Circe Wakes as Penelope

Odysseus does not come to bed. He spends his nights
looking at jars; gestures of a hand job from a topless
siren. The image poorly drawn, her fingers resemble
weapons. He will sleep when we rise. I’ve learned

to treasure his distance—it gives room in our bed
for a child. I watch my son on the brink of waking—
how his whole self tumbles in waves of breath—
completely taken with sleep—his face pulses

without muscle to mask the mechanics of life.
Oh, this is love for the loveless. I no longer
feel like I am waiting. As a witness, I am
alive—even if my husband treats me
as though I’m made of death.

Nicelle Davis lives in Southern California with her son J.J. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Broadsided, Front Range, FuseLit, Mosaic, ML Press, The New York Quarterly, Offending Adam, SLAB Magazine, SLAB, Two Review, and others. She’d like to acknowledge her poetry family at the University of California, Riverside and Antelope Valley Community College. She runs a free online poetry workshop at The Bees’ Knees Blog and is an assistant poetry editor of Connotation Press.

Circe Wakes as Herself after Being Penelope

There is never enough time to teach the art of return.
Home is the lie that never stops telling stories. Once

upon a time there were three sisters. Sirens who tried
to love everything they were not. They failed and kept

failing until a ship sailed past their efforts. They burst
into sea foam—followed the men to shore. The salt of

their arms made it onto the men’s tables. They were no
longer monsters, but flavor. Sorrow can taste delicious.

Son, do not fall under the currents of time. Enjoy sadness,
but don’t live there. This is only a story. The sisters will

find their way back to the sea and I’ll always be a sort
of home—even if home can only be a lie telling stories.

Nicelle Davis lives in Southern California with her son J.J. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Broadsided, Front Range, FuseLit, Mosaic, ML Press, The New York Quarterly, Offending Adam, SLAB Magazine, SLAB, Two Review, and others. She’d like to acknowledge her poetry family at the University of California, Riverside and Antelope Valley Community College. She runs a free online poetry workshop at The Bees’ Knees Blog and is an assistant poetry editor of Connotation Press.

Animated Excerpts from Circe

Nicelle Davis lives in Southern California with her son J.J. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Broadsided, Front Range, FuseLit, Mosaic, ML Press, The New York Quarterly, Offending Adam, SLAB Magazine, SLAB, Two Review, and others. She’d like to acknowledge her poetry family at the University of California, Riverside and Antelope Valley Community College. She runs a free online poetry workshop at The Bees’ Knees Blog and is an assistant poetry editor of Connotation Press.

A Real Goner

This is how you will go. Without applause. With a bump here and there. In relaxed turbulence. By finding meaning in a small thing which you weren’t aware of when it happened, and which you will forget a second later. This is how you will go. Addled, and all at once, but like a double-door,

and without a door-handle of doubt that it’s happening in-side too. And there. And this. This is how you will have to go to get through it. Head first without thinking so much. Flutter-kicking. Bellyaching. With things that make strong eggs, and endless. And heart. And it will be exactly the same as the last time

it worked, except with more memory and less remembering, and probably not in public. It won’t work exactly like a rope twisting an endless topology of impossible knots so easy. It could easily smell like a skunk, like life-like, like what might stink in the end. It will probably easily move you

past the tiresome carnage of smiling it out with strangers you’ve known for a long time again. There could be phantom words left. You may be beguiled. And twice at once. Life will be space again. Cosmology for the taking. Instruments for seeing seeing. It could be bizarrely boring, maybe

end with a waker walking out more awake. It could require a long long reality spoon to reach a long long time ago, or a multidimensional long-reach-reality stapler, but then again, some of the parts might jelly, and it’s hard to staple together jelly parts. This is how you will know it’s time to go. Stretched into

new shapes. Into the slow. Into the after life-saving convention collections of adding up all the un-geometric goodbyes. Like a landscape architect borrowing trees from the sites beyond, but with more leaving. This is how you will know it’s happening, but with the shoe-shine of pacing.

Like creeping happily a capillary action, the feeling of being sucked up again, or sucking, which is different than sucking-up. Again you could go without the gain of knowing that the first time you know is the last time it’s already too late. This is how you will disappear. Sincerely like a spill

which seeks out the shortest route downhill. In the bed usually, not the bath. Coughing up the insides of stars with all the last carbon copies. Worked-up but without footnotes or hyper-texts. This is how it will feel. Like licked pronto. Like creamed by it. Like a no-brainer, but more bird

song like, like more, like stiff-arming to safety, like this. Too any shore more safely, like this. This is how you will go, with a story stratum that looks like lava looks. Having absorbed all the dished out soaked up looks that silt your pond, as you persist in shade. This is how you’ll disappear. Outside

it is Berlin. Mumbai. The South Side of Chicago. You’ll be in rapture in Tokyo, or lost in, like last time, which you won’t find weird. Inside it will have been 1972, 1851, 2090 yesterday now, back then cat clawing its way into the lap of your next to last future. Somehow you’ll suddenly know

that you know exactly where Ethiopia is in relation to where you are facing. You’ll be able to stand in place and orrery your arms like a clock’s hands, index finger to figure out where the moon will next rise without being able to say why. You’ll be able to point to Croatia without trying, slow

dance Iceland important with a hip-flip, finger-tut Peru, the tip of your elbow directioning correctly Florida’s eastern most tip of the Keys by ducking. You may May a bit out of tune, but you’ll universe Saturn 3 o’clock, without dropping any of its 62 moons by moving a little nearer to me again,

and we’ll be moon practicing again. And while going out I’ll be falling in and up and you’ll go breaking-up, and the sun will light up: it’s just a phase the moon’s going through, but I’m burning up about it. Damn, you’ll say, what a way to go, and with the earth still turning me on so still.


Add: hinted at. Add: complex defects. Add: difference. And side-real time, histories history. Add a new historic memory to the mix. Story up. Brain storm some more. Add: please preserve your differences without guilt-tripping me. Add without the imagination syndicates, the corruption creative coops, the existential sewage in the trading-up offers. When selecting for the favorable mutations try not to use what [they] think as a mirror. Add where to find a lease on a good time-machine. Add how in the exact center you may find yourself circumferencing. Add how an ant walking a straight line on a horse saddle curve curves straight. Add: I feel all over the place sometimes curving straight. Please add something hopeful like how certain spores survive for over 15,000 years under dry conditions. Then help water the feelings. Add from the point of view of a bat or other superorganisms. Add the part about giving away the lucky stone which could be (a) a love charm, or (b) a meteorite from another planet containing microbial life forms and how cool would that be to suck down. Add, to crystallize the moment with a single stroke, review how fulgurites are formed from the single strike of lightening, fusing the silicon sand and energy into a glass tube solid. Add: and then what, anther cool thing for another cool shelf? Add: whence the novelty once again. Change that for: The people called Endless. Maybe add something about noopolitics, how every memory only goes back to the last memory, and how the column drum from the Doric temple being used as a pomegranate seed press in modern today. Add: thanks Einstein, my twin always forgets to show up.

