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Bohe 6 16 27 28 29 31 33 35 37

Rifts in Time Poetry

Vintage Glam 70s Bonnie Neagle

Multiple Choice Suzanne Ondrus

For Life Ilya Prints

A Sled in Time Gary Lee Webb

A Time for Love C.G. Fewston

A Horse-Thief in Detroit Ty Hall

Little Snowy Mountains Arthur Doweyko

The Day-To-Day Reality Kay Wilson

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MIA

e-

Streams

Jamie Mason

Vintage Watch The Word Rummager

Sundae, Sundae

Pat Jones & Genna Ware

Detroit Artist Nick Hottmann

Femme Fatale Roller Dolls

Peter Able

RAW: Natural Born Artists

39 40 42 48 54 57

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Bohemia Sept 2013 Volume 3, Number 8 ISSN No. 2162-8653 Editor: Amanda Hixson Assist. Editor: Stephanie Rystrom Fiction acquisition: Gary Lee Webb Writers: Pete Able, Susan Duty, Caleb Farmer, Meg Miller Photographers: Cecy Ayala, CJ Hudgins, Pat Jones, Bonnie Neagle, Michelle Vaughn, Genna Ware, Cynthia Wheeler Thank you to the Boho Model Crew Also, Bohemia wouldn’t exist without the regular contributors and friends who lend their talents frequently. Submissions to submissions@ bohemia-journal.com Cover credits: Cover design: CJ Hudgins Model: Stephanie Rystrom Photographer: Bonnie Neagle Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX. We take submissions from around the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions-based journal and staff-produced magazine. Contributors, please follow our submission guidelines. More information is available at www.bohemia-journal.com

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62 65 73 76 78 82 86 90 96

The National: Do You Know Me Better Than That? by Caleb Farmer Today’s Tom Sawyer by Cynthia Wheeler

Valley Mills Winery by David Irvin

A Bowl of Red by Meg Miller The Waco Art Initiative: Improving Our City One Child at a Time by Gary Lee Webb Mount Olympus by Cecy Ayala Clothes Mark the Man by Gary Lee Webb The Great Gatsby by Erin Shephard Contributors september 2013• bohemia • 5


Nostalgia by James B. Nicola When in the aftermath of bursted years, like in an afterglow of low-burnt love, a journey homeward all but done, the nose anticipates familiar goods unbaked; the heart, friends too-long unseen. Ponds we splashed away in, cooled skin tingles to again. Just as when you are waking up, the still emerging ghosts of shapes obscure the lines identifying friendly form. You see and would step through the glass to puff and stoke the winking embers, but the old flame’s gone, restoked but briefly to reflect upon: And all you were and knew, and thought had died, is underlit, now, on the other side. 6 • bohemia • september 2013


The Drowning

by Trier Ward

of the Clock

Turquoise blazes above the sunburst gasp tortured tock. Murky rope mold forgotfaded blue seconds tick, minutes tock. Then thick, then thlock. Muddy shuffle, fish scales glitter . Clock stops in sediment, lost lures, crab funk. Time matters no t.

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Photography by Bonnie Neagle featuring (this page) Stephanie Rystrom & (next page) Amara Love


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When You Get Old By Michael Lee Johnson

When you get old you leave everything behind− present tense past tense, hangers on refusing to turn loose, high school letter sweaters, varsity woolen jackets, yearbooks 1965, covers that quickly open, slam shut− high school romances only faces where they were then− ice cubes frozen in time. No more teary eyes, striking flames, moist match heads igniting bedroom sheets and teenage bedside rumors.

saviors of wings, fantasies, tense has no grammatical corrector, it always dances around the rim of red wine. Life now fills with silver teaspoons of empty senior moments− blank shells of present, past tense, and yank me back recalls.

You leave wife, or wives behind toss out your youthful affairs. All single events were just encounters, cardiac dry ice, ladies with crimson clover eyes. No more strings tightened, broken bows, heart dreams slit vows, melancholy violin romances.

Do you remember those 1st 25 years? Shrinking brain space remembers dances of sporadic nighttime boogies, sports, senior prom, Thomas’s Drive-In, Spin-It-Record Shop, Dick Biondi, WLS Chicago top 100. Remember the next 25 years? high school reunions grow dimmer− priest of the voodoo dolls punch in numbers of once living and now dead− undresses all.

You continue leaving reading glasses, key chain, ATM card, senior discount cards, footnotes are your history, artificial sweeteners, doctor appointments daily, keep touching those piano notes, phone numbers in sequence in tattered address books, names attached to memories hidden behind.

Rise forward from your medieval pews. Wherever you now live, do you remember these things− prayer, ghosts deep in the pockets of our former youth.

Everything rhymes with plural thoughts and foggy memories.

Old age waits patiently in the face of a full moon−a new generation.

Youth was a bullyboy clubthe older I get the less I’m battered− trust me I got witnesses in between−

When you get old you leave everything behind. september 2013• bohemia • 9


I’m Getting Older by Jesse Jefferis

Under Pressure? by Joel Cifer

Pressure builds so it can burst. Tensions mount to be released. The earth is expanding or shrinking, but definitely moving. A volcano of geysers spewing gases like a valve has been tapped. Volatility surrounds us. Under our feet, above our heads, in our hearts. We mostly live in blind acceptance or ignorance. Our bodies boil. The acidity level toxic, the body swells in allergy, While our bones moan in agony. We recognize the defeated stares of passersby From the memories of our reflection. The sky has splintered color, dancing like waves through the clouds. The swell has crashed. Now, a warm ripple. The cycle repeats, like the beating of a drum. In this moment, as in all The line between peace and chaos has blurred Leaving only beauty.

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I’m getting older, The balls sag more Hair colonies are sprouting Abilities are taking the Day off. One such ability Is the gift of Auditory stimulation. I have to use Scientific jargon Because i can’t Express the magic. Of living within the Walls of music. The swooping towers As metronomic birds flutter Compelling us into a World of beauty. Even the walls of this trash strewn Floor and grease smeared walls Vanish in the wake. The head bobs The mellow swells The stains, And troubles Fade Away.


Tik Tok Traveler by Genny Page Tik tok Tik tok Tik tok tik Tik tok tik The old clock stammers when he comes And stutters when he leaves It tiks each time he turns his head and toks each time he breathes So funny when we’re laughing and he’s asking me the time So silly to have ever thought that life was like a line To not have known it braided Like the ribbons in my hair To not have known that times can cross Though I might not know where So sweet to learn he seeks me out When circumstance allows So sweet the way he slurs his words And stumbles when he bows It’s difficult to fathom: He my future - I his past That viewing my entire world He knows what bits will last But I catch myself waiting For the stutter in the time For just an hour between us We’ll pretend life is a line Each tik I hope he’ll be here soon Each tok I am alone Tik tok the time goes sliding by While I sit here at home But just as I might give up hope And leave this clock behind

Uncle Carroll Waits for His Brother by Chip Dameron You might think, all these years gone, that my grudge against you would have worn itself out, victim of time’s infinite erosions. I know you were blameless, barely surviving the viral assault that seized that small frame house by the throat and took just me as its fatal prize. But you, stubborn headed even then, held on while I drifted, drowned. Now, 91 years later, the days endless, befogged, as you hold hands with the woman who has shared most of your life, I wait impatiently for you to float into the ether and, if I can find you, tell me all that I missed, not being you.

I hear a sound... an almost sound That might be just my mind Tik tok Tik tok Tik tok tik Tik tok tik september 2013• bohemia • 11


When Time Turns Digital by Jackie Craven The universe offers infinite geometries— curves and arcs, loops and parabolas— so why, oh, why did they put my clock inside a metal box? Seconds smolder in dusty corners— muffled minutes strain and flutter— time ticks but cannot tock— What good’s a clock without a dial? Two becomes three, three becomes four— I count to pi and press the buzzer— without a compass, I lose the hours— decades molder inside a vault. Somewhere down the lighted hall, a lazy nurse rests on folded arms— She dreams of curves, arcs, and wedding rings while I whither in a gated bed without a proper clock.

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Time

by Ilya Prints Years change us and our space, We’re in a hurry always, healthy or sore, But now I ask time, slow down your pace, I have nowhere to rush any more. Youth dreams of changing the world for the better, as once we did. But now I pray Grant me more time to tell you my love, loved ones. Oh, how slowly pull the minutes, but the years fly silently away! I pray for friends that are scattered around, I pray for strangers that I have not yet met, Let the clouds pass by them, not casting down, Send them the strength to meet their sunset. We are going away, we are going… And my day tends to its evening. But time hasn’t stopped its running, Every night waits for dawn’s coming. september 2013• bohemia • 15


Vintage Glam Photography by Bonnie Neagle HMU Miriam Hitsel

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B

ulky je we sleaves lry, Jackie O s , boots, unglass 70s! St c es, poo l o gs, and eppin’ o fy s ut in th uede: th motif, f e st is ro anie Ry m left to right reet in a 70s in is the strom, A ar sp bby Ea e: Amara Lov ired des, & StephAoife G e,september orey... 2013• bohemia • 17


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Stephanie made a statement in this rich, red tunic dress with rosette details and a bow collar (l). Brittany’s vintage dress is ruffled and off the shoulder (r). Her bag is leather and buckled.

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Aoife at left in a vintage baby doll. At right in high-waisted brown shorts and a sheer paisley-ish print blouse. Ankle boots complete her look.

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Abby (l) and Stephanie (r) were adamant about rockin’ jean shorts at the shoot. Abby piled on the bangles, and Stephanie’s beautiful gold lion piece pops. Don’t be afraid to mix and match glamour jewelry with casuals like middriff-baring graphic tees. september 2013• bohemia • 23


Vintage Glam

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Multiple Choices by Suzanne Ondrus

B.

A.

C.

A.

“Yeah, Haw!’ exclaimed the housewife shifting her taupe loveseat. Every six weeks she shifted her furniture around, taking the past into the present and welcoming new garage sale acquisitions. There were three things that consistently stayed in the same place: the rug, the china cabinet and the television; they had permanent homes. Stability.

B.

The Greek teacher smiled and strode into his class with his wedding ring off. The females outnumbered the men. They turned in copious assignments that he was forced to return with red ink and anger at directions not followed, but they smiled and swooned, tracing his belt with their eyes, fingering his white scar sparkling under his eye. Three times the Greek teacher had put his ring on and those three semesters enrollment plummeted. He was a Greek rock star. With his wedding ring off his paycheck was assured.

C.

Jennifer revolted at the black water filter. Three months and black? Not red or brown? She remembered the plumber, his slick eyes and his hand on her shoulder. “I can come over any time you might…” Maybe she shouldn’t have shrugged her shoulder, stepped away. His eyes shifted and his lips curled down. She’d left him alone to finish up. His goodbye had closure, too still of a peace. There was movement in the filter; the black flecks were shifting from the bottom to the top. The plumber’s hands were long and thin, like a pianist, stark against his protruding gut, draping black moustache and greasy comb over. Jennifer shuddered remembering him in her dream. Can one knock in dream and arrive in present? He’d been standing at her door smiling, knowing he’d come, be called. The black flecks expanded from sand-size to rice size. A whirling sound started. His card was in her hand, her scarf tightening on her throat.

