Oklahoma Review, 17.1 by The Oklahoma Review

The Oklahoma Review Volume 17: Issue 1, Spring 2016

Published by: Cameron University Department of English and Foreign Languages

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Staff  Editor in Chief GEORGE McCORMICK  Faculty Editors DR. JOHN  HODGSON, DR. HARDY JONES &  DR. JOHN G. MORRIS Student Editors  JARROD BROWN & CLINTON  BLACKWELL Jr Web Design ELIA  MEREL & HAILEY HARRIS   Layout DR. BAYARD GODSAVE  Mission Statement  The Oklahoma Review is an electronic literary  magazine  published  through  the  Department  of  English  at  Cameron  University  in  Lawton,  Oklahoma.  The  editorial  board  consists  of  English  and  Professional  Writing  undergraduates,  as  well  as  faculty  advisors  from  the  Departments  of  English  and  Foreign  Languages & Journalism.  The  goal  of  our  publication  is  to  provide  a  forum  for  exceptional  fiction,  poetry,  and  creative  nonfiction  in  a  dynamic,  appealing,  and  accessible  environment.  The  magazine’s  only  agenda  is  to  promote  the  pleasures  and  edification  derived  from  high‐quality  literature.  The Staff  The views expressed in The Oklahoma Review  do  not  necessarily  correspond  to  those  of  Cameron  University,  and  the  university’s  support of this magazine should not be seen as  any endorsement of any philosophy other than  faith in – and support of – free expression.  The  content  of  this  publication  may  not  be  reproduced  without  the  written  consent  of  The Oklahoma Review or the authors.        Call for Submissions

The Oklahoma Review is a continuous, online  publication.  We  publish  two  issues  each  year:  Spring (May) and Fall (December).  The Oklahoma Review only accepts  manuscripts during two open reading periods.  •Reading dates for the Fall issue will  now be from August 1 to October 15  •Reading dates for the Spring issue will  be January 1 to March 15.  Work sent outside of these two periods will be  returned unread.  Guidelines:  Submissions  are  welcome  from  any  serious  writer  working  in  English.  Email  your  submissions  to  okreview@cameron.edu.  Writers may submit the following:  •Prose fiction pieces of 30 pages or less.  •As many as five (5) poems of any  length.  •Nonfiction prose pieces of 30 pages or  less.  •As many as five (5) pieces of visual  art—photography, paintings,  prints, etc.  •All files should be sent as e‐mail  attachments in either .doc or .rtf format for  text, and .jpeg for art submissions. We will  neither consider nor return submissions sent  in hard copy, even if return postage is  included.  •When sending multiple submissions  (e.g. five poems), please include all the work in  a single file rather than five separate files.  •Authors should also provide a cover  paragraph with a short biography in the body  of their e‐mail.  •Simultaneous submissions are  acceptable. Please indicate in your cover letter  if your work is under consideration elsewhere.  •Please direct all submissions and  inquiries to okreview@cameron.edu.

Table of Contents Cover Art Jeff F. Wheeler, detail from “Somewhere Near Happy, Texas (no. 52)”

Fiction 10 Stephen Briggs, “A Simulation of the Consequences from a Decrease in Rations” 25 A.W. Marshall, “Appendix G”

Poetry 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

Larry D. Thomas, “The Transfer of Light” Larry D. Thomas, “An Imperceptible Blip” Seth Copeland, “Josef Mengele in Exile” Seth Copeland, “First Atlas” Seth Copeland, “Channel” Matt Sven Calvert, “Space & Push” Matt Sven Calvert, “Low Blood Cross”

Translation 56 Alda Merini, Three Poems, with translations by Chiara Frenquellucci & Gwendolyn Jensen

Nonfiction 64 Rob Roensch, “the title is the photographs”

Images 84 85 86 87

Jeff Jeff Jeff Jeff

F. F. F. F.

Wheeler, Wheeler, Wheeler, Wheeler,

“Somewhere Near Happy, Texas” “Just Outside Lemesa” “Somewhere Near Happy, Texas (no. 52)” “Just This Side of Cheyenne”

Interview 90 Clinton Blackwell Jr., Jarrod Brown & George McCormick “Say the Unsayable So That It’s No Longer Unsayable”: An Interview with Aimee Parkison

Reviews 93 George McCormick, A Review of Phil Estes’s High Life 95 Casey Brown, A Review of A.W. Marshall’s Simple Pleasures 96 Nick Brush, A Review of two books by Larry D. Thomas 98 Jarrod Brown, A Review of Jeanetta Calhoun Mish’s Oklahomeland 100 Clinton Blackwell Jr., A Review of Tracy Letts’s Superior Donuts

Contributors         102                                                     6

Contributor’s Page

Fiction

Stephen Briggs A Simulation of the Consequences from a Decrease in Rations  City: Ropan  Sector: 8    BEGIN {  Program: God's Eye View    *** The following simulation is one out of a series of 1000 to be performed in a conclusive  analysis of the effects of reducing city Rapon’s ration level to a category 3, down from 4. Known  negative consequences concerning the reduction include: a general increase in the unrest index  and  a  possible  incrementation  from  Non‐violent,  hostile  status  to  Violent,  hostile  status,  a  general  decrease  in  industrial  output  due  to  rioting  and  general  population  decreases,  and  an  increase in the budget of civil security services. Known positive consequences include: a general  increase in the value per capita. ***    …  …  …            Consult database: GOD’S_EYE_VIEW:  PROCEED ‐> Report (Preceeding_Simulation_Totals).  REPORT: GOD’S_EYE_VIEW:          {      Current simulation results:   …      …          …            Against: 53.          Favor: 258.          }        PROCEED ‐> Simulation_Initialization.        Define: ACTION  {      10

Consult database: CITY_PROFILE (ROPAN, 8):      Modify: ROPAN_8 (HUMAN_RESOURCE_MANAGEMENT)          {              RationLevel = 3.          }      }    ***  The  action  to  be  taken  is  a  reduction  in  daily  rations  by  300  calories.  This  action,  proposed  by  sector  treasurer  Ivan  Rigor,  is  a  reaction  to  the  increase  in  the  general  price  of  foodstuffs, which threatens to increase daily upkeep costs by 10%. ***          Define: ROPAN_8  {      Consult database: CITY_PROFILE (ROPAN_8):      Import: ROPAN_8.      Relevant Databases: HRE, CUE.      …      …      …        Human Resource Evaluation:       Classification: Labor sector.  Population: 32,752 [Census report 2.83.1].  Average output: 32 Dim/Capita.      Ration Level: 4 (Daily consumption: 1500 calories.).      Population Density: (Population (32752) / Sector_Area (10km2)) 3275.2 capita/km2.  Density Level: High/Moderate.  Housing Level: Low.   Civil  upkeep  costs  per  day  (Healthcare,  Ration  Level,  Public  Sanitation  Services,  Civil  Enforcement Officers, etc.):  25 Dim/Capita.    Conclusion:   Total Value: 12 Dim/Capita.    …  …  …    Civil Unrest Evaluation:

Bloodlines: Kildrani (72%), Dvorak (18%), Minta (7%), Newnka (2%), Aldri (1%) [Census  report 2.83.1].  Bio‐estimated Aggression Level: Moderate.  Observed Aggression Level: High.    ***Evaluator’s  Note:  The  aggression  level  of  this  district  has  of  recent  proved  to  be  disproportionately  higher  than  our  social  scientists’  calculations.  Potential  causes  are  temporary  and  include:  The  emergence  of  a  religious  cult  stemming  from  the  Dvorak  population  [See  database  ROPAN_8  (Religion_Summation)  for  details],  and  an  increase  in  tensions  at  the  passing  of  the  Kildrani  patriarch.  The  immediate  measure  taken  to  maintain order and production is a temporary increase in the local militia. ***    Unrest Index = Unrest Index + 0.125.    …    Religious Orientation: Empirical (52%), Ishmanism (30%), Caldrism (13%), Other (5%).  General religious fervor (For religions outside Empirical sanction): Moderate‐high.  Unrest Index = Unrest Index + 0.095.     …    Sector Classification: Labor.  Sector Ration Level: 4.  Population Density: Moderate.  Population Distribution:   Children (0‐10): 30%  Working Adult, Young (11‐25): 50%  Working Adult, Old(26‐50): 15%  Working Adult, Elder(51+): 5%.  Quality of Life: Low.   Unrest Index = Unrest Index + 0.13.    …    Education level: 3 (Average 5).  Technological Level: 4 (Industrial).  Crime Index: 7 (Moderate‐high).  Unrest Index = Unrest Index + 0.053.    12

…  …    Conclusion:  Unrest Index = 0.401.  Civil Unrest categorization: Non‐violent, hostile.  }    …  …  …    PROCEED ‐> Simulation_Definition_Acting_Agents        *** Simulation #434: A meeting between the new religious cult leader, Roarc Lindfall and his  followers and the captain of civil security services, Peter Highborn. This simulation follows three  days after the announced ration changes and is a logical progression stemming from simulations  43‐77, 124‐170, 230‐233, 275, 301, and 423, culminating in a 19% chance of occurrence. ***        Define: ROARC_LINDFALL          {                Consult database: ROPAN_8_CITIZEN_PROFILES      Import: ROARC_LINDFALL.      Relevant databases:      BioBehavior, ObservedBehavior.      …      …      …      Biological behavior disposition:      Bloodline: Dvorak      Gender: Male      Age: 23      Height: 1.8796 meters.      Weight: 91kg.      Background:   Parents:  Holdan  Lindfall  (Father,  bloodline:  Dvorak),  Molan  Lindfall  (Mother,  bloodline: Newnka).  Class: Industrial worker.

***  Evaluator’s  Note:  While  Roarc  Lindfall’s  parents  are  officially  classified  as  industrial  workers,  reports  indicate  that  Holdan  Lindfall  was  an  (empirically  unofficial)  priest  of  the  Caldrian  order.  As  a  class  2,  sub‐radical  religion,  the  Caldrian  order  has  a  well‐documented  history  of  working  operations  outside  the  Empire’s  approval  (though  not  without  the  Empire’s  knowledge).  While  Roarc  should  have  had  the  pacifying  conditioning  commonly  found  in  the  Industrial  class,  he  was  instead  brought  up  in  a  hostile  environment  whose  purpose  is  to  usurp the Empire’s rule. This has been noted and documented, and the following  simulation is run with the attributes of the Caldrian order, though without official  documentation, the class, and the following attributes, must remain Industrial in  name.  The  following  section  will  therefore  list  the  on‐record  attributes,  but  the  simulation will be conducted with the values indicated afterwards. ***  Religion: Empirical. *** Caldrian. ***  Education: Standard industrial curriculum, handbook #52. *** Caldrian orthodoxy  ***  Apprenticeship:  Forge‐master  Willoch  Froid,  Apprentice  #355.  ***  Caldrian  Disciple under cult leader Aldrick Temoi ***  Affiliate  of  social  group(s):  754  (adult),  230  (adult),  254  (youth).  ***  Unofficial  social  circles  0.53,  and  0.55,  consisting  of  the  Disciples  of  the  Caldrian  order  and  the official and unofficial priests of the order. ***        Physical strength index: 7.85 (Average 5.0)       Mental faculty index: 8.0 (Average 5.0)        Conclusion:       Social categorization: High‐value industrial worker. *** Radical religious leader ***      Empirical loyalty: 80% *** 20% ***      …      …      …            Observed Behavior:        Empirical transgressions:          Minor: 37           transgressionIndex = transgressionIndex + 0.37.          Moderate: 16          transgressionIndex = transgressionIndex + 1.6.          Severe: 1          transgressionIndex = transgressionIndex + 1.0.  14

transgressionIndex = 2.97            *** Evaluator's Note: While Roarc's transgression index is officially 2.97, 2.03 points short of  warranting  Civil  Removal,  the  records  of  Social  Intelligence  report  a  private  file  containing  partial  evidence  tying  Roarc  to  three  accounts  of  Severe  transgressions.  Unfortunately,  for  all  accounts  on  file  the  civil  officers  concluded  their  investigations  just  short  of  Roarc.  In  these  situations our intelligence officers pieced together the information only in the months following  the  hasty  arrest  and  conviction  of  a  false  perpetrator.  Further  investigation  has  found  the  members  of  Caldrian  religion  to  display  high  levels  of  loyalty,  with  lower  ranking  members  willingly taking the fall for the higher up members. As such, the individual should be regarded as  more dangerous than what the current records show, and the simulation will proceed under the  highest allowable transgression index of 4.999. ***        Character attributes:          *** As assessed by Social Intelligence Officer Fielda Morad. ***      Tenacity: 7.5      Charisma: 9.5      Sympathy: 2.0      Presence: 7.0      Persuasiveness: 7.0      Initiative: 8.0          Moral Convictions: 3.5      Decisiveness: 7.0      Intelligence: 8.5        Accuracy error index: +/‐ 1.0.            }        Define: PETER_HIGHBORN          {                Consult database: ROPAN_8_CITIZEN_PROFILES      Import: PETER_HIGHBORN.      Relevant databases:      BioBehavior, ObservedBehavior.        …      …

