issue 01: secrets [sample]

1 Manor House Quarterly


Light &The presentI once used flashlights to find things in the dark. I would search for them in hallway clos-ets and backyard easements. I would look under bedroom furniture and living room couches. I would rummage around in kitchen pantries and dusty garage boxes — yet nothing.

The world hides from the light I project. It avoids the present I create. It questions my honesty. It believes my methods are too simple, and gaze too harsh. Truth is, secrets are best kept in the dark.

The moon is the world’s light and history, the dark space that holds her nuanced past. And at some point we began to use flashlights. We began to frighten the truth of darkness. We began to distrust the mystery of the unknown. Certainly, there are

unexpected things to meet and lost items to find. But we are secret to ourselves: the forgotten items of our own inner libraries, hidden and unread.

We dust the easy to reach shelves to which books on early adolescence and high school rest. We organize periodical dreams of early retire-ment and love interests. We stow microfilms of ancestry in fastened file cabinets, where keen eyes have no use. But there is still more to dis-cover — there is always more to discover: more scents, more emotions, more conversations, more photographed moments we all call “memory”.

Discover these — find these in the dark — and let the unobtrusive hue of the moon guide you.


Unspoken


AnamnesisRecreating an impression left behind, an impression incomplete. Grasping to reach the destination, it escapes you. Revive the dream-like imprint in one's memory, capture the object, treasure it.

Spring 2011 7


BabelThere were a people that traveled from the East to the land of Shinar. They spoke a unified language. They resolved to build a city with a tower “with it’s tops in the heavens…lest [they] be scattered abroad upon the face of the Earth (as seen in the Bruegel’s painting on the front of the piece). Then God came down to see what they had done (perhaps represented by the photograph by JR of the lady inside?) and looked jealously upon the work of their hands. God confounded their speech and scattered them throughout the Earth; the one unifying language becoming Babel.

Babies from every corner of the Earth start with the same mechanisms to form speech. All babies share the language of babble. It is only after being conditioned by the voices they hear that they loose potential for all other languages as their mother tongue. Secrets are full of mystery and who better soaks in the mystery of life than children. To a child every passage is a secret passage, every carpet a magic carpet, every animal a fabulous monster, every walk a South Sea Voyage of discovery. We miss the whole significance and drama of creative existence if we forget to open ourselves up for a look inside.

There were a people that traveled from the East to the land of Shinar. They spoke a unified language. They resolved to build a city with a tower “with it’s tops in the heavens…lest [they] be scattered abroad upon the face of the Earth (as seen in the Bruegel’s painting on the front of the piece). Then God came down to see what they had done (perhaps represented by the photograph by JR of the lady inside?) and looked jealously upon the work of their hands. God confounded their speech and scattered them throughout the Earth; the one unifying language becoming Babel.

Babies from every corner of the Earth start with the same mechanisms to form speech. All babies share the language of babble. It is only after being conditioned by the voices they hear that they loose potential for all other languages as their mother tongue. Secrets are full of mystery and who better soaks in the mystery of life than children. To a child every passage is a secret passage, every carpet a magic carpet, every animal a fabulous monster, every walk a South Sea Voyage of discovery. We miss the whole significance and drama of creative existence if we forget to open ourselves up for a look inside.

Spring 2011 9


Invisible until it happens, swiftly when, an orca fin opens the skin of the straitmuch like St. Michael the Archangel must lacerate an atmosphere, clean-cutting through dense white,as he ‘bestrides the lazy puffing cloudsand sails upon the bosom of the air,’ entering what, for me, is clearand breathable. Winged envoys, coming up for air(or down to it)from elsewhere.

Entering


Don’t lose your soul today;

in the crowding of zeros and ones,into monthly payments,

in the news of hopeless revolutions,(the fear that ours never knocks at the window)

or the looming of darker shadows,

like a battered oyster,broken and cracked,growing rancid in the excrementcast ashore by the Pacific, cuttingand bleeding the hands desperate to open it,

Today may bring you a pearl

Dear Lovely


Locked into sight.Right eye winks.Left eye takes aim.This man is death.Prostrated in some rut.Sun rises on their backs.Seeking to claim cold scalps.Silence buzzes eardrums.On edge they dream of,Nicotine and rum.CRACK.One round down range.“Aye, Johnny zapped a jap.”These men laugh at death.No draft needed,These men Have their cause.As the jaws of a sleeping giant,They tear the fleshOff their opposition.A south pacific paradise.Filled with pious merchants of bloodshed.Tropical forest,Stained crimson.With the circus on the run,Johnny sighs,Revealing his right eye.

