Dear Friends:

As a writer and as an editor I know the importance of recognizing true talent and dedication to the literary arts.

A few years ago an anthology of works produced in and about the Inland Southern California region was published by Heyday Books. It was called Inlandia. Out of that anthology has grown a new literary institute whose mission is to foster the literary arts in Inland Southern California.

Last month I had the pleasure of teaming up with the Inlandia Institute to host Poemeleon’s 4th Annual Reading, during which the launch of a new program was announced: The Inlandia Literary Laureate Award.

The nominations deadline for the Literary Laureate Award is looming — December 14th. As a member of the Literary Laureate Committee I would very much like to see as many nominations come in as possible. In addition to the distinction of being the first Inlandia Literary Laureate, there is also a $5000 honorarium. So please — if there is someone you would like to see this award go to, by all means, fill out the application!

Cati Porter
Editor, Poemeleon: A Journal of Poetry and Inlandia Advisory Council and Literary Laureate Committee Member

(Details about the Literary Laureate Award below. Click the link to the Inlandia website to fill out the application, and please feel free to forward!)

* * *

The Inlandia Literary Laureate
http://inlandiainstitute.org/laureate.php

The Inlandia Literary Laureate program celebrates the region’s most accomplished literary artists and encourages public awareness of inland southern California’s literary arts in all their forms. Thank you for being part of this inclusive endeavor by nominating your favorite Inlandia writer.

Nomination Process

Every two years the Inlandia Institute’s Board of Directors appoints the Literary Laureate Committee from the Inlandia Advisory Council and others recommended by the Council.

The Literary Laureate Committee is responsible for:

* Nominating and/or soliciting nominations
* Nominations can be made by anyone: self nomination are acceptable
* Vetting nominees
o Review and evaluate applications
o Select semi-finalist
o Interview semi-finalist
* Making recommendations to the Advisory Council
* Establishing a quiet period during which Advisory Council members can make comments to the Literary Laureate Committee as part of the vetting process
* Making final recommendation to the Board of Directors

The Board of Directors makes the appointment

Nomination Deadline

Complete applications must be received by December 15th.

Samples can not be returned and become the property of the Inlandia Institute

Criteria for Inlandia Literary Laureate

Does the nominee

* Live or work in the Inland Empire
* Write in the regional voice of Inlandia that conveys a sense of the area and/or its people
* Have a willingness to work in public and community programs or service
* Inspire and mentor other creative writers
* Have an accessible body of critically acclaimed or significant work, and
* Has been published in the last 10 years?
* Is the nominee willing to accept the responsibilities of the position of Inlandia Literary Laureate

Literary Laureate Responsibilities

Inlandia Literary Laureate Responsibilities Include the following. Please make certain that your nominee is willing and able to fulfill these responsibilities.

Accept a two year appointment during which the designee will complete a number of engagements for the purpose of

* Promoting the reading of literature to children and the general public
* Encourage and promote creative writing
* Help foster and promote projects that engage the creative spirit

Agree to

* A video interview for podcasting and the Inlandia website
* Creating articles, musings and/or blogs for the Inlandia website
o Recommendations of other authors
o Personal advice on the writing process

Literary Laureate Recognition

The Inlandia Literary Laureate will be recognized in the following ways

* Recognition at a major event
* Honorarium (award) to be raised privately — $5,000III

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(Now I know what I am! Courtesy of Googlism.com.)

This week has been a boon for me: two readings by two stellar women poets.

The first was Alicia Ostriker. My friend and associate editor Judy Kronenfeld, recently retired from UCR’s creative writing department, facilitated this reading and it was something I believe she was personally looking forward to.

Ostriker was very warm and friendly, and I learned a bit from the reading — like the feminine aspect of god in the Jewish tradition, which comes up quite a bit in her Volcano Sequence collection, which I picked up along with her Mother/Child Papers, the one book of hers that I was familiar with. The poems in Volcano Sequence Ostriker described herself as “channeling”, in that they just came to her basically whole and in the order they are presented in the book. She allowed herself to write them without letting herself get in the way of the poems. An interesting thought.

I must admit, though, that the reading I was most looking forward to was Matthea Harvey’s, probably because I’ve been reading so much of her lately, and because I identify so much with her work. She read some new poems, most notably a poem that was inspired by an image of a fur-covered pacifier. Also, she read many poems from Modern Life, which is the collection which won the Kingsley Tufts, given by the Claremont Graduate University, the school which organized the reading. I had a chance to ask her a little about the Gurlesque, but mostly I was interested in process.

