The Earl: Winter 2011

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Table Of Contents From the President of Post Now PA 3

From The Editor of The Earl 4

“How Did I get Here?” Creative Non­Fiction By Jeremy Wolfe 5

Poems by Matthew Grove “Civ” “I'll Cull My Blues” “Pennsylvania State of Mind”

11 12 13

“Playing the Part” Creative Non Fiction by Sylvia Grove 14

“An Artless Creation” A Poem by Justin Rowles 16

Poems by Brian Hammond “Shadow Sister” “Backwater Crucible”

17 19

“Just Drop By, Would You?” A Short Story by Matthew Furman 20

Cultural Calendar 25

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A Restaurant Review of Argana by Frank Cressler 31

An Album Review of “Life in Rewind” by Ray Cressler 33

“White Flowers Bloom Beneath Cigarette Clouds” A poem by Matthew Bailey 35

The Continuation of “Just Drop By, Would You?” 36

“Untitled” A Poem by Laura B Han 40

“On Death” Advice on Loss from Teena D'Annible 41

“Abridged November” A Series of Poems by Ray Cressler 43

“Bosnians In PA” An Account of Immigration in PA by David Allwein 46

“Hills” An Essay by Matt Conrad 51

Photography Credits 53

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Note from The President Greetings,

I would like to take a moment to say how excited I am about the release of The Earl, Post Now PA’s literary magazine. I would first like to give a special thanks to Ray Cressler, Editor of The Earl.

It is his hard work and dedication that brought this project to fruition. I would also like to thank all of the writers who contributed work to The Earl. Without their creativity we could never enjoy this fine publication.

It is my hope that The Earl will help to spark an increased appreciation for literature and arts in our community, as well as provide a forum for local writers. It is Post Now PA’s vision to promote the creation and enjoyment of all forms of art including literature, painting, sculpture, music and craft foods, beers, and wines. We believe that in promoting the arts, we will inspire longer term improvement and development in our community.

The Earl will be a quarterly publication. Please enjoy this first edition of The Earl and look for the next edition in three months.

Thank you,

Frank Cressler President Post Now PA

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From The Editor's Desk Reader,

There is one thing that all art has in common; it is the physical manifestation of something that was once just an idea. To be physical it can be sound waves, clay forms, ink on paper, or in this case information encoded and translated on a computer. In order, though, to complete the process, what was made physical must be experienced and turned back into idea.

The writer thinks. He puts his thoughts into words on paper. The words are read.

They become thoughts in someone else's head. Art, therefore, is sharing an idea through the physical medium..

The Earl is a publication that gives creative minds the opportunity to complete the circuit. It creates a forum, and puts unused ideas to work. For that matter, Post Now PA as a whole pursues this same mission. With determination and a core of community support, Post Now PA is turning an idea into a reality, building an environment for expression in our own community.

This first issue, Winter 2011, has many pieces that are fittingly dark, as it is the beginning of the coldest month. It is also the shortest month though, and spring always comes. So look to be inspired too. Whatever else the works included in The Earl are, they are distinctly Pennsylvanian.

If you are interested in contributing to future issues of The Earl e­mail editor@postnowpa.com with any questions.

Enjoy,

Ray Cressler Editor, The Earl

☛

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Four Strippers And a Dog Named Steve HOW DID I GET HERE?

Essay and Pictures by Jeremy Wolfe I suppose it's because I'm fairly intelligent, very handy with words, reason and logic, which renders me, in a word, "persuasive", and consequently, a good salesman. (Also probably because I lack any official trade skills or formal training.)

I'm many different people in any given day and at times I like to play a firm "no bullshit" Wall Street Broker act, you know, if the situation calls for it. SECRET:

I'm not nearly as driven as my character portrays, I just feel it adds to the appearance that I'm trying. It's the very same point I suppose I'm trying to make with my skinny gray ties and my starched, black, Prada shirts, the act is just much less pretentious. ["IT'S JUST BUSINESS?"]: WHO WAS I BEFORE? ANSWER: (flawed, overly defensive justification.)

Look... all I'm saying is that we're all

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starving artists, right? We're all the same dissapointed children as we were the day Santa Clause became a lie. And I'm down to the "by any means necessary" straw, OK. But to allow the struggle to dictate who we are or what we stand for is absurd, I guess I agree with that.

It's a delicate balancing act of eeking out a meager yet respectable existence, while simultaneously preserving any dignity or self respect we have. Only by refusing daily to kneel and obey the trivial whims of status and greed is this feat possible. I think that maybe regarding this principle to accept any compromise would be to accept defeat! You could be right. But who am I telling? You know it as well as I know it. I know you're "eeking out" your own existence, in your own way, in that mall or amid a vast sea of cubicles, day after day. And I know just as well as you that it's "only temporary". We both know you're "only biding time, patiently paying your dues", but most importantly, I know you're planning the revolution. The revolution to free your will and spirit. An intelligent, swift, and violent end to those who dance and dine on your back. My back is bruised like yours. I suppose if I were a life coach, as sick as that would be, I'd have to advise me to take that hyper vigilance and aim it at the son of a bitch I think is most likely to steal my piece of corn bread, and pull the trigger all day long and crazy into the night. On taking my own coaching advice, I've earned some respect in high places and made some powerful adversaries. And I suppose it feels good to be feared in arbitration meetings and revered as a shrewd genius to confront. ...I'm late.

☚☛

It was after lunch time. I knew that for sure because I was trying to rub a mustard stain out of my neck­tie with a little saliva and my bare thumb, while at the same time attempting to navigate unfamiliar back roads with driving directions printed from Mapquests infamous "goose chase adventure series" the goal being to make my 1:00PM appointment. My mission was to "charm, assess and discuss marketing needs" with the owners of a "gentlemen's club", that in pre­meeting prep I was told bluntly was using the term "gentlemen" as loosely as could be imagined by any reasonable person.

The day to day life of a Media Marketing Representative is sometimes dark, desperate, and bleak, but it's never... ever monotonous or boring. To call this place of business an establishment is to argue that it's possible to somehow "establish" damp, disinfected, desperation. The highway sign featuring the universal high­heeled, nude female silhouette and the unmistakable abbreviation in giant red font, reading simply "B.Y.O.B." shines like a bat signal, a welcome beacon of oasis inviting any and all manner of road weary, lonesome, and companionship­challenged souls to kick back, relax, and "unzip" their days' anxieties.

As I leave the highway and duck my car behind the wooden privacy fence that lines the parking area to protect it's patron's identity from passers by, I had a ridiculous notion. I imagined this place as if it were being advertised by a high quality, high gloss, fold­ out brochure in the style of some elitist getaway vacation hot spot or posh island resort, complete with staff profiles, pictorials, client testimonials, and a best­of­the­best highlight reel of images featuring the establishment's most gluttonous accommodations.

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Isn't it about time you treat yourself to something special?

If you appreciate sheer, God-created beauty... then we'd like to personally invite you... to the haven of refined elegance that is... "THE BUTTERFLY LOUNGE"... where slippery smooth bliss awaits your indulgence.

Join us and surround yourself with the Ritz Carlton elegance of life hardened, pain cultured desperation and lack of self esteem that has earned the dancing girls of The Butterfly Lounge their reputation.

"The Butterfly Girls", named after pet cats and European cars, have achieved pseudo­celebrity status with their seemingly emotionless and robotic whipping­girl style.

Meet a host of the brightest, most beautiful young stars as they serve up a breathtaking view of the female landscape and eagerly await your arrival... around the clock... 24hrs day, 7 days a week.

So book your getaway NOW!

The Butterfly Lounge boasts a self­contained world of luxurious activity including a very "sensual" and very "CON­sensual" FULL BODY massage with ala carte menu. Stimulate your mind with some mother­naked yet culture rich conversation featuring our team of cosmetology school and GED educated débutantes. Or, shed your clothes and your cares for a stress melting soak in our all natural, DNA oil slick hot tub marinade. (with patented anti­fungal jacuzzi jet action!)

DON'T MISS: Our adult book store complete with videos, dvds, and a large selection of adult novelty gifts.

REMEMBER: The butterfly lounge offers discreet off street parking and we welcome truckers!

So come visit the Butterfly Lounge located at "269 Penicillin Parkway, in Tastelessness, WV." Or give us a call to book your stay by dialing 1­800­Be­teSTD

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THE BUTTERFLY LOUNGE!!! For a boyhood dream.. you won't want to wake up from...

or something similar...

☚☛ This notion of the Butterfly Lounge marketing brochure makes me smile very hard.

I may have even chuckled out loud a little as I made my way across the parking lot with my laptop computer and misguided preconceptions.

(Entering The Butterfly Lounge to meet the Owners, Dancers, and Clientèle) I notice one of the girls walking towards the front door taking careful, slow, soft steps and hunching as if she's trying to look under a chair or table.

Whatever it was that distracted the quiet girl had now derailed any momentum I was building business­wise and had sparked the curiosity of the three younger girls who were now following her. I leaned back onto the two back legs of my chair to look past the antique, wooden baseball bat security system, and around the counter. The girls stood side­by­ side at the front door in the blacklight darkness and peered into the afternoon glare. I noticed that they were casting four beautiful, perfectly feminine silhouettes from underneath

four perfectly sheer pastel colored robes, each of a different color. From between their feet I could see that there, in the bright sunlight, just beyond the glass, was the dirtiest little mixed breed straydog I'd ever seen.

The club owner immediately shouted at the girls as if he knew what was about to happen and was trying to move preemptively to avoid something.

"Don't you open that door! Don't you let that filthy thing inside! Which ever girl let's that goddamned dog in this club is getting sent home immediately! And I mean it this time!"

Less than 2 seconds pass, the door is open, the dog is inside lying on his back squirming around with two of the girls rubbing and petting his stomach, speaking to him in the oddest little lovely baby/pet talk voices while the other two girls ran as quickly as their clear, spiked heels would allow toward their lockers to find their “little fuzzy angel" some snacks.