…          Biological behavior disposition:      Bloodline: Empirical.      Gender: Male      Age: 35      Height: 1.798 meters.      Weight: 95kg.      Background:   Parents: General Farseeth Highborn (Father, bloodline: Empirical), Nola Highborn  (Mother, bloodline: Empirical).  Class: Military Aristocrat.  Religion: Empirical.      Education: Militant Management Academy, Class #43.   Affiliate of social group(s): 7 (adult), 23 (adult), 24 (adult) 25 (youth).         Physical strength index: 9.0 (Average 5.0)       Mental faculty index: 7.5 (Average 5.0)        Conclusion:       Social categorization: Military aristocrat       Empirical loyalty: 100%        …      …      …        Observed Behavior:        Empirical transgressions:          Minor: 3           transgressionIndex = transgressionIndex + 0.03          Moderate: 1          transgressionIndex = transgressionIndex + 0.1          Severe: 0          transgressionIndex = transgressionIndex + 0.0.                    transgressionIndex = 0.13        Character attributes:      *** As assessed by Social Intelligence Officer Moral Biforth. ***  16

Tenacity: 8.5      Charisma: 6.5      Sympathy: 1.5      Presence: 6.5      Persuasiveness: 5.5      Initiative: 4.5      Moral Convictions: 3.0      Decisiveness: 8.0      Intelligence: 7.5        Accuracy error index: +/‐ 0.5%.        }    PROCEED ‐> Simulation_Run_Time    BEGIN: Simulation (434)  {      Include: ROPAN_8, ROARC_LINDFALL, PETER_HIGHBORN.            DEFINE: LOCATION      {           Import: ROPAN_8          Consult database: ROPAN_8 (CITY_PROFILE):          Relevant Databases: Sector_Keypoints.          Import: Office of Civil Structure and Order            …          …          …            Location details:             Psychological alignment:          95 / 5% (Empirical favor / Rebellion favor).                   ***  Analysis:  The  Office  of  Civil  Structure  and  Order  has  been  built  and  conditioned  in  the  minds  of  the  people  of  Ropan  to  be  the  epitome  of  Empirical  power.  The  outcomes  of  judicial  proceedings, as well as being the center for Empirical relays between the city’s governor and the

Final  Council,  have  been  confirmed  to  have  fostered  in  the  people  of  Ropan  a  psychological  resentment  but  more  forcefully  a  fear  of  Empirical  power.  Like  most  Empirical  buildings,  the  Office has been constructed in a modern adaptation of the Brutalist style with both Gothic and  Classical  modifications  to  achieve  the  most  psychologically  imposing  edifice  as  defined  by  empirical standards. ***                    Strategic alignment:          90 / 10% (Empirical favor / Rebellion favor).        ***Analysis: The Office of Civil Structure and Order has been constructed to serve as both a  court  of  law  and  a  formidable  fortress.  In  the  inner  chambers,  the  ceiling  has  been  lined  with  floodlights to blind potential aggressors, while Empirical forces are situated high enough on the  walls  so  as  to  be  minimally  affected.  The  inner  chambers  are  also  sealable,  with  the  option  of  deploying  the  torturous  fire‐hide  gas  or  the  lethal  viper’s  breath  within  as  a  last  resort.  The  building  however  suffers  a  vulnerability  to  outside  threats,  most  notably  a  siege  tactic,  for  the  supplies within can only sustain an average Empirical force for a week.***                      }                DEFINE: Civil_Militia_Forces      {          Import: ROPAN_8          Consult database: ROPAN_8 (CITY_PROFILE):          Relevant Databases: Milita_Force_Profile.                …            Manpower: 5000              Technological Level: Advanced Empirical.                   Bio‐synthetic Mech‐captains: 100.                  Hell‐Razer Officers: 500.                  Crowd‐Control Officers: 1500.                  Civil Enforcers: 2900.            Total Value: 5,624,700 DIM.      }        DEFINE: Rebel_Forces      {          Import: ROPAN_8.  18

Consult database: ROPAN_8 (CITY_PROFILE):          Relevant Databases: Hostile_Worker_Profiles.            …              *** Intelligence provided by operation 5.286.03 approved by Peter Highborn and conducted  by Social Intelligence Service party #43. The thorough operation has been estimated to contain  an accuracy rating guaranteeing a maximum 5% error calculation. Such an estimation has been  deemed to have a minimal impact in simulations of complexity 5 and lower.            As the current simulation contains a complexity level 3, the information has been deemed  acceptable for use. ***                    Manpower: 15000.              Technological Level: Industrial Empirical.                  Citizen Generals: 200.                  Citizen Forces (trained, equipped): 1000.                  Citizen Forces (trained, unequipped): 4000.                  Citizen Forces (untrained, equipped): 2000.                  Citizen Forces (untrained, unequipped): 7800.          Total Value: 600,000 DIM.       }                  Set: location = LOCATION.      Primary Entities: PETER_HIGHBORN, ROARC_LINDFALL.      Secondary Entities: Civil_Milita_Forces, Rebel_Forces.        ENTER: ROARC_LINDFALL.      ADJUST: Situation_Control:      {          ROARC_LINDFALL.Position = offensive.          Situation_Control = Situation_Control + 0.5.                    COMPARE: ROARC_LINDFALL.BioBehavior :: PETER_HIGHBORN.BioBehavior          Situation_Control = Situation_Control – 0.63.                    COMPARE:           ROARC_LINDFALL.ObservedBehavior :: PETER_HIGHBORN.ObservedBehavior

Situation_Control = Situation_Control – 0.1.            Conclusion:            Situation_Control = ‐ 0.23                *** Analysis: Roarc Lindfall's offensive position places himself in an environment outside of  his control, thereby strengthening the Empire's authority. However, a comparison of Roarc's bio‐ characteristics,  most  notably  his  height  and  intelligence  advantage,  along  with  his  observed  behavior  characteristics,  most  notably  his  charismatic  superiority,  factor  out  to  be  a  slight  advantage in favor of the Rebel forces. ***      }            SIMULATE: Negotiations      {              IMPORT: Social_Algorithms_Database.          Consult database: Social_Algorithms_Database.          Relevant databases: Negotiation_Simulation_062.            …          …            Negotiating parties: Civil_Militia_Forces, Rebel_Forces.          Primary representatives: PETER_HIGHBORN, ROARC_LINDFALL.            …          …            SIMULATING: Initial Contact.          SIMULATING: Strengths Assessment.          SIMULATING: Bio‐Behavior models.          SIMULATING: Observed Behavior models          SIMULATING: Party interactions.              SIMULATING: Cultural disparities.          SIMULATING: Linguistic impact.          SIMULATING: …          SIMULATING: …          SIMULATING: …          …          …  20

…                        CONCLUSION: Negotiations Aborted.              *** Analysis: The models of Peter Highborn and Roarc Lindfall prove to exhibit dominant  and unyielding characteristics. Lindfall’s zealous convictions and martyrous tendency, combined  with an over assessment of his and his forces’ prowess, place the rebel forces’ path into conflict  with the Empire. Given Highborn’s field of advantage and his observed behavior characteristics,  the chance of reaching a compromise is minute enough to be dropped from consideration. ***        }        PROCEED ‐> Combat_simulation.        SIMULATE: Combat      {              IMPORT: Social_Algorithms_Database.          Consult database: Social_Algorithms_Database.          Relevant databases: Conflict_Resolution_004.            …          …                    Conflicting parties: Civil_Militia_Forces, Rebel_Forces.          Battle Location:               {                  CALCULATE: Battle Location.                  …                      …                  …                  Set location: ROPAN_8 (Foundry_Works).              }          Generals: PETER_HIGHBORN, ROARC_LINDFALL.          SIMULATING: Assembling location layout.          SIMULATING: Situating initial force placement.          SIMULATING: Assessing strategic advantages.          SIMULATING: Evaluating force movement.          SIMULATING: Calculating force resolve.          SIMULATING: Initiating combat.              SIMULATING: Continuing combat.

SIMULATING: …          SIMULATING: …          SIMULATING: …          …          …          …                    CONCLUSION: Empire Victory.                          ***  Analysis:  Given  the  known  details  concerning  general  Roarc,  the  location  of  the  battlefield would be at the Secondary Foundry, logically due to its high concentration of militia  forces and low concentration of empirical supervisement, emotionally due to its impression on  the laborers of sector 8, and due to its symbolic nature. Initial advantage would be given to the  rebel forces due to the easily defensible position the foundry presents. However, due to the lack  of access to supplies and reinforcements, coupled with the superior forces of the empire and the  low morale of the rebelling forces, the empire would succeed with minimal investment and cost  to its own forces. ***            }        CALCULATE: Consequences.      {          CALCULATE: empirical_losses:              {   Casualties:  200  (0  mech‐captains,  15  Hell‐Razer  Officers,  35  Crowd‐ Control Officers, 150 Civil Enforcers).  Deceased:  25  (0  Mech‐captains,  0  Hell‐Razer  Officers,  0  Crowd‐ Control Officers, 25 Civil Enforcers).  Permanently  incapacitated:  50  (0  Mech‐captains,  5  Hell‐Razer  Officers, 10 Crowd Control Officers, 35 Civil Enforcers).                  Injured: 125 (0 Mech‐captains, 10 Hell‐Razer Officers, 25 Crowd‐  Control Officers, 90 Civil Enforcers).                    Total Cost: 120950 DIM.              }                CALCULATE: Rebel_losses:              {  22

Casualties: 8544.                  Deceased: 5937.                  Incapacitated: 2607.                    Concluding executions: 1000.                  Final Casualty total: 9544.                                Total Cost: 881760 DIM              }                  Total Empirical Loss = (Empirical_losses + Rebel_losses) 1002710 DIM.                     Previous Population Level = 32752          New Population Level = 23208.          Population Decrease: 29.14%          Previous Production Capacity: 393024 DIM/Day.          New Production Capacity: 278496 DIM/Day.          Daily Loss (DIM): 114528 (29.14%).          Previous Cost per Life: 25 DIM.          New Cost per Life: 20 DIM.          Previous Daily Income: 393024.          New Daily Income: 394536 (Increased by 512 DIM).            Expected Recovery Time: 3‐5 years.  Loyalty Increase: 50%.    }        *** Concluding Analysis: Despite the losses incurred in Empirical lives and civilian production  capacity,  the  net  gain  for  the  empire  from  decreasing  the  ration  levels  would  be  a  total  of  512  DIM  per  day.  While  seemingly  negligible,  Ropan  Sector  8  is  nearing  high  levels  of  population  totals  along  with  lacking  loyalty  among  its  citizens.  The  culling  of  the  most  disloyal  members  would  decrease  the  civil  unrest  index  along  with  returning  population  numbers  to  a  normal  standard. The recovery is estimated to take between 3 to 5 years, and will be furnished through  both  natural  means  and  citizens  imported  from  nearby  breeding  sectors,  allowing  Civil  Stock  Management to supplant superior members for the next generation.                      In  time,  once  the  cost  of food has decreased,  the  ration  level  may  be  increased  back  to  4  in  order  to  foster  a  stronger  workforce  and  encourage  breeding.  But  as  it  currently  stands,  this

simulation  reports  that  it  is  in  the  sector’s,  and  empire’s,  best  interest  to  decrease  the  ration  level. ***    PROCEED ‐> Simulation_Conclusion.    DEFINE: SIMULATION_CONCLUSION      {          *** Analysis: Given the outcome of the above simulation, this semi‐autonomous agent votes  in favor of the proposed action. ***          …          …        Consult database: GOD’S_EYE_VIEW:          Modify: GOD’S_EYE_VIEW (CONCLUDING TOTALS)          {              Favor = favor + 1.              }            REPORT: GOD’S_EYE_VIEW:          {              Simulation totals:           …          …          …            Against: 53.          Favor: 259.          }           }        Proceed ‐> Program_Termination.      …      …      …    } END.    …  …  …  24