How does she come up with such interesting poem ideas? Well, as an example, her poem “Implications for Modern Life” came out of a dream she’d had after hearing on NPR that there were particles of bbq in the air over Texas; that night she had the dream about ham flowers, which was a little disconcerting. Then she wrote that poem. Others are sparked by something absurd or interesting that she hears or sees. Also, of the recent books she’s read, the only poet that I recall her noting is James Tate, but I can certainly see how he might be influence on her way of seeing and writing, which is certainly unique. Makes me want to tear up all of my recent poems and start over. I *have* done that before, you know. So it’s not entirely out of the question.

She, too, seems a genuinely warm and interesting person. We spoke just a little about collaboration. She is working on a project with her sister, who is doing the illustrations, and I am, too. Did I mention that? No, maybe not. My youngest sister, who was suddenly taken ill early in the fall and has had to withdraw from art school temporarily (she was supposed to graduate in December, so she’s pretty bummed, I think) is doing illustrations for my Desire series of poems. They’re pretty great, if I don’t say so myself. I’m very excited to be able to work with her on this and hope (hope hope hope) that we have a publisher for the project lined up in the near future.

In the meantime, I’ve started a new series, tentatively titled Deviant Abecedarian Bestiary Cookbook, comprised of weird little prose poems about mutant cakes and doing devious things with tarts and bakers. I may have to enlist my sister again — she has this great illustration of a devilish girl holding a cupcake that is looking back at her. Yum!

Drove 2 1/2 hours from California to Chicago to take part in a reading series and arrived to find that I didn’t bring anything to read from. I scrambled to make copies of things to read from an Art Nouveau calendar, and attempted to retype poems using a borrowed machine by reading the text off my phone. Finally got up to read in the cavernous split-level venue but no one was paying any attention. So I yelled at the audience and said I wouldn’t read anymore until they all settled down. Everybody left and it was just me and the event organizer, who was angry with me for ruining the event.

Maybe this isn’t quite my *worst* nightmare (nuclear holocaust, anyone?) but it did leave me rattled.

Dreams are so weird.

I’ll be reading in Los Angeles on November 17th at 6 pm as part of the Literary Uprising series, an event co-sponsored by Antioch University and the lit journal Two Hawks Quarterly. The readings occur quarterly, and each features one BA student (Loretta Williams, fiction) and one MFA student (myself, the only poet of the night), nominated by the faculty, as well as one faculty reader (Leonard Chang). I’ll post the flyer for it in the next few days.

Also, I am really excited that the lovely and talented (and soon-to-be Mama again, her third, after a fifteen year break –!) poet and novelist Gayle Brandeis is using an excerpt from one of my poems in her latest book, Delta Girls. The poem excerpted is a double abecedarian. So if you haven’t checked out Gayle’s work, you should. She is *amazing*.

And finally, I am very very VERY excited (did I mention that I am excited?) that I’m going to be listening to Matthea Harvey read tomorrow night at the Claremont Public Library. I’ve quoted several of her poems in my paper on the Gurlesque, so can I *not* go? I have to. No question.

Here is the information for anyone else who is interested:

NEWS RELEASE

September 23, 2009    For Immediate Release

CONTACT:    Susan Hampson
Claremont Graduate University
(909) 621-8612

2009 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award Winner
at Claremont Public Library

Matthea Harvey, 2009 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award winner, will read from her award winning work, Modern Life, at the Claremont Public Library on Wednesday, November 4, 2009 at 6:00 p.m.  Co-sponsored by the Claremont Graduate University and the Friends of the Claremont Library, the reading is free and open to everyone.

Matthea Harvey is the author of three books of poetry: Modern Life, a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award and a New York Times Notable Book of 2008, Sad Little Breathing Machine and Pity the Bathtub Its Forced Embrace of the Human Form.  Her first children’s book, The Little General and the Giant Snowflake is forthcoming from Tin House Books. She is a contributing editor to jubilat, BOMB and Meatpaper.  She teaches poetry at Sarah Lawrence College and lives in Brooklyn.

If you’re in the area, you really don’t want to miss this event! If you do go, be sure to find me and say hello.

The last of the cheese.

Here is the last of the three stories I wrote for Ghostwalk last year. For locals, this story was told at the Riverside Art Museum. For non-locals, all of these stories were part of a walking tour that occurs annually for Halloween, and is sponsored and put on by the California Riverside Ballet.

