January 2012 Off the Wall

Off the Wall JANUARY 2012

Updates on the COA Radio

A Look Back at Durban

In the Italian Tryol

BOGDAN ZYMKA

THE EARTH IN BRACKETS TEAM

SHORT FICTION

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ADDIE NAMNOUM

NEWS 3 FICTION 10 POETRY 12 EVENTS & ANNOUNCEMENTS 17

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EDITORS’ NOTE We had an identity crisis last night. ‘What is Off the Wall?’ we asked ourselves. Who reads it, who writes for it, and why? Do we have a ‘newspaper’ only because we think the school should?

What ‘news’ is worth reading on a campus this tiny, and as inundated with emails as it is? Yet we love the work that we have received - there are talented writers and painters out there that we never knew wrote or painted - and we want to honour their work. So maybe then we become a quasi-magazine that is mostly composed of short fiction and poetry? That’s sounds fine, but I want the nitty-gritty stuff! I want to know what people think about the goings-on in the world? Republicans are debating their way across the country. Theres an economic crisis in Europe. Bombs are going off in Nigeria while Syria and Egypt continue to be in political upheaval. And sure, if we wanted to, we could go and read this elsewhere - there are thousands of journalists out there who do this for a living. But there’s something intriguing about reading a piece by someone you know (well, vaguely, or not at all) that triggers something more real. We loved the op-eds in the last edition, it would be lovely to see more.

But last night our identity crisis, for the most part, manifested itself as a design problem. We poured over a pile of newspapers and magazines. Layout is key. But only once you have a message or an intention. So forgive us of our growing pains. We want to be your newspaper and we want you to enjoy reading and contributing. This is a step by baby-step process. Only once we have an idea to commit to can we then pour our hearts and minds into it. Maybe you could help us through this what do you want to read?

Many thanks and happy reading, From the fluctuating and ever-changing body of editors referred to as ‘we’

JULIA DE SANTIS

IN BRIEF

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ACM: our faculty are cool KATHERINE PERRY

When I really like a professor, I often feel compelled to take as many of his or her classes as possible. Unfortunately, I can only take a finite number of courses, and the list of professors just keeps growing.

And last week my predicament was further complicated by the faculty presentations at the All College Meeting. Catherine Clinger outlined her work on the lithographs of Bresdin as examples of Sylvan veneration and morphological misconception—terms she herself coined. Heath Cabot talked about her graduate research with asylum seekers in Greece and its relationship to the ethics of tragedy. And Jamie McKown summarized his ongoing research on Adele Haslett, a prominent figure in the Republican Party and the women’s suffrage movement in Michigan who has been largely overlooked by other historians.

I haven’t had the opportunity to take a class with either Heath or Catherine, and I knew nothing of Jamie’s work prior to this week so ACM was pretty eye-opening. We are lucky as an institution to have faculty who are this enthusiastic, dedicated, and accessible to students. I only wish that I was lucky enough to have another year here to take advantage of their expertise.

Our Trust in the Trustees GRAHAM REEDER

This past Thursday, Friday, and Saturday you may have seen an influx of new faces around campus and thought “I’ve seen that face before, but where?” The most likely place is on the wall across from the Strauss seminar room in Turrets or during their seasonal meetings to take stock of how we’re doing as a college. This winter’s board of trustees meeting was a good one, and although I couldn’t make it to all of the committee meetings, I had a good time hearing about what they had all done at the Saturday meeting. The degree of access we have to trustees of the college is practically unheard of, but what I find so incredible is that they are so hungry for more. The trustees really can’t get enough of us. Thinking about what they do, this actually makes a lot of sense. Trustees do a lot of fundraising for COA; it’s their job to make sure we have the resources to do everything we want to do here, and getting to know students and what they are all about makes that job a lot easier. At some point in the meeting, one trustee appealed to the rest of the board to make an effort to attend as many classes as possible, most of the board studied at the most elite schools in the country, and they were blown away by the calibre of learning that we engage in.

At the Saturday meeting, where all the work from the previous two days comes together and where the whole board gets updates from the ACM and the president, the second half of the meeting was devoted to student presentations. Three pairs of student presented on their experiences in Boston, Belize, and South Africa doing fieldwork as an extension of their in-class learning. After a presentation from Ken Hill on the pedagogical values of this kind of learning, the trustees broke up into groups with the students to discuss how the college can do fieldwork even better. Although brief, the discussion in the group I sat in on was productive, and showed me that the trustees are quite receptive to ideas from the students. Since doing work in governance at COA, I’ve found that I’m often putting energy into thinking about all of the things that need to be fixed or improved with this school. Whenever I meet members of the board, I can’t help but take a deep sigh of relief, it feels good to know that we have a group of talented people at our helm that are truly on our side.

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JULIA DE SANTIS

Winter Style: the oxymoron AMBER IGASIA

If you’ve been hiding under a rock recently you probably wouldn’t know that it is snowing outside. Then again you might, depending on the temperature of said rock. Now, I am not an avid fan of winter -- it comes with freezing temperatures, slippery paths and trees dropping snow like a rabid seagull with a personal poo grudge. With such wonders waiting outside there is an accompanying, and very difficult, situation that all of us go through every day before leaving the house: what to wear? I’m no fashion guru and this is not a fashion piece but I thought that I should lend a helping hand to the dilemma.

To those of you who are fashion savvy you could troll the fashion websites and designer get-ups for their winter collections. Go ahead, drool over those cute tights and that fabulous sweater but I am going to let you in on a secret: they’re lying. Fashion during winter is composed of a single choice, a choice which does not include what colour looks best, or which jeans look right, or even that fancy patterned sweater. It is simply, to freeze or not to freeze? This is my winter fashion motto.

