DISPATCH: A Certain Kind of Evening with Zona Motel (Le Mondo, Baltimore)

James Jacob Hatfield reports back from Zona Day Shift and Zona After Dark

THE SALON

Baltimore is spooky. Which is right up my alley. Gloom is my vibe.

The fog hangs so thick that it soaks the trees so their bark looks black. Now contrast this with dead neon orange leaves. Damp concrete.

Fittingly, the first of two Zona Motel events took place in the Poe Room at the central location of the Enoch Pratt Free Library. A gorgeous building with marble and books and all that. I was a few minutes late to the two-hour salon because I found a rare book area and I took a pit stop at the bathroom, which just so happened to have the biggest toilet I have ever seen.

Bust of Edgar Allen Poe

The idea of entering a room to talk to people you don’t know sounds like being dropped off at Sunday school at a new church.

But I knew some people here. I took a seat aside my long-time editor and friend, Tobias Carroll, who was sitting across from Jim Hanas. They were talking about publishing as the bust of Edgar Allen Poe watched over them. Then after a little bit a fourth person came to complete the box. It was Eric Boyd. He was wearing a Rose Books shirt. He and I were in the first volume of Rose Books Reader and we are fans of each other’s work. Seamlessly we shook hands, then went on talking until we heard the overhead speakers tell us the library was closing.

Eric Boyd and Jim Hanas

The Tobias Carroll

Before exiting I took a blood oath. And I’m not going to elaborate on that.

There was about a two-hour gap before the Zona Motel reading. To kill the time, Eric asked if I’d want to come along where he was going and I immediately said yes. I am on a quest for true writer friends. So far I have acquired three (possibly four). Eric and I went to a seafood diner that he was forced to read at by the organizer. But we got free dinner out of it. As 7 approached we snuck out to head toward Le Mondo theatre.

It was time to go to Part II of our night in the Zona Motel.

THE READING

Izzy Casey

At the start of reading, I’m always curious as to how the first reader is going to do. Nobody likes the cold mic. But you’re responsible for generating a hum or vibration that warms the cells of the people watching so they can eventually mesh and melt into one another so that the audience becomes a single body.

In short, going first sucks.

If you are organizing a reading and are wondering who to put up first, I found your reader. Initially unassuming, Izzy is a small woman with bouncy hair. There was nothing unusual about her but her watermelon green boots. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to hear her over the running ice machine. This was not a problem at all.

Izzy’s voice was relentless and bold. She filled the room with prophetic or sermon-like fervor.

Keep doing what you’re doing.

Lucy K. Shaw

I don’t hear many literary types talking about sports, or the fact that they enjoy watching them. Especially not women. To address such things in non-fiction pieces I think is one of the many ways we can chip away at the social structures around gender. I also like to overthink things like this so, take it as you will.

I want to go on record saying that subtlety is not an easy thing to pull off. And it’s been proven time and time again that it is the most effective way to transfer information.

I think many people didn’t see that this sweetly soft English accent was a vessel for a mighty act of rebellion. But I saw that shit.

Hey Lucy, I see you. Keep doing what you’re doing.

Ivan Genc

I can’t explain where this feeling came from, but when I saw Ivan take the stage, I wanted to kiss him on the mouth. Not in a sexual or romantic way. Just felt like that’s what I was supposed to do. Perhaps I was falling in love with his commitment. You see, Ivan flew all the way from Croatia to be at AWP.

After telling us that he lied to his parents, saying that he was going to America to see about a girl, he opened his set by reciting a poem, from memory, in Croatian called “Notturno” by Tin Ujević. After looking up the translation, it seems to be a poem about dying from taking in too much beauty.

Then he read some poems of his own. I’ve never heard Tomas Tranströmer speak, but something about the tone and cadence reminded me of him. The Croatian accent is very subtle, delightful, and fresh. It was like hearing my own language in a new way.

