On Dan Pope's "The Bard Crichton"

Dan Pope’s “The Bard Crichton” takes quotes about William Shakespeare and Michael Crichton, substituting references to either name for Crichton’s name. The result is not only hilarious, but it also sharply criticizes the “high” and “low” literature. 

As you read the quotes, a process of understanding occurs that shifts the way the quotes are perceived. One can not directly say to whom the quotes are originally attributed to (with the exception of ones that would be deemed anachronistic in the current form), but the original sense, that it is silly to say the things we normally say about Shakespeare in regards to Michael Crichton, is a notion that itself becomes dispelled. There is no language reserved for Shakespeare. By the time we get to a quote such as “There’s so much we don’t understand about Michael Crichton. His inner life. We know nothing.” It becomes apparent that that is true of anyone at anytime. It demystifies the idea of Shakespeare as that God beyond the common man’s comprehension.

One of my favorites is, “There are people who live all their lives and never read Crichton. Crichton is in them. It can be a deep humiliation when we realize that our own emotions are actually Crichton’s.” The first sentence is true of both Crichton and Shakespeare. And further, it is likely true of the person who wrote it (likely about Shakespeare), that he hadn’t read Crichton.   The distinction is a gulf that opens wide between the classes, with those who read Crichton and those who read Shakespeare. But lastly, the rest of the quote assigns to Shakespeare a status as of a god, as if the emotions he depicts belonged to him, and he were not drawing from the human experience, and we are drawing from his ideas rather than the whole of human existence.

On Jeff Noon’s “Needle in the Groove”

Might be a remix / rehashed sentences put in a new order / order is something that’s questioned / or during interrogation these questions fall apart / These slashes are musical measures / denoting a the rhythm and sep / arating lines to create a time/

Location is key at the outset / a club and a place to stay / perhaps a code at the door

--I’m not welcome

--because you’re different

--I thought I was cool enough

--You’re not cool enough

--I make music

--You make muzak.

Identifying the music through text / not easy to do / outside of sheet music / but this store identifies the / rhythm snare bass / but also the un-notated feeling of song / what comes out when that’s not signaled by / half-note quarter note forte mestizzo / Alto Forte bang the fucking drums

Remix the remix in words / an interesting experiment/

Shake the music sphere / like the earth with all its different sounds / spinning and turning and shaking us all up / like a musical globe/



And on a less playful note. It might be important to know that this story was released along with a spoken word album of the same name. The story is a musical experiment, as well as a literary experiment, though it is interesting to note that the musical experiment is literary and the literary experiment is musical. 

Critique of an Excerpt from Michael Ondaatje’s The Collected Works of Billy the Kid

A number of elements in this story make it seem unconventional. The best way to examine them might be from two separate categories: stylistic and thematic. The stylistically experimental elements involve methods of grammar, punctuation, medium, etc; while the thematic elements are those elements embedded into the story that in one way or another disorient the reader.

Stylistically, Ondaatje utilizes incomplete sentences, unattributed dialogue, onomatopoeia and an eclectic yet calculated mixture of poetry and prose which disorients the reader. The first sentences, “Sound up. Loud and vibrating in the room.” are devoid of subject (with the exception of the room), but still evoke imagery in a the larger context of the nighttime search for Billy the Kid by Pat Garret.

As a side-note, I went to Billy the Kid’s hometown of Lincoln, New Mexico on my way out here this Summer. I saw the bullet holes in the wall where he shot a shotgun full of dimes at Sheriff Farley.

Thematically the story shifts to different narrative perspectives, leaving the reader feeling as much in the dark as Garret and Billy the Kid. This story is Cowboy Poetry for the literati.

Workshop Critique: 911 Emergency

“911 Emergency” is modeled after the transcript of multiple calls to an emergency dispatch. An emergency plays out from the perspective of multiple witnesses, each unaware of the other callers, describing a pedestrian hit-and-nearly-run of a mentally handicapped kid seemingly from a low-income housing project. The situation escalates through retaliatory acts until finally it ends with what seems like the death of an unarmed civilian by a police officer, followed by rioting.

I like the defracted method of story-telling involved here, where we get all of the action second-hand. It reminds me, sort of, of the song “Shades of Grey” by Robert Earl Keen. The singer relates the story of getting drunk and driving to Oklahoma with a couple of friends, where the steal a cow and sell it at an auction. then they get busted by the FBI, but the agent’s last line of dialogue is “These are just some sorry kids, boys. They ain’t the ones.” The last line of the song is about them going home “that morning, mid-April, Oklahoma ’95.” In other words, they were mistaken for the Oklahoma City Bomber, Timothy McVeigh. Just an example of how one can relate a story from outside the events.

This story effectively develops the plot, though I think it could use some riskier turns. Every escalation is one that could be reasonably expected. Therefore, there is nothing about the situation which would seem to make the 911 Dispatcher lose her cool (I imagine it would take a lot). It could turn into a hostage situation. They could have the people in the car surrounded while they threaten to light it on fire. Or they could all be upset, but actually turn out to just be trying to take care of the body, and all of these callers are asserting stereotypes, mistaking anguish for violence. There are many possibilities that could be explored. 

On a more technical note, Dispatchers and police would relay messages using call-numbers like 187 and 11-80 in progress. Look into this code, and that would make this piece come off as more authoritative and authentic. Then, any breaks from the normal code-talk would become more important. What this piece could use is some sort of unexpected emotional arch from the dispatcher, who is the central character.  

Workshop Critique: Thirteen of These Thirteen of These Thirteen of These

Whenever I try a Gertrude Stein related exercise or when I read on, I am reminded of the other factors that constitute language. We ask, what tone does this story have, what literary devices does the author employ in this scene? And in lessons we identify these same things in sentences and learn what they are. We put the legos together, but we rarely play with them one by one. 

