Phoenix - Fall 1996

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Fall 1]

Phoenix Staff Ameet Doshi Editor

Sam Quinn Managing Editor

Kristen Krempasky Graphic Design

Katie Daniel Asst. Graphic Design

Traci Colquette Non-Fiction Editor

Tara Dalton Poetry Editor

Frankie Harris Fiction Editor

Kathy Priore Art Editor

Jason Aldred Baer Bradford Anthony Dempsey Lisa Kammerud Rebecca Mayer Amy Randall Betsy Pitts Puneet Sharma Supporting Staff

Jane Pope Eric Smith Staff Advisors

t. Š copyright 1996 by the University of Tennessee.

All rights reserved by the individual contributors.

Phoenix is prepared camera-ready by the student staff members and is published three times a year. Works of art, poetry, fiction and non-fiction are accepted throughout the academic year. Send submissions to Phoenix, room 5 Communications Building, 1345 Circle Park Drive, Knoxville, Tennessee 37992-0314

The Phoenix would like to extend a special thank you to Eric Smith, Jane Pope, Linda Graham, Karen Bayless, Debbie Tappan, Betty Allen, and everyone else who helped made this issue possible.

Art "Untitled" Jon P Bo les "Satan and the 666 Shooters" Tiffany Turp in "Frances Bean in Green" M elan ie Hollomon "Untitled" Jason Eng lehardt "Untitled" Susa n Duncan "Untitled" Olga Alexandratos "Untitled" Lori Reed "The Wrong Dress For Us" Fay Boston "Untitled" Jeff Davi s "Are You My Mother?" David Hill "Poor Old Lu" Jodi Hays

P hot "Detail of Lost Thought" "Untitled" "Untitled" "Birthday"

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6 36

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26 14 38 16

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David Andrews

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Jacob Goodwin

12 32 24

Justin Stalcup Rebecca Finley

Poetry "Revisiting the Fair" Brian Carr "the man who loved glass" Debor ah Scaperoth "Dark Duality" Robyn Johnson "Dirty White Trash" Rob in Redmon Wright "july- 95, from Prolixin" Whiskey D. Toddy "The Question" Whiskey D. Toddy "Carnival Life" Christa Owen "Leaving Him, Leaving North Carolina" Jennifer C. Worth "Untitled" Bryce Ke ndall Withrow "trauma" Brandon Spencer "[nity)I,]," Kurt Harris "Snowglobe" J.K.T. "Harold Wietzman rallies against the Sun" Anton io Camborio

S h "By Any Means" "His Moment in Court"

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Chris Crittenden

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SIX

Screen doors don't slam in rich people's houses the way they did in mine.

I remember my Momma's Screen door with its coiledup spring, covered in rust; no lock, but a rusty eye and hook that tap, tap, tapped with every squeaky slam.

No glass in these screen doors, just a cross-bar with dirty white peeling paint-some said matched the occupants within.

The sagging mesh filtered Soup-bean smells and psalms.

Once I leaned against that coiled conduit when it was open wide and my long tangled hair caught in the springWhen the door swung shut, I moved-the blood matted the hair that had remained free and splattered the dingy paint.

A lifetime later that squeaky tap, tap, tap can make my scalp ache and evoke the memory of cornbread and onions. Not a paradox of poverty, but a blessed return to normalcy.

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"Detail of Lost Thought" David Andrews

eight

Sorrow and sadness, Conceptual twins, Lead me to madness And consensual sins.

Ego and psyche, O'erpowering id, Longs for a nightly Confessional bid.

Shadow and phantom, Redundantly poised, Live as a random Eclipser of joys.

Gloomy and dismal Saturnine mask Leaves an abysmal Unfathomable cast.

Haunting and eerie Mysterious force Lends but grave queries In endless discourse .

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_-__R_e_b_e_c_C_8__ B_8_k_e_r________________________________________________________~ I. Sixteen steps up the side of the hill. Sixteen rain-soaked, rain-reeking concrete steps. Sarah counted them silently. They were steep and slick and she knew how easily she could fall so she watched her step. Looking downwards she encountered another pair of feet. Long feet in shabby tennis shoes, with thin, white legs jutting straight up from their sockless, bony ankles.

"Ouch. Hurts me to look at him," she thought.

She ran up the rest of the steps, 14, 15, 16! She'd seen his tight face and he'd looked in her eyes too long. She ran away from him.

II. The next Wednesday she went the same way. As she walked up to the library on the hill she saw him again.

He recognized her. Sarah started when she realized he was approaching her.

"Excuse me .. .I know this is unusual, but I saw you here last week and I wondered if I might talk to you for a moment," he began.

His face actually moves, Sarah thought. I was sure if he tried to talk his bones would crack.

"Sure," she replied.

"Well, like I said, this is unusual. I'm an amateur photographer and I would like to use you as a subject."

"I really need more details before I can answer you, but I'm flattered ... "

III. Graham Sellers house was one of those white-shingled, black-shuttered, dim and moldy houses that everyone's grandparents live in. The living room was, in part, his make-shift studio.

One comer of the room had a rod where cloth backdrops were hung.

Sarah had at first been uneasy that he was going to photograph her in this manner. It seemed like a fashion shoot. But he explained that the mag a-

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zine he wished to be published in was running a contest that specified that the subject matter be exclusively the human form, with no impeding scenery and no props. It seemed then to Sarah that the prize would go to the photographer fortunate enough to find a subject with the most beautiful, or interesting, body. She predicted no prize for Graham.

Sarah had been very nervous about coming to Graham's house so she had brought a friend along.

Theresa wasn't bodyguard material, perhaps, but Sarah knew she could scream loud enough after two years as a college-basketball cheerleader. She could yell for help, at least, Sarah reasoned. Besides being a little jealous that no man had ever asked to photograph her ("Man, that's some lame pick-up line," Theresa had told Sarah when Sarah first began telling the story to her), Theresa thought the whole business was a little weird.

