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Mar. 1st 2015     Issue 5: All That Craft

 Issue 5: All That Craft Contents

What's In Your Sling?

Issue 5: All That Craft

 

Fiction / Non-Fiction

 

Lab Rats - D.S. West

The My Name is Earl Approach to Writing - Jason Kapcala

 

Poetry

 

All That Craft - Irsa Ruci

A Vanity Press or Piece of Self Publishing Software - K.J. Greenberg

On Libery - July Westhale

The Mumbai Rap - Sunil Sharma

Attempts at Transcribing My Grandfather's Death by Emphysema - Austin Kodra

Becoming Light - Tracy Mishkin

 

 

Writing While Black

chapbook-album review w/ Rough Magic 

Hope Johnson

Ibeyi Ibeyi Music Blog Review

Hope Johnson

Sling Interview w/ Afaa Micheal Weaver

Bonita Lee Penn

Page 2

Writing while Black

Music Review w/ band, Rough Magic

with a truth which rose through the house – I was too young to know which kind of truth, really            Aretha Franklin’s Inauguration Hat, Cornelius Eady

 

 

Two weeks after arriving in New York, I attended a small book release party in Brooklyn, where I met Cornelius Eady and his band Rough Magic. As a young black poet, I knew of Cornelius Eady; extraordinary elder, important example of work focused on race and society, centered on jazz, blues, violence, and family. I knew he was a product of the Black Arts Movement and widely recognized through numerous awards and several nominations, including one for the Pulitzer Prize. I did not know his work transcended the page into song. I did not know he, himself, was a musician.

 

The band played several sets between poet, Gregory Pardlo’s readings of his new book “Digest” which seemed to be perfect for the musicality of each poem. One of the first songs I heard by Rough Magic (that tends to re-play in my head from time-to-time) was, Twilight Is The Hour – an ode to Trayvon Martin and other victims of police brutality and racial violence, where Cornelius Eady and poet - vocalist Robin Messing sing the chorus “Twilight is the hour of the mother-less child” with accompanying violinist Concetta Abbate, guitarists Charlie Rauh and Emma Alabaster, and percussionist Leo Ferguson.

 

Similar to Eady’s previous work, his new chapbook "Singing While Black" furthers the discussion of racial politics, especially against black men. “My Niece Marie Explains her Michael Jackson Project” is particularly ironic, as it shows innocence in narrative and desire for change from a child's perspective in the face of what racism has produced (the white Michael Jackson) and continues to produce. “Aretha Franklin’s Inauguration Hat” took me back home to the south with the lines, a truth which rose through the house – I was too young to know which kind of truth, really; those head-coverings, a symbol of black testimony, worn by the keepers of black-story.

 

Unlike typical chapbooks, "Singing While Black" is split in two parts. The above poems are in the first section consisting of lyrical poetry without musical accompaniment. The second section is an album of lyrical poetry with musical accompaniment:

 

John Punch - a jazz-folk song with an old feel, tells the story of a black man named John, who fled with two white men and, “when John got caught, he found out it weren’t the same”. This song seemed to capture the heart of being a black man-caught and the judicial system’s racial preferences. Although the narrative is set in the 1940’s, it seems Eady is showing how the same inequality still haunts black men, “John” being sort of a “John Doe” (black man without a name).

 

Half-Shut – each time I read this poem, I think of the deep significance and symbolism of “keeping your mouth half-shut” as a black woman or black man – in this case, about knowing or teaching the truths of history “Jesus tried to save the world, they hung him up like a scarecrow, changed the water into wine, refused that boy like a negro”.

 

One Day – really hit me personally, as I think it would any reader-listener. It is a break from history to show human (all races) truth and emotional sameness. We can all relate to “feel[ing] so silly, feel so beat...so hungry, feel[ing] so beat, staring in the mirror, staring at the walls, it’s the middle of the week and there’s nowhere to fall”.

 

One day, when he is gone...one day, when she is gone...

