Tempest, Volume 1, Issue 1

MONT路 NEWARK LLEGI- DISTRICT. ECT)I "II'" SCIENCES

Typeset, Design and uyout by STUD ENTS OF OHLONE COLLEGE Press Work by FREMONT PRINTERS Fremont, California

PRICE

SPRING 1968

50

OHLONE COLLEGE FREMONT, CALI FOR NIA

Number 1

Volume 1

Poems, short stories, and essays by the students of Ohlone College.

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CONTENTS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Page The Tempest staff would like to t ha nk all contributor s . Selection of material was done by an editor i al panel composed of the s taff, t he publi cat ions adviser , and the English department.

Many good works were submitted whic h could not be used due to space limitations, and we would like to extend our gratitude to these contribut ors and hope tha t they will submit copy for f uture publications.

We would also like t o thank Mr. Dav i d McLaughlin, art instructor, and artists Mark Lee, J. C. Adamson, Riet Blei, Betty Evans, Joan Lovely, Bev Web, Claudia Remer, Alice Sutherland, and Emma Dean for their cont ributions.

The production of this magazine would not have been possible withou t the help of English instructors Miss l<aren Rosenbaum, Mrs. Barbara Hofacker, and Mrs. Frances DiPippo, to whom we extend our thanks and appreciation. And thanks to Mother Goose for the use of her kitchen.

STAFF : Jim Azev edo

Editor . . .

Averil Jenney Jim Azevedo Averil Jenney Jim Hannigan Miss Karen Rosenbaum Mrs. Barbara Hofacker Publications Adviser â&#x20AC;˘ . . . . Mrs. Florence Reynolds

Associate Editor Editorial Board

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18

Earl P. Rube An Erotic False-Dilet11t1a Willian Bromley A Non-Combative Catharsis J. Eecles T. Schuessler Visions of Repugno J. B. Hannigan A Crying Shame, Alone Rick Sherry Searching for Survival, Behind the Iron Mask Rick Sherry Jody

20

Lifeboat

22

Buba

25

Hope---we must

28

Creek

30

Trees

32

Hills

34

Baumgartner

37

Man of Doubt

6

8

10 16 17

Nancy West

D. L. Willis

Frederick G. Boudreau

Steve Bammel Jim Azevedo Jim

Azevedo

Gene 0. Rivers

39

2

I Need Somebody, Happiness

Doyle Donahoo Graffiti, Becoming William Bromley

3

I NEED SOMEBODY

I need Somebody Someone who understands me who will take the time to see me as a person an equal who is with no past oniy now 路 good People are Shallow Depth is lost in numbers We see only faces-But there are minds behind them with problems to share with happiness the one who knows is gone others have chased him away The Joy of meeting to see again to remember the old and hope for more to dread change to touch again Realization of Hopes no change only the setting

--Earl P. Rube HAPPINESS

Happiness has Returned An unexpected call a long lost voice seeing a familiar face again walking the old roads together remembering But Something has changed not anything physical habits have expanded emotions have died but we have changed together although apart So much to do--to say--to remember no more !onliness Happiness has Returned --Earl P. Rube 4

AN EROTIC FALSE-DILEMMA bv WILLIAM F. BROMLEY

Western philosophy has destroyed the meaning of love, in both the romantic and libertine sense.

In an effort to purge from their society those whose life bad a different meaning than their own-in an attempt to create a Utopian society, where everyone worshipped the same god and obeyed his universal teachings, the early Christian writers constructed a system of prescribed morals which strictly defined "normal" human behavior. However, in their fanatical drive for moral perfection, the Christian philosophers ignored at least one basic human psychological need.

Erotic love--and here "erotic" denotes not a moral judgement, but rather an emotional phenomenon--is closely linked to man's need for acceptance and belonging. Differing from mere sex in that it involves deeply intense emotion, erotic love-making is the most intimate fonn of personal communication, The importance of this communication has been so de-emphasised by Christian morality that today many people-painfully aware of this need, but caught in a conflict with their morality--flagellate themselves with whips of aelf-doubt. Erotic love contains more psychological realities than bourgeois morality cares to admit, or than puritanism could tolerate. Since modern culture reflects the values of the past, we now have a society where passion is glossed-over as one of man's inate imperfections. For us, erotic love has been reduced to a tasteless academic occurance.

As for the death of romantic love: this is the result of Western philosophy's attempt to separate man's reason and emotion. In modern society> the triumph of reason over emotion is regarded as a virtue. However, as many Eastern philosophies point out, emotion and intellect are closely intertwined--or, at least, closely related. Are Westerner's expected to subordinate one portion of their self to the other? Many well-meaning persons seem to think so, with the result that romantic love has also been reduced to an academic ritual.

6

Eros, who was a god to the Ancients> is a problem for the Moderns. Pre-Christian Rome recognized the difference between pure sex and erotic love-making, yet passed no moral judgement on either. Modern society has also recognized this difference, but--because of the Protestant Ethic, which condemns all action taken solely for the purpose路 of pleasure--has labeled sex as evil.

