Perceptions 2017 by Columbia State Community College

A Journal of the Arts

Produced by the Humanities Division of Columbia State Community College

Columbia State Community College, a Tennessee Board of Regents institution, is an equal opportunity and affirmative action employer and does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, gender, sexual orientation/gender identity, religion, ethnic or national origin, sex, age, disability status, or status as a covered veteran in educational and employment opportunities, and is committed to the education of a non-racially identifiable student body. Individuals needing this material in an alternative format, e.g., hearing or visually impaired formats, should contact the office of disability services. Columbia State Community College is accredited by the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools Commission on Colleges to award Associate of Arts, Associate of Science, Associate of Science in Teaching, Associate of Fine Arts in Music, and Associate of Applied Science degrees, and technical certificates. Contact the Commission on Colleges at 1866 Southern Lane, Decatur, Georgia 30033-4097 or call 404-679-4500 for questions about the accreditation of Columbia State Community College. CoSCC PERC-01-04-17, Parris Printing, Nashville, Tennessee - 1,000 copies

This yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Perceptions is dedicated to

Neil Jones 1946-2017

Big-souled and humorous, serious when he needed to be, Neil was a writer, a colleague, a good friend.

STAFF 2016-2017

EDITOR

Shane A. Hall

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS

Shelly Ganter Emily Gaskill Beverly Mitchell Susan Pobst Anne Reeves

STUDENT EDITORS Feather Alsup

CREATIVE COORDINATOR Susan Pobst

COVER

These Hands Drip Lauren Farkas

CONTENTS Poetry Feather Alsup

Pa’s Office

Beverly Mitchell

Winged Victory over Samothrace

Lanora Kelly

One

Feather Alsup

I Am

Lanora Kelly

Suburbs of Hiroshima

Feather Alsup

Japan

Ken Powis

A Sad and Sorry Stage

Feather Alsup

Porcelain

Noah Bowers

Life

David Talley

Remembrance

Lauren Farkas

We Spin

V. Taylor Davis

on we roll

David Talley

Marriane’s Way

Victoria Waters

The Uninvited

Feather Alsup

The First to Touch the Water Star

Caleb Feulner

10.19.2015

Brittanie Maccarone

I Am Still Here

V. Taylor Davis

Still

A Vision

Prose

Drama Stuart Lenig

Images David Talley

Abandoned Farmhouse Interior, Illinois 6

Caitlyn Turner

The Roman Aqueduct of Segovia, Spain

David Talley

Tree Hollow

Lauren Farkas

Letting Go

Stuart Lenig

Match 2

ReBecca Orlow

Mossy Cedar

Sandy Alison Fowler

twisted tree

Caleb Feulner

10.19.2015

Paul Crombie

French Quarter Doors

Carsen Reid Meerdink

Reflections: Chava

Brittany Warden

The Falls

Paul Crombie

Self-Portrait

Brittany Warden

Pink Flower

Carl Jones

Stache Day

Herby Cobb

Fleeting Vision

ReBecca Orlow

Supermoon

Christina Davis

Sunset Panorama

Carl Jones

Gretchen Greer

Sandy Alison Fowler

2 is better than 1

Sandy Alison Fowler

little sheep

Carsen Reid Meerdink

View from Starbucks

Sheri Robertson

Saturday

Aubree Kurts

Market

Lauren Farkas

Spaces

Carsen Reid Meerdink

Self-Portrait

Abandoned Farm House Interior, Illinois David Talley

Pa’s Office Feather Alsup

Six years it’s been Nothing has changed. Books where he left them Pens, tapes and trinkets too. Six years it’s been And his phone still rings.

Winged Victory over Samothrace Beverly Mitchell

At the top of the staircase you are ready to fly wings stretched out in marble power. You are winged victory observing long past battles at Salamis or Action. Your wings, your womanly body, your draped and corded robes though trapped in cold and static stone, move. Armless, headless, you yet possess that god-like strength. I imagine your face, Nike, stern and watchful. Had I been the sculptor it would have shown sorrow, even disgust at the two generals below you on the field, sacrificing so many to their ambition, their greed. But then, I am not Greek and do not love war and do not see excellence in physical conflict. Did you?