John Punch 

"Writing While Black"

Twilight Is The Hour

"7 Songs"

Odette Plays BB Kings

"Singing While Black"

Page 1

with Poet & Playwright Afaa Michael Weaver

Sling Interview

Bonita Lee Penn

Afaa Michael Weaver was born on Baltimore’s eastside and graduated high school during the turbulent Spring of 1968.  Marking the fortieth anniversary of that personal milestone, as well as a chaotic chapter in the city’s history, Weaver returns to Baltimore to read at CityLit Festival from The Plum Flower Dance at 2:00. Weaver wrote and published poetry on the side while working factory jobs at Procter & Gamble and Bethlehem Steel. He founded 7th Son Press and published the journal Blind Alleys, which featured Andrei Codrescu, Frank Marshall Davis, and Lucille Clifton among others. As a freelancer, he has written for the Baltimore Sun, the Boston Globe, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Chicago  Tribune, and the Baltimore Afro-American.  He began his teaching career as an  adjunct in 1987, teaching at New York University, the City University of New York, Seton Hall Law School, and Essex County College. In 1990, he began at Rutgers Camden and received tenure with distinction there as an early candidate. In 1998, Weaver joined the English Department at Simmons College, where he founded the Zora Neale Hurston Literary Center.

Sling: In The Plum Flower Dance, volume and tone are clearly an important component to the collection. What crafting elements do you utilize to accomplish the desired tone; or, do you allow the poem to decide?

 

Afaa Michael Weaver: The poems in that collection span a period of twenty years, from the publication of my first book, Water Song, in 1985, to 2005, the year I began writing The Government of Nature while living in Taiwan, where I was studying Mandarin. In order to write you have to read, and I have read quite a bit over the years, poetry as well as other literature.

 

First, if you are speaking of tone as the attitude toward your work, I would say you have to read to have a sense of how your interests as a poet, as well as the circumstances of your life, are mirrored in the work and lives of poets that you read, especially poets that speak to you. Ask yourself why these poets’ work speaks to you. Read widely and you will begin to sense more of the actual texture of your “attitude” toward your subject.

 

Secondly, explore the different ways poems can emerge. On one end of the spectrum think of form and content as the poem being poured into a specific form or approach. On the other end, think of the poem manifesting its own style from its subject. Then there is everything in between. Vary your work so you can begin to get a sense of the range you have between filling in forms, so to speak, and letting the poem make its own form as it emerges. People refer to this as closed form versus open form, and I suppose that’s a good set of terms.

Craft, as I understand the word, is how you build a poem. In that way, even a bad poem has craft. It’s bad craft, but it is craft.

 

Sling: The poem from The Plum Flower Dance, “Composition For White Critics Who Think African-American Poets Cannot Work In Contexts Of Pure Concerns For Language And Post-Postmodern Twenty-First Century Inventiveness In Lyric Expression Due To Their Self-Limiting Concerns With Language As A Means Of Self-Expression And Racial/Cultural Identity In Poetry That Is Ultimately Perhaps Beautiful However Too Trite And Too Folksy To Be Post[//] Theorist Efficacy.”

 

This was my first study of craft and I described this poem, “The deliberate and echoing tone of the speaker, along with concise line breaks after every two or three beats (caesura), gives a sense of vastness so great it can only be compared to the voice of God. The enjambment channels the poem’s movement; the word choice is the beat.”

 

This is how I image the sound of God’s (nature’s) voice. You have this mindfulness and connection to nature, place and being (placing it all in harmony). Reminds me of Bashō’s haiku “old pond.”  old pond. . . / a frog leaps in / water's sound.

 

Okay the question, how did you reach this place in your craft?

 

AMW: You mean how did I manifest the “Voice of God?” Prayer would be the answer.

 

Or the answer would be I allowed the gateway to associative movement in writing to open as wide as it would go. I took the idea of showing the power of associative thought as proof that African American poets can do it. I have since regretted dedicating it to Jorie Graham in its earlier published forms because I do admire a great bit of her work. To my knowledge, Graham never made such a statement about black poets. In the moment of writing that poem I let language flow inside me.

 

That ability comes with years of working to trust your intuition, of liberating it, but also of knowing when to put it away and think in linear ways. Intuition is its own logic, but don’t spend all your waking hours in creative, associative mode. You might hurt yourself. Over the course of a lifetime of writing I have learned to nurture and value my intuition, that part of the imagination that may be the most elusive when you try to describe or define it, but one that has its own wisdom and sanity.

 

I know your question is longer than my answer, but that’s all I can say without being pretentious. I have been compared to Walt Whitman and Dante Alighieri, and that’s all very flattering.  However, I am certainly not God. God save me from arrogance.

 

Sling:  In 1979 you receive a Fulbright Fellowship to study in Taiwan. Following that period you have continued your education and connection with Chinese language and culture. How this study influenced your craft?

