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Information Communication Supply Volume 2 Issue 9
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I n f o r m a t i o n, C o m m u n i c a t i o n, S u p p l y
------------- E l e c t r o Z i n e ------------------------------
********************************************************************************
Established in 1993 by Deva Winblood
Information Communication Supply 05/28/96 Vol.2: Issue 9
Email To: ORG_ZINE@WESTERN.EDU
Visit our Web Pages:
http://www.western.edu/happen/welcome.html
S T A F F : Email: ICS Positions:
============== ============ ==============
Steven Peterson STU000012255 Managing Editor, Writer
Tim Halas STU000058410 Writer ...
Joe Katz STU000051474 Tech Director
Stacey Kuehnel STU000070412 Poetry Editor, Staff Writer
George Sibley FAC_SIBLEY Editing, Faculty Supervisor
Shane Wright STU000076067 Writer, poet, Iconoclast
Others TBA All addresses @WESTERN.EDU
_________________________________________
/=========================================\
| "Art helps us accept the human condition; |
| technology changes it." |
\ - D.B. Smith /
\***************************************/
_____________________________________________________________________________
/ \
| ICS is an Electrozine distributed by students of Western State |
| College in Gunnison, Colorado. We are here to gather information about |
| topics that are important to all of us as human beings. If you would like |
| to send in a submission, please type it into an ASCII format and email it |
| to us. We operate on the assumption that if you mail us something you |
| want it to be published. We will do our best to make sure it is |
| distributed and will always inform you when or if it is used. |
\_____________________________________________________________________________/
REDISTRIBUTION: If any part of this issue is copied or used elsewhere
you must give credit to the author and indicate that the information
came from ICS Electrozine ORG_ZINE@WESTERN.EDU.
DISCLAIMER: The views represented herein do not necessarily represent the
views of the editors of ICS. Contributors to ICS assume all responsibilities
for ensuring that articles/submissions are not violating copyright laws and
protections.
|\__________________________________________________/|
| \ / |
| \ T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S / |
| / \ |
| /________________________________________________\ |
|/ \|
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
| 1) First Word =-= Morphing the 'Zine: the times-are-a-changin'. |
| 2) Three Poems =-= by Tim Halas. |
| 3) New Prejudices =-= by Steven Peterson: Editorial commentary |
| on domestic violence. |
| 4) Parable of the Sower =-= Book Review by Joe Katz. |
| 5) The Naked Moon =-= A Short story by Nicole Catalano: |
| Minimalist fiction from the New American West. |
| 6) Everything is Black =-= 3 poems by Stacey Kuehnel. |
| 7) Terms of Psychic Warfare =-= by Steven Peterson: Editorial |
| commentary on the media's Fellini nightmare imagery. |
| 8) Three More Poems =-= by Shane Wright. |
| 9) The Village of Renola =-= Short Story by Christopher Jones: |
| Life in the Garden; a mythic tale of sorts. |
| 10) Last Word =-= Requiem for a fantastic premise. |
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
+-----------+
| First Word \
+--------------+
Well, friends and neighbors, kind readers and caustic critics . . .
the times, they are-a-changin'. That's right, ICS is about to undergo
a transformation of sorts; in fact, this may be the last issue we
send out in this form.
Sniffle. Before the requiem, let me tell you what's goin' on: last
week, the 'Zine officially merged with the campus print magazine in order
to prevent complete dissolution at the hands of indifference.
The gist of the plot: our once-a-year sorta literary/yearbook magazine,
the "Pathfinder," will produce several electronic issues in the form of
Web documents for public consumption on the Western server; right now,
people are debating whether or not to continue producing an ASCII version
for direct-mailing to folks overseas (I've been leading that battle, but
I'm about to graduate [yeah!], and so I won't be here to force the issue
[boo]).
Anyhow, you should receive some sort of announcement over the summer
or early next fall once the details are hammered out. There's talk of
installing a LISTSERV program, compulsory creative writing classes,
whips and chains in the computer labs . . . ech, who knows?
Enjoy the issue, it may have to last for a while.
I'll save the requiem for the last word . . .
