PORTER GULCH REVIEW 2010
Aeschleah DeMartino
Introduction
Welcome to the 25th Anniversary Editoin of PGR!
And thank you—readers AND contributors—for experiencing the
meeting of the minds that is Porter Gulch Review.
Everyone is familiar with writers like Charles Dickens, Emily Dickinson, Toni
Morrison, John Steinbeck, Mark Twain, Edgar Allen Poe, Amy Tan, Alice Walker, and
J. K. Rowling. However, when it comes to celebrating local writers within our own
community we seem to run into trouble. Thankfully for the past twenty-five years
Porter Gulch Review has given local writers and artists the opportunity to publish and
exhibit their finest works. Once again we are proud to present you with another edition
of PGR put together by David Sullivan’s English 1B class at Cabrillo College. As usual
the editing process proved to be no easy task. Our job as students consisted of riffling
through a poetry book with a considerable heft and poring over a museum full of
artwork. Our main method of selection came to resemble panning for gold. To say the
least, in terms of unearthing literary and artistic masterpieces, we struck it rich! Without
further ado I now leave it up to you to discover our treasures. A big thank you goes to
all the artists and writers who contributed to this year’s review and everyone else who
helped with its realization.
AND THE WINNER IS...
For Best Poet: Andrew Perry
For Best Prose Writer: Emily Catalano
For Best Photographs: Jeremiah Ridgeway, Aeschleah DeMartino
For Best Graphic Art: KOAK
“I think I can, I think I can!”
Here’s your chance! Create any of the following: Short stories, screenplays, poems,
paintings, drawings, photographs, or any other idea you can transfer to paper. Keep
written pieces under 5,000 words each. Submit up to four poems or two short stories.
Submissions must be typed, single-spaced, single-sided, and—please—only one copy,
without staples. Include a page with your contact information, and a 2-3 sentence
playful bio because if we like it, you’ll want to be known and recognized, right? Include
a compact disc with the files on it, and be sure to write your name and names of the
pieces on the disc. You wouldn’t believe how many great poems get thrown in the trash
because we have no idea who wrote it! That was a joke, but write your information on
your work and you won’t have to worry. If you submit photographs or artwork, write
your name and contact information on the back of each piece, and—if possible—include
high resolution copies on a compact disc, with your name and a list of the pieces on it.
Submit your work—we’re requesting a donation of $5.00 no matter how many items
you’re submitting—before December 1st, 2010, to: Porter Gulch Review, Cabrillo College
6500 Soquel Drive, Aptos, CA 95003, and please EMAIL all submissions and bios to
PGR@cabrillo.edu—names attached. Artists, please email short, playful bios as well. Due
to the volume of submissions only those accepted will be notified—usually by May 1st.
Alissa Goldring
THE STAFF
Nick Anderson, Reeva Bradley, Lisette Cooper, Brian Dias, Cruz Gonzalez, Julian
Isonio, Gwendolynne Krebs, Darren McInerney, Shaun Molloy, Jill Muse, Courtney
Mutz, Lucas Narayan-Burns, Sarah Nelson, Cory Noreikat, Denise Rubio, James
Tashnick, David “Daboo” Williams.
PRODUCTION CREW
Lisette Cooper, Brian Dias, Julian Isonio, Erich McIntosh, Jill Muse, Courtney Mutz,
David “Daboo” Williams.
TO HELP OUT NEXT YEAR
To participate next year, take the special section of 1B, Porter Gulch Review, next
Spring, or contact David Sullivan, dasulliv@cabrillo.edu, to do an independent study
and work on the production aspect of the Review. See ya there!
Author and Artist Table of Contents
Aeschleah DeMartino, photographs 1, 28, 70, 84, 127
Alissa Goldring, photographs 3, 20, 38, 46, 53, 97, 101, 109, 111, 119, 122, 125, 130
Sara Friedlander, photographs 4, 39
Eleanor Van Houten, Trust 6
Bill Clark, photographs 6, 21, 103
Emily Catalano Routine (a screenplay) 7
Carmen Ionita, photographs 12, 45, 49, 60, 106, 114, 134
KOAK, artwork 15, 25, 44, 56, 75, 104, 126, 132
Stefan Graves, Moon Jelly 16
Sigrid McLaughlins 16, 125
George Lober, Pre-Nine Eleven 17
Jeremiah Ridgeway, photographs 17, 18, 19, 20, 27, 50, 54, 83, 107
Pamela Gerk, Arising 18
Marcia Adams, Then and Now 20
Marcia Adams, Signs 21
Ellen Hart, The Price of Legal 22
Peggy Hansen, photograph 22
Richard Stockton, Ear For Love 23
Katy Cronovich, photograph 26
Cathy Warnar, Henrietta 28
J. Zimmerman, Questions to my Twin about Rain 34
Mandy Spitzer 35, 77
Andrew Perry, Siren 36
Eric Hasse, photographic scans 36, 94
Mary A. Carr , Within Silence 37
Michael Norris, photographs 37, 95
Margaret Anne Paul, Beginnings 38
Dan Phillips, A Father’s Love 39
Cheryl Chaffin, Leslie’s Baby 40
Dustin Matchett, photograph 40
Chelsea Smart, Rain at the Inn41
Richard Veil, photographs
42, 89, 121, 133
Diane Patracuola, drawings 43, 102
Barbara Leon, My Daughter and the Tree Frogs
44
Vinnie Hansen, Rooster and Buster Brown Shoes 46
Sandi Howell, photographs 48, 87
Sara Friedlander
Margaret Anne Paul, Arriving Home from the Dance 50
Eden White, Right English
51
Kelly Woods 51, 125
Jeff Towle, Migrant headaches 52
Gail Brenner, Question of Kinship 55
Didi Fitzgerald, photographs 55, 63, 117
Jenny Genetti, Finger Print
56
Ryan Forsythe, photograph 56
Jean Walton Wolff, The Ambassador 57
Dan Phillips, Tassajara Mantra 61
Carrie Kidder, photograph
61
Adriana Torres, What’s Under Your House? 62
David Thorn, green 63
Courtney Mutz, The Deed 64
Jeff Dow, photograph
64
Michael Nader, The Crimson Swallow 65
Melanie Faith, photographs 67, 79, 110, 119, 129, 137, 139
Kevin Jonker, photograph
68
Anne Clement, photographs 73, 123
Gary Galloway, A Short Treatise on the Tacturn Differences between Adhesion... 84
Richard Stockton, The Stop Sign
85
Ken Weisner, Ranch Work 89
Erich McIntosh, Jaded 90
Robyn Marshall, drawings
90, 118
Gloria K. Alford, artwork
91
Len Anderson, History
92
Barbara Bloom, Where the Buffalo Roam
93
Jody Bare, artwork
93
Jessica Woods, Note to the Gardener 94
Andrew Perry, Plummeting Reality 95
Melissa Ross, Morality of a Man (a screenplay) 96
Beth Pettinger, CHAOS
102
Jenny Genetti, Spelunking
103
Peggy Heinrich, Sarajevo
104
Peggy Heinrich, Questions for Shoshana
105
Barbara Downs, paintings
105, 108
Adela Najarro, The Year of the Martini 106
Manfred Luedge, Mutanabi Street
107
Julia Alter Canvin, You think I don’t remember108
Debra Spencer, Crown of Thorns 109
Dane Cervine, Signs 110
peewee gonzoid
Dane Cervine, Turning Fifty 111
Jennifer Lagier, Final Chapter 112
Sid Rigor, photograph 112
Brooke Bischoff, Grapes 113
Jenny Walicek, Degeneration 114
Kate Giles, Learning to Blur 116
Nahayeli Juarez, If the moon 117
Barbara Raney. Novitiate
118
Rosie King, On Cherry-Fire 119
Chloe Woodmansee. I Realize... 120
Eduardo Pasero, photographs 120, 140, 141
Ellen Hart, A Penny for my Thoughts, Please 121
Tilly Shaw, Narcolept 122
Donna Becker, The Northern Miner 123
Susan Freeman, Gonzales
124
Rylan Freshour, Drugs
126
Emily Catalano, On A Mission (a screenplay) 127
Bob Newick, drawing
131
Robert Sward, All for a Day 132
Andrew Perry, Nothing Worth Mentioning 133
Author and Artist Bios
134
Lauren Crux, words and image 143
Virginia Draper, photographs 143, 144
David Sullivan, Last Words 144
Submission Critiques and Book Reviews, Table of Contents, 145
PGR 6
Eleanor Van Houten
Bill Clark, Oergon Highway
Trust
Fog pours down the hillside thick as cream
curls into waves that surround the car.
The red towers of the Golden Gate Bridge
disappear into mist and the roadway
floats on a white cushion above the sea.
Once I took part in an experiment
where one by one, we closed our eyes
and fell backward into waiting arms.
Every falling body was caught.
The mind learns to trust
what the eye cannot see.
FADE IN
INT. SUBWAY - DAY
It’s full of people who ignore each other. An OLD MAN reads a newspaper. A
YOUNG LADY puts headphones on. Two YOUNG MEN talk among themselves.
JOHNNY LOCATELLI, a shy and awkward businessman, 33, sits alone. He
closes his eyes to doze off. The sound of a drum beat wakes him up. A GUY in
the same car plays a catchy beat on an upside-down bucket. Then one of the
young men joins in with a professional sounding beat box. Johnny smiles. More
people join in. They use whatever they have with them to add to the beat. The old
man crumples his newspaper. The young lady whistles an impressive melody.
Johnny jumps from his seat and begins to dance. He’s good. He spins and jumps
like a pro. For the big finish he flips in the air and-He wakes up. Everyone is still in their seats as they ignore each other. Johnny
stares at the old man across from him.
The old man scowls back at him. Johnny nervously looks away.
The train slows down. Johnny slowly gets up and waits for the doors to open.
INT. SUBWAY PLATFORM- DAY
As the train approaches the color becomes grainy.
Emily Catalano
Routine (a screenplay)
FLASHBACK
The doors open and LITTLE JOHNNY, 10, skips out. He carries a flyer in his
hands. It reads “DANCE AUDITIONS FOR FALL MUSICAL. SEPT, 25TH 1989.
AFTER SCHOOL.” We follow him up the stairs. He is full of energy as he hops up
with his feet together one stair at a time.
EXT. SIDEWALK - DAY
Little Johnny runs clumsily through the crowds of people on the sidewalk. He
occasionally twirls and leaps. He goes into an apartment building.
INT. APARTMENT BUILDING HALLWAY - DAY
Little Johnny stops in front of a door and calms down. He enters quietly.
RITA (O.S.)
Johnny! Come talk to ya mutha!
Johnny walks into the kitchen. His mom sticks her hand into a raw chicken and
pulls out its guts.
PGR 7
INT. APARTMENT - DAY
Johnny’s mother, RITA, an eccentric housewife, cooks supper in the kitchen. His
father, FRED, watches baseball and smokes in the room attached. Next to the TV,
his older brother, VICTOR(19), lifts weights. Johnny tries to sneak past them to get
to his room.
Hi, ma.
JOHNNY
How was ya classes?
RITA
Alright.
JOHNNY
Rita!
FRED (O.S.)
Rita wipes her hands on her apron and gets a can of beer from the fridge. She
hands it to Johnny.
Bring this to ya fatha.
RITA
Johnny walks towards his father but trips and sends the can flying. He also
drops the flyer that was in his hands. Victor laughs. Johnny picks up the can and
hands it to Fred.
FRED
I can’t open that now. Get me anotha one.
Johnny goes to the fridge. Rita massages the raw chicken with butter. When he
returns, Victor has the flyer in his hands.
VICTOR
Dance audition? Johnny, you can’t even walk.
Give that back!
JOHNNY
Johnny reaches, but Victor holds it above his head.
VICTOR
No way. Can’t let my brother go queer.
PGR 8
Johnny tries to fight him, but Victor holds him back with just one hand.
I’m not queer!
JOHNNY
RITA
Victor! Give him back his piece a paper.
Give it here.
FRED
Victor gives it to Fred who looks it over.
FRED
You don’t like dancing, Johnny.
Yes, I do!
FRED
Then show us what you got. Go on.
VICTOR
Yeah, you gotta pass our audition first.
JOHNNY
Fred and Victor wait for Johnny to dance. Rita makes the raw chicken look like
it’s dancing. Johnny bashfully stands in front of the TV and gets into first position.
Victor chuckles. From the TV, the sound of the crowd erupts.
FRED
Outta the way Johnny!
Victor pushes Johnny away. Victor and Fred, eyes locked to the TV.
FRED (CONT’D)
C’mon, Henderson! I could’a caught that with my eyes closed!
Johnny waits for them to return their attention to him, but it never happens.
Johnny leaves the room.
END FLASHBACK
INT. APARTMENT BUILDING HALLWAY - NIGHT
Older Johnny walks up to the same apartment door, opens it.
INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT
The apartment is decorated differently, but still has some of the same old
furniture. Johnny walks in and looks around.
Hello?
JOHNNY
In here.
KAREN (O.S.)
Johnny walks towards the voice.
INT. DINING ROOM - CONT.
Rita, who is now old and fragile, sits at a table with KAREN(29), a beautiful
Latina at-home nurse. They play Scrabble. Johnny enters.
PGR 9
RITA
Fred, why are you home so late?
JOHNNY
I’m not Fred. It’s me, Johnny.
RITA
Oh yes, Johnny. When is Fred coming?
Johnny looks at Karen.
KAREN
Rita, you’ll have to get more than 12 points on this word in order to
take the lead.
Rita forgets her question and studies the board and her letters. Karen gets up
and talks to Johnny around the corner.
JOHNNY
She been like this all day?
KAREN
Off and on. She keeps talking about how Fred is going to take her out
on a date. I think it’s cute.
JOHNNY
Until you have to tell her he died 10 years ago.
KAREN
Let her live in the memory. There’s no harm.
JOHNNY
I guess not. At least it’s a good memory of him.
KAREN
She’s lucky to have you.
JOHNNY
And I’m lucky to have you. I mean. That you’re available. Or. I’m
just. Glad you’re here.
RITA (O.S.)
Fou-teen points! Take that, missy!
PGR 10
Karen and Johnny smile.
JOHNNY
You should take off. I can finish the game.
KAREN
Oh good! I mean...not that I don’t love playing scrabble with your
mom, but now I can be early for dance.
JOHNNY
Oh, yeah. Tango Tuesdays.
KAREN
That’s right. You should check it out sometime. I think you’d really
enjoy it.
JOHNNY
Ha, no. I can’t dance. Two left feet.
Have you even tried?
KAREN
Johnny shakes his head. Karen smiles. She grabs her things and sneaks out.
Johnny watches her leave and then sits down where Karen was.
Is it my turn?
JOHNNY
I’m tired, Johnny.
RITA
JOHNNY
Okay, let’s get you to bed.
INT. RITA’S BEDROOM - NIGHT
Johnny sits at a chair and watches Rita sleep. He looks depressed and deep in
thought. He turns off the light and sneaks out slowly.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT
Johnny steps out of the apartment complex and walks down the sidewalk.
FLASHBACK
INT. SCHOOL HALLWAY - DAY
The bell rings. Kids come out of classrooms and gather in the hall. Little
Johnny walks down and stops at the auditorium entrance. The sign on the door
says “AUDITIONS TODAY”. He stays in the doorway and looks in. A GIRL
squeezes by him to get in. She turns around.
GIRL
You coming in, Johnny?
Johnny shakes his head. He walks across the hall to a bulletin board. On the
board is a sign-up sheet for baseball tryouts. He writes his name down.
PGR 11
END FLASHBACK
EXT. YMCA - NIGHT
The YMCA is a store front in the city. The big windows are lit up and we can see
the dancers warm up inside. Johnny stays outside and looks through the window.
He spots Karen. She’s in the front of the class. She leads the stretches. He watches
her.
INT. YMCA - NIGHT
Johnny enters through the doors looking poised and confident. He goes straight
to Karen.
Need a partner?
JOHNNY
I do.
KAREN
Carmen Ionita
PGR 12
The music starts.
The lights dim.
Johnny leads her in a perfectly executed sultry tango.
On the last beat he dips her and slowly leans in for a kiss. Right before their lips
touch-Johnny stands outside and watches from the window. Karen starts the class. She
partners up with a man. Johnny walks away.
INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT
Johnny quietly opens the door and steps inside.
Fred?
RITA (O.S.)
Johnny looks up. Rita walks out from her room dressed in an evening gown. Her
lipstick crooked. Her hair down.
Wha...what are you--
JOHNNY
RITA
Oh Freddy, I thought you’d never come.
Johnny hesitates. He takes a deep breath.
JOHNNY
Of course I came. We have a date.
RITA
Yes. We’re going dancing.
Johnny smiles. With a thick accent like his father, he stays in character until the
end of the scene.
JOHNNY
Rita, my love. You look beautiful.
He goes to the record player and puts on a record. It plays At Last by Etta James.
JOHNNY (CONT’D)
It would be an honor to dance with you.
He takes her hand in his and kisses it. They begin to dance a simple waltz.
I love you.
RITA
I love you too, da’lin.
JOHNNY
RITA
Freddy, you are an excellent dancer.
Johnny smiles.
PGR 13
INT. RITA’S BEDROOM - NIGHT
Rita peacefully sleeps in her bed. Johnny quietly closes the door.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT
Johnny runs out of the complex and down the sidewalk.
EXT. YMCA - NIGHT
Johnny runs into the building without stopping to look through the window.
INT. YMCA - NIGHT
Johnny shyly walks through the doors, a little out of breath. The dancers dance.
Karen notices him and waves.
Five minute break!
KAREN
Everyone mingles. Karen goes to Johnny.
Am I too late?
JOHNNY
Yes.
KAREN
Johnny hangs his head. Karen smiles.
KAREN (CONT’D)
But I’ll teach you what you missed. C’mon.
Karen reaches out her hand. Johnny takes it. She shows him the steps. He is
awkward and clumsy, but smiles. We back away from the couple, through the
window, on the city street.
FADE OUT
PGR 14
THE END
KOAK
PGR 15
Stefan Graves
Moon Jelly
Driving home up the canyon,
twisting, turning, afternoon sun slanting through redwood walls
my thoughts are quiet, slowly reeling
along the stream running backwards beside my truck.
The boys will be waiting when I turn off the road,
full of plans as if it were morning
fresh and new, all beginning
endless
Down to the pond carrying a huge old tandem board
and paddles for the canoe.
Parting the screen of cattail the
pond is flat, still, framed in reeds, willow, maple and walnut,
the cliff beyond soaring into clouds reflecting
all that is not hidden on the surface.
Catfish swerve slowly in the cool weedy depth,
sunfish and golden carp soar
along the sun-warm shallow
And we
like a sudden storm are on the water
heedless of the calm below,
a maelstrom of breathless laughter,
splash and spray,
the pond is rocking with the fierce joy
of eleven year-old boys
Sigrid McLaughlin
PGR 16
And then a stunning silence
amazed to see and feel
cool water pulsing, meteoric skin
speed of light all around
unimaginable galaxy
of fresh-water
jellyfish
Jeremiah Ridgeway
PGR 17
Every new captain knew the words for kill,
how to insert them into bud chatter
with team room ease, got that the whole matter
of sounding strong, appearing brave, was still
a choice, to some degree, of verbs like drilled
or capped, taken out, wasted, offed, or jacked,
lit up, nailed, neutralized, or even shwhacked
over the unimaginative killed—
understood it’s only talking the talk,
amping the story with some whooah flair
to hype the action and stress the payback.
But then for some, in the first aftershock
of losing good men, the verbs disappeared,
and Dead arrived as an adjective fact.
George Lober
Pre-Nine Eleven
Pamela Gerk
Arising
Twin towers pulverized. Raven, ravens
flew in, and clawed the five pillars.
Ravenflock fermented the skies.
Others quailed behind, jumped over dead
amphibians and the distant zip zip cries of body bags.
Robins’ breasts whitened.
Fireflies burst into flames.
It was not their path—honeycombs
empty—but they were on it.
PGR 18
Date cloud skies split open.
Overripe palm dates
fell, one soft
finger, at a time.
Ssssssssun drop drop sun diddity diddity sun
sundrop
dog
here doggy doggy sun bloody bloody sun dog
drop drop
sundogged
doggone sundog gone
sundog gone gone
sun gone
Jeremiah Ridgeway
Rain came down.
On a wire perched
Robin. Vireo. Bluejay. Sparrow.
Lightning freed the wire
Birds lifted in a cloud
ravenssanderlingsflamingosswallowssyellowbilledhornbillsbasrawarbler
and swooped through weary streets of grey,
slipped past the guards, flew up marble stone,
keyholed open the seven drawers. Plume of ash,
song of bone, vial of scream spilled the steps.
When the top drawer released, the stench
woke the landlocked living who rose
and stepped into swelling streams.
The flock took wing to the skies.
The sun saw rising
a river
a river
arising.
PGR 19
Jeremiah Ridgeway
The sun saw rising a river.
PGR 20
Marcia Adams
Alissa Goldring
Jeremiah Ridgeway
Then and Now
The gentle euphoria
of late 1940’s peacetime
glistened like soft snow
melting off tips of sugar
pines the morning after
a sly storm slid through
unnoticed as we slept
to the sawmill’s rhythm
on the graveyard shift.
Now, chained pit bulls snarl
as a generation of damaged Desert
Storm and Iraq vets cook crystal
meth all night in dilapidated kitchens
to a blast of violent rap lyrics
that send children to bed without
dinner and wives to cower in fear
in cold corners of back porches
once upon a time a place to play.
Marcia Adams
Signs After I discovered
a hotel receipt from
the Dream Inn in the back
pocket of his Dockers
we drove to a pullout
out on Highway Nine.
We parked right next
a black and white sign
that said: No Household
Dumping where he fessed up
to an affair with someone
named Jennifer Westgate.
Back home, trying
to sort things out,
every little shopping trip
involved a face to face
confrontation with the
center’s big blue twirling
WESTGATE sign.
PGR 21
Bill Clark
He wanted forgiveness.
I couldn’t buy it.
Ellen Hart
Peggy Hansen, Lineup
PGR 22
The Price of Legal
I was home from school on winter break and had just turned eighteen. Dad
escorted me to the neighborhood dive to celebrate my legal status. Late afternoon
and the place was dimly lit by filtered sunlight and neon beer ads. A large jar of pig
knuckles, a dice shaker, baskets of pretzels, cocktail napkins with naughty rhymes
and ashtrays lined the shiny surface of the bar. The jukebox wailed smoky waves of
country and blues as we proceeded to some serious beer drinking. I felt all grown
up and he was proud of his smart and pretty college girl who he introduced to an
assortment of regulars on varying stages of the slippery slope. The bartender, a
fading but feisty blonde knew my father well and fawned on me while my generally
tight fisted dad slid hefty tips across the bar as he ordered rounds for the house.
He was fascinated with everything about my life, transformed from the absentee
father at the local saloon and the bear with a mouth full of rabbit fur the next day.
This was a kick, I thought slipping on my own slope and seduced by my old man’s
charm and wit. He called for another shot of Bushmills, washed it down with a
beer back. Growing more flushed and slurry, he drew closer, became confessional.
I became someone else then, perhaps one of the regulars. He told me about the
affair he was having with mom’s best friend, a saucy ex-vaudeville dancer. We’d of
left home and ran away together, if it weren’t for you kids, he boasted. I had nowhere to
put it. I took two bits off the bar and fed the jukebox in exchange for Howlin Wolf.
Folk singer Santa Cruz Sid tells me his apartment is so small that when he bends
over to pull his banjo out from under his bed he turns on the gas stove in his
kitchen with his ass.
Few show up for his Tuesday night gigs at Bocci Cellars to put money in the tip
jar. One is the tall, pale, deaf girl who stands against the big PA speaker cabinet,
feeling the speaker vibrations with her body and reading his lips as he sings the
old songs. She puts in a dollar and leaves before Sid finishes his set.
Richard Stockton
Ear For Love
Jennifer lays out her yoga mat and as she sits cross legged runs the words of the
folk singer through her head,
She’s never heard a train, only felt the power as they pass. She’s never heard
music but with folk songs she feels the smoothness of the lyrics, these words
passed from mouth to ear over and over, slightly changing with each passing
until they are polished by the retelling, mouth to ear to mouth to ear. She’s never
heard Sid’s voice but smiles when she thinks of how the low tones feel coming
out of the speaker cabinet. And then the vibration of the Om stills her mind and
though she’s never heard the sound of her own breathing, she rides the wave of
her breath.
One Tuesday Sid finds her email address in his tip jar and by Friday she is in his
tiny apartment. She lifts her dress and sits down on top of his bass amp, turning
the volume knob to ten. She points to his bass guitar and says, “Blay. Blay fo me.”
He plays a bass line and sees her spread her legs wider, pushing her vulva down
against the amplifier. He walks a bass line, the entire house pulses with each note.
Her smile turns more inward to her pleasure and he changes to a harder faster
rhythm and her eyelids lower slightly. Her breath becomes short and she pulls
him towards her and kisses him so hard their teeth grind together. Her head rolls
back and she cries, “Buck me. Buck me.” As she pulls him down on top of her Sid
lays the bass guitar against the speaker cabinet and bass feedback vibrations rattle
the old Victorian house.
Jennifer knows from her job at The Hearing Center that Sid will probably
never learn to sign well enough to talk to her. To the Hearing deafness is an
inconvenience, only the Deaf know about the isolation. So she and Sid talk to each
other by text messaging. She calls him Hot Thumbs, “I’ve been a bad girl so text
dirty to me…”
When Sid talks to a friend about the frustration of being a musician with a deaf
girlfriend his friend points out that having a deaf girlfriend may be the only way
for a banjo player to have a long term relationship. Sid thinks of her sitting close
PGR 23
Freight train, freight train, going so fast,
Freight train freight train, going so fast,
Please don’t tell what train I’m on
So they won’t know where I’ve gone.
to him as he practices, her eyes locked on his lips, reading the words, her hand on
the head of his banjo. At first it was exhilarating, but now too close, too intimate.
Sid wishes they had the distance of sound between them.
The Ukulele Club replaces Sid on Tuesday nights at Bocci Cellars and his two
banjo students quit to take up rock climbing. After Sid applies for a job at New
Leaf Community Market and sees his application go to the bottom of a pile of
applications he walks down 41st shouting at the sidewalk, “I can’t get work, can’t
find people to listen to my music and I have a girlfriend who cannot listen at all.”
When he tells her that he doesn’t want to live in a silent world she leaves him
with a note, “I am a silent world.”
Maybe it was the need for structure in his life, maybe his uncertain direction,
maybe even having a girlfriend who cannot listen to his music, but he abandons
her, he abandons his music, he abandons every instinct in his body, walks into
the Army Recruitment Center on 41st Avenue and signs up. In ten weeks he is in
full battle gear in Fallujah, Iraq, crouching behind a stone wall surrounded by the
deafening explosions of the battle.
A landmine explodes under the wall, the stones lift up and curve over him and
Sid feels the explosion hammer into his ears, he feels the delicate bones in his
inner ears shatter and as the ancient Persian stones drop around him and he sees
his platoon firing their weapons, he hears absolutely nothing. He lies in the rubble
and watches the battle rage in complete silence.
The Army discharges him “for medical reasons” and the Veterans Administration informs him that his first appointment for evaluation will be next spring.
Back in Santa Cruz his guitar picking buddies hold a welcome home party but
they get tired of writing notes and become more distant with each awkward
moment. He thinks of the last text message he got from her, “No one listens to
deaf people. We’re too much work.” His buddies try playing Freight Train but he
can’t find the beat. He thinks of the song’s lyric,
When I die just bury me deep,
down at the end of Chestnut Street,
So I can hear old number nine
as she goes rolling by.
PGR 24
Dead people listen. Even dead people hear. His world is silent. He runs from
the party through the streets of Santa Cruz. It’s not until he drops to his knees in
exhaustion that he sees the text message from her. Like a lifeline sinking out of
sight the phone goes black even as he reads that she is living in the Edgewater
Beach Motel on Second Street.
The parking lot is full and he does not know where she is. The air empties from
his lungs and in despair bends forward until his forehead lies on the center of his
steering wheel. The vibration of the horn feels good and he presses down harder.
KOAK
She has left the door unlocked
and he sees her black eyes wide
and shining in the dark and they
fall together, unable to hear their
own heartbeats but feeling them
like hammers in their chests. As
they ride out their passion she
cups her lips around his outer
ear, presses hard with her mouth
and screams her pleasure into
his head. Maybe it is the air
pressure from her cries into his
ear. Or maybe it’s the pressure of
her lips against his head, but the
shattered bones in Santa Cruz
Sid’s inner ear touch together
and receive her cries of ecstasy.
He hears her. He listens to her
like it is the first sound he has
ever heard and he listens to her
all night long.
PGR 25
He feels the car shudder from
an impact, then another and
sees a man in a bathrobe beating
on his window, the man’s face
distorted with anger, the veins
purple in his forehead. He sees
lights coming on in other rooms,
people pouring out of the motel
into the parking lot. He presses
the horn with his hand now
and out of the corner of his eye
he sees the Santa Cruz Police
Camry Hybrid Squad car pull
into the lot when a man from
Room Two runs out the door
and around the side of the motel
carrying a flat of marijuana
seedlings, one policeman
running after him while the
other storms into the room to
stop a man who is flushing
plants down the toilet. Sid sees
every room in the motel light up
except one.
PGR 26
Katy Cronovich
PGR 27
Jeremiah Ridgeway
Aeschleah DeMartino
PGR 28
Cathy Warnar
Henrietta
Henrietta, I didn’t know you existed until the Christmas Blaine proposed.
I flew to San Diego, drunk on love. Dad met me at the gate and kissed me on
the cheek. He seemed nervous, fiddling his fists inside the pockets of his cords.
He wanted a drink, so we stopped at Sam’s, the lifeguard hangout, on the way
home from the airport. The young guards drank beer and played pool in tight
white T-shirts. Old-timers, like Dad, who gave up pier swims when they got
indoor jobs managing pools, still looked handsome despite their straw-like hair,
wrinkled perma-tans and growing bellies.
Dad squeezed into a semi-circular booth and patted the dented cushion. I
sat a quarter circle from him. He quizzed me while he drank a Bloody Mary. I
said school was fine. He asked if I needed money, I said no. He asked if I had a
boyfriend. I said yes.
“That’s great, terrific. Glad to hear it. I’ve got news for you, too.” He drained
his drink and cleared his throat. “I got an unexpected phone call a few weeks
ago. It appears you have a sister.” He paused, as if doing mental math. “She’s
just a year younger than your brother.”
I swished the straw in my Coke and watched the maraschino cherry
sink. Something in my head lurched, and I felt outside of myself, the way I
sometimes did when Blaine and I made love when I was drunk or up way too
late, like someone else had taken my place. “Does Mom know?”
“Of course she knows, Jesse too. We met her a few weeks ago. But it’s not the
sort of thing I could tell you over the phone.” He wadded his cocktail napkin
and dropped it in his empty glass.
“You met her?”
“She came over for lunch. It was your mother’s idea.” He pulled out his wallet
and showed me your school picture. You had his Pepsodent smile, blue eyes, not
his, the Beretoni nose, definitely his, and brown hair, darker than his.
“What’s her name?”
“Henrietta.”
I looked at you smiling out from the plastic photo accordion. It was obvious
your mother had loved him, why else give a kid that name? I wanted to ask, but
couldn’t if he had loved your mother. Had he told her to be patient, that he’d
leave his wife and kids, that he just needed to figure out when and how? And was
your mother patient so long it was too late to drive to Tijuana? Or was she so in
love she wasn’t afraid to have a baby alone in 1963?
Mom had moved into my room since I’d been home last. My track ribbons and
debate trophies were boxed in the closet next to her suitcase, the dresser top
loaded with Ponds, Avon fragrances, her tattered family Bible and freestanding
crucifix.
“You’re leaving Dad?”
“Don’t be impertinent, Anne.” She plunged her hands into the pockets of her
Christmas apron. If I still lived at home she would’ve slapped me. “Marriage is a
sacred institution and I intend to live up to my vows. Until death do us part, for
better or worse. This is a worse.”
“I’m sorry.” I sat on the bed and fingered the afghan she’d crocheted. “Do you
still love him?”
“Love is more than a feeling.” She sat next to me. “It’s a decision. Your father left
me once, a long time ago and I made a choice to take him back. This child is part
of that history.”
PGR 29
What did your mother say to you, Henrietta? Did she have a talk when you
were ten, after you’d seen the movie at school explaining menstruation and the
facts of life? Did she say you were becoming a woman and should know the truth,
that someone else was your biological father? Did she say all that mattered was
that she and the man you called Dad loved you? He was your real father, the one
who’d been there through the chicken pox and the broken arm when you fell from
the tree house reciting, “Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear.” Or did you find out when St.
Ignatius High wanted a copy of your birth certificate and it said unknown under
father? (Of course your mother knew; she wasn’t that kind of girl.) Did you run
down the hall lined with family photos, throw yourself on your bed and sob,
“You lied to me all these years.”
Did she tell you that you had a sister––well half-sister––me, and a half-brother,
Jesse? Or didn’t we matter? If you hadn’t wanted to meet Dad, I never would’ve
heard about you.
Henrietta, I want to say that after my father confessed in the bar, I accepted his
shortcomings, and embraced the blessing––he called you that––that resulted. But
I didn’t. I thought You might have another daughter, but I do not have a sister. He said
you were visiting the day after Christmas. This is what I said, “Do I have to meet
her?”
PGR 30
I remembered the months we lived with Mom’s mother in Riverside, splashing
in the wading pool in the summer heat, trying to swat away the bees and
Grandma’s continual Marrying Henry was a mistake. One morning Mom put us all
on a Greyhound back to San Diego, dragged a suitcase, playpen, Jesse and me to
the foot of Dad’s lifeguard tower, set up camp in the sand, got on her knees and
yelled her prayers. She beseeched the Lord to make Dad, in his red trunks and
silver whistle, act like a man.
Do you ever get past the secrets, Henrietta?
My brother told me about you that Christmas. He wanted to work for the CIA
and majored in spying at home. Jesse said that Mom, in an act of Christian charity
even she didn’t understand, invited you over for lunch the first Saturday in
December, after a morning spent baking Christmas cookies for the church bazaar.
There was a plate of her star-shaped gingersnaps in the center of the table. He
said you ate one before you’d finished your orange. Dessert before you finished
your meal, a cardinal sin in our home. He said Mom took a deep breath, folded
her hands in her lap and asked, “Would you like another cookie, dear?” Then you
and Dad chitchatted at the table, while Jesse helped Mom load the dishwasher.
She told him you were surprisingly well mannered, considering you were
conceived in sin.
Sometimes I relive how we were supposed to meet. The day after Christmas,
the big day, should’ve gone like this. Mom would trail Jesse through the house,
picking up dirty socks and near empty glasses of Dr. Pepper, closing Joseph
Wambaugh novels and arranging them on his bookshelf. Dad would mow the
lawn, edge the driveway, and hook the boat trailer to his Chevy Blazer. At lunch
all of us would eat hunks of cold turkey and dressing in shifts over the sink so we
wouldn’t dirty any dishes before our guest arrived. Mom would give Jesse and
me the look and we’d exchange our faded Cheap Trick T-shirts for monogrammed
Belmont Pool sweatshirts in respectable navy.
You’d arrive wearing a pea coat, Izod polo and Topsiders and carrying an armful
of gifts. Your parents would drop you off, wave from the car, and plan to come
back later. Dad would put your boxes under the tree next to the presents from us
to you. There was even one from me, according to the tag Mom made.
You, Jesse, Mom, Dad and I would go to Captain Jack’s for dinner, to show we
were the modern forgiving family. Plus Dad was friendly with the owner.
Jack would come to our table, clap Dad on the back and say, “Delightful to see
you. Who is this gorgeous young lady? Jesse’s girlfriend?”
We’d giggle; you’d blush. Dad would say, “Actually, Jack, this is my daughter,
Henrietta.”
Jack’s pearly smile would disappear for a millisecond. “Lovely to meet you,”
he’d say. “Save room for our Mud Pie, on the house.”
After dinner we’d launch the boat, motor through the canals looking at ritzy
homes with docks and boats lit for the holidays, and say, “Ooh, ah.” Mom would
hand out plastic champagne cups from the galley and we’d connect the stems
while Dad opened a bottle of pink Cold Duck and let the boat idle. I’d have some
because it was assumed I drank at college, and I did, not bubbly pink swill, but
it was another holiday must. Jesse would get a whole glass this year, since his
You know, we were supposed to be there for each other. I was supposed to sit
with Dad at your snobby high school’s graduation, clapping when you held
up your diploma. You were supposed to visit for a few days after my daughter,
Charla, was born to make casseroles, wash loads of baby puked clothes and flash
your engagement ring while we laughed at the gigantic proportions my breasts
PGR 31
eighteenth birthday was coming.
You’d put your hand over the cup when Dad tried to pour and say, “No thank
you.”
“No problem. How about a club soda?” Dad would say. “Elaine, don’t we have
some club soda on board?”
Mom would clank around in the galley and call up, “Let’s see. We’ve got Bloody
Mary mix, Margarita mix or tonic water. Henrietta?”
“Really, I’m fine. I’m not thirsty.”
You and I would sit together on the bow, your shoulders hunched in your pea
coat, and watch the lights reflect off the water as the boat sliced along.
“I’ve never been down here,” you’d say.
“We come every year, the day after Christmas. It’s a family tradition.”
We were supposed to get chummy on the water. Dad would elbow Mom and
nod the I knew they’d love each other look. Mom would think, Thank the Lord since
that poor child doesn’t have any siblings.
“Wouldn’t it be nice,” Mom would say when we got home, “If we invited
Henrietta to stay over night? She could sleep in the den with you.”
There’d be a whisper to Dad, then a whisper to you. You’d make a quiet phone
call while we pretended not to listen. I’d loan you a nightgown while Dad got a
sleeping bag and Mom found an extra toothbrush.
We’d sit in the guestroom on the dented cushions at either end of the sofa bed.
You’d tuck your knees in the flannel and pick at the scratchy lace cuff.
“Grandma Beretoni made it,” I’d say. “Every Christmas Eve I get a new one. She
always guesses my size perfectly.”
You’d say your grandparents lived in Seattle and visited every summer. Then
we’d talk girl talk. I’d tell you that Blaine was brilliant, in bed and out, that we
planned to paint in New Mexico over the summer and become international art
dealers when we graduated. You’d blush when you told me you had a boyfriend
and were waiting until you got married to go all the way. “My mother would
definitely approve,” I’d say.
But that’s not what happened. You called that afternoon and said you’d been
given passes to watch floats being constructed for the Rose Parade. Could you
come another day? “Sure,” Dad said, “anytime.” And you did visit, but I was at
school.
Dad thought I should invite you to my wedding, make you maid of honor or
something. “Get real,” I told him. All my friends were going to drive up to Tahoe
and pack into The Love Chapel with its red carpet and soda parlor chairs. No way
was I going to stand in the receiving line, next to pony-tailed grinning Blaine, hug
everyone and say, “This is my father’s illegitimate daughter, technically my halfsister, Henrietta, whom I met for the first time today.” Maybe, if you’d called or
written or something.
PGR 32
had assumed. Three years later, I should’ve flown to Burbank, swollen-bellied
with my second child to wave as you drove off with your high-school-sweetheartturned-husband away from LA and your last year at college, toward Virginia and
his job at the University. You’d pop out a string of babies and we’d send photo
Christmas cards, the kids’ school pictures, and long letters twice a year.
Then, last year, after Charla started college, I’d call you in the predawn black
from the extension in the garage.
“Goodness, Anne, it’s four in the morning back there. What are you doing up?”
you’d ask.
“Temptation, Henrietta. I’ve succumbed to temptation. Our past is inescapable.”
I’d shiver in my oversized T-shirt, cold cement under my feet.
“Hang on, Sammy wants out of his high chair. There you go, Sweetie. What in
the world are you talking about?”
“I’m having an affair with Blaine’s best friend. God, I swore I’d never do it, act
like our philanderer father. But his wife left him and he was here hanging drapes
and looked so pathetically sad, he burst into tears, and I hugged him. What else
could I do? Steve collapsed on our couch and buried his face in the throw pillows
you crocheted.”
“ Don’t tell me the details. You have to end it immediately.”
“I tried, but I can’t and now…”
“What?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Hold on. No, Sammy, that’s hot. See. Ouch. We don’t touch that. Anne, how
can you be so stupid?”
“It just happened. I thought you of all people, would understand. Besides, I’m
not going to tell him. I’ll say it’s Blaine’s.”
“You have to get an abortion.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t. It’s a baby.”
“Didn’t you learn anything from our father, Anne? You can’t have this baby. You
can’t keep that kind of secret forever. You’ll end up hurting everyone you love.
You love Blaine, don’t you?”
I’d think of Blaine, who’d traded his easel and ponytail for Dockers and middle
management. Somewhere along the way our jump-your-bones passion had
been replaced with a business arrangement. “Of course I love him, but things are
different. I don’t feel it.” I’d sit on the doormat in the pitch-black garage, knees
hugged to my chest, and rock like a baby.
“No self pity allowed. Every marriage feels empty sometime. Work it out. I have
to go, Sammy needs to poop.”
I’d want you with me at the clinic a week later, guiding my elbow as I grogged
through the parking lot, sanitary pad growing moist, weaving past a dread-faced
girl whose mother strode ahead of her, purse bumping at her hip.
I’d call a month later to tell you Blaine’s friend had taken a job in Chicago. That
Blaine and I had loaded Steve’s U-Haul, then stood at the curb wiping sweat from
our foreheads and watched him drive away.
I’d tell you how Blaine turned to me, his eyes wet. “You’re leaving too.”
“No.” I looked at the cracked sidewalk. “Please let me stay.”
“I don’t know if I can forgive you.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes.”
On the day you died, I’d like to say that I wept for your family and for all the
people who loved you and that I was one of them. The morning after your high
school graduation, our father called to tell me a drunk driver killed you. I should
have been shocked. I should have been distraught. Instead, I heard my mother’s
voice in my head, and the Bible verse she quoted so often. For I, the Lord your God,
am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children. I wished, even
then, I’d never heard those words. You were killed because Dad fucked up. Your
life, the cost of his adultery.
At the time I couldn’t think of any other explanation for your death. I didn’t
understand senselessness. My parents never mentioned your name again and I
pretended you never existed. Does it matter that I’m sorry, that if I could do it
over again, I’d do it differently?
Sometimes, though, I think the Bible’s right and the punishment for those
iniquities just keeps coming. Soon Charla will deliver her baby, and just like your
mother, she’ll write unknown under Father on the birth certificate. And Blaine says,
“After the baby comes and Charla’s settled, I think you should move out.”
Right now, Henrietta, I could really use a sister.
PGR 33
After the affair with Steve, I’d keep quiet about the abortion and try to repair the
damage. “Let’s take a second honeymoon,” I’d say.
During spring break we’d fly with the girls to Washington to see the monuments
and cherries in blossom. Then we’d drive to Virginia to meet you: Auntie
Henrietta, Uncle Mike and the cousins, Sarah, Scott, Sabrina, Susan and Sammy.
We’d tromp around colonial Williamsburg and watch costumed crafters forge
horseshoes and embroider samplers. We’d eat Yorkshire pudding and Sally Lunn
at the Kings Arms Tavern.
Traci would say, “This is just like the movies. Do you think our ancestors lived
here?”
You’d laugh. “I doubt it, our father is Italian.”
“What about Grandma?” she’d ask.
Your brood would be tugging at your legs wanting hugs and naps, so we’d pay
the bill and pile in our separate cars. On the way to our hotel I’d tell Traci and
Charla that you and I had different mothers, but it didn’t matter. We were family.
We loved each other.
If it had worked out that way, maybe you’d have seen Charla barfing in the
ladies’ room in the lobby at the George Washington Inn. You would’ve sat
together in the lounge, and she would’ve confided to her Auntie. You might’ve
talked her out of having this baby, convinced her, without telling her everything
about our father, that a married man is a bad bet. But, that didn’t happen. Charla
is strong willed, a bit like your mother must have been. Perhaps she’ll find a real
father for her baby, like your mother did for you, and together they’ll raise her.
J. Zimmerman
PGR 34
Questions to my Twin about Rain
Will you wear rain gear or do you prefer to just get wet? (Podgett Powell)
Why are you walking the cliff path under clouds so thick they turn the day into dusk?
Must you go out wearing that dirty T-shirt, those frayed gardening jeans?
Have you lopped off so much from the plum trees you’ve killed them?
Should that girl-child be riding her bike alone in this rain?
Do you know your jeans ride unfashionably high now you’ve gained
fifteen pounds?
Would that weight sound easier to lose if it’s seven kilograms?
Is Climate Change less scary in Centigrade or Fahrenheit?
Did the barometer plunge when you left?
Is it freaky that lawn sprayers gush on the instant you pass each mansion?
Is Global Warming the Apocalypse writ in the Gospel of Gaia?
Should the Baptists start teaching Carbon-Cycle Reversal Theory?
Would you like to take refuge when you turn at St. Joseph’s Church toward home?
If you refrain does that protect your mind or your soul?
Could you discard the thirty boxes of paper you ignore?
If you empty a box, will you fill it at once with more paper?
Are you scared or intrigued that we’ve turned on a motor that raises the ocean
an inch each decade?
In how many years will the sea erode Westcliff?
What does walking help, if you get soaked to the marrow and return home shivering?
When will you leave your thirty boxes out to rot in the rain?
Are you sorry you’re my twin?
PGR 35
Mandy Spitzer
Andrew Perry
Eric Hasse
Siren
It only happens in California
right after the sun goes down,
the waves roll on the western shores with careless lust,
while the wind carries the song of the night
over the gardens of sand and dust and into the mist of the captain’s plight
twisting and rolling like a violent flower
as it shutters
down through the purple twilight
it creeps over the ships and strokes the air with sedating fingertips
gorgeous notes blooming from perfect harmony
with roots to the most beautiful of lips
PGR 36
unlovable lips
recklessly beckoning through the cool dark
torturing the sleepless broken hearts of the coast
that lie awake with windows open
making no sound at all
so they can soak in the melody and be lulled by the sound
because all men of the shore feel the heat of the temptress thrall
as they toss in their beds, wishing they didn’t love it so much
when the sirens call.
I long to learn the silence of trees
in which they stately grow
rooted without eyes or tongue to taste
their weather centered cycles
leafing fruiting aging
becoming more of what they are
until there is no more to be
Mary A. Carr
Within Silence sounding only when felled
by saw or ax
wrenched by wind
broken by storm
then with echoing despair
their anguished howl floods rippling
to the edge of hearing
PGR 37
Michael Norris, Twisted
and yet I
who have arms legs feet and hands
opened eyes and tongue to speak
yearn to grow stillness within
and anchored to its presence
become one
with the wisdom of trees
Alissa Goldring
Margaret Anne Paul PGR 38
Beginnings I was born into the season of death
in the raw, damp month of November
while rain-soaked leaves stuck to the soles
of my mother’s shoes. If she could
take back her life, I wonder what she would undo. The night my father threw
her mother’s china collection against the wall,
leaving pieces small enough to diminish
the meaning of love? Early morning
hours alone in the dark waiting
for his headlights to flood the front door?
When I close my eyes, I’m sitting at the top
of the stairs humming a song to drown out
the angry voices below. At least, that is what
I remember, but memory is not much more
than an accumulation of darknesses against
which I impress a deepening light. When my son came into the world gasping for air,
I learned not to take oxygen for granted. I pressed
my mouth against his and blew
until his chest rose and fell like a white balloon.
It’s the way beginnings look like endings
that has some of us confused. The way
invitations precede leave-takings and a smile can indicate goodbye.
