CCLaP Weekender: June 13, 2014

CCLaP Weekender From the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography

June 13, 2014

New fiction by Oliver Zarandi Photography by Lindsey Fast Chicago literary events calendar June 13, 2014 | 1

THIS WEEK’S CHICAG

For all events, visit [cclapce FRIDAY, JUNE 13

11:30am Bull Garlington and Dave Haynes

Barbara's Bookstore / 233 S. Wacker / Free barbarasbookstore.com The local writers and former police officers discuss their new books.

7:30pm Susan Jane Gilman

Women & Children First / 5233 N. Clark / Free womenandchildrenfirst.com The author reads from her debut novel, The Ice Cream Queen of Orchard Street.

SATURDAY, JUNE 14 1pm John R. Schmidt

Edgewater Public Library / 6000 N. Broadway / Free chipublib.org The author discusses his newest book, The Mayor Who Cleaned Up Chicago: A Political Biography of William E. Dever.

5pm Poetry Reading

Art Colony / 2630 W. Fletcher / Free lostartistschicago.com Live performances by Heidi Bellile, Dan Cleary, Lynn Fitzgerald, and Bruce Matteson.

7pm John Carruthers

The Book Cellar / 4736 N. Lincoln / Free bookcellarinc.com The chef discusses his newest cookbook, ManBQue: Meat, Beer, Rock and Roll.

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GO LITERARY EVENTS

enter.com/chicagocalendar]

7pm Leah Hager Cohen

The Book Table / 1045 Lake St., Oak Park / Free booktable.net The author discusses her work and career with fellow writer Elizabeth Berg.

7pm Dollhouse Reading Series

2265 W. Leland #1 / Free thedollhousereads.tumblr.com This month's show features Carrie Olivia Adams, Joshua Young, Sarah Carson, and Peter Davis.

7pm Mike "McBeardo" McPadden

Quimby's Bookstore / 1854 W. North / Free quimbys.com The author reads from his anthology Heavy Metal Movies. Also featuring contributors Andy Ortmann, Katie Rife, Andy Slater, Gregory Jacobsen, Rachel McPadden, and Dan Gleason.

7pm Tamale Hut Cafe Reading Series

8300 W. Cermak, North Riverside / Free thcreadingseries.wordpress.com This month's show features Robert Rodi, Regina Buccola, and Tina Jens.

SUNDAY, JUNE 15 7pm Uptown Poetry Slam

The Green Mill / 4802 N. Broadway / $7, 21+ slampapi.com International birthplace of the poetry slam. Hosted by Marc Smith.

7:30pm The Marrow

Punch House / 1227 W. 18th / Free curbsidesplendor.com This month's show, produced by Curbside Splendor, features Samantha Irby, Nico Lang, Jeff Miller, and Jen Richards.

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MONDAY, JUNE 16 6pm Jennifer Ouelette

Harold Washington Public Library / 400 S. State / Free chipublib.org The popular science writer discusses her latest book, Me, Myself and Why: Searching for the Science of Self. Held in the library's main reception hall on the lower level.

7pm Essay Fiesta!

The Book Cellar / 4736 N. Lincoln / Free essayfiesta.com This month's show, hosted by Karen Shimmin and Willy Nast, features personal essays by Samantha Irby, Randy Richardson, J.H. Palmer, and Claire Zulkey.

7:30pm The Goblin Market

Architectural Artifacts Inc. / 4325 N. Ravenswood / $8-20 acmusic.org The famed 1862 narrative poem is performed in conjunction with a special musical score by Pulitzer winner Aaron Jay Kernis. $20 at the door, $12 online, and $8 for students and seniors.

8:30pm Open Mic

Kafein Espresso Bar / 1621 Chicago Ave., Evanston kafeincoffee.com Open mic with hosts chris and Kirill.

TUESDAY, JUNE 17 7pm Write Club

The Hideout / 1354 W. Wabansia / $10, 21+ writeclubrules.com The popular "literary competition" at the Hideout.

7:30pm Homolatte

Tweet Let's Eat / 5020 N. Sheridan / Free homolatte.com This month's show features Kathie Bergquist and Amy Andrews.

Hosted by Scott Free. Enter through Big Chicks at the same address.

