Category: Arts & Letters

A MILL RACE FOR SURVIVAL OR ELSE

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

Water-powered mills, once the backbone of American industrial might, run as an emblem throughout Big Inca versus a New Pony Express Rider. The novel overlaps layers of history and ambition, geography and resettled ethnicity, growth and decay as they center in the once bustling town of yrubBury, where Bill is dispatched fresh out of college.

His mission is vague, misty, constantly shifting – and highly lucrative – even when he has no clue where it’s going. His coded messages to and from his boss in corporate HQ are his lifeline to the outside world.

It’s exciting, of course, to see preservation take shape. As what’s old becomes new again when his international conglomerate starts recasting a backwater town for its own ends, however clandestine. As we discover, behind the renovation of the decaying mills is a design for an isolated facility for a military-industrial behemoth.

At the heart of it all, Bill’s a solitary innocent puppet at the bidding of a distant boss pulling the strings from afar – a station agent out on the frontier. And then, running frantically along it.

Will he survive? And what of the mills?

Everything depends on the confrontation with the rival Big Inca.

Inca 1

~*~

The novel is available here.

OF TURTLES AND SHOES

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

As I said at the time …

A constant challenge in any artwork is how do we shape the material so that it enters some other place from the one where it originates? What form or structure is appropriate or helpful? How much abstraction? Do we stay general or become specific? (I notice that you don’t identify what kind of turtles these are!) How much elaboration? What does it take for the unexpected force to appear, that third enterprise apart from the author and the reader? How transparent or center-stage should the author be? Never easy answers!

I have many fond memories of Cincinnati, once I was able to drive down to escape Dayton for an evening or weekend, back before I finally got away to Bloomington and points beyond. Maybe you’re ready to do a poem about Erchenbrecker and Vine, the address of the zoo?

I love the cover. A good feel to that turtle art. And the Revolutionary War-era American composer William Billings (who’s also a kind of Yankee grandfather to the Southern “Sacred Harp” style of hymn-singing) has a wonderful part-setting of the Song of Solomon citation you use.

Thanks for the reactions – and for giving the shoes a good home.

Catch you later – Namaste.

~*~

This was to small-journal editor Troy Teegarden, who’d sent me a copy of his latest poetry chapbook, Reflections on the Elkhorn (1997).

HOW WOULD THE AUTHOR REACT?

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

I never know what will show up in our household after a Saturday morning round of yard sales, and Vince Passaro’s novel Violence, Nudity, Adult Content is a perfect example. At least it wasn’t another chair.

OK, it’s a catchy title – one I’m afraid generally oversells the story. While the novel’s excellently written, what really strikes me is the way it’s essentially four related novellas that are woven together. And, yes, it is set in Manhattan.

There’s the big law-office intrigue and infighting. There’s the one rich client’s murder case. There’s another lawsuit resulting from a brutal sexual attack. And there’s the marriage with two young kids that’s coming unraveled. (So far, it’s not that different from the three stories in a single television episode of Love Boat, a formula that quickly spread across programming. Here, though, the braiding feels more integrated into a whole. Well, not everyone was on the boat at the same time, in effect.)

Now, for a little confession. In a more conventionally structured novel, I will often leap ahead somewhere around the middle to the final pages. If what I find there makes perfect sense from what I’ve already learned, I’ll likely drop the book – perhaps picking it up later and skimming for supporting details. Of course, it the plot’s much thicker, I continue on the linear course.

What I found myself doing in this case was jumping from page to page to pick up just one of the threads, all the way to the end, before returning to the point of departure and following another thread the same way. Hey, I was pressed for time! The fact that one of the threads, presented as emails, appeared in a different font made the process that much easier.

So I’m left wondering how the author would feel about readers like me. Or whether an author even cares how a reader moves through a story.

Maybe it just depends on the book. Or an ego.

CHANCING UPON A DESIRED TALE

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 3 Comments

In today’s publishing world, it’s impossible to keep up with the output. Even in a specialized niche.

I recall asking an English department chair at a respected college if she’d heard of so-and-so – the kind of novelist who gets reviewed by the New York Times both in its daily edition and again, independently, in the Sunday Book Review section. The answer was no.

(In fairness, she and her husband always introduce me to a range of fine authors when I scan their many home library bookshelves.)

Why wasn’t I surprised?

More recently, recognizing the extent of Greek-American influence in my own community and throughout much of the Northeast, I began searching for works that might reflect its family life and culture. Even a search by a public library research desk came up pretty empty. The Greek-American authors we did find seemed to be writing about other things.

There are, as I’ve noted, a few exceptions, but there should be more.

