Why I Love Wyoming

I'm writing this from an empty studio. This is the final time I'll be able to reach out over my desk and, with my left hand, flip the latch that opens a window; I will miss that in DC. I broke the colony code and used the public printer to print out the work I've done, just in this final week, on the allergy book. 43 pages--half revisions, half new drafting--warm to the touch.

It's time to go.

But yesterday, we had a perfect benediction to our time in Wyoming: an all day trip up into the Big Horn Mountains to go to Medicine Wheel, an ancient Indian shrine. A very holy place, where people tie prayers for their loved ones to a barbed wire fence that protects the centuries-old arrangements of stones, shells, and bone. Without further ado:



On the way up into the Big Horn Mountains, we made a quick trip to Tongue River Canyon.




At the entrance to the canyon, we found a clutch of trees filled with heron nests.




If you know the size of a typical heron, you'll recognize that the scale is mind-boggling.




After passing a very cute "$1.00 Lemonade by Chloe" stand (Chloe was making money hand over fist), we entered the canyon.




It had the feel of a local hangout, rather than a recognized landmark. Fishing. Hiking. Tailgating.




This was taken out the window of a moving car; in other words, I have made friends with my digital camera.




Around every turn of the long switchback route from Dayton to the Burgess Junction, we saw ancient formations like this one.




Once we'd entered the Big Horn parkland, we parked and hiked the mile and a half to Medicine Wheel. Awesome view. Merciless mosquitoes.




Just one texture of the landscape below us.




For contrast, another texture. This alpine duality reminded me a little bit of Mount Pilatus in Switzerland.




For example, that white patch in the dead center of the photo? That's ice. In July.




This is the breadth of Medicine Wheel, which sits on the hilltop. I loved the modesty of the display. No souvenir stands.




This shot offers a better sense of the Wheel's symbolic purpose and vibrance.




Flowers for my grandmother, bound with the hair elastic I'd worn on the way up.




On the central hub rested a huge bull skull. Chief Joseph of the Nez Pierce would come here to fast.




That's me, in the moment of realizing that playing hooky from writing for a day has been utterly worth it.




Some of my fellow residents--note the sharp drop-off. We weren't really supposed to be this far out, but a generous ranger told us it was okay as long as we walked along the fenceline.




A close-up of the ground cover where we were sitting, which included some terrifically fragrant white flowers.




Yep, that's me again.




An actual, in-the-moment, bluebird of happiness was waiting for us back at our car. We had dinner at the Branding Iron Cafe in Dayton, which had perhaps the best waffle fries I have ever had.

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Now it's time to go for a very long walk...all the way back home. Thanks for spending the month with me at the Jentel Artist Residency in these blog-posts!

From the Jentel Studio

I'm listening to Sam Cooke's Aint That Good News. When I leave for my walk in a few minutes, it will be The Drifters Best Of. There's something absolutely majestic about this era of R&B. Sentimental lyrics, sure, but sentiment grounded in sincerity is a gorgeous thing.

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Earlier today we had our last group expedition into Sheridan. With no car, these weekly trips in a huuuge Suburban have been critical for obtaining 1) groceries, 2) Johnny Walker Red, 3) irises for the kitchen, and 4) fresh lemonade from Java Moon (somehow they make the slushy ice even extra lemony). Today I was shopping for a handful of souvenirs, which required some close examination. There's a lot of cowboy-themed things that, when you actually look, were made in Texas. I'd like my Wyoming kitsch to come from Wyoming.

As it turns out, taupe Chevy Suburbans are a dime a dozen around here. Twice I have finished my grocery shopping at Albertson's, approached the wrong car, and tapped on the window to ask a total stranger if they'll pop the trunk so I can put my bags away.

Even though it is always the same 20 mile drive to and fro, my eyes snag a different part of the landscape each time; with no significant intersections, I still feel like I could get lost in these rolling hills.

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Just as I'm in the home stretch of writing, I'm in the home stretch of reading. I've sent the a flat-rate Priority Mail package home to DC, containing 16 or so books I'd read already. (An excellent trick for traveling writers, by the way--books are lethal weight in luggage, and $12.95 USPS boxes hold a fair amount.)

