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News The Fly-By

HORRORSHOW

You can teach Old Sparky new tricks. The Tennessean, Nashville s daily newspaper, recently ran a story about Wayne Tabor, a principal at Resource Label Group LLC who has a unique way of getting the best prices available from vendors and ad salesmen. When vendors come in to pitch their wares to Tabor he asks them to sit in a very special chair: an electric chair, complete with leather straps. When asked where he got the idea Tabor was quoted as saying, Our chief executive officer, when he was a young salesman, was made to sit in a chair like this from Memphis. He had to give his sales pitch from it.

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Art Art Feature

WRITING IN MEMPHIS II

Too Much Loneliness?

Isolation is all well and good. But as questioned earlier, can a writer live alone? The answer is: most likely, but it is more fun to have a community. Michelle Buckalew agrees. “We must remember that a lot of great things can come out of talking with authors and people who write,” she says. “There are wonderful relationships that can help our community. [Right now,] It’s so fragmented.”

“A few years ago,” Corey Mesler recalls, “for National Poetry Month, which is in April, Otherlands coffee shop had [roughly] 20 poets read for 3-5 minutes each. It was an entire evening of poetry and the wildest spectrum of poets you could imagine. It was great. And nothing has been done since like that. I wish there more things like that.”

“This is a very feudal city and I don’t just mean academically. Memphis operates in cells,” says Randall Kenan. According to Buckalew, so does most of the writing community. “A lot of writers aren’t aware of other writers. There is no network outside of particular institutions. There aren’t a lot of venues to meet, they don’t foster relationships.”

Shara McCallum, local poet, assistant professor in the creative writing program at the University of Memphis, and current head of the River City Writing Series has something of a different viewpoint. While she agrees that there can always be more options for those inclined toward word-smithing, she would like to see a larger audience in Memphis.

“There are a number of writers in this town,” McCallum says. “So that if someone wished to look, there’s something there to take advantage of. I think that writer’s find communities, find each other. I’m interested in a readership of good literature by people who are not necessarily writers. I think that needs to come back to the U.S. There is a support of the visual artists [by patrons] who are not themselves visual artists. I think that writers are already so insular in terms of our community, in particular in academia and how much that has become a centralized place for writers to exist now. I feel what is important is for educated readers to read literary stuff. I think it [Memphis] is still lagging behind where I would love for it to be.”

Mesler expresses some frustration along the same vein. Though Burkes Bookstore hosts multiple book-signing parties for local, nationally, and internationally known authors, sometimes the response from the citizenry is less than extraordinary. “I’m often disappointed in the turn-out,” Mesler says. “If I could figure it out, I would be smarter than I am. I’ve been doing this for 26 years and I haven’t figured it out.”

He doesn’t think that lack of recognition stops with name writers. “I think what you always miss — and this is unfortunate — is that there are writers who are working very seriously and with great commitment to their craft who haven’t had the success. I am sure there are poets and short-story writers who have placed things in magazines and they just haven’t had a breakthrough and they may never. That’s the sad state of publishing today.”

Buckalew adds, “I think it is so important for the writers to know that they are appreciated and to somehow salute them, acknowledge them in some way because this area is not known so much as other areas.”

A Growing Community.

Admist all this negative talk of the lack of a writing community, there are pockets of Athenian cultures among the prevalent Visigoth society. For example, Royal Stewart, Marketing Manager of the Deliberate Literate sees a mentorship growing in the recesses of his coffee shop. “There’s a gal named Melissa Crouch.” he says. “She’s kind of become a student of Craig’s. She’s in the process of writing a movie and getting all kinds of help.” Crouch, a poet, is now producing her first short films with Brewer’s advice.

These sorts of relationships were unheard of as recently as a decade ago, according to Mesler. “I think the Memphis literary scene used to be non-existent,” he says. “It was a bunch of back-biting curs with egos who wouldn’t talk to each other, wouldn’t give anybody credit. If you were associated with Memphis State [now the University of Memphis], you wouldn’t associate with the Rhodes writing group. That was about ten years ago. I think there’s been a lot of positive change. Tina Barr coming to Rhodes, Shara McCallum coming to the University of Memphis. Those two women bring a lot of energy and a lot of creativity. They care.”

Says McCallum, “I’ve seen some progress. I really have seen some good things happen. So I have hope. I’m not at all seeing it as a dismal thing.”

Kenan, however, is not so optimistic. “I don’t see Memphis becoming Santa Fe or Dallas anytime soon,” he says, referring to those cities vibrant literary communities. “The people’s priorities are not such to cause that to happen. It’s [Memphis is] a blue-collar town. People don’t have a lot of time for it. Which isn’t to say that it dictates destiny because there are working classes very interested in the arts. But it’s not in a lot of people’s priorities.”

All that said, there is a consensus that the writing community in Memphis could stand some improvement without exceeding the city’s critical mass of interest. One such improvement can come from the media.

“I think that — as someone who is looking at the overall spectrum of arts — if the media doesn’t do something, we’re sunk in general. I think there will be a small [writing] community always,” says McCallum. “ I don’t think it will ever be huge. But I think that small community can be better reached and better served if the main sources of information — which is what the media is supposed to be — gets behind us.”

Hancock shares McCallum’s frustration with the press. “We deserve some sort of kudos,” he says. “We seem to get press from all sides except from Memphis. The media just ignores us. It pushes us to the side.”

