Keyhole Magazine

Think what you will about John Updike (that he was sexist, a chauvinist even), but it remains that he was a writer with quite a bit of living in his bag. Sure he makes old-man notes about the changing world, he mockingly blames Monica for her stint with Bill, but he also reflects gently on the cycle of age. He remembers being lost as a child, and suggests that it is inevitable to return to that feeling, though it becomes more familiar. He ponders culture and nature—his 75-year-old skin and how people look at it. He mourns the loss of the milkman, the iceman, candy stores, doo-wop stars, and neighborly waves. In these conversational poems, Updike “scratches his inconclusive odes to death,” he marks moments, days, and wonders about ends. When you’re old, and looking forward only means seeing an end, small things stand out: the early-morning sounds of the Boston train, Virginia creeper, naked Connecticut trees, needles, glands, stiff hands. At the end, Updike wonders about his characters, their ends, and what he’s learned about his own life through writing their deaths. Birthday, Death-day…what day is not both?

NOTE: Click thumbnails to open slideshow gallery. Let the page completely load before clicking thumbnails

 

 

There’s something about the sound of truth: that small whisper-mantra that this really happened. Billed as a “novel based on a true story,” Bondurant traces the passed-down stories of his grandfather, Jack, and two granduncles, Forrest and Howard. Bondurant also uses Sherwood Anderson, to shift back and forth from 1928 and 1929 to 1935, when Anderson makes a trip
to Franklin County, Virginia to write a magazine article about the brothers. Anderson’s role emphasizes telling and re-telling: the process of changing stories and history, and also the incestuous town—how much an outsider sticks out. Bondurant not only shows the ins and outs of running corn-whiskey—the violent lengths to which people went for the burning relief of the drink—but also how these brothers, and their town of cohorts grew from boys to men in a few short years. Bondurant’s language brings this dirt-poor town to life: a never ending battle of making do with what you had. A gut-rusted 1928 Ford truck, hoe-cakes, crispy chicken, birch beer and fire water—white lightning. Bondurant’s characters are creepy and sad; they bring a dizzy shutter when you return to your mantra: they’re real—they control the fear.

Olive Kitteridge is fleshy. She eats doughnuts everyday. She offends and is offended easily, and yet she is fragile and sympathetic. This novel, composed of 13 connected stories, presents Crosby, Maine: the accumulation of scars that come with small-town life. Despite the size of the town, these characters deal with big issues: physical awkwardness at any age, the pitfalls of fractured family relationships, and the realization of loneliness and fear. This book is subtle but strikes with the force of a bread truck. These characters are utterly human and will make you feel, in some way, that the book was written for you, if not about you. Olive—the retired 7th-grade math teacher, and her husband Henry—the town pharmacist, embody the joys and pains of aging. Strout's writing forces you to sit right down with Olive as she notices fingernail clippings and soggy Cheerios on the kitchen table at her son's house. Strout puts you there, again and again. These characters not only seem so real that you'll be tempted to drive up to Maine and find them yourself, they also force you to confront your place in your town—big or small—and your understanding of community.

 

 

Laura McCullough titled her book of poetry, What Men Want, as if she were heading a list that answered a question. What do men want? Success? Sex? Alcohol? Faster and bigger vehicles? Since Henrik Ibsen, the feminist movements of the 20th century, and even in recently released movies, the question has been quite the opposite—what do women want? After all, sociologically speaking from the Western world, men are supposed know what they want and go out and get it or they are not men.

In McCullough’s poem, "In the Zeus Shop", the narrator chaperones her 17-year-old son inside a hunting store named after the most powerful god in early Western literature. The son wants to buy, along with a hunting gun, a brown shirt "matching the woods." The narrator, being a mother, buys him enough emergency-orange gear to prevent him from being shot by other hunters; but even as she does so, she knows she is releasing him into the world, or as she puts it, “to get into the woods.” While some people might consider hunting as a method to obtain sustenance, the narrator of this poem obviously does not. She hints as if it were a rite of passage into manhood. The boy in the poem behaves as if he thinks the same. The narrator compares herself to both Diana and the dead bear mounted on the wall of the shop. Diana is the goddess of the woods, a hunter, but she is also the goddess of childbirth, a protector. She wants to stop her son from blending into the schema of manhood, but feels immobilized like the bear. Pathos, ethos, and empathy are achieved through the narrator when she feels inert in contemporary society where it is still a man’s world and a woman’s duty to help men become successful. She even permits her son to enviously eye her car keys: “he want everything,” she thinks, “and God help him, he is sure to succeed.”

In two of her poems, "Latitude of Fellatio" and "What Men Really Want," McCullough covers the topic of sex (and she handles this topic tastefully and inexplicitly). While McCullough is saying that this is what men want, she is also making a statement that this is a manner in which women subjugate themselves. Moreover, in these two poems, she is talking about language, and she alludes that sex may be the only way for men and women to successfully communicate.

