Impressions 1994 by Dickinson State University

Impressions

1994 Edition Dickinson State University Dickinson, North Dakota

Editor: Melissa D. Cooley Assistant Editors: Kristen Groth Katrina Tillman Nicole Vigen Advisor: Dr. Stephen Robbins Cover: Cory Tuhy The material printed in Impressions may only be reproduced with the persmission of the individual authors.

A special thank you to Mark Sailer for help in typesetting this years magazine.

Impression Awards

Poetry: Untitled by cole page 35 Untitled by Joan Ginckuff page 19 Backyard Blues by Shane Davis page 6 Artwork: Strappin' Up by Cory Tuhy cover The "Big" Catch by Sue Leibel page 29 Fashion is A Cancer by Brian Matthews page 31

Table Of Contents Poetry: Artists

Page

cole cole Shane Davis Shane Davis Joan Ginckuff Kristen Groth Kristen Groth Kristen Groth Corinne Lindbo M.A.G. SKAY SKAY Pamela Sund Pamela Sund Katrina Tinman Katrina Tinman Katrina Tinman Katrina Tinman

10 35 6 32 19 31 11 34 16 28 9 11 21 33 10 14 21 34

Shane Davis Wally It.rich M.A.G. Brian Matthews

30 22 20 12

Prose:

Artwork: Artists Ka thie Fix-Boulanger Kathie Fix-Boulanger Nicole Hand Tara Jensen Sue Leibel Brian Matthews Brian Matthews Brian Matthews Angela Moser Angela Moser CoryTuhy

15 8 7

29 12 17 31 18 20

cover

BACKYARD BLUES

A boy is burned by his own flame, Silent unexpressed love is his game. He would steal flowers for his girlfriend She would feed and water them until the end. The flowers express love and tenderness But can't speak for themselves unless, They had voices we could understand. So silent they still sit and, Inside they scream, but not a sound. More flowers he brings, pulled from the ground. She often wonders why they still have roots Never asking, to the silent love she salutes. One day the boy's hands bleed and bleed, to give her the flowers he feels the need. Grasping hold of a daggered rose bush, The silent flower spoke, but said to keep it a hush. Take your hands off of me, and speak for yourself With bloody hands, the boy ran somewhere else. Thinking of how to get another flower Hiding scared and silent, hour upon hour. II

He remember what the flower said to him, And soft.ly whispered a short whim. I haven't a flower for you today, But there is something I would like to say.

All along the flowers told you what I feel, Something I knew always to be real. But not the way to let you understand, For it was I without a voice, So lhe rose told my hand ... Shane Davis

(

As I sit in the night With no shed of light I stare at the walls Hearing the silent calls. A smile touches my lips Tingles ebb my fingertips A single tear runs down my face In memory of a place Where the sun shines bright And I feel no fright. But that place is gone Along with strands of a song. What remains is a day Where no comfort is found in any way. So in my gloom I weep Praying for everlasting sleep With the sound of a crack and the impending boom I find an end to my punishing gloom. SKAY

THE HUNT An endless eternity of Prairie stretches before them,

as the predators seek oul their prey. ln the flash of a second, the prey is found. Now the hunt begins. The hooves of the beasts pound against the earth in a thundering anger, as the prey try in desperation to escape. The predators do not relent Katrina Tinman

wallowing in the offal of others' liquid speech truth's beacon is clouded by rumor's fetid breath cunning linguistics. may believe myself. .. i think yet my deeds are hom seemingly of their own volition and swell larger than morality i

how can i blot the disease that drips from the mouth of others? cole 10

Sitting here unspeaking Silence gently weakening The conversations of life. Searching for a reason Disregarding all the teasing All that is asked is an end to life. No real explanation Can't find any gratification To this terrible life. Even with friends The silence never ends And, thus will be my life. SKAY

Crucifixion Please lie down at my feet and drink the crimson flood, Crucified, I call, "do you know real love?" Death for you is all I promise, my halo of thoms grows from Inside. My body is chamber, tortuous and bleak, my veins are the chains that pull you down. Kristen Groth

