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Information Communication Supply Volume 2 Issue 8
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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 12/18/95 Vol.2: Issue 8-1
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 ...
David Trosty STU000037486 Writer, Poetry Editor
George Sibley FAC_SIBLEY Editing, Faculty Supervisor
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 / |
| / \ |
| /________________________________________________\ |
|/ \|
| Included in the table of contents are some |
| generic symbols to help you in making a decision |
| as to whether an article or story may express |
| ideas or use language that may be offensive. |
| S = Sexual Content AL = Adult Language |
| V = Violence |
|____________________________________________________|
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
| 1) First Word -=- Winter's Tales and other thoughts. |
| 2) A Writer -=- Haiku by Tim Hallas. |
| 3) Fishtasy -=- Short Story by Chris Jones: Kafka comes to town. |
| 4) Untitled Poetry -=- By Stacy Keuhnel |
| 5) New Prejudices -=- Essay by Steven Peterson: Thorny Art+Roses.|
| 6) Cosmic Rhythms -=- Poetry by Tim Halas |
| 7) Billy -=- Short Story by Chris Jones: Desperate LA Love [AL,V]|
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
2-8-2 2/20/96
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
| 8) Equations from Space -=- Poem by Tim Halas. |
| 9) Crumbling at the Feet of the Pyramids -=- Literary Feature |
| by Steven Peterson: a cultural peek at today's Egypt. |
| 10) The Funeral Hand -=- Short story by Chris Jones: two views, |
| presented for your approval. |
| 11) Untitled -=- 3 poems by Stacey Kuehnel. |
| 12) Independence Day -=- Short story by Elizabeth Kurtak: |
| college daze in the big cold of Anchorage . . . [AL] |
| 13) Last Word -=- All Lost in the Supermarket: where we've been. |
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
+-----------+
| First Word \
+---------------+
December in Gunnison: the mercury plummets like Netscape stock after
the honeymoon's over. To keep our minds off numb toes and brittle lobes,
we escape into our stories, our tales of imagination and wonder. After
a crushing end to the term, we've managed to assemble another collection
of raw, unbridled buffoonery for you and yours this holiday season.
Call it manic literature, forged in the bask of the terminal's glow.
Frenzied visions and lingering doubts, the lot of writers everywhere;
from the maelstrom, we stop to write down our whole lives, one piece
at a time.
This time 'round, Chris Jones, a Western student makes his, ah, splashy
debut in ICS with some fresh fiction. We welcome his voice, and if you'd like
to respond to his work, send email c/o org_zine.
>8*)
--Ed.
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a writer
at first it is warm
when it is born it cries
to live is painful
--Tim Halas
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)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O><O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(
)O> Fishtasy <O(
By Chris Jones
The rush of the current was so fast it caused the water to rise up to
his neck. He was a short ways beyond halfway across the river. Each step
became heavier with the rising water in his rubber waders. The rocks under
his feet were slick with green, thick moss. They were jagged and sharp,
creating large peaks of white water. Maneuvering across was difficult with
these factors. His feet were constantly losing traction and by now, his
plaid shirt and fishing vest were entirely soaked. In his left hand, the
fly-rod was held high. His grip was tight; his knuckles glowed white. He
used his right hand as a poor tool for balance.
The gleaming pool lay only twenty feet away. He had noticed it from
the road when he was scouting the river. He'd noticed a great deal of top
action and knew the bigger fish lay at the bottom. He estimated the pool
to be at least ten feet deep with a good, clear spot at the back to cast
from. He didn't realize, though, what a task it would be to wade across.
"Too late to do anything about that now," he mumbled to himself.
His legs were getting shaky worsening each step he took. The calm,
productive pool was getting closer. he could see fish rising to the surface
and striking at the swarming insects. "Almost." He decided to wade downstream
a few feet where the water appeared shallower. He turned on his right foot,
shifting all his sopping weight with his left. In between, his right foot
slipped and his body fell backward. "NO!" His scream was hushed by the
choking water.
His head slammed against a rock sending bright, flashing lights to his
closed lids. Pain shot down his back to his scrambling feet. He was able to
get his head above water long enough for short gasps of air but the current
continued to sweep him under. It tossed him about like a rag doll: his arms
and legs flinging in all directions attempting to find purchase in this
liquid world. Again, his head smacked a rock and the bright light flashed
only to be swallowed by darkness.
When he finally came to, he could see sunlight far above his head.
He was lying on his back. It felt like he had no body from the neck down
though he could see his naked arms and legs suspended above the ground.
He gasped, water filling his lungs like oxygen, realizing where he was.
He looked up, again, at the sunshine. It was rippling and wavy. Fish swam
in and out of it, darting all around him. He went to swim to the surface.
His motion was graceful and smooth, he felt like an angel ascending to Heaven.
When he reached the top and brought his head out to the breathing world,
he choked, unable to taste the fresh air. He sank back into the water.
Fear and disillusionment overcame him. He tried to scream but could only
produce a gurgling sound. He swam frantically around, his arms to his side
and his legs stuck together.
He slowed after a while, tired and at his breaking point. He was
hungry and unsure of what to do about it. The fish around him had begun
to rise and the temptation was too strong. He saw a grasshopper scrambling
across the surface. He went directly to it knowing his mouth would catch it.
The feeling was exhilarating. It was like politically correct fly-fishing.
He ate more insects, each filling his stomach with great delight. He noticed
a small guppy swimming by and went to suck it down. As his mouth closed
around it, a sharp pain shot directly in his lip. He was suddenly pulled
forward. He forcefully yanked his head back and forth. The surface was
getting closer. He could see two distorted figures standing on the bank.
He felt strong hands wrap around his belly and sides. A large thumb groped
around in his mouth and pried his teeth apart. The hook came out and he was
tossed into a small, green duffle bag. He lay atop several other fish.
Their bodies would flap against him until, finally, they stopped.
)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O><O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(<O(
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The wind howls loudly
Outside my open window.
It rustles the leaves in the trees.
It blows and rustles and whirrs and howls.
Slowly building, gathering speed
Until it is all I hear
And there's nothing to do except wait
Until it dies.