Eric Ellingson: Because I do this all over the place, like there and there and with them and then and here. Because I was a bio bored being. Because I got tired of all those bio reality straws that only made reality suck more, so I wanted to spit something better into the reality drinks. Because here’s a little stage on the screen that no one seemed to be using interesting. Because I left was all over the place. Because parts were left behind which I love. Because I don’t think butterflies is quite the right way to describe what I’m feeling, rather, pigs with horns and a penchant for not letting things go. Because I wanted to presto the geographer running the nature based conference into a part time poetry editor. Because I really do love having a 17 email exchange with 4 workshop organizers and 2 directors regarding if the bio is really a poem, and should a bio-poem be understood. Because you only gave me one day. Because most bios walk around trying to push all the reality doorbells—ring ring, ding dong, ring ring. Because I want last time to activate these times this time. Because if you want you can find a bio bio at species of space dot you know what. Because I have a bio poem book going, but that’s just bio logical. Because every chance should be a spot to squat a few choice lines. Because most bios just dead end their beautifuls with blah blah blah, and I think this here still seems better than saying I did this and this and that and that there and with that person (even though I love most of those people), and that person and back then and they said look he can do things. Because I want my bio poem to be nominated for the big poem prize, no. Because I still believe it is more important to know yourself than who you know. Because there is something else about me you should know. Because there is still something else about me you should know.

excerpts from All the Colors of the Dark 

For the past few years, I’ve been composing collages based on typographic forms; prior to this, my work had consisted primarily of surreal, dreamlike narratives and were purely figurative compositions. I have always, however, loved creating abstract work as well, and wanted to gradually move this aesthetic to the forefront of my working practice. My love of words came together with my love of abstract compositions in this recent phase of work.

Most of the texts in the collages selected here stem from giallo film titles; phrases intended to convey the lurid, spectacular quality of the films, but which in themselves have a surreal, lyrical quality. I enjoy their inadvertent similarities to the literature of magic realism, despite having been written with completely different intentions. Giallo films in and of themselves are colorful, pulpy affairs, and I attempted to echo this energy in the lines, shapes, and textures of the snaking branches I constructed.









Alexis Mackenzie‘s work has been exhibited internationally, including solo shows in San Francisco, Chicago, and Los Angeles. She holds a BFA from Tufts University/School of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Her work has been reviewed in the Los Angeles Times, the Chicago Tribune, and the San Francisco Chronicle, among others, and has appeared in numerous publications, including Zeit Magazin, and The New York Times Sunday Magazine. She currently resides in San Francisco, California. More of her work can be viewed at


“All the Colors of the Dark”, hand-cut collage on found paper, 2010. 12 x 14 inches

“Crocodile Tears”, hand-cut collage on paper, 2010. 5 x 7 inches

“Death Laid an Egg”, hand-cut collage on paper, 2010. 30 x 22 inches

“Fake Blood”, hand-cut collage on paper, 2010. 5 x 7 inches

“Footprint on the Moon”, hand-cut collage on found paper, 2010. 12 x 14 inches

“Short Night of the Glass Dolls”, hand-cut collage on found paper, 2010. 12 x 14 inches

“The Bird with the Crystal Plumage”, hand-cut collage on paper, 2010. 30 x 22 inches

“Who Said That?”, hand-cut collage on found paper, 2010. 12 x 14 inches

The Gong Show

Ken Richmond died in August 2006. The name didn’t ring a bell—a moan-inducing pun as you will soon see—but the image accompanying his obituary certainly did. He was the gongmeister who, with great solemnity and sobriety, announced the beginning of J. Arthur Rank movies. Actually, has anyone given the J. Arthur Rank logo a thought in the last few decades? Richmond’s obituary was a reminder. Nor was he the only gong man. Who knew or even imagined that there was more than one? But he was the last one and with his death, something else besides his life came to an end. In case you don’t recall, although if you’ve seen the logo once, there’s no way that you wouldn’t remember it, there’s a huge gong of what looks like hammered brass in the middle of the frame. A well-developed, well-oiled muscle man, wearing nothing more than a Tarzan-like diaper, lifts a mallet that looks like it weighs a ton with both hands and with a gravity and a sense of purpose, strikes the gong twice. The gong reverberates and the title J. Arthur Rank comes on the screen.

You know you’re in safe hands. It will be a quality film. It’s like the MGM logo—once it appears on the screen, you know you can expect quality entertainment, even if, five minutes into it, it turns out to be just another movie. It’s the case of expectation trumping experience, when the logo promises more than the product can deliver. [Image 1; click or see below]

There’s even more hope for the film if the logo is in color. Moody chiaroscuro emphasizing the pock-marked nature of the gong, the man with the mallet half-hidden in shadow, a pleated burgundy-colored curtain, perhaps velvet, behind the gong, the man, with skin tones similar to the coloring of the gong. Magic! Until, of course, proven otherwise. [Image 2, Image 3]

The exoticism of the logo extended beyond the fact that Rank movies were British movies and I was a mere American. It was, I suspect, exotic for English people as well. Intentional or not, the logo suggests empire, the far reaches of colonialism, the brute strength of natives of a certain color—the model was dipped in a bronze-colored make-up—performing a ritual that had repercussions more serious than a call to dinner. It had a scent of skullduggery in ancient and faraway places, initiation into arcane rituals, evil potentates and captive harem girls, villains wearing turbans and brandishing scimitars, incense and Ali Baba’s cave, Scheherazade and opulent languor, the death of Sardanapolis—Arabian Nights, the Raj, Gordon in Khartoum, Anna and the King of Siam, Lawrence of Arabia. Bug-eyed notions of orientalism and exoticism firing on all cylinders. The Rank man and his gong in his twelve seconds on screen suggest all this and much more. The Empire in its shining hour. A multi-purpose, free floating signifier with no specific meaning but with the unmistakable suggestion that the British Empire upon which the sun promised never to set will inevitably carry on. Conquest, adventure, subjugation, romantic surrender, riches beyond imagining, fealty, and wonderment. Of course, India broke free of the British Empire in 1947 and dozens of colonies and protectorates in the commonwealth peeled off shortly thereafter. But even after the Empire declined, the logo, and everything it brought to mind remained, albeit slightly faded. Slow-moving ceiling fans in tropical hotel lobbies sprinkled with bamboo furniture and down-on-their-luck Europeans nursing gin and tonics. Stiff upper lips, pith helmets and all that.

