Ivory Tower 2009
The 20th volume of the Ivory Tower.
Volume 20 art & Literary Magazine iii 2009 poetry prose pants lewis hyde mad libs teenage mutant ninja turtles jeremy messersmith elephants hippos comics art Spring 2009 iii Ivory Tower Spring 2009 Undergraduate art & literary Magazine 1 The Dream Team Editors in Chief Dixon Bordiano Meghan Hanson Managing Editors Jamie Joslin Scott Moen Derek Swart Senior Copy Editor Kristi Behnke Graphic Design Editor Jessica Congdon Special Content Editor Jenna Holly Beyer Online Editor Ellalane Bearth Marketing and PR Directors Evy Bround McKenzie Martin Fiction Editors Kristi Behnke Holly Harrison Alyssa Lochner Nonfiction Editors Jenna Holly Beyer Kate Kunitz Regan Smith Poetry Editors Kate Carpenter Becky Palapala Katherine Ruzsa Art Editors Timma Engelstad Claire Paczkowski Faculty Advisor Terri Sutton Ivory Tower is inspired by a belief in the necessity of artistic expression and its power to enlighten, challenge, and captivate. We strive to promote original work by undergraduate writers and artists across the University of Minnesota-Twin Cities campus. Submit to us! Ivory Tower welcomes rolling submissions from University of Minnesota-Twin Cities undergraduate students. To support undergraduate creative work and make Ivory Tower possible, and for more information, please visit our website at: http://ivorytower.umn.edu or send us mail: Ivory Tower 207 Lind Hall 207 Church Street SE Minneapolis, MN 55455 Ivory Tower is a non-profit annual student production. The text of this book is set in Baskerville, Euphorogenic, iNked God, and Typewriter Elite. Printed by Color Vision Ltd. Edgar, WI 3 3 Table of Contents EDITORS' NOTE INTERVIEWS POETRY 11 Impact Britta Bauer 17 Kids Are Making Out in the Prop Room Again Tim DeYoung 22 The Transatlantic Between Katelyn Dokken 29 Intimacy Tim DeYoung 32 Pre Portrait/ Post Portrait Scott Sundvall 61 Poetry Lewis Hyde 63 Double Wedding Ring Katelyn Dokken 67 They Put Their Pants on One Leg at a Time Billy Mullaney 70 Mr. President Kaylord Hill 71 Eden's Orchard Vadim Lavrusik 82 There Was Never a Leprechaun in Peanuts! Zachary Binsfeld 83 America Revisited Mark Brenden 89 5th St. First Congressional Michael Daniel Lee 91 History of Battles Alexandra Riley 56 Lewis Hyde 76 Jeremy Messersmith FICTION 12 TMNTs, affectionately Meghan Borgert 18 Elephants Amy Nelson 34 Kuebiko David Watson 54 There Is Nothing a Drop of Rain Can Do to Avoid Hitting the Ground Deniz Rudin 72 Craig's World Jade Bove 79 Lt. Miner Drinks Some Coffee Patrick Anderson 80 Hungry, Hungry Marlene Moxness 84 August 1985 Erin Poljanac 86 Folksong Out of Time Kalen Keir SPECIAL CONTENT 8 50 51 62 68 90 92 Reptiles Marlene Moxness Rage Joe Kane La For�t PJ Maracle Daytime Television Max Mose In Medias Res: The Many Lifetimes of Jim Brady Nyhus Memoir Max Mose Quotes Junot D�az NONFICTION 7 24 30 36 64 A Long Way to the Processor David Peterka Absolutely Everything Is Leaning on Everything Else Kasandra Solverson Unicycle Daniel Weispfenning Grandma Jesus Ana Staska Bad Spin Scott Long 10 Tribute to Joseph Mallord William Turner Tat'Yana Kenigsberg 16 Alcatraz Benjamin Etten 20 Kobenhaven Destruction Sites 1 and 3 Benjamin Etten 21 Sioux Falls Mill Benjamin Etten ART 33 Morning Bed Sheets Lucia Hawley 37 Urgency Sam Robertson 38 100% Satisfaction Guaranteed Broc Blegen 39 Yao Dian Christopher Ziolkowski 40 Target Bag Emma Johnson 41 Coloring Book Broc Blegen 42 Lights, Camera, Action Sarah Stackley 43 Drum Heads Kalen Keir 44 Afternoon Tea Bethany Dick 45 Katie Bethany Dick 46 Giggle My Jelly! Katelyn Johnson 46 Suction Cup Me Baby! Katelyn Johnson 47 Utopia Broc Blegen 48 Buddha Row Tissana Kijsanayotin 49 Stop. Rewind. Record. Reject. Sara Paul 52 Pathos Mending Ethos Ryan Rasmussen 53 Saint Maximillion Kolbe Joann Dzon 55 Nude Art Katelyn Johnson 96 Robot Flower Joe Kane Cover Art: Outlets, Beth Fosler Back Cover: Life Is a Game, Max Mose 5 A Long Way b Processor David Peterka to the arreling down the beach in a beat-up old brown Chevy Silverado, past an ever-changing landscape of obstruction and peril, Colorado Kurt shoots me one of his insane, coffee-fueled, crack-headed glances that penetrates the roaring, coughing unreliability of the dilapidated truck and the hazy Alaskan darkness that we both know won't last for more than a few hours, and you know what he says to me? He says, "DAVE!" hoarse and hollering, "IF WE DON'T MAKE THIS...WE'RE FUCKED!" as we haul ass bouncing down into one of the many stream beds that haunt this endless stretch of beach, split the water wide open, slam into the opposing bank, lurch and crawl, and every last horse under the hood belching and blaring and begging for reprieve, pressured by two thousand pounds of dead and dying salmon. We emerge relieved, weary, but far from victorious because it's been a long day and it's a long way to the processor, and we're riding in that same damn run-down disaster truck whose vital organs hit the dirt just the other night while Kurt navigated the same lonesome route, humbled locomotive innards rigged in place by an awkward combination of rope and duct tape-- details lost in the tumult. An hour later, Colorado Kurt pounds the door and wakes the young guy from Washington who is stuck working the station, and he replies with grinding hydraulics, jarring forklift advance and retreat driven under the influence of that same burning "What the fuck am I doing out in Bristol Bay?" question that rots the mind at four in the morning, and a Sprite for the ride home. We make our return in silence, move down the beach with care, absentminded exchange of words just to keep our eyes open. Kurt tells me about his wife, beginning with "I ain't gonna lie to ya, Dave," and ending with some rambling story about how she's not too pretty, but to him she's the most beautiful woman in the world. I hang on his words in the flickering dawn, drift-boat spotlights dot the water by the millions, and we're losing sleep by the second, when it spills over me warm and fleshy that this whole Alaska thing sure isn't pretty, but right now it's the most beautiful thing in the world. i 7 sen ohwoJnanailn ..s ognotle tnac hyehT e.etsat wa ntog oeve yeht ,sraepS ae nti ekilRdluowlyehtoknihteI tobftroradlhV y il b y, ot .hto nosi A ,u a s io d .s.eno srehtiw hT s de oS T . k y taekan r hse h htoRnosrepdAI".euobatem snac "yehT l.etsat sa ktog lreve lyeht tfi tem itae eot rBnsidytiliba ksiht ssntlsm ssop ao.smenehoro osil A tu obatem rap tdel ac wsi e ans r t ek at ao fi em ta euoyac il m luow sesansnekea Ihiar kanewereosto denru ta ll w oh o k l a w dn a d ta . ye e dna s e .se T y hs kant dell ek hiwonk hlla hew knihf,sraepS n entirB s t ehtie ekil to od I . ltew kwo dluow .yeht rkniht I .sekans rehto l e il eno uohs uoY .sekans fo o er o.eugnotlesrap" dellac si sekans ot klat o f d "o nuf ekam ton dl he study of reptiles is called "herpetology." This is also the word for the study of amphibians. Amphibians and reptiles are very different. One of the differences is that if you kiss a frog, you get a prince. If you kiss a snake, you get a face full of venom. If you kiss Alison Roth, you get herpes. I do not know what the study of Alison Roth is called. Some types of reptiles are turtles and snakes. There is only one type of Alison Roth, but that is plenty. Turtles have different names depending on where they tuck their heads. Cryptodira tuck their heads under their spines. Pleurodira tuck to the side. Snapping turtles, which are cryptodira, are the state reptiles of New York. Like many New Yorkers, they will bite your finger off if angered. Perhaps Alison Roth should get one as a pet. It would serve her right. Land turtles, or "tortoises," which are also cryptodira, grow shells with rings like a tree. You can use these to date a turtle. No one would ever date Alison Roth because she is too mean and nobody likes her. I certainly don't. Red-eared terrapin turtles live on land and in water. If released into Manhattan sewers, they will mutate into ninja teens, assuming a sensei rat can tutor them. These "heroes in a half shell" eat t ilA tuomlesrap" tahT llac asi ytilibafaiera sohw essop p hw nosrep aA ".eugnotlesuoY ".sekans fo deracs si sklat ot aytil "hto,uoy sillA .tuo edenrut s aht dllew s oh wonk lla oew dnanuf rek pm ton dluohs rap dellac si isekans ot enoJ and idnI .h R no snaem a d .sek n t fo iar w ht ess elp e o fo ,s ae ye e a s ek l ob .en S re ntirB kdid oS .sd kI n.sraepShtenttromedloV oroL ekil dluow yo hn kniht I .sekans rehto semitemos dna stnedor otaehtie dekil ston ao.suorovinrac yerairBasekil lAsla t ot i s s ohweslpo phw enosr pkam".eu notles ap" dellac i ekans t lat J nai enI l yehT tem ac yeh .et at ekanog lT ve k swonk ella eew fdna ufeeaepS tongdluohsruoY .sekanssfosderacsosiksenootaytiliba.ehob.htoRnnosilAT,uoyssnaemttahre.sey ess sop o ,sr A yentirB did oS .sekans ekil htob tromedloV droL dna rT pooC ecilA ".htuomlesrap" a dellac e Marlene Moxness s a u ka a. f oi di rn nl n nIsoc so fs oJ a tf A d nroh .oY senekamaiho daeuue kiar.f eehTsosw dlpef d nu AhtoRatanos.o ekel,ao snaem de -lat ot ytiliba rh dellac si sekans io ees ".eugnttlesrep -llsessop ohw nosle lrAlac si ytiliba sah tkoL ".htuomlesrap" .s ntir wddna rs pooC doo oil na e ome yc si f e .latl htob oS r.sekrn afo ns -ahkB did ,u raepS te d ra r s uf tseo dell sissh ooa d n yn o A w e o p a e esi e ele.utenwaohoento rek Ju iei wvu n kot -tikamfnaocnssakiosseilYnpeadhIoh a t. o e cB at se dlehl a osel .so knot - -iar,d nro o.w hli o.stkfl sne u mes .onl k.eps Inaime ra epSaensi do dt klAs uoy tilsa tkhT us" oeel na yralatrotryaehbteehTnshtrRnskAs rk c " ye -eesial"ydellTc .ssAoekaoei e -smsop cohnantosrtpa edo.sagda i - oa dw yhsl hn s o grtnut , na fleellansi erieibtoihisesai t n . ts na teuTwfioyi mr t aeo.Serhekv odtI ht cs A o hd kns.rL ai sder S .s tirB latno de epS o s ans oehepooCeewelatm.btlutmltsorp"a .ohkilelaeybhwtoohoieaYoVoldmJw nn y d l -hisralputoenssulodnikd.lefekkdn r e -lnahtlh o ep iwoseua ee ano sswekilrpeoR nosfsoA ntuftenra .b -ilentinBuskeiklil s.iatrmRatkao leka e s ofT dl oae e.s yr d sr t hT oheAa , esy onna"ehISn.se nh yewehtiap dhr tol hd kok u raet -tisuo sbseooVptlAotoaoa tlAo lklisan a hdelela s g.eo eandl" c kAde sl h l uo sr o e repnanrCvirrtcaeraast"e.clcyen troooo n oe itdrlL i sds meap" i aese.se ss Turtles have different names depending on where they tuck their heads. Cryptodira tuck their head under their spines. Pleurodira tuck to the side. Snapping turtles, which are cryptodira, are the state reptiles of New York. Like many New Yorkers, they will bite your finger off if angered. Perhaps Alison Roth should get one as a pet. It would serve her right. Land turtles, or "tortoises", which are also cryptodira, grow shells with .se .s ohwkans oep fo racs si am enoJ anaidnI era elp fo de nuf ek s ton dluohs uoY , ouoy la aem tahT l.sekans f. diarfa silA k sn yti b ehT o no At ".e t ot esra is a dellac htoR sekans sipooCugnotlsiht p"uomlesrap"si dellac y w reek tiliba lA ".ht essessop oha nosrep eci .s wonkansaillAd.htob denrutytahtrBlewdwoh ll ekil na , tromedloV droL dna ew htoRirBs sekil tuosraepS enti l di oS yent n o S rehtiosla eht s.sekansllsekil e yehT .eno temos e n kil n on k d aI .sraepS e ot e rehto .suorovinrac a era edor ans ot Aekil semi d st r e p t i l e s uoY . de s f snaem tahT .sekans fo diarfa era ohw elpoep fo nuf ekam ton dluohs uoY .sederacs o ekanscs osi eracs nsi aidnI .s aidnI .s kans f ssi ra en oJ d anaid I n .s noJ an senoJ a se ton a yohw iba uoY .seka uf eka r ytiliba siht sessessop ohw nosrep A ".eugnotlesrap" dellac si sekans ot klat eot dluohselpoep .htoRnns silA m,uton dluohs til ehT fo no fo oy era cilA ,uoy esnaem n ah a .sek n f elpo p fo p" kam lla ew dna ,sraepS yentirB did oS .sekans ekil htob tromedloV droL dna repooCnosohw ".htuomlesratuf T edellacssi o diarfa e snae .ttahT enrut klat ot ia til wo e si rehtie ekil ton od I .sraepS yentirB sekil osla ehS .sekans sekil htoR nosillA m sekans .sekansht ollew rfa iba nk hT .htoR uo d ot ta f d y woh ytilibaohw T n.htoR nos".eugnotle.eno " dellac -sop eh osrep A ilA ,u y srap -lesr p" a era e k ll ekil dluow yeht kniht I .sekans rehto semitemos dna stnedor tae ot ekil yehT dellac vsirac kans aotans at iliba siht sesses .suoro ain se dellsck si l yt Aot uoY .sekans fo deracs si senoJ anaidnI .s ohw omedloV A r".eudna tlesrap" ecilA ".htuom tr nosrep d oL gno repooC diarfa era ohw elpoep fo nuf ekam ton dluohs si sraepS ba ntsiht disesses.sekans ekil htob , ytili ye irB d oS sop a ek T . h l y ra e u eoa u s n no I . e.htoRn n anin fdirsockaJnisi ednIT aos ainiu . o .t o V dr rY kan k acs s ,rae s s em seka J . a nnI ha koJ a eoY .suoY ns afo pdefolfsotsipdacnmcsiooaidiaofanfekans obs -lA k".htuomlesrap" llewdellac onk lla ew dna ohalY sr speodwrosaopAfeauefsoss aen.etahr.anaiddlhrfa seuildenrut Ltaht repoowoh kw nosenae s uel ooetee o"nh n s eklan s n iddIa as o .se fs n d a - ,uoy as" kh st t ohT e peka tanufo snoJ tston delloc s s t t am e i . silA , wy s poem srailAuwneelpoera elsoacudn.sekanstTfyt dlub hs t oytili.s tromedloosla oehS n.sekansCseci l htoR nosillA s -os h si ekal m f s l sekanhosroLklat b oty gn ilias aehT d.ttoR i le a -ies eodiarfoopea hw ueot l lse ans ofo ud oe.htoR on dluohan dnI a l s k-l s -oatsr o aoew os.so a lisaonpf eacs rt p" .esuem p w -se era o nnYirelk p f hwe ti d kam c s relye iA y .eu hT r ba h i ek p r tsopral"i n. srep A h".eugnotlesrap" eC ellasi senoJ t s aidlu .s o , o ,sr mi dp" sa adephl cba ionuf l.ks n sl ht ksuu soo n Tf ,sraepdiartdhioB anisidtSo,ooinefnslAnessotemeAone"elmhnhsf-t.enodid htie vekil ston iodhtob sraepS yentirB SoVbfrdell tc Vd i sythwduodorepooseeas it A ".dahgo f tn irB ohre oS .sin an s ek l Ik. yaaaosLh lo aeseisis plalpsihtofreac us .romedehTut Cta R SdosonoApABuCdiacisna."tahT omsekans s o o dillaR enr oo t or p dnyutlelruooye snaem mthtu s. .sekan r h eharfc , e rep en rae Tlla e a l ot .melen S o il khtob ekilil tob n stuoldehTk.tuoldieekansws.uoikeoktallkecks"itluoRlnoecyfaehTysk sse.suorodnarac raepS syen ns llA oslaiehiioollsiopeohkesknorelemlntisaekttiaieniitop" "..tuos -les.l ttt .nsAlsomrdl"wl ohwrSIsaaoalnhyll otbwteli t dehtom reto cts l-re Asap sV aaep ekt k shot ls c iala silA apS d otlw seihws n dns pl h a nra lAa t ylne a ba " le c takan lkas a " e td ept tib d a -sra S,ooe e sd o wp ewilna y sis i nB s r hh" h.enra". httr.cradtoRao.woTe .g ekekanlno rekiie-lessekieReanllnicehInessyotstsseoteAild.oSotnsyes.dbiAwon e.tuo sdew rut otaht a ra tnwohr tae ot ekil r e d ed roS torekekil ss eo eh an taono doe sepS. roLgn nt kil htdna mi , e r orosepe naro ra th ke.irB o .s srs yeht - ie iaahmistcaos sekil puntobylBrod rd p iA oAytili oae-lA hhtob een tem s dn llsw edo sum et htns eot ed a ei oskk ieh rts dkani no l d.eu ekia re o o ye pT. d sdsee vihsaln sht LA ynan tnl o"C t ekanl s l .ekiie yn n a l dl V ew l o ula tolnSkouo ri enosmlaeow r a emiry toedrktehwnhtselknss yen i .B eehT .slibeevsi htsksntskil so.dai hwsea.esrerd tp eh.wonk pllayewillA le r i e e n nekuemdtneraa evea.skr k.a I osr te rS em tirB re t a tae e J n e a I oehto lot wamesl hd wosassessdle owtdSIot tkeeaht sekil ahtoR nos.eno ot seki d uow eht k na s um tae-libo kwohm luowhylla plw la atan,sopaeA S ".eugnot ehS n.sekans ekil l lhtoR ynosil niht I .sekans d I u ebates l ac a ehT to e cst nd tog reve yeht fi ebYtnmns a ooyfeT heraehtse ommgornus" ya leo a lanaidnIrhs ra .sJepnsCeo oi.etcs htu deorovt p i iuhdr l iac si yti a emrkac lpoh c ewA n". f i sen sra fr s nte f . uoY .s em a d il eoY .sekans pfo deracs sioseaohwt naidnId.syes Too.sufoteinrac enm J ssekans ollA h nra Ae nans .seki yS ns no s .s ilor s pi dn l lpTf p im et ra on ekaa fton dluta s . nek.s aseeoC dluA lfo myhuo utenosille" .dtkuoyenedor tyt t Ioobatem Snac ntirB .etsat osla g reve yeht fi noko Sdi co aAreht t Roekam ah p s sdna nhs d utL ahe t sraep ye yehT sekil a to ko at n to sel iso m A o tuo s e r l ka e w sra s ok wn elo oep fo nufnoeeseodepfsioinela,ut".tsn.lmtkans lfh.lmedessaafo sdiatac .sekafi ytskkakaido-os .lakhseoahhaeasehtob Ttytaeidlll hc rki ihtiI lfa h,uooo dearfa ns eki o lieki ug o doaroV t n dna -isilA a,uoy t naem tahT si ilibe w sn Tsrnltoc s ot yklat ba tti T ili k issbapiehT .huoR bea s S pkil ottp hohw oootu eeo ala yr had.C .htoRa " onoreve yeht fa wR Ibasrmpn Ane .e eT iBdallac p s lg lses nk sro ohs.te a pSc " o ytr rtcst l t de J om s n -sopedloV entirBlat si tytilibans aeeosdoehladAinn.oe.gpeaeeednbnnnrnaseletorlidsslaelanaf-TuoY t.rao are htie dllA cs osi osenoJ anaidnI .s les eohw snosrek n o ep-sopeedidhhn"we.hpaknVswoeeolhlktnossoeopuootedecoVatte"rimhtrano id.uohsek ne fo ekil t n d loVwfa .sepeesu" Yrlsnlihtyefap" ef esleis oyeka tehS a dl I .en tromrpenrut dtahtdA a".eugnotla sriptdtsolrdecaaui tSkiawduonoislaoel.otadeseyroieLhliraen rac hlosoR s osilA era snaem oLp llew ttuwon-law-suohstSnr e cdylLlsepwakdlnooh,kh"atnuSAoretnbd ht s dea et r -rooeddi ls,looLsdpo ya oploihscbwsislepkfAewoaneb n tnosit ibB ol Cs llel"aeara o" siaietRoCe n osoitpl"mwrasom h uk.wstoh o ,semraoslrtirme ssekanssraowwklpdnAato,sr nhus t anodt uto S" yatneSs wmerd tai lsf reht m kam f ,sra ap" ya drellac kansw.ekildlseesrroridlsld netps.a,dkayhlrSes.ntikioeiAgeoytletsliBp" selraR le t enruaep h Benbnls ewop" eec s k i estude . ba snb ta kolo r A l le .sekr nl" tulA-se lo htssa aw oA .luo kTo i i eandoA di .h c s n yeh oy .tuoedosekil hStondid doSIs.sekecilA.twisldodilathseoB.neiadntsllsesoalaltppnnkCelehirle hehT sses ekil kans T,u.suorovin tahT .sekans fo ohrarphtoRkekie .eluaroilkhkil odsawladkslh.h.alRlytnecila tae htuom k pSlayew T oankw hS l nokiro en s re tl yl r sia h sekileS la e .se o e e o l rehti uo s dna arep ntl.stoomvierac yenetR aBkud iallo.siksishS t ". ot eki thn edi, htraepS ln A t "n o t nAut oa no R l e l ekil yo hsi kB-r.sednoV sier Li .c ao sdSdoo lac e i A o I y s .ana.sekansooC recilA r".htuomlesrapsekil eoslataht ytiliba siht sessessop ohw nosrep A ".eugnot l I a.s lle.eio.tuoedenrut ttaht allewswoh etone ilekil whtob s r o sra pS yen irBn distneeno w a ns ela e dna s dor r a k ot re tleA kanw n e h o semit w n eehTo .semrovinrac tera nekorsekil eto ekkflseksraepS aa ohS d.seseksra ekil hhtoR ehto llA mitemos dna stnedor htvI .shta.s htmil aosl em ew rB kanilsosl e ethS r nosi se omhtae sna itemos .dna staedog taht ot n eod sI .wonkI llyentisdd an ,i.elepS ayentirB did oS .sekans ekil htob tromedloV droL eh e s y t h il ht uoYt.seotnekilTdluowsyehtsknirehtie eekil ston ood nrac rekil eyluow rynAstrehtie laYehS e.sekans sekil s tsi senoJlAn.tuo Idenrut Jkie ydnI n i e l i eht f .s aep kans ebatem kacsyfo deracatsi tenoreanay ehT . iu er vi e ot era S e eT t..lBeo ekkniosuo .s kans fo derac h oR nosil a aidn .s h no n sra s ok wn elpoep fo nuf ekam I ton dlloac a l e diurha lA s ana .su s fe r .e -isilA a,uoy ssnaem tahT .sekans .fo kd.htoR t obatem oac syahstn etsat a tog r -sopedloV entirBlat d ioS tilibans aehT ehT tob htrovinrac mora d na lstn edor ttae iot era ohw elpoep fo nuf ekam ton dluohs no les eohw sn ot ek A "otu ytilibekiety shsues o o semite e s d ekans ldor ae ot tromrpenru odta lt di s .ey gnotla sr.p"il ehdna eo sem te es il d uow yeh kn ht oLp ll r oh Cwoe relh a".etlom o e ,sra ap" a drel ac kew epoekilnIsisk nosislA m tae ot k .tuoedoslatehSh.dna answs.sekecilA ekans lrehem taeiotmekilndluoweyehttkniht nosilA ,uoy snaem tahT .sekans fo diarfa k vl yeht fi sekil S y se htoR ew reve yeht fi obatem nac yehT .etsat a tog obatem nac yehT .etsat a tog si sekans ot klat ot ytiliba ehT .htoR -sop ohw nosrep A ".eugnotlesrap" dellac -lesrap" a dellac si ytiliba siht sesses tromedloV droL dna repooC ecilA ".htuom ,sraepS yentirB did oS .sekans ekil htob .tuo denrut taht llew woh wonk lla ew dna sekil osla ehS .sekans sekil htoR nosillA .eno rehtie ekil ton od I .sraepS yentirB yehT .suorovinrac era sekans llA rehto semitemos dna stnedor tae ot ekil em tae ot ekil dluow yeht kniht I .sekans obatem nac yehT .etsat a tog reve yeht fi .eugnotlesrap" dellac si sekans ot klat ot ytiliba ehT .htoR nosilA ,uoy snaem tahT .sekans fo diarfa era ohw pizza. It can be pepperoni or cheese because terrapins are omnivores. Snakes are also reptiles. "Ophidiophobia" is the perfectly rational fear of snakes. Indiana Jones is scared of snakes. You should not make fun of people who are afraid of snakes. That means you, Alison Roth. The ability to talk to snakes is called "parseltongue." A person who possesses this ability is called a "parselmouth." Alice Cooper and Lord Voldemort both like snakes. So did Britney Spears, and we all know how well that turned out. Alison Roth likes snakes. She also likes Britney Spears. I do not like either one. All snakes are carnivorous. They like to eat rodents and sometimes other snakes. I think they would like to eat me if they ever got a taste. They can metabolize everything but hair, claws, and pure, unadulterated fear. They have only one functioning lung and no bladder. This means they cannot wet their pants when they see you. They also do not wear pants. Rattlesnakes live on land. Boas and pythons live in trees. Sea snakes live in the ocean. There are even some snakes that can fly, called "gliding" snakes. Because of this, there is almost no place on Earth that you are safe from snakes, just like I am never safe from Alison Roth. Snakes on planes are especially dangerous because you cannot escape, and pheromones are extremely potent. s. Indiana Jones is scared of snakes. You should not make fun of people who are afraid of snakes. That means you, Alison Roth. The ability to talk to snakes is called " p a r s e l tongue." A person who possesses this ability is called a "parselmouth." Alice Cooper and Lord Voldemort both like snakes. ekil tton sod nI .sraepS yentirBesekileoslasehSo.sekansesekilkhtoRenosillA semiaemo daa stnedor taeoot fkil y hT .duorhvinrac sraase ans ra o di rfa r hw elpo p f n ek m o luo s u Y k ns fo drpo op rf htnuf ee iam tto eodluohs ruoY S.s hk tns Bfoekerrcslarehse.sesallAseksi el entemes eiea oktledon btaeIo. ueaep ayy tn niruosovilooc.eeasenkanadnsAcs iil pdeoLednaorepooCkecilAn".htuomlesrap" ea adellac dsi aytiliba Ssihtksessessop AoS .senons sk al o o " eug tl r p de c si soVans ot nl rt poon ts lil A e.houomlrutat ha ek ka teot C e la hTt.htoesr p t l y i b R s.mi .yeo tidn ess kn l hor la tehSt .skil nse sT k.s ahr oRin oa ils A .tuoJdenlldnIa.s iae pS emon karB ee ii "ots llaromedleka droLe disuorovinrac iera "sekans nainos"lA semitibaseoJ a naidnnor itae ,uoy esnaem ehT T.etsat na fo g iarfa yeht ofilemptae dn . stne I . o te nac y tah cs il sen hT a htoR d s slA baot m kil y ehT . .seka s to d reve era hl el oep si yt w A elpoep fo nuf ekam ton dluohs uoY .sekans fo deracs si senoJ anaidnI .s If I did not know better, I would think Alison Roth likes me. Luckily, I do know better. Sea turtles are sensitive to the magnetic fields they use for navigation, and I am sensitive too. Maybe some people should think of that before they say mean things about other people. Maybe those second people are very nice once you get to know them, but the first people are too stupid to know that. Or maybe the first people just don't want their friends to think they're not cool. I could ask a turtle because they are wise. They cannot make it to the center of a tootsie pop without biting, but they are sensible nonetheless. In conclusion, there are many kinds of reptiles, but all of them are dangerous. They will bite you or eat you or make you cry. Much like Alison Roth, you should avoid them if at all possible. Sea turtle encounters are probably safe, but why risk it? You could get salmonella and die. It happens.i THEY CANNOT MAKE IT TO THE CENTER OF A TOOTSIE POP WITHOuT BITING, BuT THEY ARE SENSIBLE NONETHELESS. uof . d a racs deric eno n kanaon n u s. 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".iu c kyepTeki htsek ado oilc eoe deehT t.. tsoR lln t ng oA pS r s u e ahat l ewowod . sn ns e ot ehto tnosla s eea atlesrap" kn suooovin -ra sradsgssyensyihBd ll i ilellaA ta aes re o aoe hto ewtil osrep dor . st kans reuc royeekil kansyT na A ba rsiht t ell c ieh dle -ot h . dooCeecilA h".htuomlesrap" od .s em tae na ekil S y roballasht iteke,shnaewekil nwonk ehttenrew lfimnksltsetswot ahtob vooedmem ttahoiarlL pSdye ntirB ew ye ut coV etdro e I aoh eerep ts tog dik na dna a T n.hS l .s .tuo se m o sekil ot .. noereh lA nkans sle osi ye tirB tonil d hI oR sraepS tieeekil . Indiana are afraid of snakes. That means you, Alison Roth. The Jones is scared of snakes. You should not of eople who talk to snakes is called "parseltongue." Amake funwho bility to this ability is called a "parselmouth." Alice Cooper person ossesses Voldemort both like snakes. So did Britney Spears, and ndall know how well that turned out. Allison Roth likes snakes. Lord e also likes Britney Spears. I do not like either one. he All snakes are carnivorous. They like to eat rodents and someimes taste.snakes. I metabo they would like tois scared of snakes. think s. Indiana Jones eat me if they ever ot a other not make fun of people who are afraid of snakes. That ou should They can Julie Schumacher is the director of the Creative Writing Program at the University of Minnesota. Public Transportation 9 nat ie desaeler fI ni dna dnal evil seltrut nipar tartahnaM sotni tae ussaehs ne.retaw in otni eh"atno hT liweht htotut enac nac tIsne zzip rovinmo lera sniparret esuaceb eeum hl .m ye or eppepweb .a .ae gnim "l ,s feth ajn ni seor et sse c ro in r ,sr es la a s ee yl c re eh si " ib idihpO" .selit er a sekanS a a uttYefiap anatferdhraohohpooleioepanaionI p.fekoslamertoef.lankitas fo d sek f s o . e to swsne s p lJ sfo " u s aens tose Tn dl oan t o . r a ac A i u no t u d s l em f ra oh r oessessop a ohw T nosrep R ".esgnoAle,rapyndenlack si ahkans seuklas s ytilib eh ot Tribute to Joseph Mallord William Turner � Tat'Yana Kenigsberg IMPACT Britta Bauer My cousin Cale and I used to play on the beach. A lake beach. A clear lake. So clear that as I leaned over the bow of my grandfather's fishing boat, I could see the pontoon plane that crashed through the water twenty feet below me. I saw the outline of the cockpit window and the propeller blades and thought that doesn't belong down there. Cale and I ran along the shore, between my dock and his, throwing fistfuls of sand at the lake. A thousand tiny pieces of earth crashing into water, the inverse of rain. And rain called us in. Gray threads stitching sky to water on the opposite shore, lightning cutting through the fabric, sending us sprinting, kicking up sand behind us like comet tails, leaving tiny divots like craters. 11 TMNTs, affectionately Meghan Borgert-Spaniol hen I went for my interview at InterCo. Loans I followed a gray-jumpsuited man down the long hallway that led to the door that led to Reception. He was carrying a rug. The three of us squeezed through the door (him, the rug, then me) in a confused and cumbersome dance. The receptionist said "Doreen?" and he said "Yes," and she looked apologetic and I followed him because I was to have my interview with the woman named Doreen. -- 'm not really sure what I'm doing here. I've been here almost two weeks now--so, about nine days, roughly 72 hours--and I can't let myself get comfortable. I'm in the wrong ecosystem, this is such foreign territory, these people, I can't relate, I can hardly breathe-- "Hon, could you fax these for me?" I will not. Never. "Sure." --it's like they're one species, I'm another. I'm not in my element. I have no room to flourish. I have no idea how to send a fax. W I What I DO know about InterCo. Loans: 1. It consists of a bunch of scanners, a handful of photocopiers, hundreds of computers, and too many fax machines. Of this, I personally use one scanner, one photocopier, one computer and, if I can help it (and I think I can), zero fax machines. 2. Over 400 people work here, in this one building. That's 400 people who walk through one set of doors every morning, 400 who walk out every night. (When I walk down the street, I'm wondering how many coworkers I'm passing. When I lock my apartment door on my way out, I'm wondering if the man down the hall doing the same thing is headed for the same place as me. When I'm at a stop light, I figure everyone turning left with me could only be going where I'm going. Anyone. It could be anyone.) Of these people, I know two: myself, and Doreen. Which brings me to my next point. 3. It is home to Doreen, who, out of all 400 InterCo. employees, may very well be the most thrilled to be here. And so it would follow (naturally) that Doreen is my supervisor. Things Doreen loves: 1) Heart-shaped Post-it notes 2) Baking "treats" for the office (Brownies. Lemon bars. The like.) 3) Inter-Company Loan Requests 4) Sanitizing, things that are sanitized, people who offer to sanitize 5) Rugs. Oh god, the rugs. What I DO NOT know about InterCo. Loans: 1. What it does, i.e. what its purpose is, i.e. why we are all working here, Monday through Friday. Nine to five. And I don't want to know. I refuse to know, actually. The more I know, the more I am connected to this place. I will close my eyes and cover my ears; I will kick; I will scream; I will refer to it only as InterCo. Loans and never as ICL because ICL is an acronym and acronyms are chummy. And the fax machine--I am dedicated, I'll do whatever it takes, I'll have to use the bathroom every time someone asks ("Tom, could you send this fax?" "Oh, you know, I was about to run to the bathroom, so...")