However, writers in Memphis are at least receiving more interest from the arts community at large. Mesler sees the inclusion of a poetry booth in this year’s Arts in the Park festival as a big sign that the literary arts are moving onto the main stage in Memphis’ arts scenes. “I saw that as a really positive thing,” he says. “When you talk about arts in Memphis, you used to be talking about dance, painting, theater, and music. And nobody gave a thought about writers and the writers didn’t feel a part of the arts.”

In all the cases, there are small steps toward a more general recognition in the city. Such a distinction, according to Brewer is something the city deserves to give itself. “I think Memphians are beginning to reward themselves more. I haven’t lived here my whole life [his family moved to California from Memphis and Brewer moved back ten years later], but I think it’s fair to for me to say that Memphians dog themselves and dog the location.” According to Brewer, Memphis’ growing literary scene is an indication of its acceptance of itself as more than that city between St. Louis and New Orleans.

There’s more. There’s always more. There are writers not mentioned and writing programs not here in this article and ideas not shared. Still, it is a start. The literary word is not dead here in Memphis and is even growing a little day by day. The next time you find out about an author signing or a poetry reading, why not check it out? The wind blows and the rain rains and writers write. Now all that needs to happen is for writers — and readers — to talk about it.

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We Recommend We Recommend

friday, april 27th

The Temptations and the Four Tops, together, at Horseshoe Casino.

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News The Fly-By

Who Are These Guys?

While much attention has been paid to those who make up the Memphis NBA “pursuit team,” little has been given to the potential majority owners who have applied to the NBA to have their teams moved to Memphis. The three men — George Shinn and Ray Wooldridge, co-owners of the Charlotte Hornets, and Michael Heisley, owner of the Vancouver Grizzlies — will most assuredly have an impact on the sporting history of the city. So, it’s fair to ask: Just who are these guys?

GEORGE SHINN: The NBA granted the expansion Charlotte Hornets franchise to George Shinn, 59, on April Fool’s Day 1987. Born and raised in North Carolina, Shinn made millions owning and managing the Rutledge Education System, a chain of proprietary schools. Later, Shinn went into real estate, writing, motivational speaking, and sports teams. Shinn also owns the WNBA Charlotte Sting and the Charlotte Checkers (minor-league hockey) with Wooldridge. Before that, Shinn owned Charlotte’s AAA baseball club, the Knights.

Shinn is the author of five books, including the 1977 autobiography Good Morning, Lord! and Leadership Development, a best-selling textbook. His biography on the Hornets’ Web site stresses his “strong Christian faith.”

Faithful or not, Shinn has been repeatedly criticized in Charlotte for being a cheapskate when it comes to player salaries. Some of the franchise’s biggest names, including Glen Rice, Alonzo Mourning, and Vlade Divac left because Shinn wouldn’t pay the going rates. Shinn’s most famous player mistake was the trade in 1996 that sent Kobe Bryant to the L.A. Lakers for Vlade Divac — straight up. In February 1999 Sports Illustrated urged Shinn to sell the team because his “stinginess has destroyed the franchise.”

And then there is the matter of the two sexual assault cases brought against Shinn in 1999. Leslie Price, a woman suffering withdrawal from pain-killers, accused Shinn of forcing sex on her after meeting with him to talk about paying for her rehab treatment. Shinn acknowledged having sex with Price but denied any wrongdoing. Later that same year, a Hornets cheerleader, Debbie Caddell, also came forward with a sexual assault accusation. (Good grief, Lord!) Shinn’s wife divorced him (go figure) and NBA commissioner David Stern “encouraged” Shinn to sell the team. Shinn at first entered into negotiations with Michael Jordan, but His Airness lost interest when Shinn refused to make him more than a silent partner. When Jordan pulled out of negotiations, Shinn turned to Ray Wooldridge.

RAY WOOLDRIDGE: Wooldridge, 58, founded Space Master International, a modular furniture company, and sold it for a reported $270 million before he bought his share of the Hornets in 1999. Wooldridge paid $80 million for a reported 49 percent share of the team. Wooldridge has been vocal in his crusade for a new arena in Charlotte, a question that will be decided by public referendum. Wooldridge’s original request was that the public be solely responsible for the proposed arena, which did not endear him to the citizens of Charlotte. Since then, negotiations have lessened the tension somewhat and the Hornets have offered to pay for some of the arena costs. Wooldridge is the general manager of the Sting and also a co-owner with Shinn of the Charlotte Checkers.

Wooldridge is — by design — the poster boy for the NBA, brought in to help brighten Shinn’s tarnished public image. “This is a very positive day for the NBA. Mr. Wooldridge should be a good addition to our league,” Stern said at the time.

Wooldridge is a native Memphian who graduated from Mississippi State before settling in Atlanta.

MICHAEL HEISLEY: Chicago-based billionaire Michael Heisley, 63, bought the Vancouver Grizzlies in May 2000. He raised hopes for the beleaguered team by saying, “We are going to build a winning tradition for this franchise …. Having an owner that is committed to this market is an important part.” Less than a year later, Heisley was eating chicken in Louisville while signing relocation applications to Memphis. So much for winning traditions. And commitment.

