The Looking Glass Spring 2011: Volume 7, Issue 1
A Publication of the Honors Student Advisory Board Looking Glass Committee Committee Chair
Will Loucks
Editor-in-Chief
Emily K Brookhart Associate Editors
Jessie Giguiere Connor Kennelly Bethany Lowe
HSAB Alec Bowman Sam Hatfield Jordan Hensley Jordan Howser Tory Kampfer Will Loucks J Jacob Marsh Amanda Niehenke Taylor Rogers Anne Schulz Lydia Swift Avery Worrell
UHP Director
Stephan Flores Associate Director
Alton Campbell Program Advisor
Wieteke Holthuijzen
Cheryl Wheaton
2 THE LOOKING GLASS Spring 2011
CONTENTS Tower
by Sara Hendricks p. 3
Treason Against Tyranny by Will Loucks p. 4
A Modern Fate
by Jasmine Hankey p. 5
Mulberry Tree
by Laura Cumber p. 8
Memory is a Black Hole by Sam Hatfield p. 9
The Color of Madness by Jasmine Warne Rowe p. 10
Numb
by Bethany Lowe p. 12
Louise
by Meredith Metsker p. 13
Midnight Conversation With a Street Lamp by Bethany Lowe p. 13
An Alternative Way to Live by Dylan Waterman p. 14
Welcome to the spring 2011 edition of The Looking Glass. After a several year hiatus, The Looking Glass has been reinvigorated in a wonderfully enhanced and expanded format. We have again included original student photography and artwork to accent and complement the wide range of creative writing. The Looking Glass continues to serve as both a vehicle and theme for the creative expression of the University of Idaho Honors students. As we stand gazing into a mirror, we do not just see our image as a mere photograph or video; we analyze, evaluate, and look for the deeper meaning of our being. Similarly, these works reflect the probing thoughts of the honors students, as they perceive their increasingly changing environment. The selections in this edition reveal the timeless idea of good versus evil, as well as how significant emotional experiences play in their authors’ minds. All of the works in this publication were evaluated and selected anonymously by The Looking Glass Committee and are being presented in their original, unedited form. This is a testimony to the thoroughness and superlative creative ability of their authors. We would like to thank everyone who has made submissions and encourage all honors students to consider contributing to future Looking Glass publications. We would also like to thank Dr. Stephan Flores for his guidance and Dr. Alton Campbell for facilitating our committee’s work.
The Looking Glass Committee
University of Idaho Honors Program Student Advisory Board P.O. Box 442533 Moscow, ID 83844-2533 hsab@uidaho.edu UHPLookingGlass@gmail.com
TOWER Sara Hendricks For the past month, a demon has come every evening to sing below my window. It is impossible to explain how I know he’s a demon. To anyone else, I’m sure he looks perfectly ordinary; but I have experience with creatures like him, and I can hear it in his voice. I can hear the strange, sinuous shape of his soul, and how out of place it is compared to a regular human spirit. But I do not dare go to one of the windows, do not dare to catch a glimpse of him. I can hear him below the tower, moving among the plants in my garden, and calling at the door so that I will let him in. But I do not let him in; I wait for the dawn to whisk him away again. He appears at dusk, and departs at first light. I do not know where he comes from, or where he goes back to when he leaves. All I know is that singing demons herald great changes, and I have to wonder what sort of change is coming my way that would make him linger for this long. Every day I think he will not come. Every day I think—or hope?—that on this newest evening, I will hear no singing outside my tower. And yet, every evening so far I hear his deep baritone voice arrive just as the sun begins to set. Tonight is no exception. The blue of the sky begins to change into yellows and oranges over the trees, and I have once again sequestered myself high in the tower with my books and candles and comforts from the night. The tiny bells that hang from the eaves are ringing softly in the light breeze, and suddenly there is a sweet, nightingale voice accompanying their music. This night he sings of love and companions regained; it is bittersweet to me, since I have lost so many friends myself and have only rarely recovered them. The demon’s choice of songs makes me wonder how much he knows about me. Is he familiar with my past, to know just what to sing to me this night?
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It has been a month, I tell myself. Any denial past this point would simply be delusional. I must let him in, and I must ask him what he wants. Yet, quite understandably I think, I am reluctant to do that. The fact that I know I have no choice does nothing to allay my fears. Demons are not patient by nature, and this one would have left a long time ago if causing me distress was his only goal. And so I spent much of the day preparing for a visitor. It has been years since I have cooked for someone other than myself, but I have enough ingredients laid out now that I can prepare a meal worthy of this night. Now all that remains is to invite the company inside. Just in case, I elect to speak to him from one of the higher windows at first. Eventually I will have to invite him into my home, so long my sanctuary, but there is no reason for me to jump into this situation blindly. As night falls, I push open one of the windows in my study and peer down at the ground. Gloom has already gathered at the base of my alabaster tower, and it has cast the creeping, clutching ivy into shadows that bleed away the emerald green natural to the vines. For a moment, all I can see are those leeching shadows, though I can still hear the demon’s voice singing to me. But then he steps into the light thrown by the lanterns circling the tower, and I catch my first glimpse of him. Even from this height, I can tell that he is heart-breakingly handsome. There are smooth black horns sweeping back from his temples, but other than that he looks like any other ordinary, albeit attractive, man. He stops singing, but when he speaks I find that his voice is so musical he might as well be plucking more impromptu songs out of the air. “I was beginning to wonder how long it would take before you decided to acknowledge my presence.” “Most demons go away if you ignore them,”
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I counter, temper a little heated when he laughs. “I thought you would be one of them. I see now that I was wrong.”
