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Archives 

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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

LYRASIS  Members  and  Sloan  Foundation 


http://archive.org/details/audemusfall201001vari 


Poetry.  Fiction.  Essays,  Art 


VOLUME  1  ISSUE  3  Full  2010 


MOUNT  ST.  MARY'S  COLLEGE 
12001 CHRLON  RD. 

Los  Angeles.  CO  90049 


flUDEMUS  Art  and  Literary 

JOURNAL  2010 


Kathleen  Rrhizh-  eoitor-in-cheif,  m  editor,  lrydut 

[ORRAINE  BEDROS-  Ron-Fiction  Editor,  poetry  Editor,  layout 
LAUREN  DELGflDO- fiction  editor 
MARCOS  M  VILLHTORD  advisor 

flUDEMUS  IS  PUBLISHED  BY  THE  ENGLISH  DEPARTMENT.  THE  PROVOST  OFFICE. 
RNO  THE  STUDENT  flFFHIRS  DEPARTMENT  OF  MOUNT  ST.  MARY  S  COLLEGE  OF 

[OS  flNGELES. 

DEDICATED  TO  PADL  CRAFT 


Subscriptions-  $15 
Ruck  Issues-  $R 

Current  issues-  $10 

COVER  HUT  BY. 

HMY  YflTES  COPYRIGHT  2010  BY  MOUNT  ST  MHRY'S  COLLEGE  ISSN  PENDING 

PRINTED  IN  VDN  NllYS.  [fl 
BY  IMDGE-2000 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


NOTE  FROM  THE  EDITOR 

7 

POETRY 

MflRISSfl  FESTfl:  UNTITLED  1 
UNTITLED  2 
NEW  YEAR 
CIVIL  WAR 

11 
12 
3 
14 

[ORETTR  CONTRERflS;  EflRTH  OF  WATER  AND  ClAY  [AFTER  fl  SUMMER  DF  RUMl] 

you  wanted  rhyme  |  wanted  reason 
rngie  at  her  rosdand's  fonerfll 
My  Body.  Betrayer 

32 
33 
34 
3G 

LlNUfl  RflVENSWUUU;  THE  SAINT  OF  PROFESSOR  LEWIS  HYDE  43 
THE  SAINT  OF  THE  PHMPfl  lEONOR  flCEVEUU  SOAAEZ:  [A  MADAE  DE  ROAGES      51 

THE  SAINT  OF  MEN  54 

NON-FICTION 

Carroll  Son  yang;  playing  Cards  and  jades  15 

Nob  55 

phyllis  rawley;  the  pain  eqdotion  2d 

IE  Van  UawkinS;  Family  Iaaoition  BO 


THBLE  OF  CONTENTS  CONT. 

FICTION 

MRRISSR  FESTH:  Orinthdldgy  40 

LAUREN  DELGRDO:  fl  BROTHER.  WHERE  flRT  jHOU?  74 


ART 

flMY  YfiTES;  UNTITLED  ]  8 

UNTITLED  2  9 

UNTITLED  3  18 

UNTITLED  4  13 

UNTITLED  5  38 

UNTITLED  8  39 

UNTITLED  7  48 

UNTITLED  8  47 

UNTITLED  9  58 

UNTITLED  10  59 

UNTITLED  11  72 

UNTITLED  12  73 

UNTITLED  13  79 

INTERVIEW 

KATHLEEN  RAAIZA:  BAXED  |N: 

ON  INTERVIEW  WITH  flMY  YATES  42 

CONTRIBUTOR  S  NOTES  78 

FAMOUS  [AST  WORDS...  78 


NOTE  FROM  THE  EDITOR 


Here  we  are— the  third  issue.  Here  1  am -the  last  founding 
member  of  Audemus.  I'll  spare  you  the  gruesome  details  of  the 
threatening  emails  from  disgruntled  submitters,  the  tarnished  friend- 
ships and  the  imfamous  hand  trigger  to  the  skull  move  1  ultimately 
perfected. 

This  issue  welcomed  new  faces  and  the  opportunity  for  posi- 
tive changes.  1  not  only  continued  as  Art  Editor,  but  took  on  the  role 
of  Editor-in-Chief  as  well.  Incoming  Senior,  Lorraine  Bedros,  made 
contrubutions  as  Non-Fiction  and  Poetry  Editor,  as  well  as  layout 
designer.  Recent  graduate,  Lauren  Delgado,  came  on  board  as  Fic- 
tion Editor.  She  also  contributed  a  Non-Fiction  short-story  entitled, 
"0  Brother,  Where  Art  Thou?" 

The  personal  pleasure  cultivated  from  my  experience  working 
on  Audemus  is  publishing  what  was  once  the  unseen  and  unheard. 
This  issue  was  no  different  as  it  features  up  and  coming  talent  in- 
cluding photographer,  Amy  Yates  and  writer,  Marissa  Festa. 

Will  1  cherish  and  long  to  relive  my  beginning  and  final  days 
working  for  what  remains  to  be  a  very  green  college  journal?  ...No. 
But  please,  dear  reader,  do  not  misconstrue  my  curt  tone  as  an  un- 
appreciative  one.  My  time  here  was  spent  well  and  1  look  forward  to 
what  will  come  next. 

Tentatively  yours, 

KATHLEEN  HRHIZH 


UNTITLED 


UNTITLED  2 


9 


MHRISSH  FESTfl 

Four  poems 


UNTITLED  ] 

Come  and  see  the  science  of  hesitating: 
Watch  this  fog  hand  slip  over  my  mouth 
turning  basic  blood  to  magnet  metal 

So  I've  stayed  in  this  city,  towing  my  demure  doubt 
along  the  same  shiny  geography 

1  know  home,  this  tiny  earth 

Of  gold  cliffs  and  the  people  that  hang  off  them. 

Here  the  tide  works  without  the  moon, 
Pulling  hearts  out  of  empty  bellies 

The  fog  and  tide  and  absent  moon,  they  work  together  to  crush  this  quiet 
want  of  new  jj 

Of  girls  with  sour,  coastal  blood  entertaining  God  in  some  big  city 

Magnet  blood  doesn't  speak  easy 

It  lingers;  it  waits  until  the  hanging-floor  drops 

To  say  its  last  words 

All  the  same  old 

internal  idioms;  bating  breath  drying  ink  bleeding  thunder 

We  lay  on  a  bed  of  shrinking  futures 

We  will  hem  and  haw  on  the  same  gilded  cliffs 

As  the  changing  mornings  wait  for  me  to  leave,  take  chance,  eat  new  air. 

Maybe  there's  a  little  moon  tonight 

A  motel-lit  silver  or  gold,  I'll  be  looking  for  it 

from  the  boulevard 

1  never  left. 


UNTITLED  2 


The  ash  man  of  broken  ribs, 

Pieces  of  rock  and  skull  and  night  that  shone  like  crossing  guards, 

Fitted  his  fresh  death  on  pavement,  his  roots  stretching  so  far  into  the 

ground 

He  is  a  concrete  throat,  glass  teeth,  and  oil. 

Wife  will  weep  a  stupid  song  about  blunt  death. 
\l    Use  her  salty  taffy  eyes  to  stick  and  construct  a  new  life,  blunt  life. 

The  baby  bride  will  turn  her  brain  in  bed 
Her  scream 
His  theology 

Staring  dutifully  at  the  histories  it  has  made, 
the  snatchings  of  mortalities  and  grooms 
The  sky,  half  godless,  maybe  hateful, 
will  watch  and  maybe  shake  its  head. 


1  try  to  imagine  the  depletion  of  me 

if  it  were  only  physical 

some  leprosy  or  a  queer  blackening  of  limbs 

but  the  de-glowing  is  all  here  of  course 

a  hermetic  little  assault 

taking  place  so  grandly  on  mount  corpus  callosum 

it  makes  my  laugh  a  straight  line  that  cannot  index  what  is  funny 
it  makes  me  read  my  beloved  jew-hating  poet  even  all  the  damn  foot- 
notes 
with  minimum  outrage 

1  ask;  where  are  my  onomatopoeias? 

not  many  know  the  demands  of  the  most  pitiful  operatic  (solo)  in 

all  the  despondent  correspondence 

all  the  endless  whining  sopranos 

But  this  year  hear  the  pledge  of  potential: 

the  restoration  of  tender  tongue 

meet  the  one  who  will  remark  so  remarkably,  and  hiss  at  silence 

with  a  beamy  full-glass  axiom 

goodnight  cruel  calendar 

goodnight  old-you,  you  maven  of  the  morose 

now  is  the  hour  to  evict  the  sullen  spores  and  remind  you  of  this  dusty, 

pitchy  laugh 

and  say  goodbye 

to  being  glass  without  the  gleam 


NEW  YEAR 


14 


In  conflict,  my  teeth  stay  under-gum 
we  rage  eloquently, 
fight  legally 

1  cry  in  tremors 

Thick  in  my  throat,  gurgling  blips 

But  never  smack,  hiss,  swear,  throw  house-wares,  raise  voices 

The  tear  reddening  my  left  eye  is  syllabic 

The  salt  and  spittle  drying  on  my  pants  is  an  impossible  shape 

But  earlier,  it  was  guilt 


CIVIL  WAR 


We  impart  and  emote  with  polite  shrapnel 

would-have's  premise 

could-have's  conclude 

More  dangerous  than  pitching  glass  tumblers 

My  features  lose  symmetry,  the  hard  edges  soften 

In  indoor  voices,  we  play  the  hanging  jury 
and  keep  the  thin  words  swinging 
Like  a  noose 


Playing  Cards  and  jades  »««>« 

Spanish  Hills  Country  Club.  Staff  break  room.  You  and  1.  Sixteen 
and  Sixteen.  The  employees  surrounding  us  were  older,  a  tad  jaded,  trails 
of  leathery  wrinkles  on  worn  out  skin  made  more  prominent  under  the 
fluorescent  lighting.  Feathery,  charming,  gray  haired  bartenders  and 
chain-smoking  waitresses.  Gold  diggers.  Con  artists.  Pretty,  but  not  terri- 
bly. A  warning. 

1  was  barely  nubile,  a  hard  green  plum.  You  were  hardly  virile. 
Your  hands  were  only  floppy  fumbling  paws,  too  big  for  you.  We  were  so 
little  in  the  room.  They  mocked  us.  Hemmed  us  in  with  hairy  knees  and 
cloudy  teeth.  They  flit  their  weary  lived-in  eyes  about,  without  us. 

1  said  something  about  not  doing  so  well  in  college  math.  You  looked 
at  me  across  the  lunch  table  while  the  others  were  smoking  and  gossip- 
ing over  day  old  poached  salmon  and  leaky  Creme  Brule.  The  chatter  was 
muffled  as  if  we  were  drifting  off  to  sleep,  but  we  were  alert.  Hyper  alert. 
A  warning. 

Two  first  spring  foxes  came  face  to  face.  1  was  wearing  a  female  cum-     |J 
merbund  and  slippery  black  heels.  Suffocating.  You  were  in  a  starched 
white  caddy  uniform.  Your  skin  so  bronzed.  Your  eyes,  looking  me  over, 
were  huge  and  stricken  blue  under  the  flickering  lights.  1  knew  1  was 
blushing  madly.  Perhaps  1  was  emitting  some  young  bright  light,  the  type 
of  light  we  are  blessed  with  only  on  rare  occasions,  even  when  we  are 
too  old  for  it.  1  saw  your  pupils  expand  and  contract.  Your  lips  curled 
into  a  disarming  half  grin.  1  swear  that  was  the  moment  that  the  deal  was 
sealed.  The  trajectory  of  our  lives  changed  at  that  exact  instant.  Look  at 
your  palm.  It's  etched  there,  in  the  V  of  the  1st  branch.  You  said,  you 
could  help  me  with  the  math  but  only  if  1  would  teach  you  to  dance. 
Later  that  afternoon,  in  my  bedroom  with  the  curtains'  burgundy  drawn 
and  that  ratty  shag  carpeting  under  us,  we  made  marker  drawings  on 
typewriter  paper,  like  children  do.  You  kissed  me  real. 

Remember,  we  would  sneak  out  and  cruise  in  your  mocha  flavored 
Oldsmobile,  gliding  and  creaking  over  creviced  asphalt,  as  if  at  solid  sea. 
Inhaling  the  fertile  rows  of  farmland,  the  sweet  stench  of  it.  The  Santa 
Ana  winds  whipping  our  fingers  as  they  dangled  out  of  the  windows 


making  wavelike  motions.  Just  like  unmoored  anemone. 

We  would  end  up  at  the  state  beach  and  pull  in  to  watch  the 
phosphorescence  breaking.  We  called  them  "stony  lightning  ghosts" 
in  the  ocean.  We  were  stony  lightning  ghosts.  We  tried  to  speak 
poems  out  into  the  night.  You  and  1  would  try  to  make  fumbling 
love.  Hiding  in  the  lifeguard  tower  with  a  plaid  blanket  over  us.  Our 
vapors  separated  from  the  fog  of  beach  by  nothing.  One  night  we 
even  dared  to  lie  down  on  hard  tar  of  the  windy  Pacific  Coast  High- 
way, kissing  until  we  heard  a  car  speeding  towards  us.  We  fumbled 
on  skinny  legs  and  tripping  hearts  towards  the  ocean  and  when  we 
got  to  the  black  foamy  edge,  1  think  1  said  1  would  die  if  you  died.  1 
think  you  said  me  too. 

The  August  heat  is  oppressive. 

Star  Jasmine  replicates. 

Fevers  cool  slowly. 

Stars  litter  the  ginger  smoke  sky. 

Salty  waters. 

Moonshine. 

You  passed  me  from  friend  to  friend,  let  them  feel  me  while 
1  was  slung  over  their  laps  with  my  head  lolling.  1  saw  my  own 
hands  grabbing  blue  jeaned  thighs  and  jaw  lines  as  if  for  dear  life. 
The  fingernails  were  long,  rounded  and  cherry  red.  You  convinced 
me  this  looked  sexy.  1  saw  my  polished  hair  on  their  laps  next  to 
half  open  zippers.  They  lifted  up  my  shirt.  Bra-less.  Felt  me  roughly 
and  laughed.  One  of  them  dared  to  kiss  a  nipple.  1  felt  the  electric- 
ity in  that,  even  though  1  didn't  want  to.  One  of  the  boys  snarled 
and  threw  me  on  the  grass.  You  flinched  and  some  of  your  playing 
cards  dropped  to  the  ground.  You  picked  up  the  cards  neatly.  Your 
jaw  was  tight.  1  thought  1  saw  a  thick  vein  run  down  your  neck  and 
disappear  into  your  shirt.  Your  pretty  lashes  were  a  bark-tinted  veil. 
1  wept  very  quietly  in  the  wet  grass.  Just  feet  away  from  you.  My 
heart  was  scratching  at  your  pant  leg.  Scented  summer.  The  crickets 


were  deafening.  They  were  never  louder  again.  You  weren't  smiling 
while  your  friends  were  laughing.  Pounding  one  another  senselessly. 
Drunken  horseplay. 

You  were  not. 

You  just  were. 

My  clothes  were  here  and  there,  the  sleeveless  bluebell  blouse 
flung  behind  the  coiled  garden  hose  and  brave,  white  silk  skirt 
draped  over  the  dog  bed.  My  beautiful  tortoise  shell  barrette  trapped 
under  your  heel.  1  never  did  find  that  again.  Or  even  one  like  it. 

The  side  of  my  face  was  pressed  into  the  ground.  Some  people 
say  you  must  hug  the  merciless  ground  to  know  true  misery.  No,  1 
said  that.  My  hand  felt  the  pebbles  of  your  suburban  landscaping. 
Piles  of  small  white  grains  littering  the  paths.  Crushing  clover.  The 
smell  of  gardenia  and  orange  blossoms  was  unbearable.  The  stars 
twinkling?  Outrageous.  1  even  whispered  in  a  rasp  for  you  to  hear 
"fuck  you,  stars." 

Your  friends  stumbled  indoors  with  heavy  faded  feet.  You 
sat  there  alone.  Smoking  Camel  Lights  with  long  draws.  Swigging         |7 
gulps  of  beer  uneasily  it  seemed,  wiping  your  lips  on  your  bare  arm. 
1  could  see  the  full  light  of  street  lamps  and  the  heavens  shining  off 
of  the  trail  you  left.  Your  hands  that  handled  me  were  now  shuffling 
four  or  five  cards  over  and  over.  1  know  you  were  looking  at  me. 
You  kept  swallowing.  You  thought  my  eyes  were  closed  but  they 
weren't  really.  You  knew  that.  We  stayed  that  way  for  a  very  long 
time.  Listening  to  Led  Zeppelin,  through  a  sliding  glass  door,  a  crack 
in  the  kitchen  window,  a  muffled  song  seeping  out  from  somebody's 
home  sweet  home.  Weren't  we  like  a  "living  reflection  of  a  dream?" 
1  like  to  think  you  are  still  holding  your  cards  in  a  way.  Jacks. 
Queens.  Diamonds.  Hearts.  Buried  under  Spades.  Aren't  all  scenes 
just  cinema?  All  cinema  part  of  a  collective  cliche?  I'd  like  to  be- 
lieve that.  I'd  like  to  think,  that  in  a  way,  I'm  still  pressed  into  green 
blades  bending  under  my  weight  and  you  are  still  waiting  to  be  a 
man. 