I’m a little sorry we didn’t make it this year. For the record, yes, my kids did help me with these. They had *lots* of input regarding characters, plot, etc. The fourth story, that one that I’m not posting, was for the children’s tour. The kids rode on a trolley around downtown, past the very cool old graveyard, Evergreen Cemetery, and it involved the three little pigs, little red riding hood, and peter and wolf (notice a theme? The wolf!) but because it was co-written, and it wasn’t that good to begin with, I’ll spare you.

I probably won’t post again until after the weekend, so Happy Halloween, watch out for tricks among the treats, and don’t eat so much candy that puke. (That’s *my* job.)

~

The Hostess with the Ghostess

(A medium sits at a large round table with a white table cloth and at least three candles in the center, white or purple, unlit; incense is burning – cinnamon, frankincense, and sandalwood are what is recommended – all three at the same time; a tape recorder/player playing new-agey music as people come in, then used to “record” the ghost, later to play it back; also, one “plant” in the audience (Person 1) who can be called up to sit at the table with the medium for the “séance” and one additional person picked at random (will require a little improve on the medium’s part. If not possible, then two “plants” for a total of three at the table; no dialogue written for this third person, but there needs to be at least three for it to be an “official” séance.)

Medium:     (To the audience as they walk in:) Welcome. Welcome. Glad you could join us. Sit down. Sit. (gesturing)

I’ve been called here today because a presence has been reported in this museum. There have been strange occurrences – chairs moved, paintings rearranged; strange noises. One morning the staff arrived to find the faucets in the bathroom turned on high and water on the floor.

Tonight we’re going to summon this presence and ask it what it wants. But I can’t do that alone; I will need two volunteers – you, and you.

Person 1:     Me?

Medium:     Yes, yes! Something about you… I don’t know… somehow I feel you are necessary… Yes. Please, come. Sit.

Have any of you ever done this before…? (asking those at the table, and the audience). Good. Good.

Medium:     We must now have absolute silence.
Do only as I say. I am going to attempt to record these events.

(Reaches over and pushes record on the tape recorder, then picks up the candles and holds one out for each of them)

First we must charge the candles. We must believe that they have the power to conjure the dead. Hold the candle in front of you and concentrate. Think about how powerful it is. Imagine smoke curling up from its wick. We must pass them around and do the same with each one.

(When finished the medium lights each candle and very ceremoniously places them in the center of the table.)

Now join hands with the person beside you and close your eyes.

(Motioning to the audience to do the same)

Take a deep breath. Breath in… slowly… breath out… relax… clear your minds….

Let us begin.

Oh spirit, we know that you are with us tonight and we ask you to show yourself. We believe you have been trying to contact us.. As friends we gather here to invite you to show us a sign. Speak to us, if it is your will….

(nothing happens)

Oh spirit, we ask that you commune with us and move among us….

(still nothing)

Person 1:    (Mutters) Huh! I knew this was going to be a joke.

Medium:     You question me? No wonder the spirit won’t show itself. You are a doubter. You must believe.

Person 1:    I didn’t ask to come up here. Why don’t I just go sit back down with them.

(Starts to stand up, points to the crowd.)

Medium:     Sit down! Have you not had any experiences with those who reside in the afterlife? Do you not have a loved one you might wish to call up? Perhaps that would convince you.

Person 1:    I don’t believe in ghosts.

(A faint ringing coming from the other room; person 1 looks around suspiciously)

Alright, what’s going on?

Medium:    Let’s ask the spirit world why they wanted me to pick you.

(The sound of something being violently knocked over).

Oh spirit, we know that you are among us. Speak to us!

If you hear us, rap once. (A pause, and then a distinct rap. Cautiously, the medium asks:) Do you know this man? (A loud raucous rapping.)

Was he a friend? Rap once for yes, twice for no. (Two raps.)

Was he family? Again, once for yes, twice for no. (Two raps.)

Was he your love? (One rap, then a pause, then two loud raps.)

So he was a former love? (One very loud rap.)

Medium:    Do you still doubt me? (looking to person 1).

Person 1:    This is some kind of trick. (To the air:) If it’s really you, tell us your name.

Medium:     Yes, tell us your name. Let’s begin with the first letter. (Slowly) One rap for A, two for B… (two loud raps). B? Does your name start with a B? Rap once for yes. (one rap.) Second letter: One rap for A, two for B, three for C, four for D, five for E… (five raps).

Person 1:    Beverly? (one very loud rap; person 1 looks around nervously).

Medium:    Do you believe me now?

Person 1:    Yes.

Medium:     Beverly, can you tell us why you are here?  (silence)
Beverly, did this man hurt you in some way? (two very loud violent raps.)
(a pause) Did he kill you? (very loud very hard repetitive rapping.)