The river runs golden into the sea. A red sun drops into my glass off the bar mirror, revealing the father’s image. Calloused hands shake as he lifts his glassful of amber ale;
bottomless brown eyes sink
as tells his story.
Dan Phillips
A Father’s Love
His son jumps from his father’s rowboat to save a friend washed overboard.
Then both are swept away
while the helpless father watches from shore.
“I shouldn’t have let them take my boat out,” he mutters.
“Should have known he couldn’t make it back
against that tide in such a rough sea!”
He drains his glass, then sets it down
inside the stain of an old ring.
“Myself, I could swim out the mouth
but never make it back...
much less tuggin’ my boy.” I tell him he’s not to blame.
a father’s love is stronger than any ocean. Despite my protests, he resolves to head out to sea in his rowboat, alone, and should he return safely, take it for a sign of forgiveness.
Sara Friedlander
PGR 39
I watch as he slides off the stool and shuffles off,
hardly able to save myself much less another,
Cheryl Chaffin
Leslie’s Baby
PGR 40
Dustin Matchett
What I need from people, she said to me from across the table—we were having
lunch in a natural foods restaurant in Evanston, is just for them to listen. Nothing
else. No advice. No pity. No sympathy and understanding. Nothing. Silence.
Their attention. I listened. What could I say? It was spring. In the fall she had lost
her baby one day prior to his due date. He had stopped moving. She lay on the
couch. There was a block party, people on the street. She lay quiet, feeling, sensing
nothing. She went to the hospital, delivered him. The cord was wrapped around
his neck. He was perfect. Henry. She showed me a black and white photo a year
or two after his birth. Beautiful boy. He seemed alive. But his lips were dark, his
fingernails too. I need to be sad, angry, she said. I need people to sit with that, not
try to change it, make it better. It will never be better. I’ve lost my son. He died
before he lived. No one can take the grief away. I don’t want anyone to think this
kind of pain can be cured. I just need to tell the story, to be listened to. I couldn’t
even say, there’s healing in that, isn’t there? She didn’t want healing. She wanted
the real: the grief, the now. If I could sit in my speechlessness, witness her sorrow,
then I would know true friendship. It was what she gave me in that moment. To her
I gave my attentive silence. She gave me freedom to dwell in the presence of grief.
PGR 41
In Greenberg, there are people—as in any other town, though perhaps
there are fewer people in Greenberg. Each neighbor knows the other and too
much of the other’s business; a common plight of the small town. There are shops
in Greenberg, as in any other town, though too, there are fewer in Greenberg;
there is a grocery, a butcher’s shop, and a post office where Mrs. Selznic unseals
and reads any letter that looks happy or scary; happy letters usually come in
brightly colored envelopes, sometimes with stickers on them, and scary letters are
from the US government or in the form of a telegram, which she reads without
guilt. There are flowers and trees, a brook and a yellow schoolhouse with thirtytwo pupils ranging in age from five to sixteen. There is a town clock frozen at
three fifty-two, and there is a mayor of Greenberg who wears his moustache too
long. There is a butcher whose apron is either brown or stained brown, and there
are eight new geese on the Thurle River who are quickly fattening from too much
bread and too little to do.
If you walk down Main Street and continue walking up the hill, past
the schoolhouse and over Boomer’s bridge, past the chiming bells of the church
and past the secret blackberry patch, you will reach Molly’s Inn, an in of every
significance, for this is where Bertie lives. Today, it is raining and Bertie stands
barefoot on the porch with his hands in the air.
“Mom!”
“Mom! I can taste the rain!” he says, blinking his eyes up at the sky and
holding out his tongue.
“Really?” says Molly, as though she didn’t know this. But, as much as
Bertie is a boy, and he is, from his dirty ears to his dirty toes, so too was Molly
a girl, spinning with her tongue out and her braid whipping in circles behind
her and her dress clinging wetly to her legs. Much of the girl can be seen in the
present Molly; the same braid hangs down her neck, though it has tamed with
time, and unlike many mothers, Molly still enjoys the taste of rain. She sets the
ladle in the sink and joins Bertie, running through the yard with his grubby hand
in tow and not thinking a whit about colds, soiled clothes, or dirty feet. There are
no guests at the inn, presently.
“Mom! Hey Mom, watch me!” says Bertie, turning a cartwheel.
“That’s great Bert,” she says.
“Janie taught me. Mom, watch,” he says, turning another.
“Five stars,” says Molly.
“Only five?”
“Ten stars, “ says Molly, returning to the porch and taking a seat on the
second step. She wraps her arms around her waist and smiles through chattering
teeth, because Bert is a wonderful boy who makes wonderful cartwheels. His face
can fit twenty kisses abreast, though Molly’s fit in more, double kissing places like
the ball at the end of his nose and the spot in the middle of his forehead.
“Bertie, lets go in. It’s cold, “ she says.
“Okay, but one more. Watch,” says Bert, and his shirt hangs over his head,
revealing his belly.
Molly blinks the rain from her eyes and holds herself harder. The wind is
Chelsea Smart
Rain at the Inn
PGR 42
Richard Veil
blowing and red leaves race with the wind over the lawn. She can hear the trees
moan and bow and she wishes she were brave enough to ride one. It is dark,
though only five, and the clouds in the sky look unfriendly. Snow clouds mean
worse business and worse business means no trip to the lake, no fish, and no
suntan. Molly rises and enters the house, returning with a large striped towel.
“Bertie! Torro, Torro,” she says, whipping the towel from side to side and
standing straight as a matador. Bertie is sitting in the mud, but when he hears
her, he wipes his hands on his pants, stomps his feet, and runs into the towel.
It is folded around him before he can shiver, and before he has the change to
whine, he is in his mother’s scrawny arms, in the bathtub, and covered in suds.
Molly takes her robe from the door and pulls it over her body. She will bathe
later.
Under the water, Bertie pretends that he is a fish and he to holds his
breath for as long as he can. He comes up for air, heaving, then splashes down
and blinks up at the glaciers. Maybe he will make friends with a whale, or
maybe he will eat another fish, he doesn’t know.
“Mom, I’m a fish!” he says, rubbing the suds from his
eyes.
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yes. When you were born, I held you in my arms,
kissed your slimy cheek, and said to myself, this boy will
grow to be a fish. I’ve always known it.”
“But I’m not a fish, mom.”
“I know.”
One of the best things about Molly was that she knew
how to play. Sometimes, she was even better at pretending
than Bertie. For instance, when Bertie turned five, Molly wore
a flower-print dress and laughed all day long. She made a
blackberry pie and told him a story about how when he grew
up, he’d be a great king, and Bertie went to sleep thinking of
all the wonderful, terrible things he’d do as king, like riding
on a hippopotamus and stealing everyone’s candy. When
Bertie woke up, it was still dark and he couldn’t be sure
that there was a spider on his pillow. He thought about how
horrible it would be to have a spider on his pillow, and then
he thought he saw one, but he couldn’t be sure, so he went to
Molly’s bed. She was still awake and her cheeks were wet and
here eyes were a little swollen.
“Mommy? What’s the matter?” he said, forgetting the
spider. Molly never cried.
“Nothing’s the matter, my darling,” she said, pulling him up on the bed.
“I was only pretending that I was the river, swooshing under the bridge.”
“Oh,” said Bert, wishing he could pretend so well.
Bertie closed his eyes under the water and tried to turn into a fish, like
Molly had turned into the river. He held his arms flat against his legs, and
pressed his knees together, pursed his lips, and let the bubbles slowly go. He
PGR 43
Diane Patracuola
allowed the gills to sprout from his neck, and he knew without opening his eyes
that he was slimy and green with an orange tail.
“Mom! Mom!,” Bertie exploded from the water. “I really was a fish!”
“I know, “ said Molly, but Bertie wished she didn’t know. He wanted to
tell her about his tail.
“Well, did you know I can whistle?”
“Bertie, you can whistle? I didn’t know that.” She waited for him to show
her, but he didn’t. The truth was, Bertie couldn’t whistle. But Molly didn’t ask him
for any proof, so he went back to being a fish for a while. The real truth, was that
Molly knew he couldn’t whistle. She’d watched him practicing behind the bushes
at the back of the house, making his lips into an O and singing like a whistle was
something that came from the throat. She didn’t know why he hid while he did
this, but her guess was that he wanted to surprise her when he could.
“Am I clean yet?”
“I think so, wash behind your ears and between your toes. And wash your
pee-pee,” she said.
Bertie rolled his eyes and Molly wondered where he learned to do that.
“What’s for dinner?” said Bert.
“What does it smell like?”
“Like soup,” said Bertie, spreading his toes.
“No fair, you peeked!”
“No I didn’t,” Bertie said, even though he had.
“Well, amazing boy, you’re right,” said Molly. “Now get on your pajamas
and I’ll meet you at the table.”
“Are my duck pajamas clean?”
“Sorry, sport. It’s flannel tonight.”
Bert took the news with a solemn nod. “But they’re itchy,” he said softly.
“When you go to sleep, I promise they won’t be itchy,” said Molly.
Bertie squelched down the hallway feeling like Molly had tricked him
somehow. He knew that when he went to sleep they wouldn’t itch anymore. But
that wasn’t the point.
Molly set the table feeling sorry and proud of her soup. She was sorry that
there wasn’t more to eat, she was always feeling sorry about that, but she was
proud because she was a good cook and Bertie was a healthy boy, despite there
being less for him to eat this season. Winters were always slow at the Inn, but
never this slow. Mr. Perkin’s cattle ranch had been sold earlier in the year, and
Molly’s guests had often been couples looking to purchase a cow or two.
“Bertie, those pajamas are wet.”
“No they’re not,” said Bertie in the duck pajamas. “They’re not wet, I
swear.”
Molly raised her eyebrows and poured Bertie’s soup into the bowl. She
watched him shiver a little in his chair, sighed, and raised her spoon.
“Cheers,” she said. The clacked spoons and ate.
That night, Bertie dreamed that he went to an ice cream store that was
made out of the inside of a fish, and Molly dreamed that Bertie was lost and she
spent all night trying to find him.
Barbara Leon
My Daughter and the Tree Frogs
They plopped onto the panes
of the kitchen window, gray-green
frogs with speckled bellies,
they gripped the glass with sticky
toe pads. My daughter shrieked.
Of all our home’s perils, frogs—
those harbingers of verdant summer—
concerned me least. The farmhouse
was a work in progress, with hazards
enough to alarm any mother.
Tainted well water, nail stubs
protruding through floorboards,
mosquitoes that left welts
on sleepless August nights.
PGR 44
She came through it unscathed.
Except for the frogs.
It was not just their sudden
appearance, bulbous eyes intruding
on our supper table. No, what still
chills her were the babies, bright
green and smaller than our pinkies,
masses of life pulsing
by the front door. She’d run
to the threshold, then freeze,
her chubby legs too short
to step over the heaped bodies.
She was afraid she’d squish them,
shred their fragile skin, stop
their tiny hearts.
A country child, she’d seen her share
of birds’ nests blown from trees,
hens that sickened and died
in the shed, furry rodents caught
in the teeth of stray dogs.
Was it the sheer number
of frog babies? Or her dawning
knowledge of her weight in the world?
My child, who ran free
in the wild mustard.
KOAK
PGR 45
Carmen Ionita
Alissa Goldring
Vinnie Hansen
PGR 46
Rooster and Buster Brown Shoes
To the casual observer, Rooster appeared to be our only rooster. In fact, we
owned an indefinite number of male chickens sprinkled among the White
Leghorn hens, but you had to know what you were looking for—leaner bodies,
larger combs, and cockier struts. Rooster was a different matter. He came from
some deal my father had made, which means, for no discernible practical reason.
Daddy may have liked the regal beauty of the creature. A burnished brown,
Rooster’s glorious tail glinted red and gold in the sun. He possessed an aggressive
comb and legs meant for fighting spurs. He mated so viciously that several hens
were bald, and if no hen were in sight, he’d mount a male. Rooster certainly
thought he was our only rooster. And he hated me.
I was seven and had to gather the eggs. Rooster regarded me as a thief, come
to steal jewels from his harem. When I neared the hard dirt of the chicken yard,
cleared of every blade of grass or weed by the poultry, Rooster watched me
coming with his head cocked, and as soon as I was within range, he flew at me,
talons spread. It didn’t do any good to cower; I had to charge at him. “Get back,
you stupid rooster!” I swung the bucket at him. Even though I swung with my
eyes closed, I sometimes connected. This pissed him off more. Rooster would
shake himself off, ruffle up his feathers, and spring at me, pecking my legs. I
scuttled through the coop door and yanked it shut, not really caring if I squished
Rooster in the process.
I entered the stink of the chicken coop, vigilant about where I placed my feet.
The pullets clucked and squished into a corner, but sometimes one stubbornly
remained in her cubicle atop her egg and pecked at my hand when I slipped it
PGR 47
under her warm belly.
One particular day I ran up the hill to the house and placed the bucket of eggs
on the kitchen table. I stretched out my skinny bare leg and showed my mom my
latest battle scar from Rooster.
But in our world, a scratch, even four inches long with a dotted line of
blood, didn’t rank a comment. After all, what was that compared to Hanky’s
appendicitis or my older brother Buba lying sick in my parents’ bed?
“Why can’t someone else get the eggs?” I whined.
That didn’t get a response either.
I tried a different tact. I picked up a still-warm egg. “This is cracked because I
had to run from that stupid rooster.”
“You don’t have to run,” Mama said flatly.
“Why can’t we make him into a fry?”
She sighed wearily. My mom had ten in her brood, but we never wore her down;
we only wore her out. After her sixth child, Mama had told Daddy, “I feel like
castrating you with a rusty butcher knife.”
“I’d let you,” he said, “but you wouldn’t like the results.”
Still, Mama’s comment must have given him pause. Nearly three years passed
after that before Buba had been born in 1951. In this year, the attention of the
family should have belonged to him. Instead the year poked holes in his heart.
Context may have been to blame, The Bay of Pigs, the first man in space, the
Berlin Wall, Bob Dylan rolling into Greenwich Village. In Philip, we watched
National Guard convoys roll along Highway 14. Missile silos pocked the prairie.
Aunt Bonnie built a bomb shelter in her basement.
When our town of Philip ran water lines across our pasture, the city promised
my father free water for life, and my father had a brainstorm. He installed a trailer
park beside our house, the first of many in Nelsen’s Court, with tenants lured
by cheap rent and no water bill. When Hanky had his appendicitis, he couldn’t
walk around, so he’d crawl over to the upstairs window and stare at the new
phenomena of neighbor kids.
So Buba had gotten lost in all the action. He had trouble delivering the Rapid
City Daily Journal, and complained of an achy neck.
“Girly, girly, Cindy Lee,” Duff taunted him as they trudged along with their
green canvas bags.
After a month or so, Buba whined about stiff legs. He stopped walking and sat
on his bundle of papers until Duff circled back to find him.
“Get up or you’re in a world of hurt.”
Buba paid Duff to finish his route.
Not many days later, Daddy came home and found Buba lying down. “Why the
hell aren’t you out delivering your papers?”
“I can’t walk,” Buba told him.
Our father picked up his ten-year-old son and took him to the clinic. Dr.
Mangulis put Buba directly into the hospital. He knew exactly what the problem
was. All the poor kids were getting rheumatic fever which inflamed the joints and
muscles and heart.
Buba had months to lie in our parents’ bed and to ponder why no one had
noticed him until his pain was so bad he couldn’t walk. Up and down went the
Sandi Howell
PGR 48
thought like a sewing machine needle, perforating
his swollen heart, so that his mother’s roses one
should stop and smell, and his father’s cheerful
“friends along the way,” ground down to a red
pulp in a sieve.
Still, that summer, like all summers, we
butchered fries. After a winter of carrots, potatoes,
onions and beef, we looked forward to fried
chicken, potato salad and watermelon.
Buba, the lucky dog, got to lie in bed and not
help with the chickens. Before the sun got to really
blazing, Bud chased down and caught roosters for
fries, and old hens, past their egg-laying days, for
soup. I watched my mom sharpen the knife on the
whet stone with the hypnotic brissssk, brissssk. As
Bud delivered a bird, hanging upside down from
his hand, Mama deftly slung it onto a block of
wood and cut off its head with the butcher knife.
The chicken flopped and danced off, sometimes traveling far enough that I had to
search for it in the weeds.
My mom scalded the chickens in a big bucket of boiling water and we plucked
and gutted the chickens on the spot. On this particular day, I was peeling a feed
sack from a gizzard, eager to see what I might discover—a bit of glass, a blade of
grass, maybe even a brightly colored piece of plastic.
My little brother Hanky also didn’t have to do anything. After all, he was only
five and had just survived appendicitis. Even though he was in shorts, he wore
his new Buster Brown shoes and was feeling very high and mighty. As Mama and
Bud and I worked, he played Superman, jumping off the step of the corn crib.
Each time he sprang, his ribs jutted forward and he’d flap out his arms, pull up
his knees to jump higher, and shout, “Sup-erman!” The faded blue towel around
his shoulders flew behind him.
After I’d inspected the contents of the gizzard, not finding anything more
exciting than the usual little stones, I dumped it on the ground. Oblivious to the
slaughter a few steps away, the chickens flocked in to investigate, Rooster among
them. He charged to the front.
“Look, Mama, I could get him right now.”
My mom was lugging a new bucket of scalding water down from the house.
Rooster chose that moment to act like the meal included my bare foot. “Ouch,
you stupid rooster.” I kicked at him. He flew back and then flapped right at me.
My mom sat down the bucket. She stamped her foot at Rooster. He fluttered
back and then made the mistake of attacking my mom.
In one swift motion she snagged his feet and flipped him upside down. In the
next he was across the chopping block.
“Sup-erman!” my little brother yelled as the umber and gold feathers sprang
high off the wood.
My brother jumped, a magnificent soaring arc, his long skinny legs pulled
through the air by his shining Buster Brown shoes.
A second later, Rooster’s body hit the ground and crowed with pain, a keening
animal shriek.
But my mother, like mothers everywhere, was not fooled for a second. She
whirled from the chopping block and ran to the bucket. It had tipped over.
Hanky lay in the weeds, wailing.
My mom tried to take off his shoe, but Hanky’s skin had melted on to the lacedup leather.
She picked him up. Eager to be rescued, he made himself light as a feather.
Bud and I trotted after her.
“Take care of the chickens!” she shouted at us.
Bud heated more water and carried the bucket carefully down the hill. We
dipped the chickens, picked off the feathers the best we could, and even lit a roll
of newspapers to singe the pin feathers. Some of the skin ended up a bit sooty, but
we had them all done before Mama came home with her grim face. She still wore
her blood-speckled tee-shirt and had fluffy down stuck in her dark hair. Hanky
did not come home with her. He had many more days in the hospital before we
carried him up the stairs to his bedroom.
My mother chopped the bodies into parts, and put the pieces into a large bucket
of cold water. She kept aside pieces to fry for the evening meal. Supper was an
informal event, even when we didn’t have a major catastrophe. My mom rolled
the raw chicken in corn meal, flour, salt and pepper and then fried them in
Crisco in an electric skillet. She would serve my dad the pieces he wanted at the
table, but as for us kids, Mel Mac plates in hand, we nudged and jockeyed to get
whatever was left.
“Dibs on the wishbone!” Bud shouted.
My mom, though, after spearing the breast on to my father’s plate, took the big
fork, jabbed it into a drumstick, and scraped the piece on to my plate.
I didn’t like drumsticks. I hated the stretchy tendons. The things that reminded
me of blood veins. The splintery bones. I looked in despair at the piece of sizzling
meat.
“That’s Rooster,” my mom said. “Are you happy now?”
PGR 49
Carmen Ionita
It wasn’t the match my little brother lit
to try his first Marlboro cigarette
in the attic that winter night
that caused the fire trucks to screech
to a halt in front of our house.
It was an electrical fire, my mother said,
recalling the attic and her bedroom ignited
like a match, she and five of the eight
of us standing in February snow watching hoses
aimed at her bedroom window, her mattress
flung out, sizzling on the front lawn.
It wasn’t the debris of her house
that filled her with grief
but the absence of my father
whose whereabouts that time of night
could only be pinned down to one bar
or another, but which one tonight and
how to get hold of him?
My mother refused to blame my brother,
familiar as she already was with the end of things.
Her sister dead at twenty-three from rheumatic fever,
her brother predicting his death before the age of thirty
then crushed by the weight of his own truck at twenty-nine.
Blame never changed anything. And about the cause of the blaze?
We know it was no electrical fire.
But when we tell the story, we say it was.
I mean, who can blame a nine-year-old
for wanting his father to come home?
Jeremiah Ridgeway
Margaret Anne Paul
PGR 50
Arriving Home from the Dance I used to think
in something other than English.
I used to write
with a hand other than my right.
Eden White
Kelly Woods
Right English
But teachers at mi escuela my school
taught me the correct way
to think
sólo en ingles
sólo Eenglush
only in English
as they made me sit on my left hand
and put a fat pencil in my other one,
calmly refusing to believe
that the thick drunken
letters staggering across the
lines could be
better done if they’d only release
my captive hand
my captive mind.
Occasionally though,
I stare at my neglected left hand and
sometimes,
once in awhile,
I dream in Spanish
talking con mi abuelita.
Estoy comiendo arroz y frijoles.
Yo sueño con algun dia, hablar en mi primer lengua.
PGR 51
Eventually I learned
to think and write The Language
crisply, with a surgeon’s precision.
Jeff Towle
Migrant headaches
In English, her second-language,
Gabriela tells the story of her father’s
troubles in El Norte.
Her words
blossom into poetry and sorrow:
in Arizona once, she writes,
on the assembly line a factory machine
snatched at his hand, and his fingers
opened like a rose.
Migrant headaches
hounded him through winters
in the new cold land. But they
didn’t break his spirit, not even
in the steel towns of Pennsylvania
that gave low wages and less welcome
to a stranger from a warmer country.
Now she lives his dream here in college
in California—this the compensation
he believed would soothe though never
take away the hurt in his bones.
Though I’m her teacher, not her friend
or father, I find I’m cherishing a vision
all the same—this morning, in our classroom
as again I see her, intent not only on the things
we say, but on each English word we use
to say them, reaching with her avid mind
as if her thoughts were hands, and words
were flowers.
PGR 52
I dream that when her father
saw the future in her face those laboring days,
her smile would welcome his return each night,
her earth-brown eyes that even I can see are full
of light like sun-shadows over Mexico’s highlands
after summer rains.
I imagine how that promise
through the ache of working years spoke
wordlessly but deep with healing, and
migrant headaches sometimes lifted
like a mist—his childhood days alive again,
warmth in Mexico of family and sweet December,
remembered love of holy Mary, her miracle
of winter’s roses and Juan Diego on the heights—
remembrances of youth, enlivened by the promise
of Gabriela, benediction like the vision of Guadalupe.
PGR 53
Alissa Goldring
With hope’s presumption I, the stranger, see—
and I believe that love was what his life
held onto—and the piercing snow turned
to roses in his heart where he saw the future
resting, shining in his daughter’s eyes.
PGR 54
Jeremiah Ridgeway
Gail Brenner
Question of Kinship
Who is your tribe? people asked
everywhere I went in East Africa.
When I replied, I have no tribe,
they would stare disbelieving,
and ask again—
Madame, everyone has a tribe.
We are asking, to which tribe do you belong?
When I’d say, I don’t belong to a tribe,
that many Americans don’t,
they seemed deeply disturbed.
Some back away, eying me as if a ghost.
Others, reached a hand to me—
a person with no people,
an orphan from a nameless lineage.
For even the spotted goat tethered
by the side of the hut knows its kind.
If you have no tribe, one woman said,
then who are you?
This question of my tribe followed me
wherever I went—through the noisy streets
of Kampala to the highway towns
of Kasese and Ishaka. It followed me
on red dirt roads to the mud hut village,
where the girl grinding millet all morning
and the boy toting water from the stream
have always known their kinship,
as intimately as their own names.
And it followed me home,
where I have begun to ask myself,
If you have no tribe, then who are you?
Didi Fitzgerald
PGR 55
The question followed me to the shores
of Lake Victoria, where boatmen waved,
calling out, and to the foothills
of the Mountains of the Moon.
At the borderlands, where refugee
women spoke in hushed voices,
and deep into the forest camps,
the question followed me.
Jenny Genetti
Finger Print
Today I saw a finger print
Greasily sitting on a glass window
As I rode the bus home
I couldn’t help but think
Who it had belonged to
I look around on the bus
It is full of people
Each face is so different
With its own identity
What are these people thinking?
As they wait for their stop
I wonder where they are going
Each mind so brilliant with something learned
Something they can teach the world
I am just one of them
PGR 56
Ryan Forsythe
KOAK
PGR 57
“I am not the ambassador.”
I say these words in the mirror the morning I leave the Neville Islands after
eighteen years. It is hot already, as are most days here in the Caribbean, helped
by the constant cool breeze from the ocean. My reflection in the mirror shows
a balding, perspiring man with a gray mustache, deep tan and wrinkles. I have
lived here in the tropics for close to two decades. Today I am returning to the
United States, where I am from.
This hotel is where I have lived these eighteen years and where I have worked
as a manager. It has been a good job, though always slow. Very few visitors
come to the Neville Islands, just an odd assortment of young, intrepid European
travelers who trickle in with their boots and backpacks, some of the only
people who ever found us or wanted to come here. “The country so small even
hurricanes can’t find us.” This is what the Neville Islands’ tourist board slogan
should be. If they even had a tourist board. This old hotel where I have lived has just been sold, though, to an American
chain. The Hotel Neville will be a Hilton soon, here on this remote corner of the
western Caribbean near Belize, and I want no part of it. It is time I went home,
anyway. I am getting old. I haul my luggage downstairs to the hall and before leaving I take one last look
at the old living room. The ceilings are tall and the wooden floors still gleam in
spots despite years of neglect. There have been several parties here over the years,
with dancing and steel drums. The floors show the marks. This building was
originally the home of an early British landowner almost three hundred years ago. The building now is run-down—mice live in the attic, termites hold it together
and even the foundation is cracked. It has been a good home, though, all these
years. I am glad I will not see this building being torn down for the new hotel. I
step outside and close the screen door for the last time. Clarice, the hotel’s cook,
has already gone early to the open-air market for the day’s produce and I will not
see her again; we said our goodbyes last night before I retired. I wait outside in the hot sun for my ride to the airport. I remember the day I
arrived. I had never even left the U.S. before. I had lost my job, been laid off. They said my position at the supermarket had “been eliminated,” but I knew
better. They wanted me out of there. I read an article about the Neville Islands,
described as a “backwater tropical speck,” and I thought, “that’s for me.” I left the
U.S. the next week, taking basically nothing. My marriage had just ended, and I
felt useless, lost and confused. I suppose you could say I ran away. My daughter was ten when I left the U.S., and I have missed much of her life. She was angry with me, probably with good reason, and stopped writing me
years ago. I never heard from her. I told myself over the years it did not matter,
that I did not miss her, but I always did. It bothered me, ate at me, that as a father
I was absent. But I told myself she would be alright, that I was making a new
start, that she was probably better off back in the U.S. without me. My first few years here in the tropics were wonderful, I will grant you that, and
an adventure. I walked a warm beach every morning before the sun grew hot,
I learned to like ackee and saltfish for breakfast, and I discovered the people of
Jean Walton Wolff
The Ambassador
PGR 58
the Neville Islands were friendly, honest and patiently amused with a foreigner
like me. I even befriended the mayor, Eustace Willoughby, and spent holidays
at his home with his family. As the years wore on, though, I missed the U.S. and
thought sometimes of returning, but I felt I’d burned my bridges and could not
return. I had too much pride. Besides, what really could I go back to? A family
who has probably forgotten me? A country I didn’t know anymore? There were
no job prospects for someone my age. I told myself I wanted to stay in the Neville
Islands, and in fact figured that this is where I would probably die here. So I am
surprised now to be leaving, and in truth, a little relieved. And I carry with me now in my pocket something else that has surprised me
greatly, a recent letter from my daughter, who has just written me out of the blue
after all these years. She says she finally wants to get to know her old man. She is
tentatively reaching out. She wants us to make a fresh start, and she wants to do
this while there is still time. I am glad. Now I wait for Charles, my ride to the airport, standing in front of the old hotel
by the dusty side of the road. I wipe the sweat from my forehead, even though it
is early. There is very little traffic on this dirt road, and chickens peck at the grass
under the pawpaw tree. That will be changing, too. Soon some roads will be
paved. Change is coming to the Neville Islands.
Charles arrives a few minutes after seven a.m. I hear his taxi before I see him. His old Chevy coughs and finally pulls around the corner, slowly scraping the
leaves of the banana tree. He parks under the shade of the massive banyan. He
leaves the motor running and gets out. “Morning, John,” he says and helps me
with my bags. Charles is black like most of the people in the Neville Islands and
he has warm brown eyes and one arm. He likes to tell people he lost his arm years
ago to a shark, but drunkenness and a machete bar fight are more likely.
“Sorry to be leaving us, Ambassador?” Charles says as he claps me on the back. We put my luggage into the trunk, get he slides behind the steering wheel and we
lumber onto the dirt road.
I light a cigarette and say, “Now, Charles, you know you can’t call me
Ambassador anymore.” And then I casually say the line I’ve rehearsed, “I’m not
the ambassador.
Charles just laughs. “Oh, sure you are. You’ll always be the ambassador,” he
says. “We have the photograph to prove it.” He looks over at me and his eyes
twinkle.
Yes, there was that one photograph taken the day years ago I decided to call
myself the Ambassador from the United States of America. I was new in the
Neville Islands, and it was my first Fourth of July away from the U.S., eighteen
years ago. I was homesick. I had thrown a party to which most of the town was
invited, and around four that afternoon I raised my American flag on the flagpole
in front of the hotel, under the black and yellow Nevillian flag, and under the
influence of more than a little local rum I must admit, pronounced myself the new
American Ambassador to the Neville Islands. Everyone was surprised, but they
cheered and someone took a picture. I kept that photo framed in the entryway of
the hotel for years—visitors would always ask about it—and local people began
calling me Ambassador from that day on. I confess I did very little to dissuade
them from using that title, even if it was imaginary. The photograph of that day is
PGR 59
now, in fact, somewhere in my luggage and is one of my prized possessions. “But
you have to stop calling me Ambassador now Charles,” I say. But I am leaving, so
what does it really matter? Charles just smiles as we drive along the hot road.
We pass the mayor’s house, a simple cement block home, and the mayor is
out in his yard herding in his underwear, because it is so early. “Willoughby, I’m
leaving!” I yell out the car window. Charles brakes the taxi as Eustace Willoughby
runs towards the car in his underwear and sandals. The goats resume eating the
flowers in his yard.
I offer my hand through the window. Eustace Willoughby, tall and black with
powdery white hair, takes my hand and I say to him, “Thank you again for your
kindness all these years.”
Willoughby the mayor says in his booming voice, “Safe journey and come
back see us.” We both know I probably will not. We shake hands this last time. Willoughby won election as mayor by promising electricity for every house in
the Neville Islands—”a light bulb in every home!” was his campaign motto. Most
people did get electricity, and with it their first refrigerator ever, so as a result several families in gratitude named their children Calvinator and Westinghouse. Mayor Willoughby now turns around now to see the goats wandering into his
house through the open screen door. “Blasted beasts!” he yells, then slaps the side
of our car as if it were an animal flank, and runs back to his house.
The airport is uncrowded. It is always uncrowded. Charles lets me off at the
curb by the Air Neville counter. The few buildings are all old Quonset huts
from World War II. Air Neville is the only airline servicing this tiny country, but
this will be changing soon. Charles and I say goodbye. “Good luck to you now,
Ambass- I mean John,” he says in his soft Nevillian accent, similar to a Jamaican
accent, laughing and shaking my hand. There is a sudden lump in my throat. I
give Charles all the Neville dollars I have in my pocket. I won’t be needing them
now. The terminal is a hot. On days when it rains it sounds like explosions on the
metal roof. The one ticket counter is open. “Morning, Louise,” I say, handing the
woman at the counter my ticket.
“Oh, ‘Bassador, we’re going to miss you,” she says, smiling. I’m pleased that
she has remembered my assumed title. But before I can correct her that I no longer
need to be called the ambassador, she says, “Plane’s on time,”—it is the one plane
of the day—and then she turns to help the two other passengers who are also
checking in for this flight, a short hop to Cozumel and from there I will catch a
plane to the U.S., a place I barely know anymore. These two other travelers look
to be in their late twenties, and are speaking to each other in what sounds like
Dutch. The Dutch are good travelers. They are fearless and will travel happily to
places with bad plumbing but beautiful scenery. We see a lot of them here. I can
tell these two have been camping.
The three of us passengers, me and the two young Dutch travelers, and the
two crew members walk out across the hot tarmac to board the small Air Neville
plane, a DC-3 leftover from World War II. It is a propeller plane, and so small
its nose is in the air and we enter and walk up the steep aisle to our seats. The
young Dutch couple take seats across the aisle from me. They are sunburned and
wear shorts and sturdy sandals. They hoist their backpacks onto the overhead
Carmen Ionita
PGR 60
compartment, secured by old netting. The co-pilot hands out Wrigley’s chewing
gum to everyone before we depart because the cabin is not pressurized. There is
no cabin attendant.
We trundle down the bumpy runway then take off slowly, propellers churning,
and lift up through the warm, bouncy Caribbean air. The Neville Islands fall away
behind us and I take one last look at the curling coast of white sand, the main
road of the capital city, and the palm trees and dry fields.
“Going home?” I hear a voice and turn towards the young Dutch woman who
has asked me this question. She has to shout over the noise of the small plane.
I have to think about her question for a moment. “Yes,” I finally say. “I’m going home. Connecting flight to the U.S.”
She nods. “How long were you in the Neville Islands?” she asks. “Eighteen years,” I say. The young Dutch woman laughs, surprised. “Eighteen years! My gosh,” she
says in her Dutch accent. “What did you do there?”
I look at this young woman, who is around my daughter’s age, late twenties
now, the daughter to whom I am returning, and to whom I am basically a
stranger. I look away from the young woman and out the plane window as I think
of an answer to her question of what I have been doing here, and I study the
view of clear blue sky, the same color as her eyes. And what do I tell this young
woman, that I have wasted my life running an empty and neglected hotel in
the tropics? That I have spent two decades living a sort of lie, a charade, calling
myself the ambassador, something no one ever believed in the first place? That
I basically ran away from my life in the U.S. and have nothing, really, to come
back to or to show? I suddenly feel like weeping because I realize there is nothing
around me but thin air now. I do not want my daughter to whom I am returning to know her father is a
failure, that he has amounted to nothing. I want her to be proud, to feel good
about her family and her life, to know that she matters, that she has a future.
I turn back to the young Dutch woman sitting near me on the plane who is
waiting for a reply.
I square my shoulders and smile in what I hope is a confident but humble
manner, then I hear myself say, “I am the ambassador.”
On the bank, sycamore sentinels watch over me as I bathe
in the morning chill of cascading water.
Dan Phillips
Carrie Kidder
Tassajara Mantra
Tassajara Creek scours steep granite walls
pools in liquid silver eddies around rocks which cannot block its course.
My eyes take refuge in cool places among twisted black oak survivors that have stood for eons as these mountains slowly crumble.
I wash clean, reawakened.
PGR 61
All around me are signs
this canyon has been ravaged by fire–– burnt matchsticks of manzanita scarred trunks of leafless pine
scorched earth.
Adriana Torres
PGR 62
What’s Under Your House?
It was many years ago when Gilroy California was my home. Memories of my
childhood hang in my mind like an art gallery. I was seven years old, with dirty
fingernails and a pretty Sunday dress covered in mud. As a child I was never able to
sit still, 89% of the time I was being active, the other 11% was spent observing what
my eyes couldn’t really explain.
Every Sunday afternoon was family day. All my close relatives would gather in my
house penetrating the kitchen and living room with there sense. The smell of mixed
perfumes, body odors, and old spice made my head incredibly dizzy. For that reason
I enjoyed the sun and the smell of garlic in my backyard, due to the garlic factories
located outside of town. I was very creative, but what child isn’t? I made up my own
little world; everyone loved me and my magical powers were the best part of that
world of mine. Nowadays, I understand that I was the only person in that little world
of mine.
One particular Sunday comes to mind when I think back. That Sunday morning I
put on a yellow dress, but halfway through the day my dress became the color brown.
Designing mud cities, and putting my ninja turtles at the top of the mud castle was a
must. I had one Barbie with no hair, but she was the queen. “Drip-drop-drip-drop,”
was all I could hear at that moment. I turned my head trying to find where that noise
was coming from, but I couldn’t find anything so I continued playing. ”Drip-dropdrip-drop.” There it was again, getting louder by the second. I stood up looking
straight at the doors that lead to the bottom of my house.
My father’s voice was well engraved in my head, “Don’t ever go down there, it’s
dangerous,” but I was seven and curiosity was my main religion. I wiped my muddy
hands on my dress and started walking down the stairs. I had no shoes on so my
muddy feet left foot prints. I opened the doors and saw pitch black. “Hello?” I said,
hoping for a response, but when the doors closed behind me and nothing was visible I
knew it wasn’t a place for a seven year old.
“Drip-drop-drip-drop,” I walked closer to the sound, anxiety could be the best word
for what I was feeling at that moment. To my surprise it was water licking onto a
mirror. I picked up the mirror and cleaned it with my hands. After wiping the hideous
pile of dust, I gently turned it around and had it in front of my face. Slowly I pulled
away; all of a sudden a little boy’s reflection appeared. My eyes popped open, he was
young, about my age, but with clothes from a different era. “What are you doing?
Come here now.” I jumped as I dropped the mirror on the floor causing it to break and
scattered on the floor. My mother picked me up and took me away in her arms.
I wiggled impatiently, “Mommy where’s the little boy?” She looked at me with a
confuse look, “What little boy? No one else was in there but you.” I turned my head
back to the bottom of my house, “yes there was a little boy in the mirror.” I know
what I saw, I knew it was real, but no one believed me at that age. That Sunday I knew
a little boy lived under my house.
A few years ago, dreams about my old house in Gilroy would still haunt me. I
dreamed about that little boy I saw, and the dusty clothes he had on. I went to the
Gilroy library and looked up information on my old house. It was built in 1910 and
a little boy name Billy died at the age of six. He was running down the lopsided stair
case, he tripped and landed on a mirror that was hanging on the side of the stairs. He
got many cuts and bruises, but he died of a head concussion.
David Thorn
green “We see through the prism of our categories.”
Joseph Chilton Pearce
green green is a color we’ve all seen
green green you know what I mean
green really its pretty routine
there’s only one everyday all purpose green
but how many shades of quotidian green
coexist between that “gr” and that “een”
there’s greenish blue and bluish green
there’s aqua and sea green and aquamarine
there’s the green of the traffic light letting us go
and those freeway signs just so we’ll know
there’s the 7up truck so verdantly bright
and the emerald-flake Mazda streaking by on the right
there’s the green of the teapot the green of the mug
there’s the napkin & saucer & fringe on the rug
the green of her stockings the green of his shirt
& that color he feels when he’s jealous & hurt
green green you see what I mean
there’s really more to it than we’ve ever seen
listen, how many greens can we find in this world?
think of feathers & flowers & flags just unfurled
we got billions of greens and endless supply
but we lump them together with hardly a “why?”
Didi Fitzgerald
see, its easier—we think—if there’s only one word
that captures the shade of a car or a bird
we can move on to some other thing in our head
—hey—those ripening strawberries are just turning red
PGR 63
then we don’t have to give green even a thought
no, now that its truth has forever been caught
The night air was hot
sweat dripped down my back
I thought to myself
“tonight is the night”
I could hear her slowly breathing
watching her chest move up and down it soothed my soul
slowly getting out of bed
not to disturb her
I look at my reflection in the mirror
I think back to the several months before
the good times we’ve shared
the mystery of it all
just waiting to get caught
I start to lose focus . . .
quickly splashing cold water on my face
I focus again
the time is now
it must be done
getting back into bed
she moves closer to me
I grab something of the nightstand
she pulls me closer to cuddle
I wrap my arm around her
our two bodies tangled together as one
cherishing this moment for one last time
if only she knew what I grabbed off
the nightstand was a knife.
Jeff Dow
Courtney Mutz
PGR 64
The Deed
It was dark outside
it hadn’t taken very long to complete the task
just a quick slice to her throat
I cleaned myself up
I stood there looking at her,
her shocked, emotionless eyes pierced my soul
it took all my strength not to weep
there she was my love, my one and only
but she deserved this
she should have left her husband
I warned her
she didn’t listen
as I cleaned up her blood,
burnt the sheets in the fire place
making sure not to leave any evidence behind
the past few moments flashed before my eyes
I could still hear her muffled screams
the thrashing of her limbs as she tried to get
away
but I was stronger
sweat dripping from my back
sending a cold chill up my spine
I sighed in relief
and in sorrow
the deed is done
the deed is done
the deed is . . .
done.
FADE IN:
SUPERIMPOSE: True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings... William
Shakespeare
Michael Nader
The Crimson Swallow
INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT
In a dark and dingy basement sits ARNIE HOWARD, (17) A geeky, awkward
looking teenager. He stares blankly into his television, which provides the only
light in the room.
ARNIE’S POV: On screen is the GOLDEN EAGLE, a powerfully built super hero
with silky blonde hair and blue eyes. His costume is reminiscent of Superman’s,
only featuring a yellow cape and a large golden eagle on his chest. He sits
comfortably on the couch of a nightly talk show, talking to the host, CHUCK
JANGLES.
GOLDEN EAGLE
--and that’s how I used Squidheads natural environment of salt water to stop
him from foreclosing on Atlantis.
CHUCK
Wow, that’s incredible! So, Golden Eagle...
GOLDEN EAGLE
Please, just call me Eagle.
CHUCK
You got it Eagle. So, what are your plans for the future? Do I hear wedding bells
for you and Lady Justice?
O.S. The crowd laughs as Golden Eagle scratches his head and begins looking
worried.
CHUCK
The Golden Eagle, ladies and gentlemen! The world’s greatest Super Hero!
O.S. Thunderous applause comes from the audience as the Golden Eagle waves
and smiles at them.
PGR 65
GOLDEN EAGLE
(laughs)
Well, you know...nothing’s set in stone or anything, we’re both just trying to
focus on our careers right now. It’s very important for both of us, that we ensure
humanities safety in these troubled times. Without us,
(beat)
mankind simply cannot sustain.
Arnie slowly stands up as a menacing tune begins to play in the b.g.
ARNIE
For too long have I allowed the murder of my father to go unavenged. For too
long has the world not trembled at the whisper of his name. But alas, the time has
come to strike. The time has come for—
MOM
Arnie! Bring your dirty undies up stairs, I’m doing a load!
Fucking shit.
ARNIE
Arnie walks out of the light of the television.
A series of bright lights suddenly turn on, revealing a somewhat impressive
villain’s lair, complete with 80’s style ray guns, jet packs, and super computers.
Almost everything has a crimson red tint, and a giant picture of an evil looking
swallow is painted on the wall.
Arnie, in his crimson red bathrobe, walks over to his stereo and turns off the
menacing music. He walks to his door and unlocks it, opening it only a crack.
ARNIE
Mom, I told you not to bother me when I’m in my lair!
MOM
I just thought I would let you know—
ARNIE
I will take care of my own laundry. Now please, don’t bother me! Shit.
What did you say?
MOM
Nothing!
ARNIE
Arnie slams and locks his door, turns the menacing music back on, and turns off
the lights. He once again stands in the light of the television.
PGR 66
ARNIE
The time has come for the Crimson Swallow to finally take flight!
EXT. HIGH SCHOOL - DAY
A school bus pulls up to a curb in front of a high school. As the doors open, a
swarm of students come rushing out, including Arnie, who is wearing a t-shirt
that says “Heroes blow. Heroines suck.” Several eggs go flying into his face.
Aw, what the hell?
ARNIE
Arnie wipes the slimy yolk from his face and looks at the perpetrators, a large
group of jocks who are laughing at him. In front of the group is the leader, MAX
MAXIMUS (18) A freakishly muscular jock with a strong chin and bronzed skin.
MAX
What the matter Arnie, I thought you liked Swallows.
Arnie looks at his hands and shirt that are covered in broken egg shells and
runny yolk. He falls to his knees.
My God, no!
ARNIE
Melanie Faith
MAX
Come on guys, let’s leave the villain to plot his revenge.
The group of jocks laugh and walk away as Arnie raises his fists into the air.
MARY WATERS (17) An attractive but plain looking girl with a video camera
slung around her shoulder passes the jocks and looks at Arnie. She flashes a look
of curiosity and approaches him.
Are you ok?
MARY
ARNIE
They killed the baby sparrows. They never had a chance.
MARY
I’m so sorry, I know those guys can be real jerks.
Oh, you’re the...
MARY
Yes, yes, I am he.
ARNIE
MARY
The Night Sparrow, right?
ARNIE
Actually, The Night Sparrow operates out of Chicago. My father was The Dark
Swallow.
PGR 67
ARNIE
Please, I have bigger concerns than Max and his minions.
MARY
ARNIE
And why are you talking to me?
I’m sorry?
MARY
Kevin Jonker, Beach Bums
Oh. Well, I’m Mary.
ARNIE
I mean, why are you here? Who do you work for? C.I.A., N.S.A.?
No, just the V.P.
MARY
ARNIE
The Vice President? I had no idea I was that high on their list. This changes
things.
MARY
No, I work for the Video Productions class. I mean, I don’t really work, I just
kind of help out.
ARNIE
Indeed.
(beat)
Well, The Crimson Swallow thanks you. Good day.
Arnie speed walks away from Mary.
INT. CLASS ROOM - DAY
Arnie stands in front of a classroom, reading off a sheet of paper. Behind him
is a large cardboard display, detailed with intricate graphs and drawings of the
swallows anatomy, mating habits, etc. Max and several jocks sit in the back,
mocking Arnie.
ARNIE
Swallows have even been used by Aristotle and T.S. Eliot to transform their
literature from mediocre to extraordinary, and there are even references to them in
the Bible. In conclusion, swallows are not only the greatest bird in the world, they
could easily kill or seriously hurt anyone at anytime. Especially eagles. The end.
PGR 68
Only the TEACHER and a few other students clap as Arnie collects his display
and goes back to his desk.
TEACHER
Thank you Arnie, for that long and obviously biased report. Well class, I have
some rather exciting news. This earth day, we are going to have a very, very
special guest visiting our school. None other than The Golden Eagle as a matter of
fact. Everyone in class except for Arnie begins to applaud and whistle.
TEACHER
Yes, it’s very exciting isn’t it? After he gives a brief assembly speech about
stealing plutonium, he’ll be signing autographs. Be sure to bring your own pen.
The bell rings and the class quickly packs up and heads out.
TEACHER
Arnie, would you mind staying after class please?
Arnie stays in his seat as the jocks walk by, each taking a turn slapping him on
the back of the head. The teacher closes the door as the last of the students leave.
TEACHER
So, how are things with you Arnie?
Fine, I suppose.
ARNIE
TEACHER
Good, good. Listen, the principal and I were talking earlier, and we would feel a
little bit better if you didn’t come to school on Friday.
ARNIE
Because of the eagle, I presume?
TEACHER
But listen, we’ll give you some extra credit just for staying home.
ARNIE
Forget it. My father’s death must be avenged.
TEACHER
Arnie, I know it must have been tough growing up with a 2nd roster villain...
Arnie slams his fists on his desk and jumps to his feet.
TEACHER
Right, but weren’t they below the Guild of Evil?
PGR 69
ARNIE
Silence! You will not refer to The Dark Swallow as a 2nd roster villain. He was
3rd in command of The Legion of Villainy for Christ sake.