Though I’d say that legos are a good analogy, since they can be connected to each other out of context and still be something. Weldon Ryckman’s Thirteen of These Thirteen of These Thirteen of These takes structure, tone, theme, imagery and sound to craft a literary work. 

The piece takes thirteen distinct, well, not things, but these’s, and brings out ideas of loneliness, fear and meditation. This is done through repetition, rhyme, wordplay and structure. I tried to find any single thing that ran through the whole piece. As the title suggests, there are thirteen sections. In the first section, you can add up all the written numbers and they will equal thirteen. But reading on that was not apparent for the rest of the sections. What does come up throughout is isolation, loneliness, body parts and cinema and art references. Perhaps there could be more of a theme running through the whole piece. It’s certainly there, but going over it again perhaps emphasizing certain notions that call out to the reader. However, I might be imagining that those notions even exist.

Reading Response: The "Kak My Pishem" Questionnaire

The Kak My Pishem Questionnaire

1. Preparatory period. Duration.
   Sometimes I find myself sitting on a story idea for a couple weeks, but I don’t write anything or say anything. I just start noticing things related to that subject more, and I stick them in the back of my mind. At some point, a certain critical mass accumulates and it makes sense to write something. Sometimes it works and sometimes it does not. 

Alternatively, if something happens to me, something traumatic or frightening or absurd, I put it away in my back pocket and try to get enough distance from it so that I can write about it with some amount of hind-sight.
2. What kind of subject matter do you use most (autobiographical, literary, observations and notes)? 

Most of my ideas do come from things that have happened in my family. But sometimes I pull the stories just from random ideas. As I said, a subject can build in your head for some time and take on meaning.

3. Do you generally use living persons as models for your characters?
Generally, yes. I don’t know how to write from the perspective of a dead person.

4. What provides you with the initial impulse for a work (anecdotes, commission, images, etc.)?
This feels like the same sort of question.
5. When during the day do you work—in the morning, afternoon, or evening? How many hours a day at most?

I suspect that there is a right time of day for me. I just could not say what time that is.

6. Average productivity—pages per month.
Modesty forbids.

1. What sorts of stimulants (narkotiki) do you use, and in what amounts?
   I wish I could be an alcoholic writer like all of my heroes, but it makes me sleepy. Same with weed. I like them both, but I use them when I don’t want to be productive, and for that they are incredibly effective.
   
   8. Do you write with a pencil, pen, or typewriter? Do you sketch when you’re working? How heavily is your work revised by editors?
   Pen, if on paper; macbook, and I’m trying to adjust to an old typewriter my friend fished out of the dumpster.
   
   9. Do you work from an outline and does it change?
   I take a piece of paper, or open a new word document, and I type little scenes. If I’m inspired the scenes become longer. I do this until I am out of ideas. Then, I take scenes that I like and develop them, and see if there’s a place for things I’ve written. Once I’ve exhausted those possibilities, I do it all again.
   
   10. What do you find most difficult? Beginnings, middles, or endings?
   Everything is difficult. I do it because it is difficult.
   
   11. Which senses most often generate images? (visual, aural, tactile?)
   Do the non-visual senses constitute images. Can you have nasal imagery?
   
   12. Do you insist on some sort of rhythm to your prose?
   The more I insist on a rhythm, the less effective the story becomes. It’s the departures that are powerful to me.
   
   13. Do you proof your work by reading it aloud (either to yourself or to others)?
   All the time.
   
   14. How do you feel when you have completed a work?
   Like a boss.
   
   15. Do you revise your work for new editions?
   When I get something released in multiple editions, I will let you know.
   
   16. Are you affected by reviews?

        Yes.

Critique: Notes on a Kitchen Table

     What I like most about "Notes on a Kitchen Table" is how it utilizes forms in ways that both define and alter the relationship between the two characters, Danny and Ally. Through notes and flowcharts it becomes apparent that Danny has come home drunk again, which has caused Ally to stay up all night creating a flow chart that Danny just has to fill out rather than feeling stifled by Ally's inquiries about where he's been.
      What stems from the flowchart is the predictability of Danny, and his apparent alcoholism. The end of the flowchart is a heart-felt vignette which describes a recurring moment between the lives of Danny and Ally, and the very final bubble asks "where do we go from here?"
        What's impressive is that Ally's voice comes through in a profound way through the flow-chart. This can either be attributed to Ally's note in the beginning, or to the snarky subtext of a flowchart that accurately describes a person's day. Every day. Still more telling is that the red lines that Danny fills in, answering each question and going down the trail, has a voice unto itself. I would attribute that again to Danny's short sweet note in the beginning, but also to the fact that he actually took the time to fill it out.
        The story's ending is written in the unfilled lines at the end of the flowchart. Of course this leaves the story on an ambiguous note. It brings us back to Danny's letter being the final action of the piece, while Ally's is the first. As such, we read Danny's letter differently, and less optimistically upon completing the flowchart. He's probably out drinking again, and he is not answering the only question Ally cares about.
        I really enjoyed this. It is strong, concise, properly utilizes form, and develops two distinct characters. It's hard even to identify what you could do to change the piece. You could always fine-tune the flowchart. The more specific, the more humour the reader will find. Things like "did you put your shirt on inside out?" or "did you choose matching socks" would be the sort of intimate details that dig deeper into the relationship. The less generic, the better. The scotch, is it a particular brand. What type of cigarettes does he smoke? I would definitely consider turning this into part of something larger, but it is excellent on its own.

Critique: Application for Employment

Ashley Curtis's application for employment plays with the format of an application to be a barista. The applicant, Pendleton Roberts, is a 16 year-old girl from Minnesota who has taken a break from High school and wants to work. The reason she is not in school is because the pressure was too much for her and she ended up slitting her wrists with a box cutter.