A.W. Marshall Appendix G  Three Stories of Pre‐Twentieth Century “Demonic Possession” Culled from the Papers of Father  Latour, the Vatican’s Librarian for Manifestations of Evil (1898 to 1936)    Stories transcribed and edited by Father Sebastian Jackson for a presentation at the Ecclesiastical  Forum on “The Paranormal Phenomena and the Loss of Innocence in Early and Remote Cultures  and Places” in Madrid, Spain on January 13, 1992.    Village near Locheport, Ireland, 1860  1860, Interview conducted by the priest Caleb McCall in Scotland near Locheport in the MacIsaac’s  home, recorded by Sister Mary Johnston, of Aberdeen    Upon  arriving  in  the  area,  Priest  McCall  secured  shelter  for  us  in  a  farmer’s  house.    It  was  this  farmer who led us to the settlement in question, a two hour walk in which we saw a tawny owl, all  bristled up for warmth and bearing out the cold, and an albatross, its wings reaching so wide you  wonder how God thinks of so many things.  Eventually we came to a house built into a hill.  Two  windows were carved out and one could see the dirt floor had been swept so long it was like wood.   In a byre (cow shed), we were given into the care of a Ms. Gillies.  The byre was free standing and  made of stone with a grass roof.  Frankly, it looked quite finer than the home, which the farmer told  us had been there for many of hundreds of years.  I could not help myself in imaging people covered  in fox furs trying to make a life with stones and grunts.  Mrs. Gillies and her daughter were at the  cows  while  singing  a  simple  milking  song  and  a  handful  of  women  were  at  the  waulking  board,  singing too, expecting us.  For a few minutes, we listened to their hands pound the tweed and their  funny tune.  Soon, they stopped their work and paid us courtesy.  The women all wore giant skirts  with  white  aprons  and  buttoned‐down  blouses,  each  with  their  own  style  of  lace  collar.    Tea  and  biscuits  were  served  from  the  house;  I  gathered  the  husband  was  not  keen  on  our  visit.    Priest  McCall made his intentions known in terms of requesting evidence and instructed I keep a record.   Though names were given, Priest McCall said there was no reason to record them, so I have labeled  them simply as Woman One, Woman Two, and Woman Three.  There were Women Four and Five  as well, twin sisters who held hands during the entire interview.      Priest McCall: Please tell me about Claire.    Woman One: Nothing to tell, ya know.      Priest McCall:  That can’t be true.

Woman Two: We knew her, of course.  A woman of the Moors.    Women  One:  Women help each other out.    Women Two: A hard life.    Priest McCall:  So she was the same as you?    Woman Two:  She died.    Woman Three:  We’re not dead of course.    Woman Two:  Not yet, at least.    The two women laughed and Woman One shook her head.  I was quite interested in the Woman  Four  and  Five’s  reactions,  but  they  simply  stared.    I  sensed  Woman  Five  was  the  stronger  of  the  two, her bearing suggesting as much.  Maybe her apron was just whiter.    Woman Two:  Sorry father.  Sister.    Myself:    We  don’t  object  to  a  joke.    God  invented  laughter  too.    Please  feel  free  to  express  yourself.    Priest McCall:  Yes.  Of course.  I am here to learn, not judge.    Woman One:  As Hortance said, Claire died, but you know that part.    Priest McCall: I see.  I understand.  Yes, I do.  And this is serious, I know that.  So, how about her  husband?    Woman One: Dead too.  Dead too.      Myself: Children?    Woman two:  None, you see.  No little ones.  An empty home as they say.    Priest McCall: Did the husband and wife die together?

A  peculiar  silence  followed  where  the  women  looked  down  at  their  hands.    I  saw  Woman  five  stroking her sister’s hand.    Woman One: He was a farmer like the rest, cows, hens, goats.  Claire weaved tartans mostly.    Woman Three: Knew dyes quite well.    Woman One: She did, she did.    Woman Three: Got them from the ground unlike most.    Priest McCall: I see.  And how did the husband die?      Woman Three:  We’re neighbors.      Priest McCall.  I am here for the church.    Woman Three began to tear up and the priest handed her a handkerchief.  He’s told me often that  during an interview, when a soft spot is hit upon, it is often best to move on and come back again.   “Let the idea peak out on its own,” he said.    Priest McCall:  Was he an unkind man?    Woman One: Hard to say, ya know.  What a man is in his home.    Woman Two: No children.  The Lord blesses whom he lays his hands upon.    Priest McCall:  Yes.  It’s true.  Though many good and obedient Christian hearts suffer for lack of  that blessing.  Was that the case with Claire?    Women Two:  We would say she seemed well enough.    Woman One:  We would have said it of each other.    Priest McCall:  Ladies, you know why I am here.    Woman Two: The monster.    Woman One: Still your tongue.

Another silence.  Woman One rises and pours those who need it more tea.  I notice that Woman  Four has spittle on her chin and Woman Five takes a handkerchief from her apron and wipes her  chin.    Seeing  me  look,  Woman  Five  looked  me  right  in  the  eye  and  said,  “Doctor  said  we’re  imbeciles.”    Her  voice  is  warbled,  and  I  realized  they  are  both  afflicted  with  what  is  called  “obliteration of the intellectual faculties.”    Woman One:  That’s all right, Maureen.  We’ll get to work soon.      Priest McCall: I want to remind you ladies, I represent your God.  Please tell me what happened.    Woman Two: Out of mud.  Claire told us that much.    Woman Three: Yes, we were visiting, all of us here, on Sunday.  Not a usual thing, ya see.  After  Mass,  Clara  and  I—Don’t  eye  me  that  way  Clara,  you  were  there—we  visited  Mrs.  MacIsaac.   Then all of us decided to walk to see Claire.    Woman One: She had been ill.    Woman Two:  Our Christian duty.  How were we to know?    Priest McCall: No one is to blame here.    Woman Three:  It only stood knee high.    At this point, Woman One huffed and left the room.      Woman Three: Hay stuck out of its head.  It had two legs but only one arm.  Got away before she  could add it, she said.    Priest McCall: Have you ever seen anything like this before?    Woman Two: No!  You hear things from olden times and such, you see.  But not us.  Praise be.    Woman  Three:    We  were  shocked  all  of  us.    The  strange  little  thing  rattling  around  the  byre,  Claire laughing at it, ya know.    Woman One reenters.  She nods at all and sits down.    Woman Two: That’s all we saw.    28

Priest McCall:  What did this creature do?  What did it say?    Woman One: You must have what you need by now?    Priest McCall:  Did it speak?    Woman One: Hard to remember.    Priest McCall:  It is important.  For me to know if this was the devil.    Woman Three:  What else would it be?    Priest McCall:  That’s why I need to know.    Priest McCall: Please.    Priest McCall: Come now.    Woman Two:  It yelled Mommy.  Over and over.    At this point, Woman Four began to call out “Mommy” over and over, as if the word was a song.    Woman One:  Stop that!    Woman One:  I said, stop that now!    Woman Five soothes Woman Four by stroking her arm.  Woman Four is hiccupping and crying.   Everyone, including myself, seems to be out of breath by being startled so.  Poor Priest McCall is  beside himself, quite red faced.    Priest McCall: I see.  I feel like we should pray.  I need to, I think.    Woman Three:  That’s all it said, in case you’re wondering.    Woman One: I would like to go home.    Myself:  We’re so close, ladies.  Father McCall and I travelled quite a distance to meet with you.   You’ve been so brave.    Priest McCall:  Yes, thank you very much.  You’ve all been so brave.

Woman One:  Thank you.  It’s been a trial.    Woman Three:  The things you see in this life.  I’ll have some questions for God, I will.      Priest McCall:  Yes, I see.  I think we might all.  Do you think you all could complete this story  for us?    Priest McCall:  It would be a favor to the church.    Woman  Two:    It  ran  in  circles,  yelling  like  that.    Like  maybe  it  didn’t  even  know  what  it  was  saying, just the word.      Woman Three:  Poor Claire was between crying and laughing.  She lifted her skirt I think hoping  it would run under, like the wee ones will do.    Woman One:  We up and left.  Mr. McIsaac had to give us all Whisky to calm our jumbles.    Priest McCall:  I see.  What happened then?    Woman Two: It ate out her heart.    Woman  One  begins  to  weep.    Woman  Three  stands  and  comforts  her.    Woman  One  shakes  her  head.    I  see  Woman  Four  and  Five  have  each  crossed  their  outside  legs  so  their  boots  are  flat  against each other.      Woman One: A hole in her chest.  Heart gone.  That is all we know, sir.    Priest McCall:  And the monster?    Woman Three: A young man, married, child on the way, saw it running toward the loch.  It leapt  into the water.  He crept up to where it went in, but only saw a cloud of dirt and blood, bits of  Claire’s heart drifting among the rocks.      Woman Two:  Not meant for this world and the thing knew it, I think.  What can’t, be explained  away.    Woman Three: Just so you, Claire’s husband came home, saw his wife, and threw himself on a  pitch fork.     30

Interview ends as Mr. MrIsaacs enters and said if there is any talk of monsters he’ll throw everyone  into the loch, even a priest and a nun. Mr. McCall nods to me that we are done.    Province of Rize, Turkey 1728  As requested by the local Priest, I, Archbishop Basak, am relating the events that occurred in the  province of Rize in the great land of Turkey in the year of our Lord, 1728 A.D. just before harvest  season.    Below consists of the whole of my thorough investigation where, with Jesus as my rudder, I believe I  have influenced this small pastoral village of apparently hedonistic tradition, like  sheep, to fertile  and holy ground to once again feed on the lush grass of our Holy Church.  While  I  am  ashamed  of  my  countrymen  in  this  investigation,  I  believe  I  have  represented  the  church well, ferreting out evil and doing my best to rectify, resanctify and punish, as required by  the Lord.    Upon  arriving  at  the  village,  I  greeted  Father  Aynur,  the  priest  of  the  town,  at  his  house.    Even  though he knew of my arrival, I found his hands full of mud from his garden.      He  has  served  for  the  last  twenty  eight  years  in  this  parish;  I  found  him  to  be  a  permissive  and  weak‐willed  priest..    This  is  another  reminder  of  the  poor  standards  my  predecessor,  Archbishop  Melek, who nurtured sentimentality over religious law and God’s truth.  While it pains me to air his  transgressions, I think it imperative how much my able hands must set right.  I sometimes think  the clergy forget that God himself elevated us and that we must gain boldness from that.    As  the  Holy  Office  knows,  many  Catholics  in  Turkey,  and  elsewhere,  still  participate  in  ancient  rituals—some harmless, many sinful—that preceded the church’s instruction.  Despite reprimands  and edicts, the people maintain these traditions, like sheep hunting out the sheers.    I feel compelled to tell you this started with a wedding.    I have conducted three interviews: the first with the former priest Aynar, another with a witness to  the event, and the groom’s father.  For your convenience, I have edited down the interviews to the  portions most necessary.    Interview with Father Aynur:    Archbishop  Basak:  As  you  know  sir,  I  represent  our  Church,  and  I  am  here  to  investigate  the  stories of horrific ritual you have allowed to take place in your role as Priest.