This arbitrary condemnation of a basic human drive brands as criminal any otherwise normal person who fails to keep his sexual desires in check.

Man is the only animal on earth capable of reasoning; he is also the only creature capable of entrapping himself in a net of self-righteous-or superstitious--mores.

Marriage> according to Christian ethics, is the institution which allows one to experience erotic love without fear of guilt or social ostracism. Unfortunately, this philosophy has serious unforeseen consequences. Love-making, unlike simple sex, is a form of personal communication of the highest order. During the sexual experience, lovers expose to one another their soft emotional under-bellies, a process which may be immensurablely rewarding, or may result in painful psychological disaster. The tremendous social pressures regarding the finality of the marriage contract and the strict moral j deernen s regarding fornication may have unwittingly deprived many individuals of the very love they so despara tely seek. Sexual drives are among the strongest of man's inate desires and Christian morality's blindness--in an effort to preserve the "sanctity" of marriage--allows many emotionally incompatable persons to rush headlong into the marriage trap.

For those who choose to love without Christian society's official sanction there is also a dilemma.

Their society has ingrained in them a system of inescapable prescribed ethics--ethics which fill the lovers with doubts, both personal and social.

Can a person defy Daylight morality in the name of Night's mysticism; can a person sacrifice a life of rational action in the name of ecstacy and rapture? This is the false-dilemma created

by Christian ethics.

7

A NON-COMBATIVE CATHARSIS

The captain stands on the bridge and fiddles as the p~op deck burns Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower sings as his Sauna-bath turns Ben Hur is路having a chariot race on the second deck below Edison and his electric wind machine are making the cold wind blow In the hallway a wagon train master complains about the smog And the S.S. Antelusia steams into the fog Down in cabin 34, they're having a rummage sale Pillars of great society are drinking ginger ale A young man finds a bargain but it's grabbed by his mother-in-law So he makes like Cassius Clay, and raps her in the jaw Meanwhile a New York farmer is hollerin' for his hog And the S.S. Antelusia steams .into the fog Tinker Bell and Peter Pan shovel coal in stocking feet Captain Hook, the Policeman, is pounding out bis beat He suddenly stops at the boiler room and listens at the door Where people stand beside their boots that they long ago wore Meam.rhile Lady Godiva rides side saddle through a bog And the S.S. Antelusia steams into the fog On the fourth floor of the smokestack, there stands a lonely tent Where a finely tuxedoed hermit screams for all to repent An aged woman sits, with her head shut in a vault And counts on her shakey fingers her many many faults By the old woman, runs the jungle queen and her trusty dog As the S.S. Antelusia steams into the fog 8

In the darkness, a beggar man, with his small white goat Dracula kindly thanks him for the loan of his tender throat Then hurries to the ~ine cellar for the local poker game With the boys from South Seventh Street and the Hunchback of Notre Dame The clock tipstairs strikes 32, for it has slipped a cog And the S.S. Antelusia steams into the fog Cleopatra used to lounge 'round her milk bath pools Now she scrapes gum off the bottom rung of the local bars' stools Even Anthony no longer struts around the court so proud And as he curses, gobs of dust fall off his late model cloud While Doctor Spock sits down and thinks in a dialogue The S.S. Antelusia steams into the fog The barefoot hunter, Daniel, cleans up his blunderbuss He just shot a hole in the middle of the fugitive's esophagus In the howling wind stands Casanova and his hat Making like he positively don't know where it's at And when a loudspeaker booms ''worship at your synagogue" The S.S. Antelusia still steams into the fog

In the tub sits Abe Lincoln, practicing on his trombone And eagerly awaits the football game in the auditorium As the players warm-up, for the game in the afternoon Lyndon Johnson interviews women to name the coming typhoon And while the noise aboard the ship dies to a low monologue The S.S. Antelusia disappears into the fog.

--J. Eecles and T. Schuessler 9

VISIONS OF REPUGNO

by J. B. HANNIGAN

It was not you or I that blew the dream of day for Repugno; it was everyone, and everything.

---- ---路路

'2~ -

~ --- -

He raised and pushed aside the manhole cover and emerged inta the San Francisco night. As he climbed out of his Greenwich Street exit, he again carefully contemplated the picture he would present to anyone that might happen to glance at him, though few ever did. His rotund three and a half foot frame was draped inelegantly with an old brocade smoking jacket. He trousers, freshly sewer washed, were of the high-waisted, shortcuffed variety that waiters sometimes wore. In fact he had gotten them from a garbage can behind Grisson's Steak House. With a derelict pair of NunnBrush wingtips on his pudgy feet and a Navy commander's dress hat on his large head, he felt himself reasonably dapper and set off on his nightly quest.

He slipped through stern silence of old Taylor Street apartment buildings and saw himself untying a son's shoes while he readied him for bed. He gazed longingly at the brownyellow shades drawn and the shadows dancing on them.

He knew it never could be, not for him. He was short, fat, pimply. ugly, bug-eyed, and he lived in the sewers of San Francisco and people called him Repugno and said, "Getta way ya goddamn little creep."

