THE · OTHER · HALF
URennial Issue, Spring 1980 ,/ C$ nd ._~n~Vt1~CM? / cf 7 cf-=-/g cf tJ
THE OTHER HALF
Editor-in-Chief:
Barbara Iobst
Co-Editor:
Jody Buffington
Associate Editor:
Mychal Kizzie
Ghost Editor:
John K Offerdahl
Contributing Writers:
Annette Finley
James Sanna
Mark Jackson
Barrie Simmons
Staff Artist:
Barrie Simmons
Models:
Jody Buffington
The Urinals
The Izod Alligator
Special Thanks to:
Nancy Atwell Jones
Mr. Gus Dietz
Carl Grimm
Dry Dock
Ronnie Laws
Moose
"Though we have 'magazined', we wish not to ke,ep the contents of our magazine so very dry that the admissio,n of the least spark would prove dangerous. Better have a jolly explosion than die of the dry rot."
Richmond Colleg,e M essienger, 1878, Vol. 1, no. 1, from "Exchang,es"
ESSAYCONTEST
The Messenger/Otiher Half is celebrating it's 102nd URennial Year
Prizes for: "What the URennial Means to Me"
FIRSTPRIZE: a $5.00 certificate to the Dry Dock
SECONDPRIZE: a Westhampton Lake fish dinner for two m the President's dining room
THIRDPRIZE: a 3 day/2 night trip for two to Miami, Fla
15CONSOLATIONPRIZES: a 1980 red Mazarati Bora ( or the equivalent cash value of $75,000)
• Essays are to be written on the nearest available restroom wall ( Please, only 25 words per tile).
• Submit name, address, and location of literature on a white 3 x 4 index card and enclose a self addressed, stamped envelope and mail to:
URennialContest
P. 0. Box 5442
Short Pump, Va. 12121
Letters to the Editor
Dear Editor,
I dare you to print this letter, and feel sure that you won't. But it's your turn, so I am writing anyway.
As has been the case in the past, this year's issue of The M esse,ng,er suffers from severe amateurism. The articles are, as usual, wrought of misinformation and absurdly separate from reality. The attempts at literature read more like something from MAD magazine than a university's literary magazine. How unfortunate that the University of Richmond must be judged by this trash.
An obvious problem 1s that the University's so-called "humorists" have seen it fit to sacrifice quality literature and biting satire for cheap, sophomoric humor. Had I been editor, things would have been different. However, I wasn't. Who was?
The entire magazine revolves around the irrational quirks of its editor, Barbara Iobst. The M ess,eng,er is, in fact, an apparent one-person effort. The members of the staff are merely Iobst groupies. I served for three years as The Messenger art editor a:nd yet this nothing was chosen over me.
Why was I refused the job? Obviously the Board of Publications ignored such factors as literary talent or past experience. Rather, the decision was based upon "special favors" performed for the Board members by Miss Iobst. No wonder they are afraid to censor the magazine.
Job firm in hand, Miss Iobst assembled her staff of incompetents. First she chose Jody Buffington as her coeditor. I often wonder what she/he looked like when she/he was still Joseph Buffington. If she/he is unable to settle her /his personal life, how can she/he function effectively as co-editor of a magazine?
Miss Iobst's associate editor is M ike "Kissie-Kissie" Kizzie. Hell , the only reason the University allows his kind to attend the school is to play ball. Let's face it, there's no way he could be expected to be literate enough for his job. All he's good for is chasing white women. I guess it's twue, it's twue.
I only hope that next year the University will improve upon its choices for the editorial staff of the literary magazine.
Ronjoy Booze, R C '80
people on the campus are the faculty members.
But I'm getting off track here. Seriously de-railed. I am writing to comment on your title, "The Other Half." · While this title may be a reference to a world of funny and/ or disgusting thi~gs, I'd like to approach it from my point of view.
As a graduate of the University I am now a member of the working class. I'm in THAT other half. Believe me, it's Hell. Last year I didn't know whether to shake or stir my Martini. This year that's no problem . I can't afford the gin.
"But John," you say, "you're so lucky not to have any homework, termpapers, or exams." Well, my dear editor , you can have my daily routine of early to rise and early to bed makes a man wish he were dead. I have to spend eight hours a day with outraged customers, frustrating paperwork and dull lunches. You wouldn't believe how tired I am.
Dear Editor,
Last year I had the pleasure of being an editor of "Apathy" magazine. But, as proud as I am of last year's magazine, I feel as though we stole a title from you. Last year's student body, as compared to this year's, was a seething hotbed of furiously frenzied activists. This year, the most radical
"But John," you say, "it must be nice to be getting regular paychecks!" Wrong, wrong again. On a summer job payday is a thrill, but not for me. It depresses me. As soon as I'm paid the hounds are at my door, growling and thrashing for their share. VEPCO and I are not lovers.
I know that you look forward to your own graduation. STOP!! Take a couple of extra majors, fail some requirements; do anything but graduate. Otherwise you'll face what I
Letters ....
do: That one half 1s always jealous of the other half.
Sincerely,
John K. Offerdahl Executive Editor, "APATHY," The Messenger, '79
Dear Editor,
I just want to say that if I'd known what a terribly moral school this was I never would have come here in the first place. My father, obviously a Southern Baptist, tried to tell me what drunkards preyed on campus and how there are just no morals left. I mean, I could hardly wait to get here. Boy, I could have gone to Oral Roberts University and had more fun than this.
Dear Editor, Tom Heliman Richmond, Va.
I came to this school because it reminded me of my parent's wedding;
it cost so much and meant so little. My problem .is this: my reputation is about to be ruined in this rich school society because of recent decisions by the administration. Everyone knows that the richer you are around here the more fun you have. I hardly had enough money to pay my tuition this year, that is, outside of my "fun money". But next year I'll surely have lost everything because next years' freshmen will be able to pay $800 more apiece if they want to come here. Can you imagine going through your final college year looked upon almost as low as someone who gets a grant? Please, you must help me, don't let the administration do it.
Apple Dan Farrell
of Richmond is trying to outdo your anniversary by celebrating its 200th anniversary, ( sounds like a case of scratch my back and I'll scratch yours). But, to top off everything, we're celebrating 50 years since the stock market crashed by going back into a recession. How can you have the gall ' to celebrate such an a:nmversary as the 102nd?
Jimmy Carter Washington, D.C.
Dear Editor,
I've really had it with anniversary celebrations over the past few years. I mean , just four years ago we had the bicentennial and I'm still trying to get the red, white and blue paint out of the front lawn. Last year it was Mickey Mouse's 50th anniversary and he's not even real. Now the city
Dear Editor,
I think its really a mce idea to celebrate an anniversary. It reminds me of our own anniversary. You remember, the 150th? Well, anyway , we're celebrating one and doing a pretty good job of making a big deal out of nothing, too. But we are becoming THE University and I think its pretty kinky that you're getting into the act too. Maybe the city of Richmond will proclaim a holiday for youperhaps an All Fool's Day.