_____________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________
The leaves howl even louder
Crying out against the wind
Until it stops
And the casulties are seen
On the ground
The tree has grown thin,
Balding.
--Stacy Kuehnel
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New Prejudices
By Steven Peterson
________________
They don't run for the roses anymore . . .
Last summer, I tried my hand at a small-time business venture:
harvesting wild roses from the nearby mountain canyons. The idea,
romantic as it sounds, was to pick these small, fragrant flowers and
sell them to tourists, locals, and anyone else who might enjoy a brief
aesthetic experience. Despite an ideal sales location and the low
dollar-a-dozen price tag, I failed miserably.
Watching the young couples walk by, hand in hand, I was left to
ruminate on the inescapable reality of a public no longer interested in
the small, authentic wonders of nature--no longer moved to make poetic
gestures in the spontaneous manner once depicted by Charles Chaplin in
his great silent movie _City Lights_. As my confidence in the timeless
traditions of love shrivelled in the sun like so many dying blossoms,
my thoughts drifted to the relationship of the arts to our emotional
landscape.
After all, hadn't these people ever seen Chaplin?
How could they resist the opportunity to pluck the resonant chord
of that archetypal symbol of love--the delicate, intoxicating fragrance
and satin petals of the rose bud, ready to unfold in the summer sun.
If, as Susanne Langer once argued, the arts serve to educate our emotions,
my personal business failure could be interpreted as a sign of the ethnic
decline she associates with the vulgarization of the arts.
These young lovers, walking past, ignoring my display--what could have
taught them to react as if I were a panhandler? Following Langer's thesis,
I began to reflect on the nature of the artistic experiences popular in our
strange age: at the movies, _Batman_, _Judge Dredd_, and a host of comic-
book features and assorted sequels were enjoying a heyday; on television,
the usual collection of arid recycled fantasies were in reruns; in the
bookstore, copies of that quintessential Harlequin romance, _The Bridges
of Madison County_, were still flying off the shelf after three years;
in the nightclubs, local bands were playing the same tired sets of
second-generation DeadHead cover tunes.
Everywhere I turned, I found the dross of an overmarketed and under-
inspired entertainment industry. Apparently, the purveyors of fantasy,
the sellers of vicarious experience in our culture, have arrived at the
sound economic conclusion that it's best to rely on the lowest-common-
denominator of demand to determine supply. Relying on the immemorial
human fascination with greed, lust and violence, the unholy union of
profit margin and creative endeavor has issued forth the only progeny
possible: a vulgarized, homogeneous stream of pseudo-art guaranteed to
generate income for the stockholders. Exercising their right to operate
in the free-market, the movie producers, the book publishers, the tele-
vision executives and the club owners have disavowed their responsibility
to the psychic health and welfare of their customers.
In _The Cultural Importance of the Arts_, Langer identifies a paradox
inherent to the function of art in culture: on the one hand, the new forms
of feeling presented by the arts spearheads cultural innovation (as, for
example, the explosion of new artistic forms presaged and precipitated the
Renaissance); on the other hand, art stabilizes the modes of vision, at a
personal level, which are required to assimilate "ordinary sights to inward
vision, and lend expressiveness and emotional import to the world" (83).
Through intentionally degrading the content and forms of artistic expression
in our culture, the entertainment industry stunts our capacity to imagine
the innovations our changing world will demand of us; at the same time,
this industry robs us of the legacy of vision, the capacity to transform
the elements of everyday experience into the fabric of a meaningful
subjective existence.
Throwing ourselves, and our children, into the stream of pseudo-art
dehumanizes us in a manner we clearly cannot afford: in an age of increasing
global interdependence, we must retain the ability to imagine the demands,
the modes of existence characteristic of past, present, and future civil-
izations. When this ability becomes compromised, technology in its ruthless,
objective manner, steps in with the ready option of simply destroying that
which we do not understand or do not care to internalize. Compared to the
difficulty of understanding the complex matrix of forces undergirding
another culture (and driving its actions), it is all-too-easy to grasp
for the facile solution of F-16s with their smart bombs--and Rambo's right
there, telling us and showing us that it's O.K., it even "feels" good . . .
At an interpersonal level, the deluge of pseudo-art threatens to wash
away our capacity to give, receive, or even recognize that which imbues our
existence with meaning: love. The impoverished comic-book fantasy images
of romance, of idealized lust, have become internalized by a generation
in search of an education of emotion. The result, the advent of the plastic
love affair built on lies and self-deception, creates a culture where the
divorce rate has grown to 50% and few children can hope to grow to maturity
in the presence of both parents (once again, the arts spearhead innovation--
in this case, a new self-destructive form for establishing families).
In her article, "Dan Quayle Was Right," social-scientist Barbara
Dafoe-Whitehead marshalls a considerable body of evidence which documents
the damage we inflict on ourselves as we follow the twisted visions of
love and romance proffered by the entertainment merchants. In the pages
of _The Atlantic_, Whitehead advances the argument that so-called "family
diversity" in the form of single-parent families weakens the social fabric
and undermines society; she makes a convincing case and sounds a cautionary
note against placing our faith in the popularized delusions of bad art.
When I'm not busy running environmentally sustainable business ideas
into the ground, I continue to search for that elusive opportunity for love
in my own life. Along the way, I've found myself surrendering to notions
and standards provided by the media and the arts. In a disgusting sort of
Pavlovian way, I respond to specific somatotypes, hairstyles and freckles.
The preconscious, glandular logic of lust sends me down merry paths that
inevitably lead to disillusionment and maudlin dejection when I find the
person inside, the actress behind the masque, cannot live up to the goofy
ideal I've projected upon her.
Raised by a staunch feminist, I grew up harboring the insidious images
and action-patterns of pop culture in the suppressed libido of my tortured
youth. Intellectually and ethically, I'm committed to building relationships
focused on mutual liberation; however, the infantile fantasies planted by
Hollywood and Madison Ave. keep worming their way out and triggering the
tender buttons. This conflict between personal ideals and public education
(in the broadest sense of the term) seems a perfect example of what R. D.
Laing describes as the "psychopathic" nature of our culture--twisting away
on the threads of indifference, we must struggle to overcome the tyranny
of our conditioned responses.