The Roman Aqueduct of Segovia, Spain Caitlyn Turner

Tree Hollow David Talley

The Uninvited Victoria Waters In the great white and gold halls of a beautiful castle, a queen laughs, her little golden prince plays, and the hall shines. The queen watches her little golden prince as he plays with a wooden toy ship. He sits on his knees and swings the little wooden figure around in the air far above his head then back down again to slide across the cool marble floor. He creates swooshing and crashing sounds with his mouth to add effect to his imagined adventure, and the queen chuckles happily at her son. The little golden prince plays this game often. Each day his mother, the queen, watches as his tiny wooden ship embarks on a different grand adventure. Today, his people are threatened by the fearsome pirates of the sky, and he, the captain of his noble ship, must fight the cruel pirates and save the innocent people of the lands below from a gruesome fate. As his imagination flows without constraint, the little boy runs through the halls of the great castle and leaps through the air, cursing the dreadful sky pirates as he goes. His curly blond locks bounce against his shoulders as he plays, and his youthful face grows flush with a rosy tint; the little golden prince beams with the essence of childhood. His mother smiles with immaculate joy. The halls in which the child plays are constructed in marble and gold. Large white pillars rise to the painted ceiling far overhead. These halls were made to display wealth and royalty. When the castle was constructed by kings before the little prince, this white-gold hall was the center of their focus. A hundred of the most talented architects, masons, and artists were employed to ensure the whitest light filled the halls to the most heavenly glow. The hall fought them. As more light filled the hall, corners, grooves, and hollows became increasingly darker. The hall resisted the light and the old kings and all the constructors fought incessant shadows. “Place a window here,” a king would order, “then a second chandelier there, and maybe a polished gold armament in this dark spot.” But all 11

the kings, architects, masons, and artists forgot that where rays of bright white light gleam, a shadow’s darkness always resides close behind...in every curve and cranny, and behind every white-gold pillar, a shadow always fills the hollow space. In one of these hallow spaces, filled with shadow, someone, or something, uninvited peers through the rays of gold and white at that little golden prince, who plays his adorable childish game. The uninvited figure cannot be seen by the mother nor the boy, for the sun is high in the sky and the glowing white grandeur of the hall distracts and darkens the Uninvited’s hiding shadow. As the child’s game carries him further down the great hall, his mother becomes just a small figure in the distance. The little prince grows closer, closer, closer to the figure in the dark. From the shadow, the Uninvited draws in slow, deep breaths, sensing every element of the unfolding scene; hearing the approaching patter of the little golden prince’s leather shoes on the white marble floor; tasting the sensation of the child’s sweet ignorant bliss; feeling the steady maternal presence of the queen in the distance, and sensing her heartbeat grow faster, as her child’s game carries him further from her protection. It is in this moment that the queen, for the first time, sees beyond the beautiful rays of gold and white light in the great hall; she sees now, the shadows...oh, those shadows. Never before had the darkness contrasted so harshly against the hall’s light. In her heart, pounds fear. It is instinct that tells her to run, run, run after her child. The prince, however, is now much closer to the shadow than to his mother. The Uninvited counts the strides of the little golden prince as his pattering little shoes near the hiding shadow. Only seven steps away now— The Uninvited moves its tongue around in its mouth as it waters with anticipation. Six little pitter-pattering steps away—the creature’s breath becomes audible, loud, rough, wet, deep breathes are in sync with the child’s 12

steps. The little golden prince is now a mere five steps away—In terror, the queen rushes down the hall toward her little golden son. Four steps away—Slowly, the creature’s claws creep out of the shadows, a flicker of light reflects off of the creatures polished talon—a shine more powerful than all the light in the white-gold hall. Three steps away—The child, closer, closer, closer. Two steps—Closer, closer. One—close— “NNOOOOOO!” the queen’s scream rips from the depths of her terror and tears apart her throat, as the child is swept into the shadow behind the great pillar. Guards and servants flood the hall; the queen collapses in anguish. From the crowd, eyes peer across the hall, but they cannot see. No one can see. The hall is a mess of swimming colors: White–gold–white–gold–white– gold–white–gold–white–gold–white–gold–white–gold–white–gold– white–gold–white–gold–white–gold–white–gold–white–gold— RED—w–white–gold–red–red—red—red—r…. Slowly, but all at once, the people of the white-gold hall begin to really see. They see past the white, past the gold, past the painted ceilings and chandeliers; the people of the castle begin to see the shadows. And they see hot red blood. Blood. A pool of blood drags itself out from the shadow and expands, slowly, wrapping itself around the base of a white-gold pillar, which suddenly seems far more orange. The blood is slowly growing, the way a spilt bucket of milk spreads across the floor. And the queen cries, and the people cry, and the blood shines. 13