--I refuse to learn how to use the fax machine. "New rug!" Oh god. I'm much too busy right now, surely you can see that, look at my posture, I'm clearly immersed in scanning these documents, I'm in the zone, I mustn't be bothered-- "Tom, new rug!" I didn't hear that--see, my brow is furrowed, I'm squinting, you can see that what I'm doing requires immense concentration and certainly no disruptions, maybe you should-- "Tom? Would you mind giving me a hand, sweetie? I have a feeling this is the one!" Since I've started working here, five rugs (five!) have made their ways into this office; five rugs have been examined, scrutinized, felt up, and judged; five rugs have gone back to where they came from. But that's just the tip of the iceberg. Apparently, Doreen has been in search of the perfect rug since long before I started here. So, I don't just scan and photocopy and avoid the fax machine; I help Doreen haul in and unroll rugs. She tries to make me feel included, like I have a say in the decision (even though it's clear that I am not and I do not). But I refuse to take part in the charade. I've made it my personal goal to get through this job without having ever stated any kind of opinion about any rug. That, and the fax machine thing. It's actually a pretty fun challenge; by now I am beautifully primed by past Rug Exchanges, and I have gained the tools needed to handle all future Rug Exchanges with awe-inspiring ease. The latest: [Doreen and I have just unrolled rug. She dissects rug with eyes, fingers tap cheek, hand rests on hip. I stand opposite her, hands on hips, weight shifting awkwardly from leg to leg. I look anywhere but at rug.] "Hmmm...." " � " "It's a bit shaggy..." No. Never. "...don't you think?" I will not. "A little shag is okay, but you hit a point where it's unprofessional, you know? Do you think we've crossed that line?" We? No. But you... "It's a fine line." "Right, it really is...." "Fine line...." "And the color..." Bring it on. "...how do you feel about the color?" "You know that's funny because I've been meaning to ask you how you feel about the color." "You know, I don't know! I like the contrast, but at the same time it's not very mellow, and I'm very mellow, and I think mellow might work better for an office environment, you know?" "Mmmm...." "Hmmm...." "Alright, well I'm going to go eat lunch." "Oh, of course, right. Thanks for your help, darling." "Sure. You bet." fin Rug Exchange #6: New Rug that Doreen Feels May Be The One 13 At lunch I share the break room with two men. One eats Doritos from a Ziploc sandwich bag, the other warmed-up lasagna from a Tupperware container that probably isn't microwaveable. I walk in on what sounds like a heated discussion: "I'm just saying, I've been here for three years, I've done this thousands of times... I think I would know which is better." "And I'm just saying that faster isn't necessarily better...." I'm curious. I start listening in unabashedly-- "The stick model is much more efficient." At this point, man with Doritos picks up a staple remover and frantically showcases the tool. "It's the simplicity of the design. The staple comes out cleancut, no ripped paper, no...." --and then I stop. That's it, I think. That's it. That is it. Back to the temp agency. I'm done here. God take me now if I am ever to become the man who uses a staple remover on a daily basis. No. Not me. No one wants to be that guy. Doritos over here didn't want to be that guy until he became that guy. I'm giving my two weeks notice. This isn't happening. Not to me. I jump up from my chair, then stop. My eyes are wide and unblinking as I wrap my head around what I'm about to do. The two men flinch and stare from my panicked movement. I unlock my eyes and look, actually look, from Doritos to Lasagna. "Nothing," I say. I fumble with the door handle because my hands won't stop shaking. I'm not even thinking this through! I'm quitting without thinking because I don't want to be either of the men I just walked away from. I reach Doreen's office and my stomach burns because the door is open, telling me that I can do this, I can do this now. Doreen is at her desk eating a sandwich, and I take What did occupy all of eight I harbored desperate my precious When I was be... a years old,Mutant NinjaaTurtle. It's longing to Teenage because that the eight-year- funny,acronym I my main concern wasn'tfictional; ITMNTsI (this use affectionately) were think figured I'd cross that bridge when I got to it. No, that wasn't old brain an issue. What did occupy all of my precious eight-year-old brain power was the simple question of how I would get power was discovered by the TMNTs. I imagined this happening in scenarios, the simple countlessthem: dreamed a different one up every day. Two of 1) I go to Italy on vacation with my family. We are question eating lunch at a pizzeria when all of a sudden, the suited Italian Stallion sitting alone in the corner booth rises, of how I revolver in hand. He moves it back and forth to cover the area of the dining room like an oscillating fan that relieves would get all inhabitants of a sticky, hot room. Panic and gasps rise and take control of all space, spreading discovered by from the tablesseeping through crevices.airI rise immediately, to corners and lips and calm in my the TMNTs. coolly. The smirk on myAre you really arrogancetry and eyes say, "Really, Black Tie? going to pull something? While I'm here? That's funny! No, really, it's funny! You make me laugh, Black Tie." At that point things get blurry because I never actually took the time to figure out what exactly I would do to help the situation with Black Tie. I favored the idea of talking to him, calmly conversing with him, while the other patrons cower in their booths, pizza sauce left idle on their chins. I wanted very much to be that guy: the witty, suave smoothtalker. I would walk empty-handed, my weapons would be my words--chilling, mind-blowing words that I would string together to form even more chilling, mind- in some air, and I raise my fist to tap the door, and-- And I stop. Doreen is eating lunch in her office. She isn't eating out, or in the break room where everyone else eats. She is sharing her meal with a small, silent room. I stay outside her door, unable to move at the sight that says everything to me and very little to anyone else. Doreen takes a bite from her sandwich and chews with her eyes glued to the meeting place of two walls. After swallowing, she takes a deep breath and lets out a long, quiet sigh. She looks back down at her sandwich before taking another bite. This is when I forget about my two weeks notice. This is when I realize that Doreen probably wants more than InterCo. Loans. blowing sentences, leaving the culprit of the day at a loss. Anyway, I do my thing, give my speech, and Black Tie is taken care of. (You're welcome.) I sit back down at my table and the locals cheer, then resort to excited mutterings: "Chi �?" (Who is this?) "Ma � troppo giovane!" (But he is so young!) "Lui � un ragazzo savvy." (That is one savvy boy.) Then, they emerge. Out of the kitchen, donning sauce-spackled aprons, the Turtles come forth. Donatello is tapping a flour-dusted rolling pin against his palm; Raphael has a thin circle of pizza dough draped over his closed fist. They file out, one by one, and take their places in front of my table. The rest is history: they tell me they saw everything unfold, witnessed my poise under pressure. Leonardo presents me with a yellow mask, and that's it. I'm in. 2) The TMNTs take on a paper route that goes through my neighborhood. They are in the middle of hand-delivering my news when I open the door and strike up a conversation. I'm charming as hell. Leonardo presents me with a yellow mask, and that's it. I'm in. hen I get to work the next day, something has changed. The office is different; it feels different, and I feel different in it. Then I realize what it is: the New Rug is still here, unrolled on the floor; the plastic is gone; all tags have been clipped. My heart starts racing before I understand why it's racing. I try to calm myself, to be rational about this. But then it happens: Doreen stands up from her chair, grabs a stack of papers, and walks across the rug. She walks across the rug. Doreen has never stepped on a Rug in Consideration. You do not step on Rugs in Consideration. She sees me staring from the doorway. "Oh Tom, look! It's official--we have our rug!" "Oh, well...wow, so you decided...." "Yeah, I was a bit iffy at first, with the shag, and the color, but when I walked in this morning I turned on the light and it just worked. Everything just worked and that was it! Just like that!" "Just like that?" "Just like that! Do you like it?" I blink. I'm baffled. She found The Rug? The new rug is The One? I look up at Doreen, who is taking in this new addition as if she can't get enough of it, as if everything will be right with the world, so long as The Rug remains in view. "Yeah, it's...good. It's nice." "Good, good. I'm glad." After a pause, Doreen breaks her Rug trance and steps toward me. "Now, I have this fax that needs to be sent out before noon. Would you mind taking care of it?" Doreen holds the fax in front of me, at that unassuming distance that makes no demand. The Rug below laces the paper in a deep orange fringe. -- hen I left ICL a year later, I was carrying a rug. The receptionist smiled, and I waved, and The Rug burst through the door before me in all its faded orange glory. The new supervisor hated it, was turned off by the matted shag. Its final destination was still an uncertainty, but InterCo. Loans was no longer an option. You do not keep a rug in a place where no one will appreciate it. It's unprofessional. i W W Doreen has never stepped on a Rug in Consideration. You do not step on Rugs in Consideration. 15 Alcatraz � Benjamin Etten Kids are making out in the prop room again There are bunches of them and they are busting with corruption. The one with the watermelon head has put on a fake mustache and the others are rolling on the floor, hands dug into their fat and sordid stomachs, laughing like dumb people. Cackling with a fistful of dry-erase markers, the tall one, a ginger, writes "slut" across the board in all caps before running the markers down the face of a boy she calls Gay Bobby. He's a lamb and watches the green ink drip from a hair on his lip. The fraternal twins are in the back closet in their underwear chomping on capsules of fake blood. They can't stand the starch so they spit the red on the floor. The oldest one, by two minutes, slips on the tile and his back smacks the floor like a wet basketball while the younger one makes a joke about parting the Red Sea. It is an unhealthy frenzy. All exhausted, they sleep on a pile of fluorescent boas and tweed pea coats, the dumbest one having a most brilliant dream; God is there, well manifested in a burning shrub, and tells him that the holy spirit is infused in everything and you only have to squint to see it. The boy's exhale smells like pumpkin spice. And across the room a girl with grey hair has woken up and is getting too warm while sifting through wigs, she stands erect to let her heavy cotton sweatshirt fall slowly to the floor, almost not falling at all, more like capsizing. Tim DeYoung 17 Elephants Amy Nelson g randpa's vintage black Cadillac pulled up on the parkway in front of our small yellow house, and I watched him from the front window as he rearranged stacks of papers, bowling balls, and trash to make room for me in the passenger's seat. He already looked warm in the black polo that pulled to cover his paunch, and his silver comb-over was starting to melt. As he walked up to the house, he blew his Danish nose in a handkerchief, and I was so excited to spend a day with Gramps. We were going to the zoo because he wanted to visit its newest edition: the African elephant. The newspaper said it was sick, and Gramps figured we should check on the big guy. Gramps bought us hot dogs when we walked in the gate, and we ate them while sitting on the train that circles around the entire zoo. I never liked eating with him because his teeth were so old they didn't seem to work. Dad always told him to seriously go see a dentist, but Gramps always thought he was doing okay. I must have had mustard and ketchup all over my face when we got off the train, `cuz Gramps threw his handkerchief my way as we walked to the elephant. Personally, I liked to look at the polar bears: dangerous and endangered. A polar bear's skin is black, but in the same way that a white cloud is made up of clear water, the bear's fiber optic fur is really only the color of ice. The sign under the thick Plexiglas also told me that all polar bears are left-handed. I looked over at my grandpa standing downwind from the elephant, but I was having more fun trying to make my Arctic friend wave back to me with his left hand. In sickness or in health, Gramps just wanted to hang with the elephant, and he even chatted with the cage attendant about the African beast. He looked so lovingly at the scary face, with its big ears and all of its tragic muddy majesty. I wondered hard at my grandpa's fascination. On his coffee table in his house there was a picture of a few men in uniform in front of an elephant. Grandpa said that was when he was in Germany. He had been a military man, so he had traveled more places than I could name. Not that I could name many, because, as I realized, I didn't know much of anything about his past. He didn't notice as I wandered away to start my own zoo-venture. I skipped around saying "hi!" to all the rest of God's creatures. I watched the tiger that was getting a part of his back shaved so "They took her tusks and made them into dice." an animal doctor could treat a rash. The cool thing about tigers is that they have striped skin, not just striped fur. As I walked from the tiger's den to the snake pit, I saw an ostrich following me on the other side of the fence. I stopped to measure him up, but I didn't stay long because the giant feather duster had too much anger in his eyes. There was a mongoose in the zoo, too. I had a puzzling time with him, because a mongoose isn't a goose, but more like a meercat, which isn't really even a cat, but more like a prairie dog, which isn't even a dog, but more like a ground squirrel. My head was swimming with useless animal trivia, so I decided to check on Gramps. He was a very old man, and I knew I shouldn't trust him to be alone for too long. There he was, smiling a semi-toothless smile at his friend the big African elephant. The beast was standing right next to Gramps, who barely measured up to the tower of thick grey skin that was the elephant's front leg. I stood beside my grandpa, with my fingers laced through the fence and my left foot up on the zoo street curb, a smaller mirror of his stance. At that moment I overcame my little lump of fear, turned to him, and asked, "Gramps. What's with this elephant?" As he turned to smile at me I could see that it took him a great deal of effort to pull his watery old eyes away from the hypnotic pendulum of the elephant's swinging tail. "Ahhh..." My grandpa has this way of taking forever to start a sentence, and there is nothing more annoying to an anxious little girl. "Well, um, elephants, you know." But I didn't. I thought again about the picture on his coffee table with an elephant in it and expected a story about Germany. "Did you know that I grew up in Tennessee?" Well, I did know that, and I told him so. He paused, picked me up, and set me on the railing so I could see the elephant better. I just wanted to hear the story. "The first time I ever saw a real elephant was in 1916. I was fifteen years old and my dad took me to the circus." I tried to picture my grandpa as a kid, smaller with a full head of hair. I couldn't imagine it at all. "Except that elephant--her name was Mary--she killed a man, and crushed the brains out of his head with her foot. So the circus and the state of Tennessee decided that the elephant needed to be executed. There was a big spectacle, because they didn't know how. I mean, she was colossal. So they took a huge crane and marched Mary out to the train tracks. And in front of everyone they hanged her by the neck from a derrick car." My chest got really tight, and I didn't notice the animal smells anymore. "The first time, because she was just so big, she fell out. She sort of wiggled out, and I heard her hip crack. So she just sat there, upright and sad while they got a stronger chain." By this point I think my grandpa noticed me pouting. He sighed as he jingled the change in his pockets. "So yeah, I saw an elephant hanged. They took her tusks and made them into dice." i The Date, Pt. 1 Dan "Dr. Dan" Mrozowski enjoys comic books, Marxisim, and comic books about Marxisim. He is easily distracted in class, will occasionally trip over his own feet, and never stops extolling the virtues of Huck Finn. 19 Kobenhaven Destruction Sites 1 & 3 � Benjamin Etten Sioux Falls Mill � Benjamin Etten 21 The 1. I have a longing to burst open a globe, to see the insides because what's in there but blue liquid anyway. Running down into heels of our shoes--makes the socks stick. Or miles of plastic? Or one hundred lost love songs sent to an overseas stranger. I want to burst the tiny globe in your mouth. Roll it between your lips and mine. I would open my teeth to it. Suck on it like a jawbreaker, dance with your Russian tongue. Lick your closed eyelids, make them sticky with whatever glues the continents to the sea. Write so many things on your face with the Ukrainian ink. Place names: Moldova, Kiev, St. Petersburg, Bemidji, Minneapolis. Between Katelyn Dokken Transatlantic 2. We could take the globe outside to every town's ice rink, listen to our string instruments under wool caps while sharing the orb, back and forth trading it between the silver blades of our feet. Keeping divided the territories between you and I. 3. I want to swallow the globe. Wait for it to take root, vines planting me wherever I may be then, a deep-seated star on the old maps. Old globes. A capital. 4. Maybe I'd call for you like a bird calls goodbye. You would come and I'd kiss you. I'd un-swallow cleanly our proof of place. Existence of east and west. Our northern states. I'd place it in your hands and watch you crush it beneath boot soles like a little black beetle. I doubt there would be much blood, just a little sticker made in the U.S.A., in the transatlantic between, in all the places you are not. 23 Kasandra Solverson Absolutely Everything is L is eaning on Everything Else pillow that night and dreamt a dream, which you remembered in the morning for a moment before anything else, before dressing, and then forgot as you drank your coffee. I imagine things continued in an ordinary way, except that now you were old inside, as I was, for putting the pulse of a night so deliberately away, wild beams of light in our ears. As the summer approached I made plans quickly. I acquired an acre of soil from the farm I grew up on in Wisconsin and planted a small-scale vegetable farm. Five feet from the basil bed, I built a hut out of scrap materials and sod to live in, so close that some nights I stepped out and walked the black ground to scare deer away. The first night after planting corn, I lay awake in bed with Carl Sandburg's poetry spilled across my chest, my hands keeping the shape of the hoe, listening to the dirt scrape the blade, feeling the give of the loose stuff and the stop of the old tobacco roots. I wrote to you about my field of sky, where I planted the sunlight and threshed the moon. Your words came back to me warm in the envelopes, shucking their timid husks every mile from the Gulf Coast to my field. Our signatures convinced me of something powerful, and I trusted it. In September the frost came. In October, you finished your volunteer term and returned to Minneapolis for school. I boarded up the windows on my hut and moved to the frosting metropolis to live with you, to save no money and belong to our rent. I telephoned to play you a song. Lying in a bunk, surrounded by volunteers in New Orleans, you whispered hello from the breathing silence of the church on Dryads Street. I planned the call well ahead. The song I picked from the heart of songs. When you answered I thought you said, "I'm sleepy." (You really said, "Sing to me.") The lights went out in the church and everyone was asleep except you, suddenly alone on one end of a dropped line. I put my guitar back in its case and curled up in a cot in the cold, snowy North. You didn't call me back. I suppose that's because we were old inside, which is a thing to be understood straight away. The song I did not play was played more beautifully by the possibility of music, and became unparalleled inside all the other sounds. You insisted on this--when, as the months passed, you refused to answer my calls, missing me so much that you did not want to hear me. No, you didn't call me back, to hear the song, or for any other reason. I imagine you laid back into your pinched my bus transfer between all of my fingers. Most everybody else did, too, out of cold desperation. It cost two dollars during rush hour to ride the bus, and it usually took more than one bus to get to the right place, so the transfer was for keeps and kept close, a person's own sort of hallelujah ticket. I paid for mine every morning with twenty dimes from an old salsa jar I kept at home; that transfer got me to my job at the hardware store, and it took twenty more dimes at night to get home. It was an hour down Lake Street before my stop. Often, because it was winter, the things my mind woke up with--dreams, the objects of the morning--froze and became completely still. Sometimes I made my transfer in time, sometimes I didn't. At 39th street I pulled the yellow cord and rose to the bright, alarming ding, watching my step as I pinned my name crookedly to my red shirt. I clocked in and took my place in the aisles of things, and a camera shutter closed around the hours. As per the company's employment philosophy, everybody learned how to do everybody's job. I ended up a jack-of-all-departments. I worked hard because it felt busy, and while I did that I thought of our apartment, number four at the end of the hallway. I wrote letters to you on the receipts customers didn't want, and on leftover sales ads from the previous week: "$29.99 Yellow Water Can Gerbera Daisy," which read on its back, "I want to be your hard-headed woman." When I greeted customers with "What can I help you with today?" there were fives and tens of sales advertisements in my pockets covered with pieces of "my dear," "there are words," "If I could tell you." I wrote when the store wasn't busy, no pipes to thread, ladders to climb. No one knew, not the store cameras, nor the customers staring at my name tag, asking for the price of things, things I could care less to buy, things you and I have never needed. We got by without these things. March brought an early thaw. You got a job at St. Stephen's shelter on Clinton Street and went to classes. Across the street from the shelter we rented a small garden plot and learned how to plant onions the Mexican way from Regino, the man fixing his bike on the sidewalk. One evening we wound up in the alley behind our house, washed by the midnight. A kiss in the rain, a few of your New Orleans stories, and then back into the apartment where it was warm, back to your school work and to my writing. We hurried into our clothes and caught buses in the mornings; I adjusted my nametag. On an evening in May, I closed my e-mail and stared into the glow of your computer. Beans simmered on the stove, slowly becoming ready for you to arrive back home from the library. I thought of the books stacked around you there. I thought of the desperation of the city. Half listening for the sound of your key in the door, I typed "college in the woods" into Google, and clicked "search." ecause it was a town with a University; because the manager of a food co-op agreed to interview me for a job; because the Minneapolis hardware business made my bones ache for beds to lie down in; because buses charioted me into redundancy; because apartment four became our cell unto ourselves; because the fountains of another city might rinse a person better, on a June afternoon I flew to Swarthmore, Pennsylvania, and you came with me, carrying a big red bag on your back. We made appointments to meet professors at Swarthmore College, agreed to consider the change of geography in our own individual ways. You put off your registration at the University of Minnesota for the next semester and I took off a few days from the hardware store. We changed our footing and stepped into the wind. I knew no one who could pick us up in Pennsylvania at two in the morning, so we prepared to sleep in the airport until the trains started up again. I had never flown, never seen the lines of tired people. If it weren't for Mrs. Payne, your friend's mother, who agreed to pick us up, we would have slept in the terminal. We would have curled up on the floor behind some chairs; would have leaned vaguely against each other for a few hours, the plane engines in perpetual language, the baggage carts waxing us to sleep, the five a.m. train to Philadelphia pulling in like a piano crescendo, bells rung, seats filled. It didn't matter that we didn't have to, in the end, because on the way out of the airport we pointed out the spot we would have claimed until the sun rose on our faces. She drove us to her home in Media, a few miles outside Swarthmore. You talked to her about volunteering with her daughter in the Gulf Coast; I had never been so far away from home. Mrs. Payne's street was quiet. We followed her up the stairs to a room we could sleep in, and she showed us the bathroom: "We're going to take out these yellow tiles and put down new ones," she said, and then left us alone to quietly undress and fall asleep. I listened to you drift off. I wanted to disappear before the sun came up. The room still dark, I woke up on my belly and stared at the clock on my phone, clicking the light back on, clicking it again. I didn't have much time to learn about Swarthmore College, the co-op, the B east coast. As the room filled up with soft, blue light, your eyes opened on me, and I recognized, even in Pennsylvania, the bold emergence of your body, and then the straightening of your long back--bendable stone, the statue I slept with, the long red hair like a flame. You yawned and said, "We should go, huh?" I nodded and went to the bathroom. I sat on the edge of the tub as I brushed my teeth and spread my toes on the tiles of the family's home, trying to push myself into the grain of it so that when I left and the tile was removed to make way for something new, I would feel the change in my bones. Sun washed my feet as I gripped, and you came in with a towel. We had an hour to catch the train to Swarthmore College to make our meetings on time. The first plant I saw on Swarthmore's campus lawn was labeled with its common and scientific name. Every plant was labeled. Swarthmore was three hundred acres of catalogued, studied vegetative life. As we walked, I read; as I read, I became lost. The names were unfamiliar to me, or I forgot them in the heat. I tried to rehearse everything I knew about plants, but things around me being so labeled and clear, I lost intrigue. You left me to find the Sociology Department, and I wandered the grass, receiving silence all around me. When we separated, I stood in front of the big wooden doors of the Biology building and looked at the handles; I noted how heavily the door must rest on its hinges. A student pulled it open and sunk inside the academic fissure, and as the door came shut, I saw myself in the glass. Who wears bright green pants to meet a reputable professor, I thought, and then I thought, who sits there with her legs crossed in the office of a reputable professor pretending her pants are not bright green, but dark and serious brown? It was a mistake, coming here, assuming this role of risk-taker, wearing all the wrong clothes, not knowing the names of their plants. I wrote to you about my Field of sky, where I planted the sunlight and threshed the moon. 25 Passing slowly by the doors of Biology professors, I read the cryptically meaningful sayings they'd posted for students to read. One of them, a handwritten excerpt from a J. D. Salinger book, roped my attention, and while I had expected it to be from Catcher in the Rye it was from Seymour, an Introduction: "Seymour once said that all we do our whole lives is go from one little piece of Holy Ground to the next. Is he never wrong?" I shifted my feet and stood shapelessly in Dr. Vollmer's doorway. I sat, she paced; her hands flailed as she talked about Microbiology. The back of my neck dewed. I forgot about my bright green pants. Goosebumps swallowed my body and my mouth opened, saying nothing initially, and then saying everything: Sustainable Agriculture, Dr. Vollmer. I described my farm, what I understood to be botany and the poetic intricacies. Tossing my bag on the floor, I leaned forward and tried to explain to her that absolutely everything was leaning on everything else. She leaned forward and said, "If you don't wake up in the morning and yearn for a textbook, you'll stick out here like a sore thumb, because our students love to learn more than anything." I couldn't imagine. "You don't learn until you're out of your comfort zone," she said, and gave me her card. In the basement I found a small room with a window looking out at a Japanese garden. Water stood still in a pool where fish lived, silvered and orange. I looked into the room painfully. Were I a student, I would stack my textbooks there, like sacred things, and pray to my homework. Down the hall I heard a group of people. I took my bag from my shoulders and sat at the table, touching the grain in its surface; sunlight cracked open the room, and satisfaction ran down my face. After a few moments, I left and found you in the rose garden, circling the flowers in such a way that said, "The Sociology Department failed to impress me." The manager of the Swarthmore Co-op stacked goat cheese with one hand, holding coffee in the other. His name was Gerry. He poured me a coffee, and we sat outside on the patio, trading stories. I talked about my farm, and he told me about the meat deli he used to run upstate. The merchandise surprised me for an organic co-op: blue rows of Oreo cookies; Chiquita bananas; tomatoes from cheap labor farms; oh yes, and the tabloids. He asked me what I thought. I pointed out one of his employees scrubbing the produce bins with Windex, generously spraying the produce besides. I also pointed out the unusual placement of the produce, a small supply of vegetables and fruits shoved into the back of the store. "You'll make an excellent lead for my produce department if you decide to move out here." I walked to the train station where I found you reading, looking sadly into a book like someone who had forgotten something important, waiting to see who would come first, the woman or the train. We caught the 4:30 back to Media and bought dinner. e had been two people always. The tea orders came in pairs of cups, saucers, and spoons. We had sipped separately, cordially yours, I love you too, etcetera, etcetera. We were in Pennsylvania with each other's strange foreign minds. The summer precipitated through my shirt and dampened yours; we walked to the rhythm of train departures, train arrivals. After leaving Swarthmore, you phoned an old friend from New Orleans living outside Philly. He picked us up at a bookstore somewhere in Valley Forge, took us to his home, and fed us. You met him at the church on Dryads Street. Unlike most volunteers flocking to New Orleans, Scott went there alone. He was there for the first house you gutted for hurricane damage; he jogged along St. Charles Ave. and drove other volunteers around in his car so they could get out, see the city, walk the French Quarter. After dinner, he gave us a ride into the heart of Philadelphia, and the three of us went for a midnight walk. You and I slipped into a theatrical pairing, pretending not to be intimate in order to remain private in the company of your friends and these new cities, with their dangerous capability to separate us forever. We walked unattached through the historic district as I admired Scott's autonomous life, wishing I had met you gutting a house, wondering what our letters had meant, what music meant. I stared into all the famous windows as if the Declaration would be signed again, and Betsy Ross would stare back from an old wooden chair, stitching her flag. We passed some music bars and clubs. I bumped into a famous country singer outside a bar, and she didn't look too great. I looked up at the oldest buildings in the city. I couldn't look hard enough at every brick because I had never known anything like this. What makes a person search for the antithesis of her own life? What I mean to say is, why do people long for the sea in the old ballads, and what makes us sing those ballads as if they were our own, as if those were our own boats bobbing on the oceans, like fools, like dying, unhappy poets and sailors and fry cooks and clowns? It was the possibility of a different life held tightly inside Philly's grain. It was the fear of that possibility, and the nerve to consider it at the expense of a life that was already good. My mind fell asleep in the aesthetic of nightclubs and lamplight, and we started W to walk in circles. Even with the attention to detail; even though the humidity focused my eyes on everything in front of me; even with your body beside me; even in the calmness beside that black iron gate around Benjamin Franklin's grave, his body wrapped and covered in stone, folded deep in the ground with his wife; even though the clean, white sheets at Scott's house waited like an altar to host our blessed forms; even despite the hours until then, the hours after--I could not for your sake or mine find a way into our happiness. We went up the stairs to a bed. I asked you if I could sleep in it with you, and it was a question meant to tell you that I was disappearing into the locations, getting used to the changes in the skyline. I crawled into the sheets and wished I had lain down somewhere else so that I wouldn't invade your dreams as I slowly slipped out of them. Neon lights flickered me to sleep as I recalled them in bed, the bright, glowing "Bank Street Hostel" burned in the muscles behind my dreams. Your arms made a circle around me, and I pulled away because my ribcage was a glowing crescent. The moon emptied itself into the room and illuminated the gesture of my pulling-out and your pulling-in. In the morning, I forgot where we were, and my hands found you under the sheets. When you reached for me, I remembered our discontent and faced the window. I thought to myself that we had been walking for three days in the pastures of Pennsylvania, boarding the sidewalks of our lives, and had grown too exhausted to function properly. For a moment before I turned a delicate sort of happiness picked me up and held me so close I could hear the hole in its heart. I pinched the edge of the bed, letting a bus transfer fall away. An exquisite fear filled me, and I thought I would ask you to leave your school and move; but then I turned and saw the throbbing moon inside your mouth, "Are we on your terms?" I dressed and couldn't hear all of your words as you explained the pain I'd given you; they went through my ears, and I opened the window to let the world in. You rearranged your bag to make it fit your dirty clothes, took out the educational pamphlets you got from Swarthmore College, and flipped through them. You would not go to that school; you could not live in that town. I sat across the table from you on Samson Street, drawing you into my notebook. You thought the streets looked European there, in University City, Philly. Your "If you don't wake up in the morning and yearn for a textbook, you'll stick out here like a sore thumb, because our students love to learn more than anything." figure proved difficult to render as you sat quietly in the chair across from me with your tea, telling me about the cities in Germany, Scotland, and Ireland, about the time you pretended to be a student at the University in Galway. I drank some cold water and tried not to think. Your lips curled and your eyebrows bent in disgust as the group of professors next to us criticized all the Quakers at Swarthmore College, the people we had met the few days before. I wanted to fix my drawing, because now it was wrong, now that you had rearranged the graces in your face. We didn't smell good anymore. The sun fell on the city and heated up the urine people could not seem to keep off the sidewalks, corners, streets, sculptures. As we walked through the city, I looked but could not find a holy ground to step on. The moonlight had dried away and left a hardness. You kept your eye on the clock so we wouldn't miss our train to the airport, and we wandered more, hungry but stubbornly not spending money. We lay in the grass in Rittenhouse Square, lay with the hundred others, and imagined our lives to ourselves. I saw myself in an apartment by the Liberty Bell, propped up in bed, writing, engulfed by my books. In the context of those moments, while we waited for our train, words seemed so much more possible, my hands so much more capable, my heart peeled open. You looked at your clock. I closed my eyes. In the context of autonomy, my Philadelphia apartment was in the corner of an old building and got all the afternoon sun. I was in Philly with you, and the letters I wrote to you in my mind didn't leave with us on the train. "I threw them into the river," I want to say, but I didn't. They are 27 flung somewhere else, tucked into something different. My own discontent gave me the words to ruin us, and I put them quietly away. The east coast opened up its ground and groaned. Possibilities screamed in the air like birds and perched in the archways of universities. Strangers pissed on the city and did not explain, while the torrents of urine polished your face and polished mine. What belongs to me in Philadelphia lies there on the ground, in the grass, incomplete and abandoned. I did that for love--I chiseled the torso of our broken togetherness and left the stone in the University lawn to sink and be eaten by the wind. We waited two hours for our train and left Pennsylvania. i The Date, Pt. 2 Jim Novak is a graduate student at the University of Minnesota in the Creative Writing Program. He says he didn't cheat. Tim DeYoung Intimacy (noun): 1. The tender things that occur between individuals being close. *often used euphemistically 2. Each touch to the nape of the neck or thumb to the base of the ear that is applied with care, much the same as a person's mother in pressing a small black spider against a wall. *and feeling the spider press back through the white napkin 3. Alternative to kissing, just two mouths resting on one another; pressed together like two musty caves, a breeze inside slowly blowing back and then forth again. *whistling through the teeth 4. Each time a strand of hair happens across one's mouth and the tongue reaches out to it, pulling it down like a dark well swallowing a loose kite. *followed by a shallow cough like a sleeping kitten 5. State of lying still like two creased pieces of art covered in a film of soft white from a street lamp, like from the flashlight held by a burglar peering through a museum window. *neither party is afraid to sleep **Because sleep is the water turning the powder to concrete. 