18 


4 


UNTITLED  3 


19 


UNTITLED  4 


The  Pain  Equation 


BY 

PHYLLIS  RHWLEY 


1  only  had  four  minutes  of  pillow  talk  before  1  lost  my  husband  to 
sleep.  1  asked,  "Do  you  remember  when  1  wasn't  always  in  pain?" 

He  rolled  over  to  spoon  my  body  in  his.  "Yes,  and  you  will  too." 

1  wasn't  able  to  stay  in  the  position  long.  His  body  heat  set  off  a 
Of]    wave  of  hot  flashes.  Steam  passed  from  my  body  through  my  skin  and 
left  me  glistening,  every  pore  active  with  fine  beads  of  sweat.  1  slid  the 
covers  off  and  let  the  cool  March  night  air  fall  over  my  body  like  fine  silk 
cloth.  A  needle  sharp  pain  pierced  my  head  from  the  front  of  the  scalp  to 
the  back  with  lightning  speed.  It  shot  into  my  eyelid. 

Chris  sensed  it.  He  hugged  me  tighter.  1  waited  for  him  to  fall 
asleep,  then  got  out  of  bed  to  wait  for  the  nightly  dosage  of  pain  relievers 
to  kick  in. 

1  remember  years  ago,  when  a  majority  of  my  day  wasn't  focused 
on  overcoming  and  beating  back  the  waves  of  pain.  There  was  even  a 
time  when  1  enjoyed  pain.  It  was  good  pain,  the  kind  that  usually  devel- 
oped thirty-six  hours  after  a  hard  work  out,  really  long  run,  or  vigorous, 
rough  sex.  1  remember  the  satisfaction  of  my  resting  body  speaking  to  my 
mind,  'Yeah,  you  pushed  me  hard,  and  1  liked  it'  It  was  rewarding,  being 
able  to  push  yourself  harder  through  the  pain  to  that  last  mile. 


I  began  race-walking  at  the  age  of  nine,  after  watching  Christoph 


Hohne  win  the  Gold  in  the  1968  Olympics  50km  race  walking  competi- 
tion. He  beat  his  nearest  competitor  by  ten  minutes.  His  body  was  lean, 
focused  and  in  control,  gliding  along  with  hips  that  moved  in  a  rhythmic 
rotation.  1  was  drawn  to  those  hip  movements,  an  exaggerated  walk  that 
gave  him  his  seven-minute  mile.  1  was  impressed  by  this  muscular  body, 
and  the  next  day  1  stayed  after  school  at  the  track,  pumping  my  arms  and 
pressing  my  heels  down  onto  the  ground,  trying  to  emulate  his  stride.  1 
loved  the  look  of  his  body  and  wanted  one  like  it.  Fellow  students  teased 
me  about  my  peculiar  gate  from  the  bleachers,  but  that  assured  me  1  was 
doing  it  right.  1  kept  walking  that  day  and  over  the  next  week  1  ruined 
my  school  shoes.  1  caught  hell  from  my  mother  for  it. 

Race  walking  was  not  a  sport  in  our  high  school  gym  teacher's 
repertoire.  1  learned  to  sprint,  hurdle  and  push  the  shot  put.  1  was  fairly 
capable  over  the  hurdles  and  had  the  bursts  of  energy  for  the  sprints,  but 
taller,  thinner  girls  had  better  speed  and  endurance.  1  excelled  at  shot  put, 
combining  a  burst  of  adrenaline  and  thrust  for  a  successful  40  feet  scores. 
1  won  the  high  school  competitions. 

The  gait  came  easily  to  me.  1  could  walk  a  mile  leisurely  in  twenty 
minutes,  but  reduce  that  to  twelve  minutes  if  1  race  walked.  My  home  was    Tj 
1.3  miles  away  from  school,  and  my  quick  gait  often  made  the  difference 
for  getting  to  school  on  time.  My  track  friends  ran  alongside  me  and  tried 
to  learn  the  gait  but  gave  up  because  it  was  easier  to  run  than  learn  the 
Olympic  technique.  1  kept  at  it,  but  it  would  be  another  ten  years  before  1 
ever  met  another  race  walker. 

When  1  left  home  for  college,  1  found  the  college  sports  filled  with 
the  traditional  track  and  field  options.  But  1  walked  all  over  town,  hun- 
dreds of  miles  in  running  shoes  that  wore  out  miles  before  1  could  take 
them  off,  shin  splints  that  burned  more  than  alcohol  on  a  cut,  and  thighs 
that  rubbed  and  chaffed  and  blistered.  Most  mornings  started  with  a 
three-mile  or  5k  walk  and  double  that  on  weekends.  1  walked  through  my 
twenties  and  began  finding  race  walking  competitions  to  enter  and  some- 
times win.  As  a  20K  marathoner,  1  loved  the  sense  that  1  was  covering  the 
globe,  making  the  planet  smaller,  easier  to  control. 

Marathons  are  brutal  to  the  body  when  covering  hard  surfaces  for 
several  hours  of  repetitive  motion.  After  mile  18,  an  all  encompassing, 
shooting  pain  accompanies  every  lift  and  rotation  of  my  hip,  calves,  arms 
and  feet.  Sometimes  sports  bra  rubbed  me  raw,  until  the  rash  so  blinded 


me  with  pain  1  either  stopped  walking  or  lifted  the  bra  over  one  or  both 
my  breasts,  freeing  them  to  flop  along  in  the  breeze  1  created. 

With  a  six-hour  race  1  planned  for  pain,  prepared  for  it  and  learned 
to  push  through  it,  because  1  knew  there  was  a  prize  -  finishing  and  win- 
ning over  pain.  Sometimes  it  came  with  a  blue  ribbon  or  a  trophy  and  my 
name  in  print. 

My  walking  and  racing  opportunities  shortened  when  1  took  a 
position  working  for  an  aviation  consultant.  The  nature  of  the  business 
kept  me  flying  at  a  moment's  notice  to  various  countries.  Uncertain  of 
my  safety  in  middle  and  far-east  nations,  1  was  limited  to  the  hotel  tread- 
mills. After  a  mere  30  minutes  1  found  it  too  boring.  And  when  my  walk- 
ing buddy  remarried  and  moved  away,  1  moved  my  seven  pairs  of  run- 
ning shoes  from  the  front  closet  to  my  back  bedroom. 

In  1995  1  worked  in  an  executive  recruiting  firm,  took  the  profits 
from  that  job  and  started  my  own  firm.  My  business  was  prosperous  and 
1  walked  more  hours  a  week  than  1  worked  for  the  next  two  years.  During 
that  time  1  met  my  husband. 

Two  years  into  marriage,  1  was  cleaning  up  a  back  closet  to  make 
22    more  room  for  my  husband's  stuff.  On  the  top  shelf  1  came  across  my  old 
walking  trophies  and  was  suddenly  ashamed  of  the  dust  on  them.  Each 
particle  of  dust  matched  each  pound  I'd  gained  while  sitting  and  snug- 
gling contentedly  on  the  couch  next  to  my  husband.  My  pre-sunrise 
walks  were  replaced  with  breakfast  in  bed  courtesy  of  my  husband.  Dis- 
comforted at  the  shape  1  was  in,  1  talked  my  husband  into  heading  back 
to  the  gym  with  me.  1  hired  a  trainer  to  kick-start  my  body  into  gear, 
while  my  husband  lifted  weights  and  boxed.  Three  months  into  training 
1  dropped  32  pounds,  saw  muscle  definition  and  ached  wonderfully  from 
the  workouts,  but  was  worn  down  with  fatigue. 

One  early  March  morning,  1  left  my  gym  after  a  particular  grueling 
stairs  routine  and  headed  straight  to  a  meeting  downtown.  Another  rider 
and  1  entered  the  elevator  when  1  felt  a  sharp,  intense  pain  grabbing  my 
chest.  The  rider  exited  on  the  second  floor  and  now  alone,  1  doubled  over, 
gasping  for  air  hanging  onto  the  railing  to  avoid  collapsing.  1  stead- 
ied myself  in  the  corner,  slowly  leaning  back  up  as  1  caught  my  breath, 
grabbing  the  railing  so  1  wouldn't  fall  onto  the  floor.  The  pain  subsided 
as  quickly  as  it  came.  1  left  the  elevator  and  went  into  the  meeting.  Ten 
minutes  into  the  discussion  my  host  stopped  his  presentation,  watching 


me  drip  profusely  in  sweat. 

"Are  you  alright?"  he  asked. 

"1  think  so.  1  don't  know  why  I'm  sweating  so  much." 

1  completed  the  meeting  and  left  with  a  handful  of  soaked  Kleen- 
exes. 1  continued  all  morning  like  this,  drained  of  energy,  skipping  lunch 
to  run  errands.  On  the  way  back  to  the  office,  my  chest  began  to  burn 
again.  Instead  of  returning  to  work,  1  chose  the  hospital. 

Twenty-two  hours  later,  after  a  normal  EKG  and  cardiac  stress  test, 
and  twenty  sufficient  hours  of  observation,  the  cardiologist  suggested,  "It 
was  probably  pleurisy.  That's  an  inflammation  of  the  lining  around  the 
lungs  and  should  clear  up  in  a  couple  of  weeks,  but  your  heart  is  fine." 
He  patted  me  on  the  shoulders,  smiled  and  left  the  room.  1  dressed  and 
made  an  appointment  with  my  internist  for  a  follow-up. 

Later  that  month,  1  noticed  a  lump  under  my  right  armpit,  and 
made  a  mental  note  to  watch  it  and  see  if  it  was  there  the  following 
week,  but  1  got  busy  and  forgot  about  it.  1  scheduled  myself  for  my  an- 
nual mammogram  in  June.  1  always  test  in  June  in  honor  of  my  aunt's 
birthday  and  survival  from  breast  cancer.  My  radiologist  found  no  lumps, 
and  1  had  the  feeling  of  completing  another  hard  mile  in  a  race  and  felt        9^1 
good  that  1  was  being  so  proactive  with  my  health. 

A  week  after  the  Fourth  of  July,  1  was  in  D.C.  on  a  lobbying  trip. 
Exhausted  after  a  day  on  the  hill,  1  crawled  into  bed  rubbing  all  the  parts 
of  my  body  that  ached  and  noticed  a  new  lump  in  my  groin  area.  This 
lump  was  larger  and  harder  than  the  one  under  my  arm.  Worried  for  the 
rest  of  the  trip,  1  kept  touching  it  to  see  if  it  was  gone  or  tried  to  squish 
it  and  make  it  go  away.  When  1  returned  home  two  days  later  1  went 
straight  to  bed,  worn  out  from  the  travel.  The  next  morning  1  started  to 
get  out  of  bed  and  found  my  leg  wouldn't  hold  my  weight,  and  1  col- 
lapsed on  the  floor  crashing  into  the  nightstand  and  overturning  the 
lamp.  Chris  rushed  in  to  the  bedroom  and  lifted  me  back  onto  the  bed. 

"Something  is  really  wrong."  1  said. 

"Let's  get  to  the  hospital."  His  face  was  drained  of  color,  and  eyes 
wide  opened  in  fear. 

"No,  1  can't  stand  the  emergency  room  and  on  a  Saturday.  It  will 
be  a  zoo.  I'll  go  to  our  clinic  on  Monday  morning." 

On  Monday  a  nurse  said  it  looked  like  a  hernia  and  sent  me  for  a 
sonogram  and  set  an  appointment  for  me  with  a  surgeon.  The  next  day  1 


let  the  surgeon  feel  around  without  saying  a  word.  1  felt  like  1  had  been 
holding  a  lie  in  all  this  time  and  my  body  was  now  about  to  be  caught. 
He  calmly  washed  his  hands,  sat  down  across  from  my  husband  and  me, 
and  said  he  would  only  know  for  sure  when  he  opened  me  up.  If  it  looked 
suspicious,  they  would  test  it  for  cancer. 

"No  one  said  that  word  before." 

"If  the  lymph  node  looks  suspicious,  we'll  send  it  to  the  lab  and 
we'll  know  within  twenty-four  hours."  1  couldn't  believe  that  his  calmly 
delivered  words  and  tone  left  me  with  such  feelings  of  fear  and  anxiety. 
My  surgery  was  scheduled  for  Friday  morning  and  twenty-seven  hours 
later,  after  a  cardiologist,  internist,  podiatrist,  radiologist  and  a  gynecolo- 
gist had  all  missed  it,  a  surgeon  found  Hodgkin's  lymphoma.  Cancer  of 
the  lymph  nodes 

There  was  no  emotion,  no  excitement  or  fear  about  the  hereafter. 
1  looked  around  the  room.  The  sun  was  high,  just  arcing  toward  the  west 
and  1  wondered  what  1  would  miss  most?  Only  Chris,  my  husband  came  to 
mind.  1  emerged  from  my  bedroom  feeling  like  a  shaken  fighter  but  ready 
for  another  round  in  the  ring.  A  refrain  from  our  favorite  singer  Amanda 
24    Marshall's  song,  "Trust  me  Baby  This  is  Love,"  rolled  into  my  thoughts, 
"...one  more  mountain,  hey  so  what..." 

1  swore  in  those  few  moments  while  walking  down  the  hallway  to 
the  den,  1  heard  my  father's  voice  saying  "Buck  up  kid,  you'll  be  all  right" 
as  he  had  said  to  me  many  a  time  when  1  was  a  little  tomboy  falling  out 
of  trees  or  crashing  my  bike.  1  walked  into  the  den  to  share  the  news  with 
my  husband  with  a  smile.  Taking  another  deep  breath,  straightening  up, 
shoulders  back,  1  said  calmly  "It's  cancer."  The  color  drained  from  his 
face,  his  mouth  dropped  open,  and  he  sat  down  as  if  he'd  been  punched 
hard  in  the  chest. 

He  stood  up  and  took  me  in  his  arms  and  asked,  "What  do  we  do 
next?" 

"1  don't  know." 

1  went  to  the  Internet  and  researched  the  disease,  treatment  mo- 
dalities and  the  location  of  a  local  oncologist.  1  then  called  a  nurse  friend. 
Her  sister  happened  to  be  a  board  certified  oncologist  and  well  respected 
in  the  state,  and  the  best  news  of  all,  she  could  see  me  Monday.  We  got 
packed  and  on  the  road  in  two  hours  and  drove  the  twelve  hours  to  Dal- 
las. 


Dr.  Mary  Martin  has  a  cancer  treatment  center  in  Fort  Worth  and  is 
known  across  the  state  for  her  early  assessments  and  aggressive,  effective 
treatment  strategies.  1  learned  that  Hodgkin's  was  the  best  cancer  to  get, 
with  an  84%  recovery  rate,  and  given  my  otherwise  healthy  body,  1  felt  1 
would  do  well  in  treatment.  1  made  a  mental  note  to  thank  my  trainer. 

"The  disease  typically  strikes  Caucasians,  teenagers,  young  adults 
and  males.  Cancer  is  identified  in  four  stages  ranging  from  1  to  4.  Four 
is  the  worst.  You  are  Stage  3B,  the  'B'  meant  1  was  symptomatic."  Dr. 
Martin  relayed  to  me  on  the  phone  two  hours  after  1  returned  to  my 
friend's  home.  And  though  1  needed  to  be  in  treatment  immediately,  the 
treatment  was  pretty  standard  so  that  she  said  any  oncologist  could  treat 
it  successfully. 

"1  would  cut  back  on  the  wine  during  chemo  as  it  causes  back 
pain."  Chesbro  said. 

"Oh  shit,  how  does  one  get  through  this  then,  weed?" 

There  it  was  again,  the  anticipation  of  pain,  the  pain  it  would  take 
to  survive.  The  victory  this  time  for  winning  would  be  the  trophy  of  my        £5 
own  living  body.  1  focused  again  on  the  doctor's  words. 

"After  two  months  of  treatment  1  want  to  do  another  set  of  CT  and 
PET  scans.  We  are  looking  for  a  50%  reduction  in  your  nodes."  He  went 
on  to  tell  me,  "If  after  six  months  we  don't  see  a  satisfactory  reduction 
in  the  nodes,  you  will  need  a  bone  marrow  transplant,  preferably  from  a 
sibling." 