He grins at that, and his white teeth flash in the lantern-light. “If you want to know, you’ll have to invite me inside.”
“Very wrong.” The demon crosses his arms, gazing up at me with a patience I am not used to seeing in a creature like him. “Are you going to let me in?”
Even though we both know I have no choice, I make a show of considering his words. I have precautions in place, some small chances at survival should things go horribly wrong once I let him inside. They are meager pieces of insurance, but they may be the difference between life and death.
Working to keep the calm expression on my face, I lean on the windowsill. “Why should I?” “Because you’re curious. Because you have nothing better to do. Because I won’t leave you alone until you do.” As much as I don’t like it, he has a point. “What do you want from me?” “I want to talk to you. But face to face. Together. I have things to tell you; things that might interest you.” “Like what?”
And I must admit, there is a certain irony that appeals to me about inviting a demon into my tower. The stories always told are of angels falling, never demons ascending. Perhaps it’s time to tell such a story. Who knows: perhaps he will bring me something to make me feel alive again. Moving away from the window, I descend the curving stairs to unlock my front door.
TREASON AGAINST TYRANNY Will Loucks
Loath to show fright. Alone he strove with all his might, as he clove the trove by the cove that night. Though know, all was not right. Lo, the throne had seen the sight. So on his steed he rode in flight.
Christina Sullivan
In a hellhole of a hovel By the handle of a shovel He was made to grovel in the gravel. While the falling of the gavel sent the knave unto the gallows. His dead face pale and sallow, as his grave was dug quite shallow. Yet his soul cried out with valor in the knowledge he was right.
AJasmine MODERN FATE Hankey Bittersweet, or climbing nightshade, is a weed both common and noxious. Its commonness stems from its pervasive domination of habitat. Clinging and grasping, bittersweet chokes out any plants in its clutches; their skeletons become ladders to the sun. Being found mainly in cleared areas, or at the point where bareness meets brush, this creeping vine has all the opportunity in the world to absorb the sun’s rays, but, instead, uses unsuspecting victims to ascend towards the heavens. It wants more and disregards the cost. The noxious quality of bittersweet draws from the fact that it can be lethal. Quite lethal. In truth, its cousin, deadly nightshade, is the family member who strikes real fear into the causal grazer’s heart; a few of its berries can end one’s existence all too quickly. Still, I would not want to test bittersweet’s abilities, all the same. Blood is thicker than water, and familial ties are deceptively resilient, even in the plant world. Any link of bittersweet’s to deadly nightshade--or belladonna, the beautiful lady, to those who know her well--would prove tragic. Indeed, this sense of tragedy permeates back through generations to ancient Greece, in a small eddy the river of time eternally bypassed and ignored. When naming lady belladonna, the scientists in charge of her official moniker decided upon placing her in the genus Atropa. Today, this name is free of connotations, but to ancient Grecians, it would have raised neck hairs and struck fear into hearts more quickly than any piece of pointed iron was able, for Atropos was more than just a goddess. Forever striding through a garden of creations-not flowers or beautiful plants, but innumerable minute strings-she carried only slender, silver shears. Almost shining with youth unchanging, the silver blades would catch distorted images of the kaleidoscopic sky, yet somehow reflected merely a sterile solemnity akin to empty hospitals beds. The eternity of strings, tangled into an almost impassable mess forever growing in
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length with each passing day, were kept company by a woman with unquestionable power over them all. Atropos was a Fate. Upon hearing the call of her sisters, Atropos would turn slowly, her shears carelessly slicing through the swirling mother of pearl mist with the sound of diamonds cracking. One can imagine the nearest threads almost vibrating with discontent, wishing to escape into the shades above. The other Fates, after singling out a thread deemed just long enough, could leave the rest to Atropos. Opening the blades like the yawning chasm of hell, she would quickly bring them together, severing the indicated strand in a heartbeat. As a thousand mirrors seemed to shatter, the silence was broken again as a thousand more echoes ripped zigzaggingly through the shimmering air. Drifting downward, time seemed to stop as the thread disintegrated into glittering pieces, fading, and then became nothing. Consciousness was no more. Everything was changed. Existence ended. On the earth, however far removed it was from a place so timeless and eternal, the string’s corresponding creature crumpled to the ground, instantly expired. With the swift snick of one’s life thread, breathing was over, never again to be summoned. Life ceased to exist and reality was forever altered with the slash of perpetual sorrow and clinical severity. *** Whether such an extrapolation is the fruit of an imagination either overactive or artificially enhanced, it is the sort of image that humankind has created for generations. The imagination allows us to go beyond everyday perceptions, and this creative nature of the human race has forever been pushed and cultivated throughout time, no matter the outcomes. Like the creeping vine, we want more. ***
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Back in reality, however, the season was summer in its highest glory, complete with lofty cirrus clouds that streaked the sky like feathery blades against the cerulean backdrop. Thousands of feet below, a small girl, probably four or five, knelt in the prickly grass long ago relinquished to the drought. That girl was me and I can remember the way the grass prodded at my knees, biting as I crouched. At that age, I loved foraging. Not foraging in the sense that I would eat the things I found, but more in that I enjoyed finding small berries and seeds in my wanderings to see how many I could accumulate by the sun’s disappearance. That particular day had been sparse, since the summer was so hot. Plants drooped and curled to the ground, one by one, productivity forgotten. However, through some stubbornness associated with nature, the grass underfoot was still stolidly producing seeds that grew in crumbly bunches. Between my chubby thumb and index finger, the clumps of six or seven seeds felt like large bits of sand as I carefully disintegrated them into my other hand. Clenching it in a fist to keep them contained, I straightened up. I travelled in the pattern of an