29 Unicycle W hen I was sixteen, my mother decided to give me "the talk" as part of Sunday school curriculum instead of at a private, only partiallymortifying venue. My first assignment was to draw a car which would represent me as a sexual being traveling down the road of life until I parked in the driveway of a committed heterosexual relationship and gave my mother some damn grandchildren. I drew a unicycle. At the time, I thought I was just being goofy. Once I had become a gay, twenty-year-old virgin, I realized I was actually being clairvoyant. It was summer. A month beforehand, I had successfully masturbated for the first time. Since most people started in their early teens, I had to make up for lost time. My pace would have been blistering were Daniel Weispfenning it not for Vaseline. Emboldened by my success at selfstimulation, I made a summer goal--get laid. I didn't want to contract herpes until at least the third time I had sex, so I made a point to stop in the medical section of Rainbow Foods while grocery shopping. Rainbow had recently changed their logo to something that would make sense only if they also changed their name to Dark Green Foods. My theory on the logo change was that a rainbow logo was too gay for Middle America. By changing the color, they could pretend they were founded by and named for Thaddeus H. Rainbow. Looking at the packs of condoms, I faced a conundrum. They all touted their abilities to please "her." The class Comparative Orifices was not a part of my Catholic sex education. I didn't know if pleasure ridges or bumps were more suited to anal cavities. I briefly considered asking a passing employee which brand he'd recommend for butt sex until I saw that he was seventy. He could have been the keeper of the greatest secret anal sex techniques, but due to his age, I wouldn't have minded if they died with him. Eventually I bought a three pack of what seemed to be the most basic variety. There would be time for experimentation later. Two were lost the moment they touched the nest of papers and debris around my mattress. The survivor was put into my coin purse. The coin purse had a Japanese cartoon penguin on it, but it was an evil Japanese cartoon penguin which I believe butched it up. At that point, I didn't have any specific plans as to with whom or where I would get laid. The condom was merely a good-faith gesture. It said, "Hey world, I'm ready for whatever sexual adventures you want to throw my way. Don't hold back because you think I'm not ready." In July, a sexual adventure was thrown squarely at The condom was merely a good faith guesture. me. I had begun my first semi-relationship. We were on our second faux-date. The first one involved us walking around campus realizing that without chemical inducements we had no interpersonal connection. For our second sort of date, he came to my apartment, watched the first half of a movie, lost interest, and started feeling me up. At first, it tickled, and I would laugh uncontrollably, forcing him to retreat. Once I was able to will myself out of being ticklish, he gave me a glorious boner. It pressed against my jeans so hard it hurt. This was when I was supposed to relieve the pressure by unzipping my pants. Then we would have segued into a light blowjob and then full on sex. But if that happened, I wouldn't know exactly what to do. I had a general idea of the theory behind butt sex. I knew the prostate was something I should be looking for. However, I didn't know any of its distinguishing characteristics. I feared that I would have to spend a "Hey world, I'm ready for whatever sexual adventures you want to my way." throw lot of time rummaging around in him playing "hot" or "cold." I should have done my research. Instead I nervously laughed at the movie, hoping to divert his attention back to it. When that didn't work, I tried to figure out what I should do with my hands. It didn't seem right that I was experiencing the most spectacular hard-on I had ever had while giving nothing in return, but I was worried my attempts wouldn't be as effective. The movie ended, and the sex had not happened after thirty minutes of aggressive hinting. There was still a small chance we could become the best of fuck buddies--unless I was bad in bed, which I probably was. I said goodbye. I walked him to the door with the crotch of my jeans still taut. We had no further pseudodates. For the rest of the summer, I came no closer to losing my virginity. The start of classes would mark my official failure. I planned to celebrate by inflating my It said, condom. The balloon would symbolize my hopes for the summer. It would be popped. My last chance to meet someone was an end-ofsummer party I attended with a friend and her boyfriend. The men at the party were overwhelmingly straight, as evidenced by the non-ironic beer pong table. On the walk back to my house my friend received a phone call. It was from a girl back at the party, a blonde from Iowa. Valiantly I offered up my condom. My friend whisked it back to the party. The blonde probably enjoyed it more than I would have. There were still a few more days for sexual adventure. I could have ridden over to Dark Green Foods and got a new pack of condoms. I didn't, but if I did, I would've used a bike. I never learned how to ride a unicycle, but I'm not too upset. Bikes are probably more comfortable and less awkward. I'll learn to ride a unicycle one day when I'm really ready. i 31 Pre Portrait Chasing shadows in the darkness, takes for granted the movement of photons. She bleeds liqourice sticks. As a kid she danced with little ponies. Where was her dinner date now? Her pasta would get cold. gods. Or for him who can whisper "i carry snake-oil baskets of fever to cure it." And holding a tattered parasol she thinks this a broken melody (for) who wouldn't? With skin you can't peel she eats an orange. And scrubs. waiting under the pier, between the page: a scrape without a scratch. Junk is the garbage you don't throw away. She was the reason men loved torn dresses She hated herself for that. She won't drink white wine but she'll break your lips with her glass. She won't break bread over prayer or forgiveness or any name of a mother's death-bed gift. Her own omen is this: in the cage, under the bed sheets you will find the scared lioness A wall that wants to crumble but won't let you pass. Even if you say please, feign to know the password. A dusty whisper screams when you turn around. and sleeping in thornberry bushes next to temporary thistle blues. She is no hyacinth plucked from Apollo's bow of Hyperion she calls at 3am calls it the milk She does not know the Promethean ache the midnight collapse Post Portrait Scott Sundvall Morning Bed Sheets � L Hawley ucia 33 o you remember Abraham? Yes, that Abraham, the one God ordered to take his son up the mountain and make him a sacrifice. Do you remember Abraham? The thing I wonder and that I guess everyone wonders when they hear that story is this: what if God hadn't intervened in the last moment to stop Abraham from cutting the boy's throat? I guess this is a moot point when you are talking about someone who is all-powerful, but what if there had been a snag in the plan? What if the angel had been waylaid like the angel in Daniel who was kept at bay by the Prince of Persia for twenty-one days? I guess I don't really know what would have happened to Abraham then. I suppose he would have tried to explain to his wife why he left on a camping trip with their son and came home alone. Maybe he wouldn't have gone home at all. I mean, maybe it would have been better for him to hit the road after a stunt like that. Light out for Ur of the Chaldeans and never look back. Maybe there are some tests that you simply can't pass. There was our man and he was standing in the rain outside of a bus depot. He wore a gray raincoat, executive cut, and he carried an attach� case and smoked a black cigarette with a little gold ring just above the filter. He had dark hair and pale skin and those deep craters under his eyes that looked like he had smudged eyeliner pencil into sunken little half-moons with his thumb. He was staring at the multicolored chart on the wall of the depot that tells all the places that the buses run and all the times that they arrive and depart. In three days this man, sitting on a California beach, would open the fingers of his right hand into a V and use those same fingers to mash out both of his eyes. d kuebiko T David Watson he depot was a building made of gray bricks so big that they looked like cinderblocks, all stained from people extinguishing their cigarettes and cigars on the side in ugly black smears that never quite seem to wash off in the rain. The roof was slightly inclined and there were tin rain gutters that were supposed to direct the water toward the down spouts into the big forty-gallon plastic barrels. But it had already been raining for two and a half years without ever even once showing the slightest sign of letting up. So the gutters were filled up and the barrels were filled up and the water was just pouring out like soldiers going over the top at Verdun or the Somme and splattering away on the ground in deep old puddles, flowing away in little rivulets carving their way across the parking lot. Doesn't that just beat everything straight to hell? Two and a half years. That's nine hundred and twelve whole days, plus one very soggy morning. He was wondering if there was a bus going somewhere that the sun was shining. A lady sidled up to him. He couldn't hear her over the sound of the rain and the water pouring down out of the gutters and anyway he wasn't really listening for any ladies sidling up beside him. This lady was very tiny. So tiny that when he finally did notice her he wondered to himself how it was that she hadn't been sucked away in one of the parking-lot rivers. She was wearing a yellow slicker and had big horn-rimmed spectacles and her hair was wrapped in plastic sheeting to keep it dry. It was a cold day. Autumn was turning into winter and the days were getting shorter and the wind was starting to take on a serrated edge. He coughed and the little lady turned to him. "You shouldn't smoke," she said. She smelled like damp baby powder and mildew. "I know," he said. "It's bad for you," she said. He nodded. "That's the idea." "Huh?" "Gradual suicide." She didn't say anything after that for a moment and then she asked him where he was headed and he said that he didn't know. "What do you mean?" she asked him. "How can you come to the station without knowing where you are going?" "I hadn't really thought about it. Somewhere sunny." "Is that supposed to be a joke?" she asked. "Because it isn't funny." "No. I guess not. Still though. Wouldn't a little sun be nice?" "I am going to see my grandchildren in Topeka," the tiny woman said. "It's my grandson's birthday and I'm going for a visit." "That's nice." o he got on the first bus bound for California and it took him all the way to San Francisco. Three thousand miles and he sat by the window the whole way. You know what he saw? Ruin. Everywhere they went there was nothing green or growing anywhere. Everything was dead. They drove through huge stretches of what had once been wheat fields (green grass, gold and amber stalks, rich soil, all beneath a blue sky, green tractors, and red irrigators) and all those fields had become enormous playa lakes S that reflected rain clouds and any headlights passing on the freeway. They drove through the mountains. There used to be trees in the Rockies, big fir trees and oak trees and ash trees and birch trees and all kinds of trees. But now the trees were all rotted away beneath tangled heaps of moss and lichen because moss and lichen are just about the only things that can grow in the constant damp. Every stop along the way he saw more people dressed in wet clothes, wearing wet shoes over wet socks. It isn't right, he thought, that a man could get jungle rot in Nevada. But sure enough. "I guess I thought it might be different here," he said to no one in particular as the bus turned south toward San Francisco. "But it really is just the same everywhere." H e got off the bus somewhere between L.A. and Frisco. It doesn't matter where precisely, just somewhere along the way. It was a rinky-dink town. You know the type: a gas station rusting out from under itself; a diner whose sign is missing letters; a no-tell motel with rooms for nineteen dollars a night; several bars that might be dive bars but aren't because dive is a concept of relatives and here in Podunk, CA, everything is a dive, a warsh, the tried and true walking nightmare of a mad somnambulist. Everything was gravel and soot and the aching, backbreaking odor of despair. It was the kind of place where noir things happen on rainswept nights and even the rich banks of clouds can't protect a body from the deep-down crazies brought on by the obscured light of a full moon. The kind of place where a car breaks down and its owner moans, "No...anywhere but here." But there was a beach not far from the bus depot. The last twenty miles into town he could see it from the highway: the gray sky, water that moved like lead in a crucible, whitecaps churning up on the beach, driftwood and seaweed scattered like a net in whose grommets lay decaying fish, caked in sand, picked at by the birds. e left the terminal behind, crossed the street, waded through the mud and muck of the em- bankment down to the place where the soil turned to sand, and he kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks and walked barefoot onto the beach. The rain had darkened the sand and left it cratered with minute pockmarks as if an ant army had loosed its miniature artillery and made no man's land of the dune. Several yards ahead a fish, gray-scaled and white-bellied, flopped in one of the shallow pools that the rain had turned into small, isolated seas. He walked along the beach, looking out towards the horizon. In the distance the sky and ocean faded together into a single ashen thing, an elemental merger of water and air. A taut breeze was rolling off the waves and it carried with it the smell of brine, kelp, and ice. He rubbed his hand along his face and felt the three-day stubble beneath his fingers. About fifty yards down the beach he saw a man sitting and watching the waves. This stranger wore a brightly colored shirt with no sleeves, a pair of Bermuda shorts, and had his hair bound back behind his head with a handkerchief that was white and red. His hair was golden, as if it had been gobbling sunlight for the course of his entire life, storing it against the day when the sun would disappear. Now, in the neverending, rain-soaked gloaming his hair blazed out like the sun's reflection in a polished mirror. His feet were buried in the sand. The stranger turned and saw our man coming down the beach towards him and he raised a well-muscled arm and waved. The golden haired stranger was sitting on a long tow board with a high fin and a blue stripe that ran the middle and ducked away around either end. "Out for a stroll?" the surfer asked. "You might say so." H "What's your name?" the surfer asked. Our man raised his shoulders and let them drop. The surfer looked him over top to bottom and then nodded. "Yeah. I dig. I know why you're here. You thought you might find a sliver of sunlight. Isn't that right, traveler?" "Yeah. That's right." "You should know by now," the surfer said. "There isn't going to be any sun ever again. Those days are over." "You still come out here to surf ?" our man asked. The surfer looked at him for a moment as if he had not understood the question. "You're sitting on a surfboard." He pointed and the surfer turned and then his face broke into a wide smile. "Oh," the surfer said, "I don't surf. I found it right where it is now. Seemed like as good a bench as I was going to find down here." "So why are you here?" "I'm here every day," the surfer who was not a surfer said. "I like to watch the ocean." "In the rain?" "It rains every day," the surfer who was not a surfer said. "I don't see how you can let it stop you forever." "It's depressing." "So it is." They sat in silence for a long time. Waves broke on the shore, seagulls glided through the rain and called out to one another in voices that seemed to come from a great distance, and from the road came the sound of cars and trucks shifting down to stop at the traffic light on the corner by the bus station. Our man looked at his watch. It was a quarter to noon. Behind the clouds the sun should have been almost in the center of the sky. How do you remember something like the sun? How do you pick out a single sunlit day to rest the mind upon when every day for a lifetime and for a thousand lifetimes the sun has been the world's one constant? That was the trouble that plagued our man. He could remember the sun, but only as an abstraction. Now that it was gone it did not take a 35 definite shape in his memory, remaining, instead, a general theory of light and heat as divorced from the reality of the sun as Planck's constant is divorced from the cooking of a marshmallow over a roaring fire. W hat might have been different for our man if at that moment the sun had appeared--if the clouds gave way, as the Prince of Persia gave way to Daniel's angel, and there had been a moment of illumination? Would even a single ray of clear, unfiltered light have been the hand of God staying Abraham from the terrible sacrifice? But the clouds did not break and for a little while the two, our man and the strange Kuebiko, sat sideby-side staring out over the water. i Grandma Jesus e Ana Staska scaping the humidity at last, I collapse on the sofa, dead weight melting into the cool white leather. She brings me water and sits on the stone ledge of the fireplace, lighting a blue American Spirit, handing it to me, and lighting another. She waits for words. I tell her I hate life. I've gained weight. None of my clothes fit, and what I'm wearing is filthy. I quit my job, grandma. I have no money, no air conditioning in my bedroom, and I haven't slept for three days. I tell her that he says it's over, but he's lingering. He slept on the couch the other night. On the couch. I can't even take a shower. It's been on my to-do list for a week. I actually have to write "shower" and "get dressed" on my to-do lists these days. She snuffs her cigarette, sips from my water glass, and asks if she can wash my feet. The way she did when I was a little girl with long snarled hair. She sits cross-legged on the carpet by my feet with a steaming bucket of soapy water, a rag hanging over the side. I close my eyes. Sigh. Legs dangling over the edge in her thin soft hands as she pulls away layers of negativity, slowly, out through the soles of my feet, the dirt wrung into murky water. She smoothes rose oil into my arches, my ankles, between my toes. She talks to me about Jesus, and this time I don't mind. i Urgency � Sam Robertson 37 100% Satisfaction Guaranteed � Broc Blegen Yao Dian � Christopher Ziolkowski 39 Target Bag � Emma Johnson Coloring Book � Broc Blegan 41 L ights, Camera, Action �Sarah Stackley Drum Heads � Kalen Keir 43 Afternoon Tea �Bethany Dick Katie � Bethany Dick 45 Suction Cup Me Baby! and Giggle My Jelly! � Katelyn Johnson Utopia � Broc Blegen 47 Buddha Row � Tissana Kijsanayotin Stop. Rewind. Record. Reject. � Sara Paul 49 Rage � Joe Kane L For�t � PJ Maracle a 51 Pathos Mending Ethos � Ryan Rasmussen Saint Maximillion Kolbe � Joann Dzon 53 T I here is nothing drop can of rain a to Deniz Rudin W avoid hitting the ground C itizenship and community are important to rain; after all, raindrops can literally merge with each other to become larger entities, though the base unit of the drop always retains control over itself. It is in puddles that rain shares information, and in the cloud-cities there are myriad recesses of varying size in which raindrops gather and learn. In one such classroom, drops are told that the collective Rain should always be valued above the individual drop. In another, they learn of the cycle of rain: falling honorably and gracefully from clouds to replenish the Earth, then rising back to the clouds to fall again. In another, they hear tales of the soil and seas that await them at the end of their fall. After a drop has learned its lesson, it separates from the teaching puddle and is whisked away by the streaming hallway to the next classroom. Such is the cloudlife of a drop of rain. Naturally, some take to it more than others. do hen every drop has visited the majority of the countless classrooms in a cloud, the city becomes dark and heavy with their collective knowledge. New pathways are eroded: pathways that lead not to any classroom but to howling wind. The first to jump are the malcontents, the disbelievers and those that just want to get it over with; the thrill-seekers; the zealots all too eager to begin their transformation. They drizzle down towards what is below while those left in their clouds make snide little jokes in their puddles. But before long the time for mass exodus comes, and the cloud is evacuated in dozens of somber processions. f you cut open a cloud, the cross-section looks like a gigantic ant farm with an intricate network of tiny pathways. In this way each cloud in the sky is a city. In each unnamed cumulus metropolis, rainwater flows through these corridors like blood through veins. To us, the cloudlife of droplets of rain seems like it must be a gestational period, and in a way it is. The way that warm, dark cloudflesh surrounds and envelops rain in the sky is best described as womblike. However, what rain goes through in clouds is not the same as the mindless growth and development of a mammalian fetus. It is altogether more like school. uite a lot about the nature of any raindrop can be learned if you simply watch the way it falls. Some show that they never completely believed in the cycle by the way they spread themselves flat, trying to fall as slowly as possible. On the other hand, you can tell a true believer by the way it shapes itself into a sleek bullet to get to its goal as quickly as possible. Others simply take pleasure in the fall, swooping rambunctiously around other drops, knowing that whatever happens will happen and so why worry; their exuberance annoys some but is contagious to others. Some drops find another drop to merge with, and lessen the fear of the soon-upcoming ground by sharing it. And some just fall, glistening globules, at peace with what they are and what they are to do. What none of them know, not the frightened nor the fanatical nor the playful nor the affectless, is that they are the last rainload of the last cloud, and what they fall towards has neither soil nor sea, but only concrete for miles and miles and hundreds of miles and hundreds of miles, a newly-paved parking lot for Earth's satellite, the fantastically glamorous casinomoon. i Q Nude � Katelyn Johnson 55 ,selc t a s fi it roba uoY .repa I we aem I issefo p rovI eht saw m secorp gnihsilbup s'yliaD eht na , liaD tht sr tek eow pI U neht dna g tht torehuo,lleW sseugiI r,odnevot aerew lloc osaw e peht nsaw nreveohw rdnyna nekil tnrut eneht udnanaemeht odetcerroc edna dmehtyrevo p newrof odrw r,dna c seht iot tiw epu fiemoc wdluowdna t s ,n la o ,rewoT y a , i ti A . s ht t c d c ps n eceip a tirw ro ,seci e eht eti id y o , aed h o m sr e I n w y ew or r yt o ehtehw ediced dluow r tid e detrat fi saw v h eI ,htrrof cgnikrow rotide s aerg hW saw nou irraGndnadnao,ti eno ht y aw iw llieK dnosirrahsrewoT t I ne a .ti ens er ad ik ,r tid oe uo s ht ro krow na ,ti G ilbup y tyl alu itraP . a lreve ,mu kool dluow dna ,gnitide enil ylst oires etiuq koot t hw tem reve I nosrep tsrfi eht d a - l e w u p saw .krow eui y yliaD teyrt morf mgnimoc h,yfo nerutcurts hcihw b ewoT ndht i-emit dneeb vatsum rhp ti er t w ekam o ht dna eceip e delkiarfp,saw m eht u a kool ena ,ecnetnesre ne esasil evis tn e b u s m'I ,wonk ha ,heh heh , tno yre hs lbu nae I t e ti h r i r dna e,enizagom d huoy losot hlairetam ve uekil dah esyawla -emit rton Iee ub ot i,ya edynizagam reht tew en nlda e a sawdeheht trt pew o ote vah t'ndi e t l fi ,repapswen hg one tn dneped ew kniht a r sg ihtal i l eh hguohT .s oS yllauw t -calssah emit rebmemer ylknarf i 'nod I ni .deneppah gnihtemos n ad eht erutra sa gew oh t no ni nt a s ey n sap erewdna silopaenyt M nwotnwod tap pohs tsI rp a rt, wdetnirp eaw am izagam ehte,sytd esnit ni -a n i r s e n c eor ? 