On  the  first  day  of  treatment  my  husband  drove  me  to  the  cancer 
clinic,  got  out  of  the  car,  and  walked  over  to  my  door  to  assist  me  out  of 
the  car,  a  gentlemanly  habit  he  had  trained  me  from  our  first  date.  But  1 
froze  in  the  seat.  1  couldn't  move.  1  looked  up  at  him  feeling  my  lip  quiv- 
er and  said,  "1  can't  do  this." 

He  knelt  down  beside  me,  holding  my  hand  and  said,  "1  know  Hon- 
ey," and  he  waited  quietly.  The  tears  began  to  roll  down  my  cheeks  and  1 
felt  like  1  was  about  to  face  the  hangman's  noose.  When  ten  minutes  went 
by  he  asked  me,  "You  want  to  go  home?" 

"Yes"  and  with  that,  he  gently  shut  my  door  and  came  back  into 
the  car.  1  placed  my  hand  on  his  before  he  could  start  the  motor.  "Wait 
with  me  here;  let  me  find  some  courage.  1  seem  to  have  misplaced  it."  1 


closed  my  eyes,  leaned  back  in  the  seat,  and  breathed  deeply  and  slowly. 
1  focused  only  on  my  breathing,  its  rhythm  and  speed,  as  if  1  were  prepar- 
ing to  lift  something  heavy  or  karate  chop  a  block  of  wood.  1  squeezed  his 
hand  and  said,  "Let's  get  this  started." 

The  porta-cath  was  foreign  and  still  sore,  but  the  nurse  explained 
that  without  it  the  chemo  destroyed  the  veins  and  this  tubing  would  al- 
low the  drug  to  reach  the  needed  area  faster.  1  was  nauseous  during  and 
immediately  after  that  first  3-hour  treatment  session,  but  1  felt  fine  for 
the  next  seventy-two  hours.  When  the  seventy  third  hour  came  1  started 
thinking,  "Wow,  1  can  do  this." 

Ten  minutes  later,  the  nausea  started.  1  started  to  feel  like  1  needed 
to  puke,  so  1  sat  down  on  my  office  couch  and  thought  1  could  let  the 
wave  pass.  The  next  ten  minutes  went  by  like  a  tornado,  whirling  about 
in  my  head. 

With  each  subsequent  chemotherapy  treatment  1  either  slept  at 
home  or  went  to  work  with  nausea,  pain  and  weakness.  The  nausea  af- 
ter a  chemotherapy  treatment  came  four  hours  earlier  each  time  until  the 
nausea  arrived  on  the  same  day,  causing  me  to  miss  work  more  often. 
JJG    And  my  body  was  a  wreck.  My  fingernails  and  toenails  turned  black  and 
blue.  My  skin  bore  age  spots.  One  reaction  from  a  chemo  treatment  made 
my  skin  turn  to  carbon  paper,  so  that  any  scratching  or  pressure  made 
a  permanent  scar.  My  hair  was  in  amazingly  good  shape,  with  only  the 
gray,  the  newest  hair,  falling  out.  1  added  vitamin  and  homeopathic  sup- 
port, so  that  each  day  1  took  forty-one  pills  to  repair  and  boost  my  im- 
mune system  and  weakened  body. 

1  learned  about  acupuncture  for  the  treatment  of  nausea  and  added 
it  to  my  after-chemo  treatment  modality  after  the  eighth  treatment.  The 
needles  were  painful,  but  lessened  the  nausea  and  kept  the  ache  out  of  my 
hollow  feeling  bones.  My  nerve  endings  were  beginning  to  show  signs  of 
damage,  with  shooting  sharp  pains  traveling  through  the  nerves  for  no 
apparent  reason. 

1  completed  a  second  round  of  CT  and  PET  scans,  and  on  my  birth- 
day in  December  I  got  the  call  from  my  doctor  that  1  was  cancer  free.  1 
still  had  another  two  months  of  chemo  to  go.  1  completed  my  final  che- 
motherapy treatment,  the  eleventh  out  of  twelve  treatments. 

Now  it  was  time  to  feel  my  muscles  strain  and  move  again,  pursu- 
ing health  and  strength.  1  couldn't  wait  to  feel  the  road  beneath  my  feet, 


and  1  was  mentally  ready  to  circle  the  globe  before  the  sun  rose.  1  could 
hear  my  old  path  along  the  mountain  road  call  out  to  me  again,  teasing 
me  with  an  early  bloom  of  California  poppies.  But  my  body  had  tricked 
me  during  the  treatments.  Instead  of  losing  weight  from  the  constant 
nausea,  1  had  put  it  on,  40  pounds  in  six  months,  due  to  steroids  and  in- 
activity. 1  was  sluggish,  out  of  shape,  and  now  weakness  and  atrophy  set 
in.  My  muscles  ached  from  dawn  to  dusk  with  my  newest  pain,  neuropa- 
thy, which  was  described  to  me  as  a  disease  or  dysfunction  of  the  periph- 
eral nerves. 

The  nerve  damage  remained.  1  could  work  all  day  at  my  desk,  oc- 
casionally getting  up  for  the  bathroom,  coffee  or  a  meeting  and  not  feel 
any  pain  until  1  got  in  the  car  and  headed  home.  The  pain  traveled  ran- 
domly, striking  every  conceivable  nerve  in  my  body.  It  worsened  when  1 
sat  or  lay  down  for  twenty  minutes  or  longer,  and  subsided  only  when  1 
was  physically  active. 

Dr.  Crouse  explained  that  there  were  two  types  of  neuropathy,  and 
that  a  nerve  conduction  test  would  determine  if  it  was  major  or  minor 
damage.  Major  nerve  damage  is  pretty  much  irreversible  and  is  misery  on 
earth,  bumping  you  up  to  an  eventual  dosage  of  Oxycontin  or  a  morphine    97 
drip.  The  standard  test  consisted  of  painful  needle  pricks  with  electricity. 
No  major  damage  was  found  although  the  test  doesn't  detect  the  minor 
nerve  damage;  Crouse  said  it  is  controllable  and  possibly  reversible  over 
time.  My  treatment  would  be  a  cocktail  of  traditional  pain  medications 
combined  with  new  drugs  like  Cymbalta,  Palomar  or  Lyrica,  used  primar- 
ily for  the  treatment  of  depression. 

1  tried  changing  my  exercise  routine  to  evenings,  to  allow  me  to 
stay  active  longer  in  the  day.  That  delayed  the  pain,  but  had  the  nega- 
tive effect  of  less  hours  of  sleep.  1  tried  acupuncture,  massage,  hot  show- 
ers, cold  showers,  light  therapy,  Native  American  sweats,  Reiki,  cupping, 
Brain  Gym,  oil  essence,  color  therapy,  Holographic  Repatterning  therapy, 
daily  fresh  juiced  vegetable  drinks  made  for  nerve  support,  mega  dosage 
of  vitamins  and  supplements.  1  drank  acai,  mangosteen,  goji,  pomegran- 
ate, and  bilberry  super  juices.  Most  of  them  were  too  acidic  for  me,  and 
made  my  intestinal  track  crumble  into  diarrhea.  All  the  healthy  boosts  to 
my  system  had  no  effect  on  the  nerve  pain.  It  continued  to  increase. 

1  began  to  wonder  if  other  chronic  sufferers  found  some  nobility  in 
all  this  suffering  and  created  religion  to  honor  it.  My  mind  wrangled  for 


a  purpose  to  continue  with  the  depressing  cycle  of  pills  and  pain.  When 
an  old  friend,  a  shaman  in  the  Huichol  Indian  religion,  came  to  visit  in 
El  Paso,  1  asked  him  if  we  would  do  a  sweat  for  me.  We  were  joined  by 
a  couple  of  friends  and  we  drove  out  to  the  New  Mexico  desert  where  he 
owned  land  and  had  a  ceremonial  sweat  lodge  and  two  adobe  brick  huts, 
one  for  a  reprieve  from  the  hot  treeless  desert  sun  and  the  other  for  food 
storage  and  sacrifice  preparation.  Between  the  three  buildings  was  a  large 
fire  pit  which  we  used  to  cook  on,  heat  the  rocks  for  the  sweat  lodge, 
warm  ourselves  at  night  and  keep  the  coyotes  and  rattlesnakes  at  bay. 

The  sweat  lodge  was  set  a  foot  into  the  ground  which  gave  it  a 
ceiling  of  three  feet  in  a  round  mud  and  straw  structure  about  twenty  feet 
in  diameter.  It  could  comfortably  hold  ten  people  if  no  one  wanted  to  lie 
down.  The  door  into  the  lodge  required  that  you  crawled  in  and  settled 
yourself  in  the  near  total  darkness.  Once  everyone  was  inside,  the  only 
brief  light  came  from  the  glowing  lava  rock  preheated  in  the  fire  pit.  A 
fire  tender  waited  outside  the  lodge  and  kept  the  rocks  hot  and  ready  for 
the  lodge  when  needed.  Chris  and  1  sat  together,  touching  lightly  in  the 
pitch  darkness  and  suffocating  heat.  With  the  shaman  we  waited,  prayed, 
£fj    shouted,  chanted  and  inhaled  burnt  sage.  The  darkness  was  overwhelm- 
ing, thick  and  almost  choking,  and  we  were  not  able  to  see  any  move- 
ment or  light  except  for  the  glow  of  the  red  rocks  that  were  brought  in 
with  us.  1  leaned  back  against  the  adobe  walls  and  let  the  sweat  pour 
down  me,  centering  myself  to  let  whatever  spiritual  realm  work  itself 
over  me.  Then  as  if  on  cue  a  nerve  ending  sparked  and  1  knew  the  sweat 
and  the  hope  1  held  in  it  for  divine  intervention  was  over. 

My  once  meaningful  work  became  just  a  job,  something  1  did  be- 
tween pain  pills  and  sleep.  And  though  1  was  grateful  that  my  marriage 
was  a  sanctuary,  the  meds  deadened  my  libido,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
my  marriage,  1  started  to  fake  my  orgasms.  1  had  had  enough  of  El  Paso 
and  decided  it  was  time  to  fill  those  moments  of  pain  free,  lucidity  with 
something  more  purposeful  and  beautiful. 

We  moved  to  Los  Angeles.  1  loved  the  city  and  my  new  job,  but 
this  began  the  period  of  time  1  called  the  three  states  of  hell:  neuropathy 
while  resting,  angina-like  problem  while  moving,  and  the  drugged  mal- 
aise in  between.  After  four  nights  in  a  row  of  waking  up  at  3:30  after 
only  three-four  hours  of  sleep  1  began  to  believe  that  suicide  was  a  ratio- 
nal, loving  and  unselfish  choice. 


1  lay  in  bed,  my  husband  asleep,  and  the  room  a  comfortable  tem- 
perature, no  dreams,  just  pain.  Getting  up  and  taking  another  pill  would 
make  me  oversleep,  and  1  typically  couldn't  fall  asleep  again  till  dawn  for 
one  more  hour  of  sleep.  Something  had  to  change,  as  1  felt  1  was  driving  a 
car  with  no  breaks  toward  the  end  of  a  cliff. 

What  still  remained  was  the  spiritual  side  of  pain.  When  1  closed 
my  eyes  1  let  the  nerve  endings  shoot  off  like  an  electrical  storm  on  a  hot, 
dry  night  in  the  desert.  1  felt  the  sensation  of  power  ebbing  and  flowing 
in  random  patterns  throughout  my  body,  discordant  and  without  rhythm. 
1  began  to  medicate  and  listen  for  my  body  to  drink  in  the  drug,  through 
my  blood  vessels.  1  felt  the  throbs  become  duller  as  their  bolts  lingered 
but  were  softer,  but  before  shutting  off  altogether,  there  was  always  a  last 
big  spike,  which  caused  me  to  jump  with  the  pain  strike  landed  behind  an 
eye  socket  or  in  breast  tissue. 

1  listened  for  a  message  in  the  pain,  and  wondered  what  lessons 
the  nerve  endings  could  teach  me.  Was  there  a  toggle  switch  that  1  could 
mentally  control  or  even  stop  the  pain  if  something  was  massaged  or 
controlled  through  meditation?  There  had  to  be  a  solution  other  than 
drugs  or  death.  And  though  1  watched  my  belief  in  a  higher  power  fade         9Q 
away,  1  cringed  at  the  thought  of  ghosts.  1  understand  that  it's  supposed 
to  be  the  unresolved  emotional,  physical  or  mental  pain  in  life  that  brings 
ghosts  back  to  try  to  repair  the  area  of  pain.  If  that's  true,  then  death  may 
not  be  peaceful  and  pain  may  be  eternal. 

At  the  present  level  of  3200  mg  of  Neurontin  for  the  resting  pain 
and  100  mg  Palomar  for  the  moving  pain,  1  no  longer  dream.  My  mind 
attempts  to  dream  during  the  day  and  1  see  visions  from  the  lack  of  REM 
sleep.  What  seemed  like  a  really  great  plan  for  a  new  project  or  presenta- 
tion, when  attempting  to  write  it,  comes  out  incoherent  on  paper.  Now 
I've  learned  the  difference  and  the  similarities  between  exhaustion  and 
inspiration. 

I've  never  forgotten  that  joy  is  fleeting  and  that  pleasure  is  just  a 
state  of  being  'pain  free'.  Knowing  now  that  a  day  is  not  promised,  re- 
quired a  certain  carefree  mentality,  or  my  morose  moments  would  take 
hold  and  never  let  go.  1  choose  the  funny  movie  vs.  the  drama,  the  com- 
edy club  instead  of  the  live  music  and  all  the  orgasms,  the  tastes,  the 
smells,  the  sounds,  the  touches  and  the  beauty  1  can  squeeze  in.  Damaged 
nerve  endings  remind  you  above  all  else  that  you  are  painfully  alive  and 


the  senses  more  heightened  and  eager  for  stimulation. 

What  a  nice  thing  our  body  does  for  us:  it  compensates.  It  natu- 
rally becomes  a  hedonist  when  pain  is  the  thief  of  normal  pleasure.  I've 
broken  both  ankles,  suffered  a  concussion,  torn  tendons  from  numer- 
ous falls,  and  dislocated  a  shoulder  from  skiing.  I've  taken  a  few  licks  in 
fights,  been  chased  by  a  bull,  and  crashed  bicycles  and  cars  several  times. 
Beaned  in  the  head  with  foot  and  soccer  balls,  second-degree  burns,  heat 
stroke  and  cocaine  overdose,  abortion,  and  four  surgeries.  And  now  1 
added  near  death  poisoning  through  chemotherapy  to  the  things  that 
make  up  my  life. 

Today  1  identify  as  an  intentional  hedonist.  My  purpose  is  to  find 
and  relish  the  moments  of  joy  and  pleasure  and  to  celebrate  the  happi- 
ness that  comes  with  it  in  an  ethical  manner.  A  lazy  hedonist  only  takes 
his  or  her  pleasure  when  it  is  convenient,  free  or  easily  stolen.  But  as  a 
true  follower  1  look  for  pleasure  as  a  right  and  a  gift  not  to  be  wasted. 
Looking  for  pleasure  in  everyday  things  makes  getting  out  of  bed  a  joy 
of  discovery.  1  still  wake  up  with  back  aching  pain  when  1  get  out  of  bed 
and  pain  in  my  legs  and  feet  when  they  hit  the  floor  for  the  first  few 
Qfj    steps  out  of  bed.  But  the  world  welcomes  my  mind  not  in  the  past  news 
stories,  but  in  the  advertisements  for  the  future  things  to  do  in  my  home 
here  in  Los  Angeles.  1  determine  the  handful  of  pills  1  need  to  take  for 
the  day  and  set  about  looking  at  what's  ahead  —  work,  love  and  pleasure 
in  each  day.  Each  day  1  still  enjoy  the  opportunity  to  face  the  duality  of 
pain  and  pleasure,  and  as  1  get  older  those  polar  opposites  are  sharper 
and  in  more  focus.  1  can  let  pain  dominate  the  other  emotions  or  experi- 
ences, but  1  choose  not  to.  1  am  reminded  with  each  flash  of  dolor  that 
my  brain  works,  and  so  does  my  body  and  my  ability  to  live  life  not  as  a 
victim  of  pain,  but  strangely  with  it. 


.  FOUR 

[OR ETTA    poems 
CONTRERRS 


32 


the  day  you  thought  you  had  enough  water, 
and  wanted  to  be  carried  to  high  ground, 
i  was  imagining  what  it  would 
mean  for  me  to  lose  my  mud. 

god  has  allowed  some  magical  reversal  to  occur, 
(this  incident  is  about  your  fear  of  changing, 
not  mine.) 

in  myself  i  am. 

i  build  to  fit  in 

with  my  surroundings- 

sometimes,  even  now,  a  reed  in  a  bed  of  music; 

other  times,  a  right-foot  pivot  in  a  whirl; 

always  a  very  great  ornament  indeed. 

oh!  joy  for  this  soul  and  this  heart 

who  have  escaped  the  earth  of  water  and  clay 

to  now  be  in  the  hands  of  the  beloved; 

to  now  sing  as  my  own  flint,  my  own  spark. 