Today I curled up in one of the sprawling leather chairs, ate a ton of pretzels dipped in chipotle hummus (spicy!), and read Steven Millhauser's The Knife Thrower and Other Stories. One of those books I bought years ago and was embarrassed to have never read.

I didn't love the book--only a few days ago I read Haruki Murakami's Hard Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, which set a very high bar for that fine line between fantasy and literary fiction--but I did love one story, "Paradise Park," about an increasingly complex amusement park built in New York in the mid-1920s. The story first appeared in Grand Street, which must have been a bit of a coup, since Millhauser regularly publishes in The New Yorker. The line that stuck with me was this one:

"In the world of commercial amusement, success is measured in profit; but it is also measured in something less tangible, which may be called approval, or esteem, or fame, but which really is a measure of the world's compliance in permitting a private dream to become a public fact."

That's a perfect penetration of the mystery of pop culture, the way the most popular pleasures are also the most vulnerable to mocking. Just a matter of which way the wind if blowing. I'll donate this book to the mini-library in my studio. It's a good, fast read, and could easily inspire. Please forgive the teeny-tiny smear of hummus on page 225.

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I also read a collection of Susan Orlean's profile pieces, The Bullfighter Checks Her Makeup. I love the way she indulges her eye, following the moments of action that fascinate her (rather than the story's externally prescribed money shots). When editors of one magazine approached her to write a cover story on a then-10-year-old Macauley Culkin under the title "The American Man at Age 10," she responded by selling them a story on a real American kid--just a kid picked at random, living a few towns over. The result is a deeply charming portrait on life in the suburbs circa 1990.

That was a good thing for me to be reading as I work on Don't Kill the Birthday Girl, as I try to have faith that I'm not the only one who finds these stories interesting.

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To the road! The evening walk is nigh.

Letting the Real World in for a Minute

Okay, okay, I can't resist poking beyond the Jentel bubble for a minute...Check out Poetry Daily for Monday, July 6. = ) And if you missed its appearance on July 4--busy with sparklers and apple pie, perhaps--Jehanne had a lovely poem featured, "Sea-Change," from the latest issue of Prairie Schooner.

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Maureen points out a noticeable design echo between W. W. Norton and Big Game Books. Hmmm. Larceny is the highest compliment. But if Norton sends along the cover design for I Was the Jukebox and it looks mysteriously like this, I will speak up.

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The new online issue of CUE is gorgeous. I really like how they adapted the design aesthetic of the print version to the virtual presentation; the name, by the way, is a clever reference to the editorial focus on prose poems. Poets & Writers made an unfortunate mistake in referring to it as "defunct" in the most recent issue. Behold the phoenix CUE! Congratulations to Morgan and all associated.

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This Real Simple essay contest intrigued me...until I read the fine print and realized ALL submissions become property of Real Simple. Meaning that if it doesn't win, and/or they do not publish it, you can't then turn around and send the essay somewhere else. The creative material of "When did you first realize you became a grown-up" is awfully precious to surrender to a contest.

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Programs like this one (courtesy of Charlie) make me really proud to be on the Board of the Writer's Center:

The Writer's Center Announces Fellowships for Emerging Writers

The Writer’s Center, metropolitan DC’s community gathering place for writers and readers, is currently accepting submissions for several competitive Emerging Writer Fellowships. Emerging Writer Fellows will be selected from applicants who have published up to 2 book-length works of prose and up to 3 book-length works of poetry. We welcome submissions from writers of any genre, background, or experience.

Emerging Writer Fellows will be featured at The Writer’s Center as part of their Emerging Writers Reading Series. The readings, held on Friday evenings, bring together writers in different genres with a backdrop of live music. The Writer’s Center book store will sell titles by the Emerging Writers throughout the season in which they appear in an effort to promote them and their work to a wide audience.

Selected Fellows are invited to lead a special Saturday workshop at The Writer’s Center, with compensation commensurate with standard Writer’s Center provisions.

