A writer confesses

I will not write about Traveling to Palestine

Pocketing the nettle

Nettles? Maybe this is another thing K might write about.

Dear Neighbors Northers,

I know.  Strange, isn’t it.  No posts in months, then two in one week? All these months you haven’t heard boo from me, I’ve been working on Traveling to Palestine, a novel I first-drafted ages ago in the Obama era.  The political event–disaster?–of Nov. 9, 2016 compelled me to take T to Pal out of the drawer.  T to Pal is about a young woman navigating an America she didn’t think was after her father is deported back to Iraq.  Her story intersects with three other young women impacted by war: Rachel Corrie, Jessica Lynch, and Lynndie England.  Below are musings on how the writing work is going.  Think of it as my most recent confession.

I will not write about Traveling to Palestine

For this hour I will not write of Traveling to Palestine.

I will write of other things.  Or nothing.

How my ink fades on the page.  Maybe I will write of that.

I will write of rhubarb, blindness, and the young men in sharkskin suits who shake their legs while tapping laptops.

I will write of people who go to jail for protesting wars, people who cut through chain link fencing and spill vials of their own blood.

It seems like I have so much time, when I don’t.

And I am not sure I will solve the problems in Traveling to Palestine.  Perhaps I will not.  Perhaps I will be dragged down by them and never come back up.

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Book reviews

The best response to oppression and injustice is love.

Dear Neighbors Northers,

On Saturday, I finished reading Ibtisam Barakat’s first memoir, Tasting the Sky.  A week plus earlier I read Ibtisam’s second memoir, Balcony on the Moon.  Ibtisam hails from the Ramallah area of the West Bank, but these days makes her home in the U.S.  Ibtisam’s memoirs have been stamped with the YA sticker, but they really should carry the ALL AGES sticker.  

Ibtisam

Ibtisam Barakat

On the evening of June 5, 1967, after an Israeli bullet nearly took Ibtisam’s mother’s life steps from the family home, Ibtisam’s family fled.  It was Day 1 of the Six Day War.  Ibtisam was three.  Ibtisam’s mother commanded her three children, ages three, six, and seven, to find their shoes and put them on.  Ibtisam’s mom carried Ibtisam’s infant sister.  Her father’s arms were full as well, with bedding and food. In the chaos and darkness, Ibtisam couldn’t find her shoes.  (It wasn’t a simple matter of flipping a light switch and behold, there was light!  The Barakats had no electricity.  They relied on a kerosene lamp.)

Ibtisam’s family charged off without her.  Ibtisam set off after them, one shoe on and one shoe lost.  She had no idea if she would ever set eyes on her family again.

She wandered through the night and didn’t find her family until the next morning.

Over the next several months, the Barakats sheltered in various places.  While housed temporarily in an elementary school, Ibtisam made Alef’s acquaintance.  Alef was the stick figure-like first letter of the Arabic alphabet.  With a simple scratch of chalk nubbin to blackboard, Ibtisam brought Alef to life.  On occasions when chalk wasn’t available, a stroke of stick point to patch of dirt would do.  With Alef, and eventually, Alef’s 27 friends (the other letters of the Arabic alphabet) Ibtisam could venture anywhere.  She could connect to the world.

You can sample Ibtisam’s poems and short stories at http://www.ibtisambarakat.com/

I recommend Poem 10: A Poem Made of Bread.  Click the button and listen to Ibtisam read her Bread poem aloud.

I hope you love the cadence of her voice as much as I.  Listen closely and you’ll hear the tiniest hint of an accent.  It adds a fragrance bottle’s atomizer’s worth of “other countryness” to Ibtisam’s poem.

Today marks the 50th anniversary of the Six Day War.  Ibtisam has a thought-provoking article about that as well as her experience of growing up under Israeli military occupation in today’s Nation magazine.   www.thenation.com.

Below are links to Ibtisam’s website

http://www.ibtisambarakat.com/

and Ibtisam’s memoirs:

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Book reviews

The Solace of Monsters

Dear Neighbors Northers,

Yes.  I know.  It’s been a while.  Months, in fact.  Work on novels continue.  Writing continues.  I find myself in a period of great editing and deep, cavernous story.  It takes events of seismic proportions to rouse me into posting.  One such recent event was reading Laurie Blauner’s The Solace of Monsters.  My apologies if I give away too much of the story in my review (below).  I hope it will not disincline you from reading Ms. Blauner’s novel.  If you read it, I would love to read your take on it here at Neighbors North.

the-solace-of-monstersSome books provide answers and facts and knowledge.  They leave the reader with a greater sense of “knowing.”  Laurie Blauner’s Solace of Monsters left me with a greater sense of “unknowing.”

Monsters is an updated Frankenstein story.  Mara, more specifically, Mara Five, is the monster.  Her creator is Father, a heart-broken mad scientist.

Mara is in a state of becoming.  She is young, on the cusp of womanhood.  Father is still tinkering, cramming her with parts and fixing them in place with Krazy Glue.

Mara learns about the world through reading.  She doesn’t watch television or listen to the radio.  She never goes outside.  Father locks her in her room when he is away at his job.  Sometimes memories of Mara’s past existences slip into her consciousness.

In the opening scene, the description of the bird on Mara’s dinner plate tingles with references to the living creature the bird once was—alive with muscle, blood, bone, and skin.

