“Resolution” by Jason Morris

“In Which Curry Girl Goes on Safari” by Ami Sheth

“Like an Egg” by Candra Kolodziej

“How I Prepare Myself to be Loved by the Tulip Breeder” by Deborah Wood

“Underneath the Occipital Bone” by Deborah Wood

Visit the Video Library to watch our readers’ performances.

The sixth installment of BANG OUT Reading Series returned home to Amnesia Bar on Valencia Street on Saturday, January 16th.  The theme of the reading was “Resolution.”  Fans braved the rain to hear fresh new work from local authors:

Amanda Davidson is a San Francisco based writer and multimedia artist who recently spent time as a fellow at the Art Farm Nebraska and the MacDowell Colony. She is an editor of DigitalArtifactMagazine.com and her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Paul Revere’s Horse, Encyclopedia Vol. F-K, and elsewhere. Find out more at partedinthemiddle.com.

Jason Morris was born in Vermont. His poems & essays have appeared in Forklift Ohio, Parthenon West, Jacket, TRY!, Mirage #4 Period(ical), Ping Pong, and elsewhere. Spirits & Anchors, a chapbook, is forthcoming from Auguste Press. He lives in San Francisco where he edits Big Bell.

Ami Sheth resides in San Francisco where she is in the MFA program at San Francisco State University. There she is working on a collection of non-fiction essays called Let Go and Let Ganesh and a collection of fiction stories entitled When Everything Was Alive At Once. She is the recipient of the Leo Litwak Award for fiction and her work has appeared in Transfer Magazine. Insert random tidbit here—something about cheese, recent safaris (made up,) opinion on state of pop music, or youtube kitten videos addiction.

Michael Francis Rutherglen is from Charlottesville, VA. Some poems of his have appeared in Poetry and The Colorado Review; others are forthcoming in the Antioch Review.

Candra Kolodziej is originally from northern Michigan. She received her MFA from California College of the Arts in 2009. By day she works on finishing her first novel, and by night she fights illiteracy in North Beach as a bookseller at City Lights. She currently lives in a purple house in San Francisco where she dreams of one day owning a pet dog named Boy.

Deborah Wood graduated from NYU and worked in the field of book publishing before moving to San Francisco in 2006. If all goes accordingly she will graduate in May with her MFA. She has published her poetry and fiction in places such as Lungfull, Transfer, Bird Dog, Nimble, EOAGH, Hotel Amerika, and Parthenon West Review. She is a firm believer that a straight line is never the best way to get from point A to point B, and that we should all try and get lost at least once a day.

Jason Morris reads his poems

Ami Sheth reads “In Which Curry Girl Goes on Safari”

Michael Rutherglen reads his poems

Candra Kolodziej reads “Like an Egg”

Deborah Wood reads her poems

When I said that I would stop it last year, I was persuaded by a newness which proved—as the hours multiplied into days, the days to weeks, the weeks to months, etcetera, leading inexorably to this brink, this cusp, this threshold in front of which we now find ourselves poised—not to be newness at all, but rather feckless, reiterative, a shabby incarnation of Before.

Friends, breathe in!  For a better, newer newness hovers in the fresh night air.  Do not mistake this for a pleasantry; when I say the air is fresh tonight I mean that the atmosphere is new entirely, as if the night had slipped out of its husk and birthed a new thing, full of promise, void of recognition, in which my face is yet unknown, as are my problems—specifically, my tendency to persist in the execution of that which I now foreswear: it.

I know that you know that I know that it is on account of it and the repetition of it by me that you have brought me here, into the semi-circle of your concern.  You have furnished me with sundry writing utensils, scraps of paper, and this cord of firewood.  I stand now at the edge of your man-sized pit and say unto you:

It will not be done by me.  When I see someone else doing it or it happening in to anyone even in the slightest fashion, I will take the utmost measures to avoid it.  I will aspirate deeply and also move with many long, loping strides in the opposite direction, and if need be I will seal myself into the light and sound-proof sarcophagus which you have so generously built for me, and when the fires of temptation have passed, though I may have burned with longing, yea will I have resisted it, and thoughts of it will flow from my mind like water from a melted polar ice cap.

And friends, though it exceeds me and contains me, thrills, destroys, and resurrects me, though it sows me with a fresh longing no matter what depths and lows I have been brought to by it, I will stop, I will stop it, I will stop doing it, I will do it much less than before.

Copyright © 2010, Amanda Davidson

Avoiding anyone from the majors

          Slow to find purchase
          Slow to find hold
              on the wheel

the big berserk city, also remote
pleads for your attention
your breath a disappearing cone in the wind.
All of the winter animals are invisible
          & I too have vanished, moved

out of your thoughts. Cold, clear

& solo. All that’s dear to you stays
emphatically unwritten
impossibly finished, impossibly visible & near

Resolving
as sickness into the usual
restlessness, as solidity thaws
like frost into dew.

