pages; it has been excised here in the interest of space & posterity. Editors note. 54 Day 4 Ive just found my old iPod in a drawer, which seems to connect fine to the neighbors Wifi. Im officially back online! Today I feel as healthy as ever!Nothing further to report. Day 4.5 Evening. I dropped my iPod in the toilet, on accident. I take back all that I said before: thereisa God, she justHATES ME.
All of us are no more than pointless neutrons & protons hurtling, inexorably, through space. & all anyone ever does is head toward death. Day 5 No sign of life, inner or outer. No lines to show for myself, not for meorfor Ivy. I miss Ivy. Day 5.5 Evening. Ivy arrives at last; she whispers from outside my window (perhaps mocking me), Did youcommunewith yourself today, darling?
I dont answer, pretending not to be home. Ivy knows better. How many lines have you written MONETA GOLDSMI TH 55 today,darling?
I tell Ivy, from my blue pajamas, how someone once asked Socrates what a man under thirty should do with his time, & Socrates replied: Nothing in excess (which is true).
Ivy says: & how many lines didSocrateswrite... darling? Day 6?? (what day is this??) I confirm a crisis of universalism in myself. This diary is pointless, the cosmos are pointless. I am sick of people who tell me to concern myself with the cosmosI havent seen the cosmos, I dont know the cosmos, I havent been there! Im ready to leap through the open window & not look backto ride my bike to the sea. Day 7 The sea! They say that on the 7th day, man stood still, Godsmoteman down, tested him by driving him from his home. Not this man! This man walked out on his own two feet. Ive escaped to the sea!As someone wiser than me once said (the Taoists, I think, in regards to the cosmos): Learn when to wash your 56 nets & when to leave them out to dry. Or (regarding diaries): Abandon all diaries, especially this one.
& if the Taoists never said that, they should have. Day 7.5 Dusk. From the hilltop where I sit now, the splendor & beauty of the sun is almost chemical, toxic. I wonder what percentage of us watches the sunset with this kind of intensity. A young man around my age dozes off & absentmindedly scribbles in his Mole- skina Moleskin, that can only mean one thing: he is not a proper writer.I watch him get up from his lawn-chairperhaps to escape& wade out into the ocean, all of his clothes still on his back. I stay until I cant stay any longer. (Suddenly, I feel ashamed to feel so cold.) As I get ready to leave, I hover above the young mans open notebook, & begin to read:
Wednesday, 8:15pm. Dear diary. There is a funny-looking indie kid with some kind of odd physical deformity ahump? aback-pack?who sits nearby. He looks like an old man with that silly oversized legal pad under his arm. If he didnt keep looking over here, I might actually be moved to feel sorry for him He mumbles to himself like an imbecile & tries & fails to feed the turtles when he thinks no one is looking. His legal pad looks empty; he is not a proper writer. MONETA GOLDSMI TH 57 Day 8 (Epilogue) At home with Ivy, I tell her Ive confirmed that heroism is indeed not possible in our age, & that whatever heroic activity occurs does not occur in people but between people. It is for this reason & this reason alone, I say, that I have decided to do the show in San Francisco 59 K A T I E C R O U C H A STROLO G Y The other day, while I was driving in San Francisco, a man pulled up next to me. His face was red and he seemed to be shouting. His hands flailed in the air. It took a moment to parse out that the subject of his anger was me. After all, aside from his facial contortions, he looked like a nice person. He was about forty and had messy, curly hair. He drove one of those old Mercedes you can power with corn oil, and he had an empty kids seat in the back. I know I shouldnt judge from appearances and objects; there are plenty of assholes who use biodiesel. Still, from where I sat, he seemed like someone I would probably get along with, aside from the fact thatoh, I could hear him now!he was currently calling me a cunt. Before I go further, let me tell you that I am a notoriously bad driver. A few years ago, I almost killed a friend and myself by blindly taking a U-turn into another car. For this reason, I drive very, very slowly, which was probably what this man was yelling about. I get it. You dont want to be behind me if you are in a hurry. Actually, if you see me in a car, give yourself some space, period. If I had been able to talk to this man, I would have sympathized with him. Its too bad slow drivers like myself have to 60 clog the streets. I wish there were a bus that went from Bumblefuck, where I live, to the doctors office, where I was going. And probably, if we had been, say, on bicycles, where I could hear him and he could hear me, he wouldnt have said anything. In his car, he felt invisible. As if his actions would have no personal consequence. For a long time, I have clung to the analogy that when we rate a book