EARTH  OF  WATER  HMD  CLAY 

[AFTER  R  SUMMER  OF 


YOU  WANTED  RHYME  |  WANTED  REASON 


I'm  more  familiar  with  the  smell  of  rain 

On  busy  streets,  and  desert  heat  that  whips 

Through  mountains  spreading  sparks-those  crazy  bits 

Of  desert  dust  that  people  try  to  blame 

Their  fits  on. 

Cotton  has  a  way 
Of  making  noise,  a  kind  of  screech  that  twists  99 

My  spine  and  makes  my  teeth  burn  with  an  itch. 

And  my  mother  changed  up  bedtime  stories 
Making  them  gory,  horrifying  us 
Into  laughter. 

1  can  live  on  tortillas  and  butter. 


HNGIE 


34 


RT  HER  HUSBAND'S  FUNEDBL 


near  the  base  of  the  family  sepulcher, 
before  the  wind  from  the  bright 
glossy  brass  drifted  from  a 
weathered  mouth,  a  low  grito. 

behind,  the  rows  of  cold,  polished  stone 
worn  from  dress  shoes  stepping  and  scraping, 
viejas  of  high-heeled  mud 

whispering  of  old  stains 
(some  among  the  group,  the  toxic, 
singeing,  cheap,  infectious,  turgid 
chisme  with  slight  smiles,  and  hushed 
hot-voice  covered  mouths, 
tethered  tongues). 

Ya  llore  mucho,  mi  amor. 
Ahora  me  levanto. 


she  began  con  grito, 

a  new  world,  as  Xipe  Totec— 

bold,  burgeoning  through  those 
she's  sacrificed,  down  around  her, 
the  old,  protective  skins. 

first  the  skins,  then  the  low  hopes 
from  exhaustive  fits,  one  by  one. 

rebirth  will  be  divine. 

but  for  now, 

the  stiff  itch  from  shedding, 

and  the  lessening  of  rot. 

35 


36 


1. 


On  flat  land,  1  fear  the  wind 
And  the  immeasurable  distance 
1  can  tumble.  My  ankles  are  weak 
And  I've  short  nails  on  small  hands. 

These  things  1  let  loose  in  a  sigh 
Against  the  airplane  window. 

1  grew  up  in  Wisconsin,  in  a  valley 
With  mountains  all  around  me. 
Said  the  woman  next  to  me. 
She  waited  until  1  turned- 
It  took  me  a  long  time  to  adjust 
Living  differently  too. 

Maybe  she  heard  me  breathe  heavily, 
And  from  the  comer  of  her  eye, 
Saw  me  write  on  my  napkin 
That  1  grew  up  penned. 

How  so,  1  asked,  just  to  be  sure. 

1  just  felt  safer,  1  don't  know  how  else 

To  say  it,  being  enveloped. 


n. 


MY  BODY  BETRAYER 


When  1  should  be  stretching  my  limbs 
When  my  legs  should  be  running  the  rest 
Of  me  away,  when  my  feet 
Should  be  sounding  out  self-preservation, 
1  am  betrayed  with  a  dance  that  isn't  mine. 


111. 

]  stopped  wearing  short  dresses  and  skirts 
At  the  age  of  twenty-three.  My  legs 
Became  the  permanent  residence 
For  tributaries:  double-crossing 
Blue,  two-faced  red,  and  sometimes 
Deceitful  green.  They  pay  in  pulse  to 
Modesty. 


IV. 

The  things  1  am  averse  to 

Begin  irritating  me  in  my  right  eye. 

They  swell  and  sag  it  with 

A  weight  1  can't  blame  on  dust, 

37 

Something  1  ate,  the  rain. 
You'll  know  what  to  look  for: 

A  twitch  in  my  right  hand 
And  its  slow  ascension 

To  push  back  an  honest  answer. 


38 


UNTITLED  5 


39 


UNTITLED  6 


1  hail  the  waitress  with  a  half-salute.  She  wiggles  over  to  me,  ad- 
justing the  paper  headpiece  that  is  both  amusing  and  degrading.  Rosie, 
her  nametag  declares.  "Well,  Rosie"  1  say,  "I'll  have  two  eggs  over  easy. 
And  a  coffee,  black."  This  was  always  my  victory  meal,  a  simple  reward 

for ajob well  done.    0R|MTHDLOGY  BY  M^SSA  FESTH 

1  look  out  the  grimy  window  at  the  crows  pacing  the  parking  lot. 
Over  the  past  few  weeks  1  had  gotten  a  vaguely  threatening  impression 
from  the  birds  here.  1  figure  after  Hitchcock  had  made  them  and  Bodega 
Bay  so  wickedly  famous,  they  must  feel  pressure  to  live  up  to  their  repu- 
tation. A  few  ravens  land  on  my  car  and  stare  into  the  diner  at  the  de- 
pressing clientele.  1  watch  as  more  land  on  the  hood  of  my  grey  Chevy, 
guarding  it  like  expectant  feathered  gargoyles.  They're  just  giving  the 
public  what  they  want,  1  think. 

While  folding  the  plastic  menu,  1  notice  a  streak  of  blood  on  my 
white  shirt.  A  couple  specks  of  browning  DNA  right  there  on  my  sleeve. 
I've  already  been  to  three  different  dry-cleaners  this  week,  figuring  my 
usual  cleaners  would  soon  grow  curious  about  my  growing  collection 
JH    of  blood-soaked  V-neck  cardigans.  Still,  there  was  something  satisfying 
about  seeing  the  blood  on  my  clothing.  It  was  one  of  those  details  1  knew 
that  my  fellow  diners  would  only  recall  afterwards.  When  a  tarty  blonde 
will  later  report  here,  underneath  the  unglamorous  lighting  of  an  all 
American  diner,  she  will  give  some  sensational  narrative  and  everybody 
will  recall  what  it  was  like  to  dine  at  the  same  counter  as  a  monster. 

Monster.  1  roll  the  word  around  my  mouth  for  a  while.  Inspired,  1 
try  to  predict  what  my  moniker  will  become  after  1  make  more  progress 
-  once  1  get  my  sleeves  a  little  dirtier.  1  have  to  think  of  something  be- 
fore somebody  appoints  some  embarrassing  title  onto  my  work.  The  Beast 
of  Bodega.   No,  too  old-fashioned.  Maybe  "The  Brute  of  the  Bay"...?  So 
broody,  1  think,  wondering  if  the  alliteration  is  really  necessary. 

1  look  out  the  window  again,  as  the  parking  lot  slowly  becomes  an 
aviary.  Two  young  boys  are  trying  to  shoo  the  birds  away  by  squawking 
and  clapping  their  hands.  It's  clear  that  they  haven't  mastered  the  lan- 
guage. The  birds  continue  glaring,  un-amused  at  this  role  reversal. 

Then  it  comes  to  me.  The  Bird-Catcher.  An  obvious  metaphor 
couched  in  cheeky  British  slang.. .but  hooky  and  memorable.  1  smile 
at  the  name,  remarking  how  accurate  it  is.  Soon  my  reputation  will  be 


grander  than  Hitchcock  and  his  chirping  actors.  Everyone  will  know  how 
1  plucked  these  innocent  girls  from  this  dozy  coastal  town  and  wore  their 
blood  to  lunch. 

Rosie  interrupts  my  self-congratulation  by  setting  a  brown  plas- 
tic plate  in  front  of  me.  Her  smile  looks  forced  with  years  of  experience. 
Strangely,  1  almost  feel  bad  for  her  standing  there  in  her  yellow  dress, 
poised  with  a  golfer's  pencil  and  pad  of  paper.  1  chew  my  over-over-easy 
eggs  but  they're  a  disappointing  reward,  comparable  to  eating  a  novelty 
rubber  chicken. 

1  salt  my  final  bites  and  stare  at  Rosie  in  the  diner's  kitchen.  Be- 
hind the  line-cooks,  she  punches  her  lengthy  beige  timecard.  1  stretch  my 
neck  upwards  to  watch  her  remove  her  recyclable  crown  and  sad  badge. 
My  eyes  follow  her  procession  of  goodbyes.  First  to  the  cooks,  then  the 
waitresses,  and  finally  the  teenaged  hostess  at  the  front  door. 

With  her  uniform  hidden  underneath  her  dark  coat,  1  notice  her 
features.  Somehow  her  waist  looks  smaller  with  the  extra  layer  on,  which 
1  attribute  to  the  trickery  of  pastel  polyester.  1  watch  her  in  the  parking 
lot  shooing  away  the  crows  surrounding  her  sedan.  1  throw  eight  dollars 
onto  the  countertop  and  quietly  laugh  to  myself  as  1  realize  tipping  her         A] 
now  would  be  pointless. 

1  put  my  overcoat  on,  concealing  my  stained  shirt,  masking  any 
evidence  of  villainous  intent.  Walking  out  of  the  Greasy  Spoon,  1  see 
Rosie  persuade  the  final  bird  away  from  her  with  wild  arm  waving.  This 
display  is  certainly  her  most  elaborate  farewell. 

How  rare  for  me  to  know  her  name  -  and  now  to  have  a  name  of 
my  own.  It  will  be  a  new,  personalized  advantage  for  the  main  event. 
A  seal  of  officiality.  1  start  to  whisper  Rosie,  Rosie,  Rosie  under  my 
breath,  waiting  for  her  to  reverse  out  of  her  parking  space.  Getting  into 
my  Chevy  still  garnished  with  fowl,  1  wait  until  she  turns  left  out  of  the 
diner's  lot.  Driving  behind  her  on  Highway  One,  1  see  her  gamine  reflec- 
tion in  the  side-mirror.  My  heart  rate  and  car  accelerate  as  1  imagine  the 
quiet  clip  of  her  wings. 
My  sleeve  is  still  wet  inside  my  coat. 

Rosie,  Rosie,  Rosie. 

One  more  crow  for  the  murder. 


42 


BOXED  IN:  RN  INTERVIEW  WITH  RMY  YRTES 

BY  KATHLEEN  ARA1ZA 

Amy  Yates  is  here  to  "protect,  harbor  and  constrict."  Well, 
not  Amy  herself  but  rather,  her  photography.  In  her  latest  series, 
titled  Boxed  In,  Yates  examines  the  notion  of  "reactions  to  restricted 
space"  as  she  captures  nude  subjects  as  they  are  individually  con- 
fined in  a  2  V2  x  2  ]h  wooden  box.  During  the  process  of  this  inter- 
view, Yates  was  finishing  her  last  semester  at  the  University  of  San 
Diego  and  wrote  to  me  about  her  last  two  series  and  early  life  raised 
by  a  creative  family: 

1  grew  up  in  Redlands,  California,  where  1  was  raised  by  a  writer  and  a 
professor  of  Shakespeare  who  both  valued  the  importance  of  the  arts, 
and  have  pushed  me  to  think  creatively  since  1  could  walk.  1  can't 
remember  a  time  in  my  life  when  1  wasn't  creating  or  studying  art— 
whether  seriously  or  playfully. 

When  did  photography  become  your  medium  oe  choice? 

In  high  school,  1  took  a  painting  or  drawing  class  every  year,  but  it 
wasn't  until  1  got  to  the  University  of  San  Diego  that  1  had  done  any 
photography.  After  1  took  a  beginning  black  and  white  class,  1  was 
never  without  my  camera.  1  discovered  that  1  loved  the  camera  as  a 
medium  because  of  the  limitations.  A  photograph  is  real.  Each  pho- 
tograph captures  a  moment  in  time  that  can't  be  changed,  and  what 
is  in  the  frame  actually  happened.  My  approach  became  progressive- 
ly complex  and  ambitious  and,  1  suppose,  darker,  as  1  became  more 
serious  about  photography.  1  started  to  photograph  startling  scenes 
with  the  hopes  that  the  viewer  will  think  about  that  moment  in  time 
really  happening-that  moment  being  real. 

NOW  YOU  SAY  YOUR  WORK  HAS  BECOME  "DARKER"  SINCE  YOU  BECAME  MORE  SERIOUS 
ABOUT  PHOTOGRAPHY.  WHY  DO  YOU  THINK  YOUR  WORK  TOOK  THIS  DIRECTION? 


1  think  it  became  an  issue  of  problem  solving.  When  1  began  making 
photographs,  1  wanted  them  to  be  "pleasant"  or  "happy"  or  "beauti- 
ful," but  once  1  finished  one,  1  would  be  content  and  ready  to  move 
on.  There  was  no  problem  or  issue  to  be  solved  in  my  work,  so  it 
wasn't  something  that  brought  in  a  lot  of  attention.  When  we  look 
at  something  that's  pleasant,  we  take  it  for  what  it  is,  enjoy  it,  and 
move  along.  But  if  we're  confronted  with  something  that  may  be 
uncomfortable  or  confrontational  (in  art)  1  believe,  at  least  for  me, 
that  it  creates  a  connection  with  the  viewers,  because  the  viewers 
are  faced  with  a  problem  and  want  to  understand  it-they  want  to 
figure  out  why  they  are  uncomfortable. 

HOW  DID  YOU  APPROACH  THIS  IDEA  OF  CAPTURING  THE  UNCOMFORTABLE  AND  AWK- 
WARD REACTIONS  FROM  YOUR  SUBJECTS? 

Initially,  1  was  merely  interested  in  watching  people  through  a  lens 
and  seeing  their  initial  reactions  and  movements.  These  reactions         4u 
were  mostly  those  of  discomfort,  and  discomfort  began  to  be  what  1 
liked  to  capture.  This  led  me  to  realize  that  1  have  an  interest  in  the 
disturbed.  1  started  to  move  my  subjects  into  a  studio  and  stage  the 
scenes.  1  had  my  subjects  remain  hidden  or  reserved-the  opposite 
of  what  1  believe  is  a  stereotype  of  the  "glamorous"  or  "beautiful" 
studio  photograph. 

Several  of  Yates'  images  featured  in  this  issue  (four  to  be  exact,  including 
the  cover  image)  are  from  a  series  titled  girl  with  the  long  hair.  what  is 
the  focus  of  this  series? 

The  series,  (]IRL  WITH  LONG  HfllR,  investigates  beauty  by  directly  mixing  it 
with  unsettling  images.  It  investigates  transformation  in  that  my 
subjects  seem  as  if  they  are  trying  to  change,  but  there  is  a  constant 
struggle  to  do  so.  It  interrogates  the  anxiety  of  fitting  in.  1  chose  to 
photograph  a  "beautiful"  girl  with  long  blonde  hair  (or  what  1  have 


seen  to  be  a  common  stereotype  of  beauty  today.)  1  wanted  to  take 
this  "beautiful"  girl  and  create  images  that  hide  her  from  the  viewer, 
or  make  her  un-beautiful.  1  manipulated  light  to  create  eerie,  un- 
canny feelings.  Yet  the  light  itself  is  beautiful.  There  are  oppositions 
here  of  subject  vs.  beauty,  and  beauty  vs.  happiness.  What  is  most 
important  to  me  is  continuing  innovation,  so  these  photographs 
struggle  to  discover  insights  through  fresh  juxtapositions  that,  1 
hope,  counter  expectations  or  habitual  ways  of  seeing. 

and  from  Girl  With  [ong  Hair  arrives  your  latest  series,  boxed  |n,  which  was 

SHOWN  AT  USD  AS  PART  OF  YOUR  ART  MAJOR  THESIS.  COULD  YOU  ELABORATE  ON  YOUR 
CONCEPT? 

For  my  show,  BOXED  |N,  1  wanted  to  take  my  work  a  step  further.  1  have 
always  photographed  women  surrounded  by  darkness,  and  1  would 
bind  them  in  string,  or  their  own  hair  to  create  a  sense  of  confine- 
ment, which  was  surrounded  by  negative  space.  1  decided  that  1 
wanted  to  explore  the  body,  and  the  body  being  confined  in  a  literal 
sense,  and  that  is  what  led  me  to  the  box.  1  built  a  wooden  box,  2 
1/2x2  1/2  feet,  and  put  my  subjects  inside.  1  also  decided  to  photo- 
graph men  as  well  as  women. 

WHY  THE  BOX? 