Down the street, the local florist keeps a ready stock of perfect
hothouse roses. Over the years, these flowers have grown larger, last
longer, and through selective breeding, they've lost most of their scent.
The sterile, expensive perfection of these flowers provides a stark symbol
of the poverty of our current emotional landscape: in our search for the
perfect image of love, we've imprisoned our poetic gestures behind the
safety glass of civilized exchange. Set them free . . .
"Money is a powerful aphrodisiac. But flowers work almost as well."
--Lazarus Long
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Works Cited
Dafoe-Whitehead, Barbara. "Dan Quayle Was Right." _The Atlantic Monthly_.
Vol. 271, No. 4, April 1993. 47-84.
Langer, Susanne. "The Cultural Importance of the Arts." _Philosophical
Sketches_. Baltimore: Mentor, 1964. 75-94.
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cosmic rhythms
--------------
This is a poem of tomorrow's world
a future unknown
This is a poem of the universe
questions unknown
Where the Is controls the realm
The Is may just be energy
A question unanswered
The Is may be the oversoul
full of coincidence
The world is full of coincidence
but it's all just magnetic
The Is may be a magnet
questions unknown
A world that cannot answer why
may never know
A world that cannot answer why
will make up what they don't know
The world sees cause and effect
sometimes too deep
The world sees cause and effect
unable to look in between
Two magnets may stick together
Their flow coincides
Two magnets may be resistant
Their flow contradicts
The world is a magnetic paradise
animals are at peace
The world is a magnetic paradise
humans the resisting disease
My heart is a magnet
that I don't understand
My eyes are paranoid magnets
resisting community peace
People are like a dam
holding back the flow of the Is
People are like a dam
Creating stories about the Is
Destroying our magnetic paradise
false icons
The world for the young is directionless
follow your heart
The world for the young is directionless
scandalous guides
You must choose your own path
and be misled
You must choose your own path
learn from ancient mistakes
Jesus did not bleed on your path
his intentions were good
Jesus did not bleed on your path
You don't have to bleed
Pain is part of your path
you've been brainwashed
Pain is part of your path
You don't have to bleed
Take deep breaths on your way
breathing is the key
Take deep breaths on your path
the desert will help you see
friends are like a mirage
figure out your needs
friends are like mirage
they slowly disappear
listen to your heart now
it will beat you through
life is like a rhythm
sometimes you sing the blues
The heart beats in a rhythm
Different rhythms each day
The rhythm takes you inside
Bringing out the truth
The rhythm takes you inside
the cure beats within you
The sun is a chapter of the Is
more answers unknown
A rhythm you'll never know
It beats in all that lives
The cosmic energy will always flow
epiphany the reality encore
Life can be painful
Happiness a drug
content is boring
depression sucks
now is all that matters
it occurs and starts over
the past is a course in lessons
the future does not matter
The negative flow is in charge
don't deny that you are an animal
--Tim Hallas, 1995
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>>* Billy *<<
By Chris Jones
They say all the world's a stage and we are merely players. Well,
that's fine for all intents and purposes, but for Billy S. Spear it wasn't
fine at all. Not one bit.
Billy was an old man, well past his fifties last he remembered, he
was balding more everyday (what he had left was a bright silver), his back
was permanently screwed from years of uncomfortable posture behind the
desk at the insurance company, and he was alone. Billy was married several
years back, but now he knew nothing of his wife. Last he heard, she had
joined a nunnery somewhere in the outskirts of the outskirted state of
Maine. He'd been living in the City of Angels for almost twenty years, now.
He'd experienced enough earthquakes that he could sleep through a ten-
pointer. And through all of this, he'd been acting on the stage of life.
"Well no more," he whispered. He was sitting at home, sprawled out
in the middle of his old leather couch. His legs were spread out, his feet
stretching beneath his socks, arms were equally spread, the fingers reaching
outward and in. "No more." He wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but he
did know it was time for a change. He wanted and needed to alter his stage.
Oh, what a task he had before him.
* * * * *
The next day was bright and hot, the usual in Los Angeles. Billy took
the ten o'clock bus into the city. He wasn't exactly sure where he was
getting off, but he'd know when the time was right. He looked around,
carefully examining each person on the sparsely populated bus. There were
a few couples, but most were alone, not unlike himself. But he had a
mission with a significant purpose, not like these people playing with no
cause or effect. They needed to learn to fight for themselves and what
they wanted.
The bus pulled to a stop and Billy got off. He was on the corner of
Eleventh and Hareford, wherever that was. He looked around. There were a
few tattoo parlors, a Harley-Davidson dealership, a Chinese restaurant,
and a pub. The other shops appeared devoid of anything except dusty boxes
and rusted bars over the mostly broken windows. Billy decided to get some
food at the Chinese place. He liked Chinese food.
* * * * *
The place was dimly lit. A sign said to seat yourself. Billy took a
booth in the corner. It appeared he was the only customer in the restaurant.
The silence was heavy. He wasn't sure whether anyone heard him come in when
the waitress came around the corner.
"Hello," Billy said. She was a younger woman, probably late twenties
and fairly attractive.
"How ya doin' today? Could I start ya off with something to drink,
possibly some sake?" She had a Texas accent and chewed wide-mouthed on
a piece of gum. Her hair was sandy blonde and cut short.
"No, no. I'll just have a glass of iced-tea."
"Alrighty, I'll be back in a minute, darlin'." She turned and went back
around the corner. Billy watched the way she walked. It was beautiful how
her figure swayed as if to glorious, unheard music. It had been years since
Billy had been with a woman. He dearly needed someone to talk to, to hold
on to, to share his life with. When she returned he said, "Would you like to
have lunch with me?"
"You aren't some strange sort of weirdo, are you honey?" She studied
him for a minute. "Well, you look innocent enough," and she blew a big, pink
bubble. Pop! "Let me go an put your order in so Chu Man Mo-Yo can cook it up."
"Would you like anything? I'm buying."
"No sir. You kinda build up a slight disliking for Chinese food after
so long. I'll just grab a cup of coffee."
"Okay, then I'll have the sweet and sour shrimp, please."
