Ayelet Waldman is perhaps best known for having set off a bit of a moral brushfire when she announced in an essay in the New York Times that her love for her husband, the writer Michael Chabon, trumped her feelings for the couple’s children. While that strange business didn’t exactly paint the most attractive portrait of Waldman, there’s no denying that with Love and Other Impossible Pursuits, she has produced a truly compelling novel. The two women at the center of this rather disturbing story are at the opposite ends of a nasty divorce and child custody arrangement; both are self-absorbed and neurotic enough to make Waldman’s perceived transgressions seem petty by comparison. There isn’t really anyone to root for here, but that doesn’t get in the way of the nasty fun (or the happy ending). Almost certainly coming soon to a theater near you.
Author: rakemag
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William Waltz
Literary magazines have long occupied a sort of members-only, marginal status in the world of publishing. Many of these things are butt-ugly, deadly earnest, and, where not subsidized by universities or literary organizations, marked for extinction from the get-go. What a marvel it is, then, to have Minneapolis-produced Conduit delivered to our door “when least expected,” as its masthead says (but always twice annually). That masthead routinely offers up entertaining surprises, including one of the magazine’s proud mottos: “Grant Free Since 1993.” That’s a virtuous and almost shocking boast. Conduit–without grants, advertising, or paid contributors–is consistently distinguished by its beautiful and playful design, its thoughtful, thematically organized content, and contributions from poets, writers, and artists of international repute. Take the new issue, which tackles the subject of work and features interviews with Barbara Ehrenreich and Thomas Frank, poems by James Tate, a batch of photographs by Lee Friedlander, and stunning collages by the late Ray Johnson.
Conduit editor (and poet) William Waltz produces the magazine along with his wife and deputy editor, Brett Astor, and a handful of friends who share their zeal. We recently caught up with Waltz while he was hanging out with his three-year-old daughter and watching Bob the Builder at his home in Minneapolis.
Conduit always looks so fantastic, and seems like it would be mighty expensive to produce. How do you do it without grants or advertising, and why?
We’ve become addicted to color, and every time you add more color, the cost goes up. The current issue features the most color ever. We print a thousand copies, and subscriptions and sales of the issues come close to covering most of the costs; whatever they don’t cover, we pay out of our own pocket. We’re trying to approach a break-even point, but that might just be a dream. We haven’t sought out grant money for the simple reason that IÕd rather spend time making the magazine and working with people than researching and writing grants. It’s always a temptation, of course–you’d love to be able to pay the contributors and the people who help to create the magazine–but there’s also this sort of risk-averse, victimization aspect to the whole grant world. I guess I feel like the thing should be supported and paid for by readers, and that it should stand or fall on its own merits.The spirit of the magazine seems pretty clear, but how would you define its mission?
When I was coming out of graduate school, it didn’t seem like there were many literary magazines that appealed to me. They weren’t much fun to read, and I was kind of fed up with that world. We wanted to make a magazine that was different and that might appeal to people outside the world of academia and poetry circles. At the time, it seemed like humor and design were totally absent from most stuff–everybody these days seems to be paying more attention to design, but I like to think we were way ahead of the curve there. We’ve tried to mix it up, and the object is to maybe get people interested through the interviews and art, and then maybe get them to read a few poems. It’s an uphill battle, but it sometimes seems like we’re making inroads.The names in the table of contents are astonishing. How do you get so many great writers and artists to work for free?
We’re always coming up with wish lists of people we’d like to get into the magazine, and we’ve been remarkably fortunate. We send copies to them, and to our continued amazement they often agree to send up something. Now that we have a little bit of a profile–that’s all relative, of course–we’ll get people who contact us. It’s all pretty amazing, really.You guys eschew typical pagination, using words rather than numbers. What’s up with that?
I guess it’s just one more attempt to get humor into the magazine. If nothing else, Conduit has a sense of humor. We’ve abolished page numbers as part of our struggle to emancipate curious minds everywhere, and, given our fondness for poetry, page-words give us another opportunity to squeeze in more language. Mostly, I suppose, we just think they’re fun. Conduit salutes the impractical. We’re all about the good time, you know? -
Consider Diversity
Jennifer Vogel’s piece on Eric Enstrom’s Grace photograph [“That Old-Time Religion,” December] provides thoughtful analysis of times when religion was “rooted in humility.” However, it neglects to note this image which captures Bovey, Minnesota’s “Christian background” is the official photograph for the state of Minnesota. I learned this a few years back when I (at the time a lapsed Unitarian) and my Jewish friend encountered the painted version of Grace hanging on the walls of the Minnesota secretary of state’s office. As an art historian and activist I find this situation choice of art fascinating. On the one hand, the image is perfect for Minnesota. The vast majority of elected officials are white, Christian men. True, many aren’t in financial straits, but still. Political discourse—be it about reproductive rights, gay marriage, or relicensing nuclear power plants—is aimed at a Christian audience. For example, during the June 30, 2005, Nuclear Regulatory Commission’s open house for relicensing the Monticello Nuclear Generating Plant so it can operate 30 years beyond its current license, members of the public were told employees at the plant volunteered at schools and churches: not mosques and synagogues. So on a political level the image does seem to suit Minnesota. But then one thinks about all of the Minnesotans who aren’t white or Christian. It would be nice, especially for Minnesota’s children, to have a different state photo—maybe one that celebrates Minnesota’s diversity.