--Ed. >8*)
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
************************* Poems By Tim Halas ****************************
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Generic Bread and Marshmallows
He cautiously crept up
A burglar with his black mask
Ring-tailed vandalizer of trash cans
Awaiting the mother of domestication
To slide open the door
And toss a scattered bribe for protection
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Christmas Light
Somber shades curtain the living room
Dim rays fade over mother
Christmas is terminally decorated
With a malignant ill-stenched hospital bed
Her cancerous energy clouds the holiday
and my heart grows dim with the room
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tell Tale Shirt
Tattered threads tantalize tales,
That deteriorate into decrepit red and
Ghost green plaid, a few buttons short.
Vacant, yet a vibrant old-timer.
Tender - in the closet of
Lost youth.
--Tim Halas, 1996
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
******************************************************************************
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
New Prejudices _
/|\
+--------------------+ / | \
| By Steven Peterson | /| | |\
+--------------------+ | /|\ |
|/__|__\|
Television, America's great soporific, puts me under again. After
a few hours, the dog wakes me up for her night-journey and I drag my
carcass to the door; the cold air restores my vision. Back on the
couch, I look up in time to catch a psychotic flash: a man, obviously
drunk, is screaming incoherently at a woman off-screen. He is caught
in the precipitous fragment of time before casehardened bones crush
feminine flesh.
A quick cut; the images fade behind a white screen, and a voice
implores us to "stop the domestic violence, call 1-800 . . . Join
the new peace movement." Late at night, during the "ayvil" hours, a
Public Service message tears across the ether like a fugitive demon
from our collective unconscious; with exquisite efficiency, the scene
explodes and unfolds in the viewer's mind: from fifteen seconds, we
infer the series of events leading up to the awful moment.
The clipped image, the truncated drama, the holographic cell of
this message depicts the final stage of an "action-chain" played out
millions of times every year in this nation. Borrowed from ethology,
the science of animal behavior, the term "action-chain" refers to a
set sequence of events in which two or more people participate (for
example: a handshake, courtship rituals, and a divorce all follow a
basic pattern in a culture--actions are taken in a certain order).
Action-chains can be simple, complex or derived (as in the examples
listed above); these patterns saturate human social interaction and
are generally understood implicitly rather than explicitly taught.
The power these chains exert over our lives varies from person to
person and across cultures; our commitment to complete the sequence
is determined by personal, social and emotional contexts. Domestic
violence, the daily transformation of love into hate, occurs in a
bewildering array of permutations; however, from the kaleidoscope
of terror, a symmetry emerges. Microscopically, the pattern mimics
the social progression of apathy leading to violence as defined by
the psychiatrist Rollo May. While May describes our shared reaction
to the Vietnam conflict, he presents a series of stages common to
the new war at home--
The first step, a withdrawal from the active world, is a result
of a failure to alter some existing reality. We do it protect our-
selves from further damage to our egos, our spirit, our flesh. In
domestic terms, communication, the lifeblood of love, stops flowing.
The instinctive reaction sabotages reconciliation; the disruption of
discourse begins, the first link in the chain is forged.
May calls his second stage the "apathy of impotence." Unable to
influence events or share a common semantic, we sink into pits of
despair and frustration. Alienation feeds back on itself; we feel
there is nothing we can do; we've exhausted the easy alternatives
and set the stage for the next step.
Third, the "apathy of hopelessness and despair" presents itself
as a natural consequence of the first two steps in the chain. The
home takes on the bitter flavor of Germany following World War I:
under an impossible burden, we reach for the simple solutions--
anodynes for their illusion of command, tyranny writ small for an
uneasy sense of control.
Finally, one reaches a state of numbness. Completely divorced
from feeling, May states that the "pent-up potentialities turn into
morbidity and despair, and eventually into destructive activity."
Socially, this stage corresponds to the flashpoints of violence in
our lives: In south-central L.A., Watts, and the bedroom, we witness
the often terminal backlash of a process relegated to a portion of
the consciousness over which people have little, if any control.
