Late last year, Pleiades asked me to review a charming new "book lover's cookbook," a challenge I happily accepted.
I'm AWP-bound and ready for some palm trees and poetry. It turns out that my Chromebook has 12 free in-flight wifi passes, which is making this DFW > LAX flight much more bearable.
If you'd like to meet me for the first time or the millionth time at AWP this week, check out the panel I'm on this Saturday at 9am (oof, that's an early one, I know!) in Room 506 of the LA Convention Center. "Against Palatable Writing: Dismantling an Inherent Problem in the Workshop" will also include my esteemed colleagues Zach VandeZande, Tanaya Winder, Geffrey Davis, and J. Andrew Briseño. My talk, "The Karaoke Bar at the End of the Mind: On Embarrassment, Shame, and Confession in the Poetry Workshop," discusses the psychology of embarrassment and how creative writing instructors might harness embarrassment for positive ends in order to create an open, diverse, and cooperative workshop environment.
Another great place to look for me is at The American Literary Review table, where I may be loitering with the editors, my friends and fellow poets Conor Burke and Jessica Murray. As a former editor of ALR myself, I highly recommend that you check out ALR's offsite reading this Thursday at 6pm at Seven Grand. My friend and fellow Sewanee Writers' Conference alum Rebecca Foust, winner of this year's American Literary Review Prize for Fiction, will read along with Derek Mong and Rachel Hanson.
I'll obviously be attending a million panels and offsite events too, but I think it pays to fly by the seat of your pants rather than plan your conference to death. I hope I run into many of you talented writers I'm lucky to know (and some new friends too) this week in LA, and I hope when I do you're all tan, happy, and loaded down with journals, books, and swag.
Happy conferencing, y'all!
It's been far too long since I posted! I've been busy teaching and writing, but I have some new posts in the works. Stay tuned, and thank you for reading!
I've been meaning to start posting again for some time now, and I can think of no better reason than to post some musings on the horror flicks I'm watching this month with friends. The brainchild behind this ghoulish endeavor is none other than my friend, colleague, and trivia team member (shout out to team Allen Bader Ginsburg), Charlie Riccardelli, whose film knowledge is unparalleled.
For me, and interest in poetry and an interest in popular culture are not mutually exclusive pursuits. A poem of mine that I'm currently sending out called "The Horror" was born out of my desire to move beyond merely laughing at horror movie tropes to try to figure out why they exist and what they suggest not about the industry, but about us. So I think this stuff belongs on my site, too.
Needless to say, there will be spoilers ahead.
Our first film was 2015 Australian flick Wyrmwood: On the Road.
Opened my mail yesterday and found this beauty waiting for me.
Last year, I was having lunch with my friend and her mother at the Chestnut Tree in Denton. While we were there, she recounted a story from a recent wedding she had attended, where she had been perplexed by the relatively new tradition of "wedding sand."
"I tell you," she said, "I was wondering when the shovels and pails were going to come out. I tried not to laugh! I thought, are they going to make mud pies next?"
We laughed and joked for a while, then she said, "You know, wouldn't it be something if you had to separate your sand out if you wanted to get divorced? If you had to pick it all apart otherwise you couldn't split up?" The poem that appears in the most recent issue of Cold Mountain Review comes from a world where that is exactly what's required of the divorcing couple.
My husband and I were recently married in the fall of 2014, and when I showed this poem to my friends and colleagues, they were a bit taken aback: thinking about divorce already, eh? Nothing could be further from the truth. If anything, the poem allowed me to deeply meditate on the nature of intimacy and, ultimately, tentatively, hope.
Nevertheless, we skipped the sand at our nuptials.
Thank you again to the editors at CMR for giving "Instructions for Divorce" a home.
Around that time, the city grew quiet.
*WARNING: CONTAINS WALKING DEAD SPOILERS*
My mother recently discovered the glory of Netflix, and has been making her way through The Walking Dead. As a longtime fan, I love hearing her experience the characters and their struggles anew. The other day she called me as I was strolling through the well-stocked aisles of Target (that red-and-white symbol of capitalist, first-world, everything-is-ok safety) to talk about Hershel Greene (played by Scott Wilson), the stubborn, patriarchal farmer the group first encounters in season two.
"It's so ridiculous," she said on the other end of the line. "He doesn't want to kill the zombies because he thinks he can save them. He's hauling their snapping corpses out of the swamp and keeping them in a barn. I mean, come on!"
"But don't you think people are like that?" I countered, "In the way that they hold onto what they know? In their desperation to believe?"
