One evil deed missed is a loss for all eternity.
–Grendel

Before Wicked turned Oz on it’s head and explored the life and times of the West’s wickedest witch, there was John Gardner’s Grendel. The 1971 novel by America’s moral fictionist delves into the mind and life of English literature’s earliest monster.

It’s not an easy task. Whereas Gregory Maguire was tackling an essentially human character and writing in a time when pop-psychology family dynamics provide all sorts of explanations as to why the Wicked Witch is so wicked, Gardner tackles a creature only presented as a monster, an animal, a force to be defeated. Interestingly, the one human element provided Gardner by Beowulf is one he discards: Grendel’s mother. She becomes a doddering, dementia-ridden, voiceless, creeping thing in the cave that Grendel finally sets “aside–gently, picking her up by the armpits as I would a child” (158). It’s a sad commentary that the recent Beowulf film adaptation did more of interest with Grendel’s mother than Gardner. To be fair, cast as a first-person narrative, Grendel’s story neccessarily ends before Grendel’s mother really becomes a force in the tale. But the jump from demented hair pile to vengeful she-beast seems a bit much to believe in Gardner’s telling.

Nihil ex nihilo, I always say.
–Grendel

If, as Wikipedia asserts, Gardner was weary of contemporary authors indulging in “‘winking, mugging despair’ or trendy nihilism”, what then does he bring to Grendel? Perhaps it’s a non-trendy nihilism. Or, perhaps, Gardner’s portrait of Grendel is his portrait of contemporary writing: there is no real heroism, there is only power; the self is only defined in pushing against the not-me. Throughout the novel, Grendel seems to ask what it is he is here on earth for, but never really engages in any true searching. His early stumbling attempts at interacting with humans are met with hostility, so he quickly abandons that avenue. The rest of his life therefore becomes a wallowing in a naturalistic, materialistic hell. Is it because of his reception? Is it because of a lack of intelligence?

Whether Gardner is shackled by the source material or a lack of imagination, his exploration into what turns the creature against mankind pales in comparison to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Both creatures blame are aware of their evil ways; both creatures blame their evil on the hypocritical failings of humanity; but Shelley is able to scribe that arc with much more precision and pathos. Perhaps Gardner’s choice to write Grendel in first person trapped him in a mind unable to comprehend the metaphysics needed to parse the cruel world in which he’d been set. Or perhaps Grendel is, in the end, nothing more than a physical manifestation of the nihilism described by O’Connor’s Misfit: No pleasure but meanness.

Back to the oars today after a late night. Coffee and good poetry soon put all to rights, and we were working through Bob’s poems. Right good ‘uns, too. Later there was an interesting poem from Allen featuring a peregrine attacking a sparrow. I must say, referring to none I shall name, that I for the life of me can’t figure why someone would spend the time and money to bring work to a workshop that they had no intention of revising once receiving critiques that clearly show weaknesses, some severe, which need attention. If you took your car to a mechanic, and he said your wheels were about to sever their connection to the vehicle, would you not take steps to correct the situation?

In the heat of the afternoon, Bob, Chris, and I headed out to the Arroyo Chamisos Disc Golf Course for what turned out to be the best disc golf experience I’ve had in New Mexico. The course meanders through a dry river bed/wash–well, and arroyo. The course designers have made good use of the scrub junipers, brush, and elevation changes to provide interesting holes. The installers and maintainers of the course have marked the course very clearly with three tee lengths. Unlike the St. John’s course, it’s always pretty easy to find where you’re headed and at what you’re shooting.

We played from the red Rec tees, which actually were a bit too short for me. I ended up with a -4 but 4 bogeys due to the winds and overthrowing some shorter baskets. (Imagine overthrowing a hole with a Roc.) I should be happy with the 8 deuces. I also ended up throwing way more “hammer” shots than I think is polite.

After dinner, Jeffrey O, Bob, Chris, and I headed into town for a “guy’s night out” only to be confounded by the lack of parking. We ended up on a patio near Bob and Chris’s room chatting until it was time for worship.