I could still vaguely hear the owners voice, his disgust, and a tone of reluctant concession.

Then he said, "Damnit! Keep him on the front door mat this time."

Then he looked at me, rolled his eyes and lifted his open hands saying, "What can ya do?" But I was completely transfixed by the surreal dream sequence nature of this odd little exotic dancer stray dog Wizard of Oz LSD reunion.

The girls were gone. For those 12 minutes there were no employees, no exotic dancers and no pretending. They suddenly had

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that thrill and excitement caused by "anything different at all.” It was exactly like watching a classroom full of third grade students erupt into applause and giggling when the lights unexpectedly go out. The two girls who had disappeared to find snacks returned as quickly as they left. The first was carrying a half eaten, 6oz single serving bag of salt and vinegar potato chips that I noticed had been resealed with a red twisty tie. She dropped to her knees on the door mat and scooted right up against the fuzzy little dog that I couldn't help but notice they were now calling "Steve.”

She slowly opened the bag of chips just above Steve's head while saying, almost singing, "Guess what I has for Fuzzy Mr. Stevie! I have yummies! Where's my fuzzy little Stevie­man?!" And she fed old Steve one chip at a time as he watched her intently from below, waiting to take each chip gently from her fingers. I couldn't help but get the overwhelming feeling that what I was watching didn't happen every day but that "Steve" definitely knew what he was doing. He had done this before. I couldn't look away. The youngest girl, while rubbing the dog's belly, insists she's found a lump. She fears it may be cancer. "Just like Grampa," she states with confidence. Despite my argument that "old dogs just get lumpy," she has everyone feel the smelly dog's belly lump and weigh in on it's malignancy. Meanwhile... I notice the owner reach for a slip of paper attached to the side of the cash register by a penis shaped magnet and begins to dial the phone. He said "hello Darcy" and proceeded to inform Steve's owner that her dog has escaped from his collar... again, and that he's arrived safely at The Butterfly lounge... again, and could he be picked up as soon as possible.

Now the girls are arguing about whether salt and vinegar potato chips are a wise snack to be feeding Steve at his obviously old age, especially with a tumor. I notice the quiet girl standing at the front door with a concerned,

puzzled expression on her face. At the same time the potato chip girl seems to sense her concern and says "What's wrong?" The quiet girl explains that she just can't bear to release Steve to his owner who is incapable of keeping Steve away from the club and off the highway.

"Every time Steve escapes," she explains, "the poor little fella trots nearly two miles along the shoulder of that busy highway and he's going to get hit by a car, I just know it!"

Steve's owner arrives outside the door exactly 10 minutes after the Owner had called to notify her. The girls approach and surround her, each young lady politely addressing her particular concern: talk of senior appropriate diets, proper dog collars and fences, I heard veterinarian referrals, talk of biopsies and one offer to adopt Steve. All the while, the owner of the club was standing back, watching with a concerned look on his face, not saying a word.

The girls hugged Steve through an open back window of the car and watched them pull onto the busy highway from the front deck. As the young ladies came back through the door they entered single file where one at a time they stepped into the darkness with the sun at their backs. One by one each girl entered, dropped her head, and individually cast her beautiful, perfectly feminine silhouette from beneath her sheer pastel colored robe. The owner didn't speak. Inside 12 minutes, these four young women completely erased any trace of my original motivation for being there. Inside 12 minutes, I found the beauty of my sisters, the nurturing of my Mother, the fun loving, quick wit of the girl I love, and and the cautious wonder I see in my daughter's eyes. In the course of the 15 minutes I spent in The Butterfly Lounge that afternoon I witnessed the rise from sleep and morning stretch of innocence "forgotten" or tucked away for safe keeping, an innocence that most would say is "lost.”

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My job here had been clear and simple. I was sent to convince the club owners to pay my employer a pile of money to ultimately funnel more and more clients through their front door in exchange for 15 percent of whatever I could tactfully squeeze them for. 15% of the total contract would be mine to do with as my whim sees fit, well, after taxes of course. Money that would most certainly be gone within days of receiving the check and thus motivating me to persuade more folks to pay my employer as much money as I felt they could be convinced to "invest,” at which time I would accept the agreement, collect the signatures, and obediently return, bearing the bounty that I had been sent out to retrieve. Then I'd wait for my reward and run off to buy another black shirt and tie and eat dinner alone while driving my car. I didn't say a word. I needed to process an overload of sensory input. So I apologized for wasting their time, agreed with them to reschedule our meeting for one week, said goodbye, and sealed tight my cocoon. Days passed and I remained disillusioned and lost in a state of mental duck­and­cover. My motivation was obliterated, my life's direction

and goals were suddenly as mind numbingly unimportant to me as football statistics, club memberships and even the weather had become... ☚☛ ["NOTHING IS EVER "JUST BUSINESS"]: WHO HAVE I BECOME? I've come to believe that the "fight," or the journey so to speak, is all that exists. Life is what happens while we're balancing our checkbooks and making plans for retirement. I'll never stop fighting, but that the fight is a fulfilling and benevolent fight without innocent civilian casualties is uncompromisingly important. And that non­ negotiable standard makes for what some may call a "late bloomer.” I have a vigilant streak in me that is Ghandi­strong ,making the human instinct or social pressure to collect shiny things to pile up around where I sleep quite bearable. The human desire for consumption is a mechanism that doesn't operate as strongly in me as it does in most folks. I've always found character and integrity to be far more precious than "social standards," but now I live it every

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day and I promise you I won't sacrifice my word, or my character for anything you can buy at a store. We know we were born and we know that we'll die, the time in between is ours to

create. The time in between is our masterpiece.

...So I quit...

Jeremy Wolfe is a writer, photographer, and general creative mind that lives in Chambersbrg, Pa, view his website at http://www.jeremywolfephotography.com/☚

and now...☛

Poetry from Matthew Grove

Civ Wake! Consume in your greatest glow the stars about you. Dance, silver moon.

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I'll Cull my blues I’ll seduce you in the lonely wilderness underneath the Venus and Village tradition,

moving in through the Northern Star, supposedly at midnight.

I’ll expose myself ­ blues erotic and broken, a milky cocktail mess!

I’m warning you, be wary of feathers and snakeskin royalty hocking their trinkets on islands in the sea.

I’m warming you up in the morning moisture seeping up from feet to fen, from sweat to mucous; a flavor of the week, a terrestrial failure letting this Big Mondo down, I am Cancer in the water, skuddlebutting side to side, anxious to latch on­ countenance firms my grip; I am night­ starlessly reaching down; I am dirt­ boundlessly yearning up.

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Pennsylvania State of mind (Rex Nemorensis) I want to return to the land of beautiful faces; All common and bound by the torrent of the Graces; All fair and nubile; all seasoned and regal; all Pleasant and wild; all tattered and literal; all Brave and strong; all golden – where my feet belong.

I am Whitman reciting my song; I am Allen in America, Misplaced and gone; searching, searching all night long­ I want to return to the land of the sowing field, Where the world can cradle the crop of its yield, In golden hands of God, hallucinating in the sunshine!

Return again to the festivals of Demeter, the celebrations Of the Venti, the frolic in the nude through the heart of Persephone; all derived from the fruit of my loins­ Months in sedition; months in the forge; months Kicking and screaming and making a scene.

Months alone; months absorbed­ consumed by tradition At once, darkest Night seems all the fruition. All lives Could be coming to an end; all nights of reckless Revelry and days of symbolic recovery­ set aside and Contrived for the creation of divinities; Of mankind and the chaos of chthonic paradise; the Happenstance of infinity, regarded as usual, stark In the virginity of Diana – there can be no words to Describe them all – every word can be used to bring them Under our control, heeding our pleas; feigning our calls.

I desire the sound of the crowd, their hollers in earnest, The final droll; all arms raised in surreptitious glee; All convalesced in the aftermath of the flood – My God, I’m hallucinating, seeing balls of sunshine in a bag.

Great God almighty, Apollo is dead!

Matthew Grove is a poet currently residing in Shippensburg. He is a staunch enthusiast of music of the Afrocentric ilk, a voracious advocate of Mediterranean history and an all­around vagabond. He sits on the board of directors for PostNowPa as Archivist and Street Team Coordinator.☚

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and now....☛

Playing the Part

By Sylvia Grove

In 2007, Sylvia Grove traveled to Talange, France, where she taught English at a vo­ tech high school for the 2007­2008 academic year. The following is an except from Sylvia Grove, French Woman, a collection of emails sent from small­town France to small­town Shippensburg.

I was going to write to you about my weekend—the Gothic cathédrale in the nearby city of Metz with stained glass windows by Marc Chagall. I saw it on a day where the sun shone violently through the glass in a rainbow of deep teals, ripe oranges, and rich reds; a day when the cobblestone street outside the cathédrale was lined with fruit and flower vendors, butchers, and bakers, all squinting in the yellow light. Some people bustled by carrying baguettes wrapped in paper; others pulled along their dogs (and their children). I ate lunch on the stone steps of a nearby shop with an American friend, neither of us saying much because we were both in awe, and probably because we kept choking on the French version of grapes, which happen to

contain seeds. While on these steps, I basically decided that I was going to live in France forever, and I had started choosing French names for my kids and was wondering if they'd end up smarter than me if I put them through the French educational system. At the very least, they wouldn’t choke on grape seeds.

However, since I have different ideas about France today, I’m writing about them instead.

Sexism in French culture is something that I haven’t quite encountered before in Shippensburg, but it is definitely something that is ticking me off. My role as a woman in French society is to be a paradox: strikingly beautiful but completely inaccessible. To go to the grocery store is not a jeans­and­T­shirt

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affair like it is at Weis; here, make­up is required, shoes that click are bonus points, and above all you need to master this look about you of dignity. The dignified part is surprisingly easy: I just pretend I’m the Queen of England, selecting potatoes from a huge crate in the vegetables isle, which is hugely refreshing after a summer of running to Weis every hour in my Kathy’s Deli apron.

