art and the
spring 1916 universi ty of tennessee
When playwright Edward Albee spoke on campus in April, he talked about writing in terms that apply to any creative venture. He has a theory that the factor separating man from other animals is not reason or the use of tools but the ability to create metaphor. Humans are "the only animals who make art, who consistently make m etaphor. Metaphor is art." Humans try to define themselves through their use of art. "It's the one pure way we can look at ourselves with objectivity," he said. The creation of metaphor is an individual activity but one which, when complete, must be accessible to the group. The ideas Albee expressed are in many ways the premises behind the Phoenix. This quarter instead of examining one area of the fine arts, we focus on the individual, on the metaphor shaped by student poets, artists, photographers and prose writers who create because they are living.
6 1 24
Jackson Hardeman and Kern Hinton Jo Ann Ste. Marie and Kathy Smith Modrell
2 ]0 ]4 22 33
Fantasy at a Poetry Reading by Connie Jones A Shakespearean on Language by Tom Wright The Tangent Gallery by Eric Forsbergh Phoenix Profile: Eric Lewald by Ruth E. Garwood
8 16 31
The Black Dog by Stephanie Bond I Remember Augie Keck by Lisa Koger Germaine by Paul Roden
Commentary: How to Fly a Phoenix by Susan Betts and
]3 20 2] 32
Joe Willis and George Holz John Walker and Bill Johnson David Dulaney and Mary Gibson
cover The cover was designed by Phil Rose, Phoenix art editor and senior fine arts major. In 1973, he received a purchase award in The National Printmakers Student Competition at the University of North Carolina and two of his prints were chosen for the permanent collection. Recently, he was selected by the University of Southern Connecticut as a catalogue representative for an exhibit of Printmakers and their Students. He plans to pursue a printmaking career.
21 28 29
Eric Forsbergh, Marla Puziss and Stephanie Bond James Seeley, Al McCullough, Cheryl Goldfeder and Pamela Criner Sandy Sneed and Pamela Criner Connie Jones, Ruth E. Garwood, Lucy Talikwa and James Seeley Beth Kossow, Michael Flanigan and Susan Betts
Poetry Reading by Connie Jones
~unday, April 18. The Women Writers' Workshop is having a potluck dinner for poet Betty Adcock. Adcock is a little late, and the workshop members sip white wine and play with the hostess' cats to pass the time. When Adcock arrives, she looks tired and pale. She is recovering from the flu, she says, and seems grateful when someone hands her a glass of wine and offers her a chair. With a smile and thanks, Adcock settles back,
smoothing her caftan as she sits. The conversation begins and soon turns to writing, and Adcock tells how her poetry and copywriting career began. "I never held a job until 1 was 30," she explains. "I was brought up in a sort of decayed Southern aristocracy, and 1 wasn't allowed to work. 1 was married at 18 and had a baby at 19." She adds quickly, "My husband wasn't the reason 1 didn't work, though. He's always pushed me to do more. 1 was the one who clung to the roles-housewife, mother-and he pried me loose, made me go back to school."
Adcock pauses and takes a sip of wine. "I was nearly through with my undergraduate degree when, finally, at 30, 1 woke up and realized 1 had to do something. 1 couldn't get an academic job-I don't have a B.A. now-so 1 got a job with an ad agency. 1 had never attempted to get any of my poems published." She grins. "Having a job and realizing 1 could support myself made me so happy that 1 wrote and wrote. My husband persuaded me to submit some poems to magazines and they were published." Adcock frowns, and the lines in her face show a little more clearly. Photos by Jonathan Daniel and Jed DeKalb
Betty Adcock is the author of Walking Out, a collection of her own work. Her poetry has appeared in American Review, Carolina Quarterly, Chicago Review, The Nation, and Southern Poetry Review. Born and reared in San Augustine, Texas, AdcocK lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, with her husband and daughter. She is on the editorial staff of Southern Poetry Review and is writing full time. William Stafford has described Betty Adcock as a poet who "has evolved a tone in reporting to her peers-a tone that implies seriousness and complexity of experience, but without a loss of zest and bravery." "I'm in another crisis period now; I've quit my job at the ad agency. Now it's just me and the typewriter, and it's terrifying," she says. Adcock is asked if she had freelanced for the agency. "Yes, but that's part of the problem," Adcock replies. ''The agency was growing, and sometimes I might work four hours a day, three days a week, other times ten hours a day, seven days a week. Also, they asked me to write ad copy that was antiwomen-you know what I mean."
She smiles and spreads her hands. ''The work had really thrilled me, but writing ads gets old after a while." An aged bluegrass picker comes into the room, carrying a guitar and a banjo. He takes the guitar and sings "Muleskinner Blues" in a thin, old voice. Adcock murmurs, ''This is marvelous," and applauds when he finishes. The hostess herds everyone into the dining room for dinner, a buffet of barbecued ribs and chicken, blackeyed peas, potato
salad, coleslaw, and homemade breads. Adcock says, ''This is real Southern cooking. You don't know how long it's been since I've had food like this. All of my friends are from Boston or somewhere like that." After dinner I ask Adcock if it is hard for her to write regularly. "Oh, yes, it's very hard," she says, nodding her head. "I admire novelists because they are so disciplined. I have written short stories and had them published - I can sustain an effort that long. I can force a story but not a poem. They just come when they will. After my first book was accepted, I went for a year and a half without writing. I felt like, 'Well, what next?'." A workshop member asks, "What about writing workshops? Are they any good? I've written to Iowa for a catalog." "Iowa puts a lot of pressure on their writers to publish, publish, publish. Some people are ready to publish at 22 or 23, but most people aren't. I think that harms their poetry," Adcock says. I ask if she can tell that a poet has been in a graduate workshop. "Oh yes; some workshops have a definite style, a sort of technical sheen they put on the poet's work. All this doesn't apply to your workshop, though. You're doing what women should do, getting together in groups to share your work and give constructive criticism. As far as university workshops go, UNC Greensboro is where they're really getting work done. Chapel Hill has the reputation, but Greensboro is the real arts campus," Adcock replies. The old picker has finished his supper. Handing his guitar to a workshop member, he picks the banjo and sings "Rolling in My Sweet Baby's Arms." Adcock leans back in her chair, coughs unobtrusively, and seems to lose herself in the old man's music.
