SUNY Ulster's Slate Magazine

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SUNY Ulster’ s

You’re not a novel of any variety I can comprehend.



Spring 2011

Editor Art Director / Designer

Faculty Advisor Publisher

Printed by Founder



Karissa Keir Gulnar Babayeva Lauren Yaro Robert Pucci Department of Art, Design, Music, Theatre & Communication Digital Page Mike Hurwitz

Kristopher Bernard Meghan Dahlgren Jessica Feshold Adalid Giron Karissa Keir KGM Aaron Kravig Jessica Marsico Rose Moore Dina Peone Erika Pumilia Brooke Wimberly Lauren Yaro

Gulnar Babayeva Amanda Cabanillas Jane Cullen Adalid Giron Rose Moore Lindsey O’Leary Cassiopeia Ottulich Dina Peone Lauren Yaro

Cover Artwork by Gulnar Babayeva Inner Cover Artwork by Adalid Giron Haiku by Lauren Yaro Spring 2011



Poem by Kristopher

Bernard Artwork by Lauren Yaro

Oh! To desire the springtime vision!

Dryads and nymphs recite mysterious prose

A phoenix birthed from ash and melting snow

Of men and gods who walk beneath kindred skies.

Conceived in death, crafted with precision Send us your moss green tendrils from below.

A love so new it could only be tasted

For it is your smell that exhales life into me

Where a touch could not only be felt, but worn

And melts the icy walls of this crystalline cell

Feeling each moment could forever be wasted

It is your sounds that arise from eternity And drown me in magic only you can dispel


And I think back, to your majesty reborn

Now, as the cold lulls me with a spectral hand And grants me the peace only death can allow

As your greys shift into the emerald boughs

I wish for spring to rise from this wilted land

That pull me closer to the dream realized

While my heart waits patiently in winter now.


Spring 2011

the univ the univ You ar e e r r s s e e You Y e the un ou are i t v e rse Yo he univer You ar u are th e the un se e i v univers e rse Yo You ar e e the un u are th e unive iverse You ar rse You ar e the un e i v t h You ar e e r s u e n iverse Y e the un ou are t i v erse Yo he univer You ar e the un se u are th You ar iverse Yo e univers e the un u are th e iverse e verse u n i v erse Y ou are You ar e the unithe uniArtwork & Poem by

Rose Moore

You are the universe,

Drifting along in all your divinity, Careless.

I want to reach out, Grasp, grab, Pull you in.

Instead I’m kissing lips Of lost lovers,

Waiting for you to Notice.

Such simple matters are Of no interest to you;

No need for trivial love and Affection.

At least, not from me.

Yet you remain my muse For you are the universe, And I am a lone planet Among many.

Spring 2011





Spring 2011

Meghan Dahlgren Artwork by Amanda Cabanillas Poem by

I want to shelter you from your storm

I'm going comatose from the lack of your sensations

I'll take a sword to all your bloody demons

You're a healer, medicine in disguise

And tape over all your recorded nightmares 'Cause when you're feeling weak, you know I'm strong enough

I want to be your last minute savior Because they say love conquers all

I rip my still beating heart from my chest

Forever hold this heart that I will give to you

For it belongs to you, my dear, and only beats to your tune

You're the hope over the centuries

The best kept secret of all time, whispered traces of you spread throughout the sands

It's amazing that I'm the only one to figure you out, to crack your secret code Only I hold your key

And I feel you comin' on to get me high

You're my drug, my addiction, my dirty little secret

I'll never wake up without an overdose of you

My heart and soul flat lines from the struggle of choosing good or evil

Your touch brought me back to life and saved my soul

Power radiates from you, I can see it but I dare not touch If I could touch your clothes, I could feel your power

I could have it for my own and save you from the disease that is yourself

Maybe we can re-write our past, there's no need to change the future

The future is arranged.....can you see it?

It's catching up to us quickly; shh it'll all be over soon A dark tunnel with no light at the end

The countdown begins to destroy ourselves This rat race won't last much longer

But it's worth every minute with you by my side Hey you, I love your soul

Spring 2011



Story by Meghan

Dahlgren Artwork by Cassiopeia Ottulich


teenage boy paced back and forth across the waiting room floor, wringing his hands as he cast continuous glances at the unmoving white doors leading to surgery. “Stop pacing, you’re making me nervous,” his mother scolded, anxiety painting her voice. She sat in a well worn chair against the whitewashed wall, pale faced and tapping her foot against the crisp tile floor impatiently. “I can’t help it. What happens if he never wakes up? It’ll be all my fault.” He cried, slumping down in the seat beside her and hugging his knees to his worry-knotted chest. He could barely remember how to breathe, his breath trapped in his barely functioning lungs as he imagined Beacan lying on a cold metal table under a white cloth. His mother placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, quite aware of how badly said hand shook as she did. She was just as worried as him, and it bothered her that Beacan’s father wasn’t coming to see how his injured son was. That ignorant, uncaring, sorry excuse for a man. She couldn’t imagine how Beacan had come from him; they were like night and day. “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine,” she lied through her teeth, trying to reassure her son. Putting on a brave face kept him from knowing just how bad it could be; Beacan was in very bad shape when they’d brought him in. Then again, no one would be unscathed if they’d been pushed into a fence, gotten beat up by someone twice their size, and had a bike hurled at them. The poor boy would be scarred mentally, if not physically. Devlin gripped his knees tight, knuckles going white, eyes boring holes into the doors as if he could make the doctor appear if he stared hard enough. “I hope so....” His voice was small, clinging to hope like it was the only thing keeping Beacan alive. He was in much better shape than him, and he felt horrible for it. All he had suffered from the attack had been a few scrapes and bruises, a bloody nose with a twisted tissue jammed in it, and a shiner on his right eye. No pain got through at the moment though; all he felt was a gut twisting worry for Beacan. He had ignored the doctor’s wishes to get him looked at too, wanting them all to focus solely on the other boy. “He has to be alright. He just has to,” he repeated to himself under his breath, unshed tears shining in his sad eyes. Two hours passed before the white doors finally swung open, a disheveled doctor stepping out as he wiped sweat from his forehead. He didn’t even have time to look around 8