In American homes, violence two-steps in a macabre dance that
could have been choreographed by the Marquis de Sade. The statistics
are truly shocking: the AMA estimates that almost four million women
are victims of severe assaults in the home every year, others pin the
figure between two and four million; according to police records, at
least 1.1 million assaults, murders and rapes against women were
committed in the home and reported in 1991; in a senate hearing last
June, William Cohen observed that physical violence in America kills
at a rate of sixty-five people a day (six thousand are also injured
on an average day). Cohen notes, with chilling accuracy, that this
is more than twice the casualty rate we sustained at the height of
the Vietnam conflict.
The Public Service message which caught me in the night is no
figment of my imagination: it's part of an orchestrated campaign
to confront the issue by our federal and local governments. In
September of 1994, the Violence Against Women Act was signed into
law by Pres. Clinton as part of a comprehensive crime bill; among
the various provisions, the law pledges $26 million in federal
funding for shelters, hotlines and crisis centers. At the state
level, the current strategy is to enact mandatory arrest laws for
cases of domestic violence; approximately half the states are trying
this tactic with mixed results. Perversely, these laws often result
in the arrest of the victims themselves; however insulting, this
does at least bring people in contact with sources of assistance.
Simple legislation such as this will not solve the problems of
apathy and violent action-chains (we design our institutions to
react, not intervene); however, it's not a bad place to start.
Back on the couch, I reflect: perhaps the tidal wave of domestic
violence is a natural consequence of our social organization and
shared philosophy. In the Western world, we're taught to mold our
reality to suit ourselves--the individual creates his or her own
happiness. By giving free reign to a patriarchal, or male-dominated
scheme of socio-economic organization, females in our culture are
left without any direct means to alter their circumstances; therefore,
they must use indirect methods to achieve change (i.e. the manip-
ulation of men satirized in the media). The psychosocial edge rests
on linguistic prowess; the shrew's tongue serves as a whip for her
mule. Males, despite physical and other advantages, withdraw from
the injury of a "semantic collapse" and begin to follow the chain.
Progressing through the stages of apathy, they are often reduced to
violence as the medium of last resort. In the post-linguistic jungle,
we no longer tame the shrew, we beat her into submission.
A slim ray of hope on the horizon: The anthropologist Edward Hall
notes, "people held in the grip of action chains can never be free of
AC's unless they see them for what they are." The implication is that
there exists the possibility of freedom from our conditioned patterns
of despair and violence; I will leave you with that hope, and a few
addresses and references--use them, please.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
National Victim Center: 2111 Wilson Blvd., Suite 300, Arlington, VA
(703) 276-2880
National Clearinghouse for the Defense of Battered Women:
125 S. 9th St., Suite 302, Philadelphia, PA (215) 351-0010
Family Violence Prevention Fund: 383 Rhode Island St., Suite 304,
San Francisco, CA (415) 252-8900
Hall, Edward. Beyond Culture. New York: Anchor Press, 1976.
May, Rollo. Power and Innocence. New York: W.W. Norton, 1972.
McCue, Margi Laird. Domestic Violence: a reference handbook.
Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO, Inc., 1995.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
******************************************************************************
Parable of the Sower
A Book Review by Joe Katz
It seems to me that there is a major problem with book reviews.
You spend your time looking through the New York Times Book review.
You find a great book that you must read; except, it says "Viking. $22.95."
So, as any cheap-skated American you say. . . I'll wait for it to come
out in paperback. Well, you know what happens, six to eight months pass
and you say the same thing about ten other books. RIGHT? And when you
do go to the book store, you have forgotten about them and end up buying
the next book in the _Star Wars Trilogy_ So here is what I will do;
I shall give you a review of a paperback. This way, you can go to
the store and pick it up right now. And away we go:
PARABLE of the SOWER
BY: Octavia E. Butler
296 pp New York
Aspect. $5.99 ($6 who are they fooling?)
By: Joe Katz stu0000541474@western.edu
There is more to _Parable_ than just a good story. Octavia Butler is
one of the Best Authors I've read. Every book she writes leaves you thinking
about humanity. I know the genera "science fiction" turns many people off,
but as Octavia Butler says, "I write stories about people; if they want to
call it science fiction, they can." For _Parable_, she has won the McCarthy
Genius award. This prize grants the recipient an undisclosed amount of money
so the "genius" will be able to do whatever they want for three years. As far
as I know, no one who has read this book has hated it. As for me, I've read
it 5 times now and I'm still moved by it.
