All Things Pankish

Ask the Author: Johnny Peters

In the June issue, Johnny Peters makes his fiction debut with an elegant story, “Science.” He talks with us about some theories, choreography, Bill Nye the Science Guy and more.

1. When you got the acceptance letter, what was your reaction? Please choreograph your reaction in interpretive dance.
It would have been exactly like Marty’s dance in “The Big Lebowski,” but my wife won’t let me stand on our chairs.

2. What, in the voice’s theory of “Science”, causes the following

-Hurricanes
Are formed in the summer months due to areas of low pressure which build up over waters heated by the yearly migration of the newts which live in the molten center of the earth, who must reduce their body temperatures in the depths of the ocean in order to spawn.

-Unstoppable oil spills
The Wrath of the World Squid

-The Tea Party
Dissatisfaction due to the perceived disconnect of the political intelligentsia from the desire of the citizens’ individual moral agency. Or pancreas weevils.

3. What science superhero would you be (like Iron Man or Captain Planet)?

From a moral standpoint: Professor Arthur Barnhouse. Coolness: Iron Man. It would also be okay to be the naked blue guy from Watchmen. This answer might be cheating. I might be better suited to a science villain. In which case: The Deadly Bulb.

4. Who do you think would win in a fight using only lab equipment as weapons: Mr. Wizard, Bill Nye, or Walter White?

Short answer: Mr. Wizard last man standing.

The initial problem of getting them together would require Dr. Brown from Back to the Future. Or Tralfamadorians might cooperate for educational purposes. The scientists would presumably be pitted against each other at the height of their powers, which involves some speculation as Bill Nye and Walter White are still alive and growing in scientific might. We would also have to arrange some type of inter-reality transport, since Walter White is fictional. We’d have to get Doc by these means, as well. Obviously, Bill Nye and Mr. Wizard would unite against Walter White before their final death match against each other (a science version of Highlander—Ramirez and MacLeod would have fought each other, had it come to that. Same thing with Mr. Wizard and Bill Nye). Mr. Wizard’s victory would be due to his inner calm. While defeating Walter White, he’d be contemplating his inevitable confrontation with Bill Nye, whereas Nye would be entirely focused on defeating White.

If you throw in Beakman, Nye goes down first, White second and then Mr. Wizard. I don’t think you could keep Lester out of the battle, assuming he was brought in from the past or the battleground was located in 1993.

5. Why does Texas hate science in their school textbooks?

This is a difficult question for me. I attended a Catholic school. We learned about evolution, genetics and the causes of earthquakes. We did a dramatic reading of Inherit the Wind. I read a lot of Clarence Darrow’s lines, which involved some incredulous yelling. I’ve never seen the problem between evolution and creation. Something cannot evolve unless it exists. I will come out and say that I think young earth creationism is bonkers. It’s bad theology. It’s reactionary.

It’s important to understand one’s opponent. If one who disagrees can step back, view the Christian God as the Good, then it makes sense that The Bible would trump everything.

I suspect that most of those who reject evolution don’t understand what they’re rejecting. I don’t think they hate science so much as they love their religion (flawed though their understanding of theology may be). This may appear to be the same thing. It may come to the same end.

Ask the Author: Rachel Adams

Rachel Adams writes of Sex and the American Rabbit in the July issue and talks with us about mythical voyeuristic beasts, Hemingway’s safeword and other curiosities.

1. What mythical beasts would you watch have sex?

Unicorns. The loudest prudes always turn out to be hypocrites, so you can bet behind closed doors they’re pretty kinky. It’s not like promiscuity is contagious, unicorns. Actually, that’s a lie: it’s pretty contagious.

2. What do you think Ernest Hemingway’s safe word was?

Tender Buttons. (He never used it.)

3. Who would be the appropriate celebrity voice over actor to read “Sex And The American Rabbit”?

Definitely Jack Black. He’s got the eyebrows for the job.

4. How did you learn what sex was?

A neighbor kid told me it’s when two adults get naked and roll around in the grass together, which means I’ve only done it correctly two times thus far.