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WEDNESDAY, JUNE 18 7pm Local Author Night

The Book Cellar / 4736 N. Lincoln / Free bookcellarinc.com This month featuring R. Clifton Spargo, Mary Rickert, and Chris Garlington.

7:30pm Lauren Streicher

Women & Children First / 5233 N. Clark / Free womenandchildrenfirst.com The obstretics professor reads from her newest book, Love Sex Again.

9pm In One Ear

Heartland Cafe / 7000 N. Glenwood / $3, 18+ facebook.com/pages/In-One-Ear Chicago's 3rd longest-running open-mic show, hosted by Pete Wolf and Billy Tuggle.

THURSDAY, JUNE 19 7pm The Voice of Women in American Poetry

Poetry Foundation / 61 W. Superior / Free poetryfoundation.org This edition of the Poetry Society of America’s national series, featuring poets Stuart Dybek, Calvin Forbes, Susan Hahn, Joy Harjo, Parneshia Jones, David Trinidad and more, celebrates the great tradition of American women poets responding to their country’s landscape, cities, history, and people.

To submit your own literary event, or to correct the information on anything you see here, please drop us a line at cclapcenter@gmail.com.

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ORIGINAL FICTION

Photo: “Haunted Mansion, Portland Oregon,” by Curtis Perry [flickr.com/curtisperry].

Used under the terms of his Creative Commons license.

LITTLE H 6 | CCLaP Weekender

Nan was dying. The last time I saw her, she smelled of piss and her skin looked pretty raw and her eyeballs were making an exit out the back of her head and she couldn’t remember who any of us were and told us all to “fuck our butts.”

“She’s had a good run,” my Uncle Freddy would say.

Uncle Freddy lived off tinned food and had narcoleptic sperm. He’d never had kids but he had two pugs and a dachshund. Which wasn’t really the same.

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My Aunt Winnie agreed with Uncle Freddy with a “yuh huh” and said “totally” like she was stoned. She was always vacant. Like somebody had microwaved her or maybe she’d been to Chernobyl and her brain was dashed. They both looked the same, too. Like they hadn’t passed solid stools in months. Like a Russian icon painting, all skinny and 2D. My mother, she was the quiet one. The friendly one. I’d always tell my mom, “Mom, stand up for yourself ” and she’d say, “But an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind” and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even know what that means, so why does she always say it?

We lived in a studio flat. Mom slept with her new boyfriend Todd in the mezzanine bed and I slept on the sofa bed with nobody and it was a pain in the ass, I tell you. You can’t even masturbate a tiny bit—a flick of the wrist or a tug of your meat—without Todd (whose face looks like bacon sewed together, like he was a burn victim or something, skin was always a bit yellow and gooey) haw-haw’ing and would draw attention to it: “Looks like Junior’s tugging his chode again!” My mom’d laugh, but when the lights went out I’d heard her chide Todd for being such a monumental cumbitch.

Todd didn’t like working so I went to work instead. Todd used to tell me to be a real man and put the bread on the table, or he’d say be a breadweiner.

Like my mom, he didn’t really understand half of what he was saying. He’d always get song lyrics wrong, too. He’d try giving me advice.

“If you don’t bring back money,” Todd said, with his crotch showing through the slit in his kimono, “how we gonna eat?”

Mom chimed in: “That’s right, Junior. How we gonna eat if we don’t have money?”

We had no money, we were behind on rent and whatnot and I was the only one with an income.

I was my family’s only hope and this made my teeth hurt like, every day.

I worked as a corpse in a horror dungeon. There were, like, 30 different rooms and each room was a different era or a different scenario. In one room, several hundred people would reenact the death of Marie Antoinette daily. Another room was this long corridor, like a gallery, and on the wall there’d be these paintings and you could climb into every painting and see a different mobster execution or death. My favorite was the Al Capone painting and sometimes I’d see my colleague Leroy Sanders play out Al Capone’s slow death of syphilis every day. Leroy was a real pro and I’m pretty sure he’s what Todd thinks is a breadweiner.

Then there was me. Every day I’d get shit off my boss. He’d come and see me at my ‘Death Spot.’