All that you touch
You Change.
All that you Change
Changes you.
The only lasting truth
Is Change.
God
Is Change
EARTHSEED: The book of the living
These passages are from the opening of _Parable_, a story of a Journey of
spirit and foot. Lauren Olamina is a young African-American girl growing up
in a walled-in cul-de-sac in the suburbs of Los Angeles. This cul-de-sac is
your average lower middle class walled-in neighborhood. Steel gates and
laser-wire, topped with broken glass. Outside the wall, starving people
want in.
Behind these walls, Lauren is growing up. Her father is a Baptist
minister and Lauren, well, she doesn't know what she is. Outside, people
are starving and they use a drug that makes burning things better than an
orgasm. People are burning the cities down. LA hasn't seen rain in six years;
when they finally do, it comes in a hurricane. The only people killed in the
Hurricane were the poor, who had no warning and no way to get out of the city
to safety. Lauren wonders how in god's eyes is it a sin to be poor.
The rich have food and water. The Rich have guards against intruders.
But she is not rich. Every day someone else loses a job in their neighborhood.
Every year, it is harder and harder to pay the property taxes. One day,
they too will be on the streets. And if that day does not come, the people
outside will break in and burn their home down. Her parents, on the other
hand, do not see this. They have the wall, they have guns, they have some
jobs. And this is why, when the walls did break and the Pyro-freaks burned
down their homes, almost no one was prepared.
Lauren with the first idea of Earthseed: she begins her second journey,
the first being EARTHSEED. The second journey covers the highways of
California in quest of a place with jobs, in search of a place where
water is not as expensive as gasoline. And on this journey she will
pick up the first few members of the Church or EARTHSEED.
For Lauren, the god or EARTHSEED is change. Why change?
Change is an idea, not a god, right? Maybe, but with change as a god you
can shape it, nay, you have a duty to shape it. Lauren was prepared to face
the outside world and she shapes it to suit her. Follow Lauren on her journey
of discovery, through the highways of California, through the thoughts of her
mind. Find out where she goes in this brilliant paperback gem (look for a
gleam on the rack).
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)
( ~ )
>> The Naked Moon
A short story by Nicole Catalano
It was a nice night. Probably the nicest during our traveling.
The stars shined their bright lights. The clouds disappeared.
The stranger and I hitchhiked all day. We were tired. Our backpacks
were heavy. Packed with food, water, and sleeping bags. I realized we were
somewhere far different, in another country. In Another country, in another
part of the world, yet, not so remote.
We hiked uphill for the next few hours until we found flat ground to
camp on. The coyotes cried. We were hiking in their territory, their
wilderness. It was dark. All I could see was the stranger's dark figure.
We made our place in the Utah desert. The stars shined bright, like a
planetarium. I removed my backpack with great relief. A burden removed
from my shoulder. The stranger did the same. I smiled. The stranger
smiled. Both of us were hungry.
"What's for dinner?" the stranger asked.
"R-a-v-i-o-l-i." With a sharp knife, I opened the can, poured the
contents into my tin pot and pumped the gas to start the stove. The wind
did not exist that night. It was warm.
I observed the scratches on my legs. Every bush left its mark. My hands
were dirty from climbing rocks. I washed them with water. The stranger
looked around.
"Isn't this beautiful?" the stranger asked.
"Indeed it is." I said.
"This vast land, the red rocks, the landscape, the stars, away from
civilization" the stranger said.
"This is where we belong." I said.
We observed the area. Large canyons, boulders, pinnacles, sand, cacti,
bushes, and great stars encaged us. We discussed how it evolved: great floods,
primitive oceans, ancient lakes, erosion, wind and water. The stranger studied
the sky, then pointed out each constellation. I never got the main idea.
Dinner was ready. We had to share my fork and pot. No plates. No cups.
Simple. I would take a bite. Then he would. Then me again. That's how it went.
We pulled our sleeping bags out and sat on them. They were soft as cushions.
"Where's the moon?" the stranger asked.
"Behind those cliffs." I pointed to the great rigid walls. They were like
a fort around us, protecting us.
