Pippi Magazine by Angel Crimmins

PI P PI

Wit & Whimsy

PI P PI M AGA Z I N E

Let’s visit the land of nostalgia. Not the one with puppies and butterflies, but the other. The nostalgia buried in fathoms of wilderness, where evil stepmothers and saber-tooth tigers lurk in shadows, where bands of ferocious beasts roar and romp free. The nostalgia that isn’t nostalgia at all, but a visceral thing that you sometimes find on certain bookshelves or in sky pies and cloudy castles. It’s in the firey breath of dragons and paved between the cobblestones of wizarding alleys. It may appear in gardens where monstrous fruit smash through unfinished rainbows, where terrible daisies gossip and caterpillars exhale smoky nonsense. It’s the unexpected dark delight of childhood reminding you of a freer world. The world you knew when everything felt brand newer, scarier, snugger, more delicate and more devastating, lighter and more alive. In the Uses of Literature, Italo Calvino says there should come a time in an adult’s life devoted to revisiting the stories of childhood to encounter them anew as someone different. This magazine was born through my revisiting of Astrid Lindgren’s Pippi Longstocking books. As a child, I would dress in lace-up boots, oversized t-shirts, and sloppy pigtails. I abandoned my own name and answered only to Pippi. I have carried the Pippi stories somewhere deep inside of me ever since. Herbert Marcuse calls children’s works “the words, the images, the music of another reality, of another order repelled by the existing one and yet alive in memory and anticipation.” As a reader, you will be taken to foreign places, familiar places, and completely dreamed up fictional places. Each of the works featured in this magazine capture something of children’s literature particularly the wit and whimsy of it all. To Penelope Gilliatt, great wit “suddenly liberates us again as we were when we were much younger and saw no reason not to believe that we could fly, or become someone else, or bounce on a trampoline and not come down again.” Wit is tart humor infused with some fuss and pomp and just enough reason, while whimsy is lighter, capricious, and may show you a glimpse of otherness. Whether it is through undermining uproar or flights of fancy, both wit and whimsy raise tumult in the orderly.

Your rebel kid tiger,

As you read, I hope you feel like a child alone with a book, which to Harold Bloom is “the true image of potential happiness, of something evermore about to be.”

ANGELICA

CRIMMINS

WHAT BETTER WAY TO TAME & REWILD THE THINGS THUNDERSTOMPING IN THE DARK FORESTS OF OUR IMAGINATIONS THAN WITH A STORY? BLURRING THE LINES BETWEEN THE STORIES WE LIVE AND THE STORIES WE LOVE, PIPPI MAGAZINE IS A WORK OF FAN NONFICTION. IT’S DYNAMIC LIKE THE SEVEN SEAS AND PLAYFUL LIKE THE FRECKLE-FACED REBEL HERSELF. IT SEEKS TO CAPTURE SOMETHING OF THE UNTAMED SPIRIT BURNING IN ASTRID LINDGREN’S HEROINE. AT PIPPI, WE LOVE GOOD STORIES, GOOD HUMOR, GOOD TIMES, GOOD IDEAS. WE ENJOY FIZZY DRINKS, ARE NOT DISMAYED BY MESSY HAIR, AND FIND RUCKUS QUITE VALUABLE. PIPPI IS FOR THE STORY-THIRSTY WILD THING THAT IS IN EVERYONE.

FEATURES

WHAT’S

LITERARY DOODLES: ON OUR BEDSIDE TABLES

LITERARY SWEETS: PEPPARKAKOR & TURKISH DELIGHT

BOOKWORM INTERVIEWS: CHARLOTTE HADELLA, ALMA ROSA ALVAREZ, BILL GHOLSON, CURTIS HAYDEN

READING LIST: HOW TO BE A PERSON 101

WHIMSICAL ARCHITECTURE: TAYLOR HOPKINS

DRY SALOON INTERVIEW: DAVID VONNEGUT CHAMBERS

HOMEWORK

NONFICTION

LONELY HEARTS CLUB BAND - COLIN CARDWELL

OF WELLS & WELLBEING - COLIN CARDWELL

OR SHOULD I SAY, SHE ONCE HAD ME - COLIN CARDWELL

SOJU & SHENANIGANS - RYAN LOUGHREY

DOWNHILL - ELI STILLMAN

TARGET & THE UNRAVELING OF THINGS - ANGELICA CRIMMINS

SITKA BEAR - CARLTON GOODE

AMRIS - AMRIS ALLEMAND

WHAT YOU SEE - PATRICK ARTHUR

INSIDE

FICTION 48

BEE - ERIC GHELFI

FANTASY LAND - SAVANNAH TRUE RANDALL

FROM STANDING STILL - SAMANTHA MULHERN

LIFE IS HARD - ALEXANDER MESADIEU

POETRY 38

THERE IS NO POINT IN GROWING UP - RAND BURGESS

A SEUSSIAN TALE: AN RSCL PRODUCTION IN ASSOCIATION WITH COACH’S HAUSE - SUE DENIM

SELECTIONS FROM HOT MESS - DANIELLE OLSEN

WE ASKED 22 MANNEQUINS TO SAY SOMETHING IF THEY COULD HEAR US - ALLISON STEIN

HAPPY THURSDAY - SAVANNAH TRUE RANDALL

RATATOUILLE - DANIEL ALRICK

PHOTOGRAPHY + ART 16

WILLIAM BABISHOFF

DAVID VONNEGUT CHAMBERS "DRY SALOON"

RAND BURGESS

RICAH YOKOI

DEVON KRAUSE

JORDAN LEWIS 5

ON OUR BEDSIDE TABLES: Managing the Undesirables: Refugee Camps and Humanitarian Government by Michel Agier IV TV Girls blog post about The Avengers: Age of Ultron www.ivtvgirls.wordpress.com The Book of Ruth in the Bible

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck "Managerial Effectiveness: A Quick Guide to Setting Clear Expectations" by Janice M. Sabatine "Valar Morghulis" from The Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin "Sexual Use" by Alan Soble

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley The Odyssey of Homer by Homer A Canticle for Liebowitz by Walter M. Miller, Jr. Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder The Rum Diaries by Hunter S. Thompson Endurance: Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage by Alfred Lansing Kesey’s Jail Journal by Ken Kesey

PEPPARKAKOR MAKES AROUND 4 DOZEN 3/4 CUP BUTTER, SOFTENED 3/4 CUP SUGAR 1/2 CUP MOLASSES 1 LARGE EGG, BEATEN 3 CUPS ALL PURPOSE FLOUR 1 TSP. BAKING SODA, DISSOLVED INTO 1 TBSP WATER 1 TSP CINNAMON 1 TSP GROUND GINGER 1/2 TSP CLOVES 1/2 TSP SALT Cream together the butter and sugar. Add the molasses and egg, then stir in the remaining ingredients until well blended.

Pippi is known to eat these Swedish ginger cookies for breakfast. One morning Tommy and Anicka find Pippi covered in flour while rolling dough on the floor of her kitchen, because no baking board can possibly be big enough for a batch of at least 500 cookies.

Cover dough with plastic wrap and chill for at least 4 hours. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Roll the dough to 1/8" thickness on a lightly floured surface (preferably not the floor). Cut into fun shapes with cookie cutters and place on an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake for 8-10 minutes or until edges begin to brown. Let cool and be merry.

PAIR WITH:

coffee 8

stout

glรถgg

TURKISH DELIGHT CHOCOLATE DROPS FOR THE TURKISH DELIGHT

FOR THE CHOCOLATE DROPS

4 CUPS GRANULATED SUGAR 1 1/4 CUPS CORNSTARCH 1 TEASPOON CREAM OF TARTAR 4 1/4 CUPS WATER 1 TABLESPOON LEMON JUICE 1 1/2 TABLESPOONS ROSEWATER 1 CUP CONFECTIONERS SUGAR

16 OZ DARK CHOCOLATE 4 TBSP HAZELNUTS, CHOPPED 4 TBSP PISTACHIOS CHOPPED 1/2 TSP CASTER SUGAR TURKISH DELIGHT PIECES SEA SALT FOR SPRINKLING

In a saucepan, combine lemon juice, sugar and 1 1/2 cups water on medium heat. Stir constantly until sugar dissolves. Allow mixture to boil. Reduce heat to low and allow to simmer until the mixture reaches 240 degrees on a candy thermometer. Remove from heat and set aside. Combine cream of tartar, 1 cup corn starch and remaining water in a saucepan over medium heat. Stir until all lumps are gone and the mixture begins to boil. Stop stirring when the mixture has a glue-like consistency.

In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Edmund basically sells his soul to the White Witch after she promises him all the rose-flavored, sugar-dusted candies he can gobble up. Don’t let this happen to you.

Stir in the lemon juice, water and sugar mixture. Stir constantly for about 5 minutes. Reduce heat to low, and allow to simmer for 1 hour, stirring every 10 minutes. Once the mixture has become a golden color, stir in rosewater. Pour mixture into a 9 inch baking pan lined with wax paper. Spread evenly and allow to cool overnight. Once it has cooled overnight, sift together confectioners sugar and remaining cornstarch. Turn over baking pan containing Turkish delight onto clean counter or table and cut with oiled knife into one inch pieces. Coat with confectioners sugar mixture.

PG tips

almond milk

Preheat oven to 180C Place hazelnuts on a baking tray lined with baking paper. Roast in the oven for 2 minutes. Remove the hazelnuts from the oven and scatter over caster sugar. Return to the oven for another minute. Remove from oven. Set aside. Roughly break up the chocolate and place in a heat proof bowl. Set the bowl over a saucepan of simmering water. Don’t let the bowl touch the water. Heat until the chocolate is smooth and melted. Remove from heat. Line another baking tray with baking paper. Spoon little round disc shapes of chocolate onto the baking paper. While the chocolate is still warm, sprinkle over the hazelnuts, pistachios, turkish delight pieces and some sea salt flakes. Place the tray of chocolates into the fridge for 15-20 minutes until set, then carefully transfer to a serving plate. Enjoy!

PAIR WITH:

gewürztraminer 9

BOOK WORMS DR. CHARLOTTE HADELLA Charlotte Hadella is a literature and education professor at Southern Oregon University (SOU). She has written critically about women in gardens in American literature and the works of John Steinbeck. She likes to read with her kitty near by. She is retiring in 2016 and will be missed so deeply.

WHAT DID YOU READ AS A CHILD? The early reads were series like The Bobsey Twins and The Hardy Boys. By high school I just wanted to read the classics. Hemingway, Faulkner. I kept thinking, where are the women? The only female writer I read as a teen was Margaret Mitchell. Then I started reading history, and realized how distorted historical fiction can be.

WHAT WERE YOU LIKE AS AN UNDERGRADUATE? I got a full scholarship to a regional university. Drove a brand new VW bug 35-40 miles to and from school everyday. I would get there at 7 A.M. when the library doors opened because back at my parents’ house, DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST TRIP TO I shared a room and there were a whole lot THE LIBRARY? I lived in a tiny neighbor- of kids. I had nowhere to really write papers hood surrounded by my elementary school and study. I was always in the library when teachers. They all had these great libraries I wasn’t in class, at work, or driving. for kids. In the summer, I’d knock on their doors and ask for books to read. That’s real- HAVE YOU EVER DRESSED UP AS A LITERARY ly what made me a reader. We didn’t have a CHARACTER FOR HALLOWEEN? I was once library in our town. I didn’t own books until Hester Prinn from The Scarlet Letter. Paul I was out of college. I didn’t have a library of [her husband] was Reverend Dimsdale. We met in graduate school at the University of my own until I became a teacher. New Mexico in our 30’s. We were at a graduWHAT DID YOU WANT BE WHEN YOU GREW ate school mixer at the softball field put on UP? I knew by the time that I was 10 years by the English department. old that I wanted to be an English teacher. It was an epiphany. It was a snowy day WHAT IS A STORY? An author sets out to in Virginia, so we didn’t have school. I was take the reader somewhere and has creatwatching JFK’s inauguration by myself in ed characters that you either care about or my grandmother’s den. At the inaugura- don’t care about but are curious to see what tion, the wind was blowing crazy, snow was happens to them. I like stories with a sense everywhere, the light was glaring. Robert of place, where the world of the story has Frost, old gray poet that he was, couldn’t been well-constructed enough for you to be read the poem he wrote for the inaugural, there. so he recited one that he had written and knew by heart. I remember JFK’s call to WHICH STORIES MATTER? Stories that once action, ‘ask not what your country can do you connect to them, they inform your life for you, but what you can do for your coun- in some way. They help you make a decision, try.’ So I decided that what I could do for or help you understand why you think or my country was make people love reading feel a certain way about something, or just poetry. I just wouldn’t quit talking about it. totally engage you and take you out of your So my grandmother bought me a collection life. Those are two different ends of the of poetry books. When I graduate—I mean spectrum, but they DO something to you as retire—in 2016, I will have spent 60 Septem- a reader. They take you somewhere, or help bers in a classroom. Being in a school is like you go somewhere. being at home.