These first few readers I’m keeping short in their descriptions, but don’t worry, Ivan comes into play later in the night…you’ll see.

Keep doing what you’re doing, Ivan.

Sylvia Jones

Sylvia followed in the footsteps of the conceptual tradition of Amiri Baraka and Allen Ginsberg. To purposely extract the audience’s patience and force a conversation. Which conversation? I have no idea. The beauty of this performance was that everyone might have their own different opinion on what happened, and I think that’s what made it special.

In the beginning, I assumed she was doing what all poets who write in the impactful-super-short vein (think Bill Knotts) do when they give a reading: rushing. She went through her stack of papers rather quickly.

But after a while it felt eerie, like something else was going on.

She looked frazzled and nervous. Rattling through her sheets of paper until, in the midst of a shuffle, one page fell to the ground. If I recall correctly, I think this was the moment she committed to the bit.

After the stack of papers were spent she patted herself down until she found one of the three books she was carrying on her as she continued to read. In comparison, she had already read for double the time that the other readers had.

I had to be enlightened by Eric, whom I had only met at the salon earlier. The two hours I spent with him between the salon and the reading were what some friends can only pack in over a course of days. Which is why, I think he felt perfectly fine pointing out to me what I was missing. Like friends do.

When Sylvia was in the middle of her 35th poem, Eric took my notebook and pen I was holding and wrote me a note that told me she is going to keep going until someone stops her.

I was confused, at first, because I’d never seen it in person before.

I whispered, “Why would she do that?”

Eric smiled and shrugged in a way like Why not?

I was immediately on board.

This was something legends did. Saw the opportunity to raise a question that you’ve been avoiding answering. She confronted the audience.

Here’s how it was resolved: the editors of Zona Motel, of which there are many, sitting adjacent to the side of the stage were leaning over wondering if they should aid in the stopping, or if an audience member should.

Seeing as Sylvia, the self-proclaimed Black Butch, was the only non-white reader, I had very little hope anyone was going to bear that cross. An American would worry about being polite so they don’t get labeled a racist. So it was a good thing we had a Croatian.

Ivan shuffled into her field of vision, put both his hands in front of his face, then pulled them apart slowly in a two-armed wave. He smiled at her. She smiled back. No problems occurred. Because without a lick of hesitation she stopped, seemingly out of breath and said, “Thank you!” Ducking off stage immediately, as if she was thankful to Ivan for releasing her.

You can’t understand relief without pressure.

She exited the stage and walked out the front door of the theatre and did not return. It didn’t feel like a statement, but more like a need to recoup after doing something strenuous.

I would say the majority of people I overheard wrote it off as a losing track of time thing. Which is possible. No one could confirm because she left immediately afterwards.

I experienced it as planned performance art; conditions couldn’t have been more perfect.

I wish she didn’t leave after. I have so many questions. And yet I understand.

Sylvia may be a genius.

Keep doing what you’re doing, Sylvia.

Laura Albert

I think Laura Albert following Sylvia was the best thing that could have happened.

I had no idea who Laura was. When Juliet greeted her, I assumed it was her mom.

She was wearing a hat that looked strongly based off of an American Civil War general. I attempted to make a joke about it to Erik, and he was like, “You know who that is, right?”

My answer was no. But I felt safe with Eric, in that quick friendship kind of way. So, I immediately demanded he enlighten me.

I was given the entire backstory of JT LeRoy.

I assumed at the very least that her reading would be interesting. It very much was.

She read from her upcoming book that involves parts of her childhood where her mother was active in Erhard Seminars Training, the radical self-help movement of the 1970s that encouraged a life of ruthless compassion. Some say it was a cult.

It was very hard to pay attention to Laura because there was a dude with Nordic runes tattooed on his collarbone standing to the side of the stage, staring at the crowd.

I kept wondering if this guy is stoned beyond belief and thinks he’s invisible or something.

