Contents
Page 2 - “3/20” by Zachary Sylvester
pAge 3 - “Untitled” by Delaney Churchwell
paGe 5 - “The Key To House Sitting” by Katie Turner
pagE 7 - “My feet At Vespers And Other Drawings” by Annie DeSutter
paGe 8 - “3/21” by Zachary
pAge 9 - “I, Laura Bretheim, Teach Donald Trump’s White House How To Cross-Country Ski” by Laura Bretheim
pAge 11 - “The Spyder (A stylistic parody of William Blake’s The Tyger)” by Traesti Luther
paGe 13 -“Wall” by Alicia Papke-Larson
pagE 15 -“Backpack Poem” by Maggie Brakke
paGe16 - Credits
People fern-weathered Take pause at the riverbank and catch eyes with a fox on all fours standing restfully and silent on the other side of the water at the edge of pine-indigo shades As far as can be seen (the occasional rock is dislodged and sent on its way‌) The fox hasn’t moved Spare its gaze that washes upwards and down and to stay in contact means, the people feel, their stillness as well. Idle sparrows fly over that that always is sleeping, and dreaming curls open between branches their shadows and continues along the roaming of hills in music that passes colors anew: (the surrounding leaves dangle and sway Perchings of squirrel dotted throughout The instinctually frantic hold of acorns between fingers as they go on caring for their keep‌) The people give rest to their shoulders by quietly setting down in the sand the possessions that have come to be their home, and as tends to occur this brings forth the escape lightly tumbling of a small button that begins its travels below the knapsacks by glancing down unnoticeably onto the many surface layers of earth Where in the immediate moments afterwards it is still entirely reachable Yet with how disappearance descends and the pull of return grips, the button will go left behind, the people will eventually cross the water and see it never the same again, And for a little while longer, by unmentioning moonlight, both are spotted.
The Key to House Sitting I began house sitting when I was a student in college. It allowed me a shorter commute time, provided me with a couple of extra dollars, and of course time with people’s pets. I had requirements and some rules that I tried to follow whenever I house sat. One of my requirements was that they had to have internet access so that I could do my online classes from their home. One of the rules I had was that I always had to have a key on me or a means of communication whenever I would step outside the house in case I got locked out. This is a very specific rule that has been created from very specific experiences. I have managed to get locked out of houses on a number of occasions for a variety of reasons. Often I was running after an animal or retrieving an outside water dish or going to my car. These are simple things that when they happen can be solved simply by knowing a good locksmith, having your phone on hand, or not being in your pajamas when you walk over to the neighbors house to borrow theirs. At least one of the above has happened and the others are being stated to show examples of what could happen if you step out onto a porch in your pajamas to retrieve a water dish while the dog is inside looking at you somewhat amused and confused when you can't get back inside. At this moment one is grateful that the owners introduced you to at least one neighbor so that it doesn't appear I am trying to break into said house with a water dish in my pajamas. My most recent experience happened while dog sitting. Instead of being locked outside, I was locked inside. This sort of thing can happen when one goes down into the basement to retrieve wood to make a fire and forgets that the door had been locked the night before. Locking the door was a pretty ridiculous act in the first place. It was only done because upon arriving home the previous evening a door to an upstairs crawl space was found open. Locking the basement door was a logical step in my mind at the moment. I went downstairs to gather firewood for the evening and when I walked back up the stairs I realized the door was locked. I wondered out loud why, and then remembered locking it the night before. Each time I went into the basement I was really careful about checking the status of that lock just in case. I set the wood down on the second landing of the stairs and reconciled with the fact that I had broken my own rule. I didn't have a phone (wouldn't have been much help anyway) a key (there is no key) or a radio. If I had a radio I could have called and asked for help. I am not sure exactly what I would have said or who specifically I would have called, "Katie to anyone with a radio?” "Go ahead Katie.” "Hello, could you come to Chal 6 and unlock the basement door for me? I have locked myself in the basement while I was gathering firewood.” Since I didn't have a radio I looked around at my other options. I knew there was an outside door but when I unlatched the inner door, the outer door appeared to be nailed shut. There was also the alarm box. I was sure that I could push a few buttons and the wail (siren) would go off alerting everyone around that something was amiss. That scene did not play out too pleasantly in my head either. I looked around for something sharp that I could pick the lock with. I found a nail, but that did not work. I considered kicking the door open and that did not seem like a good idea either. If I did that then I would have to have the door repaired or replaced.
