Nazario Scenario

It rained and it rained in Americaland

Today I place the Halloween spotlight on my stepfather, Thomas Courtenay-Clack. Since I have known him (that's my whole life, actually), he's been obsessed with this one incredibly spooky nursery rhyme, told to him when he was a boy growing up in WWII-era England. Here it is:

*

It rained and it rained in Americaland,
It rained both great and small,
And all the little boys and girls came out to play at ball.
They tossed the ball so high,
They tossed the ball so low
It fell into the Duke's garden where all the pretty flowers grow.
Then out came the Duke's daughter all dressed in green
And sat them in a golden chair and pricked them with a pin.
First came out the thick blood and then came out the thin,
Until there came out all life's blood
And none was left...WITHIN!!!

*

Thomas has been scaring hell out of me and my sister with this for as long as I can remember, reciting it (he knows it by heart) in a quiet, deliberate oratory style in his British accent. When he got to the "WITHIN!" at the end, he'd usually pounce across the table and pretend to grab you. No really, it was great.

Last Halloween Thomas read the poem on NPR, as part of a fancy gig he fell into serendipitously, for just a couple of engagements. (He has had a long and wonderful career as an audio engineer, but rarely done any performance beyond the odd voiceover, which is a shame because he's a good voice actor.) Though he's loved it all his life, he has never been able to find "Americaland" in print, or divine its origins -- it's just been a cool mystery for him and our family.

But a few weeks ago he got an email from a UMASS student who had heard the rhyme last year and loved it. The guy had chased up all his English professors for some background on the piece, which he became obsessed with as Thomas is. Finally he got the original, which is actually set NOT in Americaland, but in Scotland. And it's here.

*

DOWN in merry, merry Scotland
It rained both hard and small;
Two little boys went out one day,
All for to play with a ball.

They tossed it up so very, very high,
They tossed it down so low;
They tossed it into the Jew's garden,
Where the flowers all do blow.

Out came one of the Jew's daughters,
Dress'd in green all:
'If you come here, my fair pretty lad,
You shall have your ball.'

She showed him an apple as green as grass;
The next thing was a fig;
The next thing a cherry as red as blood,
And that would 'tice him in.

Set him on a golden chair,
And gave him sugar sweet;
Laid him on some golden chest of drawers,
Stabbed him like a sheep.

'Seven foot Bible
At my head and my feet;
If my mother pass by me,
Pray tell her I'm asleep.'

***

TOTALLY AWESOME. Thomas likes "his" version better because it's not anti-Semitic, but I think the Scottish one has some cool creepy images in it, and I love the way it ends on the boy's sad, sweet, very confusing entreaty.

Thomas's NPR reading is not archived -- pity! -- but you can read a little more about him here. The link is to a "behind the scenes" essay he wrote for an audio production class he teaches at Oneonta.

Cranking Season

This evening finds me cranky, or cranking, or cranked-out. This is because I can't decide whether I should go down to Kim's and rent a video. If I do, I will watch the video, and feel guilty about not writing. So I probably won't rent the video. But then tomorrow I might be sad and morose about not ever letting myself relax, even when the whole night stretches out before me commitment-free.

I don't know.

The good news is that it's also stew season. Brian has submitted a freaking marvelous-looking stew recipe, for to chase your cranking blues away.

Mandy Blogs-a-Lot

I tried to resist blogging today -- it's Sunday, my only day off work, a day when I should take a breather from all nagging obligations. If God didn't blog on Sunday, why should I? Shoot.

But there's no help for it, I'm a sucker for TypePad's siren lure. Also, you cats and kittens need to know that Issue Two of the beautiful [sic] journal is launched and ready for you to buy. I went to their release party last night and loved each second of it, especially the raffle where people were given words instead of tickets. I didn't win anything, but I got to keep my words, which were "Kerouac" and "Kerplunk." I identify more with the Green Day album than the author, but both were okay by me.

In the issue itself, fiction standouts include two of my favorites, John Cotrona and Craig Levinsky. John's book Lost Positives (on a swank-ass small press) is a triumph of punch and honesty; his new story gives you more of that. Craig is a friend of mine from CCNY who impressed my socks off last spring with a reading of his piece "Fall in the House That Heartbreak Built," included here in its entirety. There's poetry and art, too. The whole thing is gangbusters, really, so do yourself a favor.