Aynur:    It  was  me  who  asked  you  to  investigate,  Archbishop.    I  don’t  believe  I  bear  any  responsibility for—    Archbishop Basak: The only way to correct your relaxed stance on religious duty is to sniff out  the truth.    Aynur: The truth is very plain sir, what—    Archbishop Basak:  What I wish for you to do is tell me what happened before the bride and the  men entered the room?    Aynur: There was a wedding, you know that.    Archbishop Basak:  How could there be a bride if there wasn’t a wedding?  Who were married  and how did it come about?  Were they both good Catholics?  Did they put their faith in God  above all things?    Aynur: Oh yes, sir!  No fault there.  Both families were hard working and church going.  Their  children seemingly obedient to Christ.    Archbishop Basak:  Seemingly?    Aynur:  I do not know what lies in people’s hearts?      As  I  mentioned  in  my  last  monthly  report,  my  concern  for  the  church  largely  centers  on  equivocation and rationalization, which is destroying faith and papal authority.      Aynur: Both families found the match acceptable and a wedding was arranged.    Archbishop Basak:  Were they pure?    Aynur: I believe so.    Archbishop  Basak:  Did  you  not  ask?    Do  you  not  know  what  your  sheep  are  up  to?    I  should  think that children’s purity could be guaranteed by the parents.    In my day, Priests cornered young men on the issue of purity.    Aynur:  I imagine they could, sir.  We can ask them.    Archbishop Basak: Didn’t you think to ask?  32

Aynur:  Both children are known to me from early on.  Both seem obedient, kind and faithful.  I  cannot see behind every closed door.  And who would confess impurity so close to a wedding?    Archbishop Basak: The word “seem” is stuck on your tongue.  I don’t think it right a priest be so  relaxed  and  permissive.    Jesus,  the  Virgin  Mother  and  the  Holy  Ghost  all  look  to  you  to  hold  their righteousness as a standard in this village.  It seems you’d rather dig up your potatoes than  nurse the needs of your apparently periled congregation.    While  harsh,  I  believe  my  rebuke  came  from  God  himself.    I  wonder  at  the  education  we  give  priests, particularly priests who serve small communities over many years.  Could it be, being so far  from their Archbishop, they lose their link to God?    The  event  that  is  under  investigation  took  place  in  a  Mrs.  Bilge’s  house,  a  middle‐aged  but  attractive woman whose husband drowned in the town well a year before.  She, and several other  women, were witnesses to the event in question.  She is the owner of the house, which was why I  interviewed her.    Interview with Mrs. Bilge    Archbishop Basak: Ma’am, as you know, I am Archbishop Basak and you should think of me as  God’s  tool.    I  am  here  to  investigate  the  horrible  incident  that  took  place  in  your  home  some  months ago.  I am certainly sorry for you to have witnessed it.    Bilge:  Thank you.  Yes, the incident you speak of took place here, as you can tell by that wall.      Archbishop Basak:  Are you a good Christian woman?    Bilge:  I am a woman.  I believe in Christ.    Archbishop Basak:  But you are not good?    Bilge:  I do my best and fail often, which is why I have God’s grace.    Archbishop Basak: How long has the custom under scrutiny been active in this community?    Bilge: Before all of us.  That’s why.    Archbishop Basak: Adultery and murder have been around forever as well.

Bilge: And water and wind.    And poetry, the most poor of followers like to present me with a small bouquet of poetry with their  words, as if to impress me.  It is charming in its way.    Archbishop Basak: For now, please explain the ceremony.    Bilge:  It is simple.  Like the church, the ceremony seeks to recommend purity.    Archbishop Basak:  By stripping women naked?    Bilge:  That’s not important.  Traditionally, women in our town wear handwoven bead dresses  for their weddings.  This is unique to us.  The girl beads it herself with her mother’s help over  many months.  After the wedding, after the couple are bound to each other, we have a ceremony  for  the  other  men  of  their  generation  to  prove  they  respect  this  bond—and  the  groom,  the  community,  to  the  marriage,  and  to  the  wife,  who  is  the  symbol  of  purity,  we  think.    It  is  all  supervised by several women.  The men sit in chairs in a circle, facing inward.  In the old days,  we’d place a basket of figs or cucumbers, whatever was harvested at the time in the middle of the  circle—to  represent  the  community.    Now  we  put  a  cross.    They  are  told  to  focus  on  it.    The  bride stands outside the circle and ties the most bottom thread of her dress to a chair.  Then she  walks in a circle around the men.  The beads slowly unwrap behind her.   The men show respect  to the community, her husband, and the bride by not looking.    Archbishop Basak:  An indecent ceremony.    Bilge:  If the men show respect, it is pure.    To the heathen, anything is pure if you rationalize it.  I fear the faith will be explained away if the  Church doesn’t hold the helm steady.      Archbishop Basak:  It is a dare, no?  You dare the men to not look, to not lust?  Is that correct?    Bilge:  In a way, I suppose, but life is a dare to not sin. The ceremony is about purity, no matter  what sin might turn it into.    Archbishop Basak: The young woman is naked.    Bilge:  Young women are naked all the time.    34

Archbishop Basak:  Is this how you speak to priests?    Bilge:  You do know women take off their clothes?    Archbishop Basak:  Please resist the temptation to shame me.      Bilge:  I mean no offense.  When this bride, Alev, was half uncovered I could see she was turning  bright red.    Archbishop Basak: Enflamed by sin, no doubt.    Bilge: Girls often blush, but her whole body—    Archbishop Basak:  Please.    Bilge:    She  turned  redder.    Her  skin  brighter  and  brighter,  glowing.    Then  Alev  let  out  a  little  moan.  Mrs ________, her mother, cried out.  Alev fell against the wall.  The thread broke and  beads bounced and scattered every which way.  I admit a few of the boys looked then.  It was not  their  fault.    Then….the  poor  girl  burst  into  flames.    So  quickly.    So  fast.    Naturally,  we  had  buckets of water nearby for fires, and we threw them on her.  But she was gone so fast, nothing  much left, leaving that hole in the floor.  And her poor feet.  And some skin.  I’ve done my best  to clean, but the smell…    Against a wall, I see a large black burn that has burned through the wood so one can see the earth  below.  I wonder if Satan himself reached from below and set her on fire himself.    Archbishop Basak: “But deliver us from evil.”  Did they bury the feet?    Bilge:  Yes, Father.  Hundreds of years we have done this.  I did this when I was married.  My  mother.    Archbishop Basak:  Was she known to speak to spirits?  To do magick?    Bilge:  She was a girl.  Our girl.  She rolled bread and fetched water and longed to marry a good  boy.    Archbishop Basak: And was he a good boy?    Bilge:  Yes!  ______ was like her.  He herded goats and raised dogs.

Archbishop Basak:  It seems none of you have any hint to how sin works.    Bilge:  I suppose not.  A blessing in a way.    I cut the interview off there.  However, at her insistence and my hunger, I allowed her to serve me a  rabbit stew.    Lastly, I thought I would interview the groom, hoping to conclude whether some impropriety might  have created this reaction.  In my opinion, either Satan was allowed in and destroyed the girl with  hell fire for his own evil desires or God knew of either the bride’s sin or the groom’s and decided to  annihilate the union.    However,  the  father  of  the  groom  would  not  admit  me  to  visit  his  heartbroken  son.    Despite  reminding  him  I  was  a  tool  of  Christ  and  that  he  was  bound  to  obey  me  as  he  would  God,  he  threatened to brain me with a shovel if I attempted to interfere with his son’s grieving.    He did, however, allow me to record a brief interview with him.    Archbishop Basak:  To your knowledge, were both your son and his bride pure before marriage?    Berk:  Why  this  happened  I  do  not  know,  but  it  was  not  my  boy’s  doing.    And  Alev,  she  was  a  good girl.  Both respected and obeyed.      Archbishop Basak:  You can think of no reason why God would have punished the bride or your  son?    Berk:    Isn’t  it  possible  that  God  wished  to  punish  her  mother,  her  father,  her  aunt  or  grandparents, even myself who also loved her?      He was right, and I thought twice whether to tell him so.  It could be God’s judgment fell on the  entire village, steeped in subtle sins that let evil in thanks to Priest Aynur.    Archbishop Basak:  I have determined that the ceremony was impure.  That it was sin.    Berk:  We all do it.  We all long to prove we honor our town.    Archbishop Basak: You never looked?

Berk:  When  Mrs.  Aydan  was  wed,  I  sort  of  peaked  but  only  saw  her  knees.    Nice  knees,  I  suppose.   But  I  stopped there.    She’s had  fourteen  babies  now, I  believe,  but  God  only  left her  three.  You should see her knees now, black with dirt.    Archbishop Basak: Sin.    Berk:  From praying, father!    Archbishop Basak:  And your permissive Father Aynur naturally absolved you of this sin?    Berk: Isn’t that what priests do?    It was clear to me that the larger issue within the community born out of Father Aynur’s inability  to maintain order and ferret out sin.  I do not believe this was God’s punishment, but rather Satan  taking vengeance on an innocent girl for his own devilish reasons.  However, if the Father had done  his job, all would have been well.    As such, I had Father Aynur relocated to Istanbul where he could be watched and instructed more  closely by myself.  I find that he is more submissive and obedient with close watching; He hardly  says  a  word  and  the  other  priests  say  he  industrious  enough  for  a  seventy‐year  old  man,  though  they worry over his spirits like a gaggle of women.    Lastly, I visited Mrs. Bilge’s house again to pray over the spot and sprinkle some holy water.  Again,  as her kindness seemed to demand, she served me rabbit stew, which was very delicious.  I should  mention that even two months later the house contained a horrible smell, which I assume was from  the devil.  I advised her to burn down the entire house.  That the devil had entered.    Kyoto, Japan, 1598    Padre Espinoza report from Kyoto Japan in our year of the Lord 1598, responding to the  passionate  declarations  of  Christians  in  region  of  Tohoku  concerning  a  possible  evil  possession.  The  Christians  from  a  village  in  Tohuku  entreated  Bishop  Gabriel  to  investigate  a  demonic  possession  and  on  the  eighteenth  of  April  this  year  1598,  the  Bishop  sent  me  to  report  back  and  intercede as necessary.    Our good Christians were right to request a clerical presence, and I am thankful for their childlike  need for parental guidance and the Bishop’s wisdom to offer it.  I only hope I lived up to the faith  put in me by the Bishop.