The  concept  I'm  working  with  is  about  confinement.  1  am  investi- 
gating the  ambiguity  of  the  box  as  a  metaphor.  These  photographs 
are  about  reaction  to  restricted  space.  My  subjects  may  appear  to 
be  "boxed  in"  and  trying  to  escape  as  if  from  a  cell  or  a  trap  (or 
resigned  to  their  condition),  and  yet  simultaneously  this  enclosure 
seems  to  provide  shelter  and  protection  and  can  be  seen  as  a  type 
of  armor— a  protective  shell.  My  subjects  are  nude,  making  them 
extremely  vulnerable  and  uncomfortable,  a  condition  enforcing  the 
ambiguity  of  the  box  being  either  their  sole  protection  or  their  soli- 
tary confinement. 


What  other  external  sources  influenced  [jIRL  WITH  LONG  HfllR  and  BOXED  |N? 

One  of  my  favorite  photographers,  who  highly  influenced  Girl  With 
Long  Hair  is  a  photographer  named  Mario  Cravo  Neto.  He  photo- 
graphed different  spiritual  and  religious  aspects  of  the  Afro-Brazil- 
ian culture  in  Brazil  that  play  out  in  his  use  of  eggs,  birds,  animals, 
fish,  and  bones  combined  with  the  nude  human  body.  They  are 
somewhat  startling  images  to  me,  but  I'm  sure  that  is  only  because  1 
am  a  North  American  viewer.  Other  photographers  who  have  influ- 
enced my  work  are  Edward  Weston  and  Ruth  Bernhard.  They  each 
work  with  the  female  nude.  Yet  they  work  with  it  in  a  sensual  way- 
something  1  am  trying  to  avoid  in  my  work.  1  also  really  admire  the 
work  of  Diane  Arbus  and  Nicholas  Nixon. 

COMING  ER0M  MY  PERSONAL  CURIOSITY,  l'VE  COME  TO  DISCOVER  THE  INEVITABLE 

DISCUSSION  WITH  OTHER  PHOTOGRAPHERS  1  MEET  IS  DIGITAL  VS.  FILM  PHOTOGRAPHY.  DO 

YOU  SHOOT  WITH  BOTH?  WHAT  IS  YOUR  PERSPECTIVE  ON  THIS  TOPIC?  4d 

Everything  1  do  is  shot  with  film.  1  have  messed  around  with  digital 
a  bit,  but  have  never  been  satisfied.  It  basically  comes  down  to  the 
film  grain  versus  the  digital  pixel,  as  well  as  the  printing  process. 
1  shoot  with  medium  format  cameras  (a  Pentax  6x7  and  a  Hassel- 
blad  6x6),  so,  while  my  film  is  still  not  extremely  large,  it  is  much 
more  detailed  than  35mm  film,  and,  in  my  opinion,  digital  images 
as  well.  I'm  sure  that  could  be  argued,  but  from  personal  experience 
as  well  as  working  with  other  serious  artists,  1  have  found  that  film 
is  the  way  to  go.  Also,  1  can't  imagine  replacing  hours  spent  in  a 
dark  room  with  hours  spent  in  front  of  a  computer  screen.  That  just 
seems  absurd  to  me. 

If  you'd  like  to  learn  more  about  Amy  and  her  upcoming  work, 
email  her  at  amylizyates@gmail.com. 


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RHVENSWDOD 


Three 


Poems 


THE  SflINT  OF  THE  PROFESSOR 
LEWIS  HYDE 


So  much  la-la-la 

1  have  been  known  as  Negro 

Sable  Mother's  genius  was  on  me. 

1  did  not  go  to  banks; 

Humans  could  not  budge  me, 

1  was  all  at  once  unmanageable. 

The  word  Art,  1  made  that.  in 

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1  married  a  mathematical  topologist. 

(  Not  much  was  available.) 

He  had  sixteen  sayings  and  at  night 

Would  pray  "  0  Babylon,  Babylon 

To  translate  is  to  betray  "  and  fall  asleep. 

1  would  look  at  him  over  the  cigarette  smoke  and  scowl  in  the  dark. 

The  cattle  once  stolen  become  domestic  beasts. 

Hear  now,  the  essentiality  of  love 

In  a  bed,  of  sex  in  a  bed,  a  kind  of  bed, 

On  a  ship,  or  a  bedship,  the  arms  of  lovers  enjammed 

Unto  the  dawn,  the  chests  of  lovers  beheld  and  spun 

Of  all  the  blue  darkness  that  lives  behind  closed  eyes 

And  of  all  the  red  spotted  darkness  that  shakes  behind  desire  there, 

And  all  of  this  held  against  the  shamed-whispering  cries  of  childhood 

In  a  broken  down  penny  arcade  in  Visalia, 

Or  a  beat  shaft  card  room  of  Chiang-Yuan, 


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Or  a  miserable  sweat  box  in  Chichen  ltza,  everyone  is  eleven  once, 

Every  one  is  blistered  of  loneliness; 

To  and  fro  that  longing  rests,  finally,  upon  the  life  of  another. 

A  man,  a  woman,  a  scrap  of  time  and  try,  and  Love, 

The  cosmic  linguist,  the  one  who  cuts  along  the  joint, 

The  one  born  last,  Hermes,  the  forge  stone.   Love, 

That  sings  the  song  of  open  passages,  in  languages  found 

In  sleeping  bibliographies,  Love,  who  cries  for  the  broken  lexicon, 

And  for  the  alternating  seasons  of  raven; 

Papa  Legba,  open  the  gate,  the  barrier  of  difference,  Love 
Is  dancing  in  the  backlogs,  and  shouting  with  tears,  Come 
And  let  us  run  in  the  dissolving  day. 

Stolen  butter  should  never  be  the  basis  of  marriage 
Krishna  will  steal  the  heart  of  anyone,  then  disappear. 
Hermeneut,  decipher  the  rags  of  the  belly, 

Unplait  these  dripping  brains, 

Make  me  pure  again,  like  1  never  was. 

A  man  comes  and  begs  admittance. 

Long  ago  1  lost  a  hound  he  says. 

Zeus  himself  is  the  uninterpretable  speaker 

And  we  stare  into  the  misunderstood, 

The  world,  our  beloved  illegible  codex 

While  the  children  of  woman  and  man 

Eat  the  dirt  on  the  outskirts  of 

Town 

And  are  trapped  in  history. 


THE  SfiINT  OF  THE  PflMPH 

lEONOR  flCEVEDO  SORREZ:  LR  MRDRE  DE  [jORGES 

THE  BLIND  POET  FROM  ARGENTINA 


They  always  said  the  blind  poet  from  Argentina  did  such  and  such, 

That  his  mother  fed  his  eyes  and  wrote  his  mail 

And  that  his  arms  were  brown  and  white  and  blind 

As  they  crept  in  the  house  on  their  typewritten  requests  for  bread 

And  paper,  Mas  papel,  Mama,  IMecesito 

Papelitos  para  la  ropa  de  mis  hijos.  Mama  ? 

Perhaps  the  cynic  thinks  that  there  were  times 

When  his  mother  hated  him  for  his  eyes 

Perhaps  the  cynic  thinks  that  there  were  times 

When  his  mother  wished  that  she  had  only  held 

Her  legs  together  and  refused  the  seed. 

Perhaps  the  spirit  would  have  come  to  her  again,  ul 

But  it  is  an  unnecessary  train  of  thought, 

She  did  not  stiffen  to  refuse  his  father, 

She  let  her  legs  fall  apart  like  leavening  yellow  cakes, 

Like  splitting  nut  halves,  green  and  awake, 

Two  pink  and  sticky  fig  bodies,  her  thighs 

Ruffled  open  in  brown,  luscious  skin. 

Of  the  blind  poets'  paternity  we  do  not  know  much  else. 

Perhaps  the  cynic  thinks  that  there  were  times 

When  the  city  could  have  used  another  worker  in  the  plaza, 

Another  hearty  body  to  lay  the  columns  in, 

A  sweaty  face  and  a  healthy  back 

To  carry  the  sacks  of  cement 

Along  the  treacherous  road  of  the  quarry, 

A  man,  with  heart  and  limb 

To  offer  his  energies  for  the  land  and  for  the  state. 

What  is  this  poetry  anyway  ?   Can  you  eat 

These  spotted  white  loaves  of  words  ? 


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Can  the  children  eat  these  visions  ? 

And  of  his  brilliance,  his  dripping  tongue  and  shocking  brain, 

His  never-was-ing  eyes,  his  so  -  called  gifts, 

His  naked  eyes  alone  in  the  stabbing  darkness, 

His  naked  eyes  alone  at  the  top  of  the  stairs, 

His  naked  eyes  encroaching  on  a  vision  too  terrible  to  speak, 

A  vision  that  groans  behind  the  lids  and  must  be  born  out, 

A  monstrous  human  vision  chased  by  death 

And  the  blinding  reality  of  disconnection  from 

Every  one,  every  where. 

Grey  shadows  lap  and  laugh  across  the  rug  shirrs, 

The  little  dog  licks  a  new  patch  of  dusty  fur, 

Silent  tea  leaves  muddy  the  side  of  the  demitasse, 

And  soak  in  their  slitherage  and  in  their  waiting. 

The  poets'  room  is  cool,  as  time  lightly  calibrates 

In  the  hollow  dancing  clocks  on  an  afternoon  of  old  flowers 

And  the  occasional  fly.  There  are  no  words  today. 

The  metronomic  brethren  of  his  mothers'  house, 

their  polar  eyes  of  tick  and  tock,  regard  him  always 

In  the  house  of  glass,  his  mother  feeding  and 

Wiping  him  from  infancy  through  his  genius, 

Her  ministering  thumbs,  her  needly  golden  thumbs 

From  the  caverns  of  almost  too,  too  much. 

In  the  great  white  house  in  the  jungle 

Where  the  white  hides  in  the  brown,  the  poets'  eyes 

Bead  and  swell  and  know  a  subtle  language.  They  elide, 

1  will  tell  of  our  sweet  scented  kisses 

Of  the  fallen  decades, 

From  the  dusty  tens  and  twenties 

Of  calendars  past 

1  will  tell  of  your  hot  blown  skirt  cuffs, 

The  blue  velveteen  purr  in  the  crushing  embrace 

1  will  tell  of  your  white  smudging  eyes 

In  the  blinding  sunshine  of  Buenos  Aires, 

The  women  staring  us  down  for  our  love,  our  youth 

Their  tight  Modotti  hands  braiding  spells  in  the  husks 


Their  knowledge  of  blood  and  freedom  mashed 

Between  the  powdered  kernels,  the  sweet  technology 

Of  time  and  chlorophyll 

1  will  lay  my  heart  down  like  the  labourer  in  his  cot 

1  will  lay  my  blind  pen  before  the  alter  of  My  Eyes 

1  will  ... 

The  blind  poet  sits  choking  in  the  sunshine  on  his  bright  memories. 

His  old  skin  hangs  like  the  crepe  dangles  of  Christmases  past, 

Solemn  old  paper  twists  of  rainbow  DNA, 

Strung  out  like  flags  of  mediocrity,  old  skin  and  hair 

Hanging  like  the  funereal  banners  of  an  ungrateful  town, 

In  an  unfinished,  mauve  appointed  Social  Hall, 

So  long,  Sorry  to  see  you  go,  Thanks  for  the  things  you  did, 

What  were  those  things  you  did  ? 

The  blind  poet  from  Argentina,  a  good  moniker,  but  only 

If  you  like  that  sort  of  thing. 

His  tears  and  longings  are  the  same  as  ours, 

He  is  no  bright  Moshiach, 

Get  a  hold  of  yourselves,  artists.  tjQ 

He  sits  with  a  crooked  look  on  his  old  face,  his  mouth  aslant  and  wonder 

ing  if  all  of  his  letters  in  ink 

Amount  to  the  brief  signs  of  a  child 

Standing  before  the  morning  glass, 

Pressing  finger  messages  in  melting  condensation. 

The  poets'  eyes  are  shut  so  tightly  together  in  his  blindest  reverie, 

Even  the  closest  investigation  of  breath  from  his  mother, 

Coming  in  with  the  tray  of  coffee  and  pan  dulce,  will  be  shut  out. 

In  the  room  there  is  a  high  scent  of  moss  and  jasmine  and  seashells. 

Somewhere  in  his  breath  there  is  a  little  flame  of  magick. 

The  Spirit  will  come  back  another  time,  and  the  children  will  eat 

And  thrive  on  his  visions. 


he  sat  there  telling  her  some  of  the  truth  during  the  self 
congratulatory  I'm  -  so  -   generous  part  of  the  constantly 
running,  invisible  documentary  of  his  life,  presumably 
filmed  by  the  angels  and  the  ghost  of  ingmar  bergman. 
the  continuity  was  amazing  except  for  those  times  when 
the  machine  was  on  the  fritz,  whole  sections  of  the  time 
he'd  lived  in  idaho  were  missing,  and  most  of  his  daugh- 
ter's pubescence,  and  there  was  that  one  section  during  his 
second  marriage  that  had  someone's  entire  thumb  in  the 
lens,  he  absolutely  never  thought  of  those  times  though, 
so  it  was  really  a  blessing  in  disguise,  trouble  was  one 
day,  one  of  the  lost  sections  showed  up  on  the  front  porch 
when  his  girlfriend  was  home  and  dressed  for  company, 
she  said  how  the  hell  are  you  and  showed  the  section 
around  the  house,  the  lost  section  said  it  was  comfortable 
waiting  for  him  in  the  living  room,  and,  drinking  tea  out 
RJ.    of  the  girlfriend's  china,  told  her  all  about  the  rape  and  the 
photos,  about  the  big  n  slutty  porn  and  something  about 
tax  evasion,  the  section  was  calm  and  pulled  no  punches, 
after  a  while  though,  he  said  he  couldn't  wait  any  longer 
and  stiffly  stood  and  walked  out  of  the  house,  when  her 
boyfriend  came  home,  all  he  said  to  the  news  of  the  return 
of  the  lost  chapters  was  that  if  she'd  really  loved  him,  she 
wouldn't  have  brought  it  up.  later  that  night  he  shoved 
her  awake  in  the  lamplight  and  with  it  tight  between  his 
thumb  and  fore  finger,  snubbed  his  cigarette  butt  out  on 
the  pink  area  between  her  labia  and  the  close  canal,  lucky 
for  her,  the  constantly  running,  invisible  documentary  of 
her  life  had  a  finicky  record  button  too.  she  would  hurt  for 
a  few  days,  but  pain  never  killed  anyone,  like  he  always 
said. 


THE  SHINT  OF  MEN 


BY  CHRCLL  SUN  YflNG 


My  sweet  life  as  a  killer  began  one  afternoon  in  our  Greenmont 
Village  tract  home,  a  sunny  Californian  modern  sort,  with  ample  op- 
portunities for  sunbeam  dust  viewing.  Oh,  the  splendors  of  eating  sunray 
diamond  dust  and  boogers,  sprawled  out  on  plush  cream  carpeting.  It 
happened  one  "after  school  special"  hour,  the  first  murder.  A  common 
species  of  housefly,  to  which  1  will  affectionately  refer  to  as  Nub,  became 
my  lovely  victim. 

Nub  was  a  portly  humzer  with  oil-spilt  skin  of  the  most  gorgeous 
and  winning  green,  six  legs  of  ridiculously  crimped,  split  ended  lashes 
and  last  but  not  least,  those  glorious  melt-  in-your-mouth  wings.  Angel 
wings.  At  first,  1  simply  desired  to  play  with  him,  perhaps  only  a  minute 
or  two.  Those  perfectly  spaced  fractions  of  time  strung  out  in  a  quivering 
line  to  form  two  of  the  most  despicably  horrid  and  positively  final  hours 
of  Nub's  life. 

At  first,  1  flirted  with  him,  dangling  him  by  a  prickly  leg,  pinning 
him  down  with  a  steady  and  focused  fingernail,  staring  into  his  kidney 
colored  eyes.  Those  plastic  eyes.  You  dare  observe  me?  It  was  then  that 


55 


1  snapped.  Staring  back  into  those  costume  bead  eyes  plugged  so  surely 
into  his  face.  1  knew  1  had  to  destroy  him. 