Monday, April 19. An audience is gathered close to the dusty Chautauqua stage in the Carousel Theater, waiting for Betty Adcock to read her poems. Adcock sits beside the stage, flipping through a book of her poems. She takes a generous swallow from a bottle of cough syrup cached in her purse, looking a bit guilty. Amused, remember her comment earlier that afternoon on James Dickey, who is famous for drinking more potent stuff before a reading. "I like crowded, rich sorts of textures-Dylan Thomas, even Dickey," Adcock said. "Yes, 1 know he's the world's worst M.C.P. (male chauvinist pig). But when 1 needed criticism he took the time to read my work, and he did not condescend to me. He was writing about the South that 1 knew. Those early books were good, and they'll stand." The audience is quiet as Adcock steps onstage. She adjusts her glasses and begins. "I'm always happy to be asked to read my poems. 1 have a poet-friend who buried his first poem; he didn't know what else to do with it. The first poem I'll read tonight is about my home, the red-dirt counties of east Texas, near the Louisiana border. It's ninety miles from anything ...." She reads clearly and slowly. The iambic rhythm takes the listeners into the country where "The windshield blurs/ with the wingbeat of chickens. The hound's/ voice takes over your horn." Adcock tells the background of each poem. "I enjoy the stories, so 1 always tell them," she says. She reads poems about love, breathing space, bad poets, and Lash LaRue, a movie cowboy. At the end of each line she pauses slightly. Before the last poem, Adcock talks about the game children play of chanting a word over and over until it seems like a different word. "I
think I'm still playing games-word games," she says. Tuesday, April 20. Adcock and some workshop members are having dinner at the Cat's Meow before the open poetry workshop, the last event scheduled for her on campus. We discuss what we want to do for the rest of our lives, and Adcock shows us a photo of her daughter Sylvia, who wants to be a Latin teacher. The conversation turns to writing. Adcock asks one aspiring poet a hard question: "Which is more important to you, English or poetry?" Adcock says if is possible to combine a career with writing. "The nice thing about poetry is, you can do it anytime, anywhere, no
matter what else you're doing. William Carlos Williams had rounds to do, Wallace Stevens had to sell insurance, but they wrote anyway," she says.
1 ask Adcock how one starts getting published-should you go straight to the top or submit to the 'little' magazines? "Submit to the smaller journals and magazines," Adcock replies. "I'll give you a hint, too: send between three and five poems. No editor is interested in just one, and he or she won't read more than five." Someone asks, "How can you tell if it's worth going on with your writing?"
A child watching a moonrise might playa game of saying, might hold the word moon in his mouth and push it out over and over . . .. The word will grow, will cease to be saying, will turn by itself into tears into flesh into burning. - "Word-Game"
Adcock shakes her head. "No one can tell you that. That's something you have to decide yourself," she says. After dinner, we drive to the University Center Graduate Lounge, where the workshop is being held. The workshop participants have submitted their own poetry earlier for duplication, so Adcock can help them revise and improve their work. People have pulled the couches and chairs in a rough circle to make discussion comfortable, and Adcock sits on a couch, her legs curled up. A photographer comes in to take photos of Adcock. He grins at her and remarks, "You don't want your picture taken, do you?" "No," she says, with a half smile. "I know I've gained ten pounds this week." She takes the top poem from her stack of duplicated poems. The poem's author reads it aloud, and Adcock and the other workshop participants comment and suggest revisions. In two hours they work their way through twenty-one poems. Adcock makes comments frequently. "This poem is excellent," she says. "It has romance and mystery . .. all the words are simple words. I like that." Another poem provokes: "Have you been reading
Hopkins? I see what you're trying to do, but that line's overwritten." Occasionally when the group finishes suggesting reVISions, Adcock reads the poem as she would edit it. Her cold is still troubling her, but Adcock seems to be enjoying herself. In the middle of the session she laughs. ''This is fun. I've never taken poems apart like this before!" Some poems are approved without revision: "What can I say? I wouldn't change a thing." Sometimes a poem is frustrating but interesting: "You write in a way I can't deal with. I can't suggest changes," Adcock says to one writer. She praises another poem: "What lovely things-you know how to walk into the poem." Adcock seems sensitive to each writer's talents and problems. "Let's get together afterward and cut this," she suggests to one poet. "You have such a marvelous ear, but there are times when you need to cut adjectives." At ten o'clock the University Center manager comes in the lounge, looks sternly at the Cultural Attractions Committee member who is managing Adcock's visit, and taps his watch. "We're nearly done," Adcock says, raising her eyebrows. Ten minutes later the manager re-
appears. "We're locking up in four minutes," he warns. "We just finished," Adcock replies, and people gather their poems and begin to leave. One writer asks, "Betty, do you really want to cut that poem?" "Yes, I do, I'd really like to go over that with you. Could you come out where I'm staying? Wouldn't you all like to come?" she asks, and several of the workshop participants head across the parking garage with her. The manager hurries to lock the door behind them.
Suddenly some unworded animal steps live out of shreds of poems and the room fills with the scent of the utterly separate. Poets fold inward like struck tents. - "F antasy at a Poetry Reading"
Jackson Hardeman 6
Jo Ann Ste. Marie
Kathy Smith Modrell 7
the black dog by Stephanie Bond
Peter walked up the porch steps, took the key from under the mat, and let himself in. Sometimes he would say hello to the empty house, but not today. He dropped his books into a chair. They made a solid, sort of familiar, sound that was somehow reassuring. The living room was raised a step higher than the kitchen and there was a ramp between them. Peter slid down it. Whoosh-thud. No squeak. It only squeaked when his father went over it in his wheelchair. A note from his aunt was on the refrigerator door. He yanked it toward him, letting the magnet which held it fall. Peter dear, I've taken the day off from the office to stay with your dad at the hospital. Dr. Aiken says not to worry, that the heart attack he had yesterday wasn't as bad as some of the others he's come through. He thinks they'll be able to patch him up. I'll let you know about everything when I get home, which should be about suppertime. I'm leaving a chicken salad sandwich and a coke in the 'fridge for you. Love, Sylvia Peter used to feel anxious and jittery when his father had to go to the hospital. Sometimes his stomach would knot up so tightly it wouldn't hold any food. He still got upset, but not to that degree. He had been through it too many times.