E. Bruce Heilman Richmond, Va.
JOUHnAUSM MAn
"When things look their brightest they are probably imtrue."
A. Muckr,aker
The Collegian reporting staff is a good one indeed. But due to my alert and impromptu way of reporting, I find the story behind the story. The following news is accurately reported ( to a point), but J ournalism Man picks up where the Collegian left off.
Collegi an story, Sept. 13, 1979, Vol. 66, J'/IO. 2
"The University of Richmond confirmed Tuesday that 'mind control' experiments conducted on campus during the 60s and 70s were financed by the CIA, according to the Richmond Times-Dispatch and Richmond News Leader."
JM has learned that these "mind control" experiments were continued until 1979, at the closing of the spring semester. The experiments included the registered results of sodium bitchide (NaBi), a newly developed drug used to increase one's aggressive nature and violent temper. The results of test experiments on mice paralleled those in the infamous Westhampton College "Trash-In". One striking difference in the experiment on mice and the alleged experiment on Richmond College students was that the mice were not prosecuted.
Collegian story, Sept. 20, 1979 Vol. 66 no. 2
"F. Lee Bailey recently visited the University of Richmond campus to deliver a speech at Canon Memorial Chapel."
JM has learned from his secret contact, code name, Deep Threat, that F. Lee Bailey's actual purpose for visiting UR was to advise the Campus police on the process of prosecuting students who break school policy. When consulted on this issue, Bailey promptly said, "Wait until they really do something wrong, then let some real police arrest them."
Collegi ,an story, Oct. 25, 1979, Vol. 66, no. 7
"Running in his first marathon ever, University of Richmond, AllAmerican Hillary Tuwei left a field of more than 3,000 runners behind on Sunday, when he won the second annual Richmond Newspapers Marathon ... Tuwei finished more than 10 minutes ahead of his closest competitor and was in control almost from the start."
JM happened to catch Tuwei rounding a corner, to ask him how he could perform so well. Tuwei commented, "The administration promised me I wouldn't have to eat in the refectory anymore and that I could use a riding mower next summer when I cut the campus grass."
WILLHUMOREXISTONANOTHERPLANE
LongAfterDC-10'sHaveStoppedBeingFunny?
Scientists are endlessly probing the limits of space asking if life really exists on other planets. It's really a difficult question, and it may be centuries before we arrive at an answer. Until then we can only speculate. If the time comes and we do discover that there are other beings, can we have the nerve to assume thatthey'll be funny?
Granted, they may look funny; but will they posess a sense of humor? Can y~u picture a threeeyed alien getting off of his space ship and saying, "Take my wife ... please!"? Could you fathom a Johnny Carson with tentacles? Could you respect someone who's green? Think about it.
Imagine yourself on a shuttle to Venus with a businessman from Saturn who asks you why the fourlegged, six-eyed chicken crosses the road. Now, after 2,000 years you should know the answer , but what does this tell you about advanced civilizations? They obviously still aren't advanced enough to tell a decent joke.
All things considered, humor could, in fact, be hazardous to your well-being. Who knows what could happen if, in mixed company, you mentioned
that you wanted to "get small"? Before you knew it, you could be reduced to the size of a flea's naval by some atomic ray gun pushing jokster.
Would laughter still exist without humor? How could you laugh at the way four Pollacks screw in a lightbulb when you've seen the way six goons from Pluto pop popcorn? You would also be at a loss with practical jokes. The .probable invention of an H-bomb small enough to fit in a piece of bubble gum would presumably keep you from accepting candy from a stranger. It's too frightening to think what could happen if you lit a trick cigar!
So there you have it, no more jokes or Orkan puns. No more stand-up comics like Steve Martin or Bob Hope. There would be no more sit-down com ediens like Mike Douglas or Dinah Shore. Your favorite Martian would be your next-door neighbor. So , what's the big hurry to find life on other planets? Can they be imagined to be so far advanced that they don't know how to ask a riddle or crack a pun? Then, again, what can you say about the traveling Venutian and the Martian's daughter that hasn't already been said?
CHILDREN'S WORLD TOUR
ATTENTION!! Parents! A great experience for you kids! Visit cities and countries in our U.S. * Europe * Middle East * Far East * Hanoi * Cambodia * Australia * Africa * South America * Mexico!!
Tour includes food, clothing and lodging plus many exciting extras. The Other H.alf' s vacation advisor has made all arrangements and taken care of all legal restrictions. So come on, let your son or daughter have the ultimate time of their lives!
ITINERARY
Excursion begins in scenic Peeltree, West Virginia. Tour will depart on a DC-10 to Three-Mire Island . Kids are guaranteed a glowing smile! Departure from Harrisonburg Municipal Airport.
* Northern Ireland. Picnic planned in the streets of Belfast. ( Extra explosives supplied).
*
*
*
Next, your child will visit the housing projects in Jordan and witness -on-the-spot bombing runs in F-16's to Syria.
No tour would be complete without a visit to Tehran, Iran. Children will arnve in the afternoon in order to watch 4 :00 executions, followed by a trip through the city to meet students and the Ayatollah himself. Those who are freed will return to the DC-10.
A stop-over in Cambodia is planned so your little ones can experience starvation first hand, plus gain respect for spinach and green beans at the same time. *
*
In Sydney, Australia, your children will be taken on a Skylab hunt plus a nighttime snipe collection party. The plane will leave from there at an unscheduled and ungodly hour without notification to children.
In Uganda, kids can re-enact the role of school kids visiting their Da-Da. Escapees will head for another culture spot in
* Cape Town, South Africa, where black youngsters are sure to have an educational expenence.
* Hopefully, your DC-10 will take off for Jamestown, Guyana, another must for the children. Refreshments will be served.
*
*
Having returned to the Western Hemisphere, an afternoon excursion is planned in Mexico. There, your children, for a fraction of the cost they would pay in the United States, may spend half the day picking Mexico's most abundant crop. Be sure to tell them how much you want! !
Unfortunately, tour ends with a return to Peeltree, West Virginia. Tour guides will call parents in case their child has returned.
o UJE. STOCK ALL TYPES
o REASONABLE.RATES
o UlE.'RE. ONL'Y A CALL
Fcm4.lea.va.ila.l,/e.onl4 in pink'.dnd gY"een (da.l"I::glosses fol" date. pt-avided)
ac+rowo.hd we'll inciude a. comqJe-le. Set o~ "CAndies<!I" ! Jiu.AiSe1J., !
HowtoSCOREwlthyourProfessor
(whentakinghimtolunchgetsyounowhere)
For those of you who may find it difficult to keep up with your studies or pass finals, here is the answer to all your academic worries. Score with your professor! Already, many of you are contemplating the obvious difficulties of this act, so here are a few helpful tips for a great academic semester.
A) Do n,ot be obvious.
Always remember that professors, in general, have a long line of accomplishments and mesmerizing a student early in the semester is something he or she will shirk off as "cute", and only add to an already bloated ego. This results in total failure of the entire project. In other words, staring at your professor's physical attributes for fifty minutes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday is not the answer.
B) Look your best at all times.