Mara hasn’t yet got a handle on her outsized strength.  In an early scene, when she wishes to show affection to Gloves, her feline companion, she overdoes the love and kills Gloves.

Gradually Mara learns why Father goes to such lengths to not only make her but perfect her.  She is the child Father lost.  The child Father cannot let go of.  The child he cannot release.

She submits to Father’s operations.  She doesn’t particularly like them.  She doesn’t like the long painful recovery period, but she wishes to please Father.

She keeps it a secret when she loses a toe.

She busts out of her locked room the morning after the dinner party with Greg, Father’s work colleague.  She makes her way to the basement, to Father’s laboratory.  Greg’s corpse is laid out on the operating table.  Father has already begun dissecting.

Mara’s veil of ignorance falls.  She flees.

A motorist takes her to the outskirts of a forest.  Others, offended by her appearance, wish to annihilate her.  Mara eludes her pursuers.  She finds shelter in a little church in the forest.  Teresa, the village laundress, takes her in.  In addition to washing others laundry, Teresa also keeps the church clean.   Mara receives a hostile welcome from Teresa’s little girl, Kat, who is surly and blind.

Mara’s adhesive bonds weaken.   Her decay accelerates.   She loses another toe, another tooth.  Part of her ear and an eyebrow fall off.

She hobbles to the city.  She is down to one kidney.  Her strength has begun to ebb.  She is more hideous-looking.

Prostitutes and other wayward people befriend her.  The normals turn away.

She has run-ins with doctors and police.  A doctor examining her excitedly alerts his colleagues.  He has never seen anyone with so much necrotic tissue.

She meets Father Bill.  He is a spirit-driven holy man, a redeemer and executioner.  He  restores sanctity by killing prostitutes.

Mara kills Bill and departs the city.  She journeys by bus back to Father in a state of great decrepitude.  She hides her ravaged face beneath a scarf.  She leans on a crutch.

She and Father fall into their old pattern of creator and clay.  Father guides her toward the operating table.  This time, when she falls under the narcotic’s spell, she understands exactly the meaning of the moaning and crying she hears coming from a distant room.

Solace left me with many questions.  How do we keep from becoming monsters? At what cost do we preserve ourselves, defend our territory, our right to exist? How much suffering and death do we allow to be done in our names? What are we willing to do and to have done to others so that we may be fixed and repaired?

What is the cost of sheltering with killers?

What do we wish to preserve of the dead? What is it we wish to remember? What do the “normals” see? What does the blind girl see? What does the lady pushing the shopping cart see?

And what of the self-proclaimed redeemers, such as Father Bill, such as Mara’s father? Is one any nastier than the other?  Both men long for the face of God to eternally shine on them.  Is that not what all of us, on some level, wish?

Lastly, what calculus allows Mara to return to Father’s operating table? Why doesn’t she choose the nobler path? Why doesn’t she lie down under a bed of leaves and wait for her decay to be complete? Would that be the nobler path?

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Book reviews

The Ploughmen by Kim Zupan

the-ploughmen-2

Dear Neighbors Northers,

I simply couldn’t not blog about this exquisite read, The Ploughmen by Kim Zupan.  Probably I’m not doing it justice.  See for yourself.  Read Ploughmen and see what you think.  How will it speak to you?

Ex nihilo nihil est.”  The killer John Gload says he came across those words decades earlier, embroidered on a hotel pillow.  Sheriff’s deputy Valentine Millimaki thinks it must be Latin.  He is too wrung out from sleeplessness to think anything more.

The Ploughmen heaves up from the earth in cataclysms and cataracts.  In between are periods of exquisite quiet.  Zupan reveals a bleak, flat Montana of blowing sand and hot, rainless summers; cricket clouds, elusive bats, and circling, hungry gulls.  He uses language in a precise, unexaggerated way, without irony or hyperbole.

Ploughmen centers upon two orphaned farm boys, Valentine Millimaki and John Gload.  A note written in his mother’s elegant script instructed eight-year-old Millimaki to come to the shed.  There, he found his mother swaying cold from the rafters.  Gload waited out a snowstorm in a truck cab for his drunken father’s return.

Millimaki marries and has a cabin in the woods.  He becomes a sheriff’s deputy.  Gload earns his bread killing.  He bows before no god and follows no commandment other than his own.

The law catches up to Gload at age seventy-seven.  Millimaki is assigned the jail’s graveyard shift.  He is instructed to pay special attention to Gload.

Gload isn’t interested in escaping.  He’s neared the end of his row and fine with living out his days behind bars.  Still, in his own inimitable fashion, he would like to put some things right.

Neither guard nor prisoner is sleeping.  Millimaki is haunted by the dead—beginning with his mother and extending out to the hikers, loners, and drifters he tries to rescue but reaches too late.  His wife can no longer bear the sorrows dripping from him and walks out.

Gload’s sleeplessness isn’t due to regret for those whose lives he has snuffed out, but for his never-fulfilled boyhood wish of being a ploughman, a dream buried in a long ago snowstorm’s drifts.  He has another wish, too, but keeps Millimaki in the dark as to what it is.

The wind, ice, snow, and sun bleach, scar, bend, and disfigure.  The punishment men mete out seems almost trivial compared to what nature doles out in the harsh and beautiful land.

Ultimately, Millimaki puts things right for Gload, just as the old man wished.

Ex nihilo nihil est.  Nothing is created from nothing.  Was this the ultimate take away from Kim Zupan’s Ploughmen?

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