I rolled a cigarette with Drum tobacco. I offered my stranger one.
He refused. When I lit it, I saw the fat dreadlocks that framed his face.
His beady eyes startled me. They were calm, beady eyes. The light revealed
the lines that outlined his smile.
We were out where nobody was. It was wonderful. And the stars shone
bright as ever.
"Shall we explore? " the stranger asked.
"Sure. Why not!" I said.
I undressed myself. And so did he. It didn't matter, for, we couldn't see.
We were alone in the wilderness, him and me. I felt one with nature and so
did he. Primitive we were. The way we should be. He would run. Then I would.
He would jump. And so would I. Through the desert. That's how it went.
We were like children playing in the meadows. Free as can be. Free from
society, responsibility, and the world. Free to do whatever we want, according
to mother nature.
I landed in a cactus bush when I jumped. Painful it should be. However,
it wasn't. The pain was great joy. I laughed. So did the stranger. The stars,
too, laughed with me.
Together we ran, trotting through canyons and caves. Pretended we were
primitive men. How fun it was to be naked and running! We picked up rocks and
threw them like animals. We carved stones.
The moon had risen above the canyon walls. Vast light shone throughout
the sky. The stranger revealed himself to me: A young, oval-shaped face, a
wide neck, the muscles in his legs, his well-rounded thighs, his moon shaped
buttocks, a warm belly, a chubby chest, and tensed arms. He was not a stranger
anymore. He frowned.
But he saw me too. I was not in shame. We were humans, primitive men.
Our fun was over, and we closed our eyes.
It was a nice night. Probably the nicest since our travelling.
The stars shined their bright lights. The clouds disappeared.
The moon had risen.
(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\*/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
{}{}{}{}{}{}{} Everything is Black: Poems by Stacey Kuehnel {}{}{}{}{}{}
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Everything is black
Mist surrounding
Killing off the soul
Deciding it's too
much
All that's left is
the stains on the
wall, the floor,
and the bed.
Left a hole.
A hole that
stained the wall,
the floor, and
the bed.
The crying people
but is all
too bitter.
Seeking out
Finding nobody
to grab on to.
Slipping away
into the sky.
Unable to be seen
Dirt falling into
the hole
So hard to
understand
Into his mouth
it goes
Soon after
leaks onto
the wall, the floor,
and the bed.
Everything goes
away as the
trigger is pulled.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
My mind is filled with sorrow
A sadness I can not hide
Silence
broken away from my
grasp
Have not heard his
sweet words in days
Have not touched his
perfect body in
so long
I hate the walls
This wall needs
to be broken and
become invisible
I can not have a
wall between me
and my mysterious fate
My undetected heart
can not endure any
pain or awayness
Will this torture
end. I do not know
It's so maddening
to think that my fate
may have blown away
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Beware of the image unseen
It haunts and tortures
the bastard, the bastard
that ruins souls, makes
them bleed will die
soon. Will not live.
Hatred growing stronger
taking the place of love
hunger for the smell
of death, hunger for his
painful love. Can't take
this anymore, need to
seek revenge. No one
escapes my wrath of
death. No one doubts
the powers which I
have. Spirits, witchcraft,
demons, I have claimed.
Satan is at my grasp. I am
the only living rose in
his garden of hell, but
I am the rose that
probes one's mind.
Dreams become nightmares
because I am his one
night nightmare. The blood
is on his hand, he
will be so proud of
me. Love, I will never
give none, for my love
has died, died with the
bastard, the bastard that
has no feelings. Believe
he starts to feel it.
Beware of the image unseen
Won't get away from
its deadly freeze. The
coffin will come. This
world will darken.
Darken to my powers
that are slowly seeping
into your soul
for I am the evilest
living bitch that
ever roamed. Sacrifice,
kill, death, kill, love,
kill, The world
My Kingdom
My Domain
--Stacey Kuehnel, 1996
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
*----------------------------*
\ Terms of Psychic Warfare /
\ By Steven Peterson /
*----------------------*
There it is, in the park.
A pale, industrial green howitzer. Next to the sign, about a
hundred yards from the playground: it's a gruesome lawn decoration
for a scary world. Perhaps, on the eve of Earth day, I'll grab my
purple crayon and scrawl "Peace Is Our Profession" on the barrel.
