a taste of the frozen moment: THAT STUFFED TIGER

[the book is THE FROZEN MOMENT. the publication date is DECEMBER 17th. here's a little TASTE of one of the stories...]

THAT STUFFED TIGER by Elva Redwood

Never felt a damn thing like it, not in this life.  That baby with her long fingers and dark dark eyes looking right into mine.  She wrapped those fingers all the way round my thumb.

This whole, clean feeling in me, new like mountain rain.  With that utterly real hand, by reflex just holding on.

I never felt so profoundly related.  Like this child was physically part of me.

Then my thought was: Thank God.  Now I don’t have to have one of my own.

[Elva Redwood lives in Portland, Oregon, where she is privileged to study with Tom Spanbauer and the Dangerous Writers. She is a counselor and is inspired by the ways people relate their internal, private experiences to others and the world.]

Elva will be reading along with contributors Holly Goodman, Kevin Meyer, Kathleen Lane, Gage Mace, Nora Robertson, Christine Calfas, Dian Greenwood and Gigi Little at Crow Arts Manor on January 15th. Details to come. The publication date of The Frozen Moment is December 17th. You can also order books through Publication Studio here.

a moment in the day: christmas eve book question

I'm shelving books on Christmas Eve, and the store is packed. As I step toward my cart through the stream of customers along the aisle, a woman appears from behind a post covered with display titles. On the other side of the post, a girl leafs through an enormous book about Lady Gaga.

The woman stops me. "Can you help me? We're looking for... Wait, where's my daughter." [the girl looks about thirteen?] "So, we have to buy a book for her grandfather. And he's kind of a shit. So, what's a good, impersonal book to give an old man?"

a taste of the frozen moment: SUBURBAN BITCH CRUISE

[the book is THE FROZEN MOMENT. the publication date is DECEMBER 17th. here's a little TASTE of one of the stories...]

 SUBURBAN BITCH CRUISE by Akhim Cabey

I remembered how, when Lisa and I would get high at night in her room, we’d fasten a scented dryer sheet to the end of a cardboard toilet-paper roll and blow the smoke through it. Our breath came out the other side smelling like perfume, and we’d marvel at the magic of changing one thing into another. Then we’d make love all night. We were both screamers and believed our pants and moans had the power to drown out the memories of molestation and a dead father, of a physically abusive stepfather and crackhead parents, to take away the odor of our pasts and make us come out smelling fine on the other side. Sometimes, when we woke up the next morning, we were at peace for several hours and no longer so painfully, brutally in love.

"Suburban Bitch Cruise" was originally published in the Sun magazine.

The Frozen Moment anthology came out on December 17th. You can order books through Publication Studio here. 

the big black dark

I'm just back from walking Nicholas. Outside, the dark and the streetlamp gold and the sheen of frost on everything reminded me of two things - Christmas ornaments and the particular way water works in film noir. The glitter of Hollywood rain and the way sun lies on the waves of the 1940s ocean in the black of some scene that's supposed to be night but which is actually day so the film wizards do some sort of magic and turn down the light.

Last night Stephen and I went to the Someday Lounge for the film screening of The Big Black Dark, the new short film noir by Northern Flicker Films. They screened it on the darkest night of the year - clever. Film noir is maybe my favorite genre, so I was extra excited for this. And a little wary. I'm always wary when the modern world creates something noir. On film, it usually turns out to be a spoof or a pastiche. Brian Padian's The Big Black Dark is neither.

It has elements of both - it's funny and it does recreate that noir style - even going so far as to be shot on film [!] - but it's not a spoof and it's not a poorly-made recreation. It's its own thing. For me, it's the perfect mix. The opening credits are great, and the music is not some wannabe noir jazz riff. That to me is always the first marker of a bad modern noir - the wannabe noir jazz soundtrack. And the wannabe noir dialogue with phrases like, alright, you mugs, getcher hands up or I'm gonna fill ya fulla lead. Nothing like that here, thank god. And the writing was sharp and the dialogue smart.

The sense of time is a nice ambiguity. Period clothing and period props but modern elements in the sets too. For instance, there's a scene where our hero is on the phone. Behind him is a fan that looks to be from the forties, he's dialing the amount of numbers you'd dial today, and the telephone itself seems to come from a time somewhere in between, tying it all up together. The world was created so carefully, the ambiguity set up so well, that when there was a CD in one of the scenes, I didn't even notice the object as out of place. It fit.