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[Laughs] Yeah.two different jobs so famously an putting pressure on your writing, if you're a writer, private property. But it does sortcan to work. lucky and you of iving doingof, when your create You can get Well, um, so we are you're not individualist nation, we love individual freedomworld maybe you're reallyyou were and and e question it, you something, of it and of itI did would not community rth. A simple conversation with the and havehow muchof what is really ayour creation, were how much workto is dependent upon your see, maybe the group of Ifriends hadraised in always in a different would So I me Ivory tower. I mean, when IAnd one student things 1960's, the be in example way. be was always models community. was done, the in the you older poets found online could have happened if this there's a lot to say, notmaybe could be and there whom you is an look tocalled... Well, that's how want to live, been o to in the of might have essay and to ve livesay which other countries, but one they de-coupled public life from art because they weredeeply anti-aristocratic, and the founders thought of that as belongingone olic long and the aristocracy.for so thing to say is, when this country was founded, it was opposed to the aristocracy and to a church that had art kind of power. ook a churchtime in this 200 yearsAndthe after the founding. In Europe with art to arrive, and tradition of patronage by the aristocracy, andNational Endowment for the il 1965 so that's almost countrythe until very idea of public engagement what happened it's a long you don't even get something as simple as the and Englandaristocracy gets was not severed. And so European countries like Holland when the and France have by representative government, sense that there should be patronage is not lost, upported the artspatrons inthan we've ever done in this country. And I think the break, and it was easier to make the transition. So, umm, and break, luckily, sometimes, this country t it meant to be way more are democracy, whereas inpurely aesthetic, turn such to difference goes...is historical. Inwonderful for we had a real then, and we had to reina purely exploratory, Europe, there wasn't out a have a rks, artistic works which and that's the artist involved. My argument is not torow, who is a wonderful author, wrote also many years without significant income from his market value, then he had a few books that began to sell well. umm. Somebody like writing, to that how all, are goingin do their to forif it doesn't happen to beginningMurphy theto at they're that'sused great. So Lind work Hall. be Is and that intersect artists should really and But it's fairly rare, most be able sWe hadWeWe Hyde: in the tobasement of Murphy Hall, Journalism where the Daily current mowhere are you guys? a: you? about with ment of now. which is too. interests.Well, temporary Ivory to find I twenty and the for the U worked Daily's w hae s an: structure newspaper. firsthousingthe then, paid for how Daily,thempeople ifcopy editorswas Hall. been on ofthe That's back and then and or three other the familiar [Laughs] You It's offices waswasIlike editor Tower articles, salaries. many and English department. what paid. workedtherewhen editorsgo toweforcredit,twoyears but I don't and then you publishing process in the sixties, inso we're we're curious the fBasically, professional actually an get well, were You were you wrote lot of advertisingworkedwent magover t m people go not in get with? who out tovariously dWe and in kinds We as got paidthe That other and know you were the paid? guys No. that a e, Tower. Daily. fairly I editor,what how Daily, and the nice. published I Uan remember the the waspublishing couldpublishing process was much, but also you sounds I know you you the don'tworked afor and there it were collaborative, in. we in was [Laughs] were describe because Towerspec was then turn process Whoever was Ivoyou thedinner. Well, professional the to to publish it, was the editor, and and refine was a so I would come the first newspaper, go pieces, Daily's it When any theand I Could first Garrison I Keillor and work on line you, Garrison seriously, and would workup ideas whenwasand whetherperson butever the the structure ofand write sentence, andor at at Ivorytookwith editing piece and trygreatmake it like? write piece or far heIvory the forwould decideTower,writing goes, did you guys because fair amount a weekly or biweekly. editor. look Parlarly,phrase was were met who quite it. submissions? I work. very look backWe're the were are to started guess sstructure creative as of quite could submit work, rememberget aWhat different then you a you he began to now? hat's Wegood writers that with theSo monthly. magazineAnother thing could Garrisonandmagazine whenwhen wasabouteditor. but itinsomebody. sophomore and and blish. slush pile working trust, I don'the I thinkfully first ofwhat came that had is typical this, magazinesa chosenyearly. who probably campus things 964 or horrible. [Laughs] Frankly,intensive?people must havean started, work was have youSo liter65, people whose so anybodya beenaround. didifof and IweImean,wrote readthatregularly foras Daily five or idea, maybe there bothpublished work he day, kind time-intensiveagain, who I we, fairlygoodHe it's for is ahad class Sure.theWas startedand were time stablehe, us it might like magazine. we didn't it meet, but an he day did but how um, well it Ihave reallytimes on aweTower shopmaterialpublished theassign and toI'm Though there what asthea have mustmachines.to atof the enoughpages in mean, type, for month,actuallythe illustraevery printed They set legislature downtown frankly,magazine. And the seta in guys? the print sure was adline magazinemake have always had down whichinwasthe to fill everycoming from was an the those butto certainwe thinka cut. We'd go with in where magayou , they had was that called you've the the they nalif wrote a day to report quite busy athe night before Minneapolis happened. wrong, few others. they Jim typepeoplewhen and if there if something so there'd once a h andproofreading, but andwas atMoore,copies, guyalsoknow,of magazine was were printing curious what was nd therealinotypesociology, and if thatand and, youfrontlead we ISisson(sp)poet,of or ifa and changed. of werePatriciabeen major,involved notScience and of the Jonathon foundlate kind that kind profession nhad I cameof political names arechangeona them. Sowhat be kind ofthoughtsomethingso unsigned which is Hempl was could seems likeline named happened toupsame interest wasamit's pieces. and u sociologyoflooking is old and you Politics.stayingmath most and maybe the of thing. describe yourself asSociology courses, and GarI ttraction wasthemu, and implications. But humanities, and English.was by the involved with was pretty to to henus to used to people,drifted into frankly the I be then it I in has continued heavy taking the was a science left, important to And and it andan time I most I were then I me came in little ted into sociology, met aseveralhumanities program time we met years, and undergraduate, going to So as ,happens toforlot sense. great sociology The And was[Minnesota we werewhat was the Robert more...there thekind Makes there. people the I Okay. It a and Ianti-Vietnam times. aMinneapolis andIknow who How meet Poet Umm, InDC year IawasFields, Soso War rally.theofinvitethe u,Minnesota He was,had timemost credits. both and a bus one Bly? on he ingtonRobertwas anmaybe 1965, and did from sortfirstI attime middle read. he Laureate]This didn't book, know I1964 last was. was Snowy group of been that youwould first didn't went. or people him met him. now invited by sort universitytoto gave who had campus, Robert have the "Oh, publishedwould him, guy on bus!" maybe,three [laughs] Alanwho met wasinvolved Berryman, Robertthena poetry, who that to know reading the thereafter. ence heIthegroup I of gohe'd inand Madison, who Johncampusyourselfyourread.The first visitgot met Bly. were aThe a withwhen heand the writer Richard Foster, and... writing, and off and soon I The poetselse to people around were Tate and e something used poet, students Minnesotaandno on were wethought, read, out write I anwerehim talentof where caught in," referring to that's middle six. that you were asking wantthere was but exchange betweenof "getting in" attention in writing course beAnd to lived, him [Laughs] ehere you just signat for it. It's interesting, thebefore ofget time somebody just, you was back asked said, "writers who about. I'm curious how the structure he the creative writing program know, there. to but...I think that was the first have Minnesotawon't showed up and the creative writing ssome questions, remember,u. I'd have been--I don't exactly remember--thattaught submitted then. idea to a creative e of your really and the I cree the lowerclass U up then at least. come, him once you isAnybody can the way you a adone lots of andthink he sama it's it poetry out. es.don't at work,in Ithe itjust workwrittenthen So it's creative writing programserve? I typically first which poetry submisclass? n writing the level classes mustchose And class, people think it'sget into e[Laughs] aWell, they're justfirstsystemsmiss someandKenyonthat beyou andclear dohave peoplegood. s. prose class and they start andother it's s, time, abecause youSo theirbothnot theatsemester atatthegoI higher,actually do weweeding come alater? waste 's so right. certain would beyou professional work, beforehand,atime, it'srough....Ithat [Laughs] So But same College,I also inof teach been creme been surrt, Studentsscience. sense Ia thought to all when people would havea toreaddid life! bychoose a notknow, student, ever ight,I was a show youumm, you must tell you that the whatwere wasstudent,always themthe not nervous Didthe of weed orwould were to WhenYou in thought I 1960's, thinkcan ready.out about youwhoI would such that peoplestudents find stuI you're basically believed deeply that and it's useful for to have that work never going teaching 't but say would ed. say futures. love. And that's wasn't the teacher,the 1960's that those so focused in And, toabout why, youhave leavemore it somethingmuch debt,Ivorywhycan'thave to bethings were on my mind. their I be able something why you at least, questionso that's in economy youIvory Tower as and then your fubeen lost, you would today to k switch gears a little you would agree with described Tower specifically, back then--if you with about the and For me, one political case ure. we I I think lprofession.as ourselvesa seriously, and Fosteronce, rememberwas kindofstudents at the jokesthing. bit. Richard actually ,of the I'm sex and stuff. collegeremember Garrison or if itthe review of of a and being argumentaand yourselves wonderingof Well, Okay. good humor if therea was university and it one...the of full lighthearted stake, about body, all took kind published was werecounterforce,that description And Mississippito the I as writing a was more things it what and it had of rude a technology you madelaughing, but magazine that involved in laughter ways that worker. rights don't saying political ,e and were would be the work, to Ihumor magazine 1964 various as well. theit sixties basically knowand civil rights I mentative of us on the wentI would depth, actually was aserious, in The civil something positions. describein it, but certainly we were willingSo,were movement if to take at eWantiwar movement. I way w oI tg uw o f tD a a t D l p i il p c w l a p fs i en a Yp wt o ra l ac yw r t a t c e t w o t a cr e t a ct hA t vI T re em t cI al ta os ug ow c wi d a r tw ip rw ip s a t t t ai h rw te de ow ed hw re p l i a w w o iy ak ir e iW hs t o iw f tI v oT G ir e lK w t e t a G ir aw rg e t P it al e th fip e mI w t uq es uo l de i aw o l ve hp Well, when I first go to the U I worked for the Daily, and the Daily's publishing LEWIS "The simple idea behind the book is that there really is a disconnect On a Saturday in January, Lewis Hyde spoke between creative life and a market generously with Ivory Tower editors Jenna Beyer and Meghan Hanson about his time at the economy. They can work together, U, the state of our creative world, and The Gift. but a lot of it is disconnected. Lewis Hyde teaches at Kenyon College, where he is the Richard L. Thomas Professor of Creative Writing. Previously, he taught creative writing at Harvard University for six years. Hyde edited and was published in the Ivory Tower in the 1960s, collaborating with Garrison Keillor, Patricia Hampl, and others. He graduated from the University of Minnesota with a degree in Sociology and also studied Comparative Literature at the University of Iowa. His most recent book, Trickster Makes This World, explores the playful and disruptive side of human imagination as embodied in ancient myth and modern creative works; a book of his poetry, This Error Is The Sign Of Love, was published by Milkweed Editions in 1988. Hyde's 1985 book, The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World, explores the ideological gap between the creative spirit of the artist and the necessary commerce of society. David Foster Wallace wrote, "no one who is invested in any kind of art, in questions of what real art does...can read The Gift and remain unchanged," a sentiment echoed by Zadie Smith, Margaret Atwood, Robert Bly and countless others. Thanks to Lewis Hyde for permission to quote the book including the Allen Ginsberg quotation. eItnehwo,lleWfi hlikr eh u ,-deotowgItsrf yiaaDeht s'yl D na -hsilbup tdro ssecorp gni ynaeesseworp lanoikilfsaw .r paps en ,otlerewauoYfi esercitrymdna dnt ntotwduo ypocw eh tideo tne eh msro ernac eht eht dna detc rev m dna ro tuc tA .meht IehtewoT,yrovI ,r naem evitarobdluow esawstIg alloc w s edi htiw pusemoc ,In,os , tieu ip eht asec d a e roe,pcapetirw ecni rwt s eht d a d e no tihnrunan,ni -ouwwarotide ehteh dltoswwereved reh w silbdicet ,tith krow pyo u dna h, -ti iWnotuoenfi I eroadnikrdna neh rdetgats . i ni -krtw y ehwo nosirra ret saw rol -lieK TofrovI G eh dna taerg a sawenosirraG -id ,rotide -awieha,ylral sucptrsPfi.rot -re t r eht temureveoIinos etilqykoutiohw enia ool io uow dnar,lsyteres tacketnedldna es hgn r de ve ,eankoolsdna th urps erut e c eta eceip fo yrttdna mehtow lltin,kui.otit m neeb m I t r evew eatsumuti is ,yl k r -,na etnf-emaD moc ehw knabf e t tihermor p lii dehsilbu ygnt saw rupos whhcil -b,yadayrevehw yewvT,eetsoeh reheudthoi ,whekaehyn,m'I eront t ous haw r enehd yaw a m il dknihlfi hgusne ah s ed oa o a e -iretam Iltubw eht l eht a tiw dnan,ht enia -agam eniztglm sg tttonnhrew i ned eped -emipapswee z ekil id uoy os t-ndl eht e o ' t,reerrotanvah rop e ut n a eht.deneppah gngetemos lsiI i -oSarf ahreyad kn hme t'nod reb hguohyl .selssmesomit ni T ,syad e ht tenizagampehtw aodetnirrpsa p wotnwodnni hs paen iM tni a nilo sahw ni tes yllautcaedna t ellactoral -dhtepy ni a yem segap ,senihc ,epytiehtltes ni ereht dae art -sull nfitdna yeht ,oic saw ekam ogud'ew onadah t dna t a -ebtthgin eht ynwodnehwterof g-ionirplanfi a nd eeht'ereh erew b ftorpnidaer yeh t ,g dndn aeegnahc w luoc py dnui fo,enil gn e s ecno ofhenofia erehthttmom rw tahtkosdug,oaw ysub yaiyatsaw etiyq sna ,wpu gno a tal on taht ou a e dW .-nihtyfoldsik g'ruot ,hlnr eedT dn trge ,sa koob koi G tfi s'ehobebitcsoy ti ot ow,wanemncp s lpoi u hki eirtttaht ts snoi tcor u seg -gu il ac woh no fil t uoa evob o r 'ti ,e ko irt ta ot a s y se sesaercni ht o senerawa ru IVORY TOWER interviews : HYDE Ivory Tower: Did you ever think of teaching when you were a student, or did that come later? Lewis Hyde: When I was a student, I never thought at all about what I would have to do in life! [Laughs] So I can't say I thought I would be a professional teacher, but I can't say I also would have been surprised. You know, in the 1960s, I must tell you that the economy was such that people were not nervous about their futures. And you basically believed deeply that you would always be able to find work and do something you love. And that's something that's been lost, and it's useful for students today to think about why. Why you leave college with so much debt, and why you have to be so focused on your future profession. For me, at least, it wasn't the case in the 1960s that those things were on my mind. POET, AuTHOR OF THE GIFT: CREATIVITY AND THE ARTIST IN THE MODERN WORLD, AND FORMER IVORY TOWER EDITOR. Just understanding that is a help to a lot of creative people who feel otherwise kind of confused about how or why to move ahead." IT: Yeah...that's what we're afraid of. LH: Well, I mean, the main shift that I suppose people my age think about is, in the 1960s, there was a military draft, so every young man had to make a pointed decision about his relationship to the war that was then being waged. And nothing sharpens the mind like seeing a hangman's noose, as somebody once said. Also I think that the Pentagon has IT: How do you feel the university landscape in a sort of global sense has changed since then, in regards to issues of protest, rebellion, and free thought? LH: Well, as far as I can tell, it's died! [all laugh] "It's useful for to engage around the African-American community students to think and poverty, but when he gets to Chicago it really takes him quite a while to figure out who the comabout why you munity is, and what the community problems are that you're a writer. Maybe you're really lucky and you can make a living doing it, that's nice. IT: Right, right... LH: I do think that there should be philanthropic and public support for creativity. Again, one of the big things that's happened since the 1960s is destruction of public support for the arts. This isn't quite so true in Minnesota, which has good systems, but nationally, in the early 1990s, the right wing and Congress managed to really undercut a lot of the funding to young artists, which is a hard period if you're beginning life trying to be an artist. IT: You are clear that there are two kinds of economy in which art can be made: the realm of the gift and the realm of the market. Is the art made within each realm different? LH: Well, I suppose some of it is. People in advertising are very creative, and it is an artistic profession in a certain sense. But at the end of the day, the point is to move the product. It's like you're writing a narrative whose last act is to be the consumer going out and buying something. So it's motivated work, and there certainly is another kind of artistic practice which has absolutely no motivation except perception and inquiry, and interrogation of beauty, and, you know, making things that have no clear...purpose. [all laugh] So then, luckily, sometimes, those leave college with so much debt, and why you have to be so focused on your future profession." U eht ot og tsrfi I nehw ,lleW s'yliaDaehtidnaa,yliaDoehtgrof forp fi n t ek ew s oY ssec apswen a nehy dna mlht wtorw urp dni c rdnc onaerehturev.repew srot e o tn oy na e ro t d me ytucIdnat rov naem eh tI , itarobal wiewtsseug d t h tirw u i p htiew w o ecers ro p rut ti n n r rotide w eveohw ehwiedic hs ti dlbupti ik whkrowi ne na , gni Wr.tI woT krowos y ollieK ov ,r nosnr saw otide . ,ylril eh rotidefi a srepwtsrm t oh te IT: Do you have any advice for people, students or otherwise, who just want to stand up for what they believe in but feel limited? Everything has become so commercialized and technologydriven, and it just seems that things like protesting or things that maybe used to make a huge difference, not that they don't make a difference, but they're maybe just different? LH: Well, my first advice is to figure out what you care about. And then to have some cunning around figuring out where what you care about can be usefully engaged with. I just read Obama's first book, Dreams Of My Father, and I thought that the section about being in Chicago as a community organizer was kind of instructive because what you see is someone who wants IT IS NOT WHEN A PART OF THE SELF IS INHIBITED & RESTRAINED, BuT WHEN A PART OF THE SELF IS GIVEN AWAY THAT COMMuNITY APPEARS. -THE GIFT I eht rof gnikrow detrats I gsawerollieKrnosirraG.rewoTe a sa nosi raG dna ,rotid saw w hw,ylralucitraP ep otide oh te rev I nosr r tsrfi gnitidemenileylsuoires etiuq tesarhptyreveltankoolcdluows s eht a k ec d e ,e ne eru ottsrt dna oo eip a ht fo tne t y fa,num ti llew ,mu .krow ti w ylaem I tub evisnetni-emit w lbu iaD eht morf gnimoc ,yl i ti re p tyotve p rewoT aw d ssi oehyrl hmhehe k uoy s reht e m'Ia daed ub I t la ew ne da retamh ll z fi am g ot w aeht m dna t rew z i e eni d-emdt wtnea sen e t',rip erndtd ehton talsi o teht eemos d ppah I o narf S memer hguohT .selssah emit ht n s nirp i aw enizagam eht ,syad become much smarter about how to manage the public side of war, both the move to a paid army, and the management of the news. You know, the best kind of propaganda creates an entire environment where everything you see and read has the same message behind it, and one thing that happened in the 1960s is that there was a real disconnect between the government's description of the war and the newspaper and television presentation of the war. Just the simplest things such as the Bush administration's refusal to let anybody photograph a coffin coming out of Iraq is indicative of a move to make the government's position completely harmonious with other venues of public perception. So I don't think students are any dumber or less idealistic than they were in the 1960s, but the territory around how you get called to action has changed a great deal. can actually be organized around. The issues have changed, there are a lot of foreign policy issues that people should care about, but also we were not so much involved with environmental issues, or control and digital technology and information flow, which are things that are much more recent. So one thing that some students care about now that wasn't on our map in those days is what is called free culture. Can you download music, and why or why not? Who's making the rules about access to culture, and what should those rules be? There's a good book by Lawrence Lessig called Free Culture that describes some of those issues. IT: Well, we've been reading your book...and we all really like it. LH: Which one? [all laugh] IT: The Gift. We all agree that it has a lot to be gleaned for creative people. It seems to be an ideal to work towards as opposed to sort of a road map for the current time...Margaret Atwood describes it as "a private island you've created." As Americans, our identity seems to be kind of wrapped in what we consume or what we buy, and I'm wondering if you have any ideas on how to separate the two without just creating an isolated place where we all could go. LH: Well, you're right to describe The Gift as, you know, not a book that tries to come up with practical suggestions on how to live your life. It's a book that tries to increase our awareness about what the territory looks like. And the simple idea behind the book is that there really is a disconnect between creative life and a market economy. They can work together, but a lot of it is disconnected. Just understanding that is a help to a lot of creative people who feel otherwise kind of confused about how or why to move ahead. I tend not to have practical advice, to tell you the truth. At the end of the book I have a little list of the typical things that people do, besides to live simply and really give yourself to your work. You can get two different jobs so you're not putting pressure on your writing, if ymeh poc dna yro saw I pui et e a neh rev -ed e hs u no il .ti -k rewo -sa ir .rot etem ht ylsu dluo e kos eh o ti tu e ats tubm gnie ti d ,saw ya ,ht mda -'I -la lair dnai sgn d tne uoyt no d ya S Ireb o ni z etni ni h -ni yll del yeht dae saw dah w d'e erof l-tn anfi dluo epy gni hta tn uoya .eti gn ot koo ton ot w-i oh s'ti ot sse -ir ddn ni ere tce efi .ym nac t.de ol gni tol ohw fo I ro -idn tc uoy e t ahev -elp ipy evil evi .-r k ef ' nore er'u ner' ac ,tih ]s ew -evo div dna tuB esi neh , -gn dner a -nep dere na .ht dlu -It. euts ho t si ton h eb t hs dfo na ste 57 lleWfi -THE GIFT wtsru ehIa dt n s'y gnil fsaw orp wen auoYfi ymdnt dn eha ypoc tne c ehtw dna meht mrovI y naem alloc I ,o dluo s htiww dna pteht e now ir s eht n,ni reve works, artistic works which are purely exploratory, tide diced u dna w puot o o dnik y purely aesthetic, turn out to have a market value, .ti tgnis rat rovI G and that's wonderful for the artist involved. Someirra rol body like E.L. Doctorow, who is a wonderful author, tide G irra taerg itraP wrote for many years without significant income eh tsr rev fi ootes from his writing, and then he had a few books that oire tide dluow reve sdnaa began to sell well. My argument is not opposed dn s eht t f dnao to that at all--that's great. But it's also fairly rare, ekam ,mu sumit and most beginning artists should really be able to -em ktubf nar ygni li p veaD think about how they're going to do their work if it e saw tcotw doesn't happen to intersect with the current moment hsih i homl n,heh s saI m' a ub w of people's interests. lt one a gu ew otgla za tiw h am eniz w IT: How vast is the distinction between the state of the e e nnrad eepe oy vah American artist to those living elsewhere in other countries? os t esi a nod s lpah LH: Well, there's a lot to say. One thing to say ya epod 'n reylt is, when this country was founded, it was deeply m ohTi soht peht a rpsaw anti-aristocratic, and the founders thought of art dnni n dna as belonging to the Catholic church and the arisiM tes eral onic nih tltes tocracy. And so they de-coupled public life from art e dna ni a art because they were opposed to the aristocracy and to t saw t,dah tu d gin a church that had that kind of power. And it took a ogc hnehw nhtp long time in this country for the very idea of public ir e lanfir idae c dluo enil wofi engagement with art to arrive, and you don't even m norw gs a nom aw get something as simple as the National Endowment a saw q,s d atsna for the Arts until 1965, so that's almost 200 years etal ldnik until after the founding. In Europe, what happened leW hgi rcsr tu k fiG tonoy was a long tradition of patronage by the aristocracy, taht emocp tcar twoh and when the aristocracy gets replaced by represenseg uoy s'ti tative government, the sense that there should be a ot i ht WHATEVER WE HAVE BEEN GIVEN IS TO BE GIVEN AWAY AGAIN, NOT KEPT. othog e t I u dekrow rof eht ,yliaD dna eht -iaD s'yl -bup -hsil gni -orp ssec saw ekil yna -orp -sefs lanoi -swen .repap uoY derewt nfi o -itra ,selc dna uoy etorw meht dna neht ypoc -ide srot tnew revo meht dna -roc detcer meht dna tu .mec A eht ht t yrovI -woT In,re , w em a tI saloc -robal evita Is,os s ew g eu dluow epuc mo htiwi ,saed ,dna eehtw tir ,sroip ec Well, when I u I worked and the Dai ing process profession You were to and you wro copy editors and correct them. At the mean, It was so, I guess with ideas,w pices, or the spec andwrit and whoever tor wouldit publish d youthe on it, and When I start Ivory T Keillor was Garrison was Particular first person took quite editing, s every phrasea and look an of the piece u it work.at been time-in mean, frankly the Daily w lished every d which was month, heh heh I'm surepub line but Ith had enought the magazin magazine th timedepende paper, so reportsom on the dayyou So hassles. Though in those time I in downtown Minneapolis days, the magazinedon't pr was shop in andf notype machines, pages illustration they they to make found in lead type, what had set the and actually setwrong, s cut, and we'd go down when they were printing quiteabusy and,final proofread be you change there wasa line of type if wethere'dsomethingknow, was and that know, of thing. a book your'e right to describesta you kinda day thatwhat the gestions onit's to live your territory to book that Th how not Well, our and a market economy. that triesis acome up withb about looks like. And behind the book is that therelife, it's a disconnecttr lifeawareness disconnected. And reallyunderstanding work lot of it is And just lot of creative people who feel you know, they can confu otherwise kind of that Well, when I first Daily, go to the u I worked for the and th Daily' publishin proces was like any profes sional newspaper. Yout werear find yo ticles and wrote them and then copy editor went over them and corrected them and the them. At cu Ivory Tower, I mean It was collab orativ so, I guess we would come u with ideas, and, write the pices, or write piece onand spe then turn i in, an whoeve was th editor would decide whether an publis it, to work with you on it, an kinda refine it. When I starte woring for th Ivory Tower Garrison Keillo was th editor and Garrison wa a grea editor Partic ularly he was the person Ifirst ever met wh took quite -neped - e me t a eki tswid ,repal - n es ter d i p uoy a n o - ' n od t evoh e a l ni o tr p -hth s t -rut eemos egel - p a h ynahd g i t . d e no p ed t'n I oS -knarf r es m e m -er i l y - ba T eselt hguohh .m s n esohi ,syat d eaham - ngi t e a z st -a n i r w p ti pohs tnirp a de nenniM nwotnwod -ca dna silopa nill tes yllaut de -amtac era ttahw epy ihc yehap eht eonil ,s segyt dael ntes ,epht erelli fi dni na -sut yehekam na itart no saw a ot tuc d'ew dnad ,dah eht og erofeb nwo thgin ere yeht nirp dnaw eb gnitnehw lgni ,anficd a e d'erer p r f o o ht dluo enilfi a epegyeht nahc ew yt fo gnihtemos ,dnuof ecnot os tnom orw g ereh yah a nsaa taht w ysubk etd uq ,saw ,won pu iy iydna uo n etal taht ats g dnik na ,lleW g.gniht dfo ot ehT thkirb e'ruoy ebircsed ,sa oo s'ti ,won atfiG taht koob k euoy emocarp thtiw ton s pu -itc o us irt snoitseggwoh lac evil ,efil runo s'ti otkoob oy tni ah a -uot ot eseirt ruoba ssensaerc tirret eht erawa -kool tahw s eht adnA e.yrot -ebb edit lekil pmis k dnih eoo s eh areht i ctaht cssi -ebtaerc nyllaer t e evi a d noeeid wt -ramnoce nanefil .ymok uoy tek ,won nac ydnA k arowti ,rfotegot eh eht s dtub .iednc e nsuj s i l e t u t n o c tod tr ot pleh dndnA g i aahtaerc nfoa ats evit ohw elptsi leef es ool ep dnikfnoc iwrehto desu room woh t tuofo e yba hw Iv dnA o .daeha otcitcarp dnet laet ton ,ecevah ll ot ht vda .hturta enaeiuoy eht t gniht laci I taht lesruoy mevig pytlaer dna tsil ielttil a tevah iseb o,mmu...od fo pdne s I k ob eht ot f yl eht ofosbylpt e evil o -serp gnittup er'uoy 'uoy m s,retirwnareffidyowtsedg itirw oY oy rnolroep ton er oj m s r'uo fi te n nac u ru .k oe uoy w ykcul yllae ,g ,lleWv.haeY r]shguaL[ ebya ans'taht u,tiegniod a nylsuomaekam a ac uos erus eci g ivi a f er n oy ,mu laudieidneht vesiar fo.oit n stsila idivid.ytreporp l tavirp dnew modedna noits uq i e ol ew ,n tros eod t tuB ni n e a erf LH: Well, we are famously an individualist nation. We love individual freedom and private property. But it does sort of raise the question of, when you create something, how much of it is really your creation, and how much of it is dependent upon your world and the community you were raised in, and so forth. A simple example would be the Ivory Tower. I IT: This is interesting because we've been looking at differmean, when I was a student in the 1960s, the work ent things that you've said about your new book [described on I did would not have happened if this group of Hyde's website as an exploration of our "cultural commons, friends had not been there to always be in converthat vast store of unowned ideas, inventions, and works of sation with me and have models of what could be art we have inherited from the past]. In respect to your study done, and there were older poets to whom you could of American individualism, will you describe a little bit more look to see, maybe that's how I want to live, maybe I how you pose the distinction between selfhood and want to live in a different way. So I was always in the collectivity? community. s'yliaD eht dna papswen eht oisseforp wynaU eeht ot w g secorp gnihs,lleW ot erew uoY ew s ,yliaD pocrof dekro I r kil s uo s tsrfi I nehw a dup mehttrevo aem.Ie rotide ylan neht dna.meht etorw a oy dna ,selcitrilbnfi sht I ,n tn aw rew T eaw etirw h,dna a ,,aedi i yrovI uehtocAdluow tewno sedna pmeht tdetcerrocldna ,s ni ot htiw t neht t na meh s tuc ecei I ,oe evitarobaeloc p em d s ug s irw ro ,s cip Another example is Henry David Thoreau. so ureveo iw dn ow dna ,ti u silbup ot rehtehw ediced adluow rotide eht nr h cep n d n oy ht w kr ,dtik enifea a n i I net r hs . t i Thoreau is famously an American individual. He - t r ao W -k d eerow grnve rhtwrof y o i I nawsror iT - ria G THE PARTS THAT EMBARRASSe lrhoe K goes off to be alone at Walden Pond and he writes so d l - in e d a , at t nosir - r saw G taert aide . u co t r ig -raP YOu THE MOST ARE uSuALLYs raa w his books. But if you look at all closely at Thoreau's eh ,yl l e nhwhte t tsr I o o s r ep m THE MOST INTERESTINGreovei f life you see that the community that he lived in was etiuq k i ro t ylsuo -nis e -tnde i a egnl d o o l , i k d vluow a e sn r h p POETICALLY, ARE uSuALLY THEye r te - ae t d n a , eo n e s k co l ecurtt h s t a MOST NAKED OF ALL,d crnui a essential to his work. There were essentially discus-ht fo e n a e e t d k e e o y p t i . k ra m l t se w l ow u THE RAWEST,,temert sion groups and a thing called the Lyceum, which aemut t i im n - n tut e - n b I e a s -knarb , m THE GOOFIEST,, nvyie i was a form of town self-education. The people in his gnimof c e h t m o al f erehw y l ir D s w t d eyaai d -bui p , hs l y THE STRANGEST AND MOST-hbtuv e family were the philanthropists at the college, and he rewoT ereht ow s a w hci p dehsil , hh n o m y e h , wt e h ECCENTRIC AND AT THE SAMEh r e v e had a scholarship. It's a long, long list of things that , rou k ns u o y e mr'hI a e e n saw - e t k n ii l I a ub s y a wh t e t w TIME, MOST REPRESENTATIVE,d d a e d enabled Thoreau to be the person he was. So at the h ga o l a u r h l l in e l a gi m oetam - naf eehit d h a MOST uNIVERSAL...THAT WAS, atnia t end of the day my feeling is that all of us are e h g z w e ni t m s gnoih z t t n erew patronage is not lost, it's not severed. So European countries like Holland and England and France have always supported the arts way more than we've ever done in this country. And I think the difference is historical. In this country we had a real break, and we had to reinvent what it meant to be patrons in a democracy, whereas in Europe, there wasn't such a break, and it was easier to make the transition. SOMETHING I LEARNED FROM KEROuAC, WHICH WAS THAT SPONTANEOuS WRITING COuLD BE EMBARRASSING... THE CuRE FOR THAT IS TO TO WRITE SECRETLY...SO YOu CAN ACTuALLY BE FREE TO SAY ANYTHING YOu WANT...YOu REALLY HAVE TO MAKE A RESOLuTION JuST TO WRITE THINGS DOWN WHICH YOu WILL NOT PuBLISH AND WHICH YOu WON'T SHOW PEOPLE. NOT WRITING TO IMPRESS YOuRSELF,BuT JuST WRITE FOR YOuRSELF...IN WRITING WHAT YOuR SELF IS SAYING. -Allen Ginsberg -bupas'yliaD eht wdna Y,yliaD peht nrof ndekrowoIpUyehteotlogatsrfieIorphwn,lleW -itrerroc dna emeht urevo repa swe tide oissef eht dna mki t s tw rss uc yne ng ihsil o . ne la ypoc r na detc s dnfi tot o re a Iceip a vetirwballoc esaw teI t,naem