One Eye Shut


I. Blake - I’m taping this to your matrix action figure so you’ll be sure and see it. First off, I found my lambie in your room. I know you “are too old to sleep with” your lambie but it’s not really subtle if you take mine. Also, thanks for trading me cleaning the glass door for vacuuming. I can also water the plants if you want. Last thing - Tyler hasn’t called me in a couple of days, do you have any idea why? He seems to be really afraid of you/of calling me recently? I finished the goldfish but there’s still some gatoraid. Love you.-Ness

II.Ness,I wasn’t using your lambie. It was for a movie. Don’t worry about it. And don’t worry about Tyler either.Would you tell mom to buy more Fig Newtons?-B

III. I read your diary today. Whoops. I won’t tell mom about the movie you’re making if you don’t tell her about my plan to run away.-NessIV. In that case, you should know that page 15 was not written in my blood. And [part of note torn off, - Ed.] …you can tell mom all about the movie, just leave out the self-immolation scene in the second act.-BP.S. You’re running away?!

V.I changed my mind, I’m going to join swim team instead. Did you light your bed on fire on purpose? -Ness

VI.Wait, you didn’t even respond to why you were running away. And swim team? Do you enjoy not having any friends?

Adolescence LostWhile cleaning out their attic last summer, Blake and Vanessa Nelson stumbled upon a small cardboard box under a stack of old National Geographics. Blake was preparing to move out of the country and Vanessa was getting ready to move back into the dorm, and the box was tossed into a trash bag. But a few slips of paper spilled out and it wasn’t long before they realized they had stumbled upon a long-lost trove of notes from days gone by. A stunning portrait of American adolescence, they show a post-modern generation struggling with the complexities of modern life, evoking both the lost innocence of Falkner and the sweeping idealism of the Beats.

Unedited and uncensored, they are printed here for the first time.

I don’t know what caused the bed fire, all I know is I was in the middle of having a great dream about the Pink Power Ranger when the beach we were walking on caught on fire, and then I felt my head and realized I was bald, and then I woke up and realized my eyebrows were gone.-B

VII.If auditions for Gwen Stefani’s back up dancers were in Orange County, LA, or Tijuana I was really just going to pack up and leave. But they were in Yuma so I was like nah. How would you feel about me eloping with one of your friends?-Ness

VIII.Dude, naw on the Stefani.

Eloping? Depends. If you elope with Carl, my respect for him will skyrocket while my respect for you will plummet. If you elope with Andrew I will savagely murder him.-B

P.S. Funny story, I’m actually in Yuma right now, looking pretty good in some pleather for the callbacks.[Several notes appear to be missing]

XIII.Blake I got a tattoo but it’s one of the black

“If auditions for Gwen Stefani’s back

up dancers were in Or-ange County, LA or

Tijuana I was really just going to pack

up and leave. But they were in Yuma...”

-Ness

Spring 2011 15


P.S. Your tattoo line makes you sound like an amatuer escort trying to break into the biz on craigslist. Work on that. [Note smudged; unreadable]

XVI.I had a dream you gave birth to a diabetic calico cat, but I think that I have something similar to “the gift of prophecy” so you may want to make sure you’re still getting your period. Something else weird that I can do is when I eat mexican alphabet soup i get hit on by lots of puerto ricans. -NessP.S. how do you feel about heroine?

XVII.I know this white girl who has one biological kid and two adopted kids - one from Ethiopia and one from Venezuela, and when she’s out parading around the entire litter you would not believe the racial diversity of guys who try and score with her.-BP.S. I don’t use any drug that can’t be snorted off a dead transient.

