Moran Press: Handmade and Exquisite by Su Zi

 

Serendipity is still a joy of cyber cruising—there are voices in quiet places that open our worlds. During a search for hand made books, there is a series of videos that show two hands and a voice hand sewing a blank paged pocket notebook. Other posts show choices of handmade, mulberry paper and asks viewers which ones they like. These videos are the product of Moran Press. While many fans of the press’s social media posts might find relief, if not delight, in viewing a diligent craftsman performing an ancient form during their scroll; however, there are actual books to be had.

Intrepid viewers do purchase the journals: we are shown posts of packages being shipped. The skeptic of scammers might cringe at the prospect of online purchasing from independents, and while caution is 

caveat, there are, nonetheless, independent artists who have been painted into a corner by big boxism and have only the abyss of the internet in which to whisper their products. 

The Moran Press website announces its books as “hand sewn, hand cut, hand sanded edges. US shipping only” and then has photographs of the various mulberry paper patterns as covers for pocket journals. There are individual journals and a bundle offering of five with cherry blossom paper. Over time, the availability of books and cover patterns does vary.

A purchase from Moran Press arrives is a poly mailer and a solid box that opens to reveal the journals ordered mindfully packaged in brown paper. Each fits the palm in a warm way. The spines reveal the stitches, and the books open to their contents of a parchment bond paper that melts with the media of the scrivener when used. As a gift, the journals tuck nicely into holiday cards; recipients have testified to a delighted wonder.

Occasionally, the press makes hardbound journals, and these are a lovely to hold: the cloth of the books has a warmth to the hand, the stitching both delicate and durable. The palm-sized physicality enhances portability, and these journals can slip easily into any pocket or bag. However, because they are individually made items of a traditional craft, their availability is a pounce upon opportunity.

And there are the print books, hand sewn chapbooks, and of these there are two categories: classic titles and works by Stephen Moran. The classic titles are reprints of Poe, Mellville, and, rather stunningly, Charlotte Gilman’s Yellow Wallpaper –- challenging our notions of what editions we read, what editions we give as gifts. The Melville, being Bartleby, has a black card stock cover sewn to the text with seven drill points and white thread. The text is presented naked—there are no denotations within the text beyond title and author at the top of the first page: this is rather obviously an art endeavor; a readable, portable, homage to a classic of literature with a respectful presentation.

And then there’s Server, also a handsewn book with a black cardstock cover, but with text that features a collection of short stories by the press’s owner-operator, Stephen Moran. 

This edition has a collage cover for title, image, author and back cover that includes the press logo. Also sewn with seven points and white thread, this book features a frontspiece, a copyright page, a table of contents and a preface, as well as end papers that list others of the author’s books. The work hosts some sixty pages but is still visually distinct from fully machine-produced small press titles.

Server, although presented as a collection of short stories, reads as

an episodic novella, with a consistent character named Scott, who works in a restaurant. There are scenes of difficult guests that ought to particularly tickle anyone who has worked in the hospitality and food service industries. Moran’s prose style is compressed: “The music played, people talked and the bartender washed glasses. Scott scanned the bar, wondering what thoughts others might be harboring” (12). The use of simple declaratives in a series is an effective pattern and functions to both allow specific detail while moving the narrative arc at highway speeds. In “Transitory”, the opening line also follows this strategy: “The alarm chirped in Scott’s ear, and he couldn’t stop the incessant sound without rising, as he’s placed the clock on a table across the room” (32). The flow of this sentence is enhanced by the assonance in alarm/ear but is furthered by chirp/incessant/rising and the reader is awakened to the scene with the abruptness experienced by the character. 

If experience with a book, a bookish book, could soothe our soul’s ills, then Moran Press wouldn’t be relying on organic reach; however, respite does allow us to rest, and to rest with a book is one of our greatest cultural traditions—whether writing in one, or reading it. For these small moments of solace we still seek, these handmade books remind us that such small graces still exist.

Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago. Check out her author page on Amazon.

Light Reading: An Essay by Su Zi

 

Light Reading

Once, in a crowded and large room that was an unending school assembly, a girl handed me a water-logged book of some thickness. The arc of the prose was some ridiculous derivative swill with maybe a troll, but the book allowed for the meeting to fade—the joy of light reading.

Although research skills are culturally crucial, there is equal value to a bit of a romp; a reading experience which provokes satisfaction without rigorous concentration.

How such books come to hand is the odyssey of each book—a fascination for authors—a personal favorite being a cabinet at a resort introduced as “for people who like to read” here is found a stumble upon pile of print material of various editions, formats...whatever little leaves the currents have cached there.

