It’s the usual blogginess—thoughts, photos, overheard tidbits, and comments on what I’m reading.

Feel free to have a gander, and of course, if you’re feeling generous, I never met a link I didn’t like!

In our family we went to Mass every Sunday. My mother took all the commandments of the Church seriously, so attendance was not voluntary. Even if we were far from home, camping somewhere, or visiting friends out of town, when Sunday morning came, Mom would collect us from our disparate activities and we would tromp off to the local St. Anne’s. In those days the ceremony was still performed in Latin, with the priest turned away most of the time, so from my six-year-old point of view, it didn’t really matter where we were. I stared intently at the backs of other parishioners, and breathed in the pervasive smell of Altar Society flowers and incense left over from Easter. The monotonous repetition of prayers in a dead language, the background of brown wool in the winter and print dresses in the summer, the lack of expression on the faces of the people known and unknown, served to lull me into a state of musing quietude. I spent all that empty time daydreaming, spinning out endless, convoluted fantasies. I knew how to keep up outward appearances, repeating “mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa” as if I had something to feel guilty about. We all sang “faith of our fathers, holy faith, we will be true to you till death.” It was the most delicious feeling, experiencing a hundred martyrdoms in my head, all the time knowing that I was completely safe.
There was so much we didn’t know about then. When I was twelve, and the “˜60s were over, I remember looking at a LIFE magazine retrospective issue: THIS TURBULENT DECADE IN PICTURES. All of those famous images—monks in orange robes engulfed in red flames, the bodies of young college students lying lifeless in the quad, the Beatles playing at Candlestick, unable to hear themselves think because of the screaming. It must have all happened in another world. Much more interesting to look at my mother’s box of loose photos—me in First Communion white, with a real veil I kept in its white box until I was way past thirty; my sister and me tearing open Christmas presents under a massive tree; my mother, flushed and smiling at some forgotten Church social. I knew more about transubstantiation, that mysterious alchemy that only priests were allowed to perform, than troop movements in Indochina, or Martin Luther King.

Esther ““ Age 47 ““ San Francisco
from 400 Words, Issue 1–Autobiographies
page 72

It was always cloudy in my town. Some people get a headache when it’s about to rain—those people would have a headache all day. When it did rain, the green was electric and the flowers (lilac, forsythia, heather) would spring at you like wild cats. Winters were icy, locked-in, white and grey. Little boys had long hair and little girls, macramé bracelets that never came off. I went barefoot whenever I could, and my feet were brown and shiny. I never wore a dress, except when I visited grandma. I cursed like a sailor, except when I visited grandma. I took walks alone to the waterfall, to the candy store.
Mom and dad got divorced and we left that town, leaving the lilacs, the headaches, and the favorite black tomcat. For years I found it hard to breathe, to swallow. Visits home were bittersweet, and now it’s not really home anymore. When people ask me where I’m from, the name of the town still comes out of my mouth, but it feels like a lie.
Home now is a rectangular refuge in a brick and asphalt universe. The window screens fill with soot and car exhaust. A raucous music beats against the building: sirens, taxi-horns, drunks, hip-hop and salsa from passing cars. Grandma is dead and I still curse like a sailor, but I know how to clean it up. My closet is full of dresses. I never go barefoot. The cats are confident in their permanence. I take walks alone, but there is no waterfall. I belong to myself.
Yesterday some friends told me they had visited my old town, for a wedding. Their heels sank into the mud, they had headaches, they got wet. They were devoured by mosquitoes. I can see them, city people, slogging through a field toward the bride and groom, slapping at their bare, damp arms, wishing they’d worn Wellingtons. Isn’t it beautiful, though, I ask, and regret it immediately. I know their eyes won’t fill with tears, they won’t sigh and become wistful. And they don’t.
Outside the café, it’s bright and sunny. A cascade of noisy traffic rushes by, and pedestrians trickle past the window. Soon we’re talking about something else, and I’m making a joke, laughing at my own wit. Under the table, I sneak my foot out of my shoe and press it to the cool tile floor.

Leah ““ Age 40 ““ New York City
from 400 Words, Issue 1 — Autobiographies
page 78

I’ve always wanted more out of life. I grew up in an EXTREMELY religious household with tons of restrictions. I’ve always tried to get more—never got it.
Got married to Sherman at nineteen—guess it was because he asked me. I wanted more from marriage, never got it. Wasn’t he supposed to work? Guess he didn’t think so. Got divorced a year later.
Later I met John. I loved him. Two months later, I was “with child,” his child. Did I really want a baby—being religious and all? At twenty-two, I had my baby girl. Later, he started flaking out. I wanted things to be better between us. They weren’t. Four years later, I married him anyway—guess it was because he asked me. Men aren’t supposed to hit women, are they? Guess he didn’t know that. Got divorced two years later.
Dated interracially for while—I wanted more from him—a real commitment. I was twenty-nine. He’d never marry me. He was married to his beer. Isn’t a constant overindulgence in beer called alcoholism? I guess he didn’t think so. Broke up with him three years later.
I hate my low paying job, my car keeps breaking down, I’m broke all the time. I hate being the only single parent at functions. I do love my daughter. How can I love her if I hate everything, including me?
Dated off and on for years. Still wanting more—I never got it, until I met Anthony and fell in love. Three months later, I was 36, we got married—HEY, he asked me. Then, I “˜m downsized from my crappy job, got severance pay, bought a semi-truck, started a trucking company. I’m thinking, now I’m really on top—this is what it’s like to be happy. That’s what I get for thinking.
My daughter’s an adolescent with a mental problem. Anthony’s a mental problem acting like an adolescent. They fight more than Tyson & Holyfield. The trucking company’s going to #@$!. We should have more. I’m tired of struggling. When you start a business, aren’t you supposed to work at it to earn enough money to live? Guess Anthony didn’t think so. Got divorced three years later. I was forty and thrice divorced. But I was happy for a few months.
I’m forty-four and still looking for more. The fat lady hasn’t sung for me yet.