Spring 2011

before Devlin appeared in front of him, wringing his hands and gazing up at him pleadingly. “Will he be okay, doc?” His eyes were welling up again because he couldn’t read the doctor’s face, but as the doctor laid a hand on his shoulder with a small comforting smile, his tears of fear turned into tears of relief. “He’ll be fine. We moved him to a recovery room. He’s asking for you,” the doctor replied, glad he had good news to give the young man. It had been a touch-and-go surgery, but Beacan was a resilient young man no matter how fragile he appeared. “He’s in room 215 on this floor. You can go visit him now,” he added, a chuckle escaping him as watched Devlin’s face break into a huge smile. Devlin ran off to find the room as soon as the words left the doctor’s mouth, not caring if his mother followed or not. It was just around the corner, so it didn’t take him long, and he soon found himself standing in front of the door. Tentatively putting his hand on the doorknob, he took a deep steadying breath before finally entering. His eyes widened as they beheld the scene in front of him, Beacan was hooked up to machines with tubes coming out every which way, his head was bandaged, and he seemed to be asleep. He gulped and stepped slowly over to his side, trying to be quiet so as not to wake him. He sat down in the chair beside his hospital bed and scooted right up next to him. As the chair squeaked on the floor, Beacan’s eyes slowly opened to look up at Devlin where he watched him. “Hey, Dev,” he whispered, wincing as he spoke since he had a broken rib. He reached his hand towards him, seeming to be struggling to even make that little effort. Devlin flinched as he saw the pain it caused Beacan just to move a little or speak, reaching out and taking his weakly outstretched hand in his own and squeezing it. “I’m sorry, Beacan. I should’ve been able to fight him off and save you. I never wanted you to get hurt. I....I love you.” His tears finally spilled over as he finally got the words out that he had been struggling with. Beacan smiled weakly as he heard those three words from Devlin; nothing else mattered then, he was just glad he was there. “I love you too.” His voice was barely above a whisper, and a moment after the words were spoken, his eyes drifted closed and he fell back into a drug induced sleep, a happy smile on his face despite the pain.

this one’s for my homies

Written by Aaron Kravig

And, if mine righteousness be contested: with a-like razors edge will I slice & carve upon my brow its resonant thesis. v

Undeniable, unrelenting, Irascible sentiments.

Beholden to thee & thine, all-in for graciousness, this, thy salacious libations.

I’ll strive past dawn & to perils beyond, and

Spring 2011



Poem by Meghan


Poem by Adalid


Feather of snow plummeting like a stone

As clouds parted ways the pain settled.

Falling through space and time

Individual lives once gently mingled.

Weighed down by blood and shadows Blackness enveloping pictures White out of the world

Scraping the bottom to �ind nothing Dusty cobwebs and locked doors

Say goodbye to something you never knew And hello to something you’ll never know For you’re never going home

The cold reality sank into me.

Mind, Body, Soul where once whole now lay in three. Now love, from a mountain dangled.

Hopeless, is my time to again woo thee, Your caress and touch is a dying tree. Memories, Sanity are both damaged

Now the darkness is gone and the light shines A new chapter unfolds in my Love Life

Excitement, Joy, Lust, Peace it is all mine!

Life exploding like some stepped on landmines Leisurely strolling, A new lease on life

New Joys and Loves: It is all in due time.

A quiet pair of fidgety ghosts in the machine Orchestrating phantom controls invisibly Levers, buttons Pulled and pushed By unearthly Doppelganger digits With unfinished business

Poem by Dina

Peone Artwork by Lindsey O’Leary 10


Spring 2011

Written by Artwork by

Jessica Feshold Jane Cullen

I sit and wonder where things went so wrong. All my companions I have ever had, not one has fulfilled me; it’s very sad. My days keep me busy, my nights are long. Friends all have families, I don’t belong. What can I do? To whom shall I be mad? All’s lost. I’d be better off a nomad. My life is like an Elliot Smith song: But Elliot is dead and I’m alive! I’ve been given a gift I have to find. A peaceful journey is where I’ll begin. Where it ends I need not know; I will thrive! Within me love and hope seem intertwined. I’ve been given fresh perspective: new skin.

Written by

Lauren Yaro

I’m the only audience hearing the harmony of your heartbeats whisper in my ear as the ticking of your wristwatch combined with a delicate breath proves that you do exist, as times within the arms of perfection are priceless Spring 2011



Shattered World

Such a pretty girl, four small words that destroyed a child’s world. She trusted you, may even of looked up to you, but I guess that just was not enough for you. The sound of your heart beat still pounding in her head, your touch slices her skin like a razor’s edge. The first time there was confusion, too young to comprehend, the second time there were tears, you told her this was love. A child’s life tainted by a man that showed no fear, your face still haunts her, even after all these years. A little girl creates an imaginary world in the hopes for an escape, but it was too late, she is drowning in her tears. Her subconscious screams she is nothing, just an object good for only one thing. One day he was gone, no emotion present, as if none of it was real all along. That’s how it remained until one day he reappeared, leaving her broken, shattered, and in fear. Written by KGM

Artwork by Cassiopeia



Spring 2011


Poem by Karissa

Keir Artwork by Lauren Yaro

Against the silver cage she beats her wings, A creature beautiful in her despair: The nightingale, whose song is sweet and fair, But tinged with bitterness as she, sad, sings. Her prison’s walls receive her as she flings Herself into them, chirping mournful prayers To fly away, be free, if she but dare – Or should she rather to her chamber cling? For freedom’s not just something bodily, But rather, it’s a state of heart and mind: The outward signs don’t mark the state of her soul. In living our her purpose she is free; In bringing peace to others, peace she finds, And in her brokenness, she’s now made whole.

Written by Meghan


A thousand knives bite into my heart, severing the arteries and veins that transport my precious lifeblood which now spills onto the floor. It’s precious only to me, while you all sit and laugh at my demise. That’s all I am to you, a laughing matter, my mistakes on display for your amusement. Well you’ve had your laughs as I lay dying on the floor, take a picture and exclaim on how the poor puppet died of her own stupidity. I have performed

for you all for the last time, no one needed to pull my strings for I could ruin my life all on my own. All they had to do was pull up a seat and grab some popcorn to watch the show and get their sick fill of my twisted fate. My lifeless eyes stare up at them from the cold floor of the stage as they pose beside my broken body for the last time. Pictures to capture the last time the poor puppet performed for their sick and twisted sense of humors.