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For Life by Ilya Prints

J

ust yesterday, I met with friends and family, joked and had fun, while now I lie without moving, in pain and fear, and it started in a matter of minutes and seconds: doctors, ambulance, tests, surgery, semiconsciousness… These minutes change your attitude about many things. On the border of life and death, you have a keen sense of the pettiness and futility of some of your past actions and desires. As a wise person once said, “Time is running faster and faster as you become older, but even in old age, you would not like to die, though it is not terrible.” In the hospital, you can see what great progress medicine has made. And yet, how much effort is required from the dozens of people to revive the lifeless body! And not only the efforts, but heart warmth and attention. Even with all the power of medicine, if you want to stand up, you must rely on yourself – on your own mind and will. Go through pain, discomfort, and common 28 • bohemia • september 2013

laziness, overstep them, and what a blessing it is to return to your home on your own two feet! What happiness you feel to get to the table or reach the bathroom by yourself! I remember the first time I went out. It was the weekend. The sun was bright and warm. In our park there were many young people. Lively, businesslike, noisy, dressed brightly and even provocatively. With a light sadness and a bit of admiration, I looked at them passing by …“Their world ,” I thought, “is familiar and, at the same time, so unfamiliar to me.” I remembered my own younger days - perhaps, at that time, I also felt an ability to overturn the world. Gradually, my own uneasiness and pain subsided. Lingering anxiety about my children, their failures and disappointments, worrying about relatives, and, after all, about my beloved country that is changing beyond recognition - all these receded somewhere. And I saw everything around me in a new way - these

flowering shrubs and the unique beauty of the clouds, and people’s smiles and, surfaced in the memory, anxious attentive eyes of nurses from the hospital. “Everything will be OK. Yes, everything will be fine - sounded in the soul. Life is often unfair, but it is so wonderful!” And I thought, “I am an elderly man, and I am doubly happy because I’ve left behind me many stupidities, but no meanness.” And I said to myself, “Life goes on, and in this life, you have to appreciate every morning and every moment.” And then I turned to people, “Thank you, America. Thank you, my family. Thanks to friends and strangers who became my loved ones.”


A Sled in Time by Gary Lee Webb

R

eturning from the 2015 Women’s Herstory Month celebrations, Athene Wells found a large crate across her driveway and into the street. The USPS had left it there, next to the mailbox, with an attached note: “Too big for post box, $5 fine!” She took a crowbar from her trunk, and pried open the crate, and stared in shock at the contents. The spindly metal frame reminded her of the sleds from her childhood in snowy Ohio, but this was 24’ long. An ornate running board helped her ascend the right side to the driver seat, not wood to lie on, but a double, plush leather seat, behind an enormous glass windscreen. The controls looked like something from a steamship control room, and there were wheels to select day, month, year, century, and location. The wiring was complex, ending in massive Möbius coils, somehow twisting out of sight. Incongruously, in front and back, were two pairs of what appeared to be oil lamps, in amber glass fore and reddish glass aft. A

thick, leather-bound book of heavy pages rested in the passenger’s seat on the left. She had not even realized that old Herbert George was a relative, let alone her great-great-great-great grandfather. How many relatives had this legacy passed through to get to her? How had she ended up being the current recipient ? Yet there it was, this thing she had always thought was fantasy, pure science fiction. Written in the sure strokes with a nib pen, full of diagrams and history, the leather-bound manual detailed how Nicola Tesla had helped her ancestor. The device looked intact, well preserved, could it work? Had it worked? The physics seemed insane, yet it was consistent. Was this the device that took her ancestor on the adventures he chronicled, and would it take her? If it did, what would she do? … Perhaps to save someone … Hypatía. Hypatía of Alexandria was reputed to be one of the greatest mathema-

ticians of history, an astronomer, physicist, and philosopher. Her father, Theon, had been the head of the University of Alexandria and a believer in the Platonic idea that humans were perfectible; so he taught his daughter mathematics at a time in which women were expected to be wives and mothers, naught more. She went to school in Roman Egypt, Italy, and Greece, returning to Alexandria to teach, gaining renown across the Roman Empire for the clarity of her arguments and the way she could make even mathematics intelligible. She wrote 13 books on Algebra and 8 on Geometry and various others, and made improvements on the hydrometer and the astrolabe. As an astronomer, she took such meticulous observations, that her astrolabe tables were used for 12 centuries after her death, helping sailors navigate by the stars. By the time she was murdered, she had rejected the Ptolemaic theory of an earthcentric universe with epicycles added to perfect circles in favor of a helio-centric september 2013• bohemia • 29


universe. She was even working out the theory of elliptical orbits, 1200 years before Kepler ! But she was a good friend of Orestes, the Roman Governor, a pagan. She was probably pagan herself, but known to teach anyone regardless of their beliefs. She told her students: “Reserve your right to think. For even to think wrongly is better than not to think at all.” When the local Christian leader, later St. Cyril of Alexandria, drove the Jews out of Alexandria and told his followers to pillage what the Jews had left, Orestes was not happy with Cyril, and Hypatía sided with her friend the governor. Then a large mob of Christian monks “just happened” to torture and murder her, dismembering the corpse, and burning the pieces. Cyril then ordered the burning of the University of Alexandria, destroying the world’s largest collection of scientific and mathematical writings. Athene was a Catholic herself, but that is not the act of a saint. Chasing the Jews out of their homes because he did not like their music and dance. Stealing their possessions. Sending a mob to maim, torture, and horrifically kill a professor. Burning “pagan” writings. And then getting canonized for having made Alexandria a Christian city ??? That was just not right. Perhaps she could get Hypatía out of town, stop the murder. Or if not … she believed in the right to bear arms. She 30 • bohemia • september 2013

packed her AK-47 and a lot of ammo, for “mob control”. She took her 9 mm for personal combat, and her rifle in case she got the chance to hunt. She printed off a copy of Principia Mathematica in the original Latin: the Greeks had nearly come up with Calculus on their own. She found a book on the principles of steam engines in Greek on the web and printed it too; Heron of Alexandria had used steam for toys four centuries earlier. She loaded her Kindle with every useful book she could think of, and bought a solar powered recharger. One change of clothes, vitamins and medical supplies, and … oh yes … a prop from the local costume shoppe – a mask and a wing-like cloak. And a sketch pad. It was a heavy pack, but she was a big woman.

T

he machine materialized in the desert well outside Alexandria – and she headed in. It was the Calends of March, 415 – she did not know the exact day of the mob attack, but hopefully that would be good enough. It wasn’t. The histories had talked about how the mob had overwhelmed Hypatía in an agora (forum) and hauled her off. They did not mention pelting her with sling stones first, but there she was lying unconscious. There was little time. She opened up with her AK-47, and mowed down the mob. The noise would attract attention, and

she did not want to kill the innocent, so she put on the ibis head mask. Athene did not like the idea of pretending to be a pagan god, but nobody would mess with the God Thoth. The “God Thoth” picked up the unconscious mathematician. One benefit: after today, no-one would mess with Thoth’s chosen teacher. She looked for a good shelter, so that she could tend the wound in private. Hopefully the concussion was not too bad. After bandaging Hypatía, Athene took out a sheet of white paper and wrote out instructions for the two books. Neither papyrus nor vellum, words on bleached white paper were clearly from the Gods. She waited for the mathematician to wake and groggily see her in her mask, said “αναγνώσε !” (“read !” in Greek), put the page and two books in Hypatía’s hands, and left. The God Thoth had other business. Roman historians would chronicle how Thoth, God of Knowledge, walked into a Christian church, killing all in his way with a loud staff, until he found and destroyed Cyril, the head priest. You do *not* attack a university professor when Thoth is around. As for Athene Wells, perhaps Hypatía could use a new student. Being a university professor in 415 was suddenly a status job – probably better than in 2015.


A Time for Love by C.G. Fewston

S

he crawled in bed. She crawled into my bed. How the dainty brunette ever managed to unlock the door, posted with room number 265, and slip inside my bed wearing nothing but her fragile skin I will never know. Nor do I know how the chain became unfastened. Perhaps I was the one to let her in. Perhaps she came in through the closet door to find me alone in bed. Either way she crawled up through the covers without once tickling my feet and whispered to me, “Call me Diana. I am yours.” As she lay near me, her body as cold as the falling snow outside Mountain View Grand Resort’s yellow walls, I imagined she let slip her white wool gown before entering my bed, and that she needed my warmth, my skin, my tongue against hers in hopes of reigniting the fires that had died within her frail chest long ago. Diana curled around me, not like a snake, but like warm quilts in a New Hampshire blizzard. But she remained closer to me than quilts. She was like the sweat beneath the quilts. And I accepted her into the folds of my arms as I remained on my back, thinking of how good it felt to have her next to me. This strange woman from another place and time that surely could not exist. Could not, I told myself then and there. “Where did you come from?” I remember asking. “I’ve always been here,” Diana replied.

And I could feel her presence grow around me even at times when I could not see her fully formed. I knew, however, that she was there; she had always been there, waiting for me to come into her hotel room, to remove my boots, my sweater, my pants, and climb into the queen sized bed alone. “I’ve always been waiting for you.” And it was then I believed her. It was then I believed we belonged together. When I arrived the night before Diana’s appearance in my hotel room, I had driven through a slight snow storm up from Manchester to Whitefield, New Hampshire. The roads were salted and the flurries flew into my windshield like romantic sprites flinging themselves into headlights. Empty roads curved up and around dark corners as the radio played a French song out of Quebec. I made it safely to the hotel around two in the morning. A fire burned low in the lobby. A bell-boy carried my luggage in from the cold, which seemed odd but not out of place. Rosemarie had been the one to greet me at the counter of the hotel in those predawn hours on the second day of the year. I have always found people who work night shifts to be more receptive, more appreciative of conversations. No words, however, warned me of night visitors or anxious brunettes who enjoyed roaming the halls or hopping into bed with married men in their thirties. But I dare say, would I have

heeded the warning? I scratched my shaggy brown head, rubbed the irritating hairs on my bearded chin, and tried to shrug off the jet lag of having traveled across three continents to get to the hotel for my book signing event. In a day or so, I was to speak to a group of students and professors who were enrolled in an MFA program. The worn faces often attempted to make meaning of my arrival, just as I had tried to do with Diana’s arrival in my bed the next night. It is somewhat of a shock at first, but gradually the tension from the unexpected arrival fades and a common bond is established, a recognition gratifying the senses that you are awake and I am awake at these lone ours of a cold winter’s night. But she did not feel like any woman of this time. Marc showed me to my room on the second floor and dropped off my suitcase. After washing my face, shedding my clothes, I tumbled into bed, exhausted, lights off, and immediately felt the presence of a woman in the corner by the two doors, one to the closet and the other to the hallway. My mind faded, broken by the thirty plus hours of travel required of me. If I were to make money from writing, if I were to sell my books, I needed to be in three places at once. Or that was the way it was beginning to feel after two months on the road, having hit up four continents and twenty-seven cities. My agent, Helen, a september 2013• bohemia • 31


sweetheart with too much energy at times, had scheduled this tour and it would be another eighteen months before another one. I was glad it was almost over. But it would all end sooner than either myself or Helen had expected. But later I came to realize I was glad it ended when it did and how it did. After my little speech and the book signing, I was in the Tavern, a bar located beside the lobby of the resort. Troy, the bartender and former gymnast with sandy blonde hair, poured me a large glass of Tuckerman Pale Ale. I expected at any moment that I would see some strange woman appear around the corner and plop her thin frame beside me on a vacant stool and the grand joke would be over. By then 32 • bohemia • september 2013

I was familiar with these little greetings, often taking place in airport bars and restaurants in Narita or the like. After a few more large glasses, I resigned myself to the fact that she would not be joining me in the bar. There Diana waited for me. Her elbow propped on the lush pillows. She beneath the covers. “I’ve been waiting,” she said. “Are you ready?” “As ready as I’ll ever be.” And when I finally slid into bed with her, I felt the hotel shake and the night turn into day and day into night again. We made love and ignored the events that changed my life forever. Or rather, she straightened out my life for all the better. The next morning Diana was still there

and she hopped onto her feet and starting bouncing. “What shall we do today?” she said. “Shall we try the lake?” And outside the window it was indeed summer. I’m still not sure how but there it was sure enough. I turned to her and wanted to know how. And where or when? “You have much to learn,” she said to me. “Love can do amazing things if you only believe.” And ever since, we have been traveling through time without a care, making love in all the right places. And I have never stopped wanting to follow her. She saved me.