Letting Go Lauren Farkas

One Lanora Kelly

Home with Poseidon a harbor for boats and souls the tide is white noise

The First to Touch the Water Star Feather Alsup She ran toward the hidden lake in the woods. Tears cascading endlessly down her cheeks at the news she had just received. She tripped on a hidden rock and tumbled to the water’s edge. Landing with the crown of her head inches from the water, she remained still for a moment and quietly sobbed. She came here most every day with him, her brother, and would spend endless hours skipping rocks, playing pretend, and making flower crowns. She clung to those memories as she lifted herself upright. Using a nearby fallen, mossy tree for support, she wiped away her tears with her long, white cotton sleeve that was now stained with mud and blood. Finally, she pushed herself up to a standing position. The blood from her scraped knee streamed down her calf and pooled on her ballet flat. “Hurry! Let’s wash that off before it stains your shoes!” her brother would have said if he was there. But he wasn’t. He never would be again. He was taken from her to fight in the war that was not theirs. Now, three years later, she found out that the only family she had left was gone. Killed by a fellow comrade for protecting a young girl from that comrade’s lust. She had been alone since the day they took him and every day she prayed he would come home. Now he would never return. Not home, not to her, not to their hidden lake. She would be on her own until the end. She didn’t want that. With tears steadily rolling down her cheeks, she slowly walked into the lake. With the water at the level of her waist, she went to take another step, but stopped. Something before her caught her eye. When the ripples ceased, she saw it. A star, a bright star, gently kissing the water’s surface. She remembered what her brother told her before he left. He told her, if something happened to him, he would become a star, a constant star that would always be there to watch over and guide her. More tears clouded her sight as she kissed two fingers and reached out and gently touched the star. She slowly pulled her hand away causing ripples to start at the center of her touch. Even with the ripples, the star stayed constant and bright. A slight smile crept across her face, and she looked up to the star. “Thank you,” she whispered with the last tear drying as it went down her face. She then turned around and slowly walked out of the lake onto the bank. Once by her supporting friend, the moss tree, she laid on a sponge bed of leaves and moss, and fell asleep beside her brother. 16

Match 2 Stuart Lenig

Mossy Cedar ReBecca Orlow

I Am Feather Alsup

I am trash Thrown into the landfill Now called society

twisted tree Sandy Alison Fowler

Suburbs of Hiroshima Lanora Kelly

Eyes, mountain views Lips, grains of rice Arms, Drops of air Hands, dipped in mud Stomach, stays at ease Legs, burn for miles Feet, grounded here

10.19.2015 Caleb Feulner

“Keep true to the dreams of your youth” I have the fortune tucked inside the frame that holds the last photograph we have of you alive. I remember that day vividly, and even though next week will be six years without you, it feels like a lifetime. Behind the frame is the vase of stones I gave you for your birthday that year. You were so delighted by my gift, as you always were. I remember my aunt, handing it to me teary-eyed as we prepared the estate sale. I can hold the stones without wanting to throw them now, if you can believe it. This whole world has changed so much since you left. Sometimes when I think of the intricacies of that, I’m left smiling to myself at the thought of your reaction to it all. I know you would just be overjoyed at the progress we’ve made, and the fact that I’ve been fighting for you these last six years. Fighting for the life you never had and the secrets you kept out of fear, so that no one else has to do the same. I’m proud to fight for you. You taught me to cherish things my childish mind didn’t even notice, and you encouraged me to chase my dreams, even though often that felt like chasing the wind. I’ll never forget you calling me “Young Elvis” as I walked around with a guitar at family gatherings. Words cannot express how much I miss you still, and I don’t know if I’ll ever wake up and not feel the weight of missing you, but I don’t know that I want to either – the pain of missing you is worth the overwhelming joy of knowing you. You captured our hearts. On days where every haunting silhouette in the darkness takes shape and swims against the tide through memories I’d like to erase. I try to remember you as the mentor and the strong willed man that you were: your sense of humor, your wit, your unfiltered sensitivity. In my youth, I dreamt I’d grow into a man who holds even some small semblance of you, Frank. I promise I’ll try my best to keep true.