5. Who would play the rabbits in the film adaptation of “Sex And The American Rabbit”?

I have a phobia of anthropomorphized animals, so I can’t even begin to imagine such a thing.

Ask the Author: xTx

xTx’s poetry is a real standout in the June issue and she talks with us about vowels, noms de plume, and becoming fluent in her.

What would be my nom de plume that I should hide behind? What would the costume look like?

The nom de plume you should hide behind should be Nom DeLuise, Your costume would be a heavyset Italian man. Your motivation would be Mel Brooks movies. Your death would be mourned momentarily and remembered hardly ever.

Don’t do it.

2.If you were a vowel, which one would you be? How would you walk?

I would be a long E like in scream like in eel, feel, thief or leave. I would walk like an Egyptian: on both knees, over slave stones, until bone showed.

3. Do you have a place for me? If not, where would you put me?

I have a place for someone but it’s not you. The place I have for you is a small one and we may have to remove your unnecessary parts so that you can fit there. (Start thinking on this now.) It won’t be comfortable and you will miss the sun but I will make up for it with many other things.

4. How does one become fluent in you? How many course hours do you think it would take?

If one will dismiss their life and read everything I have ever written they might become fluent in me. The course hours would be however long they have been alive. I don’t expect anyone to pass. The course is non-refundable and the seats are all empty. The only credits that would be received would be worth absolutely nothing and made of ash.

5. Teach us how to make a napkin out of bees. What is the cost/profit margin in selling them?

Find a bee orphanage. Adopt 33 bees. Give them all names. Build their trust. Let them go grocery shopping with you. Buy them all puppies. Let them eat ice cream for dinner. After they start coming when you call them, you can begin to train them to become a napkin. Start with a real napkin and draw 33 circles on it with each of their names written inside. Okay, I’m not going to spell it all out for you. There is a thing called Google, you know. I’m done doing all the heavy lifting here. Stop being a dick. You never sell the bee napkin. They love you, asshole and you can’t just sell that shit.

Ask the Author: Ocean Vuong

Ocean Vuong’s intense poems grace the June issue and he talks to us about sound and rhythm, the influence of sexuality, and great pickup lines.

1. I listened to your reading of your poems. How important is the sound and rhythm to you when writing your work?

Very important. For me, poetry is more than the art of craft and conceit, but also the art of song. Having Vietnamese as my native tongue contributes a great deal to the rhythm in my work. Vietnamese is a very musical language that dances in the mouth. The words are monosyllabic and their inflections must be pronounced with precision or else they can have an entirely different meaning. Because of this, I tend to be very sensitive to the texture of a word as well as the personality of its sound.

2. How has sexuality influenced your writing? How does it clash with your culture?

Sex for me, is a vehicle towards liberation, both literal and metaphorical. I find the tension between sexual urges and social piety to be quite symbolic to many aspects of life as a whole: the constant battle between moral and impulsive consciousness. In Vietnamese culture, sexuality is something one keeps private. More so, queer identity is often looked upon as illegitimate or even worse, taboo. Consequently, I make it one of my purposes, both as an artist and as a Vietnamese, to challenge the way our people look at sexuality, or at the very least, question the conservative Confucian beliefs so deeply rooted in our culture.

Overall, sex is beautiful. The body and all its secretions holy, and because desire is never satiated, we are always hungry, which for better or for worse, keeps us human.

3. Who are your influences?

I never had a proper introduction to poetry, as far as the high school or even collegiate classroom is concerned. The first poet I ever read was the French symbolist, Arthur Rimbaud, who was suggested to me by a friend. I read him and immediately thought: damn, this is the real shit. And because I never read the more reserved American canon such as Frost, Carlos Williams, or Dickinson, Rimbaud’s graphic and absurd depictions of reality was a standard that satisfied me. I knew that this is the poetry that will both confront and question the rigidity of our American society, which is what I wanted to do. I am not sure if I am succeeding, but reading Rimbaud gave me the ultimate permission to try.