XVIII.Dude I heard a rumor you have a flatulence problem, and that you’re getting [torn paper; unreadable] extensions. I’m grossed out by both ideas, but somewhat ok with them when juxtaposed next to interactions with expired tramps.

light ones and I refuse to tell you where I got it. I smoked hookah in Turkey and I also tried smuggling a small child back home with me so I could give it a better life but it ran away probably to buy me some gum because that’s what I kept asking him to get, but he never came back which was annoying. How’d callbacks go? -Ness

XIV.That same thing happened to a dog I was babysitting...minus the gum part, and I guess the running away part too. The puppy was stolen. Although I guess your baby could have been stolen. Or just wound around a fan belt. That did happen to a puppy I knew. That one was on purpose.

Callbacks went well. I tried to seduce the director, but whatever I did just made him jot down “Asberger’s” on my call sheet. -B

-B

“P.S. I don’t use any drug that can’t be snorted off a dead transient.”

[Several notes covered in crusty, brown substance]

XXII.Hey, I murdered mom and dad. My bad. Dog’s ok.

XXIII.Good joke jerk, I know mom killed the dog.

XXIV.You’re right. That’s why I put hemlock in the cheerios. Though I should clarify: I killed my mom and dad. Think about that.(Also it’s your turn to dust the living room).-B

XXV.I thought you didn’t know who they were? The private investigator said your DNA didn’t match anybody, the closest thing was to a Cambodian Razorback? I know you told me this, I have the text message. I don’t think

you watered ALL of the plants, did you, Mr. “I Like To Boss People Around When They Know Secrets About My Past Like How I Killed Two People Who May Or May Not Have Been My Parents”.-Ness

XXVI.All work and no play make Blake a dull boy all work and no play make Blake a dull boy all work and no play make Blake a dull boy all work and no play make Blake a dull boy all work and no play make Blake a dull boy all work and no play make Blake a dull boy hey by the way have you asked about the fig newtons yet?-B

Chapter 1

http://anewnormal.bandcamp.com/

1

Chapter 1 Artist: A New NormalAlbum: {a narrative}

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Spring 2011 19

Sit your ass down right there. Sure, there’s fine too. Just get on the damn couch. It’s time you listened to some stories. A grandson should listen to his grandpa tell him stories about the war. There are just some things you ain’t gonna learn in no history book, and you’ve got an eye-witness account right damn here. Right here in this gut. ‘Cause I ain’t gonna tell you about no war with just names and dates, no sir. I’m going to tell you about the muck and the blood and the sweat that lets you wear the god-damn t-shirt you’re wearing right now. No, you don’t need to help grandma in the kitchen. She’ll have dinner ready in an hour or so, and until then you need to hear what I have to say. What? Hold on, lemme turn this thing up – dammit! Sounds like when you stomp on a microphone. Come again now? Then what the hell did you come over here for? Put away that damn phone and look at me. Now. I don’t know what you’ve heard about the war, but it ain’t no Tom Hanks dyin’ all slow and pretty. Stephen Spielberg made the war look like goin’ to Disneyland with the Carpenters. God-damn. You ain’t never seen any thing like it. Stuck in the forest, bleedin’ out your left eye, shootin’ at Crouts around every corner. If it weren’t for Sherman burning half of Atlanta, Charlie would have made it all the way to Nagasaki before Big Boy dropped his ass half-way to Moscow. No what the hell are you laughing at? Honey, I’m not losing my damn memory. Get back in the kitchen. Would you tell him to respect his grandpa before you do? That laugh though…I ain’t heard a laugh

like that since ’63, at Jimmy-Dean’s wedding. I ever told you about your great-uncle Jimmy-Dean? Well hell now son, you can’t call yourself a member of this family if you don’t even know who’s in your family. Jimmy-Dean had a laugh like you wouldn’t believe – kind of like yours, but not as pitchy and god-damn annoying. He got married out in Oklahoma, to your great-aunt Beverly. Honey, I know it was Oklahoma. It was not Olathe. I ain’t set foot in Kansas since 1948, when that damned farmer tried to blame my driving for the fact that his cow was wrapped up in my engine belt, which is just as big a lie as the Ford Administration. No, I’m positive. Keep cooking. Anyways, Beverly and Jimmy-Dean rented out this big barn, with walls at least fifty feet high and these fine pews they placed throughout the hay to hold their weddin’. The only problem was there was no fans, and your new-fangled air-conditioning hadn’t even been invented yet – so it was hotter’n hell in there. Damn Crouts. But the whole family came out, all the way up from Lincoln, Nebraska and St. Louis and Coshocton, OH and even a few of our queer-hippie folk out in Southern California, droppin’ whatever weed-smokin’ and animal-screwin’ they normally passed their days with to pay some respects. Good folk, just a little off. Old friends from Boston drove out, and I swear Jimmy even had one of those darkies he met in his travels sittin’ front row, that’s how special Jimmy-Dean was. We even had Uncle Ralph and his family drive in from Idaho. And let me tell you, his son