"He's out of his mind. How could you look at one of those things and think you could save it?"
She had a point.
My mind drifted to her incredulity again when I was rereading one of my favorite poems, "Apocalypse," by Kevin Prufer, from his 2008 collection National Anthem. The world we enter in this poem is a blasted one. There are no undead creatures here, but the real danger of violence between human beings is very much alive. The dominant speaker (the "I") and the submissive "you" character traverse an empty landscape where we learn that "the TVs stopped bothering us," where "it rained and all the bodies in the graveyard washed away." In a world where little makes sense, these characters cling desperately to their humanity, to at least a semblance of normal, if menacing, human relations:
Even in what appears to be an apocalypse, the speakers relate to their circumstances through the metaphor of narrative, of cinema, particularly when the speaker says "As in a film of the apocalypse..."
This lens is, of course, a familiar one. So far, we only write, think, have nightmares, and make movies about the end of the world. It's fitting, then, that the speaker conceives of his wasted world in this way. But more importantly, the menacing moment of "If I was going to hurt you I'd have done it already" speaks to the gritty, grueling practicality of a world much like the one the characters of The Walking Dead inhabit. Minimizing damage, staying alive, and weighing the benefits of privileging the self over the group comprise most of the characters' cognition day to day. And yet, some lines later, the speaker makes a go at reassurance, at the comfort of a time before the apocalypse, telling the submissive partner, "I won't hurt you." We both do and do not believe them: it's a good story.
As the poem goes on, the two people face increasingly dire circumstances as they forage for food in the "dying city." And again, the speaker returns to the familiar, to the interpretive lenses of the world "before," to keep the "you" going for however long that may be:
I'll tell you a story, I said, to make you stop crying for a minute. We walked down the darkening street.
Once more, the speaker and his charge turn to narrative, to traditional modes of storytelling to clutch the last shreds of sanity, to exert whatever control they have left to order experience. The pair in the poem also play at traditional modes of human interaction in physical ways, as when the speaker slides a gold ring from the finger of a dead girl whose corpse is caught in the low branch of a tree, wedding themselves to the promise of a future where such bonds are made possible, and wedding themselves to death at the same time. The act of putting on the stolen ring works to both preserve traditions of continuity and to acknowledge the reality (and brutality) of the ravaged world.
Narrative in terms of "storytelling" is one way to make sense of the world. The belief system that Hershel upholds--namely, that the walkers are merely suffering from the outbreak of a malady that might one day reasonably be cured—is another kind of "story," the kind that we tell ourselves in order to get by. Though the haunting, exceptional last line of Prufer's poem, "Beside a broken lamppost, you smiled. Such sharp teeth. We were always hungry then," implies that the pair still faces real dangers (particularly at each other's hands) in this world, for a few moments, we are allowed a glimpse into the mechanisms of humanity's intellectual and interpersonal survival.
One of the things I most admire about The Walking Dead is its willingness to indulge a vast multiplicity of viewpoints, coping mechanisms, rationalizations, and beliefs, because I truly believe that this is what would happen in an apocalyptic scenario: people would still be people. Men and women, whether they were veterinarians like Hershel or cops like Rick, would persist in their belief that vestiges of the world they knew must be kicking around somewhere in the diseased vistas they are forced to confront.
It takes Shane's graphic display of power and violence in season two's seventh episode, "Pretty Much Dead Already," to ultimately rip away the last of Hershel's illusions about the validity and persistence of the world before the outbreak. When Shane fires shot after shot into a still-moving walker, asking Hershel if its writhing, immortal form resembled a living human in any way, to begin to break down Hershel's resolve. And finally, it takes Rick's compassionate, if blunt, slaying of Sophia, who had been confined as a walker in the barn for some time, to convince Hershel to join the group's efforts to kill walkers in the fight to stay alive at all costs.
In an apocalyptic scenario, we would like to think, perhaps, that we would be tougher, that we would rise to the demands of whatever hostile world we were asked to face. I know my mother's disbelief of Hershel's dangerous, if altruistic, behavior is rooted in this idea, and in her fiery tenacity and toughness (traits that would make her an excellent companion in such an environment). But as is the case with Prufer's poem, whether we are sitting beside a dying fire in an apocalypse or a roaring, marshmallow-fueled campfire in our relatively safe age, human beings will behave as they they always have: telling stories, using what intellectual resources and protections they have to survive emotionally. Narrative, in the end, becomes a kind of armor in our most vulnerable moments.