ARNIE
That’s...You don’t...Hey, here’s a wild idea! Why don’t you stick to teaching
science and I’ll stick to the super villainy, sound good?
Arnie picks up his back pack and storms out of the class room.
Aeschleah DeMartino
INT. CAFETERIA - DAY
Arnie sits alone at a table, eating a home packed lunch. Mary spots him from the
lunch line and walks over to his table.
Mind if I sit down?
MARY
I guess.
ARNIE
Mary sets down her lunch tray and sits across from Arnie.
MARY
I’m sorry if I offended you earlier, about your dad’s name.
ARNIE
Don’t worry, it happens all the time. People seem to think sparrows are cooler
than swallows for some reason.
MARY
So listen, I kind of had an idea and I wanted to know if you could help.
ARNIE
I only exchange favors for other favors. Heroes work for free.
MARY
Right, well here’s the thing. I’ve been wanting to do a documentary for my class
and I was kind of wondering if I could do it on you.
ARNIE
Me? You want to make a documentary about The Crimson Swallow?
PGR 70
MARY
I thought your dad was The Dark Swallow.
ARNIE
Yeah he was, but I’m The Crimson...never mind. This is perfect. Yes, yes, I can
see it all coming together.
Really?
MARY
ARNIE
There are going to be some rules though.
EXT. PARK - DAY
Mary sits under a tree, filming Arnie as he sits in the tree next to a nest
containing eggs.
ARNIE
Firstly, I have full access to everything you film and can choose what you show
and what not to show.
Ok.
MARY
ARNIE
Secondly, the ending of your film will take place on Friday.
Why Friday?
MARY
ARNIE
Thirdly, I don’t answer questions if I don’t want too.
MARY
Deal. So why do you hate The Golden Eagle so much?
ARNIE
Well, besides the fact he killed my father, the man is practically a nazi.
A nazi?
MARY
ARNIE
The man has a giant golden eagle slapped across his chest. Blonde hair, blue
eyes. Jesus, I feel like I’m the only person who sees these things.
MARY
Why swallows Arnie?
ARNIE
My father was a great man.
A) Arnie’s father (30), An averagely built scientist with a sinister face sits in a
laboratory, working on a computer.
PGR 71
A SERIES OF SHOTS:
ARNIE (V.O.)
Before he became The Dark Swallow, my father was just your everyday super
scientist.
B) Arnie’s father electrocuting a mutated bunny and writing on his clipboard.
ARNIE (V.O.)
Like any super scientist though, he dreamed of bigger and better things.
C) Arnie’s father stands in his laboratory staring out the window at The Golden
Eagle battling a man dressed as a giant lawn mower in the streets.
ARNIE (V.O.)
He knew he had the means, the willpower. What he figured out though, was
that he needed a symbol, all the great villains had one.
D) Arnie’s father reads and highlights various passages of books on symbolism
and classic super villains. He stares at a picture of a swallow.
ARNIE (V.O.)
And one day it came to him. The one thing no one had thought to use, the single
greatest and most celebrated animal in the world.
E) The father’s hands type furiously away on the keyboard, bringing up dozens
of images depicting swallows flying, eating, and mating on the computer screen.
Crudely drawn sketches of laser rifles and a black swallow costume are spread all
over the desk.
ARNIE (V.O.)
He had realized the swallow’s significance in society. And he would use this bird
as a harbinger of destruction and misery!
F) Arnie’s father stands on a rooftop at night, watching over the city in his sleek
looking, black swallow costume.
EXT. PARK - LATER
Mary films Arnie standing on a tree branch, holding two eggs in his hands as he
attempts to pull off an epic pose.
PGR 72
ARNIE
And that is when my father became,
(beat)
The Dark Swallow!
MARY
But why choose to be a villain in the first place?
ARNIE
Are you kidding me? You make it to the big time, there’s no stopping you.
Women, drugs, rocket boots. And the money is out of this world! Do you know
how much countries will pay to avoid getting hit by a nuclear tornado?
Mary turns off her video camera and begins to put it back into her carrying case.
ARNIE
What are you doing?
MARY
Oh, I actually have to get going, my dad is having some people over.
ARNIE
I see. Well, when can I expect to hear from you next? I really wanted you to get
some footage of me training.
MARY
Sure, should I come over to your house or...
ARNIE
My house? You mean, you want to see my secret lair?
MARY
If that’s ok with you.
ARNIE
Certainly.
(beat)
I don’t see why not. I will see you at 12:30 p.m. on the ‘morrow then.
Ok, bye.
MARY
Mary turns around and walks out of the park.
ARNIE
Perhaps the swallow has finally found a mate.
Shit, shit, shit.
ARNIE
PGR 73
INT. BASEMENT - DAY
Arnie runs around his lair, picking up various pieces of his costume. He trips
over a plasma cannon sticking out from under his bed.
Arnie kicks the plasma cannon back under his bed and throws his disassembled
costume in his closet. He frantically scans his room.
ARNIE
Alright, no WMD’s, no cyanide capsuls. Oh shit, where’s the super sluts?
Suddenly, a loud KNOCK is heard. Arnie looks himself over, and opens the
door. Mary stands in front of him, holding an issue of “Super Sluts”, featuring a
woman taking off her super hero attire.
MARY
Hey, I found this when I was coming down the stairs, sorry.
ARNIE
Oh that, that’s not mine. It...must be some sort of ploy to undermine me. Those
heroes can be real pricks.
MARY
(laughs)
Don’t worry about it Arnie.
Please, come in.
ARNIE
Mary walks through the door and looks amazed at Arnie’s lair. She walks
toward the various gadgets and super weapons hanging from racks, lightly
running her fingers over there smooth crimson coating. Mary stares at the giant
evil looking swallow painted on the wall.
MARY
This place, it’s fantastic.
ARNIE
Well, when you’re as high up on the totem pole as I am, you have to look the
part.
MARY
Have you ever used this stuff on a hero?
PGR 74
ARNIE
No, not me personally. My dad did though. I have to get a license from the Guild
of Evil before I can officially start arching heroes. I was actually hoping to use
your documentary to help me out with that.
How would it help?
MARY
ARNIE
It’s a formality really. Before I can actually become an official villain, I have
to prove that I’m physically capable, somewhat sane, and to have successfully
eliminated a hero.
MARY
Oh my God. You’re not thinking of...
ARNIE
Taking out the eagle? You bet your ass.
But he’ll kill you.
MARY
ARNIE
(laughs)
Don’t be so sure. I’ll have a few,
(beat)
Friends to help me out. Now let’s get to it!
KOAK
Arnie walks over to his stereo and hits the play button. “Super Villains” by The
Insane Clown Posse begins to play.
MONTAGE: ARNIE TRAINING
-- Mary films Arnie kicking and punching a sandbag with a picture of The
Golden Eagle’s face on it.
-- Arnie bench presses 150 pounds. His arms give out and the bar falls on his
chest, forcing Mary to stop filming and help him.
-- Arnie stands 15 feet away from 5 different targets, all featuring different
pictures of The Golden Eagle. He wears an old western style gun holster with a
ray gun in it. He quick draws his gun and fires once, shooting five different ray
beams that simultaneously hit all five targets.
-- Arnie sows and stitches away at a crimson colored fabric.
-- Arnie and Mary practice Jiu-Jitsu on a wrestling mat. Mary quickly gets
Arnie’s back and gets him in a rear naked choke, forcing Arnie to tap out.
INT. BASEMENT - NIGHT
Arnie and Mary both stare at The Golden Eagle’s profile on one of Arnie’s super
computers.
MARY
He likes white wine, romantic comedies, and protecting mankind from complete
PGR 75
-- Arnie runs up a series of stairs while Mary films him from the top. As Arnie
nears the top he smiles at Mary, then slips on a stair, sending him tumbling back
down the stairs.
annihilation. What are his weaknesses?
None.
ARNIE
What?
MARY
ARNIE
He doesn’t have any. That’s why he’s the best.
MARY
I’m sorry Arnie, but I just don’t see how you can win. Even if you make it out
alive, what then?
ARNIE
When I make out alive, The Guild of Evil cleans it all up, and I make it on to their
top 25. From there I scheme and back stab my way to the top. Pretty basic villain
stuff.
Mary walks over to Arnie’s bed and sits down.
MARY
Arnie, I feel like I need to tell you something.
Arnie cautiously walks over to the bed and sits next to Mary.
What’s up?
ARNIE
I like you.
MARY
ARNIE
Really? I like you too. I like you a lot actually. This is great! As soon as I kill
the eagle, I’ll...we’ll make you a suit. We can be The Crimson Swallow and
Nightingale.
MARY
Well, hold on. I think you should know something.
PGR 76
What?
ARNIE
MARY
My last name is Waters.
So?
ARNIE
MARY
As in Richard Waters, aka The Barracuda, protector of the ocean and all its life.
ARNIE
The Barracuda? Your,
(beat)
Related to a hero?
Yeah...kind of.
MARY
PGR 77
Mandy Spitzer
ARNIE
Oh my God! I trusted you! You’re the only person I’ve ever let into my lair! You
were a hero this whole time?
MARY
I’m not a hero. Just cause my dad is doesn’t mean anything. I don’t even have
his powers, just the ability to communicate with sea animals.
ARNIE
Oh Christ. You can’t even be a villain with those powers, people would laugh at
you! Get out!
What? Why?
MARY
ARNIE
You’re a spy, you’ve probably been relaying all my progress to the Eagle this
whole time. Get out!
Mary gets teary eyed, grabs her camera bag, and runs out of the basement,
slamming the door behind her.
ARNIE
I should have known. You can’t trust the damsels.
Arnie picks up a tape recorder.
ARNIE
Note to self. Invest in a Fembot.
INT. HIGH SCHOOL GYMNASIUM - DAY
The Golden Eagle stands on a podium in the middle of the gym while hundreds
of students look on from the bleachers.
GOLDEN EAGLE
And that is exactly why, you should never, ever, try to steal plutonium. It’s
dangerous, and it could be used to harm people. That’s when I would have to step
in.
The students and faculty laugh along with The Golden Eagle.
GOLDEN EAGLE
But seriously, if I catch any of you with plutonium, it’s not going to end very
well.
PGR 78
Suddenly, the gymnasium doors swing open as a SECURITY GUARD comes
running in.
SECURITY GUARD
I need everyone here to evacuate immediately! We’ve just received a bomb
threat!
The students and faculty all begin to scream and panic as everyone goes rushing
out the doors.
GOLDEN EAGLE
Don’t worry folks! This place will be bomb free in only a matter of minutes.
The Golden Eagle’s POV: The Golden Eagle uses his x-ray vision to look through
the walls and bleachers, revealing no bomb in sight.
The Golden Eagle looks around and sees that everyone has evacuated the gym.
A LOUD CRASH is heard as Arnie comes flying in through the window on his
crimson jet pack. Arnie is wearing a sleek, metallic, crimson colored swallow
costume. He lands only a few feet away from The Golden Eagle and throws off
the jet pack.
Eat plasma bitch!
ARNIE
Arnie lifts his arm and opens his palm in front of The Golden Eagle’s face. A
bright green beam blasts The Golden Eagle into the gymnasium wall.
What in the hell?
GOLDEN EAGLE
ARNIE
Don’t tell me you don’t recognize the sweet ass costume.
Swallow?
GOLDEN EAGLE
ARNIE
That’s good. So you do remember.
The Golden Eagle lifts himself up and begins marching toward Arnie.
GOLDEN EAGLE
Listen here sir! I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you’re in a lot of
trouble! I’m The Golden Eagle!
Melanie Faith
Arnie presses a button on his wrist. The Golden Eagle stops in his tracks and he
begins to hear hundreds of flapping wings.
Suddenly, thousands of swallows burst through the gym doors and windows, all
simultaneously coming down on The Golden Eagle.
PGR 79
ARNIE
And I’m The Crimson Swallow, you neo-nazi motherfucker! And my father’s
death will be avenged!
The Golden Eagle punches and shoots lasers from his eyes and the swallows,
doing little good. Arnie laughs as The Golden Eagle begins to panic and falls to
the floor, swallows flying all around him.
Arnie blasts The Golden Eagle with another plasma beam. The Golden Eagle lies
weakened on the ground. Arnie begins walking toward him.
ARNIE
You know, I really was worried about trying to take you down. I mean, how do
you kill a man with no weaknesses? Then I started thinking...
Arnie crouches next to The Golden Eagle, and pulls out a glowing green bar of
plutonium from his wrist gauntlet.
ARNIE
What the hell is it with this guy and plutonium? Such an odd thing to get so
worked up about.
GOLDEN EAGLE
Your father...not dead...
ARNIE
Seriously dude? If you haven’t figured it out already, I’m pretty fucking serious
about this villain business. I’m not falling for the old death reversal.
Arnie holds the plutonium in his hand like a knife.
ARNIE
Be sure to tell my father I sent you.
Suddenly, a bright flash of light comes from The Golden Eagle’s eyes, causing
Arnie to stumble back, blinded. The Golden Eagle quickly gets up and kicks the
plutonium from out of Arnie’s hands.
Aw, shit!
ARNIE
The Golden Eagle delivers one swift punch to Arnie’s face, sending him flying
back. Arnie lands with a thud, and lies on the floor barely conscious.
Arnie’s POV: The Golden Eagle stands over Arnie with a disappointed look on
his face.
PGR 80
GOLDEN EAGLE
Your dad is in Boca Raton. Asshole.
The Golden Eagle walks away.
INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - DAY
Arnie lies in a hospital bed. He has several stitches on his head and a broken
arm. Mary and Arnie’s mom sit beside him. He slowly wakes up.
Hey.
ARNIE
Hi.
MARY
Arnie’s mother stands up and slaps Arnie’s head.
ARNIE
Ow! Mom, what the hell?
MOM
What did I tell you about arching heroes? Not until your 18!
I know, I know.
ARNIE
MOM
Do you know how worried I’ve been?
Carmen Ionita
ARNIE
Do you know that dad is alive and living in goddamn Boca Raton? I don’t even
know where that is.
It’s in Florida.
MOM
So you knew?
ARNIE
MOM
I’m sorry honey. But your father was such a bad influence on you as a child,
when he left, I told him to leave us alone forever. I didn’t want this life for you.
But I guess it’s just in your blood.
Why did he leave?
ARNIE
Pink Flamingo?
ARNIE
PGR 81
MOM
After he had gotten beaten by The Golden Eagle for the millionth time, I told
him to give it up or leave. And he left. He goes by The Pink Flamingo now.
MOM
I know you must be upset sweetie. I’ll leave you alone with your nice girl...your
nice friend here.
Arnie’s mother walks out of the room.
Wow.
MARY
ARNIE
Tell me about it. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.
MARY
Thank you, that means a lot to me. You were a real asshole, you know that?
ARNIE
Yeah, I know. I just...didn’t want to think you were against me like everyone
else.
MARY
I was never against you.
Arnie smiles.
ARNIE
So what now? Are they going to take me to Super Max Prison or what?
MARY
Nope. The Golden Eagle felt sorry for you, so he just told the cops to let you off
with a warning.
Sweet.
ARNIE
MARY
You do have to complete 200 hours community service though.
Aw, fucking shit!
ARNIE
PGR 82
MARY
What are you going to do about your dad?
ARNIE
I don’t know. Maybe try to get in touch with him or something.
And the villainy?
MARY
ARNIE
Of course. You think I’m done with the Eagle just cause he gave me a pass?
That’s the difference between heroes and villains, we learn from our mistakes.
MARY
(laughs)
Well, if you’re still interested.
Mary stands up and lifts one of her jean legs, exposing fish net stalkings.
MARY
I would love to be your Nightingale.
Yes!
ARNIE
Mary leans down and kisses Arnie.
FADE OUT:
PGR 83
THE END
Jeremiah Ridgeway
Gary Galloway
A Short Treatise on the Tacturn Differences between Adhesion and Cohesion in Social Networks
I’ve fallen but i ‘believe’ I can get up
cohesion or gravity will hold me down
adhesion or levity will raise me up
words-twoegos-onenot to be confuZed with won
for in any conflict resultant
in war publicly or privately campaigned
there Are No Winners.
&&& war once begun Never Ends
this is the false claim of newspaper
prophets and tabloid doomsayerspamphleteers to emotions
puppets of imagined slight
of hand or tongue~...
the justification does not end
the means
the explanation is not an amends
are you in a process of healing
or are you in the infectiousness
of disease & decay?
cohesion
adhesion
both have their place
in the process
PGR 84
make sure to
choose
the correct
one
for your
current application
my many many
fine & feathered friends
{and fiends}
be that you know
it
or not
Aeschleah DeMartino
PGR 85
Everyone hates the sign. It is insane to put a stop sign on the road coming across
the mudflats into our high school, but they’ve put the sign on the paved driveway
to stop cars leaving school for a dirt road that is used by the janitor twice a day.
Some say the highway department needs to satisfy an insurance regulation, some
say they bought too many signs and have to use them. But the sign is wrong and
everyone knows it. It is asinine. We can hear the teachers asking each other, “Who
the hell asked for the sign?” Miss Martin is the head secretary in the office and every one of us loves her. She
is high strung, nervous, and she takes care of every kid and adult in this school.
From the delinquents to the valedictorians she is everyone’s mom away from
home. As she leaves school the day the stop sign goes up she gets flustered when
someone behind her honks and she lurches forward, plowing into the car in front
of her. The stop sign made Miss Martin have an accident. Everyone hates the sign. It’s 1965 and we get a cool new English teacher, Mr. Emerson. He is a thin man,
strong from hiking mountains. His tan face is weathered with lines that disappear
when he laughs and get deep and dark when he frowns. He has climbed Mount
Everest and studied in China and he is having us read books like War And Peace
and Brave New World and 1984. I check The Biography of Malcolm X out of the library and leave it on our living
room coffee table so my father can see it and in minutes we are yelling at each
other about Martin Luther King and the right of people to protest and use civil
disobedience to change bad laws until finally he slams his fist down on the table,
“That’s it buster! I forbid you to experiment with any new hairstyles!” I quietly
remove the book from the living room, smug with personal victory. That night I slip out of my bedroom window and join my buddies Gordon
House and Lonnie Springfield. Gordon has stolen a half inch of liquor out of
every bottle in his dad’s cabinet, careful to replace it with a half inch of water, and
carries this precious, vile concoction as we start walking the streets of Arden Park,
looking for a place to drink it. “Let’s go down to the school.” So we walk along
Fair Oaks Boulevard, turn down Savern Drive past the last of the houses, past the
brush and finally follow the little blacktop road over the mudflats to our school.
When we come to the sign I stop. You need to understand that I am never the
leader of these escapades. Lonnie is the leader. Lonnie is one of the hard guys.
Lonnie and his girlfriend go all the way. He has a part time job that will soon pay
for a motorcycle. He smokes cigarettes and has a tattoo he gave himself with ink
and a broken guitar string the night he spent in juvy. Lonnie is a man who makes
his own way and I am a child who dances for the approval of parents. When
we’re out at night Lonnie is the leader. But tonight Lonnie just nods; he may be letting this lapse in his authority go
because he is feeling the same thing, or he may be tired of walking. But tonight I
am inspired, I am on fire. I feel that hot, euphoric nausea of inspiration rising in
my chest. This idea is too outrageous, too wrong to speak. So I say, “Let’s drink it
here, by the stop sign.”
Richard Stockton
The Stop Sign
PGR 86
We pass around the fruit jar with six different liquors and struggle not to puke.
There really isn’t enough alcohol in the jar to get us all drunk but we start acting
like what we think drunk men act like. And that’s when I hold onto the stop sign’s
galvanized steel post like a Viking holding his spear and say, “Gentlemen, the
sign has got to go.” I step back, look at my watch as Gordon and Lonnie bend the
post back and forth and in thirty-six seconds flat it snaps at the base.
I raise my arms, “Gentlemen, we are surrounded by anarchy, chaos, and
mayhem. Our work here is done.” We swear ourselves to secrecy and leave the
stop sign lying in the mud.
The next morning the destruction of the stop sign spreads through the school
like a cloud of nitrous oxide. Laughing voices boom from the teacher’s room,
“There is a God!” When Miss Martin sees the sign laying in the mud she honks
her horn and claps her hands. Every kid and teacher giggles and whispers,
“Who did it?” When I walk into Mr. Emerson’s English class he is standing at the
window, staring at the sign with his brown face smooth and he turns around to
see us staring at him.
Mr. Emerson tells Gordon to read Lord of The Flies and asks him to reflect upon
pack mentality. Mr. Emerson gives me a copy of Thoreau’s Civil Disobedience
and suggests I study nonviolent tools for social change. And Mr. Emerson
recommends that Lonnie learn how to read. I see Lonnie at the bell and he whispers, “You didn’t tell anybody did you?”
“No, I didn’t tell anybody. You tell anybody?”
“No. Gordon says he didn’t tell anybody. What if the cops come out?”
“Just don’t tell anybody.”
In the afternoon a highway department truck drives up and two men in orange
overalls sink a four by four wooden post in cement and bolt on a brand new
octagonal stop sign. The rain that night, a torrential Sacramento downpour, makes
it easy to wiggle the post back and forth until the hole is big enough to pull it out,
cement base and all. We leave it laying by the side of the road in the mud. No cops show up. No highway department trucks. But the students in the halls
are cheering with their fists in the air. Mr. Emerson stares at me, Lonnie and
Gordon for a long time and says, “You guys look tired. Maybe not enough sleep.”
When the bell rings Mr. Emerson hands me a mimeographed quote of Mahatma
Ghandi, “Do not seek to end or destroy the relationship with the antagonist, but
instead seek to transform or ‘purify’ it to a higher level.” I think that it’s cool that
Mr. Emerson cares, but I am a kid who is powerless and to transform anything is
unthinkable. I am nothing.
At the bell Lonnie and I corner Gordon and he starts going, “Hey, man,
everybody’s talking about it. Rita Shoemaker just was sitting next to me man…
hey, I can keep quiet. You guys worry about your own mouth.”
The next day two Teichert Construction Company trucks pull up to the felled
sign. One is a cement truck and the other is loaded with steel working equipment,
welders, and rebar. A crew of four men work for two days building a monolith of
cement and steel. A massive pillar with the stop sign itself encased in steel bars.
When the history teacher, Mr. Roberts, gets to the new stop sign, he stops his car
In English class Mr. Emerson is staring out the window and his frown creases his
brown forehead and cheeks into black crevasses. He turns to scan the class. “What
makes civil disobedience successful? Gandhi rejected the idea that injustice could
be fought using violent, coercive, unjust means.” Mr. Emerson looks directly
at me, “Gandhi wrote that if you use violent, unjust means, whatever ends you
produce will necessarily embed that injustice.” I act like I’m taking notes. At lunch period a bunch of us walk out to look at the structure. There are about
twenty kids in the group so Gordon, Lonnie and I feel OK to go out there. It is
built like a safe; a pillar of steel and cement over two feet square with steel angle
iron running up the corners and over the sign itself. It is over. We have lost. At
first some yell at the sign when they come to a stop on their way home, but soon
the grumblings turn into silent defeat. In two days no one speaks of it. The rain is replaced by the Sacramento tule fog, so dense that sometimes you
can’t see your extended hand. Walking through fog this thick, you’re a spirit
drifting through time. And the Sacramento fog wraps itself around our school like
quiet depression.
I’m sulking on the couch Sunday night when my mom says, “Phone honey.”
“Dick, it’s Hugh. Don’t call me back, the old man’s on a drunk. Just meet me at
the sign at two o’clock.” Click.
Hugh Comstock is a close friend of Gordon’s, they are both on the football team.
Hugh’s dad is a cement contractor and a notorious drunk. Old Man Comstock
will be blind for days at a time. Hugh has periods of freedom the rest of us only
dream about. I call Lonnie. “Yeah, Hugh called me too. OK. Two o’clock.”
The fog is so thick that I walk past the sign before I hear the guys. Now we
are four. Hugh shines a flashlight on his dad’s work truck, it says, “Comstock
Cement, no job too big, no job too small.” Hugh walks to the back of the truck
PGR 87
Sandi Howell, Playground
and gets out to look at it, shaking his head. Everyone thinks it’s a little creepy that
Mr. Roberts is a part time guard at Folsom Prison and that he enjoys ramming
sharpened steel rods into the garbage to keep the inmates from hiding in the
trash. Mr. Roberts walks into the classroom, goes to the window and looks out at
the sign, “That’s the way they build things out at the prison.” PGR 88
and lets down the tailgate, “Men, chose your weapon.” The truck is full of sledge
hammers. To prevent hitting each other in the fog we work in shifts, going at it two at a
time, one nine pound hammer on each side. The fog deadens the sound so we
hammer with abandon. After four shift changes our initial exuberance begins to
wane. We have roughed up the cement but it shows no sign of failing. Hugh urges
us on. Lonnie orders everyone out of his way and rains blows upon the cement
like he is a Spartan single-handedly holding back the Persian horde. He sinks to
his knees, exhausted, beaten. Gordon, the strongest kid in our school, pulls Lonnie
to his feet, takes the hammer from him and strikes with all his might. Where his
blow lands a tiny crack opens. We howl like wolves bringing down a kill, all four
of us swinging with the hammer of Thor, pounding on it with all our testosterone
fueled fury. It‘s a miracle we don‘t kill each other in the fog. A chunk of cement
flies off. Then another. Steel rods are exposed and then bent and beaten out of the
cement and cement is crumbling now, the sign itself is coming loose and white hot
heat is radiating from my muscles and I smash and I smash and smash and now
we’re tearing out chunks of cement with our bare hands. A sharp piece of rebar
rips my right hand open and my blood splashes onto the cement and the guys
step back so I can beat that piece of rebar out of the cement and down into the
mud, driving the instrument of my wound out of sight deep into the wet earth.
We beat on that structure until there is no piece of it above six inches. Never doubt
the devastation potential of four sixteen year old boys. Entropy at it’s finest.
In the morning both my parents are sleeping in with hangovers so I am able to
get out of the house without them seeing my bandaged hand. First period class
has to be postponed because the entire school is standing outside, shouting. The
chunks of cement are taken by kids as souvenirs. At lunch, Gordon breaks and
tells Rita Shoemaker, hoping that she’ll let him feel her up. But it doesn’t matter
because by now a dozen kids are taking credit for it. One rumor even says a
teacher planned it.
I walk into English class with my bandaged hand in my pea coat pocket. As I
sit at my desk Mr. Emerson holds out an assignment sheet so I have to take my
right hand out of my coat. He stares at the bloody bandage, “Mr. Stockton, I hope
the injury to your writing hand will not interfere with your essay on nonviolent
resistance.”
The rubble from the sign lays in the mud for the rest of the week. The next
Monday a highway department pickup truck pulls up to the pile, the driver picks
up the steel and cement that was left. He puts up a Yield sign and drives away. We
watch him from the window of Mr. Emerson’s English class.
Mr. Emerson’s brown face is smooth, like his skin is filled out with a smile,
“Class, I want you to write an essay considering this question, ‘When, by
consensus, a people decide that something is wrong, can a government
permanently control it‘s people with barriers?’ You may want to write about the
Berlin Wall, the Great Wall of China, or you may want to write about a stop sign.”
Ken Weisner
Ranch Work
I was asked to dispatch them
as I saw fit—drowning worked well, I was told.
In free-love, anti-war northern California,
no one would have produced anything so connotatively disturbing
as a shotgun. And a humane injection, ether, chloroform?
A long and expensive drive to the vet? Not a chance.
So I collected three… unnamed, starving for love, grey and white,
crawling with fleas, matted hair where the scalp was oozing,
diseased, motherless… infected weepy eyes—a scourge
insinuating into campsite, sleeping bag,
summer kitchen. The health inspector
would arrive at any moment, and the children
tomorrow. One quick blow to the head
or twist of the neck?
I hadn’t the nerve. Put all three in a bucket,
started filling with the hose.
Then a board over the top to hold them down.
But they pushed back, their bodies rigid, thrashing—
somehow finding air-pockets—
their jerky thumps and sloshing, electric.
They pressed and breathed against the board
or slipped around the shovel blade I tried next
to hold them under. Finally another bucket
to fit inside and seal the first.
Clear now as ever—a pair of eyes,
then a look that is weaker, the flame gone out.
Buried them like rats—with regret—but also pride
at having done a man’s job.
Feral—untenable—everyone agreed
at this bonafide paradise: they had to go.
Richard Veil
PGR 89
Did it occur to me that water was already torture
to cats? I was doing as I was told.
Testosterone drenched—a mother’s boy, almost fourteen.
Dave Conn, my brothers’ friend—he never came home
from Vietnam. Each unwitting as a fetus
until I looked and saw the underwater scream.
I write lines like
“I know absence makes the heart grow fonder because every time I blink
I love you more,”
but I read them to myself
cuz I’m shy.
So now I speak into pages and screens,
but it feels like I’ve been spraying words through stencils
the same shapes
create the same soundz
that these days,
well,
only give myself goosebumps.
This is,
“Falling in love with the girl that acts nice enough to keep her job!”
but she’s different, listen,
she’s had me Jaded for weeks,
and her name has become the only four-letters lodged in my throat
and she’s interested in coming to the next slam
cuz she knows this poem is coming to the next slam.
So I throw fingers wildly at my keyboard
trying to find a new way
to say
how I adore her,
the list of the things I will do for her
is just a bunch of things I want.
I want, I want, I want, I want . . .
I want to know things about you that no one else takes the time to ask,
I want to know your middle name
and where you went to elementary school,
I want to know what you are allergic to
and what you like to do when it rains.
I want to know if you would rather read the book
or watch the movie
I want to know what you would do with one wish
and if you would rather drive
or fly,
I want to know which teeth bite your lip when you cum
and what you want for breakfast.
I want to give you the ring around the mushroom cloud of an atomic blast
because platinum and solitaire settings
make angels look under appreciated;
I want my feelings to be measured in decibels and megatons
because your smile
is Northern Lights after a bottle of absinthe,
your eyes are the Sistine Chapel painted on the ceiling of the Louvre,
your voice is a Chopin waltz at sunrise from the shore on St. Barts,
Robyn Marshall
Erich McIntosh
PGR 90
Jaded
PGR 91
Gloria K. Alford, Muse
your skin is a Picasso snow angel in a cloud that never rains,
your body is a Chaucer first edition that I will study until I can recite it verbatim,
your dreams
are as precious as the stone you are named after,
and I wish mine would drift from the same pillow
so maybe
I can see tomorrow with the same hope
that gets brighter every time you are near me.
This ear has been ringing twenty-four hours a day since two-thousand six,
but when I hear your voice
the noise stops,
when you walk
my heart plays an improvisational Crescent City jazz beat
and I forget that two of my senses
are nonexistent.
When I talk about you
my chest compresses words turned into coal from never being said
and with my vocal chords as the catalyst for my mouth
I spit diamonds.
This body makes Mount St. Helens look like a fucking campfire
because inside here
is impervious to outside interference;
no winds to blow the adjectives and metaphors in different directions;
there are many dreams that may never come true
but I never stop dreaming,
and I will never quit inventing new ways
to beg you to brush your fiery hair
from your immaculate face to better see me,
because in this moment
when your mouth paints upward and calls Mona Lisa a has-been,
because in this moment,
when you look into me,
with eyes big enough to write this entire poem on each one
the only thing moving
is my past.
Len Anderson
History
Next time a major-league slugger
has just socked one
into the right field bleachers
with bases loaded—after he’s
rounded home, strolled into the dugout
and eased onto the bench—
you might sit down next to him
and casually explain
that in order to hit a fastball, you
must decide to swing
by the time the ball leaves
the pitcher’s hand,
without seeing
whether that ball is headed
at the catcher’s mitt or
at your own head.
After you’ve cleared this up for him,
you could be of real service
and take it up
with the President. If
that goes well,
why don’t you drop over
and see how I’m taking it.
Meanwhile, there may be something right now
just about to leave the pitcher’s hand.
Whether you hit the ball
and where
depends on
your becoming one
with the unwinding of the pitcher’s body,
the pitch
launched through unseen currents of air,
PGR 92
a hunch
you must sometimes follow or be struck out,
your touch of guidance to the height of the bat,
and your last few thousand swings.
Jody Bare, Essential simplicity
Where the Buffalo Roam
Elk Island National Park, Alberta, Canada
There was not a cloud in the sky.
We walked all day through the marshy, brushy countryside.
By ten or so, it was over a hundred degrees and steaming.
Our water supply was dwindling. I remember
pouring part of my remaining bottle
over my head because I was too hot to care
if, later, I died of thirst. And, I argued with my husband
for insisting, in the optimism of the early morning,
that the day felt cooler than yesterday, and this ten-mile loop
would be a perfect hike.
And when we finally got back to the car,
we turned on the air conditioning full blast
and drove straight to a resort with a lake.
There, among the children’s blow-up alligators and pink whales,
I wandered out into the water,
holding a cold can of soda pressed to my beet-red cheeks
too hot to even contemplate
the kind of choices I was capable of making,
given enough heat and provocation.
PGR 93
I decided I’d be damned
if I’d move off the trail for them.
I was hot, easily irritated, and I didn’t have the energy
to walk fifty feet out of my way. We saw what we judged to be
buffalo tracks in the mud and buffalo droppings,
but it was lucky for us that the heat kept the buffalo
in the cool thickets well off the trail.
Barbara Bloom
Signs warned of the free-roaming buffalo:
“These creatures are unpredictable, easily irritated,
can run as fast as a thoroughbred on the racetrack.”
It was important, we were told, to give them the right of way
and at least fifty feet of personal space.
Eric Hasse, Pythagoras Assemblage
Jessica Woods
Note to the Gardener
To make my garden grow
You must begin
By sprinkling
Kind words freely
With abandon
Warm my tightly curled fronds
With a breeze
Of gentle caresses
Tend to me carefully
Place your warm hands
Upon my dry Earth
Be patient.
Watch closely.
Don’t hope.
PGR 94
In time perhaps
When you least expect it
Out of this loamy rubble
Of harsh words
Cold shoulders
You will begin to see
The tiniest of purple flowers
Ready to bloom again
Amid a blanket
Of bright green grass.
PGR 95
Michael Norris, Heavy Metal
And they say only the dead can break free,
But I just think the living are lost.
Wandering day to week,
And never knowing the cost of the pleasures they seek.
Eagerly scrambling to trade their wombs for puncture wounds
And drown in the swoon to the sounds of burning wings
With no one listening
As the fallen angel sings
Himself to sleep.
Under street lights bleeding golden grief.
I watch from a second story window.
Feeling nothing but my hair dancing in the winds breath.
Intrigued by his frantic, agonizing craze
And I was quite taken by surprise,
When his eyes creeped up to meet my gaze.
I stumbled over his pupils for what seemed like weeks,
Trying to find reason, but ultimately losing track,
As I plummeted from the dream, and awoke to the smell of burnt feathers
…Slowly rising off my back.
Now I can’t see where I’m going or what I’m after,
I just know it sounds like dripping liquid,
But tastes like babies’ laughter.
Chasing a night that’s just too damn cold,
Smooth and clean.
And I feel quite at home despite the smell of gasoline.
But in truth,
There’s nothing sanitary about it,
So I’ll wait
To be compressed and rerouted
To the mother vein,
And drop anchor to determine what’s sane and…
What’s just bullshit caked to the outer membrane.
Andrew Perry
Plummeting Reality
Melissa Ross
Morality of a Man (a screenplay)
EXT. DIRT ROAD OF SMALL TOWN -DAY
LEWIS, 10, is the conscience of the two but rarely speaks up, wears dirty overalls
and no shoes. SAM, 10, is a bit mischievous in the process of having fun, he is
sharply dressed. They hide behind some bushes and throw rocks at passing cars.
Lewis stops and looks at Sam.
LEWIS
You sure we should be doin this?
Sam continues throwing rocks.
SAM
C’mon, we’re jus havin some fun. No ones gonna catch us.
Sam chucks another rock that hits the roof of a car. The man inside the car yells
something. Lewis and Sam cheer. P.O.V. Lewis and Sam: The car turns around and
heads back toward them. End P.O.V. They look at each other wide-eyed.
SAM
Ah! Let’s go! Follow me!
They run through some trees and hide in a dry river bed.
MAN (0.S.)
Hey you little hoolagins!
o.s. Footsteps get closer until they are almost directly above Lewis and Sam. They
silence themselves.
(to himself )
Little fucks...
MAN
o.s. Footsteps move farther away. Car drives off. Lewis and Sam keel over with
laughter for some time.
PGR 96
SAM
(through laughter)
Did you see the look on his face?
Sam. Lewis.
SAM’S DAD (o.s.)
They look up to see SAM’S DAD, 39, a stern police officer, peering down at them.
INT. POLICE CAR/ EXT. POOR NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY
They drive up to Lewis’s house where his mother is standing on the porch, arms
folded.
Bye Sam.
LEWIS
Sam continues to stare straight ahead. Lewis gets out of the car and enters his
house, his mother following right behind. They begin to drive.
SAM’S DAD
You’re not to see him any more. Understand?
PGR 97
Alissa Goldring
Sam lowers his head.
INT. JAIL CELL - DAY
LEWIS, 57, underweight and wears orange jump suit and shackles, sits on bed
and picks at a plate filled with delicious FOOD. A GUARD #1 stands on the
outside of his cell with his back to Lewis.
LEWIS
How the hell you suppos’ to enjoy your last meal when you
know it’s your last?
Puts down fork.
LEWIS
All I want is to see my mama.
Looks up at GUARD #1 who stands on the outside of cell. Guard #1 does not turn
around.
GUARD #1
Your mama doesn’t want to see you.
Looks back to food.
LEWIS
Shit.
(beat)
She used to. Then she start believin’ those lies you tell her.
Wasn’t a lie.
GUARD #1
Lewis stands abruptly, knocks plate of food to ground. He sprints to the iron bars
brings his face as close as he can to the back of Guard #1’s head
LEWIS
(dark and low)
See, you lyin’ more. Every time yo mouth moves you lyin’.
GUARD #1
Then why are you in there and I’m out here?
PGR 98
Smash Cut Black and White:
EXT. ALLEY WAY - NIGHT
Cheap old car rocks back and forth. Continuous: INT. BACK SEAT OF CAR
- NIGHT. Lifeless FOOT moving up and down. The back of Guard #1 is seen
thrusting over a body. o.s. mumbled singing. b.g. Lewis stumbles towards car and
smokes cigarette. Guard #1 stops, lowers down behind seat. Guard #1 peers up
to watch Lewis. Lifeless FACE of MONA, 19, blond, beautiful. P.O.V. Guard #1 :
Lewis stumbles past car takes no notice.
INT. JAIL CELL- DAY (CONTINUOUS)
Lewis looks to floor.
LEWIS
I’m guessin’ I’m here ‘cause (beat) bad luck, or ‘cause I ain’t never been too smart. When my mama let me go to school I didn’t never pass.
Sits back down on bed. Lewis takes deck of cards from under mattress and
shuffles. Guard #1 looks as if to scold but decides not to. Lewis deals CARDS in
game of Solitaire.
MONTAGE: BLACK AND WHITE
LEWIS (v.o.)
I ain’t sayin’ I’m perfect or nothin’. Maybe I should be here.
I done my deeds. I’d kill a man if I had to.
- INT. UPSCALE HOUSE - NIGHT: Lewis takes money from drawer and hides
under coat.
- EXT. STREET CORNER - NIGHT: Exchanges money and drugs.
- INT. TRAILER HOUSE - NIGHT: chugs whiskey and smashes bottle.
End montage
LEWIS (Cont’d)
But I didn’t kill that pretty little blond girl. And I sure as hell didn’t do
those things to her after the fact. That darn right devil’s work. After I told ‘em I didn’t do it they ask me, ‘If I didn’t do it, who did?’. I tell ‘em, ‘How the hell I’m suppos’ to know if they don’t even know’. Ain’t no point in tellin’ them it was you.
Guard #1 spins around and grasps iron rods of the cell, eyes wide.
GUARD #1
(loudly whispers)
What are you sayin’ Lewis? H-How did
I saw ya.
LEWIS
LEWIS (V.O.)
I was walkin’ home from the bar and I saw you. Thought you were
makin’ love so I pretend I didt see nothin.
PGR 99
FLASHBACK: ALLEY WAY -NIGHT
Lewis turns the corner into an alley way. P.O.V. Lewis: The cheap old car rocks
as the upper body of Guard #1 is shown through the window. End P.O.V. Lewis
smiles slightly, walks by and diverts attention away from car.
END FLASHBACK
LEWIS (cont’d)
Then when they took me in they tell me where the body was. Like I said,
I ain’t too smart but I can ‘least put two and two together.
Guard #1 furrows his brows.
GUARD #1
(perplexed)
W- why...Why didn’t you say anything?
LEWIS
Same reason I didn say nothin’ when you hit that man’s car with that rock,
an everyone tho’d it was me who thrown it.
(beat)
You got more goin fo’ you, always have. You an officer, must mean you a good man.
Sam’s FLASHBACK MONTAGE (BLACK AND WHITE):
-Lewis’s CIGARETTE drops.
-police surround car with Mona’s body inside.
-Sam points investigators to cigarette butt.
-cigarette butt is confiscated and used as evidence.
END MONTAGE
PAUL, 46, enters with GUARD 2 and opens door.
Let’s go.
PAUL
PGR 100
LEWIS
Hey, jus’ let me use the john first.
SAM
(whispering to Paul)
Let him.
Paul motions to go. Lewis urinates.
LEWIS
So.
(beat)
They sayin’ Ima monster, but I tell you, I wasn’t no monster till
they put me here. This place’ll turn any good man into a monster.
Lewis fixes zipper.
Sam’s hands shake as he handcuffs Lewis.
INT. JAIL BLOCK - DAY
Sam, Guard #2, and Paul lead Lewis down hall.
LEWIS
(to Sam)
I guess I ain’t ‘fraid of dyin’ anymore though. It happen sooner or later. Bein’ stuck in here, hopin’ I go to the good place, sooner the better.
INT. EXECUTION ROOM -DAY
Paul sits Lewis in chair and straps him in. b.g. Guard #2 holds helmet.
LEWIS
I just wish I coulda seen my mama.
Series of shots:
-helmet on.
-Sam’s EYES shut.
SAM’S FLASHBACK: Sam and Lewis laugh as children in the river bed.
END FLASHBACK
-Lewis’ EYES
LEWIS’ FLASHBACK: Lewis, as a child, runs into the arms of his mother. END
FLASHBACK
THE END
PGR 101
Alissa Goldring
- lever pulled.
Beth Pettinger
PGR 102
CHAOS
CHAOS written in Clorox,
written on a black T-shirt,
written by a skin smooth chest.
My little brother, the one who
stared at Sears catalogues
and now wants Camaros.
The one sent to military school
with so many demerits he
would have been there 5 years
to walk them all off.
The one expelled
from first grade
for strangling a kid:
“He wrecked my ship,”
enough reason to give
to the principal.
My little brother, who ran
away from home every
week or so, found by MPs
somewhere on base,
like licking a lollipop
in a barber’s chair at 4.
My little brother, skin head
with anarchy on his chest
barrels into my father’s office
building, huge, imposing,
Commander in Chief of US
Naval Operations in Europe,
CINCUSNAVEUR.
My little brother, VIP
pass, passes by the 3 Marine
machine gunners in 3 paned
thick glass kiosk, VIP.
And they have to salute
that CHAOS skin bare
T-shirt leather head.
My little brother, VIP
spins a grin around them—
frozen in their saluting kiosk—
waves his arms, see ya,
waves his own flag of victory.
Diane Patracuola
Bill Clark, Water Study, from Above
PGR 103
Helmets, and kneepads
who needs those?
From light into dark
we enter the small passage
into the lava tube
Through each chamber we walk
I study the sides of the cave
watching for the sharp
stalactites and stalagmites
The air is damp as I squeeze
through the passages
they become smaller
the further we go.
Now wanting that helmet
as I kneel below the sharp ceiling
suddenly a light goes out
With mine only dim we
escape not wanting to be trapped
in silence and the pitch black room
Finding a hole to climb out
We emerge into the light
Out from another world.
Jenny Genetti
Spelunking
Peggy Heinrich
Sarajevo
for Mario Susko
He tells how
when passing to freedom
an official hand seized his dog,
tossed her over the fence.
You won’t need this.
Which hurts more?
The heart that rages
at five fingers of power
or the heart that weeps
for a little white dog
drowning in a pile
of clothes, suitcases,
decaying food and
heaven-knows-what
a man with a badge
chooses to heave.
KOAK
PGR 104
PGR 105
“When our spirits sank, the songs took over; they helped us
to keep our faith that life held some meaning.”
Yes, We Sang! Songs of the Ghettos and Concentration Camps
by Shoshana Kalisch
Barbara Downs
Her accent made me ask where she was from.
I’ve lived a lot of places… Czechoslovakia … Auschwitz ,
a word she said casually, as if Auschwitz
were just another country. Not a place vibrating
with questions, questions without answers,
terrible answers to terrible questions.
Did you have your tattoo removed?
Were you forced to trade sex for life?
Have you told your daughter what it was like?
How could I ask such questions of Shoshana
when she knew I had been safe as a kitten by a hearth
without the shadow of a chimney blackening my life.
I didn’t share how my father’s German cousins
once filed through our apartment with stories
of a child, a grandparent, a friend who didn’t get away;
how I shivered in my bed at night, fearful that Hitler’s
claw-like fist could stretch across the ocean
and drag me onto his pile of skin and bones,
how so many of my thoughts and actions are rooted
in those goose steps, swastikas, yellow stars of David—
the small hoard of gold coins in my safe deposit box,
my passport, up-to-date, so I can flee,
swifter than smoke, because the fear sleeps lightly
that Nazi Germany can happen anywhere, anytime.
Peggy Heinrich
Questions for Shoshana
Adela Najarro
The Year of the Martini
There was the year of God,
then there was the year of the martini,
a martini finished with four small pimento filled olives.
When all is just too much, when three
more seconds is too long,
when tolerance escapes forgotten,
a martini is what’s called for.
God on the other hand
insists on chattering away about love,
how it’s our destiny, how only
through love we come to understand
how to be kind, merciful, and imagine
a Shiite boy’s shoulder in a bandage.
This boy shakes as he walks with his father
down a street, a street
that for him is an ordinary street,
the street he lives on. God keeps insisting
that we stop, that we stop
being wrong in so many ways: we hurt
those we love,
we hurt those we don’t, we hurt
people on the way home, ordinary
people whose lives we cannot fathom.
We don’t know the sidewalk,
the dirt and cracked cement;
we don’t know the gated fence, the ironwork
and grilled lattices; we don’t know the steps
leading to the front door, the shoes,
the socks, the curled skin of a pinky toe;
we don’t know all that was before
PGR 106
the soldiers came.
Carmen Ionita
Mutanabi Street
But these were books
on Mutanabi Street
and lovers of books, passion
players of language, dreamers,
poets and prophets.
My people, my tribe
and I’m
a tongue-tied witness
on Mutanabi Street.
Manfred Luedge
Why does the destruction of this place
propel me into poetry?
Why not the hospital last week,
the song bird bazaar the day before,
or the school bus tomorrow?
All of them assaults on humanity,
on civilization, on culture,
with no regard for life.
Jeremiah Ridgeway
PGR 107
A cloud of dust.
Shredded books flying.
Burning papers floating like autumn leaves
toward the cobble stone street.
Hands, legs, smoking junks of flesh
smashing into the walls of shops lining
Mutanabi Street,
landing with a thud on the roofs of cars
left windowless by the blast.
People in panic running, slipping
on blood soaked copies of the Quran,
magazines, novels, books on mathematics
and religion.