"Good choice, darlin' I'll return shortly."
When she returned, Billy noticed she had taken her apron off and somewhat
made herself up. She sat down across from him in the booth.
"So," she said, "tell me your name, sugarplum."
"Billy Spear. And yours?"
"They called me May at birth, even though I was born in June."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, May."
"And you as well, Billy."
They talked awhile, as all strangers do, about their lives. May was
from the Middle of Nowhere, Louisiana. That was good for it her a sweet as
pine disposition. Her father raised chickens and pigs. Her mother was a
simple housewife who was usually pregnant (May claimed to have eight
brothers and four sisters). She had grown up Catholic, but had abandoned
religion saying it was "just a bunch of hooplaw." She concluded, "I've
lived here in California for six years, now. That's probably why I've
abandoned religion."
There was a period of silence while they sat there and smiled at
each other.
"Well, I better go and get your lunch; I heard Chu Man Mo-Yo ring the
bell. Don't you move, sweety." She slid out of the booth and around the
corner.
Billy sat there, his mind in a dreamlike state pondering what the
future might have planned for him. Could this be the opportunity he'd
longed for? Could this woman help him enjoy life again? His pondering
was broken by the opening door.
* * * * *
What walked in could easily be described as an extremely pumped-up
giant-of-an-animal that appeared unbelievably angry. His entire body was
clad in tanned leather: boots, pants, wristbands, belt and vest. He had
long, black dredlocked hair pulled into a ponytail. His skin was a dark tan
and produced big, protruding veins. A tattoo on his arm said "BORN PISSED
OFF." It surrounded a smiley face.
"MAY!" He boomed "MAY!"
"Excuse me, son," said Billy, "but I believe she's getting my lunch."
The beast of a man turned and looked sternly at Billy. "Do I look like I
really CARE? And don't call me SON!"
Replied Billy, "Maybe, possibly, you should care."
"Maybe I should just blow your wrinkled, old HEAD OFF!" The man pulled
a pistol from the inside of his vest and pointed it directly at Billy's head.
May, humming a tune, came walking around the corner.
"Oh my God!" The tray fell from her grasp; the gooey neon-pink sweet and
sour sauce spread itself outward in a slow gravitational realization. May's
feet squished on the boiled shrimp as she carefully approached the man.
"P.O. what the hell do you think you're doin'?"
"This old MAN has a major DEATH WISH!"
"P.O. would you pleases stop that god-awful yellin'?" she calmly asked.
"Sorry, you know it's my bad habit. Oh, I almost forgot." He turned and
pointed the gun at May. "You, WOMAN, owe me money. Uh um. . . sorry about that."
"No, I don't think so. P.O. I told you I was not goin' to be bullied
around by you no more. Do you understand, I ain't ever goin' to walk those
filthy streets ever again!"
It took a minute for the last statement to register in Billy's mind.
"Excuse me, May what did you say? No, never mind, I know. Why didn't you
tell me this before?" asked Billy.
"Because you didn't need to know. It was all in the past, as far as I
was concerned. But, nooooo," she turned and looked at P.O., "Mr. Bonehead
here won't get it through his thick skull that I am done! Finished! Kaput!
The cows have all grazed!" At that May about-faced and went back around
the corner. Billy and P.O. stared at the vanishing figure.
Billy said, "Well, you heard the lady. It certainly sounds as if she is
through with you."
P.O. stood there. His hands were clenched into fists, his brow furrowed
deep. He slowly started towards Billy. Billy sat there unsure what to do.
Usually, he would just run off and forget about the problem. But he learned
his lesson many times. He was not going to sit there and be plummeted to death
by this Goliath figure. No longer was he going to act like an incompetent
human being. Not for anyone, and especially not for May.
Billy quickly got up from the booth. He'd forgotten about the gun; he
had to think fast. "Now, I can't believe you're just going to shoot me. Just
like that. Bam. Dead. I would think you, of all people, would be the one to
fight like a man, rather than act like one."
"Oh, I am SORRY! It would be a waste of a BULLET! Here, see, I'm putting
it DOWN!" Billy cautiously watched as he put the gun on the table. "Are you
HAPPY?"
"I'm not sure that happy is exactly what I'm feeling, but definitely
better." Billy was sweating, he could feel it under his arms and on his brow.
"Whatever, old man. Let's get this OVER WITH!" At that P.O. let fly with
a blow to Billy's shoulder. It knocked him to the ground as he tried to grab
the table. The cloth came off, as well as the iced-tea. He was stunned and
soaked.
"Oh my god," Billy thought to himself. He attempted to rise but was
kicked back down by the boot of P.O..
"Have you learned your LESSON?" Billy couldn't answer, much less breath.
"Did you HEAR me?" P.O. laughed and began fixing his hair in the reflection of
the window.
"No," Billy said muffled and low. P.O. didn't notice. Billy looked for
a way out. Underneath the table he saw his iced-tea glass. The top had broken
into three jagged peaks. "No," Billy said louder and lunged at P.O.. The man
turned, astonishment in his eyes. The glass caught him in the shoulder, ripping
through the tattooed face and flesh beneath. Billy expected a scream of pain,
but there was none, only P.O. holding his shoulder, his face a fiery red.
"Now I'm PISSED OFF!" Here came his boot again catching Billy in the jaw.
The pain shot through his head. He staggered around looking for the glass.
He heard a crunch, looked, and saw the glass-sharded soul of P.O.'s boot.
It connected with Billy's stomach. He fell, writhing in pain, to the floor.
The boot connected again and again while each time P.O. said "I'm PISSED OFF!"
Billy heard a click. He looked up and saw May. In her hand was a sawed-off
shotgun. Her other hand was on the pump.
"P.O. you'd better knock it off, right this minute, before I blow your
damn head off!"
P.O. stopped kicking Billy and turned around. His breathing was heavy
and sweat ran down his cheeks. He seemed to move towards May but retracted.
"Whatever," he said. "I'm sick of this SCENE! I'm sick of YOU! and I'm sick
of beating the CRAP out of HIM!" He turned and went out the door.
"Oh, Billy. You look like a gutted hog."