He turned to his left on Jackson Street and headed downhill toward Chinatown. There would be an old Chinese newsvender almost as ugly as he who sometimes would nod to him.

He saw the bright raced Chinese.children dart in and out of their secret alleyways as t hey played hide and go seek: he smell~ the steamy slop spilled in the dark, rusty alleys by the Chinese cooks in the kitchens of ~es颅 taurants, and he sensed that there was a deep feeling of affection in the busy yelling he 10

11

heard from them. He saw a cable car jammed full and looking like a many-armed one-eyed miniature of a ferry boat as it pulled its way up the steep hill. He saw the people with packages of home things in their arms crowded tightly together as they smelled the closeness of one another and listened to the gladness of the Negro conductor as he sang out the street names. He saw the joy in the faces of young couples as the fog kissed them gently and made them glad to be alive and eager to do all the things of a San Francisco night. The beautiful young people, the beautiful, cruel young people.

There is the City Lights. Could steal books, Too dark to路read in my place anyway. These big guys probably live in Milbrae Tiburon gardens.

Dogs and Sunday papers. Mother didn't like dogs.

Or me much. A dog wouldn't be so bad i f only they didn't eat so much and get hit by cars.

Down to Kearny Street he went, walking in the shadows in the unobtrusive way he had learned to avoid startling any of the people. Once a woman with some kind of fur on her neck had caught him staring at her and screamed so horribly that s0nte men thought he had touched her and they beat him.

He could never explain to them that he just wanted to look, just wanted to see the fine, straight bodies in the new, well-cut clothes; no, they couldn't seem to stand the sight of him long enough to listen.

looks of bearded young men trying to hustle beer and sandwiches frOl!I drunken sailors.

He saw round Oregonian buttocks encased in French silks. He saw long, finn colt legs and wondered about the mystery of a woman's thighs.

He saw arms around waists and hips subtly rubbing. He saw a woman slap a man and scream, "Getcha goddam hands off my ass, ya bastid."

She then reeled drunkenly into a bar and the man followed.

On the corner of Kearny and Jackson he looked for the old waxen-faced路 Chinese who sold his papers there. He was not there tonight.

Repugno crossed to the right side of Kearny street in the cover of a large crowd of Chinatown tourists. He could travel in brightly-lit places that way.

He saw that John Handy was at the jazz workshop and he wanted to go in. They never let him in but he tried anyway. The wail of the saxophone was a sharp> sweet thing that was so beautiful it tightened his throat to hear it. But the colored doonnan always smiled sadly and said, 11 Sorry shorty, no room."

He passed the gift shops and looked sorrowfully at the in the windows. They swam in water, and pushed their noses were trapped.

Across the street from Finnochio's he stopped to look as four men in evening dress stumbled down the steps and came to a hand around the waist halt in the middle of the sidewalk. One said, "Jeezus Kris, you see the tits on that one faggot?" Another replied, "I don't give a goddamn if she has got balls, I'll still screw her." They choked with laughter and stumbled down Broadway to cause a scene at the next place they came to.

and the food shops tanks of live fish their murky, green at the glass. They

In doorways there stood old Chinamen dressed in their shabby suits with Chinese newspapers folded in the baggy pockets of the coats. They clasped their hands behind their backs and made one wonder about the mystery of their past youth.

Repugno felt the push and shove of the crowd 1 s haste to get up to Broadway and all the nightspots. He was part of it and he was glad 12

to feel a part of something. There were thousands of people thronging Broadway on Saturday nights. He liked to be jostled among them and see the lights and flashes of smiles. He liked to hear the animal frenzy of the bands in the Condor and El Cid.

He walked past Mike's place and saw the i~tent

Repugno knew the c.ruelty of men well and felt sorry for the queens in Finnochio's because, well, after all he never did care about women. It was strong male bodies that he ad13

mired - he thought the queens should be left alone, big dirty drUllken bullies. Injustice was all he ever saw, in old men's eyes there was no kindness a nd no caring, sonuvabitch, sonuvabitch, these jerks in their shiny cars!

He turned angrily and knew that he had let himself ruin his evening. He walked The people that passed in chattering, laughing groups were not the people that he had come to be among, they were selfish and mean. They only hurt him.

He made his way to his Jackson Street entrance, pulled up the manhole cover, climbed inside, and with a smile to the night he disappeared.

on.

He walked do"WU Broadway towards the Embarcadero.

From his pocket he extracted a large joint of his super grade cat - nip. He considered the beauty of it a moment before lighting up. Tile first drags loos ened him. He smiled reflectively and wondered what those bastards would think with their fine cars and smelly women if they knew that he, Repugno, had found a way to be happier than any of them. Cat-nip~ Yes, he had found the secret of true happiness. He was a cat-nip head.

He walked to the end of a long pier and sat on one of the great, sea gull spattered pilings.