erratic swallowtail butterfly-a quick streak of yellow and black, trajectory unpredictable. Aimlessly wandering in a the timeless world of a child, I fluttered without a care. I flattened myself like a mouse, breath held, squeezing by the gargantuan pussy willow bush, or tree, as it had become. The hum of bees and wasps rattled the branches angrily. My shoulder blades drew together as I crossed my arms tightly across my chest. Kicking a pile of dirt maliciously, my cramped fingers twitched in the heat. With nothing of interest at hand, I wandered more. Rounding the corner of my house, this time a slinking kitten hunting nonexistent prey, I saw her. Pressed into the thicket where the relatively maintained yard and gravel driveway met untouched woods, she seemed to sway in the deathly still, sweltering air. The bittersweet curled up from the ground, curves hugging the bare, papery bark of the aspen tree she exploited in her desire to touch the sky. The contrast of delicately shaped leaves resembling, at times, both spear points and hearts--an apt combination for a lady so beautiful and terrible--
against the cream colored background seized the eye. Weaving together into a web of fabric, her leaves were a luxurious pelt with which the beautiful lady caressed her skin. Twisting, alighting on every rough nook and cranny of bark, she slithered gracefully, coming to light at almost eye level. Turning slowly, she seemed to beckon. Escape was impossible. Closer inspection of this haughty creature revealed delicate purple flowers nestled among the leaves, clumped in hydra-like bunches. Enticing the beholder just a touch closer, her coquettish cones of deeply dyed petals early in blossoming thrust their heads up, tips still joined in tightly swirled buns high on the head. Having drawn in the unsuspecting onlooker, other sisters let their hair shower down. Fanning to form five points of dazzling amethyst-toned splendor, the nightshade bloomed fully. At the center of this display, bright yellow anthers thrust forward obstinately, hypnotically snaring the viewer. As if these charms were not enough, the sirens of the woods offered food as well as ocular splendor. Some vibrant green with unripe bitterness, some scarlet with worldly existence, they hung clustered in bunches at their mistress’s feet, dangling in sycophantic ecstasy. “Try us, too!” they hissed faintly, loud enough to sow the idea. Lady nightshade snaked a dangerous smile across her lovely lips. Being unacquainted with the perils the lesser belladonna presented, I did not see any danger in the plant before me. She and her berries were beautiful, for red was my favorite color, not a sign of caution. I stood, staring. However, I did not venture off of the prickly grass. Perhaps it was some innately human trait to be wary of leaving civilization, which stepping away from manmade terrain would have been. Shifting in my worn flip flops, I eyed the red berries. I do not know what would have happened if my dad had not come along at precisely that moment. Probably nothing, since I never ate anything I collected, but even so, the question remains.
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The heaviness with which my dad warned me to avoid the leggy plant before me was both memorable and intimidating. Brows knit together and his face lowered closer to mine than the normal four foot span, the tense angles of his joints spoke more than his words. Being only a handful of years old, the specifics were lost on me, but his message was clear. Danger came from stepping off the path, and I clearly had no idea what danger looked like. A being that was, a second ago, beautiful and inviting was now menacing, guarding the entrance to the unknown. I opened my clenched hand, prying each finger away from my sticky palm. The black grass seeds refused to fall away, despite my flat, upside down hand. Brushing them onto the ground in a kind of offering to new knowledge, I turned. Lady belladonna remained where she was, patiently waiting for her next pupil. *** Humans possess an innate quality for transforming reality. Indeed, reality is all about interpretation, and anything that can reinvent this interpretation has been eagerly sought for centuries. Certain substances, now found under the intimidating label of hallucinogen, have held prominent and secure places throughout the past, the present, and will assuredly continue to do so into the future. As a race, humans keep getting better at transcending the status quo and cling to this knowledge jealously. The problem with this trend comes down to human nature. In the quest for transcendence, humankind has taken the fates of many substances originally created for benevolence and transformed them into recreational devices, rather than means of healing. LSD was originally used to treat alcoholism, severe pain, and psychological disorders, while ecstasy treated the symptoms of narcolepsy, reduced insomnia, and could be used as an anesthetic. Because of their hallucinatory side effects, these drugs’ medical paths swung erratically from beneficial to highly controlled. No longer do their associations summon forth medicinal uses; they create images of psychedelic journeys out of the mind. As a result, regulators have been forced to forcefully impose control over the wayward use of these substances.
But why is this so? Why does the human race, collectively, slingshot between reveling in freedom and ensuring order, quite often debilitating itself in the process? Perhaps we, as a whole, are simply a diametric species, or perhaps we are not and this aptitude manifests in different ways. Whatever the case, the struggle between factions vying for control or lack thereof--those sides either despotic or anarchical at extremes--are constantly at war, like the day with the night. Neither can or will give way in the end, but merely pace around each other, bristling in an eternally pugilistic standoff. For an exhibition of this dualism, take the belladonna again. Consumed in even the smallest of doses, she is deadly; there is no argument on the matter. However, when utilized correctly, distillations of her potent juices are used in the field of optometry to dilate eyes. Additionally, these juices serve as an antidote for certain poisons and even as a means of reviving the stilled human heart. Despite her deathly power, she is also benevolent. Because of this intrinsic opposition, maybe she can become our muse, a muse concerned with temperance. Nightshade exists in contradiction, but neither calls attention to the fact or resists it. Both rooted firmly in the immutable ground below and undaunted by the sky she so willing climbs to, her world is one of both security and exploration. Neither side dominates the other. Lady belladonna, being both beautiful and dangerous, could prove a new Fate for humanity more relatable and applicable than we may be willing to admit.