He shoved the note into his shirt pocket and got the coke and sandwich. As he was opening the bottle, he spied the magnet on the floor and picked it up. A red plastic rooster was on the front of it. Peter had never cared much for that rooster. It was womanish and tacky-but useful-just the sort of thing Aunt Sylvia would buy. He dropped it on the linoleum and crunched it under his heel. She didn't need to leave her little pretties over here. It was bad enough to have to look at them when he stayed next door with her. The potholders she hung from her oven doorhandle were really disgusting. They had little girls' faces embroidered on them and seemed to be all eyelashes and yarn braids. This was his house, and he was tired of that stupid rooster. Well, maybe Aunt Sylvia wasn't that bad. She was there when you really needed her, even if she couldn't always be around. She was honest with you, too. Of all the times his father had been in the hospital, she had never lied to Peter about his condition. And she had been straight with him five years ago about the automobile accident which had left his mother dead and his father's left leg paralyzed. It made Peter feel better to know what was going on. They wouldn't let you on the cardiac floor unless you were fourteen, and he lacked a year and a half. Yeah, if you can't have a mother, an Aunt Sylvia is the next-best thing. He picked up the fragments of the rooster and looked at them a few seconds before laying them gently in the garbage pail. He really shouldn't have stepped on it. He felt as if he had stepped on Aunt Sylvia herself. He wondered what it was going to be like when he went to live with her and Uncle Jack. They all understood that his father couldn't last, though they rarely talked about it. Someone else would buy this house, but maybe they would invite him in, since he would be the neighbor kid. The kitchen ramp and the railings on either side of the toilet would be gone. Too bad. It was lots of fun to race cars down the ramp and do balancing acts on the railings. He would miss them. But maybe he was too old for that sort of thing now - or would be by the time he had to leave. Peter took his snack out on the back porch to eat. It had suddenly seemed stuffy and too quiet in the kitchen.
He took a bite out of the sandwich and discovered that the chicken salad had not been salted, so he went inside for the saltshaker. He got back just in time to see the last of his sandwich go down the throat of a small black dog, which then sat down at the foot of the porch steps and smiled at Peter. Peter opened his mouth to yell at it, but
couldn't bring himself to. He had always wanted a dog, and this one looked so skinny he couldn't begrudge it the sandwich. Instead, he held out his hand and said, "Hi fella, I haven't seen you around here before." The dog nuzzled up against his knee to be petted. Peter spoke gently and stroked the dog's head for a while. Then he picked up a stick and threw it across the yard. The. dog skidded off the porch and ran back with the stick in his mouth. His left hind leg must have gotten hurt somehow. He held it up as he trotted along but seemed to get along fine on the other three. After a few more rounds of fetch-the-stick, Peter and the dog played tag and follow-the-leader. They were resting on the porch when Peter heard someone coming up the front walk. He didn't want to go see who it was; he was having more fun than he could remember in a long while. The only time Peter had anybody to play with was on the playground at school. No other boys lived close by, and Uncle Jack wasn't too keen on horsing around in the back yard. Playing with the dog reminded him of Saturday afternoons with his father before the accident. But he told the dog to stay and went to see who was at the door. Through the big front window he could see Aunt Sylvia and wondered why she had come for him so early. He opened the door, looked at her face, and he knew. Her usually twinkly little eyes were dull and sagged at the corners behind her gold-rimmed spectacles. "He didn't make it this time, did he?" Peter asked. Aunt Sylvia looked down for a moment at the door key she held in her hands and then said "no" very softly. She looked like a big soft rock of stability standing there in her grey linen suit, and Peter wanted to put his arms around her, but instead he told her he would go get ready to leave. As he went into the kitchen, his first thought about his father's death came to him: he would never hear the ramp squeak again. It was a ridiculous thing to think at a time like that, and Peter was slightly shocked at himself, but it was probably the saddest thought he could have come up with. When he went back to get the empty plate and coke bottle, Peter didn't look for the dog. He knew it wouldn't be there. Illustration by Phil Rose
A Shakespeareall 011
"The media and the education system have brought about a whole generation of people who are unaware of language as they use it." - Dr. Norman Sanders
by Tom Wright
Dr. Norman Sanders lives what he calls a "culturally schizophrenic" existence. Since 1962 he has spent eight months of each year here at UTK as an English professor, teaching Shakespeare. During the other four months he has always returned to his home in England to write and study and to lecture at various English universities and Shakespeare conferences. The cultural differences between the U.S. and England are perhaps lessened by the fact that Sanders is never far from the broader, transcultural world of Shakespeare. He has been immersed in that world for all of his professional life, as teacher, editor, and critic. His knowledge and continuous study of Shakespeare-the man who gave us much of our language-makes Sanders acutely aware of the changes our language is undergoing today. Sanders explains that in the past language changed and developed under the influence of two forces. As the world changed and new concepts arose, new words
developed to express those changes. Writers, scientists, and thinkers were at work building the new vocabularies and changing the language. At the same time, the academics-the educated-exerted influence to keep language pure and accurate. This was the conservative element, holding a brake on a too rapid development of the language. "There was always this balance," Sanders explains. "But now that balance has gone, due to, mainly, the effect of certain developments in education and the enormous impact of what is called the 'media.' "The media and the educational system have brought about a whole generation of people who are unaware of language as they use it." Sanders gives examples. He cites the growing emphasis in education on teaching the "whole person." "You don't teach English anymore. You don't teach mathematics. You teach the 'whole person.' There is now no central body of information which we educators agree that the educated person should know. What constitutes an 'educated person'? I don't think people in education could get together and say. "In other words, there is no central core of knowledge and no central core of standards." Photo by Jonathan Daniel
Dr. Norman Sanders was educated at the University of Birmingham and the Shakespeare Institute in Stratford-upon-Avon. Hefirst visited the United States in 1957-58 as a Fulbright Scholar, and he was appointed to the UTK English Department faculty in 1962. Last year Sanders served as president of the Southeastern Renaissance Conference. He has worked for the Cambridge University Press's Shakespeare Survey and has edited various Shakespeare editions for Penguin Books, MacMillan, and Blackfriar publishers. He has published more than sixty items of criticism and commentary on Shakespeare and the Elizabethan Age. Sanders is critical of linguists who believe that "self expression" is all important. To him, the phrase "express yourself' means "do what you feel-without regard for training or discipline." "Have a look at the kids' Saturday dance programs on television. As the camera pans around you see the kids 'expressing' themselves. One is moving his head, and one is turning around on one foot, but they are all doing essentially the same thing. Dance, for these youngsters, has developed into a physical cliche, because they have no real knowledge of or training in dance. Their range of "expression" is limited to what they see everyone else doing.