Graham certainly looked weird, Theresa determined when they arrived at his house. Sarah had described his appearance as "somewhat harsh" but Theresa saw that he was really just strange looking. She wondered if Sarah would get involved with this older, unattractive, unpromising man; "But it's really none of my business what Sarah does," she admitted to her cheerleader friends.

Twenty-five minutes into the supposed "shoot," Sarah began to get anxious. Graham had yet to take a picture of her and was instead adjusting and readjusting the lenses of his camera and switching from the black backdrop to the silver one. She had flipped through all the dusty photography magazines she could find. There were five years worth of the annual Exposure magazine, all with winners from contests like the one Graham was entering. Theresa was also enormously restless and made no pretenses about it. She shifted in her green velour chair and sighed impatiently.

After Theresa's fiftieth unsubtle sigh, Sarah finally said something to him.

"Graham, I don't mean to rush art or anything but I have to be at the library in forty-five minutes." She said this half-teasingly to prevent him from being offended. "Why don't I just come back another time when you have your camera to your satisfaction?

You can call me."

He looked directly at her for the first time. "I think that would be better, yes. I'm sorry to inconvenience you. I'll call soon."

So Sarah ended up going back to Graham Seller's house again, this time without the fed-up and creeped-out Theresa. She almost thought that this might have been Graham's intention all along. He had seemed disappointed, even angry, when Sarah showed up at his door with Theresa. Maybe he wanted her alone with him in his house. Maybe, but she stopped herself from thinking it.

IV. It was the heavy, humid heat of Mississippi that accompanied Graham Sellers and contributed to his character long after he left there. In the seventeen years that he lived in Mississippi, it never became his home, though it was his birthplace. The heat bore down on Graham as it did everyone else, but Graham, like no one else it seemed, was acutely aware of the stagnation it caused. It baked his brain until the circuits were shorted and all significant mental activity slowed; it paralyzed his limbs. Everyone else was content to bask in the sun, it appeared to Graham, to let their minds and bodies go numb with warmth. But Graham was a man of action; he had a keen sense of time passing. So he used college as an excuse to get away to the north--to Boston--where the prodding winds whipped everyone into a frenzy of action. There, with the winds and the memory of what it was

like to be a helpless ant still and frying under the pinpoint light of heat from a magnifying glass, Graham was driven to move.

And to succeed. In his first year of college, Graham appealed for and received permission to take two more classes than were usually allowed for full-time students. He kept up this pace through his three undergraduate years. He graduated with more credits than necessary to his major because he had taken some additional courses in photography, which soon became an obsession for him.

This was a paradox of Graham's character: that a person who so valued movement could also be fascinated by still life, stopped life. The criticism Graham encountered most frequently in these classes was that his photographs were uninspired. One particularly frank professor had finally asked Graham to come to his office for a conference. Forewarned of Graham by colleagues who had him in class before and pressured by colleagues who did not wish to deal with him in the future in their classes, the task of waylaying this overzealous student's insistent interest in photography fell to Dr. Francis, whose fellow professors felt him very capable of such a task.

"Graham, I must begin by saying that I appreciate your hard work in this class. None of your classmates have been as prolific or punctual with their assignments as you have. But I must speak of the nature of you photographs. I'm concerned that you are simply trying to record images. You tum in landscapes that look like twenty-five cent souvenir postcards and pictures of people who look like they are posing for the yearly family portrait. Your photographs lack emotion, Graham, and your grade in this course is suffering because of it."

"Where do I find emotion to photograph?" Graham asked Dr. Francis.

The professor, bewildered because he knew inspiration was not for the asking and would probably never visit this stony-faced, too-serious

young man, had given him the most ambiguous answer possible to be rid of him: "You must wait for it I suppose."

He gave Graham a C+ in the course. After all, how could he punish someone for something quite beyond their own control? If Graham could have gone out and got emotion for his photographs, Dr. Francis knew he would have--by any means. Graham Sellers was never one to 'wait' for anything.

V. Sarah would never be able to name what had made her decide to allow a perfect stranger to photograph her.

When he first turned his eyes on her she had hurried away from him. Now she was somehow willing to be scrutinized by those same eyes behind a camera lens. He didn't look trustworthy either. His features were so severe, his eyes so lucid-bright, he looked as though he were one of those mad geniuses who were in the news for building bombs or leading cults.

"If he worked at a bank, you'd trust his handling of your money because he just looks dedicated and capable of being a little obsessed with his work. On the other hand, you'd never leave your children with him.

Know what I mean?" Sarah tried to explain her theory to Theresa.

"Sarah dear, I've seen the man. He's spooky. Why don't you just trot your little self over to Olan Mills and get your pictures made and forget all this Graham business?"

"Because I know exactly what I'd find there. Part of the appeal of this is not knowing what to expect.

This is different."

"Different," Theresa mimicked.

"Shut up." Theresa had this habit of picking out and repeating the word or phrase of Sarah's little tirades that undermined her argument, suggested its weakness. This always threw Sarah into a fit of frustration, as it did now. What was so good about "different"?

"I won't ask you to go with

me when I go back Friday," Sarah sighed.

"I can't anyway, remember?

There's a game."

VI. As Sarah walked the five blocks from the college to Graham's house she played a little "he loves me; he loves me not" game with herself. One step-- "I should go;" the next step-- "I should not go." One step-- "I shouldn't play puppet to my paranoia;" the next step "I should heed my instincts."

And so forth until she reached the edge of his small lawn. She turned to go back but Graham had been watching her and came out of the house and called her name.

"The camera is all set up now; it's perfect. There should be no more delays, I'm happy to say." He smiled at her and Sarah flinched--she was still waiting for his face to crack into pieces.

"Great. Now what about me?

