With “Manifesto,” we come to the last leg in our Saundersian jaunt. I have to admit, when I first started the piece, I had so much work stuff on my mind I was a little irritable—I didn’t feel like I could put up with much cutesy-pants stuff from Saunders, as much as I like his occasionally stylized prose when I’m in different moods. Plus, “Buddha Boy” was just so good—why was he following it, and ending his book, with what looked like might be a slightly forced joke in essay form?

Ah, jeez. I was wrong. I apologize for the temporary lowering in my faith reservoir, George. Let’s always be friends.

Yes, “Manifesto” has some stylistic trappings that could limit your ability to empathize with it. It is subtitled “A Press Release from PRKA,” which refers to the narrator’s (presumably Saunders) organization “People Reluctant to Kill for an Abstraction.” It details how all the members (again, a throwback to his idea of “fluid-nations,” that interests and morals can bind people together in a non-geographical population) didn’t commit certain acts of terrorism, or war-mongering or other malicious skullduggery. Ha, yes, how nice most of us aren’t murderers, you might think, and skim ahead.

True, the structure of the piece is very skim-worthy (practically what press releases are designed for), but Saunders deliberately punches holes in the smooth surface of the prose with visceral imagery, and those holes can surprise you. Yes, there are commendable-but-bland assertions like “[a]t precisely nine in the morning, working with focus and stealth, our entire membership succeeded in simultaneously beheading no one” (251), but as the piece progresses, his examples become more and more arresting:

No previously funny person was reduced to a baggy pile of bloody leaking flesh, by us (251).

No bombs, cluster bombs or rockets were launched into crowded civilian neighborhoods, from which, it was observed, no post-bomb sickening momentary silences could be heard (252).

Saunders pulls out the individual’s perception of those general experiences (the jarring difference between a funny person and a corpse, the sharpness of your senses in a time of emergency) and even if the reader can’t imagine the tragedy itself, they can sympathize with the fallout.

The press release continues with, “[i]t should be noted that, in addition to the above-listed and planned activities completed by our members, a number of unplanned activities were completed, by part-time members, or even nonmembers” (253). Among them,

In London, a bitter homophobic grandfather whose grocery bag broke open gave a loaf of very nice bread to a balding gay man who stopped to help him (253).

In Syracuse, New York, holding the broken body of his kitten, a man wept (253).

I love the idea of people being accidentally nice to each other; it is one of the best “gotchas!” I can imagine. But it’s that second example that really pulled me under, into the content of the narrative. Jesus. And not only is that a heartbreaking image, but a very personal one—Saunders teaches at Syracuse University.

Essentially, Saunders is taking the idea of “turning the other cheek” out for a spin with a practical and active (rather than passive or reactive) varnish.

Many of us have trouble sleeping, and lie awake at night, worrying about something catastrophic befalling someone we love. We rise in the morning with no plans to convert anyone via beating, humiliation, murder or invasion. To tell the truth, we are tired. We work. We would just like some peace and quiet. When wrong, we think about it awhile, then apologize…

This is us. This is who we are. This is PRKA. To those who would oppose us, I would simply say: We are many. We are worldwide. We, in fact, outnumber you. Though you are louder, though you create a momentary ripple on the water of life, we will endure and prevail (254).

Sometimes it is easy to get too caught up in the struggle to make the development numbers match up with the financials for the board meeting, which is never going to happen (the numbers matching, that is…the board meeting itself is very, very certain), or frantically emailing with designers and printhouses about invitations. But part of my job is also reading pieces like “Manifesto.” And reading pieces like “Manifesto” reminds me why we all work here at Hugo House—there are important, beautiful things that need to be put on paper for someone else to read, and we value that above almost everything else. And yes, we work, and we are tired, but on top of that, apparently we are pretty decent people—and we are in the majority, with all of you. How nice!

As good books do, "The Braindead Megaphone" snuck its tendrils into other parts of my life. I happened to read “United States of Huck” while also grading Huck Finn papers for Ballard High School, where I occasionally pick up work as a theme reader, and I was able to look at the papers with a new point-of-view. I was inspired to put Johnny Tremain on hold at SPL, and picked it up yesterday. “Buddha Boy” sparked an idea for a story that I dumped 1,000 words into last weekend. Overall, I’m happy with my choice for the first Marginalia effort, and have confirmed my affections for Saunders’s writing and subject matter.