"This is what's happening today with language. You are skillful in using language to the degree to which you've been trained in using it, and because the educational system is failing to train people properly, people are falling into linguistic cliches. People no longer read. They no longer seek information or entertainment actively. They accept it passively from the media, and the media provides little more than these verbal cliches." Sanders says he is not particularly worried by tendencies-especially in advertising-to misspell or bastardize words for impact. What does worry him, however, is the use of words without regard for meaning. "If you use one word where previously we had two words which had slight differences of meaning, the distinctions of meaning disappear. Students now use 'disinterested' to mean 'uninterested'. What happens to the concept of 'disinterestedness' if the word is no longer used correctly? The concept disappears. "There's an element of the media using language pretentiously-without thinking of what they really want to say. And if you give words incorrect meanings-or worse-give them very vague meanings so that the words mean many things to many people, then you are propagandizing." The entertainment function of the media, Sanders believes, outweighs its informational function. Words are used less for their meanings than because they sound good, and "if the truth is dull, then it's of no interest to the press. It must be truth which is entertaining and preferably sensational." Sanders does see some bright spots. In television news, for example, he admires Eric Sevareid, Hughes Rudd, and Edwin Newman. (Sanders thinks Newman's book, Strictly Speaking, should be "required reading" for every journalist.) He feels, however, that most network newsmen are chosen for their positions because they fit in a middle ground-not too good, not too bad, just mediocre. Sanders' most harsh criticism is directed to local television stations. "I have no idea why some of the people I've seen on the local stations go into television. Presumably they knew their medium would be words, and yet to listen for a week to the local announcers is the most depressing experience linguistically that I can imagine-apart from spending a day with Cas Walker." Sanders turns to his favorite subject, Shakespeare, to make a final point. "Shakespeare pushed language to its limits and beyond. He created an immensely flexible and expressive language, which was and is a standard of what is excellent. Today there are no standards, no real development-only a retreat into a morass of sameness and mediocrity.".
• Joe Willis
The Tangent Gallery
by Eric Forsbergh Photography is both a tool and an art. As a tool it has many uses, visible every day, but as an art, photography sometimes is less visible. Knoxville is fortunate to have a gallery devoted completely to photography, the Tangent Gallery of Photography at 728 Market Street. 14
Tangent Gallery was organized in November, 1974, to promote photography as an art. It is a nonprofit organization which produces exhibits, exposing the Knoxville public to national currents in art photography. With exhibitions in mind, the eighteen organizers rented their gallery location - for-
merly a rubber stamp company-in October, 1975. After extensive renovation, including removing a wall and replacing the ceiling, they opened six weeks later. The gallery is spare, painted all white with wooden ceiling beams, producing an undistracting environment for viewers.
Their first show was a collection of the organizers' own works, and since then the exhibits have been rotated every three weeks. Some shows are group collections; some are one person's work. Future shows will be brought in from Hawaii, Los Angeles, and Berkeley. In July Tangent will present a Bicentennial show which will be their independent view of the event. David Luttrell, secretary of the organization, says, "I'm sure there are going to be some bizarre photographs." They are also planning a threewoman show for late summer, exhibiting the works of Kathy Doyle, Karen Price, and Jane Chambers. A recent exhibit featured three Tucson photographers, Urs Lauterburg, Bruce Bouche, and Kathryn Schooley-Robins. Response to the gallery has been encouraging, but the gallery has a lack of advertising funds and a location which does not get a great deal of university traffic. Luttrell thinks that there will be much more interest once students become aware of the Tangent's location. John Walker, a member of the gallery organization, feels that the gallery may be a little ahead of its time in Knoxville, but, as he said, "The people will be brought into an interest in art photography by our presence." Tangent's photography is based on a cooperative enterprise of its member photographers. They all have differing backgrounds, including architectural photography, self-taught free-lance, and work on the Daily Beacon. The Tangent members have some of their own photographs mounted and kept stacked in a bin for sale. They also offer lessons in creative photography. Luttrell, for example, is currently teaching a twelve-yearold. He taught the student the techniques in a couple of months, and has simply encouraged the student's creative talents with a nonpedagogical approach.
All of the exhibited photographs are for sale. Matted and framed in plexiglass, they are priced from thirty to eighty dollars each. Viewers sometimes question such a price, because as they see it, "this is only a photograph." However, one photo may represent several hours-even weeks-of work. Half a dozen rolls of film may be shot to get one fine print, and Luttrell adds, "A month or more can be spent getting a few photos that are any good." One of America's leading photographers, Ansel .Adams, once said that twelve outstanding photographs in a year is a good portfolio. The relationship of art photography to other art media is a touchy one. Luttrell explains, "Photography is used in so many fields, like advertising and science, that it's hard for people to rationalize it as an art." Photography is more of an exact representation, and the artist is more invisible than in sculpture or painting. Luttrell points out that many artists such as Warhol and Rauschenberg "are mixing their media between art and photography, going into silkscreened photos and photomontage." Tangent plans to exhibit photomontage, expanding in the direction of studio art. The Tangent members feel strongly that UT should start a creative photography curriculum, either under the Art Department or the Architecture Department. Luttrell explains, "I think the department is resisting incorporation of creative photography courses into their curriculum. However, there's nobody in the department who could teach the course, plus funding is bad - the Art Department has to practically beg for funds." Each of the members of Tangent has his own approach to the esthetics of art in photography. Several of them prefer perfectly natural scenes, zooming in on the revealing details, such as a child
smirking, or a fallen log overgrown in moss. At the other extreme, a couple of them experiment in bizarre setups and special darkroom techniques, producing surrealistic effects. Tangent Gallery's name was derived from this diversity in taste. As John Walker says, "We all have common attitudes about photography, but we're always going off onto our own tangents of exploration." The Tangent Gallery of Photography invites Knoxvillians to explore the many directions of art photography with them.
Photos by Jonathan Daniel
.' .~ ~.':
I R ~ A
here at the time would remember the name, I'm sure, but I can give you a first hand report. I was head-aide on the floor where she lived for the whole seven months she was here. Do you want a cigarette? About the only time I get a chance to smoke in this place is when I'm on this shift. It gets pretty lonesone around here at night when they're all asleep. Of course, there's always three nurses and a couple of orderlies on duty at night, but I'm the only aide, and-worse than that-I'm the only one on this floor with all these snoring old women.