HAVE YOU EVER READ A BOOK THAT CHANGED THE WAY YOU LIVE YOUR LIFE? I can’t say exactly that reading Henry David Thoreau’s book Walden changed the way I live my life, because I was very young when I first read that book. Rather, I would say that it influenced how I shaped my life as I grew into adulthood. Thoreau made me aware that I had choices about what to value in life. I realized early on that many ideas, people, things compete for one’s attention and energy, but to a reasonable extent, I could choose what to devote my time and energy to. So, thanks to Walden, a book that I re-read practically every spring during my 20’s, I have lived a pretty simple, but happy life. I have practiced self-reliance in as many arenas of my life as I can. I even grow some of my own food. I spend much of my recreation time in natural settings and try to notice as much as I can about the natural world. WHAT IS THE WITTIEST BOOK YOU’VE READ LATELY? Dear Committee Members by Julie Schumacher. I’m not sure how enjoyable that book would be for a reader outside of academia, but for insiders, it is hilarious. THE MOST WHIMSICAL? The Little Prince. I first read it when I was a high school teacher and many of my students were reading it in French and were so in love with the tale that I bought a copy. Like Walden, this little book reminded to be aware of beauty and grace in the universe and to screen out as much of the unpleasant white noise of everyday demands that I could, at least on a practical level.

ILLUSTRATIONS: CECELIA CRIMMINS

DR. ALMA-ROSA ALVAREZ Alma Rosa Alvarez is a literature professor at SOU. She teaches classes in critical theory and multicultural narratives. She wrote her dissertation on liberation theologies. She can deconstruct the shit out of, like, anything at all.

that I feel have been transformative, but Ava in particular. The writing is fragmented and there’s a connection between Ava’s fight against cancer and how her parents preserved life in the concentration camps through their musicality. Music becomes this actual, material thing that saves their lives. She’s hoping the music will actually transform her blood cells so they react differently. I felt like the author understood the hidden things, like the sound waves of music. It changed things. It slightly tweaked my perspective. It made me think about those hidden things that have impacts on us, but because they’re not visible, we don’t think about them. DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST TRIP TO THE LIBRARY? My mom and dad would take us to the library every weekend to check out books. It was like a holiday. I had to be at least 4 or 5. I remember a Little Golden Book that I’ve been desperately trying to find and I can’t find it anywhere online. I don’t even remember the title, but the opening line was: “Hooray for the city, the wonderful city.” It showed you all of the things going on in this wonderful city. I remember reading that book over and over and over. I would love to have that book back.

SO WHAT’S LIBERATION THEOLOGY ALL ABOUT? I think liberation theology narratives bring awareness to inequities that may exist in a society. I think the ultimate goal of any of those narratives is to change the situation, to break down barriers. The liberation theology world is like a series of stages. The first stage would be to develop awareness. That’s why one of the novels that I teach, So Far from God, begins with a character deriving awareness from her own daughter’s politicization. Once she has that awareness we see her pursue things. Like we see her become a mayor of her unincorporated town. WHY DO LIBERATION THEOLOGIES MATTER? In real practice, liberation theology uses biblical narratives to create awareness among people to move them to action, and that action should generally move away some of those social barriers. It’s a process. Of course you can have some situations where if you’re in a hostile environment where there’s a dictatorship, even having the awareness that barriers exist could be a life and death situation. We see that right now in Honduras. WHICH STORIES ARE WORTH TEACHING? In a literature department we have to carefully select narratives that are well crafted. Part of what you’re engaging with is some kind of artistic development. It has to feel like it’s true and authentic, even if someone is concocting a whole new universe that is completely out there. I also feel like the aesthetic element can’t be overlooked when you’re teaching a text. If a story impacts you on an emotional or aesthetic level, you carry it with you.

WHAT KINDS OF CHARACTERS ARE YOU DRAWN TO? I want characters that are complex and multi-faceted. Maybe there’s a narcissism involved in reading. I need to see something that is connected to me. I’m thinking of a book called Famine. The author captures the relationship between siblings that is protective yet tender yet playful. If the character has nuances and could be anyone of us, with all of our fucked up ways of being or our great ways of being, or being simultaneously both of those. It feels like we can connect to that. Is a character’s struggle something you’ve had? Or maybe it’s not the same struggle but one that you could comprehend. You think about the basis of comparison that you might have. There is a relational aspect with the character. IF YOU HAD TO BE A LITERARY CHARACTER FOR A WEEK, WHO WOULD YOU BE? Gertrude Stein’s Melangtha in Three Lives. What I like about her is she does her own thing. She doesn’t care about conventions. People gossip about her, but she doesn’t really care. That’s a really freeing and empowering type of character. Then I think of Catherine from Wuthering Heights. Not so much in the choice she makes in marriage, but I love the early Cathy. When she takes a whip and hits somebody and has this real power. Ava Cline from Ava, who has these beautiful, sensual experiences. By sensual I mean very heightened, layered sensory experiences because she’s in the last days of her life. HAVE YOU EVER READ A STORY THAT INSPIRED YOU TO CHANGE THE WAY YOU LIVE YOUR LIFE? There have been many books

LITERATURE IS AS IMPORTANT AS WE THINK IT IS BECAUSE... I have personally seen people who maybe didn’t understand another group of people’s condition, and then when you get a really great novel or poem that takes you there, you have a moment of clarity. Things can shift for the reader. It makes a difference. The telling of a story can be really compelling. Maybe you’re compelled to do something about it if there’s something to be done. Maybe in some cases a story is just a story. But it transforms you. A bad storyteller isn’t going to win someone over.

READING LIST: Miss Rumphius by Barbara Cooney The Man Who Lived Alone by Donald Hall Socks for Supper by Jack Kent Please email pippizine@ gmail.com if you have any information about the Little Golden Book about the wonderful city. 11

DR. BILL GHOLSON

Bill Gholson is a professor of rhetoric, creative nonficiton, and contemporary fiction at SOU. Many of his students want to be him when they grow up. He has written critically about the works of Kurt Vonnegut. After you read this, you will want to join the Dr. Bill Gholson Fan Club on Facebook. DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST TRIP TO THE LIBRARY? I can recall every single moment of my time in the library. Without the library, I just can’t imagine where I’d be today. That was the only place for me. I wasn’t especially good at sports. I was good at reading and I was good at being alone. I remember everything about it. I remember walking up the steps and to the front desk. I was supposed to be downstairs in the children’s section, but I was upstairs in the adult section. I started to walk around and the librarian came and was incredibly nice about it all. She explained that one day I’d be able to stick around there. I asked when? Give it some time, she said. So the next week I went up there again, and she let me in. It became this place that was just right for me. I look at it as a church or a sanctuary or a cathedral. Libraries used to be the centerpiece of culture, especially in small towns. I remember everything about it. Probably more than any other memory that I have. I can remember what the librarians wore, what they smelled like, the rings they wore, the color of their hair, their glasses. WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN WORKING ON THESE DAYS? For the past year it’s been all about my body. I’ve had a big operation and I’ve been trying to come back from that. In relation to school, I’ve developed three new rhetoric courses: Rhetoric and Crime Fiction, Rhetoric and Fantasy Literature, Rhetoric and the Big Novel. The idea is that each one of those classes thinks about literature not just as an aesthetic but as a social structure. What function do these works have in American culture? How do they communicate ideologies? CERTAINLY YOU HAVE SOME ANSWERS? Rhetoric is often thought of as language used to fool people. But it’s much more and literature opens you up to that. When I was about 10, I started reading crime fiction because it was a genre that was available to me. It got me reading. As an adult, I think one of the reasons I liked it was because most crime fiction can be a metaphor for reading. You set up a problem at the beginning and figure out the untold elements. I think reading is like that— making your way through the text and figuring it out. Of all the genres that I know exist, fantasy is my least favorite. I don’t understand it for one thing. I was thinking about all the students and friends I know that read these huge

fantasy series. They have this elaborate understanding of the world through fantasy literature. And so teaching it through a rhetorical perspective is just me asking what’s the big deal? Why are people so enchanted by it? Maybe it’s because we’re living in a time that’s so crazy and fantasy literature offers people an escape. Obviously it’s a lot more than that. In the Big Novel, we’ll read Moby Dick and Underworld – two of my favorite books of all time. They’re the kind of novels that students today don’t get to experience. It’s going to demand some seriousness.

change who they are as individuals, or because they want to be shocked or pushed or surprised. That’s kind of gone. We’re looking for jobs. We’re taught this economic model where the bottom-line is what’s valued. There are fewer and fewer people majoring in the humanities.

IN CAT’S CRADLE, VONNEGUT TRIES TO IMAGINE A WORLD WITHOUT ART. WHAT WOULD A WORLD WITHOUT ENGLISH PROFESSORS BE LIKE? I think a literature professor is sort of the equivalent of a marshmallow in terms of their cultural power. I like to think that as a teacher I have impact. I think we’re living in a culture now where reading serious works of literature isn’t valued. The world would probably go along just as it is without English professors. But without books it’d be a much darker, crueler world. Books don’t always make the world better, but they act as sort of a witness to peoples’ lives, or history, or time. What books do is separate from what professors do. Books have a life of their own and they enrich people’s lives in amazing ways. That enrichment leads to better cultures and societies. Without books, I think our culture would be a lot more bereft.

WHAT’S AT THE HEART OF A GOOD STORY? It’s not only the quality of ideas, but the ways in which the writer shows her thinking as she’s writing, how she takes you through an idea, or puts an idea out there with context that allows you to think about it yourself. Really good literature always says something about the literature itself. A good novel teaches you something about the story, but also something about novels. The extra element that all good literature should have is teaching you how to read. It has a way for you to see a writer in a background struggling with ideas. I like to see angst and unevenness and struggle. I like characters that fail and find eminence in daily life, magic in what’s right in front of them rather than searching for some abstract idea like God. Herman Melville is probably my favorite novelist of all time because Moby Dick has this character, Ishmael, who’s a depressive. I like depressives. As the novel starts, Ishmael says that whenever he gets depressed, he goes to the ocean and he looks out and thinks about taking journeys. You go with Ishmael through this whole landscape of imagination and life and it becomes this huge philosophical journey.

WHAT DO WE NEED MORE STORIES ABOUT THESE DAYS? Empathy. One of the things that really troubles me these days in American culture is it seems like we no longer have an ethic of caring, an empathy for other points of view. Universities are kind of rarified atmospheres where you are more likely to engage in writing that opens you up to other experiences and people. My big bug-a-bear is that we have this really great thing called public education that we are just ruining in this country. People no longer come to college because they want to

HAVE YOU READ A BOOK THAT CHANGED THE WAY YOU LIVE YOUR LIFE? I’d have to say Slaughterhouse Five, but all of Kurt Vonnegut’s works more generally. When I first started reading him, there was an underground element to reading his books. He was from Indiana, and I was from less than 100 miles from his hometown. I felt like he was speaking to my experience in a lot of ways. His writing has taken the biggest part of my imagination. He was really irreverent. I was afraid to speak to power before I read Vonnegut. He was a writer who realized the