online, we feel we have the same protection and anonymity that one has in a car. There might be a little picture of you, but most people dont use their real names. As an author, I gave up looking at the ratings of my own books long ago. Its not that I dont find them relevant. Im flattered anyone bothers to have an opinion about what I write. Also, the ability to broadcast what we think about books has changed the way I read. Twelve years ago I had to rely on a biased review in the Times, or even, Ill admit it, Oprah, to figure out what books to buy. I use Goodreads to make lists, to note what I want to read next. And a lot of the reviews are really, really useful. But not all of them. Id use my own reviews to demonstrate this point, but screw it. Its too painful. And dont go telling me what they say. (My mothers favorite trick.) Lets look instead at the infallible Donna Tartt. Her book The Goldfinch, is pretty much universally thought to be really good. I read it and loved it, and it was nominated for a gazillion awards, and won the Pulitzer Prize, and remains one of the KATI E CROUCH 61 top selling books of the year. Say what you will, these are all fairly good indicators of a solid novel. Nevertheless, it wasnt hard to find shitty reviews. Im sticking with Goodreads, because Amazon can really get out there, people complaining about the texture of the paper and things. Here are some examples: Audible. OH MY GAWD! Who ARE you people giving this 5 star raves? Im not even half way yet and Im wondering if I will be able to weather this ridiculously long book that keeps getting sidetracked by just about every teenage pothole you can think of. * Oh. My. Gosh. I just finished. The ending does not disappoint. What a diaphanous extravaganza of words. Of lists. Of never-ending stream of consciousness pompoonery. Yes. I made that word up. Its the merging of pompous and tom-foolery. Is Tartt serious? Can she really be seriously presenting up this book with a straight face? * By the end of the novel, it becomes a nightmarish mash-up of (more) Gossip Girl meets Quentin Tarrantino. Except that there are no black people. * The novels main character is a whiny dumbass. At one point he pouts about feeling hungry when he turned down 62 food at a party the night before and breakfast with his friend. Shut the fuck up, idiot. There is that very famous David Eggers quote about judging the work of others: Do not be critics, you people, I beg you, he wrote. Do not dismiss a book until you have written one, and do not dismiss a movie until you have made one, and do not dismiss a person until you have met them. While I like the idea, in practice its not very realistic, is it? And its also a teensy bit narrow-minded. Because of the laws this country is based on, anyone has the right to judge anything, and thank God for it. Also, may the same God forbid that all of the book raters on the Internet become novelists. What the world needs are more readers. Good, smart, vocal readers who know what they like and dont and can intelligently say why. Most smart writers I know dont read reviews. When it was just newspapers, it was easy. Now there are thousands of people speaking on record about whether or not they like our books. Im not discouraging reviewing. Please! Review! But just think about what you are writing. Try and take as much care with words as have the writers you are judging. Remember the Malcolm Gladwell adage saying you need to write for 10,000 hours to be proficient? Hes not kidding. Id bet you good money more than 10,000 hours went into the Goldfinch. And so KATI E CROUCH 63 Shut the fuck up, idiot? I do think that in the end, the Goodreads star system actually works. My first book, Girls in Trucks, currently has a total of three stars. At first I thought that was shitty. But if a five star novel is, say, Lolita, and a one star book is, maybe, a smudge of mayonnaise on a page, then I guess three stars for Girls in Trucks is pretty accurate. It was my first book. Lets say, a 4,000 hour book. Earnest, wonky in some places, endearing in others. I can do better now, so I dont feel so badly. In the world of novels, Ill take a three. Its like the Goodreads algorithm managed to spit out my books ultimate objective worth. Thats not to say I havent lost sleep over it. What the hell? Three stars? Its hard to remember that every single thing we do affects someone else. You might brush away a gnat, which then lodges into the eye of a child, who then screams for two hours, exhausting her parents, who then skip sex that night they would have conceived the countrys eighty-first president. Or maybe you will smile at an old man tomorrow. You wont even think about it or remember it again, but this man, he will turn the corner, go home, lie down and have a stroke. It wont be your fault. It was happening anyway. But hell die happy treasuring the thought of your lost face. 64 We cant know what we do to people. Except in this new place. The Internet. Everything you write, email, rate, all