Billy couldn't say anything, his jaw was broken. May took him into her
arms and in her sweet, down-home girlish way said, "Why did you act so manly?"
Leaving Billy S. Spear with a smile the size of Texas on his face.
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
********************************************************************************
Information Communication Supply 2/20/95 Vol.2: Issue 8-2
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
Others TBA All addresses @WESTERN.EDU
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
equations from space
--------------------
The lights in the room
were sedating
Their memory lingered
what do you have to hide?
my emotions inside
why are they so secret?
life is a white lye
the music went on
cosmic rhythms
the music went on
universal equations
frightening verses filled their ears
the conversation they were having
appeared to be prophecy
the big will happen
but you may be afraid
was the encounter a success?
no one will believe you
-- Tim Halas
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------------------*)---
^ Crumbling at The Feet of the Pyramids ^
/ \ By Steven Peterson / \
/ \ / \
----- -----
The tear gas enveloped the small crowd out on the street, sending the
small knot of writers and poets into convulsions.
Over the last week, I had come to know several of the brave Egyptian
artists who were risking their lives on a hot Sunday afternoon; in the face
of immense political and religious oppression, these slight figures are
showing the world what it means to save a culture.
"We are tired of being afraid," one of the poets, Talwaah, said before
the ill-fated march. The simple act of writing a short story or producing a
stage play, with a plot and character development, rather than a series of
sketches held together with songs, has become an almost heroic act of
defiance in present-day Egypt.
Moslem fundamentalism rules this nation, and they mean to assert their
rigid version of Islamic law, no matter the cost in spiritual, artistic,
and cultural terms. Islam, one of the three major world religions, was once
a tolerant faith. Now, the culture of the Book, introduced in the name of a
return to religious roots, bears no rivals. The veneration of the letter over
the spirit has reached the point of idolatry; apparently, no other text can
compare to the divinely written Quran.
The question "Are you or have you ever been an atheist?" is implicit
in every attack on a writer or academic. It is the charge leveled at specific
artists by street corner preachers and repeated in the dozens of cassette tapes
that are sold outside mosques all over Egypt. These tapes have titles such as
"The Filth of the Artistic Community," or "Art is Filth".
Talwaa, a poet, tells me that he is "frequently picked on by name and
damned as a `corrupter of youth and an atheist'." Under Islamic Law both
charges are theoretically punishable by death. Yet, it is not only the
streetside extremists who preach retribution against the artist. The official
and semi-official press is no less threatening. Many people have fallen victim,
without any possibility of reply, to orchestrated campaigns of vilification.
The Egyptian government's characteristic response to these attacks on
artists is to further increase censorship and simply ban many of their works.
As it is, the State Security service maintains control of the various boards
of censorship through their nominee as Director of Censorship, Mr. Hamdi
Sorour. The "higher interests of the state" are the latest excuse for the
banning of plays and film scripts; even Pop songs have to be submitted for
a recording license.
It is hard to describe what it is like to visit a society whose culture
is dying. It's not just a question of the persecution of writers and academics,
nor of the tightening of restrictions on publications and the increased
censorship of theater and films--it is more than the lack of schooling that
Talwaa writes of, or the climate of censorship that he fights against with
his friends. It is a little like watching a large and lumbering animal slowly
being sucked into the mire; it is the knowledge that what was won by past
generations is being lost, possibly forever.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note: Talwaa is a composite character; although he may not exist in our
reality, there are many authentic individuals in Egypt facing the same
conditions . . . >SP, 96
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
===========================================================================
|
-+-
| The Funeral Hand
|
By Chris Jones
It's early in the morning and my mother is in my closet getting out
my good suit. I continue to lie in bed with my hair frazzled and my eyes
full of that crunchy stuff in the corners. My Star Trek sheets are warm and
I don't want to leave them.
"Come on, get out of bed. We'll be late for the funeral."
"Do I have to take a bath, mom?"
"No, we don't have time," she says, "just brush your teeth and hair
and get dressed." She marches out my door to her room.
I do as I'm told. In the bathroom I carefully brush my teeth making
sure to get way back there. I part my hair down the middle and comb it
straight down the sides of my face. I go back to my room and begin putting
on my suit. The pants are grey and pressed tightly. I hate wearing them.
They make me feel funny, like I'm going to my father's office. The shirt is
white and starched. I tuck it in and button it up to the top. It feels tight
around my neck and it itches, too. Next, I put on my necktie. It is striped
blue and red and has a little clip that I attach to the exact middle of my
collar. My mother has pulled out my brown dress socks, the pair I despise.
They only go up a little ways past my ankles and they're thin. I like my white
cotton socks that come up to my shins. My shoes are brown and polished.
They're stiff and have a hard inside. Last, I put on my brown, knit blazer
and go awkwardly to my parent's room.
"I'm ready, mom."
"Oh, honey, you look so handsome." She's fixing her hair in the stand-
up mirror. My father is in his underwear shaving. I wish I could shave. "Go
downstairs and fix yourself some cereal." I do as I'm told, hopping down
every other stair. The cabinets in the kitchen are too high for me so I pull
in a dining room chair and step up. I choose the Frosted Flakes and mix
them with milk and sugar. I move into the living room and sit directly in
front of the television. Sesame Street is on and Big Bird is singing a song
about growing up. It makes me think about my great-aunt Glydia and her
funeral, today. I never knew her that well. I had met her twice in my whole
entire life and it was a long time ago. She always seemed to know me
well; always patting my head and saying, "I hear you're doing well in
school. Are you still playing in the Little League? Look who's getting so
big." I wonder what it is about old people that makes them so smart.
My mother and father come down the stairs. "Turn off the t.v., honey,
it's time to go."
The funeral parlor is full of relations, as my father calls them.
Everybody is dressed real nice, but their faces are all gloomy. My mother
and father are talking to some people I don't remember. My cousin, Nicholas,
runs up to me. "You should see her all dead like, and all. Come on, now."
He grabs me by the arm and we run up to the casket. It's too high
for us to peek over so we have to stand on the kneeling bench. We stand there
side by side, staring down at dead aunt Glydia. It's a weird feeling, like
she's supposed to smile at us or pat our heads.