“You’re not being dead enough. Don’t move your arm. Corpses don’t move their arms. Corpses don’t yawn, either. Be more still. Is it ‘more still’?

Stiller. Be more stiller. Corpses have more blood on them; why don’t you put more blood on yourself ? Blood is more of a brown red than red and not like 8 | CCLaP Weekender

that pink you’ve got down yourself. Make your blood browner-redder, not pinkred or pink, like you’ve got down yourself. And what corpse has a white face?

Corpses don’t look like clowns. Do you want to look like a clown? A clown?

Do you want the customers to laugh at your murdered corpse? You need a different color scheme, Junior. Especially for corpses that are Victorian. A Victorian corpse has a certain look to it. This ain’t no Georgian corpse. They were fatter with rouged cheeks and muesli coming out their japseye, son. This ain’t a Tudor corpse, either, sport. They got a grey look to their face and they’re thin and have lead for fingernails. Victorians. They rot. They’re green and sometimes little flesh medallions hang off their chin and maybe an ear drops off ? Make your ear drop off ? Try it, Junior. Drop the ears, keep the eyes. Eye. That’s right, close that one, open that one and don’t blink. And stop looking so sad at work. Is this because of your grandma? Look. A sad corpse is a bad corpse and a bad corpse means no customers and no customers means nobody gets paid diddly squat and we need more than squat, we need dollars, so don’t be a sad corpse—be a happy corpse. A happy corpse is what you are Junior. OK?”

I lay in the corner of a cobbled, Victorian Street, next to a freshly raped whore and gargled my last, bled brownish-red all over my ruffled collar and over my hard-on which was actually a rod in my corduroy pants and smiled and my boss said: well done, you’ll make a good breadweiner yet!

Aunt Winnie was married to some hotshot Brit. Albert. He was a good guy, I guess, but he coughed after every word and if he was around me, I’d start choking on my own spit. He’s just that sort of guy. Nauseating.

And Aunt Winnie put Nan in a home for Alzheimer’s patients. My mom, she wasn’t happy. She said she wanted Nan with us in the studio. Todd said, “Jesus, that’s all we’d funking need.”

Mom’s reasoning was simple. She was convinced Aunt Winnie and Uncle Freddy were trying to kill Nan. Nan had quite a bit of money stashed away. And items of interest. It’s not like Nan was rich or from good stock or anything, but she had, as Mom said, “accumulated.”

All good people accumulate, Dad used to say. Whether that’s knowledge, or stamps, or football cards, or books, or photographs and whatnot, it’s all for the greater good.

Knowledge, Dad would say. You need to know as much as possible before you “pop your clogs.” He told me there’s plenty of time for money, but once you hit, what, 30? You start losing that ability to remember new facts.

Dad, old pops—can I call him pops, yes, pops—he sat me down on his knee once and told me a bunch of things he’d learnt by the age of 20. His knee was hard and strong. He told me, in no particular order about: 1. Central African lymphomas.

2. Cracking his premolar on a piece of treacle brittle.

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3. That The Land of the Million Elephants had no elephants but just lepers.

4. About Soho abortionists who injected women with ergometrine to devastating results.

5. The imperforate anus.

And then there was Nan. Nan, she accumulated things but now she is in an Alzheimer’s home and I get the feeling dad was talking out his asshole because Nan knew plenty.

A kind-hearted woman if ever there was one.

Once upon a time, she was known as the beautiful one. A real looker.

And now she was sitting in her crap in a home full of other has-been crappers.

Such is life, I guess. Nobody deserves it—you just get it.

Nan’s home was called Little Holland. We were on our way to water Nan’s plants. She had sixteen plants in her room and we had to water them every month. Why did it take a whole family to water sixteen plants?

“This is better for her,” Uncle Freddy said, spooning apricots from a tin.

“She didn’t have no life in that house of hers.”

“No life,” said Aunt Winnie.

“That’s right, no life. You remember, Junior? She taped up the windows, the photographs, the TV. She said people were watching her. You remember that, Junior?”

“I do,” I said. I scratched my crotch. I had thrush something awful. Mom and Todd were in another car just behind us and I kept looking back to see if they were still following us.