And then, by chance, I picked up Jeffrey Eugenides’ The Virgin Suicides. His was one of the Greek-American names I’d come across, but this story was focused on five sisters in a Roman Catholic family. I quickly resonated with the Midwestern setting of the story, which easily fit into a band across northern Ohio and Indiana and, as became more apparent, southern Michigan. This was familiar terrain, not far from my native soil – and another one that is rarely represented in literary fiction (yes, I know the objections to the term – but how do we distinguish it from commercial genres that are sales driven?). Despite its gruesome premise, this is a humorous book, befitting the thwarted desires and misunderstandings of its adolescent male observers.

And then, on page 171 of the paperback I was reading, came a glimmer of the novel I’ve been seeking. In the household of the narrator’s friend Demo Karafilis, we encounter his grandmother, Old Mrs. Karafilis, who generally stays to her room in the basement, where she keeps her memories of growing up a Greek in Turkey who managed to escape with her life. The next three-and-a-half pages are an incredible portrait that left me yearning for the novel-length development. As Demo explains it, “We Greeks are a moody people. Suicide makes sense to us. … What my yia yia could never understand about America was why everyone pretended to be happy all the time.”

What I discovered a few nights later, in the stacks of the library I’d consulted earlier, was the elusive Greek-American novel. How could it be so invisible after being acclaimed on Oprah’s list and even awarded a Pulitzer Prize? It was Eugenide’s second novel, a 529-page masterpiece.

Maybe part of it has to do with the sexuality theme that masks everything else – the narrator’s peculiar adolescent gender shift thanks to a recessive gene and the impact of earlier incest. Well, it is a riveting tale. For me, though, the primary story of Middlesex is the multigenerational presentation of a Greek-American family and its culture, done in a matter-of-fact way, with nothing sentimentalized. It’s an incredibly rich novel, no matter which part of the narrative claims your attention.

Not to take anything away from all the novels of ethnic life in New York City or Chicago or the regional flavors of New England, the South, southern California, Texas and other Far West locales, it’s safe to say many other strands of American life are greatly underrepresented or even missing entirely.

Any you want to point out?

FOR THE STORYTELLER, A SCANDALOUS ZIPPER

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

Obviously, not me …

“I’ll have to explain,” the woman said as she insisted on placing a garland around my neck. It wasn’t a garland, exactly, but a lanyard-like ring of cream-colored lace. “You see, this was a zipper from a favorite aunt’s sewing box. She was very fond of her fabrics.”

I was baffled, but she obviously appreciated my performance that night and the relationship between an artist – and someone who has been touched by the work cannot be slighted. So a mixture of gratitude, humility, and pride flowed through me as I bent slightly to accept her admittedly eccentric token.

On awakening the next morning after an uncommonly deep sleep, nothing in my room was in its place. To my horror, my closet was empty, as were the dresser drawers. At least I still had a selection of shoes. Mystified as to what might have transpired, I noticed an envelope addressed to me on my dressing table. I lifted it, inhaled gardenia, and carefully slit the fold. No one could have been here while I slept, could they? My husband was away on a business trip. The kids were off at camp. This was supposed to be time for myself, and appearing on stage was my one indulgence in celebrating myself.

The note reminded me of the garland and instructed me to once again place it around my neck. The front came down to my navel. The guidelines informed me I could zip it as low as I wanted, should I desire to be open to inspiration, or close it as tight if I desired more privacy. How strange, I thought, the flowery handwriting was telling me I did not need to wear anything else, the zipper would be more than sufficient. Actually, the words were more specific. They said I dare not wear anything else when I set out.

Well, I thought, I’m really in a pickle. I can’t go out like this, I’ll just have to stay put. On the other hand, I was also out of milk and coffee. I was thinking about calling my best friend, but she was on the phone first, saying she was going to be in the neighborhood and hoped to stop by. None of my excuses were working. At least she agreed to pick up a few necessaries.

When she arrived, I was wearing only the garland and a pair of flip-flops. “My, aren’t you being risque today,” she said as gave me a brief hug. “I never wear that so unzipped.”

“You really think so?”

“Oh, yes, you could be a bit more modest, a bit more of a tease.”

“There, that’s better. Why don’t you grab your purse and we’ll head to the mall?”

“But I’d need to get dressed,” I protested.

“Oh, no, you’re fine,” she assured me.

Reluctantly, I headed off with her.

Amazingly, nobody noticed I was totally naked apart from the yoke and my shoes. “My, what a lovely collar,” some murmured with approval.

“You shouldn’t bend over so far when it’s unzipped that far,” another counseled. “People can see a bit too much of your taa-taas.”

I couldn’t believe it, especially how free I felt, even on stage. Did nobody see anything but the collar? Well, they saw the skin within it and above it, but no more.

That, in turn, created its own forms of impropriety …

BEFORE THE INTERNET, THERE WAS THE TELETYPE

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

Well, we also had the telephone – and memos, sometimes delivered by a mailman and sometimes by an office courier and sometimes, gasp, in person by the boss himself. Or maybe just his secretary.