A Horse-Thief in Detroit by Ty Hall

R

ick felt out-of-place, like a horse-thief in Detroit. Like he was born a century too late. Acrobatically anachronistic, he swung and looped into whatever time frame suited his mind, fluctuating from architect to astronaut on a whim. So he went to the saloon. He liked this bar. It was one of the oldest in the area and still had its original wood panels, hung upon which were tin signs and confessions of love (or obscenities) scrawled out in permanent marker. The bartender was new and didn’t recognize him. The bar is called The Railyard. It was built on top of grown-over train tracks. “May I see your ID?” the bartender asked. “Sure,” he replied, a little surprised as he fumbled in his back pocket for his wal-

let. He handed her the card. “Ah!” she exclaimed after looking it over. “You have the same birthday as me, only mine is eight years earlier.” She pouted in jest. “Neat.” He ordered a drink. As he was pulling out a couple dollar bills, the bartender said “No. Put that away. First drink’s on me, in case I don’t see you again on our birthday.” He put the money in the tip jar and toted his drink away from the pool tables, dart boards, and arcade games to the dark nook of the bar where nobody ever sits. Someone was sitting in there. Rick nodded politely, though mildly perturbed, at the figure. “Howdy,” waived the stranger. “I’m Bruce.” Bruce stood up and hovered across from Rick with his hands supporting him

on the table. Rick introduced himself and allowed Bruce--as if he had a choice--to slide into the booth next to him. His overall appearance and devil-may-care demeanor allowed for instant camaraderie. But Rick was suspicious. “So Rick, what do you do?” “Oh, a little of this and that.” Rick was a well-read, blue-collar tinkerer, finding work where he could. “Me too,” said Bruce. “I’m a time traveler.” Rick laughed politely. Bruce appeared neither drunk nor crazy, and not very much like a compulsive liar—though perhaps a confident man—so Rick thought he must be joking. “No really, what do you do?” “I told you.” “C’mon now. You’re messing with me.” september 2013• bohemia • 33


Rick sipped his drink. “No I’m not.” “But that’s impossible.” “No it isn’t. In a sense, we’re doing it right now,” Bruce said, playfully earnest. “How so? Wait, don’t say because we’re both moving forward in time.” Rick was on guard, almost certain now that Bruce might be a con-man. “No. For example, look right here.” Bruce pointed strait up to the wall without turning his head to look where he was pointing. Directly above his finger, in blue crayon, was written “Rob & Karene” encircled in a heart, dated 12/11/05. “I don’t see anything,” Rick said. “That’s because you’re not looking. Look. Look where my finger is pointing!” Rick squinted his eyes to look harder. “Rob and Karene? Is that what you’re talking about? I don’t understand.” “Rob, probably Rob, wrote that several years ago. Isn’t that cool? We’re sitting where Rob and Karene, probably Karene, sat seven years ago. Maybe even right on their laps. Haha!” Bruce paused to reset. “Do you read? You look like you read. What do you read? You look like a Hemingway man. Have you read ‘The Sun Also Rises?’ I bet you have! Hemingway wrote that in 1925. You read it in, I’m guessing, the 21st century. Hemingway communicated with you across almost one-hundred years!” Rick played with the rings left on the table from his condensating glass. He picked it up and put it back down five times to make a watery Olympics logo. “Who wins this match today?” Rick asked, pointing to the soccer game transmitted by waves to the television screen perched precariously on flimsy girders in the corner like a hornets’ nest. “If you travel back and forth through time, you know who won.” “No I don’t,” Bruce replied. “How come?” “I don’t really follow sports.” “That’s an easy out.” “Perhaps. Who directly preceded Grover Cleveland as United States President?” 34 • bohemia • september 2013

Rick was embarrassed to admit he didn’t know. “Is this some sort of parlor trick?” “Not at all.” “So, you just go around sitting in places where people used to sit and you call yourself a time traveler?” “No. Sometimes I sit by myself.” Bruce laughed again. “I get tired all by myself sometimes.” “Because you go back and forth through time.” “Yes.” “So if you can go back in time, why don’t you go back to 1939 and kill Hitler?” “Why does everyone ask that?” Bruce rubbed the crown of his nose. “Always with Hitler. Do you remember learning about the assassination of Hitler?” “No, of course not.” “Exactly. That’s why. It was Chester A. Arthur, by the way. But cheer up, I’ll buy you a drink.” Bruce flagged down a waitress and ordered. “How did you know what I was drinking?” Rick asked, trying to catch Bruce off-guard if this was another trick. “You can tell by the color,” Bruce said, tapping the glass with a pen. Rick had no idea where the pen came from. “And I heard you order when you walked in.” Bruce winked. Rick grimaced. “Thanks,” Rick said when Bruce bought his fourth. “Don’t thank me, I merely bought you for another half-hour or so. It’s hard to find good conversation.” “Happy to oblige,” Rick said as he raised his glass. “So tell me, really, how do you travel through time?” He was actually starting to believe him now, and couldn’t believe it himself. “It’s easy. Time travel happens all the time. It’s happening now.” “Okay, but really.” “It’s easiest to think of it like a parade.” “How’s that?” “Think of it like a train. If you’re standing right by the tracks you can see each box-car immediately in front of you, and if you’re lucky, the one to your left and right. But it’s moving so it’s hard to dis-

tinguish any detail. Now step back a-hundred meters. You can see more of the big picture, and fairly predict what will come next based on what you’ve observed. You can read all the cool graffiti and company logos, but you won’t get anywhere standing so far away. But now imagine you’re standing on a scaffold directly above the train. You can see all the way from the engine to the caboose. And if you time it just right, you can jump. Or fall, into the exact box-car—or for the purposes of this metaphor, ‘moment’—in time. Then just keep riding it ‘til you jump off whenever you choose. See?” Bruce had worked himself into an excited frenzy. “What, you just fall?” “Or jump.” “Just like that?” “Just like that.” “Wait, couldn’t you die?” “Maybe. I haven’t yet. And it’s not a perfect metaphor. My point is vantage” “Huh. Wouldn’t you just go faster forward in time?” “Not necessarily. Some trains go north, others go south.” Neither spoke again until Rick realized his bladder was full and subsequently excused himself politely. ‘Talk about falling,’ Rick said to himself, lowering his zipper, sauntering up to the urinal. ‘Fell off his rocker more like it. I’m funny!’ As Rick recreated a porcelain Mollisfossen, ceiling particles began to shake loose and cascaded like snow onto Norwegian slopes. The illusion was derailed when Rick turned abruptly to address the issue of the shrill C-sharp rattling his brain, like a poltergeist wailing for something lost. The thunder rolled, Doppler-effecting away. Rick, dizzy from the ordeal, tripped and fell on the rails that bifurcated the bathroom from the main bar. Everyone was going about their business as if the earthquake had never happened. As if they hadn’t noticed. Rick returned to his corner booth in the dark. Bruce was gone; jumped the train.


Little Snowy Mountains by Arthur Doweyko

Little Snowy Mountains, Montana Summer 2013

D

r. Armstrong Pearl reached beneath the fossilized remains of the sauropod’s tenth cervical vertebra, and ran his fingers over the smooth surface of what felt like a cranium. Beads of sweat coalesced into streams that ran along his temples, seeped into the gullies and rills of his weathered neck, and emptied into the growing lake of a stain on his tan khaki shirt front. Each summer, he joined a group of intrepid souls interested in paleontology and willing to donate time and energy to one of the Little Snowy Mountain Institute’s digs. The sixty-five million year old sauropod fossil was this year’s focus—which put it about fifty-five million years ahead of the first hominids. What exactly were his fingers caressing? “Whatcha got there, Armstrong?” He brushed a handful of dirt back onto the skull. “Aw, nothing. Just trying to get under this vertebra, Johansen.” “Careful you don’t get stuck and make us dig you out.” Johansen chuckled at his remark. “We’re closin’ shop in a few minutes, so wrap things up.” Armstrong watched the man wander off. Long shadows caressed the exposed vertebrae. He reached down and slipped his finger below the nasal bone. With one eye he saw other team members rising to join Johansen. The skull could be the find of the century. He clawed away some more loose dirt, wincing as his hand caught between rock and bone. His forefinger ran along the smooth edges of an alveolar margin and descended to the upper teeth. The group following Johansen was nearly out of sight. His fingertip curled around a tooth, and tugged it loose. As he rose, he tossed a scoop of dirt over the skull. When he held up the specimen for a closer look, he squeezed his eyes shut, took in a deep breath, and looked again. It was a human canine, and it sported a ceramic crown.

Dr. Pearl, aren’t you off this week?”

“Hi, Sasha. Just a few things to straighten out before I head back out to the dig. How’s business?” “The crew has things under control. By the way, happy birthday.” Sixty years was nothing to be happy about. “Right. See you in a few days.” Armstrong founded the Pearl’s dental clinic in Billings. In just a few years, it grew to a staff of a half-dozen associates. In the outside hallway, he held up an x-ray slide to a ceiling fixture. The blood drained from his face. “Everything okay?” Armstrong threw a curt nod to one of his dental associates, Nolan, who had just walked into the building. It wasn’t until he angled into his Hummer that he was able to draw enough courage to inspect the slide again. The ceramic canine cap wasn’t unique, but the same could not be said of the root canal, which contained two lengths of fine wire. Armstrong’s tongue wandered over the inner surface of his uppers. He knew of only one case where a fine wire probe was broken twice—and that was his own right canine. A shrill beep jolted the slide out of his hand. “Hey, Armie. We’ve got some good news.” Professor Theodore Helmsley leaned out of the open window of his van. Armstrong rolled down his window. “Theo, you surprised me. What brings you out here?” He hated Helmsley. The man was carrying on an affair with his slut of a wife, Dorothy—something he knew about for years. “You okay, Armie? You look a little pale.” Armstrong took in a deep inhale and wiped his hands on his thighs. “I’m fine.” He glanced past Theo’s shoulder and saw someone exit the van. “Hey, you remember what we talked about a few years back?” Armstrong’s mind raced. Theo was into physics. They had met socially several times. The bore loved talking about himself and his research—something about time.