Person 1:    That’s ridiculous! Don’t believe her! (he laughs) What am I saying? We’re talking to the air! This must be some sort of a trick.

(The faint ringing again)

(a pause) Did you hear that…?

Medium:    Hear what?

Person 1:    That ringing.

Medium:    No, I didn’t hear any ringing.

Person 1:    Then I guess you don’t hear that, either….

Medium:     What do you hear?

Person 1:    Running water…
Bev, you know I didn’t mean to hurt you… It’s just that life doesn’t always work out the way we plan. (the ringing gets louder)

Medium:    What didn’t you mean?

Person 1:    The phone was ringing. She was running water for a bath. I went to get the phone, then I went out for a walk. When I went back… she… she had drowned…. (a loud and violent rapping again)

Medium:    Is that what happened Beverly?
(two very hard raps, a pause, then two very hard raps again, then another pause, then two more very hard raps)

No. No. No. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? That’s not the way it happened?
(one hard rap, and then the lights go out; we hear a chair fall, and when the lights go on Person 1 is missing).

Medium:    Where did he go?

Beverly, tell us — did he kill you? (one loud rap) Yes.

(Silence; the medium stares off into space, then:) Everyone, stay calm. There he is!

(The medium runs out of the room. We hear something fall, then talking; a brief pause, then the two of them walk back in. Person 1 sits peacefully back at the table.)

Person 1:     (looking toward the audience) Don’t worry. He can’t harm you.

Medium:     (sitting down) Beverly, tell them what really happened.

Person 1:    (Person 1 is now speaking as Beverly) That night John and I had gone out for dinner downtown. We got into a fight – I don’t even remember anymore what it was about. When we got home I told him I wasn’t feeling well, that I was going to go take a bath and go to bed…. He asked if I wanted a drink. I said no, but he insisted. I didn’t want to argue anymore. I drank it quickly and then headed into the bathroom. I ran the water for the tub, got in, but I became woozy, and I sank down into the water… I called his name but he wouldn’t come…

The last thing I remember before I died was the phone ringing, and John telling someone on the other end that he would be there in ten minutes.

I could feel myself lift up out of my body.

In the living room I was standing beside him. I followed him around, trying to get his attention. And that’s when I saw the bottle of sleeping pills. And the liquor.

I screamed at him. I tried to hit him.  But he couldn’t hear me; he couldn’t feel anything.

And then he went out the door. Where was he going at ten o’clock?

I stayed with him all night. He went to the house of a girl; I recognized her. She works as a hostess in the restaurant.

He went back home at one. That’s when he called the police to report the accident. When they found the sleeping pills he acted surprised…. But because they could only find my prints on the bottle and on the glass they said it was a suicide….

Plus, they saw the note.

Medium:    A suicide note?

Person 1:    No, a note from him, telling me that he went out. That he was sorry that things weren’t working out between us, and that he might not be home that night….

Medium:    But he did come home.

Person 1:    Yes.

Medium:    Why would he leave you a note if he knew you were going to die? Why would he come home?

Person 1:    (sounding defensive) I don’t know… Diversion? Cover up? Who knows? Why don’t you just ask him…. (and then he shudders, and she’s out…)

Medium:    John – is that you now? That is your name, right? John?

Person 1:    (looking dazed) Yes, yes… that’s my name…. What happened?

Medium:    You were… possessed. Beverly was within you.

Person 1:    Beverly….

Medium:    Why did you run out of the room?

Person 1:    Well, maybe you’re used to this sort of thing, but I’m certainly not. This has been one of the strangest nights of my life. When the lights went out I got scared, so I ran.

Medium:    Beverly told us about the drowning. She says it wasn’t suicide.

Person 1:    (a pause) Of course it was. She was upset that night because I told her I wanted to see someone else. That’s when she told me to get out. I asked her to have one last drink with me, and then packed a bag and left.

Medium:    (looking around) Beverly – are you still here? Rap once if you’re still in the room. (nothing)

Beverly, please, if you’re here….

Person 1:    (Standing up) Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ve had just about enough….  Bev, it was fun, no hard feelings. Really.

(Person 1 walks out of the room).

Medium:    (To the audience) Well, I guess she’s gone.

Thank you all for coming, and thank you, Beverly, for joining us….
Oh! The tape recorder. (she pushes stop, rewind). Why don’t we have a listen?

(while it’s rewinding) How sad, to be so broken up over love that one would end one’s life. I wonder if she’s still here in the museum. And the drowning… that would explain the running water.

But why rearrange the paintings? And the furniture?