That said I will now impart to you my extensive winter fashion knowledge gained during my time at COA. When you are shopping for winter clothes or just dressing for the day keep my winter fashion motto in mind. Questions such as does this match or is this the right colour are now irrelevant, the sole question is: are you warm? Often this train of thought leads to the dreaded fashion look that has many a fashionista and fashionister screaming in terror. The look I call “the Marshmallow.”

This look contains maximum warmth and also minimum movement capabilities, recognisable for the large jacket often sticking out 3-4 inches (7-10 cm) from the body. It is neither the most attractive look nor the most fashionable and it comes in few colours, sometimes detailed with fluff. The term “marshmallow” comes from the fact that the wearer is frequently engulfed in the jacket with no body shape visible and the soft, squishy texture when the jacket is pushed against. You can spot a “marshmallow” look by the penguin walk they sport, arms slightly out to the sides and minor waddle motion.

However, those who adhere to this fashion are immensely warm and are often looked upon with envy by those without a “marshmallow” jacket. The difficulty in movement leads to expert manoeuvring and the extra padding makes falling over a lesson in bouncing.

So, to my fellow marshmallows, be not sad that you resemble a sweet gelatinous substance. Do not mourn the loss of the matching outfit or the sexy top. Savour the warmth of your jacket and be proud to waddle from class to class. To all those who have yet to wear “the marshmallow,” I hope to be seeing you rocking the look soon!

Go forth and multiply.

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WHAT’S NEW

You have a face for the radio BOGDAN ZYMKA

When I first came to COA, I was amazed at the amount of talent and passion the student body had. It seemed as though everyone here had something they were good at, whether it was the ukulele, poetry, radical political theory, or telling stories. If you’ve every been to an open mic, you know what it is like when a single person or small group of people can completely change the mindset of an entire room.

I was surprised that the school didn’t have a radio. It seemed like a staple at colleges, especially ones with passionate and engaged students. So, I decided to start one. I was going to need help.

Enter James Crawford and Zabet NeuCollins. If you haven’t met them yet, James wears a suit every Wednesday to shmooze with the higher-ups while he makes his rounds to committees and Zabet has the biggest smile on this side of the island.

This all happened at the end of fall term and consequently, in the frenzy of the last weeks of November and being completely lost as to where to start, the momentum died down a bit. It seems though, that over break, word had spread and the excitement has returned. James is even recognized in public as “the radio guy.”

Where are we now? Being first years, it’s been tremendously surprising to see the amount of support the COA community puts out. With the help of a number of faculty and staff, we are officially in the fundraising and research phase of getting the radio up and running. This means we’re looking for a lot of help in terms of the technical side of things as well as financing the whole project. If everything works out the way we’d like, it’ll be up and broadcasting by the end of winter term and eventually will turn into a long-term functional broadcasting body at COA. We’re still looking for people to help! If you’re interested in having a show and are willing to dedicate one to two hours a week sitting in a warm room in Witchcliff, reach out to us!

ZOE ANDERSON

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EARTH IN BRACKETS A selection of blog entries from COA’s Earth in Brackets team in Durban

DEC 9 2011

Mic check. Mic check. Youth intervention.

ANJALI APPADURAI, NATHAN THANKI, JULIÁN VÉLEZ-ÁLVAREZ, LUKE HUGHES, AND OLIVER HUGHES Anjali gave the intervention to the high-level segment COP plenary on behalf of youth. Standing on the podium, and looming large on the screen, she launched right in.

“

I speak for more than half the world’s population.

We are the silent majority. You’ve given us a seat in this hall, but our interests are not on the table.

What does it take to get a stake in this game? Lobbyists? Corporate influence? Money?

You have been negotiating all of my life. In that time, you’ve failed to meet pledges, you’ve missed targets, and you’ve broken promises.

But you’ve heard this all before.

We’re in Africa, home to communities on the frontline of climate change. The world’s poorest countries need funding for adaptation NOW. The Horn of Africa, and those nearby in KwaMashu needed it yesterday.

But as 2012 dawns, our Green Climate Fund remains empty.

The IEA tells us that we have 5 years until the window to avoid irreversible climate change closes.

The science tells us that we have 5 years, MAXIMUM. You’re saying: give us 10.

The most stark betrayal of your generation’s responsibility to ours is that you call this AMBITION. Where is the courage in this room? Now is not the time for incremental action. In the long-run, these will be seen as the defining moments of an era in which narrow self-interest prevailed over science, reason, and common compassion.

There is real ambition in this room but it’s been dismissed as radical, deemed not “politically possible”.

Long-term thinking is not radical. What’s radical is to completely alter the planet’s climate, to betray the future of my generation and to condemn millions to death by climate change.

What’s radical is to write off the fact that change is within our reach.

Stand with Africa.

2011 was the year in which the silent majority found their voice, the year when the bottom shook the top, 2011 was the year when the radical became reality.

Common but differentiated and historical responsibility are NOT up for debate. Respect the foundational principles of this Convention. Respect the integral values of humanity. Respect the future of your descendants.

Mandela said “it always seems impossible, until it’s done”.

So, distinguished delegates and governments of the developed world –deep cuts now. Get it done.

To wild applause from the audience, Anjali then stepped away from the podium. As delegates took their seats, the youth remained standing.

Anjali screamed: mic check. 50 or so young people echoed back: mic check.

Equity now. Equity now!

You’ve run out of excuses. You’ve run out of excuses.

And we’re running out of time. And we’re running out of time.

Get it done. Get it done.

Get it done. Get it done.