No one cares about the puppet herself, no, they don’t care about me, they only care about themselves and their own pathetic lives. They’ve been entertained, and that’s all that matters to them. I suffered for it, but that was my purpose, to provide humor for everyone around me, to live to hurt for them. I was merely entertainment. So with my last breath, I whisper one final line. “Ladies and gentlemen...see you all in hell.” Spring 2011



Art Through Life-Or Life Through Art? Essay by Karissa

Keir Artwork by Lindsey O’Leary


he world is always changing, and as a reflection of these changes in people and times, art has always been a looking-glass in which we view ourselves and our world, as well as a time capsule through which can examine the thoughts and feelings of others in times past. However, no matter how perfectly these works are preserved, even though we may hear the same music, look at the same pictures, and read the same words as the people of any given time, something is lost in the translation. We try our best to perceive things the way that they did back then, keeping in mind cultural factors and the individual history of the creator, but in the end we always seem to end up projecting a little (or more than a little) of our own perceptions onto what we are experiencing. That is because we are human beings, and this is what we do. History and art are thus inextricably linked, for the events that are happening in our world today affect how and what we choose to express, as well as our interpretation of what others have expressed about their own times before us. And, of course, mixed in with all of that is the unique personal perspective that each of us brings to both interpretation and expression. The Romantic period is a particularly good example of this, because it is easy to see how the events of the time affected artistic expression, and there are also many similarities between the worldviews and values of that period and the worldviews and values of people today. For instance, technological and political revolutions have always provided a vast supply of material for artists, and the Romantic period had more than its fair share of both. 14


Spring 2011

Numerous and rapid improvements in technology made life better for some, and it was certainly an exciting time to be living in, but along with these improvements came changes in class systems and ways of obtaining a livelihood that were frustrating at best and morally and philosophically troubling at worst. Some embraced these changes with all the passion and vitality that those challenging times aroused, rising to the occasion and venting their frustration in efforts to better the human condition. Others, in an attempt to escape from these pressures, turned to nature and imagination—things that were simple, that they could understand and in a way, perhaps, even exercise some control over. While these responses are certainly understandable, and there survive in literature many excellent examples of both, the writings of one person in particular stand out as a most radical and controversial response to the problems of both the Romantic period and life in general. This person was William Blake. In contrast to some of his colleagues who turned to nature as something to bring them in touch with their true selves, William Blake saw anything physical—from factories and machines to plants and people’s bodies—as corrupt, fallen things that inhibited people from seeing and experiencing spiritual realities. This philosophy is revealed in a vast number of his works—particularly his Songs of Innocence and Experience. Poems in the first half, Songs of Innocence, (such as “The Little Black Boy” and “The Chimney Sweeper”) talk about the poor state of the human

Artwork by Amanda


condition here on earth, and refer to death and leaving this world as the happy event upon which people will finally realize the purpose and joy that have been denied them by the confines of corporeal bonds. Even works such as “Holy Thursday” and “The Divine Image” seem to suggest that people are to be valued not for their humanity, but rather for their resemblance to spiritual beings. This theme is only magnified in the second half, Songs of Experience, where Blake becomes more explicit in his condemnation of the physical world with poems such as “The Tyger” and “A Divine Image.” However, it is in this second half that Blake really begins to tie his argument together, and what might at first be taken as the nonsensical rhymes of a bitter lunatic can now perhaps be seen as the thoughtful poetry of an imaginative and insightful individual. In every era there has always been change, but some eras have seen more of it than others. The Romantic period was one of them. As people turned away from the changes that shattered the way of life they had known for centuries, Blake took a step further and realized that it is not only political and social systems that decay with time, but that even natural things—including people—have an end as well. Viewed with this interpretation, poems such as “The Sick Rose” change from strange, indiscernible riddles to a

poignant commentary on life. The phrase, “The invisible worm, that flies in the night… his dark secret love does thy life destroy” (Damrosch 69) could refer to the way that life is unpredictable, and the invisible worm of death can strike at any time. Life is beautiful, but the dark secret of life is that it has an end, and no one knows when that end will come. Knowledgeable of this fact, then, it is no wonder that William Blake sought to find happiness in intangible, other-worldly things. With the certainty of change and finiteness in everything physical, the spiritual realm was the only place he could turn in hope of something that would last forever. Other poems throughout Blake’s Songs exemplify this longing, such as “Ah! Sunflower,” which tells of a sunflower who is “weary of time” and “Seeking after that sweet golden clime” (Damrosch 71) where all is blissful, young, and unchanging. In many ways, Blake’s views are still relevant for today, because we still face the problems of changing times, and physical decay and death. Many, if not all of us, have moments when we realize how fleeting life is and struggle with what to do about it. Even though I don’t entirely agree with Blake’s views, upon further examination and reflection I began to see another possible side of them, and this Spring 2011



has helped me to understand them better. Also, along with that understanding comes the knowledge that there is yet one more side to art, deeply personal but not about us. At its core, the most basic purpose of art is to give individuals a voice, and to give us a glimpse into their minds, hearts, and very selves. This ability to see into the deepest part of a person is a gift, and whether or not we agree with them, it is something that is worthy of being respected and treasured. Even more important than immortality is life itself, and when we recognize the worth of another human being, we give them life in a way that mere flesh and blood existence never could.

Poem by Jessica Marsico Artwork by Lauren Yaro

I want you to [either with skeptical trepidation or full steam ahead] test these words for any sense of familiarity for that welcome home, comfort feeling and for that realization that you are not alone I want you to [with neither apathy nor empathy] take these words for what they are, or need to be for devastating melancholy and unrelenting joy and sink into the soil of affect alone I want you [in any form you’ve come] And offer myself [however I may be seen] Read on, comrades in separation Read on



Spring 2011

Erika Pumilia Artwork by Gulnar Babayeva

Poem by

Where are you this moment, my darling student? Where have your thoughts taken you? Where are you this moment my young Angel? Is there something you need me to do? Is there a way I could touch you? Is there a sign I should know? Is there a path I could follow, That could help me to teach you, to learn, and grow? You know little of danger And everyone to you is a friend This world’s a crazy place, but fun to explore, All the textures, things that sparkle, and much, much more. If I could reach down inside you I would cuddle with your heart, I would take the mystery away, And show you, that you ARE truly smart! But where are you this moment my student? Based on “Tridem K” by Victor Vasarely

Where are your thoughts taking you? Please see I am right here beside you No matter what life throws at you.

Spring 2011



Poem by Rose

Moore Artwork by Lindsey O’Leary Look at what we’ve all become; Sparkling beams of Sun, Rotating planets,

Atmospheres of our own solar systems. And yet, I am connected to you. We share stars, you and I. We share earth and air and Moonbeams. But because you are part of me, I am the lucky one.



Spring 2011

Poem by Adalid


These walls are all knowing.

donde sus huellas sangrientas dejan su presencia eterna

Ellas saben lo que haces

(where their bloody fingerprints leave their everlasting

(They know what you do)


Lo que hiciste

El alma es calmada, amada y todo mientras el piel se arde y

(What you did)

se rompe.

Y lo que tu haras.

(The soul is calmed, loved and all while the skin burns and

(And what you will do.)


Yet as they seem to know so much

Maniacally deceiving the scarred neural receptors

They are reassuring

They are so diabolically treacherous

These Walls.

These Walls.

These walls are all feeling

These walls are all knowing

Ellas sienten una tortura inmensa

Ellas se les nota la aurora saturada de lagrimas, sangre, sudor,

(They feel an immense torture)

y urines

Este gran dolor, una tortura que las llena de emocion

(They show the saturated aurora of tears, blood, sweat, and

es poderosas


(This great pain, a torture that fills them with powerful

La paz es alcanzada a traves del obvio dolor enorme


(Peace is achieved through the obvious huge pain)

La sangre de los inocentes corre libremente entre ellas.

