Mary Hamilton's We Know What We Are: A Review by Martin Macaulay

Mary Hamilton’s ‘We Know What We Are‘  is a collection of thirteen short-short stories, beautifully crafted and condensed into microcosms of  life, love, death and dream. Some of the places this writer takes you, you’ll already know; some you won’t. Others you may have forgotten, or visited in your nightmares or in a previous life. These are stories that sing to you. Loudly. Proper shoulders back, wide mouthed, deep-sea breathing bursting to the surface in a wow-what-the-fuck-was-that kind of way. Some are hymns to the hand that life deals you. Deferential. You’ll get too scared to look up from the scripture you’re reading lest you start believing. Or get unbelieving.

In the introduction, Dinty W. Moore likens Mary Hamilton to a carver working the stone. He has the authority; he was the contest judge that voted this collection the winner of the Fourth Annual Rose Metal Press Short Story Chapbook Contest. You do get the impression that these stories were worked and reworked, with each word and phrase expertly placed into position after untold dress rehearsals to sit and wait patiently for you, the reader, to discover its place and its purpose.

The fictions are as expansive as they are short, and they confound from the beginning. When you read ‘I put a pickup truck in the back of my pickup truck and drove to Milwaukee’ you know this is no ordinary road trip you are about to embark on. It is a tale of fire and ice and companionship. For me this story evoked Jacks London and Kerouac, the Littlest Hobo, Coen Brothers, all put to a thundering rail-road soundtrack. The opening story also introduces you to Theodore, better known as Theo Huxtable from the Cosby Show. He and Bull Shannon (Night Court) share equal billing in this collection, although neither TV character makes a guest appearance in the texts themselves.

It is soon apparent that the scope of this writer stretches from the deeply personal to the universal. The next short is a retelling of David and Goliath, offering a loftier viewpoint than that of the traditional hero. Written in the second person, it shows what it is to be the outsider, to not fit. The humanity glows and the fragility of existence is split apart for all to look upon. We understand how easily we could have been cast in this role, in a body we didn’t wish for, praying to be the infinitesimal.

‘I am fond of you: An ode to Bull Shannon’ is a superbly executed piece. Read it and re-read it and re-read it. It contains so much yet is so simply put. The opening “I BUILT US A HOUSE!” fills the reader with exhilaration; devotion and achievement burst through this little sentence. “And you planted a garden” continues the idyllic theme. But when the feasts stop, and the lights go out, and food is as scarce as human contact, a storm comes: “a giant cloud rolling over the water.” The scale is colossal; it is On the Beach condensed. Look closely, and you’ll see that there is an even smaller narrative within the story reduced to a mere sixteen words. It ends in a plaintive cry in Morse Code. I love this story and I may even print it on a t-shirt. (I’ll make sure I credit the author.)

There is no doubt that Mary Hamilton has a talent for words. With seemingly effortless skill, she creates ultra vivid images that burn hard into your retina. The songbird that “says ‘Watcha doin’? like the knife is invisible or something.” The “spilling blood”. The “raincoat rain of silver and glass.” The life of conjoined twins distilled into nine paragraphs. From the obscure to the taken-for-granted, these are stories for anybody who felt they never quite fitted, tales for the outcasts. Told in stunning simplicity or by a fantastical turn of phrase, Hamilton makes everything out of nothing. I fear I’m in danger of spilling this chapbook’s secrets. It’s better that you discover them for yourself.

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