Which brings me to our new assignment: True Grit, by Charles Portis (suggested by Kate). I’ll do a more in-depth intro for it on next week’s installment, but for those that would like to participate, commence your library-hold-placing and used-bookstore-rummaging! I’m looking forward to the conversation.

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"The little airplanes of the heart
with their brave little propellers
what can they do against the winds of darkness
even as butterflies are beaten back
by hurricanes
and yet do not die."
 
He’s been in my head all morning. Ferlinghetti and that poem. I recited it silently while I rode to the DMV to register my first motorcycle—a 1991 Suzuki Bandit. Red. Fun. Not so big that my toes scrape the pavement but with enough power to feel badass and sassy. Badassy.
 
I rode my little Honda scooter. Black plastic body with grey scrapes that look like eraser marks or Beaver Cleaver’s grayscale skinned knees. Missing one of its mirrors. A tiny, black plastic road warrior. The friend I bought her from named her Kit and fantasized about getting a red Knightrider lightstrip across the windshield plate. I call her Kitten. I smile when she starts up with a purr. Even in these grayscale Winter mornings.
 
Recently I’ve wanted to learn tricks. I steer in and out of potholes and dashed yellow lines, leaving a tight zigzag trail behind me. I create a small adventure from point A to point B, from my house to work to the grocery store. I’ve been standing up while I ride, like those motocross dudes. I’ve been practicing that for awhile and have realized that, in order to get stable, I just have to commit. Straighten my knees and pitch my weight forward. If I try to ease into my balance, I never get all the way to standing.
 
I’ve been watching documentaries recently. Motorcycle daredevils, back country skiers, skateboarders like Christian Hosoi and John Cardiel.
 
They are so fearless and graceful and joyous in the way they fling their physical bodies towards their sport. Towards their trail, their trick, their path. They are beautiful to watch. Curious to listen to. They all seem so carefree and mischievous, like they have never been scared and their bodies don’t cringe at pain. They make me want to go outside and have fun and get into accidents against pavement and laugh it off. Sometimes these documentaries make me know that I am wasting my life a little if I am not jumping off high places into uncertain, rocky circumstances.

After I left the DMV today, I still had a couple hours of parking left. So I came to this coffee shop. It occurred to me that I could write. I brought this notebook. But it’s been a long time. Since I sat anywhere and just wrote. I've been working towards deadlines and ruminating on themes and editing, piecing my thoughts together. But it's been a long time since I wrote just to write. The thought made me a little nervous—I always worry that I've forgotten how to do that.

I haven’t.

There is a small room in my heart that believes someday I will grow up to be a full-time, professional writer and that it will take more discipline than I have now but will fill my days with thoughtful appreciation and wonderment for the world around me. And I believe it will make me very happy.
 
This room is kept locked with a weak latch and I don’t talk about it. I don’t visit it often because I’m scared that it is only a dream I dreamed a long time ago and has vanished among the thickening tree trunks of my friendships, the cement highways of my theater career, the soft purple sunrise of my love. I get afraid that room is no longer there. So I don’t look for it and I do laundry and email instead.
 
But I’ve tiptoed to the doorknob today. Shaken the latch loose. Forced the hinges free from their rusty closure.
 
It’s sunny in here.
Hardwood floors and upholestered cushions that suck the fingertips in like a warm, nasty little kiss.
I like it in here.
I need to get rid of the ashtrays and empty wine bottles. They don’t belong here anymore. But I can still enjoy the view. Of sidewalks and pigeons. I can see the rocky seams along the Pacific Ocean from here. Hear children laughing. Watch teenage boys picking each other’s pockets. In the distance, I can see a theater.
 
I think I’ll visit that building another day.
Today, I'm just writing.

Marya Sea Kaminski premieres new writing at Laws of Attraction this evening, 7:30 p.m. at the University of Washington's Kane Hall. Tickets are $15-25 and are available at the door beginning at 6:30 p.m.

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Mephitic [muh-fit-ik] –adjective 1. Offensive to the smell. 2. Noxious; pestilential; poisonous.

I woke up on my boat this morning and found myself floating in a mephitic scum of old diesel fuel.

All definitions are courtesy of Dictionary.com. Example sentence courtesy of Sue.