The passenger side door opened and a man wearing a ski mask entered the Hummer. “What’s this? What’s going on, Theodore?” “Well, Armstrong. I finished the temporal conduit. It’s done. Ready to go. Trouble is, no one wants to try it. So, I thought of you.” The new passenger brought a gun to Armstrong’s head. “Armie. Relax. Just follow me. We’re going to my lab at the university, where you can see the machine for yourself.” A time machine. The tooth—my tooth? From my skull? Armstrong’s thoughts splintered into snatches. Images jostled for attention, casting his focus into a kaleidoscopic chaos. “Hey chief, snap out of it.” The words forced their way through, shouldering past a gleaming, twirling capped canine— distant and incomprehensible. Nothing was making sense.

H

e must have passed out, for when he opened his eyes, he was seated in an armchair. His eyes followed a vivid array of rainbow lights chasing each other over a gleaming metallic panel. “Hey, Armie. Are you with us?” He was inside a capsule of some kind. Theodore cast a sardonic grin at him through one of two glass panels. “Ready to go? Seriously, we’re pretty sure it should work fine. We know how much you like dinosaurs, so I’ve set it to go back about sixty-five million years—you know, just around the extinction event.” “We?” Dorothy stepped out from behind Theodore. She raised a champagne glass and said, “You’ll have a front row seat, darling.” Armstrong jumped, or tried to. He was strapped in the chair. “Relax, old man. See you in a few million.” Theodore and Dorothy toasted each other and laughed. Armstrong strained at the woven harness. “Please, you can’t do this.” september 2013• bohemia • 35


Panel lights glowed brighter, and a pulsating hum filled the capsule. He strained even harder, when a belt snapped and the capsule fell to the side, flinging open the entry door. He threw off the belts and climbed out into the darkened laboratory. Theodore and Dorothy stepped back, still holding their drinks, and laughed even harder. Armstrong directed his hand along the top of a nearby counter. His fingers curled around a pipe wrench. Without warning, he swung it in a massive arc, which ended with a dull, but satisfying thud. Theodore flew backward through a cloud of blood. 36 • bohemia • september 2013

Dorothy’s open mouth twisted as she screamed. “You fool! It was a freaking joke. A joke, you freaking fool!” “I may be a lot of things, my darling, but I’m no fool.” He swung again. And again. Dorothy lay unmoving next to Theodore, whose extremities yet twitched in autonomic agony. The time machine was reduced to splintered wooden slats and torn paper mache. A plaster cast of a set of teeth smiled up at him from a counter—they were missing a right canine. Nice joke, but who’s laughing now? He nodded to himself and grinned.

Singing—he heard singing. The laboratory doors burst open and the lights came on. Nolan and Johansen led a group of people in song—a birthday song. Armstrong turned in time to see the cake they were carrying fall to the floor. His grin was gone. He dropped the wrench, and fell to his knees and sobbed—a very convincing sob, he thought.


The Day-To-Day Reality

A

by Kay Wilson

nd so it begins. I thought we had ten more years. I never dreamed this thing would come to us so soon. Maybe we caught it early and the thing will disappear as rapidly as it appeared. The thing is this thing: this thing that will hang over our heads now, that will make us be pitied and pity ourselves, like being suddenly rich, we won’t know if they love us for ourselves or this sickness that came to us. But mostly I think people will disappear like it is contagious, spread by being in the same room with the carrier: first his patients, then our friends – who can stand up to the all-consuming, harsh, day-to-day reality of disease unless they’re forced; by marriage, by familial ties, by love. And I will doubt myself and give him reason to doubt me, good reason, because I don’t know what to do with sick people. I was unbelievably cruel and refused to understand and sympathize when we were first married and he had migraines that debilitated him for days. I will blame him for his sickness, curse his father who died from this before him and rail against the injustice of it. Right now we’re in a honeymoon of making reasons to laugh and to remember good stuff, the drives we used to take, the spontaneous trips to nowhere in particular, exchanging sweet glances and reaching

out one more time before we fall asleep and run our hands over hips and arms and patting each other on the butt; reassuring each other that things are normal. And I’m being sweet in the face of our fear and it can’t last; I’ll become impatient and pissed off, both at him and this thing. This thing that will live with us now – we’ll make a special bed for it in the living room. And we’ll both go to sleep wondering, wondering is it here to stay or can we make it go away; are there incantations, rituals. Do we tell our friends, our families? When do we let ourselves become the public face of this sadness and despair sparring behind masks of okay and fine, we’re doing well, yes, amazingly well, thank you. No, don’t bother, we can manage just fine, thanks. I’m premature, I’m manufacturing tragedy where none yet exists – no tests back yet, no official confirmation that we’ve got a new life but we know, I think we both know; we were expecting it to show up on our doorstep at some point but later, so much, much later. So we pretend for a week, two weeks until we get a phone call from the doctor saying you should come in, Mr. Jones, and your wife should probably come too. I go to breakfast with the girls and he to supper after disc golf with the guys on Wednes-

days and maybe tries to play a few rounds on Sundays and we both go to work – and pretend. But it’s a burden that we have to share or isolate ourselves so no one can see; see the transformation from life to daily drama, so we don’t have to keep hiding it. At home, we can let it out of the cage and look at it and quietly refer to it as if it could hear us talking about it. We can begin to speak this new language, practice it, tentatively at first. Does it hurt where the doctor cut it out? Well she had to cut deep to make sure. Yes it didn’t look that bad,. Chemo? We’ll take it a step at a time. I would have seen it sooner if it was bad, wouldn’t I? I keep a watch on your body, you know; subtly, at night, maybe you’re sleeping, maybe on the crest of a snore I have run my hands over all the open spaces to feel for things that weren’t there last week, last month. Sweetly loving to you but reassuring me that nothing is there that doesn’t belong, that will catapult us into a new realm of living. As we fall asleep on day one he says softly to me “Don’t look at me anymore, don’t search my body. Just don’t.”

september 2013• bohemia • 37


Streams

by Jamie Mason ... another thing that makes me different from you. I can run but I can’t hide. I thought jumping into the future would put me beyond your reach. It hasn’t. So I’ve fled into the past. But time is on your side. And it’s not like you to give up. Not when you’re this close.

I

stand on a dirt road designed for horseand-buggy traffic. I stick out my thumb and wonder if the gesture will be recognized, whether humans pick up hitchhikers in this When. Probably. The human tendency to help each other is an enduring trait – one you always considered weak. You say it places them at our “mercy” - a concept foreign to us for although we appear human, we are not. A horse-drawn cart rumbles to a stop. At the driver’s gesture I climb up and sit beside him. He wears the black hat and beard I associate with married landholders in this When. I am surprised when he speaks casually, for his appearance suggests otherwise. “Yer pa know where ye are?” Of course not. But I am too moved by the man’s simple kindness to lie outright. I say: “My father and I broke.” He nods but says nothing. We ride, both understanding the hardships between fathers and sons. I disembark at a cross-roads and walk until finding train tracks. At some 38 • bohemia • september 2013

indistinct moment, I transitioned into the steam age. I am familiar with the technology; your early investment in railroads assured your place at apex of human wealth. A train approaches and slows to round a bend. I reach. A hand stretches from the darkness of an open boxcar, pulls me onboard. “Been home long?” A man wearing a cloth cap peers with hungry eyes. “You did serve? You look old enough.” Something in this suggests I better have a damn good excuse if not. “Nineteen.” I convert my age to a figure comprehensible to him. “And no, I was too sickly. Was it bad?” “It was.” Humans live short lives and die – sometimes in wars a fraction as devastating as the one that drove our species here eight thousand years ago. You learned nothing from that war. Or perhaps everything. “Best jump soon or the rail-yard bulls’ll getchya.” He drags a duffle to his shoulder. I am struck once again by the human tendency toward mutual concern. “Since I got back seems there’s always someone tellin’ me what I can and cannot do.” We jump. I land in the gravel beside a highway. The automobiles thundering past are rounded, broad-ribbed. The one that stops

for me is a cloth-topped convertible. “Goin’ far?” The driver - a boy - mutes the radio and squints from beneath a mop of slicked-back hair. “Up the road. Drop me wherever’s easiest.” “Easy’s good. We’re heading to the rock’n roll show. You like Elvis?” The boy guides us back into the traffic flow, glancing at the girl in sunglasses beside him who smokes distractedly. “Her mom’d be upset if she knew.” “My dad would be upset if he knew where I was, too. He’s looking for me.” “Not police or anything, is he?” “He has a long reach,” I admit. How to explain what you have become? Our kind move through time as easily as dolphins through water. You simply mastered the currents.

T

he highways expand, sprouting arteries and throughways. “That overpass? Drop me there.” I step out. A film of rust has eaten into the convertible’s trim and the boy is now a middle-aged man blinking beneath grey bangs. “Take care son,” he croaks. His wife still smokes behind sunglasses. They pull away. I hike to an off-ramp, refusing to believe that simple but heartfelt gestures of concern such as theirs are an evolutionary hiccup.


I recognize this When. Computers are everywhere. A person’s image captured on a surveillance camera is instantly available to government, military and law enforcement worldwide, all of it controlled by you. A vehicle approaches – a squat lumbering Gila monster of a machine. The men atop it cradle assault rifles and peer out from beneath an admixture of helmets. One clanks the carrier’s roof with his rifle butt. The vehicle slows. “If you’re not militia, son, you’d best get with one.” The sergeant sounds concerned. “Word is the Law Man is searching for his son and there’s hell to pay.” “I know it.” The men make room for me. They are silent as the APC rumbles the broken highway past still cars and fire-blackened buildings. “And they shall scatter from him as from the Plague.” The boy next to me shakes his head. “You know the Book of Ashes?” “No.” “The writings of the Law Man. We read them in my Church. Back Manitoba way. They –” We pass a trio of crucified priests. Around one’s neck, a sign: HERETIC. I am silent for a time. “The Law Man’s a bastard.” “Y’kin say that again,” grumbles a soldier beside me. He spits.

G

unfire. With a rattle, the men ready their weapons. The sergeant speaks. “Checkpoint ahead son. Grab a rifle or jump off.” I jump. Silver hover-cars sleek the air above the ruined city. I flag one down. The driver who unbuttons the hatch wears the same pajama-like garment as all citizens in this When and s/he has a bar-code tattooed on the left side of the scalp. I notice a flicker when s/he glances at me – facial recognition triggered by the corneal implant that enables law enforcement to see everything citizens do. At last the human impulse to curiosity, to mutual concern, has been subverted to your advantage. I know I am taken. They conduct me to the great stone chamber where, after 500 years as Law Giver, you now rule as God-King. You have banished the memory of even their most powerful god – the one who appeared as a burning bush. You dismiss the soldiers who drag me before your platinum throne, eyes averted as though fearing immolation. Why (you ask) do I run from my destiny? “I’m not running from my destiny. Only your controlling it.” Is it not a parent’s job to guide? “Is that what you call crushing an entire planet? Guidance?”