Later in the evening, I noticed Laura L-M and her friend Cullen from SFBC sitting out in the upper dorm patio area. I sauntered over and was quickly enlisted to learn a dice game called “Farkle”. It’s a nice easy dice game that is good for socializing.

Heading into the last day of the conference, I had another rich, full day.

Ah, the free day. A good idea. After Wednesday’s richness and fullness (did I mention I had my poems critiqued on Wednesday), everyone’s a bit gassed and needs a breather. I spent most of the day wrestling with MS Word to get Sherry’s manuscript ready for the publisher. She felt horrible about needing the help while I was at the Glen, but, truthfully, the work was a bit mindless and gave me some needed solitude and a chance to “be”.

I did have some fun today, though. Laura, not Morefield, who was in my fiction workshop last year orchestrated a good old-fashioned hymn sing at breakfast. It was great fun and edification standing around with 10-15 people singing “Be Thou My Vision”, “Were You There”, and “How Great Thou Art”. Later, after getting ditched by the folks who were also supposed to come, Laura and I headed out to the Santa Fe Brewing Company for lunch. After chawing our way through some excellent burgers (I love being able to get avocado on my burger.) and two fine ales, we headed over to the brewery proper. Laura’s friend Cullen works for the brewery and was working today, and the two of us were taken on a fantastic tour of the brewery. We even got to help “grain out the lauter tun”, that is, Laura took a hoe and extracted spent grain from the lauter tun while I pressed “Stop” and “Go” to spin the paddles inside the tun which moved the spent grain to the exit hole. I can now say that I helped brew a batch of Nut Brown Ale. It was fascinating to see what I do on a professional production scale. Cheers! to Cullen and the rest of the Santa Fe Brewing staff for being so friendly.

When I come to The Glen, I must admit to a small amount of disappointment if all I get in the workshop is high praise and little suggestion for improvement. It’s not that I’m unappreciative or masochistic; I know my work needs improving, and I desire constructive criticism. However, when I packaged up six 22-oz bombers of my Inklings Ale to be enjoyed by members of the Thomas Parker Society, I really wasn’t looking for constructive criticism. I wanted full-on adulation. Bob D made my day when he enthusiastically declared, “This kicks *$$!” Ann O’s struggling between her desire for another glass and being a good, sharing hostess was equally satisfying. Two gentlemen from Colorado Springs–nearby to the great brewing town that is Denver–gave me rather sincere “Well done’s”. And I hope Brett Lott doesn’t lose his Southern Baptist membership, but I believe he may be the most well-respected word-smithing personage ever to taste something I’ve made, the only possible competition would be poet Gary Gildner. Brett thought the concept was “cool”, and I am now only two degrees away from Oprah. The bottles were emptied at rate that I truly found surprising. In fact, the reception was so enthusiastic that there was only the smallest of mentions of last year’s Porter the Rhine Coffee Porter.

Other highlights of the night included a wacky 50’s-style space adventure by Chris, a Jamaican folk-tale told (with special voices), a preview of Jeffrey’s forthcoming book, and a funny/touching essay by Lisa on living with obesity.

Tomorrow it’s back to the grind and possibly some disc golf.

Why not enlarge the thin verge of the moment
–Carl Dennis, “Sarit Narai”

At noon, there came a tremor; cows
Stopped chewing for a second; sun,
Scarfed as in a heat-haze, dimmed.
–Philip Larkin, from “The Explosion”

Last night, in addition to thinking about Cain, we also heard a good bit about Bezalel. In Exodus 31, God tells Moses, “I have called by name Bezalel…and I have filled him with the Spirit of God in wisdom, in understanding, in knowledge, and in all kinds of craftsmanship.” Bezalel and his likewise called compatriots were called to create with all skill the tabernacle. Interestingly, as members of the tribe of Judah, they were called to make all of these works of art that they would never again see once their work was done. Once the ark was made, for instance, the only person who would see it would be Moses entering the Holy of Holies once a year.

It is a hard idea. Not only do they not have control of their work once it is done, but this is work which is created so that the whole nation can worship even though they cannot ever see it again.

This is part of what it means to make art in the public square.