Sardonic vandalism: it's the crime of the nineties. In the war of
all against all, in the armed conflict between ideology and culture,
the danger of lethal symbolic gestures arrives in America.
Airplanes falling out of the sky, toxic clouds in a subway, the
charred, hollow shell of a building: we cannot explain, or accept
the casualties of a diffuse war of the few against the many. Lone
crackpots, religious fanatics and disorganized cults of all stripes
bring the battlefield to our front door; modern Visigoths, in the
tradition of Genghis Khan, practice a futile psychological warfare
across the face of the civilized world.
Modern terrorism defeats our capacity to understand history; we
cannot assimilate the intentional act of haphazard violence to any
of the "natural" archetypes. The essential absurdity, the awkward
and terrible reality becomes emblematic as the mass media saturates
our hypervisual world with an image.
Still frames from a Fellini nightmare: the frontline footage of
fear and pointless death creeps out and covers the pages of history.
Mircea Eliade, one of the foremost scholars in comparative religion,
talks about the "terror of history" in his books and lectures: man,
it seems, has always sought explanations, rationales and mechanisms
for tolerating the "increasing pressure of history." In the archaic,
or traditional societies, catastrophes and military defeats were
tolerated by viewing them as repetitions of actions first performed
by the gods. In a sense, man's suffering and defeats were granted a
symbolic significance against a mythic or religious backdrop (for
example, in Homer's tales, the Greek army pays the price when Zeus
is offended).
Terrorist actions, especially those committed by extremists,
attempt to use the archaic mechanisms for their effect. Listen to
the zealots who shoot doctors or bomb innocents: "I was acting as
an instrument of Allah's (or God's, the people's, my dog's) Will."
The indefensible is interpreted as a sacred or archetypal gesture
in the minds of those who commit atrocities. The burning building,
however, makes a poor substitute for the bush; modern man chooses
to live in history, and so we turn to our reason in the endless
effort to tolerate the terror of history.
Psychology, sociology, anthropology: we draw on the science of
man for an eschatology of the emancipated. Sadly, the theoretical
expertise of the soft sciences is thin gruel for abused souls--the
specific victims (those who lose loved ones) can't take comfort from
the clinical descriptions of sociopathic behavior, and the general
victims (the rest of the culture) feel powerless to use the ideas
of science in any preventive way. In its turn, television draws on
the experts to assemble a "theology of desperation" for stunned
viewers: the prosecution's charge of sanity is challenged by Dr.
Spock for the defense, the cameras roll, and we try to find some
measure of justice in the chaos.
Our efforts, in the end, are doomed to fail: the images of
Oklahoma cannot be reconciled with the story behind them. At most,
we can desensitize ourselves to the horror, we can force ourselves
to look at the carnage day after day on the six o'clock news until
the specters no longer haunt us. Trading our humanity by the pound,
we lessen ourselves by accepting the saturation coverage of horror
by the media. Personal example: a year ago, the image of the Federal
building in Oklahoma hit me hard, hard enough to bring tears; after
twelve months of almost daily exposure to that image, I'm calloused
to it--I can look at it for ten seconds before my stomach turns.
Watching television, reading Newsweek, listening to the radio,
we add black threads to the tapestry of our lives. On the precise
anniversary of the bombing in Oklahoma, our local radio station
gathered sound bytes from the evening news, spliced them together
and played them over Peter Gabriel's song "Red Rain." For a few
moments, I accepted this perverse combination without question:
the lush, sombre melody offered a certain comfort; then, the calm
voices of President Clinton and Peter Jennings undercut the atmo-
sphere and jolted my sensibilities--tragedy told through MTV-style
montages strikes me as another example of purple, sardonic vandalism
scrawled across the edifice of our collective psyche.
As consumers, we can at least slow down the barrage of images:
the media likes feedback. Write letters, call the station manager,
Email them daily--ask them if they really feel that it's necessary
to introduce every story about the tragedy in (fill in the blank)
with the most graphic, disturbing image available. Make frequent
allusions to the "pornographic editing" and sleazy tactics used to
boost ratings; in short, call them on their attempt to pollute the
public airwaves with profitable trash.