 

AFW:  It has helped, I think, with my ability to think associatively. It has also made me more conscious of the sound of English and the value of writing systems that are based in the image. As for the culture, Taijiquan (Tai Chi Chuan) has been the organizing principle of my life, beginning in the winter of 1978 to 1979 when I began studying it. I studied Taiji and read the Dao De Jing (Tao Te Jing), the first copy of which I received in 1973, when I was 21 years old.

 

My first substantial teacher in Taiji told me the teacher gives the student the dragon in outline, and over the years the student finds the details. That has been a guide for me for self-exploration for over thirty years now.

 

Sling:  What would be your response to a poet (of any age/gender) who is part of a community workshop (and not part of an academic program), how they would go about the study of poetic craft? I ask this question, as I believe many great poets are born, not educated; and based on the fact you refer to your “literary apprenticeship” period during the time you worked at a factory. There is something about life’s experience and self-study that also develops a poet.

 

AMW:  That story of the dragon is about self-study. I agree that there is something about life’s experience and self-study that help, and if you can endure it over the course of a lifetime, your pursuit of it will be your biggest reward. However, I would disagree little about a poet being born and not educated. It’s that talent cannot be gained. You can learn skills, but the gift is a gift.  I was at university when I was sixteen years old and acquired a music method of study and research at the very prestigious high school I attended in Baltimore, Polytechnic. Read as much as you can. Listen to poetry. If you go to a reading and are inspired by the voice and work of a poet to the point that you begin to sketch poems as you listen, then you have found an important place inside yourself. This is a high point in self-study, this deep connecting with a poet’s voice and work.

 

Some poets get to wherever they get due to social positioning. A person of privilege can demand to be seen as a poet, and that will happen to an extent. They will have some success. The world of poetry is political, as is everything. A poor person with a gift has to struggle for a more genuine humility and avoid the traps of resentment. The gift has to be affirmed by others. Self-proclaimed geniuses don’t get too far.

Let’s just say it ain’t easy.

 

Sling:  If you don‘t mind I would like to ask for your thoughts on the state of African-American poetry from your point of entry until now. How has the landscape changed since you have been writing? Is there too much emphasis placed on the academics of poetry?

 

AMW:  I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again. I think African American poetry came into its own in the last quarter of the 20th century, and that blossoming was hugely influenced by the Civil Rights Movement. That latter part of the 20th century was for African American poetry what the latter 19th century was for the dominant culture.

 

Much much more poetry is being published now. When Charles Rowell published Water Song in 1985, there was nowhere near the amount and variety of poetry published as there is now. I am the last of a generation born in the 1930’s and into the early 1950’s, and our take on poetry was more of writing to and out of an overview of the culture. I see younger poets writing more to their own contemporaneity.

 

It’s all good. It’s all different. The postmodern poets, most of whom are in their forties now, are being followed by a younger group that is seemingly somewhere between older ideas of lyric narrative and later variations on hip hop stances in English.  You have Kiki Petrosini and Dwayne Betts following poets in their forties.

 

I am not exactly a project book person. I work more organically. However, the project books I see now on the topic of slavery are interesting. There is so much that is not written yet from that vortex.  Then there are the younger variations on the Black Arts Movement.

 

In the Diaspora interesting things are happening with poets who came here in more recent waves of immigration. They have their observations of the U.S. along with their lived experience here, but more importantly, I think, they have their memories of places where they were born and lived outside the U.S. Poets like Enzo Surin, whose background is Haitian, will have interesting works to share, I believe.

 

It’s all good and interesting. It’s all different from my generation. The recent waves of black immigrants to the U.S. didn’t happen until I was grown. I come from a pre-Civil War black family. We have different sensibilities.

 

Sling:  Our focus this issue is on craft. One cannot speak of poetry without thanking those who came before. The poets of the Black Arts Movement has influenced me (and continue to do so); do you feel the Black Aesthetic is relevant today?

 

AMW:  The history of the tradition is always important to those of us who believe in tradition. You have to understand what influenced them and what influences they generated. They are relevant historically, and although their strategies may not work in the world such as it is now, the fact that they had one and they took on the powers that be is an important lesson as we face ongoing racism as well as the global specter of climate change. How important will any issue be if half the world freezes? The Black Arts Movement can help us construct lenses of intersectionality.

 

Sling:  Your study/practice of Daoist, how has it influenced your writing style?


