Could the Gone Lawn Get Any Goner?

The lawn’s still as gone as gone can get, maybe goner; but the late summer blooms surrounding my Missouri country cottage more than compensate. Some few last words, like rosebuds, on Gone Lawn 8.

In Angela Genusa’s The Baby, what ultimately gets delivered is language, speech, even more to the point, hearsay. And what a weird delivery. We have the fact of the baby before the womb in which it will be carried to term. But why pursue purchase of a womb if the baby’s already arrived, healthy and beautiful, especially its crafted lips from which speech will issue in time? Is that what the priest means by “a difficult time;” the time in which her baby is speechless, incapable of the wordplay to come? Language/communication is an expensive and risky business in this story: morticians are its hucksterish gatekeepers, and a rather crude priest, its mediator.

In sound and image The Baby would be a stylish bit of animated Edward Gorey grotesquerie. If I were to watch it repeatedly perhaps I would feel more certain as to why when the priest answers at the end, it’s “joyously.” Is it because he’s left the operating room with the uterus, and finally has a womb of his own? Or is it because of the simple message he’s about to deliver--a word he knows in a language he can understand? Or is the joy impish or worse, derived because he’s perpetrating a deceit, making a deliberate slur of two rather more affirmative words: Good buy…?

Or is he indeed a man of his word, just one’s that genuinely happy to be the harbinger of a poignantly bitter rejection?

In Kristina Marie Darling’s excerpt from Melancholia a woman is reminiscing about her love affair with a phantom, and I, with respect, am going to recuse myself from writing about this one. The subject hits a nerve and I find myself reflexively recoiling at her words; unfair to her, so I won’t belabor it.

  Recusal: a perfect way to end my musings on Gone Lawn 8.

It was such a delight to be included in this collection. I am pleased with my story Philosophies of Access, and expect the pleasure to be abiding. Reading the other far-flung writers gathered here by guest-editor Edmond Caldwell made me a better reader just when I needed to be. It has been wonderful spending a portion of summer 2012, the lion’s share of the literary portion, with Gone Lawn 8. Thank you, writers and readers, all.   

Gone Lawn, By Night

Ekeing out a few more passionate responses to Gone Lawn 8

Forgive me for turning j/j hastain’s very serious epistlotory confession into a metaphysical game of What’s My Line? but the foregrounding of the line breaks pushed me there of their own accord.

 

And the mystery guest who signs in? 

Why, Joan of Arc, with her camber and coil, more fascinating than Brecht, Shaw or Anouilh ever made her.

David Hadbawnik’s homage to Spaulding Grey. 

 Eerie how on the mark he gets it. But why would he want to? Makes me terribly curious about The White Album as a whole.

 Is it a collection of impersonations of white men in all their varieties of whiteness?

Damn If The Lawn Still Ain't Gone

[I hate it that I’m off my Monday night WW,SW posting shedule. But, I wasn’t slacking, promise!]

Additional musings about Gone Lawn 8

Derek Owens’ The Paralyzing Perfume of Beauty reads like an aggrieved catalog of précis of academic panels at a literary conference convened in a vaudevillian speakeasy, the sad-sack clowns and hoochie-coochie girls slouching the titles of the XIV circles of hell across the proscenium, pronouncing the next deranged scenes: Part farcical sketch comedies, part Robbe-Grillet films, but with all the usual genuine scores to settle and longstanding axes to grind.

It’s a testament to why literary artists really should not be warehoused in the academy; tenure, or the pursuit of it, as a Huis Clos prison. Like all those New Yorkers who’ve long ago outgrown their rent-controlled apartments, but can’t give up the bargain! Owens hasn’t yet popped the bubble with his fine quill, but he is elaborating it. I’m rooting for him.

Neila Mezynski Warriors II excerpted from Warriors

I do love a verbal puzzle, a juicy one, at that! These sheets of hers, the wide eyed, white eyed homophonic sheets. Surely they’re screens and pages. Humboldt and Nabokov, Lolita and the butterflies, all there, atmospherically pinned to them.

But what’s the “disbelieving” on her writing instructor’s lips? What does he refuse to believe? What belief does he withhold? A belief in her? In her abilities to turn the tools and instruments—the plow canvas word piano, violin, trombone into the desired result, the word soufflé? To help her not look at the world as a whore, as so many writing students do, hoping as the ultimate goal for their “pains” to prostitute the juice of our words for the 3-book deal at Random House?