of those words go out into the ether forever. They will outlive you, these words. When your grandchildren are poking around to find out something about you, they will read what youve written. I am not certain Shut the fuck up idiot about a work of art is what well want them to find. Or maybe it is. But why not give them something better? There are smart ways to pan a book. Kind ways, even. This writer does not want less reviews. I am not asking for you to say nothing if you cant say anything nice. I am saying, review, review, review smarter. These writers, and singers, and actors, and people you are judging, they have put their lives into this. Picture us next to you, listening, when reviewing our work. Roll down the window. Talk to us. Ive used the word God a few times in this piece, but Im sad to say, it was only figuratively. So far, with the data Ive been given, I have not come across a reason to believe in a higher power. This also means I dont believe in an afterlife. I think that when we die, we die. But the Internet wont die. So these words you write, they are your afterlife. Writers know that, but Im not sure other people do. Well, its true: Our stars will outlive us. All of us. And the thing is, I might be wrong about this afterlife idea. Im wrong a lot. The Greeks and Romans were pretty sure about it all. I mean the River Styx, and the Charons. But instead of Charons, Muses will be there. Artists, writers, KATI E CROUCH 65 and musicians you have judged. They will have the information and the words you have written. They will be waiting, patiently, for their chance to put a star rating on your life. 67 P E T E R O R N E R L A S T C AR OVER T H E S A G A M ORE BR ID G E In the unquiet of his shoe-box study, amid the noises of his house, Walt Kaplan tries to read. Furniture salesman, husband, father, daydreamer, reader. It is 1947, a year no one will much remember. After the war but before anybody got used to the war being over. A hold your breath and hope sort of year. He gives up? How could anybody read in this asylum? And the peck of the clock nicks away my flesh. No matter how much I eat, he thinks, it makes no difference. Im a fat husk. Meanwhile, Sarahs on the phone in the kitchen. Such fathomless yappery. Why why must she bark? Its like being married to General Patton. Is everyone who dials up this house in need of orders? And there is the thump of Miriams battering up and down the stairs. Eight years old and already the kid sounds like a mob. And he aches for her. He always has. So that somehow hearing her is the same as not hearing her is the same as her gone. I am a morbid man, not a bad man, simply a morbid, lazy sloucher. He shouts, Knock it off, Orangutan! You got a father in here thinking. The kid doesnt answer. So he talks to Sarah without talking to Sarah, which is one of the great advantages of 68 being married too long. Time cuts down on the need for superfluous conversation. He talks to the idea of her. She talks on the phone. Im talking fundamentals, Sarah, follow me? Essentialities. As in you make something in this world, take, yes, a child, and then? Then? Do you hear what Im trying to say? Walt, weve got cocktails at the Dolinskys at eight. Dolinskys? Again? What could we possibly say to them that hasnt already been said? I ironed you a shirt. Conversation? You think it staves anything off? Silence, its all over the place, dont you Its hanging on the bathroom knob. So much for mine wifes wise counsel. Not that I dont enjoy a sniff of Scotch as much as the next shlump. Nobody can say Walt Kaplans not a sociable man. I tell the kid, Knock it off, Orangutan, you got a father in here thinking, and if the kid heard, which even if she did, she didntshe might have stopped at my study door and spoken through the keyhole and said, Thinking about what, Daddy? And I might have said, Im remembering things, which is hard work. You think remembering is a peanut, Peanut? PETER ORNER 69 Remembering what? Things, monumental things. For instance during the hurricane of 38 when I your father Her little mouth breathing through the keyhole. Five hundred times that same story. Five hundred and one, five hundred and two, five hundred and three. Your mother is home here in Fall River and you and I, Orangutan, are out on the Cape at Horaces place in Yarmouth. A little father and daughter vacation, a day away from the dragon, and the dragon calling up and squawking, Didnt you hear the weather? Get in the car and drive! Youll get swept to China, the kid would say, were always getting swept to China in this family Precisely, The Peoples Republic! And Walt Kaplan knows whos boss. The man takes good orders, and he blankets you up. You werent two years old and your feet were like a short fat mans thumbs. I ever tell you that? That your feet were like a short fat mans thumbs? No. Theres the aplomb, see? You always got to add something new when you tell something again. And your father, great and fearless father, carries his 70 daughter to the