My grandfather was a very patient man. Let me give you an example: When he graduated from 8th grade his father gave him a pocket watch engraved in fine detail and kept in a soft velveteen pouch, but it lacked a chain. He put a "temporary" strap of leather 12 inches long around it until he got around to getting a chain to fit the precious gift. When he got manied to my grandmother at the tender age of 1 7, he proudly wore a new haircut and his only suit. He loved this girl with all his heart, and he wanted to be her "prince". She wore a beautiful white lace dress made by her mother and a string of pearls. She was truly a thing of beauty which my grandfather realized every day of his life. Together they had their wedding picture taken by a man named Guy Williams, and right in the middle of the portrait was the leather strap holding his pocket watch. As I flipped through my grandmother's photo album: chronicling their trips to California and Canada, documenting the birth of each of their 5 children and each of their lives from

graduation through to their kids and their graduations, I noticed each in each picture, hanging from grandpa's pocket, that leather strap "temporarily" holding the watch. Grand dad died 2 years ago in December at age 92. The family gathered and moumed their loss. We went to the funeral home one night to "view the body." I slowly approached this simple casket and looked inside. I noticed that leather strap perfectly placed across his folded vest. It seems he really never got around to getting a permanent chain. Yesterday I found an old pocket watch in a shop that was going out of business. I bought it and took it home. I noticed it didn't have a chain, so I grabbed a length of leather lace to use as a "temporary chain". It made me remember my grandfather's story, so today I ordered a chain. It will take two week to come in. I think I can wait that long. Brian Matthews

THE DANCERS Mystical darkness of a brooding night. Shimmering dancers made of translucent light. Haunted shadows swirling in the sky. Carousing through twilight, like a demon's soul spy. Katrina Tillman

" /

The End As I tum the pages of my life

all I find is confusion and pain, pain so terrible I can not explain. As I see the pictures of my life

the tears began to fall and all the pictures of my book become very faint and dull. As I touch the pages of my book they all start to bum and began to fall in ashes like all the things I yeam. I want to throw this book and leave it in the ash but it's hard to leave the things you know behind to become your past. So I keep on turning the pages for as long as this life may last in hope that this book and its pages will be my very last. Corinne Lindbo

A collector of people, a collector of friends. He paints his sky with the mood he's in. It could have been blue or a melancholy green the day he picked me up- looked me over- took my best parts and tried to fit me into the ultimate puzzle- Her. I didn't fit. His sky fades into another color Another mood Another mood He picks another and tries again. Joan Ginckuff 19

The Power Of Love That smell came to me again last night in my sleep. Donna's bloodied nose gushed on my new shirt, now stained a brown I can't get out. The spilled mess coagulated and I think I could smell death, it hit me again in science class and grabbed me back to that night .... Clumps of hair matted in blood on the floor, she was bleeding so hard and so fast, it was all over both of us when they finally came. Here eyes were swollen shut the minute I anived, and through a peep hole she looked out at me, and I looked at her. On hands and knees she would mop up her own blood, wallow in the pain and the puddles left by anger and strangly love that drove him to this. OH Donna, Donna empower yourself, you've been to battle and you have seen .... M.A.G.

All women don't have small mouths All women don't have small mouths. I realize it. But often the man's, like his femur, Is larger, isn't it? There are exceptions. But who is it. That makes the most noise When they mate? The lion or the lioness. Of course hers is a pretty big mouth Not comparing. But then Out there in that jungle She's got something to bellow about. Pamela Sund Phantom Love Unceasing sorrow torments the heart, in a knifelike pain. Soul feels hollow. like it has never before known. Why must it be this way? Love not realized till it suddenly slips away, like a phantom that hides in the mist. Why must it be this way? Katrtna Tinman

BARONESS:

Driving the World-beloved Heroine 7 41 . The numbers on the hotel room door weren't your typical stick-on numerals or even the molded plastic ones you find in hotels like Holiday Inn; these simple, straight-line digits were engraved in a small, finely polished brass plate. I glanced at my watch--it was two minutes before seven p.m.--then decided she'd probably appreciate someone actually being punctual for a change. "Oh, what the hell," I said to myself and I knocked on the door. After a couple seconds, the door opened--but only a few inches. A women in her mid-seventies peered out, a weathered looking woman with frenzied, grey hair gathered by a kerchief tied in the back. she said nothing. 1-I'm here to pick you up for the banquet," I offered, studying the woman trying to hide behind the door. Her short frame was trussed up in a dark, embroidered bodice over a linen and lace shirt; her black skirt hung almost to the round-toed, Mary Jane shoes. She responded with a quizzing frown, so I quickly added, "John Omdahl sent me to pick you up." Then urgently, "for the banquet?--for the Lutheran Bible College?" The geriatric Heidi looked up and growled in a deep german accent, "You are six minutes early. Go away. Come back a seven o'clock." the brass 741 stopped millimeters from my nose. I stood for several seconds, then backed away. My first