Heisley is another self-made man. His first profit came from a house he bought and remodeled. He then took that money, bought a business, and later sold it for a profit. He has repeated the pattern on an increasingly larger scale ever since. Heico Companies is now a conglomerate worth $1.5 billion, with interests ranging from telecommunications to prefabricated buildings.

Grizzlies fans initially thought that Heisley might be the owner to turn the franchise around. However, after dismal season-ticket sales (3,000 sold) there were accusations that Heisley intentionally delayed sales efforts. Heisley denied the charges, stating that he had not gotten ownership of the team in time to push ticket sales. A few months later, citing declining attendance, poor TV revenues, and a reported deficit of $46 million, the new owner requested a relocation application deadline extension from Stern and got it. Heisley then embarked on a national tour to shop his team, with stops in St. Louis, Anaheim, Las Vegas, Louisville, Chicago, New Orleans, and Memphis. About the whole affair, Heisley said, “I’m sorry for the way the thing happened. I think the [Vancouver] people have a right to be very disappointed in me.”

Heisley’s biggest impact on the franchise, other than moving it to another country, was the hiring of team president Dick Versace, who has been widely criticized for his lack of experience and his management style. Versace has also had a problem keeping his mouth in check. He was recently asked if the Toronto Raptors, Canada’s only other NBA franchise, might be having problems like those in Vancouver. Versace suggested that the Toronto Raptors would soon relocate to the United States. The comment drew a $10,000 fine from the league. Versace told his team’s media-relations people to pay the fine with their own money since they had not prepped him for the question.

So, there you have them: the three men who could co-own our very own NBA franchise. The lusty, God-fearing cheapskate, Shinn; the homeboy, Wooldridge; and the “know when to fold ’em” Heisley. Who Memphis will get is up to the NBA board of governors, which should have an answer by mid-May to early June. One thing is certain, however: Next to these guys, our pursuit team looks positively angelic.

You can e-mail Chris Przybyszewski at chris@memphisflyer.com.

Categories
Food & Wine Food & Drink

On the Road

A journey of a thousand miles starts not with a single step, as might be supposed, or even with a single suitcase. It starts with the first Egg McMuffin.

Of course, this is my own journey. Yours may start with two tabs of Vivarin and a cinnamon roll, or a latte and a banana, with the peel flung ceremoniously out the window at the first on-ramp. We all have our own rituals for eating on the road.

Travelers cannot eat the way they do at home. Can we agree this is impossible? The fridge has been replaced by a malfunctioning cooler, the dining-room table makes way for the dashboard, and the trusty microwave has been replaced by less savory-looking mini-mart models that have seen the insides of too many overheated cheez dogs.

Some travelers bemoan these changes; they become known as city folks, candy-ass tourists, or Californians (or whatever scapegoat state is next to yours). The savvy traveler adapts, thrives, and then comes to find a whole new sense of security in the away-from-home appetites that emerge.

Now, there may be travelers who lapse into uncontrollable veggie-eating and develop a fixation on dry, whole-grain toast. I don’t see a lot of them in my journeys. Mostly I see other people like myself: We become pigs or kids or some happy combination of the two. Cleaning out the car at the end of a trip is like emerging from a dream, and the longer the trip, the weirder the dream: Did I really eat two packages of beef jerky, potato chips, 10 Mandarin oranges, a whole package of cough drops, a Mounds bar, a McMuffin, and three hash browns?

The funny thing is, much of what I eat when I travel, I eat only when I travel. I have no patience for jerky the rest of the time, but on the road it’s a soothing thing, salty chewing gum that lasts for miles. Ditto for the McBreakfast and all those oranges consumed in one 24-hour period.

It’s garbage, this on-the-road eating. But I don’t really want to change it, though I go through the motions of meal-planning at the beginning of almost every trip. I start out with little bottles of orange juice and maybe granola bars, a gallon or two of water, my own thermos of coffee. But like a much-loved CD or the extra double-D batteries, these healthy ambitions get lost quickly in the inevitable entropy of travel. Granola bars crumble only to reemerge two months later as empty wrappers from car-seat crevices (perhaps the seats have their own appetites, which include more fiber). Orange juice undergoes a miraculous transformation into weak, fast-food coffee (more caffeine, and the cups fit better in the rickety little cupholders). And any vows to eat salad for lunch and a well-rounded dinner come to naught somewhere between rest stop 15A and the “Next Services 52 miles” sign, when ranch-flavored Corn Nuts, a chocolate bar, and a breath mint suddenly seem like reasonable items on the lunch menu mainly because they’re the only things available in the roadside vending machine.

Not that I don’t have some standards when it comes to what I eat on the road. It can’t drip, thus eliminating many otherwise excellent foods such as mangoes, popsicles, and ramen noodle soups. It has to fit in the cupholder or the little change reservoir and be something that I can pick up without looking at. And preferably it leaves residue that I can lick off my fingers.

But basically I want something that has no relationship to my normal diet. I want to mark each trip as outside of my day-to-day life. I want to slip from conscientious to unconscionable as easily as we cross from one county to the next, and I’ll wake up tomorrow with the unspoiled appetite of a child.

Pass the Corn Nuts, please. The journey begins now.


If you’re truly feeling guilty about your road-trip regimen, some intellectual rationalization may help. Call it research, take along one of these food books, and make your trip meaningful, if not dietetically sound.

