Hopalong Cassidy Trail
Streator, Illinois
I learned today that Kathe Koja published a collection of short stories entitled VELOCITIES. I have no justification for putting the title all in caps. I wrote enthusiastically, "Let's all pedal (PEDDLE) VELOCITIES.
I liked the idea of Velo Cities, like Amsterdam or New Orleans. The two cities enjoy a bicycle culture. The two cities have cultures where Life happens at a velocity that for most might be too fast. Red Light District. Mardi Gras. Enough said. I have yet to open the book, but I know life happens at the speed of Kathe Koja in her fictional universes. Examples abound.
A poet named Rob Reinhardt organized a series of readings in the ironically quiet town of Plymouth, Michigan. I learned how to cultivate a community of poets from Reinhardt. He taught a cohort of my friends how to go about it.
Openly gay and openly Episcopalian, Reinhardt had to defend everything in his life against persecution. He lived an Evangelical life in both communities. His Michigan school district went after his tenure. The case reached the State Board of Education.
Forces inside his church went after his collar. His friends had defended him against all attacks. He "soared above the sword", his phrase. I believe he prevailed on all fronts.
Here's the takeaway. Reverend Rod moved with plenty of velocity. He might have bailed for Chicago after his life partner passed. The two had shared a happy life in a well appointed trailer park south of Plymouth, Michigan.
Writers drove long distances to read for Reinhardt. Sharon Smith Knight almost walked on the small turnout at the Plymouth Coffee Bean Company. We all bought a book or tape and coaxed her into continuing.
She was known for bringing down the house at the Detroit Poetry Slam and the Dirty Poetry Reading in Hamtramck. She was known for a poem concerning inches. I can't remember if it was titled Six Inches or Nine Inches. I'm going with nine. She wasn't just talking about a snowstorm.
Sharon Smith Knight could write a great review of VELOCITIES.
Reverend Rob made the rounds, looking for talent. He had shown up for an opening at the Michigan Gallery, a perennial art and theater space just Northwest of Corktown on Michigan Boulevard. It became one of my favorite spaces for alternative theater in time. The Rev talked Koja and her companion into reading at the Plymouth Coffee Bean Company. This came to pass in 1995, although I had yet to begin photographing poets and writers at the time so I can't be certain.
The companion I think was Rick Lieder but I didn't really get to know him until we began corresponding about his photography. What kind of companion could keep the imagination of Kathe Koja interested year after year?
Lieder understands that nature moves with velocity. A praying mantis keeps the mandibles gnawing. Ants keep aphids in line. Drones get booted from the hive when the weather gets cold. Lieder probably has images of these and innumerable acts of animal quickness. He has created covers for Koja's books that capture the essence well.
At the Plymouth Coffee Bean, Kathe Koja showed and ruled the evening, reading from freshly typewritten manuscripts. She riffed on jokes that popped into her mind spontaneously. She quipped about a love triangle, but the exact words escape me twenty five years later. That's why I now write notes nightly.
A rather serious young writer named Peter Nicolas Otto joined me that night. He couldn't believe his good luck. He sent out submissions for a while bragging that he had read on the same program as Koja. In time, I organized a featured reading for him.
Let's move forward with velocity five years to 2014. I needed to celebrate Halloween in rather big style. I had to make an erstwhile companion jealous. She became less erstwhile as the years passed, thank goodness. My Halloween had to be as literary and frightening as possible. I needed Gothic velocity.
Koja had pioneered immersive evenings based upon her writing, performed by her hand chosen theater troupe, nerve. I had totally missed "Under the Poppy", so I booked for the Halloween night performance of ALI<E, a transformation of Alice in Wonderland. I ordered the ticket from Loudermilk Productions. The system seemed to jam. I put in a call.
Driving past Bath, Michigan, I fielded a call. The woman on the phone could have been calling me about a church fundraiser. She sounded sunny and cheerful. She assured me that I had a ticket to the show. Koja rang off. My mind turned to my play on the Bath School Bombing, Driving Daughters, based on the 1927 tragedy. I truly wanted to see if I could learn from Koja and her immersive evenings, fluid drafts that in time became print.
I learned what my ponderous mind could absorb. Koja met us at the church door and led us to a table where she had set out Halloween refreshments. I had chosen a sock monkey one-piece as my costume.
I might have been the only guest who tasted the bon bons or tried the rather avant-garde tasting vinegars from the McClary Brothers. My fellow guests felt too much excitement to think of food. She explained the rules of her universe to us. Violation meant the tender mercy of early ejection or even death.
Only two rules bear repeating. First, we were not allowed to touch the performers. Second, if we opened a door and encountered the Red Queen, Koja could not help us. Forces had been set in motion that had grown beyond human control. Velocity could be fatal.
We proceeded room by room as a group. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum held a conversation that I'm sure not even the N.S.A. could decode. It made my head hurt badly and I had to sit down on a couch while the King bellowed up his bold boasts in verse. I was suffering with an arthritis flare-up as well. I should have stayed with the group, beholding the king in his chamber.
A woman in gingham pulled on my arms. "Sir, sir, you must get up. Your life is in grave danger". I didn't want to move. I was enjoying a conversation with a feline in a silk leotard, on all fours, rocking a Velveteen choker. "Yes, you have permission to stroke me back". "I would love to, but we cannot touch in the land of ALI<E. Could I give you a bowl of milk"? "I love milk!" The silk feline purred. The woman in gingham was spoiling my vibe.
I arose. I arose in time. The Red Queen throttled a victim on the couch as I stared, dumbfounded. The Queen finished her deed and she locked eyes with me, deciding to spare me or not. She promenaded off. I looked at the victim, being mourned by the kneeling woman in gingham. "Can you bring her back?" I inquired. "It doesn't work that way. Yes, it doesn't work that way," sang the woman in gingham.
I retreated to a restroom in the hundred year old church. I splashed my face with water. I stepped out. When the oak door closed behind me, Koja confronted me. "Would you kindly stay out of the way?" she said firmly. She led me by my elbow and stationed me at a corner, nose close to the tile. Koja's universe. Koja's rules.
I might have stayed at my corner until the conclusion but the Red Queen came for me after her rendezvous with the king. Yes, we saw their liaison quite graphically. The Queen took my hands in her hands, her hands wet and cold in an unearthly way. She locked eyes with me once more. I scrammed and joined the group in the final chamber. The King was dispensing justice for the evening's wrongs, a body count of three on the Red Queen's head. Koja watched this court session unfold from behind a curtain.
What was the King's ruling? I won't forget it. You missed it.
We were ushered out, all survivors. I celebrated my survival with craft beers at the Berkley Front, downtown Berkley. The trip required no driving.
It's taken six years to write a memory of that immersive evenings. Velocity cannot be taught.
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