People clutching their bellies
to keep their guts from spilling
onto the sidewalks
of Mutanabi Street.
We had a way of magnifying everything—our skin turned the color of pearls-and-sandstonesmooth-skin-smooth and we were breeze through the sliding-glass-sliding-body song of our
skin and beaches—the July day of our bodies—you say I don’t remember but you have
three hazel flecks in your left blue eye and in the glass of champagne on the nightstand
while you slept, I counted 402 bubbles and you inhaled-exhaled 88 times and even our clothes
tangled their limbs on the floor where we stepped toward the balcony on that planet of the afternoons
we spent on top of that cliff in the secret-room-so-quiet-room-so-loud-and-crashing room.
And you think I don’t remember
like you do.
November doesn’t matter or the brambled Boardwalk riddled with neon and singsong and
crackerjack chocolate-dipped afternoons—we had a way of making everything
disappear, nothing but explosions of white roses in our bodies, the harmony of our throats,
singing baby-yes-baby, sighing love-yes-love as biplanes became twilight
and sandcastles toppled and we kissed the 90’s goodbye­­—
a word or wand of it
but I do.
Mad crash of the split grey ocean
out the plateglass of the cliff hotel.
Slick pull of the sheet-white-starched-white sheet.
How easy the fall, how easy the slide and gunreadygun, how easy
the fall-pull-fall-save fall—and how ocean doesn’t matter in those hours
and sunlight has no consequence andcan’t break through the cloudcover to make
shadows of our melting-bodies-moving-bodies-hot-sheet bodies…
You think I don’t remember
Julia Alter Canvin
PGR 108
Barbara Downs
PGR 109
Debra Spencer
and I hope the weaver tried to show
his wounds too, so all could see
who weaves it also wears it.
long after the wearer had ceased to feel?
I hope the weaver felt each thorn prick twice,
once weaving, once seeing the wearer,
did the weaver feel the tiny wounds
in fingers and hands, the pricks
now reddened to welts, and remember
all flesh is tender. How close
was the bond between them?
Days later, holding bread or cup,
Who wove it never wore it, yet
he must have suffered too,
since when it comes to thorns
Crown of Thorns
Alissa Goldring
Dane Cervine
Signs
Heading down 69 South past the Choctaw Nation,
on the way to Wilberton, Oklahoma
for Aunt Opal’s funeral, I drive
through one small town after another
observing the signs of the times,
past Paradise Donuts and Charlotte’s Web Bar
in Harlyville, each a small oasis
in the boarded up broken down block,
fuel at Lake Mystik Gas, watch ecstatic boys
cavort in four-wheel drive dirt bikes
along naked dusty roads branching
into flat horizons eerily similar
from beginning to end. Driving on,
Melanie Faith
PGR 110
past the East Branch Gun & Pawn,
I see old trailers where part of America
lives, a flock of black crows, a cardboard sign
announcing new peach smoothies in a dark house
leaning right, then past an urgent black and white
message announcing The Wages of Sin is Death,
then Halliburton in black block letters,
and finally, a rickety wooden sign exhorting
Wake up America, God’s Judgment is Coming.
Slapping my face to ward away sleep,
I keep an eye out for seraphim wing,
stare into the double-beamed headlight coloring
the coming dusk like whiskey.
Alissa Goldring
PGR 111
There were omens as I traveled—
a one-armed man riding a green bike
down Main Street in my hometown.
Then again in Weed, a gray-haired man
carrying a monstrous yellow boa constrictor
wound round his neck and shoulders. It would be
this kind of year—stunning, sad—the body
compromised, but carrying danger lightly, extravagantly
as though aging were the most natural wonder
to parade in broad daylight, the strange manner
in which we become more and less of ourselves simultaneously,
no one batting an eye, merely nodding, saying well look at that,
hair, muscle, skin, shifting, disappearing.
I know there is a young boy who never ages
inside me, perplexed at how long a man’s shirt-sleeves are,
shoes too huge to walk in, pants so large
I could hide in them like a tent—the same way
my mother, now seventy-five, says the mirror
lies, because she is no different than the school girl
dangling her legs from the bench in a world
where everyone is older than you, and your body
will live forever. But we are young, still,
in the spiritual sense of still being born,
caterpillars incubating in sacks that hum
with the transubstantiation of consciousness,
of leg into wing, of doubt into color so varied
that even a one-armed man would whistle
pedaling down what remains of his only life—
and the gorgeous snake, wrinkling its fading skin
into useless husk, muscles its new translucent body
out of decay into another life, and another, and another.
Dane Cervine
Turning Fifty
Sid Rigor
Jennifer Lagier
Final Chapter
Tough years and gravity
press a heavy boot heel against your neck,
strip you of fishing trips, deer or pheasant hunts,
rough hands on shiny gear-shifts,
chilly swims during burning summers
in distant icy canals.
PGR 112
Eight decades have bleached your farmer’s tan
and replaced hard muscle
with slack gargoyle wings of age-spotted skin.
You once sighted moving antlers on distant ridges.
Now batteries power your selective hearing.
You scribble names, when you remember them,
on scraps of paper which you hide inside unworn shoes.
One by one, your stories and siblings disappear.
Strange women bring dark coffee,
the wrong sandwiches, or broken cookies.
You require grab rails for every private act.
Still, you force your broken body to keep moving,
insist on driving through rows of almonds,
to the family garden on your own ranch.
Weekly, you visit the YMCA pool where,
like a stubborn Etruscan, you keep your head above water,
practice breathing and kicking,
swim lap after lap
Brooke Bischoff
People assume if you’ve got lung cancer you brought it on yourself with
years of Marlboros, but that’s a fallacy. He didn’t smoke. His mom smoked and
his sister smoked, but he didn’t. He is just the one that got cancer. He’s the one
that got a million tiny tumors scattered throughout his body.
He told Alisa and Rebecca about it while they were eating fast food in
Saginaw. Stage Four, he said, little groups of rogue cells attacking my lungs, too many
to operate on. Someone sat me down and told me, later, after I had already figured
it out.
Next came the tumor in his brain, the one the doctors described as the size
of a lemon. Doctors always do that; describe cancerous tumors as fruit. Benign
tumors are golf balls or marbles, but my dad’s was a lemon, which seems like an
awfully big fruit to keep in your brain.
They cut it out on Halloween and we prayed to a god none of us really
believed in. We prayed he would wake up and he did, at four a.m in the Neuro
I.C.U, wearing a turban of bandages. Watching him open his eyes was better than
Christmas morning, and I wanted nothing more than to crawl onto his lap and let
him tell me it was all going to be okay, but I was too big and he was too weak and
it wasn’t going to be okay.
Half a year later he was living with his parents, sleeping in a hospital bed
in the living room and there were more tumors. Small as grapes, the doctor said but
it didn’t reassure us and sure enough those grapes killed him in April.
He left with enough drugs to satisfy half the junkies in New York City,
morphine patches slapped directly on his back. Careful not to touch those without
gloves, his nurse said. The tiny dose absorbed through our fingers would be
enough to knock us out so we wore gloves and fed him liquefied painkillers with
a tiny syringe that we would stick into his mouth and use to squirt the medicine
down the back of his throat. Sometimes he would open his eyes and they would
be wild and scared and he would clench his teeth so hard that we would have to
pry them open to give him more medicine, as we apologized over and over and
over again.
All four of us kids, 17 to 27 and we never thought we would change our
father’s diapers, but it’s amazing the things you can do when you have to. We
became amateur nurses injecting Roxynol straight into his blood stream. At this
point, the nurse said, there’s really nothing you can do wrong.
That night, while holding vigil, we could hear his English Setter, Minnie,
whining from the backroom, slamming her hyperactive body against the door.
This might not have happened if there had been anyone else but John and me
there. They would have thought it too dangerous and unnecessary, but I clipped
a leash to her collar and led her to our dad. John was sitting next to him and she
climbed up onto his lap. For a moment we were afraid she would jump onto the
hospital bed but she simply burrowed her head under his arm, and whined in a
way I’d never heard. She refused to move and later John had to carry her away
before everyone else woke up. I understood how she felt.
It’s a strange thing to sit around and watch someone die. It’s all go, go,
go and full of important things that need your attention until someone thinks
PGR 113
Grapes Carmen Ionita
he is about to pass and calls everyone around the bed, and then you stand there,
silently counting the seconds since his last breath, and just when a whole minute
has passed and you think he is gone, he takes another short, gasping, wet pull
of air and one tiny part of you, that you wouldn’t ever admit to, is disappointed
because you just want the whole thing to be over.
And then, when it is over, for real, with time of death and no pulse and
the hospice nurse making calls to the mortuary, you are, for one second, relieved,
until you realize your dad is never coming back and you never learned how to fly
fish or what his favorite band was or why he always chose to keep his hair long.
Suddenly you have eight thousand questions and no one to answer them, and
the whole thing hits you in the stomach and you think you might throw up. Your
whole body aches and oh my god, you think you might die too, right there next to
him. But everybody is moving around and the undertaker comes and you realize
that the next time you see him he will be gravel in a box. So you kiss his forehead
ever though you’ve never touched a dead person before and then you use every
bit of energy you have left to keep yourself from falling down on the floor and
sleeping until you forget he ever existed.
Jenny Walicek
PGR 114
Degeneration
At dawn an urge prevails to see again
The quiet place he chose. I softly quit
The sleeping house, with journal clasped in hand, And step past dark and dewy yards to cross
The mountain road already quick with cars,
And slip inside unbounded graveyard grounds
Wherein my father now returns to dust.
I wander reverentially among The shifting, sinking mounds of musty earth
That culminate along the cliff, above The river where he used to love to fish.
His body lies between these parallel
Progressive paths: the upward road intense
Commuters take toward cubicled careers,
And current coursing downward on its way
To reunite with great ancestral sea.
This ancient acre heaves and writhes, deformed
By roots and by the San Andreas fault,
By wheelbarrows and formal narrow heels.
An oak tree near the bank has bent too far
And snapped, exposing rosy sinews in
An arc of agony. A shingled shack
Consumed by swarming ivy leans against
The tangled woods, its windows boarded up.
Tenacious plastic permanently blooms
Beside untended tombs of crumbled stone.
I roam around the toppled testaments
And broken borders, making acorns crunch
And fallen oak leaves crackle, searching for
A newer slab too young to have succumbed
To creeping rash of lichen, soil and weeds.
I note the names and numbers of the dead.
Official, terse abbreviations mark
Where persevering soldiers, uninformed
Of truce or treaty, lie forever low
In solitary trenches, earth around
Them gopher-riddled, engines droning on
Above them—wingless craft, along the road.
Adjacent graves hold some who never had
A chance to fight, for Church or State or life:
“Our Baby” simply says one marble slab;
Another square, “Twin Boys.”
I turn away.
A flash of shiny granite draws my eye.
No need to cry; that rending grief has passed.
I gather up and bind some autumn leaves,
A gift I know would suit his rustic soul,
And tiptoe to the gravesite of the man
Who saw the light in every dying day.
PGR 115
My father had a poet’s heart and so
He chose this graveyard for its unprecise, Disordered art, its wild civility.
Kate Giles
Learning to Blur
sitting beside him at the summit
of Coyote Mountain Road,
she watches as he squints up
at a downpour of stars
through the viewfinder of his first camera,
a used 35 mm, as loosely attached
to a wobbly tripod,
as they are to each other
“Good enough,” he finally says, sounding as if
there’s little chance that it actually is,
and later he’ll toss
the prints, realizing
he forgot to focus,
the story of his life—
in a striped flannel shirt, baggy jeans, and baseball cap,
he’s still the boy he’s been for two decades,
the one who laughs longer, who gives up
sooner, who dreams
more than wakes
now, dropping down next to her in the roadside grass,
waiting for the timed exposure,
he stretches his legs out and open
near enough for her to feel the warmth
and distance between them,
six inches she will never close,
no matter how close she’ll pull him later,
their bodies exposing heat in the cool air
PGR 116
yet she’ll never feel as near to him
as she does right now,
tilting their heads towards the starshine,
settling into stillness,
time shutting down,
as a moment of light
cascades through the film
of their life
If the moon had eyes she would only look at you,
and every night she would rise in search of you, and only you.
If only she could hear she would search for your melody
listen to it all night until she fell asleep.
During the day she would wonder where you are, or were about to do
and if the moon could talk she would tell you how much she missed you.
If only she could hold you in her arms
she wouldn’t ever let you go.
PGR 117
If the moon
Nahayeli Juarez
Didi Fitzgerald
Barbara Raney
PGR 118
Novitiate
Where and when I grew up
men did not have long hair.
If you wanted to whisper a message to one
during a concert or a movie,
all you had to do is lean over and deliver
the message right to the ear.
With you, message delivery became
a ritual, like a little villanelle—
villanelle-a sensual excitement that has
stayed in my mind for over
thirty years.
First, I had to touch your hair—
hairsoft, fluid, sun-dyed.
Then, I had to tuck it behind your ear,
but one or two disobedient strands
would always try to re-cover your ear,
and I would have to stroke and tuck
them into place.
Then I had to enjoy the smell of
your hair, your face—
facethe touch of your ear and often
your eye when you would turn
to smile at me while I was
taking such pleasure in this
formerly forbidden initiation.
The message had now been
translated into desire.
Ah, Teacher, this was a life-long
lesson.
Robyn Marshall
Alissa Goldring
On Cherry-Fire
Out in the bushes
secrets were huge as caves.
We made a ring of stones,
scorched potatoes, ate them black,
and smudged that library book on how babies got born,
our fingerprints on every page.
We buried it in leaves, under snow
all winter: our pact.
You were older,
teased for your name—hey, virgin!—
you laughed, the tomboy who grew breasts
and bled, years ahead of my late blooming.
Rosie King
for Ginny next door
While all the boys
came next door for you,
I—still smarting from that girl at camp
who called my breasts fried eggs—
got taken to my mother’s doctor, just so he could
check, and say, be patient…
At last, up a ladder, reaching out
for cherries from your family’s tree,
my body kindled,
thrilled at catching up to yours,
while you lay schmoozing in the bushes up at the lake
with the boy you’d marry,
who’d give you babies, one two three—
PGR 119
Melanie Faith
<
and when you smiled down from your bridal stairs
to see me with the others,
it was more than your bouquet I caught—
ran, then took flight, flamed
all over Greece, the Cote d’Azur,
islands off the coast of Spain,
and Amsterdam.
Chloe- Woodmansee
I Realize (you aren’t what I wanted you to be)
Grasping
for the thing
that can make you understand.
I can’t quite catch it, it
swims away from me.
Diving and twisting like a joke it tells me what I don’t want to hear:
you will never understand me
or anything that isn’t
you
PGR 120
Edoardo Pasero
A Penny for my Thoughts, Please
Ellen Hart
I check out at Pet Smart.
When I slide my card through
the screen asks if I want
to donate for homeless pets
without a thought, I always do.
As I walk to my car, a scruffy man
spare changes me. I shake my head.
God bless you, he mutters
sizing up the next one.
I unload my basket, slip behind the wheel
reflect on why I would contribute
to an unseen homeless pet, but not him.
I go back, hand him a few bills, get re-blessed.
A sucker for panhandlers with pets
I’ll roll down the window, thrust out
a wadded bill, as the light changes.
Are the terriers or labs props?
Well trained, they seem like family.
Street life seems more treacherous
for women, deserving of a hand up.
Whatever the gender of the vagrant
the well fed say, They’ll spend it on
drugs or booze, making it easy to pass.
Richard Veil
Signs proclaim, Hard times—Money for food.
I imagine saying, Let’s go grocery shopping
or offer to pay their meal tab.
Would they come along to Safeway or Denny’s?
On my way to volunteer at the Vets Hall, Thanksgiving
I am stopped by a presentable young man, looking lost.
An out of town college kid, I think
expect to be asked for directions.
About two blocks that way, I say
you can feast from a gourmet buffet
donated by the best restaurants in town.
Come on, I’ll walk with you.
He stares at me like I’m a crazy woman
mumbles as he flips me off
continues down the mall.
PGR 121
Haven’t eaten in two days, can you spare a few, he pleads.
Alissa Goldring
Tilly Shaw
Narcolept
Increasingly, I seem to fall asleep after
lunch not expecting to,
increasingly fall asleep.
One moment I’m
listening to Charlie Rose,
following complexity, then
time stops, splices into
the future, a whole slice gone
from what now was,
myself lifted entirely to
a newness I realize
is after.
Alissa Goldring
PGR 122
Not unpleasant, until I
step outside myself,
join those continuously awake,
look back
askance.
The Northern Miner
Anne Clements
PGR 123
Donna Becker
Blast and dig.
Proud to be in this gang of men.
We built a big mine,
Biggest pit in the world
for now
We blew the ground loose,
We dug the dirt away.
Brown slag dug up and hauled
Slag hills heaped high
No mountains here
But these piles of dirt
Green whiskers of weed grow on ‘em when summer comes.
Below the slag
the red earth
Ground, the deep color of rust
Round and round
The red roads wind into the pit.
Trucks grunt, moan
Men holler, yell
drag up the dirt and ore.
Rust on my boots
rust red coating each fiber of my shirt
each hair of my body
body worn, stiff, too tired
I pull my boots off
red dust falls to the floor she tried to keep so clean.
My red rusty hands scrape the flower petals of my children’s skin.
The rough smell of metal and rust in the children’s dreams
Red dust on me, in me
Deep in my lungs I suppose
for ore
for steel
for country
for food for our families.
The wind comes
white dusts the red.
Breath an icy fog
Hands cold, feet stiff
Boots creak
winds howl
Cold, colder than metal
Cold, colder that steel
Snow blows
the red dust is still and crusted now
Frozen ground crunches beneath my boots
Snow still deeper
too deep, too cold to work, or dig, or blast.
Wait for the mud of spring to blast and dig again.
Susan Freeman
Gonzales
The wind bites hard down the long valley,
grey barns weathered by it; the gullied mountains scored.
It rises each afternoon, a whip in a hidden hand, inescapable,
bending the hedgerow eucalyptus,
tearing at the shirts on the farmworkers’ backs and in the hair
of children playing in the field behind the school.
Hunkering down on the animate highway, the town
feels grievingly sad in its squat, tan buildings,
its main street staring blankly at the black ribbon of cars
zooming south. The heat builds. Old men shuffle
past Jim’s Liquor, past Valdez Produce and the Tru-Value Hardware
to a lunch of quesadilla y cerveza at El Famoso café.
The straight-arrow highway splits the land and who lives here,
the bungalow town; the gated wineries in the hills.
Passing through a thousand times on their way to L.A., who ever sees
the old men or the flapping sheets flash-drying
in the heat of small backyards, women with strong hands
hanging their family’s colors out in the wind?
Across that road, under the flat bridge, the Salinas River
lays low beneath its bed; above it’s bone-dry til the rains come,
lost to the summer, invisible, surfacing miles away near the sea.
What runs strong runs hidden from the eye. The subtle lines
drawn in a town with many histories. Who leads and
who follows, and whose words make the rules.
PGR 124
Here, the river has a salty name, the taste of hard labor,
given by invaders who wondered at the wetland slough,
the tidal flats pulsing the bay into the land. Outsiders,
they made this their place, a land grant, a ranchero,
usurped when new strangers came, English in their mouths,
looking for ground to pleasure their ploughs.
Once named, a place is learned, known beyond itself,
held in the mouth of its children nostalgically
or forgotten by those who chose to run away.
No one can write it like it really is, say the hills.
The town and the valley agree, singing in the dry sun.
And the river. The river that quenches no thirst.
Sigrid McLaughlin
Alissa Goldring
PGR 125
Kelly Woods
She still smiles at me
And I’ll be sociable and wave
Although I miss her every way a man can miss a girl
After he walks away
I stay away
But I limp without her, I
Might never find my step
I stand by while she eyes and flirts with
The friends I have left
And I get depressed
You know what you really want, she says
Staring me down at the party
You know what you really want
And I can’t argue
Oh I do
She smiles and twists her skirt and laughs
Oh girl don’t do this to me
All you want to do is ruin me
All you want to deal is death to me
You know it’s true
KOAK
Rylan Freshour
PGR 126
Drugs
FADE IN
EXT. KENTWOOD AVE. - DAY
Two young men bicycle down a suburban neighborhood street. They both wear
matching slacks, white short-sleeved collared shirts, ties, name tags, helmets, and
backpacks. They pull over to the sidewalk and get off their bikes. JIMMY, 20s, takes
off his helmet and wipes sweat from his forehead.
Emily Catalano
On A Mission (a screenplay)
JIMMY
Dude, it’s fucking hot.
BRAD, 20s, grabs a rag out of his backpack and tosses it to Jimmy.
BRAD
Don’t say fuck.
Fuck. Good call.
JIMMY
Jimmy fixes his helmet hair.
How do I look?
JIMMY
Like an angel.
BRAD
Aeschleah DeMartino
They both walk up to the yellow house. Brad carries THE BOOK OF MORMON in
his hands.
EXT. THE YELLOW HOUSE - DAY
The boys stand on the porch. Simultaneously, they strike cheesy smiles. Jimmy
knocks confidently on the front door. A WOMAN, 45, opens the door.
JIMMY
(cheerful)
Hello, ma’am. My name is Jimmy and this is Brad. We’re visiting
everyone in this neighborhood to share an important message.
JIMMY
Maybe our approach is all wrong.
BRAD
No. It’ll work. Trust me.
PGR 127
SMASH CUT Jimmy and Brad walk away from the house.
The boys walk their bikes to the next house over.
INT. THE BLUE HOUSE - DAY
CLINT, 30, peaks through the blinds on the front window. Clint’s P.O.V. Jimmy
and Brad park their bikes and start to walk up to the house. Clint grunts and then
tip-toes across the room and turns off the lights.
EXT. THE BLUE HOUSE - DAY
Jimmy and Brad get to the front door and put their cheesy smiles on. Jimmy
knocks on the door loudly. They wait, slowly dropping their smiles. Brad rings
the door bell and knocks.
INT. THE BLUE HOUSE - DAY
Clint hides against the wall between the window and the front door. Then we
see Jimmy push his face and hands against one of the small windows on the top
of the door. Jimmy looks around trying to see inside the house.
EXT. THE BLUE HOUSE - DAY
Brad gives Jimmy a foothold with his hands while Jimmy looks through the tall
window. Jimmy hops down.
JIMMY
I don’t think anybody’s home.
You sure?
BRAD
JIMMY
I didn’t see anyone. Should we wait a little longer?
Brad turns around and scopes out the street. The street is quiet. Nobody is
around.
BRAD
No, dude...it’s now or never.
K, let’s do this.
JIMMY
PGR 128
Jimmy pulls out two small tools from his bag and starts to pick the lock on the
door. Brad stands guard. He opens The Book of Mormon. The pages are cut out to
make a secret box. Inside the box is a gun.
INT. THE BLUE HOUSE - DAY
The front door opens. Jimmy slowly crawls in. Brad follows him. Clint is
nowhere in sight. The boys walk over to a china cabinet. Brad picks up an
expensive looking vase.
BRAD
This should cover my biology textbook.
He puts it in his backpack. There is a noise behind them. Brad and Jimmy turn
around to see Clint point a gun in their direction.
JIMMY
Whoa, man. We’re sorry. We’ll give it back. Just don’t shoot.
Jimmy and Brad look scared stupid. Clint smirks.
CLINT
Lucky for you, I’m feeling generous today. The cops are on their way,
but leave the vase and I’ll let you get a head start.
Jimmy and Brad look at each other and at Clint, confused. Brad puts back the
vase, then starts to pick up The Book of Mormon.
Leave it.
CLINT
But it’s mine.
BRAD
CLINT
Maybe I just got religious. Now get out of here.
They run out. Clint waits for them to leave and then grabs a duffel bag from
around the corner and quickly puts the vase inside the bag, which is full of other
expensive looking items. Clint grabs The Book of Mormon and opens it. He sees
the gun and laughs. He puts it back where it was. We move above Clint and focus
on a family photo hung on the wall. Clint is not in the photo. It consists of a man
with his wife and son.
What? Your house?
Yeah.
BRAD
ZACH
PGR 129
ZACH
Whoa, there. Who are you? Why are you running from my house?
Melanie Faith
EXT. THE BLUE HOUSE - DAY
Jimmy and Brad run from the house. They turn the corner and crash into the
man in the photo, ZACH, who just got out of his car.
Alissa Goldring
BRAD
Well, there’s a man in your house with a gun.
JIMMY
Yeah, and he tried to kill us.
Brad looks at Jimmy. Jimmy shrugs his shoulders.
I’m calling the cops.
ZACH
EXT. THE BLUE HOUSE - LATER
The house is surrounded by cop cars. Clint is handcuffed and pushed into the back
seat. Clint glares at Brad and Jimmy. He shouts to the officer.
CLINT
Look in The Book of Mormon.
OFFICER
Not the time to preach, bud.
Jimmy, Brad, and Zach stand on the front porch. Zach shakes their hands.
ZACH
Boys, thanks for your help today. I owe you one.
PGR 130
It was nothing, sir.
BRAD
JIMMY
Just an average day when you’re on
a mission from G-
BRAD
Well, we should get going. We still have some houses to get to.
Brad grabs Jimmy and walks away. A cop comes from the house and hands The
Book of Mormon to Zach.
ZACH
Hey, don’t forget this.
Oh fu-- dge.
JIMMY
Jimmy walks to get the book, but Zach suddenly tosses it to them. In the air, the
book opens and the gun falls out. When the gun hits the ground it fires. All the
police officers draw their guns and point them at the boys. Jimmy and Brad put
their hands in the air.
Fuck.
FADE OUT
THE END
Bob Newick
PGR 131
JIMMY
KOAK
PGR 132
Robert Sward
All for a Day
All day I have written words.
My subject has been that: Words.
And I am wrong. And the words.
I burn
three pages of them. Words.
And the moon, moonlight, that too
I burn. A poem remains.
But in the words, in the words,
in the fire that is now words.
I eat the words that remain,
and am eaten. By nothing,
by all that I have not made.
Andrew Perry
Nothing Worth Mentioning
What is this drink?
The sun’s gone down and we’re getting deep
And these spring nights that go so soon,
Wet grass, under blackest blue
Brown eyes that swallowed the moon
The condensation drips over my nail
From the rim of the glass
Steam rolling off her smile, so unreal
That smile, it lingers
Biting my lip
As she kissed my cheek with her fingers
The patio door wide open to the breeze
As the white curtains heaved to pulse of the shore outside
I sat on the edge of the bed with my hand on her head
Felt her drift into sleep
I gazed past the fabric, and over the sand
And from the deep I heard a whisper beckoning me toward the tide
Calling me away from the warmth by my side
An approaching fog clutched the moonlight and draped it across the sea
A big nostalgic neon band
And I gravitated towards the sound of waves sloshing on sand.
With my knees in the foam I waited for a sign
But nothing came
Shit
It had all been so cryptic, so obscure
But I’m just another drunk
Romantically listening to the ocean purr
PGR 133
I reach for the glass in the sand below me
To find its been emptied and sucked out to sea
“One for you.” I say
I offer a little chuckle
For the moon, smirking from across the way
And I wander back inside in search for a pillow
My passage through the crippling headache,
And into a brand new day.
Richard Veil
Carmen Ionita
Author and Artist Bios
Marcia Adams is a third generation Californian with deep family roots in the
Sacramento Valley and Sierra Nevada. Her unusually large (and largely unusual)
family gives her plenty of subject matter for her writing. Her work has appeared in
The Anthology of Monterey Bay Poets, Manzanita, The Montserrat Review, Watersheed,
Caesura, Blue’s Cruzio Cafe and The Porter Gulch Review.
PGR 134
A Berkeley grad and mother of three, Gloria K. Alford has been working at art for
over 40 years, largely in Santa Cruz, where she lives with her life-partner, poet
Robert Sward. She is listed in Who’s Who in American Art. You are invited to visit her
website: www.gloriaalford.com.
Part songstress, part ecstatic mother & Mrs, part Pushcart Prize nominee, the poet
Julia Alter now resides in Venice. Her firstborn book is Walking the Hot Coal of the
Heart (Hummingbird Press, 2004). Someday in this millenium you will hear Julia’s
recordings, soothing fusions of poetry and jazz.
Len Anderson is the author of Affection for the Unknowable (Hummingbird Press, 2003)
and a chapbook, BEEP: A Version of the History of the Personal Computer. He is also
a physicist and has done experimental research in elementary particle physics and
developed sensors for the automation of paper manufacturing. He is a co-founder of
Poetry Santa Cruz, a non-profit literary organization in Santa Cruz County.
Jody Bare: Do you think growing up in an art studio makes you an artist? I grew
up in my mother’s studio, and I seem compelled to create. As an adult, I started
studying symbols across the world and across time. Now I create story blocks
that reflect birth, marriage, journey, death, creation, bliss or, in other words, basic
archetypes of human experience. My art continues to evolve, but I have not wavered
from my original linocut medium, and I still use that first linoleum block created
under my mother’s gaze.
Donna Becker was born in Minnesota and has lived on the East Coast and in Santa
Cruz. She is a mother, wife and family law attorney. After years of carrying images
and phrases in her head she is grateful to the Cabrillo English Department for
helping her to put pen to paper, particularly Jeff Tagami.
Brooke Bischoff is the baby of her family and left Sacramento to live near the
ocean in Santa Cruz. She is studying philosophy, but her favorite class is Cabrillo’s
Autobiography class with Kathy Cowan.
Barbara Bloom, a longtime Cabrillo College English instructor, grew up on a remote
coastal homestead in British Columbia, Canada, came to Santa Cruz to attend UCSC
and never left. She currently lives in the countryside outside Corralitos with her
musician husband. Her first full-length collection of poems, On the Water Meridian,
was published by Hummingbird Press in 2007.
Gail Brenner lives in Santa Cruz, CA, where she teaches and writes amid the majestic
beauty of redwoods and the magnificence of the rugged Central Coast. She has
taught English as a Second Language for more than 20 years, does freelance editing,
and currently, teaches a course in Communications at UCSC. Her poetry appears
in Sisters Singing, an anthology of sacred art and writing by women. Her book
publications include: English for Dummies and Webster’s American Idioms Handbook.
Mary A. Carr was born in Illinois and, after having received a suitable amount of
education, drifted into life experiences that brought her to Santa Cruz in 200l, where
she has become active in writing groups and in Poetry Santa Cruz’s Poet/Speak.
Dane Cervine is a local poet and therapist, who also serves as Chief of Children’s
Mental Health for the county. His book The Jeweled Net of Indra was published by
Plain View Press in 2007. View his website at www.DaneCervine.typepad.com for
samples of his work, including poems chosen by Adrienne Rich and Tony Hoagland
for awards.
PGR 135
Emily Catalano: I was raised in Santa Cruz and I’m an aspiring filmmaker. I don’t
have any drama in my life, so I have to create it in my writing. To check out my past
and future projects go to raeraeproductions.com.
Anne Clements: I am British but was born, brought up and educated in Ireland of
Irish parents. I now live in Camden in London. I bought my first digital SLR in
January 2006 for a holiday in Chile and have been hooked on photography ever since.
Lauren Crux is an artist who works in a variety of contemporary media.
Her favorite motto comes from Yogi Berra: If you come to a fork in the road, take it.
Aeschleah DeMartino has spent all her 26 years on every side of California. When
she’s not making photographs in San Francisco, she’s off on a foreign adventure
making photographs. Her work is the collaboration of fantasy and reality, the
influence of pop culture and stereotypes and the most valuable outlet of expression.
Barbara Downs is a Santa Cruz artist incapable of selecting a single medium in which
to work. After concentrating on lithography at UCSC back in the stone ages, she
spent many years doing drawing and mixed media, but is currently working in oil,
encaustic and sculpture. The resultant jumble of work is tenuously connected by
an unhealthy fascination with the slightly off-kilter, which leaves her family silently
afraid. You can see more of her work at www.bdowns.com.
Virginia Draper: What I love about photography is that I don’t have to stare at a blank
page or canvas waiting for inspiration. Instead, I begin with something that catches
my eyes—perhaps a curious shape or startling color—and go from there, hoping to
share the spark I felt with others.
Melanie Faith is a photographer, poet, essayist, and educator. Architecture, nature,
Americana kitsch, travel, and ephemera inspire her camera. In summer 2009, she
photographed her way through Italy, Spain, and France; the Grand Canyon, Morocco,
and New Zealand top her future artistic wish-list.
Ryan Forsythe is a writer and artist currently completing a Masters degree in
Teaching Writing at Humboldt State. Through his travels, he has found himself saving
sea turtles in Mexico, teaching at a school for street kids in Tanzania, and earning a
certificate in Teaching English on a beach in Thailand. He grew up in Ohio eating
meat at every meal, but now lives in Humboldt County with vegetarians.
PGR 136
Susan Freeman rides a highwire between teaching writing in schools, presenting
poetry on the radio, and her own writing. A teacher educator in literacy and visual
arts, she has been on the faculty of UC Santa Cruz, Cabrillo and Pacific Oaks Colleges,
and co-directed the Central California Writing Project for eight years. Susan’s
work has appeared in Porter Gulch Review, Quarry West, The Monterey Poetry Review,
100 Poets Against the War, The Napa Review, In Celebration of the Muse, and on-line
publications.
Sara Friedlander is a mixed media artist combining her love for photography with
her passion for painting. Working in series, across widely varied themes, she always
strives to create time-lapsed photo-surrealistic images. Her single photographic
shots seem to defy predictability and often incorporate movement, ghosts, or blurred
distortions.
Melanie Faith
Gary Galloway is a conforming non-“ist” attempting to survive in what at times
appears to be a reality tv tabloid universe without Frank Zappa as the Producer &
Director. “I” am also a Horticulture and Digital Media Student at Cabrillo College.
My goal is to be buried with books I wrote in—an amount weighing the same
as me at my time of death—in hopes that the worms will eat them first, and to
have nothing written in stone to attribute my legacy. Oh yea—there’s a website—
nevermoreravinpoetry.com
Kate Giles loves writing, teaching writing, and wishing she were writing. Having
finally settled down with poetry, she has been published in various literary
magazines. In addition to language pursuits, Kate enjoys exploring, photographing,
cooking, volunteering, and striking up friendships with felines.
Stefan Graves is a mason by trade, living in the mountains near Watsonville
with his family, including one dog, two cats, three hundred jays, sixty-five acorn
woodpeckers, one belted kingfisher, a pair of red-tail hawks, dove, quail, mice,
squirrels, racoons, deer, snakes, frogs and the occasional rafter of turkeys.
Ellen Hart, that retired English teacher, refuses to stay out of the literary loop. She
reads(to anyone who’ll listen) and has even been published. She has studied with
the premier poets in our community; belongs to two ongoing poetry groups and is
working on her third chapbook.
Author of the Carol Sabala murder mystery series and long-time Watsonville High
School English teacher, Vinnie Hansen lives in Santa Cruz, with her husband, artist
Daniel S. Friedman, and The Best Cat in the Universe, Lola.
Eric Hasse, born in Palo Alto, makes his home on the western side of the Connecticut
River watershed region in Norwich, Vermont. He runs an art gallery across the river
where he has a rotating display of his own digital images, plus a selected sampling
of fellow visual artists’ work. Diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease over 15 years ago,
these days, he devotes his time to the exploration of the ten thousand things in the
world of the visual arts. He still writes the occasional poem.
Peggy Hansen: nature photography. Boulder Creek deserts birds abstracts
wildflowers redwoods www.peggyhansen.com http://www.
wordle.net/gallery/wrdl/714299/chakmool” title=”Wordle: chakmool”><img
I, Sandi Howell, live in Manitoba, Canada with two wise Labradors. I describe
myself as deeply engaged in life....squeezing every moment out of the day. Although
my day job is in adult education, my passion is my artwork which includes
photography, painting, fabric art, lino and assemblage. I approach all my work with
the credo that art changes lives.
PGR 137
Santa Cruz resident Peggy Heinrich has published six books of her poetry. The most
recent, Peeling an Orange, a collection of haiku, has been nominated for a Pushcart
Prize. She is currently at work on a selection of her tanka, to be published later this
year. She is also active as a dowser and Reconnective healer.
Carmen Ionita: Photography for me? No doubt it is an art that moves souls,
perseverant in reconstructing a new approach of life.
Sefla Joseph has been a figurative artist for twenty years. She lives in Watsonville
with her husband Fred, her dog Nellie, and her cat Max. She is always ready to have
a laugh, and often says she is ready to paint landscapes. Fred, Nellie, and Max just
roll their eyes...They are all still waiting... Rosie King, when not writing/revising poems, can often be found standing on her
head or hands (once a cheerleader . . . ), planting kale, pulling weeds (grew up in a
Victory garden), walking the beach or along the river to yoga classes in town (walked
a mile to school, home for lunch and back, kindergarten on), giving bodywork
(studied for years with Marion Rosen), sitting cross-legged in silence or making
soup for the homeless with folks at Santa Cruz Zen Center, and reviving her voice in
a choir (her mother made soup, baked bread each week, and sang, back when there
were the old and sick, but as far as we knew, no homeless). This year she is most
amazed to be turning 70.
KOAK: Koak was born on a cold November dawn in 1981. Her whimsical, and often
dark, sense of humor finds outlet through her work, which ranges from comics to
sculptures to paintings. She is currently immersed in creating a graphic novel trilogy
and obsessively bringing to fruition the haunting and folkloric world in which this
story takes place.
Dr. Jennifer Lagier is a member of the Italian American Writers Association, the
Central Coast Writers and serves as Dean of Distance Learning, Weekend/Evening
Programs & Adjunct Faculty at Hartnell College in Salinas. Her five books are Coyote
Dream Cantos (Iota Press, 1992), Where We Grew Up (Small Poetry Press, 1999), SecondClass Citizen (Voices in Italian Americana Folio Series, 2000), The Mangia Syndrome
(Pudding House Publications, 2004), and Fishing for Portents (Pudding House
Publications, 2008).
George Lober is the author of Shift of Light (Hummingbird Press, 2002) and A Bridge
to There (Hummingbird Press, 2009). In addition to the Porter Gulch Review his poems
have appeared in numerous other literary journals, as well as The Anthology of
Monterey Bay Poets (Chatoyant, 2004). He teaches at the Naval Postgraduate School in
Monterey and lives in Carmel, California.
PGR 138
Manfred Luedge, born and raised in West-Germany, living in California since 1982,
started writing poetry and prose in English in 2005. He pays most of his bills through
his work as a contractor. He’s happily married and proud father of a wonderful
daughter.
Shane’ Mann: We live in such a beautiful place where I can pack up my easel and
paint anywhere, just being out in nature is all I need for inspiration. Often I take
ideas home and paint from my imagination which is how I did this Sea Scape called
February Sunset in Santa Cruz. This was near the Crow’s Nest.
Robyn Marshall has been an adjunct French Instructor for 42 years, 31 of those at
Cabrillo College. French has been an “umbrella” sheltering her other passions: art,
music, dance, literature, poetry and la bonne vie. An art major for 3-1/2 years at
UCLA in the 60’s, Robyn has continued to work (and play!) in various media while
sharing a full, rich life with her family and friends.
Erich McIntosh: Music, tattoos, and cars that evoke emotion. Writing: “Turning
shapes, into soundz, into goosebumps.” Love should always be capitalized.
Unpredictability is the foundation of a worthwhile existence. Bury me in Key West,
next to a story. “Be remembered, Involved with past and future.” —T. S. Eliot
Michael Norris: Thanks you for taking the time to review my photography. This is
my first year at Cabrillo College! I work mainly in digital rather than film, except for
the image “Twisted” which is a scan of the original film image. I plan on getting my
Associate’s degree from Cabrillo so that I can transfer to art school.
Courtney Mutz was born in Santa Cruz Country and has lived here all of her life, 18
years. She love reading and writing, it is a way for her to escape this world and take
part in another one, where anything can happen. Her goal is to write captivating
and relatable songs and be able to perform them for the world, or at least to some of
the world. Music is her passion and it will always be. “Music is love in search of a
word.”
Adela Najarro has now moved on to the year of the iguana. She is a member of the
board of directors for Poetry Santa Cruz and teaches in the Cabrillo College English
Department where she co-coordinates the Puente Project. Her poetry has appeared
in numerous journals and can be found in the University of Arizona Press anthology
The Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry.
Bob Newick: I am retired from the Design Center of an international corporation. I have worked in or as an Advertising Manager, Photographer, Graphic Design,
volunteer art teacher in schools doing art demonstrations and talks to art groups,
giving art workshops, and as a political cartoonist.
Andrew Perry: I am a 24 year old Poet and Playwright from Marin County who is
currently living in Santa Cruz. I have a BA in Theater Arts from UCSC coming my
way this spring.
Barbara Raney has traveled the world and taught in many institutions of higher
learning, only to discover that she is still the Iowa girl she always was.
Melanie Faith
PGR 139
Edoardo Pasero: Born 1978 at 21 was assistant in the studio of Italian fashion
photographer Gianpaolo Barbieri. During the next years I worked in the field
of production and posproduction for videoclips, commercials and cinema. I’m
now focusing on my photography. Have been featured in the 2008 portfolio issue
of SHOTS Magazine, featured artist in F-Stop Magazine, selected for the 2009
Photography Festival in Rome ecc.
A movie buff and film-school student who felt adrift, Ridgeway joined the Army
in 2005. He considered enlisting as a combat videographer, but realized he’d be
“taking pictures of handshakes and generals.” Craving “a real experience,” he
signed on for combat duty as a Reconnaissance Cavalry Scout and headed to
Afghanistan, where he served from February 2006 to July 2007. “I had a lot of life
crammed into 16 months,” says Ridgeway. “Being shot at, living in a hole for a
month at a time. It was extreme.”
Sid Rigor: I have been a photographer for 10 years and in the last 4 years I have
used the toy camera as my paint brush. For the last 2 years I have been a judge in
photography at the SC County Fair.
Pamela Rivas has lived in Latin America and Japan, has taught as a Bilingual
Educator, and is currently raising her children and writing a novella. She is a
recipient of the 2007 and 2008 Mary Lonnberg Smith Poetry Award.
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Melissa Ross: I am a hopeless romantic who grew up in Santa Rosa, California. I
also really love cake!
Tilly Shaw has been a resident of Santa Cruz for over 40 years. She came out with
her first collection of poems, Swimming Closer to Shore, with Hummingbird Press
in 2002. Chelsea Smart loathes the act of writing, yet believes the successful construction
of poetry and prose to be vitally significant; almost awful, where certain authors
operate as Gods and their works, as such, are undoubtable instances of perfection.
She wishes to be such a God, but cannot sit still for very long.
The least interesting thing about Debra Spencer is that she works at Cabrillo
College as an LD specialist. The most interesting thing about her is her brain,
which does not photograph well.
Mandy Spitzer cuts paper and metal in Santa Cruz, CA. The negative space has
the same value as the positive. It’s all a matter of relaxing the brain so the whole
body can take it all in all the way. Revelation revealed. www.mandyspitzer.com
A feral child raised by Republicans, Richard Stockton became an entertainer at
an early age and never had to grow up. In 1982 he found success as a radio talk
show host in Nashville, Tennessee on WKDA/KDF and became the number one
rated talk show host in the Mid South because he was the only one. But now his
extended adolescence has been rudely interrupted by his mid-life crisis and he
has settled in Santa Cruz to produce the Planet Cruz Comedy Hour.
Guggenheim Award winner Robert Sward taught at Cabrillo College for 11
years. Author of God is in the Cracks and The Collected Poems, now in its second
printing, his latest will be Unleashed: The Dogs in My Life. Also, forthcoming from
Red Hen Press (Los Angeles) is a New & Selected due out 2011.
www.robertsward.com.
PGR 141
Roberto Ricciotti
David Thorn: Father, brother, liver, lover, giver, taker, writer, surfer, rhymer,
schemer, diviner, dreamer: twenty-third appearance in PGR, three time Poet of the
Year, writing teacher at UCSC & Cabrillo, original surfing poet.
Adriana Torres-Martinez, is an, Artist, Writer, Tattoo loving freak, Sharpie user,
Robot loving, Vampire believer, Pirate at sea, Creative writer, Disneyland kid, Story
make believer, Travel Junkie, Goal oriented, 80’s baby, Proud Mexican girl, Vintage
collector, Jewelry inventor, Lady gaga obsess, Dreaming of being a Teacher, She’s a
monster that step-by-step will take over the world with love and kindness.
Jeff Towle was a well-received local poet and long-time teacher
at Cabrillo College before his untimely and unexpected death on
August 30, 2009. He authored two volumes of poetry, A Future
of Remembrances (2007) and This Moment’s Light (2008), which are
available through Xlibris Corporation <Orders@Xlibris.com>.
Teaching English and imparting his love of language to his students
was a singular joy to Jeff, and many of his poems reflect this.
Eleanor Van Houten lives on the Monterey Bay Coast which inspires much of her
writing. She has been published in Porter Gulch Review, Monterey Poetry Review, and
two anthologies: Manorborn and Grow Old Along With Me.
Beth Vieira was once incarnated as a book in her role as a professor. That was before
she discovered poetry and became a fountain pen. Her first love is the sea.
Cathy Warner, lay pastor at Boulder Creek United Methodist Church, is working on
her MFA in Creative Writing from Seattle Pacific University. She blogs at: http://
holyink.blogspot.com.
Jenny Walicek grew up on a hillside apple farm in Watsonville, where she
remembers escaping chores to read in the hidden solitude of tree forts, horse
troughs and hammocks. She has a degree in English Literature from SJSU and
will be working on her MFA this fall. Her work has appeared in Reed Magazine and
Studies in Philology. A freelance editor, teacher, and the mother of two teens, she
uses her spare seconds to endlessly revise her first novel.
Ken Weisner lives in Santa Cruz and is a longtime fan of Porter Gulch Review.
Eden White’s hobbies include lizards, snakes, conjugating verbs, and tequila. She
aspires to become a vampire in the near future while she is still pretty good looking.
PGR 142
Jean Walton Wolff was the recipient of the 2009 Mary Lonnberg Smith Poetry Award,
and she is honored to appear again in this year’s Porter Gulch Review.
Chloé Michelle Woodmansee is a junior in college. She hopes to someday have a
career in the creative arts. Jessica Woods is many things, including a writer, a mom, a teacher and a lifelong
resident of Santa Cruz County . She has written poetry since grade school, but
waited thirty years before letting anyone read any of it.
PGR 143
Virginia Draper, Coy Carp
Lauren Crux
J. Zimmerman has worked as a solid-state physicist, a limnologist, a software
quality assessor, a radio host and engineer, a falconry apprentice, a web designer,
a software designer, a university tutor to ESL students, and a surveyor at
archaeological digs in Britain and Greece. She is co-editor & contributor for Poetry
at Ariadne’s Web at http://www.baymoon.com/~ariadne. Her poems are published
internationally.
Virginia Draper, Found Sculptre, VAPA, Cabrillo College
Last Words
25 years? Extraordinary. The marriage of literature and art that is PGR serves
as a bridge between Cabrillo College and the diverse communities that surround
and sustain it. These ongoing dialogs enrich us all. Thank you: readers, writers,
artists, students, teachers, supporters, benefactors—and yes—even critics. Let
us know what we’re doing right and what we can do better. Remember, this is
a student-run journal where all submissions are judged anonymously and final
decisions come through agonizing, hotly-debated consensus. It’s a privilege to
work with such committed students who take their work so seriously. And every
year the students voice their desire to publish a greater range of materials, in
more languages, expressing the multitude of conflicting, diverse, provocative
experiences of all those in our communities. Don’t hold back! Also, remember
that in these lean times of budget cuts and an undervaluing of education and the
arts, it’s even more crucial that the kinds of questions and concerns expressed
herein are given voice. Though we’re facing cutbacks at PGR we’re committed to
persevering. Any assistance you can lend is greatly appreciated. Let’s keep PGR
rolling on for another 25 years!