Vitally important! It may be necessary to get up an hour early to properly prepare yourself for class. Preppies, disco look, etc., time may vary respectively. However, always remember to be at least three or four minutes late in order to make your "grand entrance". If you happen to wake up only fifteen minutes before class, skip it; your presence will be missed! !
C) Schedule interviews.
Individual interviews can literally make the pass/fail difference in the entire project. Therefore, careful preparation must be made before each appointment is made. Know something about the topic for which you are seeking help, and for the first five or ten minutes keep the conversation strictly academic. Following this, tactfully lead the professor into various other
topics concerning his or her own inter ,ests and add a few comments of your own. DO NOT, repeat, DO NOT give your whole life story; that part of you is not interesting. Do not make the interviews frequent, either. This may result in you becoming a nuisance, or even worse, a "friend".
D) Make pla,ns for extracurricular interviews. By the time points A,B and C have been successfully completed, it will probably be getting late in the semester and close to finals. Therefore, direct action now becomes imperative. Drop by your professor's office late in the afternoon, impressing upon him ( or her) that you need immediate help but you have pressing errands that simply must be done. Suggest a meeting in a suitable bar ( dim lights, soft music, etc .... ) that evening. Once at the bar, drop numerous hints, but keep the conversation flowing, thus allowing the professor to consume a substantial amount of alcohol. Suggest continuing the conversation in a more private atmosphere where you can determine how much work is really involved in getting an "A".
E) If all points A, B, C and D fail, march directly to your professor's office and bargain for the grade on the spot.
These detailed guidelines were prepared out of true concern for the pursuit of acadmic excellence. By adhering to these guidelines, one should have no problem earning a place on the Dean's list.
Editor's Note: If problems do occur, face it, a Cheryl Ladd or Chris Reeves you ain't!
THE OTHER HALF'S New Collegiate Dictionary
book it v. The act of accelarated absorption of academic material, usually associated with hibernation in situations of panic.
cake: adj. Easy. Not something to be consumed. Synonyms: breeze, elementary. Often used in reference to Religion or Geography classes.
crash: v. Not an accident involving a Honda Civic. In fact, synonymous with sleep. Favorite postactivity of anything.
crank it: v. To turn up stereo until neighbors arrive to complain.
ex/eel/lent. v. Exclamation. Accent ·is important here; pronounced with extreme emphasis on the first syllable. This is the ultimate expression of agreement.
go for it: Exclamation. Meaning obvious.
go wild: Ditto.
in/tense: adj. Accent is again important; emphasis must rest firmly on the second syllable to achieve collegiate status. Meaning is immaterial.
like: Whatever part of speech this is, it does not mean "similar to." Often used in place of a verb, as in "My roommate was like talking and he said like, 'I don't know'." Can also accentuate the verb "to be" as in: "It was like so intense!"
munch out: v. To gorge. Synonyms: pig out, pork out, chow down, etc. The noun, "munchies", is derived from the verb, meaning that on which one munches out.
psyched: adj. In a state of readiness or excitement, often used in reference to a Greek Theatre party. Interchangeable with "I'm there!"
reality: n. anything not UR oriented and/ or having to face the world when one's vicinity is dry.
real/ly: Exclamation. rhyming with "silly") cent is on 1st syllable.
( often pronounced "rilly," Expressing agreement. Ac-
space: n. One who does not know what is going on.
y'know: remark used when words emerge faster than thoughts.
wimp out: v. to skip a weekend party due to an exam on Monday.
THE ART OF LYING
Life itself is a bummer, right? Wars here, elections there, professors everywhere. It seems no matter where you turn, something is going to go wrong. But, if you're really smart, there is a way you can brighten up your day, and live dangerously at the same time.
Now, I'm sure you're telling yourself that anything that exciting is probably accompanied by a jail sentence, right? Wrong. Simply, learn to tell a good lie every now and then. You don't have to lie to someone you know personally. You can lie to a stranger. And, who can be stranger than a professor, at times? You might even work yourself up to the point where you'll look forward to your next lie, just as you look forward to your next paycheck. Seriously, how many times could you have passed a history quiz, or more importantly, avoided it completely? If only you had told a teensy weensy lie. (note: teensy weensy is categorized somewhere between exaggerated and boldface) .
But, don't go running off without reading on. Lying is a serious business as well as an art you must master to near perfection. You must be willing to take the blame for your actions . . . IF YOU GET CAUGHT. Also, it is very important to remember that the law only permits you to tell a certain number of lies, that number being determined by your height, weight and major, not to mention
present academic standing.
For instance, dean's list nominees are allowed 2.2 lies yearly, while potential drop-outs are allowed no less than 4.0. On this campus alone, those who are aspiring for a political science degree can tell an exhorbitant amount of lies ( the actual number is being withheld for obvious reasons which may be detrimental to careers with the U.S. Government.)
But in any case, there are three important things to remember when telling a lie:
1) Keep your lies straight. Remember which lie you told to what person. Also keep your lies in order.
2) Keep your lies basic.ally reason.able in case you meet up with the person you've lied to in an embarrasing situation. For example, don't tell someone on campus that you work for IBM, when your chances are high of seeing them while you're on duty at the refectory. Of course, the less you see a person the bigger the potential for a good lie.
3) Research, if possible, the lie you plan to tell, then, rehearse it over and over again. Practice makes perfect in this case.
For more information on lying, write:
Lying
Box 240-C \Vashington, D.C. 20036
THE OTHER HALF Goes to the Movies
* * * * worth selling your mother to see *** worth selling your sister to see
* * possibly worth the price of a ticket to see * not worth sneaking in the back door to see
**** THE DEER HUNTER Don't come with a headache! A real gutsy movie.
**** ANIMAL HousE Could be suggestive to users of marijuana. around the Refectory looking longingly at the rubber gloves.
Beware of girls who hang
*** SEDUCTION OF JoE TYNAN Not so risque as it sounds . Gets down to the bare facts of politics and fooling around in the White House. Alan Alda has taken the blood and tears out Korea and put it into the Oval Office where it belongs.
* GREASE Definitely belongs in the ranks with OPEC when it comes to ripping people off. Viewing would make great punishment for juvenil e offenders.
* JAWS You really don't want us to say anything do you?
JAWS II The real horror lies in the fact that movie sequels like this are becoming a habit.
**** APOCALYPSE Now For those of you with weak stomachs this is definitely not for you. Massive colors for all you druggies. Lovely spring scenes of Saigon. Positive proof that surfing didn't start in Hawaii Lots of loving father figures who are willing to protect their own. Yes Sir!
*** SUPERMAN You'll definitely believe a man can't fly. Good aerial views of New York City Main plot depends heavily on severe naivete. Leaves female audience wondering just how big Chris Reeves really is. For the answer to that question they're drooling excessively for announcements of the release of Superman II Promises to be super-titillating.
** LOOKING FOR MR. GooDBAR "Stick to Baby Ruth bars ."-Anita Bryant.
* SEX WORLD 69 ways to shoot the same scene. Interesting camera angles.