mainland in his Chrysler Imperial steed. Last car over the Sagamore before the state police closed it off and the hurricane of 38 blew half the Cape into the Atlantic. They called it the Long Island Express. New Yorkers got to have their nose in everything. They even take our disasters. Half of Rhode Island blew away, too. Whats half of Rhode Island anyway? Is your mother never wrong? Noshe hasnt got the time. Shes got Louise Greenbaum on the line. Paging Sarah Kaplan. Sarah Kaplan. Louise Greenbaum on line 1. So, yes, hail the Sultana! But salute the infantrymen too. Walt Kaplan, hero of the Sagamore Bridge. Write him down as a footnote in the annals, hearty scribes! And so Walt sits in the unstillness of his shoebox study and thinks about fundamentals. You make a kid and the wind comes and tries to air mail it to Asia. The insurance companies call it an Act of God. Act of God? State Farms going to send me a new kid? That only happens in Job. Last car, Walt Kaplan, dodges the terrible wrath of wraths, but how many more to come? How many acts has this so-called God got left? What on earth compares with the shame of not being able to protect your daughter, your only only? Let a father weep in peace, Orangutan. That fuckin thumping. Hellion child. The devils spawn. Sarah my yappery yapperer. Not the clock that dooms us but the us of us. The thumping will not echo. It only booms in the brain, PETER ORNER 71 in the silence, which is nowhere. A grave has more hold than the noise of this house. Miriams feet tromp up and down the stairs. You say I dont get out enough, that I waste my lifes blood couped up here being morbid, being stupid. Sarah? Sarah? You hearing me? The kids gonna die, Walt. Im gonna die. Youre gonna die. Tell me something else, you genius. Dont laugh at me woman. You want me to start weeping now? This minute? We got cocktails at Dolinskys at Thats it. Im asking you, Im really asking you. How is it possible that we arent in a permanent state of mourning? My child limp? You think I enjoy this? There are certain things nobody should imagine and yet if we didntwho would we be if we didnt? I ironed you a shirt. Its on the bathroom knob. Would my head were a head of lettuce. I drove the last car over the Sagamore Bridge before the state police closed it off. The Cape Cod Canal in tempest beneath us. No cars coming, no cars going. The bridge cables flapping like rubber bands. You think in certain circumstances 1700 feet of bridge isnt a thousand miles? The hurricane wiped out Yarmouth. Horace thanked God for insurance. I saved our little 72 girl. You want me to say Hurrah! Hurrah! but I cant, I wont, because to save her once isnt to save her, and still she thumps as if the world was something thumpable. As if it wasnt silence on a fundamental level. Yap on, wife, yap on. Thump, daughter, thump. Louder, Orangutan, louder. I cant hear you. PETER ORNER 73 SHHHHHH, ARTHURS STUDYING roman upheaval topic of a book by dr. kaplan Can Cataline be cleared? The reputation of the Roman conspirator assigned to infamy in the polemics of Cicero has been reclaimed Fall River Herald News September 25, 1968 Walts brother Arthur was a quiet boy who grew into a quiet man. When they were boys it was always, Shhhhhh, Arthurs studying. Theres got to be at least one yeshiva bucher in every family and a yeshiva buchers got to have quiet. Go play outside, Walt, your brothers studying. And so Walt went to work in their fathers furniture store and Arthur went to college, first to Brown and then to Columbia for his PhD in classics. Arthurs face was pale. He always looked as though hed been dusted with flour. This added to his gravitas and Walt, like the rest of the family, was proud that Arthur looked the part of a scholar ghost. Arthurs first book, and only book, appeared in 1968. For a man who lived such a quiet life (hed married a wane, squirrelly-looking girl and they lived in Brooklyn without children) the book turned out 74 to be a little scandalous. The title was innocuous enough: Cataline and His Role In the Roman Revolution. Yet the book was a surprisingly spirited, and graphic, defense of Cataline. The man made a lot of trouble two thousand years ago and here he is wreaking havoc once again via the pen of meek little Arthur Kaplan, a man who came out of the womb speaking Latin. They called him a villainous fiend, murderer, corrupter of youth and donkeys, venial proprietor, traitor, drunken debauchee, temple robber Plutarch himself topped it off with the accusation that Cataline deflowered his own daughter. And all this in the prologue. What? The family gasped. What? What? Dont get us wrong. An author is an author is author, and our Arthur is an author. His names right there on the cover. But incest? Donkeys? Maybe he should have been out in the street playing stickball with Walt. Maybe nobody will read it. Ah yes. Of course, thats it. Nobody will read it. But well put it on the shelf. Yes, absolutely. Put it on the shelf. Upon Arthurs triumphant return to Fall