However, this required French style is fatiguing when it comes to the men. Here, men are allowed to “look” at women. And by look, I mean stare. I walk everywhere, as I never did in Shippensburg, and I have to remind myself that it isn’t considered perverted if a male driver will turn around and continue watching you as he passes (and then eventually he will turn back before running over a dog or the car in front of him). I haven’t caused any car collisions yet, but I have figured out that this French phenomenon gets worse when I wear my hair down and the sun is shining. This is okay because it makes me laugh, and I can accept it mostly as just a French cultural difference, no matter how shocking it is to me sometimes. It’s worse in Spain and Italy, and even in America we look at each other, too. We all have eyes, after all.

Even so, this gets harder for me to understand when I work with my students who are 99% male, all of them between the age 16­23. As for my job so far, I am still in the phase of introducing myself in other professor’s classes,

in loud, exaggerated English. The students ask interesting questions (“are there hurricanes in Pennsylvania ?” “how many cows haz your fadder?” “is your Jetta diesel or gasoline?”), but there has also been a class where none of the boys would enter the room because I was standing there. (They had a fight instead.) I have had two classes where I walked in after the students, one of the boys yelled what translates into “She’s hot!” and then the guy next to him knocked him off the chair and yelled, “Dude, what if she can understand us?”

Today, it was particularly frustrating, because their only questions were: “Doo yuuuuu ‘ave a boyfriend?” “’ow long haff you beeeen wif your boyfriend?” “What does your leeetle sister zink of French men?” Even THIS wouldn’t have been too bad except I went on a walk afterwards to keep it from really getting to me, and I ended up getting locked in a graveyard.

(One or two women yelled that they would call the mayor to help me out. I said “screw it” in French and hiked myself over the fence—the strong, independent farm girl I am.)

Since none of that helped me clear my head, I am writing. I have talked with a few professors about how to maintain my dignity in a male classroom, and they gave me a few tips, which is good. However, the next time I ask a professor of physics something about engines, and his colleague responds—“you’re a girl, why would you want to know?”—I think I am going to tackle the nearest kid next to me and show him exactly how I’ve helped my dad manage the cows on Clearfield Road over the summer.

Sylvia Grove is a teacher and freelance writer based out of Harrisburg, PA.☚

and now...☛

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A Poem By Justin Rowles An Artless Creation We’ve become soulless, we are like machines Always asleep, but we forgot how to dream Life passes us by, and no one seems to care In the mechanical world, no one is really there The robotic system destroys our soul The robotic system consumes the individual whole You forgot your songs, even forgot how to play Under machine’s control, you are forever to stay Rugs, they exists to make you forget the sorrow The machine, he exists to make you feel hollow The money and women, they are distractions The machine, he exists to gauge your reaction

In this world without music, world without art We’ve all lost our souls, we’ve all lost our heart You’ve lost your individualism, the parts that comprise you The machine noticed you, saw how you grew You attacked the system, you tried to fight Now you fall quietly into that good night You’ve shut down the art, music, and soul Machine, you have taken control Still we will sing, and still we will fight You will soon know our gathered might Machine, you are in control, but not for long As we rebel, we sing this song You think that you’ve won, that we are departed The truth, however, is we’ve only just started.

Justin Rowles is a 21 year­old criminal justice student at Shippensburg University. He is a member of Post Now PA and has been attending open mic nights, reading poetry and playing guitar. You can reach him on Facebook and by email at JRowles89@Gmail.com ☚

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and now...☛

Poetry By Brian Hammond Shadow Sister My shadow sister is in love with the world Crawling through fields of broken glass seeing sunlight glinting Mirrors scattering reflections of shadows and double­helix rainbows I have bled on beds of broken glass And woke up screaming from dreams of shadow overlapping shadow She dreams vast dreams, carrying her memories with her There are secret libraries built of shadow dust Hazy memories of futures yet unlived She mirrors me deep in the stacks, singing songs of sirens Singing of the rhythm of the stillness of the curves of women In a love­hate love affair with the world I am kissing with the wind, a mystic riding breath She is dancing with a knife, pressing her lips up hard on death In another lifetime, we could have ripped each other to shreds with a smile Engaged in the combat of racing self­destruction We could have combusted like something fiercer than we'd ever seen But I traded my knives for awkward prayers that don't know if they're heard And she tells me not to worry for her The truth is, goodbye is different for beings as vast as you and I Tune in to the vibration of the wind, and you can find me there Struggling to navigate the sorrow with dignity Opening my heart wider as it hurts Loving through the pain, through the despair, through the madness

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Rage, shadow sister, against the weight of the world threatening to crush you Navigate this with the dignity of one who is in love with the world and will not be smashed apart by this cold uncaring lover I clawed my way out of darkness alone, fingers bleeding Heaving breaths ragged as my ripped fingernails I sing for you as you find reasons to keep breathin Because I remember when I had nothing to believe in My world was built on toothpick stilts Like a kingdom in the sky It fell And I don't remember much else Except how much I wanted to die Live, shadow sister, when it's easier to die Feel, when you want to numb out Go deeper into this world you love and hate, when you want to escape I see the darkness in you, but I also see the sacred The holy warrior for whom love is an act of rebellion And I want to see you embrace your light and your darkness And love yourself more than this stingy whore of a world ever gave love to you I want to see you: In love with the world Dreaming vast dreams Clawing your way out of darkness until nothing is left but light Dancing vast dreams in the stillness of the night

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Backwater Crucible

Born in a backwater crucible Where hearts are useless but the sky is beautiful Make sure you never look down Defiled dreams litter the ground Like dropped crack pipes that once lit up the night And became useless Toothless hounds that lost their bite Starving in the kennels of the night Keep howling at the only beautiful thing you can see And you and I, I swear to you We will make it out one day They told us were we made of trash, not stars But beneath this constellation of scars Beats an invincible heart And from this backwater crucible We'll change this pain into something beautiful And nothing that the world can do Can smash these dreams apart

Originally from Chambersburg, Brian Hammond Left for 12 years, during which time he work as a teacher and in the finance industry in New York and New Jersey. He recently returned to the area to pursue a masters degree in psychological science at Shippensburg University.☚

and now...☛

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Just Drop By, Would You?

A work of fiction By Matthew Furman

Derek Mooney has tied the stupid kid up and threw him screaming into Derek’s bathtub, his hands secured with plastic, police­style tie strips.

The kid is whimpering behind the closed bathroom door, and Derek and I are standing in his enclosed porch smoking cigarettes, because his lease forbids indoor smoking.

I am drunk, drunker than I have been in several years, but Derek is far worse, more wasted than I’ve ever seen another person.

I can see the moon through the surrounding screen, lighting up the soybean field and nearby barn like it was a flare. This is the part of the movie where I try to appeal to what’s left of Derek’s reason, try to convince him that this is a terrible, evil idea, and there’s still time to back out.

But I can’t. Not yet. Because despite the years we’ve known each other, Derek and I have been apart too long, and I don’t know this man. I am afraid of him. I have much more to lose than him, and he knows this.

I want to press “rewind” and “delete” on this entire night, and I will, but the method hasn’t come to me yet. ☚☛ “Oh, you should call him tonight,”

gushed the woman with the blinding hairdo.

Mrs. Mooney had button­holed me near the check­out lines at the big box store where I had come to kill time. She was sporting a raging red dye job and a T­shirt adorned with an image from the film “Napoleon Dynamite.”

I had seen her previously a few times around town, but never approached her, and once even pretended I didn’t recognize her when she made eye contact with me. It’s one of my many bad habits to ignore people from past life stages. I don’t have much fondness for most of these eras, and the people from them usually end up depressing me. I’m sure I also depress them in some way I’ve never sussed out. I have my wife and two small girls, and for the most part, this is enough.

But on that cloudy day the shopping line held me prisoner, and Mrs. Mooney, still the moralizer, had eyed the two horror DVDs in my hand with faint disapproval.

This is the kind of nonsense a 30 year­ old man who never moved out of town has to put up with from the mother of his best elementary school friend. You can pull six figures at a Harrisburg engineering firm, but still get red­faced when a woman like this catches you with “Saw” and “Saw II.”

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Mrs. Mooney had once confiscated from me a particularly racy issue of “Mad” on a sleep­over at Derek’s, and solemnly handed the manila­enveloped magazine to my mother the next morning, as if she’d caught me with pornography.

Like most mothers whose children are not succeeding, Mrs. Mooney wasn’t overly interested in other grown­up children who were. She was more eager to hear about Catherine and the girls, reproduction, things earthy and human, things more common in our small city.

“I don’t know if you’d heard, but Derek is going through a divorce,” she said. “Marriage lasted five months.”

I had heard. I had found Derek’s facebook page recently and noted with a wince a remark he’d written about “going through a retarded divorce.” His word usage, and habit of facetiously labeling catastrophic events was exactly as it was the last time I’d talked with him, roughly 15 years earlier.

He would flunk classes without a word of regret, crumpling the parental notice, moving on to the next good time, the next rush.

The facebook page also showed evidence of what I’d expected – military service, a stint that ended very recently, and with little explanation.

I was reminded of this vagueness while talking to Derek’s mother, and made a note to find out about his military career in the most delicate way I could. Something about it didn’t feel right, but I couldn’t latch onto the “why.”

We’re hit with so much information it’s hard to remember sometimes what is real and what’s tainted osmosis.

Once I woke up from a nightmare about killing someone in self defense, and for 30 minutes or so lay in bed, believing it true.

“Where’s he staying while all this ugliness goes down?” I asked, for something to say.

Derek was a stranger to me. Mrs.

Mooney didn’t seem to grasp this.