* ** THE MooNRAKER Great for those people who feel uncomfortable being called "Metal Mouth" or "Railroad Teeth" . Good exploratory scenes by Bond and he doesn't even have a medical degree. Poor imitation of Star Wars but runs a close second with Sex World.
* * CHINA SYNDROME Just goes to show what can happen with the power of positive thinking.
* 1941 What a way to ruin a name, John; you finally hit the big movie industry and then you blow it up ( clever huh?).
**** 10 I wonder how high the numbers can get; maybe even a 15 or 16?
DEALING with the Alcohol Policy
This year the University has enforced a highly controversial policy. This policy states that members of the faculty can not attend functions where students are present if alcohol is to be served. When enforcement of this policy was announced many felt that it would lead to a breakdown of student-faculty relationships.
At first this was the case. By the end of the first semester of this year faculty had totally ceased to attend USU or fraternity functions. Student visits to faculty offices dropped to zero. Finally, class attendance began to seriously fall off.
The worst result of the policy was the firing of two members of the faculty. Professors Al K. Hall and P. J. Mixer attended communion at their Baptist Church. Here they met and sat with three of their students.
There was still no problem until the wine was poured. Hall, Mixer, and the three students went to the pulpit together to partake. Unfortunately, a member of the Board of Trustees was also in the church. Witnessing the five, the Board member
called an emergency meeting as soon as the service was over. Hall and Mixer ,vere fired and the students were confined to the refectory.
The shock of the firing has, fortunately, led to a serious faculty turnaround in sentiment. Interpreting the policy literally they discovered that it refers only to alcohol. No other form of intoxicant is mentioned. And so, things look much better.
Since Christmas break the number of field trips has tripled. Yet not one dollar has been spent on gasoline. Student-faculty meetings have picked up, and are now held behind locked doors. Departmental secretaries report unusual, sweet odors filling the office suites during these meetings. Understandably, all participants leave smiling. [Ed. noteThe UR Bookstore reports Visene sales up 5 00 %, mostly to faculty. J
Thus it appears that if the faculty can't avoid the policy, they sure will circumvent it. Let's all be thankful that the Board of Trustees is unable to add numbers as simple as 2 + 2.
Campus security has arrested the alleged "Space Dog" for distribution of drugs among the other dogs on campus. In his own defense, "Space Dog" claimed, "I didn't know it was mesc, I thought it was just potent fl.ea powder.
On the night of November 15, 1979, Mary Sue Martin crawled into the UR police station claiming that she had been attacked. According to a witness, ( who happened to be in the station because he couldn't parallel park) her clothes were torn and her body was severely bruised. She was rmhed to Richmond City Hospital to receive emergency medical treatment. The police file read: "She just had a bad case of food poisoning."
President Bruce Heilman was charged with a serious violation of the Honor Code according to top honor officials. Much of the President's new book, How t,o be a Successful President While Living on Campus was plagiarized from Ralph Ellison's classic, The Invisible Man.
UniversityPanties
The Republican Club will hold a "Ronald Reagan for President" rally this Saturday on the W esthampt on gre en.
There will be a Volkswagen race this Thursday on the University Lake. Prizes will be awarded at the physical plant coal pile.
Beer will be served at all future convocations m order to increase student attendance.
The University has announced that in addition to a distinguished educator award, there will now be an extinguished educator award. The prize carries a $2,000 fine and loss of tenure
The physical plant plans to celebrate UR's sesquicentennial by acting upon some recently unearthed 15 0 year old work orders. Ron Hicks, director of the plant was dumbfounded as he did not know the present location of the slave quarters.
andhis TRUSTYTRUSTEES
Dean Stephanie Bennett will be g1v111ga lecture this Friday in the Keller Hall reception room entitled "Chastity for Fun and Profit." # l'aDELUXE SPIDEf<MANf>UNJ)f'OL!).,,,,,.-_::::::::=:::-
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" this year's edition of • The,,..Messenger -rBAI
..,.. _ · "" hort story) by J'om..,. ,:_ ~ga S"peaks ..,_.,-em~~ 0. Gunter'
To~ eer They }:v_f'./"~~"(po~n) Iosep~ { Allred 4.J'zi~ ing Re~,~t oem) b31 Kate Stevenson Mapp . 0#11\ Tre ,es I) , 'Kate levenson app • • . . . .
Breezing ( Pt\eniJ.. by Keflneth Grtgg . -., '. -. le,:~ (Joern,}~':ltR.nK~ 'Qieritzthl 1e!lnory~r Sleeps r1oem) b~y Ressel
tin OnrHull (poem} by, Barba,.-,d"'lots't . ,,,,
Ptt,rmtt-anll ~d Wheat Germ..(rltor1 sMry} by Bead Powell
Han;,vzg C]l{lt.Ji(pqe.m) by;iTom Carter , : ,.._ ""'J!he Transfer f A,pem) by :.r:inda Raper Color ( poein) by Gr:etchen Cfampbell Town Me.eting (poem) :-by lfrmeth Grigg . "Games of 1f7ar (foem) b.y•Katheri';ij;.Sins'l!J ':"" T'!!f,~Stream of Consciousness (.poem) !j,firthur Charles,:worth Loss (po.em) by Mary Beth ]!:bdes . . . . . . .
• ' BeniJG (poem) by Mary Beth '!lodes • . . . . ,I,! .·. Cove,; P'liJto anlt Ph.,.oto t/iis page Mark Sloan "'"
FANTASY
by Tom Carter
"I don't mind being used, as long as I know it."
She threw me a look of pure acrimony.
"You think I'm manipulative?" she asked pointedly.
"I'm lost on what to think."
We fell silent. Our walk had brought us out of the Penn campus and onto 34th Street, in the direction of the Civic Center. When we came down to South Street, we turned toward the Schuykill River. There was an unusual dearth of afternoon commotion, except perhaps for the flow of traffic on the expressway, and I found myself strangely calm despite my confusion of recent days. Susan seemed perturbed , but I decided not to alter my strategy, formulated that morning, just to mollify her. I needed answers, and I thought then that I needed them at all costs.
"Does your husband know how often we write?" I asked.
"He knows we write."
"But not how often."
Her reticence was more direct than a verbal answer.
"You know, of course, that your letters were ambiguous," I continued.
We had come to a stop halfway across the bridge over the river , and I had turned to face her squarely. There was weariness in her eyes, and I felt a brief pang of guilt, a suspicion that I alone was responsible for the despondence that showe d itself on her face.
"You really aren't in a position to make judgments," she said.
I was surprised by this somewhat abstruse, even irrelevant, reply.
"Who the hell is judging? " I snapped.
"You are, when you imply that I'm carrying out some sort of romantic, clandestine fairy tale with our letters."
"Let's get two things straight," I responded. "First, there is a very questionable level of intimacy in the letters you send. Secondly " Here I had to pause. "And, secondly, I'm only trying to find out your intent. I'm not interested in passing a moral verdict."