Food Finds: America’s Best Local Foods and the People Who Produce Them, by Allison Engel and Margaret Engel (Quill, 2000). A quirky and comprehensive road map to all the stuff that you’re going to miss if you’re not from here. The authors cover all the bases, including ordering info for armchair travelers and visiting hours for those who like to meet the makers.

Eat Your Way Across the U.S.A., by Jane and Michael Stern (Broadway Books, 1997). Truthfully, either this or the newer edition of Road Food will keep you well fed. These enthusiastic yet discerning travel eaters can stop on a dime for a roadside joint with something tasty to discover.

Travelers’ Tales Food, edited by Richard Sterling (Travelers’ Tales, 1996). Sometimes it’s not so much where you eat but how. This anthology addresses the latter question with essays on eating from all over the world. A great way to get in the mood for exploration.

Manifold Destiny: The One, the Only, Guide to Cooking on Your Car Engine! by Chris Maynard, Bill Scheller, William Scheller, Christopher Maynard (Villard Books, 1998). Combine dining with driving in an impeccably fuel-efficient way. This isn’t just a theory: These guys provide mileage charts for every recipe. Just tuck that tetrazzini under the hood and drive 45 miles (freeway) until it’s done. You’ll be the envy of everyone at the rest stop! — MW

Categories
Editorial Opinion

“I Am a Man”

“It is history. It serves as a sounding board, and everybody I talk with has been overwhelmed by it.” That’s the quotation from Memphis photographer Ernest Withers with which Flyer staff writer Chris Davis began a profile/review in March of last year, on the eve of a national tour of Withers’ “Pictures Tell the Story” exhibit.

The exhibit, which was just then getting under way in Norfolk, Virginia, has passed through several American cities since then — leaving hosts of overwhelmed viewers in its wake, you may be sure — and has finally arrived home for an extended showing at Memphis Brooks Museum of Art.

Withers is one of those indigenous artistic greats — some others, historically, have been Elvis, Carroll Cloar, Burton Callicott, William Eggleston, and, of course, that near neighbor, William Faulkner — whom the outer world began to celebrate long before we caught on to what we had with us. People everywhere owe their visual sense of what the civil-rights revolution was all about to some poignant or powerful Withers image. He is the photographic chronicler of the movement that transformed America and regenerated the country’s most noble dreams. Withers’ work is history, all right. It captures the pain and suffering of the time, along with the grandeur.

Many an eminence stands fully revealed in one of Withers’ candid snapshots — Martin Luther King, B.B. King, and the pitching genius Satchel Paige are just a few — but the most telling photograph the master ever took was probably one of massed picketers all holding signs reading “I Am a Man” during the valiant and troubled sanitation strike which eventually brought Dr. King to Memphis — and to the last tragic chapter in the Nobel Laureate’s destiny.

No more profound statement of the aspirations of Everyman to claim a fair share of life’s possibilities has ever been captured. Not in words. Not on canvas. Not on TV or in the movies.

Be sure of one thing. Withers himself, that witness to history, is properly overwhelmed by it, but he has never, not for a second, been overwhelmed by himself. No more modest a man exists than this gallant patriarch who in his own being encompasses so much of Memphis’ past and present (among other things, he was — way back in the 1940s — the city’s first black policeman) and who raised several children to maturity and distinction, all to make a daddy proud.

Two of Ernest Withers’ children died unexpectedly within months of each other a few years ago — his namesake oldest son and his son Teddy, who had been one of the founders 10 years ago of that political milestone, the “People’s Convention,” which would coalesce a new voting consensus and produce the city’s first African-American mayor, Willie Herenton.

Ernest Withers grieved and staggered under the burden of such an unkind double blow, but he never went down. Indeed, he kept on working and has continued to take the photographs that will document some of the pivotal moments of our time.

For now and for some while into the future, we trust, we have one in our midst who truly has the right to say, “I am a man.”

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News

Sledding In Heidi Country

Looking around the dinner table, I saw no one I would have met anywhere else. There were two chirpy girls from L.A., a recovering addict from Santa Monica, a Republican political activist from Missouri, a college kid from Maryland, and me.

But the important thing was where we were: a little village called Gimmelwald, on top of a cliff in the Swiss Alps, in a hotel that we called — because we couldn’t pronounce its German name — Walter’s. On this winter night Walter had made the few travelers in his place a pot of vegetable soup, and somebody else had brought wine and bread down the hill from Murren, so we were bonding in that particular way that only travelers in a faraway land can bond.

They say Heidi lived in Gimmelwald, but what they mean is that Old Switzerland is alive and well there. There are no cars allowed in the village, and the whole place is designated “avalanche zone,” so developers are not allowed to “develop” it. So instead of tourist shops and fancy hotels, there are cows and winding footpaths and a log cabin from the 17th century. It’s the Switzerland you dream of: green valleys, snow-covered peaks, flowers in window boxes, and little old bearded men inviting you in for a bowl of soup. The locals have an expression: “If Heaven isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, send me back to Gimmelwald.”

So we sat at Walter’s table and swapped stories and tidbits from the European train circuit: the party hostel in Salzburg, the floating hash bar in Amsterdam, the scenic train from Montreux to Interlaken, the $4, seven-course feasts in Budapest, and the best fish and chips in London. The lines which would have separated us back in the States got blurred, and we met as friends.

