The Trillium is the official arts publication produced by the students of Trinity College. The ideas expressed herein are not necessarily those of the faculty, staff, or administration of the college. Entries are judged on the basis of creativity, thoughtprovoking ideas, and freshness of style. The student coeditors do not know who the authors of the entries are. Managing Editor:
Lydia Erin Allums Samuel Cocar Joshua Held Stephen Hull Jamie Smith
Allison by Titus Hattan
Title Page Artwork:
Trillium by James Allen
Cliff Williams, Production Kristin Gumminger, Editorial
Copyright ÂŠ 2007. This material may not be reproduced by any means in part or in whole, without written permission from the authors. April, 2007
CONTENTS DANIEL FRAMPTON
It’s Harder to Live
More Weight, Less Reps
A Big Secret
The Whips and Scorns Of . . .
Snake of Eden
The Allegory of the Seven Deadly Sins, Part 7: Pride
Bryan and the One-Eyed Toad
We Are Simple Metaphors
Because I Have Great Legs
Am I Really That Invisible?
Bride and Prejudiced: The Best of Thirty Minutes
Man of the House
Dark vs. Light
Christmas Break Start
DANIEL FRAMPTON IT’S HARDER TO LIVE I wouldn’t mind being a machine. First, I’d stop sleeping, crush one long day under untiring feet, between rhythmic teeth, then stop dreaming. One less need and smear on gleaming productivity. Let me be, not bothered by breathing, rhythmic heart beating stop and cease. Just concrete calm and current hum. Pared down to the bone, and past, to stone, plated with adamant, laced with gold. Neither cold nor warm, I am the mean. Blend slowly in with the scenery, by passersby a monument unseen; a cemetery to life while life remains, chained and brought to its knees.
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JACINDA RODINO MORE WEIGHT, LESS REPS
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STEPHEN HULL A BIG SECRET “So I was talking to this guy about movies. I said I liked XXX, you know, that movie with Vin Diesel? He just laughed, so I asked him why. He said it was nothing, but I kept asking him, and he was like, ‘You can tell a lot about a person by their taste in movies.’ ‘What, so I liked an action movie and you know my life story?’ He said, ‘No, never mind.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘tell me what you mean.’ I started getting angry, right, and he just keeps laughing, like he knows some big secret that I don’t. He said, ‘Art is a reflection of life.’ He says that I don’t have the ‘clarity of perception’ that he does. I was like, ‘What’s really important here? What am I doing?’ He said, ‘Art is about the unexpressible aspects of life.’ He said I didn’t get it like he did!” “Is that what he said?” “Well, at first, but he changed it to ‘see’ instead of ‘get.’ I think he saw me getting mad. I was like, I know what you think, you think I’m some kind of bumbling idiot, tripping through life like I don’t know anything. What can I learn about life from that foreign crap you watch that I don’t already know? I told him about your—I mean . . . your miscarriage.” “You told him?” “Yeah, well, I mentioned it. I told him we were upset about it. I mean, how hard is that to say that you need pictures of melting clocks to say it? Can’t I just say that it hurts?” “Did he say anything?” “Sort of, but I didn’t want to talk about it, and he got all awkward. He can read about it on the prayer request board if he wants to know.”
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BRYAN ARNESON EUTHANASIA Sprawling across the couch knowing what will be on next and what station it will be on. Reflexively changing channels, navigating the static by habit, to occupy eyes that no longer care. And knowing something is rotting before smelling the leftover takeout laying across the barren tabletop. Strangling ears under headphones and looking out windows like ten dollar magic eye puzzles. Being a polite efficient number, standing still but not too attentive, to be counted with all the others. Itâ€™s being part of a larger whole then dying and falling to the carpet, dust, like every other dead cell.