The last of my exhortation was drowned out by the raucous clacking of a commuter train which passed underneath the bridge, but Susan seemed unconcerned whether I repeated myself or not. She was fully aware of my meaning, and she knew she could not veil herself much longer. I pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to her, which she declined. I lit mine and blew a steady cloud of smoke into the chilly, dirty Philadelphia air. I sense that I had to maintain equanimity, for I was the only stabilizing influence , the fulcrum in this see-saw game she was forcing us to play. I could wait, and I did.
She spoke at last.
"What if you are right , Carl?"
"What?" Though I had expected it sooner or later, I was nevertheless taken aback by her sudden capitulation.
"I mean, what is the harm done?"
I was confused, and I had to think for a second.
"Not a helluva lot, I guess, as long as your husband doesn't find out."
She looked hurt.
"Do you consider it infidelity?" she snipped.
"Of course not. I just "
"I think you've got your values twisted. I love Bobby, and I wouldn't leave him for anything."
"Take it easy," I said, trying to appear minutely aggravated.
"What I think is of no consequence. It's what your husband would think that counts."
"Are you afraid of him?"
My look of annoyance turned genuine.
"If I were, that still wouldn't be the point. I just think I have a right to know if there is a chance I could be held suspect."
I seemed to have reset the perspective for her. She sighed and stared out over the river. I smoked.
"You have no way of knowing," she said plaintively.
"Knowing what?"
"Knowing the ambivalence of marriage. You've never been there."
I opened my mouth to protest that maybe so, but I was at least sensitive enough to empathize. She cut me off before I could say it.
"You can love your husband or wife with your entire soul and still feel ... I don't know ... incomplete."
She was getting beyond me, and she sensed it. She began to speak softly, as if that could facilitate her explanation.
"I realize it's just the opposite from what the world says it should be. lVIarriage is supposed to be a state of fulfillment. And it is, but maybe a little too much so."
"I haven't the slightest idea what you're driving at."
"I know," she said, tugging on my sleeve for emphasis. "That's exactly what I mean. You have to go there first." She broke off and thought for a second. "Try to look at it like this. Haven't you ever had a fantasy which disappeared when you finally lived it?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "I suppose."
"O.K. then. Imagine the ultimate fantasy come true. You find that one person who is every dream, every fantasy, sordid and pure. Suddenly, you have everything you've ever coveted, and all the desires, at least the more imposing desires , fade away."
I began, slowly, to comprehend, and I began to regret my acerbic attitude of earlier in the day.
"What do you do then?" she continued. "You make new dreams , because you find you can't really live without them. :\lore than that, though, they have to be unattainable, out of reach, to give them savor. I imagine all of us handle this problem in different ways, so I picked you. That's all. You were a friend, and I sensed that perhaps I could create a little mystique around our relationship. It was a sort of vicarious affair , nothing more. I thought I was cautious enough to keep fantasy from intruding on reality."
I gazed out across the city toward Fairmont Park and felt , deep within my obstinate soul, a disturbing sense of contrition. I had for ced her to show her hand ,early, stripped her bare before all the cards were drawn, and I was somehow terribly sorry. The satisfaction of finally knowing was little recompense for the obvious pain of her confession.
"You were," I said after several moments of silence.
"I was what?"
"You were cautious enough." I now felt compeUed to reveal my hand as she had revealed hers, though I had not intended to do so when the day began.
"Not if you took it so hard," she replied.
"No. That's not important. It was as you said ... a fantasy. An intriguing little puzzle that only two people could analyze."
"But I intended for only me to know the secret."
"You-and anyone who wanted to be a part of the fantasy, anyone who wanted to read it that way."
A nearly imperceptible twitch of her head was the only sign that she had been caught off guard. She didn't smile, didn't frown. Just stared through me and uttered one sentence.
"I'll be damned."
As if by some director's cue, we both turned and began to retrace our steps up South Street toward 34th. We didn't speak. She stared at the sidewalk, while I finished the last of my cigarette. When we reached the Penn stadium, I decided to take a short cut. I led her inside the complex. Two custodians were sweeping the stands of the last remnants of Saturday's game, and we were the only other occupants of the massive structure. The grayish sky made the turf of the field seem even greener than normal; the stadium was quiet but for the rattle of empty cups across the metal floorboards.
"I told you once. I don't mind being used as long as I know it."
She reached up and gripped my arm as we walked.
"That's such an awful word."
" 'Used'?"
"Yes."
"Only in the wrong hands."
She smiled for the first time that day.
"You know, a woman can love two men," she said softly. I could have read, deviously, an erroneous meaning into her words, but I had no desire to jar her faith in me any further. I wanted her to feel safe now, above all else. I
wanted her to see that I had accepted my role in her world.
"And you're welcome to do just that," I said, as we stepped onto the field and crossed to the other side. This path was preferable to the street outside, for rush hour h<!,d once again snuck its insidious way into Philadelphia. As we neared the West gate of the stadium, I halted her.
"I'd like for you to keep up the fantasy," I said.
She gazed out over the rows and rows of empty seats, seemingly lost to the world for a brief moment.
"I can't. It'd be useless now."
Remorse nicked at me. "I understand, and I'm sorry. It's just that I had to know."
Her eyes returned to mine. "I guess I would have been disappointed if you hadn't had enough self-respect to ask."
"I hope you find another, better fantasy."
She reached up and touched my cheek, a caress lighter than the wind that was tickling its quiet way through the stadium.
"Maybe I already hav-e."
"Meaning?"
For the barest moment, I thought I detected a mischievousness to her smile, a tinge of ingenuous enticement.
"One secret a day is enough, don't you think?"
I am remembered as a sorceress And mother most unnatural whose breast Spewed forth revenge and rived her sons of lifeTwo tender children innocent of wrongs And wild barbarian rage. When mothers name Medea, how they shudder , holding her More base than wolves that gorge upon their whelps. But say, might not my grief rage equally, My pain burn just as deep, my emptiness Lie vast as time among the stars? Oh, friend , \Vhen I behold the gentle springtime fawns Suckled in warmth , my heart might scorch the fields Of asphodels A small bird from its nest, Patient for d-eath among these barren stones, Bathes me with bitter tears Niobe could Not shed. Those mighty gods who made me fired Each zeal with equal strength; and while I live, The sadness of my exiled life shall surge To depths unknown to most. I swear to you Natures like mine forge their own punishment!
G. 0 . Gunter
All three million Of them
Ran madly Every single day
Waiting to pounce
On something And devour it
Like a trapped lion
In a deserted zoo
Would pounce on food
Some of them were even Taking cloud:walks
After lunch
On the veranda
While others were
Competing with machine guns
But all of them
Were working faster
Than the generation before And all of them
Were too busy to notice
That there was still
A deer in the world
Joseph B. Allred
Clutching your walker you take slow tiny steps. Ninety years old legs bent, shoulders hunched you shuffle down the hall to the snack machine. Your hard white shoes, too large for your shrunken feet, make you complain of corns. The social worker suggested "buy new shoes," but you shrug-ashamed that you can't afford them. Your small frame - bony from pork skin mealspokes your black withered skin. The stroke impaired your speech; yet, you mumble on and on to your neighbors when you see them in the hall, but they only turn away not caring to listen. You stare blankly after them not understanding.