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No People Allowed
The January 2006 article “Seven Weeks on the Lean Streets” struck a chord when it pointed out the difference in availability of public facilities during one young man’s trek through the Twin Cities. I often hike through different neighborhoods; I, too, have long noticed the lack of public niceties in poor neighborhoods and the wealth of resources where wealthy people live. One building looks to be a really blatant example of this. The Loring Nicollet Community Center, located on the near south side of Minneapolis, posts it right on their front door: “Sorry—No Soliciting. No Public Restrooms. No Public Telephone. No Bicycles.” They might as well save a little money on the printing and just say: “Community Center—Keep Out.” Not surprisingly, even though I pass there on a regular basis, I’ve never seen anybody enter or leave that building.
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The Speller’s Bible
In the description of the Grace photo, The Rake refers to one of the items in the simple photo as a “book” without further explanation. I assume most of your readers assumed that this book is a Bible. But as I was told by a longtime Bovey resident and neighbor of the photographer that the book is actually a dictionary. On the vote to establish Grace as the state photograph, an object status it would share with the pink and white lady’s slipper, the blueberry muffin, the monarch butterfly, etc., one of my colleagues was voting no because he considered that the theme was too religious and violated separation of church and state. I tried to argue that since the book was a dictionary the photo represented an endorsement of literacy, which he should support. He voted no; the bill passed and most people still think it’s a Bible. The Rake missed a wonderful chance to set them straight.
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Conjugal Nought
The cover of the January 2006 issue of The Rake asks, “ ‘The Sanctity of Marriage’ What are you doing to corrupt it?” In our opinion, the religious right has already corrupted marriage by discriminating against homosexuals, even for civil marriage (a violation of separation of church and state). Though we have been together for ten years, we will not get married until our gay and lesbian friends also have that right. Fortunately, as atheists, we are not compelled to draw our ethics from a “holy” book written by people who thought the Earth was flat and the center of the universe.
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In the Mailbag
This month, lots of short notes of support and opprobrium. We guess you’re busy working off those holiday pounds and credit card bills. Jeff S. writes from Hastings to say he recognized himself in last month’s western-wear fashion shoot, and could he please have an extra copy of the issue to keep for posterity? We say it’s in the mail, cowboy! We officially received protest letter number 1,000 on a Stuart Greene column from, like, two years ago, “Should married men go to strip clubs?” (We thought the matter was, uh, settled law.) Jen writes from Massachusetts (lowest divorce rate in the nation!) to say “no”—because women are inherently competitive and jealous. Conversely, Kimberly Joy Morgan gently informs us that her dreadlocks are the real deal, not faux, as we averred in last month’s Broken Clock.
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Anemoni Sushi and Oyster Bar
Along comes the smokin’ hot younger sister to Azia, the reigning diva of Eat Street. Though it’s housed inside Azia, Anemoni has its own distinctive lime-green vibe, as well as a deejay spinning seven nights a week. The stunning raw seafood offerings include traditional sushi and rolls, but that’s not why you go. You go for the Azia Roll with four kinds of fish and an aioli vinaigrette, or the shizushi with tuna, salmon, and shrimp pressed on layers of sushi rice and snow crab. The comparatively sedate oyster bar offers a fine array of East and West Coast beauties. The sampan seats by the window are a great spot from which to take in the scene. 2548 Nicollet Ave., Minneapolis; 612-813-1200
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A Number
British playwright Caryl Churchill weighs in on the subject of human cloning with her deliciously absurdist and a-tad-bit feminist commentary on the great debate. Set in the near future, A Number is about a man suffering the loss of his wife and son. In his grief, he arranges to have his boy cloned–times three. But thirty years later, those triplets come back mad and kicking. This is a dark drama of devil’s advocacy, in which Churchill imagines the emotions and environmental influences a cloned human might face. During its 2004 premiere, New York critics called the show “Beckettian” and compared it to Harold Pinter’s Theater of Menace. That’s big league! 528 Hennepin Ave., eighth floor, Minneapolis; 612-339-4944; www.illusiontheater.org
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From Jordan >> The Little Shop Around the Corner
At the top of a high hill on the north side of Amman, Jordan, a Baghdadi grocer tends his tiny store. In a ten- by twenty-foot space, he’s crammed just about anything a reasonable person could need: eggs and milk in an uncooled refrigerator, meat in tin cans, shampoos and soaps in faded, dusty bottles, AAA batteries, and heavy duty packing tape. One evening, however, I think I’ve stumped him. “Bidi laymoon?” I ask.