These beings are nothing. Time-bound insects. “The wisest among them have made peace with time. You’d wreck the framework of their existence and leave them with nothing.” The strong survive. “But the strong must be good.” Human ethics. Is it not the place of the strong to ..? “Guide? Is that what you were going to say?” (For a moment you are flummoxed.) “Parents strong, children weak? Enslave the lesser and call it salvation?” You’re naïve. “Enslave a life? A world?” I smile. “Or am I an insect too?” No son of mine ... “You’re right! I am no son of yours! I’d rather be a vagabond! I’ll run again, first chance I get. Run through all eternity and never stop! Better to run than await my turn on your bloody throne! Any kingdom built on brutality is ash! Call me naïve but I believe the future belongs to all people, not just one. That belief is ... THE END (?)

september 2013• bohemia • 39


Vintage Watch by The Word Rummager

H

e was feeling on top of the world. That always sounded like such a stupid phrase before today. Especially since he usually felt he looked at the world through a skewed scope from the ground up. But now he found himself looking at the tops of skyscrapers and ruminating about the shapes of clouds. Things are definitely looking up, he thought to himself. As he walked, he found he needed some air and some elbow room so he turned off the crowded sidewalk and onto a quieter alley with faded signs and some old cars parked on one side. He looked at the dingy shop windows as he walked. Old books. A record store. A coffee shop. Old suitcases and things. A tailor. Wait. Back up. What was that next to the old suitcase? He stopped and looked in the window. A watch. Why did it look so familiar? He found himself walking into the shop as if his feet were moving of their own volition. The cozy smell of musty old attic permeated his nostrils. Specks of dust floated in the air like snowflakes. He gave a cursory look to the baubles and umbrellas and books and hats and shoes and pipes and photographs and pennants and scarves and glasses and watches and… there it was. The watch in the window. He looked around for someone to wait on him. He heard some rustling near the rear of the store so he just waited and looked at the watch. It wasn’t moving but somehow he knew how the ticking would sound. He didn’t touch it but somehow he knew the 40 • bohemia • september 2013

weight of it on his wrist. He could almost recall how the small scratch on the left side of the face had gotten there. Suddenly the shopkeeper spoke to him, asking if he’d like to try it on. He nodded. The clerk took the watch from the display, held it for a moment, and then handed it over. The man put it on his wrist, fastening the band. The clerk said something about how it looked good on him or he wore it well or something like that. He wasn’t really listening. He was hearing… music? Had Big Band been playing on the radio when he walked in? He thanked the old shopkeeper and walked out of the shop. It took maybe 35 seconds (the watch had just needed a good winding) for the man to realize something had shifted. Something was different. When he stopped admiring his wrist accoutrement, he looked up. Holy shit! Was he dreaming? Hallucinating? It was as if he was looking at an old issue of LIFE magazine. Everything looked clean, new. The buildings looked washed. Men wore hats and ties. Women had tailored dresses and heels. The cars looked vintage… 1940-something. Was he on a movie set? He looked around for a camera crew, ready to apologize for walking in a shot, possibly ruining a take, but he saw no cameras. Instead he saw people walking briskly by him, some tipping their hats, some smiling a quick smile. He walked a few paces then turned around. The shop was still there. The shopkeeper was looking at him through the window. Then he was gone. Wait. There he was at the door. The

man went to him and raised his eyebrows as if to say, what the hell? Do you see this too? The man spoke. “Try it on for three days. That’s our policy. You’ve got three days to find if it’s a good fit or all can be returned.” The man looked again at his wrist. He knew the clerk wasn’t just talking about the watch. He also knew somehow that he was home. Modern living had never appealed to him. He didn’t like the disheveled state of the world he had left behind. He knew there was still hope in this decade. People hadn’t lost hope yet. He at least could hope here. He nodded again, not finding a voice to ask the myriad questions cropping up in his head. He continued walking, marveling at how familiar the scene looked to him. He knew the shops and could recall most of the owners’ names. He neared the crossroads, not sure what the busy city street he had originally turned off would look like now. It was still busy. But slower. People didn’t seem to be in such a hurry. And it was quieter. The whole atmosphere was more polite. He went directly to the coffee shop he knew from the next block and sat at the counter. Ordered coffee. When the waitress asked if he wanted pie, he declined. But she added that it was his favorite, apple pie. When he looked into her eyes, he saw a familiar gleam and said yes to the pie.


september 2013• bohemia • 41


Sundae, Photography by Pat Jones and Genna Ware Hair & Makeup by Missy Von Parlo

Featuring (from left) Susan Duty, Jasmine Ware, and Savannah Loftin 42 • bohemia • september 2013


Sundae

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Sundae


drive

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september 2013• bohemia • 47


“Joust”

Young Detroit Artist Survives Health Scare and Finds Success “Something extraordinary is happening at The White Buffalo.  Sixteen paintings by Nick Hottmann have sold in a week’s time. This is phenomenal in any art community!” - Bird Thomas, Education Director at The Center for Contemporary Arts, Abilene TX

N

ick Hottmann wanted to be an artist. That was not anything new to anyone who knew him from the time he was 5 until now at age 31. So after high school, Nick earned a scholarship to attend The College for Creative Studies, but he dropped out shortly after enrolling. “I wanted something different. I wanted to create without restrictions. So I left CCS, went to Oakland University to earn a degree in Fine Arts.” The failing economy and the growing desperation in his beloved hometown of Detroit brought him to the stark reality that he would have to move in order to provide for his family.

Nick Hottmann

48 • bohemia • september 2013

In 2011 his search secured him an engineering position at a local company in Abilene, Tx, only to have his department downsized 3 months later. Looking for new work in a new city, Nick and his pregnant wife found themselves in a precarious situation. Desperate to provide for his wife, son, and newborn baby boy, Nick took a management position at a local Burger King.  In March of 2013, at 31 years old, Nick suffered a rare stroke that left him paralyzed on his right side. Unable to fulfill his duties, he was unable to work and had to find a new way to create income.


Like many in Nick’s situation he had to begin selling off his assets, with a depleted savings, his only assets left were his paintings. He loaded his paintings into his truck and brought them to The White Buffalo Art Gallery. “I immediately fell in love with how charming his illustrations are,” said Brock Cravy, owner of The White Buffalo Art Gallery. Nick’s paintings are described as illustrative pop art that features a recurring character, a young boy named Edwin. The character is named after his late grandfather. Nick’s art is smart, quirky, funny, and whimsical -- such as his constant use of skulls, stars, and rainbows. His art reflects his vibrant personality. Pop art and old-school cartoons (Calvin and Hobbes and Peanuts are his favorite) inform his bright, bold aesthetic. He works mainly with acrylic paint on sanded wood and canvases. Stickers, magnets, and a new line of T-shirts — his dream project — are coming. “One of my main goals has always been to make my art available in several different mediums.” Nick’s reputation is beginning to ripple beyond Michigan and Texas: as his work has been sold nationwide including orders from New York, Florida and Oregon. Nick’s no stranger to gallery shows, but he thinks he’s under the radar here — at least that’s what he says. But with a new show in October at The White Buffalo Gallery in Abilene, TX, and a name swirling around in the underground, it’s hard to believe he’s that out of the loop — even if he does live in a small town.

Nick Hottmann & fans

Nick Hottmann has since recovered from the paralysis and is creating new work. He is also now the Artist In Residence and Curator at The White Buffalo Art Gallery and has moved his studio to The White Buffalo Gallery and is now teaching art classes. While his artwork is going well, he is “still a working man,” he says, smiling with wink. “But I have a great job, and some amazing bosses who really support me and my passions. I make enough to take care of my family and supplies, which is pretty much all I need.”

“Everyone has fallen in love with his work! We sold 29 of his paintings in his first six weeks here at the gallery, nine of them sold in one evening. We can’t keep them on the wall.”, said Mr. Cravy. “I’ve pretty much been holedup in the studio working on 20 new paintings over the past few months in order to get some new work out and fill my commission requests,” says Nick september 2013• bohemia • 49


Nick has been shown at: Nick has been shown at: Oakland University Gallery Oakland University (Flair Gallery Show) Gallery Gallery Show) - (Flair Rochester Hills, MI - Rochester Hills, MI Bohemian House Bohemian (Solo Show)House Show) - (Solo Detroit, MI - Detroit, MI Oakland County Galleria OaklandCollection) County Galleria (Eclectic - (Eclectic Pontiac, Collection) MI - Pontiac, MI Art and Culinary Soiree and Culinary Soiree – Art Shelby Township, MI – Shelby Township, MI Little Monsters (Solo Show) – Little Lake Monsters Orion, MI(Solo Show) – Lake Orion, MI The White Buffalo Gallery The White Buffalo GalleryArtist) (Featured Artist, Resident Artist, Resident Artist) – (Featured Abilene, TX – Abiline, TX

“3D”

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Museum of Modern Art Museum ofShow) Modern Art (Facebook – (Facebook Detroit, MIShow) – Detroit, MI


“Jess”

Art Work Description

A doodler, reader of comics, watcher of cartoons, and graphic designer, I’ve come to understand that my work is charming and whimsical. Even my darker, serious work depicts this adorable loving side of death and scary cuteness. In high school, I realized I saw the world a little differently than most people, while some people were focused on being a doctor, lawyer, or teacher-- I was drawing comics and painting murals in the high school.

My work is based on events or moments that stand out in my life. I’m married, living in Texas with two boys (4 and 2), and have a small dog named Brody Scott, so I clearly have a lot of material to base my work on. I have always tried to design work that people at any age can appreciate and enjoy (something my Grandma or 2 year old would enjoy). Simple messages, with subtle undertones help create the foundation for most of my work (maybe because my mind thinks simply with sub-

tle undertones). But I try not to limit my work to an exact interpretation because I like to hear what people think my art means. At the end of the day, that’s what art is all about-- what people think, how they feel, how they react to the painting.