So, in August 2006, Ken Richmond, the last of the gong-strikers died at the age of 80. Another reminder that yet another era had come to an end, although the Rank Organization had stopped producing movies in 1980. One is a little surprised to see that this otherwise obscure peripheral footnote of a dying industry is even remembered enough to rate an obituary. Certainly, the filmgoer in me, who never gave it a thought, that that mythical logo which seemed to be part of the natural order of things was actually produced, as opposed to found in nature, and that the man who struck the gong was a human being like any other and had a life apart from the logo he inhabited. It was also strange to think that the logo had a story of its own, and to discover a new little rivulet leading nowhere in the world of movie-lore.

It’s not exactly film history. If it’s gossip at all, it’s a below-the-radar level of gossip, and it’s probably of no interest to anyone. It’s not nostalgia, although it might have elements of that in it. And it is certainly not a tea-soaked Madeleine. So what is it? The birth and death of a logo that once had a hold on us? Sure proof that time is passing? Another sign that the artifacts of childhood which had no intrinsic value at the time are vanishing and thereby acquiring inestimable significance? Or just another set of factoids to be stored in your gray matter, vying for space with a million other useless, unilluminating but strangely compelling factoids?

In the mid-30s, J. Arthur Rank, a flour mogul and a devout Methodist, started producing religious films. When he wasn’t pleased with the way they were distributed and exhibited, he formed his own distribution company. For that, he needed a logo. Originally he wanted a wolf, to rival MGM’s lion, but good wolves were hard to find. Obviously lions were, too, since there are several recognizably different lions over the years garlanded by the MGM Ars Gratis Artis ribbon of film. He ultimately decided on a man banging on a gong. In addition to buying out other distribution companies, he acquired chains of movie theaters and also bought studios. He was now in complete control of all the means of film production, distribution and exhibition.

The first gong man was Carl Dane, a 6’5” circus strongman. He had been part of a circus acrobatic act in which he was billed as “Boy Hercules.” One of his famous strong-man stunts was to pull a London double-decker bus with his teeth. Talking about the bronze make-up that they generously lathered over his whole body, basically blackface, Danes said, “The perspiration would make it streak and we’d have to start all over again.” No one seems to be quite sure when his image as the gong-striker was retired but he did indicate that he understood the importance of the image. “That one episode has haunted me my whole life. But I just did it for the money.”

He was replaced by “Bombardier” Billy Wells (1887–1967), a 6’1” heavyweight boxer who had a beer named after him [Image 4]. He also owned a famous pub called Bombardier. He was obviously a big movie fan as well. He had uncredited bit parts in Hitchcock’s The Ring (1927), King Vidor’s The Citadel (1938), George Bernard Shaw’s Major Barbara (1941), Michael Powell’s A Canterbury Tale (1944). His apotheosis in the movies, aside from being one of the designated gong men, was playing the hangman in Peter Brooks’ The Beggar’s Opera (1953) with Laurence Olivier. He was retired from gong duty in 1948. Obviously, the company felt that its logo needed a new representative every several years, just as the MGM lion had to be replaced every so often, although MGM, as we shall see, was less fickle than J. Arthur Rank. All logos, it seems, or so the heads of the companies they represent seem to think, have to be updated at a certain point even though the public remains fond of the image because the images seem so permanent and unchangeable. The consumer feels secure with a good logo should feel like those steles from outer space in 2001: A Space Odyssey—unchanging, inevitable, eternal. The public doesn’t want their familiar images tampered with. There was a time that the logo was so well known that 94% of the British population could identify it. For a certain generation, that figure probably still applies.

The third gong-guy was Phil Niewman, a movie extra about whom very little is known. He served from 1948 to 1954, when he was replaced by Ken Richmond, the fourth and final gongman. [Image 5]

Richmond, 6’2”, was an Olympic wrestling champ who won a bronze medal in freestyle wrestling in Helsinki in 1952. He participated in the Melbourne Olympics and won a gold medal in the 1954 Commonwealth Games in Vancouver and a bronze in Auckland in 1950. Like Billy Wells, he, too was clearly bitten by the movie bug, perhaps because he grew up in a house near Rank’s Pinewood Studios. He worked as an extra in Olivier’s Henry V (1944) and Lean’s Blithe Spirit (1945). Richmond posed for the logo in 1954 for a one-time only payment of £100. He said that his favorite roles say in which movie (the most likely candidate would be Caesar and Cleopatra [1946]) and Jules Dassin’s Night and the City (1951), in which he had a not insubstantial role as Nikolas, a proponent of Greco-Roman wrestling. He was quite convincing and natural in the role. His good looks and ease in front of the camera suggest that he might have had some kind of acting career had he been interested in pursuing it. [Image 6, Image 7, Image 8]

Despite the sport he excelled in, he was a lifelong pacifist and even spent several months in jail at the end of WWII as a conscientious objector. He became a Jehovah’s Witness and spent two years as a missionary in Malta. Ultimately, he gave up wrestling because his religious work left him insufficient time for the sport. In his late sixties, he took up windsurfing in which he excelled and for which he won medals. If they ever make a film of his life, Gregory Peck should play him. [Image 9]

Rank as a production company went out of business in 1980, but their salad days were far behind them even then. The glories of The 39 Steps, Henry V, Hamlet, Blithe Spirit, Brief Encounter, Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, A Matter of Life and Death, The Red Shoes, Black Narcissus were already part of history rather than the recent past. And the recent past was none too prestigious, either. In the last 25 years or so of its existence it was known as the company that produced the very popular and indestructible Carry On … series. The Rank Organization carries on today mostly as a real estate holding company which owns casinos and hotels. Its most recognizable asset is the global Hard Rock Café franchise.