Today’s workshop began with an in-depth analysis of a Philip Larkin poem and a Michael Donaghy poem. Each poem incorporates different strategies for releasing information. I don’t know how this is going to affect my work exactly, but I do know that this question of the intentional release of information is one I need to address, especially in the more narrative works.

Today was Warren’s first dip into my pocket. In addition to some Seamus Heaney poetry and a gift for someone who may be reading this post, my two big finds today were Li-Young Lee’s new collection Behind My Eyes, which includes a CD of Lee reading 22 of the works in the collection, and Ashen Sky by Barry Moser which is a series of illustrations of The Letters of Pliny the Younger on the Eruption of Vesuvius. I’ve got my eye on a book examining suburban city planning. I’ve also got my eye on an icon of The Ladder of Divine Ascent and of St. George and the Dragon.

I had decided to skip the fiction reading tonight by Valerie Sayers and get some writing and commenting done. Instead, I found myself reading a Patrick O’Brian novel. “This is silly,” I thought, “If I’m going to just sit here and read fiction, I should go listen to the reading.” And I was glad I did. Sayers fiction follows in that wonderful tradition of Southern writers who blend the outrageous with the tragic, the grotesque with the sublime, the humorous with the gut-wrenching. She read a story set in Jim Crow South that traced the fissures created by fear of difference at that time to its descendents today.

Worship was once again a blessing. The sermon tonight focused on that other Genesis city, Babel. How interesting that when God came down to confound the tower builders He did not wrend or destroy or smite. Rather, he scattered and he diversified. The preacher observed that the scattering was also a releasing, a freeing. The people were no longer tied to this insane project; they were freed to people the earth with glorious variety.

On a side note, my special package from home arrived today via UPS. Those attending the Thomas Parker Society meeting on Thursday are in for a treat.

‘Lie down
in the word-hoard, burrow
the coil and gleam
of your furrowed brain.

Compose in darkness.
Expect aurora borealis
in the long foray
but no cascade of light.’
–Seamus Heaney, from “North”

I’ve been anticipating breakfast at the Glen for over a week, and it did not disappoint. Scrambled eggs with salsa verde has become my special Glen breakfast. The salsa verde not being something we see often in northwestern Ohio. It was also good continue meeting new folks. This morning it was Carol from TX, a visual artist who is also on Image’s board. We rhapsodized a while on the edification provided by community, especially when finding like-minded people at home is so difficult.

Today was also the beginning of the workshop proper, and I couldn’t have been more encouraged. After the usual introduce yourself rounds, we dug into an examination of Seamus Heaney’s revisions of “North”. We had seven versions of the poem and traced through the process by which the initial scribblings became the polished stone. It was encouraging and intimidating, a combination that I’ve come to expect here at the Glen.

Then it was on to the critiquing of each other’s work. We got through about two poems from two people. The conversation was energetic, insightful, constructive, all the things that make for a great week. In fact, it was a rather energizing session. Tobin creates an atmosphere that engenders useful and helpful feedback. My only trouble now is that before we even get to my poems, I want to go through and shred them myself.

Over lunch, Bob, his college roommate Chris, and I discussed the boundaries of the interpretive pallette, or, to put it another way, the quality literature has to mean many things but not everything. That, and we discussed the effects of Sears buying/merging with Lands’ End.

Brett Lott gave the keynote address using a 5 point outline with 4 points. Addressing the theme of “The Artist and the City”, he explored the idea that because we are blessed, we do not keep that blessing. We are blessed in order that we may in turn give that blessing away. As artists, our job is to enbody harmony between the moral order and the world. He pulled liberally (but in a good way) from Francis Schaeffer’s Art and the Bible. An interesting balancing act that Schaeffer requires is that Christian art not be all sweetness and light, for that is not true. He describes art as operating in major and minor keys, and the Christian artist needs to do both. Dwelling only in either key is not truth. However, and here is where, perhaps, some Christians falter in their wish to judge various artists, this does not mean that any one piece of work must work in a balance. That is, one must look upon an artist’s entire body of work, for one piece may be in a decidedly minor key, but that one piece does not necessarily depict the entirety of an artist’s worldview.