AMW:  It has helped me believe in myself.  As I age, I come to understand how important some things are and how unimportant other things are. I feel I have to speak to the interiority of working class people by remembering that I am working class myself- despite what some people think. Daoism has helped me explore intensely personal issues, most notably the fact that I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. I see that as a political act in itself, one that speaks to the dominant powers as well as the other dominant power of repression and denial in African American culture.

 

Sling:  The narrative in “The Picnic, An Homage to Civil Rights”, has great language which paints vivid images that stays with the reader long after the book has been closed. What are some of the craft elements you find important to use language in this way?

 

 “On the edges to mark the encampment, / like gypsies settling in for revelry / in a forest in Romania or pioneers / blazing through the land of the Sioux, / the Apache, and the Arapaho, looking guardedly / over our perimeters for poachers” or “the sun crashed through the trees, / tumbling down and splattering in shadows / on the baseball diamond like mashed bananas”

 

AMW:  That poem is ekphrastic. I was thinking of the painting by the same name and trying to imagine myself as a painter. Study visual art. That’s so so important to poets. Study all visual art wherever you can find it. When I say study I mean stand with the thing, look at it, see if it speaks to you. Art has a voice.

 

Sling:  What suggestions would you like to offer our readers when it comes to the study of craft in poetry? What are some books you may suggest, or readings or daily exercise?

 

AMW:  Here’s a small list:

Arnold Rampersad’s biography of Langston Hughes and his recently published collection of selected letters by Hughes.

The essays by Robert Hayden.

The Oxford Anthology of African American Poetry

Singing School by Robert Pinsky

The Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics. 

A Field Guide to Contemporary Poetry and Poetics.

The Book of Forms by Lewis Turco

Book of Rhymes by Adam Bradley

The Life of Poetry by Muriel Rukeyser

 

 

Thank you so much for taking the time. We are truly appreciative.

—Bonita

 

You’re welcome.

—Afaa

Photo by Don West

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Fiction / Non-Fiction

Page 3

Lab Rats

D.S. West

Why is the expensive liquor up top better than the rail at the bottom?’

 

“There’s some science-y reasons, I’m sure. I don’t know what they are though, and I’m doubtful they answer your question.”

 

 

‘I believe it has something to do with the distillation process. Usually. Sometimes, you know, it’s just a branding thing. Triple, double… filters out something that’s allegedly less good for us.’ Knocks on bar with knuckles. ‘Speak of the devil. Barkeep, if you can pull yourself from those fluttering eyelashes, can I get another one? Southern Comfort Lime with a spritz of your cheapest clear soda. Yes sir, I want it to taste the same tonight as when I wake up to it tomorrow morning. I’m a believer in continuity.’

 

     “Do you believe distillation makes a difference?”

     ‘It makes a difference. But does it add value? Fuck no. It’s

      like friends I have who call themselves foodies. Foodies,    

     ’cause they love food. 

 

They love food so much, they’ll only eat it if it meets their standards. Is that love? The year I lived in Richmond, I ate a girlfriend’s Lo mein after she found half a roh in it. Yeah, I was twenty-one, and I was just showing off, trying to prove something I’m not sure can be expressed verbally--Christ. No wonder the kids are so fucked up--but I’m really proud that I did that. It was a valuable experience. When I say I love food, I have stories to back the claim up.’

 

“I get that, I do. How any one sensation is placed at a higher value than another? A five-hundred page novel by a distinguished scholar is better than an animated short created by a couple of high teenagers, why exactly? Because of literary devices? References to events or previous texts recognizable to like-minded individuals? If it’s the time that was put into it, what does that have to do with the finished product? That was the author’s time, not the art's. What has the author got to do with anything?”

 

‘I’m not sure I’d go that far, but… Heh. The bartender is trying to get your attention. Wants to know if he can pour you another one while he’s over there flirting with those made-up chicks. Has no idea they’re fucking with him. Young, ignorant bastard…”

 

“He has no idea, that’s for sure. I’ll have cranberry and orange juices made less opaque by vodka please. Your cheapest, but charge me for your most expensive.” Resumes the conversation: “I fail to see the value of a smooth drink. The burn is a warning, right? Why not deactivate all our man-made stop lights, while we’re at it?”

 

‘Look at them, why don’t ya. God almighty, to be twenty again. Hard to believe we were so incredibly naïve. Flattered as he'd be if he saw that they came here tonight intending to do exactly what they’re doing, he’d be disappointed. In his fantasy, they weren’t sure they wanted to flirt with a man tonight until they saw him working the bar. He has no idea it has nothing to do with him—‘

 

Interruption.