“He’s renting the bottom half of a farmhouse along Richter Road, just outside town, across from that mega­church you can see from space,” she said.

And here Mrs. Mooney said the first thing that surprised me. I rented the top half of a farmhouse along Richter, near the space church, practically 500 feet from Derek’s place.

I’d have thought I’d have felt a psychic tingle from the proximity of someone I’d explored homeless squats with as a child, but there’d been nothing.

I explained the coincidence to Mrs. Mooney, and this seemed to delight her for some reason. She was one of those people who saw goodness in the most peripheral connection, someone who truly believed everything is inter­related.

I believed the exact opposite. The most important decisions of our lives usually have very little thought behind them. You go to this college because this person is going there, you marry another person because there’s nothing else going on at the time, you make a child because you’re out of condoms and too lazy to go out and get some.

The thin connection of our locations re­ ignited her insistence I drop in on Derek, and although I said I would, I was concerned about stopping by with no preamble.

“He won’t care,” said Mrs. Mooney, and waved her hand dismissively. “He has no friends anymore, and even though he says he likes it that way, it’s not good for him.”

I don’t like dropping in on people, and I’m not a particularly good friend, but I don’t like to be alone, either.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.” ☚☛ “He doesn’t look like the kind of guy you would have hung out with,” said Catherine that night, looking up from her powerMac at the kitchen table where she

∙THE EARL∙ 22

was chopping vegetables.

I had grown up with a television blasting in every room of the house, seemingly 24 hours a day, and now I lived in a house with a hot Internet connection burning in every room.

I had told Catherine about my plans for the evening, and she had quickly pulled up Derek’s facebook page. We didn’t talk about it a lot, but Catherine doesn’t know much about my past. She learns when she can.

“What do you mean?” I said, sipping ginger ale, although I knew exactly what she meant. The guns. Knives. Apparent patriotism.

“I mean, he looks like he would have been voted “Most Likely to Kill Someone,” Catherine said.

“We met as children,” I said, a little irritated by her flippancy. “All young boys at one time share a love of violence and uniforms. Guns.

“We grew up during Desert Storm,” I mumbled, as if that explained everything.

Derek and I had met when I transferred into fifth grade at Dell School, a private school in Maryland just under the Mason Dixon line.

We’d shared the same unspeakable thirst for cruelty that most boys shed before manhood.

Never a scholar, Derek’s dwindling grades had prompted his parents to stop wasting money on him, and he had left for public school in ninth grade. We saw each other sporadically for several years after, and then drifted.

He was one of the many air­tight pockets Catherine knew nothing about, but I didn’t mind talking about Derek. After hearing his story from Mrs. Mooney, he stood out as one of the more authentic people I had known. He probably had killed someone. Men think about these kinds of

things all the time about people they know.

“I want to see him,” I said finally. “I don’t think he’s well. And it would be nice to have a friend living so close to us.”

Catherine yelled, there’s no other word for it, for Olivia and Cadin to come to the table, and gave me a look.

“Good,” she said. “As long as he doesn’t turn into a drinking buddy. Neither of you need that right now.

“Have fun tonight. Be a friend,” Catherine said.

“I will.” ☚☛ I hadn’t even made it into his living room before Derek was spouting out things like “psycho,” “molested as a girl,” “living hell,” and “I always seem to attract these kinds of freaks.”

This kind of emotional spillage has happened to me my entire adult life. A large percentage of people I’ve met feel extremely comfortable skipping conversational formalities and getting to the agonizing, sweaty point.

Earlier that year I had run into an old girlfriend of one of my friends. It was common knowledge the now­married Kaci still held a torch for my friend, and within 15 seconds she had asked me about him, and told me she “missed him.” Her face had twisted with shame and anxiety, and I immediately regretted the encounter.

I couldn’t tell anyone this kind of thing, much less so quickly. Maybe I’m a latter­day sin eater.

I took in Derek’s house as covertly as possible. The entrance I’d used was connected to a sawdust­covered work area, which in turn lead to the kitchen. Two cases of Mt. Dew were stacked in the corner, reminding me how Derek had practically lived on the stuff.

His living room looked like what you’d expect to find in a Vietnam vet’s pad. Hunting rifles stacked in the corner, POW/MIA flag on

∙THE EARL∙ 23

the wall, stacks of “Playboys,” a home­made coffee table adorned with one item, an empty iced tea bottle now filled with tobacco spit. A human skull sat on the bookshelf, topped with Derek’s Airborne beret. The skull looked real, but I didn’t ask about it.

I sat on the couch and Derek put a Mt. Dew in my hand like it was a beer.

“So that’s where I’m at,” he said. “We were together for two years, five months of which was marriage.”

He used finger quotation marks around the word “marriage.”

“Is it finalized?” I said.

“No, but it will be by the end of the month,” Derek said. “We didn’t have any kids, and she’s not hosing me money­wise, so things could be worse.”

Derek picked up an acoustic guitar and pretended to tune it, and I took the moment to really look at him for the first time that night.

He’d put on about as much beer weight as me, but he was still muscular. He looked like a bouncer, and had actually been one several years ago. His once­thick hair was receding, and going prematurely gray, and the kid who’d laughed at least once every 15 minutes only smirked now and said “nice” when told a humorous story about someone we’d known before.

“So, what happened with her?” I asked, finally.

Derek put in a fresh chew and started in on a story he had obviously told a lot lately, but it was clear he hadn’t yet tired of it.

“Short story, she’s bi­polar,” he said. “I had always known about it, but it seemed to get much worse once we got married. The first half of the marriage was great; the rest sucked.”

I needed more.

“She had this weird idea about relationships. She was always talking about

‘poly­amorous relationships,’ or something like that. Like how it was totally possible, and normal, for a person to love more than one person, and there was nothing wrong with that.

She even made a diagram about it.”

Derek left the room and returned with a well­folded piece of graph paper. As best as I can remember, it was a drawing of multiple hearts, connected by arrows to each other, and what looked like a cookie jar.

“She said the cookie jar represented a person’s supply of love, and most people thought that there was a finite number of cookies in the jar, but in reality there was a never­ending supply.”

I sighed. I was pretty sure I knew what all this had lead to, but said nothing.

Pictures came next, snapshots of the legion of girlfriends Derek had had in the Army. One series showed a lanky Asian girl from New Orleans in a 60s­era miniskirt, lounging on a single bed, smoking a cigarette.

Take out the modern stereo in the background, and the photo could have been Saigon, circa 1969.

The photos were intended to get Derek out of his funk, but they seemed to have the opposite effect.

He finally showed me a picture of his soon­to­be­ex­wife, a rail­thin bottle blond in a bikini, sprawled on the hood of a Camaro at the Carlisle Car Show.

“Marriage was all I ever wanted. I believe in the sanctity of marriage,” said Derek, not a trace of irony in his voice.

I blinked.

My next move was the wrong one, but after the blanket of ennui that had settled over things, I couldn’t think of anything else.

“Let’s get out of here. You want to get a drink?”

∙THE EARL∙ 24

Story Continued on Page 36 ☛

∙THE EARL∙ 25

The Earl Presents:

A Cultural

Calendar February­May 2011

∙THE EARL∙ 26

A listing of noteworthy cultural events in the area...

February th

From February 4

th

to the 25 SHAPE will have its

Photography Invitational on display. The gallery is at 39 West King Street in Shippensburg. For more gallery hours and more information go to www.shapeart.org/html/gallery.html th

February 10 : The Luhrs Center at Shippensburg University will be hosting Neil Berg's 100 Years of Broadway, starting at 8 p.m. Admission fee, for details see www.luhrscenter.org th

February 11 : The Capitol Theater in Chambersburg will host Cabaret Night, featuring Sally Herritt, Steve Nance, Emily Sanders, and Lee and Valerie Merriman. The show starts at 8 p.m. Admission fee, for details see www.thecapitoltheatre.org th

February 11 : The Washington County Arts Council will have an opening reception for their display of works by Art Educators of Washington County. The show will be up at their gallery in downtown Hagerstown. It runs for the month of February. See http://www.washingtoncountyarts.com for more details.

th

February 16 : The Luhrs Center will be hosting Soledad

O'Brien as she lectures on “Diversity: On TV, behind the scenes and in our lives.” The Lecture will begin at 8 p.m.

Admission fee

∙THE EARL∙ 27

March rd

March 3 : An opening for the Shippensburg High School Art Students show at SHAPE will begin at 6 p.m. the display runs March 3rd to the 25th. th

March 4 : Washington County Council for the Arts will hold and opening reception for Creative Community: The Collaborative Conscience Frog Valley Artisans. The reception starts at 5 p.m. The Exhibit will be on display in their gallery until March 30th.

th

March 11 : The Dublins Irish Cabaret will be performing at the Capitol Theater starting at 8 p.m. Admission fee th

March 12 : The Chambersburg Exchange Club will host the 24th Comedy and Magic Spectacular at the Capitol Theater. th

March 17 : Grease will be performed at the Luhrs Center. The play will begin at 8 p.m. Admission fee th

th

th

th

March 18 -20 and 25 -27 : The Wizard of Oz will be presented by Chambersburg Community Theater at the Capitol Theater. Show times will be 7:30pm on Fridays and Saturdays, and 2pm on Sundays. Admission fee th

March 19 : Popovich's Comedy Pet Theatre will hosted by the Luhrs Center on March 19th, at 1 p.m. and 4 p.m. Admission fee

∙THE EARL∙ 28

th

March 24 : ArcheDream for Humankind: Deep Blue, presented by APB Cultural Arts Committee, will be hosted at the Luhrs Center, starting at 8 p.m. Admission fee

April st

April 1 : SHAPE will hold an opening reception at 6 p.m. for an exhibition of artwork made by children with autism. This artwork will be on display until the 29th.

