ILLITERATE MAGAZINE ISSUE#1 by ILLITERATE MAGAZINE

Features

“Lessons Not Learned and The War On Free Speech” Ward Churchill , 9-10 Interview with Scott Lefavor Andrew Behrendt, 33-38 “Why Don’t You Listen to Cameron Mcgill” Gino Ogeda 15-16 “The Magic Of Street Theatre” Alan Palm 1-2 “Bust a Flow on Your Toes” Alan Palm/Adrien Roberts 41-42 “Whoroscopes 30

Poetry

Backward Auxillary Consciousness Shannon Gough & Joseph M Voelbel 32 Emily Tara 53 Strawbarb Pie Written by Yuzo Nieto 3 Illustrated by R. Paton This is a word poem entitled “Mephistopheles” Catlyn Ladd 32 Grass Adam Weinstein 55-56 Unmotivated 47 Emily Powers Arpeggio 31 Aix-en-Province 5 Holocaust Poem Charles Pulley 25-26

Prose

Art

“Ants” 7 Andrew Behrendt “Our Airplane Community” Patrick Lee 45-46

Curran Hatelberg 4 Lizzy Holmgren 49 Kristopher Hutson 7, 8 Scott Lefevre 33-38 Sarah Shantz 17-18 Adrien Roberts 41-42 Leksa Leaver 25, 28 Sander Lindeke cover and back cover, 40 Chase Duke 6 Kurt Danielson 6 Heather Hannan 50

Comics

Dos Factotum 29, 39, 40, 43, 44 R. Paton 3, 11, 19-22 Mr Sketch, 51 Der Gildar, Paton 51 Circus Family 29

Photography

Emily Powers 14, 31, 47 Adrien Roberts 41-42 Leksa Leaver 23, 28 Charles Nathan Pulley 23,-24, 48, 52 Josh Boissevain 12, 13, 39 Ty Hart 54 Julian Gobel 27 Jess Steinitz editors page

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Cover Art by Sander Lindeke

On a summer Saturday the Pearl Street mall brims with a herd of ice cream cone eating, shopping bag carrying, tourists—the grazing animals of the American consumer farm. They have come to Pearl Street, not for necessity, but for distraction, and I am no diﬀerent. They browse through stores, and fondle exotic trinkets, assessing the “cuteness” of cultural artifacts and Banana Republic cardigans alike. “Mooo that’s cute. Moooooo, ooh this is cute.” I begin composing a haiku about material wealth and cultural poverty. Then a vision scatters my counted syllables: a ﬁgure protruding from the sea of pasty necks and striped collared shirts. A young man perched on a tall unicycle, a street performer. I’ve always regarded street performers as creatures of fantasy: traveling gypsies with knowledge of dark magic, slyly grifting tourist change. I imagine them gathering in candle-lit tents, surrounded by belly dancers and mandolin plucking minstrels, sharing goatskins of homemade wine. I see them pouring gold coins from leather satchels onto scarred, wooden tables and making grave wagers with daggers and greasy, colorful playing cards. These are the people from whom you seek information before embarking on a mystical quest. But be forewarned—they will only answer you in Cheshire Cat riddles. That mist of fantasy dissipates in a crowd of khaki clad Wisconsinites gawking at a performer who reminds me more of my elementary school gym teacher—or an uncle who employs the eternal “I’ve got your nose” trick—than a fey gypsy.

TheMagicof and convinces the audience to pay for the entertainment that they have already experienced, like selling tickets to people exiting a movie theatre. “This is called busking folks and it’s the second oldest profession in the world.” Well, that sounds ancient and magical, but if the first profession was prostitution, is that really a strong claim at legitimacy? “Before I started doing this I worked at a marketing firm for three years, making six figures and working over a hundred hours a week. Then before I quit they said to me ‘Alex, what about owning your own business, that’s the American dream?’ and I said ‘American Dream? What about my Dream?”