The line down the middle; in my perception it’s horizontal, delineating the blank lower half, the bare bottom. It takes nerve, audacity even, to leave important things unsaid and hope that they’ll be somehow conveyed in the speechlessness. Untrammeled by formalistic restraint, my wonderful dictionary suggests about audaciousness.

Wyoming, John Wayne and Clint, suggestive of the chaparral, a kind of badlands, the landscape in which the work of writing is conducted. The character of writers is what she’s getting at—we too are warriors. Hers is a great compliment. But that last word—soft. Is it archaic? A starred general’s command to the troops? As in linger?

Frances Kruk’s Thirst. Never read anything like it, so despairing when Martha cannot eat, when she cannot summon the saliva to masticate, her dinner turning to rocks in her mouth, so slyly suggestive of whetstone if one chews along. Martha is the drought.

Kruk inventories human diminishment, cellularly, in all senses, cells of the body, the living spaces we house our bodies in, in the face of relentless sensorial overload, the toxins pouring through that television, the overwhelming horror show, the steady diet of animal fat, life’s potential pillaged and wasted (the greasy baby is screaming!), turning to the cigarette of all things for relief.  Oh how we are capable of hating our desiccating selves. We can’t soak our hypersensitivity away, there’s no balm, there’s no safe way. We just record the weirdness, our mothers’ ashtrays bumping along the wall, coming our way, like it or not.

Falling leaves in July; (geese flying north too)

I’ll skip writing about that fly Madeson chick’s Philosophies of Access for now. But I know what you all are thinking. 

Martha McCollough, Two Birds, Inseparable Friends

More next Monday night, lawn willing! 

Gone Lawn 8

As you can see, my lawn is in fact gone: half to seed, half to hell

My story Philosophies of Access has been published in Gone Lawn a webjournal of new and progressive literature. Issue 8 is guest-edited by Edmond Caldwell and published by Founding Editor Owen Kaelin. Before you read the 15 works, as I hope you might, you may be interested to know that the Statement of Intent explains that "Gone Lawn seeks to explore and advance the growth of a new literary intention befitting our new century. In particular we seek innovative, nontraditional and daring works, both narrative and poetic, that walk the difficult landscapes and break up the safe ones, works which incite new feelings and thoughts, works which make us think and feel surprising and unexpected things." 

One doesn’t mind the lawn being gone so much when one is in such remarkable company as these writers gathered under the gazebo by guest-editor Edmond Caldwell. It’s not what I expected (and I expected a lot); it’s far worthier. I am honored to be included. Thank you, Edmond and Owen. As a small token of appreciation, I thought I might offer up some discoveries and responses to the works in the issue:

 Reading Jacob Wren’s ingenious Artists Are Self Absorbed is like watching a skilled comedic performance of a round of charades, but instead of movie, song, or book titles, Wren makes a marvelous game of enacting concepts. In this case oblivion in all of its dictionary meanings: 1) an act of forgetting or the fact of having forgotten; 2) the quality or state of being forgotten;  and 3) official ignoring of offenses: general pardon (hence the infinite tenderness for his abusing hosts). I could drink a case of him.

 

The exceedingly brilliant Valerie Witte is at once Annie Sullivan and Helen Keller in her Selections From Flood Diary.  Missouri is not mentioned twice, so naturally I was immediately fond of the work, and of her. But it was painful to read these moist selections in the midst of the drought we are suffering in Missouri at present. I winced at the words “tending wet” wishing it were so. Ditto for “forgetting the water on”—we’d happily do so. Forget what, where? The many references to wa-ter hit me like zings of regret and remorse for the 12-13 inches we now need to restore our water table to its previous levels. Even with a deep well, which fortunately I have, the scariest words are: the aquifer is low...  I promise to return to Flood Diary less burdened one rainy day, may it be soon. And maybe even before then because of glorious writing like this: ~ to evacuate a story distilled I tried lightning, a searing sun, smoke, a jaw's eyes wrapped in ice ~

Jake Syersak’s Notes to Wed No Toward are Tin Pan Alley tunes on a player piano in the drawing room of the house of Oulip. I can’t detect precisely what restraints he’s given himself, I only know that if these are the answers, I very much love the questions (and so would Richard Wilbur).

Malcom Sutton. Brrrrrrrrr!