I'm going to try to stop saying so much about specifics in the film - I don't want to toss a bunch of spoilers out there. Let me just say that the second-person voice-over narration worked great, the way rear-screen projection was used was brilliant, the ending was excellent.

Great acting from Lanie Hoyo and Mike Barber, who didn't overdo their roles, didn't spoof it up.

Great deadpan / shell-shocked turn from Matt Sipes - that part calls for a good actor and he poured subtle life into it.

And Christine Calfas - that's the back of her head up there - whoosh, sexy as ever and perfect for this movie. She put a subtlety into her performance that was just wonderful. Again - the possibilities for overdoing this art form - the role she plays could easily be pushed too far, but Christine works this part gently and just nails it.

The biggest surprise for me, actor-wise, was Brian Padian, himself, who was absolutely marvelous - quirky and funny. I had no idea he was an actor as well as... well, all the other things he does on this film - writing, directing, producing. He blew me away.

Can't wait to see it again. I hear it'll be available soon with a blooper reel and everything. If you want to check it out, the facebook page for The Big Black Dark is here.

deux

Nicholas trots fast down the sidewalk. The tips of his ears bob-bob-bob. He waits at the entryway of the apartment for me to open the door and then bob-bob-bob up the marble steps under the white wedding-cake-frosting high, high ceiling. Then up two flights of steps to our door. Inside, I let him off the leash and skirt Stephen doing his yoga, to toss my little bag in the trash.

"Deux fois," I tell Stephen.

He makes an approving noise.

Stephen was the one who started discussing Nicholas' business in French. "Il a fait caca," he likes to say. Always a little worried if Nicholas takes a walk and doesn't go numero deux. Partly out of worry that it may happen in the apartment but more out of that sense of paternal concern, wanting everything inside our little guy to be running right.

There's really no reason to be gladder if Nicholas goes twice, other than the excuse to say two more French words. Neither of us has had the opportunity to announce il a fait caca trois fois yet. This morning, walking Nicholas and pleased that I got to announce deux fois, which doesn't happen often, I started fantasizing about trois. As we came down that last stretch of sidewalk toward the apartment, I considered passing it by and taking Nicholas around the corner. But it was cold. So I had to concede deux and get on with my life. Deux was good enough.

So, this is what we've come to. Yes. For more on this subject, you can read a blog post by Stephen here.

book launch night

Excellent book launch event last night. We arrived about ten minutes after doors opened, and already The Woods was packed. The Woods is a campy-charming event space that was once a funeral parlor - Spanish style with big chandeliers hanging down. What do you call those chandeliers that aren't sprays of crystal but look like giant plastic beehives? Nooks opening off of the main room, all bright painted but low light, kooky couches, a bar on one side that we never made it to. So sad that this place will be closing sometime soon.

Before showtime it was a rush to say hi and throw hugs around so many people. We never made it out of the entryway, and it didn't look like there were any seats left, anyway. I sidled myself up to the edge of the open archway to the main room, and I and a number of us stood there in and behind the archway for all the readings. Where I was, I had a straight shot over the heads of people in seats, to the readers on stage. Colin gave each reader a sweet, little intro - made me selfishly look forward to hearing my own in January. Colin all suave and confident and wearing a tie. There were a lot of readers, but nothing bogged down. Every piece was totally engaging, and the evening really moved.

Mary Wharff making us all laugh somewhere between delighted and horrified as she read about wanting to eat the baby. How deftly her narrative moved back and forth between the scene in the drug store and the scene in the bar, between funny and heartbreaking. [Mary came all the way from Kansas to be part of this event.]

Wes Griffith with his voice all biscuits and molasses. In his intro, Colin said something like, if you fall in love with his voice, look out, because he's married. Sometimes I'm glad I have such a dysfunctional memory, because things I already know can be new again. I've read Wes' piece in a number of incarnations, but still, last night when he got to the end, it hit me so hard I made a little gasp, standing there.

Liz Prato getting up on stage and saying that, here she is reading at a 21-and-over event, and for the first time she's presenting a piece that doesn't contain the F-bomb.

"So," and then a tiny pause, and, "Fuck!" she shouted.

It's a deft piece of writing, laying down a leapfrog of moments and details, and no F-bomb is needed. 

Margaret Malone and her lovely monotone, reading half of an intensely personal essay. Fragmented and laced together the way memory is. Precise, little moments written in her precise, graceful voice.

Bradley K. Rosen, clown at heart, saying he was told there was a time limit, so he'd shrunk his piece. Then he pulled out what looked like a tiny book, size of a pat of butter, and one of those big magnifying glasses.

