Interview: Ruby Hansen Murray

Last month, during my residency at the Brush Creek Foundation for the Arts, I was fortunate to meet several good-hearted and talented artists including Ruby Hansen Murray, my writing studio neighbor and the other fellow writer-on-the-snow-filled-premises.

Ruby is a writer and photographer living on Puget Island in the lower Columbia River estuary. A member of the Osage Nation, her work appears or is forthcoming in Wild in the Willamette, Yellow Medicine Review, American Ghost: Poets on Life after Industry, Oregon Humanities Magazine and National Public Radio. On the artist residency front, she’s been knocking it out of the park, having been awarded residencies at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, Island Institute in Sitka, AK, Jentel, Playa and Hypatia-in-the-Woods. She has studied at Warren Wilson College and the Institute of American Indian Arts along with Jamie Figueroa, who I met at a VONA workshop (Voices of Our Nation Arts Foundation), which Ruby has also attended.

On our road back home from Wyoming, in the lobby at the Laramie Regional Airport, the lone television—to our complete chagrin— was tuned to Fox News. 2016 Presidential candidate Donald Trump spewed his bullshit on a campaign stop with his defeated minion, Chris Christie, grinning and standing behind him. And so, Ruby and I retreated to the back of the lobby to sit down for this interview. After quietly sharing a cabin for three weeks, and after hearing her read a short excerpt from her novel-in-progress, The Heart Stays People, I wanted to find out more about her craft and the process she has embarked on to write this novel:

My Favorite Books I’ve Read Since 2009

Alas, this list-making endeavor would have been ideal for the tail-end of December but, hey, the first quarter of 2016 is coming to a close so the new calendar year is still more on the new-ish side, no?

Anywho, this post is a response to my homeboy, Justin’s list of the best books he has read since 2008. Like Justin, I, too, joined Goodreads around the same time. 

It was fun to browse through my list of books read since 2009 to try to determine which were my favorite books read during each calendar year. Like many of our other lists, it was challenging to decide upon one favorite book I read that year because, let’s be honest, I have great taste in books. (So you know, I was smirking while I typed that.) I’ve read a lot of good fucking books over the past seven years—and many did not make this cut.

Shit I Miss About My Brush Creek Artist Residency

• Seeing our jackrabbit friends at Artist Camp

• Being around fellow kindred artists on a daily basis

• Waking up at 9 a.m. most days

• The view of the snow-filled field and surrounding rock outcrops from my bed every morning

• The ritual of taking off my boots and stepping into my slippers whenever I stepped into my writing studio

• The view from my writing desk

• The comfy couch in my writing studio (great for afternoon naps)

• All the quietude and solitude

• Becoming acutely aware of the shades and play of light and shadow within my studio as the day passed, as well as out on the various trails

• Wearing a scarf and mi chullo on a near daily basis

• Walking into the kitchen at 12 and 6 p.m. on a daily basis and magically having plentiful free food to gobble

• Our communal meals

• Murray’s wit

• Beverly’s mischievous grin

• Susan’s smile

• Elizabeth’s infectious laugh

• Federico’s voice

• Kathy’s kindness

• Sliding over the heated wooden floor in the kitchen in my socks

• The sound of our boots as we walked on the wooden platforms around Artist Camp

• The hills and beautiful rock outcrops around Artist Camp

with my writing partner, Chepita

• All the birds on the ranch: the robins, magpies, the occasional crow, the little small dudes and the rare falcon and golden eagle

• The primordial fear of running into a moose or mountain lion on our hikes past Artist Camp

• The Swinging Bridge!

with photographer extraordinaire, Susan Hillyard

• Taking hikes before or after meals

• Hearing and seeing the creek

• The blue sky on a clear day

• Seeing horses in this snow-filled landscape

Brush Creek Ranch

• The orange sunsets over the Snowy Range Mountains

• Seeing all the stars at night on clear evenings

• Having the writing studio (and Artist Camp, really) all to myself late at night

• Going to a small town on a weekly basis

• The salty caramel ice cream at Lollipops

• Seeing icicles hanging from our roofs

• The snow!

• Snowfall!

• The howling winds!

• Playing in the snow by making snowmen

• Seeing animal tracks in the snow everywhere

• Having to always be aware of where you’re stepping when you’re not indoors or on the wooden platforms (spoken like a relatively young man)

• Having life siphoned down to eating, shitting and writing

Miss Sally (or My First Snow(wo)man)

Last Wednesday, I built my first snowman ever.

In seven weeks I will turn thirty-seven.

Before I came out to Wyoming for my three-week winter residency, I figured I would have ample opportunities to build a snowman or two or few. I knew it might not be as easy as it seems in movies and TV, so I was wise enough to ask a few of my coworkers who hailed from cold-weather regions for any tips on building one. The one tip I received—and it proved to be quite helpful—was to begin by simply pushing a snowball along the snow.