The least surprising factoid about the gong was that it was made out of papier-mâché. In a world where the only reality is that created by artifice, why would that be a surprise? The gong sounds were recorded by a famous percussionist, James Blades, who had worked with Benjamin Britten and also created the “V for Victory” Morse code used by the BBC during the war. He recorded the gong on a 2-feet in diameter Chinese instrument called a tam tam. The disparate elements that are yoked together to make the 12 second logo is standard operating procedure for the factory of dreams—a sound is recorded in one place and by someone other than the unnecessarily muscular gong striker and is married to a silent image—to create a new synthesis. Sound from here, an image from there, a prop that is only a simulacrum of another prop, a muscle man who only appears to be striking a gong—illusion, illusion, illusion. Any word as to the whereabouts of the five-foot in diameter papier-mâché gong and the accompanying mallet? Are they heavily guarded prizes in some movie-mad collector’s trophy room? Are they languishing in some dusty, cobwebbed corner in a long-forgotten studio storage room? Or has the papier-mâché long ago succumbed to the disintegration such fragile items are subject to? Or, worst of all, were the gong and the mallet long ago consigned to a trash bin in the days when such objects had no intrinsic much less sentimental value?

In September 2006, a £1,000,00 question asked on the British game show Who Wants To Be a Millionaire? was “Which boxer was famous for striking the gong in the introduction to J. Arthur Rank films?—a ) Bombardier Billy Wells, b) Freddy Mills, c) Terry Spings, or d) Don Cockrell.” Well, now you and I, dear reader, know the correct answer and we could have, had we been the contestant, gotten the correct answer and the money. It could have been trickier if they had named all four gong men and asked which one was second or which one was third. But they didn’t. So, in the best of all possible worlds, this information does or at least, for one brief moment, did have value.

Just in case you have any ambition to be a contestant on Who Wants To Be a Millionaire? sometime in the future, some of the MGM lions’ names are Slats, Jackie, and Tanner—not a Leo among them. Jackie was the black and white lion in all the films from 1928 through 1956, Tanner was the color lion, from 1938 through 1956. (For mind-numbing minutiae on the detailed history of the MGM lions, go to the Wikipedia and check out “Leo the Lion.”) Each of the lions had a longer run than all the gong men put together. Obviously, MGM was a less fickle client and had considerable more loyalty to its lions than J. Arthur Rank did to his gong men.

Maybe we should start backwards and work our way forwards. Start with the history of props, anecdotes, details, artifacts, all the stuff that it’s almost a guilty pleasure to read about or know about or think about—in a word, the dreck of movie making. A different kind of history, history through the back door—the apple’s story, told from the point of view of the worm. Or how the material world really defines the world of movies, which is after all a very mechanical process and very much grounded in the world of actual things. Ideas come later. “No ideas but in things,” as William Carlos Williams said. Marianne Moore echoes and embroiders on the sentiment—“real toads in imaginary gardens.” They were talking about poetry but they could just as well have been talking about movies.

Many years ago, I saw a German documentary by Harmut Bitomsky called Reichsautobahn (1986) which examines Nazism from what, at first, seems to be the wrong end of the telescope—the history of the autobahn as an expression of Nazism. Literally, a concrete expression of Nazi ideology, rather than the other way around. It is a different perspective into a history that, even though nowhere near exhausted, has, at this point, more new facts than new insights to offer. It suggested, rather, a new way of revisiting old information with a fresh eye. Who knows, maybe this way of working—from small things to larger ones is a way in which a history can be more precisely categorized, defined, organized, re-organized and re-defined.

Consider this. When Lana Turner, not yet a star, made The Adventures of Marco Polo in 1938, they shaved off her eyebrows for the part. The eyebrows never grew back in. It’s very doubtful that she was in any way compensated for this sacrifice she made for her career—or her art. However, her non-existent eyebrows or, rather, her painted-on eyebrows, became very much a part of her image and the commodity that subsequently became known as Lana Turner, the glamour puss. When Oliver Reed made The Devils (1971) and Ken Russell wanted him to have his hair and eyebrows shaved off, the producers took out £250,000 insurance, just in case his eyebrows didn’t grow back in, which they did. Was the potential loss of Reed’s of more critical and of more cultural interest than Turner’s? Or was he more famous, than she was, when he had it done? Would anyone, even Reed himself, have cared if his eyebrows never grew back in? Or was it a publicity stunt? Ultimately, without sounding too much like Parker Tyler or, rather, Gore Vidal’s Myra Breckenridge as Parker Tyler’s most devoted acolyte, the significance of Lana Turner’s cosmetically applied eyebrows is a much more meaningful event in film-lore than the removal and potential loss of Oliver Reed’s.

Or consider this—the role of the bellybutton in movies. In the 40s, even “love goddesses” like Rita Hayworth and Betty Grable, never showed their navels, no matter how revealing or skimpy their costumes were. Think of Ingrid Bergman’s bare midriff in Notorious, Rita Hayworth’s bare midriff in her “Amado Mio” number in Gilda, Lana Turner’s bare midriff in The Postman Always Rings Twice. Even Carmen Miranda, wearing low-cut skirts in her musical numbers has a flesh-colored patch of cloth designed into each costume to make sure that we don’t see, or even surmise, a navel. And all those girls-in-a-harem movies? Not a navel in sight. A navel suggested that someone, somewhere, once had sex. No, no, no. And that, as a result of it, a child was born. No! It was too sordid a fact to contemplate. Even men did not have navels. Think of John Garfield’s bathing suit in The Postman Always Rings Twice, a 100% navel-free movie. Think of all the boxing movies in which the boxers have their shorts practically hiked up to their armpits. But times change and even prudish morality bends a little. In 1959, Gina Lollobrigida, as the Queen of Sheba, wears a ruby in her exposed navel in a big-budget Hollywood extravaganza, Solomon and Sheba! But she’s European. She even had a navel in 1952, in Rene Clair’s Beauties of the Night, when legions of Hollywood stars and starlets, if they wore two-piece bathing suits, still had to wear navel-denying bathing suits.

There’s a brilliant and hilarious commentary, on the navels-versus-no-navels issue, in David Cronenberg’s The Brood. The murderous monsters Samantha Eggar gives birth to, and this is how we know who they are, are navel-free because they are not created by sexual contact but by her fury. The children are the literal the manifestations of her anger. She is author of them but it’s not by childbirth that she creates them.