There was wind now that pushed little slaps of water against the pier. He smoked his cat-nip and the evanescent whitecaps jumped like schools of small fish in the moonlight. It was beautiful here, he thought, elysian. The fog did not cover the bay or the eastern sky and the coruscant stars seemed to him like crushed bits of glass on a piece of black velvet, Across the bay to Oakland and Berkeley there were other pinpoints of light, the houses of the happy, happy people. They were beautiful again now. The hurt and anger were gone, ameliorated by the night-chsnn.

The sad wind song of the streets of North Beach played through the black steeples of its buildings and hurried the people on the way from the clubs and skin joints to thei.r parked cars. It was late. Repugno knew he should be getting on himflelf. He left his perch and walked up the streets of Saturday night's dreams.

Tilrough the open window of a cheap hotel room above the street he heard a woman crying Be moved quickly on.

Who knows the glee of the secrets of Repugno?

Who knows the beauty of his tortured soul?

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15

A CRYING SHAME

She's crying the thoughts of the undying past.

The memories of the lover whose love wouldn't last Eat at her heart 'til her mind she has lost, And there's no more sorrow at any man's cost.

SEARCHING FOR SURVIVAL

Fighting the crowd, people everywhe re, Turning them down just 'cause of their hair.

Telling the teachers and others to go there, All in the search for Survival.

All they do

She commits her actions to an unruly boy, Whose physical emotions she cannot enjoy.

But she's pity to herself 'cause to herself she sees A girl in the dark, with a man in the trees.

She's bounded by thoughts that haunt her at night And stay in her dreams 'til she thinks she's all right They make her crave for the times before, When love and affection were all that she bore.

is

turn a round .

They call them 'cause they think they're bound To conformity, but I have found That it's all in the search for Survival.

They see them in the streets and they want to fight.

Its just out of jealousy, they hate their sight.

They're not protesting 'cause t hey know they're right,

And all in the search for Survival .

- - Rick She rry

She sees all the days just passing her by, But the nights seem to linger 'til she sees No more.

--Rick Sherry

ALONE He wandered through the desert.

It wasn't very pleasant.

He decided to move toward earth, But it seemed too silly to him.

Then he cried.

He was alone.

BEHIND THE IRON MASK

'While his morals are dead, his mind is awake.

Its all for his laughs, and just for his sake.

And his mind is at work to accomplish his task To see other people through his own little mask.

More than alone.

Not on his conscience, yet still his creation,

For a moment he threw away his burdens

All he knows is it's a deep vibration.

and lit a fag.

He thought of the girl to get relief, But she pressed him with memories Then he extinguished the cigarette And cried again.

He indulges in this mainJy to insure That his soul and his mind will always be pure.

- - Rick Sherry

--Rick Sherry 17

16

JODY bv NANCY WEST

He proudly shows me the hole on the top of his shoe which he has just sewn. His shoes appear well worn and covered with psychedelic drawings. The words LOVE and PEACE heavily blotted in red were also included. I smile approvingly while he eagerly shows his masterpiece of patchwork O.n his pants.

I pointed to the large hole in his green shirt; "That's next, 11 he stated. I smoothed down his rumpled hair with my fingers. His hair is starting to get long again; soccer season is over. That's the only time he'll cut hie hair, so he will be able to see.

His voice interrupts my thoughts; "Do you think I could get my hair to look like Bob Dylan's?"

"I don't care," he states angrily. His eyes are still flaring fire. He's going to be stubborn again. Once his mind is set he never yields.

The living room becomes stuffed with silence. 'tyou know you look like a Madonna with you r hair parted .in the middle," he shy1 y states.

Oh, now he wants to change the subject. He always feels terribly uncomfortable when I'm angry. 11You mean a good marriage prospect don't you?" , Hie eyes light up without mercy as he exclaims, "Yeah, marry me Madonna." He promptly starts tickling me and grins as he watches roy face wreathed in laughter.

FlnaJly I'm able to bJurt out, "Stop, stop----pJease."

Hey guess what ?11 he declares, "Some skinny girl gave me two sets of beads at the Hub and you can wear them any time you want."

11

As the question seeps into my mind I calmly say, ''Maybe. If you got a permanent."

He picks up his hair and acts as if he has gone into a trance. "Couldn't you give me one?"

Once again I'm reminded of how sweet he is.

What can I 11ay except, "Thank You. I will."

11 You must be crazy" I said. 11What do you want your hair to look like Bob Dylan's for?"

His eyes flare up like fire; "Because I don't want hypocritical friends. 11 I nod my head sadly, for I know what he is referring to. A friend of ours who was once a friend of many went to Berkeley and came back with his hair Bob Dylan style. It was truly surprising to see so many backs turned, My train of thought blisters to a head. I realize there is nothing I can do about it.

11

Well," I say, "I don't think you should have to go to such drastic means to prove anything. You're intelligent enough to know your true friends."

18

19

LIFEBOAT

Swim for your life!

I swim for my life, struggling to Keep from being sucked Under by the undertow of Confonnity.

"Save me," 1 screech.

"Join us," they taunt, "the water's The current is swift.

It's forcing me to surrender to the Dark depths .

