Bookseller, New Media Coordinator and Marketing Shill at Politics & Prose. Freelance writer sometimes. Scribbles poetry and fiction. My opinions are my own.
My absolute favorite NPCs, Hurley & Sloane from @theadventurezone! Itâs a live play D&D podcast by the McElroys with a rare, brilliant combo of funny, empathetic, smart players & funny, empathetic, smart writing/ DMing, and I love it.
(Also, yâall, if you ever need someone to work on backstory/bonus comics, hit me the heck up!!)
Somewhere in Maryland
there is no wind and the lights
go out and the roads are empty past the Beltway.
Remember when the freight trains used to run at night
and no matter where you were
you could hear them; the clack
and shuffle licking every dark corner
of the alleys until its call
was swallowed by the cobblestone?Â
Somewhere in Maryland,
bees take their time exploring
every loud blossom of the butterfly weed.
Thereâs a townhouse near Annapolis
with clean dinnerware. Crystal
from Prague, the owners say,
etching spiraling on the glass, rising
from the stem and circling away
like buffleheads flushed from the reeds.Â
Somewhere in Maryland, a concrete foundation
sits beneath a beech tree,
all that remains of a failed
mortgage, of a house that once had the dignity
to stand proudly abandoned with all its pieces
and plywood in the windows.Â
Somewhere above Maryland, the universe
spills into the bowl of the world and the silhouette
of Flight 295
wades through the stars.
100: Old Entries, or Stop That Cat From Eating My Journal!
Iâm stealing a writing challenge from Carla and pressing myself to write something every day for 100 days.
Also, I need to write but I forgot my journal at my sisterâs house, where she assures me it is being carefully looked after by her cats:
I decided to take it easy on myself and share some old journal entries from September â13 to November â14.
Enjoy.
9/29/13
Almost stepped on a retainer in the Archives station. A man in a sweater and shirt and slacks danced on the empty train platform with headphones in his ears.
10/1/13
Car crashed into the Shell station at Little River and Oasis, jumping the curb and nosing directly into the fuel pump.
10/2/13
The old man busking at Van Ness station usually has a boom box and a microphone, singing along to soul and R&B classics in the wrong key and barely on rhythm. He was gone for a week. He's back now, only without the box or microphone. Now he just snaps his fingers while he sings.
10/3/13
Someone drew a swastika on a Northrop Grumman ad in the metro, the one advertising the X-47B--an unmanned aircraft capable of launching from an aircraft carrier. The poster is a faded white negative on a black background. The red Nazi insignia stamped where the cockpit should be.
A deer walked out of the bushes during my evening run. It was almost dark, near back end of the golf course. A little buck, forked antlers. It startled me, even though it merely strolled onto the shoulder road. I clapped my hands to shoo it away. It stared. I clapped again and it turned and slipped into the nettles.
10/4/13
Someone left a New American Standard Bible at the bus stop at Little River and Minor Lane. Black leather cover, propped on the bench. Cold autumn air. Dew clouding the windows of the booth and streaking to the ground, leaving long thin fingers on the glass.
10/7/13
Saw a man lose his watch in the Chinatown station. He was adjusting his backpack when it the latch caught on his shirt and the watch fell from his wrist, slipping into the gap between the train and the platform like a puck sliding into the goal of an air hockey game. I don't think he noticed.
Saw another deer on the evening run. Loping where the lawns meet the fairway. All under a fading red sky.
10/8/13
The signing man was back at Van Ness, outside of the northbound entrance. He had his equipment back, a boombox and microphone. He rhythm was better, his voice cleaner. The sky was dark and looked like rain.
10/9/13
There was a new man busking in the Van Ness station. A middle aged man in a baggy suit playing an expensive guitar plugged into the station's speaker system. He played left handed, leaning against the wall as if he'd played each song a thousand times before.
10/10/13
An elderly man come in and requested a discount on a book about personal finance and saving money. We couldn't give him one. He left half way through our explanation, got into his Jaguar and drove away.