I'm afraid I'm a shade less perfect."

Sarah tried to seem at ease.

"Nonsense. Let's go in and get started."

VII. Dr. Francis saw the photograph before he saw the name. Someone had sent him a copy of Exposure in an envelope with no return address. On the page that was marked by a paper clip were pictures of a small, thin girl crouched and trying to hide her face.

But it was a series of photographs; taken rapid-fire, apparently, and her face was caught turned toward the camera in several frames. She was scared, or pretending to be. ("Perfect. .. Just like the first day she looked at me," he had thought as he took the pictures.) The photographer's name caught Dr. Francis' eye: Graham Sellers. A past student of his, misguided but determined. Graham Sellers, Boston, Massachusetts, First Place Winner Exposure Seventh Annual Photography Contest.

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nUn titled " Jacob Goodwin

twelve

In Black Mountain, the air smelled like winter, not cold, but sharp and moist, with the mountains in it.

That was the latest change, the move out of autumn, here at the first shoulder of the mountains that divide my home from his. I paused there, out of my car, and I watched the horizon darken until I couldn't distinguish the foothills from the flat sky. Then I drove on west, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

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liThe Wrong Dress for Us" Fay Boston

fOIJcteen

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It is no wonder that the South has upheld a fine tradition of madness among its people.

Hot summer days spent in ancient houses, older than even my great grandfather, with wooden floors that creek with the slightest tiptoe. and at night the monotonous humming of the dull steel fans blowing stuffy air from one side of the room to the other. and all you can do is just stare at the ceiling trying to stop the hammers inside your head, and try to keep cool as you think of a way out while the sweat runs down your back and fills your mouth with salt.

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UPoor Old Lu" Jodi Hays

nity)I, sli(now) ding through slip(here) ping past fal(then there) ling down, AM(eter

Kurt W. Harris

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Chris Crittenden The bailiff dragged Rodberry down an empty echoing corridor, through a towering pair of baroque doors, and into what would assuredly rival the grandest courtrooms. The walls flaunted Grecian columns, the floor marble parquetry, the sexpartite ceiling cherubic sculpture and Michelangelian paintings.

Rodberry found himself tripping down an insufferably long nave, with rows and rows of gray nondescript faces on each side. Finally, he arrived at the Judge's bench and had to crane his neck to see the Honorable Jurist glaring down at him. A pale bony hand emerged from amidst dark robes to pound the gavel. As the bailiff lumbered off, Rodberry marveled at the stocky man's beefeater outfit, then realized he stood alone facing the Judge.

The magistrate's hollow eyes glanced the prisoner up and down.

"You certainly have not impressed the Court with your appearance," he intoned haughtily, his blue lip curling into an indignant sneer. "You come before us in tatterdemalion's clothes and expect favor?"

Not hesitant to reply, Rodberry seemed singularly unawed by the Judge, the grand courtroom, or the magnitude of the proceedings, which would detennine his fate as one of either pleasure or pain.

"Why am I dressed this way?" he asked rhetorically, consciously leaving out the customary "your honor" and on top of that not mincing his words with the slightest particle of respect. "I'm dressed this way because I think it absurd to fuss over one's couture, or a frill of lace or crease in the trousers, when millions are starving at the very hands which so fastidiously straighten silk cravats, dab delicate perfumes, and endure expensive manicures. I say it is absurd, this game of appearance we play, given the misery it taunts; and by my nonconfonnity I wish to show it and provoke whatever commentary I can, for the first step is to talk and maybe then, god forbid, we could do something about it."

When the word "god" so freely broke from Rodberry's lips the audience

eighteen

released a collective gasp. A few of them even started to mumble agitatedly but the Judge pounded his gavel.

"You will get nowhere, sir, by expressing yourself through blasphemy.

Let me remind you of the gravity of your situation. If I have to remove you from this courtroom, it shall only become that much worse."

"Why does the word 'god' have such power over you?" Rodberry chuckled, addressing the faceless mass he could see only obscurely, for the lights had dimmed, leaving him alone in a brightness not quite but almost as intense as a spotlight. "Are you just donkeys whose reins can be pulled simply by the utterance of one word?"

The Judge's stony expression ignited into fury, but before he could smash down his gavel and issue a sentence, a sharp voice cut through the electrified gloom.

"Surely you could expect nothing more from the likes of him, your Honor. He lacks any decency and is obviously quite self-absorbed. I've seen murderers and sociopaths evince more compassion. " Again the shadowy crowd gasped, this time not in alann but in awe of the newcomer to the spotlight.

Indeed, everything about the newcomer was geared to generate such a reaction. His custom-tailored suit of finest wool clad him in trim, sharp angles, his black slick hair, impeccably styled, suffered not a single stray strand; but perhaps most commanding was the glittering gold wristwatch he ostentatiously displayed with savior-faire, catching as much light as possible and thus dazzling the glazed eyes in the spectral sea, which seemed hungry for any flash of excitement.

With the poise and finesse of a model turned diplomat he strutted to the bench and inclined his handsome face toward the Judge.

"I am here to prosecute this case, your Honor, may it please the Court."

"It does," the Judge replied, los-

ing his frosty voice for the moment, "but usually we are not graced with your presence in cases of this type."

At this juncture Rodberry burst in, betraying not the slightest remorse for his impropriety: "Two white men! Didn't I get enough of white authority on Earth? And now, just when I thought I had escaped, two WASP's are going to decide whether I go to hell or not? This is ridiculous!"

"You see, your Honor," the Prosecutor said quickly before the Judge could bellow, "this is a very special case, one which requires special handling and perhaps special measures. The People feel the usual sentence might prove unsatisfactory and wish to prosecute for a more substantial punishment."

"That seems reasonable," the Judge agreed emotionlessly, "and certainly explains your distinguished presence, but what may I ask is the penalty you seek?"