Get it done! Get it done!

Once the applause and cheering had faded, the chair thanked the youth. “Why is it, I wonder, that we make half the world’s population speak at the end and not at the start?” We concur, Mr Chair.

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DEC 10 2011

COP-upy NATHAN THANKI AND TRUDI ZUNDEL Last week the people marched past the UNFCCC meetings with trucks, horns and speakerphones blasting political messages for the delegates inside negotiating over the future of the planet.

No one inside blinked an eye. A crowd of maybe 50 people gathered by the gated walkway to see them march, and horsed policemen barred every potential entrance. We were left wondering why the energy didn’t penetrate the gates, why people inside didn’t seem to feel the same urgency. But yesterday, as the negotiations were heating up instead of coming to a close, accredited members of civil society finally carried the voice of dissent from the streets to the corridors.

Civil society had been quiet, cautious, wary during the first week, but as week two began and the negotiations remained largely closed, there was no way the pressure couldn’t build. The UN has learnt that the best way to silence someone is to engage with them, but sometimes they forget. It began with the Stand with Africa flashmob, to test the waters. Then the brave Canadian Youth Delegation turned their backs on the Canadian government, literally rising together in the plenary to defy the shameless Peter Kent. Soon after that, Abigail Borah of SustainUS took it up a notch; shouting over Todd Stern as he attempted to give his plenary speech. “You do not speak for me!” There were sporadic walking flashmobs of I <3 KP shirts, and rumblings of a large action for Friday. When Anjali stepped away from the podium and did a call and response with 50 youth, the message to governments had become clear.

You have denied us a voice too long. We do not need your microphone, we have our own. You will hear us.

By 3pm on Friday, it was now or never for civil society. Up to now only the youth had been raising their voice. But finally the rest of civil society joined us as we carried the demands of the many to the halls of the few. An initial rallying cry mic check went out, and suddenly hundreds of people were marching through the ICC towards the plenary. Delegates from Egypt and Maldives were joined by Kumi Naidoo and other NGO leaders. Banners and placards appeared from nowhere. Jubilee South and La Via Campesina had been protesting the World Bank’s inclusion in climate finance and quickly joined the march through the hall. The UN guards were quick to respond. They had been expecting us. Frankly, it was rude to keep them waiting for 2 weeks. They put on their serious faces. One was in the crowd, stealthily taking badges without asking. That’s how we lost three. Some people (some from earthinbrackets) took their badges off and pocketed them. The march reached a blockade and could go no further. The singing began. Shosholosa, mostly. Cries reflected the fundamental values that all of civil society could agree on: urging governments to negotiate on behalf of their people; respecting the principles of the convention, like historical responsibility; urgent action; and of course the broad cry for climate justice. And although the divides among civil society still showed–some falling into the EU trap of calling for a new treaty that would kill Africa and blame China/India, and some not wanting to get thrown out for protesting–it was still a show of unity.

The protest yesterday may have boosted the energy in the negotiating room for a little while, but the new draft decisions that came out this morning certainly don’t accommodate civil society’s demand for climate justice. I think of it as baby steps, though. Corporate lobby still has more say than us, the villains are still not getting the blame and shame they deserve, polluters are still being protected, and our future is still being sold for profit… It will take a lot more than a peaceful march at a COP to dislodge such a deeply-ingrained, corrupt system. Until it ends, the struggle continues.

there was no way the pressure couldn’t build.

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DEC 13 2011

A new era of Carbon Colonialism GRAHAM REEDER Say goodbye to equity.

That was the sour taste we were left with as the COP president gavelled through ‘agreement’ after ‘agreement’ at 5am on Sunday morning. I will let others describe the scene on that night, what I want to focus on is what I see as a new step in contemporary colonialism.

The UNFCCC laid out several core principles when it was first written, these were negotiated as the guiding set of values that would determine how countries would tackle climate change together. They included historical responsibility (almost all of the greenhouse gasses in the atmosphere were created by a handful of wealthy nations that used up more than their fair share of the space in the atmosphere, they are therefore more responsible for cutting their emissions than anyone else), common but differentiated responsibilities (in 1992, as is even more the case today, there was a huge disparity between rich countries and poor countries, while the poor are therefore responsible for attempting to develop in a low-carbon manner, the rich are more responsible for cutting their emissions, and financing the clean development of others), and respective capabilities (Tuvalu can obviously not be expected to cut emissions, finance, and develop and transfer technology at the rate of wealthy countries like Canada). These principles, ever since they were laid out, have been undergoing a continuous brutal onslaught by those who will profit from their obliteration.

When the Kyoto Protocol was designed, the United States and a handful of other rich countries designed it to make climate change mitigation profitable. Their rhetoric touted carbon markets as a scheme to finance clean development in the global south while avoiding destabilizing the ever-so-fragile rich economies. Since then, the Clean Development Mechanism under the Kyoto Protocol has wreaked havoc across the global south, it has been accused of including false offsets, double counting, major loopholes, exclusion of indigenous peoples, and human rights violations. They have effectively opened the door for rich companies to barge in the door and do their resource extraction work with a green flair and to get carbon credits for their countries for doing so. It’s through schemes like the CDM and REDD+ that Brazil can claim to have turned around Amazon deforestation despite continuing to cut it down and turn in into palm tree farms (read:not a forest).