encounter with the very Baroness Marta van Trapp was a bust. And at that moment this renowned Heroine, who bore no resemblance what-so-ever to her beautiful cinematic equivalent, hated me. Mel I scanned the circular hallway of the posh Washington Plaza Hotel. Finding no cushy couches, or even a simple wooden chair on which to park myself for a few minutes, I stood and pondered the fine brocade wall paper. It was early October, 1982. I'd been hired two years before as Assistant Director of Public Relations for a small but prestigious Lutheran college in Seattle. My superior, John Omdahl, not only directed Public Relations for the school, bul also shared in the Development responsibilities, which meant garnering contributions from our well-to-do patrons. Fund-raising banquets such as the one this evening had prove wonderfully successful primarily due to John Omdahl's knack for hiring crowd-pleasing quest speakers. Time would tell if John had succeeded this time by bringing in the Baroness. Finally, at seven o'clock--of as close to seven a I could approximate--! gathered my courage and stepped up to the door of room 741. Just as I raised my hand to knock again, the door opened. Maria emerged, still wearing the bandanna, embroidered bodice, and Mary Jane shoes just as before--no coat, no purse, just Maria. I thought of the cool October nights and considered offering unsolicited advice about her need of a coat, but instead stated, "I have a car waiting downstairs," and led the way to the elevator. In silence, we descended seven floors, then proceeded down the escalator and out to where a

uniformed doorman waited an my 1976 Plymouth Fury. Without commenting, Marta climbed into the passenger's side while the puzzled doorman held the car door open. We travelled down Fourth Avenue heading for the Seattle Center less than a mile away. I pointed out the Seattle Space Needle, noting that the six hundred foot tower marked the place to which we were heading. As I tumed to smile at the old woman. I noticed she'd planted on hand solidly on the seat beside her, with the other gripping the dash board in front of her. "Are you sure you know where you're going?" she queried. Of course I knew my way around downtown Seattle; I'd Gone to school at Seattle Pacific University just on the other side of Queen Anne Hill. "Of course," I replied, then looked up to find the Space Needle just to be sure. In an effort to relax the mood, I said, "I've been to Tyrol." knowing Marta would be impressed by the fact that an American would know of her home province in Austria. "Il's very beautiful." She groaned her approval. I continued. "I used to live in Europe." "Where?" "In Holland." "Och--it's too flat," Maria retumed and she steadied here hold on the dash. We rode in silence the next few blocks, stopping at the occasional traffic light, each mindful of the other's presence, each mindful of the growing awkwardness. I looked up to check my beartngs with the Space Needle--IT WAS GONE!

Some idioUc building blocked my view; I couldn't get my bearings if I couldn't see the Space Needle. And at that moment I couldn't find any street signs. Oh, God--1 was lost! I pulled a hard right onto a darkened street that led into a secUon of unlit warehouses. I tumed to the Baroness and grinned with assurance--obviously false assurance. 'You're lost," she stated. "NO, no ... " I spotted the Space Needle up and to the left, "No! See there's the Needle." We zig-zagged our way to the boulevard running past the Seattle Center. As we pulled out of the warehouse sector onto Sixth Avenue, I announced, 'We go just on block up, then tum into the alley leading to the rear entrance of the auditorium--you did tell Mr. Omdahl that you preferred coming in through the rear, didn't you? "Yes, of cour--" just then a throng a teenagers swarmed into the street. 'What is going on?" the Baroness pleaded. "I-1 don't --know," I said as the mob covered the enUre street, in the process, enveloping our car. Forced to slow to a crawl, I eased the car forward through the crows. I glanced to see the woman frozen in place, one hand anchored to the seat, the other digging into the dash, her gaze fixed straight ahead. We inched forward. Then I realized, 'The state football championship! These are high-school kids from the football game at the Seattle Center Stadium." I turned to Maria and smiled, relieved by the knowledge that the mob was not out to get us. The Baroness looked my way, her eyes wide with fear-or was it anger? My explanation seemed to have done litt.le