The Prosecutor paused momentarily for dramatic effect, then said, "The thirteenth circle, that is, the lowest level of hell."

The courtroom buzzed. The Judge banged his gavel.

"The thirteenth circle?

Nonnally I would not go beyond the fifth. There would have to be a large body of extenuating circumstance."

Heels clicking regally on polished tiles, the Prosecutor strolled meditatively in a circle, stroking his chin with a learned hand, obviously fixed on deep thoughts, then he quietly yet with increasing energy addressed the Judge: "Your Honor, we have here a case of far-reaching import and precedence. This gentleman before the Court epitomizes the wastefulness to which one can stoop while shirking all responsibility and stagnating in self-absorption; in short, what we have here is a case of ultimate failure, a man of unparalleled potential who never even took the first step toward utilizing his gifts for the bettennent of the common good. Who knows how much undo misery the people of the Earth have suffered

failure, the Prosecutor mentioned?-because of his negligence?" jumped in before the Judge's temper: without any preparation, instruction, or "It would seem, your Honor, that the As the Judge turned his gaze opportunity to ask for a jury, which I accused desires to convict himself. His from the Prosecutor to Rodberry, his notice, by the way, is nowhere to be arrogance is more than obvious, he features lost the receptivity shown in flaunts it as if it were the crown jewels deference to an able colleague and seen. I may be wrong, but don't you sharpened severely. think all this is just a wee bit unfair con- and he the king. Within five minutes he has decided that this Court is unfair.

"What Mr. Madison says cersidering my eternal soul hangs in the tainly seems to ring true."

How quick he is to judge! But then that balance?"

From somewhere behind his is not surprising, because in life he conA moment of silence ensued, a long oppressive moment in which stantly found fault with everything hulking desk his skeletal digits proRodberry felt the hundreds of eyes around him. And why not? Finding duced a manila folder that read in big watching him shoot stabbing beams of fault certainly has its advantages. For scarlet letters "Rodberry R.G." across hatred into his chest. Then the Judge instance, if you find fault with everyone the file tab. vocalized the general attitude: who tries to get close, you don't have to "According to the Prelates you "Mr. Rodberry, if you interrupt open up and risk getting hurt, isn't that were endowed with staggering intellect, me again not only will you be confused, true, Mr. Rodberry?" superb empathy, genius-level ability in Rodberry attempted to reply you will be ushered to your doom under both analytic and artistic categories. but the Prosecutor cut him off: the unimpeachable supervision of Mr. Not only that, you enjoyed the comforts of an aristocratic upbringing. One of Madison, who, I think even you realize, "And if you find fault with the most eminent Prelates, Augustine, does not have your best interest as a pri- every employer who offers a job, you writes at the time of your birth, 'This is ority when he calls me to condemn you don't have to work very much, certainly someone who could positively shape the to the lowest level of hell. Now, given not full time, especially if you have your cooperation, the Prosecutor will course of history merely by the conwealthy parents. For someone who likes to laze around coffee structive exercise of his mind.' And yet here you are houses, frittering away hours '~ ..lfyou find fault with everyone who tries to in frivolous banter or halfforty-five years later, having committed suicide after ... get close, you don't have to open up and risk hearted attempts at poetry, I let me see, what does the would imagine such a situagetting hurt, isn't that true, Mr. Rodherry?" tion file say ... here it is: 'A life most satisfactory, most of bohemian decadence and satisfactory indeed." dissolution spent mainly in brothels, state his position, then you will get a The Prosecutor smiled smugly chance to state yours. And after that, bars, and coffee houses scribbling dogat Rodberry, but then assumed an affectgerel, reveling in apathy, and drowning we will wrap things up because I have ed sympathetic expression so blatant dubious sorrows in alcoholic beverage many cases to try and little time. Do that surely even the expressionless audiyou understand?" or carnal pleasures.' So you see--" ence discerned his guile.

Rodberry blinked incredulousAgain Rodberry interrupted, "Poor Richard Graham again without genuine remorse; he ly at the Judge for a few seconds, then Rodberry, it was a difficult life, wasn't launched a barrage of words tripping seemed to be developing it into an art it? Surrounded by dimwits too animalform and even smirked this time: over each other in their haste to get out: istic to understand, trapped in a back"I'm sorry to interrupt, your "I am disappointed yet not surprised ward society so frustrating, so bumHonor, you know how much I hate to bling, so inefficient compared to your that justice in the afterlife is as much a step on others' toes, especially when it mockery as on Earth; after all, only an brilliant mind. How painful it must involves a breech of etiquette; but there have been to envision the world the way unjust god could allow the arbitrary does seem to be a problem here; nameit could be and yet live in the sad reality ignorant bureaucracy so common in terly, although a prosecutor has shown up restrial courts, which more often than that fell far short of the contemplated out of the blue in special concern for not uncaringly condemn the innocent utopia. I suspect you fancied yourself a me, which I do so appreciate, where bit of a martyr. After all, to endure the and free the guilty. And just like on may I ask is the defense lawyer? And Earth, the accused must shut up and plodding circus day in, day out, and yet if--wouldn't it be shocking--I must play along; otherwise, the wrath of the summon the fortitude to write another defend myself, where is the time needed hallowed figure in flowing robes is idealistic poem, which of course you to prepare? More to the point, what the swift and dripping with cruelty. Well, realized the pitiable masses could not, hell is going on? I blow my brains out what can I do? Go ahead, but don't in their eternal ignorance, understand, and the next thing I know I'm being deny me my opportunity to speak, lest requires no small modicum of courage. dragged along by some clown in a my day in court become just another Yes, to live for your art, your ideals, beefeater costume and then I'm here, day of oppression." despite the futility of such a course accused of god knows what--ultimate Once more the Prosecutor necessitates a martyr, not a