He closed with the idea that the Bible is not the story of corporate action but rather the actions of individuals. The way we change our culture is not with protests or boycotts or other corporate actions. We change the culture by individually living in harmony with the moral order.

In keeping with theme of the Artist and the City, our worship time featured a meditation on the founder of the first city, Cain. A fascinating fact is that while it is true that God exiled Cain, not only does God then protect Cain with his mark, but it is the descendents of Cain that are “the father of all those who play the lyre and the pipe” as well as those who begin the metal arts. In other words, here in the fourth chapter of Genesis, we get the Bible’s first redemption story. Yes, Cain is a murderer. Yes, Cain is cursed to be a vagrant and a wanderer and a failed farmer. But it is also true that from him who was protected by God comes whole areas of knowledge that are required of later generations for the worship of God.

After worship, we had the first open mike night. I read three pieces, and people laughed at the right places and made appropriate noises after I finished. A highlight of the night for me was a song sung acapella by Sara Zarr’s mother; it was a Christmas carol written in a medieval/Appalachin cadence. Simply, it was beautiful.

I must like getting up at ungodly hours in the summer. This morning Sherry and I were on the road at 3:45am to get me to the Toledo Airport in time for a 6:10 flight. Despite a close connection in Dallas, I sailed into Albequerque at the appointed time–with my luggage–only to be forced to sit on the tarmac for 45 minutes. I began to wonder if this wasn’t part of a new American Airlines scheme: now you have to pay a special fee to get off the plane.

Not to worry, I shortly was through the car rental line and most of the way to Santa Fe where I pulled into the Santa Fe Brewing Company for lunch. I had a most satisfactory burger. Nay, it was a fantastic burger. A huge fresh roll with crisp lettuce and fine tomatoes, a patty as big as my face, and they didn’t feel the need to char the snot out of it. Pink, Pink is the color of my tasty burger. Pair it up with a rather nice PA, add in the oceanic musing of Patrick O’Brian, and it was the perfect beginning to an exciting week.

My roommate is also studying poetry, but he’s in the other workshop. Seems a decent enough fellow. looking forward to the traditional reception tonight with pithy words and new wine.

I’m also anticipating a less fraught experience than last year due to a less stressful theme: The Artist and the City–Art and Faith in the Public Square.

Evening Update
The first night of the Glen is a wonderful thing, especially for misanthropic introverted man-cave dwellers like myself. Old friends smile when they see you, tell you what’s been going on, asking about your health, all that. Makes you feel human.

So, after a nice dinner reuniting with Randy C and Sara & Liz Z, bumped into Jeffrey and Anne O, and then it was time for “Opening Remarks.” After the usual, corny, but sweet, opening remarks, workshop leader Dan T huddled up our group where I ran into fellow disc golfer and Phoenix firefighter Bob as well as Peter S. During the fine reception out on the balcony, we were treated to a spectacular NM sunset. The O’s told their tale of airplane terror. Really, it shook me up just to hear about it.

Now, it’s just on 10 of the clock mountain time, but I’ve been up since 3 Eastern. Must. Go. To. Bed.

From the wonderful mind of Joss Whedon comes:

Go on…click it!

I generally think that the writing in our nation’s newspapers is abysmal and contributes to the destruction of knowledge in the hearts and minds of the average American. However, a recent Associated Press news story does more than the usual to illustrate how the pervasive “style” of journalistic writing not only shades meaning but also entirely convolutes the facts of the story.

The July 12th report of a boy who was struck by a foul ball at a Cubs game carries the headline:

Boy fractures skull after hit by ball at Cubs game

The first sentence of the short article begins:

Doctors and family members say a 7-year-old boy who fractured his skull when he was struck by a foul ball at Wrigley Field…

Look at those sentences carefully. How exactly was the boy’s skull fractured? Did the boy purposefully bring his head into contact with a batted ball? Did the boy through a fit after missing a foul ball and smash his own head into the ground? Did the boy, in fact, have anything to do with the fact that his skull is now fractured? No. But the AP seems to think that the boy did all the fracturing. Why else would you write “a 7-year-old boy who fractured his skull“?