There’s a wonderful thing that happens when we leave home; we leave part of ourselves there, too, ideally the masks we normally wear, and given a chance to start fresh for a while, we open up to new possibilities and new people. We find out a little more about who we are, and we’re more willing to share it.

Somebody came in and said the local schoolkids were going sledding and did anybody want to come along? For a moment we all looked at each other, and our eyes said the same thing: “Can this possibly be true? Did somebody just ask us if we wanted to go sledding with a bunch of Swiss schoolkids? Good God, let’s go!”

Yelling thanks to Walter and asking him to save our soup for later, we tumbled out the door in a heap, pulling on hats and gloves, and tore down the hill to the cable car station. Gimmelwald is Old Switzerland, but it’s also a stop on the cable car from down in the valley to further up in the hills. The skiers on their way to Murren barely notice Gimmelwald; most people get it confused with Grindlewald, a resort-filled taste of New Switzerland up the next valley.

The schoolkids wanted to practice their English with us, so we spent the ride up to Murren talking about Madonna and which drugs the recovering addict had done and why Americans don’t know anything about soccer. We also agreed, since this was a mostly male crowd, that it would be an American-versus-Swiss sled race back down the road to Gimmelwald.

Now, about that road. It was a winding, half-hour walk on a one-lane road, with steep hills on both sides — and occasionally stone walls on both sides. A lovely stroll when we first went down it, but one storm later it had become a snow- and ice-covered adventure ride. And now we were going to sled it.

I was paired with the Missouri Republican. We covered the tiny sled entirely. We started, with great excitement, ahead of the other Americans but behind several Swiss.

To steer, such as it was, we would drag our feet on one side or the other. We quickly developed commands — “hard left” and “hard right” or “pick ’em up” for outright speed — as well as a running sports commentary. We were the scrappy Americans trying to shock the sledding world by beating the Swiss on their home hill. At one point, we got it together enough to actually pass somebody and move into third place. The scrappy Yanks took aim at the second-place Swiss sled.

Then we hit the Death Turn — an S-curve covered with ice. The sled suddenly left the ground. We passed that Swiss team, all right, but by then we were going sideways, filling the valley with screams of terror. In the next moment we were somehow tangled together, under our sled, suffering a barrage of Swiss taunting, engulfed in laughter.

We would spend the rest of that night back at Walter’s, trading sledding stories with Swiss schoolkids, and I’ve spent the rest of my life thinking that Heaven probably is a lot like that night in Gimmelwald.

Categories
Theater Theater Feature

Inklings

“It must not be supposed that I am in any sense putting forward the imagination as the organ of truth. We are not talking of truth, but of meaning: meaning which is the antecedent condition of both truth and falsehood, whose antithesis is not error but nonsense. I am a rationalist. For me, reason is the natural organ of truth; but imagination is the organ of meaning. Imagination, producing new metaphors or revivifying old, is not the cause of truth, but its condition. It is, I confess, undeniable that such a view indirectly implies a kind of truth or rightness in the imagination itself.”

— C.S. Lewis

The great Christian apologist and noted fantasy writer Clive Staples Lewis was certainly no stranger to the concept of death. When he was only 8 years old he lost his mother to cancer. Within a year he would also lose his uncle and his grandfather. As an officer in the British infantry during WWI he watched his fellow soldiers go down in the heat of battle, a best friend and former roommate among them.

It’s not at all surprising, given his lifelong proximity to death, that the theme of resurrection is so abundant in Lewis’ fiction. In fact, The Magician’s Nephew is, in the most metaphoric sense possible, an autobiography of the writer’s secret soul. It tells the story of a young man who journeys into a magical kingdom hoping to find a golden apple that will save his dying mother. No doubt, Lewis wished he could have somehow gone back in time and done the same. The Magician’s Nephew also tells the story of how Narnia, Lewis’ fantastical country filled with elves, sprites, talking lions, and deep magic, was created. Shadowlands, which plays at Germantown Community Theatre through May 6th, shows how in real life Lewis created his own, less exciting world in order to avoid the perils of emotional attachment. It focuses on Lewis’ strange love affair with American divorcée Joy Davidman, who died of bone cancer only three years after their secret marriage. It is a simple, straightforward play entirely bereft of razzmatazz. And yet, in its own unassuming way, it’s as moving a piece of theater as you are likely to find.

In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, the first book in the Narnia series, a group of children discover an alternate universe while playing a game of hide-and-seek. In Shadowlands, Lewis, an avowed bachelor, discovers that he has been playing this same game for the better part of his life. He has cloistered himself in a world of literature and religious academia, allowing himself only the company of the curmudgeonly “Inklings,” a group of fellow wits who took as much pleasure in debating theology as they did in swilling beer and telling naughty stories. All the while, Lewis, using intellect alone, has been seeking the love of an elusive and seemingly capricious God. When a bright, attractive, and down-on-her-luck American divorcée stumbles into his life, Lewis, against his better judgment, experiences something of an emotional resurrection.