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 4 ( 4J~ )

paltry martyr such as the Good and destruction sure to depress even the them twenty years of talent, talent that Samaritan, who lost only a few coins most vivacious poly anna. And did it could 'change the course of history' and a day's activity, but a super-martyr, stop there? No, the diatribe turned into according to Prelate Augustine? The a life-long martyr who sacrifices love, a sermon: 'We must change, change truth is, the agony of a million desperfamily, and even friendship, who refusnow!' We must do this, we must do ate souls does not mean as much to you es to wear new clothes so as not to that, you should this, you should that .. as your own mental discomfort. 'I'm encourage the, how did you so often put .' And so went a typical conversation lonely, I'm depressed, the world is hell' it? ah, yes, the 'cancerous invidious with Mr. Rodberry." and so you acted with the stubborn materialism'; who refuses a good bottle Again the Prosecutor paced, rashness of a spoiled toddler, making of wine because alcohol 'closes the letting the drama swell. Although he everything bad go away in a moment of hearts of so many insecure ostriches'; could not be sure, Rodberry thought he tantrum. What of the starving children? who turns away even a good meal saw the entire audience leaning forDo they kill themselves? No, they because 'innocent animals died to ward, enthralled and hanging on Mr. reach out to people like you who never become no more than objects for gibMadison's every word. went hungry a day their life. These bering mouths to devour. ," This is surely a joke, Rodberry poor starving children, who purportedly The Prosecutor stopped and thought. I'll wake up in a moment and cause you such grief, who you use as paced, letting the full magnitude of his it will all have been a dream. conceptual pawns in your quibbling words sink into the minds of the judge His attention was suddenly arguments, how did you help them by and the audience. Perhaps in deference redirected. The Prosecutor had finally committing suicide? Yes, Mr. to the latter, he waited a full minute decided to stop pacing and was asking a Rodberry, that is the question I put to before proceeding (out of fairness, it question. you and with which I close my case: should be noted that Rodberry tried to "Let me inquire of you, Mr. How did you help the starving children break in during the pause but found his Rodberry," he orated in his magnificent by denying them your talent in a vocal chords mysteriously frozen; even voice, "were you ever satisfied with moment of utter selfishness?" his limbs could not move to The audience mumprotest). bled excitedly such that the "Twenty years of helping others, Mr. "What are we Judge had to bang his gavel Rodberry, that's what you gave up when dealing with here?" the twice to restore order.

Prosecutor finally contin"It is your tum to you put a I2-gauge barrel in your mouth ued. "We are dealing with enter a statement into the and pulled the trigger" someone who denied himrecord," he monotoned, starself not one pleasure, not ing at the accused with deadtwo, or even several, but virtually all anyone or anything in your whole life? fish eyes. the pleasures of life. And then, having or did the world simply depress you?

Although suddenly able to harshly rejected the positive, Mr. And wasn't it a terrible waste when you move, Rodberry did not immediately Rodberry wallowed perversely in the committed suicide? So many people speak. It appeared that the Prosecutor's negative; people tended to steer clear would give their right hand to possess comments, or the sobering thought of when they saw him approach, for every your talents. Couldn't those talents hellfire, or some other factor, had other sentence out of his mouth turned have helped an ailing world instead of adversely affected him. He looked hagrotting on a barstool? What do you say, gard, drained of his former exuberance. into a bitter diatribe; he complained Mr. Rodberry, couldn't you have helped The ratty old clothes bundling his skinabout taxes, about government corrupmuch more than you did? Look at the tion and corporate greed, about sexism ny frame suited him now, where before situation pragmatically. If you hadn't and racism and homophobia, about the they seemed out of place, as if a blown your brains out, you might well vapidity of television, the 'diseased respected nobleman had decided to apathy' of American minds, he vilified have lived, let's be conservative, to the dress in rags for a masquerade ball. ripe old age of sixty-five. That's twenwar and even the right to bear arms, Eventually after some prodcondemned the violence rampant on the ty years, twenty beyond forty-five when ding by the bored-looking Judge, you splattered your grey matter all over streets and then turned around and conRodberry began his final statement, but the ceiling in the Alvarado Apartment demned the construction of new prisfrom the very start the words were trouons, he proclaimed his outrage over the Complex, Santa Cruz, California. bled by an intrusion of emotion that callous treatment of the starving milthreatened to bring on a terrible fit of Twenty years of helping others, Mr. Rodberry, that's what you gave up lions, his eyes rolled in horror as he tears. Several times the accused had to when you put a 12-gauge barrel in your stop and choke down his sorrow. Still, mentioned the death squads that torture mouth and pulled the trigger. You he somehow managed a certain clarity innocent children in South America, claim to be so concerned for the sufferand then there was the World Bank and and style. the IMF, the CIA and Trilateralism, and ing millions; but how could that be "Your skill is impressive," he many more, many more topics of dread said, addressing the Prosecutor, "which when the bottom line is that you denied

twenty

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only makes it more tragic that, like your hell soon and if your god is so pathetipain you have experienced, you will not earthly counterparts, you selectively cally prissy and petty then I don't want vicariously feel others' pain or weep for choose your facts to create the most any part of playing his game. You fuck- them. Nothingness, Mr. Rodberry, I unflattering image. You've done an ing well know, if you have my history offer it to you. But once you step in, in your folder, that I've cursed at god all there is no turning back." excellent job of caricaturing me, sir.

With your palette of half-truth and my life--fuck you, god! fuck you, Jesus!