I grow weary.

I grOY.1 weary.

I grow weary.

'

Float with the current float with Or drown.

'

--D. L. 20

21

I'll move closer to the wind.

BUBA

It looks like some of those people are followin' me. I'll walk faster. Looks like somebody up ahead.

by FREDERICK 0. BOUDREAU

Am I all here? Let's see, both arms, both legs, my head ... yep, all here. Now what was I sposed to do? Oh yeah, breathe, That's easy!

Funny thing • • . I'm talking to myself;, I guess i t IS alright, It's kind of warm today; it feels good.

It's dusty too; I wish the wind would stop. 1 wonder where it's comin' from; it sure blows the dust around. I'll try to find the wind and stop it.

It feels like it's comin' from over there.

It's not too far, I'll walk.

It's farther than I thought, but I'm gettin' closer. I can tell, the wind feels stronger. It must not he far away. It's still warm out, Man, I'm Startin' to sweat.

That wind sure feels good; but the dust is bad. If it wasn't for the wind, it would be hotter! The dust sure moves fast around here; there's hardly any left on the ground.

That guy up ahead stopped; he 1 s lookin' at me. He's talkin' to himself. He talks different than me.

That guy ahead hasn't moved; I guess I'll walk by him.

He didn't stop me. I'll go a little farther, then I'll stop and rest. There are a lot of people around here. They have trees and things.

The wind is cool and there's no dust. I'll sit down here, under this tree.

I can see these people have it. SOl!le of them talk like nonsense, but they sure live good.

Some of them are getting together to talk and some guy is going around to everybody. I wonder what he's doing. He's scratching a thing in his hand; he's writing.

Now he's coming toward me. I guess he wants something. He's dressed good. He wants to know something ••• ''Yes, I'm here now; yes, I'd like to stay. 1' He says I have to take my turn. I wonder what he means. Well, I'll find out. I'll follow him.

I must be getting close; the wind feels better; there's hardly any dust here. I'm comfortable. I guess 1 1 11 sit here; feels good.

There sure was a lot of dust back there.

It looks like an ocean of dirt back there.

I don't see how I ever could stand it. I sure am glad I'm here now.

Do my eyes fool me7 I aee someone. Someone's comin' this way. I never knew there ~as anybody else in that dust with me. Maybe I should go help him. No, I guess he'll make it; I made it. Looks like there's more behind him.

There sure is a lot of them, and they're all comin 1 this way; I can hear some of them talkin' to themselves. They're dirty. Maybe I better move away from them. Well, up again.

22

Hey, somebody just spit on that guy with the book. I guess that he doesn't like the book man.

Maybe the spitter didn't want to take his turn.

If I don't like what he's got for me to do, I'll spit on him too.

He says to sign his book. I'll scratch something in it. There's some guy up there talking. He says it's pretty hot on some days and they need help to keep it cool. They have this big machine that blows cold wind, and we're here to help keep the machine working. If we take turns, it' 11 work forever. That sounds good, Well, I'll be! Someone just spit on him too.

Let me look at this machine, then I'll decide.

23

Now it's tny turn. "Turn the damn, crank," some guy just shouted to me. OK, here goes; man, it's hard to turn. I see now. I turn the crank, and that moves the gears. Up on top of this machine, there's a big fan. God, that cool air feels good!

I guess my turn is almost over; there's some

other guy here now.

Look at my hands ••• Blisters, I hope they heal. They sure hurt, Well, ~here do I go now?

There's some people talking over there.

They're talking about the fan. They want to change it. Now somebody says the fan isn't I

right.

I

The fan blows cool air on us, and it blows dust on some people over there. The people over there don't like it. Man, he's right. I didn't like it when I was over there, but if they stop the fan, I won't like it here either, It'll get

hot and dusty, just like before, when I was over there.

Now somebody else says the fan isn't 'right'.

Somebody just spit on him for saying it; the spitter said, 11Go away, the fan will go on forever." If that guy spits on me, I'll break him in two with my calloused hands, The guy who said the fan isn't right is going away. He says he 1 11 be back with help to stop the fan. If he tries to stop the fan, I'll break him in two.

All the people who want the fan to go on They say they're ready for the ~nes who say it isn't 'right.'

are getting together.

Now I can hear a lot of people in the dust.

They 1 re coming this way. It looks like there's more of them against the fan, and they are mad.

Maybe they're right. The fan \IOrks for a few and against a few, It's not strong enough to blow all the dust away, but that's no reason to stop it.

24

HOPE • • • we mu.qt

by STEVE BAMMEL

"Students 1 do 1 Bronx Science in order to 'make' M.I.T. and they 'do' M.I.T. in order to 1 uke 1 Westi,nghouae; ••• " A kite struggling against A string is a man's mind; Easily broken free.

Few do.

Of those few

Most tumble and Fall---And are crushed.

One or two are carried to Such heights that Even Man cannot see.

So far above thia world that No one can see them; Save Those who have come Before And Those who will come After. ''One is either in the rat-race or has dropped out of society altogether."