April 3

rd

th

and April 10 : The Luhrs Center will host the

Shippensburg University Concert Band's Spring Concert.

On both days the concert will begin at 3 p.m. th

April 9 : The National Christian Choir will perform at the Capitol Theater at 4 p.m. And 7:30 p.m. Admission fee th

April 14 : Jenna Bush Hager will be giving a lecture at the Luhrs Center entitled “Making a Difference.” The lecture begins at 7:30 p.m. Admission fee th

April 15 : At 6 p.m., The Washington County Arts Council will be holding the opening reception for the exhibit, Mendez­ Tony, Jonna and Toby with works in Oil, Photography, and Sculpture.

The exhibit is up in their main gallery until the 28th.

∙THE EARL∙ 29

st

April 21 : The Luhrs Center will be hosting One Night of Queen, the show begins at 8 p.m. Admission fee th

April 29 : Brian Regan will be performing at the Luhrs Center beginning at 7 p.m. Admission fee th

th

April 29 -30 :

Post Now PA will be presenting, “Waking

Giant”: Central Pennsylvania's First Annual Film Festival and New Media Exhibit, The event will take place at the Capitol Theater in Downtown Chambersburg. See www.postnowpa.com for details. Admission fee

May th

May 6 : SHAPE will hold an opening reception for its Sixth

Annual Members Exhibition. The reception will begin at 6 p.m., and the work will be on display until June 4th. th

May 6 : Allenberry Playhouse, in Boiling Springs, will begin showing Foot Loose and continue until May 1st. Admission Fee, see www.allenberry.com for more details. th

May 6 : The Washington County Arts Council will have an opening reception at 5 p.m. for Aperture: A Photographic Study of Light and Shadow. The exhibit will remain in their main gallery until the 27th.

∙THE EARL∙ 30

th

th

th

nd

May 13 -15 and 20 -22 : Steel Magnolia will be presented by Chambersburg Community Theater at the Capitol Theater. Showtime on Fridays and Saturdays will be 8 p.m. and on Sundays 2 p.m. Admission fee

th

May 19 : Johnny Mathis will be performing at the Luhrs Center. Show starts at 8 p.m. Admission fee

These are just some of many events that are happening right around the Central Pa region. If you know of any noteworthy events or venues that you think should be covered in future issues, please email your suggestions to editor@postnowpa.com. In the mean time, go out and experience what our region has to offer.

∙THE EARL∙ 31

and now...☛

A Restaurant Review

Argana: Moroccan Cuisine in Carlisle, PA

By Frank Cressler I am always looking for new restaurants and delicious cultural food to eat in our area. I recently ate at Argana, a Moroccan Restaurant, located at 26 N. Hanover St. in Carlisle PA. The experience was a

memorable foray into Moroccan food and culture.

The restaurant is decorated in an array of Moroccan objects including art, furniture, and even an ornate hookah. Moroccan music

∙THE EARL∙ 32

set the mood as the server, a young man from Carlisle garbed in Moroccan dress, offered us warm rose water to freshen­up our hands. I ordered Moroccan tea, a very sweet mint tea, and began to look at the menu to narrow down the many tempting choices.

I had never experienced Moroccan cuisine before, so I asked the server for his recommendation.

He recommended the lamb kebab, ground lamb kebabs with saffron rice and grilled vegetables. After more deliberation I decided to accept his advice and ordered the lamb kebab.

The food was great.

The lamb was cooked just right, seasoned with a mix of Moroccan spices and served on a skewer. Also on the plate were fried onions and peppers beside a bed of yellow saffron rice. The smell of the food as the server approached and the Moroccan music playing made it easy to imagine that I was actually eating

at a small restaurant in Casablanca or Marrakesh.

Also on the menu are couscous dishes served with chicken, beef, lamb, or as vegetarian. As well as tagine, which is a Moroccan dish named after the pot it is cooked in. For those who still have room after the main course, Moroccan desserts are available.

Overall, the service was excellent as well as the food. Our server checked in on us frequently and was very knowledgeable. I asked many questions because this was my first experience at a Moroccan restaurant, and our server was able to explain all the dishes and make a good recommendation. The authentic atmosphere, along with a cuisine that is unique in this area, make

Argana a great place to dine. Take someone out to dinner there, and experience a new culture and cuisine.

Frank Cressler is from Shippensburg, Pa. He works at Citizens Bank and is the president of Post Now PA.☚

and now...☛

∙THE EARL∙ 33

A Music Review of Mightychondria's LIFE IN REWIND

By Ray Cressler

Every time I have ever been to a Mightychondria show, I have enjoyed myself and loved the music. Just recently though, I sat down, put on my headphones, and listened to their latest album, Life in Rewind. What I had formerly experienced as fun inducing, good­times rock, was upon a close listen, much more progressive, complex, and eclectic.

The music and lyrics on Life in Rewind (released in 2010) were written by Spencer Pheil and arranged by Mightychondria, (Pheil, Adam Silvetti, Caitlin Allen, Tommy Hoy, and Jim Aguzzi) a group of talented musicians who play tightly together through interesting tempo, rhythm, and key changes. The album itself takes you on a trip backward and forward through life, from reminiscing about good times in the mountains in “Cicada” to thinking about endings in “Lights.” Stylistically, it takes you just as far. Sounding at times latin, bluesy, heavy, the music could be from 1967, 1979, 1997, or maybe 2010, depending on what part of any given song you are listening to.

Pheils' electric guitar style is a big part of this variety. In the title track, the guitar sounds like it could be played by Santana,

while in “Nobody Wins” Pheil goes from straight­up shredding, to a Hendrixesque distortion ending. If Pheil is comfortable in many styles, keyboardist Allen is no less. Allen provides a very full piano sound, as well as playing a rocking, then latin organ and, in “Good Behavior *,” a grooving electric piano solo that is guaranteed to make you swing.

Hoy carries a bass line on which the others sit, while always varying enough to keep * This and other songs from the album Life in Rewind can be found on Mightychondria's website at www.mightychondria.net/media.html

∙THE EARL∙ 34

things interesting. If you listen closely he is usually playing around the bass line rather than repeating patterns. In “Long Way Down” Hoy exhibits his diversity as a musician, playing a bass line that puts you in mind of Paul Simon's album Graceland. Mid­song the style changes dramatically and really showcases Hoy's skills on the bass guitar.

Driving the music along is Aguzzi on the drums. Aguzzi holds the tempo seamlessly through rhythm changes and like his band­ mates is a Rolodex of musical styles. An impressive point in the album is during “Solace In a Drive,” when, in reference to lyrics about a heart not beating right, Aguzzi manages to be off­beat on a low muffled drum while still carrying the rhythm.

The vocals of Silvetti tell the story of the album with sincerity. While generally laid­ back sounding, Silvetti brings out the intensity when necessary such as in “Nobody wins,” a dark and heavy series of ups and downs in which he pushes towards his upper registers, bringing more power to the song. In “Solace In a Drive,” when he sings of troubles, “Even when I sing I can hear it in my tone,” you can hear it in his tone. Throughout the album, Silvetti's vocals are occasionally joined by harmonies, provided by other band members,

that fortify specific moments.

If I had to make a critical statement about the album, it would be that at times there is a muffled sound to the production that is characteristic of a lot of jam bands. This sometimes gives the impression of a live performance that has been recorded. While some people will argue that is a more genuine sound, my opinion is that Mightychondria's talent and progressiveness would also be well served by a cleaner, crisper production sound.

In looking for a low point in the album, I

found that if at anytime I thought I had found it, the song immediately became something different. This, to me, is a tell tale sign of excellent songwriting and musicianship. Life in Rewind is an album worth listening to in its entirety.

∙THE EARL∙ 35 and now...☛ .

A Poem From Matt (Mason) Bailey

White Flowers Bloom Beneath Cigarette Clouds White flowers bloom beneath cigarette clouds Grey, Dirty, Martyr’s dance merrily upon two legs Knees raised to greet hands Open smiles They dance around the fire Drunken They mumble loudly, say nothing, through words of laughter.

Others sit on rocks of hay.

Tap hands to knees and toes to the cold dirt floor And breast feed.

The infant gazes at the shadows upon his mother’s chest.

He too will dance and laugh Though he will not understand why he loves it so.

Matthew “Mason” Bailey is a singer/songwriter/poet from Mercersburg, PA. ☚

∙THE EARL∙ 36

and now...the continuation of “Just Drop By, Will You?”☛ “Let’s just say the place was weird. There was this heavy feeling there,” said Derek, pausing to take another sip from his Guinness.

I was on my second drink and first cigarette of the night. Neither of us were full­ time smokers anymore, but had decided to split a pack of Camel Lights. The bar was called The Drop Zone, and catered to the town’s incongruously large sky­diver population. It was packed for the DJ­lead “trivia night.”

“Can you get more specific?” I said casually, but inside I was racing. The conversation was brushing up against something real, something external, and I was simultaneously titillated and saddened.

“You know how in some horror movies, in a place where evil things happened, that place sort of soaks up those things?” said Derek. “That’s what Abu Ghraib was like.

People had been raped there, tortured, dismembered, boiled in glue. There had been so many headshots some of the walls still had brains on them from years earlier.

“This one guard found a piece of what he figured was dried­up brains, rolled it up in a napkin and took it home with him.”

Derek’s face darkened, but he didn’t shut down. He was taking me as far as it went, but he was doing it on his timeline.

I thought I was getting to the bottom of his cut­short military career.

“No one knew who was in charge in the beginning; no one knew what they were doing.

So people just did what they wanted. I was there because they needed people there.

“I was stuck bunking with this psycho

who only talked to me when he was reading out­loud these pornographic letters from his whore girlfriend. He’s the reason I’m here.”

I got a strong feeling I knew how this ended.

Derek did this trick with the matchbook where he lit his smoke one­handed. Ran his hand through his widow’s peak.

I needed to say something.

