Eleni Sikelianos’s You Animal Machine (The Golden Greek) – Review by Editor Ann Beman. For the Museum of Americana literary review
Interview with Eleni Sikelianos. In which I interview Eleni Sikelianos about You Animal Machine (The Golden Greek), which conjures in book-length essay the hard-edged life of her burlesque-dancing maternal grandmother.
Last day of AWP, afternoon session. Panel title includes the words “surprise” and “unexpected.” I’m hoping for cake or cosplay characters or unfurling tooty horns, at the very least. But …
Select seat with view of lectern. Check.
Push Voice Memo button on phone. Check.
Scribble panel title in notebook. Check.
I’m ready. So are the five panelists facing me, and so are the 60+ audience members surrounding me. We are the researchers in Room 607.
“It’s a bit of an oddball role,” began moderator Ana Maria Spagna. She described the ethical challenges experienced while researching Test Ride on the Sunnyland Bus, in which she explored her late father’s involvement in the Tallahassee bus boycott of 1957. The various people to whom she spoke had different and sometimes conflicting versions of the story, “as well as their own real lives and real pain,” she said. The crux became …
It’s safe to say that a majority of AWP’s umpteen thousand attendees love books. If you’re like me, you love every aspect of them — the inked paper smell, the heft of the volume, the font, the cover design, the ideas born within the text, the potential for marginalia, the sound and feel of pages flipping beneath your thumb.
So if you’d seen …
Read the full post here: AWP 2014: Books About Books: A Nonfiction Conundrum.
Originally posted on Thumbing Through:
1. Sign up for a weeklong cross-country ski adventure across the Gaspé Peninsula in Quebec with minimal training and partial French. Do this with complete strangers, no friends or family along to comfort you in your cluelessness.
2. Once you realize your head is not going to explode from the rapid-fire Quebecois you are attempting to translate in the partial French you do understand, enjoy the nine-hour bus ride from Quebec City to the Parc national de la Gaspésie. The snow-white countryside is beautiful.
3. Find a ski buddy among the mostly 50- and 60-year-olds, the great majority of whom will kick your 40-year-old marathon-trained ass on skis. Get over it, rapidement.
4. When you alone are responsible for forming a clog at a narrow descent from a country road to the…
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Time doesn’t just fly when you’re busy. It warps. A Psychology Today blogger puts it this way: “Basically, the busier you are during a time interval, the faster that time interval will feel like it passed. That shouldn’t be surprising. We all know that time flies when you’re having fun. When you are cognitively busy, you are focused on each task you are performing, and so you don’t have the opportunity to notice the passage of time. As a result, the interval feels like it passes quickly. When you are bored, there is not much to occupy your time, and you are much more likely to think about the passage of time. So time feels like it passes slowly when not much is happening.”
Another way to warp time? Don’t think about giraffes. Don’t think about what color they are, how they smell at the zoo, how tall they are, or the sound they make when they’re grazing on nearby trees. Don’t think about where they are from, don’t think about anyone you know who likes giraffes so much that they collect them in an ever-shrinking corner of their home, and please do not think of them wearing striped cravats and monocles. Difficult, isn’t it? Pretty much the only way you’re going to prevent yourself from thinking about giraffes right now is by distracting yourself with something else. Occupy your mind with something else. Same thing with time, right? Keeping yourself occupied diverts you from thinking about the passage of time.
What is time but a fancy giraffe snacking on overhead foliage?
Last week we wrote about souvenirs. This week I’m thinking not about the tokens of remembrance kept on purpose, so much as about the chingaderas, little whatchamacallems, that stick to you whether you want to remember them or not:
The photo of the bygone-era fellow sitting hunched on a cardboard suitcase looking out at the most empty body of water you’ve ever known. The sky is cloudy over what I imagine to be the Salton Sea, which people will tell you is not empty at all, but rather full of salt and tilapia fish and hundreds of bird species living in the wetland.
The snippet of overheard conversation at the hair salon: “The drawer broke so she took it home to fix it.” The woman came into the salon in the afternoon bearing what looked like a box of cake. Or, at least, that’s what I wanted it to be. The marathon-training has been ramping up, and large boxes of cake are popping into my imagination a lot lately. I’m not proud to admit driving to the grocery store last Saturday specifically to buy three slices of bacon and a wedge of peach pie.