 

Enthusiastically, as he removes the straw from his sloppy sloppy mixed drink--

 

“Those lovely scientists! I couldn’t appreciate this either when I was his age. They’re conducting important experiments. See how that one just laughed at his hair when he turned around? Oh come on, it’s good natured. A lot of guys, you know, they grow resentful over this. They get to where, when they get good and drunk, they go on rants about how deceitful women are.”

 

 

‘Come on. You can’t tell me you don’t hate them. Just a little.’

 

Considers, but shakes his head. “I was angry a while, when it first dawned on me. Maybe I did. If I have hated women, I hated briefly. Then I saw. Pride.” Lifts his drink. “What this represents, on the highest level. There’s no vindictiveness in what they’re doing.”

 

‘What they’re doing? Pardon?’

 

“The other half of the puzzle we’re discussing. Men. We can’t help but make it about us. If we’re involved at all, we must be the central character, right? When these scenarios play out, they aren't doing anything to us. They’re young, and already running from the looming concept of death. It hasn’t made itself known yet, but they can see it moving around down there. 

They’re cornered and terrified! It isn't about us.”

 

‘Surface? You’re losing me.’

 

Ignores the impossible question. “They’re fighting for what little peace there is to be had. They want companionship, so they’re making a connection. They believe other people can distract from the loneliness. It makes perfect sense, from that end of the bar.”

‘In other words, women manipulate. Like I said.’

 

Puts up a finger. “Check please. And no. That’s what I’ve been getting at since we got here. ‘Manipulated.’ What does that mean? That someone has attempted to affect external reality to their liking? From the time we arrive here and open our circular jelly peepers, aren’t we doing everything within our power to bend reality according to our personal geometries?”

 

‘You’re talking crazy. How much have you had to—‘

 

“Think about it. When do you hear men say, ‘My father manipulated me.’ Rarely is the adjective applied to men. Rarely. It’s mothers, girlfriends, daughters and wives. It's practically a sexist slur... Unofficially. So far.”

 

‘You’re making me uncomfortable. My father was a truly great man. He never manipulated anyone.’

 

“The ego fights like hell to keep it from surfacing, but I spend a lot of time underwater. You and me, we’re hard-wired to perceive the world in simplified terms. We're babies! We’re bitter because women are better at shaping the outcomes than we are.”

 

A glass shatters. A woman shrieks in the furthest, most inscrutable corner of the pool room. It isn’t clear why. A bartender scribbles his telephone number on a napkin; the tallest blonde told him her phone is dead when in fact she thought it would be more romantic for both of them if he wrote his number by hand. The hard way.

 

She wanted the experience it's happened, and it's romantic. The bartender, twenty minutes in the mirror before work, also finds writing his name, 'Ben,' and the corresponding number sequence romantic, even when he has to scribble out his ones concerned she’ll see sevens. He wouldn’t, though, if he didn’t get to believe she's smiling like she is, her bubblegum gloss pink lipstick, because he’s earned it. He’s earned it. Of all the men, he alone.

 

He alone. He alone. Loneliness, devotion. He alone.

Scribbles an enormous over-tip, when the bartender has more money than the clown does. “His fucking problem. Not theirs.”

 

The other clown, who doesn’t tip at all, rises to leave. ‘You ever talk about my daddy like that again, I’ll kill you.' The makeup begins to run, and the little emasculated man inside dashes after it, calling his dead father's name, no less sullied, less dignified, than his own. 'You hear me? I won’t hesitate. I won’t.’

Page 4

The My Name is Earl Approach to Writing

Jason Kapcala

Often, novel workshops and lectures focus on linear design—a long-form unidirectional structure that moves in a straight line from opening to conclusion. This approach to novel writing is predicated on traditional notions of narrative: a lead character starts with a desire or goal, embarks on a quest to attain or achieve that desire or goal, and is met with a series of escalating challenges along the way, each of which she knocks down like dominoes in her path, until she reaches her climactic finale. Our lead may ultimately succeed or fail, but either way, she is changed by her experience, made more complex through her struggles. It’s an effective approach to novel writing, but not the only approach. The “episodic novel” structure offers us an alternative that is less rigidly dependent on the south-to-north-to-south-again shape of the Freytag’s triangle.