10/11/13
My credit card info was stolen. I got a call from Capitol One concerning some suspicious purchases. They were in Huston, Texas. Mostly on vending machines in a hotel and one $16 purchase at a WalMart. I can't help but wonder who this person is, how they got my information, what they were spending my money on. Where they were from, their path in life. I try to piece together a profile by their purchase history. Why were they in a hotel? What could they have possibly wanted from Walmart? Every image I try to fabricate winds up incomplete. A fantasy. And their faces, the features I try to paint for myself, fade away like strangers in a dream.
10/24/13
Sat behind a man playing a classical guitar in the Van Ness metro, while a busker played Jimi Hendrix on electric in the upper mezzanine. The classical guitarist wasn't busking, simply standing at the end of the platform, playing and singing in tune with the chords. When the train arrived, he didn't board. He just kept playing.
10/26/13
Two men on the train talked academically about mass shootings and motives and other lively things.
10/28/13
A three elderly folk were protesting in front of the Pentagon. Two held handmade signs over the low fence while a third stood in the grass tapping out a cadence on a thin leather drum. He sang in long, drawn out verses in a language no passer-by seemed to know. It had the music of a ballad or a funeral song.
10/30/13
A homeless man sat surrounded by his belongings, rattling a plastic container with mixed bills and coins. Unshaven, a wide brimmed hat, staring at those passed up and down Connecticut.
10/31/13
The sun sat nestled in the east, swollen and weak in the November clouds. Deep red, the color of autumn in the maples, struggling to shine as it rolls across the horizon.
11/3/13
Two women knocked on my door today to tell me the good news. Resurrection is real. They handed me the flyer telling me God has resurrected others in the past. Their evidence? Three short New Testament quotes about God's infallibility. They did not proselytize. They wished me a good day and moved on.
I saw a fox slink across the sidewalk, stopping long enough in the yellow cone of the streetlight to take me in. It stood there, looking me over its shoulder before turning shaking its ears, and continuing into the dark. Maple leaves swirled into the center of Davenport Street.
Fun Home is a graphic memoir by comic artist Alison Bechdel, focusing on her childhood in rural Pennsylvania. The narrative details Bechdelâs complicated relationship with her father, whose closeted homosexuality led to emotional distress, divorce and his eventual suicide. The book confronts themes of sexual orientation, family dysfunction and gender roles, while mirroring Bechdelâs relationship with her father to her coming to terms with her own homosexuality. Fun Home was met with wide critical acclaim its narrative structure, artwork and honest storytelling.
Why was it banned?
Perhaps it was too honest? Almost immediately after publication, opposition rose from conservative and religious groups, school boards, and even state governments.
Library trustees in Marshall, Missouri held a committee to determine whether Fun Home would be allowed to stay on the shelves of the Marshall Public Library. Opponents cited it as âpornographyâ and feared the comic format might dupe children into reading it.
In 2008, an anti-pornography group, No More Pornography, released a statement asking the University of Utah to remove Fun Home from an English class syllabus on the grounds it âdepicts accounts of women having oral sex with other women, graphic nudity, and the open account a young woman masturbating.â Jennilyn Merton, the PhD candidate teaching the class, offered alternative reading materials when only one student objected to the bookâs content.
Fun Home has also been targeted by the state legislature of South Carolina after subsidiaries from the Family Research Council (whom the Southern Poverty Law Center deems a hate group) brought the bookâs presence in a English course at the College of Charleston to the attention of legislators. Debates were held where a new budget proposal threaten to cut funding to the university because the book âpromoted a gay and lesbian lifestyle.â
Most recently, the book was challenged in 2015 by a group of incoming freshmen at Duke University, who objected to the novel on religious grounds.
Why shouldnât it be banned?
Because queer people existing shouldnât be controversial?