1  began  with  the  legs.  Plucking  one  with  a  certainty  1  had  never 
known  before,  it  slid  out  easily  with  its  sac  of  thigh  guts  or  fly  muscle 
(one  can  never  be  sure  about  these  things.)  1  thought  1  saw  him  cringe,  his 
eyes  pleading  and  his  head  moving  back  and  forth  in  half-rotations.  1  put 
him  on  his  sea  of  creamy  forest  floor  and  watched  him  walk  tight  circles. 
Round  and  round  he  went.  Where  are  you  going  and  where  have  you 
been?  No  one  knows  except  for  God  and  me. 
Oh  Nubkins.  Oh  Nubbie.  Oh  Nubbles. 
He  peered  up  at  my  bloated  red  face  and  sweat  beaded  summer- 
time-fun nose.  His  head  cocked  to  the  side  as  1  gently  closed  my  grubby 
pinchers  on  his  protesting  wing.  That  too  slid  out  easily,  as  he  watched 
twitchingly.  1  proposed  a  test.  Could  this  half-winged  and  partially  de- 
limbed  speck  in  time  actually  maintain  flight?  1  cupped  my  hands  creat- 
ing a  dark  and  moist  tomb  for  his  plump  body  and  then  1  threw  him.  1 
threw  him  as  high  into  the  atmosphere,  universe,  galaxy,  as  he  might  go. 
The  throw  put  my  shoulder  out  a  tad.  Transcendence  is  rough. 
Sfj  He  floated  through  paths  of  warming  sunlight,  his  eyes  colliding 

with  minute  and  swirling  dust  pubes.  He  watched  me  kneeling  there  with 
my  head  flung  back  and  my  shoulders  taut,  waiting.  At  the  climax  of  his 
ascent,  fear  seemed  to  paralyze  him.  There  began  his  descent,  the  star  of 
his  very  own  "Apocalypse  Now."  What  an  awkward  and  wobbling  mass. 
His  remaining  wing  flapped  solo,  causing  him  to  lose  control. 

Land  on  my  forehead  and  tango  with  my  lashes.  Roll  down  my 
cheekbone  and  catch  on  my  sweater  sleeve.  Flick  you  off.  Spiral  butt  dive. 
Crash  landing.  A  great  insignificant  thump  on  the  floor  is  what  you  are. 
You  are  nothing. 

Are  you  alive? 

1  leaned  over  him,  breathless.  My  god,  he  had  survived.  1  stripped 
him  as  he  helplessly  submitted  to  my  sickness.  Most  of  the  legs  were  eas- 
ily persuaded,  except  the  last.  This  being  more  securely  anchored  into 
Nub's  onyx  greenness  would  only  break  in  half.  Half  was  enough.  Now 
his  glorious  wing,  the  envy  of  all  earthbound  insects,  this  wing  must  be 
banished. 


I'm  taking  you,  rainbow.  Coward.  With  his  eyes  clouding  over  in 
pain  and  a  quarter  rotation  of  his  head,  he  pleaded  silently...  Pluck! 

Now  he  lay  there  to  my  satisfaction.  A  nub.  A  black  smudge  to 
be  devoured  by  time.  His  death  was  inevitable,  as  is  mine,  and  yet  the 
way  in  which  he  went  would  be  so  outstanding  as  to  warrant  vows  of 
silence  amongst  his  family  and  friends.  They  would  never  speak  of  the  in- 
cident after  the  initial  discovery.  Even  then,  it  was  with  hushed  jaws  and 
bent  heads  that  they  ate  him. 

One  would  think  that  at  some  moment  1  would  have  been  gag- 
ging on  overwhelming  guilt  and  remorse,  dripping  tears  of  repentance 
and  snot  sorrow,  caressing  wooden  rosary  beads  and  praying  for  my  dark 
murderous  heart  to  be  healed.  Perhaps  1  should  have  rethought  my  ac- 
tions. Probed  my  motive.  Discovered  the  source  of  such  impulse.  Imple- 
mented a  plan  to  stop  a  re-occurrence.  Ah  yes.  One  would  think. 


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IfVRN  II  HAWKINS 


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1  bent  over  my  uncle's  52  year-old  grave  on  Memorial  Day,  the 
holiday  1  once  considered  the  holiest  and  most  exciting.  It  was  the  day 
1  stuffed  myself  with  barbecue,  took  part  in  my  family's  ritual  of  honor- 
ing our  dead,  and  later  had  an  adventure  so  exhilarating,  it  left  me  out  of 
breath.  By  my  own  insistence,  the  adventure  had  long  been  discarded,  the 
aftermath  of  a  youthful  rebellion  where  1  was  the  unwilling  leader.  Now, 
over  thirty  years  later,  the  barbecues  were  no  longer  and  it  appeared  the 
ritual  was  coming  to  an  end.  My  family  was  in  jeopardy  of  being  left  with 
nothing. 

Food  was  my  comfort  and  my  obsession;  a  plateful  of  my  favorites, 
the  equivalent  of  being  held  tightly  against  my  grandmother's  bosom.   1 
ate  solid  foods  before  any  other  patient  in  my  sixty  year-old  pediatri- 
cian's history.  By  the  time  1  reached  elementary  school,  1  had  become 
an  eating  machine,  my  gift  for  devouring  prodigious  quantities  of  food, 
legendary.  "Baby,  don't  you  ever  get  full?" 

In  the  safety  of  the  family  cocoon,  1  ate  at  will,  attacking  the 
dinner  table  as  soon  as  whoever  blessed  the  food  had  uttered  the  last 
"Amen."  Family  members  and  visiting  friends  sat  at  the  dinner  table 
shaking  their  heads  in  disbelief  as  this  extremely  thin  boy,  oblivious  to 


their  astonished  stares,  polished  off  one  overflowing  plate  after  another. 
Holiday  dinners  were  the  highlight  of  my  year  each  with  its  own  distinct 
style,  ritual  and  menu.  1  excitedly  circled  them  on  our  calendar. 

New  Year's  Day  dinner  menu  was  the  only  one  1  couldn't  envision 
except  1  knew  there  would  be  collard  greens  and  black-eyed  peas. 

"Papa  always  made  sure  we  had  greens  and  black-eyed  peas  for 
New  Year's,"  Mother  would  say.  "Greens  for  cash;  black-eyed  peas  for 
coins." 

Mother  enjoyed  trying  something  "different"  (her  favorite  word  as  in 
"Turkey  8t  cranberry  dressing.  Nobody's  done  that  around  here.  Yes,  I'll 
have  that;  that  would  be  differenf).  Pork  loin,  beef,  duck,  ham,  chicken 
and  tuna,  in  a  multitude  of  guises  have  all  made  their  appearances  over 
the  decades  alongside  numerous  dessert  and  side  dishes. 

For  days  after  the  dinner,  1  filled  my  plate  with  a  variety  of  mouth- 
watering dishes  including  my  favorite,  Mother's  potato  salad  which  we 
only  had  on  the  holidays,  each  spoonful  a  symmetrical  delight  of  potato, 
boiled  egg,  dill  pickle,  celery,  onion,  and  green  pepper  perfectly  seasoned 
with  salt,  black  pepper  and  paprika  with  a  dash  of  mustard  for  "color." 
Mmmm. 

Easter  dinner  was  at  the  family  house  after  church  services.  This 
was  followed  by  an  afternoon  Sunday  School  program  which  my  brother 
and  1,  wearing  our  new  Easter  clothes,  would  take  part,  the  length  of  our 
Easter  recitations  increasing  each  year  as  demanded  by  Mother,  a  former 
Sunday  School  teacher  and  director  of  the  Easter  program  before  we  were 
born. 

July  4th  at  my  Aunt  Ophelia's  was  more  a  party  than  a  family 
dinner.  Fancy  cars  lined  the  streets,  many  of  the  owners  cool-looking 
outsiders  from  Chicago  (which  we  called  "The  City")  wearing  resplendent 
clothing,  laughing  loud  and  guzzling  the  finest  beer  and  whiskey.  Food 
was  everywhere.  Mother  was  an  excellent  cook,  but  Aunt  Ophelia  was  an 
artist.  Her  German  Chocolate  Cake  -  baked  on  an  oversized  cookie  sheet, 
the  texture  a  cross  between  a  brownie  and  a  cake  -  was  a  masterpiece; 
after  each  bite,  1  would  shake  my  head  and  chuckle  the  way  Mama  did 
when  she  was  moved  by  some  real  good  preaching. 

Good  people  reigned  here.   No  matter  if  my  uncle  had  gotten 
drunk  and  violently  cursed  his  sisters,  he  could  return  and  be  instantly 
embraced  by  Christian  forgiveness  from  my  grandmother  and  some  seri- 


61 


ous  southern-fried  chicken  with  rice  or  beef  and  vegetable  soup  made 
with  vegetables  from  Mama's  garden  and  on  Thanksgiving,  turkey,  dress- 
ing and  numerous  side  dishes. 

After  our  meal  of  barbecue,  spaghetti,  cole  slaw  and  potato  salad, 
it  was  time  for  a  car  ride  in  Florence's  sky  blue  Cadillac,  Calvin  and  1 
whispering  in  the  back  seated  next  to  Mother;  Mama  quietly  sitting  next 
to  Florence  who  was  engaged  in  non-stop  conversation  with  my  mother. 
Their  voices  rose  and  bounced  front  seat  to  back,  back  to  front  with  gos- 
sip and  running  commentary. 

"Look  at  that,"  Florence  said  as  she  drove  past  a  woman  walking 
down  a  sidewalk.  "She  knows  she's  too  big  to  be  wearing  a  dress  that 
tight.  In  bright  yellow,  no  less.  Why  didn't  she  just  do  yellow  and  black 
horizontals  like  a  big  fat  bumble  bee  and  get  it  over  with?" 

After  a  short  ride,  barely  fifteen  minutes,  we'd  arrive  at  the  cem- 
etery, where  my  grandfather,  his  sons  Robert  and  Hoyt  and  three  other 
sons  who  died  at  childbirth  were  buried.  Outside  the  cemetery's  gate,  ven- 
dors noisily  sold  plastic  flowers,  wreaths  and  American  flags  to  families 
and  friends  who  were,  according  to  my  mother,  "throwing  away  money." 
DT    Our  plastic  bouquets  had  already  been  purchased  days  before,  and  far 
away  from  the  cemetery  and  its  inflated  prices.  My  mother  and  aunt  were 
almost  fanatical  in  their  quest  to  save  a  dollar;  no  need  to  waste  one 
here,  the  flowers  were  soon  going  to  be  tarnished  by  heat,  rain,  and  the 
cemetery  workers. 

Inside  the  gate,  near  the  entrance,  Florence  honked  and  waved  at 
her  friend  Jerry,  who  was  in  charge  of  the  cemetery,  as  she  drove  past  the 
main  office.  No  matter  where  we  went,  Florence  knew  someone,  and  most 
times,  it  was  the  person  in  charge.  The  cemetery  building  was  a  blur  of 
action:  throngs  of  visitors  entering  and  leaving  the  office  carrying  list- 
ings of  the  whereabouts  of  their  deceased  family  members  and  friends. 
We  never  went  in.  We  intuitively  felt  our  way  around  the  grounds,  the 
locations  of  the  graves  and  the  ordeal  of  the  deaths  -  Hoyt  murdered 
at  high  school  when  he  was  16,  Robert  at  38  of  cancer,  and  the  sudden 
death  of  their  father  -  forever  etched  in  Florence's  and  Mother's  memo- 
ries. 

Our  bag  of  plastic  flowers  and  a  small  shovel  in  hand,  we  walked 
past  a  large  sign  prohibiting  planting  flowers  at  the  gravesites  and  head- 
ed to  the  section  where  my  grandfather  was  buried.  We  would  spread 


out,  inspecting  graves,  removing  leaves,  grass,  and  dirt  that  covered  the 
flat  headstones  we  couldn't  read  through  the  dust  and  grime  until  finally 
someone  called  out,  "Here." 

HARRISON  HAWKINS 

Husband  and  Father 

1876-1941 

We  continued  to  my  two  uncles'  graves,  each  in  a  different  location 
(There  was  no  money  to  buy  a  family  plot;  funeral  needs  were  addressed 
one  dead  relative  at  a  time).  At  my  uncles'  graves,  we  repeated  our  ritual: 
the  removal  of  weeds,  dirt  and  debris,  a  short  remembrance,  and  the  plac- 
ing of  artificial  bouquets.  Somehow,  the  unmarked  graves  of  three  still- 
born babies  were  lost. 

We'd  solemnly  enter  Florence's  car.  She'd  pull  out  driving  slowly 
around  the  cemetery,  furtively  spying  the  grounds  as  if  she  were  on  a  se- 
cret spy  mission  like  our  TV  heroes  from  "Mission  Impossible."  We  joined 
her,  "Mission  lmpossible's"  theme  playing  in  our  heads.  Bom  Bom  Bom 
Bom  Bom  Bom  Bom  Bom  Twiddle  dec  Twiddle  dee. 

"There!"  All  heads  turned  to  a  vacant  area.  Not  a  mourner  in  sight.    DQ 

Florence  wheeled  her  car  to  the  side  of  the  road.  Calvin  and  1,  car- 
rying bag  and  shovel,  exited  the  car,  my  excitement  so  intense,  my  legs 
fluttered  in  spasms  as  1  walked.  Florence  and  Mother  followed  after  us, 
Florence  admonishing  us  for  our  unnecessary  exuberance  while  Mama 
remained  in  the  car,  frowning  in  disapproval.  We  branched  off  in  differ- 
ent directions  searching  until  one  of  us  called  out,  "Here!" 

We  gathered  around  the  grave.  To  the  outside  eye,  we  were  a 
family  at  the  grave  of  a  loved  one:  the  bowed  heads,  prayer;  the  digging 
around  the  headstones,  the  removal  of  weeds.  Carefully  looking  around, 
we  removed  the  potted  plants  from  the  dirt,  then  walked  determinedly 
to  Florence's  car,  but  not  so  quick  as  to  draw  attention.  Mama  scowled 
disapprovingly  as  we  neared  and  opened  the  trunk  where  we  placed  the 
flowers  in  an  empty  box.  We'd  close  the  trunk  and  return  to  the  deserted 
area,  spreading  out  until  someone  called  out  "Here! "An other  grave  with 
prohibited  planted  flowers.  There  were  signs  everywhere: 

PLEASE:  Do  not  plant  flowers  or  trees  at  the  gravesites. 
They  will  be  removed. 
Thank  you,  the  Management 


Jerry,  the  cemetery  manager,  constantly  complained  to  Florence  of 
the  difficulty  of  maintaining  the  grounds  when  visitors  failed  to  comply 
with  the  cemetery  rules  banning  potted  plants,  flowers  and  trees.  The  day 
after  Memorial  Day,  workers  went  through  the  grounds  removing  and 
destroying  whatever  planted  flowers  the  workers  didn't  take  home.  Jerry 
told  Florence  she  was  welcome  to  return  first  thing  that  morning  and 
help  herself  to  any  planted  flowers  on  the  premises,  as  long  as  she  was 
discreet.  The  next  morning,  she  was  on  her  way  to  work  in  The  City  so  we 
took  our  potted  plants  while  we  were  at  the  cemetery. 

We  would  make  several  trips  around  the  park,  locating  sections 
with  the  fewest  mourners,  Calvin  and  1  excitedly  searching  for  our  bounty 
quickly  transforming  into  poses  of  grief  whenever  passing  cars  or  walk- 
ing mourners  approached.  Occasionally,  1  would  shake  my  bowed  head 
overcome  by  grief,  then  do  a  little  wail  -  the  first  indication  of  my  pro- 
pensity for  acting. 

The  families  who  honored  their  beloved  with  those  forbidden  flow- 
ers would  have  been  devastated  by  our  act  sometimes  done  less  than 
Cj4    fifteen  minutes  after  they  left  the  gravesite.  Touch  one  of  our  relatives' 
graves  and  an  indignant  scripture-laden  torrent  (with  a  few  choice  curse 
words,  most  likely  from  Florence)  would  storm  down  upon  you.  Of  course, 
she  would  have  never  planted  prohibited  flowers,  which  were  against  the 
rules  and  a  waste  of  money.  5/?eknew  better. 

"'Do  Not  Plant  Flowers  Please'  signs  everywhere,"  she  would  say  as 
she  drove  around  the  cemetery.  "They  capitalize  the  please;  they  beg  them 
not  to  plant  flowers  and  still  ...  Don't  these  people  know  how  to  read? 
Every  year.  Tisk.  Tisk." 

At  home  we'd  inspect  our  stash  with  the  same  glee  and  awe  Calvin 
and  1  had  when  we  dumped  our  Halloween  candy  onto  the  kitchen  table 
after  a  night  of  trick-or-treating.  Before  us  was  a  trunk  full  of  wax  bego- 
nias, purple  and  yellow  pansies,  bright  orange  and  yellow  marigolds,  deep 
pink  petunias  and  miniature  rose  bushes.  "These  flowers  would  cost  us  a 
small  fortune  in  the  store,"  my  mother  and  aunt  would  exclaim  as  they 
divided  their  bounty.  Florence's  would  go  in  the  yellow  brick  flower  box 
cemented  to  the  front  of  the  family  house;  Mother's,  next  to  the  hedges  in 
our  front  yard,  near  her  peonies. 


Eventually,  like  Halloween,  the  adventure  portion  of  our  Memorial 
Day  ritual  was  discontinued  because  Calvin  and  1  had  grown  too  old  for 
the  activities.  What  we  had  once  thought  thrilling  had  branded  as  "coun- 
try" and  "embarrassing."  My  brother  and  1  didn't  mind  placing  flowers  on 
our  dead  relatives'  graves,  in  fact,  we  looked  forward  to  it  but  we  were 
NOT  going  to  remove  them  from  anyone  else's,  prohibited  or  not. 