But this particular performer isn’t your standard middle-aged, whitesocked clown. He’s young, dark haired, and barefoot. He braces himself atop the unicycle by holding the head of a stout, sweaty volunteer. He makes perfunctory jests at stealing the guy’s wallet, and looks at his hand with mock disgust after pushing off the volunteer’s salty head. Some elements of his show seem ubiquitous among the juggling street performers. He rides a unicycle and maintains a rapport with that one little blonde kid, anonymously between six and ten, spattered in chocolate and ketchup. He orders the kid to toss him his unlit torches. “Get your kids up front, use them as a shield!” he calls out to the crowd. He lights the three torches, still atop his unicycle, then tosses one, then the other, and then the third, into the air. He keeps the three spinning sticks of fire in constant flight, all while perched six feet above the unforgiving brick street on a single rolling tire! But he makes it look too easy and the audience just blinks. He informs them that they should be impressed and calls for his own applause. They oblige. “Now on the unicycle, under the leg,” he cries. He looks deep in concentration, then stops. “Yeah right,” he laughs. The trick is now dangerous, risky. Impressing an audience on visual spectacle alone is rare. For people who have lived through Super-bowl halftime shows and “World’s Wildest Police Chases,” a guy swinging candles on a unicycle is not going to do it. It’s not the sight of a torch under his leg they will applaud, but dodging this proposed danger. “Okay, okay, on the unicycle, under the leg. I call this trick...stupid” Oh boy, he might get hurt! Smoothly, he swings the torch under one knee, and the crowd cheers. Still atop the unicycle, before his final trick, he makes the speech that begins with “Now believe it or not folks, I don’t get paid to be here,”

American Dream, huh? All right Fifel, but his market value immediately increases for the crowd. They realize that he is not a beggar; he has chosen to escape the bourgeois existence in which most of them still wallow. For his grand finale he juggles five torches, which I guess is really hard. Despite pleas for money and self-deprecating humor there remains a distinct dignity about his performance. I decide to talk to this character. Perhaps all that marketing firm history is just a polite guise since the truth of his occult past would be too much for the tranquilized masses. I approach. As Alex gathers his earnings from a two-gallon plastic bucket, another performer aggressively accosts him. “That

StreetTheatre is not cool, Alex,” says the haggard faced man in the backwards hat. “You doing fart jokes like that, man? You don’t do fart jokes. Fart jokes are my bit!” Is this guy serious, and did I miss out on fart jokes? The guy continues his tirade as Alex silently gathers his money and sits down against the brick curb. “That’s it man, whenever you’re on, I’m going to be on! You’ll make no money. I don’t care if I starve; you’re going to starve! I’m going to make this mall a living hell for you.” Wow, that’s definitively the most pissed off I have ever seen a human being about a fart joke; I guess this guy is serious. Oh boy, I just witnessed a death threat! The wisps of fantasy still linger! But how to approach this curious creature? I don’t want to sound like a detective, prodding him with sterile questions; he might get spooked. I tell him, simply, that I’m from a magazine and I’d like to talk to him. He agrees and we settle on the ground in an ATM entrance. “So where are you from?” His birthplace was in the village of Zorohath, West of Mt. Vulcan, through the valley of Ghosts and Fog, at the edge of the Emerald Forest. “I’m originally from outside Philly,” he says. “And what got you into street performing?” His father was a member of the king’s personal guard. The sinister advisor to the king, Ralkan, tried to bribe him to join an assassination plot, but his father could not be bought, and was slain along with his mother and only sister. Alex alone survived by holding his breath in a barrel of mead until the assassins had finished their work. He fled into the woods, leaving his home and the bodies of his family burning behind him. The pain of his loss and his empty belly left him wandering, dumbly, beyond thought, through the dank forest. He wandered for hours, perhaps days; he remembers not. He pushed through brambles that cut his face and hands, but felt nothing. He only remembers that at one point it rained, and that later, drenched and bloody and starving, he collapsed inside a cave. He awoke to a roar that sounded as though Zeus had unleashed a thunderbolt inside the very cave in which he slept. Silhouetted in the mouth of the cave, in a flash of lightening, a great bear heeled and then collapsed. It lay in a huge heap, stuck with hunters’ arrows. Those hunters were gypsies, and they found young Alex. Believing that Alex must be an enchanted being to have survived a stay in a bear’s cave, the gypsies took him in and trained him. “I was about twelve, and one day I saw a girl juggling at a softball game, and thought ‘hey I can do that,’ went home and started juggling lemons from my Mom’s fridge. I figured out how to do it, and showed my friend down the street, and we kept practicing. You know, there’s nothing else to do all summer in the suburbs. We developed a pretty sweet act and started performing at parties and stuff.” Alex tells me that he moves between Boulder and Key West. He has an apartment here with his girlfriend and lives out of his car when down south. Performing can be exhausting and frustrating at times, but