The narrative specifically centers on the damaging effects of a culture of hetero-normality, not just on Bechdelâs father and marriage, and on Bechdel herself. The story is crafted to follow a labyrinthine path, drawing the reader through the authorâs own self-discovery, and it is a masterclass in form and structure. On an social level, itâs an incredibly personal and intimate journey that isnât filtered through a hetero-normative lens, which is incredibly helpful to readers both queer and straight. Plus, much of the opposition to Fun Home is rooted the false idea that homosexuality is a choice (there is no such thing as a gay âlifestyleâ). We know this to be untrue.
Also, opponents might want to look up the actual definition of âpornographyâ which, as Merriam-Webster puts it, is âintended to cause sexual excitement.â You would be hard pressed to define the tragic story of Fun Home as being arousing in any way.
Is it available?
Readily! Unless youâre married to your old-fashioned bigotries, in which case youâre probably reading something else.
During the debates in South Carolina, an open letter was published, authored and cosigned by The National Coalition Against Censorship and the ACLUâas well as wealth of teaching, library and bookseller associationsâthat urged the state to reconsider their punitive budget. South Carolina Senator Brad Hutto attempted to filibuster the funding plan, but it passed in spite of his efforts. However, a âcompromiseâ was reached that would allow the state of South Carolina to continue to fund the College of Charleston as long as the âcutâ spending was used for studies of the U.S. Constitution.
The punitive measures were eventually reversed when a stipulation was added that instructors would be required to offer alternative reading choices if students voiced opposition to the assigned materials. Funding was now available, but as Alison Piepmeier, a professor of Womenâs and Gender Studies at the College of Charleston, put it, âThis isnât academic freedom. This is academic bartering.â
Where can I find it?
Here! We have lots of copies (and plenty of funding).
You can also read our interview with Bechdel here, and our recommendation for Fun Homeâs follow up, Are You My Mother?, here.
This week, John Steinbeckâs Of Mice and Men survived a school board vote to ban the book in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho! Banned Books Week might be four months away, but we figured we would celebrate by bringing back our not-at-all-requested columnâŠ
READ BANNED BOOKS: Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
Whatâs it about?
Of Mice and Men is the tale of two migrant farm hands working for a California landowner during the Great Depression. George, a smart but uneducated man, in the friend and guardian of Lenny, a large man with a cognitive impairment. The men work their way into employment at a Californian ranch where they find themselves at odds with the rancherâs cruel son.
Why was it banned?
Parents took offense at words like âbastardâ and âGod damn.â Mary Jo Finney, a parent who previously challenged the school districtâs curriculum, declared the novel âis neither a quality story nor a page turner,â and alleges that âthe teachers actually had the audacity to have students read these profanities out loud in class.â Also cited were the âdarkâ and âdepressingâ themes prominent in the story. Other parents objected to the use of the N-word.
Four members of a committee dedicated to curriculum review urged the Coeur dâAlene school district to ban the novel, stating the book should be allowed âon a voluntary, small-group basis.â
Dave Eubanks, a trustee who does not vote on the school board, defended the motion, stating âNobodyâs banning books or burning books. There was just too darn much cussing. It was on almost every single page of the novella.â He continued, âWe have a lot of families in our community, moms and dads, who are trying to raise their children with traditional family values and traditional religious valuesâŠI donât think we should be undermining them.â
Why shouldnât it be banned?
Steinbeck said it best in this 1938 journal entry:
âIn every bit of honest writing in the world there is a base theme. Try to understand men, if you understand each other you will be kind to each other. Knowing a man well never leads to hate and nearly always leads to love. There are shorter means, many of them. There is writing promoting social change, writing punishing injustice, writing in celebration of heroism, but always that base theme. Try to understand each other.â
Is it available?
Readily!