While the voice of the main character comes through in the piece, there are some technical points that ought to be addressed. An application for a position like this would likely be hand-written, and I think that doing so would highlight the intentions of this piece. At the same time, this character would be required by law to attend school, even if only some form of alternative school. If she has been placed on a prolonged suspension for her behavior, I wonder what she is supposed to be doing with her time, and what her family thinks.

I'd like to know more about her references. Is it, in fact, okay to contact them? Is the physician a family physician, someone she is seeing for psychological reasons? As far as Lewis Rogers is concerned, I think a male nurse is just called a nurse.

It might be interesting for her to fill out several applications over a prolonged period of time. The frequent rejection could finally lead her to this last-ditch effort. She seems like a stressed person, but ultimately determined based on all of her extra-curriculars. There is definitely room to explore here. Go nuts.

Critique: "I should have taken an ambien"

Shelby Thomas's "i should have taken an ambien" experiments with a stream-of-conscious narrative in the form of a journal  or diary entry. The narrative has several movements, suggesting a structure of ideas. And while there is no punctuation or capitalization, line-breaks seem to suggest shifts in ideas and sentences.

While I like that there is an attempt at coherency within the piece, I think it is necessary for something like this to jar the reader. For instance, I liked the ambiguity in "of course they werent exactly the same clothes he had navy blue button ups and pairs of army green pants but only one or two belts and pair of boots since you dont have to wash those people think I'm being ridiculous when i tell them this but i know its true because he told me[.]" In the words "have to wash those people" the two sentences run together to make a subtle joke. Things like that will work better if you let the whole piece run unbroken. You could separate ideas by writing several entries.

Overall, I think it is a good idea with moments and sections that shine. Now the task is to find out what works about those moments and try to extrapolate them for the whole.

Blanco

I want to stay with Papa but I can’t tonight because there is an emergency. Tonight I am going to stay at Freddy’s. We are driving in his blue truck on the freeway. We are going seventy-five miles an hour.

Papa lets me drive the big white truck. I’m not supposed to be able to drive the big white truck but he lets me anyway. He taught me how to drive. He said, “Junior, Mijo, take it easy. Check your mirrors. Put the key in the ignition. Give it a little gas. Take the car out of neutral. Go easy on the gas peddle. Drive it straight and steady. That a boy. Go slow so I don’t spill my beer.” I always go slow because I don’t want to spill his beer. The spanish word for white is blanco.

His favorite beer is Tecate. It’s the kind that I pick up from Sanchez at the store exactly a mile and two thirds of a mile down the dirt road. He likes them when they come in a pack of twenty-four. The colors on the cans are red and gold and there is a black eagle with a letter T on it too. The spanish words for red and gold are rojo and oro. Papa drinks Tecate when we are at the corral and when we are at home. He lets me check the fences. I check the fences by putting on grey gloves that I keep in the big white truck. The spanish word for grey is gris. They are mine and I put them on and then I follow the barbed wire from one fencepost to the next fencepost. There are sixty-four fenceposts and three rows of barbed wire. The spanish word of barbed wire is alambrada. When Papa calls me into the corral because something is going wrong, he says “Muchacho, Vengas aqui.” And I am in so much of a hurry to get to him that sometimes I run into the barbed wire and it cuts my arms and I cry. So most times when he calls he says “Muchacho, Vengas aqui, bajo la alambrada.”

He called me on a Tuesday at two thirty-five in the afternoon. There were two clouds in the sky. I don’t know the word for cloud in Spanish but I would like to. He called me over and I went under the barbed wire because that’s what bajo la alambrada means. Papa was in the middle of the corral and he held Cheyenne’s hoof between his legs. He said to me “Go get the nails from the truck. And the hammer. Bring them back.” I asked if I could drive the big white truck because it’s my favorite thing to do next to riding Cheyenne but Papa just said “Go!” and I know when he says go that I should do it because I am learning how to be like him because I want to be like him.

The spanish word for nail is clavo.

I remember Papa was hammering the nail into Cheyenne’s hoof because that is how you keep a horseshoe on. Cheyenne’s hooves are sensitive because he used to run at the race track. He was a famous horse at the race track but he broke his ankle. The reason he broke his ankle Papa says is because some asshole couldn’t find his dick with both hands and let the track go all to shit. That’s what Papa says. 

Cheyenne can’t see very good because one eye is swollen and the color part of the eye looks like it is swimming in the white part of the eye. Papa calls it a detached retina. Cheyenne’s eye is like that because he was taken from the race track and they hit him in the head with a hammer so that they could process him. Papa won’t tell me what processing is because he says I am too young to know. I asked him what they call a horse that is going to be processed and he said desafortunado which kind of means unlucky.

I like to drive me and Papa home to Mama. Mama spends six hours on the couch everyday watching two different channels on the television. She says she enjoys both channels. When Papa and I come home she says to me “Hola, Mijo. Como Estas?” That means hello son, how are you. I understand everything she says in Spanish, but she does not say a lot. She yells at Papa and Papa yells back. They tell me to sit outside on the porch

Our house is up on cinder blocks. Papa calls it a modular home. He made a deck in the back out of ten leftover cinder blocks and two sheets of plywood that are each six feet long and four feet wide. The house looks like a shoe box. The walls of the house are grooved and there is a large satellite dish on top. A satellite dish is what lets Mama watch her two channels. 

When we came home from the corral today Papa was tired because we had to cover all of the alfalfa before the monsoon came. A monsoon is a rainstorm but it’s a rainstorm that has a lot more lightning and thunder. In spanish it is called a Monzon. Papa drank three Tecates on the drive home and he was singing with the radio. The radio station was tuned to 98.3 FM. The song was by The Marshall Tucker Band and it was called Can’t you See and it was recorded in 1973. 

Mama was on the porch and she was drinking vodka. She doesn’t drink Tecate. She drinks vodka. she says her favorite vodka is cheap.

We had not got out of the car when Mama threw the bottle at the windshield. Papa burped once and then he said, “Wait in the car, Muchacho.”