“I can’t imagine. I mean, you wanted to be in the military since you were in the fifth grade.”

He downed his Guinness and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“They ruined it. They took the only thing I ever wanted and showed me what it really was. And when I saw that, I didn’t want anything more to do with it.”

Derek looked at me, my wedding ring, the picture of my girls on the outside screen of my cell phone, the keys to my late­model Volkswagen.

“So,” he said, his voice containing a bit more steel than I liked, “what have you been up to?”

I realized I had hardly spoken the entire night. ☚☛ Moonlight through the chicken wire.

Derek and I had picked up two liters of Dewars, and made our way to one of our old drinking spots.

Train tracks leading out of Smithfield Army Depot ran through an empty corn field.

Three abandoned train cars had been left there. We lay on our backs on the roof of the middle car, drinking from our liters.

∙THE EARL∙ 37

I had told Derek about first meeting Catherine at the scene of a fatal car crash, my obscenely boring engineering job, and Olivia and Cadin.

He was so far gone he didn’t try to hide his envy. I had the feeling that if I had made up a story about cheating on Catherine, he would have snapped my neck and stuffed my corpse in the dark corner of a train car.

“Just don’t screw it up,” he kept saying.

“You’ve got the world by the balls, and I want you to keep squeezing, I want you to keep squeezing until you tear them off.”

Funny. I didn’t feel like I had the world by the balls. I felt like I hated too many things, and I harbored a dirty and terrible secret I could never tell Catherine: I didn’t care about anything. Not one thing.

Not that I didn’t love. My three blood roommates meant more to me than I had thought possible.

But the job, careers, ambitions, “artistic” goals, nothing. Take money, for instance. It wasn’t likely, but no matter how broke we were to become, someone in our orbit would always step in and bail us out. That is the safety net people like us have. Call it family, call it a “network,” whatever.

It all comes down to the same thing.

Nine times out of 10, you will live and die in the custom in which you were born, no matter how you fail or self­sabotage.

This is a reality no one talks about because it strips bare so many sacred American tenants. “Hard work gets you somewhere.”

“You’ll be recognized for your effort.”

I didn’t dare mention these truths to Derek. He’d as likely killed me over their audacity as he would have had he thought I stepped out on Catherine.

By this point, I was so drunk I didn’t hesitate to urge Derek in his unburdening.

“So what did you do to that roommate of yours?” I said.

He opened the pack of Camel Lights,

found none left, and crushed the box in his oddly small fist.

“I stuck him.”

“What do you mean?” I said, perhaps naively.

“I sliced open his stomach. He didn’t die.

Court marshal, dishonorable discharge. No jail.

I don’t think they wanted me talking about what went on there, and trust me, I would have.”

“What had he done to you?”

“He didn’t do anything to me. I shouldn’t be telling you this,” and when he said that, I knew he was just buying time to think of how to put the words together.

“In the beginning, people, prisoners, disappeared.”

There was that phrase again, “In the beginning,” like Abu Ghraib had had its own eras, some more ungodly than others.

“There were these ones we picked up who were already sick and emaciated. One didn’t last his first night.

“I come back to my cot one night and Morgan, my roommate, has this dead body in the room. He’s got this scarecrow propped up at a desk, hand on his computer mouse like he’s surfing the Net. I think he was on eBay. Morgan thought it’d be funny for me to walk in on this.

“So I stuck him. And here I am. No wife, no job. Probably a connection between the two.”

His laugh turned into a wet cough.

“Let’s go,” said Derek. “We need cigarettes.” ☚☛ I’m struggling at this point.

What followed happened in a haze of alcohol, but it was so sudden and senseless I don’t think I’d recall it any better if I’d been sober.

Most days I think Derek didn’t want to hurt that kid specifically, but he wanted to hurt someone.

The impending divorce was part of it,

∙THE EARL∙ 38

but not nearly the whole. Derek had been adrift as long as I’d known him. He’d thought the Army was going to be one long summer camp, jumping out of airplanes and blasting C­ 4.

But it had been nothing but rules, and filled with people even more in touch with their id than him, and like a flunked high school course, it had been one more thing that hadn’t worked out.

Divorce had only distilled the acid even more.

Or maybe, and I lean more toward this every day, Derek was a sociopath, had always been one, and had unzipped his roommate’s guts because sociopaths don’t like competition.

I’m sick of analyzing it. I just want to learn something from it. ☚☛ The Sheetz convenience store parking lot was mostly empty at that hour, the few cars belonging to people just like us, drunks in need of cigarettes or beef jerky.

I wasn’t driving, but I was still relieved that no state troopers were hanging around.

Their headquarters was about two miles away, and the store along Eglin Drive was one of their favorite hangouts.

Derek jerked his Bronco into “park” and exited without a word. I followed.

The store’s doors opened automatically, and the first thing I heard, even above the too­ loud light rock, was the sound of bickering.

“Sir, I don’t make the rules. That is a vendor special, and there’s nothing I can do about it,” said the store manager, an overweight young woman with a lisp that reminded you how cruel people can be.

I’d seen her before. This was the first time she hadn’t been cheerful.

In front of her stood a typical area youth, baggy jeans and a T­shirt advertising something called “Fox Racing.” A redneck version of Jay from the Kevin Smith films. He

was trying to buy two different types of Pepsi products for the price of one, even though the display clearly read that it only applied to two of the same kind of soda.

From where I stood near the ATM, I couldn’t hear what the waifish kid said to her, but whatever it was, it made her turn around and walk away abruptly. Her eyes were moist.

Another employee took her place. The peckerwood dropped his money on the counter and walked out.

Derek paid for his cigarettes, and I fell into step behind him, the booze really hitting me, making me regret I had ever ran into Mrs. Mooney.

I was strongly aware that Catherine was going to be very upset I was drinking again.

I headed toward the Bronco, but Derek’s hand fell on my forearm, and he pointed, wordlessly, to the rude customer, who was leaning up against the propane tank cage, smoking.

No threats, no macho posturing, nothing. Derek walked over to the propane cage, pretending like he was interested in picking one up at 4 in the morning. The kid ignored him.

Derek fell on him like a sci­fi monster, silent, lightening­quick, a choke­hold that had the kid unconscious in seconds.

Derek looked at me above the kid’s shoulder, his eyes burning and quite sane.

I knew what he wanted, and I couldn’t stop myself. I was in a role I couldn’t shut off.

I ran to the Bronco’s tailgate, opened it, and Derek threw the unconscious kid inside. ☚☛ I smoke my cigarette and I cannot look at Derek.

I don’t know exactly what he has planned for the sobbing kid in the bathtub, but I’m sure it involves the kid never leaving the property alive.

That snuffling child will take the place

∙THE EARL∙ 39

of every Derek failure, every lost opportunity, cheating slut, dead dream.

I am the only thing that stands between that boy’s death, and Derek’s descent into murderer and prisoner.

Even if I was the type that would let this happen, who could live with a secret this insane, Derek will not get away with it. He is a screw­up, and like everything else he touches, Derek will screw this up, too.

Telepathy is real. Derek and I are standing next to each other in his screened­in porch, engaged in a conversation without moving our lips.

A few times I think I have him convinced to drop this, cut his losses, and take whatever punishment awaits. But Derek has committed himself to the only way these things are ever resolved – with stupidity, hubris, desperate, reactionary male­ness.

I am an alcoholic, paunchy 30 year­old father of two, up against a stranger’s lifetime of failure.

And I realize I was wrong: Derek is the one who doesn’t care about a thing in the world. Not anymore.

I collapse on a cheap white patio chair, take another cigarette from the pack on the glass table.

Derek looks at me, and the void between us is apparent for the first time that night.

Because youth is more compressed and leaves more marks than the rest of our lives,

Derek and I had already spent a lifetime together. But it doesn’t matter. We mean nothing to each other.

“Show me your phone,” Derek says finally.

I know what he means. I pull it from my hip pocket, press a button to make the front screen light up. He looks at the digital photo of Olivia and Cadin, holding hands at the roller skating rink.

“I’m going to do him,” says Derek. “You do what you want. Go home. Nail your wife.

Wake your kids up, make them pancakes. Call the police. It’s all the same.”

He enters the house and goes into his work area.

I stick around long enough to see what kinds of weapons he’s preparing, how much time I have to deal with.

I see Derek examining a pair of pliers, and I bang out the patio door, into my Volkswagen, silently praying to get pulled over by a cop. ☚☛ I have skidded into the Sheetz parking lot, out the door and running to the pay phone that stands six feet from where Derek kidnapped the kid. I am not using a cell for this; it will be anonymous.

I am calm. I am dialing 911 and composing what I’m going to say.

The dispatcher answers and I tell him.

The End

Matthew Furman lives in Chambersburg with his wife, Nancy, and sons, Sebastian and Colin. He is the author of “Post­Euphoria,” a literary short fiction collection centered in Pennsylvania. He is currently in the early stages of a novel. Furman can be reached at matt_furman@yahoo.com.☚ and now...☛

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A Poem By Laura B. Hans Untitled

So, show me my maker so I can so I can show her this hole.

It was filled with desires that I made on my own.

But my soul has been cleansed and this heart now rings true.

And is ready to be filled with a true love for you.

But you've left me alone with this love which survives.

And my soul is awake, and alert, and revived.

Embrace this abundance let me share it with you.

Let us be one again instead of just two.

Please let me not love you through words anymore.

But, you've waited enough and your heart's not assured.

So I'll bow to humility as my central virtue.

And breathe out the love that's still bound into you

Laura B. Hans....☚

and now...☛

∙THE EARL∙ 41

An essay on Dealing with Death

By Teena D'annible

Death is such an odd thing. Most things in life only profoundly affect you and maybe your immediate family. But death does not affect you at all. YOU are dead. Yet death is one of the most discussed events in a person's life.