Por fin, los minutos se convierten en dias, y ojala este vacio

(The blood of the innocent runs freely between them.)

se llene.

Somehow even with all this binding emotion

(Finally, the minutes become days, and hopefully this void is

They are so liberating


These Walls.

These four walls are all representing, All knowing,

These walls are all nurturing

All feeling,

Ellas conocen la fragil linea del abandonamiento,

All nurturing,

(They know the fragile line of abandonment,)

All reviving. Spring 2011



Poem by

Rose Moore

Pleasure’s Rise and Fall Written by Jessica

Handsome stranger, With your perfect eyes And lips that taste of danger, Reading my fortune on your tongue. Get to know me, if only for


August and September were my Pinnacles of pleasure But as October crept nearer She only gave to me The End.

A short while. Pull me in and shower Me with your thoughts, pour Emotions over me without fear that I will leave. Clasp clean sheets, crisp And warm with daylight, giggling as we Tug them over our heads. No wisp Of the outside world invading us. You may leave, allowing me a chance To dry up and turn to dust, waiting for the wind To blow me away. Or you may advance Upon me, like a predator and consume my heart.

my new sexy status [pulse] Written by Aaron


awkward is the new sexy, and we are all a lost & found generation. I had even bothered to make a whole new path, but... it didn't make any difference,

As I lie patiently, hoping to learn our fate, Warmth surrounds me And I sleep, dreaming, in a state Of bliss, about you and your heavenly face. 20


Spring 2011

at all. and, don't kid yourself, the rainbow never ends.

Written by Meghan Dahlgren Artwork by Gulnar Babayeva


he’s the girl who nobody notices, whose broken mirror heart reflected its darkness upon the canvas of her body. She was cursed with more than a hundred years of bad luck, 7 years for every time she let someone break her glass heart. She wore her hair long to hide her sad clown face and painted on a mask to cover up the tear tracks tattooed upon her hollow cheeks. He’s the boy everybody dumped their problems on, whose blunt vocalizations and straightforward thoughts kept everyone at bay. He was cursed with a vision of the future, but was unable to see his own downfall until he was at the bottom with no way out and no one to help. He always wore a hoodie to hide the shame he wore like a second skin and painted his body to cover up the wounds inflicted by an almost deadly overdose of life. She spoke in melodies and synonyms as her fingers painted imagination and creativity upon all she touched. She spread beauty wherever she went, trying to make up for what she -felt- knew she lacked. She knew no one would notice, but she infused her words with love and laughter so they wouldn’t know she was breaking apart at a dangerous pace. He saw in color and passion, etching precision and art into the sands of time. He brightened up the world as he walked through it, trying to make up for the darkness he saw in his – heart- soul. He drew a line around himself to see if anyone cared enough to cross it, but no one did. Her brown eyes were always straining

to see the future, wanting to get away from the here and now, until they caught sight of him. They could finally rest and enjoy the view, because she didn’t want to see anything other than him ever again. She found her tongue unable to spit out her slick words for the first time in her life, but eventually she realized she’d come to favor three specific heart-words. His hands were always roaming, seemingly unable to ever get enough of anything, until they rested upon her. They finally quit their roaming and settled into her curves because she was the only thing he wanted for now and forever. He found his eyes saw only in black and white when he looked at anything other than her, but it didn’t take him long to realize that it was because every-

thing was dull compared to her rainbow. Now she’s crossed the line he drew around himself and has tangled her strings with his, and he’s brushed away the cobwebs from her words to fill them with real love and life instead of the fakes she had filled them with before and has ripped the mask from her face. She knew he was damaged, but she also knew just how to make him whole again and she didn’t care how long it took, she loved him flaws and all. He knew she was fragile, but he also knew how to give her back her strength and he didn’t care how much he had to fight to protect her until then, he would give her the world if he could. They may have been a little too rough around the edges for everyone else, but they fit just perfectly in each other’s hearts. Spring 2011





Spring 2011

Artwork by Gulnar


Artwork and Poem by Adalid


The death of my Father grows near. Soon he’ll join the swallows in flight. Cannot let go what I hold dear. His eyes are no longer as bright. He was strong, he was brave, always Looking out for my well being. Now his glow is like the sun’s rays, Growing dim but always present. Death, you will not take him from me So easily, I’ll stand and fight. Leave Him be, try your touch on me. No souls to reap on this cold night. My skin is unbroken and fresh, Over death I’m victorious. So go ahead and tear my flesh. I’ll prevail and be glorious. Death, I challenge thy will and touch. Here I stand arrogant and strong. Bring it all, it is not enough. For I’ll win and you will be gone. Spring 2011



Screenplay by

Brooke Wimberley

Based on a short story “Death of a Traveling Salesman” by Eudora Welty EXT. DIRT ROAD - DAY A 1935 Ford is seen driving down a dirt road in a deserted area. The car is being driven by a man in his late forties, BOWMAN, who is wearing a wide-brimmed hat and looking extremely tired. On the seat next to him, we see a briefcase with the name R.J. BOWMAN clearly printed on it. Bowman sticks his head out of the car window. The sun is blazing. He pulls his head in again. We see the road from Bowman’s view, going in and out of focus. Bowman’s eyes are drooping. INT. HOSPITAL - DAY Bowman is lying in a hospital bed, coughing. DOCTOR #1 puts on his stethoscope. Bowman is given influenza medication by NURSE. INT. GRANDMA’S HOUSE - DAY A VERY YOUNG BOWMAN, around ten years of age, is jumping on a bed. BOWMAN’S GRANDMOTHER is standing beside the bed, smiling as she watches him. EXT. DIRT ROAD - DAY We see Bowman driving down the dirt road once more. BOWMAN (mumbling) Beulah... Beulah... Beulah... Bowman looks to his left to see several farmhands out in the surrounding fields. As Bowman drives by, the farmhands stop their work and stare at him. BOWMAN Beulah... Bowman stares at the road in confusion. EXT. SMALL TOWN - DAY A sign in the road: BEULAH, MISSISSIPPI 50 MI. We see a YOUNG BOWMAN, around age twenty, standing on a gravel road beside his car, looking up at the sign. 24