Kate Stevenson Mapp
Black, proud, distinct: the bird flew to the naked bark. Stifling in the mirthless heat, the deathlike trees were bare. Strong, hungry, brave: the bird searched futilely for life upon the ground brown and scratchy from the dryness. Defeated, aching, bitter: the bird flew back into the sky.
Kate
Stevenson Mapp
On the wmgs of a salt breeze I fly away from emptiness, Riding the wind that fills the sails, Awakened to life by spray in my face Burned red like the sun that sets ahead. This peace is rare back on land Where life flies past unnoticed in the frantic pace of desperation. Here there is a slower pace Which frees me for the little things That have always passed in the rush. Setting suns, singing gulls, The cool of the breeze at dusk; How has this escaped me?
I have missed so much in my hurry
To make sure my life is full. On the wings of this salt breeze
I slow the pace of hectic life
As I fly away from emptiness With no destination in mind, Making up for lost time.
Kenneth Grigg
My mother and I stood on the hot, black asphalt and watched my father climb the silver wing. His engines roared, powerful turbines :belching fire, belching heat; belching noise so that we covered our ears. Slowly he taxied across the field, and then he turned and raced into the sky like a giant eaglesoaring on self-made currents of warm air.
The airplane flew higher and higher, to the clouds, and then disappeared; but we could hear the jet as my father dove, twisted, looped ..• stalledSpinning like a lost kite in the wind, a kite with its string caught on a telephone line the plane fell and fell and fell . . .
Mother and I stood on the hot, black asphalt, watching. The flower bloomed, a red blossom of fire and metal convulsing into the air and then wilting to the ground.
John K. Offerdahl
Awakened in the black of night to a scream only to 'realize it was mine.
And then the reason engulfs my brain,
The memory ever-lurking in my mind.
She sees me coming back from the store across the street, and playfully darts out to greet me.
Sickening crunch shatters the afternoon; Ragdoll body tumbles through the air; gushers of blood splatter the semi's front grill, the pavement, the shoulder, the grass, and myself as I hold her; battered, contorted, headless heap that was once a young woman; her vacant eyes bore through me; putrid smell of death makes me retch; angry flashing lights scald the scene.
"She ran out so fast I couldn't stop!"
"Snap out of it, son. You'll get over it."
"Step over here , please, sir. I have some questions for you."
Stop! It's all coming too fast!
The policeman's report said the trucker was going 72.
The speed limit was 45.
The bastard! I'll run him over w ith his own truck if I get the chance.
How can the ambulance driver be so calm and casual?
He said I'll get over it,
But it wasn't his lover that was killed before his eyes.
The policeman asked questions as if it were my fault.
He acts like it's easy, but he doesn't have to live with it either.
Last week was a nightmare.
Driving to her house that night, telling her parents what happened, and crying with them in the darkness.
All the people at the funeral with their condescending pity. How the hell could they tell me they knew what I was going through?
There's one thing that helped; that it wasn't her that survived only to relive my death over and over.
Oh, to be young and carefree they say.
Oh, to be old and accustomed to death I say.
Andy Ressel
Last night you listened to the coastguard report, ecstatic over "twenty-five miles per hour", punching victory fists in the air as you danced around the kitchen. I prayed for rain.
This morning I sat beside you in the car, my hands pressed tight between my legs. I dreamed of thrashing in bla ck water, trapped beneath the sail, the water inflating my airless lungs.
"Trust me," you say, "we won't tip over." But it is not a matter of trust, this fear, it stems from the unknown, the unknowable, the enigmas of the wind.
You say it will not happen , but you cannot guarantee it.
We fa!! into an easy pattern, weaving back and forth back and forth across the river, compromising with the wind. We crawl across this suspended canvas quickly ducking beneath the boom letting jib and sail out, then pulling them taut laughing at this game of musical chairs each time we come about.
You point to crazily tilted boats before us , voice tight with anticipation as you tell me, "T hat's where the wind is. Let's get to the bay!" I am instantly tight with fear; your anticipation produces my dread. All too soon we reach the bay, its awesome, open vastness, the tyranny of the wind.
Your movements become excited, hurried as you yank in the mainsheet. I am frozen, paralyzed, gripping the jib sheet line. The water slaps the hulls, the wind rises, buffets the sail. The windward stay is taut as an E string groaning from the force of speed.
And then we are up on one hull, flying, precariously angled toward the wa t eryou are shouting like a buckaroo, laughing in your careless spirit: a child with a new found toy.
I am silent, rigid, somewhere far back in my mind wanting to share your joy but powerless to comply. Suddenly the wind slams the sail, sucks the breath from our lungs and jolts us up -and I am screaming at you to LET GO.
And when I think of us now, we are always up on one hull riding a current of contention; you are airborn, loving flight, telling me to love it, too.
I am grasping for a hold, afraid to cross the space between us, sailing on the surface of your abandon.
Barbara Iobst
HOTPURSUITANDCOLDWHEATGERM
by Brad Powell
Allow me to make it clear that I am not in the habit of following any girl who catches my fancy. There is the case of the high school cheerleaders in the orange Vega whom I followed for several miles, but I dismiss that as teenage whimsy. Therefore, I feel I can say without breaking the boundaries of truthfulness that it was a unique mix of conditions that caused me to follow this particular female.
She stepped out of the Lincoln Center , bag over one arm and tweed driver's cap dipped over the opposite eye. The visible eye glistened steel blue as she tossed her scarf around her throat and strode southward against a stiff November breeze.
I thought I would die.
The fact that I did not have a massive coronary or get plowed under by a misguided taxi ( for I had wandered dangerously near the road in my state of preoccupation) , is a source of amazement to me still. I pursued this vision not in the manner of a man possessed of all his faculties, but rather like the donkev endeavoring to reach the carrot which dangles in front of him. She was a dancer , by my estimation, for her jeans delineated the lines of well-developed legs indicati ve of hours of toe-stands and pirouettes. The ballet shoes which dangled from her bag might also have influenced my impression. Her cap barely managed to restrain a playfully bundled head of chestnut hair , which my emancipated imagination env isioned falling about her shoulders in an equally playful manner. I stopped.
1 had reached the top of the subway stairs and watched her float downward.
"Excuse me," I wanted to say, "could we make this a great deal easier? Could you throw yourself at me and save me an inordinate amount of trouble and possible embarassment ?"
I continued my pursuit, emptying my already depleted actor's pockets ( auditions had not been going well) further to purchase a subway token. I imagined Baryshnikov lifting her above the floorboards, so effortless and lithe was her step onto a nearby car. Hiding my face behind a discarded Tim es for the majorit y of the trip , I peeked over the periodical periodically to check on my quarry. The pursuit ended in a health food restaurant in the Village.
"Now what?" I thought as I seated m yself in the booth next to hers. I could barel y see the top of her head over the high back of the booth, but I could tell she was alone.