But when I began drafting Big Inca Versus a New Pony Express Rider, the Internet was somewhere over the horizon. Yes, online communications did exist in what we now consider some crude form. That’s progress for you, I suppose.

Still, in developing the story, I wanted some kind of encrypted exchange between the distant handler and young Bill in the field, and that led to the technical arrangement described in the novel.

Thus the events could be disclosed in a series of memos covering a three-year period. It’s almost like playing cards, one at a time.

To tap into their exchange, just click here.

Inca 1

WALKING THE DOG THROUGH THE ZOO

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

Humankind’s attraction to other animals – the baby ones, especially – is universal. What is it in our love of pets, for instance, that so opens us to our own existence?

What I see is a recognition of our animal nature and a desire to snuggle in amid our fellow critters rather than hover above them. Well, most of them – there are those we fear or detest. Even so …

As the German grandmother loves to quote, God has a big zoo.

And that includes us.

In a Heartbeat~*~

For a look at my animal kingdom poems, click here.

WITH FLAMES AND A DEMON OR TWO

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

Anais Nin once contended that each of us has a demon. My response was – and remains – Just one?

Each demon, we should note, is different.

Our struggle is what thickens the plot – or dulls it. It can draw us together in intimacy – or drive us apart.

The eleven prose-poems of Harbor of Grace reflect that energy.

They tell of intense friendship propelled by a shared faith that flames and then explodes. Of the Old Ways bordering Amish and other Plain peoples in addition to urban conflict over the horizon. Of commitment and human shortfalls, too.

Harbor of Grace is the translated name of the town at the mouth of the Susquehanna River where the dedicatee of this collection was born.

harbor cover.jpg.opt370x493o0,0s370x493~*~

For the chapbook, click here.

TAKING A FALL IN AUTUMN

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 8 Comments

Autumn typically stresses my allergies to a point that many years I’ve been knocked down for a week or two with “flu-like symptoms,” as one physician diagnosed it. (Not that he had any magic shots or pills to speed my recovery.) Some rounds have meant being unable to stay awake long or finding myself chilled to the bone, unable to warm up. Shortness of breath, dizziness, and loss of appetite are also common. Responsible work, please remember, is out of the question.

A routine of preventative medications in the past decade or so has allowed me to largely elude the malady, but this year I’ve been hit.

As illnesses go, this is quite tolerable, as long as I’m not trying to do much of anything. It simply means lying low and drinking liquids.

An upside does appear, though: for me, it’s the reading orgy that can accompany the recovery.

Do other writers (or readers, for that matter) feel obligated to tackle certain periodicals or books before getting to our guilty pleasures? Or is it just me?

Don’t get me wrong. For instance, nobody forced me to subscribe at a bargain-basement rate to the New York Review of Books, but after several appeals, I caved in – and then the issues began to pile up.

I hadn’t really followed this periodical since the early ’70s and was curious to see how much it was sticking to its earlier biases. (Yes, I’m using that term.) Happily, I’m finding a broader range of thought than I’d remembered. What has taken some readjustment involves the depth of the articles. Each one carries an assumption that we are somehow conversant in an esoteric topic that is apparently an earmark of intelligence or a solid education or … well, I dive in anyway, realizing I seldom know enough to challenge the author’s line of argument. It feels like being swept along in a tide.

This is also reminding me of a hierarchy of intellectual discourse in writing.

If the New York Review of Books is at one level, the New Yorker seems to sit a step lower, and the New York Times on a step below that. New York and Vanity Fair magazines, along with the Boston Globe, Washington Post, and a handful of other newspapers sit a step lower – and they’re all well above the median level today. As for the rest of us out in the sticks?

Admittedly, I felt a little pressure here. My wife repeated her request I pass the issues on “when you’re finished,” and that meant intact editions rather than my usual filet strategy that cuts a magazine apart, clips out articles of interest, and pitches the rest. (Saves space, for one thing, and puts pieces I want to address in appropriate files, for another. Plus, in the old days, we used to mail clippings of interest to each other – remember that, back before email?)

Well, back to that matter of keeping up, especially when we have our own local and regional issues to address, in addition to our individual specialized interests.

I got caught up with the backlog of New York Reviews and a few other magazines. And then it was on to a stack of books. Huzzah! Huzzah! Without getting into the list, let me just say what a pleasure it is to read a volume straight through, within a day or two, as God or at least the author intended – rather than having to do it by bits and pieces over long stretches of time. (Do I need to mention there are many books around our house still waiting for the final, uh, consummation? Not all mine, by a long shot.)

Well, I am feeling better now, thank you, and there’s a long list of home repair and garden projects to do before cold weather kicks in. Life really depends on maintaining a balance, doesn’t it? Or is there a better way?