They went inside but I could hear them because my window was down and the walls of a modular home are thin.

Papa said, “What the fuck are you doing you’re going to break the window. That’s your son in that car.”

Mama said, “Where’s our money, Herman.”

Papa said, “What money what money. What’s going on?”

Mama said, “You spent it all didn’t you.”

Papa said, “It’s my money.”

Mama said, “You said you’d stop. You said you weren’t doing it any more.”

They were talking about how sometimes Papa goes out at night. Papa goes out after he thinks Mama is asleep, which is ten thirty. Papa gets in the car and he drives down the street and he comes back and he smells bad and he bumps into the walls and the furniture.

When he is gone Mama goes to the bathroom. She stays in the bathroom for a long time. Sometimes she falls asleep in the bathroom. I wake her up because I don’t want her to be uncomfortable. She says she likes to relax in the bathroom. Papa says he likes to relax down the street. they both tell me that I shouldn’t ask so many questions. I don’t want to upset them so I don’t ask any questions

Papa keeps his favorite gun on the top of the TV. The spanish word for pistol is pistola. I am not allowed to touch the gun. Papa sometimes says “I am going to kill that bitch.” Papa also says “I love you.” When he says “I love you” Mama says “I love you too.” When he says “I am going to kill that bitch!” Mama starts to cry. I don’t think Papa is going to kill that bitch.

Papa loves Mama and me and Cheyenne. Mama tells Papa “I can’t handle being alone with that boy.” Papa says “I can’t take care of him all the time.” Mama never watches me alone. She always calls Freddy up on the number 555-219-2225. That is Freddy’s number that he answers when we call. Right now I am in Freddy’s car.

Freddy has a blanket wrapped around me and I am staring ahead. I like the way the sun falls down behind the mountains. Freddy isn’t saying anything. This is strange because Freddy is really funny and likes to talk. I like to talk too so it is strange that I’m not saying much either. Freddy and Uncle Joe came to Papa’s house at the same time. They came after I told Mama what I saw because she was scared and didn’t want to look for herself. 

Papa didn’t look at me in the truck when he came out on the front porch and then walked to the back of the house. I heard Mama screaming from inside, “You piece of shit!” Papa always said he was tired. He liked to say “Estoy Consado porque yo trabajo mucho.” He sat on the porch and I could not see him. I could not see him. I heard the loud noise that cracked my ears and I saw a red splash fly onto the dirt. The dirt is yellow. Yellow in Spanish is Amarillo. Red is rojo.

I got out of the truck and walked to Papa. His head was back against the house and he didn’t look okay. The gun was in his hand. His hand was by his side. Papa didn’t move when I sat on his lap. I tried to make him move by hugging him. Mama was yelling loud inside the house but I don’t think she was saying anything. I staid on Papa’s lap and I kept my eyes open. I hugged him tight but I couldn’t feel him breathe. I hugged him until Freddy came and took me away from Papa. Freddy put me in his blue truck. The Spanish word for blue is azul. 

Freddy says that everything is going to be okay. he says that Papa was very sad but that he loved me. Freddy says he loves me. Mama hasn’t called. I haven’t heard Mama in thirteen days. I miss Mama but I miss mending fences with Papa. I ask Freddy who is taking care of Cheyenne. He said we would all help take care of Cheyenne. I tell him what is wrong with Cheyenne’s eye. Papa says it is a detached retina. I wonder if Freddy will let me ride in the big white truck. The Spanish word for white is blanco. 

Critique: "Conveniently Portrayed"

The first full paragraph of “Conveniently Portrayed” is vivid enough to be chewed. Reading “Sweet potato bisque” is a very sensuous experience. But further, what this story does is contrast a matter-of-fact narrative with an uncertain foot-noted voice, which seems distinct from the voice in the main text.

The story is of a character named Hodge, who is out on a date with a woman named Lucille (who might be Margaret, in hind sight), and the narrator explains Hodge’s difficulty with first impression. These narrative expositions, digressions, analyses, whatever you may call them, compose one of the two writing tools along with the footnotes that sort of pry the narrative open. Otherwise, it is just a story about a bad first impression. Where normally an abstract definition of a character trait would be a no-no. it functions as a clinical voice that moves the piece towards its ultimate conclusion, which seems somewhat hopeful.

To me, this piece is the start of something excellent, but certain details are being under-utilized, preventing the story to reach its full potential. The color imagery, footnotes, clothing, these all become important aspects that seem to be full of meaning, but the meanings are not yet fully decipherable.

More on the footnotes: as many will probably say, maybe push further. Your sparse footnotes are quite effective, so in this story you run the risk of going to far. To me, there significance is in the uncertainty of the first and the certainty of the last. Try to span that arch from uncertainty to certainty, without losing it, because that is where the story is. 

Linguistically and stylistically you have crafted something that is enjoyable to read and capable of hitting on several levels. Think about what people are praising about it, and then ask how that can be complicated. 

"Glossolalia" Critique

“Glossolalia” uses a fishing trip as the framing device for another story, that of Old Man Pellum, who is crazy and tells stories in exchange for shots of whiskey. The two main characters aside from Pellum are Charlie (Chuck) and Lewis. Charlie is an asthmatic and narcoleptic, or perhaps just slow and lazy. As they wait for fish to bite, Lewis recounts the story of seeing Old Man Pellum on the news. Interspliced at three different places is a short tale from Pellum, which combines with the final motions of the story.

Two words take on importance in this piece perhaps above most others. One is the title word, glossolalia, which means speaking in tongues, but does not show up in the text. But it is in reference to Pellum, who was reportedly speaking in tongues when the Bulls pulled them off of the train (I am fortunate to have a sister who does hop trains, so I’m familiar with the Bulls). The other important word is derecho, spanish for “right” and referring to a particular hard-line wind-storm that can be incredibly damaging. This storm is central to Pellum’s story.