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EXT. DIRT ROAD - DAY Bowman sticks his head out the car window and looks up at the sky. A single cloud floats by, shaped like a human heart. The car is slowly approaching a ravine, but Bowman does not notice this. The cloud floats in between two chinaberry trees, which are located on either side of a cabin atop a small hill. Bowman looks back to the road. His vision has become very blurred. As the car drives over a mass of dead leaves, the car comes to the edge of the ravine. Bowman tries to press hard on the brake, but it is of no use. He realizes as the car teeters on the edge of the ravine that he must leave the car. He grabs his briefcase and a second bag from thefloor and exits the car. As the car rolls down the ravine, Bowman watches, his bags on the ground beside him. Bowman stands still until the car disappears. He takes a few steps forward and looks into the ravine. The car is tangled in a mass of grapevines. Bowman continues to stare. The grapevines morph into the arms of his grandmother. INT. GRANDMA’S HOUSE - DAY Bowman’s Grandmother is sitting in a rocking chair. Very Young Bowman is sitting on her lap and smiling, her arms wrapped around him. EXT. RAVINE - DAY Bowman steps away from the edge of the ravine. He is hit with a sudden realization and looks around the area, bewildered. BOWMAN Wh... Where... Bowman spots the cabin on the hill. He sighs, then looks at his car one last time. Bowman picks up his bags and begins to walk towards the house. He must stop several times along the way to catch his breath. As Bowman approaches the house, he sees a WOMAN standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame of the door. She is holding a half-cleaned lamp in her one hand and a rag in the other. Bowman can not see her face. Bowman stops a few feet away from the house. Two rooms inside the house and a passage that connects them can be seen through the doorway. Spring 2011



Bowman begins breathing heavily, and suddenly a heartbeat can be heard. The heartbeat is soft and slow.

BOWMAN (cont’d) (slurring and nearly inaudible) Good afternoon, madam...

Bowman drops his bags, which land on a patch of grass by the door. Bowman’s eyes gaze over the woman’s body. Though her dress does not show much shape, it is obvious that she is big. Her head is down, but he can see that she is an older woman. Bowman wipes sweat off his forehead. BOWMAN Good afternoon, madam. The woman looks up at Bowman and smiles. For a few moments he sees her as his grandmother. He blinks a few times, and her appearance returns to normal. BOWMAN I wonder if you’d be interested-An accident-- my car... Bowman turns and looks back at the ravine. The woman looks as well. BOWMAN My car... The sound of the heartbeat fades. Bowman looks back at the woman. She is still smiling. WOMAN Sonny. He ain’t here. BOWMAN Sonny? WOMAN Sonny ain’t here now. The woman returns her attention to cleaning the lamp. Bowman thinks for a while. BOWMAN My car... is in the bottom of the ditch. The woman looks up. Bowman momentarily sees his grandmother’s face again. BOWMAN I need help. The woman smiles. WOMAN Sonny ain’t here, but he’ll be here. 26


Spring 2011

Bowman stares into the distance. He is breathing heavily. BOWMAN I was sick. I’m... I’m not strong... yet... Bowman begins to bow down, removing his hat. He is clearly struggling to remain standing. BOWMAN (cont’d) May I come in? The woman looks at Bowman. A gentle breeze blows by and moves Bowman’s hair. His neck is covered with sweat. Slowly, she steps aside to let him walk through the doorway. Bowman stands up as straight as possible and grabs only his briefcase, leaving the other bag behind. Holding the briefcase up to his chest, Bowman tentatively begins to walk inside the house. The woman turns as she closes the door. INT. HOTEL ROOM - DAY Bowman is sitting on the worn bed. The sound of a door closing is heard. PROSTITUTE #1 is by the door, slowly making her way across the room to where Bowman is sitting. He watches her with a blank expression as she sits in his lap, and he wraps his arms around her, coldly. FADE TO BLACK INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - DAY Bowman and the woman enter the first room of the house. The woman sets the lamp down on the table in the center of the room. She points to a chair by the table, then walks across the room to the fireplace. She sits down in front of it, facing Bowman, with her knees up. Bowman looks quickly around the room, which is unlit. INT. HOSPITAL - DAY The doctor coldly places two fingers on Bowman’s neck to take his pulse. INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - DAY Bowman sits on the chair pointed out by the woman. There is a window on this side of the room, by the door. He looks out the window, then at the woman, then he turns to the doorway leading to a bedroom. He sees a bed with a red and yellow quilt laying on the mattress. Spring 2011



INT. GRANDMA’S HOUSE - DAY Very Young Bowman stands in front of a wall, looking up. On the wall is a painting of Rome burning. INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - DAY Bowman shivers, though he is still clearly sweating. He looks once more at the woman and the fireplace. He sees the coals laying on the hearth. The woman silently stares at Bowman. BOWMAN (inaudible) I have a nice line of women’s low-priced shoes... WOMAN Sonny’ll be here. He’s strong. Sonny’ll move your car. BOWMAN Where is he now? WOMAN Farms for Mr. Redmond. BOWMAN (mouthing) Redmond.... Bowman looks around the room again. INT. HOSPITAL - DAY Bowman is lying on the hospital bed, moaning in pain. INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - DAY Bowman shivers again. BOWMAN Do you two live here... alone? The woman stares at Bowman, unblinkingly. INT. HOTEL ROOM - DAY Bowman is standing by the open door to the hotel room. Standing on the other side of the door in the hallway is PROSTITUTE #2, leaning against the doorway. PROSTITUTE #2 --alone? INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - DAY The woman slowly nods.



Spring 2011

WOMAN Yes... We are alone.

Bowman looks at his wrist, gently placing two fingers on his skin to feel his pulse, and for a few seconds his heartbeat can be faintly heard. He pulls his arms in and folds them over his abdomen. INT. HOSPITAL - DAY Bowman is laying in the hospital bed. A nurse is about to give him medication. BOWMAN (moaning) Please... Please... INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - DAY Bowman notices the half-cleaned lamp on the table. He stares at it for a while. The woman looks at the closed door. Bowman shifts his gaze to her hands, which are clasped by her knees. INT. HOTEL ROOM - DAY Prostitute #2 lays her hand on Bowman’s chest. INT. GRANDMA’S HOUSE - DAY Very Young Bowman is standing in his grandmother’s room. Bowman’s grandmother is standing beside him, bent over so they are eye level. She gently places her hand on his cheek and smiles. INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - DAY Bowman lifts his hand and gently grazes his face. The woman perks up as she stares out of the window. WOMAN Oh! Sonny’s coming. Bowman continues to look at the woman as the door opens. In walks SONNY, with two large dogs trailing behind him. As the dogs start hopping up on Sonny, Bowman finally turns and sees Sonny’s jacket, which he notices is Confederate. Sonny attempts to calm the dogs. The woman stands up and walks beside him. Bowman shifts uncomfortably in his seat. WOMAN (cont’d) Sonny. Sonny, this man, he had his car to run off over the prec’pice an’ wants to know if you will git it out for him. Bowman tries to speak, but fails. Sonny turns his head to Bowman. Bowman shrugs and averts his gaze, bowing his head Spring 2011