wI ,dnawoTn edivI tiwteh A emocht luow ddna ,selc ,o i ar ro ,s cip t h w sro yro h e pt e m w o .o ehtehw eediced dluow rotide ehetir w r,reohw adna ,ni hti u rut e ed ttuc aew esmeht - n hW .ti ev ,s n h dn c ot eug ps s Ina e,rotide enfier aadnik ldna t osa rraGue y whtiw rovI w ehtn rof ignikrow pdetrano , i d eht s w rol ieK n tsi no o e oT y kro dna ,t hsilbunosirrre r sawe taergts -idtraP .raG -ci ,ylraoa eh lt u tsrfi ehtssaw I n ohwuqemorrep etis t o i keve ytide l u roos et -na enil dool ,gni kreve dluta ow y dna n e t arhp es e ,e tauckool nehs a -ctrts ednt eha fo ecrut dnam ot eip eku .krowyti rt ,m -sum ti llew neeb n i - e m i t at - n etub evis t Iknarf ,naem -nimoc ght e m,yl orf erehw saw iaD -bup dyl il yreve t ehsti eht o ,yad hcihw rewoT -bup yreve dehsaw heh ,htsil nom uoy m'Iht ,,heh ereed a wonk erus saw Idatub kenil -la ew niht detam hgsyaw ah uone llfiam t lair -ag o ,eeht dna niz en eht i a htiw a erewez itg ihm -ed- m sgntot ekilapswen en p ,oyp tnednoa re u evahroperdis t'n od no t t -alsigel eeht yadi ehte mrut gS .deneppas n ht oh o'nod t -ert ylknarI emi e l res mef ba m .s s h niyad hguohT ,sizagam soht entnirp e eht deirp a sta aw tn ni o t n w ohs po nilopaennid w sllautca dna yahw ni teM tellac dam epytoers a yeht ehtnihc se nil -gap ,ni tes da dna ,epyt fielaw erese naitartsullt s hi no ot dah yeht ,t d a kam oguc 'ew edna ht f yeht ,gnidaerfoor,g lorw ebid'ereht ddna f nitnirp erew fyeht il hw egna eb tnwod htno a ecno pu gniyats ,wo tk muoy ,d o g ew e iuq s p anfi n h e os nu o t n ne a erosaw dhgin luoc tahtmdna yetal okoob ntfiG gehT nebircsed natysubfi tepyt saw ,eaht yadeihthc o ereht a ,w woh uno ,noitseggu la itcarp h o sa o m c o seir otonktuoba sssenerawa sruo cesaercni tiw seirt htaht e'ruoy tlleW k.gn la rtf n dnik pu et ogir t koob t saht ,oob o y s'ti tahwt taht si koob eht dniheb aedioelpmis eht dnA .ekil skooleyrotirreteeht t a 'ti fi uo vil ereh THE SENSE OF simultaneously individuals and social beings, and you really just need to look closely at anybody to see both of them, and what we do in America, typically, is to only see the individual side, and the social side falls into darkness. But if you turn on the light, you see it. IT: Certainly, certainly. I'm wondering how you find the relationship between gift-giving and art has changed since the book first came out 25 years ago. LH: I don't really know, you'd have to ask readers of the book how they think it's changed. One thing to say is that I am a founding director of a nonprofit organization called Creative Capital, which gives grants to individual artists to help them do their work. One of our features is a recycling of the wealth. If they have great success with their work, they come back to us, and we get a piece of their success. But that's an experiment. It's based on other experiments that have been done. For example, Joseph Papp always did that at the public theater in New York. He took a piece of ownership of anything he produced, and if it became very successful it helped produce the next generation of things he did. IT: You have said this book is more philosophical than it is practical, yet we see that this philosophy has entered the process and projects of many young and successful writers. Zadie "I frankly think that being an undergraduate at any college or university doesn't give you enough time. Smith's Book of Other People comes to mind. Do you feel that your book has found a practical place in today's writing world? LH: Yes, but it is individual. People read the book, and it helps people figure out their own relationship to their work and to the economy. It does not have a prescriptive set of suggestions. It, again, tries to illuminate the territory. So yes, I do think that people who have found it have been able to make practical use of it. But not because I tell them what to do. IT: [At Harvard's Berkman Center for Internet and Society] you study the Internet and sociology. How do you feel about music downloading, free software and all these things that have come with the advent of the Internet, as pertains to generosity? LH: I mean, the Internet has been a wonderful surprise and has revealed that there are forms of cooperative production that would help certain mediums come into being. The free software and open software movements are good examples, and so is Wikipedia. What you often see is the simple idea that people are only motivated to work if you give them a property right and they can get direct income for their work, but that is a vast oversimplification. People have many, many reasons to do what they do, and the gift economy can flourish online and elsewhere once the technology is set up to enable them. IT: What about people who take full credit for their artistic inspirations? Those people who would prefer to say that they did it, that it is a result of their education? It almost seems like it resembles a religious argument, between people who believe in a higher power and those who don't. LH: I think that's right in a way. I think if you take COuRAGE FOR LIVING. ART OFFERS -THE GIFT Well,t go work Dail Daily' proce any p newspap to fin and yo and we tors th and co and c the Iv mean, labor guess w up with write t write spec in it a ever wa would d er to and it on wo refine start for Gar er th lor w tor, g was a a Parti was th son I took ouslywo and l every senten at the the ma to pi um, we been I but ti ly, com Daily publi day, t whic full credit for your creation it's a form of disillusion. lished heh he I'mdea You really just need to look more deeply at how a su think w enough things arrive. There is a vast interdependence to all and wi fill th zine created work. not ti like a so you to re legis IT: I was intrigued by The Gift's use of the folktale of the day so pened. fran ber ti shoemaker's elves to describe the maturation of the artist. As days, Thoug was s young writers, we are trying to do the labor required of us to print p towna and make the gift for writing tangible. What can you say about the in wha linoty they s process of writing for the young writer? in lea if ther LH: Well, I say you need three things for sure. You lustrat to mak we'd night need time, and I frankly think that being an under- and the they w proofr graduate at any college or university doesn't give could c of type somethi you enough time. If you're taking more than two onceaa was quite b courses, it's a disaster. And everybody has to take know, late th of a more than two courses, right? I just got back from your' descri three weeks all alone in a little town in Texas, writ- book a it's that t up wit ing. That's the kind of time you need to get anything sugges to liv it's serious done: to wake up at 7:30 in the morning and our awa tries what t begin working, and quit at 9 in the evening and go looks l simple the b back to bed, and do that for three weeks. Then you discon there creati begin to get someplace. You need time and you need And yo a mark what I call enclosure, by which I mean you need to can wo but a discon just be able to shut off all the distractions. It's the nature ing th to a ative of modern life to distract you. When I was in this feelcon of ot how or little town in Texas, I had the house that somebody not to ahead. loaned me and I had them take out the Internet and cal adv you t mean bo the a the television because otherwise, even if you're the typical little people mildest of addicts, you will constantly be turning on ply and sides yours the television or checking your Internet. So work. twoyou so di ting your you'r maybe ally ma can l doing If you're taking more than two courses, it's a disaster." up Ivory Tower Garrison with the pices, Keillor tor, and Garrison edi- a would come then write great hewas the firstwriteideas, and, larly,editor. the was on spec andpiece was met who person I ever Particu-oreditor a took would line quite seriously turn it in, and look at every phrase whoever was the to and editing, and would decide whether and refine it. at the structure thesentence, and look youpublish it, make musta but um, of kindawork with it work. I for the it piece and try to Whenon it, and intensive comingitwellIvory Tower Garmean, frankly, beenItime- working started the was publishedwhere from rison Keillor to Daily every month, son and ediwhich was was the great published every day, larly, hehthe Tower know, I'm tor,was aGarrisureheh, you there person line had enough dead-editor. Particuthink we alwaysto andwas a the the firsthe was rial but I with mate- I ever met who zine, fill the magazine things maga- took quite serinot newspaper, so were ously linewould like look and edita time-dependentyou ing, and senlook didn't have happened.tence,at every on somethingto report phrase piece and day I don't frankly re-at the structure So the legislature theof well member Though time hassles. try to make it those the magazine was days, work. um, been but I ed at ain Minneapolis frankly,mean, in it mustacoming downtown called print- time-intensive and areprint shopin what actually type machines, settype, from the Daily the the leadlino- where it was was and pages inandthey il-Tower hehevery there was had setery day, an go published evlustration they we'd to publishedtoI'm makeiftheynight print- month,whichheh, you there but down whena cut, ing the were before sure know, alnal and there'd be fi- I think they a deadline was could change a typeproofreading,some- material wethe the magazine, thingif we foundonceof magazine to fill wrong, soline a ways had enough and with were not things dependenttimea report on the so you didn't like to newspaper,the legislaturehave day something happened. time So I don't frankly remember days, hassles. Though in magazine wasthose Minnea theprinted at print downtownshop in apolis and actually set in what are called linotype they in the pages machines, type,set lead and ilthere was anif lustration they had cut, and make a go down to night beforethewe'dbe when they wereproofreadprinting and they could final there'd ing,typeaif we change line of found something 59 saw orp en uoYfi dn mdna eht pocw tne dna eht ehtI rov aem lloc ,o luo s tiww na t ehw tno ir eht ,ni eve ided icet p na do uo nik y ti s rat gni ovI G rra rol ide raG g ot .r a lral eht nos oh irew ides luow eve dna dnat eh f nao eka ,mum um emit tubf nar gni liaD saw vet coh i smlw i oheh ,m'I saw tubw a one ue tgla a ti h am niz w erew eped n os y vah eo na lsi yad podh npa eylt m hTi oht ehtw a psa nni iM dna tes ral ni ihc ltes ni dna saw art dah ,ogc tu ginw ne irh htp anfi daer luo nilc f osi w no a om rw sa ,saw d tsna etal dei n liWk gsr c tfiG u onoy taht moc car seg p woh oy 'ti ht ot ru ba o oeht ol dnA elp dnih tesi ad ir teba vit am ymoa wonk kro tubw i t ceni sujs nat sa ol i ita ohw iwre fnoc vwoh om A dn hcot aoit t eht aem ne koob tti eht l iht epu mot m ylp evig y o uoYt owt sbo ton j erpy ruo tfiw ir oyla yl uoy lgai ecn i aeY n you need enclosure, you need to be separated from distraction. And then you also need community, you need some set of people that will read your work in a private way, and talk to you about it and give you feedback. You need some community. Again, the Ivory Tower was that for me as an undergraduate. The University of Minnesota is a huge place and it turned out to be quite useful. A place that big does sometimes have half a dozen people that care about the same thing, and you can drink coffee together and talk about it. IT: Do you have any advice for students looking for ways to continue educating themselves after college? LH: I suppose the advice is that you have to declare your intentions. You have to know that is what you want to do, and sort of say it to yourself seriously. You need to adjust your ambitions to the situation that's available. People say that Joseph Campbell, the famous writer about mythology, when he was done with his formal schooling, he spent 12 hours a day reading. Read for eight hours in the morning, take a break and then four hours at night. So that is a high intention. Most people can't go that high. But you've got to know you want to do it and maybe be cautious about the impediments that are going to keep you from doing it. I went to graduate school partly because it was a simple way to organize my intentions. I didn't really want a higher degree but I wanted a structure that, at that time, would pay me a tiny bit of money and give me a rhythm of reading and writing. IT: About graduate school. Do you think an MFA in creative writing is worth it? LH: [Laughs] Well it's a puzzle, because it's now become the case that a lot of jobs in the academy require the MFA, and it's not because they need it, it's because they have so many applicants they need some simple way to throw half of them out. So I would say the real use of the MFA in writing is to give you time to write and to give you a community of other people who care about the work. If you are able to spend two years, at a good school, working on an MFA, with a little money paid to you so you detrats I neh s i enfier a dna no sawtrollieK rg W i.tsaw rewoT rydnik dna t ,,ti ide kuoy no .ro ide e taenosrarraG nosi rrovI eh rof gni row aG rot eht tem r v ep enil eht saw dluow edna I,gn,ecnettsrfi dylsuoireeh e,ylralta itraP tiuq uc ta kool dna itide neece na eht rhs yreve kootkohw ti eevis ot i-e dn s kam p esa fp lew ,mu .kool o e tub erehwnetnyrt mitaneeb iatsum cti ylerutcurts em ht tiw hcihw yliaDT ehtt morf ,gnimo re,elknarf l,na row s'I ,wonk rewo ,heh ot h yad nom vyreve si ebup lsaI a eh he ,ht y deh d hsi buw myawla ew kniht I tub enildaed a saw ereht erup uoy stiw s h ekilndna r,enizagam vah ot'ndid sgnios a,repapsweeht tntdoperdot me t ht n lfi ew uoy rht enizagam dah e nepe -e i e t l er ot lai et m hguone n a eht S o . en I o g ohT .selssah htem r yad r y eruta t'nod gn niirp ua dtaeppahirp iemitos ebmemeeht lknarf lsigel h tn tes yllautca dna saw opaenniM neht n,syad iesoht detn enizagam wot wod n pohs ni si eht tes y h ,se ereht l i y onil de dael ni egap -ar sulli en t saw nihcam fepa tak,m yt llac yera tahw t ah eh ehttnwod dog ad'ew nirp ,tuc dneht epohw derofeb tsnoit dna a d' foereht a nao gnit dluo erew ye mo ne yeh e o rp lathgin nfi htnenil a cegnahcetiuq c saw tt,gnidaerfa oew w iereeb uoyomta fo ndnos ,gnorwdgnihtaht spu nuof ysa s ,epht ,dn e ysuik taht na etal yd dgni at f woyt b a .gnih , ' rlu enk e l thgiW oy ot ircser eb tfi ood ,saG kehT b u o ,ow o 'ty tonb s n k i k tto seirt h a ou a emot p t i c hitcarp -gus law -noitsec s w ng o eoh rvil iot u , e f o ty l a k o s' b o i tt aseirt osaerh nt e i r e ruac o w s s b a thu o e hn eotir a a t -ktol rew s e k iyt o .ht dnr l el miA e -ebp aeds eht dnii h s tir koob h t e la ea h t y l r anoc e i - b tcsn -ee e s i d et nvitaerc w e dnaram il ef tek onoca .ym uoy n e ,aw o dnA noc yehk - rt h t e t krow , a e tug fo tob si o c s i l ti -n . d e c nd tsuetdde n j nA -nidnats r gi tahu sleh pol a ot a t t - rc eev pio tfo el ea lrf tp w -eee hoho eo s dniw fesufi ok d tou o n oa b c rt w w o v o hh y m edaeha . 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And then the degree turns out to be useful. I myself don't have one, and I'd like to believe it's still the case that if you write one or two very good books, you can still survive. J: How do you feel about modern public education, in general? Maybe where it is headed at this point? LH: [laughs] You guys ask the big questions. I think public education is the Great American Institution. It began with the founding generations and should be continued. I think that the right wing attack on paying your taxes is actually an attack on all such public institutions, and the degree to which the public institution suffers today...the right wing has succeeded in separating the idea of paying your taxes and the programs from which taxes have to go. They go to things like the University of Minnesota. You don't have a great state unless you have a great university. And you don't have a great University unless you pay your taxes. IT: If you were stranded on a desert island and you could choose one book, one film and one album to take with you, what would they be? LH: [laughs] Well, you'd want a very big book. I would take the collected works of Dogen Zengi, a Buddhist philosopher from the 12th century, just because it's big and inscrutable. I would take The Gleaners and I, which is a film by Agn�s Varda, though I am amused that there is a movie projector on my island. And what was the last thing I'd get to have? IT: An album. LH: An album. It would have to be something you wouldn't get tired of... something very long by Bach. i AND WHERE THAT COMMERCE CAN PROCEED ON ITS OWN TERMS WE SHALL BE HEIRS TO THE FRuITS OF GIFT ExCHANGE... AN AWARENESS, THAT IS, OF OuR SOLIDARITY WITH WHATEVER WE TAKE TO BE THE SOuRCE OF OuR GIFTS, BE IT THE COMMuNITY OR THE RACE, NATuRE, OR THE GODS. AS A SOCIETY. 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d,eo um t iecueam t rb unOrd oCe.eaw ah eterf me daoeri hwu u s hsyo d rd or o m,utuoteopa'euoaoifgadltt trl eheur nibe gttoo'sehna dc oseaih sos rtovyseghtitdaeacvloivnizhcvclgrwomttyohenewenrwu uhtcyera ,hdelbinaspdiahw mmcaci aetreo n t e td t c i A ln c ngs l bt f t dw a o ka m s, e e i e ?a u i u hnh k hy n aSe d ohn ue d o l a ua a r o l a gn u ll cuy nd m e p m ht h sp a New Mystic City Grows up The winter began. Snow came in pellets. The dome turned slowly while red-eyed dustmen swept out behind a dead but ancient chair. The leather books were dumped in icy streams by little men who then went home to cough in bed. Gilt paint is brought in. No one's bored and steers are sacrificed to men who brush their teeth because they're so well bred. The center holds too well. The captain's never seen the port but his gun still struts and frets with its eyeless lead. III Her page-boy date had walked her to the door. He'd kissed her and was in the car again when she ran back, gasping tears. She never could be sure of what he'd seen. They circled; a mouse ran across the lights. She told him how the past turns the future. Besides, there're so many worthy things. Later, when the scandals broke, he would sit in the bath, devising speeches. Some things he'd tell, others not, for reasons committees cannot know. No one ever asked. II fell, a broken eagle. In the fly-sweat they're moving nothing, barefoot to dying. "As the bonfire burns, the word of the God speaks, soaring. With fans they go in barges, singing, and sad. At the four corners of the earth the Warrior makes the dawn burn...." Prayers turned to gold like falling light refracts through pain. It spread like mercury. Today he'll say, "No, that ain't no church, that's my voting machine." I Cortez raped an Indian, the sun When Previously published in the Ivory Tower in 1967. Thanks to the Elmer L. Andersen Library Archives for their assistance. POETRY BY LEWIS HYDE My Friend Cries Sometimes A note on "New Mystic City Grows Up": The first quotation in the first stanza was written by an Indian in the sixteenth century, shortly after the conquest of Mexico. This English translation by Irene Nicholson is from her book on Nahuatl poetry and thought, Firefly in the Night. The last ruler of the Aztecs was Cuauhtemoc (Fallen Eagle). He was unceremoniously hanged in the jungle by the Spanish in 1523. Her mind is lined with lightning rods; we sleep with all the windows locked; the sewers are leaking gas again; is there any hope and so forth? Diddily thump, what's to do? If it weren't for her sacred detail, I'd rise up and bust it open, clean the parts like pots and pans then lay it all back in vegetable rows. But to soothe her mind she'd have to move her soul. If that ever happens there'll be a tough period during which we may both leave town. 61 Daytime Television � Max Mose Double Wedding Ring Katelyn Dokken Don't ask me nothing about nothing, I might just tell you the truth. Remember how they took her bloody clothes out of the car, ripped locks of hair. Outlaw souvenirs to sit on the pantry shelves. Well it's like this, you and me--we could cut a path clean across Kansas and Missouri and Oklahoma and everybody'd know about it. You listen to me. You listen to me. Something switched inside. My flood within: to rip up riverbeds, to deliver warm dirt elsewhere, to grow things like magic. The red body of water of which we pull garbage trucks and catfish net full after net full. Split buildings downtown, this is what love feels like: spreading electric fires because the water enters in through windows, lets the sparks swim until you go home and sit in your room and think, when and how will I ever get away from this? And now you know how it is that I can tell you--I am followed by drowned men, dripping. A saw toothed morning glory stands at her grave and I stuff wildflowers in your mouth so that you will look at my face, take hostage the light, my taconite mouth. Reduce the fever. Please just listen to me. You listen to me. My surrender song, plea bargain being: don't you see I show my inclination, this fire in the belly, by attempting not to love you? Opposite of white flags instead I've got my Browning drawn and I can't speak the last words: Oh, the things I would do to you. Don't kid yourself, Baby. Bonnie and I fired every shot. 63 0100110010110202 10100110010110202 10100110010110 20210 1001100101102021 0100110010110202 10100110010110 20 21010011001011020210 100110010110202101 202101001100 10010110202101 1001100101202 1011020210100 00110010110020110 11001012 2021 1100101102021 010011001011 001012020110100 0100110010110 202 020210100110 1 00101202 01101001 1010011001011020 010110202101 1 10120201101001 210100110010 00110010110 0 0201101001102 110202101001 0210100110010110 2 1010011001012 202101001100101102021 0101102021010011 00101102021010011001 0110 2021010011001 0110202101001100 1011020210100110 01011020210100110010 110 202101001100101102 10110 20210100 0210100110010110 01202 01101001100 0120201101001 202101001100101102021010 0210100110010110 2021010011001011020210100110010110011001012020110100110012021010011001011012021010011001011010010120201101001100101202 202101001100101102021010011001011020210100110010110 20210100110010 202101001100101102021010011001011020210100110010110 01011001011020210100110010110 202101001100101102021010011001011020210100 0011001 202101001100101102021010011001011020210 10110110212 202 00 0 110010110 01202 0110100110010120201101001100101202011202101001100101100201101001100101202 0110100110010120201101001100101202011010 1102021010 2 0 101 1 0 00 2021010011001011 110202101001100101102021010011001011020210100110010110 10100110010110202101001100101102021010011001011002021010011001011201101001100101202011 1001100101202 1202 011010011 202101001100101102021010011001011020210110110 112010120 110100110010 2021010011001011002 10 101 1000101110010110 0 20210100110010110 0110 21011 0 0 100110010110 00101202020210100110010110120201102021010011001011001001100101202202101001100101100120201101001100101202 011010011001012020 1 1 00202101001100 1001 20210100110 02021010011001011020210100110010110 20210100110010110 1102 00 10010120201101001100101202011010011 01100101102021010011001011020210100110010110 2021010011001011012021010011001011020210100110010110010120 0 2 1 0101102021010011001011012020110100110010202 2111100100010100201101001101001101100202110100110010120201101 01202 1 0 00110010110 011010011001012020110100110010 0201 01 10110100101202 2021010011001011020210100110010110202101001001 0 101 120 0 0 01 011110011012200210110100 110 01 00 2 1 20 20210100110010110 20210100110010110202101001100101102021010011001 102021010011001011020210100110010110 20210100110010110202101001100100101202011010020210100110010110 20210100110 12 020 0 0 1 01 020210100110010110 202101001100101100 01 01 0 110 011020210100110010110 100101202 0110100110010120201101001100120110101010010101202011010 011 00101202 0110101110000110201 1202011010011001012 10120201101001 2021010011001011020210100110010110202101001 10120210100110010110 0 1 2 2 0 101 0 1 1 2 010 0 20210100110010110 2021010011001011020210110 20210100110010110 10010120201101001100 0120 101102021010011001011001011020210100110010110202101001100101100101202 01101001202101001100101102120210100110010110202101 011010 100101101 20210100110010110 20110100202101001100101102021010011001011020210100110010110 20210100 100 1100 20210100110010110 110001101001 20210100110010110 100110010 00110010110101202021010011001011020210100110010110 20210100110010110 1202 10202101001100101 100101202 0110100110010120201101002021010011001011020210100110010110100101202011020210100110010110202101001100101 110010110 010011001011020210100110010110 0210100110010110202101001100101102020110 20210100110010110 100101 100120201101001202101001100101102021010011001011020210100110010110 011010011001 1020210100110010110 2021010 0110010110202101001100 10110202101001100101 1020210100110010110 20210 10011001011020210100 11001011020210100110 As I stare blankly at the clock on the 010110 202101001100101102 021010011001011020210 computer I hear the incessant tick. 14:21. 100110010120201 100110010110 20210100110010 I spin my chair enough times to keep the room spinning after I stop, 00101202 0110 11020210100110010110 2020110102021 011 distracting myself for one patron-less minute. 14:22. 20210100110010110 101001100101 0100110010110 2021010011 I wonder why a digital clock ticks. I close my eyes and watch 110010120201 00101102021010011001 it melt. It's my dream of the number two hidden amongst lines of 101202 01 01102021010011010100 120201101001100 binary code causing a complete system failure. It's the absence of 110100110010 every repetitive job requiring buttons and screens. It's freedom. 1010011001012020 00110010110 2021010011 001011020210100110 Bad Spin Scott Long 14:20. 01001100101202 01 1100101202011 012020110100 011010011001 1101001100101202 01100101202 0 101202011010 201101001100 100110010120 011001012020110 I reach for a rubber band beckoning to me from my desk in the small booth. I bite the rubber band, and it becomes a rubber string. I bite small chunks off the string and spit them across the booth until the rubber string becomes small rubber rectangular cubes scattered across the floor. The clock ticks 14:23. I haven't been here for half an hour, and I want to leave. I want to go home. I want to listen to the voice of my love. I concentrate, and I hear her moan. She draws it out long, and I notice the car next to me has squeaky breaks. An old woman rolls down the window of her car. She's tied a purple scarf over her head, like a bonnet. She's wearing what looks like a wedding ring. I slide her ticket into the rectangular, money-grubbing machine. It screeches at me, and the clock reads "$6.00." I punch in a code stamped on the back of the ticket, which informs me she was visiting the dentist today, and the clock reads "$5.00." "Five dollars," I say as if I too have been programmed. She hands me a ten. I realize the ring is on her right hand. She fumbles a little, but has a sweet demeanor about it. I imagine her life. She grew up during the Great Depression. She didn't know that cheddar wasn't supposed to crumble until after the war. Her sweetheart was a soldier. When he came home, he was cold, distant, and callous. She stuck with him. They had two kids, but he was a drunk, and would yell at them and even hit them. When their oldest was twelve, she divorced him. She got a job as a secretary at a law firm in Minneapolis and put her children through the University of Minnesota. Now she's retired, lives in a small house in Fridley, and calls her kids often. Today she told them about her visit to the dentist. I hit the enter button. The machine screeches at me again. I give her a five-dollar bill and wish her a good night. The clock reads 14:25. The sign on my window says, "Attention Patrons. Validation stamps from Fairview Medical Center and The Radisson Hotel are not honored at University of Minnesota facilities." The sunlight bleeds the image of the words and the letters backwards on my side of the window. I read it several times and find it difficult to retrain my brain to read forwards. I tap my fingers. I should be doing something constructive, but every time I try, another patron interrupts. A co-worker once said, "This job would be great if it weren't for the customers." In the often short periods I have between one patron to the next, I have just enough time to daydream about my bed. I meditate on the comfort of my down blanket. I imagine the body of my bride-to-be, warm and naked, pressed against me. The soothing red glow of the lamp casts a greenish silhouette of her face over me on the wall. She smiles. I smile. The room melts. The walls drip. The drips become ones and zeros. Lines of code interrupting my perfectly organic daydream. A car has blocked my escape route. I think it's a Lexus. The man in the car probably isn't thirty yet. He's wearing a black suit, a white collared shirt, and a red tie. His dark hair is slicked back. He tries to identify with me by using some generic college student colloquialism: "Hey, dude," or, "'Sup, man." He was born into an upper class suburban family. He thought he was cool in high school, because he sold (and did his fair share of) all the great recreations known to suburbanites: weed, coke, and ex. He got a job at a bank and made some extra cash on the side by keeping up the old high school business--until he got caught with a gram of cocaine when he was high and speeding. He found himself a highpriced lawyer who got the charges dropped to a misdemeanor. This guy's never seen a consequence in his life. How does he get off trying to identify with me? He asks for She smiles. I smile.The room melts. The walls drip.The drips become ones and zeros. L of code ines interrupting my perfectly organic daydream. A car has blocked my escape route. I think it's a L exus. his receipt. His company will reimburse him. I hit enter. The machine screeches at me. I smile robotically, give him his credit card and his receipt, and wish him a good day. The clock ticks 14:27. Big brother is watching. Little brother is in the upper right corner of my booth. I look at the center screen, and I'm watching me too. Is that what I look like? I look so mechanical. I'm bolted to the chair. I move with the utmost efficiency. I wave to myself. Okay. I am still human. I count my fingers. Ten. Good. They're all there. I test the stamp I use to endorse the checks on my forearm. It works. Good. I test it on the palm of my hand. There's still ink on the pad. I test it on my neck. I test it on my forehead. I test it on my leg, my stomach, and my chest; anywhere that won't offend the camera. I call her Noni. It's a childhood nickname of hers. I look at my hand. She drew on it last night. It says "NONIOIOOIIOOIOIIO" starting from the back of my hand near my thumb, wrapping around my palm. I imagine the Ns turned on their sides and it says "20210100110010110." She stands inside the binary code. She offsets the program and brings me my freedom. She melts the clock. The honk of a car horn to my left sets off a series of ones and zeros in my brain. A middle-aged man with a handlebar moustache laughs loud and warm and cracks a dim-witted remark about daydreaming. Everything is blurry as melted forms harden and regenerate. I smile. He seems like a nice guy. The plaid shirt and the truck tell me he works for maintenance of some sort. "How are ya?" I say with as much cheer as I can muster. He says something like, "Great! I get to go home," and he laughs. The machine screeches at me as I feed it his ticket. He asks if he can have a receipt. He'll be reimbursed. 