AN + JDP 4-Eva

Update: I love John Dos Passos. On the train last night I read the passage (people, it's just one paragraph) that tells the story of how Mac meets the farmer's daughter Mona and over time falls in love with her. "Oh, crap," I said, almost teary-eyed with joy, and closed the book and looked away from it. "Oh, dude. Nuh-uh."

Today, while I waited in the rain for someone to come open the doors to the Writing Center, I read the passage again. "Goddammit," I said when I'd finished.

Is anything any good that doesn't make you curse out loud? I wonder.

Happy Birthday, Supper Club

Approximately one year ago, Justin F.J. Phillips and I had dinner together at a restaurant called Pisticci. We split an appetizer and a bottle of Barolo, sampled each other's entrees, had coffee and tiramisu. Through it all we talked literature (Melville and Cormac McCarthy, specifically, if I remember right), dog walking, and hilarious CCNY gossip. Then, at the end of the meal, we said to each other, "We should do this again as soon as possible, except we should invite all our friends."

Thus was Supper Club conceived. It gestated two weeks, then was born a block away at Toast. Since then Justin and I have hosted it every second Thursday, time and obligations permitting, at different restaurants around the city. Last night we returned to wonderful Pisteech for SupClub's first birthday, and here are the things that happened.

1. We had prosecco with the first course; Justin and Jeff ransacked the comedic potential of the word "brut."

2. Veronica narrowly avoided eating a piece of mango, to which she is violently allergic, and described the side effects of the allergy in graphic detail.

3. Amy gushed and gushed and gushed about doing readings, and Summer's reading group, and all the talent that surrounds her. I blushed.

4. I dove across the banquette and caressed Leah's knee. She and I carried out an improv that involved us never having met before that.

5. Alison told us what she was going as for Halloween: a "hoodie shark." (You take your hoodie and put teeth inside the hood, eyes and a fin on top of it. Simply put, this is genius.)

6. Jeff said he would lend me his Mark Richard that I haven't read. We discussed the myth of place, the delicious cartoon-y sensibility of many of our favorite writers, and literary violence. We agreed we both suffer badly with attention-deficit disorder.

7. After the check came, Shay cut up the table's decorative centerpiece, a tiny pumpkin, and passed us each a slice of it "for dessert." Mortified on the restaurant's behalf, I gave him a stern lecture.

8. While we calculated the check, Justin counting bills and I scribbling figures on a napkin, Justin asked me a question and I snapped, "DIDN'T I TELL YOU HOW BAD I AM AT THIS?" Later, he bought me a bourbon.

So, yeah, Supper Club is the best. It's kept going because people like us, all of us, are often way too busy to sit down at a nice or even a regular restaurant -- but they will if they have an excuse to, even if that's only to avoid being gossiped about hilariously. It has gone off so well, and I am so proud of it. Here's to many more second Thursdays of face-stuffing merriment.

First Thought Best Thought

For a few weeks now, I have been obsessed with a certain simile: the idea of someone, during a makeout session, manipulating the other person's nipples with their thumbs "like they were playing Nintendo."

No matter what else arises, I cannot stop thinking about this. I laugh and laugh over it, as I walk down the street with the dogs and the fallen leaves.

Refreshments

Refresh! I hereby announce that I won't be on the radio tonight, because I am going to see Benjamin Percy read (with others) at the Happy Ending Series on Broome Street.

If you can't be around Broome Street at 7 PM, listen to Joe's fill-in show on WHFR. I'll give him some playlists and PSAs. The PSAs will be very bigoted.

If you can be around Broome Street at 7 PM, come see Ben read! His stories are great and he's handsome.

True or False?

When I write creative essays, to make everything tidy, I sometimes find myself lapsing into untruth. It bugs me, but I know everyone does it sometimes. You have to. Here is an excerpt from "The Dog Life," with the untrue parts highlighted in maroon.

     Maxwell was, hands down, my favorite dog. I liked her owner, Maude, who responded to my notes, left me little gifts of chocolate and stationery, and had put a photo on the fridge that I had taken of the dog. I liked coming into the warmth of that apartment, seeing the miniature chairs and utensils of the family’s five-year-old girl. Most of all I loved the haughty look Maxy gave me from her spot on the couch, where she lay waiting to be fussed over, sprawled out like an odalisque.
     I trudged back to BJ’s building, walking slowly with him, Chester, and Maxy— three magnificent dogs who were all a little past their prime. This was the time of day when my fatigue caused me to philosophize, to stand still for a second on the corner of 8th Street and Fifth Avenue disbelieving that New York was a real place. Why do trees grow through this endless platform of concrete? Why do animals walk on it?