I almost stopped reading Dale Smith’s Ed Dorn's Hat when I came to the part about Alan Cheuse, but I’m so glad I pressed on to absolutely resolve in the next moment that the clichés were deliberate elements of the composition, not frequent unfortunate missteps. And further that I could let go of the accruing trepidation and admire Edmond’s placement of this story exactly here, here at the edge of wondering if an assemblage this fabulous could really hold. And Smith answers, Si Se Pueda!

 

[I am so sorry but I find I must stop because even though I’ve read and reread everyone in Gone Lawn 8 and want to write something in acknowledgement of everyone’s contributions, all of which I truly admire, and I will, I’ve run out of steam tonight. We’ve been finalizing the next issue of The Madison County Crier (3.3) which gets uploaded to the printer tomorrow morning, and my energy is flagging.  We’re enduring temperatures in the 100s here for days and days on end, plus I have no internet at home and must drive into town to upload even this paltry bit, and I’m not the best driver, and it’s getting late, so off I go!]

Remember When We Were Together?

 

Death is a dialogue between

The spirit and the dust.

“Dissolve,” says Death. The Spirit, “Sir,

I have another trust.”

Death doubts it, argues from the ground.

The Spirit turns away,

Just laying off, for evidence,

An overcoat of clay.

                        --Emily Dickinson

 Many overcoats of clay in the instance of Callion Hamblin's friends and family who have argued volubly, lovingly, and vehemently with Death since their brother, son, husband, and friend was taken from them almost five months ago in a hissy fit of police state violence. They argue with his senseless and unjustifiable Death, shouting down the absurd surreality of his ashes and dust, dust that should never have been kicked up over a bondsman's bounty.

Here are some select words remembering when they were together, holding fast to their connection, refusing its brokenness, counting and recounting their monstrous loss in a Facebook community--RIP Callion "Smoke/Kinloch" Hamblin--of which I am a member. Daily I hear their inspiring words as arias to as of yet unwritten operas; lyrics to art songs, soaring or hushed; song cycles of Spirit, unadulterated and pure; anthems, fanfares and dirges of loyalty, love, and a righteous nonacceptance of what is, after all, totally unacceptable.

You see, Spirit is winning this argument with Death; Spirit is celebrating the time when he was here, as he should be still; Spirit is embracing him, holding him dear always. To have friends like these, just might be worth dying for.

sup brah, first tme since u passd i had a dream about u. a vivid dream.. it wuz too real. not of past shit weve done ths dream consisted of today.  .. i love u kinloch. i wish to god i cud rewind tha hands of tme fam.. give me closure brah not completely jus let me kno dat ima b aight down here.

Me and Miss saw a guy that reminded us of you yesterday, I had to walk up close just to get a better look, he looked at me very strange

EVN IN DEATH WE LIVE FOREVR. WE GONE RIDE TIL THA WHEELS FALL OFF MY NIGGA.

Smoke I didn't want to get on this page and speak bout you knowing you not here but that laugh you had, I think I was the only only one that could make you laugh so hard you start snorkeling like a baby pig

All i ask Smokey is u plz watch over me sweetie....cause i dnt kno if im comin or goin anymore...n i gtta do my best ta hold myself tagether cause my beautiful baby girlz need me!!

I always call him Callion, it is how he introduced himself to me the first time we met, he went out and bought new shoes and shirt, dressin to impress...we had Lasagna. Being a "more mature" person I remember telling him he looked Spiffy..hahahha....bet he never got called Spiffy before. lmao. I should have told him he was stylin or at least fly!

Was going thru my phone and saw your name had the notion to just text you and say ” hey big head you iight” n u would always say something smart back but this time no...then I thought about the time I told u I won on that lottery ticket you said I owe you half lol I told you u ain't put in on it so you ain't getting it lol...but you said you put in half a thought so that counts lol u was serious too...

Miss you so much, think about you everyday. Keep thinking u will call and ask me to bring you a pack of Newports, *sigh* man i miss the little things. I miss our talks and me givin you shit about all the young girls u dated. You were my best friend for real. Funny how we had an amazing relationship.....after we were divorced! LoL X is finished with basketball and started baseball, he changed his number to #32 in honor of you.

I have to say X did get something from you...........I mean besides that nose and that peanut head, lol he got ur quickness, that boy is fast! Coach says he is one of the fastest on the team and they are counting on him to steal bases.

I found all the letters I've been missing of yours! Sitting here reading them lol if I ever need a good laugh I just read them when I'm down!!

Yal hear dat thunder...dats big brah up thr partyin already....