"Go on, now, touch it. I dare you," Nicholas says quietly. I lean over
and put my hand on hers. It's cold and gray and wrinkly, much larger than
my own, even for a woman. They look like they've been around for a long
time. I stretch out my fingers imagining my hands that big. I wear a look
of puzzlement on my face. Nicholas laughs at me, breaking me out of my
trance. "You look funny!" I begin laughing as well.
"Nicholas! Christopher!" Our fathers say sternly. We scurry off the
kneeling bench and slide beside our mothers. Her hand made me wonder if
it's their wrinkles that make them so smart.
******************************************************************************
*********************
******************************************************************************
Death will always be the strangest learning experience in youth.
At least that's how I feel. For me, my great Aunt's funeral was where I
received my first lesson, but not nearly my last. My mother had gotten me
out of my warm, cozy bed early in the morning and I had dutifully dressed
myself. I had no idea what to expect. This was the first funeral I had ever
attended and it still stays rooted in my mind after all these years.
My cousin and I had always been the little "hell-raisers" as our
parents' would call us. We frantically ran around the funeral parlor playing
hide-and-seek, flicking holy water from our fingers at each other's faces,
giggling uncontrollably. Neither of us had ever really pondered dying, why
would we? We were only about four or five at the time. But that day and
its events were like a hard, sharp smack in the face.
My cousin, Nicholas, had dared me to touch my Aunt Glydia, who lay in
the coffin like a wax statue. We stood on the kneeling bench staring at her.
I don't know what my cousin was thinking, but I remember thinking about
myself: is this what I'm going to look like when I get old? Not necessarily
like a woman, no, but with wrinkled skin and thin, gray hair.
"Go on, now, touch it," my cousin had dared. I cautiously bent over
and put my small, smooth hand on our Aunt's cold, gray one. A look of confusion
spread across my face. Where was Aunt Glydia, now? Was she watching my cousin
and me from somewhere far above, possibly that magical place called Heaven?
Even to this day, I have no answer for that question. I remember feeling
extremely light-headed and I felt a million miles away. My hand remained
frozen on my Aunt Glydia's. My mouth hung open and went dry, any attempt
I made to close it was feeble at best.
Finally, I heard Nicholas' laughing fade into my ear and I looked up
at him. "You looked funny!" I stared hard at him. He obviously had not learned
anything from our Aunt's funeral.
"She's dead," I said plainly and stepped off the kneeling bench.
Nicholas immediately was quiet. His mouth hung open like mine had before.
We didn't say another word to each other during the rest of the proceedings.
We stayed by our respective mothers' sides, hardly glancing at each other.
After the funeral, we went to our grandparents. Out on the cool green
grass we spoke, again.
"You're right," Nicholas quietly said to me. I didn't respond back,
there was no need to. We sat there side by side and stared at the starry
sky. Before we went inside to go to bed, I looked as far as I could into
space. "Goodnight, Aunt Glydia."
============================================================================
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Untitled 3 Poems by Stacey Kuehnel
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It makes me wonder sometimes
why the petty things make
a difference with the big
things. Why would people
dissolve from your life
and act like it doesn't
matter. Never giving any-
one an explanation. They
disappear into thin air.
You begin to wonder what
you have done wrong and
if you did anything wrong.
I have begun to realize
who really matters to me
and why they matter so much.
I have lost someone I
thought I could depend on.
He was swallowed up into the
mist and has yet to return.
I don't think I have done
anything wrong, but the
fear of him being gone for
good has strengthened in
my mind. His hatred for me
is filling my soul and I feel
I have no where to turn to.
You don't realize till they
are gone, what they really
mean to you. I have started
to miss this certain person.
I cannot forget what I thought
was being created between us.
I wonder if everyone's
life is filled with sorrow and
pain; something I have begun
to feel all to well in my
soul. This has awakened the
realities of desertion on
the chambers of my brain.
I only fear what is still
left to be discovered of
me inside the depths of
my inner soul.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Life is like a river
Continually flowing
almost drying up
coming back to life
Each contains it's
own personality
Flooding at times
Destruction and
chaos.
Will return to
normal.
Can not help the
littering and
pollution it's
body sometimes endures.
Some are lost to
the unknown
never to return.
Some never started
to begin with
others bounce back
when cleansed
properly.
Some rivers
never fear the
bad poisons
others continue
to fight off.
Toxins seeping at
a deadly pace.
When the bright
fire sucks again
the life tries
to revive.
Droplets replenish
its system.
Sometimes dammed
and broken up.
Spirit taken away
unexpectedly. Sometimes
the great circle gets
the best of this
river, it becomes
a desert and the
funeral arrangments
begin.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I'm sitting here in stone
cold silence.
Words being said to my ears
Not commuting in my brain
So relaxed
Inspiration is the key
My pen moves across the page
Writing words my mind
tells the arm to
Fascinations and supernatural
are hidden in my thoughts
of thoughts
Want to explore the unknown
of the open minds
I am losing the inspiration
in this white confinement
I want my freedoms to
roam in the strange
ruled over world
My destinations are there on
the hills
Will take my strength
and life to reach my
high point
Where I will find my
fate and fantasies
My passions and desires.
--Stacey Kuehnel
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
******************************************************************************
\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Independence Day
By Elizabeth Kurtak
I heard from Emily the other day. She wants to come to Colorado this
summer; I told her we'd love to have her. All she said about Vivien was,
"what a bitch that woman turned out to be!" I guess they don't hang out
anymore; she also told me that Michael had graduated and moved to Fairbanks.
"Has his moose been back around?"
"Nope, not this year. Vivien broke her leg again, though."
* * *
I was so happy when I finally got my acceptance letter to Anchorage
University. After taking three years off, attending ten funerals (zero
weddings) and living with about thirty roommates, I was ready for it. Oh,
yes. I was sick of bouncing back and forth between Colorado and California,
and by God, I was going to live where the mountains and the ocean were in
the same place.
I didn't know a single soul when I arrived at the dorms that September;
I also had that "travelling" feeling I get every time I go to a new place.
Everything was beautiful and surreal, just as I'd hoped. It radiated, if
that makes sense. Emily told me it was "the Great Spirit." Vivien told us
we were both weird.