4. Give us a mixtape of songs you would recommend us listening to while reading your work.

Ah! Brahms, Mozart, or Pascal Rose. How funny, and how fitting that would be: semen and blood spraying about to the vigorous crescendos of the 9th Symphony. Beautiful!

5. What would be a pickup line that would work for you?

I am not sure; it probably would have nothing to do with poetry. I have had moments on dates when a guy would say something like: “I really like your image in that one poem about the ribbons of sperm laced in the speaker’s hair.” Which would then be followed by: “oh…..thank you” and then a long awkward silence. In short, I am not a fan of pick up lines, probably because I never have the intention of “picking” anyone up. I prefer to get to know someone both spontaneously and gradually. But if I like someone, I would simply say so right then and there, and maybe give them a kiss on the forehead.

Ask the Author: Tim Tomlinson

Tim Tomlinson’s poetry appears in the June issue and he has a nice chat with us about his favorite newspaper section, safewords and more.

1. What is your safe word? If you don’t have one, what would it be?

Music

2. What would a MySpace tanka look like? Would there be worth having one?

The same as a Facebook tanka, but with different themes. Why not?

3. What is your favorite section of the newspaper to read?

I suspect and abhor all sections equally.

4. Would you hit a woman if she asked you to do so? How unsettling would such a question be?

No. Not very — I get asked all the time.

5. Would you let a woman hit you? If so, why?

Yes. Bogart explains in The Maltese Falcon.

Ask the Author: Joseph Riippi

Joseph Riippi writes about various somethings in the June issue and talks with us about this sequence of work, writing soundtracks, forthcoming projects and a DVD bonus extra.

1. What would the first sentences of “Something About Thundercats” look like?

“I spent high school summers working on a strawberry farm; days beginning at 4, last flats picked by noon. That final August, college loomed. I passed afternoons in the attic remembering things: Construction paper glitter pumpkins. Handwritten wide-rule book reports. Thundercat sticker on a three-ring binder. Dead mice. Finnish money show-and-tell. I left them all until today.”

2. Have you always been obsessed with “Something About…” or did it start after your first novel came out? Will that be on your tombstone as your epitaph (Joseph Riippi – Something About Being A Writer”)?

The “Something About…” titles started while organizing what became the novel Do Something! Do Something! Do Something!. I knew the bulk of the book would be three parts, each with three sections, but I didn’t want to do titles and have people call it a story collection. I referred to untitled sections as “Something About Asheville,” “Something About Ellensburg,” “Something About The Hotel Balcony,” etc, and that became how one of the characters titles his journals “Something About This Room,” “Something About My Sister,” “Something About the Bird”…

As titles, I like the mechanism. It becomes very easy to title pieces this way—just a vague description about what the story is about. And it’s a very passive way to title, which for short pieces like “Something About Birthdays” and “Something About A Finger” seems appropriate. It can also work inversely—I have one story like this called “Something About My Blood and Yours.” Titles can be almost violent sometimes in their insistence that a reader read a certain way, look for certain things. I agree with Genette that titles are the most affecting paratextual element. A story called “The Finger” pushes the reader somewhere else.

I hope my epitaph is something more familial, to be honest. Like, “A good husband, father, son.” (That’s “Something About Honesty” right there).

3. What would a “Something About…” t-shirt look like? How could we buy one?

I just turned in the manuscript to Cook at Ampersand that’s 90 percent “Something About…” pieces. It’s called The Orange Suitcase and should be out early 2011. A “Something About…” t-shirt would/will probably look a lot like the cover of that book.

4. What is your soundtrack when writing?

Noise-canceling headphones and nothing with lyrics in English. Then it depends on what I’m writing. Records that get played the most: Stars of the Lid’s And Their Refinement of the Decline, Miles Davis Kind of Blue, Lindstrom’s Where You Go I Go Too, Philip Glass’ Solo Piano, anything by Hauschka or Johann Johannsson. Chopin nocturnes. Brian Eno’s Music for Airports.