Are the eyebrow and belly button factoids any more or less enlightening than the gong statistics? I would say it’s a draw. None adds to or takes away anything from anything but they help to form a link between what happens behind the scenes with what appears up on the screen. Maybe these seemingly insignificant factoids do, after all, contribute something. Maybe they can shine little 10-watt rays of light into hitherto unilluminated and unexplored areas in a kingdom of many myths and may yet set off a little spark somewhere. Or even a conflagration. In a way, it’s a termite’s view of film history or film-lore or the unspoken and/or unknown and unknowable facts behind the fiction. It may not especially mean anything but very few things really do. It’s approaching the dream factory through the back door where all the trash is dumped and allowed to rot. Carefully picking through the trash, with a connoisseur’s eye, might be a way towards re-arranging familiar information in a different context.

Should all of this information be filed under trivia and forgotten as soon as possible? Or are these little byways and tangents spinning out into infinity, part of a larger Borgesian underground labyrinth that exists in a parallel universe beneath that expanding and, at the same time, disappearing landfill called film history?—a labyrinth carved out by termites, mirroring and perhaps even mocking, the world above the surface. I don’t know that these little epiphanies illuminate anything other than themselves. If any conclusions are to be drawn, what they might be, at this point, are anybody’s guess. In any case, the serious digging has not yet even begin in earnest, and the results won’t be in for decades—hopefully before all the minutiae perishes, is lost or forgotten forever.

If the image of the gong being struck remains indelibly printed on our communal imagination, Rank has also contributed, again though through the back door, to the English language as well—as part of Cockney rhyming slang. In Cockney rhyming slang, which hypothetically originated as a thieves’ jargon or, alternately, as a way of preventing outsiders from understanding what is being said, an abbreviated part of a phrase, which rhymes with the word it is replacing assumes the meaning of the missing word—for example, “trouble and strife” means “wife.” So when you ask someone how his “trouble” is doing, you are referring to his “wife.” “Apples and pears” rhymes with “stairs,” so the word “apples” refers to “stairs.” “China plate” means “mate” but you only have to say “china” to mean “mate.” “Bees,” as in “bees and honey,” means “money,” and so on. In any case, in Cockney slang, a J. Arthur means “wank” (rhymes with “Rank”). In English slang, “wank” means “jerk-off.” So what lives on? The memory of a man and a gong and a hilariously good-natured vulgarism. Is that a legacy or what? That, not to mention the movies they produced, is the back door to a certain kind of immortality.

Mark Rappaport is a filmmaker, writer, and visual artist. His films include The Scenic Route (1978), Impostors (1979), and the widely-acclaimed Rock Hudson’s Home Movies (1992) and From the Journals of Jean Seberg (1995). A collection of some of his film writings was published in 2008 in French as Le Spectateur qui en savait trop (The Moviegoer Who Knew Too Much). Several of his pieces have appeared in the online film journal Rouge.

The above article was originally published in Trafic, in French; this is its first appearance in the original English.

Black Bra, White Bra

Since we know that Hitchcock planned everything down to the last detail in all of his movies, what are we to make of Janet Leigh’s undergarments in Psycho? In all the voluminous literature concerning Hitchcock’s films and Psycho, has there ever been an analysis of why Marion Crane wears a white bra and a white half-slip for her afternoon tryst with Sam and then, as she is ready to abscond with the $40,000, is wearing a black bra and black half-slip? [Image 1; click or see below] Well, here goes. We know that Hitchcock wasn’t interested in symbolism and certainly in the simplistic kind that would equate white with good and black with bad. Or even white suggesting Marion’s happiness and appetite for life and black suggesting her headlong rush towards her totally arbitrary death. Not only did Hitchcock not deal in symbols, he was anything but a Manichean. If anything, the opposite is true. His villains, like Bruno Anthony in Strangers on a Train and Alex Sebastian in Notorious, are suave and charming, and sometimes his heroes, like Devlin in Notorious and Scottie Ferguson in Vertigo, are far from admirable and occasionally despicable. We also know that no detail however small was too small to pay attention to. That’s what movies are made of, thousands of details, piled on one another to create a singular effect. And this is certainly true of Hitchcock movies, perhaps more than anyone else’s. No, this was not an error by the continuity person. Hitchcock’s world did not permit such errors. So we must look elsewhere to find the meaning, and, if not the answers, the reasons.

Marion, after her afternoon tryst with Sam, goes to the office where she is given the $40,000 in an envelope and then leaves early, claiming to have a headache. Dissolve to Marion, wearing a black bra and slip, looking at the $40,000 fairly falling out of the envelope lying on her bed [Image 2]. She is busy packing. What happened in the time between the dissolve? Let’s write an alternate scenario. She comes home and takes a shower after a lunch break of strenuous and sweaty sex. Remember, the window to her hotel room was open, so there was no air-conditioning in the hotel and the man who buys the house from Marion’s realtor boss says the weather is “as hot as fresh milk.” Let us say she takes a shower. She almost surely takes a shower. Is she as delighted to be taking a shower as she seems to be when the hot water comes out in her famous/infamous fatal shower scene, a few hours from now? Perhaps she is. Also, some time during this ellipsis she has come to the decision to take the $40,000 and flee. So maybe she is more worried and concerned than relaxed while taking the shower. Even though, in her long car ride, her inner thoughts are revealed to us by the things she imagines people might say about her actions, we are not afforded the same opportunity to follow her thoughts in resolving to steal the money. Her and Sam’s situation, financial and otherwise, had already been clarified by the exposition in the hotel room. But then she surprises us when she turns down her co-worker’s offer to take some tranquilizers with, “You can’t buy off unhappiness with tranquilizers.” We didn’t realize she was that unhappy, even though she did tell the house-buyer who is flirting with her that she is not “inordinately” unhappy. She suffers, in Freud’s terms, not from neurotic unhappiness, but from normal unhappiness. In our alternate scenario, we perhaps also see Sam taking a plane back home, picking up his car and driving his car from the airport to his home—and store—in Fairville, in an uneventful trip. Clearly this long scene will have to be cut from the final film because nothing much happens. He doesn’t stop to sell his car, as Marion does. He doesn’t fall asleep by the side of the road, he isn’t questioned by the highway patrol as Marion is, he doesn’t encounter a sudden rainstorm or check into a motel. OK. Marion gets out of the shower and chooses something to wear. It’s a much darker, somewhat more formal dress than the one she wore to work, a white summer-y dress. That would explain why she wore a white bra and slip earlier. You wouldn’t wear black undergarments underneath your white dress. She decides on a black bra and a black slip. Is she making that choice because it’s more appropriate for the nighttime? Does she want to surprise and excite Sam in her black undergarments which set off her white skin? She certainly doesn’t wear them to arouse Norman, although Hitchcock knows and we know that black undergarments against white skin have a sharper erotic charge to it than white undergarments, if stag movies of the 40s and 50s are any indication. Does she feel now that she’s a “bad” girl and should dress accordingly? We will have to reject unconditionally that she was dressing for her fatal and fateful date with Norman Bates. Whatever Hitchcock’s cognitive processes were, I don’t believe that he thought that way. Ingmar Bergman maybe, but Hitchcock—never. Now let’s pick up the real movie again. She continues packing—she is almost all done—and she puts her white slip on the very top of all the packed clothing in the suitcase and then closes it. Why is the white slip the last thing she packs into the suitcase, almost as an afterthought? More food for thought.