by Lisa Koger Do I remember Augie Keck? I may not remember if it's Phillips or Williams that's supposed to get the bath tomorrow, or if it was Carter who peed in the bed last night, but let me tell you, I do remember Augie Keck. Not that she meant anything special to me. Don't get that idea. Because the first thing they tell you when you start to work here is not to get attached to the patients or get mixed up in their personal lives-do your job and keep your gripes to yourself. And that's just what I try to do. I mean, this is just a job! It's a way to pay the rent and that is all. There isn't one of us working here that would be doing this kind of work if we could find another job, you know? I'm no different than any of the others. Yes, you've come to the right person if you want to know anything about Augie Keck. Everyone that worked
Say, you're not one of those snoopy social work students, are you? Thank God for that! Another thing you learn around here real fast is not to answer their snoopy questions when they come nosing around, asking about "case histories" and talking about "facilitating interaction" or some such other, calling themselves "change agents." My God! What do they really know about standing on your feet for sixteen hours a day, emptying bedpans, and taking orders from uppitty nurses? Why, if it hadn't been for them coming over here from the university, confusing things and stirring up trouble, Augie would have been just as grateful as the others for three good meals a day, a bed to sleep in, and someone to clean up after her. Augie Keck looked just like the rest of them the day they first brought her here. I remember it was in November, and I was down on my hands and knees scrubbing out the bingo room when I heard the front hall door open. I recognized the sound of a wheelchair rolling across the linoleum, mixed in with the steps of someone pushing it. "Sundown Rest Home! Sundown! Good Lord, they might as well call it the Dying Swan or the Faded Rose-Home for the Wilted." "Now Aunt Augie. Don't be so quick to criticize. It's only temporary until we can work something else out, and do you realize what a fix we'd all be in, right now, if it wasn't for hard-working, dedicated people who make places like Sundown possible?" "Possible, hell!" came the voice again. "By the looks of this place, I'd say it grew all by itself from some clump of mold, without a bit of help from anyone. And smell!" I could hear them sniffing. "Smells like a morgue," one of them said. By this time, I'd scrubbed my way to the door that led to the hall so I could get a look at what was going on. A little woman with a brown face - wrinkled like a waddedup paper bag-was sitting in a wheelchair, stretching her neck to see the certificates of accreditation that hang out there on the walls. She was dressed good, I remember, and was wearing a pretty blue-green wool suit, but it looked like it would have smelled of moth balls. Illustration by Phil Rose
I remember seeing the edges of a pink cushion that hung over the seat of her wheelchair, but would you believe that I can't remember anything about the woman who was pushing the wheelchair? I guess that's because she looked like all the rest of them that push their aunts, uncles, mothers, and grandmothers in here, telling them that it's just temporary and that they'll come to take them home when something "more suitable" can be arranged. I really don't like to see them come in that way, with all their luggage, and clutching on to anything that has any memories left for them, like an old shawl, a Bible, or some pictures of their grandchildren that they try to show everybody. I would much rather see them after they're in their beds, blending in with the sheets and walls. Their faces look just like one long row of old porcelain doorknobs. But then, they just lie there and stare at you, those filmy eyes following you around the room-as if you were the one who made them old and brought them here to die. I just say to myself that if they're looking for someone to put the blame on, they needn't look at me. I don't run this place, I just work here. They ought to be grateful that there are places like Sundown for them to come when they've worn themselves and everyone else out just fooling with them. But they complain about the food or whine that it's not like home. What do they expect for nothing? You might want to know that Augie wasn't one of the "charity" cases, as we call them. I guess her family was paying to have her out from under foot, or maybe she had some money of her own. Who knows? I'm no snoop, so I never asked. But she was put in a semi-private room, so she wasn't a United Way or Welfare case. We put them in the women's ward, along with the ones who are completely helpless or don't have any relatives. The food is a little worse in there, I guess, and there's not much privacy with sixty other women crammed in the same room, but who needs privacy at their age? Besides, the men's ward is on the third floor, so it's not like some man was going to see something! I have seen the male orderlies take a look, once in a while, when they help us lift the women bed patients onto the pot. And would you believe that those old women put up a fuss and carryon something awful when they think the orderlies are going to see something? As if they had anything left worth seeing, anyway. Augie was real bad about that. She was always claiming that the orderlies were trying to sneak a peek. A stroke had paralyzed her from the waist down so she didn't have a lot of control over herself, if you know what I mean. The orderlies had to help us lift her out of bed while we changed the linen, and it just got to be plain
tiresome, tugging with her and listening to her squawk about how the orderlies were trying to handle her body, and how she still had some rights and dignity. You just have to treat them all like babes and smack their old butts when they get that way. I could tell from that first day, when I heard Augie griping about the name "Sundown," that she was going to be a real pain, but I didn't think she was going to cause this place all the trouble she did. If I'd known that, I would probably have waited until I was on the night shift, and I would have pinched the old bird under the gown, where the marks wouldn't show. No! I'm just kidding! I don't do that, but Wandalene and Betsy and some of the others do. They pinch the ones who are bedfast, and they threaten to hold their meal trays if they tell anyone. Wandalene says it's good for them because it makes them appreciate all the running that you do for them. I don't think anyone could have pulled that on Augie Keck. She would have had it in headlines the next morning. Like I told you, I think she would have been all right if those social work students had left her alone. They came over here visiting their "clients," as they called them, and it wasn't long before they spotted Augie as a new face. Mrs. Lutz told us not to answer their questions but to put up with them because we got a lot of free work out of them. Two or three of them started visiting Augie regularly, so we figured something was up. We'd put Augie in her wheelchair for the afternoon, and she would spend the rest of the day wheeling from room to room, riding the elevator to the third floor and talking with the old men - even trying to make conversation with those old dead-heads in the women's ward. Every time I passed her sitting in the hall, she'd mumble something about conscience and the way this place was run. One time she even came right out and told me that it was my responsibility to see that Betsy, another aide, stopped stealing the patients' belongings and opening their mail. I have seen Betsy do it a couple of times, but I didn't tell Augie that, and anyway, what if Betsy does? So what? I don't know why Augie thought she was going to play on my sympathy or try to work on my conscience, because it didn't do any good, and I told her it didn't. Anyway, one morning in December, when I was cleaning up a pile of vomit in the hall outside Mrs. Lutz's door, I just happened to see Darlene, one of the kitchen workers, in Lutz's office. I got a little closer to the door just in time to see Lutz's big red fist slam onto the table. "Damn it, Darlene, why didn't you come to me sooner about that old crow?" "I'm sorry, Mrs. Lutz, but I thought she was doing some work for you. We all did, so we told her everything she asked us." I could tell that Darlene was about to cry. "What kind of questions did she ask you?"