Nonetheless, some people who like to read habituate festivals as well and therein find unlikely candidates to read perhaps because of a pleasant exchange.

Thus comes to hand The Pot Thief who Studied D.H. Lawrence by J. Michael Orenduff, a murder mystery, and one of a series of Pot Thief novels. Of the positioning of this particular novel in the series, Orenduff gives three pages to the topic at the end of the book—why this fifth book was written before the third. “Then I went to Italy for the summer because my wife was scheduled to teach art history in Florence” (231). The Pot Thief series then appears as a work of some dedication. 

The running joke is that the pot thief is a ceramicist. The series are his adventures, and Orenduff has the character discuss this fairly swiftly when the character explains of himself, “I’m a treasure hunter” (12).  Later, as the work lavishes the research that drives the adventure, Orenduff has various attributes of the subject highlighted by character discussion.

‘Right. When the Spaniards converted the natives to Christianity, the Indians saw the Virgin Mary as the white man’s Pachamama. The priests didn’t object because it made the conversions easier if you didn’t force the Indians to give up all their former images [...] pre-Columbian renderings of Pachamama show a female-like character in the shape of a mountain. But after the Spanish came, the Indians painted her with a halo and western clothes. And those are the ones that sell today” (57).

The narrative arc involves a snowstorm, an event and murders—and these are handled without splattergore that re-nominates the book as community friendly.

In circumstances where someone who likes to read might find themselves in a situation where the satisfaction of length of achieved, but with a lighter draw upon situational concentration...perhaps even a picnic... The Pot Thief series will certainly entertain.

Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago. Check out her author page on Amazon.

An Equestrian Reads Dick Francis: Essay by Su Zi

An Equestrian Reads Dick Francis

 Insofar as genre writers might have some renown, Dick Francis has been a fairly ubiquitous name as an author. The roving reader might happenstance a copy, and the title which somehow found its way was Whip Hand in a rather nice, 1979 hardbound, first edition. Of course, the title is of significance to every equestrian, as there are rules about the holding of whips; traditionally held in the left hand, a skilled reinsman must switch hands with the whip quickly and fluidly.

The work in one in a series, with established characters, however, the protagonist wears a prosthetic hand. A casual poke into the offerings of the AI reveals that the disability of the character is well-reviewed and cites a sector. com article that, in part, says that “readers with disabilities generally respond positively [...] for providing some of the most nuanced, respectful and realistic disability representation in 20^th-century popular fiction” Francis doesn’t muck about with being coy about the disability, as the first sentence of chapter one says 

“I took the battery out of my arm and fed it into the recharger, and only realized I’d done it when ten seconds later the fingers wouldn’t work” (3).

And whilst many disabilities do not involve prosthetics, being introduced to a character with a disability at the starting bell is rare even in writing that is specifically about disability.

But the topic is horses, or rather a story involving horses, and equestrians might sometimes also be sensitive as to the accuracy of representation. Francis indirectly gives us a description of horse trainers— a crucial person in the life of an equestrian, but not a particularly well-known character type, generally. “Some of the cream of the world’s bloodstock floated year by year to his stable, and even having a horse in his yard gave the owner a certain standing” (7). While it might be as true a description of any well-renowned management team for any athlete or performer, the reader ought to consider the triplicate nature of what Francis undertakes in his writing: to have his characters in a series show consistency in behaviors, to have his first time readers understand the series well enough to sit down for the whole read, and to not get the equestrian details wrong.

These are racehorses, and often enough, our protagonist takes us to the track—not the visitor side, but the working one.

“Outside the weighing room there was the same old bunch of familiar faces carrying on chats that have been basically unchanged for centuries: who was going to ride what, and who was going to win, and there should be a change in the rules, and what so-and-so had said about his horse losing [...] the same mingling of honor and corruption” (17)”.

And while this view might be close to form for those who have been to the back side of a racetrack, for those who have not, Francis makes this acerbic observation:

“City dwellers might be addicted to gambling, but not to fresh air and horses. Birmingham and Manchester, in days gone by, had lost their racecourses to indifference” (17)

And while the book’s copyright is now near a half century ago, those who had a fondness for racing do have the demolition of the great American racecourse Arlington Park to mourn in recent memory, and to emphasize this author’s point.