In humble gratitude and appreciation,
David Sullivan, Instructor, PGR, Eng. 1B
Submission Critiques and Book Reviews
Written by students who selected and edited the work contained in PGR 2010.
Immersion, A review of The Road, by Cormac McCarthy, by Julian Isonio, 146
PGR 145
The Sky’s Secret, A Book Review of Gotz Hoeppe’s Why the Sky is Blue
By Nick Anderson
148
Shedding Light on the Shadow Army, A review of Big Boy Rules by Steve Fainaru
by Tony Purtscher 151
The Road Not Taken, A Critique of Ambition and Survival: Becoming a Poet, by Christian Wiman by Lucas Narayan-Burns
155
Getting in the Way of Myself: Miscommunication as a Human Condition, Rough Translations, Stories by Molly Giles. by Reeva Bradley 157
Veiled Significances, A Book Review of Nuruddin Farah’s Close Sesame,
by Darren McInerney 160
A Man Rediscovering His Past, Book Review of Castle, by J Robert Lennon, by Cory Noreikat 168
Addicted to Amor: A critique of “If the Moon and Drugs,” By Denise Rubio 170
The American Dream: Can I see you’re Papers Please? Review of book and DVD: Alambrista by Denise Rubio 173
To Anne, With Love, Henrietta: A critique of Cathy Warnar’s Henrietta, By Lisette Cooper 176
Mental Illness: Not Yet Cliché, The Heyday of the Insensitive Bastards, By Lisette Cooper 179
Nature Found, A Book Review of Father Nature Edited by Paul S. Piper and Stan Tag
By Gwendolynne Krebs 184
Shaken not Stirred: A critique of Adela Najarro’s “The Year of the Martini” by Gwendolynne Krebs 190
Escaping Your Fear: A critique of Jean Walton Wolff’s “The Ambassador,” by Julian Isonio 194
Rights of Passage: A Critique of Ken Weisner’s “Farm Work” by Lucas
Narayan-Burns 196
Persephone in Autumn* Reeva Bradley’s critique of Ann Kenniston’s “Persephone in Autumn” 199
Taking a Life: the Cost of Killing, A critique of Ken Weisner’s “Farm Work,” by Nick Anderson 205
A Diamond, called Jaded: A critique of Eric McIntosh’s “Jaded,”
By Tony Purtscher
208
Fear and Loathing on Klosterman, In Utero, and Sociopathic Cult Leaders:
A Critique of Chuck Klosterman’s Eating The Dinosaur, by Shaun Molloy 210
Uninspiring Poetry Leads to Bad Writing Habits, A Critique of Pamela Rivas’ “Arising,” by Shaun Molloy
214
Don’t Let Guilt Ruin Your Life, Critique of Dan Phillips’ A Father’s Love
By Courtney Mutz, 216
Using the Mind to Stay Alive, A critique of Frances Itani’s Remembering the Bones,
By Courtney Mutz, 218
Creator of Classics: What He Did, Spare the Drama: A critique of
Sam Peckinpah’s Feature Films by James Tashnick, 220
Happy Hour Poet: A critique of Andrew Perry’s, Nothing Worth Mentioning by
James Tashnick, 222
Passions of The Emerald Street: A book review of Harvest from the Emerald Orchard, By Brian Dias, 224
Hard Times: A critique of A Penny for My Thoughts, Please, by Yvette Lopez, 226
The Inhibition of Original Thought: No Mean Green: A critique of David Thorn’s
Green, by Azadeh Ghanizadeh, 228
The God Debacle: A Book review of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s The Brother Karamazov.
By Azadeh Ghanizadeh
Immersion
PGR 146
A book review of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road,
Alfred A. Knopf, 2006,
by Julian Isonio
I loved the book The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Although certainly not without
it’s flaws, it is one of the best books that I’ve read in the past few years. The Road
tells the story of a father and son, fighting to survive in a post apocalyptic world,
making their way towards the coast, in the hopes of finding a better life. I had no
expectations for this book when I first read it. I don’t know what I was expecting,
but the magnificent book that unfolded before me was certainly not it.
The entire book is one long, several hundred page chapter. Punctuation
is almost non-existent, save for periods, commas, and perhaps the occasional
question mark or apostrophe. All the dialogue between the father and son is very
short, and succinct. McCarthy uses this style of writing as a metaphor for the
world the father and son are living in. The lack of chapters is meant to mirror the
long, seemingly endless journey the characters are facing, pulling you into the
story. There are no breaks for them, no places to stop and rest. They have to keep
going, and hope that there is something waiting for them at the end. Any dialogue
between the characters is only as long as it needs to be. The father and son don’t
have the time or energy for any more. The writing is very matter of fact, and in
no way embellished. McCarthy does not tell you how to feel about events in the
story. This forces you to decide how you feel about what happens, and what you
create for yourself is often far more powerful than anything McCarthy could
create for you.
McCarthy’s omission of seemingly important details about the story is
what makes it so amazing. The father and son in the story are trying to survive
in a land which has become almost uninhabitable after a worldwide disaster.
McCarthy never says what the disaster was, and only gives brief details about
it, and describes it’s aftermath. Although the disaster has wiped out most of
humanity, the man, son, and the man’s wife, who is only described in flashbacks,
somehow survive. The story takes place approximately ten years later, with
the only information about the intervening years a flashback of the man’s wife
deciding she can no longer go on, and ending her own life. How the character’s
survive, and what the have been doing for the past ten or so years, is left entirely
up to your imagination. Instead of it being a story told to us by an outsider, it
allows us to immerse ourselves in the story, and personalize it.
The reason it’s so easy to immerse yourself in this book is because of how almost
frighteningly realistic it feels, the interaction between the father and son being a
good example. The first exchange between the two:
“The boy turned in his blankets. Then he opened his eyes. Hi, Papa, he said.
I’m
right here.
I know” gives you an instant sense of their relationship. The father,
always watching over his young son, and the son, knowing that his father is right
there to protect him. The unknown disaster has left the planet covered in a thick
PGR 147
layer of ash that blocks the sun. Snow is constantly falling. There is no plant or
animal life. Everyone is left to either scrounge for food, trying to find sealed cans
or bottles from before the disaster, or resorting to cannibalism. It forces you to
wonder how far you would go to survive. Could you do the almost unthinkable
in order to survive, or would you rather perish? Finally, this book brings up
the issue of what we live for. The father and son in the book are on a seemingly
endless quest, facing some of the most miserable conditions imaginable. There is
no happy ending in sight. And yet they keep going, simply in the hope that things
will get better.
Overall, I absolutely loved this book. The excellent story, interesting
writing, and powerful overall themes meant that I red the entire book in one
sitting. However, I was left thinking about it for quite a while afterwards. The
sparse, almost annoyingly vague nature of the writing ensures that everyone who
reads it will get a slightly different experience. I only have two complaints. First,
the theme of “things will get better” feels really cliched. Not bad necessarily, just
overused. Secondly, actually reading the book can be very boring. The chapterless,
and often repetitive nature can make you want to put the book down at times.
However, once you get to the end, you’ll be glad you stuck it out.
http://musicartery.com/newsevents/83.jpg
The Sky’s Secret
PGR 148
A Book Review of Gotz Hoeppe’s Why the Sky is Blue
New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2007
By Nick Anderson
Hasn’t everyone asked themselves question’s about reality? Why does
water form droplets, how do we have a conscious, what makes the sky blue?
Things that occur in this natural world are so hard to explain when broken down
into its separate components. Scientists often start with a curious little question,
but as they continue their research, a pile of formulas and functions are generated
which redefines the known universe. Society once thought the world was flat, but
now we know it is spherical. Scientists are looking for the greater answers of life
through careful observation and experiments, yet even then these observations
and experiments are only a well educated prediction of what is really happening
around us. Some common occurrences, such as the color of the sky, has been a
mystery to us since recently, now we know to be scattered light passing through
the ozone. Gotz Hoeppe, the author of Why The Sky Is Blue, a well-qualified
science journal editor, and a Heidelberg University lecturer, was intrigued by
the color of the sky. In fact, he question’s if many people even inquire about
the sky “How long has it been since you consciously watched the sky become
blue?” (Hoeppe 3). He believes this is from the western culture, because of it’s
distractions in media. I agree, not until I was introduced to this book was I asking
myself the question of why the sky is blue. Although this book induces a mental
sweat upon the reader, it covers interesting material which revels in conceptual
thinking. This is a great buy for anybody who ever pondered questions like this,
which is should encompass pretty much everybody.
This question has been asked by humans for a long time. Most of this
book gives the history of scientists and philosophers who pursued this question,
focusing on the ones who were most fortunate to place us in the right direction
towards the true answer. It was intriguing to learn about the studies of the
models of modern scientific theory, from as long ago as Aristotle, a philosopher of
ancient Greece, to as recent as Joseph Farman, the scientist who found the ozone
hole over Antarctica; this is a span of more than two thousand years of scientific
investigation. As much as this book is about science, Gotz succeeds in creating
a flow of writing that is interesting and fun to read. Instead of only following
the mundane fundamental science book, he was able to add in many stories of
famous thinker’s and personal anecdote. He starts the book with a story from his
childhood, which introduces the reader to a comfortable setting. “Equipped with
my father’s binoculars, I observed the moon, the planets, the Milky Way, and the
fuzzy patches of distant nebulae. But since starry nights are not too common in
Central Europe, I became interested in the daytime sky” (Hoeppe 1). As well as
being the start of the book it is also the start of his fascination with the sky. The
fact it is reminiscent brings a nostalgic feeling to the reader bringing them back to
times of their childhood.
The first conceptual reasoning of the sky’s blueness started in the fourth
century B.C.E. Greece. Aristotle was the first one to offer any kind of insight by
creating a systematic doctrine of color and applying it to rainbows and the setting
sun. This was the beginning of a deep seated question that generations raced to
answer. From here other’s such as Plato, Leonardo da Vinci, Roger Bacon, and
many joined and combatted beliefs throughout the centuries. Plato, who thought
atoms to be tiny geometric bodies, Leonardo, the one contributing to the study
of color, and Bacon who strived to understand optics and how it effects our color
vision.
At the same time the history advances, so does the general complexity
of the explanations progressing through the book. These two go hand in hand
though, as new theories are being developed on top of old ones, it generally
gets more complicated. This approach educates the reader, because as they
move through the book they come to understand the basis of each development.
General theories were only presented at the beginning of the book, “Yet al-Biruni
was undaunted and climbed it, a rare feat at the time. We do no know if he
reached the summit. His account suggests that he reached a high enough altitude
to notice that the clear sky was darker than in the plains below” (Hoeppe 40).
These are only observations and don’t hold any information at why this occurs.
Although later in the book, we discover the true nature of the sky.
This piece is a perfect example of how complex it can get when the book
progresses, and how the definitions of light and color become more distinct.
The book contains many different images that solidify what is being
said. Many times when I was reading, it was hard for me to fully understand
the concept. An example is the chapter “A Color of the First Order”. This
dives into the era of Isaac Newton and how he was able to separate light with
a prism. This is called refrangibility, being able to see a rainbow of colors from
the light of our sun. In Isaac Newton’s book Opticks, he approaches color as a
mathematical function. “And among such various and strange transmutations,
why may not Nature change Bodies into Light, and Light into Bodies?” (Newton
350). Throughout the chapter, there are color wheels which Newton made in
order to explain his new theories; by adding them into the literature, it was easy
to understand the complicated text. The whole book has illustrations, I just
found the ones in this chapter the most useful as it was the hardest for me to
understand. In the beginning of the book it also includes a table of contents for
all the illustrations and figures in the book, with an explanation of the picture and
the page number. As well as having illustration scattered throughout the book,
the middle has a section of colored pictures referred to as Color Plates. It acts as a
PGR 149
The gist of Strutt’s theory is that the scattering of light by small
particles suspended in Earth’s atmosphere can explain the color and the
polarization of skylight. the intensity of scattered light strongly depends on
the wavelength of incoming light, being proportional to the inverse fourth
power of the wavelength. Light with short wavelengths (blue, violet) is
more likely to be scattered than light with long wavelengths (orange, red). In
total, the scattered light is dominated by the short wavelengths and appears
blue. (Hoeppe 183)
nice break from the intense scientific reading. The only problem with it is that the
book referrers to these pictures randomly in the book, and it is quite a hassle to
flip to these pages in the middle of a paragraph in order to see a picture.
Near the end of the book, a modern explanation for the color of the sky
arises. This involves ozone, which is three oxygen atoms bonded together.
The process of how these particles are made and how it effects the light is all
precisely explained in lengthly detail. There are numerous chemical equations
as reference’s to see how the ozone layer is formed. It also reveals the biological
mechanisms needed back when the atmosphere was being formed. “The earliest
algae were capable of photosynthesis, using the energy of sunlight to split
water and carbon dioxide molecules, thus producing carbohydrates. Through
this process, molecular oxygen (O2) is freed and released into the atmosphere”
(Hoeppe 271). This seems like an acceptable solution to me, it makes sense as
well as it being fascinating. Although I would not doubt that in the future, there
will be another discovery reaching us to a higher point of understanding the sky’s
color. I don’t believe this is the end of the mystery of the sky.
Hoeppe has created a book that is enjoying to read, whether you are
a specialized scientist or a casual reader. He’s able to manifest a mixture of
interesting background stories and down to brass tacks information of the natural
world around us. Although sometimes it was a little overwhelming absorbing
some of these facts, it is only something that should be expected when choosing
a book which covers these merits. I should also acknowledge the translator John
Stewart, who accomplished by making the story flow in a mannerly fashion.
This book is enjoyable to read. There is a variety of different kinds of science’s
explained in the book and they all find their way to relate to the sky and it’s
beautiful blue hue.
Works Cited
PGR 150
Hoeppe, Gotz. Why
The Sky is Blue, Discovering
The Color Of Life. New Jersey:
Princeton University Press, 2007.
Newton, Isaac. Opticks,
or, A treatise of the reflections,
refractions, inflections and
colours of light. The second
edition, with additions.
London: Printed for W. and J.
Lnnys, 1718.
Photo: http://
www.google.com/
imgres?imgurl=https://
www.msu.edu/~jaegeran/
MS%252037%2520Sky.
jpg&imgrefurl=https://www.
msu.edu/
Andria Miehls
Shedding Light on the Shadow Army
A review of Big Boy Rules by Steve Fainaru
Da Capo Press
243 pgs. $15.95
by Tony Purtscher
I served on In the U.S. Army nearly nine years. For the majority of my
service I was an Infantryman in the 82nd Airborne division. I was deployed to
fight in Iraq with 3rd battalion, 325th Airborne Infantry Regiment on two different
occasions. I am not sure of the origins of the aforementioned passage, I only know
that it was the cynical mantra of many of the men I served along side with. And
while it is a bold statement, it is so close to reality that those who have served
time as a grunt understand its full meaning in a way that could never fully
be explained to an outsider. There are many things about being a soldier that
are hard to explain, and still many more for the grunt: The rush of combat, the
comforting feel of a familiar weapon in your hands, the smell of stationary sent
from a loved one, tabasco sauce, the poncho liner “wooby”, the guilty feeling of
relief that it was someone else who got hit- not you. Things soldiers do, their very
existence, can be hard to explain, harder to understand, even for someone who
has imbedded themselves in amongst the troops. You can watch a gun fight a
thousand times, but until you’re the one making the exchange you don’t have a
clue. You’re still an outsider.
Steve Fainaru was one such outsider on the inside. A talented, entertaining
writer, Steve found his way into Iraq and imbedded himself with a private
security firm in order to learn more about parts of the conflict which didn’t
receive much media. His choice of contractors to travel with was probably not the
best one as far as safety, but the perfect group for exposing flaws in the private
security contact world.
His writing is charismatic, it kept me alert and tied to the pages. He writes
with momentum, great imagery, facts, and a legitimate attempt to convey what
the men he observed were like.
When he describes the active duty soldiers he had spent time with, there
is a different pace to his writing. “I had witnessed acts of selflessness and bravery
the closeness of men fused by combat and deprivation”(Fainaru 60). When he
describes the men of Crescent Security, the private firm he was following, he is
much more harsh and negative. “They referred to each other by their radio call
signs—Shrek, Craftsman, Tequila, Goat—never bothering to learn each others
names”(Fainaru XI)., “The contractors had there own bonds, for sure, but it was
tempered by the money and the basic fact that any of them could walk away at
any time”(Fainaru 60).
While I personally despise the private security sector, it has become a
PGR 151
We the unwilling, led by the unknowing, are doing the impossible for the
ungrateful. We have done so much, for so long, with so little; we are now
qualified to do anything, with nothing.
PGR 152
necessity on the battlefield do to the fact that the military is limited by the
rules of war as to who they can provide security for, and in what capacity. More
often then not the agencies and individuals which the military is not allowed to,
or unable to guard do not have the capabilities of providing in house security
and therefore is left with two options; Contract the work out, or go unsecured.
With how much information the author gathered I find it impossible to believe
he doesn’t also know this, but he doesn’t try to explain this. While his book is
against the firms, explaining the reason why the firms themselves are necessary
would not make his case less powerful, but it would help for people who don’t
know explain why these “mercenaries” have jobs in Iraq. The reason the firms are
allowed “legally” doesn’t justify the way in which they were allowed to operate
with little to no accountability, and that is the larger focus of his book, but he still
should have established the base facts.
While at times he is extremely factual and right on the money, other times
he seems to exaggerate or embellish to help make his point. One of the most
common miscalculations people make, which Steve also uses, is the number of
contractors in Iraq, he cites how many “mercenaries” are working in Iraq and
makes it sound like they are all out fighting the war (Fainaru 22). Simple fact is,
the majority of security contractors in Iraq are guarding office buildings just like
security guards out front of a local bank do, not out driving around looking for
a gunfight. They are there to help alleviate an undermanned military so that the
soldiers can go do their job, instead of checking ID cards at a Burger King or the
PX. Yes, there are tens of thousands of contractors in Iraq, but only a select few
are operating in the type of dangerous missions most people assume these men
do regularly; Many contractors in Iraq aren’t even armed. When referring to
contractors most statistics lump all of them together. The logistics personnel, the
truck drivers, the construction workers even the laundry washers and yes.....The
armed guards.
Approximately 100,000 contractors were working in Iraq in 2006 according
to the pentagon. Of that number it is not clear how many are armed, but the
companies listed as having employees in Iraq do a lot more than just paramilitary
security operations. Another point he makes, that is completely false is his
explanation that “The armed men got to kill Iraqis, and the Iraqis got to kill them.
It was U.S. Government policy.” While war is bad, murder isn’t the policy.
Several men I served with have since gone on to work for private security
firms(PSC’s). Most will even admit they went to work for the PSC’s for the same
reason Steve writes about: the money is better (a little over $1,000 a month for
lower enlisted, whereas a PSC can make upwards of $500 a day!), the bureaucracy
isn’t as bad as in the military, and it’s simply more fun. One thing that I heard
from several PSC’s that contradicted what Fainaru writes is the professionalism
of the teams and the camaraderie in which they work. In the book the teams are
described as high octane, blood thirsty rogues, my friends description of his team
was of highly trained, well disciplined former soldiers who had bonds as strong,
if not stronger, than the ones formed on active duty!
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Photos by Tony Purtscher
Its not that steve is wrong in his description of what the team he was
with was like, the problem was that he was with a poorly organized firm, One
that really had no business being in the business. Steve makes that clear, but he
doesn’t make it clear enough WHY the government failed in its responsibilities
and created the need for these companies: an under strength military, and a score
of U.S. State department agencies with inadequate security forces. Fainaru could
have done better about explaining how the government failed again by not giving
the PSC’s the oversight needed to maintain, control and hold accountable both the
companies themselves, and their employees. He touches on it, but doesn’t hit it
on the head. As the book transitions more into the lives of the men he knew who
eventually were kidnapped and killed, he does a good job of showing how ill
prepared the company had left the contractors, both in equipment and personnel
from their slack hiring policy. The Crescent Security group should never have
been allowed a contract, they were completely unprepared and at all levels under
qualified, as were several other companies early on who wanted to make money
even though they had no experience. Steve should have contrasted the employees
and the companies as a whole to a PSC like Triple Canopy or the well known and
media plagued Blackwater(now Xe) and shown that why the security firms are
not an ideal solution they were the best solution at the time, and that major errors
were made on all fronts, not just the contractors.
Overall the book was entertaining and stimulating. It brought back many
memories for me, especially of my own lack of experience and preparation when
I first went into Iraq and of some of the hot shots who the military would have
been better off by leaving at home. While the book often times pissed me off, it
did so in a way that made me read on, and a lot of the emotion I felt was from
personal memories attached to the subjects he was writing about. While I don’t
agree with every point he made, his overall statements are undeniable based off
the evidence he provides through his rigorous research and personal experience.
Works Cited
Fainaru, Steve. Big Boy Rules. Da Capo Press, 2008.
Renae, Merle. “Census Counts 100,000 Contractors in Iraq Civilian Number,
Duties Are Issues”. The Washington Post. 18April2010 <http://www.
washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/12/04/AR2006120401311.
html>.
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Works Consulted
Dworkin, Anthony. “ Security Contractors in Iraq: Armed Guards or Private
Soldiers?”. 18April2010 <http://www.crimesofwar.org/onnews/news-security.
html>.
The Road Not Taken
Poetry is hardly a trade in today’s marketplace, and taking it upon oneself
to pursue a livelihood from it would appear to be career suicide. However,
Christian Wiman did follow this path, and is now the editor of Poetry magazine,
one of America’s top poetry journals. Scanning the cover of his book Ambition
and Survival would lead one to believe that it is a document of a poet’s journey,
spelling out the physical and emotional hurdles that braced them in the pursuit
of their art. Instead, it is a collection of essays, tied together by the overarching
theme of poetry. Throughout the book Wiman dances around the idea that art and
life are engaged in a symbiotic relationship, but often sacrifices making this point
tangible for extended analysis. Ambition and Survival would have been a much
more fulfilling read had it been a memoir instead of a disjointed collection of
essays.
The first section of Ambition deals with Wiman’s childhood, and he guides
us through several topics of his life; reading Paradise Lost in Guatemala, money,
religion, childhood, and a gruesome incident he witnessed. Though the pieces
are skillfully written, the nature of them as separate essays is all too apparent.
Mention of his growth as a poet is seldom articulated, and when he does elucidate
it is through conclusions the reader could have made on their own: “Bookless
though it was, my childhood, with its nameless angers and solitudes…seems to
me the very “forge and working-house” of poetry”(52). Other times he begins
to address the struggles of being a poet, then quickly changes subjects without
digging deeper into the issue. Wiman seems comfortable describing his image of
what constitutes a poet and poetry, but neglects to tell the reader what led him to
a belief: “Poets who confuse art and life often make a mess of both.”
The second section is a series of essays on different aspects of poetry, in
a less personal vein than the preceding. Through these pieces we see Wiman’s
analysis of several aspects of poetry writing, and it is some of the most insightful
writing of book. In “Finishes: Ambition and Survival”, Wiman tackles the topic
of art’s place in our lives: “There is a sense in which all art arises out of injury or
absence, out the artist’s sense that there is something missing in him, something
awry or disturbed”(79). Wiman goes on to delineate that in poetry, this suffering
is managed by using form in writing; “There are those who seek to replace
whatever they have lost in their lives, and there are those who seek in their art a
form within which their loss may be felt”(99).
The latter half of the book can come into a lull for the average reader, because of
increasingly specific references to various names within the canon of poetry. The
latter half of the book is comprised mostly of poetry reviews, and they are harder
to relate to without a familiarity with the works in question. The inclusion of these
reviews takes the book away from personal memoir and delves into full-blown
literary criticism. Wiman is an astute writer, but the reviews feel out of place in a
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A Critique of Ambition and Survival: Becoming a Poet, by Christian Wiman
Copper Canyon Press, 2007
by Lucas Narayan-Burns
the book carries with it a momentum that is disturbed in the remainder, which is
focused less on the personal rudiments of being a poet and more on the technical
aspects of a collection of writings. Wiman explains in the preface of the book
that “a reader should feel the pressure of the personal even in essays from which
the author is scrupulously absent”(x), and Wiman’s personal self is distilled
within these essays, but it requires more work on the reader’s part to make the
connections.
The final essay is the most personal of them all. It provides the
culmination the first half of the book had been working toward, and resolves
the book’s ‘conflicts’, so to speak. Wiman’s own “absence” that drove his art
was his lack of religion, and his rekindled faith provided him with a different
outlook on life. “ I was not wrong all those years to believe that suffering is at
the very center of our existence…the mistake lay in thinking grief as means of
confrontation, rather than love”(244). Wiman’s religious change was preceded
by his marriage and a diagnosis with a rare cancer. What is most striking about
these circumstances is how the earlier essays of the book seem to foreshadow
Wiman’s later life: his suffering takes upon the physical presence of cancer, and
so he adheres his life to the form of religion, as a means of managing his pain.
His poetry, which he had taken a four- year absence from, also makes a reprise,
as a way of calling upon God. Wiman’s words in the preface become immediately
relevant in this chapter: “a life in poetry demands absolutely everything”(ix);
life and art are complements to each other, and to be fully connected with art,
you must be connected to life in some way. Wiman’s personal connections are
ultimately more rewarding, and more effective at relaying this point to the reader.
Works Cited
Wiman, Christian. Ambition and Survival: Becoming a Poet. 1st. Port
Townsend,WA: Copper Canyon Pr, 2007. Print.
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Getting in the Way of Myself:
Miscommunication as a Human Condition
by Reeva Bradley
Sometimes I wish that life could be neat and organized, but it’s not. Life
is messy. I would like to be able to say how I feel, to tell my boyfriend that I love
him, or that I can’t stand the way he talks to his mother. But I lie instead. I lie
to avoid hearing that he didn’t think we were that serious, or that I’m a bitch
for telling him how to talk. And so I make the assumption that he doesn’t love
me (instead of asking), or that he’s mean to his mother because he’s just mean
in general. This builds up massive resentment that may never come to light. I
am so afraid, that I let my fear make my decisions for me. And I would say that
this behavior is common in all of us; that we do not communicate for fear of the
repercussions.
In Rough Translations, by Molly Giles, the stories are centered on a theme of
missed connections, missed communications, and unfulfilled desires. Three of the
stories in particular portray a character that always seems frustrated because she
doesn’t ask for what she wants. Giles illustrates how someone like me can get in
my own way so often, and cover up how I feel because of it. These three stories
use the same characters, in a sequence that moves through time, so by the third
story about 20 years have passed.
In the first installment, Heart and Soul, Joan is pregnant and does not have
confidence that her husband John loves her; she doesn’t have confidence that
she deserves his love. When he says “Don’t say I never gave you anything,”
she replies with “I would never say that.” (Giles, 20) She thinks that “John’s
songs are the most beautiful she has ever heard.” (Giles, 20) Yet with all the love
that she feels for him, “Joan is secretly afraid . . . he will meet another woman,
someone smarter and prettier than she” (Giles, 21). Thus we find in the first story
how Joan is afflicted by insecurity and low self-esteem, which sets the stage for
how we see her later on in the book.
In the second story, Chocolate Footballs, Joan gets a disastrous haircut that
was meant to bring her mate’s attention. Instead he insults her by saying that
the stylist “butchered her,” and compares her to a chimp on TV. In anger she
leaves the house, and imagines what it would be like to leave him. She thinks
that she could get a job teaching, and that “she will do some good with her life.”
But then she tells herself that she loves him, “Of course I still do; I still love him.”
(Giles, 62-63) She returns to the house and says nothing about how furious she
was because she has blamed herself for reacting so strongly. Joan’s character is
developed further here; showing how attention to her own feelings is diverted to
how much she loves John.
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Rough Translations
Stories by Molly Giles
Page count: 135
The University of Georgia Press
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When she asks him if he loves her, what she needs to hear is not
forthcoming, but she settles for “I adore you.” (Giles, 53) Well isn’t that nice.
Obviously it’s the wrong answer. She wants him to feel an emotion that he
doesn’t express. She wants him to change to meet her expectations. This could
be a codependent pattern of neglecting her needs, and trying to control others
around her (www.codependence.org).
The last story with these characters is Peril, where “She thinks that John
is going to leave her,” after 20 years of marriage (Giles, 106). The passage of
time, as evidenced not only in the stories themselves but also by how Giles
intersperses them, is a creative way to show how the characters have changed.
Joan is still plagued by fear, although now it seems more imminent. She has two
grown children that she thinks will reject or displace her, which would be tragic.
“Disaster, Joan thinks . . . is always out there, waiting to fall on somebody’s
head.” (Giles, 106) Since she is inclined to fear the worst, she has more to be
afraid of because she has more close relationships in her life.
When Joan takes in a kitten for a few days, John won’t let her keep it, and
she returns it to an owner who obviously doesn’t want to take care of it. She
prevents herself from saying what she really wants. She undervalues herself and
overvalues him.
I am hesitant to communicate my feelings about my boyfriend’s behavior
because I don’t want to make him feel insecure. When I asked a friend for advice,
she told me, “You cannot make him feel a certain way.” She said that I am not
responsible for how he feels. I know that she’s right, that I need to make sure I
am communicating what I need to, to make sure I don’t continue to get hurt, but I
can’t (Donna I.).
So how long can I go on being afraid to say what I need to? I also acted
this way with my first boyfriend, Jim. I was attached to being in a relationship
because I had been so lonely and depressed throughout high school. I was
terrified of letting him know that I only wanted to be with him; I didn’t want him
to leave. I didn’t tell him that I loved him; I didn’t tell him that I wanted him to
stop seeing other women. Other people told me to dump him; they told me that
he was a jerk. But I couldn’t see it and I was so infatuated with him that I couldn’t
bear the thought of living without him.
I thought that Jim would leave me, partially because I wasn’t confident
that he would stay if I voiced my opinion. I figured I was just barely hanging on
by a thread, that even when I was insulted I refused to believe that he was less
than perfect, and I went on with the relationship.
Until we are ready to face our fear, we will continue to stay quiet and let
our feelings build up inside of us. We will tell ourselves that everything is fine
and we were silly to get upset in the first place. Giles depicts a highly identifiable
character in Joan, as I found myself relating her experiences to my own, and in
a way, ending this saga at that point leaves me hoping that Joan will resolve her
inner conflict, as I always hope for the best for myself.
In the last short story of the book, which is also entitled Rough Translations,
the main character Ramona feels that what she writes, and the things she says are
not really what she wants to say: “Even my jokes, even the drawings I do for The
Beacon are wrong—rough translations of a foreign language I hear but cannot
master.” This is a very common characteristic of codependency as well—that we
judge ourselves as “not good enough.” (www.codependence.org) However, given
these characteristics, our lives are not determined solely by these codependent
and arguably underlining patterns. We change and evolve over time, and we
have so much that conflicts inside of us that we have to choose how to live based
on what’s important to us.
This speaks to the whole of humanity—that we all have trouble saying
how we feel, or what we really think, for one reason or another, whether it is
because we are too scared, or because we just don’t think we can articulate it
just right. The human condition is to make life complicated with thoughts of
being incomplete, and projecting our feelings onto the ones we love. We can
all misinterpret what the gears of our minds are telling us, we have missed
communications with ourselves because we don’t want to lose what is most
valuable to us.
Works Cited
Donna I. Personal interview, April 20, 2010.
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Patterns and Characteristics of Codependence. Co-Dependents Anonymous, Inc.,
1998. Web. 24 April 2010. <http://www.codependents.org/tools4recovery/
patterns.php>
Veiled Significances
Make for a Truly Enthralling Read
A Book Review of Nuruddin Farah’s Close Sesame, by Darren McInerney
PGR 160
David R. Banta
Close Sesame takes a thought-provoking approach to portraying the many
struggles the indigenous Somalis have had dealing with colonization and general
subjugation from outside countries. Depiction of third-world African countries
during the 19th century by news and popular media has largely left the general
public under the impression that the country on display is full of nothing but
pandemonium, destruction and populated by pirates and militiamen who have
no other mindset other than exercising power and dominance through military
PGR 161
supremacy and robbing others. Farah, being Somali, uses not only his own
verbal aptitude and knack for poetic analogies, but also a palate of respectable,
intellectual characters regularly exchanging clever, colorful dialogue and a milieu
of national oppression from exterior empires to bring into the light what are some
of the more underexposed truths of life in Somalia.
The novel follows protagonist Deeriye, an aging clan leader who is coping
with his son’s association to precarious resistances to the Italian occupation,
worsening asthma and the death of his wife, among other hardships. Deeriye
also has gained the respect of virtually the entire township for his sagacious
opposition to government and for protecting individuals who are prosecuted and
pursued by the Italian regime.
While the novel is fiction, the story is intertwined well with the factual
history of Somalia. The real-time portions of the story take place in the seventies,
where Deeriye is said to be 59, however the flashbacks take place in the early
thirties, during the infancy of the Italian colonies appointed by Mussolini (US
State Dep.). This is a fundamental part of the story as Deeriye first noteworthy
flashback is when his clan is shielding a member of another Somali clan who
in self-defense had slain an Italian military officer, and is being sought out by
the Italian government seeking justice. Numerous political discussions and
expressions of Deeriye’s personal beliefs support the idea of Pan Somalism (US
State Dep.), or “Greater Somalia”, whereby in an ideal world all ethnic Somalis
would be united as one country, as opposed to the several regions under control
by different European colonies. The capital of Somalia (where Deeriye and his
family reside) is denoted as Mogadiscio, the Italian pronunciation of original
pronunciation Mogadishu.
Farah does a superb job of rendering a more refined image of Somalis
than I and likely the general public is accustomed to seeing in the media; rarely
do particularly good or flattering events associated with Somalia make it to the
news. From the beginning, Farah establishes both his understanding of politics
and a welcome level of sophistication to anticipate from the characters. He reveals
that “Mursal and Deeriye took great delight in each other: they found each other’s
company stimulating, enlightening, the son teaching or learning from the father,
the father likewise. Last night, for example, they had spoken until the small
hours, their conversation following no order or logic, their colloquy about internal
politics intriguing and at the same time ambiguous: jumping from a theological
subject to one of no political or religious relevance and then moving on to
something more pertinent like the concept of lex talionis, and what it implies in
a modem Islamic state; the political chaos; the political violence; and whether or
how an alternative political organization could bring about any change” (9). I
greeted this disclosure with open arms as I, not having researched the backstory
of the novel or author, had no idea what to expect. While this selection doesn’t
examine explicit dialogue upon which Mursal and Deeriye exchange, it is key
for the reason that it indicates Farah’s precedence to show that the protagonist
and his son relish in positing political hypotheticals, prospects for maturing the
political mess that is Somalia circa 1975, and that as long as these two characters
were frequently within proximity of each other, political speculating would be
present.
The general Somali disapproval of colonization and foreign Fascism is
presented cleverly by Deeriye’s agitations, one of which describes “The Somali
Republic became the Somali Democratic Republic when the General came to
power. The ‘Democratic’ portion of the name is decorative, to say the least, an
embellishment of the worst kind. For what is democratic about rigged elections?
What is democratic about painting one ballot box with the flag on the nation and
writing on the other a notice ‘that only an enemy of the nation need use this’?”
(101). The disparaging nature of Deeriye’s interpretation of the government’s
corrupt ethics is more mature than the blind antagonism that one might expect.
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Pete Muller Photography
The most recurrent literary device Farah uses are his extravagant
metaphors and analogies which are often beautiful, but are at times overdone
and wearisome. Farah describes “Rooble and Deeriye: the two together a tapestry
whose woven fabric was ornamented with mutual trust, a friendship woven
out of loose ends and difficult knots but the whole spread painted with clear
designs – and the blood of sacrifice!” (33). This specific analogy works particularly
well to exhibit the magnitude of the bond which Deeriye and Rooble share with
each other. The comparison to a tapestry exemplifies a bond which is seemingly
nontarnishable and immeasurable. Unfortunately, the occurrence of metaphors
and analogies is so prominent that the reader may be left with a feeling of Farah
trying too hard or his writing being amateurish and supplementary; he seems to
be using this as a crutch to make his writing more evoking. It can become onerous
and leave a sense of over-suggestiveness and ambiguity when more declarative
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descriptions would have served just as well. The origin of his literary style,
Farah states, is the vast linguistic differences between his father (a merchant)
and his mother (a poet). In a lecture, Farah described “...Language, and what
uses we make of it, is the longest distance between two persons, the one a poet,
sensitive, committed to ideas larger than herself, the other despondently despotic,
a patriarch willing to submit the world to the authority of his whim” (Answers.
com). As a whole, the metaphors are refreshing, even my opinion that they are
overused is debatable, and it may very well just be my literature preferences; the
enjoyment of poetry is a quality that will enhance your experience of this book
and your ability to follow the themes, but the metaphors aren’t so far-winded as
to aggravate those who have an aversion to poetic writing.
One of the more successful techniques Farah uses is a barrage of
circumstances and examples to augment the thoughts and emotions of the
characters or the severity of repression. In a stream of Deeriye’s conscious
thoughts, Farah conveys “Silence. Information, Deeriye was thinking to himself, is
the garden the common man in Somalia or anywhere else is not allowed to enter,
sit in its shady trees, drink from its streams and it’s delicious fruits; information,
or the access to that power and knowledge: power prepared to protect power;
keep the populace underinformed so you can rule them; keep them apart by
informing them separately; build bars of ignorance around them, imprison them
with shackles of uninformed-ness and they are easy to govern; feed them with the
wrong information, give them poisonous bits of what does not count, a piece of
gossip here, a rumour there, an unconfirmed report. Keep them waiting; let them
not know; let them not know what incidents like today’s, tell them the little that
will misguide them, inform them wrongly, make them suspect one another so that
they will tell on another. But who would know about today’s?” (82). The result of
this stream of language is a rapidly fluctuating succession of scenes playing out
in the reader’s mind that effectively leaves a inference of the overall theme of the
oppression being faced, which is the Italian mentality that depriving the Somali
people of exposure to unbiased media will keep them in check and retain an easy
maintenance of order.
Unfortunately, this same structure is habitually used unsuitably and
leaves what seems like the digressions of senile Deeriye. In a relatively drawnout digression, Farah explains that “If asked, he would say that, preferences
aside, he was happy as a saint whether with Zeinab and her two lovely children
or with Natasha, Mursal and Samawade; content that at Natasha’s (at Mursal’s,
pardon!) he had more time to himself, more time to devotions, for God and his
thoughts; content with Zeinab’s because his friends were at ease there, although
he had found that too exhausting at times (and so had Zeinab), entertaining day
and night. This was life, his own life. Prison: where he had more time for saying
the devotions, more time to dedicate to God, more time for thoughts; the free
enterprise of a house whose doors remained forever unclosed. No thoughts to
cuddle oneself, no light of day and no darkness of night whose hues to clutch at.
His life, he would continue, was a contradiction, like a thorn pinned to a rose;
Natasha: simply a float-stone in his sea of contradictions: He loved and respected
her as one would a dear friend” (56). This passage came unwarned succeeding a
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description of happenings with no relation other than the house he is describing,
and furthermore precedes a description of Natasha. It feels like it has no purpose
and is a muddled mess of notions and what appear to be metaphors and
descriptive language that Farah was yearning to find a home for, and for lack of
such discovery, settled with a fundamentally unrelated segment of the story. It
is logical for things to be unraveled and explained to alleviate areas where there
is a certain unapprised feeling, but Farah’s method of doing this is repeatedly a
serious disruption to the flow of the story and often renders the reader utterly
lost and requiring a second to regain footing on the thoughts that preceded the
irrelevant deviation.
The themes and symbolism of the novel are complex and somewhat easy
to overlook if you do not truly dissect the reading. There is a connection between
Deeriye’s physical absence during his 30 some-odd years of imprisonment and
his inability to be a father figure to his offspring and his mental deterioration
due to old age. There is almost an inverse connection as while in prison he
develops a spiritual connection to his wife, a connection which actually grew as
he was away from her. Conversely, now that he is aged he is avoidant of having
social interaction and has a tendency to fall asleep or become distracted midconversation. There is also an inverse correlation between his ailing weakness
and the respect he receives from the Somali people he encounters due to his
courageous and profound actions that made him famous when he was young.
When confronted by a random pedestrian who Deeriye does not know, he is
told by the man that he is dearly respected by him and his companions and that
they would do anything for him. Deeriye is almost confused when he thinks “it
embarrassed him greatly that there were many who would stay by him, willing
to listen to him—quiet in the wings of his shade. But it gave him delight too; gave
him delight that he was worth something; although the sense of embarrassment
was generally greater when he realized that he had not done a quarter of what
he could have done;” (120). What is perhaps part of his either his age-related
absentmindedness or the feeling that his current dependency discredits his prior
accomplishment a large part in this inverse relation between his unusual insight
while imprisoned and his lack of motivation outside of prison.
There is also a connection between Deeriye’s intense religious
envelopment and his ability to be given insight from his deceased wife, who gives
him advice in regards to managing the various debacles he becomes involved
in. Initially, it isn’t understood why Deeriye puts such a heavy emphasis on
praying (he prays before, during and after each visit to the bathroom) besides as
part of his Salat (WSU). From the beginning of the book you are introduced to
Deeriye waking up from a nap upon which he proceeds to pray to what seems
an excessive extent, even among devout Muslims, multiple times before going
about his business for the day. Farah establishes the peculiarities of Deeriye which
seem more comical and adorable than anything, but the reader need not shed
these small details off without a second thought as you should go into this book
expecting potential significance in any observation.
Close Sesame leaves a powerful impression if you can catch even of the
hidden meanings. While Farah’s inflated writing style may for some get in the
way of the messages that are trying to be conveyed, there is an exceptionally
rewarding experience if you pay careful attention to the comprehensive
underlying themes that don’t always make themselves obvious. Some of his
metaphors seem to be used as a reminder that the novel is meant to be both
entertaining and not just thought-provoking, and despite their debatable overuse,
it does not detract from the power of the novel as a whole. There is a lot of value
to be had in the detailed depiction of Somali folk tale for anyone who is interested
in history that can’t easily be had elsewhere. The book also provides a very
different insight into the intense spiritual connections Muslims have to the Koran.
The story is interesting and while the writing isn’t necessarily dense, some of the
core values are incognito among unimportant observations. I would recommend
Close Sesame to anyone who has interest in Africa or third-world countries or
enjoys having to mentally dissect novels in order to get the rich treasures buried
inside.
Works Cited
Pete Muller Photography
Unites States Department of State under “HISTORY”, http://www.state.gov/r/pa/ei/bgn/2863.htm
Unites States Department of State under “PEOPLE”, http://www.state.gov/r/pa/ei/bgn/2863.htm
Salat is the second pillar of Islam, requiring 5 prayers a day, facing Mecca, reciting memorizations
of the Qur’an. (Washington State University, http://www.wsu.edu/~dee/GLOSSARY/5PILLARS.
HTM )
PGR 165
Answers.com Biography of Nuruddin Farah, http://www.answers.com/topic/nuruddin-farah
Immersion
A review of The Road,
by Cormac McCarthy,
Alfred A. Knopf, 2006
PGR 166
by Julian Isonio
I loved the book The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Although certainly
not without it’s flaws, it is one of the best books that I’ve read in the past few
years. The Road tells the story of a father and son, fighting to survive in a post
apocalyptic world, making their way towards the coast, in the hopes of finding
a better life. I had no expectations for this book when I first read it. I don’t know
what I was expecting, but the magnificent book that unfolded before me was
certainly not it.
The entire book is one long, several hundred page chapter. Punctuation
is almost non-existent, save for periods, commas, and perhaps the occasional
question mark or apostrophe. All the dialogue between the father and son is very
short, and succinct. McCarthy uses this style of writing as a metaphor for the
world the father and son are living in. The lack of chapters is meant to mirror the
long, seemingly endless journey the characters are facing, pulling you into the
story. There are no breaks for them, no places to stop and rest. They have to keep
going, and hope that there is something waiting for them at the end. Any dialogue
between the characters is only as long as it needs to be. The father and son don’t
have the time or energy for any more. The writing is very matter of fact, and in
no way embellished. McCarthy does not tell you how to feel about events in the
story. This forces you to decide how you feel about what happens, and what you
create for yourself is often far more powerful than anything McCarthy could
create for you.
McCarthy’s omission of seemingly important details about the story is
what makes it so amazing. The father and son in the story are trying to survive
in a land which has become almost uninhabitable after a worldwide disaster.
McCarthy never says what the disaster was, and only gives brief details about
it, and describes it’s aftermath. Although the disaster has wiped out most of
humanity, the man, son, and the man’s wife, who is only described in flashbacks,
somehow survive. The story takes place approximately ten years later, with
the only information about the intervening years a flashback of the man’s wife
deciding she can no longer go on, and ending her own life. How the character’s
survive, and what the have been doing for the past ten or so years, is left entirely
up to your imagination. Instead of it being a story told to us by an outsider, it
allows us to immerse ourselves in the story, and personalize it.
The reason it’s so easy to immerse yourself in this book is because of how almost
frighteningly realistic it feels, the interaction between the father and son being a
good example. The first exchange between the two:
PGR 167
“The boy turned in his blankets. Then he opened his eyes. Hi, Papa, he said.
I’m
right here.
I know.”
gives you an instant sense of their relationship. The father, always watching
over his young son, and the son, knowing that his father is right there to protect
him. The unknown disaster has left the planet covered in a thick layer of ash
that blocks the sun. Snow is constantly falling. There is no plant or animal life.
Everyone is left to either scrounge for food, trying to find sealed cans or bottles
from before the disaster, or resorting to cannibalism. It forces you to wonder
how far you would go to survive. Could you do the almost unthinkable in order
to survive, or would you rather perish? Finally, this book brings up the issue of
what we live for. The father and son in the book are on a seemingly endless quest,
facing some of the most miserable conditions imaginable. There is no happy
ending in sight. And yet they keep going, simply in the hope that things will get
better.
Overall, I absolutely loved this book. The excellent story, interesting
writing, and powerful overall themes meant that I red the entire book in one
sitting. However, I was left thinking about it for quite a while afterwards. The
sparse, almost annoyingly vague nature of the writing ensures that everyone who
reads it will get a slightly different experience. I only have two complaints. First,
the theme of “things will get better” feels really cliched. Not bad necessarily, just
overused. Secondly, actually reading the book can be very boring. The chapterless,
and often repetitive nature can make you want to put the book down at times.
However, once you get to the end, you’ll be glad you stuck it out.
A Man Rediscovering His Past
To Make Peace With The Present
A book review by Cory Noreikat
Castle, by J Robert Lennon Publisher: Gray Wolf Press Saint Paul Minnesota Page Count: 226 Price: $22.00 PGR 168
Many authors relish the opportunity to write a novel which will enchant
and surprise their readers leading them into worlds which they could never have
imagined. Robert Lennon’s Castle does exactly this. However, he takes all the
components which make up a good thriller to the next level. His novel depicts the
story of a middle aged man, Eric Loesch, who makes an unjustified decision to
move back to his hometown of Gerrysburg, in the state of New York. Throughout
the first half of the novel his motivation for doing so remains a mystery, which
renders his actions futile and abstract. Yet suddenly, Castle takes a drastic turn
and begins to explore Eric’s past. What first comes across to us as a simple story
taking place within the present, transforms into an investigation of his history.
Soon, it becomes quite clear that the reasons behind his decision are the result of
a complicated and quite unfortunate past. Through Eric’s story, Robert Lennon
reveals that we are all simple creations of our past experiences and denying them
will increase their power on te present. However, Castle not only goes into Eric’s
history but also uses his experiences to unearth our regrettable military history
in Iraq, and the psychological effects of the war on terror on the human mind.