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the Durban outcome will be ushering in a new era of carbon colonialism. The principles of the convention have suffered a huge blow in a new Ad Hoc Working Group on the Durban Platform for Enhanced Action. The impossibility of making a good acronym from it aside, the AWG-DPEA(?) is meant to replace the AWG on Long-term Cooperative Action and the Bali Action Plan with a new roadmap for a treaty that will include all parties equally, whether rich or poor. The way that parties will be considered under this treaty is not yet defined, but you can bet your bottom dollar that it wont be based on equity, the principles of the convention, or per-capita emissions. In fact, a minister overheard Todd Stern (US representative) saying “If equity’s in, we’re out” in a last minute huddle to battle it out over some options on the legal form

Once again, after the global north used up whatever they could for greed, they have shifted the cost, consequences, and the burden of responsibility onto the shoulders of the global south.

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(“A new era of Carbon Colonialism,” continued) of the mandate. The US position on a new treaty is that they will not negotiate anything they can’t pass domestic legislation to support. Given the current state of politics in the US, we can now be sure that the US will block anything with even remotely close ambition to avoid temperature rise of up to 6 degrees. What they wont block, however, is a massive shifting of responsibilities from their shoulders to the shoulders of the world’s least responsible for climate change: the poor. India has 1.2 billion people, 37% of which lives below the poverty line, emits 1.4 tonnes of carbon per capita per year (145th of 215 listed), and has a per capita GDP of $1,300 (140th out of 189 listed). They are now to be considered the same as Canada, which has a population of 34 million and manages to produce 16.4 tonnes of carbon per person per year and which is currently undertaking the world’s largest industrial project in the world (tar sands) with absolutely no intention of stopping for the sake of the climate. When civil society called for a fair, ambitious, and legally binding treaty, I don’t think this is what they meant.

I’ve read most of the wrap-up stories from most of the world’s major newspapers with dismay as they fall into the familiar narrative of how great the EU is for brokering a deal that reconciles the US, India, and China. I find it disgusting that those three countries, with such dramatically different patterns of consumption, histories of emission, and current economies are

put into the same category. While ignorant journalists write off India and China as big bad polluters who are desperate for nothing more than a cash-grab from the benevolent global north, they ignore that in the new pledge and review system that the Copenhagen Accord started, the Cancun Agreements legitimized, and the Durban Disaster brought to legal life, developing countries total pledges amount to MORE mitigation than developed countries. The world has turned upside down. Once again, after the global north used up whatever they could for greed, they have shifted the cost, consequences, and the burden of responsibility onto the shoulders of the global south. We’ve seen this countless times on the global scale, but I fear that this new form of colonialism is going to prove even deadlier than the rest.

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SHORT FICTION

The Knitting Factory HOLLY KRAKOWSKI “Remember when punk rock was all about the music and less about the hipster posturing shit that’s going on now a days?” Robby asked Lee. They walked passed the empty building that used to house the Knitting Factory on Leonard street. Lee stifled a laugh. Robby was wearing a leather jacket covered in metal studs with a giant Flux Of Pink Indians patch on the back, a Flipside Magazine t-shirt, tight black jeans with a rip on right knee, and a pair of black Doc Martin’s. Lee was grateful Robby hadn’t spiked his hair up or he might have actually lost it.

“Not really. Even back in the seventy’s punks were fashion conscious. Look at the Sex Pistols and Crass. They were pretty much hipsters,” Lee responded. Robby stopped at the corner of Leonard and Church streets to smoke a cigarette. Lee stared at the empty building, thinking back on all the bands he had seen live there. His favorite show hands down was the first one that he and Robby had gone to when they were fourteen years old. The Lawrence Arms headlined the show and, even though the boys weren’t interested in any of the opening bands, they showed up an hour before the doors opened. They stood in front of the stage the entire time, arms crossed trying to look older and cooler than they actually looked and felt. Once The Lawrence Arms finally started playing they both danced around, knocking into the other concert goers around them. Robby started a mosh pit and Lee joined in soon after. They screamed the lyrics to their favorite songs, and staged dived as many times as they could, ignoring the glares from the older punks at the show. They left the venue sweaty, bruised, and unable to hear anything but the ringing in their ears.

“I’m not talking about what they were wearing. Think about the last show we went. We had to go to fucking Williamsburg to see Discharge, and there were all those fucking assholes in girl’s skinny jeans and ironic t-shirts standing up front with their arms crossed, pretending that they weren’t into one of the most influential hardcore bands of all time. If the show had been at ABC No Rio or hell even Irving Plaza, those dicks wouldn’t have shown up to earn their indie cred and we could have been tearing apart the fucking room,” Robby started. He took a drag from his cigarette and continued, “Man, fuck New York. The Knitting Factory was probably the best place to see a show ever.

Now there are no fucking small venues that aren’t decrepit or someone’s apartment. I don’t blame Discharge for choosing Williamsburg.”

They crossed Church Street and continued going west. Even though they were walking at the same pace, next to one another, Lee knew he was following Robby. They were heading to the Hudson Greenway, Robby’s favorite place to talk about the good old days, only a few years ago when they were still in high school and punk rock was this unstoppable force that consumed both of their lives.

They used to have a tradition to go down to the greenway after each Knitting Factory show, smoke a few cigarettes, and talk about what they would be doing in five years time. Robby would talk about his grandiose plans to tour the world, always pointing down the Hudson River as if it could lead him out of New York.

“Remember when we went to that H2O Christmas show in 2005 and they handed out santa hats to the whole crowd and we talked to the band afterwards?” Lee asked. Robby smiled and nodded his head.

“I can’t believe we gave Toby our old demo as a Christmas gift. Why the fuck would he want to listen to our wannabe Kid Dynamite shitty ass band?” he responded. Lee shrugged his shoulders. He and Robby had decided to form a band after going to a battle of the bands that had been put on by their high school. Most of the bands were trying to sound like either the Strokes or Led Zeppelin, two bands neither Robby nor Lee could stand. They decided they needed to start their own group.