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JOSHUA HELD THE WHIPS AND SCORNS OF . . . “I grow old . . . I grow old . . . I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.” – T.S. Eliot (“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”) “But that’s the last straw.” – Milton Waddams (Office Space)
From the rising of the sun till the going down, The earth groggily wanders through programmed motions, Rewashed memories, cancelled appointments, Comfortless offices, stacked with arrogant files. The brightness bleached the blue books to chalky grey, Showed speckled-dirt designs on windows. And woke up Mr. Prufrock Who subsequently pulled flannel sheets back over his head. Dashing drearily through predestined doors, Elmo arrives 16 minutes late because he forgot daylight savings time, Bundled out of bed, Bumped his knobby head, Tumbled into the shower, And arose on the third minute, Appearing first unto his boss, then unto me in due time. Enter Milton Waddams. Exeunt ditto, For we have no laughing on the premises, Promises superintendent Skyrelles. I peeked out at squirrels, But sun-glint glazed my eyes, blink, squint. Sardines in a coke bottle have more breathing room Than any employee in common cubicles. Once the sun is swallowed whole behind the buildings, I catch the subway, wending wearily through The ornery world of complaints and curses, Screaming to myself that I’ll never return. I was lying, of course, but try not to stare at me Behind my New York Times. ________________________________________________________________ 8 • THE TRILLIUM
JAMIE SMITH BROKEN LENS
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WENDY BILLINGS LA FEMME
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BRYAN ARNESON SNAKE OF EDEN Slight of shadow descending to seduce, a loose strangle. Against the ensouled dust, a siege of eyes and loose rhymes. “Why should you seek in silence? It’s strange you should struggle when surely you shall not suffer. Taste and see. It is delicious. “Hesitance, son of the Spirit? Perhaps I whisper lies and seem a saint? Does my silhouette in the sedge scare? Sight is deceiving. Taste is divine. “Submit and succumb and stretch out your hand. Would be sin not to search, prideful not to lust. “Slim and senseless verse must pass with the sun, but sudden sensual wisdom is the supreme sense of deity.”
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KATIE SPENCER WIDE-EYED WONDER
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JUSTIN SWANSON THE ALLEGORY OF THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS, PART 7: PRIDE
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BRYAN ARNESON BRYAN AND THE ONE-EYED TOAD I’m sitting on crossed legs reverently across the lake from the one-eyed toad. What a massive beast! A Behemoth! Squatting like a mountain on his lily-pad his hypnotic jaw-bulge draws me in. “What is the meaning of life, sir?” With a modest stare he won’t say a word. He just drops his lids, a molasses blink. “What is real? What’s ultimately true?” He croaks, a deep amphibious belch, and smacks his lips with a lazy yawn. “What should I do? What is right?” Shifting his weight with a drunken hiccup he loses me a moment in his one dizzy eye and rallies a tired smile to find me again. I ponder this aged sage of the swamp and what question will unlock his assuredly invaluable natural wisdom. And this is it, “How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?” Straightening his forelegs he perks up and laughs out of a wholesome sunny grin, “Son, now you’re gettin’ it!”
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DANIEL FRAMPTON WE ARE SIMPLE METAPHORS I see storm clouds on the surface of just-boiled water, and follow your arm to see the same in your eyes. I know you want to unleash the storm, but your face stills and the tea steeps, sea sleeps but for rumblings in the deep and mumblings that you keep to yourself. Stare at the ceiling, stare at the sky, upset the world for a second, scanning blank paint like a blank screen, cursor blinking, in vain— there’s nothing to say. We sit here in shadows, half-turned into twilight coves to seek shelter from each other’s storms as breakers rise and shake our shoulders. Eyes gleam like caves in a cliff face, and clambering beneath chill waves we climb to peer in to the warm space— are you there? We are simple metaphors, you and I; easily understood, easily made right. We are now this holding bodies close, now this pressing faces.
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CAITLIN GREENER BECAUSE I HAVE GREAT LEGS
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CAITLIN GREENER AM I REALLY THAT INVISIBLE?
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JOSHUA HELD BRIDE AND PREJUDICED: THE BEST OF THIRTY MINUTES “One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together, and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.” – Mr. Darcy, Pride and Prejudice, chapter 18 “Look for the girl with the broken smile. Ask her if she wants to stay a while.” – Maroon5 (“She Will Be Loved”)