 

Of course, we need look no further than the television sitcom My Name is Earl to see this approach in action.

The premise of My Name is Earl is simple. Earl J. Hickey is a petty criminal who cares only about himself, and he is not above using, manipulating, or deceiving others to get what he wants, especially when he’s drunk. One day, Earl purchases a lottery ticket and ends up winning $100,000. This is the most money Earl has ever seen in his life, and in his excitement and haste, he runs across the street and is struck by a car, at which point the winning lottery ticket is swept away on a gust of wind and is lost.

 

In the hospital, under the influence of morphine, Earl learns about the principle of causality we refer to as “karma” while watching an episode of Last Call with Carson Daly. He comes to believe that losing the lottery ticket and being hospitalized is karmic retribution for all the bad things he has done. In fact, Earl believes that this may only be the beginning. Fearing for his life, he makes a list of his misdeeds—every bad thing he has ever done, every person he has ever wronged—and he makes a commitment to penance. Upon finishing his first good deed (probably ever), Earl finds the missing lottery ticket and interprets this as a sign: karma is now rewarding him for doing the right thing. So Earl, with the (sometimes-reluctant) help of his friends, continues to use his newfound wealth to perform more good deeds—each subsequent episode offering Earl another chance to scratch an item off his list of transgressions.

 

The establishing shot is the first important element in the episodic novel. A premise is set up in chapter one, a motif around which the remainder of the narrative will revolve. This establishing shot is similar to Earl’s to-do list, and it may be defined explicitly/numerically (“The ten people I have to apologize to before I die”; “the five enemies I need to get my revenge on”) or ambiguously/indefinitely (“I must make amends for all of my wrong-doings”; “I must go on as many first dates as I possibly can”). In either case, the premise defines the nature of the events that the protagonist will have to undertake before reaching the end of the novel. What separates this approach from the traditional linear approach is the autonomy of each event or episode—each item on the list carries equal weight and no one item is dependent on another. They do not build on one another in a serial cause-effect manner. They are not tied to sequence. This is what separates them even from most novels-in-stories.

 

This structure is similar to what author Madison Smartt-Bell refers to in Narrative Design: Working with Imagination, Craft, and Form, when he talks about Modular Design: “Modular design replaces the domino theory of narrative with other principles, which have less to do with motion (the story as a process) and more to do with overall shapeliness (the story as a fixed geometric form).” The application of this modular structure to novel writing should be fairly obvious—if you establish a premise like Earl’s list, you’ll never get lost. Each chapter deals with a different plot episode. Not sure what should happen next? Go back to the premise.

 

Of course, on the sitcom, Earl’s list of misdeeds is filled with ridiculous and zany mistakes—the kinds of trouble that only someone like Earl could cause: faked my own death to get out of a relationship, made fun of people with accents, stole beer from a golfer, stole a hot dog cart, never paid taxes, teased a bearded girl, made a lady think I was God—his list goes on. It’s a charming and humorous premise, brilliant in its simplicity, solid in its shape, generative in its potential—after all, we never get to see Earl’s list, and so there is no limit to the number of past transgressions that he may have to atone for, no limit to the number of characters he may have to revisit, each crazier than the last. On this premise, the show could literally have run forever if it had to. (It didn’t—My Name is Earl lasted four seasons and ended on a cliff-hanger.)

 

Similarly, the episodic novel writes to its internal structure. The author may tack as many individual episodes as necessary onto the plot. When the number of episodes is exhausted, the novel ends. This does not mean that the events are haphazard or arbitrary, however. In an episodic novel, the characters should not simply bumble their way from one anecdote to the next without larger purpose or cohesiveness.

 

As viewers, we remain willing to invest in Earl’s quest, despite its naivety and his simplistic understanding of karma, only because we see value in his mission. Sure, we may not believe in karma, but we do believe that we are often the source of our own problems, and that good deeds frequently come back to us in positive ways. These themes undercut what could otherwise feel repetitive or halting about this structure.

 

Ultimately, there is direction. As with a linear plot, the lead character of an episodic novel will either reach her goal by completing the mosaic she has been tasked with creating, or she will fail to reach her goal. Either way, when the list is done and the premise is exhausted, she will find herself changed by the experience, just as the character in a linear novel does. This resonance is typically accomplished in a closing chapter that bookends the novel so that its conclusion doesn’t feel abrupt or unsatisfying. Had My Name is Earl ended on its own terms, it almost certainly would have seen Earl finish his list in the very last episode. The result of that would have been interesting. Would he be left satisfied or empty? Would he make another list? There’s no way to know.