Rodberry locked eyes with the sophistry you paint a picture no one, not fuck you Mary, Michael, and Paul! I Judge for a good ten seconds, then even a child, could help but abhor. The flicked his gaze downward to contemhate your god and I hate his unjust plate the hole. self-pitying philosopher lamenting in his games and I won't play along with such "I see," he said. ivory tower while just outside awaits the a torturer and murderer and such a propagator of travail, tribulation, and woe. life he snobbishly proclaims cannot The Prosecutor walked forward exist--this is truly pathetic--and You fuck your god, fuck him! and fuck vigorously and occupied the center of detestable given that only the philosothe spotlight. your lies and hypocrisy and cruel insenpher's arrogance keeps him from enjoy"Your Honor, may I approach sitivity. You damn me, damn me now, ing the world and helping others. the Bench?" he intoned urgently. for I won't play along. You've always "But this ivory-tower misanpersecuted the nonconformists, so damn Soon the two were locked in a thrope, is he not a cliche? Is he not me right fucking now!" heated discussion, of which Rodberry written and spoken of over and over For a split second it seemed could not clearly discern a single word.

It was as if an invisible partition had again ad nauseam? Is he not some sort that the Judge's head would spontaof cultural icon thrown out whenever fallen in front of them, garbling their neously burst into flame, but then an someone wants to criticize an intellectu- exceptional iciness took over, even icier speech to anyone on the other side. al? More importantly, is it fair to conRodberry took the opportunity than the pallid flesh Rodberry confrontfine me, or anyone else for that matter, to stroll toward the spectator pews. The ed when he first entered the Court. within the narrow bounds of this image?

The Judge raised his hand with spotlight did not follow him and soon It took you five minutes to he found himself in a zone of sum up my life, an eloquent twilight.

"It is not hell, it is beyond hell, it is ultisummary, yes, but when He scrutinized the mate annihilation, nothingness, the kind members of the audience. carefully considered it amounts to no more than Although only feet away they of death some peiple think is inevitable this: the defendant is one of were still encased in a hazy once the physical body ceases to function. " gray those ivory-tower misangloom that rendered thropes who buries his emothem nondescript and impastions beneath societal criticism. My deliberate slowness. The room became sive, like creatures of stone. first point then, is that if on is to judge darker. Now Rodberry truly felt like he "Have you anything to say?" whether a human being is going to Rodberry cast out, alarmed that his was on a stage, for the audience could heaven or hell, surely the most imporbarely be seen, just like a theatre audivoice echoed, so alone. "Have you any tant judgement ever to affect that perence sitting outside the cone of light words of wisdom, or stories, or son, one does not in five minutes weave laying bare the actors. moments of passion or hell to share? a stereotype that maximizes the potenThe Judge then pointed his Each person is unique, each a storybook tial to win the case--no, winning the gavel and a gaping hole opened up in greater by far than the most exquisite case should not be relevant at all, but I the floor. Nothing could be seen in the novels. Speak to me, you tragicomic listen to this prosecutor and I see that hole; it was darker than the darkest travelers. That was always my most night. his only concern is to paint the most cherished sustenance." negative picture of me as possible and, Rodberry got a chill from lookBut no one responded, not my god, is that fair? Is it right that ing at it. even to move. Perplexed, Rodberry heavenly judgement should be reduced "Is that hell?" he asked. stepped forward and reached out. His to a competition of who can spin the Speaking in a voice almost hand moved toward a shoulder, but most effective lie?" robotic, the Judge replied, "It is not hell, when he touched it, the whole individ"If you swear again, Mr. it is beyond hell, it is ultimate annihilaual fell sideways limply. He stuck his Rodberry, I will terminate your statetion, nothingness, the kind of death face very close and saw button eyes and ment, is that clear?" the Judge said, some people think is inevitable once the a straight stitched mouth. glaring down from the bench. physical body ceases to function. Since "Straw," he muttered, "they're Rodberry pursed his lips for a you are so unhappy with my universe, just dolls stuffed with straw." moment, then flushed crimson.

Mr. Rodberry, I offer you this alternaAt precisely that moment the "Fuck you, your god-damned tive. Step in it and you will never Judge bellowed, causing Rodberry to honor! Just fuck you! This is my final worry or hate again, you will not experi- whirl instinctively. statement, I'm going to god-damned ence pain, you will not remember the "Mr. Rodberry! have you

------------------fC~1)

made up your mind?" with a message, books that shatter the "Very well, jump then, Mr. Rodberry walked back into the old and sparkle with the new day when Rodberry, but, please, do not delay, my brightly lit area before the bench. He freedom will ride the dawn, real freetime is precious." noticed that the Prosecutor was staring dom, freedom to live without fear, freeSmirking and looking victoriat him expectantly. dom to follow your heart without the ous, the Prosecutor strode confidently "I have." threat of starvation, freedom to walk over to Rodberry and stuck out his "What will it be?" down the street at night if you're a hand.

"I choose annihilation." woman, freedom from war and bigotry, "You were a formidable oppoThe Prosecutor looked sternly freedom from the curse of bloodsucking nent, Mr. Rodberry; in that sense I will at the Judge as if to say, "I told you so, enslaving corporate greed. My books miss you." you should have listened to me." have been published, you know it, but Rodberry chuckled ironically "You realize that hell is not the mainstream houses, which could and made no effort whatsoever to grasp forever," the Judge informed, "you give them a national audience, snub the Prosecutor's waiting palm. would emerge and live again." their noses. No, I do not lounge in a "You still see this as a compeRodberry shook his head. bar drinking and fucking away my sortition," he remarked sadly, "and that, "F or what purpose?" rows; I go to those fringe establishmy friend, is the root of all our trou"That is up to you to decide." bles." ments where most artists are forced to Walking contemplatively to the go, and I write because I love to write.

"One man's trouble, Mr. edge of the hole, Rodberry peered But since I won't concoct vapid garbage Rodberry," said the Prosecutor, smiling down. to mentally masturbate the lulled massbroadly but showing no teeth, "is anoth"You cannot answer my queses, I'm marginalized, my literature isn't er's gain." tions, can you?" he asked the Judge worth anything. Working in a plastic With that, the handsome attorwithout looking up. restaurant like a robot provides shelter ney walked into the gloom and was "No." and groceries but not writing an honest quickly enveloped.