Another personal example: last winter, our local television
station was airing a commercial for "Titan: America's Silent Hero"
during the ten o'clock news every night. This ad, which resembles
an outtake from "Dr. Strangelove," fades from an image of children
in a field playing "rockets" to color footage of the real nuclear-
tipped thing.
I Emailed a set of pointed questions to the station, asking
how these ads fit in with their policies and ethics of business;
predictably, they sent no response. However, the ads were pulled
shortly after I sent my note--this may have been coincidental, but
I doubt that they really wanted to face those questions in a public
forum. As with the cockroach, we can drive the morbid image mongers
out from our living rooms by shining a light on them (and perhaps
threatening them with a mallet occasionally).
And while we're at it, we might respectfully contact the local
V.F.W. and ask them to put the war toys away--surely, we can find
a better symbol for their bravery, duty and sacrifice.
Until next time, Live Well.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Some Poems by Shane
-------------------
BIRDS
Why is it that you can get so fond of a beautifull bird that your heart
can hurt if it chooses only to fly in a direction you hadn't expected?
Can't we be satisfied enough in its beauty from afar in flight?
How your soul warms when its flight lands it singing sweetly on
your shoulder.
However, your heart will never grow fonder than the day,
you watch your beautifull bird fly away.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
STARS
Beauty from afar
Is like the beauty of a star
Its light lights up your life
Though it can hurt you like a knife
For as wonderfull as it may seem
To touch it is only a dream
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
LIFE
RIDING WITH THE TIDE
FLOWING WITH THE SNOW
IN LIFE,
A TURN YOU MAKE FOR NO REASON THAN THE SEASON
IS A GLEAM OF PERFECTION
FOR ITS A TURN IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
LOVE
I want to offer much love to the mother of the land.
What you create is so wonderfully grand.
In response to such enchanting days.
I can only offer proper praise.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
>> The Village of Renola
>> By Christopher Jones
The village lay under the bright blue sky and the people of
the tiny community sat in a wide circle facing the man who stood
in front of them. The children stared in amazement and watched as
the tall, mysterious man paced back and forth across the grassy
courtyard. A long, red robe clad his wrinkled body, the skin tan and
course underneath. His feet were clad in brown, leather sandals
and large, yellow toenails were in great need of trimming.
"It was many years ago that we first came to this land and from
it's rich and abundant nature numerous generations have sprung forth.
But, and I am sad to bring this to you right here, right now,
surrounded by the summer and it's warm, inviting wind, but time has
quickly crept up on all of us," the man said, preening his long, gray
beard.
"Our once clean and thriving society has become infected by
treachery, disease, mistrust and corruption." He stopped and looked
hard at the people; several members turned their heads to the ground.
"As I walk through the village every day, I can turn to any
direction and see all of these things sneaking around the corner,
pulling the shades down, and screaming in the night." The eyes of the
children were wide with fear.
"Tomorrow we must manifest and each travel in a direction completely
opposite and away from each other. Nobler peoples have done the same.
We will circle, as we are now, around the perimeter of our village and
begin to take our own separate journeys. The children, though, shall go
out as a single entity, so if they should meet up with another peoples
they might be taken in. It is them, and their innocence, that need to
survive, more so than any of us."
The people's expressions had drooped and many sat there slack-jawed
and openmouthed. A little girl stood up from the crowd. She walked slowly
up to the old man. He eyed her introspectively and had to look down the
bridge of his nose to see her tiny figure. She tugged on his robe and he
knelt down beside her. "I would like to stay here, if I may," she whispered
into his aged ear. He thought about it for a moment and finally rose to
the other villagers.
"It has been decided that Renola will be the only one to remain," he
spoke loudly, "We, though, shall leave early into the meridian and travel
our separate ways. Take with you only the essentials of life, it will be a
long and treacherous journey. Go, now, and sleep; you will need the energy
and spirit." At that, the people slowly rose and returned to the huts. The
little girl stood in the same place and watched the procession. After a few
minutes she sat down and, a little while later, fell asleep. . .