"Oh, just questions that she read from a paper, about how long we'd worked here, how much money we made, who planned the menus, whether or not we'd ever seen or knew of any patients being 'abused.' Honest to God, Mrs. Lutz, none of us knew. She even asked the aides whether or not they'd be willing to testify that this place was unfit, and she promised us all better jobs if this place was closed down. We all got a big kick out of hearing her. It gets kind of boring out there in the kitchen all day long, you know. Augie was even in the kitchen this morning, just before I came up here." Mrs. Lutz came tearing out of that office with Darlene right behind her, and it was all I could do to get myself out of the way. They were so wound up that both of them walked right through the stuff on the floor and didn't even know it until later . I knew something important was happening so I followed them down to the kitchen. Augie was sitting in her wheelchair and had all sorts of mimeographed papers strung out on the metal counter top. Lou Ella, the cook, was chopping onions for the potato soup while she filled Augie's ear full, and all the rest of the kitchen girls were crowded around, wiping their hands on their uniforms, trying to get a word in. Mrs. Lutz asked Augie just what it was that she thought she was doing and gave her wheelchair a swift jerk as she started it rolli~g toward her office. I can't really say, for sure, what all went on in that office, but I did ask Darlene about it later. Augie, according to Darlene, had taken it upon herself-at the advice of the social w()rkers - to collect information about Sundown, to try and prove that it was not a fit place for anyone to live and that it should be shut down. Can you imagine that? That ungrateful old bag of bones listening to those young kids? It was some sort of plot, I tell you. You just mark my words: It was a university plot to try and put us out of business and take our jobs, so that they could all have jobs when they graduate. I told Mrs. Lutz what I suspected, and she said that I was probably right. Augie Keck was kept in her room for a while, but she managed to get those figures that she had collected about Sundown to those social work people. Wouldn't you know it? Wouldn't you just know what they did with that information? Just as big as you please, they used it to try to turn the whole town against us. They published it in some cheap pamphlet that showed pictures of Sundown. And do you think they showed pictures of the new paneling in the lounge or the new intercom system? No! They sneaked in here sometime when we weren't paying any attention and took pictures of the roof that leaks on the third floor, and some of those skinny old men in the men's ward, and tried to make Sundown look just as bad as they could. As if those old devils from the men's ward weren't ready to kick off any minute, anyhow.
Then to top things off, they had to bring a Comprehensive Health Committee, or something like that, in on it. And then there were pictures and articles in the paper, and meetings all over the place, and phones ringing and ... Whew! It like to drove Mrs. Lutz out of her wits, I tell you! Some people came here and questioned all of us, but they didn't get very far. I just told them what Mrs. Lutz told us to tell them and nothing more. I mean, no one ever said that you had to tell everything, and a lot of people might have lost their jobs if I had happened to say the wrong thing or something. I don't get paid for being a squealer, you know. Of course, nothing ever came of any of it. Nothing ever does when a few trouble makers try to upset the old way of doing things. Sundown had worked just fine for the past forty-eight years, and it wouldn't be here if it hadn't, right? Whatever happened to Augie Keck? Well, you can bet that she quieted down after that. Guess she learned in a hurry that you pay for mistakes around here. It's the only way to keep things running smoothly, if you know what I mean. And Mrs. Lutz wouldn't let us do any more than what was legal, you know, just enough to make sure that Augie and the others don't repeat their mistakes. The whole thing really did take the wind out of Augie's sails though. From that time on, she just sat in her wheelchair, in a corner. She'd whimper about going home to anyone who would take time to listen to her. Once in a while, she'd quit pouting long enough to mumble about how she collected facts, "pert-nant" facts, she'd call them, for the university. Then she'd pull a wrinkled piece of paper with names scribbled on it out of the pockets of her nightgown, and wave it around. I let her keep her list and never got around to telling her that she was hanging on to an old Christmas card from the Salvation Army. I don't know why I never told her. It sure would have been a funny one, huh? She finally caught pneumonia, and they took her to the University Hospital, up on the hill. I guess she died up there. Who knows? And then I just forgot about her, just like you forget about all of them . Just change the sheets and roll the next one into bed. No one blames anyone. They don't blame me for not telling everything I know when the inspectors come around, and I don't blame them for dying. Yes, you did a smart thing when you came to me to find out about Augie Keck. I'm surprised that I remembered enough to tell you anything, because I haven't really thought about her since she was here. It was quite a while ago, and so many of them pass in and out of here that it's hard to remember names or faces. I'm glad that you remembered Augie Keck's name. I never would have been able to. 19
Photos by John Walker
Eric Lewald by Ruth E. Garwood
Most of the people in Eric Lewald's film class don't know that he's an undergraduate. It might not make any difference except that Lewald teaches the class. Titled "Film as an Art Form," the course is taught in the Honors Department. Lewald is teaching the class to fulfill a requirement of the College Scholars Program, in the College of Liberal Arts, which allows students to design their own curricula. The program requires a senior project, and to culminate his film curriculum, Lewald thought it would be appropriate to teach a class on film. The class meets for two hours twice a week. On Tuesday the class watches the film Lewald has chosen for that week; on Thursday, they discuss the film in light of what they have learned about technique from their textbooks and from earlier discussions. The students watch films such as
Citizen Kane, The Silence, Nanook oj the North and Ivan the Terrible and write their reactions. "I try to say nothing before the students write their reactions," Lewald says, "but after I've read their papers I try to say a good solid chunk." To analyze film, Lewald suggests that students use techniques that they have learned from analysis of literature. "I only use literature because it's something 99 out of 100 people do. The experience of freshman composition gives people some exposure to literary criticism, but film is a lot more like music than anything else." He compares the elements of film to melodic lines or sections of the orchestra, all of which combine to produce the final piece.
"The whole point of the class is that the form and content are inseparable," says Lewald. ''The story is only a bare starting point for my film-one out of twenty things to look at along with elements like sound, lighting, camerawork, acting style, transitions and editing rhythm." Lewald believes that films can be based on plays and novels, but he says, "You have to remember that what makes the story is the relation of the author's style to the plot. The last thing you're supposed to worry about is transferring it specifically." Lewald makes films himself. Earlier this year he worked at the Community Video Center at St. John's Episcopal Church. One of his projects there was making an hour-long music show with his friend Glenn Morgan. Last fall Lewald studied at New York University and made some short films there. His current project is writing the screenplay for a feature-length film he and Glenn Morgan are planning. Lewald recognized his interest in film about four years ago, when his family was spending the summer in Cambridge, England. On several trips into London, Lewald did nothing but go to movies. "I realized that was the only thing I was interested in," he says. Lewald's teaching methods are derived from his experience as a student. "I'm doing things in the way teachers I liked did them," he explains, and reflecting on the class he adds, "but the real reason behind the course is that I got to see ten of my favorite films." â€˘
Penelope in Winter The Siren Edge As a child, Odysseus was fed the tenderest goat meat. When he struck the strings of a lyre, the air revealed women holding up snakes; and in their closed arena, men handspringing over horns of grunting bulls. But always the sea licked around the island. As a young man, he walked down toward the rocky point to practice the sword. Whistling slightly, the blade opened branches and split through the heartwood. Each day as he came and went, the heavy wheat brushed at his thighs. In the war, the Greeks advanced against the hollow sound of cranes, to the Trojans waiting. Glistening horses dragged Odysseus' chariot through the rutting mass Waking at night, Ajax heard among the damp tents one edge singing across a stone. Penelope remembered lying in the grass as he stroked the backs of her thighs. A light breeze sifted through the fruit trees. Gaunt, swimming from the litter of ships, he returned under ashes. In the hall, her feet speckled with blood, Penelope cried in cut breaths as he crouched down to slash under the spilled banquet tables, silent, a two-fisted grip on the neck of the siren edge.