What’s nice about the story is that it has an informal, southwestern feel to it, where the real story is told indirectly, as an aside. This is a nice contrast to the nature of the derecho, a much more, if you will, direct storm. I would like the story to be a little longer. Perhaps more imagery and less story telling, as if Chuck is imagining the events. This would make it slightly harder to decipher whose story it is up front, perhaps adding some intrigue. Additionally, it is unclear if the mother is injured or what. I think fleshing out that moment some more would be helpful. There is room for expansion.

On the Weekly Reading: On Stealing from Lydia Davis

For this week’s exercise, I took Lydia Davis’s story “Excerpts from a Life” and refashioned it to be about a girl who grew up the daughter of a gun store owner, instead of the daughter of a violin factory owner. At first, it seemed like a novelty to simply paste one idea over the other, but it wasn’t interesting to note how my idea morphed as I tried to fit it into her form, as well as where it departed from Lydia Davis’s structure.

“Excerpts from a Life” takes an elliptical approach to the story, full of interstices and seemingly disparate pieces of information, and they are held together by voice, and the holistic feel one gets by the end of the piece. As I tried to reincorporate the story for my own purposes section by section, I found that by the end I relied much less strictly on the source text then at the beginning. At the same time, there were particular moments where certain tones, and indeed certain thematic movements, seemed appropriate for my own work. This is due in part to the desire to maintain something of the feel of the original Lydia Davis piece, but also as a result of the constraints of the form. I think that writing in this particular style (elliptically), I was inclined to unconsciously follow a particular narrative. Each of the details I incorporated in the first very short sections defined my character in the longer pieces. 

If I were to continue working on these piece (as I would like to), I would find more ways to break away from Davis and find what is uniquely mine about it. But as it stands, it feels like I’ve made something original from a pre-crafted form. It wasn’t paint-by-numbers, it was learning from a master.

Targets in a Shooting Gallery

(Adapted from the short story "Excerpts from a Life" by Lydia Davis)

Childhood

I was reared in a gun shop, and when I had a fight with my brothers and sisters we would twiddle our fingers at our hips and my father would call Draw! Then we’d spring our fingers into action and determine who had fired first through either stubborn dispute or the honest feigned sounds of a sputtering death as one of our pairs of knees hit the floor.

Stick to your guns

At the very least, you will have a large pile of dead meat and a convincing argument to keep others away.

The Wit and Wisdom of Will Rogers

I went to an elementary school named after the man, and committed many of his sayings to memory.

  They want peace.

But they want it with a gun.

Grownups

I find that it is easy to make a child understand that a gun is a powerful thing, and dangerous, and they understand that it is no joke. It’s the grownups who talk about them as if there is some middle-ground to that reality-- “He carried that rifle on his back through the crowded Walmart as a symbol of freedom.”

Hunting with Hemingway

One day the gun shop was in the midst of another panic, and my father was running out of ammunition. He refused to put anything on hold. Hundreds of people poured through the door any time gun violence was in the news, or whenever a Democrat was elected.

It was 1992.

As I was taught, I walked back behind the counter and into the clerical office. 

“Don’t let these people tell you a thing about guns.”

I watched through the office door as each person walked in. They gripped fear in their inwardly twisted  fists. They were all puffed up at the chest with pride, which they often called patriotism.

“Say there, cutie, tell your pops to quit holding out.”

“Close the door, sweetheart,” my father said.

He had a collection of literature by strong American men. The stories had names like “Hills like White Elephants” and Ham on Rye, and in them life was a hard-fought existential struggle. I read these books at the height of the panics. It was inside A Farewell to Arms that I found a small warranty card for an antique shotgun from the company W.C. Scott & Son. It was signed by Earnest Hemingway. I carried that card in my wallet until my Junior year in college, when someone pointed their less than impressive nine millimeter at me and took my purse.

A little episode

I’m proud of this, and should be.

I had just read All Quiet on the Western Front, which wasn’t American, but that wasn’t a problem. 

I had a friend from college who decided he would come home with me for a week during our Freshman Summer. We rode bikes into the Foothills and chained them to a tree so we could hike further up the hill. The summit of a better-known hill had two trees perched on top. High school couples carved their names into the trees. Beer cans were laid out on distant stumps, the stumps and the cans were laden with BB-gun pock-marks. 

You could see for forever. 

You could hear coyotes.

He asked me why I didn’t carry a gun. I told him I didn’t like the weight. He showed me his. I held it in my hand, inspected it from every angle, and then I held the pistol with both hands and aimed it at a beer can two-hundred yards off. 

“Bang,” I said, then I handed the gun back to him. 

“I want to know what war is like,” he said.

“Let’s find out,” I said. 

We rode back into town and I took him to my father’s gun shop. My father was out for lunch but I had a copy of the key. 

I took him through the back door, to the enclosed shooting gallery, which was dimly lit. From the individual shooting booths it was nearly impossible to see the floor. We laid on the ground and we waited. 

We had nearly fallen asleep before the door opened and the room was filled with the sound of a group of men. They loaded their guns. We kept our eyes open as the bullets whistled over our heads.

“Oh, what a wonderful feeling,” I whispered to him.

As I listened to the rounds pop off, I swore that I’d never lay down here again.

I have learned the meaning of self-defense

To do what it takes to maintain the sovereignty of my body, and the sanity of my mind.

Annie Oakley taught me to shoot

I took a more earnest interest in the family craft during my second year at UNM. For spring break my friend, a native New Mexican, took me to stay with his relatives in Lemitar. We sat in the back of his pick-up truck in the dirt yard and he picked off quail as they came by. They’d flutter and then drop like pebbles. 

“Your turn, Annie.”

“I’m no Annie Oakley.”

“I’ve seen you shoot. You’re related.”