In "Summit," McCullough exhibits how a strong silent type of man diverges his personality after a copious imbibition of alcohol—“It took eleven drinks, several of wine/and then of vodka for my father to tell/his son in law, I love you.” Yes, men do want to show their feeling, but they are taught that this is not manly. Men are also taught that heavy drinking is manly. Alcohol and stoicism are often a dichotomy. The woman in the poem is confused, but accepts her father’s show of affection.

In order to be masculine, as depicted in several McCullough poems, a boy must ride a bike as fast as it will go, or build ramps and leap long distances. The boy on the block that can ride the fastest and leap the farthest is the most male. This is the Western-world male image superimposed upon his vehicle. When boys grow up, successful bachelors drive sports cars and successful married men own utility vehicles. Macho working-class men drive pickups—the bigger and more powerful the pickup the better. In "The Man with one Tattoo," the male protagonist attempts to save his wife’s life with his truck. This refers to another fixed male role in Western society—the savior, the type of man women believe they need.

McCullough inserts a proem in her book, a versification of a quote by Freud: “I have yet been able to answer...the great question / that has never been answered: / what do women want?" This poem is not arbitrarily chosen. McCullough is mocking Freud's sexist worldview.

McCullough has written an engrossing book that goes deeper than a simple rebuttal to Freud, and her book fathoms more than a list of things men want. Her finely crafted poems are profound in their exploration of men and women in contemporary society. If I may redraw some parallels, Ibsen, in his plays, portrays strong-willed, intelligent, well-read women who feel hampered as stereotypical subjects and nurturers to men. Ibsen was ahead of his time in that he was aware that these should not be roles of women who want to get out of the house and make a career for themselves. McCullough is showing that even with the advancements of last century's women-liberation movements and the related passing of laws to equate women with men, women still find themselves in the roles portrayed by Ibsen. Furthermore, in contemporary movies and several popular TV series, women are saying what they want. In What Men Want, McCullough is also saying what women want—but she goes about it in an original and intriguing way; that is, by showing examples of how men are trapped in societal mores, she advertently demonstrates how women are also trapped in societal mores.

Shane Jones, author of the chapbook, I Will Unfold You With My Hairy Hands (Greying Ghost 2008), and the novel, Light Boxes (Publishing Genius Press 2009), answers a few questions about his forthcoming books, his literary influences, and his favorite sexual position.

 

 

MOLLY GAUDRY: You've published a chapbook with Greying Ghost, a novel with Publishing Genius, and you have more books coming soon, right? What are their titles and who are the publishers?

 

SHANE JONES: I have a chapbook coming out from Cannibal Books called The Nightmare Filled You With Scary, a novella coming out from Fugue State Press called The Failure Six, and a full-length book of poems from Scrambler Books called A Cake Appeared.

 

MG: Can you tell us a little about each book? Where do the titles come from?

 

SJ: The chapbook from Cannibal Books is a long single poem, this kind of dreamy adventure story. The novella tells the six stories of six different messengers and how each fails at their given task to retell a woman's life who seems to have no memory—it's six stories inside a novella, with many beginnings and endings and no real beginning and no real end. The poetry book is a collection of fables and poems and longer scrolls with many surprises, like cakes appearing before a fireplace
where fiddlers are playing a song.

 

MG: Okay, I have to ask: Where do you get your ideas?

 

SJ: That’s a difficult question. I don’t know really. I daydream a lot and just kind of collect ideas and then when I’m writing if the story goes off in different directions, which if often does, I just follow that. The actual creation of the story or poem or novel is my favorite part and I try not to edit myself very much. I want the story to be full of imagination and surprises and also somewhat simple and clear in terms of the language and speed of the story and that’s a big part why I write somewhat quickly once I get to it.

 

MG: In what order did you write your five books? Or were they all sort of happening simultaneously?

 

SJ: I wrote Light Boxes first, I think that was two summers ago. The following spring I wrote all the stories in the Greying Ghost chapbook, except one, in about two months. During this time I wrote most of the poems in the forthcoming poetry book. This past fall, in October, I wrote The Failure Six in a week and the long poem that Cannibal is doing I wrote the same month. I should also say, the long poem will appear in A Cake Appeared.

 

MG: You wrote a novella in a week?

 

SJ: Yes. It's just under 10,000 words, which some would probably consider a "long story."

 

MG: Ah, yes, I see. How did you find out about these particular publishers, and is there anything you'd like to say about any of them?

 

SJ: I just contacted publishers who published other writers I really liked and after talking with the editors, trading emails, if they liked the work, it was a deal. Fugue State actually read Light Boxes first and rejected it. James Chapman, the publisher, really liked it, but passed for a few reasons, and told me to send him my next book. So I did, he read it, and accepted it two weeks later. It’s funny how things work out like that.

 

MG: Are you working on a new book now?

 

SJ: Not right now, no.

 

MG: Taking a break?

 

SJ: I have an idea for
a book I want to write called The Villain’s Tree House that is this dream diary kind of thing...but it's just ideas right now. I may write it this summer.

 

MG: The Villain’s Tree House and The Nightmare Filled You with Scary are interesting titles: "tree house" and "nightmare" are things we would maybe associate with childhood, but "villain" and "scary" are, well, scary. Light Boxes, too, involves a combination of the childlike and the frightening. Where does that come from? Are there any writers who maybe influenced this?