Like a magician, he reaches behind the counter. “Laymoon? Like this? Yes—I have.” In his hand he presents a perfect yellow lemon.
The grocer is about my height, maybe closer to six feet, and forty-three years old. He almost always wears a gray sweater with an old pair of jeans or dark gray wool pants. There are bags under his eyes and some gray in his hair, too. On most days, he wears ragged stubble on his gaunt face. On those days, especially, he looks very old.
I suppose, in a way, we’re in Amman for the same reasons. Our countries crashed into each other and the jolt sent us both flying. I landed smoothly, having flown by choice, he with a thud, forced from his home by the war. We landed on the same hilltop overlooking a city under constant construction, growing like a field of concrete to accommodate the constant stream of others like us.
The diplomats waging the war, the contractors rebuilding the cities, the reporters covering the events, the students learning the language, the aid workers combating the problems, and more than a half million Iraqi refugees have all settled in Amman. It’s the home base for the Westerners, and the temporary home for the Iraqis. For the Jordanians, this influx has brought with it a one hundred percent increase in property values and a nightmare for the overcrowded schools.
I met my grocer the first day I moved in. “Where are you from?” he asked. “America?”
“Yes,” I said. “America.”
“I am from Baghdad,” he said, emphasis on the “dad.” He looked at me sternly. I looked back.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I was trying to be sincere, but felt a little bit put on the spot. I didn’t start the war and I needed some milk.
“Yes,” he said. “I am more sorry.” He waited as I poked around and stepped over boxes. I brought my groceries to the counter. “Saddam Hussein is a very good man,” he said. “Believe me—yes—very good man.” He gave me the thumbs up.
“Masalamma,” I said as I left. It was a strange scene for a native Minnesotan. The checkout people at Cub never engaged me in a political discussion, and I appreciated that. They might have commented on the weather, or maybe made a casual observation prompted by something I purchased, but they didn’t touch politics, and never offered up the defense of a murderous dictator. I walked out the door into the warm and dusty Jordanian night, with the grocer’s friendly goodbye trailing after me.
Everything comes in smaller cartons in this country and the shops aren’t as far away from the homes as they often are in America, so I found myself stopping by the Iraqi man’s store nearly every night. Our early conversations were vaguely political. He defended Hussein and sang Sunni praises; I wondered aloud if perhaps this Sunni hero of his went to some unnecessary extremes with the Shiites and the Kurds.
“Troublemakers,” my grocer said dismissively, and changed the subject. “You don’t look so good today. Tired today? Not like a flower, not like yesterday.” I assured him I’d get a good night’s sleep and headed home with my cocoa powder and tomato paste.
Morning and night, there are other Iraqis in my grocer’s store, smoking his cigarettes and drinking the coffee he brings from home. One hefty middle-aged man always sits on a crate chain-smoking and breathing heavily. When he gets up to shake my hand, it’s not without a great deal of effort and several coughs. He left one day and my grocer told me he was about to die. “All of the Iraqis here, they’re all very sick. Yes, something wrong with every one: blood pressure, diabetes, cancer. We are all very sad right now.”
I assumed those problems probably had to do with poor health care under the old regime and the endless supply of cigarettes, but our logic usually differed, and he attributed the ailments to broken hearts. I wasn’t sure I had the ammunition or the willpower to argue.
One night he hardly muttered when I walked in the door. He was slumped behind his counter on a crate, looking ragtag, gray, and tired. “You see what happened today? Senseless!” Thirty-six people had been killed in a Baghdad roadside bombing. We talked for a while. “Iraq has made my words tired,” he said as I wished him good night. “I must go home.”
The next night I hardly muttered when he issued his usual ebullient greeting. “I’m just homesick,” I said, “and I think I have the flu.” He prescribed a remedy in Arabic and we talked. It was a pathetic follow-up to a roadside bombing, but he didn’t say so.
Through the International Catholic Migration Mission, Suzana Paklar has been working with the Iraqi refugee community in Jordan for the past fifteen months. For refugees, she says, “it’s a question of missing their normal, everyday life. Maybe their life wasn’t even that good back home, but they had a community, and they were somebody in that community.”
Atop a high hill on the north side of Amman, my Baghdadi grocer longs for the community he left behind. Around Amman, half a million Iraqis join him, and around the Middle East—in Syria, Lebanon, and Egypt—several million Iraqis hope for the same thing. My grocer is somebody in the community here—somebody to me and somebody to the friends who share his coffee and cigarettes. And because he’s somebody here, and somebody to me, I wish he was home, too.—Leah Fabel