From  the  letter  the  Christians  sent,  I  was  apprised  of  the  situation:  Two  samurai,  a  barbaric  Japanese  warrior  class,  met  in  battle  over  a  slight  of  honor.    A  Mr.  Atsako  gave  statement  that  Samurai Takagoya accused Samurai Eishen of ignoring their Master’s orders during a recent trip to  Akita.    Samurai  Eishen  took  deep  offense  to  this  accusation  and  brandished  his  sword,  as  is  the  custom of Samurai.  Samurai Takagoya obliged.  They apparently dueled in Japanese fighting style.    The  incident  of  concern  followed.    As  requested,  I  gathered  three  local  witnesses—Ayuma,  Haru  and  one  Christian,  Hibiki—to  review  the  case.    With  the  help  of  a  transcriber,  Novice  Daisuke,  I  provide  the  following  account.    My  investigation  was  not  well  received  by  the  Japanese  in  the  village.    Translated from the Japanese by Novice Daisuke      Hibiki:  As I said, Samurai fight quickly.  It was decided within nine breaths.    Padre Espinoza:  Remarkable.  And was there a victor?    Hibiki: As I said, Takatoya.    Padre Espinoza:  Pardon me, of course, this is for the official record.  I will try to not make you  repeat yourself much more.  Was there anything remarkable before the cut in question?    Ayumo: A samurai fight is always grand.  I am eighty years old and this only the twenty first I’ve  seen.    Haru:  Takatoyo was the master.  It was Eishen’s hot head that.    Haru: I apologize.    Ayumo: What you said was true.    Hibiki: We should not speak about the head.    Ayumo: On the last pass, Takagoya took off Eishen’s head.  Padre Espinoza: I see.  What a remarkable thing.  I am sorry you gentlemen had to witness such  a horrible act.  Is this remarkable?      Ayumo: You do like that word.    Hibiki:  The priest is my guest and has come at our request.  38

Ayumo: Yes.  I know all that.    Ayumo: All right then, I apologize.    Haru: When is such a thing not remarkable?    Hibiki: You two should not be disrespectful to our guest priest.    Padre Espinoza: I’m sorry if I have offended you gentlemen.  I have only been to Japan for two  years.  My vocabulary is limited.  The Samarai ways are shocking to me.  But I do wish you would  extent me some courtesy.  I have also been the guest of Lord Kenshiu about a matter of utmost  inquiry, and he was very kind to us priests.  I hope I can count on you to follow his remarkable  example.    Ayumo:  Hibiki is correct.  I will show more courtesy.    Padre Espinoza: I am just as sorry.  I obviously mistepped.    Haru: I apologize if I offended you.    Padre Espinoza: No please.    Haru: I am sorry.    Haru:  To  answer  your  question,  to  deny  a  man  his  head  is  bold.    First,  the  cut  opens  up  your  body, so you are saying you do not fear your opponent.  Two, you humiliate the man, the clan,  the family and the corpse.    Padre Espinoza: Is it dishonorable to do such a thing?    Hibiki:  No, I do not believe so.    Haru: It is not.  In battle, two warriors gamble their lives.  To take a man’s life and to live is still a  sacrifice.  In battle, samurai speak their own language.    Padre Espinoza: I see.  Remarkable.    Ayumo:  But Eishen did not fall.  That is why you are here.

Padre Espinoza: Yes.  Please explain so the transcriber has a record.    Hibiki: After the pass, Eishen took five steps and stopped.    Padre Espinoza: Without his head?    Ayumo: And turned back to Takagoya.    Haru:  I’ve never seen anything like.  A body, a sword.  The head in the tall grass.    Padre Espinoza: I am sorry, but I am obliged to ask if Eishen was known to worship the devil or  participate in any of the religions of Japan.    Hibiki: His convictions on that subject are unknown, but he was likely Buddhist, like most.    Padre Espinoza:  Please excuse my question, but do Buddhists worship evil spirits?    Padre Espinoza:  That is spirits who do not extoll virtues of goodness?    Padre Espinoza:  Like Satan.  Do you know what I mean when I say Satan?    Padre Espinoza:  I feel I am misstepped again.    Ayumo: Remarkable.    Hibiki: I do of course know of Satan.  I think everyone will tell you no.  And I agree.  Buddhists  know of evil spirits, as you say, but they are not as you think.  And they do not worship.  More  like respect.    Padre Espinoza:  You respect evil?    Hibiki:  Like a sword.  We respect the cut it can make.    Padre Espinoza:  I see.  We are in deep water.  Maybe we can finish this conversation later.  I am  interested in your comparison to a sword, which is dangerous but not evil, to evil spirits.    Hibiki: Japanese think differently, as you know.    Padre Espinoza.  Thank you.  I see.  I am so sorry to be rude, if I have been.  I am also obliged to  ask if you know of any peculiar behavior from Samurai Eishen in the days before this incident.    40

Hibiki:  I heard nothing of the kind.    Padre Espinoza:  I see.  What happened then?    Ayumo: After Eishen turned, he raised his sword and charged.    Haru: What a thing to see.  A true Samurai.    Padre Espinoza: I don’t understand.  Do you approve of this man charging without a head?  Does  it not alarm you?  Again, I am sorry if I am being rude.    Haru: I had no choice in the matter.  It was simply remarkable.    Padre Espinoza:  I see.  My childhood priest often said, “laughter saves.”    Hibiki: Father, Eishen’s body turned.  It raised its sword.  And charged.  Takagoya ‘s sword was  still at his side.  He did not move, but Eishen did not swing.  His sword was raised as if he would,  but he just ran and kept going.    Padre Espinoza:  For how long?    Hibiki: We all chased him.  To the pond.    Ayumo: I measured it.  Half a li.    Padre Espinoza: That far?    Hibiki: Once he hit the water that was all.    Ayumo: His body floated and sunk.  We were afraid to touch it.    Padre Espinoza: What did Samurai Takagoya say?    Haru: That Eishen was a better samurai than he guessed.    Padre Espinoza:  I don’t understand.    Hibiki: Samurai superstition, Padre.

Padre Espinoza: And the body now?    Hibiki: Hojo Ujinao claimed it.  Burned two days ago.    Padre Espinoza: Was he not informed of my investigation?    Hibiki: I told him.    Ayumo: I told him you were coming to.  It is well documented that the Japanese ruling class resent clerical intrusion.    As  a  precaution,  I  prayed  and  dispersed  Holy  Water  at  the  place  of  battle  and  the  place  where  Eishen entered the water.  I also kneeled and prayed for Eishen and for the God, the Virgin Mother,  and the Holy Spirit to rid the place of demons.      I was prevented from approaching the bier where he was cremated by Hojo Ujinao’s men.    I held Mass with handful of Japanese Christians that night.     I received a letter some weeks later that a plot of flowers grew where I kneeled and prayed.  I feel  the  Christians  are  most  likely  exaggerating.    They  seemed  very  flattered  Bishop  Gabriel  sent  someone to investigate.      Also, it should be noted that some days later, while on the way back to Aomori, I met with Samurai  Takagoya.    While  cheerful  and  obsequious  enough  at  first,  he  blanched  when  I  asked  about  Samurai Eishen, particularly when I asked about his religious habits.  I worry I misstepped, using  the word Satan again, and Takagoya reached for his sword and had to be restrained.      End of Transcript.    “I fear all Samurai nurse at the Devils’ teet.”  (This was written at the bottom of the report in what  is believed to be Bishop Gabriel’s hand.  SJ)

Poetry

Larry D. Thomas The Transfer of Light  The high desert light,  intensified by altitude  and clarity of air,   draws artists like moths  to a ubiquitous flame.    One who listens hard enough  can hear the screams of colors  writhing on their canvasses,  jolting the galleries  with cries of the criminally    insane.  The lenses  of stout sunglasses  are either mirrors  or dark as leather patches  fashioned to cover    the sockets of gouged eyes.  This winter morning,  through the steam rising  off my coffee, I watched sunlight  crest an eastern flank    of Hancock Hill; skulk  through yucca, dead grass,  and prickly pear; ease down  our driveway sans a sound;  bleed onto the ceramic tile    of our patio; and crash  through the glass of our door  like a flaming puma  leaving in shambles the silly  steel mesh of its cage.

An Imperceptible Blip  I have been musing  your “silence of the past”  the last few mornings  as I sip my daily coffee  on my balcony.  The mountains  to the north, clearly in view  for over forty miles,  are thirty‐five million   years old, making  even our millennium  an imperceptible blip  on the black, immeasurable  radar screen of time.    I ponder our fast‐forwarded  lives charted for a while  by the brilliantly hued  risings and settings of the sun,  ephemeral as the damaged  legs of a desert millipede,  much too evanescent  for the silliness of war  or the feckless trinity  of dogma, hate, revenge.

Seth Copeland Josef Mengele in Exile  Caieiras, Brazil, 1969    In the coffee‐acrid heat of the day,  he sits under a pepper tree, chewing  tasteless roots and reading an Argentine  medical journal, relishing the Latinate  loops in a mind weaned on German’s  guttural phlegm. Farm life bores him,  the old criminal abandoned by his era,  redundant with age as countercultures  and upheavals dominate the headlines.  Americans are standing on the moon,  ashy and gray. None of them know the  color a heart takes after chloroform runs  through the ventricles, how Romani flesh  darkens to purple when jarred in formaldehyde.  Evenings, he drinks yerba mate and ignores  a stubborn ear infection while his brain  lightly composes memoirs, stories only  he finds dutiful, correct, and justified.    At night, he dreams of twins he knew  with heterochromia, how he switched  their brown eyes out with the blues of  another child, and had them gassed to  silence when they insisted the boy’s dead  mother kept smiling at them inside their  invasive new lenses.

First Atlas  Five churches, one school,  a house with a yard full of coppery chickens,    Indian tacos for all fundraisers,    good ol’ boys in dungsmeared jeans  burning Black & Milds    in front of the only gas station, a boy      of five biking down the  middle of the road, followed by two dogs,     that guy on the motorcycle  with the white denim cutoffs, bandanas tied    all down his legs—    we joke, but he always has someone’s arms    around his waist—    up the road, the bridge where my grandfather    died, his palimpsest every time I cross it,    miles of crumbling barbed wire strung through  bone dry spurs of ancient post oak,    finials of wild hog heads,    and the best damn sausage & gravy around    if you know where to look.

Channel  To understand industry and civilization you must go to where it has been and has left: concrete runs across like the keel of a miscarried ship. wet patches of grass and trash cling to the sides as if huddled against the cold. in the middle of the path entrails stray from a dead dog runes of its end. whoever walks down here walks with the purpose of a lizard aimless with interstice trances of quiet stillness always alert to what’s above people in cars sheering to destinations that only mean to suck away their youth and money an empty plastic bottle of some forgotten limited time soda. red label faded pink by the sun. what the bottle doesn’t tell: the teenage boy who dropped it there enjoyed that drink more than anything else in the world.

Matt Sven Calvert Space & Push  A place a man can walk  Sloshing with humanity  Those nondescript places we all crave  Where the landscapes flow together    Slows until it becomes cinematic  We do what we can for paychecks  Because no one else will follow  This evaporating solitude    A shadow life of play  As a drunk birthday clown  In deadlines and checkbooks  Four decades without rituals    A puffy finger traces  Streams to elsewhere  Flesh becomes stale  And an emptiness opens      (Credit: This is a Cento poem composed by matching lines taken from the book ASTEROID by  Dr. Hugh Tribbey.)

Low Blood Cross  Secret concrete lore surviving spirit winter viper  Tongue temple Word Hell glory hands urgent antlers  Crime cloud June round public always shaky rolling   Sold control searching terror omit arctic metaphor    Glass rebellion greedy tabloid tuxedo  March Christian catches white windows  Stood deep within ocean world unknown  Tooth called obsessed red body vulgar     Oncoming saga stained sun  Parching dark heart blurs  Changing step flaps focus  Floating park saw leaving    Forgotten look sun‐baked tells  Riveted breeze helped dig girl  Expensive breathe dating waned  Extra old braised penis bridge    Underground desert multiply mockingbird  Inflates Baghdad ice‐cold jugulary road    Multiply writing silently pushing vine  Become dressed bomb masticated scrawls  Neighbor rattling unseen thin painting

Translation

Alda Merini (1931-2009) Chi ha detto, amico e fratello    Chi ha detto, amico e fratello,  che devi morire fra mille tormenti?  Sai che il tormento è una voce?  Sai che il dolore canta?  Io mi sono chinato sopra di te,  ho lavato le tue piaghe  e ho scoperto la musica,  la musica del dolore.  E te l’ho anche detto,  e tu mi hai guardato  come si guarda un pazzo.  Non hai creduto che tu,  nascosto nell’immondizia,  potessi darmi fremiti d’amore.

Friend and brother, who has said    Friend and brother, who has said  you must die in a thousand torments?  Don’t you know torment is a voice?  Don’t you know pain sings?  I have bent over you,  I have washed your wounds  and have uncovered the music,   the music of pain.  And I have even told you,  and you have looked at me  as if looking at a madman.  You did not believe that you,  hiding in the rubbish,  could make me tremble with love.    (Translated from the Italian by  Chiara Frenquellucci and Gwendolyn Jensen)

Gli alberti tutti, gioia della terra    Gli alberti tutti, gioia della terra,  hanno ferme radici  nella tristezza d’ogni poverello;  io li ho colpiti ai margini con grazia,  togliendo forza ad ogni fantasia.  Spazio non ho più dentro le pupille  ma sicurezza d’ogni cosa pura,  ma minuzia d’oggetti  che apprezzo, sollevandoli nel fuoco  della mia carità senza confine.  L’uomo non soffre attorno a sé una fine,  ma io ho un chiaro disegno  di povertà come una veste ardita  che mi chiude entro sfere di parole,  di parole d’amore,  che indirizzo agli uccelli, all’acqua, al sole  e che mi rendo tutte assai precise,  premeditate morte di dolcezza.