MULBERRY TREE
8 THE LOOKING GLASS Spring 2011
Laura Cumber
Around the base Of the mulberry Tree sat a young Girl who just stared at me. She was small and petite With big brown eyes That looked at me Questioning why. Why did the tears fall As they did? Why did the world spin one on its head? Why did the stars disappear in the day, When they are needed most to guide the way? Why upon why looked up at me; But the biggest of all That struck my core was the why that began them all. Why in the world Would God create A place that experienced sadness and hate? I looked down at those chocolate eyes And thought it over for awhile. “Tears fall because of grief, but they fall more in times of peace. The world it spins so people can balance; And the stars they go so one can find the way on their own. But most importantly” I said. “Is God created sadness and hate so the opposites could have more weight. Joy and kindness go a long way When it all boils down at the end of the day.” The tears on my face Dried at the thought And I looked at the tree Right to the top, Where the stars disappeared in a lightening sky.
Christina Sullivan
Christina Sullivan
MEMORY IS A BLACK HOLE
Spring 2011  THE LOOKING GLASS  9
Sam Hatfield
Memory is a black hole. It has its own gravity A vacuum that absorbs The dreamy and the dull, the darkness, and the Splitting conscious. Linger on, linger, that placate heart, or The lover and smiling lips of yesteryear. The screams of joy and laughter fit into a socket wrench, and are twisted and distorted gravity by the weight of the sceptical chymist, the jarring seeds of matter; of beating blindfolds dropped in the wind, blown down sandy shores to darkening alcoves.
In concert, these things are In concert, lovely and heavenly beings; How slovenly strewn are the persistent places That litter the subterranean world of Nostalgia. Utopian and placid, culling collective happiness of fondest recollections. Singularity, interregnum divine, An event horizon warped in ten dimensions, but a face never fades
Will Loucks
THE COLOR OF MADNESS
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Jasmine Warne Rowe
I read in the Turkey City Lexicon (published by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America) that a common mistake that writers make is that they start the main character’s story in a “white room.” It reveals a lack of planning on the writer’s part, a lack of a sense of place within the context of the character’s story. The editor of the article said that she thought this was a symptom of the writer staring at a blank, white page before tackling their creative task. I’ve certainly made that mistake before: my second novel attempt in eighth grade started with the main character opening her eyes to white walls and a white ceiling, and she woke up to a similar sterile landscape every time I got stuck with the narrative. Whenever I have a particularly difficult time writing, I use a computer program that turns the entire screen black, while the words fluoresce in whatever color I choose, usually a shade of light blue, adjusted slightly to reflect the current tone of whatever I’m writing. As I recline against the couch in the fine arts dorm common area, I glance at the clock. Fuchsia numbers cheerfully inform me that it is 8:37p.m. The letters seem to float above the greasy black, like the rainbow gleam on the top of an oil slick. I wonder if my conversion to the dark screen was the reason why my revision of my novel resulted in the main character being blinded shortly after the opening credits. It doesn’t matter. I get my inspiration for art from color. Art isn’t something that I create out of empty vacuum. Absence isn’t a muse. For me, the blank white page is the antithesis of creativity, the specter of the artist; it looms, sheer and impeccable, as if it can repel any artistic deflowering through intimidation alone. When I draw, that first mark on the paper feels as sullying as the first footprint on virgin snow. I foster a similar aversion to the white wedding dress. Not only does it serve as a handy cultural price-tag—designed to shamelessly promote a bride’s purity even in the face of devastating evidence to the contrary—it also carries with it a sense
of impotence and blandness. Here is a woman who is yet to be marked. She is a blank slate, waiting to be written on, without personality or color. Thankfully, this state won’t last for much longer. My own distaste for ancient, tribal wealth exchange rituals aside, I must admit that I’m simply bored without color. If I get married, I want a red dress, even if I’m still a virgin—especially if I’m still a virgin. I am reminded of Margaret Atwood’s poem “The Red Shirt,” which takes on cultural attitudes that she felt pressured by when she was a child: …. A girl should be A veil, a white shadow, bloodless as a moon on water; not dangerous; she should keep silent and avoid red shoes, red stockings, dancing. Dancing in red shoes will kill you. Atwood’s poetry stirs within me a vicious sort of satisfaction that is anything but “bloodless.” But as much as I would like to bolster my tendencies with the rebar of morality, I must admit that the most compelling factor in my abhorrence of white is the simple fact that I adore color. I am the child of a sculptress and a sustainable farmer, tie-dye and chakra-meditation. By middle school, I was a virtual encyclopedia of the significance of various plants, stones, animals, and colors: blue, turquoise, and yarrow for communication and clarity; coral for nurturing and healing; devil’s club and hematite for protection and power. I keep a stick of devil’s club in my purse, a piece of hematite in my wallet, and pieces of blue sodalite and a heart made out of tiger’s eye in the tiny pocket where I keep my keys. (The iridescent, brindled umber of the tiger’s eye doesn’t
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signify anything important at all; I’ve just had it ever since I was five years old.) I think perhaps that my obsession for all things bright and clashing had a more primordial origin. My mother enjoys regaling friends and relatives with the story of how at age three I would paint for hours—occasionally falling asleep face-first into my vivid creations. I was a budding insomniac even then. One night, after reviving me and wiping off most of the paint, my mother asked me if I was hungry for a snack before I went to bed. My three-yearold self flailed blearily at the brushes on the table mewling, “I’m hungry for to paint!”