(The medium pushes play, but it’s just static – and then, in a woman’s voice: I was an interior decorator.)

The *real* cheese, part deux.

Here is the second of three stories I wrote for Ghostwalk last year. For locals, this story was told at Downtown Books, a cool used book shop down a dark corridor that you wouldn’t even know was there if you weren’t looking for it. For non-locals, all of these stories were part of a walking tour that occurs annually for Halloween, and is sponsored and put on by the California Riverside Ballet. This one is actually somewhat poetry-related, in that it makes use of the William Carlos Williams poem, “The Term.”

~

Term Life

(as told by the shopkeeper)

I love books. I’ve always loved books. I love the smell of old books, the way the bindings crack when you open them. That’s why I took over this bookstore. I’ve been in here for years now. I really can’t imagine doing anything else. But there was a time when I almost gave it all up….

There was a morning early last October. I knew it was going to be a strange day when I tripped over a large piece of brown Kraft paper, the kind that you wrap packages in to mail, that was laying across the parking lot as I crossed. My arms were full of books so I didn’t see it until it was too late. One of my knees was scraped and bleeding. I hurriedly picked up my things and dusted myself off.

And then a gust of wind picked that paper up – just like that – and blew it down the street.

When I got to the shop, I slipped my key into the lock — and found the place was a wreck! It looked like it’d been ransacked – books were all over the floor.

I ran to the register. Strangely, everything was still in place – not a penny was missing. I went back and checked the door, but it didn’t look tampered with. Nothing else appeared to be damaged. I thought maybe it was earthquake, though that didn’t really make sense. I knew something wasn’t right.

I taped a sign to the front door that said “closed for maintenance” and went to work putting all of the books back. It took me all day! I was SO angry — and confused!

It was dark by the time I went home. I still didn’t understand how that could have happened, but I was certain there had to be a rational explanation. So I fell into bed and tried to get some sleep.

By the next morning, I had forgotten all about it. I got up, had my coffee, read the paper, and then headed downtown to open up the shop for the day. I slipped my key into the lock — and found that the same thing had happened – again!

I could hardly believe it! I was fuming. Who had gotten in here? HOW had they gotten in here?

I spent that whole day cleaning up again, but this time I knew it was no fluke. Whoever had done this did it purposefully. I couldn’t afford to keep the shop closed for one more day, so I came up with a plan. This time when I locked up and walked out, I made it look as if I was going home, but when I was sure no was around I snuck back in.

I settled down on the floor behind the counter with a flashlight and my cell phone. I stayed awake for as long as I could but after a couple of hours I let myself close my eyes. I thought to myself, maybe they had found what they were looking for and wouldn’t be back tonight after all.

But then around three a.m. I heard something….

It wasn’t exactly footsteps. It sounded more like a heaving, a dragging…

And… whispering.

I couldn’t make out what was being said at first, but as I listened it seemed to get closer and then farther away and then closer and then farther away, like someone or something was going up and down the aisles. As it came close to the counter I could feel the air moving… I could hear the air moving, like a fan set to low. And I could finally make out the whispered phrase: Where isss it?

I held very still and hoped they wouldn’t see me.

As the sound grew fainter, more distant, I could make out what seemed to be the sound of things falling to the floor. My books! I peered up over the counter’s ledge but all could see were the books piling up.

I pulled out my phone to call 911. An operator came on the line.

I was about to speak — but my phone suddenly went off.

I sensed someone was watching me….

And then the whispering again: Where isss it? Where isss it?

“Where is what?” I asked, hoping that if I just gave them what they wanted whoever it was would go away.

My thumb on the switch, I stood to face – whoever it was – and I clicked the flashlight on.

What I saw I can hardly describe – it was as though the air were smeared with grease. I couldn’t see; it was like looking into the fog.

I frantically reached out my hands, trying to feel my way around and make it to the front door – I had to get out of there!

The whispering continued… closer … closer… until I could feel air on my neck, and a chill; the whispering was right in my ear…!

I bumped my shin against the table, somehow managed to find the knob on the door….

But I just had to look, so as I opened the door, I turned to look behind me – and what I saw was shocking: it almost looked like… like… a severely disfigured young man, limping up and down the aisle …

I got into my car and drove home. I didn’t know who to call…. Who would believe me?

The next day I came back to the shop. This time, there were fewer books on the floor. In fact, it looked as though this time the mess was confined to the center aisle. I walked over and began to stack up the books and put them back up on the shelf. They seemed to all come from the same section….

I remembered those whispered words: Where isss it?

And I remembered something.