Robby had recently bought an electric guitar, and even though he could barely play three power chords, he was determined record a demo and become the hottest punk band in New York. Lee played the double bass in the high school orchestra so he joined in on the electric bass. They didn’t know any drummers so they used a music program on Lee’s parent’s computer to emulate the instrument. Their demo consisted of three one minute hardcore songs that were almost indistinguishable from one another. The vocals, bass, and drums were all drowned out by Robby’s heavily distorted guitar. Lee hadn’t listened to the demo in years but thinking about it made him want to search through his stack of old CD’s and play it.

The young men neared the west side highway and waited by the crosswalk with what looked like a group of Catholic school girls. The light changed and they crossed over to the park that Robby loved. They sat down at a bench and Robby lit another cigarette. They sat in silence and watched the bicyclists riding up and down the path in front of them.

“I think I need to leave this city and go somewhere where people share the same values as me.

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(“The Knitting Factory,” continued) You know what I mean? Like fucking Chicago or Philly. The punk scene in those cities seem so awesome and aren’t diluted by hipster screamo bands and shit like that,” Robby said breaking the silence.

“I dunno, man. New York is where we grew up. Its where punk rock started, not only for us, but for the whole country,” Lee replied.

“I know, I know but the Knitting Factory’s moved to Brooklyn, ABC No Rio is being torn down in June, and CBGB is being turned into a fucking mall. New York has lost it’s heart and replaced it with a a wad of cash. I can’t deal with it anymore.” Robby had made threats of moving away before, always around the time an iconic punk venue was about to close down, so Lee didn’t believe him.

He knew it would be better to listen to Robby’s venting instead of pointing out his previous plans though.

“How about we grab a beer, then you can piss on the old Knitting Factory building? It could be like a last hurrah and a fuck you to greedy New York landlords,” Lee suggested.

Robby laughed and patted Lee on the back. “You always know how to make me feel better.

That sounds like a fucking amazing idea.” They both stood up and walked up the greenway in search of a bar.

Y usted, cómo está?

MARIA ALEJANDRA ESCALANTE

martes / despertar / limpiar / el refrigerador martes / despertar / limpiar / el cuerpo martes / despertar / limpiar / el mundo

algunos martes / son más intensos / que otros

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POETRY

Postcard JACOB WARTELL Postcard (slowly) Todos Santos, Baja California Sur, Mexico Every morning I wake wondering if the ocean waves are thunder and the palm leaves rubbing are raindrops on my tent.

I wonder if dawnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s blessing yet ponders cresting yonder mountain peaks and if the silence of sand in the early hours belongs to scorpion as well.

These were spoken of as the ambrosial hours: a sanctuary for dreams that belong to neither waking nor sleep.

I press my belly to the ground and feel for the waterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s edge; whales sliding through on their lustful migration.

My body is warm, contains multitudes, does not readily accept the boundaries of inside and out.

There is a holiness invisible to memory and expectation, yet it opens from the center of now like soft hands, slowly towards holding your face, whispers a little more clearly to brothers and sisters kneeling in the dust between worlds.

Does the wind, does the wind wind between your legs?

Are you the wind yet?

Did the morning star startle you and is there anyone left in the tent but Vishnu?

Is there anyone left to formulate questions right

now?

Sand extends for miles, the ocean: to where it is always dawn.

My path is always beneath my feet.

A warm and voluptuous wind blows steadily.

It is met with a closeness: wind hissing through sinuses; hissing and connecting and moving on.

Soham. Soham.

I am that.

SHORT FICTION

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In the Italian Tyrol “Does anybody want to volunteer to help me in the kitchen?”

Hannah suggested the idea as if it was one step away from self-immolation. She looked hopefully at Ben, who was standing impossibly against the table, caressing a tenor saxophone.

“Sure, uhm, Chris and I were about to have a jam, but if you need some help…”

He began to ceremoniously take the sax from his neck. Hannah was pretty, and in the two days since Ben and I had last been at this house of redemption in Merano, Ben had convinced himself he was in love with her. Which is what ‘being in love’ is anyway. But still…he had also missed the sax.

Either way, it was safe and she would take him to her bed again tonight; it was no problem. Ben unconsciously calculated this equation which permitted his self-indulgence. He really did not want to go anywhere near the kitchen, but he knew he would have to if she asked again. He looked hopefully at me, and then at Hannah. Hannah looked at both her guests, but at Ben for slightly too long to merely be inquiring after a helper, and waited.

“For fuck sake, yeah, I’ll do it sure.”

At this point I couldn’t care less about anything, other than maybe the entire world outside. Usually hyper-aware, I had not immediately noted the subtleties of their exchange. Instead, as is always the case in times of crisis, I focused on myself.

“It would be good to have a task, you know, do something. Take my mind off things.”

“Yeah, super.” chirped Hannah.

Relieved, Ben offered a theory instead of his work.

“We all need those functions, doing something with our hands, I get broody whenever I just have to sit. Either that or I turn it into meditation, but I think repetitive work is just as relaxing. You know, our hands are so useful. Sometimes I just wanna, like, take a decade and devote each year to learning something, one year with like a mechanic, the next just living out in the woods, one playing cards or some shit. Cool man, we’ll play something for you guys”.

Ben was now in the kitchen, but made to go back to the piano where Chris was waiting. Before doing so he brushed his hand gently along Hannah’s waistline. She brushed his hand, the two acting out a faux forbidden romance, probably for no reason but the thrill of it.

“What have I to do?”