Castle raises serious questions about the U.S’ foreign policy and is a must read for
anyone interested in the events surrounding Abu Ghraib, and the increased levels
of fear after the 9/11 attacks.
I stood on the front stoop of the real estate office, facing the town park, a grassy square roofed with skeletal sycamore trees and crisscrossed by foot-paths. A central plaza served as a commemoration of our countries
warriors: a bronze statue of a Second World War soldier, aiming his rifle,
prone in front of a granite slab bearing the chiseled names of the dead. Three
branches faced the memorial, empty now save for an abandoned fast food
bag which a large black crowlistlessly pecked. (4)
From the very first pages of Castle the character of Eric comes across to
us as a strange, taciturn, and reclusive individual. Although highly intelligent, it
quickly becomes clear that this man has a dent in his soul. He has a grim outlook
on life and takes little interest in the world surrounding him. Furthermore, he is
very reluctant to engage in conversation with the local residents and seems to
have no recollection of his childhood memories. His rather vague memory and
lack of interest in the past provokes the reader to ask questions about his history
and wonder if there is any logic behind his actions. At first, one is forced to
question if Eric has any idea about what he is doing back in his home town.
She said ‘so what brings you back to Gerrysburg?’ I had, in fact, been
anticipating this question, and had spent the bulk of the drive so far
attempting to formulate a reasonable answer, I told her I was trying to get
back to my roots. (Lennon 7)
As Lennon delves into his past, we become aware of Avery Stiles’
influence on Eric as a youth. It turns out that he performed a mental experiment
on him concerning the modification of behavior, which resulted in erasing the
person Eric originally was. This leads to him enlisting in the U.S army, and
produces a long military career during the war in Iraq. His position within the
military forced him to perform many violent and cruel acts which he has done
his best to forget. As Castle begins to unfold, we can clearly see that Eric is
trying to relive his past in a desperate attempt to change and rediscover himself.
Many events from his past begin to form parallels with the present. He becomes
confronted with the wrongs he did to others and the one’s done to him. The
parcel of land he buys becomes his sole chance to erase the ill effects of his past.
As Eric sets off to confront Avery Stiles, he is described as plunging into the
woods. This act of venturing into the wilderness depicts him trying to reinvent
himself. Nearing the end of Castle, Eric emerges from the forest as a new man.
The ways in which he perceives the world around him change and he can be
described as reborn. Lastly we are left with Eric “setting off on a new mission”.
The nature of this mission is never revealed and remains shrouded in mystery. Yet
one can imagine that he is going to find out who he really is. For him, this means
navigating in uncharted territory. He does not know where his “mission” will
take him, but he is willing to find out and discover for himself.
PGR 169
His decision to move back to Gerrysburg results in him buying a parcel
of land consisting of 612 acres. However, when taking a closer look at his
property, he is confused when he discovers that on his land, is a large square
which he does not own. Intrigued, he decides to investigate and explores the
woods neighboring his house. To his surprise, he discovers that this mysterious
square of land is home to an old man living in a scaled down castle. It is at this
point that Robert Lennon’s novel takes an unexpected turn, catching the reader
by surprise. What first appeared to be a story grounded within the present
turns out to be an exploration of Eric’s past and the identity of the mysterious
owner of the castle. Lennon’s novel transforms into a strange and abstract tale
concerning the complexity of the human mind. At first he is confused about who
this man might be. However, through a succession of flashbacks we learn that
this man is in fact a professor of psychology know as Avery Stiles, whom Eric
hadextensive interactions with as a child. Even though he fails to identify him, it
becomesobvious that Avery Stiles is the real reason behind him moving back to
Gerrysburg, New York.
PGR 170
Critique of If the Moon and Drugs By Denise Rubio
Love is like a
drug, addicting.
In a relationship
individuals who
fall in love with
one another
are opening
themselves up
to a fantastic
experience, but,
on the other hand,
this vulnerability
can also open up
to exceptional
pain. Usually
in relationships
roles are given to
the couple through gender, upbringing, or society. As a result, most of the world
is involved in relationships with a boyfriend/girlfriend, fiancé, or spouse, where
one individual seems to nurture the relationship to a higher degree than the other.
Since the majority of people have experienced romance and heartbreak, I will
explore two aspects of relationships the romantic and addiction stages. Of course
not every person has gone through a relationship where they have loved a person
to the extent where they feel addicted, but I am sure there are a few people out
there. The poems If the Moon, by Nahayeli Juarez, and Drugs, by Rylan Freshour,
both illustrate distinct dimensions of love and relationships. When we enter a
relationship we allow a person into our lives and, in a sense, we are accepting the
risks that the relationships might cause.
In the poem If the Moon the theme of love and adoration is personified
using the moon. The point of view of the poem is a individual, describing their
beloved sweetheart. The breakdown of the poem If the Moon is a fusion of a
woman’s characteristics, symbolism and imagery that create an adorable and
pleasant experience for the reader. If you do not find sonnets and haikus to be
amusing, If the Moon avoids the classic forms of poetry, and evokes emotion in the
reader without having to pull out a dictionary or force you to look up an array of
background information on a particular historical period just to begin to grasp the
meaning of the poem. On the contrary, the archetypical moon imagery is common
enough that the average person can understand without having to put on their
thinking cap. Instead the meaning of the poem is not lost behind the mumbo
jumbo of “classic poetry”.
Homelesspoet.http://media.photobucket.com/image/
love%20drug%20candy/TheHomelessPoet/Drug%20Pictures/
DrugCandy1.jpg . web. 9 May 2010.
Addicted to Amor:
She smiles and twists her skirt and laughs
Oh girl don’t do this to me
All you want is to ruin me
All you want to deal is death to me You know it’s true
PGR 171
Throughout the poem If the Moon personification is used to relate the moon to
women, and their femininity. For example, in the first and second lines the moon
has the human characteristics of sight, as well as balancing them together with
rhyme. “If the moon had eyes she would only look at you, and every night she would rise
in search of you and only you”
According to research the moon has three common connotations; the first
is the feminine essence “being smaller than the sun and reflecting its light, the
moon has been taken to represent female dependence and passivity” (answers.
com). The second is the moon is regarded to control menstruation because “its
regular twenty-eight day cycle so closely matches the cycle of menstruation”
(Care2). Finally, the moon has been esteemed to cause madness, “the term
‘lunacy’ deriving from the Latin Luna, meaning moon” (answers.com). With the
symbolism of the moon these common archetypes add meaning to the poem. All
these elements subtly add depth and value to the poem however, research does
deepen the symbolism.
The message of the poem is truly simple, it is written for someone who
longs to caress and embrace the one they love. In the second stanza the poet
reveals their wishes to be able to fall asleep with their cherished one. The theme
of the poem is romance and adoration. “If only she could hear she would search for
your melody/ listen to it all night until she fell asleep.”By appealing to the senses, in
this case sound, we can relate to our own personal feeling of the beauty in our
own relationships. As a matter of fact, with the moon having the same root as
lunacy, the poems tone can also be read with a kind of hidden connotation of a
secret obsession. In the next stanza the author reveals their wishes for knowing
where her beloved is at all times, as though yearning for the contact of their lover.
“During the day she would wonder where you are, or were about to do/ and if the moon
could talk she would tell you how much she missed you.”
In the poem Drugs, there is a quite different tone and over all message. The
tone is serious full of self loathing, and the message of the poem is about a boy
who is still in love with his ex-girlfriend who is well aware of this fact and enjoys
teasing him. In the eighth and ninth lines she takes a jab at him by flirting with his
old pals, “I stand by while she eyes and flirts with/ the friends I have left”. These
lines deal with the reality of jealousy and betrayal that can occur in romantic
relationships. In a close relationship betrayal can leave deep wounds because the
partner may feel their trust was violated. After this kind of deception a person
might find it hard to move on “But I might limp without her, I/ Might never find
my step”.
The hardest part of a break up can be for the individual who is not
ready to accept the end of the relationship. In the poem a male describes he’s
emotionally attached to a girl he is no longer with. He describes the girl he is
trying to get over as a manipulative, insensitive, and malicious. In the last four
lines he describes her arrogance for the hold she has him in.
The most intriguing part of the poem is the last line; he is directly
confronting the girl and, summing up all the pain she has caused him and in a
way getting his revenge. He tells the world how she treated him, and confirms
that she is aware of it; “you know it’s true”. However the meaning of the poem
Drugs can take on a whole other meaning. The poem could literally be about
drugs with the female lover as a symbol. Substance abuse is a serious public
health problem that affects virtually every community and family in one way or
another. In fact the author was in fact using a girl as a metaphor for his struggle
in overcoming his drug addiction, “I had to give up doing drugs and drinking,
which was a big part of my life” (Freshour). The mood Freshour intended to
convey was of quitting, “originally the piece was called ‘Quitter,’ but I called it
‘Drugs’ so that people might know what it was about”. Although I originally took
the meaning of the poem more literally, the poems message to me became all the
more meaningful because no matter what a humans addiction might be whether,
to a substance or a feeling. In my own experience there have been points in my current relationship
where I was almost obsessed in wanting to know where my boyfriend was
and who he was with. It is like you become so entranced with a person that the
thought of not knowing where they are can almost drive you insane. But not
every person’s relationship end’s in betrayal like in the poem Drugs, nor do they
stay in the trance of adoration, like in the poem If the Moon. But the reason people
take the risk of being in a relationship is explained best by Alfred Lord Tennyson
“’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all” (about.com).
Love is such a meaningful part of human experience that even the pain of losing
the one you love is better than never having loved that person. Love is woven
into humanity: mother and child, man and woman, woman and woman, man and
man, human and animal. Love is my drug and I need to score.
Work Cited
Band, Annie B. “The Moon as a Symbol of Women-And Why. Care2 make a
difference. Care2.com Inc. 6 Oct, 2002. Web. 6 Apr. 2010.
Homelesspoet.http://media.photobucket.com/image/love%20drug%20candy/
TheHomelessPoet/Drug%20Pictures/DrugCandy1.jpg . web. 9 May 2010.
< http://media.photobucket.com/image/drug%20candy/
DoNOTopenB4xmas2/Photos%20and%20Graphics/drugs.jpg?o=4>
PGR 172
Khurana, Simarah. About. Com. About. Com a part of New York Times Co. 2010.
Web. 11 Apr. 2010.
Answers.com. Answer Co, 2010. Web. 10 Apr. 2010.
The American Dream: Can I see you’re
Papers Please?
Review of book and DVD:
Alambrista
The country of the
United States is a nation
made up of immigrants;
it is one of the world’s
most ethnically diverse
and multicultural nations
today. The first great wave
of Mexicans coming to
the United States began
in the first decade of the
twentieth century, a trend that became a century-long movement of people from
Mexico (15). Mexicans have embarked to the United States in four main historical
movements the “Great Migration” (1910-1920s) the “Bracero Era” (1942-1964), the
so called “Mojado Period” (1950s) and the “Second Great Migration” (1970s to
present) (15). The Film Alambrista, by American film maker Robert M. Young, was
one of the first films to tell the story of the exploitation of undocumented migrant
farm workers in the United States. It is a good narrative of what was happening
at the time it was filmed, the late 1970s, but we are in 2010 so much of the film
is outdated. Today the voices and stories of undocumented immigrants remain
untold, with the stakes raised; immigrants now face not only exploitation, but a
new immigration law in Arizona that will make racial profiling legal. Not only are
Hispanic immigrants going to face their rights being violated, so will people like
me and my family who are just as American as any blond, blue eyed Caucasian.
The Chicano Studies Department of the University of New Mexico press
released Alambrista And The U.S.-Mexico Border, a book of essays written by
distinguished scholars dedicated to immigration and the U.S. Mexico Border
lands. The book is divided into two parts: “ Alambrista Footsteps: Context in
History, Politics and lived Experience”, “ Alambrist Sights and Sounds: Film
Criticism and Analysis”.
The critically acclaimed film Alambrista is about Roberto who, like many
Mexican immigrants, came to America in search of opportunity. Roberto is a
young married man who lives and works in Michoacan Mexico, and with the
birth of his first child decides to leave his wife and newborn baby to the United
States in search of work. His mother pleads him not to go to the United States
because Roberto’s father also made the journey north but never returned. He
crosses the border in search of the American dream but instead finds “heartbreak,
exploitation, and disappointment, but also friendship affection and help along the
PGR 173
by Denise Rubio
PGR 174
way” (intro).
The trials and tribulations the main character Roberto faced are common
in my community of Watsonville, California. Both my grandparents also came
from Mexico, during the Bracero Era, in search of the American Dream. My
grandparents on my mother’s side are like Roberto, from Michoacan Mexico.
Both my grandparents were born in the town of Gomes Farias, Michoacan,
they married at a young age, and my grandmother Bertha Rocha stayed in
Mexico while she was pregnant with their first son while my grandfather Javier
Rocha came to the U.S. to work and earn a living for his family. Soon after my
grandmother, after having her second child came to the U.S. to toil in the fields
alongside my grandfather; leaving her children in Mexico with her mother. My
grandparents officially moved their growing family to the San Andreas Labor
Camp, a small slum amid the strawberry fields not far from Watsonville. My
mom has described her home in the camp as a cucaracha infested cardboard
box. She and her five brothers and sisters shared a room and kept their clothes
in card board boxes, where more than once she found rats had given birth to her
litter among their clothes. In the 1980s my grandparents bought their current
home on 165 Dutchman Rd. with the meager pay they earned working in la fresa
(strawberries), la mora (raspberries) and la alcachofa (artichokes). People like my
grandparents sacrificed their lives and bodies to live a good life here in the U.S.
Although I felt that a few portrayals of illegal immigrants have changed,
undoubtedly immigrants continue to rely on the kindness of others to survive. In
the film, Roberto arrives in California and quickly finds shelter and food; fellow
Mexican immigrants, Joe in particular, teach him how to survive in the U.S. This
is extremely common for immigrants coming into the United States today, there
is much more interdependence on help of family and/or friends who are already
in el norte. Another similarity to the film in the lives of immigrants today is the
temptations of the opposite sex. In the film Roberto, like many men and women,
develops a sexual relationship with Sheila; a waitress in a diner. Sheila does not
find out that Roberto is married until she is helping Roberto fill out a money
order he is sending back to his wife and child. Roberto unlike many other men,
including his own father, returns to México to be with his family. He makes this
realization after he discovers his father has passed away and had another wife
and kids in the U.S.
Nevertheless I felt the movie contained a handful of clichés, the most
insulting and overly dramatized scene was near the end of the movie where a
Mexican woman gives birth to her child on the border holding on to a pole crying
out and praising god that her baby was born in the U.S., it was awful! What was
the director Robert M. Young thinking? Another moronic scene was when Joe was
teaching Roberto how to order at a diner, asking for “ham, egg, coffee” because
Mexicans just don’t do that, at least none that I have ever meet trust me. Another
ridiculous scene was Roberto living among livestock, in a chicken coup, that is
so stereotypical I have never heard or met a Mexican who has had to live among
hens and roosters, trust me if a fellow paisano was sleeping on chicken poop,
someone would open their home to them. There is a reason why ten Mexicans can
live in one house; we will never turn our back on someone in need.
My grandmother, now in her sixties, has arthritis in her hands, and
arms as well as back and shoulder pains. Sometimes she tells me she could not
sleep all night because her hands were in tremendous amounts of pain, and her
fingers are so stiff she can’t move them. This is what makes me so upset about
the law passed on Friday the 23rd of April in Arizona, “which makes it a crime
under state law to be in the country illegally, will lead to civil rights abuses.
The law also requires police officers to question people about their immigration
status if there is reason to suspect they are illegal immigrants” (CBS News). My
people, Mexican immigrants, have given America so much; they feed America,
California’s economy is dependent on Agriculture. If any other ethnic group were
treated like they treat Hispanics today there would be pandemonium, this law is
unconstitutional and completely racist. In my opinion, Alambrista was the story
of yesterday and we need a new voice for the Hispanic Masses, another Cesar
Chavez. No human should be called Illegal, how can a human be illegal to the
world?
Work Cited
CBS News. Thousands Protest Ariz. Immigration Law. CBS incorporated,
2010. Web. 25 April. 2010. <http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2010/04/23/
politics/main6426967.shtml>
PGR 175
Usa-Mexico Border. Jpeg http://www.progressinaction.com/wp content/uploads/2010/04/usamexico-border.jpg. Web. 9 May 2010.
To Anne, With Love, Henrietta
A critique of Cathy Warnar’s Henrietta
By Lisette Cooper
PGR 176
For I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the inequity of the fathers
upon children. (Exodus)
You know that family, the one that sits together every Sunday
to praise God. Praying the Lord forgive them their trespasses - when they seem to
have none. Carol Warnar’s, “Henrietta” skillfully unfolds an intimate portrayal of
a sister’s reaction and feelings of disconnection to her father’s newly discovered
illegitimate daughter. Ready to reveal her engagement to boyfriend Blaine, Anne’s
thunder is quickly stolen by her father’s news of a daughter he just found out
existed. The seemingly conventional life of the one-boy one-girl, boating wielding,
church going, Beretoni family is shaken and stirred with the announcement of
Henrietta. Anne questions what life would be like with a sister to turn to, share
her feelings with and depend on. She imagines her sister as perfect; sinless,
embodying perfect grace. For every wrong turn Anne takes, the unknown
Henrietta seems to take the proper route. According to child psychologist Sylvia
Rimm, “sibling rivalry is particularly intense when children are very close in age
and of the same gender”, I can only imagine the feeling is more intense when
inserted with such unforgiving friction.
Warner cleverly conveys Anne’s emotional turmoil through the lines of this
letter-never-sent. Anne’s brilliant imagination wanders in the utopia that is her
idea of sisterhood, as her reality snowballs into the same sinful state her father
once portrayed. She imagines what they’d say to each other if they had been close,
when they’d visit each other, how much they would love each other – despite
their difference in mothers. According to Professor Tony Cassidy, “Sisters appear
to encourage more open communication and cohesion in families,” and he goes
on to add, “Emotional expression is fundamental to good psychological health
and having sisters promotes this in families.”
What would it feel like to find out you had a sister you’d never known?
To find out, that after years of sitting next to your father every Easter in a lacerimmed pastel dress, you disdained but wore for his approval - that he committed
adultery.
The twists and turns Warner takes in this mini-masterpiece leaves
you thirsting for more; dreaming up what Henrietta was like. Below is my
interpretation from the reading of the Henrietta that Anne never knew. In honor
of Warner’s colorful and intimate first person letter form, I dedicate my letter,
“From Henrietta” to her. Thank you, Cathy Warner, for gifting us with this multifaceted and intriguing prose. I suppose the Bible is right, you do reap what you
sow!
PGR 177
Anne, When I started to look into colleges during junior year with my
girlfriends, just one week after my sweet-sixteen, reality struck me – my mother
would never be able afford the places that I wanted to go to, she couldn’t even
spare the 75 dollar expense of a weekend trip in Kelly Murdock’s van to the
Northern California coast that EVERY junior seemed to be destined to go on
in the summertime. After she left Gary, things changed. Our home got smaller,
my new room came with a second bed, my pants shrank, my untrimmed hair
tickled the small of my back and what’s in the refrigerator became less of a
mystery. Me and the girls sat in a criss-cross legged circle on the damp verdant
field made of spikes at St. Ignatious after fourth period, chuckling about the
adventures to come after highschool. Next to me: my best friend Rebecca, then
Carrie, and Carrie’s older friend Cassandra with one 2-liter of Pepsi for all four
of us to share. When Cassandra told me how much it costs to go to Yale, and
to Brown, and to – anywhere worth going, my heart sank. I raced home on my
bike, fighting back tears that would only slow me down. I fumbled through the
door as my nose became wet with hot tears that cooked my face and begged my
mother to call Gary, to be with him again, why couldn’t she just be with him!?
I’m embarrassed to say I blamed her making for me poor. My whole life Gary
had been there – and now he wasn’t. It wasn’t my choice, it was hers. I could
not understand. I loved Gary, my mother never did.
We did get past the secrets Anne, but it took that whole night – and every
night I had lived before that day. I had always known that Gary wasn’t my
real father, but I had never bothered asking too much about it. I had my
explanation. I knew my family. The story went like this, “Every family is
different Henrietta, the important thing is that we love you. I love you. Gary
loves you. Papa Charles and Grandma Kathryn love you very much. WE are
lucky to have YOU.” As my mother turned down the chicken marsala popping
in the cast iron skillet and told me how my life started - I discovered my father.
The more she told me, the more of a stranger my father became. I popped in
Steely Dan’s Pretzel Logic and shrunk down into the arms of the blanketed
love-seat, drifting into the tunes. I began to hate him, But I still couldn’t
really grasp who he was, who was the Henry of today? That feeling fueled my
curiosity and revved my interest to meet him. I wondered if he looked like
me or thought like me. I wanted to know if he liked theatre performances and
mint-ship ice cream. I too, Anne, wanted to know if he loved my mother. I
wanted to know if you and Jesse knew about me.
When I came to visit, my mom dropped me off in the rain wearing the same
bomber jacket I had got when we took our first trip to Lake Tahoe with Greg.
My mom was a dangerous sight on skies, so we rented a sled at the lodge and
built a tiny snowman army out of fallen acorns, twigs and snow. Your big
house was lined with Mother Mary and her baby Jesus glowing in pulsinglight and large candy canes along the pathway. Inside, little naked angels
hanging from the hallway whispered to one another as I peeled off my soaked
winter armor and was introduced to your brother, our...brother. We sat down in
the kitchen and your mother apologized that you weren’t there. I noticed the
features in your face that matched mine, sitting on the fire-warmed mantel
top. I thought you looked experienced, I thought of all the questions I had
that you held the answers to and of all the clothes you could pass on to me in
a couple of years. I thought of how life might have turned out if your father,
our…father, had chose to leave your mother for mine. If he had not been a
coward, but he was. I wanted to accept you, just as you wanted to accept me –
but I couldn’t either. I guess we really are sisters Anne.
Your family had a father because mine didn’t.
My appetite dwindled deep down into my stomach and clutched my anxiety
tight. I reached for a cookie and left quickly as my mother honked the horn
outside. “Thank you for lunch Mrs. Beretoni, the potato salad was delicious.”
I felt sorry for her all alone in the car, motor bumping along with Elton John’s
voice as the rain camouflaged her weathered face. I waved good bye and
jumped into the blue-torn-yellow passenger seat, closed the door with a slam
and hugged her tight.
I visited once more before I died. I reluctantly visited after my mother
pleaded with me to give your father a chance, though he hadn’t given us one.
My mother was my family, I thought. That’s all I need. The night before I died
I had spent 2 hours getting ready. I curled my hair into a darker version of
Farrah Faucet’s. I applied makeup to the apples of my cheeks and light pink eye
shadow to my virgin lids, just like you. I’d hadn’t meant to, but I even got a
dress to wear under my gown that was the same soft lavender color as the shirt
from your picture on the mantel.
When I said goodbye to my Mom after graduation, she had tears in her eyes.
I didn’t want her to cry. I wiped them off her creased cheekbones and held her
face, “Mom, hey… I love you, you know? And hey, I’m going to stay close to
you, ok? The community college here has a really good program, and..” she
cut me off as Rebecca came walking up, “Ok, you and Rebecca have fun now,”
she blurted as she wiped her emotions away, “and be safe! Be home before
midnight alright? Ok now, give me a big hug!” We embraced, Rebecca flagged
Carrie’s car over. We all hopped in her brand new VW bug and sped off. When
we reached our destination we were at least ten miles from where I lived. I
downed too many we did it! shots and after an hour and a half I was spinning.
The last thing I remember is closing my eyes, trying to shake the blur.
WORKS CITED:
Mercola. Cassidy, Tony. Having a Sister Makes You Happier and More
Optimistic. Web. 21 April 2009. http://articles.mercola.com/sites/articles/
archive/2009/04/21/Having-a-Sister-Makes-You-Happier-and-More-Optimistic.
aspx
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Adult Sibling Rivalry Jane Mersky Leder, Psychology Today, Publication Date:
Jan/Feb 93, Last Reviewed: 30 Aug 2004
Photo by Donna: http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://farm4.static.
flickr.com/3140
Mental Illness: Not Yet Cliché
www.ethicsoup.com
The Heyday of the Insensitive Bastards
By Lisette Cooper
Robert Boswell’s, The Heyday of the Insensitive
Bastards, is a compilation of short stories involving the
anything-but-banal protagonist’s world. Seeing through
the eyes each of these characters in Boswell’s 13 tales
lets you intimately experience the sequence of events
along with them, feeling the struggles and emotions
they face in a vivid, sometimes psychedelic, hue. Liesl
Schillinger of the New York Times Sunday Book Review
writes, “ Boswell inlays smooth, polished judgments into
unsanded models of working-class and middle-class lives, setting off aspects of
the characters’ make-up that they could not or would not reveal themselves.”
Boswell invites the sane to experience the world of the psychotic. Can you
relate to depressed, delusional, drunk, malnourished, grieving, or disordered
tendencies? With so many mental illnesses diagnosed each day in the U.S. and
new cases surfacing all the time, what would it take for any one of us to fall off
of the “normal” wagon and onto Boswell’s pages? How close are we to going off
the deep-end and slumping into an inebriated reality? If you think you’re afraid
of cancer, then meet cancer’s big brother; mental illness. According to ASHA
International, “Mental illnesses are now more common than cancer, diabetes,
and heart disease.” In this book of short stories, Boswell entertains you with a
variation of colorful accounts, while bringing the relevant subject of mental illness
front-and-center to demand your attention.
In Supreme Beings, a priest struggles with an array of temptations including
alcohol addiction and unholy sexual urges, as he follows up with a man named
Teddy on his mother’s worry of practicing “spiritism” (89). After repeatedly
offering his earnings up to a fortune teller named Lucinda that he’s become
obsessed with visiting, Teddy suffers from excruciating hunger and “infrequent
mental exercise” (105). While peeping through her window, his starvation takes
over and a green flag on the wall comes to life to deliver the message, “Christ
lives in your city” (107). Teddy beings searching for the living, streets-walking,
locally-dwelling Jesus Christ. By way of scouring roof-tops and knocking on
doors his search takes risky turns and he finds himself mugged, raped, and
eventually in arrested (Boswell 111, 123).
The priest, Father McEwen, helps protect two children from their abusive
mother who has “gone off the deep end”, Ms. Corbus (98). The children, Aluela
and Patrick, are dumbfounded by their father’s abrupt absence, asking “Where
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A Book of Short Stories
Robert Bowell
Hardcover 258 Pages
Graywolf Press
$24.00
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flickr.com/photos/ goldbeere/3305745597/
does a man, a good man, who loves his children, where does he disappear
to, even though he knows his wife will mistreat the kids he loves” (108). The
affecting frankness of Boswell’s tone throughout the book is well described when
he illustrates Aluela’s reasoning for not escaping from the grips of her mother to
live with her older brother at his apartment.
James had fled the house as soon as he turned eighteen. His roommates, though,
Aluela didn’t trust. They made grabs at her, pinching her butt and nipples, talking
like idiots. She’d had sex a few times, all with her father, whom she and Patrick
both missed terribly. (Boswell 100)
In the title story, The Heyday of the Insensitive Bastards, Boswell takes us eagerly
down the bumpy, drug-induced path of “Keen”, a man bused into the Colorado
ski town of Apex with nothing but the jacket on his back and the contents inside.
In the opening paragraph, Boswell skillfully describes this time in Keen’s young
life in a form that most can relate to, “ I was in that drifting age between the end
of college and the beginning of settling down” (205), describing Keen’s loss of
identity and self-awareness as he begins the journey which ultimately leads to his
incarceration.
Throughout this book
of fiction, Boswell inserts
his readers directly
into the brain-function
of his lost, reflective,
alarmingly-dense and
sometimes obviously
insane characters,
candidly noting
every interpretation
of their thoughts and
circumstances. His
writings, unlike your
run-of-the-mill formulated
fiction, deal with the
less explored reality of
an unpredictable mind.
Though at times bleak, his
descriptive style evokes
pleasant distraction from
the account with details
stemming into his character’s past and present, swelling them to life in a way
that brings a soundness to their movement and shapes them into a living and
breathing creature.
The coat dated back to my last visit home. I got distracted on the way, a sixhour drive from the university, and arrived three months late. My parents still
had my Christmas presents wrapped in elf-and-reindeer paper. The whole time
I was there they complained about their lousy holiday. (As you know, I haven’t
seen them since. A person can only apologize so much.) The coat was one of my
WORKS CITED:
ASHA International Organization. Startling Statistics about Mental Illness. Web.
2007. www.myasha.org/node/12
Boswell, Robert. The Heyday of the Insensitive Bastards. Minnesota, St. Paul: 2009.
Kessler RC, Chiu WT, Demler O, Walters EE. Prevalence, severity, and
comorbidity twelve-month DSM-IV disorders in the National Comorbidity
Survey Replication (NCS-R). Archives of General Psychiatry, 2005 Jun;62(6):617-27
NIMH. The Numbers Count: Mental Disorders in America. Web. 2010. www.nimh.
nih.gov/health/publications/the-numbers-count-mental-disorders-in-america/
index.shtml#1
Fight Club. Screenplay by Jim Uhls. Dir. David Fincher, Art Linson. Perf. Edward
Norton, Brad Pitt, and Helena Carter. 20th Century Fox, 1999. Film.
Schillinger, Liesl. The Misfits Nextdoor. New York Times - Sunday Book Review.
Web. 25 June 2009. www.nytimes.com/2009/06/28/books/review/Schillinger-t.
html?_r+1&pagewanted=2
WebMD. Dissociative Identity Disorder. Web. 2010. www.webmd.com/mentalhealth/dissociative-personality-disorder-multiple-personality-disorder?page=3
PGR 181
presents. ( Boswell 205)
According to the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), “an
estimated 26.2 percent of Americans ages 18 and older – about one in four adults
– suffer from a diagnosable mental disorder in a given year.” NIMH goes on
to record that, “the main burden of illness is concentrated in a much smaller
proportion – about 6 percent, or 1 in 17- who suffer from a serious mental illness.”
One of these serious mental illnesses is Multiple Personality Disorder, now known
as Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) according to experts at WebMD. In the
title story, The Heyday of the Insensitive Bastards, Keen’s character meets up with his
long-time best friend Clete and the two stick close together: eating mushrooms,
treking through the wilderness to a house party hosted by a heroin addict and
two dogs, helping an overdosing man come-to, and misjudging a situation that
ultimately leads to another man’s drowning. One of the most compelling things
about this layered depravity, is that it leaves you to make your own evaluation
about Keen’s mental state, though some deficiencies are certain, with the closing
question, “The decision is all yours now. Am I a threat to society? I await your
decision” (254). Is Keen asking this question under review for release from a
mental institution? Is his friend Clete, a product of his own mind? Being viewed
in an idolatrous fashion similar to how Edward Norton’s character in Fight Club
views Tyler Durden? Clete is depicted as a man who makes a statement rather
than asking a question, a real man that can walk through the high-altitudeinduced freezing cold with only a wife-beater to keep him warm (213). A man
whom never showed up on the roster after his visit with Keen in Jail (253). Less
than .01% of the general population suffer from DID, while Schizophrenia is
considered “common” (WebMD). “About 1% of the population, or 2.2 million
Americans ages 18 and older, will develop Schizophrenia,” a figure as haunting as
Boswell’s tale (WebMD).
A Father’s Love Gone to Far:
When Depression Takes Over
A critique of the novel
And Give You Peace, by Jessica Treadway
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Book Review by Sarah Nelson
Life as a young adult it is hard enough without having to cope with
the deaths of a father and sister, but in the novel And Give you Peace by: Jessica
Treadway, the narrator Ana Grapples, takes us on her journey where she is
dealing with just that. Ana starts telling us her story from the beginning with a
flashback of a family outing, and continues to inform us further of her life up
until her father and sister die, then Ana takes us back through her past again to
look for clues that could have hinted to or lead up to these horrible deaths. As
a reader I felt a little blurry on whether or not the family was close or not, and
whether or not certain characters such as the mom were meant to be hated,
pitied or loved. I did not think the author did the best job swaying her readers
one way or another. The point of this novel was for the reader to figure out why
the characters behave as they do and why the family bond is not so strong. You
are left to do that by incorporating information learned in the later chapters of the
novel when Ana is taking us back to events leading up to the deaths of Meggy
and her father. Throughout the novel I had formed my own opinions on who was
bad and what people where good in the course of Ana’s life, but once I finished
the novel and the picture I had in my mind was no longer sketched, but now fully
painted, I had a much deeper understanding of why her life was the way it was.
In this manner, Treadway very much so succeeds in having readers look into their
past to find answers to their present.
The deaths of Ana’s sister Meggy and her father were anything but
‘normal’. This novel begins by focusing on the Dolan family and times they
shared together prior to the passing of two of the five in their family. Ana had
two little sisters, Meggy and Justine, and while Justine was the perfect one, Meggy
was always her father’s clear favorite and his baby girl. One day after Ana’s mom
and dad had moved into separate houses (although their divorce was never made
final), her father decided to stay home from work and rest. Ana went to babysit
some children and she left her father at the kitchen table and peered in at Meggy
sleeping on her way out the door. That evening a cop shows up to the house
where she is babysitting and informs Ana that it appears her father had shot and
killed Meggy in her sleep, and then taken his own life. This seems completely
out of character and extremely random on the part of her father, so then we were
left to look back in her life for clues as to why this happen. For example, in this
case some obvious things that Ana discusses and shares with us are; her father
hugged her for extra long that morning and normally he was not so affectionate,
he was also depressed from the separation and he felt like he was loosing Meggy
who was all he had left and his pride and joy as an athlete. I drew the conclusion
that maybe he did not want Meggy to be around to see him give up on his life, he
wanted to remain that perfect father figure in her eyes.
http://s-ak.buzzfed.com/static/imagebuzz/terminal01/2009/6/21/15
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There is one quote in particular that sums up this novel: “It’s odd how our
brains are constructed…giving us flashes of truth and then, thank God, allowing
us to forget what we’ve seen in that split second the window was open.” This
quote thought by Ana represents very well her overall mindset. Although she
accepts the truth and has done everything to try and live with the deaths of her
dad and Meggy, she still constantly makes excuses for her father’s actions on
that day, which is why she digs so deep into the past. Suicide and depression
are two things not easily understood by outsiders, even if you are extremely
close to the person who is affected by these things. When a person is depressed
it does not always mean they have a horrible life, depression is a disease or
a disorder that is not curable by drugs, drugs only reduce the symptoms, but
the real problem lies in the person’s release of chemicals in the brain and there
thought process. Often times people who suffer from depression truly have
themselves convinced that the world would be a better place without them
and that they have nothing more to live for, that their time on earth is simply
a hour glass waiting to run dry. I do not feel like Ana’s father commited suicide
as a selfish act, he was doing what he sincerely thought was best, and he could
not control his depression. However, killing Meggy with him was completely
selfish and not explainable or logical to any person with a normal depressionfree thought process.
Along with many other subjects, this novel is about memory. As you reach
the books closure we find out that the way Ana narrates her life to us is
formed by her experience as a scientific researcher of memory. She is slightly
overtaken by this hobby and this explains why throughout the novel she is so
over-compulsive about time and how the past has affected her present and
future life. Over time I came to the conclusion that Ana is more worried about
finding out who she is and figuring her own life and her own insecurities out
than she is about finding what caused her dad to break. She wants to know
answers regarding memory and its affects, but we never get any. If you like
novels that keep you interested and questioning with every coming page, then
you would enjoy this book. Despite minor flaws within the structure of the
novel and maybe the lack of pity you have by the end for Ana, everyone can
relate to this novel, because everyone has been or will be a young adult and
figure out who they are going to
become in life. This is what makes
the novel so enjoyable. And Give
You Peace is Jessica Treadway’s
first novel, which makes this even
more impressive. Other than this
novel,Treadway has published a
short story collection entitled Absent
Without Leave, which received an
award from Ploughshares Magazine.
If you believe that everything
happens for a reason then this novel is
a must read for you.
Nature Found
A Book Review of “Father Nature”
Edited by Paul S. Piper and Stan Tag
“Fathers as a guide to the Natural waorld”
a book of short stories
American Land and Life Series
University of Iowa Press copyright 2003
By Gwendolynne Krebs
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Climbing the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you
as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the
storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves. - Muir
Exploring nature has appealed to humans throughout the ages; a pull to know
what is beyond the cities and villages. Men, all through written history, are known to
have been the primary explorers, past down from father to son. Viking explorer, Leif
Ericsson, explored the seas with his father, Eric the Red, and settled the first European
colony in Greenland in 985AD. (http://.library.thinkquest.org) There are many other
well known men in history, Sir Francis Drake, an English explorer, was influenced by
his father who had been a sailor before he was born (http://library.thinkquest.org) or
John Muir, sometimes referred to as Father Nature, was a man who made it his life’s
work to explore the American Landscape and protect it from the growing world. His
father, a strongly religious man, as Muir wrote, worked him hard with little free time, but
Muir was curious of the world around him, the world beyond his father’s farm, and it
influenced him to go on and form some of the most beautiful national parks in the world.
John Muir’s father may not have taught him of mountains and valleys, but he influenced
his sense of commitment, pushing him to accomplish by showing him how to work and
utilize the land and its resources. (http://www.nps.gov) Fathers have always been in their
children’s lives influencing them in some manner, in modern day fathers have begun to
take more leading role in their children’s lives by sharing the responsibilities that were
once only seen as the mothers duty; changing diapers, washing cloths, and cooking while
the mother goes off to work. Fathers having been able to take on this responsibility have
become more aware of the influence and how important it is to have a connection with
their children.
What a parent teaches or doesn’t teach their child can greatly influence their lives,
whether through hard work, hobbies, exploration or even, on the harmful side, emotional
neglect, what a child learns they will take with them into their futures. “Father Nature”
is a book of short stories that delves into the extraordinary, sometimes tumultuous
relationships of father and child. The importance of nature is unique to each author’s
story; memories of exploring mountains and rivers, of learning how to hunt or fish, and
of the emotions of growing-up or getting-old, of death and dying, and the unquestionable
feelings of love. The stories are separated into three sections; “Fathers”, “Fathers &
Fathering”, and “Fathering”, fallowed by a “Coda” also known as the conclusion. The
stories are all focused on fathers and on being a father from the fathers point of view and
the view of his child. “Father Nature” a play on the common “Mother Nature”, we often
view nature and the earth as a women, a mother, with her nurturing maternal love, giving
food, life, taking care of her living creatures, both animal, plant, and human. “Long before
history was recorded, goddesses were worshipped for their association with fertility,
fecundity, and agricultural bounty.” (www.experiencefestival.com) The word nature as
you can read in the Webster dictionary, in Latin means to nurture. In the past women
may have been seen has the primary care giver, but the modern father has begun to take
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on a stronger role in the care of his children, to nurture. Women take part as the bread
winners, taking the full responsibility of providing for the family away and allowing the
father to be able to take a greater part in his children’s lives. In divorce the father may
also become the primary parent: “The modern day father can contribute to his children’s
health and well-being by maintaining a healthy relationship with the other parent even in
cases of divorce; providing emotional and financial support, appropriate monitoring and
discipline; and most importantly by remaining a permanent and loving presence in their
lives.” (www.apa.org) There are many different relationships between a father and his
child, some are good memories some may not be, but what all these stories share are the
connections of their love for nature.
In Jessica Maxwell’s story in the section of “Fathers” titled “Her Father’s
Daughter”, the relationship between her and her father is strong. He is a man of deep
beliefs and hopes to share his knowledge and love of nature with his daughters. I
connected to this storey, because I have often thought to myself whether or not a person
enjoys the outdoors because a parent has taken them out when they were young or is
a person born with the will and urge to explore the adventures of the wild? “If you dig
around in the familial soil of almost anyone who feels close to the natural world, you’re
likely to find good rootstock, a parent or grandparent, an uncle, maybe family friends,
who made it their responsibility to introduce the children in their lives to life out-ofdoors. The indelible power of these natural mentors deserves serious consideration.” ( 4)
My father enjoyed the outdoors immensely and would take us on road trips to explore
the world beyond Santa Cruz and California, though our own state and city has some of
the most beautiful parks and hikes you could imagine. I am grateful to him, he always
wanted to drive across country to visit or family in Ohio, just so we could see the different
states and get a chance to do some exploring and because of this I love the world beyond
the cities and towns, I love to hike and climb and explore
nature.
When Jessica Maxwell writes about her
connection with her father and how, he too, influenced
her love for nature “Dad never said, ‘You will love
nature.’ He just took us along. And it worked.” (page 5),
She expresses a deep love for the outdoors and respect
for her father. Experiencing the outdoors as a child can
lead to an understand and love for nature. Families have
the ability to leave and feel free from everyday stresses
and get away from toxic fumes of cities and breath the
fresh air. “Studies have shown that people deprived of
contact with nature were at greater risk of depression
and anxiety. They also never develop a relationship with
the natural environment and they are unable to use it
to cope with stress.” (C&NN: Derbyshire, David) It’s
hard to believe that some people have never been out of their towns or cities, that they
have never experienced what it is like to be out away from society, building fires, catching
fish, or setting up a tent. There are those moments in life when the fondest memories
are of your father showing you how to pack your mummy bag (sleeping bag) into, what
appears to be a bag far to small for it size. Lorraine Anderson, the author of “Watermarks
and Bloodlines” in the section of the coda, writes that “Recently, a friend of mine has
been grieving that her father, a doctor, never shared moments in nature with her….I was
surprised the first time I realized that not everyone grew up in such an easy relationship
with wild nature as I did. Wasn’t time spent in nature the foundation of every family’s
life? No. How sad. How ominous.”(174) What is the pull of nature? Why are some people
sad they never experienced? When those who have experienced nature as a child never
return? Each story in this book tries in many ways to answer these questions.
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Mark Harfenist wrote “Dance of the Fathers” apart of the first section of
“Fathers”, Mark delves strait into the wonders of nature. He attempts to explain his need
to travel and be apart of nature. His relationship with his father was never extremely close
and he struggles to understand why. You take a journey in to his past as he heads back
to his father’s lonely death bed. He explores a completely opposite point of view, then
Jessica Maxwell, she write of the complete interest her father took in her and her sisters
lives. Mark tells of a man stuck in his own loneliness a victim of abandonment of his own
father. He never learned how to love or how to get close. “My father has grown old now,
his children terrible and distant; they do not think of him often.”( 21) Children from father
that are distant and show little love, will stray away, feel unloved and towards the things
shared with their father, even nature. “Fathers who do not live with their children simply
are less available to nurture, guide, and provide for their children. In cases of divorce,
some mothers limit the time children have with their fathers.”(parentingteens.suite101.
com) Mark’s father may have distanced himself in an emotional aspect, but Mark came to
realize that his father was showing him love, by sharing his own passions for nature with
him. Some children go through life blaming themselves for their fathers absence, but it’s
the positive teachings, as Mark Harfenist learned, and what you share with your father
that, might be his way of showing love.
When I was a young I felt the closest to my father when we were in the great
outdoors, we shared a great love for hiking and camping. At home, it was a different
storey. We rarely got along, he was distant and spent most of his time working or playing
music. I always dreamed of a father that would hang out and play games or take part
in my life, but he rarely did, and for a long time I was angry with him. “I created my
father each time I think of him. I invent a life of woven twigs, of straw and mud, and to
it I plaster raw emotion, laughter, weariness, hints of wisdom.” (Harfenist 20) As I read
this book I came to realize that it must have been hard for my farther to understand a
teenage girl, I do wonder how he managed. It must be hard for parents, their children
are constantly attacked by outside influences. Stephen J. Lyons, his story “The Eagles of
Beauty Bay”, apart of the “Fathering” series, about his worry of losing his daughter to the
world “Reliable role models of parents, grandparents, communities and religious leaders
(the honest ones), and teachers have been co-opted by the empty sound bites of illiterate
athletes, spaced-out “musicians,” and millionaire actors with impeccable bridgework.”
To wonder whether they will make the right decisions, that they will be safe in the world.
“Children are not inherently bad, but they do learn things from their parents, peers, and
social environment. Some of the things a teenager will pick up these days are frankly
quite surprising, even shocking to most parents. When teens pick up some bad habits or
develop questionable behavior, it’s natural for a parent or parents to feel at least partially
responsible.”(parentingteens.suite101.com) Fathers these days can only trust that what
they have had a chance to teach their children was enough to help them through life and
continue to love them and be their for them. “When fathers share their plans, activities,
and interests, their children are better behaved in school.” (www.civitas.org) The Father
can influence a child through: behavior, grades in school, sports, and social skills by
becoming involved in their child daily lives and activities as : helping with homework,
supporting their games, and taking them out into nature.
Bernd Heinrich, author of the story “Contact” apart of the “Fathering” section, advocates
that schools should teach more nature based studies and should influence the children
to take part in the conservation of the outdoors. He feels that as a father he has worked
hard to influence in understanding and taking part in nature. Father hood in his view is
the ability to teach and pass on the love of nature to as many of your kids or other family
members you can. He views success in the lives those kids will choose to live in the future
and what further experiences in nature they choose to take on in their own lives. One of
his sons grew up away from him and was not given the experiences of the outdoors as
his other children were. He writes that his son is stuck to the computer or television with
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games and shows, and does not feel the pull of nature. “Perhaps I have failed him in not
helping him forge that bonding to the outdoors, to specific place and all that is in it.”
(74) There are studies that have found that, “Children today spend an average of 6 hours
each day in front of the computer and TV but less than 4 minutes a day in unstructured
outdoor play.”(Chesapeake Bay Foundation) When I was young I did not have cable and
computer were not quite what they are today, but when I watched TV at my friend I did
watch a lot. I remember wanting to do something else, urging my friends to go out and
play. I look around today and wonder, how long will we be able to enjoy the outdoors. I
watch cities, like Sacramento take over hill after hill after hill. How far will we expand,
before there is nothing left? If it weren’t for John Muir, there might be a city right smack
in the middle of the Yosemite Valley, or housing complexes, uniformed homes, with
same paint, gardens, and miles of paved roads. We lost the Hetch Hetchy Valley to San
Francisco, dammed up to bring a vast city its water. “Despite opposition from many
citizens, including most of the nation’s leading newspapers, Congress passed the Raker
Act in 1913 allowing the city of San Francisco to destroy Hetch Hetchy. The City built a
dam and reservoir, drowning this beautiful valley, even though other less-damaging sites
existed.” (www.sierra club.org) Watching nature on television makes it unreal ad distant,
as if it were unreachable, but to just drive a few miles outside of town or even look out
your window and nature is there, lost beneath cement and blocked by buildings, it is there
attempting to survive. “ I believe all of us who have access to the outdoors, often as a relief
from the boredom or hard work, develop an addiction to it, because nature although it
seeps in slowly, eventually resonates with the heart.” Heinhrich writes on page 77, his pull
to nature is explained almost like a magnet. I understand this feeling, sometimes I begin
feeling the wait of the city baring down on me and I must escape, I dream of running
through the trees and jumping in lakes and rivers. The authors in the book continuously
express their strong connections to nature, they feel the need as their fathers did to escape
their work and stressful, busy lives, to a quiet natural solitude.