he relishes the freedom and work as he pleases. He loves rock climbing and hopes to travel and perform in places with good climbing, maybe Europe. “Europe, right, that’s great Alex. I saw that argument you had with the other performer earlier. Are you guys going to settle that with daggers at midnight?” He laughs, “No that’s over. He just gets cranky at the end of the summer, I’ve heard a lot worse in Key West.” “Right, okay. Have you ever killed a man?” He laughs and says he hasn’t. So maybe street performers aren’t the creatures of fantasy that I had envisioned. They live in apartments or out of cars. They have girlfriends that work cash registers. They eat gas station burritos and get stuck in traffic. They have cell phones. I guess they’re just people trying to make a living. Street theatre can be obnoxious, it can be trite, and sad, but it holds potential for fantasy and excitement, and that’s something. Maybe one of those performers has killed a man, or battled a sorcerer, or at least fallen off their unicycle. Street performers can stimulate the imagination in ways that grazing through shops, drinking frappachinos, and amassing shit you don’t need, never will. I’ll make no more grand conclusions about the everyday magic of street theatre, but if you watch a show, even if you stand with crossed arms, scoffing over your shoulder at how lame this guy is, you’re still watching. But these are just my observations and analysis. To know the truth about street performers you probably need a magic ring or a secret handshake or something. Join us next issue as we dart-tag homeless people to track their migratory patterns!

The Grand Eagle Curran Hatleberg

Noon Time Skies Chase Duke

Monster Kurt Danielson

Illiterate Submission Guidelines and Contact Info So You Think Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve got What it takes to be Illiterate? hereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s your chance to prove it Poetry- maximum 2 pages YuzoNieto@illiteratemagazine.com

Fiction maximum 2000 words Gino_Ogeda@illiteratemagazine.com

Essays/Creative Non Fiction: maximum 2000 words AndrewBehrendt@illiteratemagazine.com

Art: must be in 300 dpi resolution and include dimensionsLeksa_Leaver@illiteratemagazine.com

Photography- must be 300 dpi resolution and include dimensions Emily_Powers@illiteratemagazine.com

Comics- 2 page mazimum Rachel_Paton@illiteratemagazine.com

JournalismAlan_Palm@illiteratemagazine.com

art by Kristopher Hutson

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Corona Josh Boissevain

Reverse R.E.M cycle Instructions Add 6 cups beer at 5.5% (2x on Sunday if at 3.2%) or until full

DO NOT add water For permanent depress: increase concentration and volume replace beer with 80+ proof grain alcohol (if desired dilute with juice or club soda) For spin cycle add 1 joint marijuana Extra tip: stumble dry- multiply all above factors by at least 2 soak in stomach 1 hour or until ringing is heard remove alcohol (may take more than one try) let sit for 4-8 hours remove excess alcohol as needed rinse, repeat.

Untitled Josh Boissevain

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From series Elegant Descent Emily Powers

you just killed me: Cordelia’s heart breaking as she feels her savior die: the flavor ingested into my own blood as credits roll just: as the wheels of your four-door gray Ford stretch quick over pavement: dissolving my excitement with your precision and timely ignorance: he sang: the drive home’s the worst part of the evening: I wish you’d heard him shout: to all those just like you in this town warning: all those just like me to: forget about it and move on quick: quick: quick fix: not a movie screen on a Saturday night or: a week long interim where: I wait: for your touch quietly: I made a decision about you and: the paleness of your eyes in the motion activated bulbs made me doubt myself silently: I should have realized this fight would be lawless: anything close to holding you would be: too damn easy: : you just killed me.

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Sarah

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Schantz

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from Cuba series El Purro Leksa Leaver

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hope can reﬂect on the sins o

As the Nazis held Paris, Jews and dissiden throughout the German concentration of the martyrs exterminated in Final Solution of the Jewish rise to Germany’s absolute po

Desolate trum sound the mec parade regard the

Entering the memorial, one series steps into a walled fortr a small window out to by large metal tee overhe

To the left is hallway lead memoria be The wei the space ops one’s

The soil eart welcome inocent ash and bo bloo

Through the of the chamb is a hallway wit ﬁlled with 200,00 quartz crys remembering the Fre exterminated during t At the far en there is an eternal ﬂam underfoot is the tomb of t portee.