And I think it's interesting -- fascinating, even -- that when you write fiction you have to say things that are true, even in the most fanciful, inventive piece you can imagine. All the best fiction is true -- I think that to say it merely "contains elements of the truth" is doing it a disservice.

     My boyfriend’s name is Bryce Conroy. It’s a decent name, but I like to tease him: I tell him that his name has two “Y”s in it because he has a double Y chromosome. Then he always pretends to be mad at me. My guess is that he doesn’t understand what it means, only that it’s an insult.
     The other night, Bryce actually did get mad at me, when I made the joke in front of his friends from college. (I say ‘friends,’ but they kind of lost touch after Bryce decided to take a few years off. We ran into them randomly at Chili’s.) He said, “Just cut it the fuck out, okay?” and pounded the counter so hard two jalapeño poppers jumped out of the basket. The hair around his Adam’s apple was damp with sweat.
     The college friends—there were four of them, stubbly and snub-nosed—hitched their pants up by the belts. They looked at me with their eyes crimped, as if they could tell I’m terrified to be alone.

Sometimes you can begin from a place of pure honesty and jump off into fantasy, as in this sonnet (#1 in a chain called "The Williamsburg Sonnets"):

When I was 20, Williamsburg was new.
My friend Beau lived there in a four-floor shack—
No heat, a grand a month, three roommates who
Played poker in the concrete yard out back.
In front there was a gnarled, neglected tree.
One day I scuffed up my Capris to try
To prune it with Beau’s kitchen knife, so he
Could celebrate its roses in July.
It’s gone now. That old house was taken down.
A block of condos sparkles in its place—
Peach walls, pearl floors, a penthouse at its crown
Whose skylight beams a beacon up to space.
The courtyard’s cordoned off. Above the rail,
A metal poster: LUXURY. FOR SALE.

 

Blog posts are usually all true, but now and then, when I am feeling exxxtra-exuberant, they seesaw back and forth. In blog posts, also, I sometimes have to tell conditional truths because I'm talking about the future. These can turn out, later, to not be true. I wrote this post-Katrina in 2005:

Heard today that my dear friend Ben in Baton Rouge is hosting an evacuee couple in his apartment and also hanging out near the buses as they arrive from NO, letting people use his cell phone and computer. I know you don't read this blog ever, Ben, and even if you did sometimes, you have better things to be doing at this particular time, but I am totally proud of you and glad and stuff. Ben hasn't dealt super-well with adverse circumstances in the past (not that I'm blaming him and I'm a sensitive creme-filled crying-all-the-time asshole myself so I'd be one to talk), so it kind of makes it even more excellent that he has risen to the occasion. Sniff sniff. No, I'm not crying; just doing coke off my detachable keyboard is all. Katrina mix CD forthcoming, probably. Here comes the story of the hurricane...


***

This stuff is all touched upon in Chad's story, The Real and True Story, which was in Red Wheelbarrow and just went up online this past week. I promise I thought of this post before I knew about the story -- THAT'S THE TRUTH! -- but it does make for a very tidy segue.

Something else that's true: "The R.A.T.S." made me cry, not the regular type of reading-cry that's just pinprick tears, but a real cry. I had to blow my nose.

The Non-Magical Properties Of The Inbox

Did anyone send me an e-card via a site named ozt? If so, I realized too late that it was "Not Spam" and deleted it from my Spam folder.

I'm sorry.

Send it again, please, or send me an ACTUAL card. I think I'd like that better.

***

While on the subway today on my way home, I overheard something I think I should share. The below is copied directly from my notebook.

     The 15 - y - o boy on the train says to his friends,
     "Red-headed Irish people are the descendants of Viking rapists."
     His friends, two of them, in athletic gear, one of whom smells bad, laugh. The one who doesn't smell bad says, "Hah, awesome!"
     The initial boy, who is blond with an overgrown haircut, says, "No, seriously though, it's true. VIKINGS came, and RAPED the Anglo-Saxons." And he smiles the smile of a person who knows he is smart and right.

The Magic Inbox

Yesterday I got a very nice email from the Web editor at Pindeldyboz, saying she wants to publish a short-short of mine called "United States" that I sent to them last month. (It's not up on the site yet, but will be sometime soon.) I am so happy and grateful, and beyond that, not sure what to say.

Except: Take a look at Pindeldyboz if you never have, or if you haven't in awhile. They are awesome.