"W hat can I get for you?" the waitress asked, awakening me from my reverie "The girl in the next booth ," I thought.
"Uh, gee, um ." was all I could utter.
The prospect of ordering had not crossed my mind. I glanced at the menu and ordered a wheat germ shake. Wheat germ was about the only health food I had ever heard of, curse the luck. Fellow actors had often extolled its virtues, but the frothy brown mixture that was placed before me appeared less than virtuous. The thought of subjecting my digestive tract to such punishment in the name of health seemed ironic indeed. I took a feeble pull at my straw and justified wasting good money on such foul liquid by taking a glance over the partition and visually correlating the fact which sat eating granola to the fantasy which floated and twirled through my ~1ind. Apprehensively, I was hard at work de vis ing a means of meeting her.
I could sense the v iscous fluid progressing down my esophagus; as it invaded my stomach its unpleasant essence seemed to disperse through my form. Attacking the extremities first, it crept torso-ward from my table-tapping , glass-gr ipping fingers and my intertwining toes. My entire person was permeated by this foriegn sensation, as my control center sent frantic messages to body members in an attempt to quell this invasion. The com bination of elements which now inhabited m y body were becoming incompatible at a furious rate. If my desire for the object of my energetic pursuit didn't kill me, the wheat germ would. J\Iy anatomy screamed for action: my hand s by increasing the fury of their tapping , the knees by quavering, and the stomach by vocalizing its discontent through incessant growling reprimands. It was m y legs, however , which were forced to take action.
I stepped over, mind blank and tongue numb. It was a one-shot situation, and I thought desperatel y of something clever , witty, and utterl y charming with which to break the ice.
":\Iay I borrow your iodized salt? My table doesn't seem to have any."
She looked up. Our eyes met (Was that a glimmer? N ah), and I managed a feeble smile.
"Sure," she said , without removing her gaze from my own.
I reached awkwardly for the container and succeeded in knocking it on the floor.
"Loo ks like I spilled it ," I said, forcing a laugh.
"You," she stated wryly, "have a flair for the obvious."
Her remark did not provide me with what I consider positive reinforcement. No avenue for discussion had presented
itself, not even a footpath. Not to be disheartened, I convinced myself that we actor -types must not be shy and reservedit's bad for the self-image .
"I'm Eric Sanders," I managed to say. One part of me stood aside as the other ( seemingly much smaller) stayed and underwent this minor personal crisis. I im agi ned my face a brilliant crimson and felt totally exposed-a wriggling worm awaiting the actions of the finicky fish. Would she bite? I was sure that if her reply contained the smallest negative innuendo I would be rendered a helpless, sobbing bundle, lying in a broken heap on the floor until they swept the place at night The hideous wheat germ soured in my stomach.
"Eric Sanders ," she said , contemplatively. "Eric Sanders," she repeated.
"Yes!" I thought , "Yes , you beautiful idiot , am I speaking English , or what?"
"Oh, God! You were in that O'Neill thing at the Astor last spring! You were amazi 1ng !"
I thought I would die.
But I didn't. The customary pinch which disbelievers allow themsel ves at moment s such as this was unne cessar y, for she had firmly taken m y hand and pulled me to a sitting position ,beside her own.
"I saw it three times," she told me.
The granola-laden breath which she emitted altered my opinion of health food immediately. The malicious wheat germ remaining in my system was purged by thi s new sensation, and I began to marvel that I had found the liquid disagreeable at all.
"But my part was rather small," I offered , "surely Thomas Wythe and Glennis Tones were more memorable."
She admitted that the two lead portra ya ls were noteworth y, but that "something about me" had caused her to recheck the program listings I blushed what mu st ha ve been a most unbecoming shade of pink as she explained her identifi cation with m y chara cter and the immediacy of the theme s I had brought to the surface through m y role. I sat, mouth agape, pretending to respond in a positive fashion to her discourse. So shocked, stunned, paralyzed, mesmerized , enchanted , and damn lucky did I feel just to be sitting there as she said how she "identified with me" and thought I had "made a statement" that I could only pretend to know what she meant; the most ingenious , conversational answer I could provide was a profound:
"I know what you mean."
"A few foreign friends" she had said, handling the alliteration artfully, "will be coming over afterwards, but it would he nice if you'd let me cook a nice little
Chinese dinner for two." ( "let" her? My God!).
"Mandarin or Cantonese?" I had been tempted to ask, but chose simply to nod, and, after a short exchange of pleasantries and vital statistics ( phone number, address) I departed with as much grace and decorum as I could muster.
I endured a most disappointing week as the appointed evening approached. Two auditions had passed without success. One bit part which I had accepted only after swallowing and digesting my pride to provide for a more palatable diet was promptly cut from the script as an economizing measure. The upward turn my fortunes had taken the previous year seemed only to guarantee the formation of a bell curve career graph. As I began to grow desperate, my thoughts turned toward my female fan (Damn! Had I actually forgotten to ask her nam'e ?) . Considerations entered my increasingly sycophantic meditations that had not seemed important before.
Who the hell is she, anyway?
IVIy impressions began to weave a fabric which I felt justified in labeling "her" much in the same way that my critical younger sister would describe my wardrobe by stating bluntly: "Well, it's really you, Eric, it's really you."
But what, for me, was "really" her?
A dancer, certainly, but more than that, a s.crious dancer (Nobody eats in health food joints because they like it). Also, she was a serious dancer who appreciated my ability to act. As the week progressed, she became a success/ ul serious dancer who appreciated my ability to act and who also had many successful friends who appreciated her judgment and could get me a job before I could say "Stanislavsky." Her "foreign friends" became for me the elite of the ballet world and their highly placed Broadway and Hollywood social circle. I was assured in my suppositions by the same qualities which had exhorted me to follow her on that glorious November afternoon; whereas her beauty, charm, and air of selfassurance and style had then provoked my pursuit, they now promised her a place in high society.
As I parted with $2.50 in stepping out of a cab, the desperation of the week and the hunger I was experiencing ( cab fare took my lunch money while nervousness sharpened my appetite) combined to reinforce the dual importance of this rendezvous. IVIy second-guessing began as I ascended the stairs to her Village apartment house-I prayed that she owned the place. Her first floor location seemed promising, and it was with confident anticipation that
I rapped on the door. Straightening my collar, I prepared for the encounter with the artistic elite who could determine my future. lv1y thoughts were geared to their loftiest reaches and my manners to their impeccable best. In choice actor's fashion, I began to wax elegant.
She was waxing the floor.
"Shit, Eric, you're early," she said in an apologetic whine, "and I had to get my boss to let me off early and skip my dance class to get this place ready. You don't mind waiting a few minutes, do you?"
It wasn't the waiting I minded, but rather the disappointment and foolishness I felt as I did so. No famous friends or glamorous get-togethers existed but within the playrooms of my mind. I stood in her modest kitchen and began to feel an authentic depression as I crowned myself Supreme Emperor of Wishful Thinkerdom and stared wistfully at moo goo gai pan bubbling in the wok.
"You look upset. Is something wrong?" she asked.