It is one’s dut “Forgive, but never live in their hon 25..

n the sins of mortal madness

d dissidents were deported and scattered ncentration camps, adding to the ranks minated in an eﬀort to fulﬁll the he Jewish Question” and give Germany’s quest for bsolute power.

esolate trumpets nd the mechanized regard the dead waltz

morial, one must descend a steep series o alled fortress, greeted only by dow out to the Seine guarded e metal teeth and the sky overhead.

o the left is a narrow allway leading to the memorial chamber. The weight of the space envelops one’s breath.

The soil of the earth welcomes the inocent lamb ash and bone and blood

hrough the center the chamber there allway with its walls with 200,000 lighted quartz crystals ring the French citizens ed during the Holocaust. At the far end ernal ﬂame of hope and e tomb of the unknowndeportee.

s one’s duty but never forget” n their honor Paris Holocaust Memorial Charles Nathan Pulley

Community Gardens Juliana Gobel

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by Emily Powers

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Interview with:

Jack Kerouac silkscreen on paper 11x17

Scot Lefavor You’ve seen his work before. You may have even heard his name. You just didn’t know it until now. Scot Lefavor has been an innovator in the Boulder art scene for years, co-directing the unfortunately now defunct Gallery Sovereign, co-organizing multiple Guerilla Wordfare events, and having his art displayed everywhere from the galleries to the streets. Some of his paintings can currently be seen at Installations (Broadway & Pearl, Boulder) and in murals and stencils around town (check out his newest mural above Buffalo Exchange (17th and Walnut)). I sat down with Scot over a beer... several beers...some whiskey...to talk about his newest work, the evolving Boulder art scene, and the importance of persistence. Andrew Behrendt: So, Scot... You’re showing at Installations right now; where else can people see some of your newest works? Scot Lefavor: What I’m really excited about is an art battle being organized by Mike at Satellite, between myself and Ray Young Chu, a painter from Denver. Every half-hour, we will be given a word or a concept to work with, and we both have that half-hour to do a painting. It would be a live show, and the crowd would vote on the winner. I might also be showing at the Assembly, a gallery in Denver run by Jared David Paul. We’ll see what else comes up. AB: I noticed that your new paintings are less political than some of your older works. Have you given up on a political message? SL: I definitely used to be more political in my art. I was real angry about the war going on. I still am of course, but I was pretty pissed off. I guess that recently I’ve been trying just to focus on the craft of things. Because of that, the new paintings are a little more playful and fun. I think there’s something to be said for just having fun, coming up with characters 33.

and working on the craft. You should have fun with your art; it doesn’t have to be serious all the time. But I also found it much harder to sell the political works. People like to look at the rebellious portrayal of George Bush, but they don’t necessarily want it hanging in their living room. AB: Don’t you feel that you’ve sold out a little, stepping away from politics just to sell more paintings? SL: Yeah, I kinda do. But I still throw some in there; I still get out the ideas that I want to get out. I’m still political, just more subtly. I don’t feel like I’ve lost my artistic integrity or anything. I’m just trying to make a living. Speaking of political art, though, I have some stuff up in a show called Propaganda, based out San Francisco. It starts October 21st. It’s the continuation of a show run by John Doffing, who started Start-Soma and the Hotel des Arts. It’s based on other shows which were shut down by the federal government last year. There were at least five

shows in the States last year that were shut down by the federal government.

ceived. I think people here, all diﬀerent kinds of people, are craving more original art. [Scot now rants for several minutes on the Rembrandt Yard gallery, a seller of reproduced paintings.] We had all kinds of people coming down to the gallery [Sovereign] and getting really excited. There was the climbing community, the punk community, tourists; a lot of teachers would bring their classes in, and the college students came in quite a bit too. And lots of drunk dudes. But everybody seemed to be excited.

AB: How do you feel about the Boulder art scene? SL: Boulder has a lot of strong artists, but deﬁnitely lacks places to put that art. It could be an awesome hub, it’s a great town, but there needs to be more of an emphasis on putting art around and having people see it. The gallery scene is kind of dismal, so people have to just keep pushing it. I like to see art all over the place, on the streets or in galleries or wherever. It’s exciting when there’s new art around town, like having a new album come out: ‘Aww sweet, there’s some new Ray Young Chu stuﬀ,’ or something like that. It forms a community, and I think people here are starting to catch on to that. Whether it’s political or fun, seeing it on the streets or in galleries, it’s all pretty exciting. So do more street art. Paint on walls, kids.