 

SJ: I'm not really sure where it comes from...I think the balance between being kind of light and whimsical, but also having these darker elements ground that is really interesting to me and that's just how I write. Maybe Lewis Carroll some, the art work of Henry Darger, even Marquez mixed those elements. Recently, Robert Walser has really moved me and he wrote in a similar manner. It's fun for me to write this way, surprising and entertaining, and I hope people who read me feel that way as well.

 

MG: I hadn't thought of Lewis Carroll, but that makes sense. What are you reading these days?

 

SJ: I just finished Jakob Von Gunten by Robert Walser...simply amazing. Then just some other random stuff. Went back to some Kafka. I tend to jump around quite a bit.

 

MG: Did you always want to be a writer?

 

SJ: In some way, yes. I started writing poems when I was 16 and it just felt so good. I think all writers probably remember that initial feeling. Or seeing another artist or writer's work and being like, "Yes, I want to do that."

 

MG: Who was that artist for you?

 

SJ: Anne Sexton.

 

MG: Do you remember the first thing you ever wrote? Can you tell us about it?

 

SJ: The first thing I wrote was a poem called "House of Hades." It was a rhyming poem and each line ended with: dead, head, bed, said, etc. It was really good. Am I fucking up this interview?

 

MG: You are not fucking it up! I like that about the poem. Where did you get Hades from? What were you walking?

 

SJ: I wish I still had that poem. I don't remember it very much. But I remember being really proud of it and showing it to my mom, who was like, "What the hell is this?"

 

MG: Sorry, not walking...reading!

 

SJ: I don't remember what I was reading at that point. Probably Emily Dickinson. I read mostly poetry and wrote only poetry until I was about 23.

 

MG: Sorry again, I was on the phone with Blythe asking her about if I can run four miles a day or if that's too much, which is where "walking" came from.

 

SJ: Hi Blythe.

 

MG: She says, "Hi," and told me to ask you a question about sex, but I'm not going to. That's funny and sad about your mom and your poem.

 

SJ: Sex question!

 

MG: Okay, did you see the sex pictures on Crispin's blog? Those were great, right?

 

SJ: Those are great.

 

MG: Speaking of blogs, how long have you been blogging and why did you start?

 

SJ: My blog has been running for just over a year. I started because I was reading other writers who had blogs and wanted to join the fun. That wasn't a sex question.

 

MG: Oh, okay. Well, relative to the pictures, what's your favorite position?

 

SJ: I'm going to have to say the second one.

 

MG: Oh, lordy, but, well, see, I couldn't tell if that was a lady?

 

SJ: Does it matter?

 

MG: Guess not. Is this going in the interview?

 

SJ: Hey, why not. Looking at those three images, I'm most attracted to the second one.

 

MG: There are many others!

 

SJ: Oh wow...What's your favorite? Where is woman on top? That's my favorite.

 

MG: Hmmm, I am deliberating. That what you're looking for?

 

SJ: Oh yeah, that's it. That would be my favorite.

 

MG: Okay, I guess I'm this one.

 

SJ: Good pick. Best interview ever.

 

MG: Okay, here's another site Crispin turned me on to. On the first page, pick one.

 

SJ: Carne Asada Fries.

 

MG: Did you see Choco Taco?

 

SJ: I did.

 

MG: Bacon Cinnamon Roll, I think, for me.

 

SJ: That one may be the most interesting.

 

MG: Okay, where were we?

 

SJ: We were talking literature before you asked me sex questions. Blame Blythe.

 

MG: Thanks, Blythe! So, Shane, can you run four miles?

 

SJ: I don't think so.

 

MG: I don't think I can, either. Do you exercise? What's your favorite fast food?

 

SJ: I recently started jogging and sometimes I do yoga. But I don't exercise as much as I should. My favorite fast food is a bacon cheeseburger, I think. I like Burger King. And Wendy's.

 

MG: Any other questions I should ask?

 

SJ: I don't think so. Thank you, Molly. This was fun.

 

MG: Thank you, Shane. We look forward to reading a lot more of you in the years ahead.

 

Meet Chay Sump, Lightning Willy, Dixon Forkenbrocks, Hi Alcorn, Shaina Lister and the Devil. Annie Proulx’s characters are wild and creepy, poor and isolated. These are hard lives: they “saddle up, ride, rope, cut, herd, unsaddle, eat sleep and do it again.” Proulx’s humor is morbid and relentless. Laugh and cringe within a sentence. Many of these stories are timeless, fable-like tales that etch a skewed lesson deep into your skin. Proulx’s language is heavily clothed in description: you’ll taste the fried eggs and boiled potatoes; you’ll smell the sage and the trout and the whiskey. Pack your bags and prepare for this sometimes fantastical, sometimes nightmarish trip to the west. Meet these sad people and let them haunt you with their everyday lives. Proulx will reach up and grab you with each of these stories: then she’ll slap and shake you and force you to scream “uncle.”