Dying my hair neon colors and dressing in the occasional faux-goth outfit is one way of declaring my love of intense hues and emotions. Once, my friend Nathan, mentioned he “would never have taken you seriously after you dyed your hair if I hadn’t already been your friend.” I said that that was probably due to his own cultural prejudice and that he should get over it. “It’s not prejudice,” he replied. “I just don’t want to get punched in the face with color every time I look at you.”
As an adolescent stubbornly concealing my rapidly deteriorating eyesight (I couldn’t identify people by their faces and became adept at discerning body-language and inflection), my perception became increasingly auditory in focus. But color still dominated my perceptions. When I hear music, I see colors that vary according to tonality, tenor, mood, rhythm, instrumentation, and voice. I feel in colors. To “feel blue” is a complex experience to describe for me. I “feel” turquoise when I am charged and clear, aquamarine when I am calm and content and aware, and cobalt when I am spiritually introspective or deeply moved to a sort of heartbreaking serenity.
But honestly, what better way to stay true to my capricious and torrid love-affair with color than to paint myself with it. It’s like the way I used to gild my calf and foot with blood whenever I cut or scraped myself when I was very young, daubing gleaming, crimson designs along the length of my calf, stopping to ornament my ankle with a spiral or two. I am vivid. For me, the entire world is vivid; I stand, frozen at the spectacle of a red maple leaf on the sidewalk, a slug cruising along the underside of a sturdy stem, the agonized starkness of a peeled twig on a living branch, flayed by animals or humans or both. The farmer’s market is a jeweler’s display case; the symphony is an art museum.
Currently, at 3:19 in the morning, I slowly dip into the skein of my essay after returning to my dorm lounge at two thirty from the midnight premiere of the seventh Harry Potter movie. While I idly scroll through my favorite disturbing webcomic and listen to my current favorite musicians, singing a cheerfully folk-version of the hip hop song “Fuck Tha Police,” I guess I feel…well…. The music is a lovely burnished brass, or perhaps a deep purple. I feel…a bit of a gold spark from seeing my best friend, Nathan, at the premier, even though we exchanged less than ten words. I feel a bit of a sick umber from making a few too many social faux pas. And, of course, there’s the sheer, azure and platinum euphoria of having one of my childhood dreams made manifest in front of my eyes. I guess I feel a bit of a dark violet over all. I’m tired. Azure is just a bit too much to muster at what is now 4:20 in the morning.
The psychological word for it is synesthesia— experiencing one sense through the interpretations of another. Basically, some people’s neural wiring is crossed slightly more than others. Many artists have some form of synesthesia. The vocabulary of the music world reflects this: we speak of bright tone and dark tone and lightness and sweetness and darkness and softness and warmth and coolness. When I was twelve, I read in Scientific American of chefs who cooked by the feel of the taste, writers who colored words and musicians that could see voices and taste chords. It is so common, in fact, that my experience would probably be considered a mild case at best. And now, as I sit here at 5:45 in the morning, reeling slightly from sleep deprivation and pondering the subjective nature of experience, I look out
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the window and realize that it is snowing. I catch my breath in something that is partially a gasp and partially a girlish “oh.” The snow speeds down in full darkness, but the nicotined streetlights catch them in mid air, as if the light itself enables the down-like configurations to momentarily ignore gravity, even occasionally puffing upwards like flour off a baker’s table. And I know, even though I am unable to produce a reasonable explanation for my erratic opinion, that I have to go out there. And so I squeeze my toes into my shoes— walking on top of them more than in them—slip on my jacket over my tank top, and gingerly step outside into a world of white. I am a hot bead of life amidst the sterile, silent cold. But the descent of the snow within the streetlights is oddly hypnotic, and then I detect a fellow occupant of the pre-dawn vacuum. I have always thought of snow as a silent specter. Pretty, certainly, but so ethereal and substanceless as to be non-existent. But at six in the morning, snow has a sound. Perhaps it is something like what a cloud of monarchs in a single tree would sound like, if I ever got close enough to one to tell. But now I am edging, transfixed, toward the streetlight across the street from the dorm until I am teetering on the edge of the curb—until it comes to me that what I am doing is not entirely the best of ideas. Here I am, at 6:15 in the morning, and I have nothing; I am nothing. I don’t even have my shoes on properly. I have no way to protect myself if I go gallivanting out in the night. But the snow is falling lightly, like butterflies tasting the warmth of my skin and settling into my hair, and I realize that I am going to do it anyway, so I might as well get over my reservations sooner rather than later. And then I am there, arms tight around myself, huddling beneath the streetlamp’s beam as though it could shield me from the starkness and the emptiness of it, but the snow is so beautiful, and though at first I feel like a dark, misshapen insect hunched in the corner of a blank piece of paper, I start to suspect that the snow’s ethereal beauty may be rubbing off on me. As I stare at the snow coating the sidewalk, what was once an amorphous mat becomes a textured landscape, full of structure and shards and glints and impossible variations. And then it comes to me—the whole rest of my essay narrates itself in my head—and I realize that the
proper thing to do right now is to take off my jacket and my shoes and throw my head back and stare straight up and let the snowflakes nest in the curve of my collarbone and the bits where what little is left of my clothing. And I feel empty, and it fills me up. Later, as I shrug my coat back on over my bare shoulders, I feel the icy crystals rasp gently along skin before evaporating like the hesitation after a kiss. It strikes me then, with a lime green sort of glee that white must also be the color of madness.