“No life,” said Aunt Winnie. Albert just behind her, like the dog in the back seat, not confident enough to talk about our family, just agreed with a “yuh huh, yuh huh” and coughed up shit on my neck.

Now Little Holland. When we first drove up to it, it was like Jurassic Park or something; a theme park for people who’d lost their minds.

The sign, in bright yellow writing on a sky blue background: Welcome to Little Holland!

Just underneath, some rambunctious little yahoo had scrawled ‘where old folks come to pop their clogs!’

And Little Holland was where Nan was and where Aunt Winnie and Uncle Freddy were waiting for her to die—but die in peace, at least, die quickly in comfort—so they could start accumulating.

Little Holland is designed specifically for Alzheimer’s sufferers. When you drive up the long path to the building, the lawns are trimmed to perfection and there are peacocks everywhere, I think a goat too, and black groundsmen looking at you in your car like you’re taking a photograph of them, like they’ve never seen a human being before.

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The building is this huge corporate glass structure. You walk under an archway and you come to a courtyard and there’s a giant chessboard with giant chess pieces and I remember turning to Mom and saying “the fuck is this” and Todd laughed and said “kid doesn’t even know a game of checkers when he sees it!”

When you walk past the chessboard, you realize that Little Holland is actually a small village that recreates ‘real life’ and is structured so that the patients are comfortable and can do what they want.

There was a cinema there too and it shows movies that the patients used to watch out in the real world. The day we went to water the plants, there was a quadruple bill of Casablanca, The Quiet Man, Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz.

And there were shops there, supermarkets, clothing outlets, cafes and so on and whatnot, and I remember seeing the patients shuffling along this film set like zombies and thought, Jesus, maybe I should get a job here, it’s just like the dungeon but it’s light and there’s no pressure.

The owner was called Friedrich van Zorn and when Uncle Freddy heard his name he laughed, but nobody else did because it wasn’t funny.

Mister van Zorn was a waxy fellow and he showed us to Nan’s room, which was actually a whole God Damned apartment, which was bigger than the one I lived in with Mom and Todd and I’d have a better chance tugging my meat in this room, definitely.

Nan was in the room staring at the wall, like the dunce in the classroom.

Uncle Freddy walked straight in and started checking the room and looking in cupboards and emptying coat pockets.

Mom said: “Freddy, what the hell?”

“Shut up, Gale, can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Yeah, can’t you see he’s busy?” said Winnie, like, out of nowhere. She looked at Nan and turned her head to the side and smiled as if nan was the darndest thing she’d ever seen and said: “Jesus she’s had a good run!”

And I saw all the plants in the room—cacti, mostly—and they had all browned and were pretty much dead.

When I asked Uncle Freddy for the watering can, he kept on rummaging for something and said, “I forgot to bring the watering can.”

On the way home, Freddy and Winnie stopped to get some drinks and some souvenirs of Little Holland.

So I went for a little look around and saw that, as well as having a cinema, a supermarket and whatnot, there was a graveyard and the stones were made of plastic and that the patients were being dressed in black and made to attend fake funerals. I had a look in the coffin and it was corpseless, just filled with bricks.

A funeral was happening at that very moment, so I ran over and joined the crowd. Everyone looked down at the coffin and said nothing. The priest June 13, 2014 | 11

was saying random things.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” he said. “This man was a good man. He was not a bad man. He was a good man. And he is now dead. We will all die one day. But afterwards—wow!—Eternal Life. Isn’t that the best? Eternal life.

What a fucking hoot that place is, let me tell you. You, Rudolph. Rudolph?

You can go bowling in the big lane in the sky. Doesn’t that make you happy?”

I saw Rudolph next to me—it said so on his name badge—and he drooled, smiled and then shook his head and spat at the coffin.

“I see you’re enjoying our Little Holland Funeral Service™,” said Mister van Zorn.

“Yeah,” I said, because I had nothing better to say.

“We do this so people have a grounding in death. It’s one thing we’re not taught at school, am I right?”

He had a weird Dutch accent and I kept farting.

“You’re right, yes,” I said.

The coffin went into the ground and nobody was crying. The plastic coffin was covered in soil and then the patients walked off.

“There’ll be another funeral in 15 minutes,” van Zorn said.