About WARthe

Spring 2011 21


Willy is better than that old Injun’ joke about young Shitting Dog asking his mother if Injun’ babies are named after the first thing the mother sees after giving birth, cause that kid Willy was the most furious masturbator I have ever seen in my life. Good Lord could that kid crank it. In the bathroom. Out of the bathroom. In the yard, at the table, in church. And he always had the most painful expression on his face, makin’ a sound like he was squeezin’ a watermelon out of his ass, just slappin’ away like he was applauding a Broadway premier. His specialty was socks. Just loved ‘em. Black or white, knee-high or ankle, that kid was a Jackson Pollack, just sprayin’ his art all inside whatever foot-covering he could find. It probably didn’t help that he was a retard too. Kid was more backwards than a China set in a Ruskie parlor. Jus’ didn’t look right to start with, but when he opened his mouth you just wanted to shove him in front of a bus or jump in front of one yourself. Nowadays they probably would have some fancy word to describe what he was, and maybe they coulda’ even fixed some of it, but at the time all they knew was he was a retard, through and through. What was that? Punchin’ the Pope? Ooh, never heard that one before. I like it. What honey? Nothin’ honey, just talkin’ about the war. How’s that casserole coming? What were we talking about? The wedding, that’s right. Now the most special thing about this wedding wasn’t even the family. It was these two dogs. Jimmy-Dean and Beverly each had a dog. Beverly’s dog was called Shadow, beautiful black lab that coulda’ won a dog show. And was she loyal. When Beverly was still in college, she’d set Shadow outside the buildin’ where she had class, tell her to stay until she came out, and that dog wouldn’t move an inch until Beverly walked out those doors, sometime’s more than an hour later. Other girls would call to the animal, offerin’ her treats and belly-rubs, an’ Shadow wouldn’t ever look at ‘em. I’m told once a wounded rabbit limped within two feet of where Shadow was sittin’, and that dog just yawned. Jimmy-Dean had a dog too, but it was ugly as shit. God-damn. That thing was called Bird Dog for who-the-hell-knows why, and if it ever saw a wash-pan, one or the other woulda probably dropped dead. It had hair stickin’ and missin’ in

“Jimmy-Dean had a laugh like you wouldn’t believe – kind of like yours, but not as pitchy and god-damn annoying.”

every which way, I don’t even know the breed. Probably an ass-runt. But he and Jimmy-Dean were never parted. Any ways, durin’ the weddin’ the Reverend had just started the proceedings and the weddin’ party had all walked down the aisle, and then over the hill framed by the sunset was Beverly’s Shadow at a dead sprint, lookin’ graceful as she ever was, a pillow and the rings tied to her black neck. Just as pretty as a picture. Beverly got a lot of “oohs” and “ahs” too when she came down the aisle, but that dog gave her a run for her money, gallopin’ and a runnin’ down the center aisle, then sittin’ still for the entire ceremony like a stained glass window. That was the only dog that was supposed to make an appearance, for Jimmy-Dean had tied up Bird Dog a good five miles away at the cabin the two of them were supposed to spend their weddin’ night. But Jimmy, in all the hustle and bustle had only tied him to a fence, and when Bird Dog showed up right before the “I do’s,” he just about took the grandmas with him cause of all the chain-link draggin’ behind his raggedy-ass. But once he was there he sat down right next to Shadow, and the two of them just panted quietly in the August heat ‘til it was all said and done. It was probably a good thing that Bird Dog came in when he did too, because I could have sweared that I heard a slappin’ behind me and Uncle Ralph whisper “what are you doing?” and Willy yell back “mind your own business!” but before the thing could get really out of control everyone was lookin’ at Bird Dog. After the wedding we had a grand old time. The rain started to come down right before we started dinner, but there were big party tents set up outside for the reception and the rain beatin’ down was like a drum-beat to match the band. We