All the trees, the joy of earth    All the trees, the joy of earth,   have roots that are grounded  in the sorrow of every poor man;   I have struck the edges of the trees with grace,   stripping force from every fantasy.   I no longer have space in my pupils  but for the certainty of every pure thing,   but for the minutiae of objects  that I prize, raising them to the fire   of my endless charity.   Man does not suffer an end around him,  but I have a clear idea  of poverty as a daring cloak   that encloses me within spheres of words,  words of love  that I send to the birds, to the water, to the sun,  and that I make very clear to myself,   a premeditated death of confection.     (Translated from the Italian by  Chiara Frenquellucci and Gwendolyn Jensen)

Quando sentirete cantare    Quando sentirete cantare un’allodola  pensate che state parlando con Francesco,  che Francesco vi parla nel cuore,  perché non avevo altro modo  di volare fino a Dio  se non attraverso gli uccelli,  una manna di piume,  questi uccelli vigorosi e inutili  che vengono a beccarmi il volto:   è la musica di Francesco.  Forse per i poveri e per me  non ho da mangiare,  ma ho le mani gonfie di grano:   ho saziato tutti gli uccelli del cielo.  E nell'uccello, a volte misero e nudo,  ho visto una piuma di quell'angelo   che volò dritto verso Maria.

When you hear a skylark singing    When you hear a skylark singing  think that you are speaking with Francis,  that Francis speaks to you in your heart,  because I did not have another way   to fly to God   if not through the birds,  manna of feathers,   these robust and useless birds  that come to peck at my face:  it is the music of Francis.   For the poor and for myself  I may not have anything to eat   but my hands are full of grain:   I have satisfied all the birds of the sky.  And in a bird, at times naked and wretched,  I have seen a feather of that angel  who flew straight toward Mary.    (Translated from the Italian by  Chiara Frenquellucci and Gwendolyn Jensen)

Nonfiction

Rob Roensch the title is the photographs    I promise to ask no questions here. I am going to say what I think as clearly as I can.     I  have  always  loved  photographs,  not  images  on  a  screen  or  artist  work  on  a  gallery  wall  (wonderful as those may be), but 4x6 or 5x7 drugstore‐developed photographs. It is a vanishing  format, but I don’t intend to offer any more of an elegy for photo‐album photographs than I will  for  any  other  part  of  the  world.  Everything  will  peel  and  fade  and  crumble  or  degrade  and  disappear and that is the way it is. The point is to see what is here.     64

My  favorite  metaphor  to  describe  a  photograph’s  relationship  to  time  and  the  visual  world  is  “snapshot.” In the word there’s a sense of the action of a moment’s attention, the desire to seize  and hold.

I  love  photographs,  but  I  don’t  take  them  myself  with  any  dedication.  The  excuse  is  that  my  spatial  and  mechanical  and  technological  intelligences  are  limited.  (I  once  took  a  filmmaking  course  and  so  misapplied  the  concept  of  the  f‐stop  the  images  of  people  and  places  were  shadows within shadows.) But of course I could have applied myself if I really wanted to make  photographs; the whole truth is I didn’t want to. I don’t need to.    It’s  enough  that  there  are  other  people  taking  photographs.  I  don’t  feel  the  same  way  about  language. I always want to add my own words, if only as an echo. But I can look at photographs  and want to give away all control of my eyes.    I  feel  this  way  looking  through  other  people’s  photo  albums;  I  feel  this  way  looking  at  photographs  in  museums;  I  feel  this  way  reading  photo  books;  I  feel  this  way  looking  through  stacks of old family snapshots from my childhood; I feel this way sorting through the results of  my own few attempts at capturing something.

It wasn’t until after I had already picked up and saved two discarded photographs—one of what  seems  to  be  a  post‐blood‐donation  recovery  table  of  orange  juice  and  cookies  that  I  found  in  Lowell,  Massachusetts;  one  of  looking  up  through  a  blurred  blossoming  tree  that  I  found  in  Ithaca, New York‐‐that I consciously became a collector of found photographs.     I  am  a  walker  of  cities.  Since  the  year  2002,  I  have  kept  an  alertness  for  white  rectangles  of  photograph size in sidewalk rubbish (nearly all the photographs I’ve found have been face‐down;  face‐up they are less easy to ignore). Mostly I turn over nothings like postcard advertisements for  nightclubs, flimsy inserts for packages of Twinkies. But, every now and then, a face.

The  attention  to  finding  and  preserving  lost  photographs  led  naturally  to  my  seeking  out,  in  every junk shop in Baltimore, the basket of fading brown‐gray photographs from lifetimes past,  each  one  marked  on  the  back  maybe  with  some  word  of  identification—a  name,  a  place,  a  date—and, in the inhumanly thin scratch of a mechanical pencil lead, a price (3, 1, .50).

Nearly  all  found  photographs  are  striking;  because  they  appeared  from  nowhere,  they  are  the  opposite of blankness. The discovery of a necessary photograph from a pile of old photographs in  a dark corner of a junk‐shop near the cartoon‐character cookie jars is different. Something inside  the old photograph itself—a facial expression, a musical arrangement of landscape and body, a  mystery—must strike a bell in you that you did not know was there.

I’ve always wanted to do something with the found and old and amateur photographs, put them  into  some  sort  of  order  for  myself  in  a  way  that  would  both  help  me  see  what  I  saw  in  the  photographs, what they meant to me, and also help me share that vision and feeling and order  with someone else. I imagined a room of unframed photographs tacked to a bare wall with silver  pins. But that idea wasn’t enough; I needed words.

I  constructed  a  little  book  of  some  of  the  found  photographs  paired  with  brief  surrealist  descriptions of the dream‐life of Baltimore, where so many of the photographs were found. The  book didn’t work. I didn’t know why then: photographs have nothing to do with dreams. They  can  seem  strange,  but  they  are  the  ordinary  waking  world.  They  need  to  be  written  about  directly, first.

When I was a senior in high school I was a passenger in a car that lost grip on a curve and slid off  the road into a tree. I drove that road more or less every  day,  both before and after the crash.  The  tree  itself  still  bears  a  scar  from  the  crash.  Before  I  and  my  family  moved  away  from  that  town, I took a photograph of the tree because I needed to have a photograph of the tree with me.

Every  time  I  drive  by  a  car  wreck  or  even  just  a  dented  car  in  a  parking  lot,  I  find  myself  examining the broken and bent places; there is something important to see there. A wrecked car  is so much more specific than what a car is in a commercial, in a daydream. The wound is what  is real.

Shopping malls  are  meant  to  be  attractive,  not  beautiful.  The  economic  activities  that  proceed  there  come  to  seem  a  representation  of  a  culture—the  endless  availability  of  only  semi‐useful  materialism, the replacement of a shared public square with a policed, alarmed, artificially clean  marketplace.

And  yet  I  love  shopping  malls.  I  love  the  chintzy,  metallic  shining  of  the  decorations  at  Christmas time; I love the crowds, how people carry winter coats draped over their arms. I love  the  faces  of  strangers  who  are  absorbed  in  thinking  about  and  looking  at  something  that  has  nothing to do with me.

Another  reason  I  am  not  a  photographer  of  people  is  I  find  interacting  with  strangers  nerve‐ wracking.  I  find  the  prospect  of  asking  a  stranger  “Can  I  take  a  picture?”  or  answering  the  question  “Why  are  you  taking  a  picture  of  me?”  impossible.  This  is  moral  and  aesthetic  cowardice.  Thumbing  through  photographs,  collecting  found  photographs,  is  a  way  to  look  without being looked at in return.

A photograph of someone who is now dead is also the idea that there is no such thing as loss.  From a certain perspective, God’s, all of time is one object, endless but whole, like the surface of  a globe. From this perspective, a moment is both ephemeral and eternal.             74

One  of  my  favorite  words  in  English  is  “daughter.”  It’s  a  weird,  heavy  word.  All  the  other  essential relationship words are simpler: “son”; “husband”; “mother.” Only “daughter” has such a  dense internal collision of letters. The Oxford dictionary tells me “daughter” rhymes with “aorta”  and “water.”

Giving  attention  to  photographs  changes  what  looking  at  the  world  is.  The  eye  becomes  more  camera‐like;  the  empty  air  is  a  series  of  potential  frames;  the  layers  of  the  world  insist  on  themselves—there is always a foreground and a background, a decision of focus.

But  nothing  tangible  comes  from  looking  at  the  world  this  way—no  actual  photographs  and,  unless  your  memory  is  like  a  camera,  only  a  very  few  memories.  Mostly  the  world  disappears  when you look away. But when you look away from the world you are also looking into the world  from a different angle. How much there is to see and not be able to remember.

There is no way to see the world as it appears through someone else’s eyes; there is no argument  that proves other people are real. Truly looking into a photograph requires faith.

There is so much possibility in America, so much time and space. There are so many individual  imaginations  in  America,  each  seeking  to  populate  the  time  and  space  with  words  and  images  and meaning, each seeking to imagine and then see, or see and then imagine, a whole.

Beauty in a photograph is not evidence of another world shining through, and neither is it mere  shimmering appearance.

The experience of being struck by the beautiful in a photograph is the epiphanic recognition of  what  the  world  is:  the  contained  and  the  uncontainable,  structure  and  freedom,  growth  and  stillness and decay, light and darkness, life and death, truth.

Images

“Somewhere Near  Happy, Texas”  Jeff F. Wheeler  Oil and Charcoal on  Paper  72” x 115”

“Just Outside Lamesa”  Jeff F. Wheeler  Oil and Charcoal on Board  36”x 24”

“Somewhere Near Happy,  Texas (no. 52)”  Jeff F. Wheeler  Oil and Charcoal on  Board  36”x 36”

“Just This Side of  Cheyenne”  Jeff F. Wheeler  Oil, Charcoal and  Collage on Vintage  Paper  20”x 16”

Reviews &  Interviews

‘Say the Unsayable So That It’s No Longer Unsayable’: An Interview with Aimee  Parkison  By Clinton Blackwell Jr., Jarrod Brown, and George McCormick    In anticipation of Aimee Parkison’s visit to Cameron University in April, I caught up with the  writer via email where, over several days, we had the following conversation. Parkison is the author  of two story collections, Woman With Dark Horses (Starcherone, 2004) and The Innocent Party  (BOA Editions, Ltd., 2012), as well as a novel The Petals of Your Eyes (Starcherone, 2014).  Parkison’s work is often experimental and ambitious, and her recent book breaks every  convention—at least in my estimation—of the confessional novel that needs breaking.        [Oklahoma Review]: I spent last weekend reading two things: your essay, “The Wreckage of  Reason: Women Writers of Contemporary Experimental Prose,” and Clarice Lispector’s  inimitable novel The Passion According to G.H. I kept thinking about how Lispector was writing  for an audience that did not yet exist; or, an audience that didn’t know it had an appetite for  such experimentation. I don’t know if you’ve read Lispector, but I was wondering about your  own experiments—do you think of audience when you go into a writing project? Do you trust  that readers will eventually find you?     [Parkison]: I think you’re right about Lispector and her audience. Writers of experimental or  innovative prose invent the audience they want to write for as they write. The process of  producing powerful work calls the audience. Ultimately, good work finds its own audience with  its own voice, whether that audience is already here or waiting to be born. With my writing and  my approach to teaching writing, I envision different audiences, usually audiences within  audiences, but ultimately, as an artist, it all comes down to trust, faith that a work will find its  place within the world of readers, if it has lived up to the promises made to the readers.    [OKR]: I remember reading an interview with W.G. Sebald where he said, in effect, that if a piece  of fiction is going to be experimental it needs to let the reader in on the experiment. I like that,  and it seems to jive with your idea here of living up to promises made to the reader. Thinking  back to Lispector, what sort of promises do you think she makes to her readers?      [Parksion]: The complexity of Lispector’s sentences demand that the reader slow down. Because  of her style we have to pay attention in a particular way, and this changes the reading  experience. Her use of language and syntax, its demanding nature, draws us into a deep web of  interiority. We can get lost in Lispector’s sentences in the same way her characters get lost in  thought. Much of her fiction invites the reader to participate in the interior life of women. The  tension becomes subversive when her sentences reveal the conflict between language and  meaning.    90