Though he was born in Belfast, Ireland, C.S. Lewis was almost a caricature of the stodgy comfort-seeking British intellectual. His long-toothed “hrum-hrooming” speech was so very distinctive that friend and fellow fantasy writer J.R.R. Tolkien adopted it for the character of Treebeard in his epic Lord of the Rings trilogy. Former GCT executive director Keith Salter, who plays Lewis in Germantown’s Shadowlands, makes no attempt to mimic his character’s famed vocal tics. In fact, he makes no effort whatsoever to even do a British dialect. And that’s more than likely a good thing. Dialects can be tricky, and a poorly executed accent is a terrible distraction for the audience. It’s far better to focus on honesty and intent. Wisely, Jack Kendall, who plays Lewis’ brother Warnie, does the same. Unfortunately, many of the remaining cast members have not followed Salter’s lead and have chosen to use a British accent. Even if they were proficient in this, which they are not, it would create problems with continuity within the play. As it stands, those who insist on using the sloppy dialects which don’t sound like any language spoken on the planet Earth, significantly diminish the efforts of their fellow actors and the effects of an otherwise solid production.

Salter is positively charming as Lewis. He finds a great deal of humanity and almost as much humor in his character’s utter emotional ineptitude. The anger he expresses toward a God he loves and trusts but cannot begin to understand manifests itself like a swift kick in the groin. Salter is careful not to ever allow his Lewis to become too anti-God. Though he may have been flummoxed by the Almighty’s mysterious movings, and though the script suggests that God is, perhaps, an enemy to man, the Christian writer’s faith never once faltered. Rightly, Salter’s most furiously delivered lines, which are taken almost directly from an essay titled Grief Observed, are at most the complaints of a child who cannot understand his parents’ punishments. Tracie Hansom is no less moving as Lewis’ beloved wife Joy. She is heart-breakingly understated in a role that could just as easily have been rendered as an overwrought pity party. The genuine surprise she expresses when she discovers that she can hold her own among England’s more caustic wits is priceless, and when the character grows ill, the actress chooses to display strength over frailty.

Director Joey Watson has done a fine job steering his actors through an extremely delicate script. It’s too bad he couldn’t get his actors to all speak the same language.

Shawdowlands at the Germantown Community Theatre through May 6th.

Categories
Art Art Feature

WRITING IN MEMPHIS: PART 1

The wind blows, the rain rains, and writers write. It is hard to escape such simple truisms. But a more murky question is this: Where do writers write? Certainly not Memphis? The city known for the Blues and barbeque, independent theater and minor-league sports could not possibly have a writing scene. Right?

Let’s see (in no particular order): Shelby Foote, Steve Stern, Arthur Flowers, Marilou Awiakta, Randall Kenan, Ralph Wiley, Tina Barr, Shara McCallum, Craig Brewer, Marshall Boswell, Margaret Skinner, John Fergus Ryan, Tom Graves, Joan Williams, Corey Mesler, Alan Lightman, Jim Gray, Charles Turner, Cary Holladay, John Bensko . . . okay, the list goes on and on. And these are just the Memphians who are established workers at their crafts, with publications and awards galore. This speaks nothing about the various poetry slams around the city coffee-houses, the occasional reading, and all the writers yet to be known for their work.

Oh yeah, and there is John Grisham.

There are also writing venues. Owner Sarah Hull of the The Deliberate Literate on Union hosts multiple series for area readers and writers to get together and convene with programs like poetry readings, the Yarn-Spinners club, a story-telling center, and the Word from the Basement series. There is the River City Writers Series at the University of Memphis as well as a similar writing series at Rhodes College, both featuring Pulitzer winning writers. The University of Memphis houses an MFA program, and Rhodes sponsors a well-known summer writer’s camp for high schoolers. Both programs publish literary journals, the University of Memphis on a national basis and the Rhodes on a smaller scale, but to much acclaim in academe.

Memphis magazine offers a $1,000 prize each year to the winner of its annual fiction contest. According to Marilyn Sadler who oversees the contest, there are few contests that offers that much. The winning story is published in the magazine.

On the air, Michelle Buckalew hosts The Book Gallery on AM 600 WREC’s station on Beale Street every week, interviewing writers from around the world. On the FM dial, 89.3, The Book Show broadcasts weekly with host Douglas Glover. On TV, the Library Channel (cable channel 18), supports three book shows: Talks with Authors, Library NewsLinc, with a library representative discussing new books available in the Memphis library system, and the “Channel 18 Spotlight,” a monthly interview with various area writers, as well as other artists. On the web at http://www.memphislibrary.lib.tn.us/, you can read book reviews for what is in the libraries or write your own.

Memphis also has a surprising and growing live literary presence in the form of the Poetry Slam, an event likened to “the Olympics” by Slam-Master John Hancock who runs the Memphis chapter of the nation-wide group with co-Slam-Master Benjamin “IQ” Sander. Once a month, there is an “official” Poetry Slam (usually at the Map Room) where 10-13 readers have three minutes and ten seconds to read their work. The five judges then judge the performances (half on the poem and half on the performance). According to the Poetry Slam’s website at www.memphispoetry.com/slam, “Any audience member who isn’t related or sleeping with a poet may judge.”

Last year, the Memphis Poetry Slam team went to a National Poetry Slam competition in Providence Rhode Island, and also a regional Slam in Birmingham, Alabama, where they placed third. Hancock and Sanders are also creating a non-profit organization tentatively called Word Play Ink which will support the Poetry Slam group. They also hope to work toward bringing poetry to the community on a wider basis with such events as Youth Poetry Slams.