The book survived the vote to ban it from Coeur dâAlene schools four to one. School board trustee Tom Hern defended the decision, saying âWe need to trust the judgment of our English teachers to use this book wisely, as we have since 2002.â
Coeur dâAlene English teacher Brianna Cline also defended Steinbeckâs use of the N-word, stating, âcasual use of the N-word among white high schoolers is significantly more destructive than controlled exposure followed by an intellectual conversation in a healthy classroom environment.â
Mary Jo Finney, the parent who spurred the motion to ban the book, is citing harassment since the story broke. She claims, âI have to be cautious answering my phone, opening my front door, and I receive emails from strangers. This is bullying mentality at its highest level. It is shocking that there is such outrage because a person is outspokenly conservative.â
Where can I find it?
Here. And anywhere with ink, moveable type, or an Internet connection.
READ BANNED BOOKS: The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck
There came a day when summer was ended and the sky in early morning was clear and cold and blue as seas water and a clean autumn wind blew hard over the land, and Wang Lung woke as from a sleep. He went to the door of his house and he looked over his fields. And he saw that the waters had receded and the sun lay shining under the dry cold wind and under the ardent sun
Then a voice cried out in him, a voice deeper than love cried out in him for his land. And he heard it above every other voice in his life and he tore off the long robe he wore and he tripped off his velvet shoes and his white stockings and he rolled his trousers to is knees and he stood forth robust and eager and he shouted,
"Where is the hoe and where is the plow? And where is the seed for the wheat planting? Come, Ching, my friendâcomeâcall the menâI go out to the land!"
READ BANNED BOOKS: A Sport and a Pastime by James Salter
I look back at the screen. A vast, ocher city materializes in a sequence of fragments like hints of a great image which has been shattered. We are confronted with the brilliant parts. Corners of streets. Trollies. Splendid fronts of buildings too far distant to really see. I sit there receiving occasional droughts of Madame Jobâs perfume. Iâm surprised at itâs strength. Thereâs not much flesh for it to draw warmth fromâthose skinny arms. She has marvelous skin, though. Her face seems very clean.
They rode out on the north road as would parties bound for El Paso but before they were even quite out of sight of the city they had turned their tragic mounts to the west and they rose infatuate and half fond toward the red demise of that day, toward the evening lands and the distant pandemonium of the sun.
Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian
Blood Meridian is a complicated book.
On one hand, itâs a book everyone tells you read. The kind of book your co-workers frequently leer at you and ask, âSo what part are you at?â
On the other hand, itâs one of the more haunting, difficult contemporary novels youâll read.
Everything about this book is hard to digest. The diction, the characters, the plot and the action. The violence, the language, the exalted monologues of characters trying to justify their nature. Blood Meridian reads less like the gritty western everyone sells it as and more like a religious parable. The actions in this book feel as though they take place 2,000 years ago instead of just 150. Itâs this esoteric rhetoric, this mystic âothernessâ that permeates the novel is what makes this book work.
In fact, it's hard to talk about Blood Meridian without explaining what happens in the plot. If someone were to ask, "What's this book about," you'd be at a loss. You'd stammer and admit, "Well, a kid gets beaten with cudgel a few pages in."Â Thatâs the kind of book this novel becomes.
The âwhatâ is decidedly simple to explain: Itâs a violent western epic told as though Homer were some fiddler in Chihuahua City. The âwhyâ of this novel is far more difficult. Themes converge and they aren't so much threaded together as twisted in a knot. Much like the characters, you forgo looking for an explanation for the cycle of violence and devastation, but merely accept that you are lost in a land that was once teaming but is now just an expanse of salt and bones. As thought the land itself has crossed some terrible threshold from which it can never return.
The majority of Blood Meridian takes place in Northern Mexico not long after the Mexican-American War. One side is a struggling Mexican population in the last throes of feudalism and the other side an overzealous, âManifest Destinyâ population of white Americans that wish they annexed all of Mexico when they had the chance. And between these two rests the Native peoples in the rural alcoves of the land, raiding and striking out in a terrible cavalcade that sweeps up the any who cross their path.