Now, let us join her, alone in her room at the Bates Motel, after she had her talk with Norman and, presumably, has made her decision to go back to Phoenix. She is tired and hungry and ready to go to bed. She didn’t eat much of the sandwich that Norman prepared for her, and anyway he comments that she eats like a bird. Nor did she eat the untouched sandwich that she brought with her to the hotel the other day. “You never did eat your lunch, did you?” Sam remarks in the hotel room. She must be starving. After a long hard day of driving and great anxiety, she gets ready to step into the shower. She strips down to her black bra and half-slip. Norman, in the parlor, as he calls it, adjoining his office, takes a down kitschy painting of a naked woman being molested by two old men—probably yet another version of Susannah and the Elders, a favored subject of 16th- and 17th-century painters but this one much less modest and much more graphic than most [Image 3]—and looks at her through the peephole it covers. She is perfectly framed as she is about to go into the bathroom [Image 4]. We are to assume that he has seen her completely naked. Norman, as impulsively as Marion stealing the money, pulls away from the scene and goes back to the house. We know no more about his decision, or even what it is, than we knew about Marion’s decision to flee with the money, although his will have more fatal consequences. Nor will we find out until the very end of the film. While he is up at the house, she begins doing her simple addition and subtraction, subtracting the money she has spent from the money she stole. She then puts the envelope full of the remaining money in her suitcase, not back into her handbag, where it was before, but on top of her white slip, before wrapping it in the newspaper she bought, looking for written proof of her guilt. Underwear and money, sex and death, money and guilt, sex and anxiety, money and sex, guilt and underwear—they are all inextricably woven together but nothing gets any clearer. How to explain these strange concatenations and juxtapositions? She steps into the shower…and we all know what happens after that.

Let’s go back two years to Vertigo. In Vertigo, Midge is an ad illustrator who is currently doing a promotion for a new brassiere [Image 5]. Scottie, with his cane, points to the brassiere, which serves as the model, as if to say he wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. He doesn’t and can’t actually bring himself to touch the brassiere, as if that would be too vulgar and crass for a man such as he, although he is not above making a smirky, adolescent joke about it [Image 6]. So, we do know that Hitchcock, as far back as the inception of Vertigo, was interested in bras and we also know that Hitchcock’s interests get repeated from film to film until he puts them to rest, only to pursue other interests, which also will reappear in film after film until the image, for him, is exhausted. The bra they talk about in Vertigo is an “anti-gravitational” cantilevered bra that works on engineering principles. Midge explains that it was designed by an aircraft engineer in his spare time. Clearly what is being referred to here is the cantilevered brassiere that Howard Hughes designed for Jane Russell to wear in his movie The Outlaw (originally opened in San Francisco in 1943 but withdrawn from circulation and then widely released in 1946), the primary purpose of which was to show off her breasts to their best advantage. However, it’s not in the film in which Ms. Russell’s breasts are so blatantly emphasized—the film itself is very tame because the production codes were very strict—but rather in the suggestive publicity stills that Howard Hughes had taken to advertise the film, with a smoldering Jane Russell who promises much more than the timid movie ultimately delivered [Image 7].

It is important to remember that the 50s in America was a very bra-conscious society. It was the era of the Bullet Bra, also known as the Torpedo Bra, also known as the Missile Bra, also known as the Cone Bra. The military aspect of its various nicknames was an unmistakable nod to the free-floating anxiety about and pre-occupation with the Cold War, as well as to sex. It was designed to project a woman’s breasts and extend them further than nature actually did, in order to fill a sweater more amply. Hitchcock’s allusions to brassieres in Vertigo is a pointed commentary on an era that fetishized and apotheosized the abundant endowments of Jayne Mansfield and Anita Ekberg and Jane Russell. The bra obsession and phenomenon is also wryly commented on in the Adolph Green-Betty Comden-Jules Styne 1956 hit Broadway musical, Bells Are Ringing, starring Judy Holiday—“I wanna go back/ Where I can be me/ At the Bonjour Tristesse Brassiere Company…” made into a Vincente Minnelli movie in 1960.

There were also, at the time, ubiquitous print ads in national magazines advertising Maidenform bra, with a tag line that was instantly recognizable. “I dreamed I played chess in my Maidenform bra…” “I dreamed I was twins in my Maidenform bra…” “I dreamed I had tea for two in my Maidenform bra…” “I dreamed I went to a masquerade in my Maidenform bra…”, and so on [Image 8]. The line accompanied a fashion photograph illustrating the catch phrase, as well a little story about the “dream.” Considering the subject matter, the ads were done with wit, taste, and elegance. And were, of course, always eye-catching. The “I dreamed…” theme was an endlessly resourceful ongoing ad campaign that was so successful for the company that the series of ads ran throughout the 50s into the late 60s, with many imaginative variations. Maybe Hitchcock, in his sly way, is suggesting his own ad—“I dreamed I was murdered at the Bates Motel in my Maidenform bra…”

Or perhaps an answer can be found in Marnie, four years after Psycho. Hitchcock once more reveals his interest in women on the run and their suitcases—what gets put in suitcases, what gets left behind. At the very beginning of Marnie, even before we’re introduced to the main character, we’re introduced to the things she’s acquired—her Naples-yellow handbag which contains all the loot she most recently stole, her suitcase, the clothes that she just bought for herself as well as, we will soon learn, gifts she bought for her mother as she packs them very neatly into her new suitcase [Image 9]. It goes without saying that Marnie is a compulsively neater packer than Marion Crane. Meanwhile, right next to the new suitcase is her old suitcase, in which she haphazardly throws items that, we find out several shots later, she will discard. She throws, into the old suitcase, a white bra and a pinkish slip. Maybe that’s what happens to old white bras when you’re starting a new life. So, that’s a possible answer, although there is something frighteningly paranoid about Marnie throwing out her old underwear, as if she could be identified by those items, just as Marion’s behavior is similarly irrational when she buys the Saturday morning paper to find out if the robbery she committed on Friday is reported in it. Marnie subsequently dumps all of her money into the new suitcase. She goes to the train station with both suitcases, deposits the old suitcase in a locker, locks it up, and throws the key away.