NUMB
Bethany Lowe I protected my heart Oh, it was so safe It never even felt The gentle paws of rain It was never scorched by a Raging summers sun, or even Jilted By your searching breeze Your tender hands unfurled Reaching, longing, yet-not quite. For it is delicate Impalpable. It slipped away Untouched, Whole. Your sweet words reverberated Close Yet they must first encounter the mind My mind. So, though sweet to the tongue, They dripped like poison. So I protected my heart.
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LOUISE Meredith Metsker
The creases lining your face are prominent like cracks in the sidewalk. You breathe as if you have just run a marathon, your last race. Your skin, pale as a white rose, lies flat against your bones, a waxy cover over your beauty. Your chest rises and falls, building luminous green-lined mountains, while high pitch notes mark time. I hold your hand, it shakes, a frail branch twitching in the wind. Goosebumps bubble upon my skin, as your fingers squeeze feebly beneath mine. “I love you”, I breathe softly. Your response is a whisper on the wind. It’s gone as soon as it came.
Meredith Metsker
MIDNIGHT CONVERSATION WITH A STREET LAMP Bethany Lowe
Filter softly, my moon Through heavy weave. Illuminate, tentatively This dark night that sleep avails. Another hour. You hang unchanging In a vast black sea. Bound in time Our time. Tick – tick – Are not moons born to drift free? Glowing, weaving far beyond these worlds of Us. Humanity. Stagnancy. (You flicker) The sun will soon stretch sleepy golden limbs upon us And we will filter her too; glass, walls, And capture her in our numbers. Tick – tick – Did we too once travel in this darkness, far away? Wilderness turned concrete, this ground is our shackles And each night, you are my moon.
AN ALTERNATIVE WAY TO LIVE
14 THE LOOKING GLASS Spring 2011
Dylan Waterman
As another day rolls by, an increasing amount of oil is excavated and sent off to the United States of America. In the month of July, 2010, the U.S. imported 377,697,000 barrels of crude oil and petroleum.1 Eventually, these oil wells will dry up, and the energy provided by these imports that citizens depend on will vanish. Additionally, continued worry about carbon emissions spreads, based on increasing the atmosphere’s temperature by one degree Fahrenheit. These dilemmas that the United States confronts prove that the search for an alternative energy source is necessary. This process is already in progress; the problem is to find a substitute that is as cheap and as efficient as nonrenewable resources, like oil, coal, and natural gas. Research on alternative energy has been spurred by the government’s recent financial investments. Since 1980, the Department of Energy has spent $6 billion on solar, $2 billion on
geothermal, $1 billion on wind, and $3 billion on other renewable resources.2 This money has led to breakthroughs and an increase of electricity supplied by renewable means. However, most of the United States’ electricity still comes from non-renewable resources. The lack of electricity produced by alternative energy does not mean the government should curtail its subsidies. Instead, it should evaluate which types need to be pursued more rigorously. Hydroelectric, biomass, nuclear, wind, and solar energy do not all show the same promise. If the U.S. is serious about reducing its impact on the environment and its dependency on imported oil, then the government must promote expansion in the renewable resource that is the most efficient and will have long term benefits. Short term renewable sources will not fix the problem because oil supplies will be exhausted and large amounts of energy will be required. The country needs an energy source
Wieteke Holthuijzen
Spring 2011 THE LOOKING GLASS 15
that will revolutionize the current energy system by providing an inexhaustible supply of energy that can hold the weight of the entire nation. Only nuclear energy can bear this weight because of the low land usage and high efficiency. Wind energy is the most unsteady source of alternative energy. When winds are low, the rotors will not spin. If the winds are too extreme, then the windmills must be shut down to prevent the blades from being destroyed. However, windmills are still being built in more extreme climates, and further expansion is only prevented by the insufficient strength of current metals.3 Therefore, with technological advances, the feasibility of wind energy increases. With stronger material, wind farms could crop up anywhere, collecting more energy. Although more power could be produced, it may not be done efficiently. Wind farms require a lot of land, and the production of windmills involves lots of metal, concrete, and shipping. The supplies may be acquired, but an increased wind energy system is not viable because of the massive amount of land that would be needed. To produce a significant amount of energy that coal, oil, and natural gas provide, the number of wind farms would have to increase by a couple order of magnitudes. Wind energy does not offer a long term replacement for non-renewable energy because it is not efficient enough. Another complication is the wind farms’ impacts on the environment. The blades of a windmill chop up wind and any birds flying close enough. This alternative would waste the productivity of vast areas of land and not fix our impact on the environment. An increasingly more popular source of renewable energy is solar energy. On a small scale, solar panels appear to be a good long-term investment. However, the cost of photovoltaic cells normally deters large use of solar energy. A supply large enough to provide a nation with electricity would be a large investment that the government may not be able to handle right now. Furthermore, the efficiency of photovoltaic cells has not increased in 30 years, stuck at only 10 percent, meaning that a 150 square kilometer plant would be needed to produce 1000 megawatts.4 The massive amount of space and the cost per unit make solar energy unpractical. To power a whole country, large fields of black would have to be littered across the