5. Have you ever written a poem? If not, why? If so, show us.

Yes. A version of this was in CommonLine Project a couple years ago. The revision made it into The Orange Suitcase:

“Something About Rings”

A couple sits at a table across

the room. I peer over my book to watch

their quiet fight. They rest silent and

full of hard gestures—steel hands and eyes.

“You’re a bastard,” says the tattooed arm.

“Fuck yourself,” say jeweled fingers, clinking teacups.

Quiet fights are quite ordinary. Split

a relationship to see its odd rings.

I settle the novel and turn to watch.

They are fine, they are in the midst of love,

when sucking tells less than a touch,

when indifference tells more than a fuck.

Ask the Author: David Frederick Thomas

David Frederick Thomas’s story with an exceptionally long title is one of our favorites from the June issue. Today, he talks with us about the new hugging, special utensils, and living in two different places.

1. What else is the new hugging?

God, who can say? The seed for this story, as I recall, was planted after I witnessed a bunch of overbearing fathers at a little league game. Maybe vicarious competition is the new hugging? Perhaps yelling? It all comes down, in the end, to motivation. Anything that comes from a place of compassion (however desperate) could probably be considered the new hugging.

2. How do you play emotional tag? What are the rules? How does one win?

Emotional Tag (not to be confused with the controversial Emo Tag) is, like its sister-sports Freeze Tag, Chain Tag, Tunnel Tag, TV Tag, and Zombie Tag—to name the handful I grew up with—a variant of the popular children’s game Tag. As such, there is no “winner” in the strictest sense, although at the end of the game there are always those players (Kyle, for instance, who just eats exorbitant amounts of Sourpatch Kids and Trolli Sour Brite Crawlers for lunch every single day and takes off his sneakers to do a weird ritualistic dance-thing before each game) who will, for whatever reason, have performed in a particularly admirable fashion.

In Emotional Tag, as in Tag and its other variants, a group of players decide who is “it,” often by means of counting games such as “Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe” or “Spit Spit.” The “it” player then attempts to tag another player, who in turn becomes “it” and so on. Emotional Tag differs from Tag in that, when the original “it” player makes the first tag of the game, he cries out—loud enough for the rest of the players to hear—the name of an emotion (”Bereft!” “Elated!” “Anxious!” etc.), which the new “it” player must then act out whilst fulfilling their role as “it.” The minute the new “it” tags someone else, he calls out a new emotion. Play continues, as such, indefinitely. If, at any point in the game, someone feels like the “it” isn’t acting out their emotion to the best of their abilities, they call out “Repression!” or, as is also popular, they singsong “Repression! Repression! Time for a digression!” at which point the players immediately form a circle around the “it,” who has to act out their emotion. If the “it’s” performance is less than satisfactory then he must act out one emotion, for ten seconds at a time, called out by each of the players in the circle, after which play resumes. If, however, the “it’s” performance is fine, the player who called “Repression!” faces the same penalty.

3. Why are you splitting between Philly and Australia? Which is more dangerous?

Well, my wife’s Australian. She’s back in Brisbane, Queensland right now as I sit here in Pennsylvania. We’re in the process of immigration right now. File a ton of paperwork, wait a long time, repeat, repeat, repeat.

As for the danger thing, I’ve often tended to vacillate. See, Australia has more deadly snakes and spiders than any other place in the world (plus the box jellyfish and, well, y’know, the sharks), but then there’s the sheer volume of armed American citizens to take into account, as well as bears, and wolves. That’s how my reasoning’s gone. But then, historically, America’s also had more notorious serial killers than Australia, and the U.S. is currently far more heavily committed than Australia in two major military operations. All of that, compounded by the fact that most of those deadly animals in Australia won’t really mess with you unless you tangle with them (the extremely venomous funnel web spider [actually known for it's "attack position," wherein in rears up onto it four hind legs and charges you] being the most obvious exception I can think of), leads me to conclude that America is probably far more dangerous.