ILLUSTRATIONS: CECELIA CRIMMINS

value of humor, irony, and satire as a defense mechanism. He painted a picture of the world being crazy and nonsensical as opposed to people being crazy and nonsensical. Maybe the craziness in life is the culture and the society that we’ve built, which is difficult to separate from the people. But there is a difference in saying that it’s the institutions that often harm people or categorize them as being sick or ill. He was the first writer that I realized suffered seriously with depression. He made his depression part of his storytelling and that really appeals to me. When you’re a depressive, you’ve seen the really dark aspect of human nature and human existence. To be in that spot and to come out of it and to be able to reflect that you were there in that space, can be really productive for you in your more sane state. A creative nonfiction book that made a huge difference to me is The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression by Andrew Solomon. It kind of saved my life at one point. Depression is important to my whole way of being. It informs almost everything I do. I think literature has sort of helped me in that regard. When I was 9 years old and had my first big episode, which I couldn’t describe at the time, books were the things that always saved me. My family was not a family of readers, but we had a great library in my town. That’s where I would escape to. That’s where I’d feel safe. Reading allowed me to enter into the subjectivity of other people. To know that so many writers suffered from depression made me feel that I belonged to the right group. It’s difficult to talk about depression. But I think it gives me, as a teacher, a sensitivity to students who are also suffering. HOW DO YOU DECIDE WHICH STORIES ARE WORTH TEACHING? I always chose whatever it is I’m reading. Sometimes it’s a work that puzzles me and I teach it just so I can hear what other people are saying about it. Does it have a value that goes beyond just my interests? Do I think it addresses a bigger issue? Is there a moral complexity at the center of the work that would be engaging? Is there something that upsets me? It always has something to do with whatever is going on in my life at the time. Last term I taught about the body and suffering because I was thinking about my body and pain. I think our bodies are, in general, something we’re afraid of as opposed to something we celebrate. HOW DO YOU CELEBRATE THE BRILLIANCE OF YOUR BODY? Well in poetry, probably trying to describe what a mystery is. The wisdom in the body doesn’t have to with beauty; it has to do with a way of being in the world with other bodies. One way is to fear them and shape them in ways that somebody says we should. But there’s all of these other ways that we’re in contact with bodies, but it’s a silent language. As an academic, it’s always been about the mind

rather than what’s in the body (where I would include emotions and feelings). As a man at my age, I was raised to keep the emotions bottled up. My illness all of sudden made me question that. Why have I not been able to talk about the body? How much do you really know the world? How much is locked inside of yourself? You only really let people know what you think about the world when you write it or express it in some way. But I think we’re not living in a time when thoughtfulness, silence, solitude, reflection are considered important things. And much of that comes through an awareness of your body and its position in the world. DO YOU THINK LITERATURE IS AS VALUABLE AS WE THINK IT IS? I do. I can’t imagine having much of an interior life without literature. I think the best literature speaks to a human experience that’s not articulated in other ways. If you read a lot, you can’t help but see the world in multiple ways. We’d be deeply, deeply impoverished without literature. For me it’s everything. What we’re doing as students of literature is talking about stories and narratives and the mystery of how that shapes us. I’m obviously really biased, but it makes a difference talking to a reader opposed to someone who’s not. For one thing, the non-readers are stupid. Readers see different ways of being in the world. I think they’re better off. People who don’t read generally have a singular view of things. Sometimes a singular view can be good because people accomplish things with singular points of view. But in terms of cultural-social things, not so much. Being someone who reads doesn’t make you a good person; there are plenty of bad people that read. But people who read are generally more thoughtful. They’re generally slower. They’re generally those people who say, ‘let’s wait a second and think about this.’ They have metaphors handy to be able to grab onto and conceptualize life. Language is a mode of thinking, and people who read and write think more broadly. Maybe I’ll change my mind about English professors. At the best of circumstances, teaching somebody else to read is a really beneficial thing. WHAT WAS TODAY’S MORNING MEDITATION? What I’ve been trying to do is to take a part of my spine and think about it being healthy. I take medical terms that sound really ominous and horrible and meditate on them to take the fear out of them. My morning mediations really came out of my illness. I always spend part of that time working on poetry. It’s always an image that comes to mind and the working out of that image. The really cool thing about being sick is that it got me writing everyday. It feels really good to write about things I want to write about and to be in a space where I can accept the paltriness of who I am.

required reading HOW TO BE A PERSON: 101 The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne The Solace of Nature by Kathleen Dean Moore Moby Dick by Herman Melville Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut Walden by Henry David Thoreau Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis "The Last Leaf" by O. Henry "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" by Jonathan Edwards

Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin Poetry by ee cummings, Robert Frost, Walt Whitman, Naomi Shihab Nye, Ralph Waldo Emerson

CURTIS HAYDEN

Curtis Hayden is the creator and editor of the Sneak Preview, a free monthly publication distributed for free in Ashland, Talent, Grants Pass, and Medford.

HOW DID YOU GET INTO THIS LINE OF WORK? I actually started a newspaper on the playground in Evansville, Indiana, during 5th grade in 1958. It was a weekly publication, and I would write out by hand one copy and distribute it during recess for everyone to read. It was a small school— only 100 kids through 8th grade—so the circulation department was small. I continued through 6th and 7th grades and into part of 8th grade, when I got semi burned out (in my last issue in October 1960, I endorsed John F. Kennedy for president). My teenage hormones were starting to kick in, so I probably had other things on my mind. I didn’t do anything with “journalism” for 26 years...

THE SNEAK PREVIEW HAS BEEN AROUND FOR 26 YEARS. HOW HAS IT CHANGED? In the beginning, all I started with was an IBM Selectric typewriter. I would give the typed copy to a local printing company, and they would re-type it and print it out on their phototypesetting machine. This was right around the time when the Apple MacIntoshes were in their infancy, but if I could have had a Mac when I started, life would have been a lot easier. Paying the printer to typeset everything was a huge expense, and in January 1987 my parents loaned me money to buy a big, lunky phototypesetting machine. We used that thing until November 1988, when I again borrowed money from my parents to buy a Mac and a printer. Those two things (along with 3 programs) cost $8,000! Working with that Mac was like dying and going to heaven. Putting a paper out was now so easy that in March 1989, I converted the Grants Pass Sneak Preview into a weekly publication.

So on April 10, 1986, I was on a 5-mile run in Denver when I had this idea to start a free alternative newspaper when I returned to Grants Pass that summer. I was inspired by two free papers in Denver that I thought were fun and lively and great alternatives to the dailies. Cosmetically the biggest change is that 90% of our ads come in camera ready. The Internet and all the graphics programs have made this job a lot easier. In the old days, I would go out and spend hours every day tracking down ads, then going back and laying them out, then back out to show proofs.

WHAT MAKES THE SNEAK PREVIEW UNIQUE? Our combination of hard news, entertainment and fluff. We’re more like a traditional newspaper in that respect. I have a background in politics, and I love researching and reporting on local issues. The more controversial, the better, because that is what people love to read. Nothing against human interest stories, because we do those also, but it is the responsibility of newspapers to keep the people informed about what is going on. Also, we direct mail, so we have a captive audience. AND we have an irreverent, Gonzo style approach in which all the rules one learned in journalism class are thrown out the door.

PHOTOS: WILLIAM BABISHOFF 14

DABBLE IN CREATIVE WRITING MUCH? In the last 15 years, I have written a novel (Mr. President, which sold a whopping 500 copies), a novella (Sazeracs on the House, the story of spending seven days in New Orleans while stranded there during 9/11), and three screenplays (“Mr. President,” “Kentucky Secret,” an adaptation of one of wife’s five published novels, and a screenplay depicting my experiences in basic training after getting drafted in the army in March 1970). Every December for the last 13 years, during my 4-week break, I have been working on some memoirs. It’s basically an exercise in writing down everything I can remember from age 0 on. And trust me, it’s not easy. Most of us go through our lives repeating a daily routine which doesn’t conjure up a lot of specific memories 30-40-50 years later. But it is exhilarating to think back on, say, the Summer of 1968, and recreate those moments and where my head (and heart) were at. So far, I have written 275 pages of single-spaced, 9-point font, and I’m only up to 1979, when I was a mere 31 years old! Fun stuff. It helps that I’m a pack rat and have saved every letter ever written to me, plus a lot of letters I wrote, since I was making copies.

DID YOU HAVE A CHILDHOOD HERO? While doing my memoirs, I was astounded at how little I remembered of those days. Luckily, I had all of my newspapers, which my mom had saved. If I can’t even remember my first kiss, how am I supposed to come up with a childhood hero? Just kidding, by the way… it was Mary Ann Morris. I would say that I looked up to my dad, Walter Hayden, who was a union organizer and political figure in Indiana. He worked his entire life to help the average worker get a leg up in a system that overwhelmingly favors the rich and powerful. He was also a newspaper editor and the inspiration for the papers I started in grade school. Modern day heroes were Hunter S. Thompson, for opening up a whole new world of creative writing for me, and Linus Pauling, who taught me to take personal responsibility for my health.

WHICH WEBSITES DO YOU CHECK DAILY? I look at the Huffington Post and the Grants Pass Daily Courier every day. Other than that, I don’t do much online. I value my time, and there is so much information out there that you could spend every waking hour reading everything there is. For that same reason, I don’t watch network TV very much (except for Indiana University basketball games)... As far as print is concerned, I subscribe to the print version of the New York Times daily, and I read Time and Vanity Fair (the former for the news, and the latter because they have some great writers). I also subscribe to the Daily Tidings, which I think is doing a great job. To me, it is soothing and relaxing to spread a print newspaper out in front of me and be able to see everything on the page. Going to some of the online sites are just flat-out work—way too many decisions to make on what to click or not click. I really am not stuck in the past; I just find print more soothing and less stressful. The Sneak Preview thrives because people love to get it delivered in the mail, where they can flip through the pages and be rewarded with great articles and visually pleasing ads. And it gives them a chance to take a break from their iPads and iPhones. Am I getting nostalgic? I’m pretty sure the Sneak Preview concept will survive the onslaught of the digital world, or at least I hope it will. It’s interesting that in the last 5-6 years, there have been two publications, the Locals Guide and Rogue Valley Messenger, which started off as online entities and 15 then switched to print.

No time like now...

The talented musician, Daniel Sperry, playing his cello in Lithia park, downtown Ashland, OR. 16

The beautiful McCall House Bed & Breakfast, Ashland, Oregon.

Blood moon over Ashland, 2014. PHOTOS & CAPTIONS BY: WILLIAM BABISHOFF 17

TAYLOR HOPKINS SAMSUNG RESEARCH LABORATORY MODEL

"People start living here and going crazy," says Taylor Hopkins, explaining his L.A. studio. He’s a fourth year architecture student at California Polytechnic State University, and he’s been working long nights to finish two different projects for the Los Angeles Metropolitan Program in Architecture and Urban Design. Both of his parents are biologists. His backyard on the coast of O’ahu is a managed wilderness oasis of tropical plants, peacocks, geese, koi ponds, and pigs (and notably one of the best birthday party locations to ever exist). It’s no wonder that he tries to make sense of biology in architectural forms. Inspiration comes by way of natural structures: the way corals colonize, the wind, tree trunks, waves and weird stuff with fish. "Nature has all these systems that it has worked out over millions of years and you can learn a lot from that," he says. The Big Island of Hawaii would be his dream site because the building would have to adapt to extreme conditions and difficult terrain. He hates square shapes and refuses to define his architectural style. It is calculable that his style is bare feet on warm sand. Somebody buy this guy a Kona Brew.

DRY SALOON SELECTIONS FROM

BY DAVID VONNEGUT CHAMBERS

Hard water. Mission San Xavier del bac, Tohono Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;odham Nation.

The SAVSARP groundwater recharge station currently recharges 60,000 acre-feet per year of Colorado River water delivered via the Central Arizona Project (CAP).

Looking southeast from Cochise Stronghold, Dragoon Mountains.

Biosphere 2â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ocean and savanna complex.

A dry fountain in a paved lot, west of 12th Ave., South Tucson.

Brandi Fenton Splash Pad, Tucson. 26

Rio Cancion off East River Road, Tucson.

A particularly lush property on University Ave., Tucson.

The public pool in winter. Himmel Park, Tucson.

