THE HURRICANE NOTEBOOKS by Mary Ann Hogan a Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of the Dorothy F. Schmidt College of Arts and Lett
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THE HURRICANE NOTEBOOKS by Mary Ann Hogan A Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of The Dorothy F. Schmidt College of Arts and Letters in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Master of Fine Arts Florida Atlantic University Boca Raton, Florida May 2013 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I am indebted to many people for their generous reading and commenting. In particular, I thank my writing partners Erin Hobbie and Roger Druin for their support and insight during the early stages; thanks to Michelle Hasler-Martinez, without whose unwavering friendship, literary acumen and tail-kicks this manuscript would not be finished. A thousand thanks to my husband Eric Newton for his gifted copy editing. Most grateful acknowledgement to those professors at Florida Atlantic University who have inspired me in so many ways: Mark Scroggins, Susan Mitchell and Adam Bradford. Above all, no words can express my gratitude and appreciation for my mentor, Prof. Kate Schmitt, who believed in this project from day one, and who gave me the heart to keep going. iii ABSTRACT Author: Mary Ann Hogan Title: The Hurricane Notebooks Institution: Florida Atlantic University Thesis Advisor: Dr. Kate Schmitt Degree: Master of Fine Arts Year: 2013 The Hurricane Notebooks is a manuscript-length memoir of the narrator’s quest to piece together the enigmatic character of her late father. She does this through her discovery of his private notebooks as well as her unearthing of four generations of family turmoil. iv DEDICATION For Annika, William, James, Shade and Asher, who are writing the next chapters. THE HURRICANE NOTEBOOKS Prologue ............................................................................................................................ 2 Fragments ......................................................................................................................... 3 Here ................................................................................................................................ 15 There ............................................................................................................................... 28 Storytelling ..................................................................................................................... 36 Naming ........................................................................................................................... 52 Swirl ............................................................................................................................... 64 Literary Cargo ................................................................................................................ 77 Escape ............................................................................................................................. 98 Eye Of The Storm ......................................................................................................... 115 Nautilus ......................................................................................................................... 128 Epilogue ........................................................................................................................ 136 Destination, Unknown: Berthing The Hurricane Notebooks ....................................... 138 The Barbarians .................................................................................................. 138 The Ether .......................................................................................................... 146 Formations ........................................................................................................ 153 Works Cited .................................................................................................................. 162 v Hurricane (n.): 1. a tropical cyclone with winds of 74 miles (119 kilometers) per hour or greater that occurs especially in the western Atlantic; usually accompanied by rain, thunder, and lightning. 2. Something resembling a hurricane, especially in its turmoil. - “Hurricane,”Merriam-Webster Dictionary 1 PROLOGUE I discovered my father’s notebooks tucked into the bookshelves of his backyard studio. Six cloth-bound volumes, artist’s sketchbooks, pages once vacant, now covered in large block printing, drawn on, painted, sketched upon. Reading the entries, studying the images, feels like prying open a shell to find the unpolished gem inside, an accident of beauty, the result of some poor mollusk’s fury to preserve himself, his haven invaded. A precious thing that began with an intruder, maybe small as a pebble, or tiny as a grain of sand, or invisible, a mere molecule of pain, whose origins run just beyond the tide of knowing. The first entry from my father’s notebooks: Blank Slate I have never kept a journal (he recalls).Why? Maybe because the thoughts were not very good. Or important. The shaky spelling? The jokes? The undermastery of language? Maybe time. No time for journals. Then, the embarrassment of a journal. Ego. Ergo, Ergot…Take this book, Phyllis said, on the next to the last day of his (my God!) seventy-fifth year. The seventy-fifth year in which he has not kept a journal. Someone (important, I am sure) once suggested I do a book called “Short Takes.” Autobiography in vignettes. Snatches. Snapshots. A record. Of what? – meetings, triumphs, lost opportunities, things I should have accomplished. Important (indeed) people. Sunrises, voyages, disgusts, funny stuff, pretentions. Short Takes, yes. But why? 2 FRAGMENTS 1 I have lived, for the past however long, in a swath of onetime swamp known as South Florida, a landscape I think of as here. Remnants of dinosaurs burrow into road- side canals here. Birds in millenary finery flock overhead on their way to decorating foreign treetops. None of this would feel strange were it not for the drumbeat of the seasonless sun. And for the heavily guarded gate in front of my pastel terra-cotta suburban neighborhood, locking me into a place I never could have imagined living, and for the soil, where I try to grow tomatoes, grow anything, parsley, to help put things right. Here, there is no soil to speak of, nothing deep brown, musty, life-giving. Just layers of white sand, eons-crushed rock and shell, marl. I dig a few inches down from 1 The illustrations throughout this manuscript are from the private notebooks of William Hogan. 3 the wilting tarragon, the shriveled tomatoes, and find fossils of sea creatures from half a million years ago, miniscule bits of houses of one crustacean or another, fragments from a distant geologic time. Here, bananas grow, and mangos. There is a continent and lifetime away. A place of primeval redwoods, poppies like blankets on hillsides, jagged rocks and crushing waves sculpting coastal landscapes. Crabs steam in autumn. Fresh cream smothers the summer cherries. Wisdom-filled oaks whisper secrets in various kinds of weather. An occasional pumpkin vine or thistle of an artichoke dance at certain sundown times. These things entered my marrow at birth as a fourth generation Californian, the families of each of those generations working, living, struggling, all within thirty miles of one another, in and around San Francisco Bay. They were never a clan for moving. But I did. Move. And it fragmented me. Though they are there, not here. When I am here, not there. Absent. Dependently claused, still, waiting. Because of. 4 Here disquiets, discordant sunrises and indigestible smells. Surfaces strange to the touch, tepid and thorny beneath unsettled fingertips. Pulled apart things. I remember as a child (it was there) a large dinner plate, a piece of Portuguese pottery, dropping from my hands onto my mother’s cement floor. Shattered. We saw, felt, the shards, the broken of it. Some pieces large enough to glue back to a partial plate, a cracked Portuguese relic. Others, miniscule fractions, useless as an after-Christmas pine needle, a stray eyelash. Pieces of stories swirl around us, among, through. A Swedish scientist says the first germs of life on this planet may have been brought to earth by “a fragment of an exploded world.” Anthropologists digging in a gravel pit in England unearth the fragments of a human skull; experts judge it to be Paleolithic man. Excavators looking for a monument in a cemetery dig up a twenty-five pound piece of a meteor composed of fused minerals, glass, stone and steel. A glass sliver from a broken automobile headlight leads to the arrest on manslaughter charges of a hit and run driver. Today: Partly cloudy, with low morning and evening fog, highs in the mid-60s. A broken headlight. Chips from an ancient skull. A meteor in a cemetery. A weather report. An exploded world. And then. My life broke, like the Portuguese plate. I stopped writing. The words I needed to tell this or any other story got locked away in some chest a thousand fathoms deep, soul disconnected from body. Days became a grey-dark hover telling me I would never 5 get home. When I finally pushed my periscope above water, it spied only enemy ships bearing down. Songs of the ancient Greek poet Sappho, once perfect, harmonic and whole, drift down to us only as fragments, slices of verse, slivers of meaning. In her translation of Sappho, Anne Carson uses the bracket – ] [ – to mark missing-ness, inviting us to imagine what could be. Thus, one Sappho fragment reads: so ] ] ] ] ] ] ] Go [ so we may see [ ] lady of gold arms [ ] ] doom ] 6 I study this nautilus of a poem, its infinite twists and mysteries, and wonder how different