4. Do you trust mental health professionals?

In general, yes. Really my qualms are with people who think they have all the answers.

5. What weapon would you cut my food up with if I had a hard time swallowing?

Almost certainly a lightsaber.

Ask the Author: Anne Leigh Parrish

Anne Leigh Parrish’s moving Snow Angels is included in the June issue and she talks with us about drinking on planes, childhood habits and familial expectations.

1. What do you like to drink while on an airplane? Do you pregame?

I drink red wine. Lots and LOTS of red wine, unless I’m flying to Arizona, which I do annually in February for a sunbreak, when I switch to white wine. And I have no idea what “pregame” means. I think I’m showing my age now!

2. Have you ever experienced this kind of experience regarding love?: Can’t go on all my life getting bounced off the walls, Cory had told him. If so, how did you get out of it?

No, I’ve never been in a physically abusive relationship. That said, all relationships, if they last long enough, come with some degree of emotional abuse. I married young, before I was completely grown up – if one is ever completely grown up – and my husband was young, too. That meant we grew up together and unwittingly turned each other into our parents from time to time. One of us would have to guide and soothe the other’s expressions of rage and fear. Sometimes I think people get comfortable with suffering, or don’t feel their own suffering as much, and become harsh as a matter of routine. The partner who’s not suffering tends to get sucked in. Emotional abuse can be subtle, almost unseen, when one has been used to it for years. I guess that’s what the whole idea of co-dependency is about – getting comfortable with someone’s bad behavior to the point of self-inflicted blindness.

3. What childhood habits have you held onto?

None good, I’m sure. Anxiety, for one. A sense of not measuring up, of always being second-best. I’m also very prone to over organize and control my personal space, and the lives of those close to me. That came from living in a dysfunctional family as a child. My mother had a way of getting fed up and just walking out of the house for a while. She didn’t say where she was going or when she’d be back. As a result, I’m very concerned to always know where my kids are and where they’re going. They’re both teenagers, and you can imagine how annoying they find that!

4. Were you a disappointment to your family? Did you care what they thought about what you did or still do?

For years I assumed I was a disappointment. My parents were both university professors. Their academic standards were high. I was an excellent student, but never seemed to get their respect. Over time I realized that they weren’t made that way – that they were of a generation that didn’t praise their children, much. I made a life out of not caring what they thought of me, only to find myself bitterly disappointed if I didn’t get the reaction I wanted. The one thing that allowed me to put them in perspective was having children of my own. When I saw all the ways my parents failed to nuture and guide me, I took their behavior less personally. What I mean to say is, they’d have failed anyone, and it had nothing to do with me. As to my parents supporting my writing, that probably was hard given the content of my first published story – which was all about them and their hideous divorce. Many years later, in fact just two years ago, my husband told my aged father that I’d won a fiction contest at American Short Fiction, and that I was really a writer, to which my father said, “I guess I have to reconcile myself to that.” He never liked the idea of me being a writer. One, I think he wanted to be one himself, and two, his long dead younger sister had the same ambition and it bothered him. My mother was a bit more interested, but never got much out of my stories. This last remark may sound unduly harsh, but I know that wherever she is, she understands completely why I say this – her dying in 2002 was a huge breath of freedom, because there was no longer someone in the world who withheld affection and respect from me. I was able to move forward with my career in ways I doubt I’d have the confidence for while she was alive.

5. What would you rather make in the snow, other than angels?

An igloo. Where I’d hole up with a large, furry dog, excellent wine, fabulous books, and of course my laptop with a magical, everlasting battery.

Ask the Author: Traci O’Connor

Traci O’Connor has two short fictions in the June issue and talks with us about cicadas, trespasses, and her contributions to the June issue.

How would you classify your contributions to this issue? Are they fiction? Poetry? Does the classification matter to you?