Who  mentioned  it  first,  1  can't  remember,  but  once  taking  the 
flowers  was  questioned,  a  cloak  of  embarrassment  darkened  our  once  ex- 
hilarating Memorial  Day  anticipation.  We  could  never  again  dig  them  up 
without  being  acutely  aware  that  we  were  digging  up  the  good,  though 
ill-advised,  intentions  of  some  grieving  family.  They  could  be  from  the 
grave  of  someone  whose  relatives  we  knew!  We  could  get  caught!  By 
someone  we  knew!  It  could/would  get  back  to  our  junior  high  school. 
We,  who  attended  church  every  week,  sometimes  twice  a  week,  made  top 
grades  and  were  lauded  by  our  teachers;  we,  who  rode  around  in  Cadil- 
lacs and  looked  down  on  our  supposed-lessers,  were  part  of  a  Mother-led 
band  of  thieves  who  stole  flowers  off  dead  people's  graves. 

The  scandal  would  spread  faster  than  an  Internet  urban  legend. 

We  had  been  very  lucky  all  those  years:  not  one  moment  of  un-         Cj^j 
easiness  or  potential  discovery.  Mother  was  a  respected  former  Sunday 
school  teacher;  Florence  was  one  of  the  first  and  few  blacks  working  in 
the  business  offices  of  the  International  Harvester  Corporation,  our  church 
clerk,  President  of  Robbins'  United  Way,  President  of  the  Wonderette's 
Social  Club  and  Daughter  Ruler  of  the  Elks.  A  society  lady. 

Yes,  a  scandal. 

The  next  Memorial  Day,  the  ritual  of  cooking  the  barbecue  and 
its  aroma  were  tainted  by  our  repulsion  towards  our  former  adventure.  1 
eyed  my  brother  -  "You  do  it.  No,  you.  You're  the  oldest",  he  stared  back. 

Normally,  he  would  complain  endlessly  about  being  the  youngest; 
this  was  the  first  time  he  ever  saw  it  as  an  advantage.  1  had  no  response 
to  his  argument;  it  was  up  to  me.  1  pondered  soliciting  my  grandmother 
in  our  intervention;  she  had  often  quietly  expressed  disapproval  of  our 
adventure  but  was  always  respectfully  dismissed  and  pooh-poohed  as  too 
naive,  sweet  and  impractical.  After  waiting  hours  for  the  right  moment 
-  through  the  marinating,  the  cooking,  the  basting,  and  the  application 
of  sauce  -  1  had  the  opportunity  to  bring  it  up:  Florence  mentioned  the 
cemetery.  1  took  a  breath  working  up  the  nerve  to  tell  my  mother  and  my 


aunt  that  1  thought  they  were  stealing  and  1  didn't  want  to  be  part  of  it 
anymore;  and  if  they  continued,  1  wasn't  participating  in  any  part  of  Me- 
morial Day  including  placing  flowers  on  their  beloved  father's  grave.  1 
took  another  audible  breath  (it  was  more  of  a  sigh)  hoping  she  would  ask 
me  what  caused  it.  She  said  nothing.  1  was  so  nervous,  1  could  only  eat 
three  plates  of  food. 

"Get  the  shovel  out  of  the  shed,"  Florence  instructed  us  after  we 
completed  our  meal.  1  looked  to  my  brother  who  returned  my  stare,  our 
facial  muscles  and  internal  dialogues  in  full  debate: 

"Now.  Now's  the  perfect  opportunity.  Do  it  now." 

"No,  you  do  it." 

"No,  you.  You're  the  oldest." 

"Only  by  eleven  months." 

"You're  still  the  oldest." 

"Yes,  1  am  ...  Dammit!"  1  fidgeted.  My  lips  sputtered  and  Calvin 
quickly  deserted  me,  escaping  to  the  shed. 

During  the  ride  to  the  cemetery,  my  brother,  his  facial  muscles 
gesturing  frantically,  eyed  me  during  the  entire  ride.  1  waited  for  the  op- 
DD    portunity  to  speak  up,  prepared  to  pounce  on  any  word  or  sentence  re- 
lated to  flowers  or  graves.  Mother  and  Florence  were  passionate  women, 
not  easily  crossed;  even  their  normal  conversations  had  the  volume  of  a 
verbal  heavyweight-boxing  match.  Usually,  1  ignored  them,  treating  their 
voices  as  noisy  background  music,  but  during  this  ride,  1  imagined  those 
voices  turned  angrily  against  me,  the  leader  of  this  mutiny,  this  personal 
affront  to  their  values  and  their  revered  and  much-quoted  father.  1  finally 
opened  my  mouth  and  the  words  fled  back  in.  They  too,  were  afraid  of 
the  Hawkins  sisters. 

We  entered  the  cemetery  and  passed  the  sign  about  planting  Please 
don't.  Maybe  everyone  would  obey  it  this  year.  PLEASE. 

At  the  graves  of  my  grandfathers  and  uncles,  my  heart  pounded 
louder  than  a  twenty-one  gun  salute.  1  didn't  hear  any  of  Florence's  or 
Mother's  remembrances.  1  was  too  busy  rehearsing  my  speech. 

We  returned  to  the  car,  the  silence  broken  by  the  guns  popping  in 
my  chest.  Florence  spotted  a  deserted  section.  "There."  She  stopped  the 
car.  Calvin  and  1  eyed  each  other  then  uneasily  exited  the  car.  Florence 
and  Mother  followed.  Ghosts  and  zombies  pointing  at  me  stood  protec- 
tively in  front  of  their  graves  daring  me  to  enter.  1  froze. 


"We  don't  want  to  do  this  anymore,"  1  blurted. 

"What?"  asked  Florence. 

"It's  wrong." 

Mama  gave  a  vigorous  nod. 

"Jerry  told  me  to  take  them,"  Florence  said.   "He's  the  manager.  It 
wasn't  my  idea.  He  suggested  it.  See  those  signs?  Those  flowers  are  going 
in  the  garbage  tomorrow." 

"Then  come  back  tomorrow  ...  today,  it's  stealing." 

My  talkative  aunt  turned  silent.  Mother  bowed  her  head  and,  un- 
like the  bowing  we  did  around  our  pretend  family's  graves,  this  one  was 
sincere  and  full  of  shame. 

From  that  day  on,  the  adventure  portion  of  Memorial  Day  was 
over.  They  quietly  entered  the  car. 

They  weren't  thieves.  They  were  pragmatic  and  damaged  by  pov- 
erty. No  matter  how  much  their  lifestyles  contrasted  with  those  around 
them,  no  matter  what  type  of  car  driven,  how  much  money  in  the  bank, 
Florence  and  Mother  were  forever  wounded  by  their  father's  death.  They 
were  still  the  two  oldest  unmarried  children;  Florence,  twenty-one,  and 
Mother,  sixteen,  feeling  the  tremendous  pressure  of  financially  support-       D7 
ing  their  timid  unemployed  mother  and  five  younger  brothers  without 
going  on  government  assistance. 

Memorial  Day,  2008,  Calvin,  forty-seven,  is  driving  us  to  Burr  Oak. 
Seated  next  to  him  is  his  fiancee  Carol.  My  eighty-three  year-old  mother 
sits  next  to  me  in  the  back.  She  and  Aunt  Ophelia  are  the  only  two  re- 
maining of  Mama's  eleven  children.  The  radio  DJ  is  urging  listeners  to 
call  in:  "Come  on,  people,  call  in  and  let  us  know:  What  happened  back 
in  the  day  that  you  want  to  bring  back?"  As  we  ride,  1  think  about  past 
Memorial  Day  dinners,  barbecue,  my  family,  and  potted  flowers. 

We  pass  sales  people  by  the  gate  hawking  plastic  American  flags 
and  fancy  new  plastic  arrangements  fashioned  after  license  plates, 
brightly  colored  roses  embroidering  the  edges  -  in  the  middle,  words  pro- 
claiming father,  mother,  grandmother,  son,  daughter,  brother,  or  sister. 
As  part  of  our  tradition,  we  have  already  purchased  our  plastic  flowers. 
In  mother's  lap  are  ten  bouquets  -  Mama,  my  grandfather,  Florence,  five 
uncles,  one  of  their  wives  and  a  cousin. 
There  is  a  sign  near  the  entrance: 


FLOWER  SWEEP 

March  15  -  April  1 

June  15  -  July  1 

October  5  -  November  1 

NO  FENCES  OR  ROCKS  ALLOWED  ON  GRAVES1TES.  We  ARE  NOT  RESPONSIBLE  FOR  ITEMS  LEFT 

on  grave.  Thank  you,  the  management. 

In  a  few  weeks,  even  the  plastic  flowers  will  be  in  danger. 

Cemetery  employees  direct  the  busy  traffic.  Droves  of  families 
move  throughout  the  cemetery,  some  with  kids,  many  carrying  food.  A 
forlorn-looking  woman  sits  in  a  lounge  chair.  Next  to  her  is  an  empty 
chair.   Aside  the  chairs  is  a  freshly-covered  grave.  Calvin  drives  by  the 
temporary  information  booths  located  outside  the  cemetery  office.  People 
walk  away  with  sheets  of  paper  as  we  pass. 

"Mo,  it's  Memorial  Day.  This  is  what  we  do  for  you,  dawg,"  a 
young  man  nearby  shouts  loudly  in  anguish  as  we  spread  out  searching 
for  Mama's  grave.  1  turn  to  a  group  of  young  men  in  oversized  white  t- 
DQ    shirts  and  baggy  pants.  They  drink  from  pint  bottles  of  what  1  assume  is 
alcohol.   A  man  takes  a  toke  of  marijuana  then  passes  it  to  another.  One 
man  takes  his  bottle  and  pours  alcohol  on  his  dawg's  grave.  "We  here  for 
you,  dawg,"  he  exclaims,  his  wounded  voice  echoing  through  the  park. 

We  continue  searching  for  Mama's  grave.  "We  walked  from  Flor- 
ence's grave  to  visit  Mama  after  Florence's  burial,"  1  say.  "It  wasn't  far 
away." 

We  spread  out  until  Calvin  says,  "Here." 

Mother  rifles  through  her  bag  of  flowers  and  removes  the  prettiest 
one,  a  spray  of  radiant  yellow  roses  with  a  dust  of  sparkles  on  each  petal. 
Yes,  Mama  would  have  approved  with  a  sweet,  appreciative  smile.  Carol 
tenderly  rearranges  the  slightly  scrunched  bouquet  as  if  taking  special 
care  for  the  gentle  person  on  whose  grave  they  would  lay  and  whom  she 
has  met  only  through  story.  Calvin  takes  the  hoe  and  chops  around  the 
edges  of  the  headstone.  1  brush  away  the  dust  covering  the  headstone. 
Clean  for  another  year.  We  are  silent,  reverent.  We  quietly  walk  away. 

Florence's  headstone  lies  at  the  foot  of  Albert's  grave  as  if  she  is 
still  responsible  for  watching  over  her  misbehaving  younger  brother  and 
is  prepared  to  act  as  interference  between  him  and  his  wife,  just  as  she 


did  in  real  life  before  they  divorced. 

"Albert's  still  stalking  Mildred,"  1  joke. 

"She  was  one  patient  woman,"  Calvin  says  to  Carol  as  he  chops 
around  Mildred's  headstone  and  chuckles.   "He  drank  too  much,  followed 
her,  cursed  her,  stalked  her.  They  got  divorced  and  she  still  had  to  put  up 
with  him.  He  loved  her  -  he  just  couldn't  handle  it.  She  was  there  till  the 
end.   Even  at  his  funeral." 

We  enter  the  car  and  drive  to  the  section  where  Ernest  is  buried. 
We  have  trouble  finding  his  grave  and,  again  have  to  branch  out.  "Here," 
Calvin  yells  out.  We  repeat  our  ritual  -  Calvin  chops  with  the  hoe;  1  brush 
away  dirt. 

"This  was  my  favorite  Uncle,"  he  says  to  Carol.  1  see  images  of  a 
happy  young  Calvin  in  Ernest's  filthy  truck  on  their  way  to  the  junkyard, 
with  a  grin  so  wide  you'd  think  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  circus.   "Albert 
was  later  ...  Ernest  died  early.  He  drank  way  too  much  and  loved  getting 
on  Florence's  nerves.  Florence  would  fuss  and  fuss." 

"Pulled  a  pistol  on  him  one  time,"  1  add. 

"Pistol  pointed  at  him,  her  body  and  head  around  the  corner,"  he 
chuckles. 

1  idly  look  around  for  potted  plants  but  don't  spot  any. 

We  get  in  the  car  and  head  to  Butch 's,  my  mother's  youngest  sib- 
ling's grave.  A  few  weeks  before  1  left  for  my  freshman  year  of  college,  he 
was  robbed,  tied-up,  beaten  and  left  in  a  ditch  to  die,  which  he  did  a  few 
days  later.  Before  his  funeral,  1  accompanied  Florence  and  an  adult  male 
cousin  to  view  his  body  at  the  funeral  home. 

It  wasn't  Butch.  No  sign  of  him  that  1  could  see.  It  was  someone 
else,  some  bruised  and  mutilated  stranger  wearing  his  clothes. 

"1  did  the  best  1  could,"  said  the  undertaker.  Florence  nodded. 

My  cousin  wanted  to  leave  the  casket  open  so  everyone  could  see 
the  reality  of  what  was  done,  perhaps  prompting  guilt  and  outrage  and 
someone  with  information  to  step  forward.  1  didn't  think  my  sensitive 
mother  and  grandmother  could  take  the  spectacle.   Even  tough  Florence 
had  taken  a  quick  look  then  turned  away,  telling  me,  her  voice  breaking, 
"You  look  at  him."  This  last  image  of  Butch  and  my  new  awareness  of 
man's  capacity  for  violence  haunted  me  for  years. 

We  held  a  family  meeting  and  discussed  having  an  open  casket 
funeral.   Florence  acquiesced  to  my  assertion  that  the  open  casket  would 


69 


70 


just  be  too  much  for  family  members  to  bear. 

Finally,  nine  plastic  bouquets  down,  we  search  for  Uncle  Robert's 
grave,  the  last  one  we  need  to  find.  "It's  not  that  far  down,"  Mother  says 
to  me  after  1  break  from  the  group.  She  mentions  her  half-sister  Willie: 
"Poor  Willie,  no  one  visits  her  grave." 

The  strongest  memory  of  Willie,  who  died  of  cancer  in  her  late  six- 
ties, flashes  to  me:  Walking  through  the  cemetery  on  the  way  to  Ernest's 
gravesite  after  his  funeral,  she  spotted  a  ragged,  plastic  flower  covered 
with  dirt  and  picked  it  up. 

"Aunt  Willie,  what  are  you  doing  with  that?"A  cousin  exclaimed. 

"I'm  going  to  put  it  on  Frank's  grave." 

"That  nasty  thing?" 

"It's  more  than  the  son-of-a-bitch  gave  me  when  he  was  alive."  We 
all  laughed  at  this  blunt,  plainspoken  woman  until  Mother,  her  face  trem- 
bling with  grief  as  she  walked  toward  her  brother's  fresh  grave,  jerked 
around  and  shot  us  a  withering  look  that  stopped  us  dead  in  our  tracks. 

Calvin  finally  finds  Robert's  grave.  "Here,"  he  calls. 

ROBERT  HAWKINS 
1924-1956 
"That  cancer  got  him,"  Mother  says.  "Took  his  leg  then  his  body. 
Right  after  he  opened  his  gas  station.  That  cancer.  Poor  Willie.  1  should 
have  bought  her  a  flower.  No  one  visits  her  grave." 
"Pretty  soon,  no  one  will  visit  ours,"  Calvin  says.  1  brush  off  the  head- 
stone. 

He  says  what  1  am  thinking  but  unlike  him,  1  can't  find  any  humor 
in  my  thoughts.  1  am  saddened.  The  youngest  person  surrounding  the 
grave  is  my  forty-eight  year-old  brother.  1  don't  have  any  children.  Cal- 
vin's three  children  are  all  grown.  His  daughter  lives  in  Los  Angeles.  One 
son  is  so  busy  in  the  corporate  world,  if  we  see  him  twice  a  year,  it  is  an 
exception.  The  other  son,  a  late  discovery,  is  new  to  the  family  without 
any  sense  of  our  past.  Uncle  Albert's  son,  Alvin,  is  the  most  likely  person 
to  take  up  the  mantle  -  he  has  occasionally  visited  the  cemetery  -  but  he 
is  forty-four. 