Andrew’s first class that semester at the University of Chicago was packed. Professor Gurchink was used to having students stuffed into his lecture hall like sodas in a vending machine, so he hardly blinked upon harrumphing into class, thick glasses propped on an all-too-long nose which preceded him like a trumpet announcing his arrival. “U.S. History II,” he gargled, as though not sure whether it were a question or declaration of undependence. About seven minutes and 20 seconds into class (yes, Archibald Wilhelm Gurchink had just checked), a few headphoneless geeks slipped in and started to jostle around in the back of the room since there was no room for them in the inn. At first, Gurchink just raised one eyebrow into an elliptical exclamation point of “Shut up.” Then, he evicted Jack, and Jill came tumbling after. When the big hand was on the twelve and the little hand on the five, all poured out of the door like water through a hole in a dam, leaving Gurchink talking to the walls, floor, and ceiling. On the way out, Andrew was shoved against the wall, so he waited for the flood to subside, then cautiously motioned her through the door ahead of him (almost as good as holding it). “Hey, I’m Andrew,” he awkwarded. “I’m Melissa. Nice to meet you,” she returned as they headed down the hall. “Uh, are you going to lunch?” he asked, with a hopeful smile dimpling his face. “Actually, yes. We could go together if that’s where you were going too.” Heart thump. Chest jump. Stomach swim. Eyes discreetly peek. She knows him as mr. nice. No, he’s Mr. Darncy (girls love Bribe and Prejubliss). Whither went they? Hutchinson Hall, wonderful cooks, scornful looks when girl and he (in that order) through the doors, held for her but not for him, line up for food. Scan scalloped, but ________________________________________________________________ 18 • THE TRILLIUM
no, must be mashed. Oh, well, they have turkey. She didn’t take turkey, must not like it, must not be compatible with him, shut up, she’s very nice and food schism, incompatibilism, is not an egregious sin, just a puny peccadillo. Roast armadillo, no it must be steak overdone, well-done. He’s done with this line. Whither sat they? Alone. Then her cell phone rang, and he ate as though nothing happened, slappened into ogleivion by a peace of vivrating metal. Girls are good at seeing through a man’s fake face façade but not with cell phones to disrupt them. Here’s his chance. Her cheerful glance (telling him she is having a wondarefluff time on her hell drone) hassn’t flooled him not a bit. Have a chip. How long talked she on her cell phone? By Greensandwich time, about 6 bights, 66 chews, and 6 swallows, eleven chews per swellow, not pleasing myother, but ogay with him. Scoodledee-doo-darnling. Yes, don’t you sell me that girls aren’t the edvil. What, art thou a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? How in primero timoteo dicho Paulo unto himo: “Munchee is the sourcer of mall eveall” (quoded from capitulotion six, very-sick-you-low ten). Girls are Ever After munchee. Argal, girls are the sourcer of mall eveall. Who looketh upon them while she be thus absorebed? Funftsen und halbf, incl. halbf for Dean Moriarty’s pet poodle. Ja, der mean dean seen queen Mellie on her celli, and stoppeth himself to hear the beeyoutiflu mewsick della bella voce anoche. The esteamed dean sitteth upon the chairished throne, exalted across the cafetearia, with Professors Brunhillde und Mattillda, discursing whirled noos ore sum such Poelitical niceness of litterachu! Bliss u. And u tu. Et tu, Brute. Food spewed very loodly froom his mooth, both maides move to Heimlick him. His eyes bugle out as he gasps his chair, wobbowling in air. How tasted the food? Toolerably hoorible. That is, till his angelfood got off her drone. No scientient beeing could have tasted anything good out of Nazareth while Melissa was getting water from the well in Sickar. Theirfour, when she escaped such madness as is the native hue in blue cell drones, the stombach which was his became calm as the see of Gaylily. With what table manners ate she her feud? Quiete dig-nified, with shovel fools, while he scoopered his into such a yawning mouthy as was like a cave filled with slime, which I must explane unto thee is savealiva. She mussed have Ben chew-chew trained by some eggsellent Victoryen laydee, for not one drop of feud falleth unto her Lapland. “Viene a mi dorma tarday?” requesta hea a shea. “Noah,” she sayuh, “because of Sharayah who hast promissed unto me that she shall come unto me. And whosoever cometh unto me, I shall in no wise cast out.” ________________________________________________________________ SPRING 2007 • 19
This is a consummation devoutly not to be wished—to have a girl, and then lose her to a thief and a robber who cometh not in by the gate. He couldn’t let her get away on him. Not with those eyes, the delightful spin into which she banished him. Despite his boyhood intentions to remain a bachelor, he asked as they left Hutchinson: “Would you like to go to the mall a little later?”
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BETHANY CROCKER SNOW COVERS slowly walking, shuffling, giant leaps or skipping, frosty angels, greetings written with shoes overnight it covers erases the dance, the bounds, the tiptoeing a blanket over that long, chilly walk back white over the steps of all sizes waking up to the still of newness hush and calm of untouched adventure braving the cold again I’ll remember those steps I trotted in another’s footprints as I make my own through the bright, soft powder.
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TAMI BURKE MAN OF THE HOUSE
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TAYLOR OLSON DARK VS. LIGHT
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BETHANY CROCKER CHRISTMAS BREAK START Sipping addiction fluorescent, carbonated yellow in a Panera devoid of free wireless looking at my work schedule: forty hours a week. Chaotic consumers will be frantic busy buying gifts. During my down time: Ambitions to read C.S. Lewis, Watership Down, the Rockford Register Star. I’ll finish writing a story I shouldn’t have started with this imaginary, infinite amount of time and apparently become a poet? I’ve been hanging around too many writer boys.
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