Word of the Day appears on weekdays and features words taken from books that Hugo House staff and volunteers are currently reading. This week’s series is brought to you by Sue Joerger, Hugo House executive director, and features words taken from "John Henry Days" by Colson Whitehead.

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This spring, Eli Hastings is teaching a six-week class for the genre-curious called Convention Convention: On the Front Lines of Genre (which you can sign up for here). He says “prose writers of any stripe and narrative poets” will get a kick out of this class. I had a few more questions for him, like what the heck—and where—is the front line of genre?

Eli Hastings: It’s the exciting, treacherous strip of territory from which you can see into other genres. The notion that narrative poetry, memoir and fiction are vastly different landscapes is only partially true and those authors who master the conventions of dialogue, setting, character and plot are usually at the forefront of their crowd.  
 
Kate Lebo: Which authors live there?

EH: Stuart Dybek, Junot Diaz, James Lee Burke, Richard Price, Kim Addonizio, Donald Ray Pollock, Denis Johnson, Eduardo Galeano.
 
KL: What do they do for fun?

EH: Drink copiously in a mismatched but elegantly appointed bunker where they speak eloquently in fragments and monologues, dressed as their spirit animals and always achieve an epiphany or at least a good laugh.  
 
KL: What do they have for dinner?

EH: Spam sandwiches on fresh baguettes, filet mignon with McDonald's fries and, sometimes, special brownies.
 
KL: The class description mentions novelists, memoirists, story writers and poets—so what sort of writers will the class best suit?

EH: Okay, to be honest, the class is mostly for prose writers (equally), but I think that narrative poets and/or poets who are interested in branching out into prose would gain a lot from plugging into this discussion.  
 
KL: What’s so great about writing across genre lines?

EH: A memoirist who pays attention to a satisfying plot and compelling dialogue. A novelist who mines his own memory/experiences for the nuances of her characters. A short story writer that can bring the reader to the same satisfaction (or rage!) as a novelist.  
 
KL: What can students hope to gain from this class?

EH: The generation of a new piece of work, lots of laughs and exercises that are actually launching pads.  
 
KL: What influenced you to propose Convention Convention?

EH: I did a one-week version of this class last summer and it was supremely useful to me and all the students, but we all agreed it was nowhere near long enough—and adding the component of workshopping the last two days will really crown the experience.  
 
To register for “Convention Convention,” give me a call at (206) 322-7030 or click here.

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I fortify myself with coffee.  I try to “poet up;” read a little Terrance Hayes for support.

Today is my meeting with writer-in-residence Karen Finneyfrock. The poems I sent her to review are years old. I haven’t finished a new poem in a long time. I worry about the ones I sent her—“Miss Ryan had red-hair when I was in second grade” and “Through machetes and sugar cane.” Maybe I should have sealed them away, with the rest of my poems, in the plastic box on my boat.  

I literally have butterflies in my stomach and my heart is racing. Why should I do anything with these poems?

To distract myself I pick up my new copy of the Richard Hugo House Business Practices Insurance Policy. It is an inch thick. No kidding. I pull out a random page. Volcanic Action. Perfect! I’m feeling better already.

Did you know that Volcanic Action insurance only covers “ash, dust and particulate matter removal”? And that if you have more than one eruption in a 168-hour period, it is defined as one eruption, which limits the number of claims you can file?  

But most importantly, Volcanic Action insurance does not cover losses caused by fire, explosion, tidal waves or earth movements including “earth sinking, earth rising or shifting.”  

Margot walks by my office and suggests that I do an erasure poem with the insurance policy. Earth rising… shifting…

Karen has just arrived. I stand up to walk across the corner of the kitchen. I’m sure Brian can hear my heart pounding in the office next door.

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Deracinate [dih-ras-uh-neyt] –verb (used with object) 1. To pull up by the roots; uproot; extirpate; eradicate. 2. To isolate or alienate (a person) from a native or customary culture or environment.

After work, I am going to pull my dinghy up on the dock and deracinate the barnacles and seaweed growing on her hull.

All definitions are courtesy of Dictionary.com. Example sentence courtesy of Sue.

Word of the Day appears on weekdays and features words taken from books that Hugo House staff and volunteers are currently reading. This week’s series is brought to you by Sue Joerger, Hugo House executive director, and features words taken from "John Henry Days" by Colson Whitehead.

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