No  new  generation  is  learning  our  history,  our  rituals  and  tradi- 


tions.  No  one  will  clean  our  headstones,  lay  plastic  flowers  and  tell  our 
stories.  Our  graves  will  succumb  to  dust,  leaves  and  cemetery  neglect. 

1  ponder  what  can  be  done  to  halt  what  seems  an  unthinkable 
inevitability  until  1  realize  my  sentiments  are  one  of  a  middle-aged  man, 
who  like  my  eighty-three  year-old  mother,  has  seen  too  much  death. 

"Next  time  1  will  get  one  for  Willie,"  my  mother  mutters  again. 
"She  didn't  have  any  children." 

1  am  angry.  Angry  at  the  cruelty  of  age,  of  death,  of  change,  then 
realize  in  shock  if  someone  looked  for  the  culprit  responsible  for  weak- 
ening our  family  traditions,  a  finger  would  be  pointed  at  me  with  my 
no-children,  once-a-year-visiting-for-a-week  life.  1  was  one  of  the  many 
post-Martin  Luther  King  golden  boys  and  girls  taking  advantage  of  prog- 
ress, leaving  our  African -American  communities  to  make  our  mark  on 
the  real  world,  and  rarely  returning.  1  don't  feel  guilt  as  1  come  to  this 
realization,  just  sadness,  and  an  acute  awareness  that  with  everything 
comes  a  price. 

It  took  my  mother's  Alzheimer's  to  bring  me  home.  She  no  longer 
cooks  so  Carol  and  1  have  taken  over  the  cooking  duties.  1  bake  German 
Chocolate  Cakes  from  Aunt  Ophelia's  recipe.  1  receive  praise  for  them,  but     71 
1  am  merely  a  talented  forger  imitating  a  master.  1  make  potato  salad  like 
Mother's,  each  spoonful  a  symmetrical  delight  of  potato,  boiled  egg,  dill 
pickle,  celery,  onion,  and  green  pepper  perfectly  accented  with  salt,  black 
pepper  and  paprika,  with  a  dash  of  mustard  for  "color."  1  bake  hams  and 
cover  them  with  cloves  and  pineapple,  like  Florence. 

My  mother,  eighty-three,  wearing  her  regal  church  hats,  her 
crowns,  still  attends  the  church  my  grandfather  helped  found  although 
in  a  different  building.  She  chats  and  visits  her  lifelong  girlfriends,  who 
unlike  my  generation,  remained  in  town.  Aunt  Ophelia  is  ninety-one  and 
healthy,  her  Thanksgiving  dinners  and  July  4th  parties  distant  memories. 
Christmas  dinners  stopped  with  Mama's  death  in  1986. 

Calvin  has  started  a  new  tradition  where  our  family  and  friends 
gather  on  Labor  Day  in  addition  to  New  Year's  Day  for  potato  salad,  spa- 
ghetti, cole  slaw  and  barbecue  cooked  slowly  over  simmering  coals  with 
a  container  of  water  at  ready  for  errant  flames. 
1  stand,  eager,  my  empty  plate  in  hand. 


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0  Brother,  where  art  thou? 

By  Lauren  delghdo 

One  sigh  of  relief.  1  pull  into  my  driveway  and  1  am  home  at  last. 
Just  finished  another  day  of  relishing  in  the  futile  efforts  of  professors 
attempting  to  instill  knowledge  into  my  stubborn  mind.  1  stumble  out  of 
my  car  just  to  smell  the  aroma  of  burning  charcoal  in  the  air.  Pop  didn't 
really  trust  the  use  of  propane  grills.  He  considered  charcoal  to  be  more 
natural,  which  in  turn,  blessed  whatever  he  was  grilling  with  winning 
taste.  1  walk  closer  to  the  door,  and  1  hear  muffled  voices.  One  more  sigh. 
But  not  of  relief.  1  unlock  the  front  door. 
7^  1  turn  left  and  head  for  the  dining  room  and  almost  instantly,  1 

smell  something.  The  kind  of  stench  that  reeks  terribly  putrid.  Twisted.  1 
disregard  it.  1  get  to  the  dining  room  and  it's  time  for  pleasantries.  Time 
to  greet  the  llnavoidables.  Aunt  here,  Uncle  there.  Then  1  wave  at  Pop 
from  inside  and  give  a  kiss  to  Mom.  My  only  truly  sincere  moment. 

1  look  to  the  end  of  the  dining  table  and  there  he  is.  Smiling. 
Laughing  raucously,  as  if  he  was  trying  to  entice  feelings  of  jealousy  from 
the  ones  that  he  seemingly  loves.  Back  from  the  United  States  Air  Force. 
Wearing  his  fucking  camouflage  suit.  Whatever  they  call  it.  He  looks  at 
me,  his  eyes  flashing  something  that  causes  a  piercing  siren  to  erupt 
from  within  me.  1  go  to  hug  him.  He  wraps  his  arms  around  my  waist.  My 
stomach  twitches.  My  hips  expand.  Even  my  hips  were  trying  to  evade 
whatever  his  arms  were  giving  off.  He  motions  for  me  to  greet  Monica. 
"Monica,  the  Fiance."  The  kind  of  creature  with  the  sheer  and  unsuspect- 
ing credulousness  that  he  absolutely  craves  in  people. 

1  can  feel  more  eyes  on  me.  1  glance  quickly  at  my  mother.  In  that 
instant,  her  eyes  visit  mine.  Her  beautiful  eyes,  conveying  a  kind  of  hope. 
Understanding  this,  1  sit  down,  facing  him.  Mom  asks  me  how  my  day 
was.  1  throw  in  a  one-word  response.  And  just  that  one  word  prompts  his 


propeller  to  start.  Anything  will  get  that  bastard  to  start  up  and  aggran- 
dize himself.  He  begins  to  speak.  And  1  exercise  restraint. 

The  unsullied  asininity  of  his  words  enters  my  ears  as  malicious 
minions  spawned  only  from  his  ridiculousness.  Fabrication  decorated  his 
pathetically  pallid  existence.  My  ears  secrete  sharp  pain  as  1  can  hear  the 
shrieks  crying  out  from  the  nasty  creatures  that  are  his  words.  My  nose 
tweaks.  My  face  disassembles.  As  1  sit  there,  broken,  he  presses  on.  1  bite 
down,  clenching  my  jaw  while  1  feel  all  rational  thought  erode  in  my 
mind.  God,  1  can  feel  the  evil  critters  eating  away  at  my  brain  cells,  put- 
ting my  countless  marijuana  fixes  to  shame.  Food's  ready. 

As  1  sit  there,  eating  my  grilled  tilapia,  1  watch  as  he  voraciously 
tears  apart  his  rare  steak.  That  poor  animal.  Killed  for  the  sake  of  human 
consumption,  only  to  end  up  trapped  in  the  trenches  of  his  fervent  in- 
ferno. As  he  speaks,  1  can  see  the  blood  of  his  rare  steak  in  combination 
with  his  beastly  slobber  fly  out  of  his  mouth,  escaping  what  would  be 
a  hellish  abyss.  He  grabs  his  cup  to  drink  and  water  drips  onto  his  uni- 
form. Fucking  Neanderthal.  1  sit  back,  still  watching  him  as  he  wipes  his 
uniform.  His  uniform  which  he  thinks  glorifies  him.  It's  too  bad  that  the 
green  patterns  only  serve  to  look  like  scales.  With  every  gesture  and  move    7^ 
he  makes,  1  can  hear  his  scales  crackling.  Snapping.  His  reptilian  form  is 
finally  beginning  to  present  itself. 

After  dinner,  1  venture  out  to  the  backyard.  1  look  through  the 
clear  sliding  door.  The  veneer  separating  my  presence  from  his.  1  see  him 
talking,  but  1  don't  hear  him.  Outside,  out  here,  1  am  free.  1  check  the 
time  on  my  cell  phone.  5:17pm.  Not  long  until  his  flight  back  to  Texas 
departs.  1  see  him  get  up.  Monica  too.  Pop  gestures  for  me  to  come  back 
in.  1  oblige.  As  he  leaves  for  the  front  door,  he  hugs  me  one  last  time.  My 
body  cringes.  His  repugnance  is  inescapable.  1  close  my  eyes  as  he  says 
goodbye  and  1  say  hello.  To  peace  of  mind.  For  she  is  finally  beckoning 
me  home. 


76 


CONTRIBUTORS 


NOTES. 


[RUREN  DELGflDD  is  the  fiction  editor  for  Audemus  Magazine.  She  graduated  from 
Mount  St.  Mary's  College  in  May  2010  with  a  BA  in  English  Literature.  Writing 
has  always  been  her  main  medium  of  expression.  Her  writing  is  her  voice.  Lauren 
currently  lives  in  Los  Angeles  where  she  continues  to  write  with  plans  to  pursue 
graduate  school.  She  hopes  to  pursue  a  career  in  teaching  as  well  as  in  writing. 

MflRISS  FESTR  graduated  from  Mount  St.  Mary's  College  in  May  2010  with  a  BA  in 
English  Literature  and  a  minor  in  Philosophy.  She  is  currently  living  in  Los  Ange- 
les and  writes  a  travel  blog  that  can  be  found  at:  http://airdebonair.blogspot.com. 
Marissa  plans  on  pursuing  an  MFA  in  Creative  Writing  and  continue  her  passion 
of  writing,  travel,  and  photography. 

PHYLLIS  RflWLEY  is  the  author  of  three  books  on  career  tips  for  teenagers  and  young 
adults.  She  has  an  MFA  in  Non-Fiction  Creative  Writing  from  Antioch  University 
of  Los  Angeles  and  currently  working  on  her  childhood  memoir  as  a  military  brat. 

flMY  YflTES  did  her  undergraduate  study  at  the  University  of  San  Diego  where  she 
majored  in  Visual  Arts  with  an  emphasis  in  photography  and  a  minor  in  Art  His- 
tory. She  graduated  in  May  2010,  and  is  currently  staying  in  San  Diego  to  work  on 
her  portfolio  and  apply  to  graduate  school.  Amy  became  interested  in  the  camera 
as  a  medium  because  it  is  limiting.  "Each  photograph  captures  a  moment  in  time 
that  can't  be  changed,  and  what  is  in  the  frame  actually  happened."  A  photograph 
is  "taken,"  and  she  became  interested  in  a  photograph  by  playing  with  the  idea  of 
stealing  reality.  From  the  moment  she  began  photographing,  she  has  been  perceiv- 
ing her  surroundings  as  if  through  the  lens  of  the  camera-cropping  the  world- 
even  without  a  camera  in  hand.   It  has  become  her  way  of  seeing.  Currently,  she 
is  also  looking  at  artist  residency  programs,  with  somewhere  in  France  as  her  first 
choice.  After  an  MFA,  she  sees  herself  going  into  teaching.  According  to  Yates, 
however,  "the  future  is  never  as  clearly  in  focus  as  a  photograph." 

UNIlfl  RRVENSWOOD'S  work  has  appeared  or  is  forthcoming  in  Flaming  Arrows   (Ireland), 
The  Wilshire  Review  (Los  Angeles),  Enigma  Magazine  (England),  Poetry  Salzburg 
Review  (University  of  Salzburg  Press),  Poetry  Magazine  (US),  Caterwaul  Quarterly 
(US),  BlazeVox  (US),  Rivets  Literary  Magazine  (US),  Relief  Magazine  (US),  Unlikely 
Stories  (US),  Break  the  Silence  (US),  Underground  Voices  (Los  Angeles),  ReadThis 


(University  of  Montana  Press)  and  on  PBS.  Her  story  No  Impact  Organ  was  re- 
cently featured  on  the  No  Impact  Man  Project  website  in.   She  holds  a  BFA  (Music, 
Theatre,  Fine  Art)  from  The  California  Institute  of  the  Arts  (CalArts)  and  an  MA 
(Humanities;  Emphasis  in  Creative  Writing)  from  Mount  Saint  Mary's  College.  She 
has  lived  extensively  in  the  US,  Ireland  and  the  UK.  She  is  presently  in  Los  Ange- 
les pursuing  her  Ph.D. 

CflROLL  SUN  YANG  is  a  lone  wolf  with  dance  cub  (a.k.a  a  son.)  She  is  currently  sling- 
ing food  in  Highland  Park  and  earning  her  MFA  in  Creative  Nonfiction  at  Antioch 
University  Los  Angeles.  She  just  started  a  list  of  "Best  Inventions"  and  so  far  it 
is  going  well:  Glitter,  windows,  gorilla  glue,  black  eyeliner,  hoodies,  jeans,  boys, 
sperm,  eggs,  boyish  girls,  girlish  boys,  feathers,  wood  grain,  paneling,  plywood, 
rubbermaid  shit,  qwerty,  "like"  and  "like",  punctuation,  punk,  ink,  sharpies,  theft, 
netflix,  peer  to  peer,  vans  (auto),  pot  pies,  libraries,  cuss,  youtube,  twine,  branches, 
creeks,  weed,  wildflowers,  heart,  instruments,  implements,  iphoto,  lanterns,  sauces, 
red  velvet,  velvet  paintings,  dives,  colored  light  bulbs,  microsoft  word,  tape  mea- 
sures, diners,  animals,  cumulonimbus  clouds,  chameleons  on  hieroglyphics,  digital 
pianos,  green  tea  extract,  atkins,  bobby  pins,  undershirts  for  boys,  gems...  She  is 
frequently  found  screwing  about  on  Facebook,  being  certified  as  a  Psychosocial 
Rehabilitation  Specialist,  or  confusing  the  hell  out  of  other  mammals. 

LEVRN  D  HAWKINS  describes  himself  as  "one  who  uplifts,  an  artist  striving  towards  the 
truth"  and  "  as  a  bridge  between  races,  sexualities,  religions,  believers  and  non- 
believers."  He  has  performed  and  read  at  venues  and  events  across  the  country, 
and  has  been  published  in  publications  and  anthologies  such  as  the  LA  Times,  LA 
Weekly,  LA  Frontiers,  Sacramento  News  ft  Review,  Spillway,  Voices  from  Leim- 
ert  Park,  and  Children  of  the  Dream:  Our  Own  Stories  of  Growing  Up  Black  in 
America.  A  self-help  and  personal  development  enthusiast,  Hawkins  was  awarded 
a  scholarship  to  the  Norman  Mailer  Writer's  Colony,  on  a  chapter  of  a  memoir  that 
he  is  currently  writing  based  on  his  struggles  to  mentor  his  adult  nephew.  Hawkins 
is  a  graduate  of  the  Art  Institute  of  Chicago  and  is  currently  working  on  his  Mas- 
ters degree  in  Creative  Writing  at  Antioch  University,  Los  Angeles. 

[DRETTfl  CDNTRERflS  calls  herself  a  Los  Angeles  native,  a  foodie,  a  dancer,  and  a  night 
owl.  She  received  her  B.A.  in  English  with  a  Creative  Writing  concentration  at 
UCLA,  and  her  M.A.  in  English  with  a  Creative  Writing  Emphasis  at  Loyola  Mary- 
mount  University.  What  she  wants  to  write  about  and  what  she  ends  up  writing 
are  sometimes  two  totally  different  things.  According  to  Contreras,  "What  exists 
in-between  is  what  keeps  me  writing.  There  is  always  something  that  manifests." 


77 


FAMOUS 
IflST 


WORDS 


WE  WOULD  LIKE  TO  THANK THE  MOUNT  ST.  MHRY'S  COLLEGE  flAT  DEPARTMENT. 

ENGLISH  DEPARTMENT.  STUDENT  flFFHIRS,  RND  llRRRRY;  DEHN  SR.  JOSEPH  flDELE 
EDWHRDS;  DOR  FRCOLTY  ADVISOR  MARCOS  MCPEEK-VlLLATOAO;  POOL  lAAOTWEIN; 
DA.  MATTHEW  BAOSAMEA;  PAISCILLA  ENAIOOEZ;  AND  OOA  DEAA  FAIENDS  J.fl.  AND 
/O       MAAY  WAD  AAE  TADLY  AESPONSIALE  FDA  BRINGING  TAIS  MAGAZINE  TO  ACTOAL- 
IZATION. 


THE  EDITOAS  INVITE  SUBMISSIONS  OF  POETAY.  FICTION.  NON-FICTION.  ESSAYS  AND 
AAT.  SEND  MANOSCAIPTS  TO  MVILLATOAO@MSMC.LA.EDO  OA  TO  MAACOS  VjLLATORO/ 
HUDEMUS/  MOUNT  ST.  MAAY'S  COLLEGE/ 12001 CAALON  RD./  tOS  RNGELES  CO 

90049-  MANOSCAIPTS  WILL  NOT  RE  RETORNED  ONLESS  ACCOMPANIED  BY  A  STAMPED. 
SELF-ADOAESSED  ENVELOPE. 


79 


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