Well, as a dear friend and amazing poet, Derek Pollard, tells me, “Traci, writing is writing.” Rhythms, language, image, the tension beneath the surface of words—these things matter. And anyway, I’m not sure I understand the meaningful differences, really, between genres. I mean, sure, I can define them, probably, and I can make some convincing, if ultimately blah blah blah blah, academic distinctions, but for me it doesn’t really matter all that much. It is enough to say that I want to dream on the page. I want to see others dream on the page. I want my writing, as Dorothy Allison says, “to call out your work from you,” just as your work calls out my writing from me.

What are you willing to trespass for?

A good internet connection, a really good steak, a steak that’s uhm okay, a good book, a bad book with a good plot, a bad book with a bad plot but some kick-ass sex scenes, a bad book with no real plot but some really awkward sex scenes, really good coffee, good fishing, French bread with oil and vinegar and parmesan cheese and fine fresh crushed black pepper…I mean like knock-your-socks-off coffee, espresso probably…my own bed after a thirty-hour car drive, Ann Carson’s language, or Mathias Svalina’s, I mean I make bad coffee in my own kitchen every day – this better be some good fucking coffee, and a beer with Isaac Brock just to see if he’s as cool as his music.

Why are writers so fascinated by cicadas?

The noise of cicadas, like lambs ear or my grandma’s cheesy potato casserole or the moon swinging on its own black cord is concrete and specific and always only the one thing. If a writer can attach a feeling to that sound, that sight, that touch, then the reader’s involved—she feels that moment with her body. So when the writer creates that noise alongside the absence of a dead lover, or the joy of having a dead lover, or the numbness of having a dead lover—every time she hints at that noise, her reader will go flush with that feeling. Maybe every time the reader hears a cicada for the rest of her life, her first feeling will be that absence, that joy, that numbness, even if she doesn’t know why.
Also, a cicada shell still clinging to a fencepost by the barbs on its legs looks like a real live thing—a tiny, intricate, iridescent monster. But the shell is empty, and that’s both a disappointment and a relief. And the sound of it? How is something natural so convincingly electronic? It’s a strange tension…Plus, when you crush that empty shell between your fingers, the dry papery sound of it collapsing is amazing.

Ask the Author: RD Parker

RD Parker’s innovative poetry graces the June issue and he talks with us about abstractions, madames and public transportation.

1. What if a motorcycle shop was next to the graveyard? How would you react then?

I probably wouldn’t.

Graveyards are always next to transportation. All transport drives to the graveyard. Motorcycle shops lead directly to graveyards. We all go to the cemetery. We all go to the cemetery all the time.

The twentieth century has gone to the cemetery. We live with what we bury.

2. What do you prefer to abstractions?

Words, phrases, sentences, stanzas, paragraphs, chapters, and dried papaya. If you haven’t tried any of those, I recommend them. But you have to get the right ones. Not all of each category are alike.

3. If you were a madame, what number would you be?

No one would have my number.

4. What method of public transportation do you prefer?

Buses and trains. There’s a lot of good writing about buses and trains, especially fiction. I like to watch people choose their seats. I like to look out the windows. I like to read while I get somewhere. That way, I get somewhere while I get somewhere. I wish we had buses and trains running so well and so often that we never had to schedule them or wait for them and never needed or thought we needed our own cars. Getting around could be communal instead of about stoking or relaxing fantasies of power and self-sufficiency.

5. If a graveyard was next to a subway station, how would you react to that?

Depends on the graveyard. Some graveyards lie by subway stations. Subways and graves both go underground, like the people in them.

You too go underground, it seems. You go to the cemetery. You see the regular size of the graves. Every grave is like the other graves, and every grave is not like the other graves. The like and the not like pull at each other, pull with each other, like two hands on taffy, like an interviewer and an interviewee.

It must have been hard to come up with questions for these poems. Maybe that’s good. The questions try to wrap the poems around something quotidian. These poems tango with the quotidian: they step towards it, step back, lean away, stretch, nearly fall over, and they repeat, repeat, repeat. Every repetition changes what it repeats, because it repeats. The second time is not the first time. The second time glows. The glow of the second quotidian is an afterglow. It tells the quotidian no, no, no.