65 He grew up on a farm. He learned the value of a dollar and a hard day's work at a young age. He was ecstatic when he was old enough to get a job that paid minimum wage. In high school, he drove a Trans-Am he bought from a local junkyard, and fixed up himself. When he graduated, he sold it and got a truck. He then moved to the big city and joined a workers union as a machinist. He never scabbed off a strike. He married and had a son. When his son started going to school on a full scholarship, he got a new job at the University so they could meet up and have lunch sometimes. Movement is sometimes all one needs to be free. A one talks to a zero talks to a zero talks to a one somewhere behind the enter button as I poke it with my middle finger and the machine screeches at me. I give him his change, a receipt, a smile, and wish him a nice night. The clock ticks 14:29. A distressed woman leaves her mini-van to yell at me because the line is too long, and she needs to pick up her kids. Her car is behind only two others. She says she'll just give me the money and her ticket if I can let her out in front of everyone else. I tell her it doesn't work that way, but still she insists. I tell her there's a weight sensor, and that it's literally impossible for me to do that. She is not listening. She starts yelling louder. Then, finally, there's the number two. I snap. I call her a bitch (among other things), and she stomps back to her mini-van. I do a ticket and money exchange with a University professor. He zips past. I collect toll for a young travel agent, and he's on the go. I awkwardly take the money and the ticket in complete silence from the bitch who, less than a minute ago, was three cars back. She sneers. I roll my eyes. She zooms out of the garage. The clock ticks 14:32. I am the robotic arm. I am the almighty gatekeeper. I am the clock that is almost impossible to melt. I need the number two. I am the robotic arm. I am the almighty gatekeeper. I am the clock that is almost impossible to melt. I need the number two. Her real name is Norah. When I am at work, she's NONI; she's 2021. She's my freedom. A car pulls up to my window. It is decorated in stickers. There's a fivepoint star in a circle on the windshield and an Obama sticker on the back passenger window. Inside is an older man covered in piercings and wearing a fishing hat. His name is Gary. Unlike every other patron, his book is open and full. Other patrons, I have to write the book when I meet them. But Gary's book is already written. He's one person out of hundreds, probably thousands of people who ever gave a damn about what I think. The first time he came through, he said, "I'm sorry, what was your name again?" as if we had been introduced before. Astonished, I told him. We discuss the recent election. We talk about why I'm in school, and why I work at the parking garage. We talk about his job at the hospital. He looks at me square in the eyes and squints slightly. He pushes his head forward slightly, and he imagines my life. Scott was born in Minneapolis. He didn't live there long enough to remember anything important about it, because his family moved to the suburbs before he was in school. He never got along with his classmates. His closest friend was his neighbor and was only his closest friend because they were neighbors. When the family moved to the country in fifth grade, he thought everyone there was a dumb, redneck yokel. He left high school early to go to college. He did well enough until he transferred to the University of Minnesota in the Twin Cities. At that point he became reclusive and depressed: a combination of homesickness and finding his place in a new habitat. He failed once, but got back on his feet. He met a woman. Skepticism left over from past disaster relationships made him skittish, but he soon realized she was the woman he would marry. She became the most powerful motivation he's ever experienced. She is his place in the world. I give Gary his change. There's a long line of people behind him. They're angry and honking. I don't give two shits about them. He wishes me a good day and drives off. I don't even glance at the clock. i on nts pa one eir th Billy put Mullaney leg ey th at a time So they say to us. Yet the imagination Invents some machination contrary: Every day they just Simultaneously Thrust both legs within Their trousers. Who can count the hours lost in Flamingo posture Pondering this paradigm While the pants elite Floor their feet in half the time? 67 "loved it and is: loved it and this loved it and is then... suddenly, news he didn't to love it y lifes of jim fetimes m many y lifemes jim jim jim themany fetimes jim the nylifemes jim the many fetimes jim the y lifes of jim fetimes m many y lifemes jim jim jim themany fetimes jim the nylifemes jim the many fetimes jim the y lifes of jim fetimes m many y lifemes jim jim jim themany fetimes jim the nylifemes jim the many fetimes jim the y lifes of jim fetimes m many y lifemes jim jim jim themany fetimes jim the nylifemes jim the many fetimes jim the y lifes of jim fetimes m many y lifemes jim jim jim themany fetimes jim the nylifemes jim the many fetimes jim the y lifes of jim fetimes m many y lifemes jim jim jim themany fetimes jim the nylifemes jim the many fetimes jim the y lifes of jim fetimes m many y lifemes jim jim jim themany fetimes jim the nylifemes jim the many fetimes jim the y lifes of jim fetimes m many y lifemes jim jim jim themany fetimes jim the nylifehis mes jim Jim the manya "cold is fetimes Jim jim the "Entropy: y lifes of jim ?worromot .pu eeS .dlrow ,thgindooG... .enodozargnivig gm05 dna ,liuqyN fo toh uoy T fo !ti e .rehcaet rammarg hsilgn )ettenomres?worromot uoy eeS lacihparg,thgindooG... .enodozarT fs'yadoT( E na ,liuqyN .dlrow oegoiB o gm05 d ti revo !ti .puorg ".eromyna ti evol t'ndid eh ,ylneddus ...neht dna .em ot swen s Jim is like some temperamental cat today--I think you know which one I'm talking about. Jim is yesterday's news, so what and who cares? is: "...One of these days, I'll chase my vinegar with a little baking soda, sit back, and then watch myself explode." IN medias of lifetimes jim many many lifetimes thejim of jimlifetimes of jim jim manythe manylifejim times the many of jim of the many lifetimes lifetimes of jim the many lifetimes of jim jim the many lifetimes jim jim lifeof many many times lifetimes jim of jim jim jim themanythe manylifejim lifetimes of times jim of the many lifetimes of jim the many lifetimes of many many times jim jim lifelifetimes jim of jim jim jim themanythe manylifejim lifetimes of times jim of the many lifetimes of jim the many lifetimes of many many times jim jim lifelifetimes jim of jim jim jim themanythe manylifejim lifetimes of times jim of the many lifetimes of jim the many life- im is subversive, but fabulously well written. Jim is too vic'd (read: "viked") to bike! Jim...a self-proclaimed isolationistaTM. Jim MANY LIFET IMES the many the many of jim lifetimes lifetimes of jim Jim is "live via hologram from Chicago." WTF? RES: THE is a me giving up. is English grammar teacher. cocktail:" 2 ibuprofen, one sore throat lozenge,street-preachin' 2 Vicodin, amade of Nyquil, and 50mg of Trazodone. ...Goodnight, world. See you tomorrow? shot it! poof, sizzle, gone." (Today's Biogeographical sermonette) could learn a great deal from the phrase: "Learn from your past mistakes." Jim is http://www.wakemag.org/author/bnyhus/ (enjoy). Jim is: Good morning! (Yeah, we both know it's not morning.) Jim is a change of heart, or, perhaps, just a change of rhetoric. Jim is: Teach your dog to eat, chew and otherwise enjoy his food. is: Look at all this regress we're making! Brady Nyhus Jim is: "When your Tuesdays are in Jeopardy�: Remember to always answer in the form of a question." the of lifetimesmanyjim manylifetimes the of jim lifetimesjim many jim lifetimes many of jim jim jim themany lifetimes of jim the times manylifemany jim of the lifetimes of jim the many lifetimes of jim lifetimeslifejim many jim times many of jim jim jim themany lifetimes of jim the times manylifemany jim of the lifetimes of jim the many lifetimes of jim lifetimeslifejim many jim times many of jim jim jim themany lifetimes of jim the times manylifemany jim of the lifetimes mij fo semitefil ynam eht mij fo semitefil ynam eht *NAME HAS BEEN CHANGED Jim should listen to more Cocorosie. * [wishes he were] zeros and ones... is: none of the above. Jim IS COMING HOME!!! j group. anymore." me. it!sic sermonette)Jim it group.Jim anymore." me. Jim is: "I can never forget. No, I mean: `I can never remember...'" ...sometimes, I make my life the `patently ridiculous'. it Jim is a pack-a-day flosser. to didn't love is: this is me giving up. Jim is a street-preachin' English grammar teacher. is a "cold cocktail": 2 ibuprofen, one sore throat lozenge, 2 Vicodin, a shot of Nyquil, and 50mg of Trazodone....Goodnight, world. See you tomorrow? Jim made it! Biogeographical "Entropy: poof, sizzle, gone." he (Today's Biogeographical sermonette) Jim is over it. Jim NEVER thought he'd live to see the day when CSOM and HMH would both run out of paper. (That day is today!) then... (Today's over suddenly, news ...from sea to rising sea. is a productive powerhouse (in his wildest dreams). "...didn't go through eight years of school just to be called `Mister,' `Doctor' should suffice." ...Biogeographical nonsense. is: bring it. made and is uorg a .p,nidociV 2 ,egnezol taorht eros eno si neforpubi 2 ":liatkcoc dloc" a ssih , i e evol t'ndid a eh ,ylneddus ...neht dna iJiJ am ".eromynaerp-teti ts m e .em'nahc,nidociV r 2 ,egne,eot ztaorht eros eno ,nefoswen i 2si ":liatkcoc d:yportsimsi ".enoi a lz is ,frpub oop n o tohs g loc" aE" szol i mimiJ J edam cis ti devol dna ti devol dna ti devol" miJ siht :si miJ Jim is: "If you try to set yourself apart, the same way everyone else sets themselves apart, are you really setting yourself apart at all?" Jim is a new Foshay Soiree. Jim is hip-hip fantastic, thanks for asking. ti it gone." is: life after work--it's sort of like: "life after death." loved Jim feels more like himself today. Perhaps it was the name change. devol is imbibing on panacea--and by this he doesn't mean the Washington D.C. area (circa 2003) music group. dna siht sizzle, is and this it Jim "loved it and loved it and loved it and then...suddenly, he didn't love it anymore." Jim is: this is news to me. ti loved Jim...Does this cardigan scream Fred Rogers to you? I'll take your silence as a yes. poof, and is: devol --hello, Jennay Ivory. Jim is a paper-pushing self-preservationista. is the new kid on the Soviet Bloc. dna :si is "back" from a successful weekend of stay-cationing it ti wait for it....Okay, NOW! Jim never could touch his toes...sad. is a foregone conclusion. "loved devol" 69 ot uoy eeS .dlrow ,thgindooG... .enodozarT fo gm05 dna ,liuqyN fo tohs a edam mres lacihpargoegoiB revo s'yadoT( ".enog ,foop :ypo s,elzzis i na ti evol t'ndid eh ,ylneddus ...neht si na ti devol sidna ti devol dna ti devol" d ot swen ht :si opy: Mr. President Kaylord Hill My son clasps his hands together each night as an admirer; he dons your Halloween mask. Your status has flirted my son away from my heroism. But you have given my fatherhood peace. My son didn't step through the vineyards of struggle, but that has made his legacy all the more triumphant. His black and white playmates have destinies sewn together in a social fabric unknown to them. Your poster envelops my son's room. He walks by and smiles as if he has obtained some secret friendship. Tears begin to sashay down the smooth slopes of my brown history-- and woo me to sleep. I witnessed you define the goal of MLK so when I awoke. . . My son was the President. Eden's Orchard Vadim Lavrusik I was thinking about apples, how I always bring them to you and on occasion they are ripe, or sometimes rotten from being neglected in the cool of my fridge and I know you like them ripe but not too soft, juices oozing from the edge of your mouth with every bite, remembering how I first studied you in New Orleans, later discovering you under a small-town sky and how I learned to love you in the little apple, but how each morning after learning you loved apples, I delivered you one, sometimes blood red and maybe pale green, you accepted them, and now you save them and say they are crowding you, and they are too ripe and how I still bring you apples every day hoping to change your mind. 71 CRAIG'S WORLD C ' Jade Bov� raig woke up with his head on a rock in the middle of the woods. It was getting dark, and there was a small fire in front of him. His head was foggy--he couldn't hold on to a memory for longer than a few moments before it blurred into obscurity. The name "Macy" kept echoing in his brain, along with an unknown symphonic that he could only half-hear, like the remnants of a dream. Each time the name reverberated against the walls of his skull, his chest tightened and his eyes moistened. There was a strange taste in his mouth and an afterimage of crimson. He looked down to check for injuries. He stretched his legs and flexed his arms and scratched his behind. His hands were dirty. A rusty brown substance stained the wrinkles of his hands and lined his nails. He hated dirty hands. Everything else seemed to be in order. He looked around for a water source so he might freshen up. He was wearing his favorite suit, the one with large shoulder pads and the sleeves permanently rolled up to his elbows. It was wrinkled. He hated wrinkly clothes. The ash grey of the suit and salmon pink of his shirt betrayed his sense of fashion. Despite this small flaw, he was attractive by anyone's standards. He reached up to wipe the sweat from his forehead and found he was wearing a helmet. He took it off. It was a football helmet wrapped in aluminum foil. "Why the hell am I wearing this?" he thought. As he looked at it, something inside his chest started punching at his ribcage; something else was pushing the boundaries of his skull. Panicking, he shoved the helmet back on his head, and the stress subsided. Craig gazed at the dancing flames and tried to remember. Several minutes passed. He decided to wait here--wherever "here" was--feeding the fire with his thoughts, and possibly some wood, until morning. He was so busy thinking about his situation that he didn't notice the Administrator had shown up. The Administrator was a short man, gnome-short to be precise, and round like a plum with beanpole thin limbs. He emerged from the bushes dragging a small soapbox behind him. He swore mightily as his conical red hat became tangled in the shrubbery. The little gnome stopped across the fire from Craig, stood on his little soapbox, took out a little pipe, took a few little puffs, and cleared his little throat. "Ah-hem!" Craig's shrill scream took all of the birds and squirrels in the trees above him so completely by surprise that they simultaneously loosened their bowels upon the quaint campfire and its immediate area. Craig didn't want to think about the cost of dry cleaning. "Hmmmm, yes. Thank you, Craig. I have had better introductions, but that will have to do," said the Administrator, wiping some berry- and nut-scented goo off his shoulder. "You don't exactly have all the time in the world." Craig's nice suit now looked like a baby-sealskin dyed orange from the firelight. "Who are you? What am I doing here? Where am I? Who's going to pay for my suit to get cleaned?" The gnome, irritated by all of the questions, exhaled a small cloud of smoke. "I am the Administrator. I greet new travelers in this land. My name is Seamus O'McMally. Everybody who comes to this land stops here at my campfire first. I help them figure out how they got here and which way they need to go to get home." Craig wrinkled his brow, and tugged thoughtfully at his ear. "What are you? Some kind of elf or fairy or something?" "No!" the Administrator replied hastily and rather defensively. "The elves are a bunch of stuck-up pricks who think that just because there were a couple famous plays written about them that they are hot shit. We prefer to be called Supernaturally Endowed Vertically Impaired Mineral Workers. Jerk-offs, like you, would call us gnomes. To be precise I am a Rather Plump Rolling Hill Gnome, of the Hill Rolling clan." "What does that mean?" asked Craig. "It means that me and my kin are rather plump," he gestured to his midsection, "and in our spare time we take great pleasure in rolling down hills. Try it sometime, if your anus ever unclenches." He paused. "The name really says it all; most things here are named literally by what they do and what they are. Honestly, why do you mortals insist on complicating everything with meanings? May I continue?" Craig nodded, taken aback by the gnome's annoyance. "Good. Now according to protocol we need to find out what it was that led you here before we can send you back to whatever world it is that you came from." It was almost as if someone--some omniscient being of incredible power and authority--was putting the words directly into his head, and all he had to do was open his mouth. A sudden thought struck Craig: So far none of this had seemed too far out of the ordinary, which was odd because by any rational reckoning it should seem very strange indeed. Craig decided to just roll with it. "What do you mean whatever world I come from?" Seamus stuck the pipe back in his mouth sharply. Craig could almost see the numbers going backwards from ten inside the gnome's little head. After what seemed like hours, Seamus exhaled a billowing cloud of smoke. "Anyone ever tell you that you ask too many questions?" "I am a lawyer," Craig said sheepishly. "That explains it, then. Look, we don't really have time to get into the whole Multi-Dimensional Entity Existence thing. Right now my job is to find out how you got here. Tell me everything that you remember." Craig felt nervous. For the first time in his life, he was unsure of what to say. He decided it was best to start at the beginning and see where that led. "Well, uhh... My name's Craig, as you know. Um, how did you know that, by the way?" "That's not important right now. Get on with it," snapped Seamus. "For being a cute, plump gnome you're kind of nasty." "Fucking get on with it!" Craig cleared his throat. "I'm 28, and I graduated from Princeton Law in `83. I recently made partner at a very prestigious law firm in New York City and work closely with the investment banking firm Pierce & Pierce. One of my primary clients at the firm is a man named Bateman. He's an odd guy, but I'm paid well for my services. I'm on my way to becoming a wealthy man." He paused to take a breath and scratch an itch under his helmet. Seamus puffed on his pipe and nodded for Craig to continue. "I've been working for the firm for just over a year, and my girlfriend and I recently moved into a nice penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side. Her family is from the Garment District just off Fifth Ave. I was at the office late last night, trying to talk Mr. Bateman out of hysterics. He thought he was a serial killer or something. I told him to lay off the cocaine and get some sleep. I packed up my briefcase and went home. Macy was going to be leaving the studio around nine--she's a fashion designer. I was going to propose to her that night. Everything was ready when she got home: the china, the candles, the redcheckered tablecloth. I even had time to slip into something more comfortable, if you know what I mean." The gnome rolled his eyes. Craig could feel a veil lifting from his memory as he talked. It was almost as if someone--some omniscient being of incredible power and authority--was putting the words directly into his head, and all he had to do was open his mouth. "I love her more than anything." He was speaking faster now. "She's kind, funny, and smart." He paused. "I was positive that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. There were still questions. You know, cold feet kind of questions. As I sat there waiting for her, I went over them again. What if she says no? What if she loves someone else? What if she is secretly psychotic? What if she has a hot sister? Would they be into that sort of thing? Am I doing the right thing? Does she torture small animals? Will she eat olive loaf ?" Craig loved olive loaf. "She walked through the door at 9:30 and was completely surprised by the romantic dinner I had prepared. She sat down, and her face--her face was absolutely radiant. I stared deep into her eyes." Craig smiled and corrected himself. "Her one eye actually, she lost the other one playing lawn darts." He sighed. "The candlelight shone off her freshly waxed scalp. God, she was so beautiful. I reached over and took her prosthetic hand." Seamus looked a little pale. "`Macy, I love you....' I said. `Will you...' and then I had to stop. There was a strange music coming from somewhere. Violins or something. I hadn't turned the tape player on. I tried to ignore it. Said, `Macy, sweetheart...will you be my...' then I had to stop again. I couldn't concentrate; all I could hear was the music. It was building. Getting louder, straining to reach the crescendo. `Do you hear that?' I asked her. She shook her head and smiled, and her dentures fell out onto the table. I carefully--lovingly--put the teeth back in her mouth. The music was getting louder. Something weird was happening. Something was moving inside me. It was pushing at my ribcage, trying desperately to get out. I thought it was my heart, so full of love." He paused to wipe away a tear. "I said, `Macy, I love you....the music, I love the music!' The beautiful song "For being a cute, plump gnome, you're kind of nasty." 73 had changed me in a way I didn't understand. When "Does I looked at her now, I didn't see my beautiful angel." Craig readied himself for the confession. "Instead she I saw a giant turkey leg with an eye patch. And it I started hot. Hot, torture looked delicious.music was to feel kind ofI looked at and itchy. The still playing. my hands to regain my composure, and I saw small claws--savage claws--the claws of an animal. My animals? arms were covered with thick orange hair. I felt my mouth begin to lengthen into a muzzle. The music was changing me into some sort of beast. I looked Will up at my beloved and thought, `Damn, I want you, of chipotle she eat Macy...with a side fangs I triedranch sauce.' what "Through the again to say I wanted to say. Said, `Macy, I love...will you... olive I want...ah fuck it.' I gave in to the music, the I lunged across the loaf?" beautiful violins, cellos, violas.woman I loved more table and--devoured the one than anything in the world." Craig was crying now, Craig unashamed to let the tears flow for his beloved. "I came to several hours later in the dining loved room. Guts, blood, and bodily fluids decorated the room. I remembered what happened. I was still a olive beast of a man, or maybe a man of a beast. I howled at the moon. I cried a little. I knelt down and ate loaf. her leftovers." Craig wiped the tears from his cheeks, and Seamus tapped out his pipe. "After that I loped out of the house and off into the darkness. I passed out sometime after--I dunno--three in the morning. When I woke up, I was here." It was silent around the campfire. The ruddy orange glow played with the two men's features, making them into gargoyles or demons. Seamus refilled his pipe and lit it with a twig from the fire. "This fire is getting low. Grab a few of those logs behind you, Craig, and toss them on. We have to be on the lookout for the Vicious Black Tree Cows and their masters, the Rare and Timid Tree People. A nice campfire usually keeps them at bay until morning." Seamus noticed Craig tense up. "Hey, relax, buddy. We'll be fine. Now why don't you tell me about your nifty little helmet there?" He didn't try to mask his condescending tone. "Well," began Craig, "when I woke here there was this strange man sitting on that log. His face was shadowed by a deep cowl, and his body engulfed in a long black cloak. He was wearing black nylon socks with flip-flop sandals, which was a little strange. My bestial instincts were still raging, and I wanted blood. I lunged at him. With one fluid movement the man produced a silver aerosol can. I was stopped in midair by a cloud of sticky, amber liquid, then I landed in a heap at the man's feet. Whatever he sprayed me with was starting to sting. "The man said he knew what had happened to me. He said he had temporarily immobilized me with a special potion. I was still a beast-man-thing, and my tiny brain could barely make out the meaning of the words. The man stood up, and his cloak fell open to reveal his complete and utter nakedness. It was disgusting. His man-boobs sagged, and the paunch of a belly hung low and pale like...like a gibbous moon kissing the horizon." He paused. "Unfortunately it did not cover his manhood, which was shriveled and small. His white legs were scrawny and hairless. I threw up in my mouth a little; it leaked through my fangs and dribbled onto the ground. It was embarrassing. I tried to ask him what he knew, but it sounded like I was speaking through a blender. "The hooded nudist said, `You, my friend, have fallen victim to something +very foul and insidious. A force has been loosed upon the worlds that drives individuals completely mad.'" Craig's voice had taken on an elevated tone. "`I am talking, of course, about the theme music, the music that plays when the mood is just right. It makes scary moments truly terrifying, causes tension to become anxiety, turns happy moments into pure bliss. In your case, it made romance blossom into unconditional love. However, you are not supposed to hear it. To hear the theme music is to enjoy an opera performed by the sirens of myth. It drives one completely mad.' "I looked at him, dumbfounded. That was the stupidest thing I had ever heard. But why, I asked, why had I turned into a beast? Was I some kind of werewolf now? My animal noises were silenced by a dismissive wave. "The man went on. `There is a man in this world who has found a way to control the theme music and bend it to his will. He wants to take over all the worlds. He has issues, deep psychological and emotional issues. In fact he is quite insane. I'm not sure how this man is able to control the theme music, but I assure you I will know soon. Until then, you must wear this special insulating helmet.' "I have absolutely no idea where he was hiding it," Craig explained, "but he placed the helmet on my head. He told me it would keep me from turning into the beast. I was starting to feel tired. The repellent combined with the helmet was sapping my energy. Through a haze I heard the man say, `I have to leave you now. When you wake up, you will see a campfire. Wait for the Administrator. He will make all of this clear.' The naked man then gathered the cloak around him and melted back into the forest." Seamus looked irritated, as if he were engulfed in a cloud of gnats buzzing the tune to "The Song That Never Ends." "I thought that jackass had been kicked out of this place." "Seamus, who was that guy? And what about the music he was talking about?" Seamus paced in front of the fire, jabbing at shadows with his pipe. "That guy is a menace. He's part of the reason people end up here. He makes my job difficult. Nobody knows his name. Most of us just call him `Wee Willie.' He has been roaming the worlds spouting this half-cocked notion that someone is controlling the theme music in order to conquer countries. It is true that there is theme music, and that you mortals do go a bit cuckoo when you hear it, but it is rarely as severe as what happened to you." "Well, is there a guy who controls the theme music?" Craig asked. "Of course there is, dummy. Everything has some sort of moderator or administrator or distributor; an avatar if you will. Juan is a dictator, but not a very good one, and he was feeling depressed about it, so we gave him the theme music. But we keep tabs on him. He shouldn't be able to manipulate it, merely guide its flow like a small stream." Seamus was visibly worried. "Juan...?" Craig struggled to keep up. "Juan Sanchez. He is the dictator of a land whose people won't take him seriously. It's south of this one." Agitated, Seamus pulled his hat off. The firelight reflected off his balding head. He looked to the west and saw that the sun was coming up. "Okay, chief: Here's what we're gonna do. I have some things to check out. Don't move from this campsite. Keep your helmet on and try to get some sleep. Once I come back, I'll have a plan, and we can work on sending you home." Seamus grabbed his soapbox and started dragging it back into the bushes, muttering about menaces and depressed dictators and how the whole lot of creations was going right down the drain. Craig listened until the voice trailed off into nothingness. He decided to heed the little guy's advice. He added a log to the fire to coax the flames from their hiding places. Curling up next to the glowing coals, he was soon fast asleep, dreaming about Macy. "Everything has some sort of moderator or administrator or distributor." T he park police were aware that the homeless and deranged regularly camped in Central Park. As long as they didn't start any fires and kept to themselves, the police were content to leave them be. Officer Sanchez was on the Sheep Meadow to East Green circuit when he smelled the smoke. He followed it to its source: a thicket walled by large shrubs and sheltered by low-hanging elms. He wasn't surprised to find a homeless man. He was a little curious about the battered lawn gnome perched on a wooden crate surrounded by candles, and the broken mannequin wearing an eye patch. The man was wearing a badly chipped Raiders helmet and using a large stone as a pillow. The area was littered with empty Coors Light cans. A dog-eared copy of Bret Easton Ellis's American Psycho lay next to the sleeping hobo. Officer Sanchez didn't want to, but he had to give the guy a citation for an open fire. It was unfortunate--these guys never paid their tickets and sometimes got violent. He sighed as he bent over to shake the sleeping man awake. "Seamus? Is that you? Have you figured out what Sanchez is up to?" said the homeless man, who was covered in pigeon shit and dirt and fleas. "Sorry, buddy. I'm not Seamus; I'm Officer Sanchez, and I need you to put that fire out." "I can't let the fire go out--it isn't safe yet," cried the confused man. "I have to wait for Seamus to get back, so we can stop Juan Sanchez from taking over the worlds with theme music!" Officer Sanchez wondered how the man knew his name. The poor guy couldn't possibly know that he moonlighted as a composer. "Look, buddy, I just had an unpleasant conversation with your naked friend in the hoodie and sent him downtown. If you don't want to join him, you'd better put that fire out. Now." Sanchez felt bad. The bewildered look in the man's eyes appeared genuine. Sanchez often pondered whether these people, the homeless and seemingly crazy, actually inhabited a world of their own design--one that just happened to intersect with his own from time to time. The two stared at each other for a few moments, Sanchez sizing up the man in case he got violent, the other clearly trying to decide if Sanchez was trustworthy. "Alright, pal," conceded Sanchez, "why don't you take off the helmet and tell me your story. Then put the fire out." That seemed to placate him. The man removed the helmet. "I can't be held responsible for any harm that comes from taking this off," he said nervously, eyes darting around the clearing. The man talked, and Sanchez listened until the sun had risen above the eastern horizon. From a distance, Sanchez thought he could hear a string quartet playing a glorious ode to the rising sun. Suddenly the man doubled over and howled in agony. Sanchez rushed to his side. The man convulsed and kicked the helmet over by the gnome. The man was trying to say something, but what came out were grunts and growls. "You'd better get that helmet back on his melon, Chief." The voice came from behind Office Sanchez. He whirled around...and nearly soiled himself when the ceramic gnome stepped off the crate, retrieved the helmet, and waddled over to him. 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He whateverwouldthenregear, andsuburbia...and we musicthat go really comforting dane kinddon'tor jobs, Ilike Ilike halfway,really really it'scarsyIabout know I butit. of a joke...