landscape. Hydroelectric plants currently create 92 percent of the world’s and 80 percent of the United States’ renewable energy.5 This fact would lead some to believe that hydroelectric power has the capability to replace our non-renewable resources. However, the dams that protect the turbines which generate power, and the resulting lakes, cover a copious amount of land. Only the dam generates energy, but the whole area of the new reservoir is used, altered from its natural state. Therefore, hydroelectric has a poor cost-to-benefit ratio due to use of land and would not work on a large scale. One would be hard-pressed to find a location for enough dams to supply the United States, especially since citizens often refuse to move to allow for a new reservoir. Hydroelectric power also presents environmental problems. Dams prevent fish from swimming upstream or downstream, killing large amounts of marine life. Additionally, the reservoir drowns the surrounding vegetation, causing it to decay and release methane, a more harmful greenhouse gas than carbon.6 The government investing in hydroelectric energy for the long term would not be a wise decision since it does not have the capability expand to a significant supply. Also, it would not fix the United States’ impact on the environment. The federal government has heavily subsidized the production of ethanol, a product containing corn. Any fuel that is created with any crop is referred to as biomass. The problem with biomass is that it has to be manufactured. Subsequently, a lot of oil must be used to harvest the crop, move it to a factory to be processed into biomass, and then actually do the processing. At the end of this process, the input-to-output ratio for ethanol is about 1:1.34, which dulls in comparison to oil’s, which is anywhere between 1:30 to 1:200, depending on where the oil is extracted.7 Ultimately, manufacturing ethanol holds a positive yield which can be useful on small scales. To make ethanol available to many citizens, one would have to dedicate great amounts of farm land to the task. Using crop fields to produce large quantities of biomass would severely reduce the food supply. It would not be possible to generate enough energy with biomass to satisfy all of the citizen’s needs while keeping them all fed. The viability of biomass energy is unfortunate since it is environmentally friendly.
16 THE LOOKING GLASS Spring 2011
This fuel would be more reasonable on a small scale with left over crops. The most controversial source of energy may be nuclear power. The best part about nuclear power is that it generates plenty of power while using minimal land. Although nuclear plants do not release any harmful gases into the atmosphere, an accident could cause radiation to escape. Therefore, this type of energy passes the efficiency and the environmental test, but can endanger citizens’ health. Scientists have estimated that, on average, accidents at nuclear plants would cause forty-five deaths a year, which is far less than the 10,000 deaths caused by air pollution due to coal burning.8An obstacle in the growth of nuclear power is the high cost of building. Conversely, efficiency of nuclear power plants in America has increased to 90 percent, up from 60 percent in 1980.9 This enhancement makes investment in nuclear energy more plausible and practical. An additional difficulty is the life of each nuclear plant; each nuclear plant must be shut down after 30 years of use. Since nuclear plants have long construction time, the continued manufacturing of plants would be time consuming and costly. Also, sites for new nuclear plants could be an issue with local communities’ aversion to large concrete towers invading their neighborhood. However, nuclear power plants take up significantly less space than a wind or solar farm. Although nuclear energy is a very large investment, its energy returns and environment friendliness display a promising future. When the federal government has to decide which alternative energies to invest in, the best choice seems to be nuclear. Currently, nuclear power is the only resource that can replace our non-renewable energies. People may refute this investment because the United States uses less renewable resources. Their logic is that the government should not invest in energy which is supplying less and less of the nation’s electricity. The statistics stand behind this logic; U.S. electricity production from renewable energy has decreased in the last fifteen years. This assertion falsely portrays renewable resources as ineffective. The decrease of renewable production compared to non-renewable could be created by an increase in the latter. All that this information proves is that U.S. dependency on non-renewable energies has only grown. While
alternative energy has been becoming more efficient and widely used, the use of coal, oil, and natural gas has grown even faster. This increase means that our non-renewable resources will evaporate faster and that our impact on the environment has only increased. The government should be spending money on research and construction to counter-balance the energy movement towards nonrenewable resources. The question is not whether the government should invest in alternative energies, but how will it receive the most returns. Nuclear power holds the most promise, is the best choice for a large scale energy supply, and should, consequently, be offered the most time and money. Oil, coal, and natural gas have a huge role in the United States’ society that is not easy to fill. Our alternative energy source must be bolstered now in an attempt to ease the imminent transition from non-renewable to renewable energy. By improving now, the transition will be easier. It will not become a chaotic rush when dwindling oil forces people to realize their dire situation.
(Endnotes) 1 U.S. Energy Information Administration. “U.S. Imports of Crude Oil and Petroleum Products.” Department of Energy. http://www.eia.doe.gov/ dnav/pet/hist/LeafHandler.ashx?n=PET&s=MTTIMUS1&f=M (accessed September 12, 2010). 2 Ausubel, Jesse H. “Renewable and Nuclear Heresies,” International Journal of Nuclear Governance, Economy and Ecology, vol. 1, no. 3 (2007): 229-235. 3 Simon, Christopher A. Alternative Energy: Political, Economic, and Social Feasibility. U.S.A.: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2007. 4 Ausubel, Jesse H. “Renewable and Nuclear Heresies,” International Journal of Nuclear Governance, Economy and Ecology, vol. 1, no. 3 (2007): 229-235. 5 Ausubel, Jesse H. “Renewable and Nuclear Heresies,” International Journal of Nuclear Governance, Economy and Ecology, vol. 1, no. 3 (2007): 229-235. 6
The Economist. “End if a Dammed Nuisance.” March 8, 2008.