AB: It seems that CU could be an untapped resource for good artistry; Have you found yourself working with a lot of students? SL: I deﬁnitely met a lot of good artists who were students, and professors too. A few professors had their work up in Sovereign. But that was kind of the conception of the gallery to begin with, a place for local artists to show their work. As far as the CU art school goes, I think it’s great; there are a lot of great resources up there. It just needs more funding from the school, more on art and less on football. From what I understand, the art department gets the least amount of funding.

AB: You really feel the Boulder gallery scene is dismal? SL: It has potential. There are a lot of good places that are still around. The Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art (13th and Arapahoe) is doing some great work. At Art and Soul, the works aren’t edgy or provocative or anything, but they deﬁnitely have some great work. The Dairy Center also has good art. And Denver always has amazing galleries. But really there aren’t a lot of places in Boulder where provocative, edgy, say-what-you-will art is being sold; it’s all kind of precon-

AB: Who are some of your favorite artists around Boulder? Rocky Flats NWR relief print on paper 20x30

SL: Oh, I have a whole list. Alert is a wellknown graﬃti artist; I’m always inspired by his work. Chris Milhausen had a lot of great work

35.

Big Oil acrylic, gel transfer on metal gas signs 18x12

Sorry Son... 4-color lithograph, newspaper on paper 30x20

Machine Gun Molly Boulder. Lisa Solberg is also up and coming. And like I said, all the professors at CU are really inspiring. The list goes on and on. Then in Denver there’s a whole other list: Jared David Paul, Lu Cong, Wes Magyar, Jason Thielke, Shitty Kitten, Rick Griffith... There’s definitely a lot of talent floating around. Plus all of the graffiti crews in Denver... real talent. AB: Do you ever see yourself opening up another gallery? SL: Hell no. I’d rather focus on my own work now. Curating other people’s art is actually lots of fun, but running a business is not very fun. And I’m terrible at it. The gallery didn’t leave me a lot of time to focus on my own art, and now I’m starting to do a lot of graphic design, so I need the time. But it was fun.

Lovers in Heat acrylic on board 20x30

FBVO relief print on paper 20x30

AB: Do you have an ultimate goal with your art? SL: Just to make a living doing it, being comfortable. Call me lazy, but I’m not much of a regular job kind of guy. I’d much rather be on my porch working. 37.

Lucky Devil sticker 12’ AB: Any advice for aspiring artists?

SL: Keep working. Work all the time. Don’t get frustrated by what’s not happening, but just kind of tune into it and do it. A lot of people don’t work as hard on their art because they have day jobs or other obligations; they stop looking at art, and they no longer get the input of the art world to inspire them. So keep looking at art, and keep working, no matter what.

Con-Orgy acryslic, spraypaint, paper on matress queen size matress

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Untitled Josh Boissevain

Sander Lindeke

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43.

Cap tio

n C ont est

Write a caption for this picture and send it to admin@illiteratemagazine.com The top 5 captions will be put on the web

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Unmotivated Desperate That last lustless gaze they shared before she Turned his face To the wall and pressed his shoulders below, bowing him Before her The sudden cold against His skull unsettled his jaw And his eyelids, ensnared, leapt From their lashes Then crashed Towards his cheek as he heard Her gun Cock behind his head.

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faceless nude/ dicolour nude/naked rain Lizzy Holmgren

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Lady Study Heather Hannan

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Emily by Tara

What gods could have made such waxy skin for your breaking mass of bones your rivers of blood that run too thin, the winds rip through you and you’re barely tethered to these sands. Don’t you weep your beauty away, the whole world is wax, breaking masses and thin rivers, yet your little scratches devastate me, your little drops of salt drown the rooms in my head all of the things that I knew before are streaked with you. What gods could have made such waxy skin for your breaking mass of bones your rivers of blood that run too thin, the winds rip through you and you’re barely tethered to these sands. Don’t you weep your beauty away, the whole world is wax, breaking masses and thin rivers, yet your little scratches devastate me, your little drops of salt drown the rooms in my head all of the things that I knew before are streaked with you. 53.