Women, in American movies, certainly, before Psycho were rarely, if ever, seen in a brassiere and a slip. There is a world of difference between what we see in Psycho and Elizabeth Taylor slinkily lounging around in a full slip in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958) and BUtterfield 8 (1960). It was the difference between being nude and being naked. In addition to which, Janet Leigh was what my mother might have called a “big” girl. In a sense, it was as shocking for a star of Janet Leigh’s caliber to casually wear a bra and a half-slip as it was for Manet’s Olympia to unblinkingly stare down the spectator when she is clearly naked, and definitely not nude. But everything about the images presented in Psycho was shocking. It was the first time one had seen a normal bathroom on the screen—elaborate movie star or designer bathrooms don’t count—, with a toilet and the sound of a toilet actually being flushed, a shower that took water and blood down the drain. It was also the first visit to a sleazy motel (if we except Touch of Evil [1958]), it was the first peek at America’s obsession with it’s highways, and certainly the first well-mannered, prep-school psycho-killer. Hitchcock, in movies, did for motels and highways what Nabokov did in novels with Lolita, which was printed for the first time in America in 1958, two years before Psycho.

OK, here we are, over 2,000 words later and I’m not much closer to an answer than I was at the beginning. And yet, and yet, why has this been sticking in my craw all this time? Let’s go back to the previously mentioned dissolve between Marion at her office and Marion packing her suitcase. If she were wearing her white bra and half-slip while packing, it might suggest that no time at all elapsed between her leaving the office and making the decision to take the money and run. But she would need some time to think over her plans. The fact that she is wearing the black bra indicates several things—that she had indeed spent some time to thinking her plans through, that she most probably—let us say definitely—took a shower, foreshadowing, unseen though the shower may have been, her fatal shower at the Bates Motel, and most important of all, that she was naked during the course of the film, actually, during the course of the dissolve—in order for her change her brassiere. It is that unseen nakedness, during the dissolve, that is the very nakedness that triggers Norman Bates’ sexual and, hence, murderous impulses. And to indicate that something important happened in that dissolve interval, Hitchcock has Marion change her bra and slip. It’s a visual shorthand for suggesting that time has elapsed and that she took a shower, the predecessor to the famous shower scene. And, most importantly of all, that she was naked. The shower, both the unseen one and the one we see all too graphically bracket her impulsive decisions—first to flee Phoenix with the money and then to return to Phoenix. One wonders, had she been able to continue her journey the next morning, back to Phoenix, would she have put on her white bra and white half-slip again? Or not? For the moment, this is the best I can come up with, although I’m open to other theories. Additional suggestions will be welcomed and given serious consideration. All responses will be answered.

Mark Rappaport is a filmmaker, writer, and visual artist. His films include The Scenic Route (1978), Impostors (1979), and the widely-acclaimed Rock Hudson’s Home Movies (1992) and From the Journals of Jean Seberg (1995). A collection of some of his film writings was published in 2008 in French as Le Spectateur qui en savait trop (The Moviegoer Who Knew Too Much). Several of his pieces have appeared in the online film journal Rouge.

The above article was originally published in Trafic, in French; this is its first appearance in the original English.

Real, Not Fake

When I was diagnosed with inoperable cancer, my first thought wasn’t what you might expect. My first thought wasn’t “Why me?”

My first thought was “Why not you?”

This is a serious thought, I think, a logical thought, and not at all unreasonable, insensitive or anything. Why don’t YOU have cancer seems to be a more logical thing to ask, more logical than why do I have cancer. At least it does to me, but maybe there’s a reason for this. Maybe it’s because this is about me, that it is me talking, and because I have cancer, inoperable cancer.

Maybe this is the cancer talking.

The cancer is in my brain.

You should have this cancer; it should be in your brain.

I was diagnosed with cancer of the brain when I was thirty eight years old. I am thirty eight years old now, today, the day I am writing this. The doctors had a couple of theories as to where this cancer came from; they told me why I may have cancer, which is good information to have, I suppose, even though it doesn’t do any good. Knowing why I have it doesn’t make me not have it, nor does it answer why you don’t have it.

They thought it might be the cigarettes. I don’t smoke any more, haven’t for years, but for years and years and years I did. I smoked a lot. They thought this may be it, the doctors did. It probably is. They also said my brain and lung cancer may have something to do with TV actress Christine Baranski. I saw her on TV once, that actress, and now I have cancer, cancer of the brain and lungs and liver. That is 100% true. Christine Baranski may have given me cancer. She may have given it to me that one time I watched either Murphy Brown or Cybil, whichever show she was on. The doctors said this, they said it out loud.

The worst part I think about my having the cancer of the face, neck, and lungs, besides the obvious you not having it part, the worst part is that this makes the chances of me walking into a room and having theme music playing all the more slim. It makes it slimmer, is what it does, slim jimmer, Stephen King’s “Slimmer.” I am 38 years old and still think about what songs should be playing when I walk into a room, when I make an entrance. I am going to die before this happens, I think. I am going to die from this cancer, this cancer that I have and you don’t, and I will never walk into a room, never be introduced with music playing. This hardly seems fair or right or anything even though I am way too old to be thinking about things like this.

What I am guessing is that the cancer I received probably had nothing to do with the cigarettes, nothing to do with the fingernails, nothing to do with the Christine Baranski, even though that option probably seems the most likely. My doctors told me that the occurrence of Christine Baranski-caused cancer is high, higher than you might think.

It is like 80%.

80% of all the cancer of the brain, eyes, and ears is caused by Christine Baranski. I didn’t know this; I had no idea, but it makes sense when you think about it and even when you don’t.

In this movie I watched, a movie about the guy who wrote Where The Wild Things Are, he’s asked, the guy is, if he has any advice for young people. The guy says back, without missing a beat, he says “Quit this life as soon as possible. Get out, get out.” I wonder if that was fake or real, him saying that so quickly. I wonder that now with throat cancer, brain cancer, cancer of the limbs and legs.