French Quarter Doors Paul Crombie

Reflections: Chava Carsen Reid Meerdink

The Falls Brittany Warden

I Am Still Here Brittanie Maccarone I sit in class in my dirty, too big clothes. I don’t have a new backpack, and my pencils are old and stubby. I look like the other kids. Normal, freckle-faced and scabby-kneed. But I am different. The grown-ups scare me, and I am afraid to talk. They tell me to pay attention, but it is hard to focus when you are hungry. I am trying. I promise. I want to learn. Don’t leave me behind. I am still here. The cafeteria looks even bigger when you sit by yourself at lunch. I used to have a friend, but she moved away. We were outcasts together. Now, I am an outcast alone. It isn’t easy for the weird girl to make new friends. They make sure no one talks to me. There are still two years of high school I have to endure. You may not talk to me, but I am still here. I envy your college experience. I was accepted but couldn’t afford it. I didn’t have the grades for a scholarship and don’t have the heart not to try. So I scrape and scrounge and work my way through. Shifting between heavy books and manual labor, I inch my way forward. It won’t be easy, and it won’t be in four years. I may be behind you on the path, but I am still here. The city looks beautiful from my office at night. I know I spend too many nights in this office. Even though late nights are how I got this office. But sometimes I wonder about the price I paid, if it was too high. We don’t see each other often. I go to your weddings and your birthday parties, and your baby showers as often as I can. And I usually come alone. I am not sure where I want to be in life. Meanwhile, I am still here. Most of my time now is spent looking at photo albums, remembering the life I led until they all moved out. I look at them or wander the empty, quiet house. I should be happy and proud they are doing so well. My kids have new spouses, new jobs, and new babies of their own. I am happy and proud and lonely. It is what a parent wants, even though it is rough. They may have left the nest, but I am still here. The staff is professional and the nurses are kind. My children visit sometimes and bring my grandchildren when they can. They reassure me that this is the best Home that anyone can ask for. But it is a facility, not my home. I want to go home but know deep down I can’t. I watch everyone else come and go with ease. In my supposed life of ease, I am still here. 27

Self-Portrait Paul Crombie

Pink Flower Brittany Warden

Japan Feather Alsup

Crisp and cooling air Gingko leaves fall from the tree Winter approaches

Stache Day Carl Jones

Fleeting Vision Herby Cobb

A Sad and Sorry Stage Ken Powis Had I but had the chance to be A playful Puck upon this sorry stage I would have placed the Asses head Not on just one, but three The courtiers who dream to rule Play not the politics, but play the fool, The jester, and the clown, for all to see The witches from the Scottish play Fire firm their fiendish art And with foul deeds and hearts of toad Fill cauldrons full of calumny From ghoulish caste they cull their spells To cloud the minds of men With cackling crude cacophony Though Bottom wore the Asses head And boasted of his dudgeon deeds While strutting forth upon the stage He still lay down with straw for bed Beside his strumpet wife And whispered to the dead From far atop the battlements The wretched, desperate cries Would gild the night with hopelessness And woman’s bloodied hands wring tense With unresolvèd, everlasting shame That took a life so sweet and kind For naught but selfish sense ‘Tis now I must my farewells say As to another stage I move For one more leading part In yet another Shakespeare play The Bard of Stratford wrote for me To help to mend the broken heart I’ve suffered here today So, as the witches’ cauldrons churn And Harry goes to Agincourt While Falstaff quaffs a jug of mead I’ll take the lessons I have learned To where, in more Elysian fields Titania, Puck and Oberon For greater playfulness will yearn 33

Porcelain Feather Alsup

Her blue eyes crack with tears. Her shoulders become disjointed from her fragile body. She looks at her porcelain face in the cracked mirror which her face now mimics. The windowsill now is covered in the skyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tears. Mourning the broken death of the doll-like girl.