The Butoh Performance Lab performs Corpus Delicti meaning “body of evidence”, a living art piece that is meant to embody the genocides the United States government has committed since it’s founding, at a warprotest in downtown Los Angeles, Calif. (9/24/05) ©

G r a s s A d a m Weinstein Green Day, and the blade of grass grows. It’s been freshly cut so it has plenty of room. But this doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt: growing pains. Grass stretches up from his knees. One day he will push through the sky. The thought is exhilarating. Far off, Grass hears children: laughing, screaming. This sets him on edge. Grass is a grouch. He doesn’t like people. They sit on him; walk on him; run on him; and the very worst thing: they pick him. Grass fears for his life. A couple comes along and sits near Grass. They spread a checkered blanket, a picnic basket, some silverware, and they lay out sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Grass mumbles. It’s stupid: Love. What does love do? It’s silly. Grass would like to move away but he’s firmly rooted; there isn’t anything he can do. Grass grumbles some more. Soon the people leave and Grass is again, alone. Stretching toward the sky. Night Day, and Grass’ cropped tip is beginning again, to recover its natural point. Right now he’s blunt; but he’s made progress. The fresh sap has dried up like a scab. Up to the sky, Grass thinks. But will he ever get there? This sets him grumbling. Just before the sun has peaked, the people return. Again they spread their picnic things, this time almost covering Grass. It’s a close shave. He feels a group of ants tickling through his body: a march on the way to the picnic. Serves them right. Grass doesn’t have long to wait. There is a wonderful infestation. The people hurriedly pack up their things and leave. Grass is alone. Night Day, and Grass is like the soft peak of a mountain. Grass grows fast—like a weed. This sets Grass wondering: when will the lawnmower man come again? How high can Grass climb? He has no recollection of ever reaching more than a few inches. Stretching his back, Grass extends his spine—it feels good and comfortable. He is certainly taller. Maybe the lawnmower man will forget this week and Grass will grow out of control. This is only a dream. The lawnmower man will come on Friday, certainly. Grass is alone. The sun begins descending and a breeze blows through his body. The breeze is soft and cool. Sprinklers turn on and Grass has a shower. This should be a happy moment, but Grass doesn’t feel like smiling. Night Early morning, and the two people are back. They have no picnic outfit this time. They sit and hold hands and stare into each other’s eyes. Grass thinks all this staring is boring. He overhears the conversation and is fairly sickened. What is love? Love is something silly—staring at a mole on someone’s face in deep concentration, and this is supposed to mean something. Running fingers through someone’s hair, wiping a hand off on a pant-leg. Is that love too?

55.

The conversation grows worse. It does not bear repeating. Grass would like to cover his ears but he cannot hide. Grass has to take it. But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t grumble every now and again. By the end of the conversation Grass sways with discontent. Like a swoon, rolling the eyes, lolling the tongue. The people don’t notice. Grass has very little effect. When the people leave, the sun has just hit its peak. It’s warm and lovely and quiet. Grass looks to the sky and a bird passes overhead. Grass is alone. Night Day, and Grass is a perfect point. Over night, he has become complete. Now is the time. Stretch, pose, stretch. There are only two days left. The stretching feels good, but not as good as it could be. Grass wonders when the people will come and spoil the afternoon. He has come to expect them. He waits. Night Morning, and Grass wakes up in a bad mood. The sun seems small, far, and unattainable. The day is already hot. He is thirsty and there is very little water. The soil is crowded—dandelions go wherever they like. Grass tries to ignore the day—passes the time wondering when the people will come and put on the finishing touches, spoil whatever is left. Possibly sit right on top of him. Grass spends a lot of time thinking about being sat on; or rolled on; or stepped on. In this way, the day passes quickly. Evening, and Grass is still alone. Night Day, the worst day of Grass’ life. He wakes up to a bird pecking at his body, digging for a worm. Grass feels around in the soil and doesn’t feel any such worm. Is the bird just tormenting Grass? Grass searches himself and finds there are no growing pains. Maybe a faint tickle, but that’s nothing exciting. He grows ever more bitter. He can already hear the lawnmower, somewhere on the far side of the park. He tries to avoid looking at the sky. Then the people come. Oh, great, Grass thinks, but he is not in such a bad mood anymore. The people sit very close to Grass. Almost too close. He can smell the leather of the woman’s shoe. Grass watches the man reach into his pocket and pull out a small box. The man opens the box and the woman tears up. The man asks a question and the woman looks down. Her hands pick through Grass, absentmindedly. A tear falls on Grass and he smells it as it rolls down his body: smells the salt in it, smells the woman in it. Then the woman’s hand is searching Grass, down to his roots. Grass feels the woman’s fingers and they are warm and soft, though they are trembling. Grass trembles too. Then Grass feels a cinch around his body. A sharp pain. Grass is lifted to the sky and tossed like a bird or like a stone. For a moment, Grass is the nearest to the sun that he has ever been.