All photos and captions by David Vonnegut Chambers 30

DAVID VONNEGUT CHAMBERS WHAT DID YOU USE TO SHOOT "DRY SALOON?" I made most of those photos with either a Canon 5D or 6D... I think I was using an old 24mm film lens and Canon’s 40mm/2.8 EF most of the time. ARE THERE CONSISTENT THEMES IN YOUR WORK? I like photographing people, of course, and I think I’m drawn to irony and humor. Much of my photography is off-thecuff, so to speak. Even within a specifically designed project, which is a mode that I’ve been forcing myself to work in over the past year, I see this snapshot-type of aesthetic within my work. I think that I photograph much like a writer writes: the process is often instinctive, and the pursuit of the craft doesn’t necessarily involve too much critical thought at the moment of creation (though it often can)... With regard to my "Dry Saloon" project in Tucson, which is an on-going project, I think I’ve been trying to explore water with this focus

on place and this concurrent awareness that water is so often conceived of in the USA as this huge, unknowable "issue." This "crisis" mentality really dictates how our communities and individuals think about water, you know, except when we’re actually using it. In comparison to that reality, I think we’re pretty lucky here in southern Oregon with our current water situation. We’re super well-off. I see tons of sensationalism about water everywhere right now. And that’s not necessarily bad. It just seems to usually get put forward without any focus on how water is actually used by people, or how certain communities are planning for the future. But underneath those topics is this factual basis, right? As access to and availability of water becomes more variable due to global climate change, human relationships with water will inevitably and irreversibly change. I think I was hoping that this project would just depict small parts of this story, while being regionally specific. It’s a story, after all,

that will be the defining resource narrative of the southern Arizona region. And it’s also going to be the defining narrative of other regions of the world throughout my entire life. Until the recent media focus on California water, at least, it seemed that water was so universal and essential that realities of its scarcity and consumption often went forgotten. SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER ENGAGEMENT? I recommend the films FLOW and Thirst, both of which are wellmade and very interesting, very approachable. There’s also been some continuing work about the Colorado River, which is obviously of special interest to all folk living in the western USA. PBS actually compiled a reading list for those who are interested in delving deeper into the material discussed in Thirst. That reading list can be found online: <http://pov-tc.pbs. org/pov/film-files/dd_thirst_ reading_list_0.pdf>

For more of David’s work

www.DAVIDVONNEGUTCHAMBERS.com 31

The Lonely Hearts Club Band

IN WHICH OUR HEROES HAVE A WARM GLOW BROUGHT TO THEIR VISION, THAWING THEIR MINDS AND MUSCLES FROM ENDLESS WINTERING. THE MURAKAMI-VERSE: COLIN CARDWELL 32

There’s a beauty in the other four senses. Hearing a certain Saeki, in her human form. His trip only simplicity of an LP. A simple song can make one relive a moment for existed because he first listened to the second, third, hundredth time. Music song ‘Kafka on the Shore.’ The song black disc, twelve inches in areturns one to a moment at a speed of is the foundation of his relationship diameter with grooves run- roughly 33 1/3 revolutions per minute. with Miss Saeki, which removed the ning throughout it. At the Murakami’s statement on the meta- weight of the unknown from his neck transportation properties of and allowed him to continue to live a center of the disc is a label. physical music is something that he returned to semi-normal life. The song beckonedAnd it’s the same on the in his novel South of the Border, West of Kafka into Murakami’s mystical realm, other side. How something the Sun. It is the story of Hajime, a suc- where he stumbled towards salvation. so simple can contain some- cessful man who meets Shimamoto at a Music was the medicine Kafka needed, young age, moves away, and tries administered from a phonograph neething so powerful, as emo- very to live without her. The pair become dle. tion-invoking as music is a forever bonded by a song they used Murakami’s Hard-Boiled Wonderland question that I fear to have to listen to on Shimamoto’s father’s and the End of the World uses music answered; I do not wish mu- turntable, “South of the Border” by Nat in the most isolated form. The novel is Cole. Decades after separating structured so that odd numbered chapsic to lose its mystique. Ha- King from Shimamoto due to uncontrollable ters take place in the real world (the circumstances, she re-enters his life. hard-boiled wonderland) and follow a ruki Murakami gets this. Murakami’s love of music is undeniable; you’ll spot a reference in even the shortest of his stories. One of the major reasons Murakami has remained on top of the literary scene for over three decades is that his style is unlike any other writer. His prose may nod to Ernest Hemingway’s, but Murakami’s tempo is unique. To Murakami, music is as important to a good plot as any character. His love for music has titled two of his books, Norwegian Wood and South of the Border, West of the Sun¸ and is a major plot element in Kafka on the Shore as well as Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. Murakami uses music as a bonding agent, forming relationships between characters and bridging between this world and the ‘other.’ In the novel Norwegian Wood, the Beatles tune by the same name is what connects the protagonist, Toru, to an important autumn in 1969— one that he spent with a girl he loved, Naoko. Decades removed from that autumn, Toru hears the song when his plane touches down in Hamburg, Germany, catapulting the reader into the flashback that becomes the rest of the novel. Toru struggles to remember the scene at first. Without the song it wasn’t anywhere near the forefront of his consciousness. Murakami acknowledges the immeasurable power that music has to move us through time and space into one pinpointed moment in our lives. Music, in Murakami’s eyes (or ears, rather), is the most effective method at encapsulating a moment. Music transcends the

No Nat King Cole song necessary. Like some Pavlovian subject, Shimamoto just appears one night. In South of the Border, Murakami examines the dark side of music-based memories. The music played when the bond between Hajime and Shimamoto first formed, strengthening the intensity between them. So, when Shimamoto finally returned to Hajime’s life, bringing the music with her in the form of a gift, he naturally remembers the ecstasy of his youth. But Shimamoto doesn’t stay. When she leaves, she takes the music with her, crushing Hajime. Despite the glee he feels when he’s with her, her leaving sends him spiraling into poor health. He must choose between his wife and Shimamoto, a decision that he makes while being very ill with withdrawal-like symptoms. See the needle and the damage done. The title of the novel Kafka on the Shore comes from a song written by one of the supporting characters, Miss Saeki. It’s also the name of a portrait she painted that hangs in the library. After losing the love of her life to a tragic mistake during a college strike, she becomes a librarian and a recluse. She wrote the song when she was very young, and the protagonist, Kafka, connects with it. His friend procures him a copy of the LP and sheet music. Kafka plays it regularly, summoning the ghost of a young Miss Saeki to his room. He falls in love with her. Haunted by an Oedipal curse, Kafka ventures into the forest until he’s completely lost. Romping through a mystical village called the ‘End of the World,’ Kafka reunites with the young Miss

young, unnamed data processor, whose job is to encrypt data so competitors won’t be able to steal it. The even numbered chapters occur in a land known only as the End of the World, and these detail the life of a second nameless, shadowless protaganist, whose job is to read dreams at the library. These two protagonists are connected by “Danny Boy” sung by Bing Crosby. In the novel, the song bridges the gap between the real and metaphysical realms. Murakami also builds a bridge between the fictional world of the novel and the real world of the reader. “Danny Boy” is a real song; I could listen to it at this very moment. Ignoring the plot advancements, Haruki Murakami’s writing is steeped in musicality. Before becoming a writer in the late 1970’s, Murakami owned and operated jazz clubs throughout Tokyo. Musically, jazz is mostly improvisation. It meanders along at a comfortable pace to lull the listener into a state of relaxation, and then out of nowhere there’ll be a rapid tempo shift, or a sudden introduction of more instruments. Murakami’s writing follows a similar path. With his use of routines and intricate detailing of personal schedules, his readers get the sense that they’re reading more of a diary than a novel. Then, suddenly, there will be a rush of action, enough to accelerate the heartbeat. Murakami’s writing resonates within you. It gets stuck in your head, much like a song. But most importantly, like a great, great piece of music, Murakami’s writing leaves within all of us a unique sadness, knowing that we will never experience it for the first time again. A beautiful tragedy.

PHOTO: ANGELICA CRIMMINS 33

When Haruki Murakami announced that he was creating an advice website in late 2014, his fans worldwide experienced two distinct emotional responses: ecstasy and shock. First, they were euphoric that their beloved writer was making himself available to the public in the form of an internet uncle, one whom they can actively seek with questions about any aspect of life (submissions included the expected questions about love and life, but some stranger ones included inquiries about cat care). Second, his fans were shocked that the writer, a known recluse, was opening himself up to the masses. Isolation, which is often paired with and/or stems from loneliness, is a theme that Murakami explores extensively in most of his novels including the Love Trilolgy of HardBoiled Wonderland and the End of the World, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, and Kafka on the Shore. In these three novels, Murakami discusses the bond between loneliness and isolation. Norwegian Wood is the novel that first propelled Murakami to international fame as a writer, but The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle is the one that cemented him there. It is considered by many his opus, and for good reason. In over 600 pages, Murakami discusses several of his hallmark themes, but the major player in this novel is isolation coupled with loneliness. Toru Okada searches for his wife after she suddenly disappears whilst dealing with several strange events and even stranger people along the way. Toru describes how he feels lonely without his wife, but only every now and then. Of those moments Toru says, “The very water I drank, the very air I breathed, would feel like long, sharp needles.” But why does Toru experience the violent stab of loneliness only occasionally? Maybe Murakami is saying that loneliness is something that one grows tolerant of, or gets used to, and it is perfectly fine to do so, and even healthier to press on rather than wallow in it. Loneliness, to 34

Murakami, is like grief. It’s toxic, and prolonged exposure can lead to it completely consuming one’s life. But Murakami is also saying that it is good to feel the occasional fits, because that is human. Another key element of The WindUp Bird Chronicle is Toru’s experience with isolation. In his neighborhood is an abandoned house with a dry well in the front yard. On a whim, Toru one day climbs down into the well and sits there for several hours. He returns frequently and this becomes a kind of meditation for him. Through this well, Toru passes into a mystical realm. Toru is not an abnormally anti-social man, and in keeping with typical Murakami fashion, he’s so ordinary that one couldn’t pick him out of a line-up. Isolation, like loneliness, is often forced to carry a weight of negativity, probably because humans are naturally social creatures. The need for interaction is engrained in human D.N.A., and is the very basest biological and psychological motivator. In a time when everyone is connected via multiple routes (Facebook, Twitter, text messaging, etc.) an elevated state of connectedness combined with the human desire for contact makes isolation both detestable and rare. Toru finds himself through this isolation. He is pushed to his breaking point, and yet he comes out alive and stronger for the experience. Murakami abandons the preconceived beliefs about the negativity of loneliness and isolation, and instead crafts a new idea that the two are really the only way to experience one’s humanity and strengthen it. Isolation excludes others from possibly aiding or hindering an individual’s trial. As it turns out, man should be an island if he gets the chance. The isolation from Wind-Up is self-induced and leads to positive things, like discovering one’s personal capabilities. Auto-isolation can be a beneficial practice because of the personal revelations that may accompany it. But that’s what makes it so dangerous. That feeling of

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SE: COLIN CARDWELL LICA CRIMMINS

discovery becomes addicting, and the rest of the world becomes a threat. That perceived danger poisons the mind until it no longer thinks clearly, and overreacts when the world does come knocking. No matter how many walls are thrown up to seclude oneself from the outside world, the most important design in one’s blueprint are the doors. Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World is Murakami’s most sci-fi novel, and offers one of his most unique unique comments on isolation. The narrator, both ‘halves’ of him, are unnamed, which immediate ostracizes them from their community. They also hold jobs that demand isolation— the man in the Hard-Boiled Wonderland is a data processor, while the other half who resides in the End of the World is a dream interpreter. This novel is one where Murakami focuses more on the guaranteed breaking of your isolationist walls. Isolation is a foolish wish because true isolation can never be achieved. “Genius or fool, you don’t live in the world alone. You can hide underground or you can build a wall around yourself, but somebody’s going to come along and screw up the works,” says the protagonist. While Hard-Boiled focuses more on isolation than loneliness, Kafka on the Shore does the opposite. Its protagonist, Kafka Tamura, is a 15 year old runaway in Takamatsu. He’s younger than the typical Murakami protagonist, which allows readers to experience emotional episodes through more innocent eyes. Everything will hit him harder because he’s not used to it. That point of view is contrasted by the Kafka’s foil, Mr. Nakata, who is a feeble-minded elderly man with the ability to talk with cats. Nakata also spends most of his time alone. His age and experience give him a different vantage point on isolation. Nakata worked in a furniture factory, and towards the end of his life he found missing cats for people, so he was never truly alone. He feels no desire for human contact. Nakata experiences isolation, he just doesn’t care.

Kafka has had years of practice at living practically on his own, to the point where he prefers it. He ran away from home, escaping an Oedipal curse. He seeks refuge at a memorial library. He also lives for a few days in a cabin in the woods, far removed from civilization. He is obsessed with physical fitness, and he defends that obsession with the reasoning that he must be strong if he wants to survive. He explains his obsession to Miss Saeki, who responds: “‘There must be a limit to that kind of lifestyle, though. You can’t use that strength as a protective wall around you. There’s always going to be something stronger that can overcome your fortress.’” Murakami tries defining that limit. Kafka builds strength not to repel the overpowering force, but to absorb it, to be able to stand up to it, to endure it. Murakami is telling readers that isolation is healthy because it increases your inner strength, so you can bear whatever comes your way. But isolation can be dangerous if left unchecked. With such enormous strength, the mind shifts into a state that yearns to use it, and it begins identifying everything as a threat. Like many things in the human experience, isolation is like a scale; one must be ever vigilant, lest the scales be tipped in your opposition. Murakami shows us that dwelling in seclusion can lead to a life devoid of meaning. He stresses that one must build the strength to endure, then return from seclusion to face whatever challenges you. It appears that Murakami heeded President Kennedy’s advice, but did his praying at the bottom of a well.