The urge for nature can stay strong even in the last days of life. Jessica Maxwell
wrote about her last days with her father. She stood by her fathers hospital bed, he is
dying of emphysema, there is a feeling of awkwardness, as she wrote, but I also sense
that she wants him to know something. Maxwell asks to read a passage from a book to
her father, he welcomes it. “Psychiatrist Ann Linthorst says: ’We are not, in reality, hunks
of life. Life… is one, no dimensional, spiritual substance to which we may awaken in
consciousness… We are not really persona, we are awareness’s.’” As she finishes her
father yells out “That’s it…. That’s it. I didn’t know you knew.” This was so touching, in
that small passage Maxwell translates for her father, that he was successful in illustrating
his love of life and nature and she is thankful to him, and in that moment there is a sense
of freedom for her father, and the next day he passed away. “Her Fathers Daughter” The
first story of the book opens with her love
for her father and his strong connections
with nature, so it can only be appropriate
for the last story, in the “Coda” to be of a
daughters love of her father, and his dying
connection with nature. In “Water and
Bloodlines”, Lorraine Anderson, writes
of her understand of her fathers love for
nature. He moves his family around just
to be in places of natural beauty, as Tahoe.
They support him in his love, so eloquently
written, “ Those blue veined hands offered
sturdy support when his wife and four
kids- two sons, two daughter- fallowed him
in jumping some brook across a Sierra trail.
PGR 188
It is sad when life grows in the way of love. In this case a mans love for nature was taken
over by work and the need to support his family. Illness and old age after, took care of the
rest of his life. “Just take me up on the mountain and leave me in the snow bank,” he said.
“Row me out in Lake Tahoe and push me overboard.”(page 175) He pleads with her on
his dying bed. He loved water “I love water” He said… “I mean water running in rivers,
in the mountains. Think of me when you sit beside a mountain stream.” It was almost
a mocking death as he died of dehydration, unable to swallow any liquids. His love for
nature will live on in his children and he took comfort in knowing this, as he asked his
children to remember him when they were in nature. He knew he had taught them a love
that would last forever and be passed on down through their families generations.
When my parents pass away I hope to honor them in my respect and love for
nature for both my parents introduced me to nature. The memories of my father will
always be strong and rooted in his lessons of the outdoors. My father may have always
wanted a boy but he loved his girls, he took us camping, hiking, and backpacking. He
loved mountaineering, he envied athletes, and pushed upon me the things he was never
capable of doing. I resisted his pressuring most of the time until he placed me and my
younger sister into a climbing class for the summer. My sister did not take to it but I was
hooked. He supported my love for the sport and loved to tell story about a time he took
us to Yosemite Valley; I was about three or four. We were on a granite slab overlooking a
thousand foot drop above the valley. I saw some people closer to the edge of the cliff so I
jumped down and squatted over the edge looking around. My Father said he felt his heart
jump out of his throat. He wanted to grab me but I was too far away, but as he looked at
me and realized I was fine. He laughed, “you had no understanding of heights, no fear
and your balance was uncanny.” My father always wanted to explore the great outdoors,
he climbed Mt. Shasta several times, and Mt. Whitney, his goal to live and climb in Alaska,
once he retired. If it weren’t for his vision deteriorating and having several surgeries, he
would have continued his trek up the mountains of America. He continued camping and
running but his mountaineering days were over and has poured himself into his guitar.
His dream of Alaska still lives on, secretly, but now instead of climbing and exploring
the land, he will live in a cabin over looking the wondrous mountains, lakes, and rivers,
playing his guitar, his food and supplies flown out by airplane. I can only hope to like the
authors of “Father Nature”, be successful in passing on and influencing others to respect
and love nature, to have that chance to experience it and know the urge to escape and be
free in the natural world, Nature.
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts
of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die,
discover that I had not lived. -Thoreau
Work Cited
Brainyqote.com
http://www.sierraclub.org/ca/hetchhetchy/history.asp
Fatherhood.gov
http://www.apa.org/pi/families/resources/changing-father.aspx
http://www.mythicalcreaturesguide.com/page/Mother+Nature
http://www.fatherhood.gov/statistics/index.cfm#father
Word on Health, “Childhood Obesity on the Rise”: Torgan, Carol, June 2002
Chesapeake bay foundation
Brainyqote.com
http://wildernessadventureateaglelanding.blogspot.com/2008/10/shocking-statistics.
html
http://www.mythicalcreaturesguide.com/page/Mother+Nature
http://www.experiencefestival.com/mother_nature_-_history
http://www.nps.gov/history/history/online_books/sontag/muir.htm
http://library.thinkquest.org/J002678F/sir_francis_drake.htm
http://library.thinkquest.org/4034/timeline2.html
http://www.civitas.org.uk/hwu/fathers.php
http://parentingteens.suite101.com/article.cfm/parents-of-teens-and-the-great-rebellion
http://education.stateuniversity.com/pages/2306/Out-School-Influences-AcademicSuccess.html
http://www.mc.maricopa.edu/dept/d46/psy/dev/Spring99/schoolage/family.html
http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m2248/is_n126_v32/ai_19619406/
http://www.dukenews.duke.edu/2004/08/success_0804.html
http://beaglesunlimited.com/rabbithunting_teachingkids.htm
http://www.thejump.net/Hunting_Articles/children-hunting.htm
http://www.chassell.net/00846.php
http://www.backpacker.com/march-2010-higher-love-father-daughter-climb-mtchamberlin/destinations/13837
http://outdoorbaby.net/hiking
>http://www.eric.ed.gov/ERICWebPortal/custom/portlets/recordDetails/detailmini.
jsp?_nfpb=true&_&ERICExtSearch_SearchValue_0=ED476850&ERICExtSearch_
SearchType_0=no&accno=ED476850
http://authors.simonandschuster.com/Jessica-Maxwell/61430339/books
http://www.experiencefestival.com/mother_nature_-_history
PGR 189
Pictures
-Black and white photo of John Muir posted by Smacniven
Edubuzz.org/blogs/lawprimarymiddlearea/2009/09/
-Color image Father and child mountaineering posted by Adventure Junkie
Theadventureblog.blogspot/2008_10_01_arch…
-Color image of father with daughter at the beach on nelson city council
www.nelsoncitycouncil.co.nz/…/
Nelson City Council can also be found on Facebook
-Black and white portrait photo of Henry David Thoreau Biography by ebooks@adelaide
ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/.../portrait.jpg
ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/t/thoreau/henry_david/
Shaken not Stirred
PGR 190
by Gwendolynne Krebs, a critique of “The Year of the Martini” By Adela Najarro
“The Year of the Martini”, what does this title
first make you think about? Alcohol? Parties? 007? As
you begin to read further into the first stanza you get a
comparison of years; “There was the year of God, then
there was the year of the Martini”. Now what does the
Martini mean to you? A year and an Alcoholic beverage
compared to a year of God, how does God compare to
a martini? All these questions ran through my mind as I
skimmed the poem, not sure what to think of it. I reread
the poem out loud and as I spoke the words I began to
understand the implications of the poem. The strong
condemning of an addicted society intoxicated by its
own supremacy, the need for more, more, and more. The
society has begun to loose all sight of compassion, blindly
treading unaware of its own implication on the world
around it. There is an emptiness, a loss in the meaning of the words right and wrong, a
disconnect in the lives beyond our own and those lost in war whether friend or foe.
The Author of the poem, Adela Najarro successfully uses the Martini as a symbol
of emptiness, a way to escape from the harsh realities of the world around us. In America,
we live privileged lives apart from the destruction of war. While other families of war torn
countries live in fear and do not have the luxuries of escaping the sounds of gun shots
and explosions right outside their doors. This life of privilege allows us the extravagant
pleasures in life, “a martini finished with four small pimento filled olives.” We have the
choice to make our drinks luxurious as well as our homes and cars and many other objects
of “want”. We fill them with: TVs, surround sound, chrome, extra bedrooms, and five car
garages, “Americans constitute 5% of the world’s population but consume 24% of the
world’s energy”- www.mindfully.org. The wants of our lives now greatly out weigh our
“needs”. As a country how did we let this happen?
We can choose to turn the TV on and watch the
news, to go on the computer and look up the world or
grab a news paper. But what do we really grab? We grab
a Cosmo, a fashion magazine, we read the funny pages
or sports, we worry about our stocks, and we grab a
beer or “Martini” and sit and watch our favorite sit com.
“According to the A.C. Nielsen Co., the average American
watches more than 4 hours of TV each day (or 28 hours/
week, or 2 months of nonstop TV-watching per year). In
a 65-year life, that person will have spent 9 years glued to
the tube” There is so much we could learn and do for the
world with the time spent sitting in front of a television.
As a country we could take advantage of the time spent
watching TV watching educational shows and news. Of
course even if everyone began to read, watch or listen to the news, with all the sensors we
never truly understand the lives of others, “imagine a Shiite boys shoulder in a bandage”.
Manny lives are lost in short amounts of time “124 Israeli children have been killed by
Palestinians and 1,441 Palestinian children have been killed by Israelis since September
29, 2000”, and that is not counting the bombs we have dropped or our guns, our bullets.
When we shoot into a home or another person, there is never an assurance that you will
PGR 191
not hurt an innocent child or their parent. “1,072 Israelis and at least 6,348 Palestinians
have been killed since September 29, 2000” www.ifamericansknew.org/. Developed
countries, including America have lost their sight, at some point we gave up, decided to
grab the Martini and block the world out “ when tolerance escapes forgotten, a martini is
what‘s called for”. It is to difficult for people to understand the trauma of others, it takes
to much time.
In comparison, Adela Najavvo introduces us to God. Her image of sincerity, of
understanding, the one who is able to open our eyes. I don’t believe she is using “God”
to preach religion or sway anyone to believe in God, but as a universal understanding of
love as a link to reawaken our mind to the world around us. God makes us remember,
makes us think and learn to open our mind once again to consider our neighbors and
the Shiite boy with the bandaged “God keeps insisting that we stop, that we stop being
wrong in so many ways… we hurt people on the way home, ordinary people whose lives
we cannot fathom.” When we drink the Martini we relax and take time for calm to forgive
ourselves for our pettiness. But God wants us to remember and to learn, if we learn we
do not repeat. We sit in front of our television excusing our cruel nature, excepting our
arrogance of choosing our endless “wants” over the “needs of others. In war we are told to
fight, that we are helping and making a change. But we do not
feel or see the war in our country, so we do not understand
the impact it has or the fear and pain it forces on those caught
in the middle of mans selfish pride. We help ourselves to
forget with our Martinis, but God makes us remember, makes
us think.
In the more wealthy stable countries of the world such as
America and many other countries including most of Europe,
the people do not feel the cruel affects of war, they are lucky
to be able to go to bed safe and warm. There are those who
are born into war or born in a country ravished by corruption,
those born to this may never understand what it feels like
to know that their family is safe and to wake up to a warm
breakfast and to sleep with a full belly. “Both the Shiite slums
of Baghdad’s Sadr City and the largely Sunni population of
Fallujah have been hit with massive firepower from helicopter
gunships, tanks and artillery. The casualties include women
and children slain by 50-caliber bullets crashing through the
walls and doors of their homes. Hospitals have been shelled
as well as ambulances” (www.wsw.org). This life the Shiite
people of Iraq live, is one they are used to and they may not want the luxuries we crave,
but need a life free of fear. “We don’t know the gated fence…the shoes, the socks, the
curled skin of a pinky toe; we don’t know all that was before the soldiers came.” (six
stanza). This line in the poem reminds me of the book “The Lemon Tree” by Sandy Tolan,
about the devastation of Palestine after ww2, of Arabs families forced from their homes to
make way for the disheveled European Jewish people. Told through the eyes and voices
of an Arab boy and a Jewish girl who have been born in war and forced in and out of
their homes and struggle through out their live trying to understand the war between
Palestinians and Israelis. This may not be the same country or people, as Najarro uses to
express her views on the devastations of war and want, but I believe that the Shiite boy
represents not only his people but all the people who are living in devastation, in worlds
consumed in war, taken over by other countries more powerful and wealthier, a world
devastated not only by outside forces but also by its own people, fractioning from the
inside out.
In other war torn countries as Iraq, there are wars upon wars, as the Sunni and
PGR 192
Shiite war that have gone on for decades. In Israel for instance there have been inside
conflicts with the Arabs against Jews, Arabs against Arabs and Jews against Jews. Outside
views may show an unorganized war addicted country, but it is difficult to understand
wars that have been raging for centuries, we may view these people as living in nothing
but war, but we do not understand the history of these countries or people to hold such
violent view on a whole people . “It has come to this: the hatred between Iraq’s warring
sects is now so toxic, it contaminates even the memory of a shining moment of goodwill”
(www.time.com). In these wars the people have to fight for their rights and for their
freedom., for the Palestinians it maybe for their homes, that were taken away after ww2.
There is so much about the Palestinian and Israeli war we do not understand, so much
under the surface, it makes it hard to believe that the U.S., a country so young feels it has
the right to interfere in the politics and warfare of centuries of opposition. The mess made
after ww2, taking people from their homes, has yet to solve itself. We in America know
what to ask for, because we are privileged enough to know what we can have, and when
you live in a world that has little to offer and little chance of escape, such as Iraq or Israel,
what you want does not matter, but need rises to the top. We fight for oil and our lives of
want; they fight for need, for life and freedom.
The meaning of god even in war can become meaningless when all you know and
all you see is violence and death “What is emerging in Iraq is a war of national resistance
that has transcended the religious divides that many had predicted would erupt into an
internecine civil war.” www.wsws.org. So “God” is not a religious figure in this poem but
a symbol, used to bring together a large population in order to open their eyes and help
them understand in a manner in which they can relate. According to the U.S. Religious
Landscape Survey 78.4% of Americans are some form of Christian religion and 4.7% make
up a variety of other religious beliefs including Judaism, Buddhism, Muslim, and many
others, with the last 16.9% a mix of undecided, Atheist and Agnostic. With more then Half
of the U.S. believing in some form of the word “God” there is a chance that a poem using
God in his most kind and purest form will be able to reach a large portion of Americans
drowning in the misuse of the “Martini” and open their eyes to cruelty of the world and
then, maybe then, we will see a change, a movement toward a unified world and kindness
to our neighbors.
Work Cited
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1592849,00.
html#ixzz0kqnYGOQs
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1592849,00.
html#ixzz0kqnt0kMp
“The Lemon Tree” By Sandy Tolan
http://www.ifamericansknew.org/
http://www.wsws.org/articles/2004/apr2004/iraq-a07.shtml
Stop the war on the Iraqi people; By the Editorial Board, 7 April 2004
http://www.drug-rehabs.org/alcohol-statistics.php
www.mindfully.org/Sustainability/Americans-Consume-24percent.htm
www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/post-traumatic-stress-disorder-ptsd/index.
shtml
www.gcmhp.net/File_files/ResearchJan2k9.htm
http://www.csun.edu/science/health/docs/tv&health.html
PGR 193
Pictures cited
-Martini tacky lamp galleria
tackylamp.com/gallery.html
tackylamp.com/lamps/Lg%20Martini.jpg
-Father caring his child’s body 2007
no2wars.wordpress.com/a-gaza-diary-chris-hedges/
no2wars.files.wordpress.com/2009/01/child_inj...
“A Gaza Diary” by Chris Hedges October 2001, printed in Harpers Magazine
-Back and White photo of a family gathered together watching TV
www.mentalfloss.com/.../family_watching_tv.jpg
www.mentalfloss.com/blogs/page/516?info=64
Escaping Your Fear
PGR 194
A critique of Jean Walton Wolff’s “The Ambassador,” by Julian Isonio
The short story “The Ambassador” by Jean Walton Wolff is a story about self
realization. The story tells the story of a man named John, who has spent the past
eighteen years living on a tiny island in the Caribbean, and is now returning to
the United States. This story to me is about how much experiences in our life
affect us, whether we want them too or not, what makes us a success or a failure,
and why we choose
to live our lives the
way we do.
“The
Ambassador” is
very easy, and fun
to read. It told an
interesting story,
that at face value,
simply describes
a man returning
home after many
years away.
However once you
start examining it
more closely, it’s
very representative
of behavior that we
http://www.imyam.com/Tropical/Island-fun.htm
all engage in. The
speaker of the story
describes how his decisions to move to the islands was on a whim, reading about
them in a magazine, and leaving a week later, “taking basically nothing.” He was
running away from his problems, as quickly as he could. Instead of staying, and
trying to patch things up with his wife, being there for his daughter, and finding
a new job, he moved to a tiny island. He was too scared to face his problems, and
try to find a resolution to them. It would be easy to chastise him for doing this,
but who can honestly say they wouldn’t at least consider doing the same thing?.
We hope that if we just ignore all of our problems, they will just go away, and
we won’t have to deal with them. They never do, however, and usually become
much larger the longer we ignore them. At some point, we have to just take a
deep breath, and jump in. In the story, the main character decides that he has to
leave. He also says that he is “a little relieved” to be finally leaving. Although he
has to leave his safe, comfortable island, and face the possibly harsh conditions
of his former life, he will no longer have the fact that he’s running away from his
problems.
Abandoning his old life to relocate to this remote island has cost him
dearly by the end of the story. As his plane leaves the island, he reflects upon how
his daughter has lived without him for most of her life. The characters reactions
to leaving his original life in the US and eighteen years later leaving his new life
in the Caribbean are very different. While on the island, he says that “it did not
matter, that I did not miss [my daughter] but I always did.” His life in the US is
the reality that he tries to escape, and forget about, while his time on the island
was his escape from that reality, and he wishes that he could stay there. He is
facing up to his life, instead of hiding away from it. At the end of the story, the
main character starts thinking about what he has accomplished the past eighteen
years, and starts to feel as if he has wasted them. He doesn’t want to appear as
failure in his daughter’s eyes. When he is asked what he has been doing on the
island for eighteen years, and responds “I am the ambassador” he is choosing to
not be a failure. Although he has not accomplished anything tangible, he is now
ready to face the life he ran from in fear.
PGR 195
My only complaint with it is that it feels too long, and could definitely
be shortened substantially. The story does a fantastic job of making the main
character feel like a real person, and in fact I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find
out this story in non-fiction. I can very easily identify with the themes expressed,
about how we react to problems in our life, and why we make our decisions.
Rights of Passage
PGR 196
A Critique of Ken Weisner’s Farm Work
By Lucas Narayan-Burns
“Farm Work” is a piece that captures the delicate balance between
childhood innocence and the assumption of responsibility that accompanies
being an adult; however, it bypasses all glorification of the subject to present a
stark look at the cultural implications of becoming a man. Through allusion to
the Vietnam War, the Ken Weisner parallels his own experience with the millions
of soldiers who were mentally scarred from the horrors of war. The duty forced
upon them overseas can be seen as a rite of passage, and this brings into question
the validity of having to prove oneself as an adult in our contemporary culture.
While it may be necessary to overcome challenges in order to fully grow into a
healthy and capable adult, using pain and violence as an initiation into adulthood
is an outdated principle that causes irreparable damage to members of our society.
A modern rite of passage should stimulate the development of emotional stability
and intelligence in our future adults, not leave them
“Farm Work” describes the Weisner’s memory of being made to dispose of
three wild kittens found while working at a kids’ summer camp. The first stanza
sets the scene immediately, pointing out the hypocritical nature of his duty:
drowning worked well, I was told
In free-love, anti-war, coastal northern California,
no one would have produced anything so connotatively disturbing
as a shotgun
Even in ‘free-love’ California, where principles of non-violence are supposedly
held highly, the murder he commits goes unnoticed. Weisner uses the word
‘connotatively’ ironically: he points out that the mere intent of violence a shotgun
presumes would be inappropriate, but drowning is perfectly acceptable. He
continues with more alternatives to back up his critique of the contradictory
values held:
a humane injection, ether, chloroform?
A long and expensive drive to the vet? Not a chance
This was a rural summer camp
Weisner describes the kittens, harmless themselves, but possessing a host of
problems that find no welcome at the camp:
So I collected three kittens…unnamed, hungry
for love, grey and white-scarred, cross-eyed, slow witted.
matted hair where the scalp was oozing,
diseased, motherless…a scourge
insinuating into the campsite
The main reason the kittens are such a danger to the camp is because they were
neglected, and would ultimately require care that no one was willing to give
them. The easiest solution is to kill them, instead of taking the time to address
their problems. Reasons for their immediate disposal are brought up, and the
author is forced to act; “Put all three in a plastic bucket,/started filling with a
hose.”
PGR 197
The kittens throughout the piece are used symbolically to represent
adolescence faced with the challenge of adulthood, and the shock of war as
experienced by the young soldiers of Vietnam. The third stanza goes into detail on
the kittens’ struggle during their drowning, but also alludes to the will fighting to
stay secure under stress:
But they pushed back, their bodies rigid, thrashing
somehow finding air pockets...
slipped around the shovel blade I tried next
to hold them under. Finally another similar bucket
fit inside and sealed the first… no air pockets.
In the same way the mind and body of person will struggle for clarity when in
a traumatic situation, the kittens fought for ‘air pockets’; they were eventually
defeated in their attempts, when the narrator fit another bucket into the first.
The bucket symbolizes an overwhelming force that crushes all resistance; many
soldiers who survived Vietnam came home with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,
leaving them devastated.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is an affliction that arises after undergoing
a life-threatening or terror-inducing situation, and it can result in damaging
changes to mental health and stability: “People with PTSD have persistent
frightening thoughts and memories of their ordeal and feel emotionally
numb”(NIMH). A government survey of Vietnam Veterans arrived at the
conclusion that “more than half of all male Vietnam veterans and almost half of
all female Vietnam veterans…have experienced “clinically serious stress reaction
symptoms”(National Center for PTSD). Instead of experiencing emotional and
intellectual growth during the transition out of adolescence, the youth sent
to Vietnam were shocked into a state of emotional turbulence that made their
adjustment back to normal life difficult.
In “Farm Work” Weisner draws our attention to this, and the second to last
stanza provides several instances of symbolism:
I was doing as I was told
Testosterone drenched—a mother’s boy, almost fourteen.
My brother’s friend, what was his name—never came home
from Vietnam. Each unwitting as a fetus
until I looked and saw the underwater scream.
Like the Vietnam soldiers, the narrator was doing what he was told, without
questioning the morality or psychological implications of his actions. He mentions
his brother’s friend, who never was comfortable after returning from the war. The
final two lines give a literal description of the drowned kittens, but figuratively,
they refer to the author and Vietnam soldier; both unknowingly thrust into
adulthood through violence, until faced with the submerged ‘scream’ of mental
distress.
The lack of an established rite of passage is a notable deficiency in our
culture. Though there are certain milestones associated with coming of age, such
as learning to drive, they lack an element of personal development; War and the
Soul describes the traditional rite as “a passage down a long corridor where we
are put through training and ordeals that prepare us for a rebirth as a new person,
with new status and new wisdom.” Problems arise when the military is the only
widely acknowledged training for young people. Instead of gaining a deeper
sense of individual identity, they are forced to fit a model that gives little insight
into their own self beyond superficial measures of accomplishment. An ideal rite
of passage would be rooted in understanding and care towards the transition out
of childhood, and ultimately produce well-developed adults better suited towards
living in the modern world.
Works Cited
Tick, Edward. “War As a Rite of Passage.” War and the Soul: Healing Our
Nation’s Veterans from Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. Wheaton, Ill.: Quest, 2005.
45-48. Print.
“Epidemiological Facts about PTSD.” National Center for Post Traumatic Stress
Disorder. US Department of Veteran Affairs, 03 July 2007. Web. 11 Apr. 2010.
“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).” NIMH · Home. Nation Institute for
Mental Health, 09 Apr. 2010. Web. 12 Apr. 2010. <http://www.nimh.nih.gov/
health/topics/post-traumatic-stress-disorder-ptsd/index.shtml>
PGR 198
http://www.durham-pa.gov.uk
Persephone in Autumn* Ann Kenniston
In the season of rotting fruit, when
crickets hiss their last requests
and petals flutter off
the late bloomers, beauty’s
final flare-up before the dead months,
I, who despise airports,
endings, whose sentences simply
trail off, feel for a moment regret’s
familiar throb, and harbor for a moment
the illusion I can choose among
several appealing options, only one of which
is obedience. No one had to teach me
beauty exists to embody the inevitable.
If I stand in an empty meadow, a golden
expanse that doesn’t wave or tremble,
it reveals the terrain in me
that’s withered, unredeemable.
If I elect a life of silence
and close my mouth around my tongue
to let it rest, doesn’t that demonstrate
I never learned to make a sound?
As if my love of sweetness
proves I know nothing
of bereavement, as if
*This poem was originally accepted for publication in PGR; however, it was
published elsewhere, preventing us from printing it.
PGR 199
I’ve gathered up
all the gold on earth to buy
what only confirms my poverty.
Living in Denial:
The Story of a Modern Day Persephone
PGR 200
Reeva Bradley’s critique of Ann Kenniston’s Persephone in Autumn
When tragedy strikes, it seems impossible to see beyond it. When I lost
a friend to a freak accident four years ago, it wasn’t real; I couldn’t let it be real.
I was so blinded by loss and sadness that I couldn’t let anything be right or
beautiful again. If people you love are going to die, if sorrow is inevitable, what is
the point of life? And what is the point of beauty if it is only going to fade? In the
poem “Persephone in Autumn,” the speaker says “As if my love of sweetness/
proves I know nothing/of bereavement . . .” this means that one who loves sweet
and beautiful things cannot understand others’ dismal lives. Therefore, the
speaker reasons, beautiful things are not useful if I am deluding myself by valuing
them. There is nothing to look forward to if the seasons of life lead to woe.
In this poem, the speaker finds herself in despair, and cannot see anything
except pain in her experiences of life. To her, beauty cannot truly exist if sorrow
is to follow. The author describes this poem as a means to convey the “sense of
entrapment and paralysis that I imagine Persephone felt,” (Appendix A) and
this feeling explains why she is inconsolable, why she cannot see beyond what is
impending.
In Greek mythology, Persephone is the daughter of Zeus and Demeter
(Demeter is the goddess of the harvest). Hades kidnapped her, making her queen
of the underworld. Demeter refused to let anything grow while Persephone
was missing, so Zeus sent for Persephone. However, Hades gave Persephone
pomegranate to eat, which forced her to stay in the underworld for a third of the
year. Her absence marks the season of winter, and her return marks the season of
spring (Lindemans).
The speaker is preparing for winter, because by comparison, Persephone
had to return to Hades in the winter, to the underworld of death and ending.
All the speaker can see is the coming months that give us dead flowers, cold,
and rain. She sees sorrow as an unavoidable ending to joy; the winter is an
unavoidable period of the year when little grows. She says “ . . .No one had to
teach me//beauty exists to embody the inevitable.” To her, beauty is simply
a vehicle for grief, because she has associated “beauty’s/final flare-up” in the
fall with the “dead months.” It is inevitable that Persephone will return to the
underworld each year, and it is inevitable that blooms will fade, and crops will
cease being harvested.
The speaker seems to be suffering loss that is unredeemable to her. She
says “ . . . and harbor for a moment//the illusion that I can choose among/several
appealing options, only one of which/is obedience. . .” In my interview with
the author, she explained, “I wanted to convey that the speaker is pretending to
herself that she has a choice, whereas in fact she partly recognizes that in fact, she
doesn’t—she MUST choose obedience, since she’s impelled to go to Hades on
“Rape of Persephone” by Luca Giordano 1684-1686
http://z.about.com/d/ancienthistory/1/0/c/e/2/rapeofPersephone.jpeg
PGR 201
“Hades and Persephone” by Tang Sin Yun
http://images.elfwood.com/art/s/i/sinyun/hades_persephone.jpg
schedule.” (Appendix A) The speaker is coping with what she knows is coming:
separation from her mother, which is surely a cause for distress.
In my interview with the author, she explained that her poem was
intended to express how painful it was for her to be shuttled back and forth
between houses, since her parents were separated when she was 10. She wrote
about Persephone in the autumn, anticipating the transition between earth and
the underworld (Appendix A).
In her description of these transitions, “I, who despise airports,//endings,
whose sentences simply trail off . . .” she is ignoring the cycle of life and death
that is intrinsic to being, because changes are painful to experience. She is living
in her denial of what good could develop from the cyclical nature of existence.
This is common for those who are grieving, they often go through a stage of
denial at first, before they can accept the loss and move on (www.essortment.com).
This myth may have something to teach us about sorrow—that it is necessary for
rebirth, and that loss is necessary for future gain, however because of her denial
she is not willing to consider this.
She describes standing in an empty meadow that only reveals what’s
withered and unredeemable in her. She asks that if she is silent, doesn’t that
mean that she has never learned to speak? These phrases suggest that what
seems beautiful and peaceful is hiding what is behind it, which is dead, sad, and
pathetic. To her, this is all an illusion that covers what is real.
The speaker chooses to undervalue herself here. She knows that she
can make a sound. What she suggests is only true in the absence of her, or in
the absence of everything that would be a witness to her life. Everything that
surrounds us, and everything that is within us, knows what we have to offer. But
in bereavement, we cannot let ourselves know that.
She is exhibiting the type of automatic negative thoughts that come with
the symptoms of depression, which often come with the loss of a loved one or
extreme grief of some sort. She cannot tell herself that things will get better; she
can only tell herself that things will always be the worst. (Comer, pg 235)
She will not let herself live fully when spring arrives, she cannot let herself
know that warmth will bring the flowers out again, just as I told myself that the
pain of losing my friend would never go away. Even though I think we need
sadness to understand what happiness is, living in denial is the way we cope with
the painful things in life. In this way we are kidnapped, like Persephone was by
Hades, by a season of winter: a period of loneliness and heartache.
PGR 202
Works Cited
Comer, Ronald J. Abnormal Psychology Sixth Edition. New York: Worth
Publishers, 2007. Print.
Lindemans, Micha F. Persephone. Encyclopedia Mythica, Mar. 1997. Web. 24
April 2010. <http://www.pantheon.org/articles/p/persephone.html>.
The 5 Stages of Grief. eSsortment, 2002. Web. 24 April 2010.
<http://www.essortment.com/all/stagesofgri_rvkg.htm.>
Appendix A
Transcript of Interview with Ann Keniston, author of “Persephone in Autumn”
Reeva Bradley: How long have you been writing?
Ann Keniston: Since elementary school. I wrote my first “book” of poems in 3rd
grade.
RB: What motivates you to write, and why did you begin to write?
AK: I always loved to read and wanted to be a writer. I had a babysitter when I
was about 9-11 who was a poet who also inspired me. When I was a kid I wrote
stories and my sister illustrated them.
RB: Do you write other forms of literature such as short stories?
AK: Not since childhood; since about junior high I’ve written poems only.
RB: What kind of topics do you choose to write about and why?
AK: I tend to write about things in my life I don’t fully understand but about
which I feel strongly. I try to understand and analyze emotion via poetic imagery,
juxtapositions, language, and form.
RB: What inspired you to write this piece?
AK: There are a lot of poems revising the Persephone story., especially by
women. My parents were separated when I was 10 and between the ages of
12 and 13 I used to travel back and forth between their houses/towns on the
train, which was very painful for me. So I wanted to imagine that aspect of
Persephone’s experience-the shuttling back and forth and the pain of those
transitions. Persephone is often imagined in winter or spring, and I wanted
to imagine her at a different season, one in which she’s anticipating the next
transition. I had also written several other poems about Persephone, one of which
is in my book alongside this poem, so I was interested in revisiting and reframing
this story.
AK: I don’t know if I can answer that question. I wanted to try to get inside
her consciousness, to instill my own experiences into the frame of her narrative,
which I find very powerful. I guess I wanted to explore something of the
confusion of childhood, or rather the experience of being at the cusp of adulthood.
RB: What would you like your readers to take from reading this piece?
PGR 203
RB: What was the mood you intended to convey?
AK: I hope that the poem will seem moving, a way of conveying an emotional
state that’s hard to convey in other ways.
RB: Why did you choose to write about it in this form (rather than a short story
or a prose poem)?
AK: This is the form in which I write, so it was the natural choice.
RB: Was there a particular event that inspired it?
AK: See above.
RB: Whom have you shared it with and why?
AK: I remember bringing this poem to a writing group in draft form. It was a
new writing group and I was nervous, but others in the group liked it, so I was
relieved! It’s been published several times-in the journal PEQUOD, in my poetry
book, and on the website Verse Daily.
RB: What did you mean by “. . . the illusion I can choose among/several
appealing options, only one of which/is obedience”?
AK: I wanted to convey that the speaker is pretending to herself that she has a
choice, whereas in fact she partly recognizes that in fact she doesn’t-she MUST
choose obedience, since she’s impelled to go to Hades on schedule. So I wanted
to convey that she needs to pretend to herself that she has a choice, even though
she partly knows she in fact doesn’t.
RB: What did you mean by “ . . . as if/I’ve gathered up all the gold on earth to
buy what only confirms my poverty”
AK: I wanted to convey another paradox. The speaker has been working very
hard to accrue something but realizes that she in fact possesses nothing. It’s
another way of exploring the sense of entrapment and paralysis that I imagine
Persephone felt.
PGR 204
RB: If you were to write another poem on the same topic, how would you
change your approach?
AK: I don’t think I’ll write more poems about Persephone. I feel that this was
a kind of necessary phase in my development as a poet, a way for me to engage
with the tradition of poems by women about this very powerful subject. But I
have no desire to write more of these. Maybe I feel that this isn’t a productive
subject for me, or by now I’ve read and taught so many poems on the subject by
others that I feel less interested in myth retellings. My work has moved into a less
narrative mode.
Taking a Life: the Cost of Killing
A critique of Farm Work, by Ken Weisner
By Nick Anderson
To decide when the right time to take a life requires bravery and courage
which surpasses the ordinary. It is something that people don’t like to do, even
though most of the time it may be necessary. Animals can get sick, harbor
disease, or break their bones; and euthanasia is sometimes the only choice in order
to stop the pain. Ranchers see this more often, because they have so many large
animals, like horses and cattle, that sometimes can’t recover. A great example of
this is Old Yeller, the dog develops rabies and the child is forced to shoot him.
With no doubt, this fictional story has disturbing truths about reality, but it is
essential in order to stop another beings suffering. “Farm Work” exemplifies the
notion of euthanasia and how hard it could be for someone to accomplish such
a horrifying act, even though it is something that has plagued parts of America.
“Some feline experts now estimate 70 million feral cats live in the United States”
(Mott). Too many of these cats can cause problems for humans as well, from
being eye sores, to being a breeding ground for diseases. The real heart of the
story questions if forcing children to do a man’s job is alright. This is why the
author alludes to the Vietnam War in the poem, as well as making our children
find ways to kill cats. The government was forcing teenagers overseas to fight for
a war they didn’t particularly care for. The experiences one might receive could
scar their psyche and if left to be a chronic condition it can tear apart families and
relationships.
The poem is 1st person narrative, written by the one performing the
euthanasia. It starts describing how he was told to dispatch the feral cats,
“drowning worked well”. It is written as if he is looking back on what he did,
which means there should be an undertone in what he writes. The way he writes
PGR 205
Randal Hilton
PGR 206
should carry the feelings that he felt during the experience. The first stanza
reveals key facts about who the narrator is. He starts off with sarcasm, calling
where he was “free-love, anti-war coastal northern California”. He doesn’t
believe this euthanasia carries any justice. He gives a list of other humane
possibilities besides drowning, but leaves it with “not a chance”. This implies that
he seems bitter about it, and now would prefer a more humane way. This would
be easier for him because there would be less of a struggle for him. The last thing
we learn about him in the first stanza is that he is at summer camp, the reason
for not being able to take them to the vet is because it is rural. Knowing he is in
summer camp gives a clue to the boys age, probably an adolescent.
The second stanza begins by describing the kittens that were collected.
The good characteristics and the bad ones are clearly separated, which helps
visualize the ratio between what is still good about the kittens and the macabre
features. There are three qualities to depict their cuteness and good, then it is
separated by a dash only leading to eight bad qualities. This ratio is 3/8, three
good qualities compared to eight bad ones. It is clever to have this, it helps me as
a reader understand and visualize how seriously feral these cats were. Near the
end of the stanza, he questions himself if he should just do the deed by a “Quick
blow to the head or twist of the neck”, but decided he hadn’t the nerve. These
are more clues indicating that he does not want to be in this position which he
was assigned to do, “a man’s job”. He then goes back to the proposed method of
drowning the kittens.
The next stanza is the most vivid, explaining in detail how the kittens
were euthanized. The most shocking part for me to read was the description of
their bodies as they were trapped in the bucket full of water with a board. In this
stanza, he has seemed to admit the unwillingness of his actions by confessing
to his lack of nerve; and desire for the easy way out. The next stanza goes into
horrifying detail of “their bodies rigid” as the frightened kittens fight to find air
pockets that are still left by the piece of wood. He also related their motions to as
if they were being electrocuted, which is shockingly true. There is also the feeling
of frustration that this was not as easy as it seemed to be. He tried next a shovel
head, which also let air trickle through, and finally a clear bucket that was near in
size and sealed the bucket, “no air pockets”. The fifth stanza shows his recognition that just the water alone is torture
for the small kittens, and has to re-convince himself that what he was doing was
not wrong, “I was doing as I was told”. This is also where the reader is informed
that he is no more than fourteen. He floats to the thought of his brother’s friend,
and how he never returned home from war. I think that this is the author possibly
reflecting on the fact that these young kittens were never going to make it back
to their home. Also stating how both, his brother’s friend and the kittens, never
knew that they would not make it back. The final image of this stanza being the
sight of “the underwater screams”.
In this, the final stanza, the author speaks of his true regret. He gives the
images of a light being turned off behind the kitten’s eyes. He also feels pride in
himself at the ability to do a man’s job and need no assistance. The price of fitting
into this man’s world would be the faces that he would see at night, “to trouble
my falling asleep”. Then, as if the need to clear his mind of the possible wrong
here, he reminds himself that they were feral, and everyone agreed that they did
not belong at their certified paradise; “they had to go”.
It is easy to see that this experience may have caused trauma to the boy.
Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) can interfere with everyday life. The fact
that the author is writing about this subject is a hint in itself that he has symptoms
of PTSD. “Symptoms of PTSD...Recurrent distressing memories of the event...
Repeated dreams of the event” (PTSD-traumatic Stress Disorder). This is
something that people have to face in order for them to grow, learning how to set
aside your feelings in order to finish a job that must be done. As a child though,
this could change your life. He now understands how horrible death is, even
though these were just random cats it affected him deeply. Looking at the glass
half full, it is easy to say he had it easy, at least it wasn’t a fellow human being. If
it was, there would be more of a effort to revive them; but if the deed had to be
done, then to bear that burden would sufficiently overcome that of the kittens.
Aspects of life and death would become much more serious to the child, which
could lead to holding a greater respect for everything around him.
Works Cited
Mott, Maryann. “U.S. Faces Growing feral Cat Problem.” National
Geographic News. National Geographic News, September 7, 2004. April 2, 2010.
PGR 207
“Post-traumatic stress disorder, https://health.google.com/health/ref/
Post-traumatic+stress+disorder, April 10, 2010.
Photo: http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.plumb-biz.
com/images/fun_orig/mangy_cat_among_pipes2.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.
plumb-biz.com/
A Diamond, called Jaded
A critique of Jaded, by Eric McIntosh
By Tony Purtscher
Being able to express feelings of romance to the opposite sex in order to
have those feelings reciprocated has been the struggle of men forever. When I was
a young man I had a plan to impress the girl of my dreams, and so on Valentines
day in 1997, I brought her a box of chocolates. Even though we were only in Jr.
High, being unoriginal and cliché made no positive impression on her at all. I
ended up heartbroken, but not before getting kicked in the shin and watching the
chocolates thrown in the trash. I didn’t know how to express myself back then,
and I’m still no match for poets like Erich McIntosh.
One of the most common forms of flattery is the allegorical way of
expressing how great is the love and desire of one for another.
In Randy Travis’ song “Deeper than the holler”, Randy uses almost every
cliché imaginable to describe his feelings towards his love.
PGR 208
My love is deeper that the holler, stronger than the rivers
Higher than the pine trees growin’ tall upon the hill
My love is purer than the snowflakes that fall in late December
And honest as a robin on a springtime window sill
And longer than the song of the Whippoorwill
The song goes on to list many more common ways of saying “I love you”. While
its a catchy tune, making its way to the billboard as #1 in 1988, the fact is none of
what Travis says is all that great. In fact its pretty dull. Love is exciting, not exactly
the idea that comes to mind when I think of a lone pine tree up on a hill.
In Erich McIntoshs’ slam poem “Jaded” his profession of love is explosive.
Like the very nuclear bomb he relates it to. The intense imagery he uses and the
natural pace at which the poem is read is inclined to raise the heart rate, like
the effect of being next to that cute girl in math that was always the centerfold
of my lustful daydreams. His writing goes from romantic to scientific and from
compassionate to lustful. One line may be sweet and the next jumping out off the
page to stir dirty thoughts. But McIntosh has an amazing capability of tying the
lines together into a flow that works.
McIntoshs’ use of non cliché allegories sets his work apart and shows his
love is set apart. From lines like “your dreams;
Are as precious as the stone you are named after,
And I wish mine would drift from the same pillow.”
To “This body makes Mount St. Helens look like a fucking campfire”
As he seesaws between the extreme, the much less dramatic and back again
McIntosh doesn’t hesitate to bear all his thoughts “ I want to know which teeth
bite your lip when you cum; and what you want for breakfast”.
While this poem is meant for a specific audience, an audience of one
person in particular, Mcintosh wrote the poem to be performed in front of many
others, hoping the only listener he wrote it for would be there to hear. That creates
an interesting dichotomy, while love is intimate and personal and his poem is
addressed to an individual, he is writing it in order to perform it in front
of a crowd. The poem is full of metaphor, but the very nature of his impending
performance of the poem itself is yet another allegory to the testament of his love.
He is not afraid to show either his feelings, or his work inspired by his feelings to
the world, and for that any recipient should be flattered!
One of the things I liked most about the poem was the fact that unlike
many other romantic poems by other authors, the personal touches Mcintosh uses
make it impossible for someone to plagiarize off it and give it to their love. His
personal touches make it so much more.......Personal.
A quick search on Yahoo for Romantic Poems turned up several Million
websites, the whole first page adverstising “Free romantic poems”. One website
proclaimed “Poems make wonderful gifts to give your partner! Reading a
romantic poem to your true love can be a perfect way to show your true feelings.”
The website contained a library full of unoriginal, cliché poetry.
I love you with all I am
And all I’ll ever be.
You are my moon, my sun and stars,
My earth, my sky, my sea.
My love for you goes down and down
Beneath both life and death,
So deep it must remain when I
Have drawn my last faint breath.
Holding you for months and years
Will make Time disappear,
Will make your lips my lips, your face
My face, your tear my tear;
Unlike the Mass produced poetry found on websites like that one, the fact that
I can enjoy Mcintosh’s piece meant so personally for someone else attests to the
poems power, originality and sincerity.
McIntosh’s work is by no means stereotypical. It is bold, blunt and risky.
“jaded” is not the type of poem that comes to mind when considering what type
of poetry to give a woman. I think If I could have had some advice from McIntosh
back in 97, I may still not have gotten the girl, and I may have still ended up
getting kicked in the shin, but it would have been for a much better reason than
just cheap chocolates.
Works cited:
Unknown, Sinply romantic ideas. 24 April 2010 <http://www.simply-romanticideas.com/short-romantic-love-poems.html>.
Travis, Randy, “Deeper than the Holler.” Old 8X10, Warner Bros. 1998.
PGR 209
Will make us one strange personage
All intertwined in bliss,
Not man or woman, live or dead-Just nothing--but a kiss!
Fear and Loathing on Klosterman, In Utero, and
Sociopathic Cult Leaders
PGR 210
A Critique of Chuck Klosterman’s Eating The Dinosaur
By Shaun Molloy
Chuck Klosterman recently released his fourth collection of essays.
Very impressive when you think about what he is generally writing about:
intensive musings on the Pop Culture that consistently effects our lives. Whether
it is the relationship between real-life and The Sims, or how Thom Yorke (of
Radiohead fame) accidentally predicted 9/11, Klosterman is always able to take
such unimportant topics and somehow transfer them into a bigger and more
interesting context; basically long-form journalism. He has written for Spin, The
Washington Post, Esquire, and even taught English at a university in Leipzieg,
Germany. Klosterman may have experience, but this definitely doesn’t mean his
writing is for everybody; come to think of it, this writing for the type of person
who over thinks, over analyzes, and over explicates Pop Culture’s significance
in our modern world. What Chuck Klosterman is providing us with is Gonzo
Journalism for the modern world, and maybe more people should hop on.
Originally noted for his first novel, Fargo Rock City (a great account of
one’s love for all things 1980’s Hair Metal), Klosterman was able to jump onto
Spin’s alternative approach to Journalism. In doing so he was able put forth
some successful novels, land positions with some prestigious journalism teams,
and eventually get to the point where he can write whenever he wants and
occasionally contribute articles to magazines (sounds like a pretty awesome set
up to me). Now, perhaps the most accurate review I have ever seen about the
author is Kyle Smith’s in People stating that “Klosterman is like the new Hunter
S. Thompson. Only it’s as if Hunter were obsessed with KISS instead of Nixon”
(Klosterman I). What makes this semi-comedic viewpoint accurate is because it
is so absolutely true: like Thompson, Klosterman also has a wild and comedic
intellect to his writing that one doesn’t get too much in writing (let alone modern
journalism), yet the subject matter may not be for everyone. What these writers
share, is a common fact that both men run/ran (respectively) a business of
selling people on nothing more than laughably subjective articles; it’s just that
Klosterman is more concerned with Corn Flakes than the “Hell’s Angels.”
“I don’t get any satisfaction out of the old traditional journalist’s view -- ‘I
just covered the story. I just gave it a balanced view.’ Objective journalism is one
of the main reasons American politics has been allowed to be so corrupt for so
long. You can’t be objective about Nixon” (Hahn). This is Hunter S. Thompson
musing on the death of Richard Nixon. Despite his throwing in of the usual
acerbic sting on the topic, he also gives his own viewpoints on the form of
journalism he mastered years ago: Gonzo. A close friend of Thompson, Loren
Jenkins, gave an interview after Thompson’s suicide, in which she tried her best
to explain the “Gonzo” style of journalism. To her, “it was really about personal
PGR 211
involvement of the writer with the subject, and using the tools of literature to
address reality” (Gaffney). This is really what makes Thompson such a sudden
comparison for Chuck Klosterman: it’s all about the involvement here.
In the opening pages of Chuck Klosterman’s second collection, Sex Drugs
and Cocoa Puffs, the writer explains that this book “is an evening book,” and that
“it was written in those fleeting evening moments just before I fall asleep,” which
are the moments where Klosterman feels like he can “understand everything”
(Forward I). This is something that is very important to remember when reading
Klosterman’s work: always keep in mind that all of these ideas are merely his
ideas about his experiences that he over thought. And that Gonzo sensibility,
to put out literature bordering between fiction and journalism, and to run on
mere experience is what might make Klosterman the antithesis of someone’s
evening read: why would anyone want to read somebody’s personal rants on Pop
Culture? I’m not entirely sure, and come to think of it, I’m not even sure why I do.
That being said, a s a long time reader of Chuck Klosterman, I of course
had to pick up this new novel of his titled Eating The Dinosaur. I guess the
ultimate question everyone is probably just dying to have answered is if this
book is good or not. Well to answer that simply I would have to say, “Yeah, sure.”
Nothing more. Nothing less. I don’t feel that this book is any sort of bible of Pop
Cultural intellectualism, but it certainly isn’t bad either; it’s just kind of in this
plain of existence where being a fan really helps. The number one criticism with
this book (without even beginning to scratch the surface of what’s actually in it) is
that these here are topics that would not interest the average bear; what we have
here is some point between mild interest and Klosterman’s obsessions. Now for
someone like myself (who may slightly over think the topic of media), this book is
basically the embodiment of what I do on my free time anyways; sitting around
and talking about inane cultural references until they no longer really mean
anything. However, this is what Klosterman does most effectively: he takes points
that shouldn’t matter one bit and uses them to question what the human existence
basically is. These topics may seem unimportant, inane, and hollow, but like it or
not, this is our culture here, and I think that’s pretty goddamn important.