ate and danced and drank – I sure as hell never seen my pops, your great-grandpa dance like he did that night! Like his hips was on a gyroscope. There was the first dance, and the daddy-daughter dance, and the money dance…hell I don’t know if I danced since, I just got it all out of my system right then and there. When Jimmy Dean and Beverly got in their car and pulled away, the cans on the bumper draggin’ up mud and leavin’ big claw marks through the farm, we all took off our shoes and socks and ran-along side ‘em, rain and mud and all, just a wavin’ and a laughin’ and a dancin’. We had to of chased ‘em a good half-mile before they finally hit paved road, and then they were off to the cabin and life together. We then put our arms around each other and walked back with all hell rainin’ down, just happy to be alive and breathin’, celebratin’ young love and family. It was such a good time I didn’t mind how uncomfortable that drive home was. Thought I’d cleaned off my feet, but I guess I hadn’t cause my toes were squishin’ and a stickin’ to the insides of my socks all the way back to –

What are you laughing at now?

“When he opened his mouth you just wanted to shove him in front of a bus or jump in front of one yourself.”

Spring 2011 23


I think we would laugh a lot more if we lived closealso trueand if we laughed more we could take on more of the worldand if we could do that?we’d have more to laugh about...and then...the world would start to get nervouslike people do around you when you and someone else obviously have a secret.nervous bastardsand then we’d just start laughing at themfor being so nervous.hahahahahahahahahalike that.

From the dumpster that leads out to the street that leads out to the darknessI can feel the others’ constant skepticism creeping in my bonesPermeating down, down, down until it comes out dripping on the floorI want it to be over, so things can be clear, but then, I hope it just comes back

Happiness is nauseating at timesWhat am I missing here?Something’s wrong – I can feel itCalifornia’s wearing on me, but no… that can’t be it

Hasty days and cigarettesI’m back in the rustic way of things nowShe doesn’t even know how to spell hallelujah; I had to tell herA sure sign

Everything’s fast here, but I’m really quick with assumptionsTo the pier, I’ve been there, but I don’t belong to the seaHere’s the place I am, though, and I think I want to staySirens gone awry in the midst of this cry from within

My legs ache after a time writing because I just run with whatever comes to mind and we’ve laughed at it.First it was my right on a night with her, then it was my left on another one without; these things come `round in cycles.Writhing in pain and flying all at once; I’m afraid of heights.I need to come down, but the noises inside my head I hope no one else hears keep lifting me up with them as they rise…

The Desire For Silence

Carnivorous Tendencies

Spring 2011 27

August 31, 2010 My eyes are bleeding. When I pull down my eyelid, there is a pool of blood under my eyeball. I show Karen, my coworker, and she says, “That is not normal.”

March 22, 2008 “Did you ever wonder if Fa-Fa abused us kids?” I am standing on the back patio of my parents’ house talking to my dad. I woke up that morning with strange sensations in my body that I am having trouble recognizing. Sexual desire and suffocation and an old familiar bedroom. “Of course not! Fa-Fa loved children. She was always giving you baths and having sleepovers.” His mother-in-law, my grandmother, died of lung cancer over ten years ago. Everyone still calls her Fa-Fa. “Do you think it is strange that just about every memory I have of her, I am in the bathtub?” My dad frowns, thinking quietly, saying nothing. Images flash bright and quick. I remember the funny games in the bathtub when I was five. I start remembering more: sleepovers, disgust, sitting on the toilet, confused, numb. By now I am shaking all over and having trouble breathing. This cannot be happening. Yet it makes so much sense. The name Fa-Fa makes me want to vomit. She loved to laugh and was capable of a belly clutching, infectious laugh, just like me. Anything we have in common now feels like a character flaw. I wonder if I will ever laugh again.