River, he gave a short speech at his alma mater, BMC Durfee PETER ORNER 75 High School, noting that the destruction of Catalines reputation was the result of the same sort of mudslinging that characterizes the politics of today. And if you think the Romans were violent? Maybe we ought to look at ourselves in this year, 1968. It is not the great man who is heard, but his detractors. Detractors always shout louder and use more colorful language. Elections bring out the poet in politicians, dont they? Take for instance the consular elections of 64 B.C. when Cicero called Piso (father of Caesars last wife Calpurnia) among other things, brute, plague, butcher, linkboy of Cataline, lump of carrion, drunken fool, inhuman lunatic, feces, epicurean pig, assassin, temple robber, plunderer of Macedonia, infuriated pirate egged on by desire for booty and rapine And yet, it must be said, that compared to Piso, Cataline was a red pepper. This was followed by an expectant pause. Arthur leaned over the podium, gaped at his audience, and waited. Someone whispered loudlyit may have been Aunt HaddyDoes he have to keep making those awful lists? Arthur said it again: Cataline was a red pepper! Arthurs sad, pasty face, his eyes imploring. Sarah nudged Walt, whats he talking about? Shhhhhhhhhh. 76 Walt dug his mouth in his wifes ear. Claude Pepper, the pinko senator. Hes making a joke. And so it was Walt who finally, out of mercy, rescued his brother by laughing. Everybody else followed his lead. Ah, Red Pepper! Cataline was a Red Pepper! Ha, ha. Ha. Are you finished with this speech, Arthur? One night, about a month or so later, it was Walt who after dinner took the book off the shelf in the living room where Sarah had safely stored it for posterity. He carried it upstairs to his study in the flat of his hand like a waiter carrying a tray. Then he locked the door and went to Rome. Night was thinning into morning by the time Cataline uttered the last of his famous last words. But if fortune frowns on your bravery, take care not to die unavenged. Do not be captured and slaughtered like cattle, but fighting like heroes leave the enemy a bloody and tearful victory. Walt hears trumpets. If fortune frowns! Viva Cataline! Viva the traitor! Furthermore, as my brother so cogently argues, no self-respecting republic should be without a little healthy rebellion. It keeps everybody honest, and with a blowhard like Cicero around, somebody had to draw a line across the Forum with his sword. Walt slides off his chair and on to the carpet. He stares PETER ORNER 77 at the ceiling. His study has always been a box that envelopes him, protects him. There are days he mourns this room, wonders how it will go on without him when hes gone. Right now, the distance between himself on the floor and the ceiling is intolerable. Im lying in a grave on my own carpet. To think there are people who believe that when its all over the angels sing and we float up higher and higher. They dont doubt. They believe. Before I put on my other sock, Ive doubted an entire day. And my brother writes: The great revolutionist was found far in advance of his slain foeman, still breathing lightly, and showing on Catalines face the indomitable spirit that had animated him when alive. The Roman Army carried his severed head back to the Eternal City in a basket. Once, outside this very room, a jay rammed into the window. Then he backed up and flew into it again. Again. Again. Again, until he finally dropped into the dirt. They say only man is valiant enough to die for lost causes. In the blue gray light, Walt Kaplan thinks, My people sleep. My own brother, a man who has faith enough believes enoughto devote his life to raising an ancient debaucher from the dead, sleeps in leafy Brooklyn beside his squirrely wife. My Sarah and my daughter sleep across the hall. In sleep, they breathe. 78 The dawn sun claws upward. I sink into carpet. I dream of home when Im home, of love when I love. How can I shout farewell from the mountaintop if I never leave the house? How can I rise to protect my people if I dont even own a sword? 79 N O R M A C O L E P OEMS Imaginations law hits frames times air delivers to few an aside so and so also to speak of these footsteps is to fear is to be able 80 BIRD OF PARADISE calling out very quietly moving forward must be her ears generalizing left swept and go behind to map and to provide look home and then to go. NORMA COLE 81 RIPTIDE Theres a shadow over the city the light, as usual, framing and erasing Just say you dream fires each night smoothing each collapsing page from the throat talking in a series of measure in the high desert the perfect life in a series of measured gestures an invitation to see the world from a bridge that burns in the next night 82 : METHOD A word is coming up on the screen Michael Palmer, Baudelaire Series a story traced between two points beneath which a line was drawn sitting in the place of words Dropping stitches Night by night A measure Where the sky is striped