Finally, there is the The Mid South Writers’ Association, started by Paul Flowers, an author, journalist, and columnist for the defunct Memphis Press-Scimitar. The group has grown from meetings in Flowers’ home to bimonthly gatherings at St. John’s Episcopal Church, located at Central and Greer. The group publishes Writers on the River, a bi-annual journal featuring the nonfiction, fiction, and poetry of Memphis writers.

So there are Memphis writers and locales and discussions. Big deal. Every city has its own writers. Language, as ubiquitous as it is, extends its grippy fingers to every walk of life and few communes escape. However, to say that a city has writers is not the same as saying that there is a writing community. And while common-sense accepts that writers are by their very nature loners, history accepts the best work of writers coming in groups. Think of Modernist salons or surrealist get-togethers. For those esoteric, think about the Dadaists.

But in the same way that literary writers and thinkers see the world as a big fragmented mess, Memphis writers do not get together too often for coffee. However, such a step would require a unique vibe running through the heart and work of the writers present. Do Memphis writers have a genre all their own?

The Memphis Voice

“When I read a Grisham,” says Rhodes writer-in-residence Marshall Boswell, “I look for landmarks. There’s a southern suburbia to Memphis; all those lawyers and judges. All those spots and landmarks like Silky O’Sullivans. It’s more about a region. It’s restaurants and barbeque. It’s Elvis.” Memphis writers also seem concerned with the city. Says U of M assistant professor, North Carolina native, and Rome de Prix winner Randall Kenan, “That’s a truism about Southern writers. We’re obsessed with place.”

“I’d say that Memphis writers are very steeped in the history of the city,” says Corey Mesler, owner of 125-year-old Burkes Bookstore, who just signed a book deal on his first novel. “In a way, they [Memphis writers] are very pro-Memphis.”

Going away from the printed page to the projected screen, Memphis screenwriter and filmmaker Craig Brewer says, “Storytelling is very important in the South in general. I think it was Peter Taylor who said, ÔWell, the South lost. That’s why there are good writers there.’”

Brewer says other Southern influences are in the writing as well. “Family history is very important, at least it is to my family,” he says. “You can’t help but when you’re in this city and in this location to know that people have a need and are connected to a history.”

But a sense of history and place does not add up to a sort of collective unconscious needed for unity. There has been no defining great Memphis novel. “I haven’t seen that captured,” says Boswell. “It’s under-appreciated and it’s not real flashy, so I think it’s going to take some carefully nuanced observation to get at it.”

Says Buckalew, “I would say that most of the local writers are just looking. They’re looking, I think, for a voice.”

“I don’t think that Memphis [writing] has a specific feel. I don’t think the Blues influences it or anything like that,” says Hancock. “What I do feel is that there are a lot of people in Memphis who think outside of the box more than people expect. They think a lot bigger than anyone else in the country would realize. All the artistic history that is here in the city breeds people to be artistic in one way or the other. A lot of that comes out in their writing.”

That voice can lead to untapped reserves of writing potential in the area’s students. Says Kenan about his students, “They have a lot of material. I think the sad thing is that they don’t realize how good it is. I spend a lot of time trying to convince people that their mundane, unexamined circumstance is just their niche. I can’t believe more people haven’t written more.”

“I think Memphis is fertile ground,” says Boswell, a native Memphian. “Tom Wolfe did his Atlanta book and figured the mainstream of the country is being generated from this part of the country. I think the South is the center of designing the culture right now.”

Try preaching that to Hollywood, who is currently at odds with Brewer over the location of his next movie. “That’s kind of the deal breaker right now,” Brewer says. “I go to these meetings at New Line Cinema and Universal and they’re like, ÔDoes it have to take place in Memphis?’ Well, yeah. It’s such a unique place.” Brewer’s recent success seems to prove his point. “You know what’s funny about Poor &Hungry,” Brewer wonders aloud, “I was so expecting that once I got past the Mississippi [River], no one would be interested because it was regional. It was quite the reverse. I think the South is one of the last mythological places in America. Too much has fertilized this soil.”

If the South is such “fertile” ground, not all writer’s feel enough people realize that. Says Hancock, on his experiences at national Poetry Slam tournaments, “On a National level, there’s a Northern stigma against the South in general. It’s difficult to convince people that we’re not just a bunch of illiterate hillbillies. So many people don’t appreciate their Southern literary heritage. They don’t realize how many great writers come from our area. It’s sad to see that when you go out and perform a piece that has nation-wide or world-wide appeal and it confounds an audience that doesn’t know what to expect from a city like Memphis.”

A Writer’s City?

Fine, so there are writers and at least some common vibes about which to write here in Memphis. But does that make Memphis a good city in which a writer can live? What makes it interesting for writers to work here? One major benefit is that Memphis is away from the center of the literary world such as the giant literary agencies and presses and even the smaller, independent scenes.

It is that separation that can be good for a writer’s life. “I’ve lived in literary towns and non-literary towns and this is one of the least literary towns I have been in,” Kenan says. “Which, for a writer, is wonderful because you aren’t sub-conscious about it. People aren’t rhapsodizing about the place from a literary standpoint.”

Barr thinks Memphis is a good place for her and her muse. “It’s been very good for my writing,” she says. “It’s allowed me to focus. It’s different if you are in New York and you are going to miss the Metropolitan Opera. It’s quiet [in Memphis], and that’s good for my work.”