The tree was sharp with ice this morning. All day I've stirred my tea leaves, watching for some patterns. Someone has cast these bare branches at the sky like diviners bones. Their lines and angles talk of winter. Sometimes I weave my blanket: gray-blue, large enough almost for our wide bed. My lovers are playing poker in the kitchen and I want to weave it and have done. For years your body polished me smooth and hard as a sea-stone. My skin erodes with the weather and fine grains of sand. This morning an offshore wind twists at the laundry. The sheets stiffen and fill like sails against the gray sky.
Your one-eyed goodbye from the crumbling corner of your window sash lingers too long is snapped somewhere between us in the pale ice air Were the window not so high I would kiss closed that eye which says too much
mourir dans la force de l'age odd how the metronome ticks as the ochers variegate and opalesce on my palette i paint you as a singing bird a petrel perhaps hook-winged and dangling from the horizon an augury of dawn gasp and moonblood but so quickly you quiver chasing these brittle strokes everyway and again too strong to be sincere too meek to rift the canvas no i must have chisels for this madness hammers and violins a momentary quiescence a ruptured aeon or two for chasing metronomes one last pas de deux just my fingertip and this small feather you left depending from the rim of the universe
momentarily escalators encircled the child and tightened like a hungry boa. the shoppers seemed unconcerned. somewhere a mother searched frantically for her daughter, who was, "just here a minute ago". the riders of the steel-in-motion stairway felt a small jerk, someone cursed a fallen package, and then a gentle vibration. after a momentary pause it was over and it was satisfied, momentarily.
about Leonard Cohen Your drowning voice your doomed doomed words hit my brain like waves that burst against gray rockglistening sea beads flung at the moon sparks tossed up so far that even now I find specks of sea foam floating in my deepest sighs.
Grimace her eyes were like passengers across his painted chest. his eyes were green and lifted golden lashes from sleep, women from themselves. so high
i chose you because you pieced the mosaic iilto forms that i could wear upon my hand. i choose you. they will trace prescribed mental diets on their flaming skin. they will turn away from a blue end and grimace. joyful grimace.
-Pamela Criner -Cheryl Goldfeder
The fields are furrowed now. The morning glistens, and is separating. On this conveyor belt, this highway, I have been lulled to nap dreams a thousand times through Indiana. If I were still a child, I could curl and browse in the crawl space of back window. My parents no longer read the obituary each morning searching for my name. They know now that I am travelling. The center lines have hypnotized me into a belief that I could drive forever, monotoning through the cornfields at dawn, a sliver moon my roadsign to the Chicago loop, burning my mother's seed inside me, clutching my father's heart in the palm of my left hand.
Goddamn't the Man Said
Driving home to end an era; this is the pain of ice cracking. The sand still glides from beneath my feet; it is a sensation which will not cease. Yes, I will bring you the ocean in a bottle, and ask only in return that I may eat the snow from your fingers. Knowing the end of an era is more important than the ending itself. And moving into mountains now, this is the clutch of kudzu choking, and the pain of ice cracking is sometimes not unlike the melting of sun.
(untitled) bulbous clouds gathered, rumbling in convention. the grey noon suffered, waiting. the puckered fruit dangled from drooping branches by tenuous strands of june, not for long. persimmons, cried lone blackbirds. his hat covered one eye. his gaze covered her breast at once, (only once.) bluing pears fell into his open hands. you are quite young. she pulled the sticky realization from her hair.
II Driving home to begin an era. Is this the touch of earth after rain? Baring their wooden nipples to the sky, the trees dance and shed their supple garments to the wind. In them, moves a rumor of childbirth. Yes, I will write for you inexcusable verse, and ask only in return that you tuck it in your mind. Grasping the beginning of an era is more important than the beginning itself. And moving out of mountains now, this is the death of one summer screaming and the touch of black earth breathing is sometimes not unlike the snapping of leaves.
(untitled) cinderella dressed in yella went downstairs to see her fellawhen did the madness first begin, this waiting for an archimedes with a board on his shoulder to say, pardon me ma'am, but if you'll be my still place and let me stand, between us we can buy a condominium and stave off the dragons of despair. how many cheap magicians have i seen hopefully stirring their molten pots in search of the gold which will never appearone or two each year. the jesters, the jugglers with quicksilver fingers have left no trace of silver on my skin, yet i have absorbed the lines of their faces (guinevere impaled herself on lancelot's cheekbone). how many kisses did she get? little girls look for the answer yet.
The Pagan A woman of rituals, I could believe in Easter and in symbols; Rabbits and savior, oh yes, attractive, But I am more for action, Egg leavings, earth renaissances, than adoration. I would yearly disrobe, examine the abdomen, The fatthighs; sunglassed and oiled exotic Would offer up my flesh to Ares. My God, another year at it! This cocoa smell, heat whelting drift, Slight pelvic levitation. I myth fantastic. Blackberry patches at noon, slick flashing glances, The quick turn, The sidestep across high roadside weeds, my kinsman grinning.
Frustration, sweat and the day's slow toil dissolve in a cool baptism, as I walk slowly into the reservoir of moist quiet energy. Wet to the knees, I want to run, quickly join the soothing flow . Yesterday is too far behind: I need this moisture again. Immersing, my thoughts rinsed off me, muscles uncontrolled by me, -I find the rhythm. The longer I stay, the stronger I grow. My fatigue allows the force to gush inside me. My energy is only part of the lake's constant rhythm. I can leave briefly, because the calmness stays with me: I am steeped in the composed vapor. Emerging from the liquid body, sun and warm winds dry me. Now, even the hard grains of sand stuck between my toes soften.