[OKR]: In Woman With Dark Horses many of the stories center on, among other things, oblique  human relationships. Here I’m thinking about “The Upstairs Album,” and “Van Windows.” Can  you speak a little bit about this?      [Parkison]: The oblique human relationships in my work are a reaction against a transparency  and an absolute truth of self that I don’t believe exists. It’s unwelcome as the experience of  pretending absolute clarity or transparency in life. No one ever really knows anyone, so all  relationships are about the process of getting close to knowing but never really knowing. We can  never really know ourselves because we’re constantly changing. How could we ever really claim  to know another person? The best we can attempt is empathy. For me, this means that the  unspoken and the tension of ambiguity are just as important as narrative and language. There  has to be ambiguity and obliqueness in order for the literary audience to exist because the  literary audience reads between the lines and wants to be surprised by the experience of reading.    [OKR]: Right, I agree that a writer of literary fiction needs to court ambiguity and surprise the  reader with that ambiguity. Can you think anything that you’ve read recently that surprised you  in this way?     [Parkison]: I really enjoyed Herman Koch’s The Dinner and Summer House with Swimming Pool.  Also, Elena Ferrante’s Days of Abandonment.      [OKR]: Your novel, The Petals of Your Eyes, is about the ritualization of a particular kind of  violence. I know you had a chance to study under Brian Evenson, who is known for writing  about violence, and I was wondering if there was anything particular—in approach, in craft— that you learned from him?    [Parkison]: Sensitivity to language, tone, and syntax.  Meticulousness. Building a narrative one  beautiful sentence at a time. The idea of using violence to communicate something deeper about  the human experience.       [OKR]: One of my students pointed out that like the photography of Dianne Arbus your stories  normalize what many might consider taboo. As norms in society change, how do you see  experimental fiction changing along with it?      [Parkison]: The work of art is to say the unsayable so that it’s no longer unsayable. Norms keep  changing. What was once shocking is now banal. What was once the truth is now a lie. There is  no constant. The experience of being alive means that we’re constantly dying.  All fiction should  be experimental in some way. Mainstream formula fiction that has become popular and trendy  enough to be predictably safe, fulfilling clichés of traditional genres, is evidence that at some

point an experiment became so successful with an audience that it was no longer an experiment  but a formula, a recipe like McDonalds’ special sauce.    [OKR]: How do you get your students to write beyond the cliché? Beyond the ‘special sauce’? Or  perhaps they already are?     [Parksion]: Most of my students are already trying to write beyond the cliché. They want to  create something real, authentic, and new. To help them figure out how to do this, I require and  encourage them to keep journals, where they perform creative‐writing experiments to test  various ideas and techniques in low‐stakes writing that may or may not evolve into finished  pieces.

Phil Estes. High Life.  Horse Less Press. 2016.

Reviewed by George McCormick        The first time I ever experienced a Phil Estes poem—this was still before I would read them in  the  magazine  Diagram,  or  in  his  wonderful  chapbook Children  of  Reagan  (Rabbit  Catastrophe,  2012)—was the first time I ever heard a Phil Estes poem: through a large and loud speaker in a  small  conference  room.  Somehow  this  was  perfect.  It  was  the  first  wave,  it  turns  out,  of  disorientation.  Because  disoriented  is  kind  of  where  you  need  to  get  to  if  you’re  to  get  Estes’  work. And by disorientation I don’t mean like when you drink too much and get the bed‐spins— no,  bed‐spins  are  bad—but  the  kind  of  disorientation  you  create  when  you’re  a  kid  and  you  decide  to  spin  around  a  couple  of  dozen  times  with  your  eyes  closed  because  when  you  open  them  again  the  world  seems  weird  and  fun  and  it  makes  you  laugh.  In  part  the  disorienting  effect of Estes’ poems in his new book High Life make the world seem weird and fun again:    My mouth clapping like a hand  Eating, and talking.    But not like a father to his son,  But the son mimicking, noming.    The man‐dog fights for the stray  Baseball in the dead dog’s mouth. See!    I can only describe what I saw, not the élan  But that’s the hands of élan, right?         Yet this disorientation is not a ruse so much as a veneer. If we are disoriented from one world,  what  world  are  we,  if  any,  then  oriented  toward?  For  one,  it  seems  to  be  a  world  with  very  porous borders. Just as it is difficult to judge exactly where a suburban space begins and ends, so  too, it is difficult to know, exactly where we are in place (Oklahoma? Ohio? The cave where the  old man lives?) and in time (Boyhood? Manhood?) in High Life. But this level of disorientation— of existing in collapsing spaces; in the ruble of such collapse—is exactly where High Life derives  its energy. Each poem asks us to play pretend. Yet under all of this, beyond the poems’ veneer,  there  is  a  quiet  and  compelling  voice,  a  confessional  voice  even,  that  tells  us  about  our  own  suffering:    I want to love everything and raise them up, seriously,  Or take them all by my mouth

Like I am a wolf or a nice dog.  But I drink instead and hold my cock at night;  Or I pack this big body into a booth  And act like I don’t give a shit about you,    Like I am Mifune as Yojimbo. I have a big heart,  But it is always weaponized;  It is always sheathed.         And here is where High  Life feels more substantial than Children  of  Reagan. It’s not that it’s  just  a  book‐length  collection  versus  a  chapbook,  but  it’s  the  breadth  of  emotion  and  vulnerability  that  make  these  poems  feel  different,  more  timely.  If  we  are  indeed  living  in  confusing and disorienting times, then lets let these poems be some of the songs we slow jam to.                                                          94

A.W. Marshall. Simple Pleasures.  ELJ Publications. 2015.

Reviewed by Casey Brown        Tulsa writer A.W. Marshall collects the stories of disparate of characters in his story collection  Simple Pleasures: a grandfather, a 15‐year‐old Romanian princess, a very lonely and very suicidal  man,  quintuplet  corpses  even.  The  most  interesting  story,  “Kissing  Guinevere,’  a  beautiful  magical  realist  tale,  follows  a  grieving  man  who  buys  a  wish‐granting  flower  that  brings  his  mother back from the dead. It is a story about the mundanity of lives lived in close proximity to  one  another.  After  the  mother  “comes  home,”  the  reunited  carry  out  the  smallest  operations:  “Over  the  next  few  days,  they  both  lived  in  a  dream.  He  went  to  work.  She  cleaned  his  apartment. And then a few days later she said she was getting a job to help support them. She  ended  up  as  a  cashier  at  Doller  General.”  Nothing  spectacular,  but  they  were  in  a  dream  nonetheless.        On  its  surface,  “Kissing  Guinevere”  is  a  story  about  grief,  about  what  it  feels  like  to  lose  an  immediate family member, which happens to more than one character. The flower might be an  objective  correlative  for  coping  with  grief  inside  a  story  told  with  precise,  graceful  language:  “Adam slumped into his chair, lost between each second passing – feeling so many unsafe things  to say. He absentmindedly played with coins in his front pocket.” The flower and the language  structure the story and pull the reader from sentence to sentence, page to page.        However, as I read “Kissing Guinevere” and watch a son and his resurrected mother become  reacquainted  with  each  other,  I  cannot  help  but  wonder  if  the  theme  is  a  play  on  the  idiom  “Mother Knows Best.” The mother gets reacquainted with living. She works for the first time in  her…life.  She  stuffs  cash  earned  at  the  Dollar  General  into  a  white  envelope.  Mother  knows  where her son got the flower that brought her back from the grave without anyone telling her.  Mother  knows  that  if  she  asks  the  right  questions,  the  florist  will  order  another  such  flower.  Mother knows her son’s truest wish, a wish he cannot even utter to himself. She knows best in  life, death, and second chances. Grief is not about the successes and failures of an existence; it is  about the removal of the small moments that beat out the rhythm of daily life.

Larry D. Thomas.   Art Museums. Blue Horse Press. 2014.  The Circus. Blue Horse Press. 2016.

Reviewed by Nick Brush            Charles Bukowski once said, “An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says  a  hard  thing  in  a  simple  way.”  Larry  D.  Thomas  is  an  artist.  A  wordsmith  in  every  possible  connotation,  his  poetry  recalls  Barnett  Newman;  Thomas’s  deceivingly  plain  language  invites  readers into a deeper conversation the same way that Newman’s zips pull us into his canvases.  Thomas’s work suggests a new kind of abstract expressionism, a new form that exists not on the  page nor in the minds of his readers, but rather in the space between. His poetry rips you out of  the physical, sometimes violently, but then pulls you gently through the ephemeral with the care  of an old friend.       Art  Museums,  published  by  Blue  Horse  Press  in  2014,  features  thirteen  different  ways  of  looking  at  art  and  everything  associated  with  it.  Thomas  invites  readers  to  follow  along  as  he  tours museums like the Art Institute of Chicago, the Museum of Modern Art, and the Kimbell.  Some  poems  describe  an  artwork  as  though  we  were  standing  right  in  front  of  it.  In  “Amon  Carter Museum,” Thomas details a painting by Frederic Remington: “a stagecoach lunges / as if  spewed from the night itself, / ejected from the canvas/into the trembling, outstretched arms /  of the viewer.” The viscerality of Thomas’s words combined with his imagery make the painting’s  viewer a piece of the work itself. His poetry does the same thing to its readers; we are pulled into  and invited to be a part of Thomas’s work.       Thomas  not  only  acquaints  readers  with  artworks,  but  he  also  introduces  readers  to  the  museums  and  their  inhabitants.  He  discusses  architecture  in  poems  like  “The  Steps”  and  “Kimbell  Art  Museum,”  giving  readers  a  chance  to  experience  all  the  splendor  of  these  magnificent  buildings  through  simple,  yet  powerfully  expressive,  poetic  musings.  Restorers,  moving men, and even security guards get the Thomas treatment as he paints them as not mere  employees,  but  as  the  forces  that  keep  these  institutions  running;  they  are  as  much  the  art  as  what hangs on the walls.       Moving from concrete walls covered in canvas to walls made of canvas itself, Thomas’s newest  offering, The Circus, takes us into the mind of a childlike version of the poet. Published by Blue  Horse Press in 2016, The Circus’ poems are based on Thomas’s childhood memories of attending  these  vibrant  and  lively  events.  What  makes  these  poems  so  unique  is  Thomas’s  method  of  conveying the unsophisticated wonder of a young boy through the wise and practiced language  of a grown poet. Years of experience are evident in these poems, but Thomas’s skill blends the  two together as if we were reading the thoughts of a too‐smart‐for‐his‐own‐good little boy.  96

Like Art Museums, The Circus is about more than just the art, and as Thomas describes it, the  theatricality of the circus is definitely art, it is also about the people; it is about the circus as an  institution  and  an  idea  instead  of  just  a  big  tent  in  a  field.  “The  Ringmaster,”  arguably  the  strongest poem in the collection, summarizes the entirety of circus culture in four short stanzas.  The man himself, a “commandant of freakdom” and “consummate public relations director / of  death”  pokes  and  prods  both  his  performers  and  the  audience,  taking  charge  of  the  three‐ring  wonder.  However,  as  Thomas  goes  on,  we  find  out  that  the  circus’s  magic  lies  only  on  the  surface; there is a dark, gritty, and dirty underbelly that only an experienced patron would dare  to discuss.       Both Art Museums and The Circus are essential writings of Larry D. Thomas and also serve as  a good introduction to the poet. His linguistic skill is rivaled by few alive today; his techniques  are  reminiscent  of  a  Renaissance  master  combined  with  the  creativity  and  bold,  comfort‐be‐ damned  attitude  of  a  Postmodernist.  Everything  Thomas  touches  turns  to  poetic  gold,  and  readers would be remiss to not give his work their undivided attention.