August 29, 2010 When I am alone I want to hurt myself, so for dinner I eat two chicken quesadillas, a square piece of chocolate cake from the salad bar at Whole Foods, seven not-ripe strawberries, and a bottle of Muscat Canelli. I try to throw up but nothing

Read At Your Own Risk

comes up except blood through my nose and then a sty in my eye, matching the red pools of blood under my eyeballs where tears should be. I am a mess. I just turned thirty and life is not supposed to be like this. I accidentally break the wine glass washing it in the sink, snapping the stem right off. The glass slices a thin line in the middle finger on my right hand. I think a sliver of glass is stuck in there, hiding like the blood under my eyelids. The glass will come out when it wants to. The pools of blood cannot stay there forever. But I worry about the sty in my eye because you can see it when you look at me.

August 20, 2010 Repressed memories and feelings have been ambushing me for two and a half years. They quietly watch me enjoying the music, sipping the wine, throwing my head back in laughter. They creep up behind me and slam a pillowcase over my head, dragging me down concrete steps, tossing me in a dumpster. The wine spills. The music fades. My mind turns dark and echoey. Alone in the dark with my trembling fright, I pull myself together and walk across the street to Whole Foods for something to shut off my fear.

August 22, 2010 I clean my apartment until it smells like lavender soap. I have decided I will not be ambushed anymore. I plan to get to the memories first. My throat hurts from binging and purging. No matter how hard I try to get the poison out of me, there is no end in sight. There has to be another way. The book I am reading about recovering your inner child says I am supposed to do the chapter exercises with a group of people. If I am


alone for any reason, I have to call someone and tell them what I am about to do, and then call them when I am finished. I do not pay attention to rules like that. I have been cautioned to work with a therapist when recovering repressed memories, but whatever dangerous re-trauma may occur, I have my reasons for doing childhood memory work on my own. I am done with the Calvin Klein Model therapist, the Exorcism and Holy Water therapist, the Let’s Blame Religion therapist, and the I’m Gay and You’re Not therapist. I dump the almost empty bottle of wine down the sink and take out the trash. Then I lock my front door, shut all the windows in my apartment, and sit on my bed with two pillows stuffed behind my back. The first exercise takes me back to infancy, the birth, the crib. The book tells me to write down my childhood memories. I answer a long list of questions: Where did you live? What were your parents doing? Did you have siblings? I write down what I remember about that period in history. Then I write a letter. I tell my younger version reassuring, loving things.

Dear infant Chloe, I want to hold you in my arms and care for you just the way you need it. I see you, hear you, and want you even though no one else does. You are so important to me. I would do ANYTHING for you. Love, Chloe at 30 years old.

My younger version is supposed to write a letter back. Placing the pen in my non-dominant hand, as the book instructs, I start writing. I think I will say one thing but because I am writing with my non-dominant hand, something completely random pops in my head so I write that down instead. Oh wow. I think I know myself but then I read the letter from my infant self. Did I really think that? My stomach lurches with excitement. I have discovered a secret gold mine inside myself. Dear Chloe at age 30, You are so beautiful and amazing. I cannot wait to get out of this hellhole crib prison of hurt. I just want to be loved the way I was created for love. Love, infant Chloe. I have done guided meditations a few times before with a therapist two years ago. Laying on her couch, she covered me with a warm blanket while I listened to a recorded voice lower me down to a meditative state. Then she asked me to picture a room from my childhood. I saw myself in my grandparents’ house, yellow lamps casting spotlights on the living room and kitchen while the rest of the house swam in a sea of darkness. The scenes I saw in my mind felt real but intellectually I thought it was ridiculous: my grandmother suffocating my seven-year-old body against the kitchen wall while she gyrates against me as if I am a man? She may have been mentally ill but there is no way that happened, I told myself. After doing the relaxing breathing work for the meditation, I am supposed to imagine I am an infant, one-week-old Chloe. I am lying in my crib looking up at the adult version of myself, Chloe-at-thirty. The first thing I notice, my infant is completely noiseless, but red and twisty like she is angry. Next, I am supposed to read a list of affirmations to myself. This part is really hard for me. I hear “You are wanted,” and “Take all the time you need to get your needs met.” The infant starts crying and my adult version thinks, “There is no way any of this is true.” However the last affirmation is “God smiled when you were born” and I know this is true. The infant knows it too. We look at each other and smile.

September 14, 2010 “How long has the blood been there?” asks Karen. I slump into the chair next to her desk. I have not been sleeping well. “A couple of weeks.”