I checked the sight and steadied the gun against my shoulder. The birds rose sporadically like shooting stars and fell like meteorites.

At night we watched an internet video of Annie Oakley taken by Thomas Edison. 

I purchased every book about her.

The Star who shined brightest over the Wild West Show

When people came in droves to Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, they were blown away by stage coaches, buffalo, roping and wrangling. But it was the little girl with the big gun from Oklahoma that brought down the house. 

I went through round after round at an Albuquerque range. I shot skeet, and set up camp outside Socorro with my friend’s family, learning to hunt to the sound of orange dust rustling through sage-brush.

“They’re called Marksmen, Mijo.”

As they announced the awards at the exhibition, all the competitors sat in the front rows and waited for their names to be called, or not. The figure perched on my trophy looked like Apollo holding a rifle. 

I sat in my seat with it balanced on my lap. The marble base felt cold through my dress. As people patted me on the back, one old woman, impressed, asked me what they called a female shooter. My friend from Lemitar, who was seated next to me, answered, “A marksman.”

He glanced at me and I wished that I had some way to tell him how immensely his words had moved me.

I looked down my sight with Annie Oakley’s eyes.

As each clay pigeon rose in the sky I followed its path with the barrel and imagined the charge exploding from the chamber and careening down the bore, drawn to the pigeon. The impact was like the precise, terse prose of Hemingway, but the repetitive shots were rhythmic and made me think of Annie standing tall on a horse, firing at targets in the corral. 

I could see what I was doing, but I was shooting with more precision than I knew how. My arms moved more delicately then they could. For a moment after the last pigeon flew the coop, my arms remained in the air. A small puff of smoke from the barrel. 

Nice shot, Sweetheart

My father hugged me like a loving father holds his most precious thing. We stood for a photograph, and though my cowboy hat looked ridiculous, it felt right and proper. 

“Nice shot, Sweetheart.”

Workshop 02/05: Yvonne Labbe "Evidence"

Yvonne Labbe’s “Evidence” experiments with various electronic communication formats in order to form a narrative about a love triangle. It is fitting that this triangle should be created and discovered via the three communication formats utilized: craigslist adds, e-mails and text messages. The story begins with a craigslist ad posted by William, re: the woman he met at the New Mexican restaurant that he would like to reconnect with. Then the e-mail correspondence between William and this eloper, Kat, is discovered by Darlene (William’s girlfriend’s sister) when her regular customer (Kat, the other girl) tells Darlene about her new boy, William. Darlene then sneaks a peak at Kat’s e-mails on the computer she has left open on the table and quickly forwards the correspondence to Margaret. The two sisters then have a text message argument about the implications, resulting in Margaret deciding to trust her boyfriend over her sister.

As you can see from my attempt to explain that, it is a bit convoluted. That’s not to say that the plot does not work, but I think that the sister is not necessary, and just complicates things (unless there is a fourth section, initiated by the girlfriend, trying to talk out what the girlfriend has discovered). If you stick with the characters involved in the love triangle, then there is less necessity for expositional dialogue. An e-mail sent to the wrong girl, a misplaced text message, set-up for lunch with the wrong girl (taking the conversation from digital to physical, as the boyfriend and girlfriend confront each other, the boyfriend acting like he had planned it, the girlfriend discovering the truth). 

There is a lot to plat with here. We know the least about the boyfriend, William. Does he post craigslist ads every time he meets a pretty girl, or is it really that he hit it off with just this one girl? Answering that question lets the reader know whether he is a dog, or someone that we might be able to sympathize with. This is going to sound corny, but explore the digital world that you have created. All of these technologies, as you have shown, co-mingle and create a virtual ecology. Think about what tensions arise through these forms, and notions of private vs. public lives, and the fact that, like it or not, most everything you do will probably have some sort of on-line residuum. 

Good luck.

"The Shooting Incident"

Maurine Campbell (1) picked up a perspiring glass of water from a coaster beside her and took a drink. When she set the glass back down she stared at it a moment. Then she looked over to Eddie and asked, “Did you see Top Gun?”

Eddie stopped pecking at his wing and looked back at Maurine.

Maurine continued, “I’ve seen it a couple times now. I’ve kind of got this thing for Tom Cruise. It’s the hair. Not that Val Kilmer’s not attractive, I’ve just got my preferences.”

Eddie put his wings on the executive desk and rested his head on them. “Ice maan,” he said.

“I like to read the Dailies from the films. At least while I’m out here. It’s easy to get your hands on them. 

“I’m not sure where this is going Miss Campbell.”

Maurine stood up from the desk and started walking toward the door of her office. She gestured Eddie to follow her. She held the door open for them and they walked into the hall.

As they walked to the elevator, she went on.

“It was a tricky movie to film. I mean, aerial scenes have always been hard to film. It used to be because flying was just something that nobody was very experienced with. It took someone like Howard Hughes--you know Hughes right?--it took someone like Hughes to really perfect that style of filming. that is, it took someone who knew planes, both aesthetically and technically, to really capture that transcendent feeling of flying.” Maurine pressed the down button on the elevator. It opened almost immediately and they boarded. “Hit Lobby, would you sweetheart?” Eddie hit the lobby button. Maurine checked her watch. “I hope you haven’t had lunch yet, Eddie. Because I’m treating. But anyway what I was saying was that he captured that ethereal feeling. What I mean by that is--” The door opened and they walked into the lobby, which was more of an atrium, which is to say the place was huge. Above the front door was a bronze NRA emblem with the gun-toting eagle over an American Shield. “--is that there was a magic to it. But back then it was bi-planes. Now we have the F-14A Tomcat. It takes a new type of expertise. A new way to film.”

They walked onto the street and hooked a left. “This bistro nearby is fantastic. I forget the name because I usually just call it Selma’s. It’s the only place in LA that serves sweet tea the right way. Makes me feel like I’m back in Florida.Where was I?”