in shame. Sonny walks towards the window and peers out to see Bowman’s car. Bowman wipes some sweat from his temples. SONNY Got me a mule out there an’ got me a block an’ tackle. Sonny stands back and looks at Bowman. SONNY I could catch me my mule an’ git me my ropes, an’ before long I’d git your car out the ravine. Bowman remains silent and keeps his head down. Sonny looks around the room for a while, then finally leaves with the two dogs. Bowman watches him out of the corner of his eye. Bowman’s heartbeat is heard again, loud but brief. The woman returns to her seat by the hearth. WOMAN Sonny’s goin’ to do it. (singing) Sonny’s goin’ to do it! Bowman keeps his eyes on the woman. Through the window beside him, Sonny can be seen passing by. He is holding a rope, and a mule is trailing behind. Bowman sighs, and slowly turns toward the window. The mule is stopped by the window, staring at Bowman. Bowman turns back and shivers. The woman looks at the mule in the window and smiles. The woman begins to hum a tune. She rocks back and forth in her seat as Bowman watches her. INT. GRANDMA’S HOUSE - DAY Bowman’s grandmother is in the rocking chair, holding a sleeping Very Young Bowman in her arms. She rocks back and forth as she sings him a lullaby.

INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - DAY Bowman frowns in the woman’s direction and slowly holds a hand up to his chest. His heartbeat is heard again and his hand begins to shake. The woman continues to hum. 30


Spring 2011

BOWMAN (mumbling) I have been... sick... INT. HOTEL ROOM - DAY Bowman is sitting on the edge of the bed, cradling his head in his hands. He is alone in the room. INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - DAY Bowman’s hand is still by his chest. Sonny can be seen through the window, walking towards the ravine. WOMAN (singing) Sonny’s goin’, Sonny’s goin’... Bowman’s heartbeat is heard, loud and erratic. He is breathing heavily and still sweating. BOWMAN Been sick... EXT. LAKE - DAY Bowman is standing on the shore of a small lake. He looks around in confusion. MYSTERY WOMAN is standing on the other side of the lake, but only her silhouette can be seen. She is completely out of Bowman’s reach. Bowman slowly stretches his arm out in her direction. SCENE DISSOLVES INTO: INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - LATE AFTERNOON BOWMAN It’s too late. The woman briefly looks at Bowman. Bowman sighs and runs a shaking hand over his eyes. He stares at the woman, who has gone back to staring out the window, sitting completely still. Bowman sighs again. The woman smiles. WOMAN Sonny’s hitched up your car by now. He’ll git it out the ravine right shortly. BOWMAN Fine! Bowman flashes a smile, but falters after a few moments. Spring 2011



THE EXTERIOR OF THE HOUSE IS SHOWN AND THE SUN IS SEEN GOING DOWN. INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - NIGHT Bowman is still sitting in the chair in the exact same position. His hand is rubbing his knee. His breathing is labored. Suddenly, the sound of a stream softly appears. Bowman listens to it, clearly growing fearful. BOWMAN What’s that noise? WOMAN You might hear the stream. Bowman turns to see that the woman is standing at the table now, though she is no more than a silhouette in the dark. The faint outline of the half-cleaned lamp can be seen. Bowman closes his eyes. The woman moves to the window. After staring for a few moments, she lifts her arm and points to a spot in the darkness. WOMAN That white speck’s Sonny. Bowman opens his eyes and looks over, hesitantly. The speck she pointed at begins to move closer to the house. The woman smiles. Bowman turns, and with tears forming in his eyes, places his hand on his chest. The door opens and Sonny walks in. The woman immediately walks to his side. SONNY I done got your car out, mister. She’s settin’ a’waitin’ in the road, turned to go back where she come from. BOWMAN Fine! I’m surely much obliged. I could never have done it myself... I was sick... SONNY I could do it easy. INT. HOTEL ROOM - DAY Bowman hands Prostitute #1 a wad of cash.



Spring 2011

INT. HOSPITAL - DAY Bowman sets an expensive-looking bracelet on the table beside his hospital bed as he prepares to leave. Nurse finds the bracelet. INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - NIGHT Bowman stares at the couple, and his heartbeat returns, as loud as ever. He shivers. His trembling hand makes its way into his pocket. BOWMAN Of course I’m going to pay you for everythingSONNY We don’t take money for such. BOWMAN I want to pay. But do something more... Let me stay tonight... Bowman stands, taking a small step towards the couple. BOWMAN (cont’d) (with increasing sadness) I’m not very strong yet. I’m not able to walk far... even back to my car, maybe, I don’t know... I don’t know exactly where I am. Bowman inhales sharply. Sonny stands in front of him and begins to run his hands over Bowman’s body, checking for weapons. INT. HOSPITAL - DAY Bowman is standing in a clinic room wearing a patient gown as DOCTOR #2 examines him. The doctor wraps his hand around Bowman’s wrist and measures his pulse. INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - NIGHT Sonny takes a step back and stares at Bowman. SONNY You ain’t no revenuer come sneakin’ here, mister, ain’t got no gun? BOWMAN No... SONNY Spring 2011



You can stay. Bowman smiles and sighs in relief. He slowly backs up and sits down in the chair. The woman and Sonny remain standing, chatting to each other inaudibly. Bowman watches them. The woman laughs and walks around Sonny, stopping by the fireplace. WOMAN Sonny, you’ll have to borry some fire. SONNY I’ll go git it from Redmond’s. Bowman looks from Sonny to the woman in confusion. BOWMAN What? WOMAN (loudly and slowly) Our fire, it’s out, and Sonny’s got to borry some, because it’s dark an’ cold. Bowman’s hand feels around by the pocket of his trousers. BOWMAN But matches- I have matchesThe woman smiles and shakes her head. WOMAN We don’t have no need for ’em. Sonny’s goin’ after his own fire. Sonny gives a firm nod. SONNY I’m going out to Redmond’s. Sonny promptly turns and leaves. The woman smiles at the door. INT. HOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bowman turns off the overhead light and lays down. In another shot, Bowman is seen lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. He looks to the empty space beside him. He turns on his side and tries to sleep. INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - NIGHT The woman is standing by the table again. Bowman looks out the window and sees a blob of light moving across the field and towards the house. The woman smiles. Sonny enters the house, carrying a burning stick with a pair of tongs. The woman walks to him and takes the tongs from him. She goes back to the table and lights the lamp.