“I wash myself four times and still feel dirty. I dry off, put on my best dress, and over-spray hairspray because I need to freeze a perfect smile on my face.“

“You should go to the doctor. Eyes aren’t supposed to bleed like that,” she tells me. Maroon Five smoothly croons “She Will Be Loved” from her desktop stereo. “Yeah.” There is no way on earth I am going to a doctor. I can still see. Asking for help makes everything worse. People want to hurt me, not help me. The answers I need are inside me, slowly leaking out.

August 27, 2010 I am taking a break from the meditations for now because my five-year-old version wrote this letter: Dear Chloe, help me. I am alone with a monster.

August 31, 2010 I wake up at 1:30 a.m. wide awake. My eyes dart around the room. I lay back and listen to the sound of air. By 3:00 a.m. I decide I am ready to go find my five-year-old inner child. I relax into meditation mode. Breathe out tension, breathe in Jesus, breathe out stress, breathe in peace. I go back in my mind to the house I grew up in. Monrovia, California, where flat lawns and stiff one-stories get bossed around by rows of one hundred year old palm trees. My mother stands over my crib, jabbing me with her fingers. Her hand is an eraser and I am the mistake she is trying to get rid of. I am two years old. I am a newborn. My age keeps switching in the scene. Bigger Chloe. Smaller Chloe. I must have made a mistake. My mind is tricking me and this is not really happening. I tell her to get out, to leave me alone. I tell myself this memory has to be wrong. She persists. She will not leave. She looks angry and punishing, the way she usually looks. I stop breathing. I tell myself if I pass out, my lungs will step in and breathe for me. I leave

the meditation and order myself to start breathing. I want to find five-year-old Chloe. This scene was released during my meditation for her and I want to hear what she has to say for herself. I go back in my mind to find her. I remember she felt safe outside. I picture my old backyard and find her hiding in the corner furthest away from the house, a spot where she liked to play. She is fuzzy at first and I cannot feel any of her feelings. She feels empty, like she has nothing inside her, no feelings, no thoughts, no memories, no guts, nothing. She refuses to talk to me so I hold her while she sobs. Looking in the mirror as I get ready for work, I tell myself I have survived every day so far and I will survive this day and the next. I tell myself God is with me all the time. In the shower, I scrub my body but I need more soap. I wash myself four times and still feel dirty. I dry off, put on my best dress, and over-spray hairspray because I need to freeze a perfect smile on my face. The question marks of how my mother treats me are turning into exclamation points. I do not know what to believe. When I was younger, I wanted to be just like her. What else is hiding under my skin? I want to stop the puzzle pieces from snapping into each other. I always wondered why, whenever she said goodbye, my mother hugged my siblings, but kissed me, and only me, on the lips. I am ten minutes from work when I stop at a red light and comb out the hair spray. Five minutes from work, I turn left on a green arrow and yell at my windshield, “How could you God? How could you make me? How could you do that?!” Yelling feels good. Crying would feel better but tears get stuck in my head. I want to release torrential floods to wash the blood out from under my eyeballs. I squeeze my eyelid into my nose hoping the bright line of red will ooze out, but my blood will not budge.

“You should go to the doctor. Eyes aren’t supposed to bleed like that”

Spring 2011 29


Pink House BedsI know a secret place where time stops, the light is always perfect, and the floorboards creak. In this place, there is a pink house with stories to tell.

Spring 2011 31


Sometimes we dig too deep. It is possible that an old man is nothing more than a crotchety bastard. A young man could, theoretically, live in a big city and remain uncorrupted by society. Not probable...yet possible. “The Good Heart” follows an unlikely pair (played by Brian Cox and Paul Dano) that meet in an emergency room. United by fate, they forge a unique friendship that only could only blossom from desperation. The majority of the movie transpires in a dive bar that somehow finds the perfect blend of homey and mildew. Its the kind of place that everyone knows your name, void of the cheery theme song and general appeal.