Or Should I Say, She Once Had me IN WHICH OUR HEROES SEARCH FOR THE MISSING PIECES OF THEMSELVES.

The summit of all human knowledge throughout history would not be enough to crack the code of the heart. Love heals, hurts, revives, and it kills. Love is the anchor that ties Murakamiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s protagonist to conflict. In Sputnik Sweetheart, K is drawn to Greece to find Sumire, whom he desperately loves; and

in The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, every event that occurs for Toru is rooted in his love for his wife. Of his thirteen novels, Murakami has a trilogy of love stories, beginning in 1987 with Norwegian Wood, continuing in 1992 with South of the Border, West of the Sun and Sputnik Sweetheart in 1999.

Norwegian Wood gave Murakami the recognition he deserved, in a vein similar to the four lads from Liverpool. In a book built exclusively on the idea of love. The greatest example of such devotion is a conversation about love between the protagonist, Toru, and the girl he fancies, Midori.

Midori says she was always loved somewhere between not enough and not at all. Midori then relents that she’s not so naïve as to think that perfect love exists, but what she’s looking for is “perfect selfishness.” She describes a scenario where a suitor buys her strawberry shortcake at the drop of a hat, only to find that she’s lost her appetite for strawberry shortcake. She proceeds to throw it out of a window. The suitor, so enamored with Midori, offers to buy her something else, like chocolate mousse or cheesecake. It is only after that long anecdotal scenario that she says, “So then I’d give him all the love he deserves for what he’s done.” That’s what love is to her; that’s what love is to Murakami: selfishness. Love is almost always looked at as a positive entity because of the beautiful things that often come from it, anything from children to charities. But it is inherently selfish. To be in love to the point where it’s sickening, just the thought of being without that person is enough to derail you—that burden on a human being is something that would crush even Atlas. Those relationships that work out are beautiful beyond measure, but, as Newton would have it, the ones that don’t work out are dark, horrible things that beg reason and demand blame. It is nearly always placed on the former-partner. They hurt me. Selfish. Love is a human emotion, and it is selfish because of that very reason: it is human. Junkies are selfish individuals, and love has made junkies of us all. In the second installment of Murakami’s love trilogy, South of the Border, West of the Sun, he contemplates love through the lens of a middle-aged man struggling with morality. Hajime meets Shimamoto when he is just twelve years old. He loves her without knowing that it is love. As circumstance would have it, Hajime’s family moves away. Years later during the middle of his life, Shimamoto suddenly re-enters Hajime’s world, and all of the lust, love, desire, and compassion he held for her decades ago come rushing back. In one scene, Hajime and Shimamoto, attend the concert of a famous South American pianist who is playing the same Liszt concerto that they listened to as kids. Hajime can’t connect with the music. On the LP they would listen to, there was a scratch at one point, and without it he can’t really feel the music.

Love is unique. Once it is gone it can not be recreated or facsimiled again. In South of the Border, West of the Sun¸ love to Murakami is heartbreakingly fragile. Without that imperfection on the vinyl, one tiny portion of one revolution out of 33 1/3, Hajime cannot fully experience the moment. Love is often attributed strength. It’s love that will help someone through a difficult time. It’s love that allows them to carry on, or to get back up. But love is just the lens through which one finds their strength. The lens itself is just fragile glass made of the memories and dreams spent and shared with those we love, glass that can shatter with the slightest provocation. The pain we feel with a love lost is just the cuts from the shards of broken glass, broken dreams turned into nightmares. In Sputnik Sweetheart, K is in love with Sumire, who friend-zones him, which can be seen as cruel. The love that Murakami describes in this novel isn’t the love between Sumrie and K, but the love between Sumire and Miu. In the opening paragraph of the novel, Murakami describes a love that is different from the two preceding novels:

pact propels one forward into the unknown, despite all logical thought processes urging the opposite. Murakamiis saying that love, though fragile and dangerous, is worth it. The heartache of a failed love is better than the void possessed by someone who has never loved. Without love, one lacks a major source of inspiration, inspiration that could lead to the greatest achievement of your life. Murakami’s message in Sputnik Sweetheart is that love is indeed selfish and fragile, but its impact touches beyond the two lovers. In a way not dissimilar to a fire devouring a forest, or Murakami’s own tornado sweeping across the plains, love can jump from soul to soul, returning a mere ember to an inferno once again. These traits of love are the pieces of a cycle Murakami has created in his trilogy. It begins with the selfish act of falling in love. The sparks fly, the fire catches, and in the heat the lens is forged. Inspiration is gained for you to improve yourself, to provide more fully what one dreams for. Then tragically the lens shatters, the glass cuts, and the the fire dies, reduced to nothing but

"AN INTENSE LOVE, A VERITABLE TORNADO SWEEPING ACROSS THE PLAINS, FLATTENING EVERYTHING IN ITS PATH, TOSSING THINGS UP IN THE AIR, RIPPING THEM TO SHREDS, CRUSHING THEM TO BITS. THE TORNADO’S INTENSITY DOESN’T ABATE FOR A SECOND AS IT BLASTS ACROSS THE OCEAN, LAYING WASTE TO ANGKOR WAT, INCINERATING AN INDIAN JUNGLE, TIGERS AND ALL, TRANSFORMING ITSELF INTO A PERSIAN DESERT SANDSTORM, BURYING AN EXOTIC FORTRESS CITY UNDER A SEA OF SAND. IN SHORT, A LOVE OF TRULY MONUMENTAL PROPORTIONS." Throughout the novel Sumire describes the intensity of her feelings for Miu in ways similar to this. While this kind of love certainly sounds destructive, this type of love gives us the courage to do great things. In Sputnik Sweetheart, Murakami tells us that love is inspiration, wrought from passion the way water is wrought from a soaked cloth: easily and in multitudes. In the novel Sumire’s love for Miu delivers her into a new world. This time around, Murakami’s love is not so much about source as it is about the impact that it has on our lives. That im-

a coal buried in ash for what seems an eternity, until one day the selfish wind blows and reignites the flame, and the lens is forged again, better and more brilliant than before. This cycle of pain and pleasure, of agony and ecstasy is what drives us forward. In the age of the one-night-stand, Murakami asks you to discern the difference between love and lust, between biology and psychology. His system of love is a cycle that sustains itself. From the man who wrote Norwegian Wood comes a singular message: love is all you need.

THE MURAKAMI-VERSE: COLIN CARDWELL PHOTOS: ANGELICA CRIMMINS

THERE IS NO POINT I N G ROWI NG U P There is no point in growing up, No hand holding No script following Just. There is no point in growing up, Time’s squashed Super forward linear progression All Zodiacs are the same. Is no, not it is not so, is it Because there is no point in growing up, Stay in bed with your shoes on for five hours Chronic tardiness. When it’s crossed, there is no line, no flag, Lots of exhaust and obese NASCAR fans, When crossed, There’s just no point in growing up. Buy candy if it wants to be bought, Count carpet threads until morning, Look upside down at the top of thirteen stairs, Bear’s jump north poking milk trucks. And then Just, Please shut up.

POETRY: RAND BURGESS 38

PAIRS NICELY WITH: THERE IS NO POINT IN GROWING UP The animated docu-drama Waking Life (2001) that explores dream-like realities. or the animated postapocolyptic science fantasy film Wizards (1977) HOW IT ENDS The album Wrapped in the Guise of my Friend by Attrition HOLY DOUGH: Any cat with bread on their head.

“How It Ends”

BY: RAND BURGESS

Rand is a writer, father, gamer, escaped asylum patient. He finds inspirational roots in just about everything, but is heavily swayed by the works of H.P. Lovecraft and the weird/speculative fiction produced by his contemporaries. He focuses on the short story, but seeks adventure in all artistic forms ranging from awfully taken photos to experimental flash animations.

“Holy Dough”

PHOTOS: RAND BURGESS 39

A SE US S I AN TALE :

AN R S C L P RODUC T IO N I N AS S OC I AT IO N WI T H COAC H ’ S HAUSE Let me tell you a tale, let me tell you a tale Let me tell you a tale that’s as big as a whale Let me tell you the tale of the Dope Telescope The scope that is dope, and is hung from a rope The scope that is dope was made on a hill On the hill it is still, that hill of all hills On the hill of all hills lived the Wrigly M’Gills O the scopes on the hill, on hill it is still Well the Wrigly M’Gills made their homes on the ground On that hill, on the ground, they had Tangey Town And in the centre of town lay the Dope Telescope The scope that is dope, and is hung from a rope Through the scope on the rope you could see the whole moon And the moon was the home of the Red Mommagoons And all good Gills knew that a Goon was a loon And those loons on the moon would learn all too soon For the Wrigly M’Gills had constructed a ship A ship built for a trip, a trip on their ship! The M’Gills took a trip all the way to the moon To visit the land of the Red Mommagoons And the Chip of the ship was a young man named Rip The man took no lip and was raring to trip For he’d gazed through the scope at the Red Mommagoons And was longing to visit their wonderful moon When the next day came round they set off for the town That town on the mound they’d glimpsed on the way down In the town on the mound lived the Red Mommagoons There the Wrigly M’Gills would reach all the too soon The Red Mommagoons met the men with no fear For they looked quite alike, except for their gear The Wrigly M’Gills wore shirts and tan trousers While the Red Mommagoons wore naught but their yousers!

POETRY: SUE DENIM 40

And Maggie, she witnessed their very first meeting A meeting of greeting, the greetiest greetings But the Wrigly M’Gills saw nothing in common Those red-bellied monkeys scarcely covered their yahmans! And Maggie looked on as the two struck a deal They shook hands and sat down and shared a good meal The deal they had made let the new people stay They could stay quite a stay ‘fore they went on their way But the Wrigly M’Gills hatched a plan of their own They wanted the moon to be part of their home They loved it so much they did not want to leave For the water was sweet and the ground made of cheese

PAIRS NICELY WITH: Dr. Suess, obviously

BY: SUE DENIM

Sue is currently a junior at SOU, majoring in history. He is on the track and cross-country teams. He enjoys procrastinating on homework assignments and long walks in the park.

So they built up a fort, using wood from their ship And the Chip of the ship called an end to their trip And poor Maggie was sad, cause now her pop Rip Could no longer sail home on his beautiful ship And the Red Mommagoons, they began to get worried Their new friends did not seem to be in a hurry And soon the Gills’ fort was as big as the town That town on the mound they glimpsed on the way down And I think, yes I do, you can guess what comes next Miss Maggie, she watched it unfold quite perplexed Through the Dope Telescope she saw men take the moon And all that was left of the Red Mommagoons Was their town on the mound, now razed to the ground, For there weren’t any Red Mommagoons still around They had left when the Wrigly M’Gills started building their city They had fled to the woods to live with their pity And thus ends the tale of the Dope Telescope The scope that is dope, and is hung from a rope And thus ends the tale of the Red Mommagoons The fine and proud people who lived on the moon.

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED at www.siskiyou.sou.edu 41

The polar bear swim made you forget your pants in our student government classroom

I’m the kind of nauseated where I smell bad memories

When I was a secretary and had to remember to remind you to do your homework that was the only reason I got a facebook

I cried today cause you quit football I thought you were going to leave leave me my dad played steamroller and sometimes thunder with us I miss their water bed sometimes I miss the peanut butter and jelly announcements sometimes he built a dog house near where my sister stuck my hand in a colony of black ants and they crawled up my arm and I cried but he left me he left us I cried cause I’d miss you I cried cause you don’t know I still love you But he makes me smile

Why did you decide to get dreads when your hair was movie star fabulous?

Taking me up to the spot where rape and murders happened I met your uncle he’s been dead something happened we both know he’s with me forever and it is your fault.

Christmas morning isn’t the same unless I watch The Polar Express with the Christmas Tree lights the only thing shining.