For now to move thru
the reliefs & friezes, one at a time
& try & take care of

my lungs. Encantada aphasia,
adios to my unfinished hands




Copyright © Jason Morris, 2010

We have a neighbor named Darlene who often comes over to our home during the day.  She has permed, brown hair that doesn’t move and sleepy hazel eyes.  When she comes over, the whole house reeks of her Thrifty perfumes, Chantily Lace or Malibu Musk or Tahitian Breeze, and while my mom cooks dinner Darlene sits and complains about her husband.

She came over a few days ago to show my mom some cellulite cream while my brother and I were watching cartoons and eating cereal.  She asked for the millionth time if mom had anything to drink.  Chai?  Water?  Soft drinks? My mother offered worriedly because she could tell Darlene wanted something else.  Darlene stood up abruptly and said she’d be right back.  She bounded to her house next door and came back with Jack and cokes.  I like this ‘strong American flavoring,’ my mom told Darlene.  It makes the coke taste better. Darlene spit out her coke laughing and said when you say coke it sounds like cock.

Then I heard my mom lower her voice and say I need to tell you something.  My mom never tells anyone anything.  She is very private.  And what does she have to tell.  At first all I could hear was Ami shupshuspshp friends shupshupshup… very hard…. how….This was ridiculous.  I got up and snuck around the corner, away from the T.V., so I could properly hear every word she was saying.

I don’t know what to do with her.  She doesn’t seem to have any friends.  She just doesn’t seem to care…and she’s not shy or unfriendly.  What bothers me is….she just doesn’t seem to care…

Your daughter just needs a new wardrobe….the other kids don’t dress like that.  Haven’t you noticed?  They wear acid washed denim and LA Gear and Guess.  Ami dresses like she’s at an Easter party.

Whaw.  I never thought of this.  I buy her dresses from Macy and Nordstrom.  Very expensive.  In my school the girls who wore the most expensive clothes had the most friends.

Your daughter just needs to fit in more.  I say you take her to Mervyn’s…and with that they clinked their glasses of coke and strong American flavoring.  Despite myself, I felt a little thrill in my belly.  LA GEAR!!!!!  Guess Jeans!!!!!  Maybe even Reebok’s. I wanted to wear fluorescent, hyper-color everything from head to toe, no more pastel, ever again.  The idea of looking like the other kids was too good.  Perhaps this would be a good year.

The next day, a Sunday, mom woke me up and smiling down at me said Hurry up!  Eat! Get ready!  We’re going shopping.

Oh the cool air blasting from the air conditioner.  Oh the organization and the smell of new clothes.  Oh the possibilities.  Except nothing would fit.  None of the cute LA Gear stuff, none of the Guess or Jordache jeans…I couldn’t shop in the same sections as the rest of the kids. As I tugged the last pair of size 12 acid washed jeans off my hips, I screamed Nothing fits me and… I hate you!!! My mom slapped me and said control yourself.  Then, she added, Well, maybe we should put you in sports.

I hate sports I screamed. I want to be an actress or a singer.

You don’t have a good voice and you’re Indian.  There are no Indian actresses here.  You’d have to go to India and you can’t speak Hindi.

Why can’t I learn how to sing?  I can learn!!!! I couldn’t stop screaming.  I was very upset.  It seemed as though my entire life was crumbling and there was no one there to help me.  In the dressing room I cried as I listened to mothers help their daughters into cute, trendy, age-appropriate clothes next to us.  I cried about being fat, being tall, having no friends, while my mother was incredulous that I cared about any of this.  Even I didn’t really know I cared this much.  When I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe my mom said quietly Come Ami, let’s see what we can find here. I’m going to buy you the cutest outfit.

Outside of the dressing room was a single mannequin on a platform on her way to Africa.  She even had a suitcase near her plastic ankles.  I have no idea how we missed this mannequin in a safari outfit.

But my mom stood in front of the mannequin, mouth gaping and breathed, Ami! Look! You’d look nice in it and I think it will hide your stomach and hips. I wasn’t sure what I thought of it but my mom sold it to me by saying over and over again, it’s so cool.  It’s so cool, Ami.

This was, at least, better than the dresses I wore; this seemed like something ‘people’ would wear.  Maybe she had something there.  When I tried it on I thought I looked like Indiana Jones’s girlfriend, which my mom agreed with but insisted all the girls would want to be my friend.  She bought me the entire outfit and $70.00 later, I had a jungle print top with beige pants to match, a mustard-colored neckerchief and safari hat.

I woke up very early today.  I put on my Madonna cassette tape and sang into my hairbrush I’m not the same! I have no shame, I’m on fire! I’m burning up, burning up for your love…my bangs, normally a dark clump over my eyes, I blow dry so they are smooth and frame my face. I put on the safari outfit and tie the mustard-colored neckerchief.  I look… not like me.  But I like this Ami better, the new improved, the one who’ll win loads of new friends or at least just be accepted.  We get to school early. Normally I make my brother walk to his class by himself but today I volunteer to walk him.  I am so proud of my outfit I want everyone to see it.  I walk very slowly with my brother, letting everyone enjoy my outfit and the new me.  When we reach his classroom, I kiss Amit’s head and even smile at his teacher.  I am very kind because I feel like I look really good.