I was eager to think of something other than what I had been devoting my mind to for the past two days. Maggie: just some girl I didn’t know and the reoccurring nightmare I had for what felt like several months but could only have been several weeks. I’d had a terrible time in her home town, Brunico. It’s still a time of my life that I have to keep boxed in with sarcasm and light heartedness, and not analyse too much. It would be painfully embarrassing.

“You can cut the onions, but…it’s such a horrible job,” Hannah offered.

“I honestly do not care at all.”

“Do you want to cut these mushrooms instead?”

“Yes.” “Ok, so you can do the mushrooms and I’ll do the onions.”

In the other room, Ben and Chris had taken up a jazz bit. My mind was blank but aware of a vague, overhanging sentiment to which I could only reply with more blankness. Hannah had to call on her mother to help cut the onions. Mum came in with a serenity that was too gigantic to fit comfortably in the kitchen. As I downed my third bottle of cheap local brew since dinner preparations had begun, she spoke softly, without looking up from the onions.

“You seem sad.”

“I’m grand sure.”

Her eyes glinted upward at the sound of the empty bottle on the marble counter. The onions finely diced, she transferred them to the pan on the stove and returned as swiftly as she had come.

Hannah looked delightedly at the mushrooms.

“That is good, thank you! If you want you can go and chill out.”

Just then there was a knock on the door, and it opened, making way to the entrance of a party of two men and a woman. The first man was a squat fellow who wore on his head the leftovers of a buzz cut. He had on rough looking jeans with a generic tee-shirt and hooded top, and when he spoke English, he spoke with a slight but distinct South African twang. Consequently, I paid little attention to the appearance of the other two. Had I, I’d have noticed another sturdily built man—for they do not build another kind in South Tyrol—wearing a dress shirt and carrying several bottles of wine. This was Michael, a culinary student about to embark on an Erasmus exchange to Barcelona. The woman, a girl really, whose name was Julia, was the lifelong neighbour and close friend of Hannah and Ina. After a few moments of socially awkward limbo, introductions were initiated. Ben, in fitting with his tempera-

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ment, was eager to make a good impression, and so carried out all the things he had been told that lead to a good impression. He had a firm but not aggressive handshake, maintained eye-contact without making the other person feel uncomfortable, and promptly launched into ice breaking small-talk, all the while fingering the sax, keen to return.

Michael and the other guests made chat about their daily lives, and carried their conversation and a crate of beers outside to the large glass table that takes centre stage in the patio.

Hannah was a blur of activity. Ben and Christian were a blur of jazzy sounds, feeding off each other, going higher and higher. I excused myself to no one in particular and sat on the toilet with my head in my hands. What a fool you’ve been, I thought. And somehow I felt the murmurings of that all too human instinct for self-destruction. Quickly, I complete my charade by washing my hands and drying them in my hair before joining the others.

Dinner was served in the formal manner, and everyone had their place. Ben and Hannah were acting as self-appointed servers, brushing hands over the casserole and pretending the rest of the party was unawares to their courting. Once the food was dished out, everybody paired off in conversation. The South African forced an anecdote on me—something to do with ‘ghost shits’. As I could not humour myself, I humoured him. When dinner was finished and the dishes had been guiltily cleared by myself and ecstatically cleared

by Ben, all the Natives rolled up their tobacco professionally and sucked in toxicity, while the definite children of the pack looked on. Ina began to worry aloud.

“What should we do? Does everyone want to go to the party?”

“Yes” was the chorus back at her.

“Nathan, are you ok, you can stay if you like.”

A pair of already drunken eyes shot up at her.

“I want to go” I half lied.

With this Ina cheered up, and the mood shifted to a very light one, which suited Ben. Suddenly, all the cigarettes were extinguished, and there was a scurry of activity to grab wallets and coats and the like. Disguised by the haze of activity, I went over to my phone, picked it up and looked at it. It was the same as when I had last looked, no life changing messages. I was contemplating this when Ben came in.

“Come on man, let’s go to the party. You can blow off some steam.”

“Ben, I’m going to drink till I die.”

“Hah hah, man, I’ll be there.”

He paused, and then added in a different tone, “Can you believe it – where the fuck are we? This is crazy, I just keep thinking about how crazy this is.”

“Yeah. Andiammo.”

“Andiammo.”

Outside, the rest of the group were arguing about which bikes to take. Most had already taken theirs, Hannah and Christian having the pick of the bunch. Christian, though not part of the family in any way other than being Ina’s boyfriend, had his feet firmly under the table. He spent most nights in their house, had a set of keys, and if Ina hadn’t have been there, the untrained eye would have thought him the son of the house.

Each person’s bike, or their acquisition of it, was somehow telling of their personality. Ben rode Ina’s old bike because he doesn’t like to overtly cause inconvenience but wanted to feel

the intimacy of a second hand saddle. I rode the first bike I found, which didn’t have brakes, because I wanted to get the night over with immediately. The three guests all rode seemingly flawless bikes, because they were the kind of folk that are made bland by their good fortune. Finally, Hannah rode her own bike because it was the obvious thing to do and she seemed to live without hesitation. This, I believe, is what attracted Ben so much that he would have us traverse the Tyrol just to see her again. As for the girl who I traversed most of the Italian/Austrian borders for, there was nothing attractive about her. Even Ben’s worldview could not misjudge her.

With all the racers in position, Ina gave a rallying cry.

“Ok, we only have three bikes with lights, so they will go at the front, the middle and the back. Stick close to them, and we go down to the highway and then across and from there just follow me.”

She set off.

“And be careful” she added.

I flew past her, two bottles of wine in my basket. I drank from one as we rode. Snaky oblivion.

“Oh. No brakes.”