“In Florida?”

“No in what I was saying. Oh, right. The Tomcat. First of all, talk about American fire power. But for the sake of the film, I was amazed that they were once again able to capture that magic of high-stakes flight. I’m not a pilot, so maybe I’ve got it all wrong, but I was blown away. You know who we had to thank for that?”

Eddie scratched his head.

“Art Scholl.”

“Never heard of him,” Eddie said.

“The next time you watch the movie, pay attention. It’s dedicated to him. He was a world famous Aerial acrobat and he manned one of the in-flight cameras from his own plane, a Pitts S-2. Not exactly a fighter plane. Designed for easy maneuverability. Good for camera-mounts. Anyway, Scholl did the camera work for commercials, films, he did work on The Right Stuff and The A-Team. We’re almost there. Just another block. But one day the script called for a maneuver called a flat-spin, and Scholl went into it, but then over the radio Scholl very calmly says, “I have a problem.” He says, “I have a real problem,” and then he crashes into the Pacific. They never found him or the plane.”

Eddie stopped walking. “That’s terrible.”

Maurine turned to face him. She put her hand on his shoulder. “Do you see what I’m getting at, Sweetheart?”

Eddie started to shake again. His eyes glossed over with a thin liquid veneer. 

“I’m saying that the work Scholl did made it to the big screen, and we all got to see the spectacular work he accomplished. It’s a great film. It’s a small piece of magic in a lot of lives.”

Eddie shivered.

“If it doesn’t make sense yet, don’t worry. I know you’re still shook up. Just come inside and have something to eat. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

The bistro was packed with what seemed like a high-profile lunch crowd. Maurine and Eddie approached the host stand. She told the host that they had a reservation for three. 

“Miss Campbell, you said?” asked the host. 

Maurine nodded.

“The other member of your party has already been seated.” 

Seated at a secluded booth was a tall dark figure nursing a bottled beer. As Eddie and Maurine approached to table his form came into shape.

“Eddie, meet Joe.”

“Pleased to meet you Eddie.”

Eddie and Maurine took a seat. Eddie was immediately swayed by the charm that Joe seemed to radiate.

“Sorry we’re late,” Maurine said. “It took longer to clear up the fiasco at the studio.” (2)

“It’s all cool, Maurine,” said Joe. His voice was like worn leather.

“Joe’s an associate of another public interest group, Eddie.”

Joe smiled at Eddie. Then Joe said, “Well, I’m retired now. Things ain’t the same as they used to be.”

A waitress approached the table and asked for drink orders. 

“Another round of what he’s having,” Maurine said, gesturing towards Joe. 

“Better just make it two, Joe said,” he took a sip of his beer, then he turned to Maurine, “Still have to drive across town.”

Eddie couldn’t find anything to say. He tapped his feathers on the table and looked around the room. All he could do was replay the image of that little girl moving out of the frame, out of his sight, picking up the gun and pulling the trigger. Each time he imagined the sound of that jarring blast he winced.

Meanwhile Maurine spoke to Joe. “Any news from the hill?”

“Nothing yet,” Joe replied. “At the moment it’s all just phone calls and hearings. Right now any delays will work in our favor, you know how it is. These people can’t do anything right while the press is hot on the subject.”

“What’s all that about?” Eddie asked.

Maurine said, “Oh, just politics, Eddie. To be perfectly honest with you, it’s why what we’re doing here is so important. We’ve got people with body guards telling unarmed citizens that they can’t protect themselves. At the same time we’re not allowed to provide educational programming for kids to help them know how to navigate these situations.”

Joe took a cigarette out of his jacket and lit it. “It comes down to a few simple problems, Eddie. We have representatives in congress who think they can regulate things that ought to be left to personal responsibility, and then they go and write other bills that deny schools access to the resources to teach people how to be responsible for themselves. It’s no wonder kids are running the streets playing with guns like they’re toys.”

“Do you work for another gun rights organization,” Eddie asked?

“No, I’m sorry to say I don’t. At the moment I’m a consultant for a number of different interest groups. But I used to work for the tobacco companies. Camel, in particular.”

The waitress returned to the table with their drinks. She put her hand on the booth behind Joe and said, “I’m sorry sir but this is a non-smoking restaurant.”

Joe smiled with the cigarette between his furry lips. Then he gracefully withdrew the cigarette and put it out on a butter tray. He then crumbled it up inside a napkin and left it on the tray. “No worries, hun.”

“Well, I have to say, after what just happened I’m not sure I do feel comfortable with guns being around kids,” Eddie said.

Maurine chimed in, “It was hard to watch, I have to admit. Thank god nobody got hurt. And of course, any time something like this happens we need to take stock in our approach and make sure we proceed on the proper course. 

“We ran into similar problems when I was working inside the tobacco industry. No one’s denying that this product has adverse side-effects. It would be terrible for a child to start smoking. He’s not old enough to understand the full gravity of his decisions. Smoking is, after all, an adult decision. A good parent wouldn’t let a child smoke any more readily than one might give a ten-year-old a shot of whiskey. But that same parent would give his kid a drink at twenty-one. Or maybe even give him a nice cigar for his engagement. These things are cultural rights of passage. Really, they’re just parts of American life. A good family passes these traditions down responsibly, and in due time. So we taught programs in schools encouraging kids to wait until they were grown up to make a decision about smoking.”

“And the program was effective Eddie. Underage smoking has declined rapidly in the United States since the implementation of that program.”

“Working with kids was my passion,” said Joe. But even as the program was becoming successful I was being black-balled. Nowaday’s I can’t have anything to do with tobacco education because my reputation’s been shot by a bunch of guys in Washington who think they know what’s best and how.”

“I’m glad you came to see me today,” said Maurine, “Because I don’t think we took the time to really explain what it is you’re doing. Joe Camel here never got to really take charge of what he was passionate about--”

“But you have the chance to be a role model for children all across this country.”