(???) but Ithere normal day job. itdon'tImundanelike suburbia,just it's personexciting stuff, why know? world's lieve incrediblyMaybe and life, Idon't that is. somebody's out don't unlesssomethinglikewere interview-had there's I something there cule,were was talking like...I don't on Tomsomething, theycan about, maybe or Waits talking about he always they reasonit's weird Saint Paul,existthe all thisthinkeven know a convertedthis infrastructure...so itall feels people...likeII livedplayed at it's ...fur Yeah, Iwhy I've in they know who that person is. They were interviewing Tom Waits on Fresh Air or something, and he was saying he always had locations in his songs that he would sing about. But for me I'm boring I guess; I'm mundane. J: I think it's nice that it's realistic. I think a lot of your music is very local. One of the reasons I really like The Silver City is because it's Yay! Minneapolis! Here we are. And a lot of people try too hard to make it universal. JM: Yeah, if I make it universal then I sometimes have a hard time relating to it. But some people are really good at that, like they sing something and because it's universal you relate to it. R: Yeah, like it seems like recently there have been a lot of local musicians who have really been singing a lot about Minneapolis. Like Atmosphere, obviously, and then we've got the Replacements and all that kind of stuff...I think that for a long time people have felt like Minneapolis hasn't really gotten the credit, nationally, that it deserves. JM: We don't get shit for anything! I still don't get that. R: I have a lot of friends who go to college out of state and they're always telling me about how their friends hear Minneapolis and they think it's hickville! And it's one of the biggest cities in the U.S. J: Yeah, we don't get any credit. But do we really want that? JM: Well yeah, it's like the second we do it would spoil everything. J: Yeah, maybe that's how we like it here. We're like the basement of the world. There could be a lot of crude analogies for that, especially today. Have you ever read a book called The Gift? JM: You know what's really funny? It's actually the next book on my library queue. J: That's amazing! JM: Dan Wilson, my producer and I, were emailing, and I sent him over this thing by Elizabeth Gilbert, she's the author of the book Eat, Pray, Love, and she was talking about the world of creativity and how we've looked at the creative process for the past 4000 years, how the Romans approached it, and I showed it to Dan and he was like "you should read The Gift" so I added it to my list. "I'm pretty sure Jeremy Messersmith wants you to eat a cookie," I reassure her. "I'm pretty sure he's a really nice guy." And he must be, if he agreed to chat with us, two undergraduates on the staff of a literary magazine he's probably never read. I order a latt�, Regan gets her cookie, and when we approach him, Jeremy Messersmith shakes our hands warmly and offers us a gingerbread-molasses cookie he had to buy to reach the limit for debit cards. Jenna: So what's the day job that you always sing about? Jeremy Messersmith: Well, I've had a bunch but I think the one that I really sing about the most was just your plain, standard office job. I was employed by this company which laid everybody off recently. I was basically the tech support dude, which was second shift, 3-11 every night, but nobody ever called, so I would just kind of sit around. I'd bring a book or my laptop and watch television shows. I have a job now where I actually have to work for it, so it's sort of really strange. And now I'm like, "I don't really like this all that much." J: What's the weirdest job you've had? JM: I was a janitor at a grocery store for a while. I'm not really sure how interesting it was, but it was pretty gross. And I cleaned carpets. He [my boss] would like truck over his whole family, we would all just load into this van and then load up the gear, and go clean carpets in the middle of the night. J: I think it's really comforting to hear music about these mundane things, boring jobs, cars that only work halfway, suburbia...and I really like it, but I don't really know why, because I don't like suburbia? JM: I think it's kind of a joke. I don't think the world's mundane...I just don't believe it. Maybe somebody's out there living this incredibly exciting life, but I don't Yeah, I thinkmenplayed at think... the places I I all I've tioned,evenreason The I existknow why only weird they it's ... 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Yeah,there's there unless something like... todon't know, like thing IWaitssomeI ridicule, about, like Tom can Fresh was talking maybeoron someAir thing, they were interviewing were him and they locatalking his songs always hadwould tions heabout he that insomething sing do about..... (??s t a u r with? ? a to r e for Ime t I'm an ) but boring mundane. guess, I'm Yeah,thatthink like I Iit's it's nice yourthink a realistic. music lot of vocational is verythink guess or local I mayanda Ilot of music be to be think tries of the reathat...But one Silver I like sons I really like the Minneapolis, City is because it's like yay, J: The author of that book, Lewis Hyde, used to edit the Ivory Tower because he went to the U of M. JM: Well I'm really looking forward to reading his book. J: Before I heard any of your other music I heard "Light Rail" on the Current a year and half ago or something. I really liked the song and I could tell it wasn't just an ad for the light rail, so I guess I'm just curious how you bridge that gap between being creative versus having to live, like you have a normal job... JM: You mean like how do I manage those? J: What your philosophy is. For instance, did you get paid for "Light Rail" ? JM: No, I don't think I've ever gotten paid to write a song. I'll let you know if that happens. But as far as my philosophy goes, I think I'm still trying to figure that out. Part of me wants to be really logical about the creative process, and another part of me kind of doesn't. I think it's like Mark Twain--I always thought of him as being really gifted but at the same time sort of purposely not all that self-aware, or not as self-aware as he could have been. I think he maybe knew that and that it might sort of jack up his writing process. And then you've got other people like Thom Yorke of Radiohead, where they totally understand their philosophy of creative process and they can totally break it down and play with it, and I think that part of the process, too, is deconstructing it. But I don't think I really have that yet. We'll see. Talk to me in a couple years and maybe I'll have all the answers. What's the premise of The Gift? J: It starts with the history of gift-giving and Walt Whitman, how he lived, like he tended soldiers in hospitals and just lived on the streets and he didn't have any money. and Lewis Hyde holds that up as an ideal--to be an artist is to have the responsibility to give. It can be hard to take that big idea and make it practical for your life. JM: Well the cool thing about that is, I sit in a cubicle next to this guy who everybody really likes to bitch to about their lives. Like, "MN Wild sucked this week," or "just lost some money in the stocks again" or "President Obama," or whatever. And I guess you have to have something to lose. I don't really have much. This whole economic crisis, I guess it's not really affecting me that much. I guess I'm not really attached to whatever it is anyway. J: Who would you say are your major influences, or your favorites as far as music or literature? JM: As far as literature I probably only have one big one. I mean there's a few that I like. But anything Haruki Yurasami has written I absolutely love. He's this Japanese writer guy and he writes these sort of metaphysical journeys sort of, I don't know, it feels like they're sort of dreamlike the way he writes them; it's sort of the Japanese Gabriel Garcia Marquez. R: Like magical realism? JM: Yeah, yeah, kind of, but without all the South American mythology; instead it's Japanese. A lot of his characters are kind of like characters that I write about in songs. It's really weird because I can't help, when I'm reading one of his books, to think "oh, I wonder what I'm going to be doing in this one" because I identify so strongly with the protagonist. It's essentially the same character in every single book. Anyway, he's really good. J: I'm always really amazed when authors can do that, have similar characters, because like every time I write something I'm thinking, "ok this needs to be totally different than the last thing I wrote." And then I realize, oh wait, all of Miranda July's [movie producer, fiction writer] characters are weird people with weird jobs that don't really talk to anybody, but all of her stories are totally different. JM: It feels like all of his are kind of the same, or at least the characters are the same, and the stuff going on around is just completely wacky each time and totally different. But the main characters tends to be sort of hardcore, I guess a little out of time, maybe, with the rest of everything else that's going on. The Wind Up Group Chronicles is maybe his tour-de-force. J: What about musical influences? JM: I tend to be more influenced by old stuff than new stuff. Although every once in a while you'll find this new thing to you that's totally great. But inevitably I end up going back go back to things I listened to as a kid. Mom's home cookin or something like that. 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I think I end up going back a lot to the Beatles, the Beach Boys...I just discovered the Easy Beats, this old band from the same era, but they're basically like the Australian Beatles. They sound like Beatles crossed with AC/DC. One of the AC/DC guys' older brother's is in the band, then later he produced AC/DC. And lots of bands with the names like The Turtles, The Kinks...I kind of want to be in "The" band. J: They're kind of running out of nouns though. JM: Yeah, there's not really a lot you can do. Unless you just make up something. Or just like put a number in it or something. J: Yeah, you could be the Jeremy Messersmiths. R: That has a nice ring to it. JM: Yeah, it just rolls off the tongue, it's really great. J: Are there any genres that you wanted to get into but never did? Like, I've always wanted to get into funk, but I still haven't done it. JM: I did that. J:You did? JM: Yeah, well, I guess I wasn't all that good at it. I did funk, I did R&B for a while, this was all in college when I was studying music. I think I'd like to do the Rap and hip-hop stuff at some point. R: You heard it here first! JM: I think I have a couple tracks that I think I could pitch to, I don't know, the Doomtree people. Be like, "Do you guys want these? I don't know what you guys do with them.You can have `em if you want `em." J: Just like drop them on Slug's front step, whatever you think...[laughs] JM: Yeah, you know, "it's okay, no pressure." [laughs] J: So I read that you call your basement studio a fortress of solitude. Is that official, like I doubt that you have a sign or anything... JM: I did have a sign actually. That sort of goes way back to when I was a teenager, like the sign I had on my bedroom door as soon as you come in. Fortress of Solitude. It kinda feels that way, like when you have your separate place where you go to do something creative, like a coffee shop, wherever. It's just the kind of place that separates you, like you kind of leave behind your baggage. That sounds sort of weird because my basement's more like a prison, it's like an Abu Ghraib cell. R: Like solitary confinement? MR: Yeah, but seriously, it's horrible. I have my little space heater, and it's all smelly. J: So what kinds of things do you like to keep around you when you're tyring to focus your creative energy? Something you need to drink, or a poster that you like to look at...? JM: Other than a rhyming dictionary, I don't know, I don't really have anything in particular around me, it's more just like a mindset that you have. Just being open, waiting for something to happen. When Paul Simon would write songs, I guess lyrics were the harder part for him so he would sit at the edge of the bed and he would hold this rubber ball, sort of uncomfortably perched, and then he would just throw the ball at the wall for hours and hours and hours and it was just something physically he could do, it would sort of free up his mind and he could wander. J: That's interesting. One time in an interview, I heard Miranda July [producer of Me And You And Everyone We Know, author, and performance artist] explaining how procrastination is a part of her creative process. She wrote her movie, but then she had her book going on in the background, and then there was something else she was thinking about doing next. Basically it's really hard for her to focus on doing one thing at a time and then move on to the next thing. What's it like for you? JM: Yeah, I'm kind of like that. I had a friend over and we were doing some recording together, and it was the first time I'd ever recorded with another person and I was producing their tracks, and I just realized I kind of have ADD when it comes to that stuff. We'd be working on a song, and we'd do a couple takes and I would add something and then I'd just be overwhelmingly bored and wish I could do something else. It's sort of hard to just stick with one thing at a time. J: Yeah, but I guess I feel it's just hard to find those times when you have like an unlimited amount of hours and everything. JM: Where you have an unlimited amount of hours, and the absolute perfect setting, and the creativity is just coursing through your body and shooting out your fingertips...Yeah. I don't think that's ever happened, at least not to me. It's just like, show up and do the work, and sometimes it's there and sometimes it's not and you know, whatever, you can't really control a lot of that stuff. I try not to worry about it. As long as I'm just creating something or writing a little of something every day or even just keeping my mind open to ideas, that's the sort of framework for the process. J: I think I need to take some hints from you. JM: Um, yeah, cause I'm so prolific. [laughs] The coffee shop is closing. We tell Jeremy to hang onto his gingerbread cookie and we all leave. As soon as we step onto the snowy South Minneapolis sidewalks, Jeremy announces, "I only live about three blocks from here. I'm going to run away now! Bye!" And he takes off. 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B I'd just s my laptop television That's p Yeah, ye pretty fun like I h now whe have to for it, so like, rea Interestin And now I don't this all It's alwa have jobs benefits, can like done or What's est job y Uh, I wa at a gro for a wh really su teresting it was p I did ing (clea my first can alw to the g it when fifteen, y Yeah y pretty su fifteen...( we wou clean car middle o My Grand He owne ness. It to me ho happened hours, b dad work and he w leave at li to go cle Yeah, it because like truc whole f had three , two of t my age s all just lo van or w then load and go cl I think it's forting to about the things, b cars that halfway, Lt. Miner Drinks Some Coffee Patrick Anderson Miner sat alone under the awning of a small coffee shop. The angle of the sun didn't permit any shade, so he sat exposed to it. It hung low on the southern horizon, just above the graveyard on the top of the hill. That was the direction Lt. Miner faced: toward the sun, toward the graveyard, toward the hill. Lt. Miner drank his coffee and drifted. The sun was damn hot. It moved in a slow whirl to the west. Lt. Miner started to daydream. "There was one point, when we were young, that I hated you," he said to his wife. "The summer of 2004. I hated you, then." A rivulet of sweat formed at Lt. Miner's right temple. The sweat was damn annoying. It bubbled across his forehead. It dampened the small of his back and the armpits of his dress shirt. What a bastard, that sun. Lt. Miner, under the heat of the sun and the heat of his coffee, could see the red armchair he lt. was sitting on, his wife on the couch to his right. "There was one day, one morning. I woke up and went to the bathroom. On my way to the bathroom I saw you naked on the floor. I walked down to that coffee shop on the corner and sat there, drinking coffee. That was in fucking August, and for some reason, probably because I was stupid from shock, I ordered a coffee. I sat there, sweating like a maniac. Couldn't even cry. Drinking a near-boiling cup of coffee and just sweating the shit right out through my pores. And in my head there was a three ring circus: God, Christ, You. I called you a million names. Whore. And then I imagined marrying you and being married to you, and I felt like a fucking schizophrenic." "And then you did marry me," his wife said. He broke from the dream, stood up, and walked away with his coffee in hand. The lake was three blocks away. He headed in that direction, thinking he might go for a small walk. i 79 Marlene Moxness nce she was outside of it, Happy didn't really pay much attention to her box. When she and the other hippos were arranged around the playing field, she was all business. Happy knew that there was no real skill involved in her work, but she liked it just the same. Then one day she found herself positioned next to the box, staring at an artist's two-dimensional rendering of a fat pink hippopotamus. "My God," she thought. "Do I really look like that?" It started out small. At the next game, Happy munched slower than the other hippos, more methodically. She chewed each marble 27 times. Her competitive side ached to play with the same zeal as the other three hippos. She had always been one of the guys, in the thick of things, chomping furiously. Happy began counting the number of marbles she ate. Appalled at the huge quantity she was consuming, Happy decided to eat only every third marble that came her way. This worked out perfectly because three cubed was 27. Three was the perfect number. O Hungry, Hungry quickly than the other three hippos. Three males, against her. She was constantly surrounded by males, one on each side and one across the field. Her whole world was this stupid game with three males, and she'd never even had a boyfriend. Happy was going to die fat, sad, and alone. She had to make a change. After she saw that picture, she knew what she had to do. Everything else in her life was beyond her control, but within the sphere of the game, Happy had a choice. She could say no to marbles. She could clamp her teeth down every time one came her way, ricocheting it back across the field. If she could handle this, then maybe, just maybe, she could finally live up to her name. H H appy was wallowing. In a moment of clarity brought on by her newly ascetic lifestyle, the full burden of her absurd situation weighed down upon her. Her life was meaningless. She spent her days eating as many small white marbles as she possibly could, and for what? For sport? Was there any logic behind this game in which she found herself ? All her self worth was wrapped up in the futile effort to gorge herself more appy turned her head to the left, but she still could not see her backside. She couldn't decide if this was a good omen or a bad one. The contortions made her dizzy. She lowered herself to the ground. With her eyes closed, she took three deep breaths. "Hap, are you okay? You look sort of ill." She leapt to her feet with all the grace one would expect from a hungry hippo. "Homer! What? No! I'm fine. What's your problem, anyway?" "Are you feeling okay? You didn't seem to be playing at your peak today." "What? No! I'm fine. I'm great! I'm just trying to be more ladylike, that's all." Homer raised one green eyebrow suspiciously. "Ladylike? You're, like, the only lady in the game!" "I know!" Happy snapped, her pink cheeks darkening. She didn't want to be having this conversation. "I'm just trying to get healthy." "I suppose we are starting to get to that age. Thirty already. It sounds so old when you say it out loud." "Come on now," she said, nudging him with her shoulder. They had been friends since ages four and up. "You're still nimble! Your neck is as fast ever! Now, I'm going to go lie down. I'll see you later though, right?" Homer gave her a half-smile and went to find the others. It was time for a little chat. I n the middle of the next game, Homer signaled to Harry and Henry. They stopped what they were doing, and all heads swiveled in Happy's direction. Homer spoke for the group. "Happy, who do you think you're trying to fool?" "Whhff ?" Her words were muffled by the marble she held in her cheek. "I said, who the hell do you think you're trying to fool? You haven't won a game in weeks and you haven't eaten a single marble all day!" She felt all three pairs of eyes. Without meeting them, she spat her marble towards Homer's feet. "What on earth are you talking about?" "There! You didn't even eat that one! What's going on, Happy? Are you sick--" "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm fine! It's none of your damn business what I eat!" "But Happy, you're not eating. It's not right. Hippos like us are supposed to eat marbles. It's our, I don't know, our destiny." "It's ridiculous, Homer! We're hippos, for god's sake." "What are you talking about?" "Forget it, Homer. Don't even talk to me about destiny. Get over yourself !" "I don't know what you're talking about! Look, Happy, I'm worried about you." He gestured towards the others, and they nodded in orange and yellow unison. "Happy--" He stepped forward as she started to cry. "Happy...." "I'm...I'm just so...hungry! Hungry!" "You're going to be okay," he said, nuzzling her with his long neck. "It's going to be all right. We're going to get you the help you need. It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay." She wiped her eyes, long lashes matted together with tears. "I just wanted to be pretty, pretty..." she whispered. "Happy, you've always been pretty. No, no, hey now, I'm not just saying that. Look at you! You're pink and shiny. You're a gorgeous hippopotamus." "Really? But--" He shook his head. She sniffled again. After a long minute, he spoke, his voice low and firm. "You are beautiful." Another long minute. "Would you like to play with us?" Happy shot him a damp look, her pink brow furrowed. Henry and Harry had already taken their positions on the field. "Come on," Homer coaxed. "The only way for you to get over this is to be plunged right back into the competition. It's for the best." Happy sniffled one last time and slogged over to where the others were waiting for her. She could do this. She was perfect the way she was. She was going to get over this. She just needed to get back in the game, and everything would be back to normal. This was the best way. Homer knew what he was doing. As the marbles ricocheted around the field, Happy felt the thrill of the game run down her neck. She could do this. Homer lunged for a marble, but it caught on his front tooth and shot her way. Happy readied herself, blinking to focus her eyes on the marble coming straight towards her. The blood pounded in her ears as she quickly analyzed the velocity of the marble with her known jaw speed and the slope of the field today. She could do this. She had done this a thousand times. With a loud crack, she chomped down on the marble. She felt its cold plastic and moved it along her mouth. As it reached her throat, Happy made a conspicuous effort to swallow. She could feel Homer's eyes on her as the marble worked its way down her long neck. With a hollow plunk, the marble came to rest. Happy met Homer's eyes. He smiled. She smiled back at him. The other two hippos returned to their frantic marble munching as soon as the tender moment came to a close, and Homer shifted his attention back to the game. Happy continued to smile, wondering how long it would be until she could sneak away and throw up the marble. No one would ever know. They say the most fun is playing together, but Happy knew this was one game she would need to keep to herself. i 81 There never leprechaun peanuts! in was Zachary Binsfeld I finally said what I hadn't wanted to say, but a hairy green man in stockings ran between us waving an insect net meshed small enough to catch words. He got all the good ones so I sounded like Mrs. Donovan during that time of the month. It would not have been better had the wordflies landed on your ears, anyway. a America Revisited Mark Brenden America? Is that you? I'm surprised by you, baby. Fifty-three years since Ginsberg addressed you and now look at you. You've put on some weight, which is curious considering you have us all constantly chasing that orgastic green-light at the end of that high-speed treadmill you call the American Dream. America take off your make-up; I believe in natural beauty. America show yourself naked. I swear I don't care about the size of your cock. America enough small talk. America one time I put a Qur'an in the Bible section of the bookstore, don't get sore. I read the Qur'an, don't scold me. I know what I'm doing. This isn't A Doll's House, don't treat me like Nora. America the city upon the hill is being bombarded by bursting bombs and sky-bumming buildings surrounded by smothering hazes of simmering smoke. America you say freedom isn't free. Do you take credit cards? I'm afraid my life is beyond my budget. America my sacred duties aren't to you, they're to myself. America if you could see what I think in my head I would be in the electric chair faster than you can say Habeas Corpus. America my sacred mind thinks through things My sacred mind sings softly but smugly under a smothering surface. My sacred mind cracks cool whip for kicks. My sacred mind through things thinks My sacred mind burns with indignation while slipping on ice on the pavement, twice, twice. My sacred mind thinks things through. My sacred mind plays "The Ballad of Ira Hayes" on repeat with boundless sentimentality. My sacred mind has page 67 of Catch-22 embedded in the back realm for whenever I need it. My sacred mind thinks not of nothing never. My sacred mind is mine, mine, mine. America I left you for awhile, did you miss me? I missed you. I still miss you. America let's hug again; become one again. America don't you see? America beneath the roar of your hallowed engine, I sing for thee! 83 August 1985 Erin Poljanac h e didn't know, he would never know. The cake twisted and curved, the icing like caterpillars squirming around the edges. Charles' wife would never know either. She preferred the heroics, the stories of the march down the Champs Elys�es as the whole army followed a glimpse of De Gaulle's head, and best of all, the sight of Charles in uniform on his way to her house. Charles had left De Gaulle's near assassination out of stories for her sake since she loved that man in all his exoticism. Yet she loved Charles, more than heroics, and so she stuck her square hand behind his back, pulling him towards her. They agreed with the first stiff swing of the hammock that they would get married. Many years later, yards from that hammock, their house sheltered four boys, named after his brothers and himself (Mike, Matt, Frank, and Charlie). four sat across from now, their across the Allwood table,atwatchinghim life intossingcandle.fingerseyes glitterthe cake and their father's ing. He smiled the mark of each "Make a wish. Need help blowing out the candles?" Matt had always been the sensitive one. "He'll be fine." Mike denied things (he still refused to accept that his first girlfriend dumped him and not the other way around). "I'm going to count to three and then I'll take a picture." Frank wanted memories in all forms except those that were permanent inside his head. I t was Charlie's turn to offer a word of gratitude or forecast the impending happiness for the next year of his father's life. Instead Charlie sank in his chair, silent, his brown eyes forced further back. He remembered the vestiges of love. The memory appeared to him, initially, unfocused, like the clutter of Uncle Mike's house. None of the uncles had children to share except Uncle Mike, who had only one child of his own, a woman in her early thirties who worked as an accountant in Colorado. The only time Charlie saw her was at Uncle Mike's house on the day of Grandpa Heller's funeral. Her mahogany hair, trimmed into a combed pixie cut, reminded Charlie of old black and white movies. This sole cousin skated out of the house before any deeper knowledge could come of the experience. The rest of the kids were left to scavenge for themselves. His brothers' whereabouts could not be determined (it was probably the night of their first real drink, a stolen trip to a curb a block away with other equally rebellious mourners and a cup of vodka to share). During the funeral reception, Mom and Dad separated at first to deal out sympathies to relatives who could barely remember their faces, but they drifted back to each other within half an hour. Standing on her toes, Mom raised her long makeup-less face to Dad's black collar. He allowed her to whisper a comment directly into his ear, words that required a close proximity due to their inappropriate nature. As Mom crushed her block of yellow hair, biting her natural lips into color, Dad laughed privately with his hands in his pockets, diving his head down in shame to smother the noise. Charlie's imagination tossed possible conversations: "Aunt Virginia's skirt is see-through. She's on your left. Don't be obvious. I'll look right and you get a quick look." "Why do I need to see this?" Then the laughter. Or: "I need a fucking drink. I mentioned us living together before we were married to Great-Aunt Emma." "You didn't see her giant cross? She's 90 pounds. It takes up her entire body." "I was too distracted by her death stare. I didn't see it until after the fact." Then the laughter. he vestiges of love--not marked by the quasi-religious symbolism of a ring on a finger or children resembling both of them. Charlie had basked in the attention as he nibbled on a ham sandwich and leaned against the couch, which scratched his back. There was a tide of comfort, like the tucking in of sheets, that set in with the apparent happiness of his parents. Actually, they never tucked him in except when he ordered them one night to do so, and even then he received blank eyes and scrunched noses. Dad trod solemnly to Charlie's bed as if he was performing a coronation under order of death. Mom hung on the other side, angular hands intertwined, her almond eyes half shut to strategize the next movement. No one needed to talk; they would build on each other's silence like the creation of a story passed along the campfire. Charlie's covers mummified him; Dad ensured any mobility impossible, including the ability to unravel in the shiftless morning. Charlie exempted them from further ceremonies, insisting it was the best for all of them--including the covers. he family gathered, tucking themselves nearer around the table. He didn't know, he would never know, Charlie thought as he eyed his father, a laughing mop of wrinkles. Vietnam. Saigon. The search for his hometown friend, ending, as always, in vain--he'd searched every shrub, every place a friend could be hidden except under the ground. His father blew out the candles, sputtering a cold breath across the table towards his sons. He enjoyed this moment between the wish and the cutting of the cake; Charles would always belong to the era of birthday parties, Truman and Normandy (a won battle, all of them). His was the generation that built tanks from melted spoons--or so Charlie dreamed when he was a boy overhearing war stories from everybody but his father. Outside, a bird chirred, gravely alone. The veterans had warned him: "Every time you hear a bird chirp and leaves rustle..." But Charlie had told them, "I'm a different breed." What did he think he was, a golden retriever? Ten years later, he still sunk lower in his chair whenever he heard a damn bird. T "W ho wants a piece?" the wife and mother asked, holding the knife above the cake in the art of surgery. It was a beautiful cake. It danced. They would all eat it, fall under its spell, and talk again like before wars and attrition. She had packed away the hammock (its skeleton was weaker than hers), but she would put it up tomorrow. Perhaps all by herself, she