My boys play a game called fake or real. They will hum or sing something, one of them will, to the others and then say fake or real. I’m not 100% sure of the rules of this game, I don’t know how it is played, but it is something like that. The worst part about having all this goddamn cancer is that I will miss my boys and that is real not fake.

When asked by an interviewer why white women were attracted to black men, former heavyweight champion of the world Jack Johnson said “Because we eat cold eels and think distant thoughts.”

That happened.

PT Barnum once ate an entire lobster without opening his mouth.

That happened, too.

I once watched an episode of Murphy Brown or Cybil once in 1988, saw Christine Baranski, and now am going to die from a cancer that you should have and I will never see my boys or be introduced walking in someplace, never come out from the back, from the dark, come up through the aisle to the tunes of something playing, something real and not fake.

Ben Slotky is the author of the critically acclaimed collection of short stories entitled Red Hot Dogs, White Gravy which is available at He prefers that if you buy the book, that you download it, as he gets $2 every time you do so. He is also the author of the popular blog and podcast “The Hill I’m Going To Die On” neither of which exist but probably should. You can follow him on Twitter at @benslotky. He says some pretty funny things some times. One time he said “I think out of all the bear-bears out there, my favorite is Bud Grizzly.” One time he spent an entire day talking about the movie “Hobo With A Shotgun.” He said something really funny once about Marcel Proust and LL Cool J that deserved way more recognition than it got.

“Real Not Fake” is the first song off his new album entitlled An Evening of Romantic Lovemaking which is wonderful and almost finished.

Home Videos Don’t Lie

          Within an hour of meeting Thelma’s mother, the VCR is humming. Thelma gathers bedding, curls herself on the couch. I sit in between her and her mom. Thelma warned me about mom’s home video infatuation. I’ve come to realize that I’m the only one from my generation without these clunky, plastic relics. It’s okay though. Home movies are for families with deadly secrets. If you watch 48 Hours: Mystery enough, you start thinking people with home movies are the ones who end up getting murdered and show up on TV.
           Home videos backfire. There’s this kid who’s really famous right now for being a floppy-haired teenager with crystalline teeth and cuddly eyes. He sings. There’s this old video of him singing into a hairbrush. He’s like twelve, and it makes him look so lame. Elvis never had a tape like that. However, if Elvis ever had told people he sang into a hairbrush at twelve, people would’ve wept just thinking about it, thinking of the magic involved in that one moment. The idea is so much better than the image.
          On the screen, Thelma is seventeen. She’s onstage singing “Maybe This Time,” and her voice is ravishing. She doesn’t look anything like she does now – ponytail, sweatpants, makeupless – but somehow older, more like she’s been coached into womanhood. Thelma’s mom gazes at the TV. She is trying to transport herself back ten years to Thelma’s performance. Not only is she imagining turning back time, she’s picturing herself inside her daughter’s body, dreaming how it must have felt.
          “Amazing,” I say. Thelma’s mom smiles, squeezes my knee hard.
          Watching endless videos of Thelma being an extraordinary adolescent makes me self-conscious about lacking superior kid talents. Not only was I not an exceptional child, I have no regular stuff caught on tape to make up for it. But slowly it hits me. I can use the absence of recordings to my advantage.
          I think about telling Thelma how I came up with the idea for The Truman Show when I was nine years old. I could tell her I used to pretend that cameras followed me everywhere and sold my every move and word to some television company in outer space. But that’s totally true and so I know she won’t believe it.
          Then… an idea! This can be anything, I tell myself. What’s something beautifully, profoundly contrary to who you actually are, something impressive in ways you couldn’t possibly be but always wished you could?
           “I was in a rock band!” I blurt out.
           “What?” Thelma exclaims. She comes unbundled from her blankets, lunges forward.
           “Relax,” her mom says. “I’d love to see footage. Tell me more.”
           I breathe dramatically, stage-breathe. I close my eyes. Whatever I say will have to be sensational, cinematic. I need to take care, get it right, because I know whatever I say will live forever. Their eyes pan in on me like two upper bodies rigged to dollies.

Simon A. Smith writes and teaches English in Chicago, where he lives with his wife and a murderous orange tabby named Cheever. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Hobart, Quick Fiction, Monkeybicycle, Whiskey Island, PANK, Bound Off, Prick of the Spindle and a few others. He likes it here.

I Built a Fifth House

I built a fifth house near the river. I placed my head under its water and drank. I was a deer again, as my brother and I had been when we were young, hooking antlers, lowering our necks. My brother the deer, that forest. We would run in those woods until the sun dissolved, until the river froze. Those were skies meant to be believed. Those were stars held up by strings. Those were different woods than these.

In these woods, standing beside this river, I am lost. I don’t know where I came from. I left a trail of yarn, what was a scarf, but when I follow it, I am only led in circles. I loop trees and rocks but do not come to any understanding. These woods are where I am going to die. Those woods, when my brother and I were deer, those were the woods of our beginnings.

I built this fifth house of scarf yarn, layering it up into walls and windows. I worked the yarn as a constructivist would. I built a chimney for the first snow and hung gutters for the rain. I planted flowers in the front to greet my brother when he returns, when he brings a scythe instead of a black dot on a scrap of paper, when he brings intention. And if he never does, the flowers will burn up like summer, my scarf yarn to flames in front of this house.

I wait for him to return with hooves, though he may hide inside of a fox or a bear or a rabbit. He may linger in a bird until it is time. This means I must keep watch on all of them from my open doorway, twirling a strung-out wall of yarn in my fingers. I am a careful eye on these trees, but I see nothing. These woods will not abandon me, even though I am lost, even though my brother is hiding in its furs, even though the moment of my death has been messaged to me here.

As deer we breathed woods, my brother and I. We ran through lifetimes. But he does not return in any kind of body. The river is generous and keeps running. And the moon goes about its rising even as the house flickers to fire. The fifth house burns down with me inside it. The animals scatter back to their own homes in the branches and the hollows. And the scarf yarn house goes quickly, burning down, and I am alone again. But these woods are not for hopelessness, they are for learning how to remember. Deer-brother, there are always still these woods.

J. A. Tyler is founding editor of Mud Luscious Press and author of Inconceivable Wilson (Scrambler Books) as well as the forthcoming A Man of Glass & All the Ways We Have Failed (Fugue State Press) and, with John Dermot Woods, the image text novel No One Told Me I Would Disappear (Jaded Ibis Press).