-Ruth E. Garwood
(untitled) the bees heave their amber bodies upon the petals pounding back the air bursting their lives to death
A Howl at Night to nancy, sleeping in florida In your house at the end of land do you dream of the Atlantic surging over the rough beach and the leaning palms, over the hot black streets of the town, and you floating out to sea? The days surround you with grease and the smell of fat meat frying. You wipe formica counters with your hair. But there is the beach
I come as a starving wolf To feed on night's drunken passion, Like lapping frozen blood on a frozen knife. White arms hold me tightly aloof, Milking love with the chill of satin; But only the moon hears a howl at night. A moth drawn into the flame Finds the warmth that steals my voice, While the peace of silence lets us sleep. Sober words would mark the fire to blame, But bottled loneliness knows his choice; By this light, again I'll speak.
still, when the moon hangs like a gaudy earring and the water is cold on your white skin.
In the Gallery
Do you dream of the gutted fish at the end of the pier, the bloody water, and overhead the flocks of migratory birds?
A Quick Reflection with Pompeii The face of my passion conceals Pompeii, Cold still city of sleep lay dead ungraved; The foam, the moan exhaust facades of loveMarbled pain, Frozen cries Somehow hide Molten rivers oozing deep inside.
From half-way through the bathroom door until the sound of your voice, I remember nothing. The thought is more than unfinished; it was not begun. You say I looked like a Renaissance painting, a Raphael madonna spotlit in a single shaft of sun. Like a Botticelli, my coral gown splashed in careless waves over my pale limbs, alive and fluid against the close-cropped dull carpet of the brown hall. The artist's model destroys the painting with her movements, unaware. I open my eyes to your voice. and learn only through your words of the painting I did not see.
-Susan Betts -Michael Flanigan
fiction Coming around the next turn, the city was revealed. It was white, phosphorescent. It gleamed like a tidal pool at the sea's edge. Towards the glow, the Volkswagen drifted. The car was a seed pod seeking its settle in the thermal layers of the night. There was no other traffic. Germaine sat in the midst of this aware and unaware, feeling retrieval and release in alternating moments. She asked for only a functioning automobile; she absorbed the cool white of the city, the open stars, the empty freeway. She loosely touched the steering wheel. The car maintained. In the distance, but closer now, the city seethed. The Volkswagen hummed. Her thoughts were heavy balloons that filled the car. They burst against the windshield. She read the windshield. Her conversation with Scott had become wooden. It had become an element of construction on which they hung their feelings. Their feelings hung awkwardly. The white lamps of the freeway burst the darkness. The city rushes against the windshield. Her conversation with him had become rigid. It used to be a supple thing running between them, a sunstricken stream she cherished. It rocked her gently when she and Scott lay spent, watching the night. When the conversation ran rapid it blew Germaine's hair behind her, and when it eddied they lay cool in the shadows, resting. In it they swam easily, like trout among the stones. All summer they swam. Fall sent her back to school. He remained in the mountains. The VW churned its way from the city many weekends. But now the glow from the mountains could not disguise feelings. Their treks across the
by Paul Roden hillsides were not the adventures they had been. The oaks' leaves rattled. Long winds shredded trees. Dust and pine needles spun down the trail before them. Where they made camp the stream could be forded easily. They cooked food and washed dishes. They spent much of their time reading. A distinct series of images flashed against the windshield: he
with an apple, on his back, shirt off, a book suspended above his eyes: intent and remote. At the lodge: his cabin, his cool bed, the scent of pine through the windows, his inflexible mouth. Her resistance, the tears, the wooden walls. Goodbye. Next weekend? Yes, next weekend. The sun going down over the ridge, the car catapulting into the dusk. Germaine read on. The city bared its streets in the sodium vapor lamps. The windshield seemed thin. It was her street now, her driveway. The streetlamp outside her house annoyed her. Through her window the light streamed, tickling the leaves of her plants on the sill. They needed watering. She stared at the glass. The apartments being built across the street faded into greenness. The greenness became a living thing and flowed as a field of grass where she and Scott walked casually, barefoot. Speaking occasionally, their words were careful reflections of the sun's brightness. The mints and Shasta daisies growing toward the light affirmed their feelings. And in the green meadow now a house is being built. Walls have been erected and the storm windows have been hung. There seems to be no limit to the house-tie-ins and support beams fill her field of vision. Yellow pine two-by-fours erupt from the soil. Day by day new lumber is added to the structure. It sways from its own weight but it stands. The trusses that will gather the walls beneath them have already been delivered. They stand in the driveway opposite Germaine's window. She cries into her plants. She cries for Scott, for the city, for the oppressive streetlamp. She cries for herself. The plants lap up her tears. Illustration by Phil Rose
liow ~速 Fly
a I~II X Last fall, a motley crew of writers, editors, and just plain workers set out to fly a Phoenix. Along the way we learned several things: how to talk to people like Anthony Quayle and Betty Adcock; how to cut class during midterms in order to meet a deadline; how to run a wax machine; the importance of choosing the right type. In short, we began to absorb a world of printing and publishing, its jargon and rules, and its temperamental inhabitants. We also discovered some interesting places in Knoxville, such as live bluegrass at Buddy's Barbecue-and did you know Knoxville has an "underground"? During the Phoenix flight we picked up an All-American Award from the Associated Collegiate Press for the fall quarter issue. Also the Phoenix interview of Anthony Quayle was quoted in People magazine. Phoenixes have been found as far abroad as Colorado and France. We have also crashed into a few walls: Edward Albee refused to be interviewed; William Stafford got sick and cancelled his tour; our budget refused to stretch far enough for color reproduction. We often didn't have the variety and quality of student work we had hoped for. Whatever the results, the entire staff learned a lot and had fun. In spite of complaints, long hours, and low/no pay, we would all do it again. Next fall, there will be a new flight crew, but the Phoenix will fly again.
-Susan Betts and Connie Jones Photo by John Walker
editors EDITOR Susan Betts MANAGING EDITOR Connie Jones NON-FICTION Tom Wright FICTION Eric Forsbergh POETRY Paul Roden Marla Puziss ART Phil Rose PHOTOGRAPHY Jonathan Daniel EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS John Furlow Ruth E. Garwood Teresa Grant Lynn Hofferberth Lori Kildgore Rick Sanders PRODUCTION Jeannie Sprague RESIDENT NEUROTIC Steven Wyatt ÂŠ Copyright 1976, by the University of Tennessee. Rights retained by the individual contributors. Send contributions to Phoenix, Room 5, Communications Bldg., 1340 Circle Park Drive, Knoxville, Tennessee 37916.