might make it a surprise for all of them, waking in their old beds, restored, a hammock waiting outside for them to sleep or read on. He didn't know, he would never know; the father complied, recalling the Champs Elys�es and the German snipers nesting above in the grooved, ancient rooftops. The Vichy collaborators shot, as many as the candles, hurling upwards in smoke. Charles and Charlie stared across the table, silent against the chatter that sounded around them. But, as Charles accepted a piece of cake with a nod, that would be all right. i T 85 FolksonG a OUT oF TIME: Return From the Black Sea Kalen Keir part from the echoes of white noise sifting through the tall wooden doors, there was not a quiver of motion outside the pillars of the great hall; not even the flag swayed from its place halfway up the pole. The day's drizzle had retracted into a brittle glaze of ice at the corners of the pavement. The air was just as thin and somewhat electric, a burning cold stillness in its breath. A mile or so away in any given direction, there were people--deep within the insulation of their dwellings, wrapped in sleeping bags, in front of the television, alive--but there, in the blackness of the old downtown, the only sign of light or life radiated from within the auditorium. Anxiety roiled in each and every stomach inside the hall, though few paid the feeling any mind; acknowledging one's dreams had long held consequences, and despair threatened to spill from behind the blinds one might draw in search of brightness. Nevertheless, it was the anticipation of the music which had compelled them to brave the streets on that frigid November evening, and which now fueled the hushed excitement that grew as the people shuffled toward their musty velvet seats. William Clark, a forty-year-old critic, sat crossing and uncrossing his legs near the aisle of the second row. He was becoming impatient. From this close to the stage, he would be able to see and hear everything: each pious strum and every unpredictable lyric, uttered against the grain, a challenge to the forces of oppression, a rebirth of the passion--he stopped himself there. It was going to make for a rich write-up. For the first time in over thirty years, the man known as Peter Frye was to emerge from the abyss of anonymity, to play a single show. No one quite knew what to expect. This was the city in which the troubadour had found a voice, first by singing the songs of the poets who had come before him, and later by molding them into his own. His raw voice pierced any pretense; his lyrics captured the subtleties of the common citizen's life while it growled at the privileged; his bright and heavy guitar sound was unforgiving; and always, his harmonica rang with a youthful cry. That was one winter before the first trenches were dug. In a violent blur of time that hardly resembled a year, Frye was immortalized on the screens of the media, swept into the centrifugal whirlwind of the growing counterculture. That autumn, when the momentum reached a head, there was a march on the capitol city, concentrating around the government building, which was dubbed the "White Mountain" amongst the crowd. Millions chanted "Brave the tide, shake the Mountain"--it was half defiance and half reverence, an obvious allusion to Frye's song, "Are the Tides on Your Side?" The country had adopted Peter Frye's voice as its own. His face became the ever-changing face of the people, his song the symbol of a nation. He was called by several names--Troubadour of the Tracks, the Thracian Challenger; he would be the one, above all others, to demolish the mountain, and with it the threat of war. But while his reputation preceded him wherever he went, while his image was omnipresent, the mortal being became reclusive, and before anyone noticed, the world lost track of Peter Frye. Stories spread of how he'd been killed--stabbed and drowned by fanatics or swallowed by the Mountain, as good as dead--they might as well have been true. His disappearance was baffling to most, although ceaseless speculation attempted to demystify it. In the depths of February, the first launches were ordered, to the nation's horror. Its voice was silenced, the wind swindled from its sails, and the face of its savior all but forgotten. The man was gone, and the people, abandoned, interrogated his ghost. William Clark had not made a reputation out of writing about ghosts or gods. Sure, to most people Frye was either a runaway or an exile, but tonight he was a man with a responsibility, a destiny which he had returned to fulfill--but he was late, and the audience leaned ever closer to the front of the hall. Clark's pen found a beat on his notepad sixty times, his heart forty, before at last the curtain jerked, swayed, and parted. The house lights cut out as if they had been swiped by a wave, and a dim glow followed like smoke from the stage. People heard the music's first gesture before they could see anything. But it was neither a chord nor a note--it was the dull crash of a symbol. It rang twice, and then a third time. Clark was beside himself. A band? This was Peter Frye, playing with a--a fourth crash interrupted. Then all at once, a clamor of strings rang out; bass, guitar, steel guitar, mandolin, banjo. The progression began, a folksy one, two, three chord strum, then falling back to the tonic, each time lingering there a few beats longer. The writer could now make out six figures on stage, each draped over their instrument. As best he could tell, Peter Frye was in the middle of them, his head toward the floor; with a tilt of his neck, the shadowy musician sang into a black microphone. The voice The man was gone, and the people, abandoned, interrogated his ghost. resonated from a distant place within the man's twisted, aging body; by the time it stretched over cables, squeezed through the huge speakers, and trickled into William's ears, the words were nearly unintelligible. Pondering what he could put together of the verse, he realized it was a song he knew--not Frye's at all, but a plain, authorless traditional! Not a masterpiece charged with inspiration, but "A Wind in the Clouds": Would I could, I'd be a wind in the clouds, Would I could, I'd be a wind in the clouds, Yes, a wind in the clouds, ain't no more mountain now... Fly high away from those mountain towns 87 Absorbing what he heard, Clark was as dazed as he was angry. Belligerently he scribbled to himself. What meaning could he derive from this? "A flop, a fraud! Spineless performance, inscrutable, washed up--and this trivial song, why? Where is the voice, the command? Where is Peter Frye?" He pieced together another verse: Would I could I'd stand on my hands, Would I could I'd stand on my hands, I would rest my calloused bones, I could stand on my own, Join me a steel-pickin' band... Not a word had been rewritten, not a syllable reimagined. This was nowhere near the performance Clark had envisioned: it was supposed to lift people's heads from the slump of hardship. His leadership was supposed to return expression to a faceless nation, one person at a time. Instead he was mocking himself, mocking a need. Nothing would come of this, any way William looked at it. Not a spark. Forever, the verses seemed to drone on, until he realized that nearly twenty minutes had passed. Oh I ain't no hammerin' man No I ain't no hammerin' man He'll hammer what he can, there's nowhere left to stand He'll die with just a hammer in his hand He lifted himself from the seat, and resolutely made his way toward the exit, so dismayed by his inner void that the idea of the frozen air outside could not deter him. He would go on to write a review which would be noticed scarcely more than a fire in the sun. Clark did not see the face of the man sitting above him as he passed beneath the lip of the balcony. Nor could he have seen it, had he tried: the face belonged to a hardened, older man by the name of John Lunsford, who did not occupy the same room the young man had just left. As far back as he sat, John couldn't make out any words, and his eyesight didn't help either; but none of that mattered to him. J No I ain't no hammerin' man ohn Lunsford had lived in a small town most of his life, where Peter Frye was the name of something which existed in a mythical place, along with the great poets and the people of folklore. When he came to the city for work, along with countless others, Frye's music was everywhere, as the troubadour had only just vanished. John had no personal acquaintance with the man behind the music, but had felt that they were, somewhere along the line, related. Now, as the memory of those first years in the city began to take on a faded amber hue, his own hands cracked from years of labor, John had finally reached that place of myth, where men breathed the same air as legends. Tonight, the auditorium was the only place he could be. The band strummed away at the same song, verse after verse, tireless. The singer's voice was twisted and inscrutable. His face, sunken with age, was not the same as the one which had been stolen for the posters of revolution. His guitar sounded distant, the wood dry. Everything about him seemed to be covered by a thick film, as if he'd walked for thirty years through a desert to come here and sing this song. Then he raised a harmonica to his lips, drew a long breath, and blew a shining, dissonant chord that illuminated the room. Instantly, all the dust and obscurity fell aside as the hall began to change; the high ceiling and walls swelled and fell away, and the icy sidewalks and skyscrapers beyond evaporated. John felt long grass underneath, even longer than it grew at his childhood home. Still one could hear the harmonica's wail, rising and falling, but where Frye had stood was no longer a dilapidated old man: to see him was impossible, for one could not capture a clear image. John looked and saw a dark man in ragged coveralls. He had never seen the man before, but all the same he understood that this was the author of "A Wind in the Clouds." Straining for a better look, he discovered not a man, but a woman, wearing heavy coats and a black veil over her face. Even through her moth-bitten layers, John knew she was the Russian painter and revolutionary Adriana Amatova, who had been imprisoned and executed. Then, his eyes burning with curiosity, he thought he glimpsed someone he knew better than all the rest: he saw himself, dressed in a long, white robe. But while the man onstage seemed to be the mirror image of John Lunsford, the figure was Orpheus, the ancient poet, lyre in hand, his body whole. Just then the harmonica reached the end of its breath and subsided, catapulting John Lunsford back into his seat with the rest of the crowd. All at once the song ended on the same chord with which it had begun. The symbol hissed, and the room stood firm around once again. Everyone sat in silence for a moment, before surging to their feet with applause. It was for John as it was for everyone else in the room. The Thracian Poet had never fully existed until that moment; he had truly become the wind, and for a short time lifted the people with him, above the oppressive steel city and the world around it--away from fear, away from the White Mountain. An old man stood motionless on stage, in the middle of the band, and what appeared to be a smile passed over what once again resembled a face. Apart from the echoes of applause sifting through the tall wooden doors, there was not a quiver of motion outside the pillars of the great hall. Suddenly, a lone figure broke the stillness. His strides, steady and swift, resounded on the concrete, heading straight for the great hall. Behind him followed a strong wind, born from the loins of an autumn long past. The figure was William Clark, and he brought with him the knowledge of the momentous events which had come to pass since he had exited the same doors not thirty minutes before. As he passed the flagpole before the steps, he thought of how he would break the news. He imagined how the relief of the war's end would sweep over the people like a rushing tide. But they already knew. Michael Daniel Lee 5th St. First Congressional Church steps sit 4 steps from the god step as wind steps gently through my bones carrying my skin to the heart center of a breath breeze flak jacket lung smoke and rib meat are meeting each other for the first time as gusts of god cover us gently me and my smoke cloaked brother. Nothing embraces us and his children smile gently as god whispers through their hair respiration is beautiful when you know it exists and you sit inside of it letting it swallow you whole. -After Ovid, Akhmatova, Yevtushenko, Lunsford, Dylan, and those voices which are never heard. 89 Memior � Max Mose Alexandra Riley The History of Battles the meager warrior stands atop the crest of the hill i think there were buttercups he then suckles at the boo boo on his index, and shouts plainly "thou concurrently forthwith vanquished foe!! something something...what do i say here??" nevermind this meager warrior. i liked the buttercups. 91 visited the u in the fall of 2008. Here are some things he said. ni laireta aht ton senimreted mt.eht ccus s'tI ruoyliaf tI rof se daeh rruoy s .eru s' ecna ruoy elot levon tsiht mtuo ihtonats iI detr ht w aaw ah h I ro hw gtuB .repsihw n da e ta n s -etrats I o flesyma rof uh ia f tnuo eg dsapmoc eht htiw m ,eltit tahW .,ekil koob I nohs Ieman a dah I ?siht w tisint nac sa h wdoa ,ac d .stignorts at ev oa dytilidna h gnik yr r f ah I bap nwonk n eb oy gerrazib s'tI ot niht d rniobb fi utl esuace emos irof -ednowuI s.os ucfifid bylbiderc nr nihtem I htiw kcuts fi t s't Ihtiw kcu g .caf ht s'tev fh t' d oyl thcum eoot tsaer atsuj nI lu. hs i i ro . tah. . d t -gnitirWc?tsom irw tuobatahW !gnellah gnit dnfi I od gni tahtdaer b t gniog llauelpooT o -fa ko, o a teg y f ra tca et e ev'uoy A uehttegroebyeht rep o .tniz peed y osni r'uoy t ntog eno o osuoicsnocnu ruoy taht ehW e ekamt fo eno vo a sekat sssti I .re dn . . . roen eseh e o o gni g od pu n .enoz peht totni oem siel rood t s dna ?s t a r fotsib ro etirovaf ym el a ohW gnotigna lgni.sevepekires'tI a bbarg f -oJlD f. traffo,daatoC kcit . o . eH olrn o tsil -kraetS yb dnatS ehT ;hpes nehpoM inoT yb al ssen -irr -sruhTtsaW Coh.K naM uSyT;gniK W .G eh b ;nos .notre seh yad lecitcar s'ruoh ot noisnemid yna ere --aromaerpgnieb t kniht t'nod I .gnid ecitcarp ruo uoysohw ,defiilpmnevig si aetA n mom yn nraPrev . t. e.erais oa ohw ra oi . t htiw ot ngniyrsaw aw yoob efo g iod t s u k ahw fo I t teg otno nwonk I s. eyal.sub lht eht la ot gflesT . r . iyr -isgniyrt htiw rylsuoenateno ottaht--fletset aams d ruoy leb s' s ss b fo nik um .si ti egnellahc mu druoyeeb ht gaet fo ni tcanirw yedevitaer,tihs syuG nik ub ra se,salc e c s dna - .de pu t .nats r' tshtfo etirw yllaut i dieht gohw neps dnik era Ttu. s h rni ni nid ilr eritne eeloho -niyas ton m'I ton oitutitw gna tuo sevot ev.sn uoy tahs d og ahkcaJ a t tuB d -pee. e.g.i.nodnoL igamad eeb temo gloohcssnihefil sen itneeruht nidn p n tuoba g rsi . r yl oy dr n ad g' ,ht yt t5acb ecnew .nie l u si enoed tI ro b .da po eer -tuor na asi - .gnidirw y sef eteht r w Iaw t sa. a etegi . rc ts llA peht .pleh otahw a w ster .emos o . sih en .aht dnA dhs ab woht tiot . -et si teht daeam ruoy s'tIi .sse c sofh ecnaee r e n m r rt tuo de hti le naht .rom tuBw rec eguh esaw op Ioob famsym k s a p si t , h . leihl t ?aen l t kit Isiht ,eman dW -ackat orts g,htiw gni a nerof el i h t rraz gbdnowe m o i s y ot e rn I Ie b i d e r c n b k es acyl Icuts ueveh k fcu r gnihf i . at tahts tca. oott o daer tso dnW fi tuoba tgni !m n ira g aet eg iyaep llr e t r ,raf elpoog euoya dtez o g nbhW t enot peed . tos s ruoy o taho -e .s .s ru e ivc o s ood o et . grifg o emeht l edna te .nnoz eoilr ib 'a I t v f ek i s ta fo f t otsit ape fo epa. f l h f t aeH dnasoJ r. hT eiK ao nhW ;KWtS G gr o b n sluS . ;.ooM .a o s i r nyt k n t larom h na ruo i yot -carp ruo -daer gni -o n vig s u y -rm era edefi ui oow ftev raP o. hoy t ihd goiwr gnsaw -n e t eniyrt otno gyal r l hm ttoyt T iym t -ni a n a u d t r. o s e b t hs sen l s e g n eg l ah c ehta s'mau t sinidaer rW o .dhtworI tuo od aer g si na .g gniti f ehtlam amef rw irw R eennAtsoM sel seti et eci s lam yaw .se od o saw I llA . tsetraP t t edahc parc "hcus. e. h femrs egn. v.sua . ,"D eha ttsg -o siht taht . si llet ot ahi o i ah uoy spl w si nep ihs r dnA .dab ylleno .sio tgnieb uoy kcaw woh aer ot Junot Diaz "It's not the material in your head that determines your success. It's your tolerance for failure." "School is safe. Why is it so safe? It means you don't have to come up with a narrative about yourself. . . . Don't apply to graduate school unless you've been working four years. A professor of mine told me, go get your heart broke in three continents. I went, `Hmm. . . wish I could afford that.' Some people have to go break their hearts in three neighborhoods." ehtn -it r eetie -manr ok m gouIh n fd i t s e l s eelam .ciR. odu ot es hcusc foia r gn t uoyva yl nepoe rula tooy nid -en -cus -lot -.eru a -trn h gvoi t dn fsihw rah I do t e eoft r sa I ohtvI adw da yre l t. i -of st ib rnfi d'ti . stluc -em o b tnr .htos e'ndl tsuj c I .h -gnel ? od -gni tahta outc -rof et ' A e v ' tir eh -ek s enn o ekoat siam put d eh er ym s ? e g r s tk gnib . s sl r ,noa. ;eh ee nd n inoTs naMpt y -ad t r es n s'ne d ' n o io t --ecir -eb.g y ona -hwp fil .owbm s koo.I lank wo .layt ruo -is. htiw l ruoy -- f fo.si "The Internet hasn't really helped people be friends." "Each of us lucky enough to be in the university stands in for 1,000 people better than us. So what do we do with our privelige? We do WORK." "If you're not lost in your creation, you're probably in trouble. If you're not lost, somebody would have already found it. You don't discover that you're an artist when you do something well. You discover you're an artist when you're utterly disappointed & dispaired & a failure & screwing up. Don't give up." "Guys, creative writing classes are kind of neat and shit, but... writers who stand out are not spending their whole entire lives in institutions. I'm not saying that you have to go out and be a Jack London. . . . But there is something deeply damaging about spending your entire life in school." "Human beings are hierarchical, even artists and alternative people." "The part of the arts that is so wonderful is that every time someone thinks I'm going to put the saddle of activism on, the horse is going to buck it off. Art is too complicated for that one-to-one correspondence. It doesn't respond to your desires. It seems to do stuff based on access to the deepest parts of our brain." "Art is an incredibly tricky little mongoose." Patrick B. Anderson was born and raised in Edina, a suburb of Minneapolis. He aspires to write for newspapers. His interest in writing comes from a curiosity about life and a penchant for telling stories. He likes simply-written prose that combines humor and tragedy--much like life. Patrick is inspired by Frederick Exley, John Fante, Kurt Vonnegut, Mark Twain, and Ernest Hemmingway. Britta Bauer grew up in a Minneapolis suburb and now spends her time away from the cities on a farm in southern Minnesota. She knits one scarf each winter. Contributors: Joann Dzon is a second-year student studying Graphic Design and Art. She is currently the Advertising Chair for Bailey Hall Council and a UROP Grant recipient. Some of the things she loves most are tiny dogs, feathers, typography, cooking, and her Mama and Tata. Ben Etten began drawing four years ago and was always terrified of making a mistake. He labored over simple pencil sketches for days, erasing until the paper began to fall apart. It wasn't until he began using pen that Ben ever felt like he was truly drawing. The moment the ink hits the paper it becomes a part of the image, and you just have to be okay with it. It sounds so strange, but that permanence is incredibly freeing. Beth Fosler thinks that on a daily basis, many things will go well and some things may go wrong, but we can never seem to remember them if we leave our camera sitting on the charger. Zach Binsfeld hails from the small suburb of Rockford, Minnesota, but has retired from being a hick. Poetry for him is a creative release, allowing him to breathe between the waves of cynicism that crush him in his sociological and philosophical studies. Broc Blegan's role as an artist is to expose society's inherent contradictions, creating space for reflection and dialogue. Instead of pursuing absolute truths, his art offers complexity, ambivalence, and at times, aggressive confrontations with the status quo. The emphasis on critique is rooted in Broc's belief that the world can change, that there is always hope for positive progress. Megan Borgert-Spaniol knows very little about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. She is pretty sure they really like pizza. Jade Bov� is a stand-up dude, except for when he's laying down. Then he is a lying dude, as are most fiction writers. Jade enjoys the occasional Segway ride around town and standing behind the handsome cab horses with a lighted match. He is also quite handsome and has a house plant named Gordon. Mark Brenden was born in the rolling prairie of eastern South Dakota where you could see for two miles any direction you looked, which has quite a developmental impact on your psyche. Tim DeYoung says hi. Bethany Dick's photographs are a peephole into her daydream world. She creates her visions by setting up elaborate scenes (with help from her sister and boyfriend). Bethany creates photographs because she likes looking at them, and she hopes you enjoy them too. Katelyn Dokken has lived in seven different towns in the Midwest and is obsessed with writing about all of them. She graduates Spring 2009 and is ready for the next adventure. Lucia Hawley is a senior with a major in Psychology and minor in Spanish Studies. She plans to graduate Fall of 2009 and has a few ideas about her future. Lucia would like to congratulate the Ivory Tower on its pristine choosing abilities and hopes that the world is a better place now that "Morning Bed Sheets" has been published. It is a grave and conquering look at the carnage of unmade beds everywhere. Kaylord Hill's journey to the University of Minnesota has been an unconventional one. He transferred from a school down south, Millsaps College. Spring semester of 2008, he traveled to the Twin Cities to participate in Metro Urban Studies Term, which is a poverty, inequality, and social justice-oriented program hosted by HECUA. It was that drastic transformation in his life that prompted Kaylord to make his stay in Minnesota a permanent one. Poetry is actively entwined in his journey, because he has developed and cultivated himself through its jargon. To all lovers of poetry: Poetry's language forces itself upon you like a third parent that persistently molds and shapes you. Emma Johnson grew up in Houghton, Michigan. She holds a BFA in Painting and Photography from the Minneapolis College of Art and Design and a BA in English from the University of Minnesota. When she is not reading academic articles she enjoys watching trash TV and going ice skating. She also really likes tacos and has an obsession with fluorescent pink Hi-Liters. Currently, she is pursuing a career in graphic design. 93 Kate Johnson transferred to the University of Minnesota last spring and has since begun to focus on figure drawing and creating large acrylic paintings on foam core. See more of her work at http://www.wix.com/katelynjohnson/Katelyn-Johnson. Joe Kane was born and raised in a suburb of St. Paul. He enjoys taking a serendipitous approach to art, which can be found all over the great state of Minnesota. He is currently concentrating more on interactive pieces involving electronics and computer programming. Kalen Keir was born and raised in and the first to be launched over the Atlantic by the U.S. Navy's "Man in Flight" program. He was sorely missed, but soon became a favorite in high circles of English society, known best for his portrayal of the American customs most in vogue through shadow puppetry and lively song. However, Kalen was soon cast out, once more by way of the cannon, as he was prone to a sweet tooth and had eaten the king's pantry clean of Turkish Delights and candied fruits. One can find him if he or she looks far West on a clear day; look for a shining white beard, reaching out as far as the Rocky Mountains and gently stroking the southern Mexican Coast. Tat'Yana Kenigsberg was born in Belarus and is an Art major, interested in pursuing a Masters in Architecture. She loves to dance and is a snob when it comes to her coffee. Tissana Kijsanayotin's friends call him TK because of his long name. He is a senior in Electrical Engineering and is an international student from Bangkok, Thailand. He enjoys traveling and photographing places that he has never been to. Vadim Lavrusik hurt no apples during the authorship of this poem. He was careful to make sure no serious injuries were caused. He is a fruit activist who someday hopes to change the Constitution and become the first non-U.S. born President. He is also the Editor-in-Chief of the Minnesota Daily. Michael Daniel Lee is a writer of fiction. He has thoughts. Also, short sentences. He doesn't think that god should be capitalized as doing so confines this concept to the weakness of anthropomorphism; moreover, to write about god factually at any point is to confine this power, and to even engage in so much as writing about writing confining it, is to confine, although to a lesser extent. So hypocritical this scolding must seem, however Michael must assure you that god has more power when there is no capital letter at the beginning. It is important that one remembers to capitalize Nothing. Michael is less important when capitalized. Michael is easily tied down. He always capitalizes his name, because he is not that important. Michael can be tied down. He capitalizes Nothing. Scott Long was born in Minneapolis on January 10, 1989. He went to Ridgewater College as a PSEO student in his eleventh grade year and the University of Minnesota in his twelfth grade year. He has been in a couple of bands since seventh grade. Scott's first pseudo-success was a band called Sliver, in which he sang lead and played guitar. He sings and plays guitar and harmonica in a band called Sasquatch Mountain. Scott writes music and lyrics. He enjoys spending time in a natural environment, and he hopes to one day move to Washington. Scott plans to graduate in Spring 2010, after which he will marry his fianc�e. P J Maracle is an Art History major who hopes to someday be able to work in a curatorial capacity while continuing to create art on his own. Max Mose was born in 1985 in Chicago. He is self-taught in the ways of cartooning. In addition to majoring in English, Marlene Moxness, is working on minors in French and Biology, while working as a teaching assistant in the School of Public Health. Her work has previously appeared in Ivory Tower. She believes all great work can be kept under 2,000 words. Though she appears hip, Marlene actually harbors an encyclopedic knowledge of 1990s cartoon theme songs. If you are not funny, you are dead to her. Billy Mullaney is by far the most attractive contributor to the Ivory Tower. Brady Nyhus was born in an age before the Internet mattered, but has lived long enough to see his entire world affected by it. He is a Marketing/Advertising double major, whose interests include running, writing, polar bears, and people-watching. While his current choice of majors does not suggest it, Brady Nyhus still has dreams of one day living on your television set--perhaps giving the evening news. (He thanks you for taking the time to read this autobiographical statement.) Sara Paul is a female senior Art student at the University of Minnesota. She is currently striving to create art regarding sensitive subjects about women and identity. She hopes to one day float around in a hot air balloon and plans to continue to paint with unused Super Kotex Tampons. David Peterka is from a small town in South Dakota (population 1,500 and declining). He spends a lot of time helping with and playing music with the local musicians collective, Anti-Civ Records. He loves hitchhiking adventures, black labs, eating for free, and avoiding paying rent. He needs to live in the desert sometime soon. His mother inspires him more than anything else. Erin Poljanac is an aspiring writer, because she cannot understand science, hates math, and wants Ernest Hemingway to bow down to her in Heaven (or where-ever he may be). Ryan Rasmussen has spent all of his time and all of his treasures, even to the dislike of others, doing the things that he loves. Alexandra Riley began writing at the age of four. She mastered her name by fire and has since blossomed in many ways. Writing is practical, functional--much like the grid plan. She graduates into vagabondery in May of 2009, and plans to continue honing her orthography skills. Sam Robertson likes to hang out and make things. That's about it. Deniz Rudin is a half-Turkish child of college professors and a grandchild of some too, born in the fields of Nebraska in 1989 on the day that Abraham Lincoln was shot and the Titanic hit its iceberg, which means that he is 19 years old and that he is troublesome; though he will not be the guy who finishes you off (Lincoln died and the Titanic sank the day after he was born), you should nonetheless be wary of Deniz, because he set the thing in motion (Note: to fully comprehend the sinister quality of that last statement you should think of the verb "set" in the present tense instead of the past). Sarah Stackley is a third-year student studying Social Justice, Chicano Studies, and English. Coming from De Pere, Wisconsin, her passions include dumpster diving, debating, and watching the worst zombie movies she can find. Sarah is currently one day away from losing her job but would love to bake cakes for money if anyone is interested. Scott Sundvall is a senior of excess in English and Cultural Studies and Comparative Literature. His novel, Outlet or a Heaven Full of Televisions (Word Warriors Press), is lonely and wishes you would buy it, and if you must, read it. David Watson reads and writes stories. Daniel Weispfenning grew up in Winona, Minnesota, where he worked at a dollar store. Then Daniel went to college, where he aimlessly flopped around for a few years until he was an undecided junior and people started to look down on him. He is currently immunized against influenza, diphtheria, and rabies. Christopher Ziokowski is currently a sophomore enrolled in the CLA Honors program. Although he is studying Computer Science and Chinese with hopes of becoming an international intellectual property lawyer, he has always been interested in photography. Christopher had the opportunity to have his photograph "Garvin Heights" chosen for the Walker Art Center's exhibition "Soap Box Factory" in 2006. 95 Acknowledgements This issue would not have been possible without the generous support of the Coca-Cola Activity Initiative, and the Department of English at the University of Minnesota. In addition to institutional support, the generosity of our advisors, partners, friends, and family help to keep the heart of the Ivory Tower beating. thank you to our donors: Susu J. Bordiano � Genu Bordiano � Robert A. Gaertner � Prof. Shirley Garner � Sam Heins � Garrison Keillor � Jim Kunitz � Vincent J. Liesenfeld � Prof. Joyce S. Lyon � Laura B. Martin � Noah & Dania Miwa � Prof. Clarence E. Morgan � Lynda Olson � Michele D. Vaillancourt Thank You! a special thanks to: Beverly Atkinson � Bohemian Press � Todd Boss � Julie Caniglia � Junot D�az � Dislocate � Lin Enger � Linda Greve � Diana Heim � Lewis Hyde � Elizabeth Larson � Jim Lenfestey � Ann Linde � Laurie Lindeen � Brad Listi � Eric Lorberer � Lisa Marshall � Steven McCarthy � Jeremy Messersmith � Dan Mrozowski � Ann Mulfort and the University Archives � Jim Novak � Emily Paulson � Paula Rabinowitz � Radio K � Julie Schumacher � Krzysiu Suszynski � Paul Taylor � William Waltz Robot Flower � Joe Kane