But when Laura finished reading, he immediately ducked down and scooted to his seat at the front table. So, he was just waiting to go back to his seat to not take away from Laura.

He was being polite. I’m an asshole.

Later on, Eric was talking to Laura and I was coming to say goodbye. Then I stared at her hat. Then Laura asked me if I was looking at her hat. I said something like yeah.

“I was telling Eric, before he enlightened me of who you were, that your hat looked like a Civil War general’s.”

“Oh,” Laura said as she touched the sides of her head. “It does?”

I was like, “Yeah. It does.”

She wasn’t fazed by the question, and explained it was designed by Gary Graham. Then bowed her head to show that the entire thing was embroidered with lace. Like intricately woven spiderwebs that you can’t see unless you get in close. To put beauty on something that usually repulses us, it creates a very powerful confrontation within.

If you’re reading the story you don’t need this caption.

I felt kind of rude for asking. But I’m sorry, I’m from the South. If you’re wearing any Civil War gear, especially the not-blue kind, Imma ask you about it. Otherwise you’re gaslighting and if you’re a dude it makes me want to beat the shit out of you. I’d never do it, but oh would I think about it.

Didn’t matter because Laura is not a dude.

No.

Laura is a woman.

I know this because she told me to take a picture of her tits.

“Wait take another picture…ready…”

Keep doing what you’re doing, Laura. Never stop selling raccoon penises at the merch table.

Scott McClanahan

After waiting patiently, Scott was introduced by Juliet, his wife.

You know how some people say like, “so and so is mother.”, like, “She is mother.”? I think that’s what Juliet is. She is mother.

Juliet read a quick bio and as she pulled away from the mic she made it abundantly clear that what Scott was about to read was fiction and not true or real in any way. Which meant the story was going to be good.

It is known far and wide that Scott McClanahan is gonna take care of you. The story might have some upsetting or uncomfortable parts, but you’ll be okay, Scott’s got ya. He is the headliner for a reason.

Since the start of the reading, there were people standing in the back because there were no more open seats. Now it seemed there was no standing room either. I could just be imagining that. My chair was facing the opposite direction.

On the stage, McClanahan’s story involved a completely not real, totally made up couple named Scott and Juliet. Where this male character of fiction borrows his wife’s laptop to get some work done and happens upon a photo of Juliet near a man with an erect penis. And the man with the erect penis was not Scott (the fictional one).

Autofiction makes me feel upset, something feels off about it. Even if it is fiction, we can see the characters who are playing in the story. So in my mind I just get angry like, “Is this real or not? I have to know!” But if you’re doing autofiction well, that cringing question doesn’t even cross your mind.

Scott does autofiction very, very, very well.

The story highlighted the violent nature of miscommunication when you are interacting with someone you love. I laughed a lot. I sighed. I smiled. It was so good.

Keep doing what you’re doing, sir.

Post-reading/Pre-bed

I returned to the Hilton near BWI airport. I ate some of the cool candy you can buy in Maryland and put on The Green Knight, now streaming on Netflix. Sean Harris, who is one of the greatest actors I have ever seen, plays King Arthur. While only being on screen for a total of three minutes his performance and improvisation off the original script spoke to me when he addressed the knights around the table. And I wanted to share it, because the mystical and intimate nature of his performance, along with the words he used, reminded me in that hotel bed of the reading I just left. I want to go to another one.

Friends. Brothers and sisters all. I thank thee for breaking bread with me on this blessed day. And it is blessed. For out my window this morn I looked, and I saw a land shaped by your hands. You have lain those same hands on our Saxon brethren, who now in your shadow bow their heads like babes. Peace, peace you have brought to your kingdom, so it is in peace that I now say to you that I…I am the luckiest here today…because I am amongst thee. I am amongst thee.

Mesha Maren and Juliet Escoria, founders of Zona Motel. First AWP appearance.

Keep doing what you’re doing, Zona Motel.