Contact Info: Nick Hottmann Abilene, TX 248-408-8215 nhottmann@gmail.com Facebook: Nick Hottmann Art

september 2013• bohemia • 51 “Cyclops”


“Scarf”

“Trekkie”

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“Tree of Life”

“Suit”

“Thief”

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Photography by Pat Jones

Femme Fatale Roller Dolls by Peter Able They say in ancient times, man, that women ruled the world. But the goddess was the one who laid it down. Well, I gots a woman as alive as the day Gonna breathe a whisper, knock you right down to the ground. Lyrics from “Sofia” – Live, Songs from Black Mountain “I love the big hits I can make to get my jammer through the pack,” says Celestina Perez, aka EduHater, president of the Femme Fatale Roller Dolls – the first and for now, only team in the newly formed United Rollers Femme Fatale roller derby league. Not exactly the kind of statement you might expect in a predominantly female sport. But then these aren’t exactly the kind of women who go out of their way to try and meet your expectations. More likely, they will take those Neanderthal thoughts and hip-check them into a padded wall. New to the game? No worries. So are many of the girls who tried out and made the team. Here’s the newbie explanation: Two teams with five players skate around a circuit track. One player is a jammer, with four blockers whose only mission in life is to see that their jammer passes more of the other team’s members than the other team’s jammer, because that’s how you score points. There are all kinds of strategies to help your jammer or hinder your opponent – the wall, the whip, passing the star – but ultimately what you need most is nerves of steel, some decent body armor, and preferably a week’s worth of pent up aggression. 54 • bohemia • september 2013

Daughter screamed at you on the way to school? Bottle it up. Boss dismissed your idea, again? Bottle it up. Stranger cut you off in traffic? Bottle it up. Then unleash it on the unsuspecting jammer trying to sneak up on the weak side of your diamond wall. Unofficially, roller derby got its start in the 1930’s thanks to Leo Seltzer, who came up with the bright idea to have roller skating marathons, endurance races with two person teams. The sport caught on, and sportswriter Damon Runyon thought up a new angle and suggested it to Seltzer. Increase skater contact. By 1939, the basic rules as we know them today came into being, and in 1948, Roller Derby debuted for the first time on New York television. This increased turnout for live matches, and soon the National Roller Derby League formed with six teams. The playoffs sold out Madison Square Garden for a week. Eventually the sport’s popularity waned until it essentially disappeared. The modern revival of roller derby began in Central Texas in the early 2000’s. By 2006 there were over 135 leagues, almost all female. Today, at least 1,200 leagues exist, and the competition is world-wide.


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You can find her in the gym most every single night Working on her glutes, looking for a fight. When she is finished you’ll find her at the bar Smoking cigarettes, drinking whiskey from a jar And she sits all by herself, wishing she was somebody else In her Harley jacket and her dirty jeans, she’s my roller derby queen! Lyrics from “Roller Derby Queen” – Ronnie Fauss Mention roller derby to any passing stranger and the mental image that forms might closely resemble the lyrics above. Closer to the mark, perhaps, is a woman who might be like any number of other women on the street – a mother, co-worker, intellectual and confident, with insecurities not vastly different from anyone else’s. They just found kindred spirits within a sport they love. “The ladies that comprise our team are very close-knit, we are like sisters. We look out for each other, help each other, and we understand each other.” Celestina and the Femme Fatale Roller Dolls are always looking for new players and especially new fans. In a full contact sport where injuries can and do occur, it takes a special person to subject their body to harm, and special fans to cheer them on. Still, every fall, millions of Americans clamor around their TV screens and pile into high school, college, and NFL stadiums to watch a violent sport of a different nature and gender. Roller Derby can of56 • bohemia • september 2013

fer the same kind of thrills, and you don’t have to pay 50, 100, or 500 dollars per ticket to see it up close and personal. Games are held in the Assembly Hall of the Bell County Expo Center in Belton. Next season should have at least seven home bouts, or about 1 or 2 per month. For those thinking of trying out, the team practices every week. There are monthly dues, and as with any sport or hobby there are other costs involved – women would not want to skate without protective gear just as men would not play football without helmets and pads. But to those who love the sport, the cost is secondary to the exhilaration and camaraderie. “I went out to practice and was hooked,” says Missy Von Parlo, aka Mae Needabeer. “I had actually never skated before and it was scary, but with proper training I am out on the track with some amazing athletes.” Many of the team members are mothers of young daughters, and they see their involvement in Derby teaching their chil-

dren to be strong, supportive, vibrant leaders in the community. The Femme Fatale Roller Dolls help raise money for a local charity, Killeen ISD HARP (Homeless Awareness Response Program), that helps identify and help homeless children in the school district. They plan to highlight other charities at each home bout as well. If you do plan to try out, come ready with a pseudonym. Most players have a “derby name”, most of which are creative, satirical word-plays with mock-violent or sexual puns or allusions to pop culture. “Punky Bruiser.” “Princess La-Ya Flat.” “Mazel Tov Cocktail.” There’s even a national registry to make sure your choice isn’t already taken by one of the thousands of other players. A “femme fatale” is a mysterious, seductive woman whose charms ensnare her lovers and lead them into dangerous situations. Let that be a warning. If you plan to show your support next season, come ready for smash-mouth action, and don’t be surprised if their charms take a permanent hold on your heart. For more information by the United Rollers Femme Fatale League, email them at femmefatalerollerdolls@gmail.com, or like their Facebook page – Femme Fatale Rollers – to see their schedule and other news.


Bohemia attended an art and fashion show in Austin, TX last month hosted by RAW. Check out pictures from the event and read more about the organization.

Our mission is to provide independent artists within the first 10 years of their career with the tools, resources and exposure needed to inspire and cultivate creativity.

WHAT IS RAW?

We welcome all genres of art including independent film, fashion, music, visual art, performing art, hairstylists, makeup artists and more.

RAW:natural born artists is an independent arts organization, for artists, by artists. We’re an international community made up of creative individuals across the globe.

We encourage the creative success of the many visionaries and storytellers of our generation.

HOW DOES RAW WORK? Our RAW Directors hand-pick and spotlight local artistic talent in film, fashion, music, visual art, hair & makeup artistry, and performance art. With artists from all genres in each showcase, RAW events come together to form an amazing onenight circus of creativity. These showcases occur once a month in each city location. Our RAW season runs from FebruaryOctober and comes to an extravagant end with our indie arts awards show RAWards in Hollywood What can you expect when attending a RAW Showcase? You’ll experience an independent film (usually a short, webisode or music video), a fashion show from an up-and-coming local designer, a musical performance, an art gallery featuring several independent visual artists and photographers, and performance art (comedy/ dance/fire dancers, you name it...). You’ll get a little taste of everything. Combine all this creativity with drinks, fun, and good company! To partake in the experience, RSVP and purchase a ticket to any of our 60 monthly, city showcases by clicking on the city tab at the top of the homepage!

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RAW currently operates in nearly 60 cities across the United States, Australia, Canada and, now London! ONLINE COMMUNITY www.RAWartists.org is designed to showcase our RAW artists online. RAWartists. org hosts a plethora of online profiles -exclusive to our hand-picked RAW artists. Chief to RAWartists.org is open Editor to the inpublic view, however, the site profiles and perks are reserved for only selected RAW artists. RAW artists can connect with other RAW artists, post videos and music, promote upcoming projects, and track their success. We also host what we call our RAWk Wall, where art gets down to business. This portion of the site consists of exclusive art-tobusiness opportunities for our RAW artists to partake in.

RAWards RAW’s Annual Indie Awards Show At the end of season (October), we host ty (e.g. RAW:Denver, Fashion Designer of our annual RAWards Show. During a two the Year). One winner from every city in month-process, we ask the community, a every category goes on to be judged by the panel of judges and the nation-at-large to RAW panel of industry professionals in Editor field. The scores are based on criteria vote for their top five favorite artists ofFashion the each Assistant Editor year in film, fashion, music, art, photogra- in skill, creativty, wow factor and profesphy, performing art, accessories, hair and sionalism. The winners are announced onmakeup. RAW takes that popular vote and line in December, and honored with their narrows down nominees in each city loca- awards at our annual RAWards Show in tion. We then ask the community to place a Hollywood, CA (mid-January). The winlive vote (complete with a ballot) at a spe- ners receive big career-boosting prizes like cial City Semi-Final nominee showcase in distribution, store placement, studio time, November. One winner from every city, in gallery placement and consultations with every category is chosen by the communi- industry executives and professionals. It’s truly an awesome event with performances and highlights from the RAW season.

Writer

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THE HISTORY In 2003, a small-town girl graduated high school and moved to the big city of Los Angeles, CA. Her only wish was to pursue her life-long dream of becoming a fashion designer. Not wasting any time, she started her own clothing line. She soon realized that she was just one small fish in a very big pond. She sold her pieces at swapmeets on the weekends while going to school full-time, working part-time and interning in the fashion district. After a while she thought ... “there’s got to be a better way to get my work out there.” Surrounded by new friends and talented people in art, music, performance and film that were facing the same plight -- she decided to take matters into her own hands. In 2005, Heidi Luerra threw her first multifaceted showcase in Los Angeles. After much interest from the over 750 attendees that came to the event, she found her calling -- to create a platform for the many people who are talented, yet go unnoticed. In 2009, equipped with a mission of bringing tools and resources to artists who were fighting the good fight on their own, RAW was born. After the first RAW event, a local web developer, Matthew Klahorst approached Heidi about combining these art events with an online showcase for artists. From this collaboration came the next evolution of RAW -- promoting artists both online and offline. In 2011, they decided to take the concept beyond Southern California. RAW now hosts monthly showcases that spotlight indie talent in film, fashion, music, art, hair & makeup artistry, performing art and photography in 54 cities across the U.S and counting. In July 2012, RAW made its first international debut in Australia! RAW launches in Canada (Montréal and Vancouver) in Summer of 2013 and London in the Fall!

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The National Do You Know Me Better Than That? by Caleb Farmer

T

he opening song on The National’s album, Trouble Will Find Me, has a reoccurring line “You should know me better than that”, which sets the tone for an album about strife in relationships. An album about Death or perhaps a passing...Death of? Death of relationship? The loss of control or the desire to keep it any longer? Death of living well? Living at all? Every season passes in this life-- youth, prosperity, health. This is an album that pushes 62 • bohemia • september 2013

the listener to mull over these passings even if it forces lament. Lead singer Matt Berninger’s lyrics on the opening track were written for his brother but can easily be reinterpreted to relate to a relationship that is falling apart. Two people talking past each other with a corroding common ground between them. The whole album feels like a man who is stumbling. Nearly every song sounds like the singer has lost his locus of control, lost a desire to try quite as

hard, and the resulting loss that comes with or has caused this in the relationships that are no longer the stronghold that have always been so dependable. This theme continues with allusions to Tennessee Williams and alcohol in Don’t Swallow the Cap. Lines like “Everything I love is on the table, everything I love is out to sea” comes across as the writer’s alcoholic tendencies putting everything he cares about in jeopardy. “When it gets so late I forget everyone” reinforces this interpretation.


Sea of love feels like a description of a lopsided relationship. With the reoccurring line “If I stay here trouble will find me,” it seems like the narrator is talking about a relationship that was used purely for escapism with no real intentions of sustainability. After some tracks that revolve around the narrator engaging in selfreflection and guilt or possibly frustration, our narrator seems to finally take responsibility for the place he is in. This culminates with the song “I Need My Girl” with the reoccurring line, “I

was a forty-five percenter then”. This is The National’s most lyrically consistent album, following a theme throughout, and not spending as much time in the incredibly abstract as some past efforts have extensively dabbled. The drum work and Berninger’s vocals take the forefront on this album. I also believe any person who struggles with life, a relationship, or another pursuit they wished they had put more effort into will find many moments of solidarity with the narrator throughout this excellent album. september 2013• bohemia • 63


Today’s Tom Sawyer Photography by Cynthia Wheeler

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(From left) Models Jocelyn Fulbright, Ethan Smith, and Brenda Flores

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n the spring of 2007, Valley Mills Winery planted its first two grapevine varietals on a rocky hillside in Valley Mills, Texas. The land, which is embedded with fossils, is harsh but their grapes have flourished there. In late 2010, they opened the Winery and Tasting room (halfway between Valley Mills and Waco). Valley Mills Winery takes great pride in assisting their grapes’ journey from vineyard to winery and into your bottle of wine. They are growing world class grapes and producing great Texas wines.