Your death, while YOURS, really belongs to the living. Your death really belongs to everyone you love and everyone you touched throughout your lifetime. It also affects all of the people who love or are connected to the people who love you. And while your death is one of the most important events in your lifetime, you are really not affected by it because you are dead.

With one exception...

People who get old or have a near death experience and are forced to think about their death and the rituals that surround it way before the time of their death.

The conversations usually start when someone attends a funeral. They will make comments to their children, "If you ever let some mortician seal my holes up with super glue and suck my

blood out replacing it with embalming fluid so that people can look at me 'one last time' I will haunt you until the day you die and probably after that! I want to be burned up and put in a wine bottle, my favorite place to be! And if you spend a lot of money I'll bring you right along with me. Money is for the living!"

Or, the conversation could go like this, "If you don't give me an open casket funeral so everyone can have some closure I will haunt you till the day you die and probably after that!

I don't want to be burned up like someone's old trash. And I want a nice casket too, with lots of

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flowers. I didn't spend my life working hard to not have a nice send­off! AND..if you don't give me a nice headstone, I will take you right along with me!"

There is so much pressure on the living to make sure the dead person is happy it is unbelievable! For goodness sakes YOU ARE DEAD!!

If you have ideas about your funeral might I suggest going and making your plans before you die and PAYING for it. That way no one will be stuck with the bill or any of the decision making that comes with it, sometimes tearing families apart!

­life girl mentioned above. I do want a headstone that mentions I was here for future generations and to indulge those who share my love of exploring old cemeteries. I want my headstone to say I was here and I was a wife, mother, grandmother and friend and that I hope I was a good person more or less. I also want it to have my favorite saying, "It is far better to raise children than to repair adults."

As for everyone else's wishes for their funeral.

Talk it over with the people you love but do them a favor and plan it for THEM before YOU die.

Blessings to all, LIVE it UP while you got a chance!

As for me, I am the wine­bottle, celebrate­my

Teena Vaughn D'Annibale began her writing career in Mrs. Lanauette's first grade class in 1966 in Schenectady, NY and has been writing ever since. She has been published in the North Carolina Medical Journal, Harrisburg Magazine, as well as several professional newsletters in the field of education/special education. She has written locally for The Sentinel, The News Chronicle and The Valley Times­Star in Newville. She was Editor of The News Chronicle for a brief time and Associate Editor of The Valley Times­Star for several years. She resides in Shippensburg with her husband of 30 years and soulmate of at least 30 lifetimes, Peter. She has given birth to four children and has had the priveledge of raising many more. She has two beautiful granddaughters and two more on the way.

"It is far better to raise children than to repair adults" is what she wants on her tombstone...but don't rush it! ☚ and now...☛

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Poetry By Ray Cressler Abridged November I. Reading History on an Old Couch on My Back Porch One is young and punching a tank, biting the fuel line with crumbling teeth.

I am smoking a cigarette, imagining broken bloody knuckles and rageful passion that has gone beyond regards of itself in its blinding rightness.

I am taking a sip of coffee soaking in the last lapping sun waves of a months-gone summer.

The other is crushing bodies in the tracks of his green and black and red tank deafened by the clinking rain of the machine gunners' shells from the hatch, intently staring out the rectangular view hole.

I am stretching and thinking about how everybody dies and will be forgotten.

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II. Revelations And Death, like the bereaved, wept.

No longer fulfilled by his duties, acting but purposeless, inert, tumbling in eternity's surf.

With sighs as cold and long as winter in April, he still cannot kill the trees only strike them dormant.

III. Here Comes December It is not a premonition, but years of seeing and a mix of believing, and guessing.

For even simple logic is a gamble.

Maybe a time comes in every man's life when he must accept, even appreciate the tilt of the Earth's axis, without justification, or getting indignant, just leaning into the turns of this incomprehensibly large orbit.

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IV. The Feeder Recently Filled Some of the birds perch on the feeder and eat and swing while others eat the pile of fallen seeds, grazing and playing everyone feasts.

Ray Cressler is a resident of Shippensburg, PA and an aspiring human. ☚

and now...☛

∙THE EARL∙ 46

Bosnians in PA

An account of Immigration and people finding a home,

by Dave Allwein “We left Brčko three days before they dropped the first bomb (which was in Brčko),” recollects Jonela Elezović, a former resident of Shippensburg. “We thought we were leaving for a week only, but we did not return back to Bosnia for the next 20 years.”

This story may be unique to Jonela and her family, but unfortunately the premise is relatively common. Due to the political unrest and instability in the Balkan region during the 20th century, over 800,000 Bosnians were forced to flee their homes and livelihoods in the name of safety. Jonela’s family is one of many Bosnian families that made their way to south central Pennsylvania.

Before coming to America, Jonela mentions how she lived with her family in Germany since that fateful day when her family left Brčko. Since her family is mixed – her mother is Serbian and her father is Muslim, Jonela’s family wanted to head to Germany for a little while, until the political situation cooled off. Because the situation did not improve, Jonela and her family remained in Germany for several years. Jonela recalls the

persistent agony that her family felt, while in Germany: “We were worried about our grandparents. My Muslim grandparents were forced out of their home and forced to walk 60 miles to another town. They were over 60 years old and were walking through the woods with guns behind them. That is the only thing that breaks my heart about the war.” Several years later, Jonela and her family would depart from Germany and start a new life in America.

“The reason we came to the USA is because Germany wasn't granting us asylum anymore since the war was over, and we were technically not refugees anymore,” Jonela explains. Like many Bosnian families, Jonela’s family originally headed to an area where they had relatives. The sister of Jonela’s father lived in Houston, Texas, so this is where Jonela’s family initially moved. Despite the family ties in Texas, her parents did not particularly care for that area so Jonela’s family eventually ended up in Shippensburg. Since some family friends were already residing in Shippensburg, this destination seemed like a good choice.

As a teenager, the move to America was not overly daunting for Jonela. Jonela does not remember having too much difficulty adjusting to high school life. She recalls how “for us kids, we had absolutely no trouble fitting in. We

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learned English fast and obviously as children you adapt fast to any environment.” Despite being able to adapt quickly, Jonela still remembers the one aspect of high school life in Shippensburg that made her feel slightly uneasy. “I did find it a little uncomfortable in Shippensburg High School back at my time when there were no foreigners except me and my best friend Namrata (who is Indian), but it wasn't a big deal at all.” Although Jonela was quickly able to adapt to her new life in America, her parents would need more time to adjust to their new home.

One obvious problem that Jonela’s family faced, like so many other Bosnian families, was overcoming the language barrier.

Children are more adept at quickly obtaining proficiency in foreign languages than adults, so it is no wonder that learning English would become a trouble point for Jonela’s parents. “It was especially hard for my father who was a distinguished teacher back in Brčko and had a great career,” Jonela remembers, “he had to come here and work some of the lower jobs because he didn't speak English.” As with many other refugees, this situation is unfortunately all­too­common. “I think it still bothers him when Americans speak to him like he is ‘dumb’ because he doesn't speak English,” notes Jonela, also mentioning how her father always says “God these people! I could be their president and they look at me like I'm dumb because I have a hard time pronouncing their English words.” Besides the struggle with English, Jonela also states how adjusting to culture is the other problem with which her parents seemed to struggle.

Without making too large of a generalization, it can be safely said that the political structures in Europe are much different than those of their American brethren. Many countries, such as Germany and Denmark, have socialist infrastructures, and as such, people are able to receive government­funded benefits such as

healthcare. Living in Germany for many years, Jonela mentions how “we kind of had a peace of mind when it came to health care, or if we didn't have a job, the government took care of you. All of a sudden, they [her family] came to a ‘cruel capitalism’ [society], as they would state, and they couldn't get used to the culture at all.”

As for today, Jonela is living in Des Moines, Iowa. Although she holds dual citizenship in both the United States and Bosnia, Jonela considers herself to be 100% American. She is very patriotic and thankful for the United States and what they have done for her family. “I love this country,” she explains, “and this is my home now. I consider myself American 100%. My sister moved to Manhattan, NYC to go to Fashion School and model. We are definitely living the American dream and taking all the opportunities available to us.” Naturally, Jonela still has warm feelings towards Bosnia too: “I just see Bosnia as a place where I will always visit and be able to show my children one day as well where they are from. My children will learn Bosnian before they learn English since both me and my boyfriend (future husband) are Bosnian as well.” Despite her assimilation into American society, Jonela does not forget her roots. She misses the idyllic beaches and landscapes which she left behind in Bosnia, as well as the traditional foods and the Bosnian people. “I miss the European atmosphere,” Jonela explains, “every night there is a million people on the streets all throughout the outdoor cafes and clubs and it's just a lot of fun and never boring!” Most of all though, Jonela misses her family that she left behind, a feeling which many people share.

Despite the fact that Jonela’s family successfully made it to America, the process was rather complicated. Many churches around the world sponsored Bosnian people, and helped them move to a variety of countries and locations. As the Bosnian people became

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settled in their new homes, they helped sponsor family and friends, and thus more Bosnian people were able to move and find a new home.

Once the people were admitted into their respective countries, they packed up and moved to an area where their family and friends lived.

For this reason, many former residents of Brčko, for instance, are now residing in Shippensburg. Jonela explains how, interestingly enough, although many of the Bosnians were sponsored through churches, most of these people eventually broke their ties to their sponsor: “It seemed like as soon as we came here they tried ‘converting’ us to Christianity.

“And I think that is hilarious because Bosnians have had their own religions for centuries. Croats are Catholics, Serbs are Orthodox Christians, and there are also Muslims obviously.” She also recalls a semi­ amusing situation regarding the sponsors and their limited knowledge of the people whom they were sponsoring. As Jonela recollects, “Most of these church people that were sponsoring us thought we were coming from some kind of jungle, so when we came they started explaining to us what the dishwasher or washing machine was. They started showing us how to use the TV and so forth.