7 Enshayan Kamyar. Living Within Our Means: Beyond the Fossil Fuel Credit Card. Iowa: Congdon Printing & Imaging, 2005, as qtd. in: McKibben, Bill. Deep Economy. New York: Times Books, 2007. 8 “Nuclear Energy.” Current Issues: Macmillian Social Science Library. Detroit: Gale, 2010. Gale Opposing Viewpoints In Context. http:// ic.galegroup.com/ic/ovic/ReferenceDetailsPage/ReferenceDetailsWindow?dis playGroupName=K12-Reference&action=e&windowstate=normal&catId=G ALE|00000000LVY0&documentId=GALE|PC3021900118&mode=view (Accessed September 13, 2010). 9 Peter Schwartz and Spencer Reise, “Nuclear Now!: How Clean, Green Atomic Energy Can Stop Global Warming.” WIRED, vol. 13, February 2005.
Spring 2011 THE LOOKING GLASS 17
UHP CERTIFICATE RECIPIENTS
UHP CORE AWARD RECIPIENTS
Alex G. Bowyer, Twin Falls, Physics
Heather C. Boni, Winnemucca, Nev., Dance, Psychology
Meg A. Browning, Moscow, Accounting, Bus. Econ.-General Opt.
Alec D. Bowman, Pocatello, Mechanical Engineering, Mathematics-General Opt.
Caroline L. Campbell, Moscow, Food Science
Alyssa D. Crawford, Salem, Oreg., Animal & Vet. Science-Science/Prevet Opt.
Bethany A. Davis, Moscow, English-Literature Emph., English-Professional Emph.
Joseph Dahlquist, Boise, Mathematics-General Opt., English-Literature Emph.
Megan C. Dobroth, Eagle, Architecture
Jacob H. Ehlert, Portland, Oreg., Ecology & Conservation Biol.-Natural Resource Ecol. Opt.
Kelsie J. Evans, North Bend, Wash., Biology Kathryn A. Fox, Challis, Biology Danielle J. Green, Grangeville, Microbiology Steven J. Hanna, Baker City, Oreg., English-Professional Emph., Foreign Languages-Spanish Opt.,
Kyra E. Fullmer, Twin Falls, Secondary Education Mary Katherine Givler, Moscow, English-Creative Writing Emph., Public Relations Laura Graden, Idaho Falls, Architecture Jordan A. Hensley, Camas, Wash., Political Science
Megan R. Jasper, Moscow, Foreign Languages-Spanish
Rebecca Klump, Anchorage, Aka., Theatre Arts
Jonathan A. Karg, Idaho Falls, Journalism, English-Literature Emph., Philosophy
Chenchen Jimmy Li, Pocatello, Electrical Engineering
Amber J. Lankford, Missoula, Mont., Wildlife Resources
Maren A. Mabbutt, Boise, International Studies, Foreign Languages-Spanish Opt.
Kelsey M. LaRoche, Enumclaw, Wash., Finance, Production/Operations Mgt., Management and Human Resources
Laurel R. McGarry, Moscow, Chemical Engineering, English-Creative Writing Emph.
Margaret M. Lauer, Pendleton, Oreg., Foreign Languages-French Opt., Foreign Languages-Business Opt., English-Professional Emph. Adeline Lustig, Cottonwood, Anthropology, Biology Michelle A. Machinal, Richland, Wash., Chemical Engineering Christine E. Maxwell, Union, Oreg., Resource Recreation & Tourism, Foreign Languages-Spanish Opt.
Kelsey A. Neal, Lewiston, International Studies, Foreign Languages-German Opt. Emily J. Osborn, Dayton, Oreg., Landscape Architecture, Anthropology Andrew Roth, Ocean Shores, Wash., Chemistry-General Opt. Mary K. Schultz, Moscow, Food/Nutrition-Dietetics Opt. Mallory N. Tomczak, Meridian, International Studies, History Heather M. Tyner, Anchorage, Aka., Food/Nutrition-Dietetics Opt.
Maya D. Nair, Boise, Chemical Engineering
Mark L. Vance, Homedale, Chemistry-General Opt.
Hannah Nizam-Aldine, Melba, English-Teaching Emph., Foreign LanguagesSpanish Opt., Cert. Only-Secondary
Kimberly M. Williams, Beaverton, Oreg., General Studies
Mitchell J. Odom, Moscow, Psychology Kristin M. Rourke, Payette, English-Creative Writing Emph. John A. Simpson, Salmon, Radio/TV/Digital Media Production Joseph E. Sprague, Colville, Wash., Civil Engineering
PARTING WORDS
Summer—that idyllic time when days consist of more light than dark, clothes become noticeably shorter and the word ‘heat’ becomes more than just a syllable that is cried out desperately from a student population in mourning as April showers become April snowstorms in Moscow. It is, in the shortest possible description, the time when legends are created. As students fight through these last few days and last few academic thorns known as finals, the ultimate reward of this next season is hovering just out of sight, drifting ever-closer. Before the impending mass exodus from campus, the Looking Glass Committee would first like to congratulate everyone on another school year accomplished, and extend thanks to all that were able to submit works this semester. Truly this compilation is a showcase of the tremendous amount of talent found within the Honors community and it brings us much excitement to know that next year will bring an entirely new crop of creativity and artistic passion into view through the publishing of another edition of The Looking Glass. Until then, on behalf of Emily, Will, Bethany, Connor, and myself, have a summer worth telling about—and happy writing. Jessie Giguiere