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A Bowl of Red By Megan Miller

I

t’s cheap and easy. It may help, if not cure, a hangover. It’s Southwestern comfort food, equivalent to meatloaf in other less enlightened parts of the country. But how much, really, do we know about chili? We must firmly establish at the outset that chili is not Mexican. It may not even be Tex-Mex. New Mexico lays claim to it as well (which would make it, what, “New Mex-Mex”?), but for our purposes here we will claim it as a Texas native. We have legal standing, in that the Texas legislature in 1977 designated chili con carne as the official food of Texas. Official Texas State Chili, it should be noted, does not contain beans. More on this later. Chili seems to have been a staple of trail drives. There’s a tale of a trail cook who planted pepper seeds along the way, to ensure fresh supplies when the drive returned north. In the plaza of San Antonio, “Chili Queens” would make fragrant batches over wood fires and serve them throughout the night to soldiers and travelers. Apocryphal stories allege that the James gang spared McAllen because it had a damn good chili parlor. There was chili, and then there was CHILI. It was inevitable that disputes over who made the best “bowl

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o’ red” would arise. Cooks had long made and guarded the ingredients to their special spice blends, but the first major competition is regarded to be at the 1952 State Fair in Dallas. A woman won the chili cookoff that year, something that must have burned in the craw of many men like a chili pepper seed caught behind a molar. It wasn’t until 1967 until chili competitions came into their own, however. At a celebrated cook-off in Terlingua, Texan journalist Wick Fowler went mano a mano against New York (!) humorist H. Allen Smith, resulting improbably in a tie. Smith had the audacity to include beans in his recipe, and possibly helped cement the tradition that true Texas chili is frijole-free. Today, competitions sanctioned by the International Chili Society (ICS) and the Chili Appreciation Society (CASI) mandate that no beans may be used, but it’s not a matter of Texaspride, or even one of taste. Most cook-offs are judged in blind tastings, and the type of bean used is a tell-tale marker that can identify the cook. It’s impossible to say how many cook-offs are now held in the U.S. Most are charity affairs held to raise money for local organizations, with prizes of ribbons, bragging rights, and perhaps a trophy or two. The ICS, which sponsors the annual international event in Palm Springs this year, has raised over $91 million dollars for charity since 1967. The Palm Springs event offers a purse of $25,000.

By now you may be hankering for your own bowl o’ red, and I’m here to oblige. Here is a basic chili recipe. It’s up to you to add the beer, rattlesnake or beans that will make it all your own. And remember, as Pat Garrett allegedly said of Billy the Kid, “anybody that eats chili can’t be all bad”. Your Basic Chili Recipe

2 lbs. ground beef 2 cloves garlic 1 (8 oz.) can tomato sauce + 1 can water 2 Tbsp. chili powder (I use Gebhardt’s) 1 tsp. ground cumin 1 tsp. ground oregano ¼ tsp. cayenne pepper 1 tsp. salt ¼ cup masa harina (corn flour, found usually on the Mexican foods aisle) Accompaniments, such as chopped tomatos, chopped onions, grated cheddar cheese, tortilla chips. May also add beans (1 can red kidney and 1 can pinto) if you’re into that sort of thing. Can also be served over Frito corn chips ™ for Frito Pie. 1. Mince garlic cloves. Place in large saucepan with ground beef and sauté until brown. 2. Drain fat and add tomato sauce, water and next five ingredients. Mix well, bring to boil, then reduce heat and cover. 3. Simmer at least one hour. Stir occasionally and add more water if sauce starts to become dry. 4. In a small bowl, mix masa and a small amount of water to make a watery paste. Add sparingly to chili until the consistency is right. Tweak seasonings to taste. Bon appétit, or as we say in Texas, “Come ‘n git it!”.


The Waco Arts Initiative: Improving Our City One Child at a Time by Gary Lee Webb

W

e need creativity, not conformity. In our increasingly uniform and standardized world, we need to remember that progress towards a better future is not made by complacent masses, but by the mavericks, by the ones who stand out, and by those who do not fit in. In short, innovation comes from the eccentrics, the bohemians, and by the artists. Genius is not normal, and neither are creative people. The last decade has been marked by shrinking budgets and the erosion of those programs that encourage creativity. At the same time, schools are pressured to produce students that can pass tests, not students who can think. Students are told to behave and to conform. We are in danger of losing one of America’s most valuable resources: the next generation of creative children. Children, who never see that the

future can be better, will not strive and achieve that better future. It is the creative children who will become the innovative adults this country needs. But there is hope! For the last six years, the Waco Arts Initiative (WAI) has been working to counter that trend. As schools cut back on their art programs, the WAI has been offering art lessons to students in neighborhoods where the funding for art has dried up. They have also worked with a majority of Waco’s public housing facilities. Moreover, they have been working to initiate an art movement within the Waco community itself, organizing events and partnering with other like-minded groups. The goal is to return Waco to its former status as a cultural hub, known for its creativity. The staff of the Waco Arts Initia-

tive is a score of volunteers drawn from many walks of life with a shared interest in teaching art. With Baylor being such a large part of the Waco experience, many of the volunteers are from that university. McLennan Community College (MCC) students are also well represented among the staff, part of the MCC Outreach project. The staff have not focused just on drawing and painting. They have taught the basics of color and shapes, but they have also taught the history of art, introduced their students to theater and music, and encouraged creativity in diverse artistic media. There is always room for new volunteers, of course. In particular, they are looking for members of the Waco community who share their dream and are willing to lend their artistic skills. This fall, they need both artseptember 2013• bohemia • 77


ists who can donate their time for a week to run a workshop, and for other interested volunteers to commit for a single day (Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday). This is their sixth year of programming, and they are looking forward to some interesting workshops. And to more successes, for over the years they have had many, teaching art to over 150 students with the help of 80 volunteers. Every good staff needs a leader, of course, and Maggie Emerson Griffin has been with the program since AD 2008. She is now their Program Coordinator: readers interested in volunteering should contact her at Maggie@wacoartsinitiative. org. She graduated Baylor in 2012 with a degree in Medical Humanities. One of her goals this year is to provide more ways to serve more community members, expanding into new venues and hosting more community events. A second goal is to provide a diversity of artistic experiences for the students, by featuring a different artist each week throughout the school year, leading a workshop sharing their skills. She hopes to make Waco a “better, healthier, more caring, more interactive community.” Maggie says “My family has a history in the art world, and I realize the importance of exposure to and participation in art for young, developing minds. Art allows us to think creatively, which enhances our critical thinking and problem solving skills. Art also serves as an outlet for emotions, both positive and negative. The benefits of art on individual and community life are numerous. We hope that through our work, we are able to make Waco a better, healthier city. ” Maggie shared the following story with Bohemia. During Summer 2013, the Waco Arts Initiative had partnered with the Family Health Center and a free lunch program group to launch an art competition for National Community Health Center week. One of the students she worked with had the most creative idea of the students there, but (seeing the others) he crumpled it up. He then began a second project that looked just like everyone else’s. With urging and encouragement, he uncrumbled his original work and finished it, producing a winning piece. The child walked away, saying “I’m the best artist. I did the best piece.” Having someone mentoring the child, talking with them, and discussing their work can completely change everything. What a child needs most is encourage78 • bohemia • september 2013


ment, to be told that he is unique and valuable. He needs to learn that it is good to be creative, that trying new things leads to innovation and success. His success will be his mentor’s joy. Maggie also told me that last year they taught art history: from cave paintings to modern design. The question in everyone’s mind was: “what will the children remember?” Maggie says that they remembered how cave men began to draw their paintings on cavern walls to share their stories. They could remember the Italian Renaissance, thanks to reinforcement from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. They could remember that Pointilism and Impressionism were different styles and could tell her what the differences were. Two hours of instruction each week had taught them a lot, and she was blown away … it had been a great success. They are one up on this author. After she told me that, I quickly checked Wikipedia and learned that the pointilistic technique is to use thousands of small independent dots to create the painting, whereas the impressionistic technique was to use myriads of small, thin, nearly-parallel lines, focusing on getting the lighting correct. I had heard of Impressionism, even knew it was an art movement birthed by Claude Monet, but I had never learned what characterized an impressionistic painting. The children had taught me something. Thus so had the Waco Arts Initiative. I am in favor of education, are you? This is a great organization in need of our support. Contact Maggie if you can volunteer. Or if you cannot volunteer, there may be other ways you can help.

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UNT pus Photography by Cecy Ayala

Featuring (from left) Savannah Loftin, Allie Bridges, Kenyai O’Neal, and Audrey Leigh september 2013• bohemia • 81


The Poseidon Poseidon

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Adventure by Karen Robiscoe

As it happens, some Greek Gods, though big in mythic lore, have feet of clay— and quite delayed their way to Zombie War. Perseus was shoo’d in sure—with quills on sandaled foot, but lost his drive– when he passed by, The Hermes store en route. The wings of Ick’rus –melted off— when he mistook Corona, Sun for Beer, and flew too near, plucking his persona. The snake-haired Gorgon made it safe, but soon encountered trouble. Since solar flares, while fairly rare, immediately doubled. The Ocean’s Twelfth— Greek God of Myth (& some will claim the greatest) I told to see his family— and help me with this latest—

—this Melting Ball of Fairy Wax, and since endless flares killed Zombies, I feared reprise– from neighbor guys, who co-owned Abercrombies. My hope was that, Poseidon could– tell his bro’ Apollo, to stop this lot of hot sun spots, or else provide marshmallow. Medusa and her hissing hair– were stroking from the heat. (or so she claimed) I quite refrained– From looking at the beast. In the end the Ocean God– Couldn’t stop Apollo, but deigned to spew, a ton or two, Pacific he had swallowed. This cured the snake-haired bitch at once– by turning her to Stone, But flooded out, the roundabout, The House of Wax called Home.

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Where will you be singing

Home Sweet Home

Find a forever home with Natalie Morphew

Natalie Morphew Natalie Morphew, Realtor nataliemorphew@gmail.com 254.229.0261 c | 254.399.7024 w www.nataliemorphew.com

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Waco, Texas is a beautiful place to live, founded in 1849 by the Huaco Indians that lived on the land in the present-day downtown area. Waco offers some major attractions, five historic homes, seven recreational venues, and nine arts organizations staging theatrical and musical productions, as well as art exhibitions. Waco is also brimming with Texas history, economic opportunity, and a rich variety of cultural experiences. With three college facilities including: Baylor University, McLennan Community College, and Texas State Technical Institute. The city boasts one of the of the biggest and best municipal parks in Texas, Cameron Park. The 416-acre park is located in the heart of Waco, next to downtown, situated on the Brazos and Bosque Rivers. It hosts numerous races, triathlons, boat races and more.