to soothe either. Finally, she took her hand from the dash, but said nothing. As I pulled lhe car into lhe left-tum lane, then into the alley, I wondered what could have caused Maria to be so unnerved--not just unnerved by this jubilant crowd, but why this woman adored by millions around the world was so guarded and afraid. Had celebrity exacted such a toll? We drove the final half-block through the alley and pulled up at the rear loading dock of the Seattle Center Exhibition Hall. Inside at the banquet, fifteen hundred people awaited Maria's story--waiting to hear if what they'd learned from the movie, "The Sound of Music," was in fact true; had she really escaped those evil Nazis and fled with her adopted family over the mountains only to achieve lhis: an aging world-beloved heroine outfitted in her quaint, dolllike. Alpine costume, standing alone in a cold, dark alley, ready to deliver the well-wom tale the multitude had paid big bucks to hear. I gestured toward a half-dozen steps that led up to the rear entrance to the auditorium, "Maybe, instead of going through the kitchen we could use this door." Maria looked at me through narrowed, doubting eyes, then slowly followed my lead. Perhaps I should have offered my arm and helped her up lhe stairs. but I didn't; the very thought of touching this living legend scared me--this decidedly angry Jiving legend. I eased the door open; we were to the side of the stage in full view of the audience. "No, no-not this way," the Baroness objected. But by then, fifteen-hundred pairs of eyes had found us. so had

John Omdahl, who flew out of his and galloped toward us. Before Maria could backtrack to the stairs, John took her by lhe arm, and escorted her to her place of honor at the head lable. I moved to the rear of the auditorium. Minutes later, Maria proceeded to do her contractual duty, stepping up to the lectem and delivering a warm, but surprisingly different version of the famous story: She had indeed been the most irreverent nun who married a loving Baron, the family had crossed the Austrian-Italian border at. night, though not as frantically as was depicted in the Hollywood rendition; they'd lived quietly in Ital for several years, then following World War II, emigrated to America. As I sat and listened to her tale, I saw a Maria von Trapp known lo few. This was not Julie Andrews' Maria of motion-picture fame, not even the cantankerous geriatric Heidi I'd witnessed first hand, but a sad old woman who lived in the romance of years long past and on the impersonal affection of an ever expectant public. Later that evening, at Maria's insislence, John Omdahl escorted the Baroness back to the safety of room 741 at the Washington Plaza Hotel.

END Wally Itrich

Eric Carrot top; orange in the sun, a boy playing on the shore smiling awkwardly around a baby thumb, plopped down and giggled into the sand; mother n ear by. This warm earth, a place of security in his boy blue mind M.A. G. 28

Blindness is in those who cannot see beyond the t.Iuth of life. Whom ever created us, is laughing in mockery. The creator taught us to believe that life cannot be lost, and we are to suffer through this madness for as long as possible. Human beings are afraid of death, as they cannot know what awaits them. But in reality, being alive is the suffering era, that the creator has made us of fools. Shane Davis

Space, Is it around the moon? Occupance of an area? Is it there when needed? A thought deep seeded? Space, Within a circle?

Where a nucleus fits? Where a baby sits? Is it an orifice? Time is space, Space of counting. Timeless place, Hole in the ground. What is it? And is it where you put it? Shane Davis

Missing My Son There is no sea Lapping the towns That are drowning inland In this desolation Where are the mountains? Not anywhere around here. Is this barren place The fmal solution For a woman, whose son At thirteen Was recognized by his father As his own His father took him home They Are in the mountains. Native waters flow south Out of the Big Horns If only I were a southern peninsula!

Or the very sound and sense of my name, Sund. But here I sit. On this plain state shelf Staring at a photograph Of his beautiful face. Pamela Sund

1W1STED JUSTICE Lightning Flash! A demonic grin. Satanic Scream "Let the fun begin!" Cold steel, out for blood, meets the hot flesh. Muffled victims terror as the soft flesh rips, defiled by the cold merciless steel. Victim dies, Murderer runs free. Katrina Tinman

Epitaph Come to the place of your death do you envision more than what you see? Never does the Body understand, The Mind is transient, You are transient. Look with reverence at the sky, Raise your arms to the resurrected furythe end of al you will be. See the failure of this world, cry to Heaven, tears soaking the rotLie down! Lie down! You existed once and never again. Kristen Groth

reeling in a sea of drunkenness love's liquor gives colour to my olive drab world your light routs my darkness illuminating the corner where my timid self quivers in delicious apprehension. you show no mercy ... in saving me from myself. thanks come not in words but emotion far too late currents rip us apart leaving me the print of your lips, smoldering with the words "i care for you . . ." cole

Abbattoir Internally hooked, frozen with acceptance. Cut in two without warning, meat for the sky. Torn apart with an adherence to the bone, a gathering in my brain for the butcher throne. Separated with the knife, polished with spite, let no blood soak my lacey absolutes. Kristen Groth 35

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