I call myself crazy I can’t believe you did

Sometimes I want to scream or punch or slap or bite but I don’t cause I’m a fucking lady POETRY: DANIELLE OLSON

I would bury my feelings forever as long as you do not walk out on me

PAIRS NICELY WITH: The animated film The Polar Express at 5 am all alone in your Christmas pajamas or Chris Farley’s "Van Down by the River" sketch or the Blink 182 album Neighborhoods real loud in your dorm room

S E L ECT I O N S F R O M

HOT MESS

BY: DANIELLE OLSON

Danielle is a graduating student from SOU with a degree in creative writing. She hopes to complete and publish her poetry chapbook among other writings within the next year. In the mean time, she’ll be working on becoming a kickboxing instructor. 43

SOJU & SHENANIGANS Koreans drink. Koreans drink hard. This I know not from some assumption about a different culture or some movie, but because I was there. And I drank hard with them. A few years back, I was lucky enough to receive a scholarship to attend a college in South Korea. I applied on a whim, never anticipating the reality that I might be packing a human-sized suitcase, getting a ‘congratulations’ cake from my aunt, and sitting in a plane for 16 hours to cross an ocean and arrive in Seoul. But I did. I left my family waving at the airport, and entered a world entirely foreign to me. Any previous knowledge I had of the country was directly related to the fact that it was the southerly neighbor to North Korea. I knew nothing about the culture or heritage. Nothing of the near stranglehold that K-pop had on some of my future friends, the geopolitical power the country was growing into, the booming economy and population, the commonality of plastic surgery, the underlying Confucian culture that resulted from being a sort of filter between China and Japan, the diversity of its landscapes, the amazing spicy foods that I crave now in my sleep, and least of all: its pervasive drinking culture.

The nation seems to have a ‘work hard, play hard’ kind of ethic. It is not unusual for students to forego sleep in pursuit of their studies, and the working population works long hours and sleeps little. As a whole, they chase after greatness in whatever field they are in, and with what little spare time they have, they go out. I lived in the international dorms with other students from Korea, the US, Canada, Finland, Japan, England, Cambodia, China, Mexico, and other countries. Although we were all studious and focused, we found time to unwind together. The college was on the top of a small hill, and at the bottom of the hill was the small town of Shinchang ( ). Shinchang is a small, hardworking, rural community town not unlike Phoenix, Oregon. A small community center with inhabitants living in a web around it, coming into town for groceries, social activities, and fuel for their vehicles. There were three bars of note, and numerous restaurants within walking distance. Our suite, usually joined by another, would walk down the hill together and eat dinner, usually followed by soju and shenanigans.

NONFICTION: RYAN LOUGHREY 44

Soju ( ), the hard alcohol of choice, has been likened to vodka in the sense that it is colorless, strong without breaking the bank, and associated strongly with one nation. The first time you taste it you think that someone has played a cruel practical joke on you and your face contorts in a very attractive way. Although it never tastes good, after a while it will stop tasting like something a rural doctor would pour over wounds. Soju does play well with others. Notable mixed drinks are sepsi (soju pepsi), so-mek (a combination of soju and maekju, which is a generic term for beer), soju and orange juice, or simply soju and flavors like grape, strawberry, watermelon (0/10, would not recommend this one), or lime (10/10, would recommend). We wanted to experience them all. Drinking etiquette is important in South Korea. The extent of this in America is perhaps the yelling of “party foul” when something embarrassing happens, not sleeping with your friends’ boyfriends or girlfriends, and throwing up nicely in toilets rather than on carpets. How does a student drink in Korea? Age has a lot to with it. I eventually caught onto the fact that when everyone clinks glasses and proclaims Cheers! (chan in casual Korean and gampai for formal Korean), people in younger grades take their drinks facing away from those who are older. It is a quick, fluid, and practiced motion: the bringing of the glass to the mouth with the slight twist of the neck before downing the alcohol. It would be moderately disrespectful not to. Lowerclassmen should drink what upperclassmen offer. And by the same token of respect, upperclassmen will take care of drunk lowerclassmen. So, they can offer all the alcohol they want, as long as they are prepared to deal with the consequences. One of my favorite aspects of drinking with Koreans is the games that inevitably come after dinner, in that wondrous twilight of being buzzed and drunk. Forget flip cup, beer pong, King’s Cup. In Korea, the games that take place at the table and are generally good-natured, fast paced, involve a lot of chanting, singing, and movement. As soon as one game ends the next one quickly begins. Some games involve counting and quick thinking, and although seem simple, the drunker one gets, the more games he/ she/they will lose. If two people lose a game simultaneously (i.e. perhaps they both act out of turn) they will have to take a “couple shot” or a “love shot,” where they wrap arms and drink out of each other’s glasses. If the two of them mess up again, they will have to take it to “level two,” where they embrace and drink their drinks over the other persons shoulder. Level three sees one sitting on the other’s lap while embracing and drinking over the other persons shoulder. For levels four and above, use your imagination. At the end of the night, we would stumble up the hill, laughing and propping each other up, filled with happy memories and damaged livers. Non-Koreans soon took to Korean drinking games and culture, slowly and either consciously or unconsciously adapting to the pace of the lifestyle. Of course, too soon we were to disperse back to our respective homes, taking some of the culture with us, and I’m sure leaving some behind us.

PAIRS NICELY WITH: The tune "Americano" by the Korean indie band 10cm. The song is catchy, upbeat, and fun, equal parts ridiculous and serious, shows a love of coffee and humanity, and in all of that, of course, is a microcosm for Korea itself.

BY: RYAN LOUGHREY

Ryan is a student at SOU, studying media and environmental studies. He is a writer, photographer, ocean lover, and traveler. Most days, he can be found either at coffeeshops or somewhere lost in nature.

ART: ANGELICA CRIMMINS 45

WE ASKED 22 MANNEQUINS TO SAY S this make-a-wish kid couldn’t decide what he wanted so they slid him along the deli counter like a sandwich and we all watched quietly like at a funeral because we couldn’t do much surrounded afterwards we snuck out into the rain and pulled our coats tighter against the bite and you looked at me and we knew that these were the last days this photographer revealed the human side of our enemies and we hated him for it, we hated knowing that this was our fault that somehow this was inescapable less than ten percent of americans can draw tim robbins do you remember saying ‘are you ready to make a difference?’ do you remember taking the pledge? and the thirteen next level clapping alternatives and the burning houses and the lonely streets and the empty cars i showed you how to hold a gun and you showed me all the ways they can kill a man and i will always remember that you like your whiskey straight we are five barely smoked cigarettes that could only have been discarded by demigods of opulence we are passengers on this screaming red bus

POETRY: ALLISON STEIN 46

PAIRS NICELY WITH: The BuzzFeed parody website www.clickhole.com

SOMETHING IF THEY COULD HEAR US every night we fall a little further down where did your prophet go? the nights around the campfire, the promises that she would never keep sometimes i would stay up thinking she might just end her life with dignity at the snapping jaws of twenty hungry wolves but then they found her deep in the appalachian mountains ruling from her extravagant palace of entitlements and we don’t see her anymore and what a year it’s been! doctors said you’d never be a pallbearer and now you hoist fourteen caskets a week we hid under twisted metal and talked about what it was like before the women huddled on the sides of the street pulling out their hair and we agreed that the skyline looks so much more beautiful on fire here are the five best private schools in america and here are the graveyards the sun is blacking out

BY: ALLISON STEIN Allison is a writing enthusiast trapped in a communications major’s body. She enjoys cute Corgi pictures, post apocalyptic dystopias, and the Oxford comma.

ILLUSTRATION: CECELIA CRIMMINS 47

We had everything we needed that night. The candles, the gloves, the bee and the bird catcher. We had everything we needed but not everything we might need. No drugs, no therapist, no good way out. The gloves, of course, made it easier, same as the costumes. Something about getting in slowly. About one step at a time. Because through a shirt I could feel too much. Because in our normal clothes we mattered too much. And when she said Clothes off? I closed off. And when she said Who are you? I said I’m a lot of people. And when she said Will any of them fuck me? I thought about it and finally said Some would but none will. Those are minority me’s. And while I thought about how clever that was she said Oh my God and spun away, knocking me in the side with her stinger. I leaned back on the headboard, relieved. She swiped a candle off the nightstand and chucked it out the window. It’s dry, I said. She shrugged. You wanna burn down the neighborhood? She shrugged. I thought about getting up to check for fire but didn’t. I thought about the kids who seemed happy hugging in the street and about bridging the gap. I said You knew this going in. Nothing. We talked about it and you said fine. Without turning around she grabbed my net and threw that out the window too. Which was no biggie. It’d been worse. I sat up and pulled off my safari hat and frisbeed it onto the carpet, prepping my speech. But before I could tell her again the havoc an upbringing in The Church could wreak on one’s sexual esteem, before detailing the gross distortions of mind that shame inevitably engendered, she launched at me and we tumbled off the mattress into the wall.

FLASH FICTION: ERIC GHELFI 48

PAIRS NICELY WITH: The tune "Tranquilize" by The Killers

BEE

BY: ERIC GHELFI

Eric Ghelfiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s traveled many miles wearing little clothing--sometimes for competition, others for his mental clarification. Admirer of written arts, philosophical thinkers, and musical acrobats, he studies all kinds of things at SOU. In his spare time he plays the drums, chips away at the stack of books under his desk, and folds bandanas into headbands. Bio courtesy of Eli Stillman.

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED at www.siskiyou.sou.edu 49

D O W N HILL

PAIRS NICELY WITH:

BY: ELI STILLMAN Eli has been an athlete, a dirtball, and a fine artist. He currently serves as Editor in chief of The Siskiyou. In his spare time he runs, reads Cormac McCarthy novels, and tends to his leopard gecko, Nora.

FLASH NONFICTION: ELI STILLMAN ILLUSTRATION: CECELIA CRIMMINS

The tune "Heartbeats" by The Knife

My Batman bike was the first one I had ever owned with gears. Sometimes I would still pedal backwards hoping to activate brakes. “Apply them slowly both at once, Eli!” My mom’s coaching words rung through my ears everytime I pedaled in reverse but met no resistance. Hands brakes were a new demon to conquer. At this precise moment, the calm directions I’d been given in the field at home weren’t resonating with me. As I barreled down a smooth paved hill at Lake Siskiyou campground, I was terrified by the speed of cars passing on my side. As I finally remembered to brake with my hands, a small colorful flash was in front of my face. It was only there a fraction of a second, but a new terror had been built upon the disappearance of the bee. I could hear it. My imagination? No, it was trapped in one of the curls protruding from out of my helmet. I removed one white-knuckled hand and attempted to swat the trapped little bug, but nearly swerved into a GMC Yukon passing on my left. The hill continued at this point. I felt like it was taking me to the depths of hell. This is it, this is how it ends. At the bottom of the hill was the convenience store where I’d gotten ice cream with my mom only hours before...fitting that the pleasant little shop would be where they would pull out my swollen and bruised body. Dear god, another car was passing and I tried to only look out of the corner of my eye as to not get sucked towards it. Terror-stricken, I checked the upcoming three-way stop and saw that it, by some cosmic good luck, was completely clear of cars! I banked away from the vehicle that had been unsuccessful at passing me the last two seconds and hit a long stretch of flat pavement. At the first moment that I was able to jump off of my bike, I did. I felt like Indiana Jones, but it hurt way worse then he made it look. The roll was executed fairly well. By fairly well I mean that I only hit my face once on the rocky side path, but I shed my helmet as soon as I had halted. My hair-tangled passenger friend was nowhere to be found, thank god. I can only imagine how scared he was. With a bloody nose and watery eyes I began walking my bike up the steep hill that I had just barreled down. I hoped my mom wouldn’t be too mad. At least it wasn’t like last year, when I hit a parked car and took a tailgate to the teeth. It’s not that I’m bad on my bike, but I get too excited and try daring tricks...Too many action movies probably. 51

PAIRS NICELY WITH: The tune "Pure Imagination" by Maroon 5 PHOTOS BY: RICAH YOKOI Instagram: @ricahyokoi Follow for the most magical island eye candy that you ever did see.

TARGET & THE UNRAVELING OF THINGS

But

on days when the air hangs in such a way that it clusters the clouds in a particular formation that sends droplets diving into matted grass or sea, I’ll think of an old best friend. When I feel the sun touching certain patches of my skin, or when raspberries stain certain fingertips, it is you. We were always waiting for our swim suits to dry. You sat crisscross-apple-sauce on my trampoline and I jumped as hard as I could to make you burst like popcorn. Instead, you just unraveled. You with the spaghetti arms and legs, who

loved a boy with spaghetti hair. I loved him too, but had no spaghetti features. What happened between us wasn’t like the swift demolition of an old building. It was like the slow construction of Target in our hometown. We all knew it would come, but couldn’t fight quite hard enough to stop it. Now it bares its bones on asphalt acreage where the old Asian market used to be, with a slashed up black tarp guarding forklifts and metal scraps. Because an unseen suit in an unseen office somewhere said it was okay.