A cherry-sized blue rubber whale with a yellow flower behind its eye has found its way onto my desk. An eraser, the tiny creature has managed to erase from my memory its origins. On top of that, I fished out a pencil to use just so the whale would have a purpose. “The poet play upon the feet,” I’ve pencilled onto a nearby envelope. No idea what that originally meant, but now I conjure a colossal statue of Homer Simpson as Poseidon, with bespectacled folk laying down cards among his mossy toes. “Uno!” one of them shouts, knocking the trout-speckled Warby Parkers clean off her pale face.
Ready to give it a go? Give yourself a couple days or more to collect images, photographs, small objects, lines of poetry that you’ve written, passages from other writers’ work, morsels of overheard conversations. With your collection, sit down and lay out each thing around you. Use the things you’ve collected as the ingredients for a poem or nonfiction vignette. If Homer Simpson or sheet cake or the Salton Sea cross your pages as well, let me know.
*From Poets & Writers “The Time Is Now,” March 8, 2012
A. There are souvenirs. B. There is regret. And C. There are regrettable souvenirs. Case in point: the telescoping fork I brought back from Chicago. Hilarious, right? How funny to bust it out at Thanksgiving or Easter, pilfering tidbits from loved ones’ plates, right? No. Just … no. How about this? Over the weekend, I’m wandering Boston’s brownstone-lined Newbury Street with good friend Lynda Zuber-Sassi. Really, ours is less of a wander than a mission. We’ve identified a target through Yelp, after searching for book shops. “It was different from all the other little shops on Newbury,” reports one Yelp reviewer, listing fairy dust, trinkets, Alice in Wonderland memorabilia, and dragons among its merchandise. Quirky, yes, but worth a look-see? Meh. It’s another review that sways us– “Quite a selection of gnomes.” On with our boots and off to Newbury.
A sign in the window reads “Hanging with my Gnomies!” The owner is closing up for the evening, but he lets us browse a few minutes. The gnome selection is not as we expect. Alice in Wonderland seems to dominate. So I buy a magnet that reads, “We’re All Mad.” I imagine I’ll regret the purchase. My fridge isn’t even magnetic. As we’re leaving, overhead bell tinkling our departure, the owner invites us to a party in the shop at midnight. “There’ll be a special punch.”
Now two days later, I’m home and unpacking. At the bottom of a Harvard Bookstore bag I find the Mad Hatter magnet, and I realize I don’t regret the purchase as much as I regret missing the sounds, smells, tastes, and scenes of a strange party in a strange setting among strangers. Could have been fun. Could have been nuts. Could have worn the knee-high gnome socks already in my suitcase.
Your turn. Go on a day trip, a road trip, a field trip. Eavesdrop. Find something new. Bring back a souvenir.* What do you take with you? What do you leave behind? Sit outside in one place until a story comes to you.
*From Poets & Writers “The Time Is Now,” March 15, 2012
Wish you were here. On this snow-coated slope. In British Columbia. Canada. First province on the left. Or, if you’ve got your back to the map, BC is the first Canadian province on the right. The Canadian Rockies straddle BC and Alberta. Where my husband proposed to me 14 years ago. On a ski lift. The proposal was totally out of left field. I’m surprised I didn’t fall off the lift. We didn’t have the retaining bar down. Because we both think retaining bars on ski lifts are lame. We are a fine match. That’s why I said yes. Because we are a fine match, not because we’re anti-retaining bar. Anyway, this mountain here in Revelstoke, BC, is steep and high. You can ski down for 15 minutes and still be only halfway to the lift. If I put on a suit made of silicone, buttered myself, and asked several of the strapping Australian ski patrollers to jettison me down the mountain, I would still be the last person to the lift. They ski fast here. They know what they’re doing. Also, the food’s good. The view, too. Which is why I wish you were here.
The above is long-winded for a postcard, but I travel often and frequently end up spiraling freeform notes all over the card. What about you? Howsabout composing a postcard poem or note?* Keep the length brief, and give the recipient a sense of the place you’re visiting or the space you’re occupying. The location from which you write can be imagined or real. Alternatively, buy a postcard, and try to write a poem/note based on the postcard image.
*From Poets & Writers “The Time Is Now,” January 26, 2012