Supermoon ReBecca Orlow

Sunset Panorama Christiana Davis

Gretchen Greer Carl Jones

2 is better than 1 Sandy Alison Fowler

little sheep Sandy Alison Fowler

View from Starbucks: It Is Raining but Beauty Is in Excess Carsen Reid Meerdink

Life Noah Bowers

Breathe the wind itself Let your soul wake its way Death plays with you then

Remembrance David Talley

When the leaves fall, the view Widens and deepens and Far hills, blue green beyond Brindle woods, are clear. Facing that gulf, alone on This hill, brown leaves whirling Above, stirs views within and All that is dear seems bare. Then a deeper insight of what Is past reminds me of What will be, which makes that Before me richer for That within me: each Scene, each view warmed By the spirit that warms the Earth beneath me and which soon, So soon, mends the gulf within me.

Saturday Sheri Robertson

Market Aubree Kurts

We Spin Lauren Farkas

We spin through magnetic nights Falling in love with each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Laughs and quirks As we sail down streets On wheels of joy And bounce grey pebbles Off copper train tracks And feel cold wind play without hair As the train shoots past our deeply alive eyes Spinning through magnetic nights

on we roll V. Taylor Davis

the train rolls in me a friend in the night i want to reach out and catch its bar, float alongside it as it sings its whale songs and tells me ‘you’re awake? i’m awake let’s commiserate or let’s not, for the night is lovely, and so are we, and i wish that neither of us would ever end.’ on we roll, all of us

Spaces Lauren Farkas

Marriane’s Way David Talley

I At midnight images of you intrude: Long hair across a smooth neck; Warm eyes shy with insight; Brick steps to a closed door. Mare’s tails at dusk portend More than rain – New eyes see the wind, and Calm hands touch the uncarved block. II Lavender revives the spirit – Memories, lost, emerge unbound From time’s block as Twilight fades, and Scent guides days’ thought. III Above the Inn against a merlot sky Swifts etch ancient stanzas few can hear; The spirit finds the cadence once lost – Shy eyes now see the wind, and Sure hands split the uncarved block.

A Vision Stuart Lenig Vic: Mr. Bruner. Bruner: Ms. Dawson. Vic: I am pleased that you were willing to accept my invitation. Bruner: It seemed urgent. Vic: Many members of the press do not find the ravings of an old mad woman something worth hearing. Bruner: Ms. Dawson, no one considers you a mad woman. Vic: Many reject my sanity. Bruner: Ms. Dawson you were, you are the most formidable psychic investigator of your generation. You’ve investigated more psychic phenomenon and obtained more proof of other worlds, other dimensions, other creatures than any person on our planet. Your findings have become textbooks of the paranormal. Vic: Flattery. I am embarrassed. Bruner: Please, anything you tell us could be evidence of true paranormal activity. Vic: What do you know of the past, of our European roots? Fifty, one hundred years ago…. Bruner: I know that there are legends. There were villages. There were legends of vampires. Vic: But we know that such legends were merely metaphors. The vampires were a metaphor for sexual license and the outbreak of rampant syphilis and sexually transmitted diseases. Bruner: That’s one explanation. Vic: What if the legends and the fear of sexual license were mixed with the images of the supernatural? Bruner: In some ways that would be even more horrible. Vic: Sexual longing that is unfulfilled for all eternity… sex and 50

death… eros and thantos, Freud’s holy dyad… Bruner: You have seen such things? Vic: (pause) I want to tell you a story, a story of people of the past... of the ghosts… the ghosts of the past. The old world and the new world… the two worlds coming together. There was a hotel…. Bruner: Yes the hotel Brandenburg, in Berlin. The place where your autobiography was centered? Vic: You know it? Bruner: It had a history of, well, of dangerous things happening. Vic: Yes, many bad things happened there. Deaths, suicides, and dark rituals…. Bruner: Yes I have heard the stories. It was likely a place of sexual misconduct. Vic: I want to tell you a story of over 100 years ago when Germany was different. Outside Berlin, the area was a sleepy little village. There was a star burning one night high in the sky, so bright it threatened to overtake the sun’s light. For several hours it shone in the west and then it descended. It came to earth. It quietly collected itself on the ground. It landed outside the village and the people were afraid. Bruner: A space ship? Vic: Something more than a ship. It was a lifeboat. The last desperate group of a desperate people, a people whose planet had ceased to be…. (Andron and Cara appear in the background.) Andron: Cara, we are nearing the city. Cara: The natives are afraid. They believe we are invaders, dangerous, with designs on their world. Andron: They are not so far wrong. Cara: Power is depleting…. Andron: True. My energy reserves are running low. There is low level electrical current running through the magnetic core of 51