I hurried behind the counter and pulled out a box that had been brought in by a young man the week before.

I had an idea….

Before I closed up that night I lay those books out across the counter.

At first light, I went back to the shop and found the books I had left spread out stacked up neatly. All but one.

It was opened flat, face down. I picked it up and flipped through to see if there was anything special about it. On the inside cover I found a name and address.

It was only a few blocks away!

I put the books back into their box and jumped in my car. I crossed the front lawn to the door and rang the bell, worried that no one would answer – or worse, that someone would and I’d have to explain why I was there.

As I stood there, I tried to recall the details of the day those books came into my possession. It was early in the evening, close to closing time. A young man had come in carrying a box of books – judging by their covers they were all well-loved.

He seemed very pleasant, and we got to talking about the books. He told me a little something about each of them. Then he reached into the box and opened one to a random page, and he read me a poem….

I couldn’t understand why he wanted to give up all of these books; he seemed to care so much about them. So I asked.

At first he told me that he was just trying to get rid of some clutter around the house. But I could tell he was holding something back….

That’s when he confessed that he was a writer, but he was giving it up. He said he had a wife, and now that they were expecting a baby he wanted to try to be a good provider; he said that he knew his writing would never pay the bills; that after he had gotten a letter that afternoon telling him that his manuscript had been rejected – again – he made up his mind.

I told him I’d take the books off his hands, but as soon as he walked out the door I stashed the box under the counter hopefully, thinking maybe he’d change his mind. If he did, I wanted them to be there when he came back….

And now here I was, at his door.

A pregnant woman answered.

I explained who I was, and how her husband had brought these books to me. I opened the top flaps of the box. When she saw them she started to cry.

After a moment, she apologized, then told me what had happened.  The week before, while walking home from his job late one night, he had been run down by a car.

And that’s when I knew for sure…. The apparition in the store was him.

I pulled out the book – and it fell open to a page where a post-it was stuck. On it was a name and phone number, and another string of numbers….

I left her my phone number, and gave her my condolences. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what had happened in the bookstore.

*

A few weeks later she called. She wanted to thank me, and to tell me that the number on the post-it it was for an insurance agency; apparently he had taken out a life insurance policy that she didn’t know about.  And that she had had the baby.

*

As the months went by without any more appearances from him, things settled back into their usual routine.

Then one morning I arrived and found another book mysteriously open on the counter.

It was the poem that the young man had read to me the day he had dropped off his books, it was titled, “The Term”:

A rumpled sheet
of brown paper
about the length

and apparent bulk
of a man was
rolling with the

wind slowly over
and over in
the street as

a car drove down
upon it and
crushed it to

the ground. Unlike
a man it rose
again rolling

with the wind over
and over to be as
it was before.

Occasionally, I’ll come into work and find a book laid out for me.

It doesn’t frighten me anymore, though. I know it was him.

Okay, now for the *real* cheese.

Here is the first of three stories I wrote for Ghostwalk last year. For locals, this story was told at the Division Nine Gallery. For non-locals, all of these stories were part of a walking tour that occurs annually for Halloween, and is sponsored and put on by the California Riverside Ballet.

~

The Caretaker’s Tale

(Guests enter the room to find a man in coveralls sweeping. He looks up and addresses the audience.)

What are all yous people doing here?

(Someone from the audience tells him they’re here to hear a ghost story)

Yeah? (looks around a little nervously) You here for a ghost story?

Well, have I got one for you… (a long pause while he looks around)

I really shouldn’t be telling you this. (pause)

You know, if I tell you all, you gotta keep this quiet – I could lose my job. (looks around again, then points to the wall.)

Look – see that wall over there? Used to be a door there. It’s been covered over for at least thirty years, probably more. Someone new bought the building….  and, well, you know how that goes….

See, they heard this story and the first thing they wanna do is cover it up. You know?

This one guy, he hears it and he says – this what I heard — “If word ever gets out about this we’ll never be able to rent the place. Seal it up.” That’s how I heard it, at least.

And so they sealed it up.

If you look real close you can kinda see the seams where the door used to be. Right there. (points, then looks around like s/he’s checking to see if there’s anyone within earshot)

Did yous know that this used to be a nut house back in the day? You know. Loony bin. Insane asylum.

That room – the one behind the door – the way it started out, that’s where they used to put the one’s they couldn’t keep quiet.

But later on, inmates started disappearing.

They’d get brought down here to the basement and locked behind that door and then no one would ever see them again.

The story was that someone who worked here, someone who was crazier than any of them, would lock up any of ‘em in there if they looked at him cross-eyed.