Horse savvy readers might be more savoring of Francis’ doings among horse people, and certainly there’s enough sub plot to entertain even the young and restless reader, but what of the horses themselves? It is about the horses themselves that dick Francis begins to surge out of the pack of horsie-set storytelling:

I had enjoyed it well enough when i was sixteen, on account of the horses. Beautiful, marvelous creatures whose responses and instincts worked on a plane as different from humans as water and oil, not mingling even where they touched. Insight into their senses and consciousness has been like an opening door, a foreign language glimpsed and half-learned, full comprehension maddeningly balked by not having the right sort of hearing or sense of smell, nor sufficient skill in telepathy” (69).

Francis gives further insight in the following sentence, “The feeling of oneness with horses I’d sometimes had in the heat of a race had been their gift to an inferior being” (17). And while not every equestrian has experienced both Francis’ insight and experience, the tradition of equestrianism has that perception as a pinnacle of achievement.

For readers who might be more of what Francis called a “city-dweller”, the experienced components of the genre are well-represented in this detective story. For those with no taste for splatttergore, Francis has a certain remove from his protagonist that makes even the grueling-but-expected scenes of violence to be more psychological terror than the slow motion explosion that can be too distressing for a casual reader. In all, Francis provides a pleasurable trail-ride of a read for someone who might know how to hold a rope, and is apparently popular enough with those who don’t; nonetheless, a solid ride for all levels of experience.

Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago. Check out her author page on Amazon.

Essay by Su Zi: Citizens’ Alert

Many of us have already survived the rising tides of climate catastrophe. Current predictions do not include a return to paradise, and, in fact, are fair warning of future fiascos. Perhaps, it might be wise to consider that which has been written about such events to enhance, at least, personal preparedness.

Published accounts vary widely; however, a memoir of a storm by Riza Oledan-Ramos/ Walt FJ Gooding called Drinking Seawater, which was acquired at a bookfair, contains a scene of evacuation:

This wasn’t your typical storm. This was something entirely different—something of a completely different nature than I or anyone else had ever experienced. It was as if it were alive. It sounded and felt as if it were a living thing—a conscious, breathing, thinking being with an intention, and on a mission. It was trying to get to us. First it tried the front door, then it tried the side walls; then the windows, finally the roof [...] it pounded and howled and screamed at the roof[...]the howling never stopped. It pounded and shook and finally it got its way. It tore our roof off and flung it into the night as it raced inside after us (12)

The arc of the narrative is that of aftermath, personal and specific enough to include both photographs and a survival checklist.

There are professional published accounts as well, and now, although time has passed, the possibility of Gulf storms has not. While myths about storms not coming ashore was disproven by Asheville, North Carolina, aftermath can take a generation for some healing. It has been a generation, now, since the storm that directly hit New Orleans, but mention of the storm among locals is a demarcation in time. Professional accounts of Katrina include that of New Orleans journalist Chris Rose 1 dead in attic (2005), also a memoir. In this case, the protagonist returns to see what is left and return to work. 

And I’m telling you: it’s hard

It’s hard not to get crispy around the edges. It’s hard not to cry. It’s hard not to be very, very afraid.

[...]

We have a generator and water and military food rations and Doritos and smokes and booze. [...] Some of these guys lost their houses -- everything in them 

[...] 

And they stink. We all stink. We stink together (22)

Rose also makes mention of celebrity journalists, “The satellite trucks stretch for eight blocks on Canal Street. [...] I saw Anderson Cooper interviewing Dr Phil, Dr Phil’s camera crew filmed Cooper, and about five or six other camera crews [...] filmed all of that “(26).

Anderson Cooper included a chapter about Katrina in Dispatches from the Edge (Harper Collins 2006), along with accounts of Tsunami, Iraq and Niger. That an American city would be in the same celebrity catastrophe accounting ought to serve as warning as well. Cooper begins his account by counting corpses:

[...]the searchers find a body lying on a sidewalk in an empty-cul-de-sac.I think it’s a woman; at first, it’s hard to tell.  Water wipes away identity, race, even gender. I think she’s African American, but her skin appears white, translucent almost.

Someone has covered her face and part of her body with a dirty bedspread. Her feet and hands stick out.

[...]

The team takes pictures—Click, Click—then records the woman’s GPS coordinates

[...]

I never thought I’d see this here, in America—the dead left out like trash. None of us speaks. (138)

Cooper’s narrative is interspersed with personal recollections of the city, as he tells us of individual moments of aftermath. Yet, lest someone take sole hope in evacuation centers, Cooper interviews Dr Greg Henderson, who arrived at the evacuation point, “discovered that there was no medical team there, just evacuees. Thousands of them.” (161). Cooper describes the interview site as “standing on a garbage-strewn street outside the Convention Center one week after the storm” where Dr Henderson says, “This is where hell opened its mouth” (160). As for the evacuation point itself:

They were packed in everywhere, all the way into to the street, and pretty much the other side of the street; it was just one mass of humanity. No air-conditioning, just people crying and dying. Crying and dying (161)

Cooper witnessed the Katrina aftermath for a few weeks. He makes a remark that ought to be useful for us in preparation, as he asked officials questions: “Demanding accountability is no game, and there’s nothing wrong with trying to understand who made mistakes, who failed. If no one is held accountable for their decisions their actions, all of this will happen again” (191).