Says Hancock, “I think it’s [Memphis Writing] more ‘salt of the Earth.’ With a lot of the writers in the city, I don’t feel synthetic words from these poets.”

Brewer says that the cacophony of peers can be deafening. “When I went out to L.A.,” he says, “I was there for a week. I realized on about Thursday of that week that my ideas began to get stupider. When you get so close to the industry, in my case the film industry, your thoughts begin to sound like everything else around you.”

However, Brewer, who does a good amount of his writing at the Deliberate Literate, also finds inspiration in Memphis’ peculiarities. “I remember coming back home and it was Dead Elvis Week,” he recalls. “I was glad I was back and I was that I live here.”

Part 2 of this article will appear in tomorrow’s On the Fly.

Categories
Book Features Books

Selected Nonfictions

As it is in Larry Brown’s fiction, so be it in Larry Brown’s nonfiction: straight up. Language: straightforward; method: straight-shooting. He’s made that way his way in short stories and novels, in one work of nonfiction (On Fire), and again in nonfiction, now, in Billy Ray’s Farm (Algonquin), a new selection of previously published magazine articles, plus a closing essay titled super-economically “Shack.”

That “shack,” like the author’s writing, is simply put: a set of walls and roof Brown built with his own hands on his own land in Tula, Mississippi, where, if he wishes, he can watch the rain come down, maybe step outside and fish, maybe strum a guitar. Maybe write? Sometime, perhaps, when the tiny building is finally finished and when, as he describes elsewhere in these pages, he is: not on a book tour, not at the Enid Spillway “fish grab,” not at Proud Larry’s in Oxford, not aiming at coyotes, not rescuing goats, not wrestling with a “calfpuller” and mother heifer and unborn calf, and not remembering the kindnesses shown to him by personal hero Harry Crews and an unsung hero praised nonetheless by Flannery O’Connor, Madison Jones.

Brown met Jones in 1989. The occasion: Brown’s first literary conference. And it’s an occasion in Billy Ray’s Farm for Brown to state explicitly what Jones succeeded in doing and what Brown, implicitly, hopes himself to achieve in fiction: “a relentless forward drive of narrative”; “the ordinary things of life [witnessed] with great clarity, [the] weather and seasons and the land that lies around the characters”; “people … caught up in the events around them and swept forward … to the point where drastic actions can result.” In short, fiction populated by “people breathing and moving and acting on their own, as if this story was simply found somewhere, fully formed.” Better put, shorter still: to make something that “makes you forget that you’re reading.”

Needing, however, more than a cow’s prolapsed uterus in the way of “drastic action”? Conflict both internal and external, on a grand scale? People caught up in events and swept forward, even unto certain death? Something nowhere near the “ordinary” but “things,” the weather, the seasons, the land around people so caught, witnessed with great clarity? Anthony Loyd’s My War Gone By, I Miss It So (in paperback from Penguin) may be a story the author found fully formed when he first set foot in Sarajevo in 1993, but you’ll in no way forget you’re reading. You may in fact feel the urge to stop reading and throw up once inside this eyewitness reporter’s heroin-fed brain and inside his depiction of contemporary warfare, Balkans-style and centuries in the making.

That this author is still alive isn’t a matter of luck, it’s a matter of miracle. When he isn’t shooting up on return trips to London, he’s shooting (as cameraman) any number of atrocities and being shot at (as sitting duck) by any number of sides responsible for those atrocities in war-torn Bosnia.

Loyd’s employer was The Times of London, but Loyd’s outlook isn’t a seasoned newspaperman’s cool detachment. He knowingly, repeatedly, recklessly, suicidally (?) plants himself where the going gets tough and the tough (including innocents) get … what? In the way. Of bullets and bayonets and worse. Those bullets and bayonets, backed by bloodthirsty commanders backed by competing, insane nationalisms, this book does something to explain but in no way explains away. Better, as in the case of a kitten making off with a man’s spilled brains or as in the sight of a disoriented crone wielding a man’s severed leg, you, like Loyd, cast your feelings in the bin marked “horrible” and wait “until the night’s darkness paroles them into your dreams.” That a self-professed fuck-up as major as Anthony Loyd could pull himself together and graduate to writing this good must say something about A) the educational might of England or B) the survivor instinct inbred in Loyd from a host of military forefathers. The result either way: a dispatch from the nightmare also known as front-page news.

An altogether different, private, bloodless nightmare presents itself the second you so much as read a word of Roberto Calasso’s Literature and the Gods (Knopf), the private portion being the realization, despite education and reading, you don’t know squat. The least but immediate of the book’s virtues? It’s short. Meaning: a complete reread isn’t an option, it’s a given. The topic: nothing less than the foundation of Literature itself, with a capital L; man’s perception of the gods as real entities, interceding, wrecking, inspiring earthly affairs and stretching back to archaic Greece and antique Rome; the much earlier source of that interplay, the early Vedic verses and ritual practices of India; and the revolutionary reworking of individual consciousness that took place in 19th-century Germany and France, according to avant-garde theories of artistic creation, the very well-spring of modernism. Course requirements: a working knowledge (preferably in the original but translations, for wimps, provided) of Baudelaire, Heine, Hölderlin, Lautréamont, Mallarmé, Nabokov, Nietzsche, and Novalis, and never will you feel stupider than you will reading this book. Dig out from college your thinking cap and forget about forgetting you’re reading.