I walked back to the outside door that I was sure would lead to the outside. I was right. It was sealed shut with 2 doors that had to be unlatched. Now all I had to do was remove enough snow to get the outer shed door open so that I could walk back into the house and forget this ever happened. I used a shovel to scrape some of the snow away, but that was difficult to get through the narrow opening. I used the small axe, usually used for chopping wood, instead. I spent a couple minutes clearing snow and pausing every couple of seconds to try to stick my head out of the door and yell for help from anyone that could hear. Everyone was at dinner and getting ready to go to vespers after. I was sure no one was in their house, so I kept digging. At times the digging seemed to not be working at all. I wondered how long I would be in the basement. I knew I would see people after vespers and I considered just waiting until then so I could shout at someone to go inside the house and unlock the door for me. I am much too prideful for that, and was much too embarrassed to quit. I kept digging. I could hear Rudy barking upstairs. I knew he was okay. He had food. He had been let out earlier. He was fine. I wondered how long he would bark before someone would come check on him…. I kept digging. Eventually the door would open just enough that I could squeeze through and get out onto the snow. That was the other variable that I knew could be interesting to maneuver. I was not sure how deep the snow would be or how packed down it would be. I was grateful for wearing extra layers from sledding earlier in the day. I stepped out and my first leg went deep into the snow. I pulled my leg out, shoe intact, and climbed onto the hard snow. I kept crawling until I got to a place where I knew I could stand up and walk into the house. I saw some people coming out of their house, on their way to vespers. I said an awkward , “hello” opened the door and went inside. I unlocked the basement door , grabbed the wood off the second landing of the stairs, closed and re-latched and locked the outside doors. I walked upstairs to a waiting dog who was happy to see me and I still had time for vespers.
Interlacing her fingers made for an anchor in her hands Of an upper body led by forearms that went more towards resting parallel with the table and not long after Her chin to rest on knuckles A position that scooted her chair back a few inches Eye-level with the salt and pepper shakers she stared dead ahead through the chair railings at distant people across the room taking pieces in their fingers one-by-one for peering on the table below the puzzle they were at work with Hovering over the various patches within reach And she couldn’t know whether or not presently they spoke for she had passed them before as they were doing then what they were doing now and with lips never more than barely parting they held faces focused downwards Like a lamp was hanging closely above their heads Shining brightly A slight dim to everything they touched.
I, Laura Bretheim, Teach Donald Trump’s White House How to Cross-Country Ski Picture this: I welcome Mr. Trump, and his White House, to Holden Village, a tiny mountain community in the wilderness. “Hello, Mr. Trump! So glad you’re here!” I say. “Let’s go skiing!” Mr. Trump and his White House all get skis and boots and poles and at 2:37 pm on Wednesday afternoon, we set off into the woods. So here they are - Mr. Trump and his entire cabinet - all skiing with their suit coats and their slacks and their ties taped together, swishing across the mountain landscape. And suddenly oh NO! Mr. Trump has twisted his skis! There he is, flopping in the snow, flipping himself back upright and *hahaha* we all laugh genially, Mr. Trump and Steve Bannon and Sean Spicer and myself, and we say, “Oh, Mr. Trump, how silly! What twisted skis you have!” And then he gets back up and smiles a dumb smile and we all smile dumb smiles and we keep slipping and sliding through the trees. We stop by the edge of the creek, and Scott Pruitt says, “What a pretty creek! What lovely trees!” And I say, “Yes indeed, Mr. Pruitt, the creek and the trees are quite nice.” And then Mr. Pruitt says, “You know what, I think we should keep this water clean!” “What?! Keep the water clean?!” say the rest of us, all at the same time. And Scott Pruitt says, “Why yes! We shouldn’t pollute this lovely creek! Or any other creek! Like the ones in Alaska, or near the Great Lakes - not even the one at Standing Rock!” “WOW!” we say, “NOT EVEN THE ONE AT STANDING ROCK!?” And he says, “NO! Not even the one at Standing Rock!” And Scott Pruitt pumps his fist into the air, and then we all pump our fists into the air. And we hold our fists in the air for a moment, like we’re in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. But we’re not in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off - this is real life! Next, we turn around a nice white pine tree, and suddenly, a figure appears out of the woods. The most female of the Trumps - Ivanka - glides into the glade. She is glowing and wears a fur coat made out of the hides of chipmunks she has skinned. Her hair is braided with pieces of lichen entwined within the strands. (Do you know that scene with Galadriel in The Lord of the Rings where she is glowing? That is what this was like. Exactly. To a T. Because Peter Jackson was there and he directed it. Just kidding. Or am I? I am. Just kidding. This is just a metaphor). “Ivanka!” we all yell at once. “Where did you come from?” Ivanka doesn’t answer our question, but she says, “Father, I have been thinking. It’s time we put an end to this nepotism. I spoke with the trees, and they all said, ‘Hire a different cabinet. This one is terrible.’ And I agree. I think it’s time you hire some people who aren’t corrupt and who treat human beings like human beings.”