"It could be worse," I said. Turning, I looked into her questioning gaze and was immediately transported to the streetcorner of the previous week as her almost electrical effect consumed me again. I smiled, and continued:
"You could be serving wheat germ."
Silent, weeping woman on a midnight mountain, framed by owls and moonlight over yards of winding stitch, every thread embalming a year, and all the shades of gray revealing the shattered needs of an endless life.
Below the hanging cloth, a speckled, wrinkled hand weaves another scene. The cloudy vision of her dying eyes hinders the task, and her head nods in forgetful weariness. Darkness slides in and swallows the head, the hand, and the cloth that will never hang. Suddenly, she feels, she knows. Her quivering form rises and seeks the wooden door. Her toothpick shins clack a rhythm across the rotting porch boards, into the yard, and under the willow-tree.
There, an inch from being skeletal, she waits, a silent, weeping woman on a midnight mountain, framed by owls and moonlight.
Tom Carter
I must make an appointment with my advisor. He does not know that I am leaving.
I could care less if he knows; he could care less. But it is a regulation and regulations are regular. I am not regular.
I must buy a stamp and place it on an envelope One is addressed, WAKE FOREST UNIVERSITY, The other, UNIVERSITY OF RICHMOND.
I see a fork; I like spoons better.
Where is my divine insight?
Last night I was going to flip a coin, But even to have assigned heads to one and "tales" to the other would have shown partiality.
I am distraught.
And as I chew the sides of my mouth I can faintly taste blood.
I am contemplating.
My mother says that one day my cheeks will collapse. How about that? Concave cheeks. But that would not be too bad.
Concave cheeks would giv e me ·skyscraper cheek bones
And I would probably be the highest paid mod-el in Paris.
If I go to Wake Forest I w ill be so busy making up nontransferable credits That I will have to discontJinue my study of French.
I will have high cheek bones and no French
Perhaps I can be the highest paid model in London.
There is a guy watching me chew out my cheeks I fed like offering him a piece of dead cheek skin
Otherwise known as Squamous Epithelium cells. I think he would be offended.
He is still staring.
( will brouse though the bookstore and buy some chocolate to please my dermatologist. My teeth may rot but my cheeks will not collapse
And my mother will be happy.
She says Richmond It's closer; she needs the security.
My father went to Wake Forest I am taffy.
There is a seashore poster of a blonde girl collecting shells
She is all smiles and the caption reads: "There is always time for happiness"
I ask the woman at the register if I may please ha ve that poster, one stamp, and 3 Hershey bars
She comments on how cute the poster is, Gets me my stamp, And thinks about my dentist bill.
I head back to the dorm , passing the regular faces. They speak and I speak; they speak and I speak. And one mouth after the other asks , "How ai·e you doing?" And m y mouth says, "Fine , how are you?"
And here comes another one, "Hi-How ya do in ' ?" he says in passing.
I open my mouth to say "Fine" but he ,is half way down the walk.
I run afer him.
"Excuse me-
But you recently inquired about my well-being
And I would like to inform you that I am not doing very well.
I am sick of this placeThe administration, the students, and everything. I want out.
And I want you to stop inquiring about my well-being Do you understand?"
He is shocked and he does not respond. "Evidently you do not understand ... I do not either."
I walk away.
And there, how glorious
The business office sits
Not sets hut sits,, Like a cunning baboon.
I see the door swing open And shut ...
Like two fat lips with fruits inside BANANAS! ... yellow and seedy.
I won't walk by there
It has long hairy arms
And eyes like windows It wants to squeeze meThen eat me, Just another banana.
In my room I get a match And burn my poster half way up , Just enough so you can tell what it said And wonder what type of a deranged person would do something like that.
I hang it up , eat all three Hershey bars, Lick my stamp and head for the mailbox.
Heading my way is the same guy that I spoke to earlier. But he crosses to the other side of the street.
I wave.
In my mind at times
When I am half-awake
Color duels Color
And offers victories bright and clean
In shimmering, light-streaked lakes
That settle in pools which deepen a:nd dim
In countries far from here
And I dive or am pushed
From my pedestal
Into feared, dream-shattering sleep.
Gretchen Camp.bell
Linda Raper
Dedicated to the seventeen left behind Gray light means morning, finally, Hundreds of sleepless eyes meet in silence, Waiting for some word from down below, Deep within the mountainside Where sixty men may be entombed.
The steam whistle blew at the dinner hour, Sounded the dreaded note, screamed "Cave in!", Reverberated off the rugged mountains Down into the valley town Where the families stopped in midmeal, forks frozen, Gathered up their blankets and their faith, Piled into battered pickup trucks And raced to stand vigil in the coal black night Lit by flashing reds and ambers. Now morning has arrived, the waiting is harder, Knowing which neighbors are trapped by who waits, But few cry, except a pregnant newlywed And a widow whose three sons are in the shaft. No other words, just whispered prayers . The first message is seen, not spoken , As a dirty, sheet-wrapped bundle is brought out Past the fresh crew now entering, Talking with those who labored in the night, "The whole damned shaft looks gone." Another bundle, stomachs tense, With gathering clouds, flurries whip the living And wind chills the coffee cups. Then, the final breakthrough, Whispered prayers increase, arms around shoulders, ]\lore ambulances are called, Sheet-wrapped bundles in twos and threes, More tears, screams, more prayers, And men are brought out unwrapped now, With masks strapped over grimy faces, Some coughing , vomiting , bleeding, Some laughing that they see the day again. The newlywed is a widow at seventeen, The widow still has two sons left, gives thanks. The vigil is over, the people leave, Fearful of the next town meeting, Knowing it must come.
Kenneth Grigg
and with the explosions many men died the smells of many men dying there was no warning the babies didn't know with their cap guns games of war they didn't know fire napalm the bastards now kill them . . . genocide these aren't lives proper propaganda napalm the bastards now cap guns and tanks look at the eyes the emptiness of the babies the empty eyes of many men dead they see a shattering chain reaction drowned by men in black exploding then dead babies bloody babies viet bridges falling down bomb some bloody babies look ma, no hands or legs saigon is lovely in the spring when our heroes play with peace black night and now glass crashes through lights beaming screaming babies night is blown away and with these explosions many men die
Katherine Sinsel
The weathered stony mountain and its valley are of the same earth and the morning mist -fog, passing through the gray stones as silently as a thought, leaves behind a steady drip/drop descending in sequence from slab to moss covered slab like a long -legged hound picking its way down steep stairs, choosing each step wisely till finding a gentler slope where it can run freely with others.
Arthur Charlesworth
The phone rings 8 :30 too bright Saturday mornmg ( a biking day) and it's her mother
Your father's gone Her laughs rasp against the bathroom tile And she talks only about the sun pointing thin arms to the window wanting to burn a summer's memory of her father into her palm through her palm to the hard, glistening gray core of bone He made for her
Mary Beth Rodes
The scarlet eyes of a Chinaman reflected in rosehip tea. His conversation glitters with the musicality of liquid ice.
Mary Beth Rodes
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