These three accounts of once-rare, now frighteningly possible, super storms, must give sane people pause, especially as the northern American continent is already beleaguered with drought, fires and heat in the wake of some devastating arctic storms. Whether or not we want to consider the weather might be keystone to community, if not personal, survival. Perhaps we ought to take some consideration time while we still have it.

Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago.

               

Check out her author page on Amazon.

Essay by Su Zi: Voluntary Service

 

Voluntary Service

There is a place we sleep, and often we call that place home.

The physical area around our home is our community; although we also can have communities of interest that are not as tied to walking distance, that can be just as foundational to our lives as a safe place to sleep.

Just as the quality of our sleep-nest affects us, so do the qualities of our communities; however, just as there are ways we can make more pleasant our homes, there are also ways we can make our communities more pleasant as well, by the occasional lending of a hand.

Ecological disasters do bring forth any neighbor who is adept with a chainsaw, but we need not wait to meet the neighbors until the fourth day of no power.

Yes, everyone is beleaguered with worries, and there are some people who are stymied, who might circle and snort or yowl and cause tonal chaos, or worse; however, humanity has virtues, and to this, we seek solace.

In the memory of our deepest comforts, there is pleasure. Perhaps we kept that pleasure alive through hobby. Perhaps we read up on it some. Perhaps we attended events and were immersed in a group of other people who too are there to enjoy.  We gain energization, and we carry that into our next days, sharing that happiness: we had a good time.

The adage to do what you love requires economic commitment, but

what if it was just the time of day

a day

given

It might be that you arise in the dark and first light finds you at a local park, perhaps. You cannot help but see the first of the day’s rays greet the trees, and you get to stand there a minute, however long you can hold still and watch the glow. Of course, there’s the event office, and whatever you have signed up to do, whatever equipment the event coordinator is required to provide for the day’s use: a clipboard, maybe. Every event held outside relies on volunteers, and the list of local events is not difficult to locate—festivals and exhibitions, sporting events and inter-species events such as dog trials, agricultural festivals and horse shows.

I have been a volunteer since the 20^th century, since childhood when mamma allowed me to work a shift at Barb Sielaff’s recycling center. It is what one does.

 For the past few decades, I have given of myself to those magnificent, much beleaguered beasts that city folk call horsie stuff. Over time, I have become increasingly fascinated with the influence of horses on humanity, on the best of ourselves, our humanity. We shared our lives with horses—as many of us continue to do with dogs and cats and birds and aquatics. And yes, it’s true that I, too, have been down the centerline—there are trophies and ribbons and photos and certificates—but the joy of it is more than recorded service to the sport.

It might be that

On a February morning that has been now a February morning for well-nigh thirty years, you again pass through well-known gates and great your hostess, now an acquaintance after all this time, all these shared years here.

It might be that

There is, in the glowing morning, a one hundred- and fifty-year-old run about, made of trees that no longer exist, and stunningly slender and elegant of line, the original wood a soft patina in the last of dawn.    

It might be that

You take your hat and drive through the dark, and whoever is there at the gate, you still take your spot under a certain tree. Maybe there are tents and golf carts, plastic tables and urns of coffee, a t shirt with the event logo. The layout always puts the arena on a prepared hill, carefully constructed for level footing, There are international flags, there are international languages; best of all, there are horses: a Shetland and Chincoteague and a Fjord pony, Morgans and not only the big Dutch harness horses, but teams of them—a song in percussion of hooves and earth.

It might be that

You see someone you know, have known. That the years were or were not kind matters not because here you are now, seeing them, bumping shoulders, How the hell are ya?, your hats allowing a moment’s glimpse into each other’s eye; yes, we are still here

It might be that

Here comes someone you know, early for the in-gate, circling the trees in figure eights. You remember a moment decades ago, maybe before the almost gown son on the back of the carriage was out of swaddle, and you speak a sly joke, maybe and there’s a smile. Yes, we are still here, we have seen some things, and how wonderful to see you now.

And thus, go forth: lend a hand to that which is joy, which flowers from your open heart.

    Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago. Check out her author page on Amazon.