Fellows receive an all-inclusive honorarium to help offset their travel costs in the amount of $250 or $500, depending on their place of departure.

Fellows for Fall 2009 include novelist Alexander Chee (Edinburgh), novelist Lisa Selin Davis (Belly), poet Suzanne Frischkorn (Lit Windowpane), poet Aaron Smith (Blue on Blue Ground), Canadian fiction writer Neal Smith (Bang Crunch), poet Srikanth Reddy (Facts for Visitors), and poet Nancy Krygowski (Velocity).

Their events will be held in September, October, and December. See our events calendar for more information.

Spring 2009 events will be held in February, March, and April/May.

To be considered, please send a letter of interest, a resume or CV that details publication history and familiarity facilitating group discussions, and a copy of your most recent book. Self-published or vanity press titles will not be accepted. A committee comprised of The Writer’s Center board members, staff, and members will evaluate submissions on behalf of our community of writers.

The deadline to submit is August 15, 2009.

Applicants are encouraged to call Charles Jensen, Director, for more information at 301-654-8664.

The Writer’s Center, established in 1976, is one of the nation’s oldest and largest literary centers. We provide over 60 free public events and more than 200 writing workshops each year, sell one of the largest selections of literary magazines in our on-site bookstore, and publish Poet Lore, America’s oldest continually published poetry journal.

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A Confusion of Cottonwood

One day past the half-way mark of our time at Jentel, the cottonwood tree behind the artists' studios has surrendered the majority of its blooms to the air. White fluff everywhere, alighting on the pines, gathering into puffy clumps, and it really does look like snow.

Some of the other residents went tubing today in the creek around our house, only to discover that with the water this high and running this fast, those who miss the very improvised "end of the ride" mark go headlong into a barbed wire fence. They regathered, got into cars, and headed out for the lake. I'm a little sorry to not be along for the ride (well, the non-barbed portion), but on these overcast days I find myself able to get a bit more work done than usual.

I've written a 2,000-word essay here, which feels like a useful bridge between a typical Post column (750 words) and the 5,000-word chapters that will make up the book. Funny to admit that when I consider places to send it, my mind goes immediately to mainstream venues. If I'd studied CNF as part of my MFA program I would be thinking about Witness and AGNI. Instead, I'm thinking about Slate and "Modern Love."

The difference is not just one of visibility, though that's a big factor; I'm still learning to accept the jaw-clenching exposure of the personal that comes with an "XX File." There's a difference in pacing, too. When I read Mark Doty's Firebird I was struck by the indulgences of "literary" nonfiction--the amount of time spent on constructed metaphors, analytical projections, background info worked in via artificial prompts (anyone who was ever told to "write in response to a family photo" in workshop recognizes these). On one hand I envy the beauty of the writing. On the other hand I think You've got these compelling events; you don't need all this embroidery.

I feel like one of my principle tasks, in writing nonfiction, is to get out of the story's way. Did I somehow turn into a journalist when I wasn't looking?

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The good:



(This bunny lives on the grounds right by the house, and can be seen almost every dusk.)

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The bad:



(One of four--update! five!--I've seen so far. I don't fear snakes, so it's not really a "bad" thing. Just causes the occasional double-take when I'm walking back to the main house in the dark.)

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The Minty:



(We tried venturing into Sheridan one night to meet the locals, but it was a bit of a bust. Was it the skirt and high heels that screamed "carpetbagging citified writer"? Still, I'd like to go back...superb draft amber ales--Alaska, Fat Tire--for $3.15. That even beats Charlottesville.)

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Even in a household full of women, it soon becomes clear that there are varying levels of domesticity. I'm shocked to find myself on the homemaker end of the spectrum. Buying flowers, closing cabinet doors, clucking over the misplaced cordless phone, cooking big pots of things and leaving them out for the taking. Of course, maybe it's not so much "domestic instinct" as "control freak." Hmmmm.

Poeming

Looking for the Jentel Tour? Here is part one, and then part two. Thanks for the link, Eduardo!

*poof*