Tears trickled over "Asshole," Rodberry Rodberry's cheeks. He couldsaid quietly as the glitter"The actions of this court convince me n't help but cry as he spoke: ing wristwatch faded from that even before I entered I had only one VIew. "You realize Mr. Madison has slandered me.

"Get on with it!" the choice: hell or nothingness. " You know I have lived for Judge ordered, menacing love; I have had many lovers, with his gavel. many lovers and many loves. If you novel. The greatest works of art end up Rodberry took one last look at as no more than litter trampled in the would just allow one witness, you the ersatz audience, wiped away his would not be able to deny the rush-hour stampede of the 9-to-5 crowd. tears, and studied the Judge.

Prosecutor's monstrous deception. You "Why are you staring at me?"

They end up there because the artists know, if you know anything at all from give up and fling their manuscripts to the magistrate said. "Won't you please your folder, that the people whom my go on!" the sky. The pages flutter, for a heart most adores were destroyed, Tears brimmed Rodberry's moment like a cloud of dispersing butterflies, and then the evening bell rings assassinated physically or psychologieyes again. cally by the institutions they challenged. and the herds come out and trample "I just want to say," he wept, You've heard of Martin Luther King? I them. You know all this, or you should, "that I have a lot of love for people, and never met him but I love him all the and yet you let Mr. Madison caricature the world, it has been very beautiful same. And there's another, Francesca too." me, and I have no doubt you accepted The Judge nodded impatiently.

Amosa--you've probably never heard of all he adduced as true. The actions of her, you have no idea who she is, just "If that's all, then--" and he motioned this court convince me that even before another grain of sand to you--but she with his gavel toward the pit.

I entered I had only one choice: hell or Taking a deep breath, was my lover for eight years and three nothingness. Well, I choose nothingmonths, and she spoke out against the ness because I want no part of this cruel Rodberry brought his tears under control. He straightened himself and hovoppression of her people, and she was game. No longer am I a pawn to a ered on the brink of infinite blackness. raped and brutally beaten and then sadistic beast who bribes with promises "I dedicate this act," he manthrown to a pack of vicious dogs. They, of future incarnations. You can take the soldiers, crushed her body and soul aged, still teary eyed, "to the memory of this universe and shove it up your ass!" with physical violence. You don't care, a Nicaraguan woman devoured by The Judge's icy face, with its dogs." you sit in your throne and judge but you dead-fish eyes, displayed not the slightdon't see the injustice in the very nature est hint of disruption, but in his voice a And without further ado, of things. Yes, I've had lovers, I've Rodberry jumped into the hole. tiny pinch of disappointment was eviwritten books dedicated to them, books dent:

twenty two

IISatan and the 666 Shooters" Tiffany Turpin

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flBirthday" Rebecca Finley

twenty four

Christa Owen Everything felt so right, So I let go.

The feelings took me To the top of the roller coaster And down to the bottom And left me there So now I'm empty, cold Sitting here alone At the bottom dirty, sticky Like an old candy wrapper.

my fight for simultaneous sanity and truth is a bicycle miracle

Brandon Spencer

twenty six

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J.K.T. My favorite schizophrenic heroine Encapsulated in cheap plastic, Surrounded by water And white grains of snow.

But there was no water or snow In Rouen that day To quench the flames For the witch/soldier/madwoman on the stake.

This rough facsimile, Ironically shaken for good luck, Reminder of strength and passion And now foggy ideals.

They must have sold out Of the ones depicting her burning.

So I settled for Jeanne d'Arc triumphantBanner flying, Fully armed-savior of France.

Martyr...

Heroine ...

Tacky souvenir.

~----------------------~c~~

UUn titled " Olga Alexandratos

twenty eight

loud music from an old ford truck soundtrack of hung america open the book of jazz spilling forth liquid paper cuts poems the spittle of kerouac (Click, gra, rattapisp, Ting, Tang-) the hands of thelonious monk move two shaved tarantulas in shamanistic fit way off in the background a rattling diesel engine, ugly beauty the mouth that would conquer death has bitten off more than it could chew old men left with narcotic senility a lifetime's supply they have no more interest, but the new frontiersmen mount anything that moves the sun sets a big woman's ass in tight orange shorts the horizon grins and bears it the ground flickers with a variety orange and red colors I slip between a crack in the soil

I'm only seeking love safe from flaming smile hidden from soft lips too

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An interview with Dr. Lynn Champion and Dr. Joe Flory Twenty-five members of the UT community had the opportunity this semester to participate in the first ever International Literature Colloquy. This innovative program, sponsored by the Student Affairs Office, the Center for International Education and the College of Arts and Sciences, is a new experiment created primarily by Dr. Joseph Flory and Dr. Lynn Champion, Director of Academic Outreach. While the idea of the colloquy was introduced by Dr. Champion, she was aided by Dr. Flory, Assistant Director at the Center for International Education, who handled the promotional details.

The program is designed to give students, faculty and staff meinbers a chance to meet in a relaxed luncheon setting in the International House and discuss novels from other countries. The colloquy is structured around three, hour long meetings each semester when the group gathers to discuss the book selected for that meeting. Dr. Champion, who

thirty

created the colloquy based on the success of her "Lunch and Learn" programs in Knoxville public libraries, credits a committee of faculty members with the book selection for the group. This semester's books include: Gabriel Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude, Mark Mathabane's Kaffir Boy, and Amos Oz's My Michael.

She notes that the selection of the books was based on the desire to represent specific international cultures, and to read respected, native authors from those cultures. University faculty members were asked to volunteer as discussion leaders for each meeting. Both Dr. Champion and Dr. Flory praise the efforts of Phil Scheurer, Vice Chancellor of

Administrative and Student Affairs, for his help in reserving funds for the program. The funding for the pro gram includes providing the participants with the necessary books.