It took me a whole day to meet Vivien and Emily, my downstairs neighbors.
I woke early that first day, still struggling with the time change. I was
having a Coke when my feet started vibrating to a Grateful Dead tune.
I stuck my head out the kitchen window to have a look; the girl
downstairs was doing the same and we startled each other:
"Good morning little school girl!" Her accent sounded Eastern.
"Can I come home witchooo!" I replied, playing along. I'd checked out the
view when I'd brought in my stuff the day before: a babbling brook ran along
the length of our dorm, complete with flora and fauna.
"Come down for some coffee, neighbor!" An order, not a request.
"Sure," I followed the music to her door (Jerry the pied piper) and
that's how I met Vivien. Emily was her roommate of two years; she hailed
from Boston. She was a lovely, unassuming person with great skin; she also
practiced the fine art of eye contact. I thought, "God, her kids aren't
going to get away with anything."
"So, when did you get in?"
"Last night."
"It was pretty clear yesterday. Did you fly in before dark?"
"Yeah!" The memory was still fresh: mountains as far as the eye could
see. It was like flying to the moon; I felt very far from home. Emily
smiled warmly and I didn't feel any need to explain.
* * *
I decided to ditch class and go climbing with Vivien. Three years ago,
this guy had dropped me on belay. He barely got his shit together before
I hit the ground; I hadn't climbed since. Vivien had managed to talk me into
going again, although I noticed it was always on her terms. She had the car,
and I was the one who would end up missing class. We set out for Boy Scout
Rock. The climbing was moderate and challenging, not too scary, and there
were good places to set up top ropes (safety first). I remember stretching
out while Vivien sorted out her gear.
"Gear Queer! Gear Queer!"
"I'm going to lead today, if that's okay with you."
"Okay New Hampshire. You think you're bad?"
"I know I'm bad." She tossed her long, dark hair back defiantly and put
it into a ponytail. Vivien had mentioned leading last week, but I wasn't
interested. I was just starting to feel comfortable with climbing again,
and I felt just fine being safely anchored into the top, thank you very
much. However, I was willing to give her a belay.
She started up (no stretch for Vivien today?) and set in her first anchor
at eye level. She continued along her merry way; until, about twenty feet up,
her gear started coming out. She had maneuvered around an overhang, and now
the rope was pulling out the gear she'd set below despite my loose belay
(pop, pop, pop). "ohmygod," she whispered. Sewing-machine leg is just what
it sounds like: you shake and your leg bounces up and down like a sewing-
machine needle. Viv had it bad.
"Are you okay?" A dumb question, but I didn't know what else to say.
"Yeah, just a little fatigued." Vivien shook like a leaf. She had passed
the halfway mark; the rest wasn't too bad.
"What do you want to do?" She'd been hanging for a while and I didn't want
her to get too tired to finish, or come down, whichever she decided. I stood
directly under her, figuring she'd be better off falling on me than hitting
the ground. I was anxious, but I didn't want her to know that.
"I'm coming down!"
Shit. "Okay!" I would have felt better if she'd gone up. She was only
three moves from the top, although I'm sure it didn't seem so close from her
perspective. She made her way down; then, when she got about eight feet from
the ground, she fell.
"Thanks for catching me, neighbor!"
"No problem." Vivien came out without a scratch. I spent the next two days
on the couch while my roommate Katy put ice on my swollen back. I would later
get to return the favor.
* * *
I had to write this term paper on elephants; they're interesting critters.
They migrate constantly, like a wrinkly travelling circus with no particular
destination. I read one account in which a whole herd swam through a large
river, but one little baby couldn't make it across, so they swam back and
decided to migrate in a different direction. They could cross the river
when the baby was bigger.
* * *
Katy, my roommate, was a redhead from Washington, D.C. She had recently
joined a gay march on the White house. She loved gay people and gay rights;
it was her thing, even though she wasn't gay herself. She'd give long test-
imonials on the subject and then say "that's my opinion, and it's worth what
you paid for it!" or "more power to 'em!" We mostly tried to stay out of each
other's way, but now and then we'd have a good talk or share a meal.
I noticed, around the same time we started getting down to eight hours of
daylight, that Katy didn't seem to be her buoyant, politically correct self.
She seemed tired and grumpy:
"Are you feeling okay?" I asked, tenaciously.
"I don't know. I'm going to the doctor tomorrow."
"What are your symptoms? What do you think it is?" Katy was a nursing
major, so I thought maybe she had attempted a self-diagnosis.
"I don't know! I'm just really fucking tired and I don't feel right! OK!"
Yikes. Feeling like an intruder in my own home, I decided to visit the
downstairs neighbors. Vivien greeted me; she yanked me in by my collar. She
pulled me over to the coffee maker and poured me a cup. When she began to
refill her own, I started to tell her she'd had enough this morning when
I was interrupted by singing. It was coming from outside, loud and off-key.
We went to the window to see what was happening:
"Oh, Christ! Michael again, I'm going to call security." Vivien made her
disgusted face. "You know what's up with these natives, don't you? They can't
hold their booze. It's like, congenital, or genetic, or something. One day
he was out on the quad with some whore, and the police came. Natives get
preferential treatment, though. They told him to go back to his room,
and that was it."
That day, Michael was butt-wasted and chanting on the quad's main lawn.
It occurred to me that the white man had stolen his spirit and replaced
it with alcohol. Vivien continued: "They always find some frozen natives in
the winter. They just pass out in snowbanks and freeze to death. Funny, huh?"
Vivien started to dial campus security, but I pushed the hang-up button.
"Is that a moose?" I hadn't seen one yet.
"It sure is. Michael better watch out." He sang to the moose. It came
toward him and stopped, just out of his reach. He sang for a while, then
he began to cry. He talked to the moose briefly, in a language I couldn't
understand, then turned and went back to his room. The moose just stood
there out on the quad, looking up at us.
"God, like I need this!" Vivien said, exasperated.
"Maybe you do," I told her.
Vivien came to Alaska to conquer the mountains. She climbed ice when it
got too cold for rocks. She had done some mountaineering in New Hampshire,
but nothing major. She was a very independent person, to put it politely.