"Florence...stepped out of the car...languidly..."

He pretended to try to read from the tiny pages until a friend walked up with a black notebook and handed it to him. Then Brad was off, reading his real piece, obliterating the cliché text of his gag opening with his lovely language.

Charles Dye so big on stage he looked like he was bursting out of his spotlight. Reading only a part of his story, starting at the beginning where it grabs hold of your heart and stopping in a spot where it punches you in the gut. I think when he stopped reading, the whole room had one of those moments where the breath stops at the back of your throat.

"It only gets darker from there," Charles tells me.

Michael Sage Ricci trying to raise the music stand but pulling the top clean off instead. Reading a story that starts out light and goes to surprising places. In each of the stories in this book, and in each of the readings, I've found myself, naturally, looking for the frozen moment. Trying to predict what each offering's frozen moment is going to be. Sage's piece, in particular, did real honor to Colin's theme, I think.

Tom Spanbauer stepping up in a vintage suit. [Last time I saw him, Tom had said, "What are you going to wear? I'm going to wear vintage." So I wore vintage too.]

"I'm feeling kind of tender," Tom said into the mic. "Brad says I always cry." This was Tom's way of steeling himself for his own reading after all the emotions already put out into the room.

He read his piece "The Visitations," which I've heard him read twice before. Once in workshop and once at the benefit reading for Walt Curtis. Every time I hear or read this story, it does something to me that I don't understand. We talk about writing as music, but when I hear this story, I hear real music. Some certain sound in my head, a dark, foreboding, relentless sound in my head. The second-person voice of his story is like an elegant nightmare, from which you're suddenly raised up into moments of transcendence.

After the readings, the first of two bands, Leaves Russell, started on stage. They sounded great, but we didn't want the music of the readings washed out of our heads. Stephen and I went over to the sale table and had a gander at the book. It's a sweet, handcrafted book, which comes with different colored covers. One of the cool things about Publication Studio books is that you can go into one of their studios and order one, and they make it right there in front of you. It's dated on the spine. I'll get a contributor's copy, but I also look forward to going into the Portland Publication Studio and getting one hot off the press. But last night, Stephen picked up a copy there, and we moved into the crowd to chat with people and give hugs and congratulations.

Then we ended up at an Italian place called Gino's, a big group of us ringing a large table, ordering wine and clinking glasses. A few of us who will be reading at the January event: Christine Calfas, Nora Robertson [and beau], Holly Goodman. Also Krista Price, another writer from the basement. Mary Wharff [and beau]. Tom and Sage, Tom sitting down next to me, Tom presenting me with the pages he'd read from, which made a lovely souvenir of the evening.

We ordered food. I was famished. "I spent all evening on one banana," I said.

Tom said, "Did it hurt?"

When Colin and his wife Rebekah showed up, we got to be obnoxious in the restaurant and applaud and cheer. When Brad Rosen appeared, we got to be obnoxious again. More joking about my banana. More clinking of glasses and then good food. A lovely way to round out a wonderful evening.

a taste of the frozen moment: ADVENTURES OF A MAYA QUEEN

[the book is THE FROZEN MOMENT. the publication date is DECEMBER 17th. here's a little TASTE of one of the stories...]

ADVENTURES OF A MAYA QUEEN by Liz Prato

It was late in the morning when we arrived at Tikal. Most tourists got to the ruins early, at sunrise, because the pyramids were built to be seen with the sun rising or setting or at some other perfect point in the sky. But it’s hard to get there that early, really, when you begin in Belize and eat breakfast first at that little café in San Ignacio, the one that’s painted yellow and pink and has a three-legged dog sleeping outside.

“I’m calling him Franz,” I said, and fed him a sausage link. A dance troupe of fleas hip-hopped on his head.

“That thing’s mangy.” Peter peered over the top of his Peterson’s Field Guide. “I don’t think you should feed it. As a matter of fact, I don’t think you should name it.”

[Liz Prato's work has been nominated for four Pushcart-prizes and appeared in several publications, including Iron Horse Literary Review, Salon.com, Subtropics, Hunger Mountain, ZYZZYVA and Who’s Your Mama (Soft Skull Press). When she’s not teaching as an Associate Fellow at the Attic Institute, she fantasizes about Guatemalan limeade.]

Liz will be reading along with contributors Tom Spanbauer, Michael Sage Ricci, Margaret Malone, Charles Dye, J. W. Griffith, Mary Wharff and Brad Rosen on December 17th at The Woods. The facebook event is here. Books will be available at the event. You can also order books through Publication Studio here.