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What The Hero Knows

by Warner Robinson

how does it feel to know the end? to read the last word only to turn back and invoke, with an unwavering voice, the muse so full of hope? would you still sail to troy and become the words the prophet uttered? stumble down to gethsemane, raise your eyes to the mount of olives and await judgment? or would you lay here with me under a sheltering sun furiously writing, changing the course of scamander so his waters run to some faraway kingdom where no one has heard of Helen, and fate is nothing more than spindles of thread and a tree in the ground? september 2013• bohemia • 85


Clothes

Mark the Man by Gary Lee Webb

O

ver the centuries, clothes have been used to mark the man (or woman). They have been used positively by people to show off their wealth or demonstrate their status. For example, only a rich person can wear expensive furs, only a prince or noble will have a crown or wear royal purple, and even today uniforms and a doctor’s lab coat say a lot about the wearer. But clothing has also been used negatively to denigrate the person required to wear it. Recent instances include the use of yellow Stars of David to mark the Jews under the Nazi Regime, and the use of striped or orange outfits for convicts. However, the practice is much older – we shall examine the use of yellow and red, unusual clothing, and badges. Until the 13th Century, yellow was not a color indicating an undesirable religion within Europe. Instead, it marked prostitutes. Back in classical Greece, prostitutes wore saffron-dyed gauzy cloth. Roman prostitutes wore yellow wigs or dyed their hair blonde, as well as being the only women allowed to wear a toga. The toga muliebris was dyed the deep yellow color of flame. Perhaps this is why even today we hear that blondes have more fun. Later, in Vienna, prostitutes only had to wear a yellow scarf, and in Leipzig, a full yellow cloak trimmed in blue. In Florence, it was a veil with a yellow stripe. But the practice of requiring the prostitutes to be blondes, lasted into the 16th century in parts of Europe. It was in the Middle East, where the color yellow was first used to mark an undesirable religion. In Muslim countries, the color green was reserved for believers. As early as the Pact of Omar (640), Jews were ordered to wear a yellow seam on their upper garments. In 850, a decree by the Abbassid Caliph Al-Mutawakkil, required Christian and Jewish subjects to 86 • bohemia • september 2013

wear honey-colored hoods and belts of a particular type. Distinguishing marks were also prescribed for their slaves. It took four more centuries for Christians to adopt the practice. The usage of yellow clothing began to change within Europe in the 13th Century: the Fourth Council of the Lateran (AD 1215) required Jews and Muslims to dress distinctively. King Louis XI of France decreed that Jews must wear a round yellow badge, and many places across Europe required the yellow Star of David, later used by the Nazis. After the Albigensians were defeated in 1229, Pope Gregory IX required the Cathars to wear a yellow Cross. Other colors were also used: the Poor Law Act of 1697 required paupers in receipt of parish relief required to wear a badge of blue or red cloth on the shoulder of the right sleeve in an open and visible manner, embroidered with the letter P. In the American colonies, those guilty of adultery and incest were required to wear an “A” or “I” respectively; although, outside fiction (e.g., the Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne), there seems to be no indication the A was a scarlet letter. Since yellow was now a color to mark heterodoxy, the color for prostitutes shifted from yellow to red. The high heeled shoe was another marker of a prostitute, varying in style and height across Italy and in some cases they were required to be red (e.g., in Venice). And in Piedmont, prostitutes were required to wear horns. But pejorative dress was not limited to prostitution. During the brief period that Louisiana was a Spanish (not French) colony, Governor Esteban Rodriguez Miró. passed the tignon laws in 1785. A “tignon” is is a type of headscarf, a large piece of material tied or wrapped

around the head to form a kind of turban that somewhat resembles the West African gélé. The laws required that women in Louisiana with African ancestry must wear a knotted headdress. There had been restrictions on people of African descent since the 1724 Code Noir of the original French colony of New Orleans (founded 1718), but the French were relatively lax about enforcing the code, and by the time the Spanish took over in 1763, there was a large middle tier of free creole, mulatto, and other people of African descent. Spanish law included the practice of coartación, the right of slaves to purchase their freedom. As a result, the population of free African-descended people continued to grow, reaching 20% by the time the new United States purchased Louisiana in 1803. The new laws in 1785 were thus a failed attempt to repress the growing black presence. This account would not be complete without listing the Nazis of World War II. They were the champions of requiring people to wear identifying marks: not only the 6-pointed stars for the Jews (often at least partially yellow), but also pink for homosexuals, green for convicts, red for Freemasons and other liberals, purple for Jehovah’s Witnesses, and black for Gypsies and prostitutes. Laws of this type are called sumptuary laws, from the Latin sumptuariæ leges. They go back at least 2700 years (the Locrian code of Zaleucus limited clothing, the wearing of gold, and the number of maids a woman could have follow her unless she were drunk). They were used in Rome to restrict the wearing of Tyrian purple, and later to prohibit the wearing of trousers. And they are still used today for many things ranging from preventing gang symbols in our schools to requiring women to wear headdresses, scarves, and even veils (or more) in many countries around the world.


g te bein pros titu ay F lo n a m e 6- d de Ro A blon t a s pa r t of th la te Apr i l. ( Lef t) r s ta r ted in a ca ” by wheeled ra tion s, which mph of F lora leb r iu ra lia ce in g is “The T 3. t olo, 174 in p a p ie T a t The is t m i Ba t Giovam

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(Left) Teracotta statue of three Greek hetaerae at a banquet.  The big wigs (presumably blonde) give away their professions.  The statue is at the Louvre and dates from 25 BC.

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Peter Able’s screenplays have
beeen finalists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE International, and the New York Television Festival. He lives in Woodway with his family. He is currently the director of Financial and HR systems for Baylor University. Andira the Word Rummager recently rediscovered a love of writing in her middle age. She is happy to have this outlet for her weird ideas so she can try to maintain some outward semblance of normalcy. She s thankful for the opportunity to share her work and hopes you enjoy it. Joel Cifer - author, comic, bartender, philosopher, father and husband. He eventually and accidentally graduated from the University of North Texas. This qualified him for…nothing, but prepared him for everything. He enjoys questioning reality and physical altercations. He lives in Mclennan County. Jackie Craven has published in The Berkeley Fiction Review, Existere, The Fourth River, and Pearl. She authored two books on interior design and writes the architecture pages for About.com. She holds a Doctorate of Arts in Writing. Visit her at www.JackieCraven.com. 94 • bohemia • september 2013

Chip Dameron has published five collections of poems and placed individual poems in numerous literary magazines, including Borderlands, Mississippi Review, and Puerto del Sol. Chip lives in Brownsville, Texas. As a scientist, Arthur Doweyko has authored 100+ publications, invented novel 3D drug design software, and shares the 2008 Thomas Alva Edison Patent Award for the discovery of Sprycel, a new anticancer drug. He writes hard science fiction, fantasy and horror. C.G. Fewston is a working writer/university professor, and is a contributor to the Ho Chi Minh City’s premier English newspaper, Tuoi Tre. Ty Hall lives in Texas, makes up stories, and tries to be good. David Irvin is a Waco-based freelance journalist, photographer and (nearly) Master Librarian. His writ- ing has appeared in dozens of newspapers, magazines and blogs, including Flakmag, the Montgomery Advertiser, Arkansas Democrat- Gazette, USA Today, and Chicago Tribune.

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in twentyfive countries, he edits seven poetry sites. Michael has released several chapbooks of his poetry. He also has over 63 poetry videos on YouTube. Pat Jones became interested in photography six years ago. Finding very little help when starting out led him to seek out photographers to work with and later to start a forum for local photographers. Pat lives in Robinson, TX. He does wedding, pin-up, boudoir, fine art, and glamour. Jamie Mason is a Canadian sci-fi/fantasy short-story author and novelist whose works are characterized by absurdist themes and an exaggeratedly fatalistic world view. His stories have been featured in On Spec, Abyss & Apex and the Canadian Science Fiction Review. His young adult sci-fi novel ECHO was published by Drollerie Press. Learn more at jamiescribbles.com


contributors Central Texan Megan Miller gets older every day, but apparently no wiser. Having embraced the path of the Cosmic Fool and finishing up a tour of the country, she is intent to settle down and live a life of quiet obscurity in a small town with her husband. Bonnie Neagle is a native Texan who is married with 3 children; Alley, Isaac and Parker. Her love for photography started during middle school and has grown ever since. She was recently featured on Senior Style Guide’s blog. She also co-owns First Sight Photography with Marcel Van Es. James B. Nicola, winner of three poetry awards and a Pushcart and Rhysling nominee, has published 350+ poems in Atlanta Review, Tar River, Texas Review, &c. A Yale grad and stage director by profession, his book Playing the Audience won a Choice Award. First full-length collection: “Manhattan Plaza” scheduled for 2014. Suzanne Ondrus’s poems have appeared in Slab, Long River Review, Frigg, Colere, JENDA, and the Romanian journal Nazar Look. Her recent work is in Route7, CV2 and Long River Review.

Ilya Prints lives in Lynn, MA. Some his other works, poems and flash fictions, have been published in the several literary magazines, “Calliope”, “Exercise Bowler”, “Dance Macabre”, “Fine Line”, and others. Warner Robinson lives in Dallas, Texas and is a graduate student pursuing a Master’s degree in Education from Texas Woman’s University. Ms. Robiscoe’s work has appeared in Handful of Dust E-Zine, Whistling Fire EZine, Yahoo News Network, and journals: Spectrum at UCSB, Postscripts to Darkness, KY Journal, & Dark Light 3. Keep up with the impending debut of urban fantasy: Spirited Remix: An Insider’s Look at Posthumous Redemption--at Charron’s Chatter. Stephanie Rystrom is a photographer, model, fashionista, and momma in Central Texas. She’s a bohemian at heart, currently working on her BA in horticulture, and enjoying life day by day. Erin Shephard is the owner and photographer for Central Texas’ only vintage pinup photography studio, Lone Star Pin-Up. She loves classic cheesecake and old Hollywood glamour imagery and strives to bring that to her clients.

Trier Ward is a mother, scientist, and poet. She lives in Dallas, TX. Her poetry has appeared in Rolling Thunder Quarterly. In Texas since 1993, Genna Ware, 43, has been shooting alongside Pat Jones for one year. She’s a 911 Operator of 8 yrs. Photography is an incredible passion of Genna’s and she enjoys all types. Gary Lee Webb is a 16-year resident of Waco. He has lived on three continents, visited four, and speaks many languages … badly. His credits include over 210 public speeches, four decades of conferences and contests, and both non-fiction and fictional publications. He is 57, married 36 years, and has 4 daughters. Cynthia Wheeler is a Waco native and mother of three. She writes, paints, and does graphic design. Her true love is photography. She has been a volunteer at Waco Center For Youth for four years. Kay H. Wilson, 62. Born in Oklahoma, avoided Texas most of her life and moved to Waco in 1993 for her husband to practice Chiropractic Medicine. Currently works at the Waco Tribune-Herald as columnist The Compassionate Curmudgeon. Started writing at 58 and is working, mostly on her own, to understand and improve the mechanics, rules and pace of a story. september 2013• bohemia • 95


10TH ANNUAL

FEATURES: POETRY SLAM, AUTHORS, POETS, BLOGGERS, SCIENCE FICTION/FANTASY OPEN MICS, AUTHORS’ PANELS SEPT 28 & 29, 2013 INDIAN SPRING PARK WACO, TX wacoculturalartsfest.org/wordfest 96 • bohemia • september 2013

Greater Waco Chamber of Commerce


16. Bohemia - September 2013