Dr. Flory considers this to be a remarkable aspect of the colloquy: "Nobody should not be able to join because they don't have money for books."

Another remarkable characteristic is the diversity of the group . The colloquy attracts participants froin a wide variety of fields. Student backgrounds range from business to computer science and English.

The group's diversity is an essential element for achieving the primary goal of the colloquy. The program was designed to expose participants to the literature of international cultures and, thereby, expand their understanding of those cultures. A diverse group ensures that a variety of opinions will be expressed in discussion. In describing the composition of the class Dr. Flory says, "It's not a class of English majors; it's not a class of political science majors or sociology majors. You've got all these majors represented, all these departments represented, and

and staff with different backgrounds. There is loads of diversity in this group; that's what makes the discussions interesting. " Dr. Champion describes the goal of the colloquy as a learning experience for the group members: "The idea was to provide readers with an opportunity to experience other cultures and to better understand the human experience of the people who are described in these novels. [For example,] to help them understand what it's like to be living in South Africa at a particular time." Dr. Flory commented that the literature and discussion forces the group to make parallels between the literary cultures and their own.

He believes that it is an inward-looking experience, as well as one that allows exposure to foreign cultures. An example is Dr. Thomas Hood's discussion of Mathabane's Kaffir Boy, and the comparison he made between South African apartheid and racism in the US. Dr. Flory is especially interested in utilizing the colloquy to attract American students to the International House to help make them more aware of nonWestern cultures: "Because we

are in the Center for International Education, we're never going to feel there are enough [international education] opportunities."

Both Flory and Champion agree it is important that the group members have fun. They are excited and encouraged by the praise the program has received from participants. Dr. Flory says about

the colloquy, "People are enjoying this so much." They are both hoping for an expansion of the program if there is enough interest and funding. Dr. Flory is in favor of hosting an evening class at the International House to accommodate those people who are not able to attend the lunch meeting. He would especially

like to see the program grow, by providing more meeting times, and possibly expand, by enlarging the literary focus: "Wouldn't it be fun to do an international poetry or theater colloquiutTI?" The present program is designed as a year long study, including three book discussions each semester. However, increased interest in the program might encourage expansion. The program is aimed at individuals who are open -minded and interested in the study of international literature as a method of examining the human condition.

As Dr. Champion says, "That is what humanities education is all about, helping us understand and interpret the human experience. "

If interested in more information please contact: Dr. Joseph Flory Center for International Education 1620 Melrose Ave. Phone: (423) 974-3177 or E-mail: FLORY@UTK.EDU.

+--------------~(~4J )

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11

Justin Stalcup

thirty two

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Antonio Camborio

desert hills flood the valley along the right side of Saint Francis street some strayed over to the wrong side leveled by prodigious men -built a Days Inn watching the billowing clouds drive by last night's rain lingers in the air soon exorcised by an inanimate sun god above the Sangre de Cristo mountains, Sun fills the valley the crown prince ascends his throne, sitting under a shade tree i wait listening to the wind the stones speak, but who listens fifty thousand stones on this hill, this kingdom of the Sun and these stones are serfs, except for one jaunty angles, standing apart at noon, when all the stones glow in adoration of their king, 2nd Lt. Harold Wietzman shines with a brilliance that challenges the sun

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"Untitled" Jeff Davis

thirty four

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you have always loved the fragile: annual flowers, a good cigar, a touch on the small of a woman's back, and exquisite Tiffany lamps.

But you told me once you liked the scene in Body Heat where William Hurt shatters the obstructing glasswhich makes me wonder about your dalliances with the beautiful, the transient, the easily broken.

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Two quarters for a bucket of popcorn at the local fair and I'm off to the midway hoping to recapture dreams redolent with saucy nights filled with puerile wild abandon giving up the variety shows on the 1 3 incher for the low grade ABRACADABRA of the pinkish little magician on stage 3b waving his gaudy plastic wand in weak circles, stabbing the air to produce disgruntled pigeons from the firmament quickly clapped out of view by thunderstruck children . just barely overpowering the cat-calls and belches of the older teenage boys whose eyes, filled with beer, glow ferociously blinking in unreason.

thirty six

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Olga Alexandratos, David Andrews, Jon R Boles, Fay Boston, Jeff Davis,

graduate student in Painting

graduate student in Psychology

graduate student in Art

graduate student in Art

junior in Graphic Design

Susan Duncan,

senior in Studio Art

Jason Englehardt,

graduate student in Printmaking

Rebecca Finley,

junior in Studio Art

Jacob Goodwin,

sophomore in Studio Art

Jody Hayes, David Hill,

junior in Drawing

graduate student in Art

Melanie Hollomon, Lori Reed,

junior in Studio Art

Justin Stalcup, Tiffany Turpin,

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senior in Painting

senior in Graphic Design

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Antonio Camborio, Brian Carr,

junior in psychology

senior in Classics

J. K. T., majoring in Liberal Arts

Kurt Harris,

graduate student in English

Robyn Johnson, word processing specialist in Graduate Admissions & Records Christa Owen,

senior in Psychology

Deborah Scaperoth,

instructor in the English

Department

Br!3ndon Spencer,

sophomore with an undeclared

major

Whiskey D. Toddy,

visiting faculty member

Bryce Kendall Withrow, Jennifer C. Worth,

sophomore in English

graduate student in English

Robin Redmon Wright,

instructor in the

Department of English

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Rebecca Baker,

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junior in Communications

Chris Crittenden,

graduate student in Philosophy

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Life is a fragile thing when: a.) Emotions are abstractions. b.) Dreams are just distractions. c.) Sex is your only form of interaction. d.) Thoughts and beliefs fail to lead you to action. e.] Disappointment is your primary reaction. f.) Both a. and d .. g.] Both c. and e .. h.] All the above.