The draw for me in this film is how little actually happens. Although transformation is possible, this movie paints an accurate picture of the process. Change is painful. Transformation is often the result of our response to a calamity that has been forced upon us. The relationship that develops between the two men demands that I reevaluate what it means to be in relationship. True relationship bleeds through the boundaries we use to keep us safe. The parameters for their relationship in the film become indiscernible. I appreciate the messiness. There is great value in telling stories that don’t get tidy bows tided on top. In order for anyone to truly gain someone else has to sacrifice. Sometimes we dig too deep when we watch movies. However, in continual hope of the rare occasion that we find will unearth some great truth, keep digging.

The Good Heartwritten & directed: Dagur Kari

Out of 4 Stars:Believability Cinematography Old Man Profanity Watch it? Yes No

Spring 2011 35

Everyday people walk in, by, and around all different kinds of spaces and places. There is a tendency to take these destinations for what they are while never exploring the periphery. If individuals knew of all the secrets that lied around them, they may consider taking a closer look. There is a modern day treasure hunt that asks millions of people worldwide to take a closer look called, “Geochaching.” The main objective is to find as many secret treasures hidden among the everyday landscape of our lives. Now, there isn’t an old world treasure map where “X” marks the spot. Rather, this generation of adventures uses handheld GPS devices to locate secret items—perhaps a plastic jar, a rusted Altoids tin or even an old military ammo box. Manor House Quarterly has created a special geochache hidden in San Diego, CA for you to find. The geochace contains a log book and a “Secrets” book that will eventually contain anonymous confessions from those who have discovered it. If you’re new to the world of geocaching this is a great way to start!

Before you do, you’ll need:

1. A GPS Enabled Device (GPS tracker OR iPhone or Android App) 2. An Account On geochaching.com (Free) 3. An Afternoon Open to Hike, Climb, Walk, or Ride Around for Treasures 4. An Adventurous Spirit to Take You Wherever The Wind Blow

Geochache Name: MHQ Birds Eye View

N 032° 43.087’W 117°15.249’


Secret GardenI sometimes think of pen and paper as something removed from my hand and mind. I think of it as something separate from the act of writing. I imagine the pen as a pointed garden implement scratching out furrows in the pages, and the ink is dewy upwelling from the virgin soil. If words were left out in the sun, instead of closed behind dark bindings, who knows what wild, impossible gardens would grow in these paragraphs.


ContributorsManor House Quarterly seeks to cultivate the cross-pollination of the visual arts and creative writing. Through this collective effort, we are given the challenge of listening to one another. It is our goal to pursue the satisfaction of honest work —whether it be through our writing, illustrations, music, design or photography — satisfied because we took the time to listen.

For more information on MHQ and the individuals who made this possible, please visit us at manorhousequarterly.org.

Frank Scott KruegerCover ArtIllustration/Design for“Light And The Present”

Ethan Linstrom “Carnivorous Tendencies”

Chloe Sparacino“Read At Your Own Risk”

Elisha MedinaIllustration For “Pearl”; “One Eye Shut”; “The Good Heart”

Justin Wright(A New Normal)“Chapter 1”

Blake Nelson“About The War”“Adolescence Lost”

Theron Gregory“One Eye Shut”

Andrew Gumm“Secret Garden”

Lauren Whisnant“Pink House Beds”

Gaelan Gilbert“Entering”

Dane CardielArt Direction “Light & The Present”

Casey GalanterLayout Design

Spring 2011 39

Jeff AllenIllustration/Design for “About The War”; “Hide And Seek”; “Secret Garden”

Garrett Richardson“Unspoken”

Scott LingerIllustration For “Entering”

Megan Gilbert“Babel”

Jeff Murray“Dear Lovely”

Jared CallahanFilm Review“The Good Heart”

Vanessa Nelson“Adolescence Lost”

Sean Sand“Hide And Seek”

Aubrey PerkinsIllustration for“Chapter 1”

Kohn Ashmore“The Desire for Silence”

Kalika KasteinDesign for “Read At Your Own Risk”

Copyright 2011 by Manor House Quarterly. The exclusive rights expire 120-days from publication. After this period, all content is recognized and protected under the Creative Commons Attribu-tion Non-Commericial-NoDerivitives license.

Emily Spencer“Anamnesis”

issue 01: secrets [sample]

Documents

unified language

dark space

unifying language

language of babble

secret passage

mystery of life

land of shinar

magic carpet