It waits there like a promise. To be a safe haven for straying tourists in sandy flip flops to buy beach toys and bottled water, instead of a familiar pit stop for hungry locals in rubber slippers to pick up a six pack and fresh fish. They say it will be an employment opportunity— one that you and your friends from your new private school would never have to take. The faces in my yearbook, though, will stand there in the air conditioning, bagging plastic in plastic. You didn’t care for my boyfriend. Even though he was in a band and

FLASH NONFICTION: ANGELICA CRIMMINS 54

PAIRS NICELY WITH: The 3 minute animated flash video "Badenture" via YouTube or The tune "Santeria" by Sublime

his house appeared in Sunset magazine in 1952. It was the first model house in the entire town. People sometimes snap pictures of it on their way to the beach. If his mom can’t keep up with the double mortgage, it might someday be a Marriott. There’s still a little green deli at the beach’s entrance. I pass it when I walk there from his house. I never stop and sit at the wooden picnic tables we carved our names into, where we’d sip Snapple in the shade and trade the facts from underneath bottle caps.

You hated birthdays, I learned. We would skip school together on those days and spend them out at sea. At your sixth birthday party, you locked yourself in your room. Your parents were left with a gaggle of kindergarteners and clowns in their backyard while you cried hysterically. Your older sister blew your candles out and sent us home with cake wrapped in tin foil. When you chose a house party over my sweet sixteen, I reminded myself of this fact. Our whole town was once a grove of swaying coconut trees. I tell myself I can’t stay crestfallen forever,

because there’s still the ocean. But whenever I peel lychee or start the last page of a novel, I’ll have to snap my gum loud enough for you to leave me alone.

BY: ANGELICA CRIMMINS Angelica daydreams and makes things.

ART: ANGELICA CRIMMINS 55

PAIRS NICELY WITH: The tune "Everything you do is a balloon" by Boards of Canada BY: DEVON KRAUSE Instagram: @devonkrause Facebook: The Art of Devon Krause

PAINTING: DEVON KRAUSE 56

FANTASY L A N D

Basically I fucked up. Basically I royally fucked up. Sometimes you know you’ve fucked up and you’re kind of, like, c’est la vie or whatever and then you move on feeling slightly wiser but also stupid because of that time you fucked up. This wasn’t like that. This was something else entirely. This was me shivering in a room alone because no one would talk to me. I had fucked up. It had started out, as most mistakes do, innocently enough. I had only intended to drink, like, maybe one drink at the party. The party that, by the way, I didn’t want to go to. I hate parties. And I hate Briana. So, why would I have chosen to go to a party at Briana’s? I wouldn’t have. Becks wanted me to go. And Becks always gets her way. And Matt said he’d go, too, so really it couldn’t possibly be that bad. That’s what Becks assured me. Shows what you know, Becks. I had more than one drink, I think that’s not surprising. I had sought out the first drink myself. I had actively looked for the good stuff before the good stuff was gone. The second drink was Matt’s fault. He had grabbed something fruity he didn’t like. I didn’t either, but I drank it anyway. Girlfriend obligation, Becks called it. Briana was dance-flailing to Beyonce and scream-singing that everyone hail Queen B. And people were laughing and generally down until it became clear that she seriously wanted people on their knees, bowing and shit. It was fucked up. But not as fucked up as me, I guess, since people still like Briana. So, I drank Matt’s sickeningly sweet syrup cause I figured Briana would be more tolerable if she was blurry. She was. Then Matt disappeared. I looked for him and everything. He was nowhere. Which usually meant he was smoking. I hated it when Matt was high, he knew that. And Becks knew, too. She sympathized with me by feeding me shots. It was probably vodka but I think the second one was maybe rum. Everything was starting to taste the same, like Matt’s pink drink. I didn’t feel well. I should’ve left then but the logistics seemed impossible to me. Like physics. Or advanced trig. Becks didn’t want to leave, so she prescribed another drink for me. I had lost count of drinks. I had lost track of Matt. I hate parties. The guy who handed me that drink was named Kevin, I think. Or Gavin, maybe. He had already graduated but was the kind of guy who never really left high school. He probably brought some of the beer. Turns out he had brought harder shit too. I thought it was Tylenol. Or maybe I just wanted to believe it was Tylenol, if we’re being real. I shook my head no while taking the drink anyway. I didn’t want it, I told him, because I had a headache.

FICTION: SAVANNAH TRUE RANDALL 57

So, he handed me the little pill and said it would make it go away. What is it? I asked. Except it came out, “wassit?” Pain reliever, Kevin/Gavin said. I guess he didn’t technically lie. So I swigged the beer or whatever and took the little pill. And pretty soon the room was spinning. Not normal drunk spinning, but, like, Alice In Wonderland spinning. Or Roger Rabbit’s Car Toon Spin spinning. Or Mister Toad’s Wild Ride spinning. I thought a lot about Disneyland when I was high, I found out. I’ve heard I ran around trying to get people to form lines to ride the Matterhorn. People were amused at that point. Maybe a little annoyed, too, but mostly amused. It was when I started looking for True Love’s Kiss that I first misstepped. I still couldn’t find Matt, although who knows if I would’ve recognized him. Everyone looked like characters to me. My mouth was dry and sticky and my palms felt clammy. I thought maybe I was having an allergic reaction to dinner. I wanted to get pizza. Becks wanted sushi. Guess what we ate? Fucking Becks. I was mad at her and looking for my prince. I found Julian first. He could’ve been a prince, I guess. But he wasn’t my prince. Where was Matt? It didn’t matter. I kissed Julian anyways. People would’ve gotten over that. Everyone does stupid shit when they’re drunk. Everyone makes out with random people sometimes. Matt might have been mad or he might have just laughed. He probably would’ve gotten a kick out of it. He would’ve thought it was funny I kissed Becks’ ex. Beck’s ex sounded so fucking hilarious to me. I started to giggle uncontrollably. Then I started to sing It’s A Small World – because, you know what? It IS a small world. I had just kissed my best friend’s ex-boyfriend who was a prince. What a crazy small world. Becks hadn’t seen. I think someone else saw and told her. She came looking for me and I knew I was in trouble. I was Snow White and she was the huntsman and all the drunk, sweaty bodies were those scary trees in the woods that claw at her dress. It was the scariest shit. I had to find the cottage with the seven dwarves. I know it sounds ridiculous, I know that. But that’s seriously where my mind was. Get to the cottage. Find the dwarves. I was up the stairs and pushing open Briana’s bedroom door when I saw the Queen. I remembered her dance-flailing, yelling at her subjects to bow to her. The Queen was kissing my prince. Fuck, no, I thought. I am a fucking Disney princess. No one steals my prince. I took the field hockey stick leaning behind the bedroom door and swung. No poison apples for me, bitch, I think I might have said. Matt was screaming, what have you done, what have you done. Briana lay crumpled on the ground.

FICTION: SAVANNAH TRUE RANDALL 58

Have you been to Disneyland? You know how, like, the Snow White ride starts off with birds tweeting and shit and you turn a corner and the witch is in your face? I always screamed when that happened. I knew it was coming but it scared me anyways. That’s what sobering up was like. Blood pooled on the ground around Briana’s head. Blood as red as Snow White’s lips. It was so fucked up. I was so fucked up.

BY: SAVANNAH TRUE RANDALL Savannah is a creative writing student at SOU. She sings a lot, has an upside down tattoo, and looks foward to watching Pretty Little Liars on FaceTime with her sister every week. PAINTING: DEVON KRAUSE 59

HAPPY THURSDAY

POETRY: SAVANNAH TRUE RANDALL 60

(You’re in the desert. What kind of desert is it?)

PAIRS NICELY WITH: The David Lynch television series "Twin Peaks"

Write that novel, she told you, share your story But every time you see a map of America, you see the bedroom wall and all the invisible pins (You see a cube. What is its size? What’s it made of? Wood? Matte metal?) She took you to the house she grew up in The last place she was truly at home In return, you showed her yours (Now, there is a ladder. Does it stand alone? Is it resting on the cube? Is it sturdy?)

And you drove, you and she, on Interstate 84 from Salt Lake City to Snoqualmie Falls You fell asleep between scratchy sheets in a sketchy motel and woke up for cherry pie and black coffee You stole a mug from the diner while she caused a distraction which now gathers dust in the back of your cupboard The mug, not the distraction (You notice a horse in the desert. What does it do? Does it interact with the cube?) The two of you were a museum Displaying rings of bone and champagne diamonds A necklace in the shape of Palestine Teeny, tiny bottles of liquor And an Audrey Hepburn calendar with both your schedules in ink (Suddenly, a storm. What kind of storm is it? How does it affect the cube? The ladder? The horse?) Twelve viewings of The Little Mermaid and both of you with one hundred and two degree fevers Your skin burned and your muscles hurt too much to touch so you slept feet to head and head to feet But even Disney animation couldn’t make you feel better (There are flowers growing in the desert. Can you see them? What kind are they?) Crystalized sugar baked into the crust of a rhubarb cobbler this time last year And you made couscous and falafel in a guilty offering You laid the tzatziki on thick

(What does it all mean?) Apricot jam goes well with rosemary bread – (The cube is you) And rosemary bread goes well with lovers. (The ladder is your friends) You kept the ring of bones – (The horse is your relationship) But left the promises. (The storm is your obstacles) Yellow paper notes still fall from between the pages of your (The flowers are your children) books – Write that novel.

SITKA BEAR

This is a true tale from back in the day when I was about 25 or so, working and living in beautiful Sitka, Alaska. The local pulp mill, Alaska Lumber & Pulp, had hired me for a spell as a maintenance man. The pay was Davis Bacon, which for you non-union types means top dollar. This was over 30 years ago, and my hourly wage was about $23. Not only did I get my required 40, but overtime was abundant as well. My stash was fat, but there weren’t many places to spend it, as Sitka is like a supermodel, the prettiest around but too damn skinny. There weren’t many places to live and the rentals one could find were hella expensive. Since Sitka is a town situated in the heart of nature, I purchased a large tent and lived in the woods. Several of my coworkers joined me and pretty soon we had a nice campsite. Now this wasn’t some sort of homeless campsite. This was a sweet campsite with stoves, tables and chairs, a porta potty for visitors, and we all had our own large tents. Our hygienic needs were attended to by the workplace; it had large showers and lockers for employees. The only burden was bringing food up to the campsite, as we were on top of a hill, in an Aspen grove surrounded by Sitka Spruce, with filtered views of the Pacific Ocean. Camping in Alaska back then was about as safe as it could be. There was nothing out there but us, God, and nature. We were working 70-80 hours per week, sometimes more; so we had bucket-loads of money but no time to spend it. Finally we had a period where the work slacked for a few days, giving us a free weekend to have a little R & R. The hotspot in town was a waterhole called the Pioneer Bar. It had pool tables, a shuffleboard, a long bar, a piano, and a restaurant. You could drink until 5 A.M., go have breakfast in the restaurant, then go home. Everybody that was anybody hung out at the Pioneer. The Pioneer respected this and looked the other way when substances were being smoked, and allowed competent piano players to tickle the ivories. On this particular weekend off, it was right in the middle of spring. Sitka was in full bloom and the day was lovely. My buddies and I decided to spend some time at the Pioneer and perhaps get lucky with the ladies. There were three of us and as the evening turned into night, we were fortunate to find three lovely lasses that were content with our acquaintance. We danced and drank until the break of dawn with breakfast at 5 A.M. I was

bics all night long. When we were full of breakfast and coffee, we all six started heading up to the campsite— three lucky guys and three compassionate gals. Walking along the shoreline we burned a few joints and made our way to the base of the hill. Now, in case you weren’t aware, it’s kinda hard to get a hot babe back to your tent… it just doesn’t work out most times. Considering that we were going to a tent, up a hill and in the woods, made it even more challenging. So my buddies and I were being as polite and courteous as we knew how. In Alaska back then, you could carry a gun pretty much anywhere you went. Mine was a black Colt 1911, 45 ACP. It was pretty. I had a black leather holster for it and carried it on my hip. I don’t recall the caliber of my buddies’ guns, but they were strong enough to hopefully slow down or kill a predator, if need be. All three of us were packing on that fateful morning. We were about halfway up the hill, all six of us having a jolly time, when suddenly a huge grizzly bear appeared out of the mist. We all stared in silence for a few seconds, then me and my buddies drew our firearms and emptied them into that bruin. In just a minute or two there was gun smoke wafting all around us, the sounds of gunshots reverberating in the air. The bear just stood there. I was waiting for him to fall when a sliver of sunlight pierced the mist to reveal that our ‘grizzly bear’ was just an old tree stump. That’s when everything went catawampus! The fine young women, who had dedicated themselves to being kind, caring and compassionate to us hardworking nature-loving men, began screaming as they turned and ran down the hill. I was mystified. Didn’t we just save them…sorta? Us guys went running after them, trying to console them and ensure them that all was well. The faster we ran, the faster they ran. I recall waving my gun in the air, shouting to the gal whom had befriended me, that I had another clip and we would be safe up at the campsite. But I guess she didn’t hear me or something. When it was all said and done, us three studs were back at the campsite, with no women, but another story to tell in our old age.