And, well, he just left them in there….

Way I hear it, he’d put one of them straightjackets on ‘em. And then he’d lock ‘em up.

It’s sound proof, you know.

At least, that’s what I been told.

Me and Maurice, we’d been working down here for some time, and, well, sometimes we would hear things that we couldn’t explain.

This one time…

Nah, you don’t want me to tell you this…. (looks at the crowd, pauses, then goes on)

The sounds, they would come from in there. (pointing again at the wall)

Okay, well, this guy, Maurice – he was a guy I used to work with way back in ‘86 – you know, it ain’t that bad, janitorial work, good pay, easy work for the most part, but I digress… – Maurice, he and I always worked this joint together – it was late – you know, we gotta do this late at night when the joints are closed so we’re not interrupting anyone’s work – anyhoo, I’m collecting the garbage and he’s running the buffer. I got the bag and I’m ready to take it out to the dumpster, but when I turn around he’s just standing there. The buffer’s still running. It’s running in place and making this awful noise. And he’s just – standing there…. Like he seen a ghost or something…. (looks around warily; then we hear a faint clanking sound)

So I say to him, “Eh, Maurice, you look like you seen a ghost!” (pauses, then laughs nervously)

And I’m just kidding him, you know? I’m thinking, maybe he’s daydreaming — or would that be night-dreaming, cause it’s night? Dunno. (scratches head) But, anyhoo, he’s awake, you know, and he looks pretty strange. Not sleepy, not scared, just sort of – well –blank – distant, like he’s forgotten all about the buffer.

He don’t answer me, so I ask him again, “Maurice, everything alright?”

Then I look across the room to see what he’s looking at – and I see it…. (pointing toward the wall again)

The door.

There’s a door that wasn’t there before – right there – and we can hear it swing open – it makes this crreeeaaaakkkk, and for a moment the door’s just wide open. So I start walking toward it – and it slams shut. BAM!

I swear to you that, by God, I nearly peed my pants. I’m a grown man, you know.
So I say to Maurice, you see anything?

He didn’t say anything, just looked at me. Then, all of sudden, he says, Nope. Didn’t see a thing. And he goes back to buffing the floors.

This kinda freaked me out. But I was tired a holding that trash and so I took it out, and by the time I came back I had convinced myself that I must have been seeing things.

But, folks, that was just the beginning….

The next time we came back in here, I could tell we was both kinda nervous. But, you know, a job’s a job, and we weren’t about to admit to anyone – not even each other – what we thought we saw.

So I’m emptying the trash, sweeping up, and all the while I kept expecting something spooky to happen. But nothin’. ‘Cept, as we were leaving, we thought we heard footsteps, and whispering….

We finished up and got ourselves outta there. And I asked Maurice again, You hear anything in there? And he said, Nope. And that was the end of the conversation.

We went back a few more times, and each time I expected to hear that door open again, or the whispering, but the most I heard could have been attributed to the plumbing, or to noises outside.

Then there was this one night….

We was in here, Maurice was buffing, I was bagging the trash. All of a sudden we hear the door again.

We both froze. I looked at him. He looked at me. We both knew this was for real.

We’re staring at the door. This time, it doesn’t slam shut. This time, there’s this guy standing there, standing in the doorway. Big guy, TALL (gestures way up high), and he’s holding a straitjacket in his hands, all the buckles hanging down, like he just wriggled out of it like Houdini.

Behind him is another guy, and another, about a dozen in all, standing there watching us….

So now neither of us can move. I’m standing there, holding this bag of trash – like this (holds hand waist-level off to the side like there’s a bag of trash in his hand). The buffer’s buffing, the bag’s dripping some nasty stuff onto the floor. And these guys, they’re just staring at us….

Then the big one, the one holding the straitjacket, starts walking toward Maurice….

Maurice doesn’t move. He’s like a mannequin, he’s that still.

The big guy, he walks up to Maurice.

He puts the straitjacket on him.

Maurice doesn’t move, so I start yelling – What are yous doing? Leave ‘im alone! –I push the big guy – but my hands go right through. And I go to take the straitjacket off Maurice…

But before I can get it off ‘im, they’re leading him through that door… (pointing again.)

That was the last time I saw Maurice.

Well, in the flesh. So to speak….

I left this building that night and went for a walk. I couldn’t sleep. In the morning I called the office to see if I get a phone number for Maurice. The office girl checked the files two, three times, but when she came back she told me that no one by that name worked for the company.