Everybody was in a good mood, what with the free-flowing wine, and this pitch black bike ride was viewed as a great idea. Everyone was just the right amount of drunk—Graham Greene would have been proud. The swarm buzzed in and out of parked cars along the narrow cobbled road, high hedges and vineyards to either side. The wine was still flowing, two more bottles were in circulation and another two were stowed in some other basket, as presents to bring for the host of the party. In the darkness, races and romances were born. They were subsequently exposed as we reached the harsh light of the highway, and stopped. The wine river had run dry, and I threw an empty bottle into some foreign field for a rushed burial. May they, and the souls of all the faithful departed…

I raced ahead with Ben and the South African, along the bike path, while the others held back, talking seriously about the local issues affecting their lives. Harvests or plans to dig a new well—something of that sort. At an intersection the group briefly reunited, only for a minute.

“This way” Ina shouted to us as the South African began to lead us through a tunnel.

“Na, this way is faster, I know,” he countered.

“It’s this way” she insisted.

The South African turned to us and said “This way is faster, trust me.”

We absolutely did not, but willingly raced into the unknown. Ben turned to me and grinned a wide grin. I knew of course, even without words, what he meant. The South African was just happy for fresh blood. He was somewhat of an outsider himself, growing up half in the Tyrol, and half on the red dust of some farm.

Our triage reached the street of the party with no sign of the other group, who knew the house and knew the host.

They took their time arriving, eventually doing so fully immersed in conversation that could never be lifted out of the context of their lives. We all entered the dragon’s den together. The activity was centred immediately outside the house, where it seeped out of like ooze, but the grounds were significantly larger. Vast areas of garden could be made out, though little streetlight penetrated the tall hedge. We made our way inside, watched the whole time by many sets of

15

ANA PUHAC

hostile eyes whose owners sat on run down sofa’s, around a bathtub full of beer. A monstrous Alsatian welcomed us newcomers. Ben took the opportunity to ingratiate himself with the locals, and got down to his haunches to say “Whoseagooddog?” right in the mutt’s face. Everybody else filed past.

In the kitchen, Chris and Ina and Hannah did the introducing. The host already knew Julia, had met Michael, and knew of the South African. There were currently two black men, one bald, one with dreadlocks, beating ferociously at conga drums. A host of white Tyrolians looked on appreciatively, drinking wine from small plastic cups and smoking rolled up cigarettes. Behind them was a closed door, and to their right, opposite the kitchen, was a sort of living room. The house lacked any furniture, and plastic bags full of meat and bread hung from the ceiling, “in case of rats.” I looked around at the house and the inhabitants, then turned to Ben, who was opening a bottle of wine that the group had not brought.

“Ben, everyone here is about thirty, we’re going to look like foolish kids.”

“No we’ll be fine.”

“You will.”

I planned on looking the foolish kid I hoped everyone would hate. Wine was doled out for all, three shots to a cup.

Christian and Ina held each other and looked over their flock of fully grown children. The drumming stopped and I took the chance to interrupt an infatuated, indistinct local girl, to ask the dread head drummer where he was from.

“We from Brazieol, man.”

“Great.”

Hannah had become tangled in a conversation in dialect with an old friend, leaving Ben without a paddle. He swam for safety by going through the forbidden door at the back of the room, and found a treasure trove of music. Guitars, a drum set, maracas, congas, more guitars, a tambourine.

The only thing missing was a piano. Several musicians were already in residence, but had become too comfortable, sunk down low into the sofa. It was part of a suite, half of which was outside with the bath. From nowhere, Dreads got on the drums, and began a beat that echoed through the room like a call to arms. All the beasts of the jungle answered it. I had found a spot on a sofa, and Julia sat down next to me.

“Do you play anything?” I asked by way of small talk.

“No…” “Liar!” interjected Christian, who had just came in to survey, “She plays guitar really well.”

One beat lead to another and before long everybody in the room was moving to it. I found some tambourines for Julia and myself; the alcohol level in my blood was by now at such a level as to allow me to think that I was part of the jam too. I stood up unsteadily and left to refill my cup, but came back with a bottle instead. Sinking deep into the sofa, which offered me no resistance, I began drinking. The room was now a frenzy of noise, every sound competing for space.

Nobody knew what the overall sound was, but neither did they know what their sound was. Everybody was lost. Julia had got hold of a guitar from somewhere and was screeching

16

out noise. I noticed the room was spinning, and thought it best to make hast to the door. Once in the kitchen, I was accosted by an ecstatic Ben, who’d cooked up some meat and vulgarly shoved it inside some of the hanging bread. He had done this with the best of intentions, having momentarily ceased his furious drumming and seen my sharp deterioration. By now I was aware that all was not well, and a sort of panic must have risen on my expression. The meat in front of me simultaneously seemed like salvation and hell. Trying to play down the delirium I was suffering, I accepted the meat and, holding it, exited via the front door. If it was reassurance I sought, I was to be disappointed. Outside, the absurdity struck me full force; a bath full of ice and a scene from the darkest depths of madness greeted me. I stumbled away, and feeling a malevolent air about the house, fell out into the street, making for the sanctuary of a grassy knoll above a ditch. Here I sat, hesitating between heaven and hell. In limbo. A voice from a previously unnoticed figure near the gate asked how I was feeling.

“I’m OK. OK.” “You don’t look OK, do you need something?” was the concerned response.

“Just the air that I breathe.”

“You should come inside and lie down” the figure pressed.

Inside was the only place worse than where I was sitting, so I snapped “Just leave me here!”