Ivanka doesn’t answer our question, but she says, “Father, I have been thinking. It’s time we put an end to this nepotism. I spoke with the trees, and they all said, ‘Hire a different cabinet. This one is terrible.’ And I agree. I think it’s time you hire some people who aren’t corrupt and who treat human beings like human beings.” And then Mr. Trump opens his mouth to answer, but this time I notice that his voice and the movements of his mouth are all slightly off, and I look behind him and realize that Steve Bannon is the one actually talking and Mr. Trump has just been mouthing “Watermelon watermelon watermelon” this whole time! Mr. Bannon/Trump says, “You know, you’re right, Ivanka. I realized when I fell into that snowbank earlier today that we’re all just people. I fell over and I laughed at myself and we all laughed at myself, and quite frankly, I can’t remember the last time I laughed at myself!” We all cheer and we laugh and Vice President Pence throws some confetti in the air that he had brought for emergencies. We’re so happy about Mr. Trump/Bannon’s decision that we don’t notice that we’re about to go down a hill, and suddenly we’re all careening straight down a steep drop and don’t see the little ditch at the bottom, so when we hit the ditch we all go *FFMMPP* and faceplant right into a big drift of fluffy snow. When we try to get up, we all have floofy bits of snow in our suit jackets and up our shirts and we *pff* *pff* spit it out of our mouths, and then we all laugh genially, and we smile dumb smiles, and we notice that we’ve brushed the snow off of a sign that says, “Mexicans are not rapists - YOU’RE rapists!” And then Mr. Trump/Bannon and the rest of the cabinet all nod their heads knowingly. They say together, “Hmm, yes. I guess I never thought about it that way before.” The group turns around and start to head back to Holden Village. At the end of the ski, we all take a moment to look into each other’s eyes and give each member of a the cabinet a deep, meaningful hug. Then, suddenly, I hear a rumble and a roar. I know what you’re thinking - no, it’s not our stomachs, all hungry for a king-size Snickers bar - it’s an AVALANCHE. And just like that, an avalanche takes out the entire Trump White House. They are definitely all dead. I hate to tell you this so bluntly, but that’s exactly what happened. So, because they had also told me (in between Scott Pruitt’s admiration of the creek and Ivanka appearing out of the woods) that they had changed the rules about the Presidential Line of Succession, I came to a terrible yet wonderful conclusion. I, Laura Bretheim, am now the President of the United States. Like Walt Whitman says, “I took the road less traveled by, and now I’m the President of the United States.” What a world.