The bell rings and my heart pounds for what feels like my debut.  When I walk into class the kids look and whisper.  I smile, yes, yes, I know. I look different—here I am! Rock you like a hurricane. Our teacher is bent over her desk while kids mill around with purpose.  Seeing all the kids look for name cards on desks I follow suit and find the desk that has my name on it, next to a boy named Jason Pridgin.  As I hang my backpack and take my seat I hear the giggling.  I look to see what everyone is laughing about but the kids seem to be looking in my direction and then Mrs. Banks.  My heart falls.

Mrs. Banks my 6^th grade teacher is wearing the exact same outfit as me.  The same safari outfit inspired by the same mannequin. The only difference is where I tied my kerchief so that the knot lies on the right, hers is on the left.  We both opted not to wear the hat.  We both have never been on safari but that’s where the similarities end.  She is in her 60’s with coiffed white hair and she has pink skin and pink lipstick.  She winks at me, walks over, and adjusts her neck kerchief, so that the knot is on the same side as mine.  With all the kids pointing and laughing at the bizarro me and the bizarro Mrs. Banks I sigh, put my head down.




Copyright © Ami Sheth, 2010

I went back to my eggs to give him time to think about what he wanted.  I didn’t think he should be rushed so I said, “Wait while I check the eggs.”   I hate overcooked eggs and I hate undercooked eggs, so I always watch them closely and wait until they seem just right.  This is hard to do, mostly because of the shell.  But just because I can’t see the egg itself doesn’t mean I can’t strive to have mine perfectly cooked. Instead of looking at the egg for some sign that it’s done, I look at the water.   If it has mostly boiled away, and if foam has started to cling to the edges of the eggs, that’s good.  Well, it’s good as long as it hasn’t been happening too long.  If the water has been foaming around the eggs too long, the meat of the egg will be dry and chalky; impossible to swallow.

I took the eggs off the burner and refreshed the pot with cold water before going back to where he sat.  He was, I guess, thinking about what he wanted.   I didn’t say anything, but I sat down beside him and watched.  The perfectly cooked egg needs about five minutes in fresh cold water before it’s ready to be eaten.   The cooling period is important.  Eating the egg at the right time will ensure that the egg is still ever so slightly warm in the center.   So, I knew I had five minutes, and if you’ve ever watched someone pause on stage, in a live performance, for even just a minute, you know that watching someone sit in silence for five minutes is the equivalent of watching someone for an eternity.  Because I knew this, I started talking.  It was my intention to talk about things that weren’t very interesting.  I can be quite interesting or quite boring, depending on what the situation demands.  My intention was to speak, saying things that were not so interesting as to demand his full attention.   Him, thinking about what he wanted, was of the utmost importance to me.

When I started talking I noticed that he turned to watch.  He turned his body just slightly, looked at me, and I could tell by the way he was looking that he wanted (in that moment) to kiss me.  But I could also tell that he was no longer thinking about what he wanted.   He was just wanting.   This was not what I wanted.  I wanted him to stop actively wanting, and to think about his wanting, and to explain it to me in a way that would allow me to understand what he wanted, with regard to me, generally.  Because I was worried that I had distracted him, I stopped talking.  I finished my thought abruptly, and I looked at him.  He looked at me.   I wanted him to kiss me. But I didn’t.  I, at that moment, had trouble prioritizing.  Realizing this, and looking at him (his eyes smiled even when he didn’t) I smiled and said, “Wait, the eggs are ready.”  I said this even though the eggs weren’t ready.  The eggs still needed a minute or two of cooling.  I went to the kitchen and I made some noise: I opened the fridge, I ran the water in the sink, I coughed.

After two minutes, when the eggs were ready, I put them on a plate and went back to where he sat.   He looked like he was really thinking, which was exactly what I wanted, so I decided to open an egg.  I gestured toward the plate, suggesting that he do the same.  He didn’t.

Once I bit into the egg he spoke.  He spoke slowly, which made me nervous.  He was being careful, selecting words.  I tried to focus on my egg, but when I did I realized the flavor was wrong, just slightly different than the flavor I’d expected.  I stopped eating the egg and gave it a close inspection.   Everything looked right.  It looked like a properly cooked egg.  It looked excellent.  And yet.  I put the egg near my nose and inhaled.  It smelled like an egg.  But not. I wasn’t sure, so I took another bite.   He said, “I’m in a really strange place.”  I chewed.  I nodded.

Copyright © 2010, Candra Kolodziej

Daily, unshowered, we brunch at three. Then I press my fingertips to the ground, knees, chin, chest, and with each repetition become thankful that there are no answers. Press the top of my feet into the earth and look for more questions. I consider counting every second for the rest of the day and then change my mind. I finished the dictionary yesterday and will read the last page at noon again today. I hope to be possessed by five. I still find cholera sexy. I touch my skull five times with a stick and allow my soul to leave my body. Some days I believe the world is flat, wish the day was full of only useless things, remember I am only a number, that flowers fall out of fashion. Practice that overlapping stitch, and lower my eyes to recall how you must have felt, blink when I come too close to the answers. Modify a noun. Remember, there are other people. Create a vacancy. Find another start. Begin again.

Copyright © 2010, Deborah Wood