ADDIE NAMNOUM

The figure moved off, back into the light of the house. Fearing its return, I, with great effort, stood up and swayed back into the grounds, and into the abyss of the garden, that Gethsemane. The abyss rushed up to meet me, for I was in limbo no longer. I collapsed face first onto the grass.

Just sleep, shouted that devil, Instinct. My thoughts—if at such a stage in inebriation they still count as such—were a battle ground, strewn all over in a bloody disaster. Inert, I passed what felt like an eternity in this way.

Then, from nowhere, a voice. And another. In French. Soon I realised that above me Ben was organising with the host. They had rushed out when a guest had come in and suggested that somebody go and check on the young man sitting outside, as he appeared to be close to delirium. The two had searched for me, and heard the sounds of a coughing fit from the darkness of the trees. Now, from the safety of hindsight, I suppose the scene was comical. At the time I’m sure it must have been hilarious for them, but still, something had to be done. They were about discussing what exactly this would involve when I, the wretched and retching figure, regained some senses and began saying to let me sleep in the garden. This was when they had made the switch to French, as Ben fancied what he had in mind might further agitate me.

I slipped in and out of consciousness, still aware of the discussion going on above, and then all of a sudden I was flying! But no, I was still lying down, only now not on the ground. A pair of foreign hands had reached down into the depths and pulled me out of the dark. I was being carried back towards the homestead and into the light! Ben followed behind.

Floating through the kitchen, every eye turned to our procession. Yet it was not so much shame that I felt, as accomplishment. The good host, relishing his new role as Man, kicked open the forbidden door into the music room, which was awash with chatter. Orders were barked, a sofa cleared, and my carcass ceremoniously laid to rest. A bucket was brought and placed next to my head. Did my brains spill out? Though throughout my consciousness was binary, on-off-on-off, I did notice the procession of guests who came and knelt next to me. Like some dying king. Christ the Redeemer, stealing all our sins for his own burden. The Brazilian came and ruffled my hair, his rotting teeth begging forgiveness. Christian and Ina looked over my manger like proud parents. Ben sat silently by my side, and by his side sat Hannah. A figure approached offering up a plastic cup of water.

“Il sera bien, ” opined Ben. He’ll be fine.

“I can speak French!” I announced. But it was untrue then and still is now. I can’t speak French.

I shan’t.

The host returned, beaming, for I had taken the affliction of absolute insobriety so that others could be spared the extremity. He looked at me with the same love/hate that Churchgoers look to the alter, or the priest. He now had meaning, even if it was farce, and so he must be both thankful and hateful. The host smiled, more appreciative of me than I of him, and asked what he could do— “do you want something?”

“Any wine?” I smirked.

ANNOUNCEMENTS & EVENTS

Events PAUL WEISS ON SPIRITUAL AND EMOTIONAL MATURITY Tuesday, Jan 24 from 4:10 to 5:30 p.m.

Weiss talks on “Neurobiology of the Spirit” for the Human Ecology Forum. McCormick. John Visvader, 207-801-5715, or jav@coa.edu.

BIRD WALK Wednesday, January 25 from 1 to 2 p.m.

Anna Stunkel ’13 knows COA common and uncom-mon birds. Dress for the weather; bring binocu-lars if possible.

Dorr. astunkel@coa.edu; 288-5395.

SCIENCE TALK Wednesday, January 25 at 5:30 p.m.

Ryan Bouldin, faculty member in math and chemistry launches MDIBL’s Science Café with “Green Chemistry: Design for Benign.” McKays Public House, 231 Main St., Bar Harbor, 288-3147 BLACK DINAH CHOCOLATIER Thursday, January 26 at 11:10 a.m.

Steven Shaffer of Black Dinah on launching his successful business. Straus Room, Turrets, 2nd floor. jfriedlander@coa. edu or 207-801-5716.

WORD AS ART OPENING Thursday, January 26, 4:30-6:30 p.m.

Celebrate word art. isienkiewycz@coa.edu.

DORR MUSEUM EXHIBITS OPENING Friday, January 27, 3:30-5:30 p.m.

Celebrate the opening of a double exhibit: Biology Through the Lens, photography by COA students and The Faces of Migration: Illustrations of Birds on Great Duck Island, by Jordan Chalfant ‘12 and Anna Stunkel ‘13. Dorr. Steve Ressel at sjr@coa.edu or 207-801-5723, or the museum at 207-2885395.

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Exhibts ETHEL H. BLUM GALLERY Monday through Friday 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.

Contact Ivy Sienkiewycz: isienkiewycz@coa.edu

PHOTO BOOTH PORTRAITURE: January 16-24 Featuring the new world of Mac Photo Booth, and the intimate—or silly—possibilities of this new world of photo generation.

WORD ART: January 25-February 3 Featuring inspiration of words and art.

DORR MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY Tuesday through Saturday, 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.

BIOLOGY THROUGH THE LENS Through March 10 Creative natural history photography.

THE FACES OF MIGRATION Through March 10 Illustrations of birds on Great Duck Island

by Jordan Chalfant ‘12 and Anna Stunkel ‘13.

Donation.

Also dioramas of local animals, tidepool creatures, sounds of the wild and gift shop.

Donations suggested. 288-5395, www.coa.edu/dorr.

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DONATION MARKET:

remember that dress?

SPREADING THE SPIRIT OF GIVING

those shoes...

e s l e e n o some NEEDS all final donations u o y t a h go to charity w don’t use e r o m t ’ y n n a desk lamp a ave n i you h them d e s u ile a wh

that book

his

sh

irt

Wednesday you might even find something you like for January 25th, 2012 yourself!

4 to 6 pm Somebody College of the Atlantic else can love Mr. Teddy Deering Common info: sustainabledesign@coa.edu