"When Vivien broke her leg last year, I thought I would die." Emily
looked at me seriously, searching my face for understanding. "She couldn't
do anything, I had to drive her everywhere. I didn't mind, really; she's my
friend. It's just that she hated it so much that she had to make me hate it
too."
"Em, most of the people I've met here are trying hard to be independent.
I wasn't thinking that way, because I've moved to places by myself lots of
times. Did you feel that way?"
"No. I wanted to get so far away from my family that they wouldn't come
visit. My dad's an alcoholic."
"Oh. Why do you think Vivien moved here?"
"To climb mountains. I know, she doesn't do that. I think, maybe, Vivien
had a hard time making friends at her last school . . ."
* * *
That night, Katy told me that she had to go in for a spinal tap.
The doctors thought she had multiple sclerosis and a tap was the only
way to be sure.
"Do you want me to go over there with you?"
"No. I have a ride. I'm taking a cab back."
Katy went to bed; I was left alone in the kitchen, doing homework.
Vivien came knocking at my door very quietly--after thinking twice,
I let her in:
"I'm studying, so I can only stay for a minute. Look what I found."
She had a book with her that was open to a page with a picture of a Hindu
idol. The excerpt explained that it was Ganesh, The Remover of Obstacles.
It was half-man, half-elephant, with many arms.
"I know you probably can't use it in your paper, but I thought you'd
dig it anyway."
"I do. Thanks, man."
The next day, I came home from class early, then skipped the other two.
I wanted to be home when Katy got there. Her friends were attending some
campus function with a guest speaker. I didn't know if she'd be alone or
not, but I figured I'd be there, just in case.
I could hear people talking in the stairwell, so I went to see what was
up. Katy had one arm around the cab driver, who was helping her up to our
third-floor hall. I met them at the second floor, got an arm around Katy,
and we got her to bed (face down, of course).
"How did that feel?" I asked, kidding.
"I loved it," she replied dryly.
"What do we need to do for you?" I asked, seriously.
"Ice."
Vivien and I had been having trouble getting along. As the days got
shorter, so did our tolerance for each other.
"You never want to go play with me anymore!"
"Maybe I'm tired of being on the receiving end of our one-sided
conversations!" I was in a bad mood, and Vivien was exacerbating it.
"My dad says that your pineal gland is the part of your brain that
releases hormones in response to light. If you don't get enough light,
you get depressed."
"That's right, Viv, you're sucking the light out of me." Vivien's dad
was an eminent psychiatrist, and I had overheard many of their conversations.
I didn't care for his advice to her, and I cared even less for her
questioning him about what stimuli might be eliciting my behavior.
"Why don't you like me?" she whined.
"Why don't you go out with John? He meets your height and educational
requirements." John was hot. We'd had dinner with him and some of his
friends the night before. He'd asked Vivien out and she shot him down
mercilessly, like a duck in a pond.
"He's a fisherman, Liz. Is that what's bothering you? That I think John
is below my station?" (Did people in New Hampshire really talk like that?
Station?)
"Well, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to learn that people have to
act in their own best interests and do what's right for them."
"That's right, and that's why I don't like to play with you anymore!"
She was a WASPY bitch and I hated the way she talked about people. I tried
to remember if she'd always been that way; I finally decided that she had.
* * *
I went back to the house: nobody home. Suddenly, I decided to go home--
Colorado home. I called my folks and told them the good news; I could still
get in for spring semester, no problem.
Vivien showed up a few days later, presumably to heal our rift. I told
her about my plans; she replied, "That doesn't surprise me. You really don't
have what it takes to live here." Emily agreed with her.
"You aren't battling demons, Liz. You're looking for friends and fun.
People come here to prove that they can handle themselves. I think you've
already done that for a long time. Vivien, on the other hand, can't make a
move without her parent's approval, no matter how far away they are."
"So I suck, because I'm happy with my life and my decisions?"
"No, but that's why you're not fitting in." Emily looked deep, to see if
I understood. I looked deep too, to see if she was humoring me--she wasn't.
"A lot of people here, they're kind of between realities; everybody's
running away from something. They come to Anchorage to get away from
whatever, generally find they don't like it enough to live here, and move.
It's a transitional place. Vivien can't even pick a major! She's been
here for two years, she's got more than the required number of credits
to graduate; but because she can't or won't decide, she's a twenty four
year old sophomore. Do you think she feels good about that? She's hiding
from her own life."
"How can you stand living with her?"
"I can't. I'm saving up to move off-campus." Emily smiled big.
"Good for you, man. Good for you."
I stayed in town longer than anyone. My plane ticket home was on the
frequent-flyer program, so I didn't get a prime booking. I stayed through
the winter solstice, al
one in the dorm. The sun only made quick U-turns:
a two hour spin out, around, and back behind the mountains. "This place
lacks balance," I thought. The next day, I took a cab to the airport and
flew home.
* * *
People always want to know, "So what's it like up there?" I never know
where to begin. I usually just tell them about the natural wonders, how
beautiful everything is, and suggest if they're planning a visit, to do it
in the summer.
People rarely ask me why I didn't stay; it's as if it doesn't occur to
them. When they do ask, I usually just smile and tell them "I didn't think
it was very funny."
^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^
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+-----------+
| Last Word \
+-------------+
All lost in the supermarket: a line from a tune by the Clash.
It could be our theme song here at ICS. Shopping merrily through an
eight week term, we kind of lose our identity. So it goes.
Big snow, long colds and brilliant blue skies. The mountains and
valleys cast their siren song and I wander through the forest instead
of hacking away at my 'board. Other minor crises intrude--the good
things in life are always so hard, complex and slow. The next thing
you know, that deadline's so far back on the horizon it's just a
distant little radioactive gleam of shame . . .
Our toes a trifle scuffed, faces blushed, we're back with more
features, stories, poems and goofy thoughts of all sorts. Through the
spring, we'll be recruiting a fresh batch of voices; let us know what
you think of their work (writers . . . always aching for feedback).
As always, we're looking for a few good stories: amaze us.
Until next time, Live Well.
--Ed. >8*)
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