There’s this wall. It stands in a Chalet in a faux-Swiss mountain village in the North Cascades of Washington. This wall is made out of some unknown wood paneling that was around in the 70’s and was created to resemble the once popular and oh-soflammable beaverboard. The main unpleasant effect this paneling has on its human residents is revealed when the often absent mountain sun seeps through the small and poorly placed windows. The upgraded beaverboard does a fantastic job at absorbing most of this desperately sought after light. I am one of these desperate sun-seeking individuals who lives between the 70s wooden paneling. I am sitting on a some-what dilapidated gray blue IKEA couch. Upon each cushion has been left some lazily ignored stain. Not one cushion is free from these splotches of left- behind spills. The cushions have been collecting these stains like a child might collect rocks or stamps, each one differently placed and shaped, and each left by a different individual. The couch is colored by various pillows. Handmade and misfit pillows that were all once created for different spaces in the faux Swiss mountain village, but now, having been discarded by their previous owners, find themselves the accessories of the stained IKEA couch. Directly across from the saturated couch is a fireplace - occasionally used. Between the fire and it’s mantle lies a string of dim Christmas lights that, because of their convenience, get turned on with much more frequency than the fire. The backdrop of the mantle and the fire is real, red bricks. Simple and neat. Each brick is smoothly aligned with its brother, supporting the fireplace, the mantel, and the 70s wooden paneling. The only sign that these bricks belong in the same chalet as the splotched couch and the dim Christmas lights is the white paint spilled across the top half. There, just below the spilled paint, and just above the dim Christmas lights, lies the rough 4x6 piece of lumber that makes up the mantle. There are various objects upon the mantle: long-ago emptied bottles, hand crafted vases, dried lavender, a questionable plant that has lived entirely too long, and of course, a light up disco ball, which sits at the mantle’s center.
Now, back to the wall. This wall, the one with the 70s paneling, has many different papers thumb tacked into it. If you were to step into this chalet without any further knowledge of what this wall was, you might think that it looked rather haphazard or unintentional, and while it may have begun this way, there is much more to this wall and its papers than accident. Each note, picture, and drawing has been collected as a portrait of the collective residents, past and present. This wall is living, and each person who resides amongst its paneling adds breath to its lungs in the form paper blessings, pinned to it with thumbtacks. Those who have come to live in this faux Swiss mountain village have chosen to live in intentional unsettlement; they occupy a community that believes in transience and hospitality; embracing people as they come in and go out, each person creating a space for themselves and then leaving a piece behind, changing the village as they go. It is through a deep understanding of this intentional unsettlement that the young people of Chalet 3 have come to create their haphazard wall of blessings. This is their way of honoring the pieces that people have left behind. This is their way of understanding how those pieces turn into an active benediction for a left behind home.
Potluck: The Zine, was curated and produced by Hal Baum. This Month’s zine contains work from: Maggie Brakke, Laura Betheim, Delaney Churchwell, Annie DeSutter, Traesti Luther, Alicia PapkeLarson, Katie Turner, and Zachary Sylvester Cover photo by: Hal Baum
Postward Photo by: Laura Bretheim
If you would like to submit work, or get involved email Hal directly at: HalBaum@aol.com (That’s right. AOL. Deal with it.) HOLDENHOLDENHOLDENHOLDENHOLDENHOLDE NHOLDENHOLDENHOLDENHOLDENHOLDENHOLD ENHOLDENHOLDENHOLDEHNHOLDENHOLDENHO The Potluck is a monthly variety show curated and produced by Abby Pajakowski, Will Sondheim, Patrick Budde, and Sammy Zeisel. It happens the first Saturday of every month at 10:30 PM at The Frontier Theater right off the Thorndale Red Line stop. Check it out! For more information about The Potluck, visit their website at: http://www.potluckvarietyhour.com Or email them at: potluckvarietyhour@gmail.com HOLDENHOLDENHOLDENHOLDENHOLDENHOLDE NHOLDENHOLDENHOLDENHOLDENHOLDENHOLD ENHOLDENHOLDENHOLDEHNHOLDENHOLDENHO Did you know? If you put butter in your coffee it will even out your caffeine high and reduce the nasty crash that you normally get from drinking coffee. This happens because I don’t know something about animal fat and carbohydrates. Just try it! It really works!
All of the stories, poems, writings and photographs contained in this issue of Potluck, The Zine! were created and submitted by members of the staff at Holden Village, Winter 2017. An intentional community nestled in a valley in the Cascade Mountains of Northern Washington, Holden Village is one of the most isolated communities in the contiguous United States. It is a place of peace, reflection and natural beauty, where guests, staff, and volunteers work, play, worship, and eat together.
Many of the staff at Holden only stay for a few weeks or a month at a time, and guests come and go regularly. It can be a place of transition for people between jobs, relationships, and living situations. As people come and go, they leave their stories behind. Holden Village has a deep history, and this is just a tiny subsection of a tiny subsection of the stories that have been told there. Together we carve the village, just like the glaciers carved the valley billions of years ago. We leave stories like boulders, and pick up others like trees. We carry them with us. - Hal Baum