FLASH NONFICTION: CARLTON GOODE 62

exhausted. These girls were no fools and the more we drank, the more we danced. It was like doing aero-

BY: CARLTON GOODE Carlton is a lifelong learner. He has authored two books, Legend of the Salmarine which can be downloaded for free at various sites, and Totem Bight, A Walk Thru, which is available for 99 cents at Barnes & Noble. He is also an avid computer hobbyist.

PHOTO: JORDAN LEWIS ILLUSTRATIONS: CECELIA CRIMMINS

RATATOUILLE Some may prefer their steak of red Potatoes baked and cheesy spread Yet in the pan, tomatoes tart stir seasoned with a garlic heart And onions chopped, bell peppers green aroma straight from Heaven’s glean Zucchini, circle sliced and drawn Await a kiss of Parmesan A touch of wine Pinot splash A bit of Dill, and Basil dash Veggie stew mixed, wooden spoon Taste to make the angels swoon Of recipe and improvised Timing trained, ‘buds seasoned wise Though simple the final dish may look It brings joy to those who love to cook.

PAIRS NICELY WITH: That one time Cookie Monster tried to be healthy and threw down some rhymes about it while repping a gold chain. Search "Sesame Street Healthy Foods" on YouTube or Episode 71 of Garfield

BY: DANIEL ALRICK Daniel is a writer, assistant secretary of the board of directors at Creative Supports, Inc. and layman on the art of the culinary.

POETRY: DANIEL ALRICK 64

from STANDING STILL

everything wonderful happening around me, and I knew that the moment I had always dreamed of was about Sometimes when you’re looking at a person that to actually happen. I looked over at my best friend, and you’re madly in love with, you can’t help but wonder somehow smiled even bigger than I had been. I could how you arrived at this moment. You start to think of feel everyone’s eyes on me, and for the first time, I the first moments, like when you locked eyes with him didn’t mind it. He stood up. This was it. My heart started to pound. I for the first time at the beach and the first thing you thought of was, “run away.” And then maybe you laugh couldn’t stop smiling. He put his hand out and smiled at yourself a little bit because you realize how idiotic back at me, I automatically accepted his invitation. I that sounds. You can’t ever imagine yourself running gently placed my hand in his and stood up. He smiled again, before turning around and leading me to the away from him, now. dance floor. Everyone’s eyes were Maybe, just maybe, you on us as we started to sway with smile at yourself as you rethe music. And it was then, in that member the moment he first instant, that it hit me. The lyrics told you that he was fallfinally began and my eyes started ing in love with you... while to burn. messaging each other on a heated game of “Words With “Settle down with me. Friends.” Then you laugh beCover me up, cuddle me in, cause who in their right mind Lie down with me and hold me tells someone that they’re In your arms...” falling in love with them on a game app? He does, that’s I giggled nervously and he who. And then you thank smiled back before kissing me on your lucky stars that he does the cheek. He slowly pulled me because those little quirks in closer until our cheeks were are the things that you love touching. the most about him and you wouldn’t change them for the “Kiss me, like you wanna be loved, world. You wanna be loved, Maybe you think about the You wanna be loved...” time when he got down on one knee, and caught you off guard on a completely normal day and asked you a He sang along only loud enough so I could hear. His question you never thought you’d be ready to answer. As soon as he did though, you just knew that as long as breath tickling my ear, I giggled. He pulled back just enough to grab my face and gently place a kiss on my he was by your side, you would be ready for anything. But even after thinking of all the previous moments lips. I was brought back to reality when everyone around that led up to this very instance, it still didn’t feel real. I was waiting for the moment when I would wake up and us began to clap. I smiled back at them and he did the be back in my childhood room. To my surprise, it wasn’t same, all the while still swaying to the music... happening though. I was still there, in that perfect mo- This was real. ment. I had never been so happy in my entire life. I probably BY: SAMANTHA MULHERN looked like a complete idiot smiling so much, but maybe Samantha is a California beach girl for this circumstance, it was perfectly okay. The guitar riff started playing in the background of living in a hot and dry Texas world. Her favorite thing in the whole world is making people smile through the words that she writes. She hopes to do PAIRS NICELY WITH: it forever. Any Ed Sheeran slow jam. FICTION: SAMANTHA MULHERN ILLUSTRATION: CECELIA CRIMMINS

LIFE IS HARD It had been nine months since I got shoved the hell out of my mom’s pussy and I still hadn’t mastered walking. It definitely was the thing I hated most about the way I was living. Every single other person I’ve ever seen could not only stand with their feet and move across a room without falling over, but they just did it without even trying. It really started to fuck with me after a little bit. For the whole month I just kept trying and trying and falling and falling. There wasn’t anything I could do about it either. I know it’s not the coolest thing, but I got so mad that I just screamed and screamed. I simply couldn’t understand. Why me? Why was I the only one on the planet who couldn’t take three steps? I wanted to learn how to open doors, how to make food, but I was willing to give up trying all of that shit if somehow I magically was able to walk. One night I screamed for an hour straight I was so frustrated. “Aww honey it’s alright please just calm down,” my mother repeated to me a bunch of times, rocking me back and forth. Her voice at first was sweet and concerned, but slowly became pissed off and tired. I didn’t care how annoyed it made my mom. Every single day I was going to try to learn how to walk, then I was going to get frustrated, and finally I was going to cry. If she got mad at that, I’d cry a hell of a lot more because she doesn’t even know how hard living this kind of life is. I see adults moping around all the time. If I could, I’d tell them: “You don’t got it that bad. If you think you do, how about you go for a day not being able to change your own underwear that is literally filled with your own shit and piss?” These privileged assholes don’t know how lucky they have it. Life is hard. I want to punch walls and scream and cry all the time, but I save it for when something is really making me mad because I have to survive through tough times, like when I get poop rashes or when my mother won’t pull her boob out when I want her to. After nine months it happened. Once again I tried failed and cried for a long time. My mom was trying her best to comfort me, but she couldn’t and just put me back on the ground for me to cry there. I was screaming and screaming. I was so fucking mad. My mom started to walk away from me and sat back on the couch. What an asshole. I out of sheer anger, I picked myself up and started marching toward her. I was about to show her I wasn’t a person to be disrespected like that. My mom looked at me, smiled, and gasped putting her hand to her mouth. Just like that I realized that I just walked. I started laughing more than I ever have before. My mother picked me up and gave me a huge hug. I knew from that point on that anything I wanted to achieve, no matter how hard, is possible.

FICTION ish: ALEXANDER MESADIEU 66

PAIRS NICELY WITH: The book Island of the Sequined Love Nun by Christopher Moore BY: ALEXANDER MESADIEU Alexander is an aspiring journalist from Roseburg Oregon, who does not have much of a life outside of college, work, and drinking.

A M R I S

“Hello Am-er-us.” It’s Jane, a brash woman in her mid-sixties who volunteers at my work. She’s cornered me at the copy machine, ten minutes ‘til opening on a Monday morning. I really just want my copies, but the ancient machine is slow, and Jane seems to have something to say. Taking a breath and putting on my customer service smile, I say “Hello Jane. How are you?” I pause, trying to find a polite way to say “Look, I’m crazy-busy and I don’t have enough coffee in my system to deal with you right now.” Ignoring me, she loudly asks, “Am-er-us, how did you get your name?” I freeze. My mind races with the series of reactions I typically experience when faced with his question: Oh God. Not this again. How many times in a week do I get asked this? Five, six times? Why do people assume they deserve to know the reasoning behind my name? I wasn’t there. I didn’t pick it. And why can’t Jane pronounce my name correctly? She’s heard it before. Am-ris. ‘Am’ as in ‘ham,’ ‘ris’ as in ‘Chris.’ Even that dummy I met on OK Cupid understood that. How did I get this name? If you ask nicely, I’ll say, ‘Oh, my parents just had a moment of creativity!’ If you’re rude, you’ll simply get ‘My parents.’ Only my best friends know the story of my dyslexic father, thumbing through the manual to his old pale green pick-up truck (a Ford, of course), his eyes landing on a word he read as AMRIS. The actual word, which was the name of that pale green color, has been lost to history. My father was a newlywed, madly in love with his wife, who was pregnant with his first child. He was struck by the beauty of the word. AMRIS. For days, AMRIS echoed in his mind. Eventually, he sheepishly approached my mother, and made a proposal: If their child was a girl, could she be named Amris? My mother, in love and filled with the desire to please her husband, agreed. Why does Jane deserve to know that story? What does she want? When I’m asked about my name, there are typically follow up questions: Were my parents hippies [Read: Stoners]? What is my… ‘Heritage’? Is it a family name? Is it common in my ‘homeland’? Is Jane pursuing another thinly veiled inquiry into my family’s background? I bit the bullet. I finally answer Jane, “Well, my parents were just being creative. My brother wishes they were as inventive with his name. It’s Roger.” Jane, not missing a beat responds, “Or, maybe your parents were feeling amorous the night you were conceived.” Delighted with herself, Jane walks away. Still standing at the copy machine, I think, “Well. At least that was something new.”

PAIRS NICELY WITH:

The character name generator: www.character.namegeneratorfun.com

BY: AMRIS ALLEMAND Amris is a student at SOU. She doesn’t know what she wants to do with her life, but is excited by a world of possibilities.

FLASH NONFICTION: AMRIS ALLEMAND 68

W H AT Y O U S E E

PAIRS NICELY WITH: Your wildest daydreams BY: PATRICK ARTHUR Patrick knows the difference between a vernier caliper and a dial indicator, and how to use them; however, he is studying at SOU to be an English teacher

There he sits in the classroom. Lethargic and distant, he’s staring at his desk. The desk has a fake wood grain finish. Like an egg being blown through a small hole in the shell, so his brain leaves his tired body for a more excited spirit. The wood grain on the desk is a dry field. Look at the sun dried weeds. The cracked ground is the home of brown grasshoppers and little black bugs. The wind breezes the field, but the cobwebs amongst the grass hold the resistance. That piece of red eraser, that’s a red plow. There is a young man on the tractor; he is plowing the field for next year’s alfalfa. Hunched over the steering wheel of the tractor, he is like a mad scientist over his microscope. The young man coughs occasionally for he is not moving fast enough to escape the oily exhaust of the tractor. The sun beats down upon him; his nose takes in oil, grease, and exhaust, as well as the bleeding soil and the slow-cooked grass. Flies pester the sweaty and bored young man unmercifully. Back in the classroom, the dark turquoise of the blackboard becomes a pond in the corner of the field; dragonflies soar like fighter pilots. Or maybe they are water planes for a forest fire. Bzzzz, dip, bzzzz, and then up, up, up to the sky. Further and further until the plane is beyond our vision, and all that is left is a slight buzz in the wind. Ducks near the edge of the bank bob and tool around, just like barges at a busy harbor. Quack, kwak, kwak, turns into the low belch of a tug boat. Pushing, pulling, turning round and round with a purposeful confusion, the barges go about their work. In the middle of the pond, a large maple leaf floats. Ants cling to the bowing leaf. In the middle of the sea, a large pirate ship voyages. Pirates anxiously scramble about the decks. Reds, blues, greens, and yellows, Daggers, knives, swords, and pistols, Patches, vests, boots – all leather, Mean and merciless in any weather. Jolly Roger soars above; none aboard bear arms of love. “Ahoy!” cries from the crow’s nest; a ship of scurvy dogs approaches. When in reach, the savage pirates swing to the strange vessel. Booty, the vessel is plundered as drunken fools dash lamps to the deck spreading – “fire!” Haunting laughter rises from the sea. But all that is there are ants on a leaf. For the young man is not plowing a field. He is in a classroom staring at a desk. This is the juxtaposition of imagination and education. So gather it up, live it out, and write it down. Write down what you see.

FLASH NONFICTION: PATRICK ARTHUR ILLUSTRATION: CECELIA CRIMMINS

HOME WO R K TELL A STORY OVER COOKIES AND COFFEE PICK A PROFESSOR’S BRAIN COOK A LITERARY DISH MEMORIZE A SHORT POEM GO RIDE BIKES KISS SOMEBODY LIKE THE WORLD IS ABOUT TO END SNATCH A COFFEE MUG FROM A DINER READ A SNAPPLE CAP COMPLETE THE ELI STILLMAN REDING CHALLENGE:

Bon Voyage! 71