I didn’t show up to work for a few days but you know, a man’s gotta work if wants to eat. I didn’t tell no one ’bout what we  — ’bout what I saw. I showed up here one night the next week. I left all the lights on, plus I left the doors wide open in case I needed to get out, quick.

I ran through the routine without any funny business. But just as I was packing up to go the lights went out.

That door swung open again.

This time, no one came out. I walked across the room and shined my light in there – there was a corridor, and back at the end another door. It was open.

I don’t know what I was thinking. What can I say? I was a young guy, and foolish.

I went in through that door.

There was this smell, like old trash that ain’t been taken out. The corridor was dark but there seemed to be a light on in that back room.

I got to the door.

There was Maurice….

I looked around and didn’t see nobody else so I quickly went in and got down on my knees and started working on the buckles – but they were like water in my hands!

Maurice just looked straight ahead with that blank stare like I seen on him the first night.

I kept trying to get a hold of something, to get him outta there, I even tried to pick him up…but after a while I realized it was useless.

And then I hear those noises again…. and I look up and those guys are standing there, surrounding me….

I stood up slowly and walked toward the door….

None of them tried to stop me.

I walked all over downtown that night. The next morning I went over to the library and looked at the old newspapers on microfiche, looking for articles about this here asylum.

I went through pages and pages looking for something.

Finally I found it.

Before the asylum was shut down, a couple of their janitors went missing.

One of those guys looked just like Maurice. (long pause)

And the other guy looked a lot like me…. (scratches his head)

You know, I been coming back here for twenty years now. Every week I think, I can’t go back. But somehow I keep finding myself here….

Once in a while I hear something. Sometimes the door’ll even swing open.

One of these days I think Maurice’ll come walkin’ outta there….

(the lights go out, the broom drops; when the lights come back on the janitor is gone)

Cheese Alert! Just to forewarn you. You know, so you have no one to blame but yourself for continuing to read on.

I think I have food on the brain because the weather has officially turned chilly, and chilly weather always makes me want to cook. For Jacob’s 10th birthday a couple weeks ago I made his favorite dinner, as pictured above: my semi-famous gruyere-spinach-mushroom quiche. It is the best in the world. Just ask me. Because I’ve been asked for the recipe a number of times, I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t share it with the world. This quiche could inspire world peace. Really. So! If you want the recipe just open your Fanny Farmer Cook Book to the recipe for bacon and cheese quiche; disregard how much cheese they say and grate the whole darn block of gruyere; then omit the bacon and add an entire container of fresh baby spinach and an entire container of sliced crimini mushrooms (liberally sauteed in olive oil & butter), then completely disregard how they say to assemble the quiche and put it all in one bowl, stir, and pour into your betty crocker pie crust. Then bake it according to their directions. (They’re right about that part at least.)

Yum! Children, can we say “calorie-laden?” But unlike many things in life, this is one indulgence that is well-worth it.

~

This year I attempted to become a farmer. Yes, I planted zucchini, yellow squash, tomatoes, eggplant, and watermelon. Our yield: Three edible tomatoes (i.e. ones that were not pre-eaten by the bugs) and this surprise watermelon, which we picked just last week:

This is all we’ve eaten of it so far. It is in the refrigerator in a large plastic bag. It feels very wasteful. I hate to even look to see what the state of it is. (Maybe it is still edible. I am ever the hopeful girl.)

All of the plants are growing like mad, though, and have taken over the garden. Lots of blooms, just not much by way of produce.

Enough about food. No I’m hungry. I guess I should go raid the fridge.

~

As I mentioned before, we’ve all been sick with who-knows-what (no wants to label this thing the dreaded h1n1, but I suppose it’s possible that that’s what this is/was). The kids feel better now, but now the hubby and I are not so hot. I’m on the upswing, and did manage (after several days of putting it off in favor of sedentary deadlines, like my paper, and a book review, and book discussion comments for my Antioch group) to clean the house. Granted, it’s not *clean*, as in, you could look in every corner and not find a dust bunny. But at least there are no crumbs on the floor, all trash has been thrown out, and the dishes are done. Now I finally feel I can get ready for Halloween. Of course, that’s tomorrow already. But better now than miss it all together.

The next post will contain a ghost story or two, in honor of Halloween and my kids and the annual Ghostwalk in Riverside that we couldn’t go to this year because we were sick. Last year I wrote four of the stories and had a couple of friends write two more, because I was asked to help facilitate that. But this year, when I was asked, I was just too swamped. I feel badly that I sort of let them down. But I can’t do it all. Sheesh!

Okay, breakfast, then a ghost story post, then off to my boys’ school’s annual Halloween parade — Boo!!