That's when most of our people realized: Oh my god where the heck have they placed us?!?

These people don't really know anything about the world, they think we Bosnians are from some kind of jungle!”

Finding a sponsor and being permitted to leave Bosnia was not an easy task, as many can attest. Suada Ibrisevic, a resident of Carlisle, also has many stories to tell about her journey to the United States. Like Jonela’s family, Suada’s family also moved to Germany during the war. Suada remembers, “I met a lot of Bosnian people in Germany, and they were talking about moving to the USA and Canada somewhere. I was like no, I want to go back to Bosnia.” Suada’s family finally moved back to

Bosnia in 1997, but so much had changed since they left their home so many years prior. “We had the two kids, we had a house, but it was nothing compared to before the war,” explains Suada. “We were missing a lot of people, we were missing a lot of families, and there were many people dead. A lot of people moved elsewhere.” For three years Suada remained in Bosnia with her family. After the war, people were struggling to get by, since there were not many jobs. Sauda’s sister­in­law suggested that Suada move to America, and so she embarked on the long journey to the United States. Regarding her sponsorship, Suada clearly remembers the process. “I remember the bag. They gave us a bag,” she recollects, “that says ‘Hi, I’m Suada’ or something like that.” Of course, Suada also had to complete the necessary forms to move to America, and to complete this task, her family went to Croatia to visit the American Embassy in Zagreb. “We went back there with the paperwork that she [Sauda’s sister­in­law] sent us,” recollects Suada. “We went back there 12 times, and it’s five hours back and forth. We went 12 times.”

The process was painstakingly slow, but by 2001, the technicalities were ironed out and Suada’s family was finally permitted to move to America. “We finished in 2001 on the 29 th.

Yeah on January 29, 2001 we went to Washington. That is where my sister­in­law lived.”

Although Suada was prepared to go to America, the move was also very bittersweet, as she left her family behind. Suada laughs, recollecting her first thoughts as she arrived in Seattle: “Seattle, Washington, for me was like oh wow. It’s really hard on the eyes when you come from Europe to America. The first thing that every European person notices is the electrical wires, because in Europe you don’t see that as they are mostly underground.”

Although there was a small cluster of Bosnian families in Seattle, Suada realized that the big city was not for her. At this point Suada

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decided that she wanted to start her life in America in a different location than Seattle.

When asked how her family wound up in Carlisle, Suada states that it is a long story as she tries to suppress a grin. “At this time we had a friend and he was a truck driver, and he spent time driving trucks everywhere in the United States,” explains Suada. “He said that Pennsylvania looked the exact same like Bosnia. They both have mountains, for example. Especially Carlisle reminded him of Bosnia. He said this while we were sitting and drinking coffee like we always do, and seven or eight families said okay, we are going to move to Pennsylvania.” Based off of the recommendation of her friend, Suada’s family left Seattle and headed east.

Suada and her friends initially moved to Harrisburg, though her family had some difficulties initially which they had to overcome. Suada mentions, “For my family it was really hard, as we didn’t have any history here in America. We just came and we wanted to move and to find an apartment.” Some of Suada’s friends who had been living in the United States for a longer period of time did not have as much difficulty finding an apartment. In the end though, Suada and her friends fell in love with Carlisle and decided that it was the perfect place to live. “We decided, all seven families, to live there in Carlisle. One was in Harrisburg for about a year, because they had a contract with the apartment, but they moved here and they now have a house. We’re here.”

Just like Jonela’s family, the transition to American life has not always been easy for Suada. Suada explains how “Regarding Bosnia, I miss everything, and not just my family.” She describes how the Bosnian social culture is different from the American culture, especially in larger cities such as Seattle. “We have something in Bosnian, an old way, everybody says ‘hi, how are you,’ and if I met you once, the next time I will have something

to talk to you about.” She elaborates by saying that “We are not the nicest people in the world, we have fights also and everything but it’s always kind of limited. Even if you disagree with somebody you are still going to sit with them, talk, drink coffee and socialize.”

In addition, Suada also explains one of the cultural differences between the United States and Bosnia, which surprised her for the longest time: “The Bosnian people really like to look good in everything. Even people who don’t work and don’t have jobs always take care of themselves. If you cannot pay somebody to do your hair, you do it yourself.” Laughing, Suada further sums up how she believed that the whole world was concerned about dressing up and appearance. “Now in America, now here, if you put something nice on someone will ask why. If you dress up a little bit, because you feel like it, just to go to Wal Mart, people will ask, what is the occasion? Yet in Bosnia, if you’re on the street, you have to be dressed up.”

For many Americans, this cultural difference may come as a surprise, yet it is just one of the many variations between Bosnia and America.

Like Jonela and her sister, Suada is also taking advantage of the American dream. She explains how a former flower shop transformed into the new EuroBurger restaurant, which just opened at the intersection of Orange Street and Ritner Highway (Route 11) in Carlisle.

“You know what, I studied fashion design, I never went to school for cooking. When I moved here, my kids were little and I couldn’t go to school to prove what I knew, because I had to be with my kids. When my kids started growing, little by little, I was thinking okay, here is a good place to open up a restaurant. I

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about working at the restaurant: “One thing that is really positive is that I have met a lot of really nice people, some who come from Harrisburg, Hershey, and Lancaster just to meet me. It makes you feel good, real good.

Sometimes it just makes your day.”

Suada's Restaurant, Euro Burger was actually dreaming about that.” During Suada’s stay in Carlisle, the building that now houses her restaurant switched hands twice. Suada had been watching this building for months, and she eventually asked her son, who also cooks, if he wanted to help her if she opened up a restaurant. He was interested in this project and it soon became reality. Suada recollects how the building came up for sale one day. “I called the guy, the owner of the real estate, and he gave me a price and I was just joking and I cut the price in half and he said okay.” Since Suada was able to get the building, her dream was able to materialize.

Suada admits that she is really pleased with her new job. Her restaurant offers customers a variety of traditional

Bosnian foods, such as burek, whereas other boxed and canned goods can be purchased in another portion of EuroBurger, which sells a variety of groceries with an Eastern European flair. In addition to working with her children, Suada explains one of her other favorite aspects

Jonela and Suada’s families are just two of the many Bosnian families that have wound up living in south central Pennsylvania. From Shippensburg to Harrisburg, one will discover evidence of a small Bosnian population. Although the experiences of Jonela and Suada cannot represent those experiences of every Bosnian person living in this region, one can begin to understand some of the struggles and difficulties that these people endure.

Everyone has his or her own unique stories to share, and many of these people had to suffer horrible atrocities due to the war. These people are quite hardy, however, and are successfully starting anew in America.

Dave Allwein studied Psychology and German at Uni Marbug in Germany. He manages Allwein Winery.☚ and now...☛

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Hills

By Matt Conrad At just the right time of the evening on cloudless days, after sunset but before the dark, everything is a silhouette. Most of the evening lights haven't come on yet, and if you're lucky the silhouettes are perfect enough to observe for a little while. This mood doesn't arrive on cloudy nights, it gets dark too early. It's an odd feeling, seeing your own skin become a shadow for a few short minutes. It doesn't last long, the good things often don't. But the next time you are fortunate enough to be in a place with clear skies, at just the right time, look to the hills.

The blue-green illusion of sky is a tempting sight to gaze into, and you certainly should, but this time is particularly precious. You might be thinking that the real beauty is in hypnotizing hue of what's above you, and dare not look away. To tear yourself away would be an affront to the very feeling you're trying to build, it would be insulting. You're in the moment, soaking it through every pore. You're thankful for each rod and cone in your eyes, that with them these precious seconds are felt and known.

Look a little lower. Great black monoliths, vast giants, scrape and graze the fading light. Earth is bidding farewell to the day before and greeting the coming night. The figures before you roll along every

horizon and are at the same time still. What at first seems mundane, unremarkable, plain against the moment, grows into something new. Your mind goes to places it's rarely ventured and you don't resist the feeling. All is calm, all is still.

You start thinking about these great figures before you. They make you feel at once small and great. Small in size, certainly, but in the company of such giants you seem grand. You're almost able to scrape the sky as well. These great figures watch over the coming night as they have for years. Decades.

Centuries. You are in the company of ancients, relics living and breathing with you. You're in the presence of witnesses.

To think of all that these hills have seen is unsettling. All the acts of our kind have been viewed by silent eyes. Progression, regression, war, peace, prosperity, unrest, all but blinks of an eye to the hills.

Our history has been a show to them. They've watched over the people who've called the valleys home. They've seen the wandering, who will be continue to be watched over by the mountains of distant lands. Entire lifetimes to you cannot compare to the ages they've felt.

And on and on it will go. These hills will not

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stand still. They will be cut down by the wind and the rain and the ice as they have in the long-forgotten past.

We will shaped them, tunnel through them, mine them for what lies beneath their earthen skin. Green leaves on the trees will seem to catch fire in the autumn and the forests will be bear months later. Until such time that all things end this will be so.

A few seconds later you come back to yourself. Streetlights have come on and the night is truly here. A perfect moment has passed. The

summer's evening chill is setting in as the first stars begin to shine their antique light. You're afraid to leave this place, lest these memories and these lessons leave you forever. Don't be afraid, for you've learned something that you will carry with you.

There is wonder in the mundane. There is history in everything.

Matt Conrad...☚

☛

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Photography Credits

Cover Page 5, 8, 10

Keely Kernan www.keelykernan.com

Page 12 Pages 16, 19, 41

Jeremy Wolfe http://www.jeremywolfephotography.com/ Matthew Grove

Brooke Coover

Pages 33, 34

Ryan Smith www.ryansmithphoto.com

Page 40

Jesse Robinson JessicaCrea Photography on Facebook

Page 50

Dave Allwein

Page 51

Ray Cressler

Front and Back Cover design By Aaron Treher www.aarontreher.com

∙THE EARL∙ 54

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