Smokey!! I am sooooooooooo pissed right now! I feel like my head is gonna shoot off like a fucking rocket! These mother fuckers won't even let us mourne in peace! Every single person in this group needs to get them a bracelet or maybe 2!!! Wear them everywhere you go! Show your love for Smoke! They can't stop me from doing that!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

BIG BRAH, HERE WE R ANOTHER DAY. STILL UNBELIEVABLE.. SHIT DONT ADD UP...BUT I LOVE U AND MISS U.... TOLD U IMA KEEP YO NAME ALIVE... GOT IT TATTD ON MY RITE WRIST... A BRACELET ON THA LEFT THANKS TO CHERYL AND YO NAME ON A DOG TAG AROUND MY NECK..... WATCH ME MY NIG... SAVE A PLACE 4 ME UP THR...PUT DAT WRD IN 4 ME YA DIG....AND TELL EM BOUT ME UP THR AIGHT. LOVE U FAM

Well said. I miss ya too smoke! But we won't let no one forget what they did to you! Promise!!!!

FIND IT HARD TO BELIEVE: HOW THA FUCK AM I TO GRIEVE, WHN A NIGGA DAT I LOVE WUZ KILLED BY THA POLICE. MORE THN JUS A FRIEND TO ME U TORE APART A FAMILY, BUT IMA KEEP HIS NAME ALIVE CAUSE HE' LL DO THA SAME FOR ME. WONT B THA SAME WIT OUT MY NIGGA THS INVOLVED MUST REMEMBER, U REAP WUT U SOW WUT WUZ DONE WONT B FORGIVN........TO B CONTINUED

he was with me at mcDonald's tonight, me and Missie were eating a burger and the light above our table kept flicking on and off, the only one in the whole place doing that...I was telling her about how I took him with me on my road trip today, told her he sat on the steering wheel, she laughed and laughed and that light kept going on and off. hahhaha.

 i had a dream about smoke last nite and i got up went in the living room where i keep his flowers and they are blooming like crazy

I miss him like crazy, he was a true friend. You may not agree with everything he done but one thing is for sure he was a likeable guy......could always make you laugh. Cal was a true friend he would give you the shirt off his back or his last dollar iff you asked. His boys idolized him.........

 Rip my nigg,,, wish it could of been different... We all love ya and you will be truly missed,,, x and dre be strong yo unks gotcha,,, I'll see you in the after life smoke but not yet

you may not me our thug Smokey here but your now our thug angel.. you might of made your mistakes but we all have made our own lil mistakes....There's not a single person datz perfect!!!!

man i miss his ass so much can't stop thinking about him the storm last nite i was like smoke raising hell already

Wuts gud my nig.....we miss u down here brah.

smoke happy fourth of july 4z sup ^ I will never forget the fourth of july on donelson street in park hills at mama Diean house you fliped that mountain bike you was hot as hell but got up and walked it off like a g but redeemed yourself later in the night by hitting ole boi well there's fire works you know who I'm talking about the whole hood was shooting fireworks that night thanks to you bruh

Happy fathers day smoke

 Happy fathers day

Happy fathrs day brah.

Happy Fathers Day Cal!!

Happy fathers day smoke, love and miss you like crazy!!

Happy Fathers Day Cal! U are heavy on our minds today. X and I miss u bunches :) This is ur day RIP, love you.

Happy Birthday Cal ! June 10, 1979 Would have been 33 today. This day is difficult, miss u so much everyday, today I will miss buying u a gift, telling u ur getting old, goin bald, etc......I so badly wish u were here with us to celabrate. Going to spend a little time with ur girl Pac and reminisce about good times.

 Smok£ I'm not feeling diz Izh But evry time I get like dizzying I feel you like your standing right behind me thank you bruh

Hi ya Callion...having a Grand daughter tonight...super excited. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sittn here tryna see tha world thru yo eyes now..thnkn bout wut u may have saw and tha expression u may have had as u walkd entered home...i wish i cud jus talk to u one more tme..for closure and peace.

 I'm Cal's ex-wife, however we remained very close he was my best friend.....Cal was a best friend to many. He made an impact on many peoples lives. ...It seems like such a senseless tragedy that they murdered him. The police portrayed him as a dangerous criminal to justify the shooting. We as friends and family never got ANY answers just what the police say. I myself heard the gun shots from my house and let me just say,"It was NOT the sound of gun fire EXCHANGE, it was the sound of OPEN FIRE" the coroner told me he was hit "multiple" times two that were fatel..... Its hard to find peace when so many questions left unanswered .