Almost immediately into Eating The Dinosaur, we see Chuck Klosterman
in an almost entirely different head space than his other novels. Instead of the
usual comedic dissertation on whatever the topic is (Weezer, Kiss, Left Behind: The
Movie, etc.), we have a completely new Klosterman: one that is now famous and
self-aware. The first essay involves Klosterman’s musings on what being famous
and, even more so, what being the subject of a interview means. “If given a choice
between interviewing someone or talking to them ‘for real,’” begins the author,
“I prefer the former; I don’t like having the social limitations of tact imposed
upon my day-to-day interactions...” (Klosterman 2). Compared to the humorous
Gonzo of his earlier works, this in incredible sincere and personal in way that
the reader hasn’t been granted to until Eating was released. In a way, this allows
Klosterman the ability to make larger points than he previously could; the fame
isn’t adding credibility, but this new “insight” does come off as more trustworthy
and knowledgeable. The topics in the novel range from how Football is really the
most Liberal sport to how Pepsi’s new marketing campaign is reminiscent of
PGR 212
Barack Obama’s campaign for Presidency; it’s all fair game for Klosterman, and
he doesn’t miss a single beat. Another important aspect of Eating is the simple fact
that his writing style has infinitely improved over the years (let’s say... between
when he wrote for Spin and the publication of Downtown Owl [another one of his
novels]). This is also an incredibly huge point in that along with greater topical
weightiness comes greater need for writing chops that match (please excuse the
half-assed Spiderman reference that just occurred), for as mentioned earlier: this is
a different Klosterman than the one that wrote Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs.
So, I suppose that I should kind of let you know about one of my favourite
essays in here, eh? Well I’m a big fan of Oh, The Guilt. Klosterman makes a point
that I generally feel wouldn’t even cross most people’s minds: the undeniable
similarities between Nirvana leader Kurt Cobain and Branch Davidian leader
David Koresh. I know right? The point of the essay is completely summed up in
the use of two quotes, one by Cobain and one by Koresh, that Klosterman chose
very wisely. For starters, we have Koresh on being a cult leader: “There’s nothing
that hurts me more than being called a cult leader. If I’m wrong, people like me
don’t deserve to live.” Then comes Cobain responding to a question aimed at
him about his near-messianic worship from Generation-X: “Look: I’m just an
instrument, okay? I show them, out of a book, what God teaches. Then it’s for
them to decide” (Klosterman 44). What’s visible to the reader after seeing these
quotes, is that both men refuted the idea that they were cult leaders, but in doing
so, making themselves sound like cult leaders. Well, to better understand what a
cult leader is in the archetypical sense of the word, we better take a quick look at
David Koresh.
Using direct quotes from a Psychiatrist explaining Koresh we see a
man who has a certain “preoccupation with persecution” and had suffered
from “bizarre delusional ideas coupled with obvious indifference to social
expectations” which Klosterman argues that despite being “mostly manufactured
by society” made up the “core qualities of Cobain” (29). What makes this
sentiment intriguingly comedic, yet creepily accurate is that Kurt Cobain (and
all of Nirvana for that matter) was essentially a cult leader... that is if you view
people worshiping a song about libidos cult-like. Klosterman obviously considers
this to be of importance, and it is. How I have always viewed Cobain is as an
almost messianic figure who was able to perfectly encapsulate what being a
young adult in 1990’s America really felt like, and what we see with David Koresh
is an almost exact background story compared to Cobain’s, and ultimately (but in
it’s own sort of fucked up way) the same kind of public embodiment.
Both Koresh and Cobain were failures in their earlier years (actually both
dropped out of High School), played guitar semi-well (obviously true talents will
never be known), and were able to spearhead an entire movement (considering
the apparent differences between a religious cult and a radio rock movement
from the early nineties). The thing to keep in mind though is just how these two
men were able to use their “underdog” backgrounds to channel themselves into
the media, American culture and ultimately change the life (for better or worse)
of many-a-people. Now, were these two specific characters needed to make this
point? No, not at all, but due to their similarities and parallel era of existence
they are a match made in Heaven. I’m getting ahead of myself though (I haven’t
discussed what this is really all about) and maybe it’s time to take a step back and
look at what this all really means.
As I’m writing this essay (on something, I might add, you probably wont
remember in the morning) I’m listening to Nirvana’s third full-length: In Utero.
This was the album that was supposed to clean out all of the people that jumped
the bandwagon after the success of “Smells Like Teen Spirit;” this album was
supposed to be ugly. What the album actually did was give people a pseudoartistic album to mention so they could try to impress their friends. I mean to
say that despite it being undeniably great, it just isn’t necessarily the dissonant
inaccessible record it was supposed to be; you could still to dance to these tunes.
And so the album became: an album that made the listener feel smart for listening
to it. That of course leads to people really looking into the music and thus creating
the type of person who considers Kurt Cobain to be an all mighty God. He made
open-ended music that people were able to get into in an incredible manner and
he gained his mass of followers on that day in September of ‘93. Now, the next
thing that of course comes is how Cobain was indeed looked at as a messianic
figure for nineties Alt-Rock and this creates somewhat of a “cult.”
It is true that maybe this all is the drivel of somebody who may be over
thinking one album and thus using that to defend the logic of Kurt Cobain, the
rock star, being compared to David Koresh, the cult leader, but if you feel that
way then you should probably never read anything by Chuck Klosterman because
this is all how his brain functions-all the time. However, if you were into this
type of topic and may be intrigued by the notion of the “Unabomber Manifesto”
being defended about how accurate it really is (and by the beard of Zeus [or by
the beard of the Ted Kacynski, I suppose] it is), then you would probably really
dig what this author has to say about all of those things that you really think about
deep down when you’ve had one too many beers.
Daffney, Brett M. “Gonzo Journalism: A Hybrid.” Theocrit. Web. 10 May 2010.
<http://theocrit.sfasu.edu/docs/spring2009/Gonzo%20Journalism.pdf>.
Hahn, Matthew. “Atlantic Unbound - Interview with Hunter S. Thompson.” The Atlantic Online. 26 Aug. 1997. Web. 11 May 2010. <http://www.theatlantic. com/past/docs/unbound/graffiti/hunter.htm>.
Klosterman, Chuck. Eating The Dinosaur. New York: Scribner, 2009. Print.
Klosterman, Chuck. Foreword. Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture
Manifesto. New York: Scribner, 2004. Print.
PGR 213
Works Cited
Uninspiring Poetry Leads to Bad Writing Habits
PGR 214
A Critique of Pamela Rivas’ Arising
By Shaun Molloy
My first attempt at writing this essay was an utter shit-storm; probably one
of the worst essays I’ve ever written. It was essentially me regurgitating things read
in a quasi-terrible poem. That’s right, the poem (“Arising”) that is essay is about
is really not that good. At. All. I thought it was great the first few times I read it,
and when it came time to pick submissions, I really pushed for it to be in this year’s
Porter Gulch Review. Well, what a rotten idea that was. After going back and getting
down to the business of doing a final draft of this very “review,” I was stricken
with a miserable thought: maybe the reason this paper was originally so goddamn
terrible was because I just didn’t understand the poem and subject matter at the
time. Well, I started to think about how I have done some research on the terrorist
attacks that took place on September 11th, 2001, and how I should be able to write
a four page essay on the subject without sounding like a complete idiot. Well, I
wasn’t able to, and I think a large part of the reasoning behind this is that I just
really don’t feel too passionate about “Arising” anymore; it’s just a poem full of
pseudo-Beat language, and self-aggrandizing nonsense.
Now, the poem itself isn’t terrible, but there are definitely some lackluster
lines strewn throughout this lengthy (by PGR standards of course) piece. Sections
such as the “Robins’ breasts whitened. Fireflies burst into flames” (Rivas), prove to
be quite affective in their tone and language; however, these two lines aren’t able to
negate the nasty taste that the rest of the poem seems to leave in one’s mouth. What
originally drew me towards this poem was the fact that it was the only poem in the
collection that reminded me of my personal favourite, Allen Ginsberg, but sadly,
this poem isn’t quite as promising as I once had thought.
Ginsberg’s poetry has always been a major influence to me and my own
poetry, and so whenever I see something that could viewed in the same light,
I always get a tad overexcited; this is exactly what happened. Ginsberg’s style
was always that of a mystery to me; it’s vague, unnerving, romantic, freeing,
straightforward, sexual, and most of all: powerful. The man took the experimental
nature of Walt Whitman and completely blew it up into a new dimension. With
one of my favourite poems by Ginsberg, “American,” we are given fantastic lines
such as, “Asia is rising against me. I haven’t got a chinaman’s chance” (Ginsberg),
which, in my mind, not only exhume one’s deepest emotions, but also effectively
makes a harsh criticism on American politics. Well, the first poem that came to
mind whilst reading “Arising” was, of course, Ginsberg’s poem “America.” While
this may not be a fair comparison to make (especially when criticizing one), I feel
like I must, mostly because Rivas is going for a style that Ginsberg mastered back in
the fifties, but also because I can’t stress this enough: if you want free-form “Beat”
poetry, don’t waste your time with “Arising;” it’s merely an uninspired poem that
can be replaced by virtually anything that Allen Ginsberg has put out. So now,
that has been said, and I almost feel guilty comparing an up-and-coming author to
Allen Ginsberg, but really... it’s more similar than you may think. When
I see lines such as “It was her path – honeycombs empty – but she was on it”
(Rivas), I can’t help but look through pages of text just to find something like,
“America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies” (Ginsberg); it’s an uphill battle,
and sadly “Arising” just does not stand a chance. When going for the surrealist,
experimental thing, you really need to have your shit together, and like I continue
to hammer away at: Rivas doesn’t have her shit together on this poem.
Even writing this short essay is getting difficult for me, “Arising” makes
me feel nothing. Nothing. At. All. I really wish it did, I really want to be able
to do this poem justice, but I can’t, and I don’t think the poem is going to help
me with this either. This is a major shock to me, because really, while musing
on the poem and contemplating what its problem really is, I discovered that
for a poem that is supposedly about September 11th, it sure as Hell doesn’t
remind me of the devastation. This, however, is something that “Arising” does
magnificently well: it makes such a pivotal moment of my life seem pedestrian
and unaffecting. None of the language in the poem is remarkable in anyway, and
even the “ssssssssun drop drop sundrop” (Rivas) section of the poem that I once
found encapsulating just seems over-the-top and pretentious (it goes on for eight
fucking lines!!); it doesn’t add a single thing to the poem, at all. Then in some fit of
self-referentialism (new word?), the author has the audacity to go as far as writing
a section of the poem about the same poem. Essentially the section involving
“Judge: Strike the next lines... spilled the steps” (Rivas), is some out of nowhere
bullshit that is about as important as water would be to someone who is starving.
If there was any evidence to support the claim that this poem is self-aggrandizing
and just too far lost in pretension, it is that section of the poem. Sometimes
the self-reference thing works out well (when it is used for humour’s sake),
sometimes it works out moderately well (kind of like when Arrested Development
got canceled and they actually refereed to it in the show), and sometimes it just
comes off as crass (kind of like this poem!). The reason this section of the poem
ruins any credibility that it might have had in the first place: why the fuck would
anybody try to talk about their own stupid fucking poem when they are talking
about September 11th? Jesus Christ. Not only is it somewhat inappropriate, out of
place, and just plain silly, it also just doesn’t fit, in any way, shape, way, or form.
I really have nothing left to say about this poem, because the more I think about
it, the angrier I get, and I really have no room for that. Read “Arising” if you like,
it has its moments, but overall it’s the same pretentious, dementia-inducing shit
that has been pumped out ever since the reemergence of the Beat’s popularity.
Ginsberg, Allen. “America.” Collected Poems 1947-1997. New York:
HarperCollins, 2006. 154-56. Print.
Rivas, Pamela. “Arising.” Porter Gulch Review 25 (2010): 8. Print.
PGR 215
Works Cited
Don’t Let Guilt Ruin Your Life
PGR 216
Critique of Dan Phillips’ A Father’s Love
By Courtney Mutz
I think we are all born with some sort of parental instinct, whether we
know it’s there or not, and as we get older these instincts intensify and become
more dominate. The result is parents who are overly protective and have an
extreme reaction to the littlest things when it comes to their children. Like when
a child falls down parents start panicking about a little cut or bruise and blame
themselves for not paying close enough attention to their child to prevent them
from getting hurt. I believe this parental instinct is one of the most dominant yet
destructive aspects of being a parent.
The poem, “A Father’s Love” is about a father who can’t stop feeling guilty
for letting his son and his friend take his rowboat out to sea because both the
son and his friend get swept away and die, as the father on the shore can’t do
anything but watch. Like most people going through a hardship, the father needs
something to turn to, in this case he chooses alcohol. The poem, “A Father’s Love”
actually takes place in a bar, as the father drinks to ease the guilt and the pain of
losing his son, thinking it was his fault. Similar to the father in this poem, may
people drink when they are depressed or feel guilty because they believe it will
help ease the pain and make them forget why their life is so miserable. Statistics
show that “up to 40 percent of people who drink, drink due to a depression
illness” (Depression And Alcohol abuse - alcohol depression). However, according
medical researcher, Ann Landers, using alcohol to get rid of depression does not
work because “when the alcohol wears off, you will be more depressed than ever”
(Landers). From my own personal experience with seeing how my loved one’s
react to losing someone, I believe that alcohol may be the drug or choice because
it is the quickest and easiest thing to get their hands on in order to attempt to
make the pain and guilt go away. After losing my father, I began to notice that my
brother started drinking a lot more than he normally had for social gatherings, to
the point where he would come home so drunk, and wouldn’t remember how he
had even ended up at the house. I believe that just like the father from the poem,
my brother was drinking as a way to escape from reality and the world where
he felt so angry that my dad was taken so soon, and guilty that he wasn’t here
enough to spend as much time with him as possible.
I believe, Dan Philips, the author of the poem, “A Father’s Love” writes
from personal experiences because of how well he expresses’ the feelings of the
father in the peom. Phillips either was the one who lost his son, or was close to
someone who lost their sonn, and watched how guilt from the situation destroyed
that person. In the poem, the father is well into his drinking because “he drains
his glass, then sets it down inside the stain of an old ring.” The father must have
been sitting in this bar for a long time that his glass has made a ring on the bar.
The bartender in the poem tries to convince the father that it’s not his fault; the
bartender says, “a father’s love is stronger than any ocean.” However, the father
has already made up his mind, that he must head out to sea in his rowboat,
and if he makes it back to shore, then he will take that as a sign of forgiveness
for allowing his son to take his rowboat out there in the first place. The author
had to have had experienced something like the father in the poem in order to
have such depth and insight into the situation. The author has to be a father or
watched his own father go through this because the writing and description of the
poem has parent written all over it. Just from reading the poem, I got a sense of
overwhelming love and devotion to this child that the father lost. It is the intense
parental instincts that progressively grow over time that make the poem so
powerful and heart wrenching, this could have only come from a parent.
Guilt is one of the most powerful emotions a person can feel. In Webster’s
dictionary guilt is defined as “the state of one who has committed an offense
especially consciously; feelings of responsibility especially for imagined offenses
or from a sense of inadequacy” (Webster). The most likely person to feel guilt and
feel it more than half of their lives is a parent. The reason parents are so likely to
be the one’s that feel guilty is because of their parental instincts that cause them to
feel guilt every time something happens to their child. They feel this guilt because
they believe they could have done something to prevent their child from getting
hurt mentally, physically, or emotionally. The parent always believes they could
have stopped it from happening. Although guilt is never a good thing to feel, its
what makes the world go around, because if the world didn’t have an guilt in it,
then everyone would just go on hurting people and feel no remorse or sadness for
what they had just done. Also, watching a parent show guilt towards there child
for letting them bump their head is what teaches us kids what we are suppose
to do when we become parents, and although we may not understand it now, I
know we will when that day comes, when our children bump their heads on a
table and think to ourselves, “I could have prevented that from happening, some
way or another” and at that moment we will all realize that we are just like our
parents.
Works Cited
“A Father’s Love.” David Sullivan’s 1B Reader (2010). Print.
“Depression And Alcohol abuse - alcohol depression .” Alcoholism and
Depression. Glam Publisher Network, 2005. Web. 7 May 2010. <http://www.
depression-guide.com/alcohol-and-depression.htm>.
Lander, Ann. “What You Need to Know About Alcohol and Depression.” About.
com. Ed. June Russel. N.p., 28 Sept. 2007. Web. 30 Mar. 2010. <http://depression.
about.com/od/drugsalcohol/a/alcoholanddep.htm>
PGR 217
“Guilt.” Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary. 2010. Merriam-Webster Online. 30
March 2010. <http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/guilt>
Using the Mind to Stay Alive
PGR 218
A critique of Frances Itani’s Remembering the Bones
Atlantic Monthly Press
By Courtney Mutz
Remembering the Bones is the eighth and last book to be published by
Frances Itani. Remembering the Bones is a fictional novel, filled with excitement,
suspense, and very relatable events and experiences. As you begin to read
Remembering the Bones, you will notice that it is broken down into three
parts, and in each part there are different sections mostly pertaining to a bone,
like in part one there’s a section called femur, or in part three, there’s only one
section and its titled skeleton. With every bone, that the main character Georgie
remembers, it triggers a new memory to come forward and she reflects on her life
as a wife, daughter, granddaughter, and mother. These memories and recollection
of the bones she has in her body is the only way Georgie can tell if she is alive as
she sits at the bottom of the ravine waiting to be rescued. Itani uses flashbacks,
as an inventive way to show the past without actually going back. She uses vivid
descriptions and depicts each scene with elegance and style, so you feel like you
are actually there.
In part one of Remembering the Bones, there are six subparts, the part that
kick starts this whole book is the ravine. The ravine is described as a swampy,
cold, dark place where Georgie is destined to lie at the bottom of throughout the
entire book. Georgie keeps reminding herself that she is alive and needs to keep
trying, although it is painful, to drag herself toward the relative safety of her
car, during her several attempts she realizes she may instead be inching toward
death. As she lies on the cold ground, she wonders, “if only I had a blanket to
pull over my head. I’ve nothing to cover myself with. It’s the cold that needles
away at my flesh, a slow steady stitch” (Itani 95). Georgie reflects that “people
die holding their secrets, their loves, their pains” (Itani 29). The novel’s central
question becomes not so much as “Will Georgie live?” but “What has Georgie’s
life meant?” What questions come to mind if you know you are on the verge of
death, was this life and what I have done with it worth it? Could I have done
something differently? Do I have any regrets? And as Georgie lies at the bottom
of the ravine this is what is going through her mind as she tears apart and recalls
everything she has done up to that point in her life. Which, for Georgie, means to
try and remember all of the bones in her body, like she did when she was a child
reading her grandfathers old Gray’s Anatomy books. “Henry Gray’s Anatomy
of the Human Body (or Gray’s Anatomy as it has commonly been shortened) is
an English-language human anatomy textbook”, published in 1918, had over a
thousand pages of pictures and analysis of each bone and organ in the human
body (Gale). Itani uses the Gray’s Anatomy book as a way to help Georgie figure
out which of her bones are broken and which ones she can still use in order to
help her survive.
Throughout the book, the bones are what holds Georgie’s story together from
inside the narrative. Presented in its own way, each fragment of memory is
fascinating because Itani finds a way to connect it with each bone in her body.
The recollection of Georgie’s memories, move from her childhood fears and
discoveries to the conflicted joys and pains of adulthood. The names of other
bones summon memories of meeting her husband, Harry, and of their “polio
honeymoon,” during which she had to rush her raving and suddenly hostile
bridegroom back home, so his terrifying illness could be diagnosed (Itani 254).
Itani cleverly brings them together, dipping into the past to illuminate the present
moment. As the book progresses and Georgie remains at the bottom of the ravine
for who knows long, because “the watch her late husband gave her is now
broken”, she becomes weaker and weaker, and has to rely on her memories even
more to keep her alive (Itani 26).
As time goes on though, memories cannot be the only thing that keeps you alive.
The only recollection of time that Georgie has is leaving from her house to head to
the airport to fly to London to go to the Queen’s birthday luncheon, “Georgie is
the one who was born the same day as the Queen, April 21, 1926” (Itani 2). Then
all she recalls is driving off the side of the road into the ravine and is now lying
there, either waiting to die or to be rescued. But as days go by, her chances of
being found become smaller and smaller. Itani builds such emotional complexity
that the novel’s ending, which is both inevitable and surprising, is as subtle as it is
wrenching.
Itani is a great writer that knows how to twist and turn her audience, so they
can’t put the book down. Remembering the Bones goes deeply into the life of
an ordinary person who, in her instincts to survive, becomes extraordinary. In
one review, Newsday says, “Itani is an artist who understands what to include
and what to leave out, when to shout” (Newsday). This definitely applies to
Remembering that Bones. A slow read at first, but once you get into the middle of
the book, you wont be able to put it down. It grabs a hold of you and leaves you
questioning throughout the entire book, “Will Georgie survive? Will someone find
her in time?” You’ll just have to read the book to find out, now wont you?
Work cited
Gale, Thomas. “Henry Gray Biography.” Book Rags. “Thomson Corporation, 2005.
Web. 5 May 2010. <http://www.bookrags.com/biography/henry-graywap/>.
Newsday. “Remembering the Bones.” News From Atlantic Monthly Press. New York:
Atlantic Monthly Press, 2007. Print.
PGR 219
Itani, Frances. Remembering the Bones. New York: Atlantic Monthly Press, 2007. Print.
Creator of Classics:
What He Did, Spare the Drama
PGR 220
A critique of Sam Peckinpah’s Feature Films by James Tashnick
Sam Peckinpah, famous director of a series of films that remain
controversial to this day, has proven to be a person of substantial interest, not only
for his film’s gritty depiction of violence in society, but also for his personal battles
off screen, which “has often overshadowed his professional legacy” (Wikipedia).
For those who have not heard of him, it remains feasible that many of his movie
titles, if not his name, may ring a bell: The Wild Bunch, The Ballad of Cable Hogue,
Straw Dogs, and many more. However, to understand what made these pictures
classics, if not only their tenacious reputations, one must look past the drama
and altercations that have regretfully stood out in Peckinpah’s career, and closely
observe his characters, for their complexity is what has stood out to make the
films what they are.
Bernard F. Dukore’s book, Sam Peckinpah’s Feature Films, respectfully spares
the details of the director’s personal life, which has been covered in multiple
biographies and documentaries, leaving room to painstakingly observe and
explain Peckinpah’s work. Within the first few pages, Dukore makes it clear that
“[t]his book does not focus on the personal aspect of how Peckinpah managed
to do what he did, [...]. Many of these tales-[...]- are so fascinating that they have
assumed the stuff of popular lore” (Dukore, Peckinpah’s Films. 8-9). After a quick
introductory chapter, the reader is left with a chief understanding of the kind of
person that Peckinpah was along with the in-sight of how involved he was in his
films. And due to the fact that I had not taken the time to ever watch his movies
before reading Sam Peckinpah’s Feature Films, I believe it says a lot about the book
that I was immediately interested in this director’s work after reading only a little
bit about him.
Whenever the idea of classic western films are brought up, it is so easy,
at least for me, to automatically think of Clint Eastwood for obvious reasons.
Watching many of his 1960’s classics, it becomes fairly apparent as to how straight
forward the characters of these films are. Take The Good the Bad and the Ugly for
instance. The title itself justifiably describes the three main characters of the film,
and the rest is left to an epic ad-venture with over the top action scenes that
ultimately define the spaghetti western. Peckinpah’s characters on the other hand,
have been described as “often loners or losers who desire to be honorable, but are
forced to compromise in order to survive in a world of nihilism and brutality”
(Wikipedia). The complexity of these characters gives Dukore a wide variety of
subject matter in which he makes a series of very interesting points that I found
myself relating to in thinking “what would I do in that situation?” Furthermore,
he describes the philosophical writings of Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus,
which greatly interested Peckinpah, making a rather large series of connections
between their work in stating that “existence precedes essence, which is to say
that what human beings are or should be follows their actuality or appearance on
earth” (Dukore) This is used as a basis to interpret the actions of Sam’s characters
Works Cited:
Bernard F. Dukore, Sam Pechinpah’s Feature Films, 1999 Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois, April 2010, print
Wikipedia Search: Sam Peckinpah
PGR 221
in assuming that if you exist, you are making choices, even if you chose to do
nothing.
Although the book is filled with interesting points and arguments, it’s
understandable that for those who have not seen Peckinpah’s films, you may
have to put it down early on and rent some of his movies. The target audience,
no doubt, are the fans so Dukore does not leave anything to surprise. That is to
say, if you wish to see The Wild Bunch for the first time and not know the ending,
THIS BOOK WILL SPOIL IT FOR YOU. But for those who have seen the movie
in which Dukore is analyzing, I feel that the reader will agree that the author is
dead on. In seeing Peckinpah’s first large scale film, Major Dundee, I was able
to identify much more with the characters having reading that “the film seems
strongly to stress Dundee’s inabilities and insecurities: his need of Tyreen’s [(his
rival)] assistance in order to accomplish his self-imposed mission, his helplessness
when Tyreen might break his word and join his fellow Confederate soldiers, and
his noninterference in the apparently imminent race riot” (Dukore). Having seen
this perspective, it made for a much more intriguing viewing experience.
Dukore also leaves the plot summery of the films to a minimum, which
may work one way or another for the reader. He stays straight to the point and
does not retell whole stories unless they are to be closely analyzed and connected
with it’s characters. However, if you have not seen the film that he’s talking
about, it can be difficult to follow his points if the many names and titles become
jumbled. Not to say that this book can be impossible to follow, but some will
have to read it much more carefully than others, depending on their previous
knowledge of the films.
Seeing that the book is for Peckinpah fans and those who wish to study his
work, Dukore does a very good job at what he is trying to do, which is to break
down, analyze, and inform. However, it begins to feel like a textbook early on in
the second chapter as the author will focus on one film for several pages, mark
a pause, and start all over with the next film in line. He does not fail to make
connections between the different works of the filmmaker, but the book does not
flow from idea to idea. Because of this, one can likely open the book at random,
find a dotted spacing between paragraphs, and begin reading without having to
look back for reference. This may work well from the authors point of view, but I
found it tiring to have to begin reading with a clean slate so often.
Sam Peckinpah’s Feature Films, definitely lives up to it’s title, and I was
surprised by what I got out of it having not previously seen the director’s work.
I think it’s safe to say that the author, Dukore, was not only very well informed
on the subject matter, but you could get a sense of his passion for the films from
his enthusiasm and personal ac-counts in his writing. Although I could not
recommend this book for everybody, the die hard Peckinpah fans should be able
to power through it, expanding their understanding for his work to the next level.
Happy Hour Poet
PGR 222
A critique of Andrew Perry’s, Nothing Worth Mentioning by James Tashnick
Is it true that a few drinks could make a poet out of anybody? For social
circumstances, a well stocked bar can often become the spark to fire everybody
up, be it for better or for worse. However, with the “joyous and decreased
inhibitions” that come with the alcohol buzz, what about the forgotten thoughts
of the loner drunk (mybeer.getpaidfrom.us)? With everybody seeming to have
so much more to talk about after a couple beers, what will drunks do when there
is no one there to hear their rambling? The truth is that if they’re not already
talking to themselves out loud, their thoughts alone may be enough for them to be
labeled as attempted poets in the making.
Nothing Worth Mentioning..., a short poem by Andrew Perry, delves into
the mind of an unnamed individual who sits with his drink and dwells in his
distant thoughts, which tend to lack any direction or consistency. Unlike the
majority poems, the narrator is not meant to persuade the reader towards the
side of a certain argument, nor does he tell a story that leads to some dramatic
enlightenment or epiphany; instead, you’re to look through the eyes of a common
drunk who’s heightened emotions lead him to ramble on about anything that may
grab his attention in a cliché poetic style.
The writing begins with the narrator asking himself what drink he is
holding, which can lead to the assumption that he really doesn’t know the name
of his beverage, or that he is just too wasted to remember. The following lines
make it clear that the day is growing darker, emphasizing the fact that sun is
going down and that author’s “getting deep,” which can all be interpreted as
ways of saying that the character is becoming more and more inebriated. As he
goes on to de-scribe the condensation that’s formed on his glass, the narrator also
begins to speak of a certain female character that he is with at that time, and it
is made obvious that there is a bit of a love interest going on. However, the lack
of description of this second character adds more of a question opposed to any
insight because the author does not give any specifics as to her relevance to the
poem nor any advancement in the narrator’s thoughts. Instead, you read about
how she ‘bites his lip and kisses his cheek with her fingers,’ as if she was just
another sip of the drink.
By the middle of the reading, it is made clear that the setting does not take
place in a crowded area, such as a bar or party, but in a single room that looks out
over the beach. The drunken character sits on the edge of his bed and expresses
that his hand lies on the head of this significant other and that he ‘feels her drift
into sleep.’ Analyzing this picture, it can be argued that the narrator is alone in
reality, and that the ‘warmth at his side’ is nothing more than what has been
fueling his melodramatic thoughts that are the poem. Either that, or perhaps there
really is a wife or girlfriend that doesn’t mind going to sleep while others watch
her and continue to drink. Regardless of the author’s true intentions, you never
hear of this girl again once the ocean breeze grabs the narrator’s attention.
As the focus turns to the beach outside, the author continues to keep an
overly dramatic theme on account of his character’s intoxication. The narrator,
as if in a trance, “gravitates to-wards the sound of waves sloshing on sand,” (18)
and as he reaches the water’s edge, he waits for some sort of sign. Despite the
almost corny feel and lack of direction to the poem thus far, these aspects have
been very appropriate due to the character’s present circumstance. He is simply
act-ing the way that many people might after having enough to drink, for it is no
coincidence that people tend to be overly friendly at the bars, or really pissed off.
The fact of the matter is that a great majority of people can more than likely relate
to the narrator’s train of thought, because when you’re faded, you have those
heart-to-heart talks with whomever, whether they’re wanting to listen or not, and
if you happen to be alone, that won’t stop you from having those deep thoughts
regardless of what they’re about. It is why a poem with no central focus may be
written just for the sake of being expressive when one is lost in deep thought.
However, like many drunks before him that finally reach the peak of the tension
in waiting for some forthcoming sign, reality hits him like a brick. He is “just
another drunk” (18). Perhaps that is the enlightenment that he was meant to find
in his continuous rambling. It is then that he finds some humor in the situation
and heads back to bed, still rhyming and maintaining the rhythm of his thoughts.
If the narrator was to have any primary focus in the poem, the main
consistency would lie with the rhythm. It consists of stanzas with rhyming pairs:
“What is this drink?
The sun’s gone down and we’re getting deep
And these spring nights that go so soon,
Wet grass, under blackest blue
Brown eyes that swallowed the moon”
each stanza having an additional line to the one before and all having an isolated
ending line that use metaphors to paint an image for the reader before continuing
on to the next point of focus. This results in the poem having a very definite style,
and it’s clear language gives the author a readable voice. However, this is not
what makes the poem stand out, for it’s rhythm and and style are so recognizable
that you can’t help but feel that it’s been done better countless times. The point
lies in the fact that you’re not reading about anything very deep, however the
language may sound, instead you’re following the dramatic logic of a drunk guy
which feeds a satirical aspect to the poem.
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Works Cited:
mybeer.getpaidfrom.us., web
Passions of The Emerald Street
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A book review of Harvest from the Emerald Orchard,
By Brian Dias
There are many reasons to read poetry: insight, to relax, for
comfort, to dream, and of course inspiration. In all the poetry books
I have come across, Harvest from the Emerald Orchard, was one on the
most inspiring. Filled with excellent works from various poets who
began meeting in a Cabrillo College class, it is moving and
enlightening. The contributors are from all ages and write about all
kinds of topics from the meaning of life to the meaning poets and
poetry.
There are two poets that immediately became my favorites: Dane
Cervine and Jenny D’Angelo. In these poems the life and work of poets
became poetic: in that poets are trying to explain or just share the
meaning of something, and the irony is it will often be overlooked and
be meaningless to others, but not all. Especially not to other poets
who come from the same slice, and share the same fate: those who are
passionate, and with our desire to delve into the mysteries, beauty
and even horror that life has to offer, and form a community.
One of my instant favorites was “The Anonymity of Poets,” by Dane
Cervine (p.28) In this poem, the challenge a poet faces of being
received is explored. Dane Cervine writes that the work of a poet is
needed but challenging to get the attention of the public and often
ignored. She is left thinking that the work of a poet is ironic:
important, needed by the perhaps emotionless masses, but overlooked
and “words flapping like fish ib rarefied air, waiting ro be thrown
back into the dark waters from whence we come, though the world is
hungry”(p. 28).
Another poem I really liked was “To My Community of Poets” by Jenny
D’angelo (p.39). I really liked this poem because it makes you feel
there is a connection between poets, and that we are a family or
community. The Emerald Street Poets was formed from a group of Cabrillo
students from Joseph Stroud’s poetry class in June 1995. Joseph took a
yearsabbatical and the students wanted to continue writing and meeting
about each others poetry. They started meeting after the class ended
at Robin Straub’s house on Emerald Street in Capitola. In a way this
group is a testament to the openness of Cabrillo and Santa Cruz in
general. We are a passionate community that loves poetry. If a poetry
group was going to spring up anywhere, here in Santa Cruz is a likely
place. I am grateful this groups emerged and to have read some of
Emerald Streets poetry. It is real and moving and some of the best
poetry I have ever read. There are many kinds of poems in Harvest from
the Emerald Orchard: political, age related, family, love,
introspection, and so on. I choose two about the perspective of poets
and our connection. These poems made me feel that as a poet, we are in
this world together; we may never be famous or understood, but we will have
shared ourselves with the world without really getting anything in return. Which
brings me to my final point. I feel all poets (and scholars too) are family and form
a community in our creative passing.
Worked Cited
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D’Angelo, Jenny. “To My Community of Poets”. Harvest - From the
Emerald Orchard 2009: 39
Cervine, Dane. “The Anonymity of Poets”. Harvest - From the Emerald
Orchard 2009: 28
Hard Times
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A critique of A Penny for My thoughts, Please, by Yvette Lopez
Here in Santa Cruz there is a lot of homeless people, they ask everyone for
change and a lot of people don’t give them any because they know what they
will use it for, “Signs Proclaim, Hard times - Money for food” (Poem 56). Sometimes
the homeless don’t care and are straight up; they have signs that say need beer
or something that has to do with alcohol. Some homeless people are legitimate
and actually need money for food because they are hungry and they need to
feed themselves and sometimes their pets. I always wondered how they got
money to feed their pets if they don’t have enough money to feed themselves.
Pets need homes too sometimes and I would rather help a pet and give them a
home, because they are helpless, just like children who need homes “When I slide
my card through, the screen asks if I want to donate for homeless pets without a
thought, I always do” (56). Homeless people can get a job somewhere like Taco
Bell or McDonalds.
In this poem I think the author does a good job by showing the true colors of
homeless people and what they do. A lot of people feel sorry for them and give
them money without thinking “I unload my basket, slip behind the wheel, reflect
on why I would contribute to an unseen homeless pet, but not him. I go back,
hand him a few bills, get re-blessed” (56). Personally I have never given money
to a homeless person, I don’t know why. Sometimes if you offer them food they
won’t accept it, they only accept money. That is when you know they need it for
something else, like alcohol, drugs and who knows what.
The author wonders if the animals used to get money are props, she pictures the
vagrants using the pets as bait to get people’s attention and to get the better out
of someone. Making someone feel sorry for the animal, one might as well give
money for the homeless person since money was given for the animal. I think this
plays with human emotions, “they seem like family” (56), the author passed by
the panhandler without giving a cent to him. But, as soon as she sees the animal
she felt sorry and had to go back to give some change.
The author does not trust them, and gives no change to the beggars. She doesn’t
believe they actually need the money for any food. There’s that mentality of
“what if?”, if one gives money will they use it correctly “they’ll spend it on drugs
or booze” (56). She then thinks of what she wanted to do all along, she’s not
going to give money to anyone asking for it but instead she will take someone to
eat, to find out if that person really needs to eat or is just trying to use that person
to get some money for something else. A kid that seems to be in college asked for some change, but instead she offers
herself to take the kid to the buffet. Again, she puts trust on the person asking for
help, she wants to believe that he actually needs the food. But she was wrong,
the kid really wanted some money for something else. “He stares at me like I’m a
crazy woman mumbles as he flips me of continues down the mall” (56). Trusting
a random person is hard, but trusting someone who already has a bad reputation
already is another. You may try to help a panhandler out but will he or she
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actually use the money to use it the way they say he or she will. It is in the back
of our heads every time we walk downtown Santa Cruz. As for me, I don’t trust
them with the money I would give them. It is true they can get a job if they clean
up their act, but they are used to getting free money. The author does a good job in being descriptive and letting us know how she
feels about it after going through what she did. She realized that being too nice
sometimes is not worth it, especially when you’re giving out money to strangers.
Woman sometimes have signs saying “pregnant, need help”, and they don’t even
have a belly. When you can tell they are pregnant I feel horrible for the life they
are already giving their kid. Since women are more vulnerable I think they think
people will feel more sorry for them and at the end of the day have some money.
A lot of homeless people lie and make you think they are really starving. I’ve
seen a lot of people asking for money and they look fine, they have good clothes
on and look ok, that definitely makes me wonder “I am stopped by a presentable
young man, looking lost” (56). I think that did it for her, realizing they sometimes
don’t just want food.
I agree with the author about donating for a homeless pet you have not met but
you help a homeless person. Then I think about it, animals are more helpless, and
there is no question of them lying, you know they need homes. Overall, homeless
people have shelters to go to, they can clean up and go try to get a job somewhere
easy, for example a fast food place. I am not a rude person, but I don’t think I will
give homeless person money, just because I don’t trust them. Students or people
who go downtown and show off their talents like dancing or something nice,
deserve to be appreciated and helped out.
The Inhibition of Original Thought:
No Mean Green
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A critique of David Thorn’s Green, by Azadeh Ghanizadeh
“We see through the prism of our categories” (Joseph Chilton Pearce). It
is in the nature of the human species to give meaning to that which we do not
know. In an attempt to form a bridge between the observable world and the
conceptual world, mankind creates language and gives significance to what he
perceives. For instance, we label an observation as one thing and thus negate all
other potentials of definition that one thing could have. Within the universe there
seem present various phenomenon, all of which are seen or examined through
perception. The poem “green” explores these phenomenon and suggests that
perhaps they do not actually exist in the way they are so often thought to. The
line: “green green you know what I mean,” refers to the conflation of concepts,
or the shared understanding of “known” ideas. In the line: “it’s a color we’ve all
seen” the author references sight so as to indicate the salient role of perception
in conceptualizing the universe. The author is suggesting that there are many
potential shades of meaning for a concept and that by creating an “all-purpose
green” (an all encompassing concept) we are negating those potentials. “There’s
greenish blue and blueish green” by employing the use of the age old “ish” in
reference to concepts, the author illustrates the ambiguous nature of concepts in
general. Ultimately, the author uses green as an example of all observable events,
so as to discuss the man-made attachment of meaning to these events, in addition
to condemning marketing aimed at the subconscious through allusion to the
rhetoric of Theodore Geisel.
The author uses many different examples of how green is perceived in the
world; by displaying all the various forms in which green occurs (or is perceived
to occur) he displays the fallacious nature of inference through perception that
is engaged in globally. He is condemning the lumping together of (seemingly)
diverse events into a single category. This condemnation draws a parallel to other
forms of conflation practiced in society, such as the meshing together of various
racial groups, or the singularizing of gender based behavior. Not only is meaning
given to what is thought of as events but the type of categorizing it often entails
is crippling to understanding. Thus it is evident that our way of conceptualizing
the universe is indeed an exercise of bad thinking, and since it is accepted by the
masses “truth” is formed and reality is invented.
The author also employs the anapestic tetrameter and by doing so brings forth
the philosophy of Theodore Geisel. Geisel’s works contain hidden condemnations
for the ubiquitous nature of advertisement and marketing (Dann). In Geisel’s
work “Green Eggs and Ham” only fifty words are used, this is done to illustrate
the repetitive nature of advertising and its effects on consciousness (Dann). Geisel
points out that conditioning begins at an early age in the shape of propaganda,
imbedding itself in the consciousness with “hardly a ‘why?’”; most often these
hard-to-get-rid-of messages are present in sing-song form, for obvious reasons
(Fenkl 1). The poem green is a head nod to Geisel’s ideas of mental discipline
through repetition and catchy diction; much of his work is made for children,
or rather the child within the adult, “the reason the methods of marketing seem
so commonplace and ‘obvious’ is because they are inadvertently taught to us
as children” (Dann 6). One has to wonder about the effects of nursery rhymes
and how they are carried into adulthood; through his works Geisel is simply
pointing out that childhood mentality does not disappear with age, but is rather
placed into the subconscious portion of the brain. This being known, campaigners
attempt to appeal to that subconscious, and are often successful at manipulating
our actions. Clearly the anapestic pentameter coupled with the dominant theme
(green) are an allusion to the rhetoric of Theodore Geisel and both operate as an
extension of his condemnation for subliminal marketing.
Finally, the author discusses the omnipresent nature of green used in
marketing today; indeed many businesses are trying to capitalize off of the “green
movement” and are thus corrupting the integrity of the movement by converting
it into yet another consumer vacuum. “Green is the new black”, that which is
made to seem sleek and attractive is present in different vessels over time, and
now, green is “in”, people are “jump[ing] on the bandwagon without considering
the lead-based paint it’s coated with” (Sullivan). Once again societies engage in
the degeneration of enlightenment and sully what morality we are able to stand
by.
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Works Cited
Fenkle, Insu Heinz. “The Secret Alchemy Of Dr. Seuss.”
endicott-studio. 2001. Web.
http://www.endicott-studio.com/rdrm/forseus.html
Dr. Stephan Dann. “Green eggs and market plans: Learning Marketing From Dr.
Seuss”
http://www.scribed.com/doc/247292/Green-Eggs-and-Ham-Marketing-messages-of-DrSeuss
Sullivan, David. “essay?” Message to Azadeh Ghanizadeh.
10 April. 2010. E-mail.
The God Debacle
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A Book review of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s The Brother Karamazov.
New York: Bantham Dell, 1970.
By Azadeh Ghanizadeh
What can truly be said of the human soul? Speculation is rampant and
conclusions are made, but only a few have ever achieved true progress in the
discussion of human nature. The Brothers Karamazov is a threefold reflection
of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s spiritual evolution through life (Moore). The different
brothers (Ivan, Alyosha, and Dimitri) represent different phases in Dostoyevsky’s
intellectual and spiritual growth (Moore). The story revolves around the murder
of elder Karamazov, and the discussion lies in the search for his killer. By creating
this drama Dostoyevsky is able to reveal humanity, all its shortcomings and
its great potentials, in an intense plotline that peaks and dips into a range of
discussions. In conclusion Dostoyevsky holds all four of the brothers responsible
for the killing; he stresses a belief that the action of one individual can affect
all of his community (Pachmuss 164). Ivan, the “negater” (Mochulsky) rejects
the world and declares morality is nonexistent “everything is permitted”
(Dostoyevsky 351), and in doing so he inadvertently convinces Smerdyakov (his
illegitimate brother) of the truth of his ideas. This begins a series of events which
lead to the death of elder Karamazov committed by Smerdyakov and justified
by Ivan’s ideology. Ultimately Dostoyevsky states that man can only progress
in harmony with the world through the belief in a higher power or a moral
structure; otherwise a chaos of the soul will ensue and extend itself into the real
world, causing inevitable destruction.
Alyosha, a man consumed by god, is saint like in nature but his spiritual
integrity is thrown into question when he fails to act when faced with the
possibility of disaster. Although Alyosha is the “good guy” of the four brothers,
he is just as guilty of his fathers death, on the night of the murder he intuitively
sensed that he ought to go after his brother Dimitri but was unable to due to
his overwhelming loyalty to his faith. His religious mentor had just passed on
and he was overwhelmed by the loss, by turning his back he failed his brother
and his father thus reinforcing Dostoyevsky’s notion of mankind’s collective
guilt; “people through their sins are guilty of the suffering of their fellow men”.
Dostoyevsky suggests that all men are sinners due to the habit of self interest
inherent in all humans; he states that harmony will only take place if man is
willing to set aside his own gains and live collectively, accepting that his actions
can affect the lives of others (Pachmuss 164).
Dimitri, the most volatile of the three, is passionate, aggressive and epicurean
in nature; he is the one who is accused of the crime of his father’s murder. As
understood by Dimitri Karamazov, there is no other point to life then the pursuit
of pleasure, he is aware of the overall darkness of the universe and dedicates his
existence to enjoying as much of it as possible. In this way Dimitri is existential
in lifestyle and ideology, perhaps unknowingly so but present yet. Dimitri
Works Cited
Miller, Fueloep. Fyodor Dostoyevsky Insight, Faith, and Prophesy. 1. United States :
Charles Scibner’s Sons, 1950 . Print.
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor. The Brother Karamazov. 4. 1. New York: Bantham Dell, 1970.
Print.
Pachmuss, Temira. F.M Dostoyevsky Dualism and the Synthesis of the Soul. 1.
Illinois: Southern Illinoise University Press, 1963. Print.
Oats, Joyce, Carol. “The Double Vision of the Brothers Karamazov.” Journal Of
Aesthetics and Art Criticism 27.2 (1968): 203-213. Web. 26 Apr 2010.
PGR 231
also strives for spiritual salvation and is incapable of gaining it through lack of
humility (Pachmuss). Dimitri has not suffered enough to know the purification of
doubt and as Dostoyevsky repeats only “suffering can guide [man] to a beatific
faith in god and immortality.” (Pachmuss).
Dostoyevsky explores the essence of the human species and concludes that
suffering cannot be dealt with, with an “Ivanian” attitude. That is in the spirit of
“reason [being] carried to its logical extreme” (Oats 208). In fact, by the end of
the novel, the intellectual, Ivan goes mad from the crushing sense of nothingness
that is the foundation of his philosophy. In his “Ivanian” phase Dostoyevsky
considered humanity inherently evil and blamed this taint on free will. He
hypothesized, if man is intrinsically evil, free will can only act as transgressor in
suffering, thus life can only be chaos and suffering, thus there can be no higher
power (Miller 46). He moves away from this ideology and the process of his
growth can be seen in the unfolding of the novel. Ivan, the intellectual, represents
the state of mind Dostoyevsky was in when he spoke against the existence of a
higher power. In truth it is not god that Ivan does not believe in, it is the world
of injustice and suffering he repudiates. He has a metaphysical experience with
a devil like being, that is simply a manifestation of his own spirit; at this point
he begins to lose his mind because he is devastated by the chaos of the universe
and mans irrelevant role in it. In Ivan’s philosophical dissertation of sorts,
“The Grand Inquisitor” Dostoyevsky reveals his former mental state, one that
believed in the nonexistence of a greater power. One may refer to this as atheistic
fundamentalism, the case in which all morality is declared fallacious due to the
incongruity of what god is and what god does.
In conclusion it is apparent that Dostoyevsky ends the novel in peace,
stating that it is intrinsic in the nature of the human species to not be able to
understand the universe (Miller 47). The human mind is far too simple to
comprehend the mysteries of its reality. I have for years struggled with the
concept of god and how one can reconcile that concept with reality. I have
pondered the universe and tried to make sense of it through logic, yet its is
becoming more apparent the logic and faith are not so far apart, indeed to hold
credibility to logic equals having faith in logic thus the two notions are not
conflicting but somewhat complementary.
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