The mind filled With garbage Like pore• of skin That collect filth and infection Through no fault of their own.

An unintended result, A Happening.

Notice?

Beware?

Why, we ask. We know What "it" is. The sole aim of society is "More" squalor and tnoney. "More" tremendous limitations of idiotic fantasy taken from those wno ''know better" and given to those who are "unable" to know. ''More" classification, structuring, regulating; 11 • • • • " We see grass as seeds, fertilizer. and dirt; not as the green that elicits Life.

We see in buildings. not the beauty of architecture and the mind that creates, but yards of concrete, tons of steel, and the $.

25

We see a sUtn of money and ask how many roads will it build, not how many minds can it stimulate, how many books it can buy.

The Sun; a burning orb That hurts the eyes and burns, Instead of Warmth and Life.

"There is little attention to individual pace, rhythm, or choice, and none whatever to the discovery of identity of devotion to intellectual goals."

Like and airplane, floating I go through a sea of nothingness; yet sustained, By smog, sl\lOke, and other stench That permeates.

Sustained:

The Wind, A myriad of social pressure Bend the kite String and the Trees; Covers the clear days With clouds of Indecision; Snatches Warmth From sun and earth and people; Creates forms For thought They, then, instantly Destroyed.

Itself a mass of energy Miâ&#x20AC;˘directed.

It causes things to be more Rigid than they would be without it.

Such beauty, Until regression occurs, That another flight might follow.

Radar is wonderful. We see everything except ourselves. Perhaps we need an infra-red camera, so we could picture those unseen happenings in the blackness of the 'Sun. 1

Searing sunsets Such power,

Roaring ripples Such love, Two eyes Such hate, Black man.

"The schools less and less represent any hUtllan values, but simply adjustment to a mechanical system." it can be beautiful: Proximity of two bodies Intertwining of two minds.

Pinacles of pleasure A release of all that's Bad. A kind of ÂŁreed.om Not from morals or apron strings But from idiots Into a world of relaxation, Warmth, and comfort; One progresses with a "back-rub."

Like the moon showing through the sky on a

sunny day.----The face of night casts a shadow of doubt in the mind of Enlightenment.

26

27

GREEK

by JIM AZEVEDO

The water flowed smoothly out from between the rocks on the side of the mountain, to spread and swirl an~ carry. Within a hundred yards it would become an ordinary creek, the medium in which thousands of lives would run their course.

But here it was different. This first few hundred feet were hushed; everything seemed stationary. There was motion and there was life, but the feeling was that nothing ever changed here, and so the association between motion and life seemed diminished.

The live things were the Salmon Flies, long orange creatures with clear wings folded the length of their bodies. They were live, but seldom moved, choosing to recline on the ferns that were everywhere. The trees and ferns swayed slowly under the pressure of a light breeze that, though it moved them, could not be felt.

The boulders that were scattered throughout the area, like marbles thrown by a giant hand, lent solidity to the scene . The pines gave their majesty, in their ceaseless probe of the sky. And the ferns. Growing opulently in this spot of eternal shade, they covered the tops of rocks, the carcasses of fallen trees that bridged the new waters of the creek, and the ground with its thick mesh of fallen pine needles.

The entire scene was a watercolor: muted tones, kept fresh by the shade, It was all blues and greens. The blue of the sky, deep and thick. The greens of the growing things: the ferns, soft and whiskery; the trees, deep green and bright green where the sun hit their upper branches. The pale grey of the boulders blended into the hazy blue of the shadows.

The water made its entrance into the outer world: a quiet, dignified statement of its presence. It did not gush, or bubble, or foam. It flowed, as if recognizing its importance in the order of things, confident of its ability to pr educe wha路t was ex:pec t ed .

28

This creek would flow through many forms of civilization, through farmlands, and small towns.

It would give its waters to another creek, and then to a river, and eventually to the ocean.

But this was the beginning. The start of a moving, nourishing requisite in the pattern of existence.

The trees, rocks, and earth all lent their individual odors to the air. Even the water seemed to have its particular smell. The effect of this intermingling was one of luxuriant newness. These elements, the same since the beginning of time, had in their scents an essence of things to come, things to be built, and things to be grcn.tn.

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TREES

by JIM AZEVEDO

The trees border everything here--the cattle on their land browsing out in the morning and back as the sunlight ends; the creeks winding and doubling and always moving; the lakes big and still with the heat sitting on them, flattening them into glossed, pulsating mirrors, and that same afternoon slashed and angry, leaden, the thunderous clouds sending the wind to pick up peaks of spray and throw them down again.

The trees are moved too, singing and sighing, the pines and the firs, bearing their cones and throwing them in the wind. They are shaped like cones and bunch together, with their offspring grouped around them. The leaves of the birches are borne on white branches and they swing and click together in the breeze, and ripple like wheat in the wind.

The tall trees stand in groves and cathedral clusters with light shafts and silent flat beds of cones and needles, and many men who come to them to find peace are humbled--tbere is none of the noise they need to keep from feeling the silence. Some are able to bide in the stillness, and maybe feel closer to a God. The man I know comes to them only as a friend.