“Cool,” I said and farted again.

I was on the verge of losing my job and I told Mom, and Todd answered for her and said I was a faggot loser.

I’d never been called a faggot loser before, so I spit in Todd’s face. “I hope you get buried in a plastic coffin, you bitch,” I said, before getting my things and going to work.

My boss was being a hard ass again.

“Your Nan isn’t dead, Junior,” he told me.

“I know,” I said.

“Then why the tears? Always with the tears. Corpses don’t cry. Do corpses cry, Junior?”

“No.”

“And why do you want you to be the happiest corpse in town?”

“Because a happy corpse is a good corpse.”

“Exactly. And why do we do jobs, Junior?”

“To pass the time?”

“No. Jesus no, Junior. Jobs are our life blood. We need to achieve things.

We need routine. We need to get up, we need to achieve, we need a reason to wake up the next day. Right? Right, Junior? A job is life and a job is death. And you’re a frigging corpse, excuse my language, Junior. And look at Isabella. She is a whore. She gets raped every day and we slit her throat every day and gut her womb every day and she takes it like a pro and she is the best Dead Whore we have. The audience loves her. They take photographs of her. Junior. Junior, are you listening? Junior. Mothers and Fathers take photographs of their frigging kids with Isabella. Isabella had one kid put their 12 | CCLaP Weekender

hands on one of her sliced teats and they had a photo. We need you to be the same, Junior! Why do we do jobs, Junior?”

“We live for jobs, we die for jobs?”

“Yes! And what would you Nan want, Junior? A faggot corpse with no balls?”

“She’d want me to be a good corpse.”

“That’s right. This is America, Junior. She’d want you to be the best that you could be. Don’t shirk—is that right, shirk?—responsibility. Because sometimes I wonder: is Junior’s heart really in it?”

I showed my boss what I could do.

My Mom was calling me every night and I didn’t answer. She called my boss and he said Junior was doing overtime. Todd wasn’t too angry because my money was being sent to his account now. I made a decision to do this after that talk with my boss.

I stayed late at work. I never left my Death Spot anymore. I was totally in the zone, 24/7. I was the best corpse in the dungeon. My blood was brownishred and I shit my pants daily to give off a realistic corpse stench. Sometimes I spray myself purple in certain areas to show rigor mortis.

I stayed in my Death Spot and never saw my family anymore. They had what they wanted. I’d send them the money and then a new watering can every month so Nan’s plants didn’t die.

Mister van Zorn would send me photographs of Nan’s room, as requested.

I saw that the plants had died and that Uncle Freddy was sitting on his chair looking bored, but I didn’t get too disheartened because my life was being used to it’s potential and I was proactive now.

Even though nobody came to the horror dungeon much anymore, I was doing it: I was doing a good job. C

Oliver Zarandi is a writer. His recent publications include Hobart, Keep This Bag Away From Children and The Boiler. You can follow him on twitter @zarandi.

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CCLaP Publishing

An official painter for the Lithuanian Communist Party, Martynas Kudirka enjoys a pleasant, unremarkable life with a beautiful wife and all the privileges that come with being a party member. Yet in the summer of 1989, his ordinary world suddenly turns upside down. Political revolt is breaking out across Eastern Europe, and Martynas comes home to find his wife dead on the kitchen floor with a knife in her back. Realizing the police will not investigate, he sets out to find his wife’s killer. Instead, he stumbles upon her secret life. Martynas finds himself drawn into the middle of an independence movement, on a quest to find confidential documents that could free a nation. Cold War betrayals echo down through the years as author Bronwyn Mauldin takes the reader along a modern-day path of discovery to find out Martynas’ true identity. Fans of historical fiction will travel back in time to 1989, the Baltic Way protest and Lithuania’s “singing revolution,” experiencing a nation’s determination for freedom and how far they would fight to regain it.

Download for free at cclapcenter.com/lovesongs

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Lindsey Fast PHOTOGRAPHY FEATURE

REPRINTED FROM MARCH 2014 June 13, 2014 | 15

Location: Chicago, IL I was born in 1980 and raised in Chicago's northwest suburbs. I received my first camera when I was 7 years old which started my fascination with photography. In high school, I took a photography class and after developing my first picture I knew that it would be a lifelong pastime of mine. I attended college at Southern Illinois University from 1998 to 2002 where I graduated with a degree in photography. After graduation, I briefly moved to Los Angeles and worked at a photo lab in Santa Monica. I then came back to Chicago and worked as an assistant photographer for a couple of years.