The language in Blood Meridian is arguably McCarthyâs best. It blooms more than the Border Trilogy, and is entirely unbridled, unlike the more reserved language of The Road. And like all McCarthy works, there is a great amount of poetry in his writing. In the loud, action-y moments, the language cements the scene with narrative detail and McCarthyâs knack for finding perfect adjectives and verbs. These make for some of the most memorable (and haunting) images youâll ever experience in a novel. The quiet moments, however, is where McCarthyâs craft shines. As the novel slows down, it launches itself into this elevated plane of impressionist, yet concrete, poetic movement. The plot serves a set piece for the intangible something that has been driving the story. These moments showcase the themes, evoking response from within the audience in a slow boil as only poetry can.
In a way, Blood Meridian isn't complicated at all. You know everything about this book, so much so you can feel it. But when you try to explain it, you canât. Itâs like trying to tell someone about a nightmare you had last month. You can remember the pit it left behind, but the exact reason why is obfuscated or outright gone.
Another reason why this novel is so difficult to digest is because McCarthy forces you to reckon with it. There is no distinct pattern the story follows. The long-term goals of the characters are hazy at best, and often subject to change in the chaotic world in which they inhabit. Even Blood Meridian takes that typical McCarthy âleft turn,â in which the vehicle you think is going to drive the narrative is upended and completely abandoned. If you've read The Crossing, you know exactly what Iâm talking about.
You also have to reckon with the characters actions, or lack there of. Hell, you have to reckon with the characters themselves. The protagonist is an unnamed 14 year-old and he's brooding and says little. You canât really call him the hero. He does little throughout the book, neither good nor ill. And while I've read reviewers knock the novel because of this, I think it's okay. The kid is essentially the audience, unaware of what he got himself in to and struggling to understand the world around him. He only acts when the tilt of this world swings his way, and once itâs safe he assumes his indifference again. Heâs a non-hero, the âIshmaelâ around which the story revolves, a catalyst. He's less the protagonist and more the bookmark to keep us from getting lost.
More often than not, youâll have to reckon with the kidâs companions; Glantonâs hypocrisy and inability to see theyâre more the âSavageâ than the Apache theyâre hunting; the sideshow madness of some companions and the megalomania of others; the random acts of violence; the devastated landscape; McCarthyâs âotheringâ of the Apache and the Yuma; the fact every non-white person is novel is verbally branded âniggerâ in way that would make Faulkner blush.
And then thereâs the judge, whose very existence comes from without. Whose presence is so alien, he become the dark star, the anti-matter of Blood Meridian's universe.
This book is hard to stomach. It'll sit in your gut like a stone. Youâll have to grasp the indifference that colors every action and reckon with being led through the ruins of a land you know were once full with life and civilization and trade. Youâll get the feeling this world is constantly churning in on itself, all violent undertow and upwelling. Your experience with this novel never ends, really. Youâll find yourself playing scenes over and over because they will have burned themselves into your memory.
And you know what?
When you finish, youâre going to take your copy and shove it in the hands of your co-worker and tell them they have to read it. And when you see them reading it in the break room, you will leer at them and lean in and ask, âSo what part are you at?â
Radar Reviews are an analysis of novels, short stories, and poetry collections, as well as obscure or out-of-print texts, old timey masterpieces or contemporary classics that I finally got around to reading. These reviews tailored to introduce you to new books you may have missed and older works youâve been pretending to read for years.
READ BANNED BOOKS: The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven by Sherman Alexie
You give those brown kids some books about brown folks and what happens? Those brown kids change the world. In the effort to vanish our books, Arizona has actually given them enormous power. Arizona has made our books sacred documents now.
Alice Goffmanâs critically acclaimed ethnography On the Run is another story about a white lady come to study young black men. Who thought this was a good idea?
Alice Goffmanâs On the Run: Fugitive Life in an American Cityis the latest installment in a...