I understand the AP’s desire to write in the active voice. In fact, I generally encourage my writing students to write in the active voice and avoid the passive. However, an overzealous and context-insensitive application of the rule has a negative effect on the goals of AP style. Dr. Michael Sweeny of Utah State University suggests that the unstated logic behind the AP style is:

1. Totally accurate.
2. Totally clear to anyone with a high school education.
3. As tight as can be, given No. 1 and No. 2.
4. Inoffensive, unless there is an overriding reason, central to a significant news story, to include potentially offensive words or concepts.

The AP story headline “Boy fractures skull after hit by ball at Cubs game” violates dictum #1. The boy didn’t do any of the fracturing. The ball fractured the boy’s skull. More accurately, the ball batted foul by Cubs pitcher Ted Lilly fractured the boy’s skull. By casting the sentence in the active voice with the boy as the main subject, the writer makes the boy culpable in his own injury. Surely that is not an accurate representation of the facts.

I’m sure someone could argue that being entirely accurate in this case is going to result in a sentence in which the active agent is not a person–A foul ball fractured the skull of a young boy. Shouldn’t the news story be focused on the boy? Yes, it should. Which is why the passive voice may be the best option in this case. Especially if the acting agent is included. A young boy’s skull was fractured by a foul ball. It may be in passive voice, but the young boy is up front in the sentence and the proper cause of the fracturing is represented.

I could rail about some narrowly focused style hound in the bowels of the AP whose myopic application of a guideline has not only obfuscated the truth but also placed implied blame on an innocent child. But the sad truth is that I’m guessing that this error didn’t require any such threatening visage. My guess is that the piece was written by some poor lackey who has had the rules beaten into his soft, malleable brain-mush and probably wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference even if he’d had a free-thinking neuron capable to notice what was going on.

Hillstrand, Andy, Jonathan Hillstrand, and Malcolm MacPherson. Time Bandit: Two Brothers, The Bering Sea, and One of the World’s Deadliest Jobs. New York: Ballantine, 2008. $25.

I have an image in my head of Malcolm MacPherson sitting at a table surrounded by piles of audio-cassettes and notebooks, head in hands as he tries to figure out what in the world to do with the hours of anecdotes, stories, histories, and process explanations that he has just collected in conversations with the Hillstrand brothers. That MacPherson was able to find a central narrative on which to hang all of these baubles is not as impressive as his ability to maintain a lively voice for each of the brothers.

Not having cable, I haven’t had the pleasure of watching the Discovery Channel’s show Deadliest Catch. After reading Time Bandit, I’m not sure that I need to. MacPherson uses the narrative of Jonathan’s rescue from being adrift alone during a salmon fishing run to organize the biography of these life-long fishermen as well as a brief lesson in the history and mechanics of crab fishing in the Bering Sea off the coast of Alaska. While the stories are told with first-person immediacy, the book doesn’t lose the narrative drive like the disappointing Jorgy. While some chapters may go on a bit, the overall rhythm of switching from Jonathan’s narrative to the related tales and obeservations is generally effective. The suspense of Jonathan’s situation carrying you over the wave ahead.

The “as told to” approach of Time Bandit robs it of the literary quality of the fisherman/authors collected in Leslie Leyland Field’s anthology Out on the Deep Blue: True Stories of Daring, Persistence, and Survival from the Nation’s Most Dangerous Profession or the memoirs of Linda Greenlaw, but Time Bandit is not simply two old salts telling war stories. Throughout the volume, both Hillstrands reflect often on the nature of humanity that would put themselves through such danger and also on what drives them personally to continue in an industry that will most likely kill them. Their ruminations go beyond hyper-masculine chest thumping to the questioning of human motivation.

At one point describing themselves as dinosaurs, the Hillstrands represent a unique brand of fisherman that was raised with the old, practically unregulated, system and is now transitioning to an era of fishing that is much more controlled by the government. The Hillstrands admit and illustrate the necessity and even effectiveness of the new regulations, but they also fear that the heart of the industry is being eroded by the encroachment of bean-counters and bureaucrats. Time Bandit may then stand as a salt crusted monument to the frontier long after it has been rationalized into the ground.