Spring 2011

WOMAN We’ll make a fire now. The woman walks to the fireplace and starts the fire. She grabs a few nearby pots and begins to drop coals into the fire. She looks up at Bowman and smiles. Bowman shivers. Sonny returns from the other room with a chair, which he sits on backwards, staring at Bowman. SONNY Have a drink, mister? Bowman looks at Sonny and genuinely smiles. BOWMAN Yes sir, you bet! Thanks! SONNY Come after me and do just what I do. Sonny stands up, and Bowman follows. Sonny leads him through the hall into the second room of the house and out through the back door. EXT. SONNY’S HOUSE - CONTINUOUS They walk for a while, passing a shed, and they finally come upon a row of thick bushes. SONNY Down on your knees. Bowman wipes some sweat from his forehead. BOWMAN What? Sonny crouches down and crawls through a tunnel created by the bushes. Bowman watches, then tentatively follows. Bowman twitches several times as twigs and leaves gently scrape against him. Sonny stops abruptly and begins to dig the dirt beneath him. Bowman stops beside him and stares for a few moments. He pulls out the box of matches from his pocket and, with shaking hands, strikes a match. He holds the light over Sonny’s hands. As Sonny digs, a jug becomes visible. Sonny pulls the jug up from the dirt and grabs a bottle from his jacket pocket. He pours some liquid into the bottle, then reburies the jug. Bowman looks at him expectantly. SONNY (laughing) You never know who’s liable to knock at your door. Start back. Spring 2011



Ain’t no need for us to drink outdoors, like hogs. Bowman nods slowly and puts out the match. The two crawl back through the bushes. INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - CONTINUOUS Sonny and Bowman are sitting opposite each other at the table. Sonny takes a drink from the bottle, then passes it to Bowman. Bowman does the same and passes it back. SONNY’S WIFE is standing by the fireplace, moving the coals off of the pots. Bowman looks around the room and smiles. BOWMAN This is good. This is what I needed. SONNY’S WIFE He makes it. Bowman momentarily looks confused, then stares down at the bottle in his hand. Sonny’s wife walks over to the table with the pots of cornbread, coffee, and potatoes. She sets the pots on the table, then stands straight and looks at the men. Her face is lit by the lamp, and we see that she is actually a young woman. Bowman looks up at her, gaping. He rubs his eyes. Sonny’s wife runs a hand over her belly, then smiles. Sonny is adding food to his plate. He quickly looks at her as she starts to walk into the other room. Through the doorway, we see her lie down on the bed. Sonny smirks as he shoves food in his mouth. SONNY She’s goin’ to have a baby. I’m goin’ to be a pa. It’s great, innit? Excitin’. Bowman stares at the doorway to the bedroom. BOWMAN (absentmindedly) I wouldn’t know... SONNY Oh. Well, it’s excitin’. Sonny continues to eat as Bowman looks around the room. He stares at the fireplace. Then he looks to the dogs in the corner of the room, sleeping. He shivers. Bowman’s hand trembles as he turns back to Sonny and grabs



Spring 2011

the bottle, slowly bringing it to his lips. Sonny is too busy looking at his plate to notice. SONNY Redmond says looks like she’s due any day now. I told him naw, a few more weeks. He says that’s how it usually is, looks like you’ve got a few more weeks left and then suddenly, there’s the baby comin’ out. Ain’t got enough time to prepare then. But I say, what’s there to prepare? Already got food and some clothes. Ain’t nothin’ else much we need for a baby. Bowman wipes his forehead, though there is no sweat. BOWMAN (muttering) Special... reduced prices... Sonny looks up and furrows his brow. SONNY What’d you say, mister? Bowman slowly nods his head, staring off into the distance. Sonny looks at Bowman’s plate and frowns. SONNY (cont’d) You ain’t as hungry as you look. ’Spose it don’t matter. (over his shoulder) All done here! Sonny wipes his mouth with a small cloth, then throws it onto the plate and sits back in the chair, staring at Bowman. Sonny’s wife comes in from the other room. Sonny stands up and lets her take his chair. He walks across the room and sits by the fire. Sonny’s wife begins to eat. Bowman looks back and forth between Sonny and his wife. He quickly bows his head, looking at his hands, clasped and shaking in his lap. EXT. LAKE - DAY Bowman is sitting on the lake’s shore, watching across the water. The mystery woman is now joined by a SMALL CHILD, both only silhouettes. She lifts the small child into the air and spins around, almost dancing. Bowman sees his briefcase sitting beside him. He grabs it and pulls it to his chest, embracing it tightly. He shuts his eyes. EXT. GRANDMA’S HOUSE - DAY Dark clouds fill the sky as Young Bowman steps out of the house and onto the porch. He is dressed entirely in black Spring 2011



and looks very upset. He stares into the street for a few moments, then finally closes the door behind him. INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - NIGHT Bowman starts as the sound of the front door closing is heard. He turns to see Sonny by the door, holding the empty pots. Sonny’s wife, still sitting opposite Bowman, smiles in Sonny’s direction. Bowman stands up slowly and begins to walk towards Sonny. Sonny sets the empty pots on the table, next to the lamp. BOWMAN I think I’d better sleep here by the fire... on the floor. Bowman turns toward the fire and weakly points. Sonny stands behind him, watching. SONNY Sure, mister. Bowman turns back to face the couple. Sonny helps his wife get up from the chair. He whispers something in her ear. The two look at Bowman with great concern, and he smiles back at them. The couple walks into the bedroom. Bowman stops smiling and looks at the fire. Bowman lays down by the fire and watches it for a while. INT. GRANDMA’S HOUSE - DAY Very Young Bowman and Bowman’s grandmother are sitting in the living room, bundled up by the fireplace. The comforter from her bed is draped over the pair. Bowman’s grandmother is reading a story out of a small book. INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - NIGHT The fire has almost completely gone out. Bowman still stares at it, his lips trembling. BOWMAN (whispering) There will be... There will be special reduced prices... on all footwear during the month of... January. There will be...footwear... Bowman closes his mouth and shuts his eyes. INT. GRANDMA’S HOUSE - DAY Very Young Bowman and his grandmother are sitting by the fireplace once more, under the same blanket. 38


Spring 2011

BOWMAN’S GRANDMOTHER The King stood on tip-toe and saw it over his shoulder. And when hesaw the portrait of the maiden, which was so magnificent and shone with gold and precious stones, he fell fainting to the ground. Faithful John took him up, carried him to his bed, and sorrowfully thought, “The misfortune has befallen us, Lord God, what will be the end of it?” Then he strengthened him with wine, until he came to himself again. The first words the King said wereVERY YOUNG BOWMAN (excitedly) “Ah, the beautiful portrait! whose it it?” Bowman’s grandmother chuckles. BOWMAN’S GRANDMOTHER “That is the princess of the Golden Dwelling,” answered Faithful John. INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - EARLY MORNING Bowman is lying on his back by the fireplace, staring at the ceiling. In the background, the sound of the stream is heard. We begin to hear Bowman’s heartbeat as well. His breathing becomes heavy. In the bedroom, Sonny and his wife are fast asleep. Bowman sits up as quickly as he can. He weakly stands up and grabs his coat from the back of the chair. He puts it on, and his shoulders seem to sag down. He looks around the room with a regretful expression. Bowman focuses on the lamp, unlit and still sitting on the table, his shaking hand reaching into his coat pocket. INT. HOTEL ROOM - NIGHT A thick wad of cash is dropped onto a nightstand. INT. HOSPITAL - DAY Bowman hastily drops the expensive-looking bracelet on the bedside table. INT. SONNY’S HOUSE - EARLY MORNING Bowman takes all the money from his coat pocket and quickly stuffs it under the lamp. He grabs his briefcase and leaves the house without closing the front door behind him. Bowman’s heartbeat is loud now as he picks up his second bag, which is still laying in the patch of grass by the doorstep. Bowman walks down the small hill, but he soon starts to run as if being pulled by gravity. Spring 2011



The sun has not yet risen, but it is light enough to see Bowman’s car by the side of the road. Bowman looks completely drained by the time he reaches his car. His heartbeat is even louder. Bowman drops his bags by the door of his car and clutches his chest.