He asks only that they hold, for him, their beauty, that each time he returns the feeling of pleasure and promise will also return. It is for him that the trees are there. He sees them as what they are, natural wonders thrown together over the course of millions of years from the stuff of this planet, the same as he. He need not question the how and the why of his existence, if it is all a great accident or all absurd, for him it doesn't matter; if it is an accident he is fortunate, it cannot be absurd, he enjoys it.

and he may roam every inch, inspect every part, analyze every atom, but the sky is for dreaming.

The trees know the sky, it moves all around them.

They give rest and shelter to those who move freely through it, and they ask from the sky only what it would give anyway, the food of sunghine and the drink.of rain.

The trees are always there and the man will always go to be among them, to stare up into their sky while he lies on their bed. But often, while he is there, the questions he carries with him from his life in the world of people intrude on his peace. He feels close to the trees and their beginning and his beginning, and the ideas that tear the world apart are strange to him.

If his skin were black would he be any different? Would he be any less a brother to the trees? If he made himself rich, or found himself unable to be rich, if he were red or black or yellow or from the north or south or east, would he have any more right to his place on this earth as one unit of existence, or any less? Could he have the right by any power to take from others what they chose not to give, or could they have the right to take from him?

He can walk through the trees and feel warm.

He can remember when he has been there before, sometimes with the woman he has chosen, and they lay in the bed of the trees and dreamed together.

He can see the world as he is a part of it, and she shares the part he has. He can walk through the trees and be with her and with them, and he bas his answer, but the world does not.

The trees and all the things of earth are his kin. They have all had the same beginning and will all have the same end, and it pleases him to know this. For him the trees are a bridge, holding finnly to the earth and reaching fingers into the sky. The earth is where man is based, 30

31

'

I

HILLS

'• Seeillg the hills refreshes my wish that I may roam them untroubled by the tune of conflict and despair that grows well in the valley.

Seeing the hills that roll soft; gentle in their worn caressed formation the product of nature's forces.

Seeing the hills with their affinity for sky and grass and tree that strikes a timeless balance with nature's force: The rain to wash and nour~sh, the sun to bake and fourish,: • and man to carve and notch.

The hill will always be.

Seeing the hills and walking their slopes and knolls; to stop and sit and look more closely at their quality; the dry summer grass the web of which shows beneath: the crumbled earth; the surtace grain.

Seeing the hills and hearing the sigh of the wind through the grass, and the wind through the oaks.

And the flutter and song of the hill's true tenants.

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Seeing the hills and sitting in shade thrown down in a blanket by an old sturdy oak: Tb rest and to think in that curious state where thought is not conscious, ~•,.b\lt as the eye roams to ~he life of the hills and the peace that is there, the thoqghte tumble and roll and so faU ln,a pile of order mot:"e close to the wish of" th·e thinker than whole days of hard thought could every have brought.

·~

Seeing the hills and now wandering down to their base and then on-to the low cOITanon ground: £-0 ~ander detached through the maze of mankind that huddle and clutch in ~~ir warren and wail and add to the loss of all they held dea.r; by their moan and self-pity; and yet never see .. ·,. that their loss has fo~ all the time that has past been their self-chosen lack o'f .integrity.

--Jim Azevedo

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Just a few more shovelfuls now and he would be finished. There, that's it.

BAUMGARTNER

by GENE 0. RIVERS

Baumgartner was uncomfortable; he could feel the perspiration (Mama always cautioned, "Ivan, horses sweat, people perspire.") trickle maddeningly ever so slowly down his back to be stopped by one and then another of the welts that criscrossed his wide shoulders and rib cage. There it would wait until reinforced by other small drops, then break away to continue its gravitated journey.

With pick ax and shovel, Baumgartner was shaping the hole as best he could. One must take pride in his work; as Mama would say, ''A job worth doing is worth doing well," and he did so want this job to be as nearly perfect as he had time for. There had been a bit of a thaw three days ago, quite unseasonal for this time of year. He was making quick clean slices down the side of the hole; it must be large enough. There were snow clouds forming over the eastern mountains and Ivan's world would be covered by the morning.

Baumgartner, happy in the thought that Maria and the children were tucked away safely and snugly in the mountain cabin, worked a little faster, a snatch of song almost but not quite escaping from his lips. He peered out from under bis heavy black eyebrows, glancing at the mountains - so beautiful this time of year in their skirts of white mist, the land. His land, flat and true, not even a rock to mar the beauty of it. Surrounding his farm were the trees, so beautiful in any season. Stately and dignified with their mantels of white in the winter. Blushing with their spring buds. Happily whispering in the breezes of summer and capriciousl1 shedding their tears of leaves in the fall.

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Baumgartner climbed out of the hole and stood peering at the men he had so successfully blotted from his mind, Re wiped his hands on his trousers as do small children trying to destroy the evidence after being caught playing in the mud.

He could see they were ready. He must prepare himself, but how? Quickly yes, now he remembered: "Our father, which art in heav--."