“Today you saw how serious the situation is.”

“That bullet could have gone into that little girl’s chest,” Eddie said.

“And thank god it didn’t. Just think how different today would have turned out if the very film you’re working on had already been made. If those kids had seen it, this never would have happened. That gun wouldn’t have gone off and we wouldn’t have anything to worry about.”

“Eddie, look over here. This is an important moment. You can let this moment get the best of you. Go ahead and walk on out of here, drop the project. But then you have to face facts. The next time you’re watching the news and you see some little girl on a stretcher because she played with a pistol, you’re going to remember that you could have stopped it. It’s too late for me to stop kids from smoking. You can still be the friendly face of guns.”

“You could be the next Art Scholl.”

Eddie’s chest raised and fell ecstatically. This time, when he thought of the little girl, he imagined him swooping in on time and keeping her away, yelling, “Stop! Don’t Touch! Leave the Area, tell an adult!” 

¹What I know about Maurine Campbell is all public record, though most of it became more readily available in the wake of Eddie’s Incident. She had risen expediently through the ranks of the National Rifle Association’s Department of Educational Programming. 
Her ascent began with a position as a canvasser for the NRA in the mid-seventies as a reaction to the Brady Campaign. She proved so effective in collecting both signatures and donations that within weeks she was promoted to field manager, and then eventually to a position as a campaign organizer. Her field office was the most lucrative in the South-East region. 
Her reputation took her across the country as a consultant to field offices in areas less receptive to their message. She honed in on neighborhoods in Chicago, Detroit, East St. Louis, Los Angeles and New York. Within a year she had an entry level position in Public Relations where she was a behind-the-scenes integral force in developing the “Guns don’t kill people, people kill people” campaign.
In 1980 she was the subject of some controversy when she was mugged in New York City. The police report revealed that she in fact did not have a gun on her at the time of the incident. In the ensuing days it was discovered that she was actually not a gun owner at all. She now has a concealed carry permit and a pink .38 special that she keeps in her purse.
However, the collateral damage from that event meant a bullet-proof glass ceiling on Maurine’s career. By the late eighties she was the director of educational programming, a newly organized branch founded in Florida in the wake of a slew of childhood gun injuries, and in the hopes of killing the Child Access Prevention bill. She discovered Eddie Eagle. The Gun Safety Program was her brain child.

 

² Transcript of Gun Safety With Eddie Eagle incident out-take. 

ZOOM IN on the EDDIE EAGLE STORY BOOK.

Narrator: (a friendly female voice) It happened once upon a time, this safety tale that’s said to rhyme. A tale about an eagle crew whose safety tales are meant for you. (Page turns to Long John in a Lake) Long John Eagle likes lakes and pools, and teaches water safety rules. (Turn to Amelia Page) Amelia Eagle swoops in to say playing with fire is never okay. (Turn to Eddie Page). But many say the friendliest bird--the smartest too, I’ve always heard--is Eddie Eagle, the brave and true, whose safety rule is just for you. Born in a nest perched up in the sky, he’s cared about kids since he opened his eyes.
Zoom in on next page, where high on a perch sits an egg, and in it, the hero. Eddie tries to burst through the egg, eventually succeeding in cracking it open. He is a handsome young eagle. His shirt is red and says “Eddie” in bold white letters.
Eddie: Whoa! (strokes feathers and laughs) Hello world!
Eddie flies and does flips,
then flies around town.
Narrator: Now Eddie was very good at flips, and giving safety tips. Eddie cares so much about you, he flies around town and the country too, watching for danger low and high, to help you with his eagle eyes.
Eddie flies into the window of the Eagle Eyes HQ.
The window:
Reads: The Eagle Eyes need you. Sign up here.
Int. Office - Day
Eddie Eagle looks into the camera.
Eddie: Eddie Eagle, at your service.
Narrator: Eddie has a rule he learned from the chief. A simple rule that’s short and brief.
Ext. City - Day
Eddie is flying around town.
Narrator: The Chief called Eddie to ask his friends if the kids are safe.
Phone Rings
Narrator: Let’s listen in.
Eddie answers his phone.
Eddie: Yeah!
Chief: Eddie, it’s the Chief. What’s up?
Eddie: I am. About fifty stories. Way up! Talk about a busy morning though.
The Chief: What happened.
Flash Back to Eddie flying around town. When he lands on a perch and spots some kids playing in a window.
Eddie: (V.O) Well, I was making my rounds in the countryside, when through the open window of an attic, I spied five or six kids looking all around.
Cut to kids playing with various toys.
Eddie: (V.O) Really excited about neat stuff they found. Grandma’s attic was full of fun things. Lots of old boxes all tied up with string. There was a clock, and a globe, and a trunk full of hats. An old radio, and a baseball bat! Oh, and an out of tune guitar. Boy, they were having fun. But then (more seriously), in the corner behind the broom, I saw a gun.
Eddie flies to the window and sees the gun behind the broom.
Eddie: At just that moment, the kids saw it too. I didn’t wait. I knew what to do!
Eddie puts a siren on his head and flies into the room.
RAP BEAT
Eddie: (choreographed rapping) Stop! Don’t touch! I’m Eddie Eagle, and I like you too much to see you get hurt and that’s why I say, if you spot a gun, just walk a way.
Five kids line up with Eddie. Sixth kid not in the shot.
Eddie: Stop! Don’t touch!
A loud blast disrupts the kids, and one little girl with red hair next to Eddie falls to the floor. The four other kids start screaming.
Eddie is frozen in place. Sound of a heavy object hitting the floor and another gunshot. Camere pans frantically to a boy crying with the gun at his feet. 
BLACK OUT.
Transcriber’s Note: The following account of the video was taken for the purpose of record-keeping internally within the N.R.A. files and is to be marked CONFIDENTIAL: CLASSIFIED.