this world. It is slowly recharging my drained batteries. And you, Cara…. Cara: I am nearly at maximum capacity. Cells complete. Photo-reactive intake comprises 98% percent capacity. I am gaining strength. Andron: The creatures also have an electronic charge. If we drain them we may prolong our charge. Cara: There is bountiful life. Andron: Draining life, survival for our people…. Cara: But if we drain them, is that fair? Andron: Fairness has nothing to do with it. It is survival. Cara: Someone approaches. Andron: They will not see us. Observe them. (Peiter and Angelica enter.) Peiter: Here is good. Angelica: It is too dark and cold. Peiter: Sit with me. Angelica: You just want me. Peiter: What if I do? Angelica: Sex that’s all that is. Peiter: Nothing wrong with sex. Angelica: You don’t love me. Peiter: I do love you. For now…. Angelica: I don’t think that is enough. Peiter: Sex is pleasure. What more do you need? Angelica: Security, family, fidelity, stability, the future. Those are far more important. Peiter: But what about pleasure? Love and sex and pleasure? Angelica: Gone in an instant. Nothing has changed, nothing important. Peiter: Let me make love to you, give you that pleasure. (Andron touches Peiter. He crumbles.) Cara: You killed him! 52

Andron: He was annoying, shrill, self-driven. Cara: Has he recharged you? Andron: Yes, it is strange though…. Cara: How? Andron: There is something in his energy, some force, some fire…. Cara: Could it be this sex thing? Andron: Sex? Yes, that is part of it… Agghhhhhh!! Cara: What’s wrong? Andron: It burns! Cara: It feeds you. Andron: It burns! It is grabbing at the pit of my stomach! It is consuming me! Cara: Andron, are you alright? (Andron leaps at her) Vic: And so the plague begins. Feeding on the old ones…. They devour each other. They devour the people. They devour all matter…. Bruner: But this plague, these vampires, they were just a legend. Vic: They were a form of sexual disease, of unbridled desire. Bruner: They were a response to religion. Vic: They were a product of religion, before religion. Bruner: So they preyed on people and were killed? Vic: They preyed on others of their kind and grew stronger. Bruner: They didn’t die? Vic: They cannot die. Bruner: Immortals? Vic: Immortal desires… immoral desires… unquenchable forever…. Bruner: Today? Vic: Today, they thrive.

Self-Portrait Carsen Reid Meerdink

Still V. Taylor Davis Dad bought a forest after the divorce. He drove me up to visit half a year after it was finalized, up a hill coated with dead leaves and breathing with the whispers of sleeping fauna. A doe bounded away as we crested the top. The trees were husks, and the sky rolled past, solemn grey, as he and I walked side by side with our hands stuffed into our pockets. I hopped over fallen trunks while he steadied the stakes in the ground. “For my bike trails,” he explained, threading stark plastic ribbons through the briars. We were explorers in a new world, christening every chasm, tree-bridge, and valley with terrible taste: ‘The Grand Canyon’, ‘Big Log’, ‘It’s A Creek in the springtime, I Swear’. My dad, the pilot, moved as fluidly through the woods as he moved through the clouds, always yards ahead of me. He’s always been like that, right in front of me but just out of reach. It’s hard to spend time with someone who’s always up in the air. It’s hard to have a father who’s either all the way across the world or else in another one entirely. But that day was special, just us together. I shot a gun for the first time, and I picked up a perfect acorn on the way back to the truck, smooth with shingled ridges on its little cap. I looked up at Dad, and he smiled.

“You should keep it,” he said. I clambered into the back, feeling like a kid as I smelled the musk of the truck; it’s smelled the same since we got it in 2003, all hay and dust and years-old mud. We drove back to the songs of John Lennon, and I leaned my head against the cool window, eyes closed, thankful. The forest is still there, and it’s still ours. The aftermath of the divorce is still here, and little ripples of war surface from my parents every month or so, earthquake shivers. But the little acorn is still here too, sitting right on my desk. And I’m still thankful.