Shit I’ve Learned About Wyoming (Thus far)

February 5th, late Friday evening, the tiny United passenger plane I rode from Denver, CO landed on the small airport runway in Laramie, WY. It was my first time in The Equality or Cowboy State, only my second time in the Mountain Standard Zone. (My heart still aches for you, New Mexico!) The following morning, I contracted the services of the good people at Snowy Range Taxi to take me west from Laramie past Saratoga, the nearest town from the artist camp that I will call home for most of this month.

On my two-hour cab ride to the Brush Creek Ranch, and from conversations with locals and others who have passed through Wyoming before, I’ve learned a thing or two about the 44th state admitted into the American Union:

Fred

from http://swattingflies.weebly.com/

Since I arrived at the Brush Creek Ranch five days ago, I’ve been surprised to find horseflies buzzing in and outside of my writing studio. All around us, the fields are covered in at least two feet of snow. Thin icicles still hang and drip droplets of water from the slanted roofs. Winter in Wyoming doesn’t strike me as a hospitable place for horseflies. But they are here in most of our artist studios.

Last night, while our communal dinner was wrapping up, a horsefly flew onto my pant leg. It rested on my thigh for a long while. He was a fairly big fly. While the other artists conversed, I snuck glances at it. I was unsure if it was a fly that was ready to die like the one I had seen the day before, lying wings down, legs lethargically moving to and fro on one of the snow-covered walkways. Without noticing it, the fly eventually flew off my leg and landed in the bowl I had used to sip a pea soup. Its six legs dangled in the air as it lay in the bowl. I took my napkin and held it over its legs. It clung on and unglued himself from the soupy remnants coating the bottom of the bowl.

Four of us artists remained at the table. I stared down at the fly while they conversed. I saw the fly flap his wings futilely a few times. Then, it took its front legs and seemingly wiped their tips a few times before it reached up and over to clean the top of his head. He did this, over and over again. I began to smile as I watched. Usually, flies this close to me would zip away. This was the first time I could remember seeing a fly use its legs for a specific purpose.

Beverly, a visual artist with a fantastic mischievous grin, noticed me and the fly.

Just smush him, she said.

Clown Without Pity’s 2016 Super Bowl Pick

Boy was I wrong about that AFC Championship Game! But I don’t think I'm whiffing on my Super Bowl pick.

But before I get to that, let’s talk about the Super Bowl festivities in San Francisco, you know, that hilly liberal bastion 45 miles from Santa Clara—that uninspiring sprawl of suburbia that will actually host the game. Since last week, San Francisco’s Embarcadero and downtown area have been teeming with cops, military servicemen, and guys dressed for a Will Smith action film

Citizen! Feel like relaxing at Yerba Buena Gardens? 

Go right ahead! Just ignore my assault rife! This is freedom.

So dear NFL: thank you for viscerally reminding us how militaristic your sport is. Boy was George Carlin spot on about that:

And yesterday, my sweetheart, Maria, who works in a building situated near “Super Bowl City,” told me she saw the Budweiser Clydesdale horses stomping through downtown pulling their iconic carriage. A slew of motorcycle cops—she estimated about 30—roared through the streets to clear the way for them so San Francisco’s police force was basically utilized for an in-person commercial for Buttwiper. Just fucking great to hear how our civic funds are divvied.

But onto my pick: I think it’s going to be Carolina over Denver. On Ross Tucker’s podcast, NFL Film guru Greg Cosell said the key matchup of the game is Denver’s run defense versus Carolina’s rushing attack, and I totally agree. It’s simple as this: if Denver can slow down the Panther’s rushing attack and continually force Cam into long 3^rd down passes, we’ll have a game on our hands. If not, Denver’s going to get bowled over again in the Super Bowl though it probably won’t be as bad as the 55-10 drumming to the 49ers, or the recent 43-8 ass-whopping to the Seahawks that I, as a Raider fan, absolutely savored.  

For me, the true wild card of the game’s outcome is Wade Phillips. Homeboy’s probably the best, if not one of the top-three defensive coordinators in the game. (I think Phillips and Vic Fangio are the best. Rex Ryan used to be up there.) If he can draw up another masterful plan to slow down an offense that couldn’t be more different than New England’s offense, Denver has a chance to win a low-scoring game. But even then, somehow or another, I think Old Man Sheriff and Denver’s lackluster offense will have to score 20 points against a ferocious Carolina defense. Like Bill Barnwell in his Super Bowl preview and prediction, I just don’t see that happening. In too many ways, I think this game is a bad, bad matchup for Denver.

Cue "I Shot the Sheriff"