One of the bullets entered just above the V where his eyebrows met, causing his head to lift upwards in an almost reverent manner. As he looked into the eyes of God, his own were jerked into a permanent state of crosseyedness by the force of another bullet slamming into his chest just two centimeters above and a fraction to the left of the right nipple, and yet a third one bored a neat unneeded second belly button. Three bullets missed completely, one thunking into a low hanging branch of a nearby tree and the other two spending themselves boring their own graves and pulling the dirt in behind them. The last missile had the dubious honor of ripping the little finger off his left hand.

The bullets propelled by 80 grams of fine powder and traveling at the rate of 4897 feet per second carried the cadaver back two paces and over the lip of the hole that had become in a fraction of a second a grave. With two spasmadic jerks, it settled itself (not very neatly I confess) in its permanent resting place.

The neck had been broken quite unnecessarily when the body in its grotesque flight had scissored itself into the grave.

The soldiers, comforted by the fact that they need not tumble the body into the grave, and with visions of hot grog dancing in their heads, hurried over and with muddy boots managed to kick and scrape enough clods and dirt into the grave to make it seem vulgar.

35

OH, MAN OF DOUBT

by DOYLE DONAHOO

The soul-rending loneliness of midnight saw the first flakes fall. The quiet of the gentle snow touching down would cover the ugly sores made by the man who had dug his own grave and the trampled muddy slush left by the soldiers.

By dawn there would be no outward evidence left of the soul that passed through hell on its way to heaven.

Today would bring a new beauty of trees laden and arms bent under glistening globules of whiteness. Soft coverlets would hide the sleeping farmland, and in the village there would be the joyous pealing of bells and happy shouts of 11Merry Christmas. - Merry Christmas,"

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Sitting there, with eyes Of unqualified trust, And I, with my little doubts, That dance and trickle across my Mind, like little mice. ('What ya doing?' 'Oh, nothing much. 1 Eyes look down and away .•• ) Of course the mind cries, But you can't let it show.

She never promises, And she has never mentioned Any cross of single faith.

That leads to wonder.

(Oh man of doubt!~) The dark and silence gathers To create the void for thought.

Then the hollow, echoing scratch Of nagging little creatures; Creatures that the soul creates.

And the little teeth of the remembering Of what was said.

11 ( Wel l yes ••• yes, that is funny, ••• is that so? ••• Hmmmm! Well, eh, •.• eh, say, did you know ••• ) And the blood of the little wound Does not cure, but infects It's very life and soul.

And the wou::.d turns to hurt, Then you wonder why.

(Lights dim. Darkness creeps by and past. Little winds play.

Dew. And cold.

Sounds of night. A fountain, A bench. and a boy, head in hands.

He is ••• crying. And oh God, it's me!)

You don't pass this pit with thought.

You're already there, working deeper.

And down there, the only one waiting Is yourself. And thoughts. ('How's it going?' 'Things could get worse.' 'Huh: Yeah, I know what you mean. 1 'Do you?' 'What?'

'Oh never mind. See you.' 'Yeah. see ya ••• ') Grim funny.

And seeing her and leaving, Knowing!, is the ride Between heaven and hell.

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GRAFFITI You stand, and grasp, and hang On every word, searching.

Where do I stand, Oh, where do I stand!

(What does~he do ••• ?)

And while the silence crowds you, You piece together the little hopes, Bringing meaning to a wish.

And the grim chuckles at the folly 0£ small insanities. While the little ones Build up the chaos defense. ('Good night!' 'Good night.• And Thoughts whirl away into sleep ••• ) The remembering of the night Infects the day. The little ones, They are with you. (Oh, man of doubt!)

Would flinging it away Only bring the weight harder on me?

In time, I curse this burden, Here, on my back, choking me With incomprehensible fingers.

See the writing on the wall, In smoking blacks and apathetic whites, Why must it burn and thus appal;

Why must it struggle to win its fight?

Why? "Of course they' re free;

They're just not white."

--William F. Bromley

BECOMING

(Man of doubt!)

Rise and fight, Or rise for flight!

There is something else there, Here in the chest, a warmth, A something bottomless.

Its depth is virtue, Its foundation is esteem, Its warmth is beauty, Its substance is love.

In this I keep, For it purifies my purpose, And uplifts my way.

My hope is an offering; My joy is acceptance.

So I sit alone in the night; The tear in my eye is a Tear of faith and patient understanding.

Lights are brighter. Darkness Seeps away. The air is silent.

And warmth. Sounds of dawn.

A fountain, a bench, and a boy, Head in hands. He is ••• crying.

And oh God, it is me.

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Dual souls reside in fragrant flesh, In probing tongues and searching eyes,

In passionate breath and intimate gaze, While seeking the elusive essence.

Then pale earth-bound bodies touch, In sacred prelude to union.

And as the climactic soliloquy is sung, With convulsive tone and timbre, Doubleness dies the Renaissance death; A fusion--two becoming as one.

--William F. Bromley 39