Artwork by Cassiopeia


Bowman’s heartbeat ceases. From inside the bedroom of the house, we see Sonny and his wife sleeping in their bed. In the distance, seen through the open doorway, Bowman collapses on the road, still clutching his chest tightly.



Spring 2011

Artwork by Lauren Yaro

by Jessica


I've been feeling rather out of breath these days Like an anxiousness still building From winters upon winters Of introversion Introspectively, the part that plays Simply wishes to hibernate, relief From winters upon winters Of solitude Choice is a rather funny word now With the glittering snow imprisoning Like winters upon winters Of compensation for the grey Spring 2011



Poem by Jessica

Marsico Artwork by Amanda Cabanillas Beats twag and drop low down

That little piece that feels unstated, ever dissatisfied;

My body moves as if drawn by invisible strings

It is the piece that desperately needs you.

Lights glow and blink, sparkle and fade

Only eleven years young and you have stolen the hearts of many.

And then the womp is laid at my feet How can you be so perfect? How can you be so ideal?

I may need to leave you when the sun rises,

How do you course through my veins like a drug

But then again maybe I can stay

High as clouds, solid as steel?

You ring through my headphones as I type,

Wobble bass! Rhythmic cymbal! Undying beat!

You blast through my speakers as I clean, You exist in my soul always, make it all make sense.

I could stay here forever, in this nightlife, This praising of the darkness and Eschewing of the day. When the sun rises, The light changes everything. Normalcy returns And this world of excess and high heart beats Disappears. The only thing left is aching feet and Leftover glitter, a sad reminder of the garish sun Which has banished the last of the truth. Oh bouncing soul! Oh moving spirit! There is no other love like yours. You never end, but When you slow I open my eyes and look around, And there are faces lit up like the stars in the skies, Faces that understand this love and this life. My body feels like a temple here with you, My entire purpose here is to move for you, My flesh and sneakers and facepaint exist for you, I am consumed by dub love. This wide world has been waiting for this. Who are these people, the ones who’ve never known you? They don’t have a clue what they’re missing. 42


Spring 2011

Written by Aaron


(a disc-jockey homage to Ezra Pound) Written by Aaron

We need a frozen waterfall, clear


Oh! The thought of what America would be,

shades of violet,

Oh, the thought of what America would be,

indigo, aquamarine, with flowing beneath

Oh, the thought of what the America would be like


if greater circulation of the classic notion icy crush, its

that real RAVES feature all dance-music genre,

fervent friction melts

that anything else is just a party to politicize,


Oh! It troubles my sleep.

Flowering buds groan below many-layered Ionian dusts. Too many words spring forth, leaving youth a-tizzy, echoing divine sooth-sayings we'll decipher next mornings.

Anomaly Written by Aaron

Kravig Artwork by Gulnar Babayeva Well, they can’t all be the right one can they? Thus they are all equally true, and jesus dines in heaven with mohammad; elrond: lord of rivendell; the buddhas; john lennon; shiva; joseph smith; isis & ra; l. ron hubbard; odin; ‘the hawk’ & ‘the raven’; quetzalcoatl; those aliens from the comet-poisonedkool-aid-mass-suicide-folks; athena; tree-god and -goddess; magic dragon-spirit; “nothing;” and a unicorn. Spring 2011



Poem by Jessica

Marsico Artwork by Amanda Cabanillas Deep inside this mountain preserve and Off a chokingly dirty road, There lies a treasure that not many have found. Here, I am awed and silenced By nature. The intense heat of summer in town Disappears, to be replaced with the Rich, underground, bracing scent Of soil and dark earth. Under my feet, Smooth, flat rocks offer their sweetest Respite and hospitality But above – Oh, above! – The deep blue skies are diminished By this foregrounding canopy of peridot. This unending magic of mountain altitude To transform blistering sun and frazzled leaves Into sparkles and twinkles of translucence Brings my soul to its knees. Water’s allure is magnified when it is falling Cascading between two boulders Creating a symphonic masterpiece, An overture of misting droplets and crashing sheets – Unmatched in the dirty streets of town. I am saved here, Falls beating on my crown. This is where I find simplicity and beauty. This is where I become Real. 44


Spring 2011

Poem by Jessica

Marsico Artwork by Jane Cullen

My breath is lost then blissfully found In the early evening, before the Moon takes over When the Sun scatters His light across hills Creates shadows between The orchards of brown dormancy, Before the sparkle of snows And in the meantime stains cotton clouds With berry juice Light Wild purples, brilliant reds A final show before He acquiesces power To the Night.

She begins gently, bare black trees against Most starry royal blue A stillness stirs In the way only a Goddess can do

Slowly She rises: shape-shifter Moon Pulling me with the tides, perfectly attuned

And somehow I know Nothing will ever be the same As we are partners with Her change. Spring 2011



p Poem by Jessica

Marsico Graphics by Gulnar Babayeva

1 The sun did not shine. It was too wet to play. So we sat in the house


All that cold, cold wet day.

We rolled ‘round in bed. We played naughty games


Well really, we did not sit.

‘Til our cheeks were quite red. “Wait!,” I exclaimed


From under the covers. “I’m craving some sushi With my three favorite lovers!” So up we four got (Bras and socks would suffice) And we started right then To boil up sticky rice. California rolls by the dozen! Wasabi, plum wine. And that’s what we do When the sun doesn’t shine.



Spring 2011


Anonymous 8 Josh Goodrich 13 Olivia Kania 7 Deirdre Kenney 14 Sergey Milovanov 2, 3, 11 Margaret P. 5 Lauren P. 1 Darlene Scialpi 4 Michael Truxell 6, 10, 12 Lauren Yaro 9





4 2





6 9





Slate Promotion Event Winners Selected by Visual Arts Club Spring 2011








Artwork by Dina






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