Deciding I would rather keep photography as my own, I left the photography industry and worked in advertising for 8 years. During that time I met my husband and we got married in the Summer of 2012. Two weeks after that we packed up and moved to Portland Oregon. We spent a year there hiking and exploring and I worked at a photography studio. Now we're back in Chicago to be close to our family, ready to start the next chapter of our lives!

I'm looking forward to a lifetime of adventures and all the photographs that come with it!

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What is it about nature that calls to you?

I love nature! I love being outdoors and surrounding myself with the beauty of nature. My appreciation for nature has been ingrained in me since I was a kid. My family would take a vacation every summer to Door County, Wisconsin and there we would spend hours exploring the forests in Peninsula State Park. When I was a teenager, I joined the Wilderness Club at my high school and took weekend camping trips to places like Governor’s Dodge in Wisconsin and Daniel Boone National Forest in Kentucky with my fellow classmates. I attended college at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale nestled in the Shawnee National Forest where I spent many a weekend hiking at Giant City and Little Grand Canyon. Just recently my husband and I moved to Portland, Oregon for a year to enjoy all the beautiful nature there. We spent a year exploring and hiking and it was wonderful. Throughout my life and love of nature I’ve always had a camera to capture its beauty. To me, hiking and photography go hand in hand. When I’m out hiking, it’s the light that calls to me and how it plays with nature. Lots of photographers spend hours in a studio trying to get that perfect lighting whereas I like to work natural light. It’s really beautiful if you know how to use it.

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In color photos, your subjects depend on these lush, full, bright colors—do you try to depict color in nature as it is, or as it is ideally?

I think for the most part I try to intensify the colors in my pictures whether it be by cross-processing when I use film or filters when I shoot digitally. In some cases though, the scenery is already so beautiful and the color is so intense, it doesn’t need any adjustments. It’s just perfect as is.

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You seem to enjoy the sky as much as the ground; is that the case?

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I do! I think sometimes when people go outside they forget to look up at the sky and down at the ground.

They are concentrating on looking straight ahead.

When I go outside, I’m looking everywhere trying to find the prettiest and most interesting story to tell.

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flickr.com/ishoulddothisforaliving

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Like millions of other only-child Chinese twenty-somethings, Turtle Chen is graduating college and vicariously desperate (via parental pressure) to find a job, though he would probably settle for a girlfriend. He speaks English. He studied abroad in America. Employers, ladies, what’s not to love? With a bit of bravado and some hometown luck, this engineering grad lands himself an entry level position working for the state news agency; not that he particularly cares about politics or journalism, not that they particularly want him to. Through a class assignment, Turtle learns that his grandmother’s village will soon be inundated to make way for a dam construction project. His parents tell him not to worry about it.

His bosses tell him not to worry about it. He would be only too happy to oblige, and yet despite his best efforts not to care he finds himself on the front lines fighting bulldozers, next to what some villagers claim to be the ghost of Chairman Mao. There’s bribery, corruption, computer games, and text messages imbued with uncertainty. Air pollution, censorship, and a job fair where students attack employers with paper basketballs.

And it’s all told through the eyes of a young man with impeccable English (‘impeccable English,’ that’s correct, yes?), who’s right there in the middle of it all. Welcome to the delightful world of “Turtle and Dam,” the literary debut of Washington DC analyst Scott Abrahams.

CCLaP Publishing

Download for free at cclapcenter.com/turtleanddam

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The CCLaP Weekender is published in electronic form only, every Friday for free download at the CCLaP website [cclapcenter.com]. Copyright 2014, Chicago Center for Literature and Photography. All rights revert back to artists upon publication. Editorin-chief: Jason Pettus. Story Editor: Allegra Pusateri. Calendar Editors: Anna Thiakos and Taylor Carlile. To submit your work for possible feature, or to add a calendar item, contact us at cclapcenter@gmail.com.

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