Pat ““ Age 44 ““ Orland Hills, IL
from 400 Words, Issue 1–Autobiographies
page 70

I now reside in Portland, Oregon. I arrived here two years ago in a beat-up truck with everything I owned crammed into the bed and cab. I was fleeing Lee’s Summit, Missouri, where I had worked for a shady sub-contractor for the Justice Department—blowing the whistle led to my termination. I lived with a woman in Blue Springs who was 15 years older than me for a while before that. We ended up having an affair (she had a boyfriend), things ended badly, and I moved out. See, I didn’t even want to go to Missouri, but I needed to attend the main campus of Park University to finish my bachelor’s degree, which I did. But before I could do that I had to travel from North Carolina on four bald tires, after I quit my job working for a strange electrician. I spent hours crawling under houses pulling wires for him because I needed the money to keep from losing my house. See, I’d quit my high-paying job at the cryogenic plant, and times were tough. I was a cryogenics mechanic in the Marines a couple years before, that’s how I landed the job; those were some strange days, especially the six months I spent in Italy. I blame my decision to enlist on the poor job market in Waterville, Maine (the geographical opposite of where I live now). I learned how to wire houses at a tech college in a neighboring town just a few months after graduating high school; I still had long hair and wore an earring. I was what many considered a “˜strange bird’ in those days. They should have seen me as a small boy, acting out scenes in the back yard by myself, playing with small cars and talking to myself, kissing a girl on the mouth when I was only two years old. Maybe it’s not so strange. But when I was born, the doctor did tell my mom, “This one’s a whole other breed of cats.”

Derek ““ Age 33 ““ Portland, OR
from 400 Words, Issue 1 — Autobiographies
page 50

Expect the Compulsions issue to come out this summer (we’ll keep you posted), and in the meantime, sharpen your pencils and get to work on your autobiographies: we’re always collecting autobiographies for use in future issues.

Take care, and don’t forget to write,

-Katherine

One other thing: the art show at Nexus in Philadelphia will be up through January 22. There is a longish piece on it in the Philadelphia weekly this week, so check it out if you’re in the area.

Finally, Four Hundred Words is available or soon to be available at one more outlet: Skylight Books in Los Angeles. Oh, and if you’re a store and you want to carry us, by all means get in touch with me or with our distributor, Microcosm Publishing.

Happy New Year, all.

Which is not to say that 400 Words has been dormant. We’re just over the 100 mark on submissions for the Compulsions issue. There will be a call for submissions appearing in print in Poets & Writers Magazine this winter. As of now, we’re accepting submissions through the end of January. The Compulsions issue will come out in the spring.

400 Words is available, most recently, at Rare Device, a new store in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Rare Device stocks printed matter, gift and stationery items—a great collection overseen by its dynamic owner, Rena Tom. Well worth a visit, especially now that it’s gifting season.

But the biggest news of all is that just days ago, 400 Words made its debut as fine art. That’s right—we’re appearing in a real, live gallery show in Philadelphia, at NEXUS: Foundation for Today’s Art. The show, entitled “Benjamin Franklin: An American Idol,” runs from December 2 to January 22. What, you may ask, does Four Hundred Words have to do with Benjamin Franklin? Plenty. The curators at NEXUS intend the show to celebrate Franklin’s 300th anniversary by exploring “three interrelated areas of [Franklin's] wide-ranging interests: technology, mass communication and civic engagement.” And what is Four Hundred Words, if not a use of technology to leverage mass communication and, in so doing, generate civic involvement? Exactly.

The magazine will be displayed as an interactive installation; participants can browse Issue One, then have a seat at a desk and use paper, pens, markers, and pre-addressed stamped envelopes provided to compose their own 400-word missive/submission, and send it off to perpetuate the project.

Benjamin Franklin: An American Idol includes works by over a dozen artists, and rumor has it there will be a functioning letterpress on hand as well. If you’re in the Philly area, do check it out: NEXUS, 137 North Second Street; (215) 629-1103.

I’m out for now. Keep the compulsions rollin’, and don’t forget that copies of 400 Words make a perfect stocking stuffer for readers!

Second, I’ve been getting a lot of submissions for the Compulsions issue—about fifty so far. I’m saving them up to read them closely and respond to at a later date, but a quick skim suggests a few, well, suggestions for contributors to keep in mind. Like:

If you’re going to write about smoking, it better be really vivid, or have an interesting hook. Ditto with face-picking. (Face-picking?! Who knew?)

Also, so far I’ve been seeing a lot of submissions that are about things that could fall under the heading of “˜bad habits’: smoking, picking, chewing on stuff, drinking way too much coffee. These count as compulsions, as it’s defined, but I’ve got a special interest now in hearing about compulsions of a more, how to say this, psychological or interpersonal nature. For instance, one person wrote to me and asked if I’d be interested in reading a story about how she compulsively flirts with people, even folks she’s not particularly attracted to. I totally wanted to read it, but it was a while ago and I’m not sure she’s gonna write back. Perhaps you have a similar story? For God’s sake, send it in!

In the meantime, I’m thinking about my own compulsions, of which there are many. More about those next week maybe.

Nice work, insound.