 

I am currently using this episodic structure to write a novel about a failed rock singer who returns home for the funeral of a former bandmate. The plot hinges on the protagonist’s need to make amends with the remaining bandmates he unceremoniously left behind in his bid to become a star. The equation is simple: number of bandmates = number of episodes. I just have to figure out, in turn, what atoning gesture each bandmate is looking for.

 

Scratch that—my main character has to figure it out.

 

As with Earl Hickey and his unfinished story, I don’t know what ultimately will happen—I haven’t gotten that far yet—but I will be excited to find out. What I do know, at this point, is that if I ever get lost, I have a built-in structure that will help get me pointed back in the right direction, while still allowing me the kind of freedom from pre-destination that every novel needs.

Poetry

Page 5

All That Craft

Irsa Ruci

“All That Craft”

 

Metrical wished weaving

a poetic city

where human souls shelter;

like them as a present to the world

brittleness ... childhood ...

... Ideal ... love ... every feeling with which was born a poet!

 

 

But my strings broke down time still,

I verses upon bohemian artists

peregrinated through poetic lines

I hid myself in my art ...

With the silence of words and the words of the heart

written by pure fear that carries this era.

 

 

So do not ask me, nowhere am

I want to preserve the sanctity divine poetry already know thanks

if one day you miss me

find me inside my verses ...

 

Page 6

A Vanity Press or A Piece of Self-Publishing Software

K.J. Greenberg

A vanity press, or a piece of self-publishing software,

Might inch individuals toward low lands completely sealed against

Nonpsychotics, as a result of long term ministrations, expensive snow, brandy.

 

Alternatively, girls who return to adolescent habits, like biting cuticles,

Fail the matchmaking gauntlet, display droopy character, smear mascara,

Consider, frequently, that swaying in novel directions makes for leafy freefall.

 

Still, classic findings’ implications remain more overarching betwix seasons,

Bestowing pity on both New York publishers and indies; most media markets rot.

Bottomed out, convergent types game to encounter friends or fortunes’ newest fads.

 

What’s more, worse than pretending away verity, select turtles of industry

Live horror stories worth of information that previously might have gotten sanitized;

All could be wrong about a tale’s plot, characters, diction, while it skyrockets on the lists.

 

Page 7

On Liberty

July Westhale

“You’re good girls, wanting to leave your names behind like that.” –Louise Glück

 

 

The fluorescent sign affirms

                                    Crawdads: 50 cents.

 

In a metal bin, the cleaving creatures moil the water

                                                                              brackish. They are feeble.

                                                                              The air is wet with their misery.

Their feet lift, ere dying,

                             faith firmer now,

whetted to crusade crustaceans clawing home.

                                                    They penetrate the air, a sudden colony of amity.

Claws extend,

                      hold, guide rejoicing

                                                       their clan through sharp exit. Go!

Cross the street! Scramble towards your distant river!

             Find it, sweet freshwater

                                                       cousins of blue-blooded lobsters,

ruthless revolutionaries—

              all that squalor: a parking lot,

                                             a tiny punch of priceless river floor,

                                                                            an Eden of beady dreams. In the gloaming

lull of distance, a diesel truck bleats

                                                             rings like a shot.

The dazed, obsidian-shelled

                                      know nothing of troth, forsaken.

Smashed under tires, liberty dies,

                                         that mass tar grave.

 

                                                                                                      O, chain of tailed brethren!

                                                                                                      How you succumb to glory.  

 

 

Page 8

The Mumbai Rap

Sunil Sharma

Local trains overflowing

With sweating bodies in the

Pouring grey rains,

The flooded streets

And the skewed shanties

Perched on the dwarf hills

Grey-brown and nude,

The pock-marked roads

And highways long

Open trenches and pot-holed

Like some bombed-out Kabul road,

The gasping buses and taxis,

Crawling the congested

Smoke-n- carbon-filled

Vertical mega polis,

Bursting at seams.

The steel-glass-concrete

Spreads its empire,

Knocking down the

Bungalows quaint at the famed Pali Hill,

The coldness steals

And benumbs the soul

Of the city

That manufactures strange

Multi-colour Bollywood Dreams

For the toiling cooks, drivers, maids and middle-class guys

In stiff shirts and designer jeans.