When she awoke in the morning, the entire village had left. A blanket
was wrapped tightly around her body. She stretched her limbs and stood,
brushed the dirt from her downside and looked around. She felt like the
oldest of the village women: proud.
After eating the last pieces of her hidden bread she decided to explore
the surrounding areas. She walked out from the front of the village, and,
to her surprise, found the old wise man digging a hole deep in the ground.
Renola approached from his backside, "What are you doing?" She asked,
causing him to drop his shovel, startling him.
"What am I wha. . .oh . . . I'm digging my own grave. Would you be so
kind as to fill the dirt back upon me once I have finished?"
"Sure," she replied bluntly. She sat down on a small pile of grass and
watched the man.
"Thank you so much," he replied and began digging again. When the hole
was finally deep enough the man crumbled to a sitting position, gasping for
breath.
"Well," said the girl, "jump in."
The man sat silently, looking up to the sky, "It's only my duty," he
said after a short time, "It may be the second grave I've created, but it
was my courtyard; I should have the honor of remaining in the same ground
that I tread across each day of my life. I hope you have a pleasant time
looking over it." He stood up, held out his arms, and dropped into the
scarred earth. Renola picked up the shovel and went about filling and
packing.
When she awoke the next morning, a fabulous tree was growing from the
grave site. It's leaves were made of green sparkles and voluptuous yellow
fruit dangled from the growing limbs. The tree glowed a brilliant orange
and it heightened every second.
Renola ran into the jungle to escape the gigantic, spreading growth
until, finally, it stopped. She approached it cautiously. With short
steps, she carefully made her way to the mighty trunk. She put her shaky
hand to it and from the high limbs a child from the village landed at her
feet. He let out a loud, high-pitched yowl and from the lower branches
the other children began climbing down. . .
That starry evening the children danced around the glowing tree and
gave praise to the warmth and protection it showered upon them. Life under-
neath the leaves and limbs was mostly good and fair, although a few of the
children tried taking an ax to its trunk; others tried desperately to corrupt
it; the sick ones would slice deeply into their arms and bleed onto its
twisted roots; but these children were sent away, each time in a different
direction . . .
`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Christopher Jones, 1996 =-=-=-=-=-=
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
+----------+
| Last Word \
+-------------+
What a ride.
For the last three years, I've lived a writer's dream.
Talk about a premise: free access to a world-wide press with over
seven hundred readers in thirty different countries. Growing up, that
was science-fiction; going to college, it became a reality. And I have
to thank you, the audience, for making it happen.
I also have to thank Deva Winblood, the founder of ICS and Gonzo
VAX programmer who wrote the programs we've used to mail this ambitious
adventure out around the world. Then there's the good folks down at our
local computer services office--uh, Wes, we seem to have a problem . . .
And we can't forget all the writers and former staff members; without
them, the 'Zine wouldn't have had the style and panache required for
life out on the edge of the envelope.
What can I say about George Sibley, our steadfast faculty advisor
and my own personal mentor? Most of you will never meet him, but trust
me--his heart regularly threatens to overflow the vast expanse of the
Gunnison valley with tender warmth and humane understanding. He also
has the sort of mind which acts like a whetstone on young brains--
we all became a little sharper from rubbing against him.
Writers are like milk, in a way. We take on the flavor of those around
us, a topnote from those we read and meet, and motivation from those we
love and hate. Some people say that George is an acquired taste; me, I like
the subtle soupcon of Sibley which creeps into my work from time to time.
And besides that, he's the only one around here who _always_ gets my jokes;
What more could you hope for in a mentor? Thanks, George. For everything.
Sniffle.
I'm really going to miss this; after graduation, it'll have to be about
money and movie-rights and all that, at least to some extent. Ultimately,
I can't bring myself to go through the blood and sweat and real tears of
good writing for anything so petty as greenbacks--it's gotta be done out
of love, a transcendent love for my fellow human, or it ain't worth it.
There it is. It may sound a little sappy, but it's the truth. I write
to express my reverence for the nobility each of us carries within; this
is the key of my personal philosophy, and a window to my tarnished soul.
Thanks for the ride, people. And expect a note from the next generation.
--Ed. Steven Peterson
B.A. English '96
>;*)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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