Cover to Cover: Preparing the Ghost by Matthew Gavin Frank
Should your ideal book be best described as âpeculiarâ or perhaps âcontaining tentaclesâ then Preparing the Ghost is for you. At first glance, this book is the real-life story of Harvey Moses, who, in 1874, obtained a dead giant squid from some fishermen and paid them to deliver it to his house. He draped the squid over his bathtub and a local photographer took the first known photo of what until then had been largely considered a mythical creature.
Yet that event is only one layer of this delightfully strange book. Matthew Gavin Frank is a Renaissance man and he treats his reader to an assortment of strange facts, ideas, and connections (plus, you discover words like âscapulimancyâ). You will learn about the giant squid and people who search for it, as well as about how calamari came to be an item on American menus, how ice cream gained popularity, and where latex comes from (no, not from a squid). Frankâs breadth of interests makes this small volume contain not only history, memoir, travelogue, but a philosophical study on myth-making and myth-destroying as well.
Preparing the Ghost is itself like an antique photographâvaguely disturbing and fascinating, with a complex story behind a single image. It is an autopsy report of sorts for the giant squid and its place in our imagination. The fact that it was dead and that there was now a photo of it did not make the giant squid any less mythical.
Frankâs own obsession with the animal and people who hunted it becomes most apparent towards the end, when the book turns on itself. The author questions his own descriptions of what transpired when Harvey Moses obtained the squid. Frank writes his own myths and, in turn, inspires a whole new wave of obsession (ourselves included).
"Thatâs how it works. America can only handle one person from anywhere. They had Desi Arnaz from Cuba. And Tin Tan from Mexico. And Rita Moreno from Puerto Rico. But as soon as there are too many of us, they throw up their hands. No, no, no! We were only curious. We are not actually interested in you people.â
The Book of Unknown Americans by Cristina HenrĂquez is a book of hopeless optimism and tragic consequence. Henriquez, author of Come Together, Fall Apart, The World in Half and founder of unknownamericans, weaves together the narratives of a group of Americans who house their roots all across Latin America. The community inhabits a small apartment complex in Delaware, creating a microcosm of the Latin American experience in the United States. This frames a novel in a way which no named character is without a story. Every resident has their wants, fears or justifications presented to the reader. Unknown Americans is a book that ensures everyones' story is told.
HenrĂquezâs language is simple. Itâs utilitarian and crisp. Her words construct scenes with a kind of frugality that moves the plot along at a steady, engaging pace. But her words flower when they need to, blooming into scenes with tremendous emotional impact. And these flourishes are paced so they never lose their luster, only arriving when that certain, intangible truth needs to unfold.
Thereâs a great irony to this narrative. The characters comment on their cultural influence on American society, and often with confusion. They see their culture reflected back at them in the language of idioms, on the radio when âFeliz Navidadâ plays during Christmas and in the grocery isle with poor imitations of tortillas and salsa. Itâs a reflection of a funhouse mirror; twisted, distorted, a parody of themselves. And this all a result of these charactersâ culture being erased from the American consciousness. Theyâre made invisible. Theyâre made unknowable. Theyâre made to be feared. As Alma puts it, ââŠI felt the way I often felt in this countryâsimultaneously conspicuous and invisibleâŠâ
The biggest thing Unknown Americans has going for it is its honesty. Although there are some sections that are less convincing than othersâMayorâs teenage antics may kick the reader out of the story once in a whileâthey a few, far between and insignificant in the gravity of the novels more powerful moments. Readers do not have to be familiar with diaspora to glean everything this novel has to offer. These are not simply âimmigrant stories.â These are human stories.
Unknown Americans isn't just a good book. Itâs an important book. And itâs a book that deserves to be read.
âI had come to understand my fatherâs perspective about the gratification of feeling useful, of being in the world under the most demanding circumstances, and learning that I could not only survive but thrive, and that my body, the physical presence of me, could have import.â
Close Read is an analysis of novels, short stories, and poetry collections from contemporary authors and not-so-tragically-dead poets. These reviews tailored to introduce you to writers and books by slogging through the new release pile and highlighting standout works, regardless of their literary scene.