The benumbed soul

Cares not for the less fortunate

And stares---

As the poor die/get attacked/mugged on the dirty streets.

Mumbai now resembles

The gleaming automatic Manhattan

In its blind pursuits

Of wealth, power and fame.

A million is raised by the charities,

While a real stinking destitute dies

At the corner bus stop

And,

The homeless and the street kids,

Wander for love and shelter,

In dazzling unseeing streets.

The celeb-crazy

Mechanized city

Is now severed

From its bloated

Underbelly.

Page 9

Attempts at Transcribing My Grandfathers Death by Emphysema

Austin Kodra

In winter, there is no light like this.

How could he He’s not well enough to disappear storytell

the heavy arc the ten-foot bear of his logging days

or to find a hiding spot in the backyard,

swat through a high-noon net of mosquitos.

 

Hospital bed: sinewed foam, blue-black.

 

Respirator panting, morphine drip

whispering darkness over light

like a fresh bruise of

            wound pre-bruise.

 

Each dusk we return to his house: fence

of ribbed logs nudging the county highway,

his bed yellow bedspread faded with train-track rips

and the fireplace slate that Scotch-Taped copy

             of Old Black Witch! cloaked in a bookcase.

 

*

 

In winter, either tin-bright day or

                                                             made light—no

                                                     in-between,

black holes                       no final chance

                          to start the day.

 

Now, summer, on his porch. Waiting. Waiting.

Full trees perched like crows tarring like his lungs, wheeling,

sucking down the night’s hot, dirty air.

 

*

 

In winter there is no light like this.

How could he disappear?

The heavy arc,

fresh bruise of his bed,

the fireplace slate.

 

*

 

Black holes perched like crows.

 

 

 

Page 10

Becoming Light

Tracy Mishkin

 

 

life's                we are

 

holding hands                           insistent church bells

 

a bitch            falling asleep.

 

I jerk                                          unswept room

 

with a mean    awake

 

let go                                         watermelon with cheese

 

curveball         to think about

 

another man.                             forfeit the game 

 

life's a bitch     You were

 

so close                                     dust on my shoes

 

with                  to sleep

 

you could not                             overripe fruit

 

a mean curve    feel

 

my hand                                     dog licking the kitchen floor

 

ball                   anymore.

 

I dream                                       where is the line

 

life's                 a tree is growing

 

from my chest.                            funnel cloud 

 

a bitch              My heart

 

feeds                                           buried in sand

 

with a mean     the branches

 

and leaves.                                 becoming light

 

curveball

Page 11

Ibeyi

Ibeyi Ibeyi

Music Blog-Review 

Hope Johnson

A day with Ibeyi

"River" - Ibeyi Ibeyi

2015

I remember it like it was yesterday... 

 

 

What I mean is, I was walking to the train station over on Ditmars blvd when I scrolled through the “free songs” section of my T-Moble play station, and there is was, a new song “River” by Ibeyi Ibeyi.

 

I sampled, I downloaded, I listened…and then, and then I searched for the entire album. The song’s smooth rhythm and metaphorical lyrics took me back to those old southern gospel songs “wade in the water” and “follow the drinking gourd”. There was prayer, ghusl – cleansing in the words: “Carry away my old deeds, let me baptize my soul with the help of your waters…let the river take them, river drown them”

 

Finally, after 8 months of searching, the duo released their self-debuted album, Ibeyi Ibeyi, a tribute to family, death, love, roots, and spirit. The group is made up of Afro-Cuban twins Naomi and Lisa-Kainde Diaz, who grew up singing in English and Yoruba, a Nigerian language which traveled to Cuba with slaves in the 1700’s. Lisa’s is the lead voice and piano. Naomi plays traditional Cuban percussion instruments including cajon and Bata drums.

 

After the album debut, Ibeyi Ibeyi quickly made their way into the spotlight as upcoming Indie musical artist sensation. Now on international tour, word of Ibeyi is quickly circulating through worldwide media: just who are these two beautiful young women with these rustic voices bringing us back to the motherland in language and rhythm –

 

To purchase Ibeyi Ibeyi or find tour dates, visit their website.

Sling Issue 6!

Magical Realism, Fantasy & Sci-fi

Submit before March 29th 2015 for the April 5th 2015 Issue

Biographies / Links

Click on artist's name to see biography

Hope Johnson

Creative Director, Owner

Afaa Michael Weaver

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