Learning to read: moving proof of its fictional space: first it reads laterally: things are the consequence of names: do not inquire into the meaning of speech: you like it clearly: addressing it while speaking it: the implications woven from what it encounters: still in the heat or greeting impulse: dressed between two pages: things we see in our sleep NORMA COLE 83 for Barbara Guest at some point, or at gunpoint human is to wander the light is not the usual light the birds are 84 from SPINOZA IN HER YOUTH ^^^ Today I went to visit the ancient world, a world of glass constructed once then unconstructed, it bypassed quality, so I came home and read music what a woman carries a tune for instance decentralization is centrally planned and can be revoked at any time its noon. The moon is out, Ill meet you by the pyramid ^^^ NORMA COLE 85 PORTUGUESE ROSE, WINTERS ROSE I want a heart-shaped coffin, said the song, a guitar shape how it happens a person comes to the door and says work makes the space where we live a contraction of time not to be seen is to be dead. Light on a hand waving light on a face is our witness at moments unable to look directly at a single word to see or say what things are broth spilled on the table or the truth of winter not to be seen is to be dead. 86 Suppose the moon-blind divers compose little shows for you in the light in the street our blind moon absorbing smoke reflecting orange night for Robert Creeley, Together, 1996 NORMA COLE 87 SARABANDE and then looks at the stars from the bed in the ambulance looks up at boughs of trees shifting quickly lit in blackness blackening soft, deep sirens songshe died several times that night and only in the weeks to come started and started to come back then forward which is real life 88 LIKE FIRES Like wasps nests where we were like many fires buildings crumpling in flames in a forest of trucks rushing past in the night, headlights blazing To see, hand covering her eyes, hand brushing back his hair, the sounds of forest days and night sounds sun comes up or is obscured by clouds or it is raining or blazing light is it late, too late for me to come back to your place NORMA COLE 89 DUCK LAKE for Asger Jorn That beautiful lamp the way it comes into focus, a narrowing, tightening this moment of recognition and I saw a few times what some thought they saw the dream world is for dreamers 90 WERE ALL GUESTS OF EXPERIENCE says Pasternak. Step away when the song is about to fall into the air. Everything gets short like those old etchings. Complete in your mind the balcony of history. Her white blouse untucked in this heat, car keys glittering in his hand as he walks away. A man falls onto the deck, hit but not sunk. He sits on the chair, looking over at the other chair. When we consider historybe quiet! Redeemable, we will get you a new dream. My memories, I leave them to you. 91 P E T E R B U L L E N P OETRY My wifes at her laptop looking at that Poem of the Day business. A picture of the poet sits beside the poem. Shes sexy, I say, thinking that later Id like to get to the bottom of perceptions like this. I knew youd think that, my wife says, shes one of those petite types you go for, nothing like me. The poets blonde hair appears to be blowing around in a desert wind. My wife says she lives in Joshua Tree, like she has her address, like she has the address of all petite, wind-blown poets posing for pictures in desolate, rock-strewn landscapes. I tell my wife my eyes are not so good anymore, and that I didnt notice anything petite about her. You should go off with them, my wife says. Them? I say. The desert poets, she says. I begin picturing the poets, each in a little adobe hut, at their writing desk, just a cactus or two down from their neighbor. They become dear to me. I know now that I must make the journey, being after all, a pilgrim in the way of words. Ill tell them my wife sent me. An authentic statement is naturally endearing. It wont be long before Im comforted by a stanza or two, stimulated by a rollicking sestina. I will confess the depth of my appreciation for their writing implement. I will gather flowers for their table. 92 Why Id never thought of making such a tour before is beyond me. You can live decade after decade oblivious to your true calling. I start to pack and my wife asks me where I think Im going. To visit the desert poets, I say. I dont think she cares for my answer, which is probably what has her threaten to kill me. I take my wife seriously, so I put off my trip. The poem-of-the-day no longer prints a picture off to the side. If one scrolls down, a habit that requires either an innate optimism or puritan work ethic, one sees the poet, but by that time despair has set in, and Ive lost all longing for human contact. The poem itself dominates, a lonely tyranny of text, hovering below a mild-mannered blue graphic. I suppose its safer that way. Subscribe qui etli ghtni ng. org info + updates + video of every reading
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