Jeanetta Calhous Mish. Oklahomeland.  Lamar University Press. 2015.

Reviewed by Jarrod Brown        In  Jeanetta  Calhoun  Mish's  collection  of  essays,  Oklahomeland,  she  captures  the  essence  of  life on the Oklahoma plains and uncovers the raw emotions associated with the only place she  truly calls home. She begins Oklahomeland by drawing us into a landscape that is "desolate and  dangerous, beautiful and pristine." In the essay titled "Western Civilization," she recognizes that  the beauty of Oklahoma lies in its diverse population of settlers, who endured hardships just as  the land endured natural calamity.        Perseverance  is  the  common  theme  within  each  essay  as  Mish  takes  us  back  to  her  time  growing  up  in  Oklahoma.  In  her  essays,  "The  Oklahoma  We  Call  Home"  and  "Remembering  Number Nine," she re‐visits the life lessons from her grandpa and the road trips across the Great  Plains with her family on Highway Nine. In “The Oklahoma We Call Home,” Mish remembers  her  grandpa,  a  self‐sufficient  man  who  endured  harsh  Oklahoma  farm  life  and  passed  on  his  wisdom  of  hard  work  and  respecting  nature.  Keeping  with  the  theme  of  preservation,  Mish  explains the importance of passing on valuable traditions to future generations.       With  “Remembering  Number  Nine,”  Mish  takes  us  along  for  a  drive  across  Oklahoma:  "I  think it was alliteration that made Number Nine my favorite highway, the way it sounded like a  chant,  a  charm.  I  was  a  poet  even  as  a  child...losing  myself  in  the  rocking  road  that  sang  its  name."  It  is  not  easy  to  associate  the  open  road  with  home,  but  this  essay  uses  the  power  of  memory to give charming life to Oklahoma’s often mundane stretch of highways.        In “Broken Branches,” Mish’s essays take a darker turn into Oklahoma’s history. She not only  reveals  her  family’s  mental  demons,  but  also  her  own.  This  essay  is  courageously  written  and  opens with a narrative of her great‐great‐grandfather’s suicide and ends with the re‐telling of her  own  suicide  attempt.  Mish  spends  much  of  the  essay  investigating  the  cause  of  her  relative’s  tragic  death,  but  ultimately  reveals  the  asphyxiation  of  small  town  life  that  affects  not  only  Oklahoma, but much of the United States.        “Like a Fire in Dry Grass” opens with the lynching of John Cudjo, which takes place in Mish’s  hometown  of  Wewoka,  Oklahoma.  She  then  discusses  her  extensive  research  into  cases  of  lynching across the state. Each incident is covered in grisly detail, but Mish also weaves her own  memories  of  racism  while  growing  up  in  Wewoka.  While  not  as  graphically  violent,  her  memories  show  just  how  ingrained  racism  is  for  parts  of  Oklahoma  and  the  United  States  in  general. She often refers back to the Cudjo case and exposes the harsh truth behind choosing to  remain silent during social and racial injustice.       Oklahomeland  is a wonderful declaration of Mish’s love for Oklahoma, but also serves as an  investigation  into  what  made  the  state  what  it  is  today.  Much  of  what  is  revealed  through  her  essays is the perseverance of not just the land, but of its people. Whether overcoming drought or  98

tornadoes,  racism  or  suicides,  Mish’s  Oklahomeland  illustrates  how  the  people  of  Oklahoma  have endured and will continue to endure well into the future.

Tracy Letts. Superior Donuts.  Theater Communications Group.

Reviewed by Clinton Blackwell Jr.             Tracy  Letts  is  most  renowned  for  August:  Osage  County  (2007)  which  won  a  Pulitzer  Prize  (2008) for Drama. Superior  Donuts  (2008)  takes a different route. This play encompasses racial  tension,  nostalgic  events  dealing  with  family,  and  room  for  improvement  when  it  comes  to  making  new  families.  Superior  Donuts  tells  the  story  of  the  historic  Uptown  neighborhood  of  Chicago,  Arthur  Przybyszewski  (Arthur  P  for  short)  owns  a  donut  shop  that  has  been  in  his  family  for  sixty  years.  A  young  black  man  by  the  name  of  Franco  Wicks  (Arthur’s  employee)  wants  to  modernize  the  show  completely.  Set  in  the  heart  of  one  of  Chicago’s  most  diverse  communities,  this  comedy  explores  the  hardships  of  embracing  the  past  and  the  redemptive  power  of  friendship.  Arthur  P.  is  a  somewhat  stoic  and  awkward  character  who  doesn’t  truly  know how to live in the world, at least not until Franco shows up. Franco has this positive vibe  throughout most of the play. He acts as the perfect foil of Arthur. The two cops, Randy (Irish‐ American) and James (African‐American), are there mainly for comic relief. They give a different  side of the police force, except for the cliché of cops gravitating towards donut shops. Then there  are two Russian guys (Max and Kiril) and one Irish/Italian‐American named Luther along with  an Irish‐American named Kevin. Lady Boyle (Irish‐American) serves as the oddball of the group.  She basically shows up on random occasions. Take this excerpt for example:     Arthur: That’s awful.     Lady: One of ‘em got shot by the coppers in a gasoline station stickup. One of ‘em                 had a grabber, mowin’ the yard. And one of ‘em died in the crib with that disease.                Where the spinal cord get a mind of its own and decides it don’t want to live                Trapped inside those little bones no more. You know what I’m talkin’ about?      Arthur: I don’t think so.      Lady: Your spinal cord gets it in its head to go free and slitherin’ out into the world. That’s                  what kill my little Venus. Her spinal cord got its own notions.      Arthur: Wow.      Lady: It happens. Happens to all of us, just not so extreme.      Arthur: It does?      Lady: The body don’t work together. You know how they say the heart wants one thing but                   the brain wants something else?      Arthur: Yeah, sure.      Lady: The spine. It don’t speak up for itself much. But when it does? Look out. Trumps the                  heart and brain every time.         This play takes a different approach than Bug. Bug, set in Oklahoma,  dealt with an intimate  couple caught up in government conspiracies. Letts completely changed the location which was  100

actually  a  great  choice.  The  comedy  in  Bug  is  displayed  as  a  more  serious  matter  than  what  happens in Superior Donuts. He does a very good job of stressing the race issues within the play.  There’s  also  this  aspect  of  dreaming  that  is  highlighted  as  well.    “America….will…be.”  This  statement  is  great  because  it’s  equivocal  and  open  to  interpretation;  it  comes  from  Franco’s  novel. Letts paints Franco as an idealist and an optimist; it shows that hope must stay alive in  order  to  reach  dreams.  Letts  is  good  at  telling  the  story,  but  I’m  not  sure  if  I  imagine  this  completely staged. I honestly see this story being told on the big screen; I say that only because  there are some shots of scenes that might be angled better with cameras. Overall, this play has a  very  nice  touch  to  it  and  I  believe  it  can  be  the  most  relatable  when  it  comes  to  building  relationships with people that surround you. It’s quite the read because Letts brings the mellow  vibe  of  the  world  being  a  melting  pot  and  no  matter  what  circumstances  we  go  through,  we  always have to remember that despite our different shades or hues, it’s always better when we  unite.

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Contributors    Clinton Blackwell Jr. is a senior at Cameron University who will be graduating with a degree in  Theatre Arts (emphasis in performance). Upon finishing graduation, he plans to develop a career  in acting by joining Magna Talent Agency and Oklahoma Shakespeare in the Park.    Stephen  Briggs  grew  up  in  Blackwell,  Oklahoma  and  currently  lives  in  Shawnee,  Oklahoma  during  the  school  year.  He  is  a  junior  majoring  in  Computer  Science  with  an  interdisciplinary  study in Creative Writing. During this last year he has had the opportunity to present his short  story, “Ancient Words,” at the Sigma Tau Delta National Convention in Minneapolis.    Casey  Brown  (@shopgirlkc)  is  a  writer,  editor,  and  voracious  reader  who  holds  a  Bachelor's  degree in English from Cameron University. Her fiction, nonfiction, and reviews have appeared  or are forthcoming in the Gold Mine, Cameron Collegian, Cuento Magazine, Dear English Major,  and Pep & Prose. She recently appeared on The Artist Inspired podcast and presented at Howlers  and Yawpers Creativity Symposium in Seminole, Oklahoma. Currently, Casey is writing a novel  set  in  southwest  Oklahoma,  Red  Dirt,  and  is  developing  an  essay  on  the  literary  history  of  Lawton, Oklahoma for This Land.    Jarrod  Brown  is  currently  pursuing  a  Bachelor's  degree  in  English  at  Cameron  University.  He  hopes to graduate in the Spring of 2017 with a concentration in creative writing.      Nick  Brush is originally from Arkansas, but he grew up in Oklahoma at the age of thirty. His  poetry  has  been  published  in  Dragon  Poet  Review,  Cuento  Magazine,  and  The  Gold  Mine,  with  work  forthcoming  in  November  Bees.  His  books  reviews  have  been  featured  in  The  Oklahoma  Review and Cybersoleil.     Matt  Sven  Calvert is the two‐time winner of East Central University’s Paul Hughes Memorial  Writing Award, claiming the prize in 2015 and 2016. Matt graduated from East Central University  in December 2015 with honors. He is currently revising a collection of poems and a memoir for  publication.    Seth Copeland’s work has most recently appeared in Otoliths, Red River Review, and Crab Fat.      Gwendolyn Jensen and Chiara Frenquellucci are partners in translating Alda Merini's poems.  Gwendolyn  Jensen  started  writing  poems  when  she  retired  from  the  presidency  of  Wilson  College.  She  has  published  two  books  of  poems,  and  has  been  published  in  numerous  literary  journals. Chiara Frenquellucci was born in Rome and has been teaching language and literature

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for over twenty years. She has published articles on Italian theater, fiction, opera, and poetry; a  critical edition of seventeenth‐century librettos; as well as textbooks and multimedia e‐books.    George McCormick is editor at large, and regularly writes reviews for the Oklahoma Review.    A.W.  Marshall  has  lived  in  Oklahoma  for  the  last  ten  years,  but  grew  up  on  the  beaches  of  Southern  California. His  collection  of  short  stories,  Simple  Pleasures,  was  published  in  2015  by  ELJ  press.   His  work  is  published  or  forthcoming  in  The  Fiddlehead,  Appalachian  Heritage,  Red  Wheelbarrow, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, theNewerYork, Fiction Attic, Austin Review, and The Vestal  Review. His  story,  “The  Lover,”  published  in  the  Vestal  Review  was  nominated  for  a  Pushcart  Prize in 2014. For the last five years, he has been writing a novel, Hendo, about a half man, half  rabbit hybrid who survives in 1850’s California by assimilating with Chinese Immigrants.    Larry D. Thomas, a member of the Texas Institute of Letters and the 2008 Texas Poet Laureate,  has  published  several  collections  of  poetry.  His  As  If  Light  Actually  Matters:  New  &  Selected  Poems, was issued by Texas Review Press in June, 2015.      Jeff  F.  Wheeler  lives  and  works  in  beautiful  downtown  Lubbock,  Texas.  He  is  known  for  his  surreal and often humorous take on life on the South Plains which manifests itself in hundreds  of  drawing,  paintings,  collages,  and  ceramics.  His  work  has  been  featured  in  exhibitions  all  around the world including Peru, India, Germany, and Greece among others. He is co‐founder  (with  his  brother  Bryan)  and  producer  of  the  infamous  celebratory  Texas  Art  extravaganza  known  as  Ulterior  Motifs,  which  has  featured  the  work  of  some  of  Texas’  most  accomplished  contemporary  artists.  His  work  was  featured  in  the  2010  book,  TEXAS  ARTISTS  TODAY,  by  Catherine Anspon.

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