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Sisyphus Winter Solstice ’21
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cover artwork by Will Blaisdell 3 pastel by Leo Smith 4 photograph by Nick Sanders 5 Homespun, poetry by Cody Cox 6 charcoal by Gavyn McClure 7 The Final Draft, prose by Luke Duffy 10 pen and ink by Will Blaisdell 10 Return to Sender, poetry by Sean Agniel 11 photograph by Miles Schulte 13 Confession, poetry by Peter James 14 digital drawing by Alex Deiters 15 photograph by Miles Schulte 17 First Love, fiction by Bill George 19 photograph by Nick Sanders 21 digital artwork by Alex Deiters 22 You Can Only Dream, poetry by Aidan Pike 23 acrylic by Jack Hulsen 24 The Quest, lyrics by Frank Kovarik 25 Crown, poetry by Alex Preusser 26 painting by Nathan Rich 27 photograph by Miles Schulte
pastel by Leo Smith
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photograph by Nick Sanders
Homespun Cody Cox
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A warm fire, A dark starry sky Once upon a time, We fought for our lives Became hard and brittle We were broken glass alone But we returned a joined mosaic I read a weathered book You sew moonlight in your hair Your lips taste like a storm in the sun Your breath on my skin Is softer than the chirps of the crickets I feel your smile I close my book Our eyes meet A gentle crackle A bright glance I feel at peace In the homespun life we’ve made Together
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charcoal by Gavyn McClure
The Final Draft Luke Duffy
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few weeks after his graduation, Pat Garland still felt giddy about everything. He had a college degree and soon he would move back to St. Louis to look for a job. As he cleaned out his dorm room, Pat heard a knock on the door. He was surprised to see the familiar face and even more surprised at her distraught expression. His mother walked into the small dorm and handed him an envelope. The U.S. Selective Service. “Mr. Garland,” it read, “This letter signifies your selection to join the United States Military in accordance with your revised status of 1A. Please report to the recruitment center at 1114 Market Street, St. Louis, Missouri 63101 on the 3rd of August at 10 o’clock in the morning.” Pat looked back at his mom’s worried face. He knew he had to be strong despite his own fear of what was to come. “It’s what I have to do,” Pat said. Pat had not expected his mother’s visit, but he knew about the draft and was not surprised at the letter. The draft lottery selected young men to call to war randomly by birth date. Pat was born on May 7, which received draft pick #35, making him more than likely to be drafted upon graduation from college. Pat had a delightful time at Southeast Missouri State University. He played baseball, did well in all his classes, and made lots of friends. Despite being a history fanatic, he had little idea what he wanted to do with his life after college. When it came time to declare a major, he went for teaching because he saw some pretty girls applying for that major. His girlfriend that summer, Linda Simpson, seemed to have her life all put together. She was a teacher, too, but she had a certain
passion for teaching that he didn’t share. She had always wanted to be a teacher, and education was her singular focus at Harris-Stowe College. By the time Pat met her in the summer of 1971, she had been teaching for a year and had a car and a house of her own. Her life seemed so together while his felt so uncertain. I relate a lot to Pat Garland, my grandpa, at this point in my life. While some people, like my grandma, are very passionate about a particular subject and sure of where they are going, others, like my grandpa and me, are well-rounded but unsure of which path to choose. We may have a lot going for us, but when it comes time to choose one path, we feel somewhat lost. Just like Pat, I get decent grades in all my classes and take part in a lot of activities outside of school, but this can sometimes lead to more confusion when I try to focus in on one subject. My grandpa eventually stepped on a path that led to a fruitful life. At this turning point in my life where I’m thinking about colleges, majors, and future jobs, this story really resonates with me.
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n August 3, 1971, Pat had moved back into his childhood home in St. Louis. Early that morning, he headed downtown to 12th and Market. He entered the recruitment office, which was on the bottom floor of an office building. The small lobby was flooded with fluorescent light, and a secretary told Pat to continue into the larger adjacent room and remove his clothes. Pat got in line with all the other twenty-somethings in their boxers, and an Army general marched in the room. “I’m going to give everyone a number,
either one or two,” he barked. “The ones will stay where you are, and the twos will step forward.” Pat was paralyzed with fear. When the man pointed at him and said “one,” he wondered if this meant the difference between going to war or being sent home. As it turned out, he would be drafted either way. A badged Marine stepped in the room once the men were in their rows. “If you are a two, congratulations,” he said. “You are now a member of the United States Marine Corps.” The ones would join the Army. The first general dismissed the men with instructions for their next steps. Since he had a one-year teaching position at Cleveland High School, Pat was told to report to Fort Leonard Wood on December 6, 1972. Nearly fifty years later, I have learned that the Vietnam War was a time of great confusion and turmoil for America. The government was embroiled in a needless conflict, sending thousands of troops to their death at the hands of Viet Cong soldiers. My grandpa calls the war a “black cloud” that loomed over men who were his age in the late 1960s. At any moment they could be plucked from their homes and sent to the front lines on the other side of the world. Lots of men fled to Canada to escape the draft. Others, like my grandpa, accepted their fate, praying that they could fulfill their military duties in the States. As I near my 18th birthday, a small part of me worries about the selective service. Although the world today is nothing like it was in 1972, the government could still reopen the draft at any time. The draft is not my primary concern right now, but I can relate to my grandfather’s general uneasiness entering adulthood.
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t was September of 1972 and Pat had just begun his second year of teaching at Cleveland High School. One evening after
work, he went over to Linda’s apartment for dinner. In her little kitchen, he sipped a beer, and she sizzled pork chops on the stove. A little television on top of the fridge flashed clips from the ground in Vietnam. Helicopters flew over a jungle erupting with bombs, tanks rolled through city streets, and troops raided Viet Cong camps. Pat noticed Linda averting her gaze from the TV. She was turned away from him, quietly preparing the meal. “Linda, I know it looks scary. But it’s what I have to do,” he said. “There’s no avoiding the draft. All I can do is hope they keep me in the States and don’t send me into that mess.” “I just want you home for Christmas,” Linda said. “It’s so cruel that they would take you away from your loved ones before the holidays.” Pat didn’t know what to say. She carefully placed a pork chop on each plate, surrounded them with green beans and potatoes, and carried the plates to the table. Pat carved into his pork chop, always hungry. “Is there anything you can do to push your draft date back?” “I don’t know. I heard of another teacher at the school getting drafted this year. He got a letter of deferral from the principal. Pushed his date back a month.” “Pat! Why don’t you do that? You have to talk to him. Maybe he can get you exempt from the service entirely.” “The thing is, there’s a reason they do it this way. Whether I like it or not, they picked me to join the U.S. Army. It is my job as a citizen of this country to serve my country however I can.” “But, Patrick, you’re a schoolteacher, not a soldier. You’re already serving your country by teaching the next generation. You should at least go for the deferral. If you have to go, you should be able to celebrate the holidays with your family. Report for duty in the new year.”
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“I’ll talk to the principal. But I can’t promise anything.” My grandparents have been married for almost fifty years. At times, I find it hard to believe that they’ve lasted this long. Sometimes it seems like they disagree on everything. He wants to go golfing; she tells him not to because it might rain. He wants to mow the lawn; she says he just mowed it last week, the grass hasn’t even had time to grow. A pattern I’ve noticed with my grandparents is that my grandpa always has a new idea, and my grandma is always the voice of reason telling him why or why not to go through with it. While this dynamic can sometimes cause disputes, it ultimately brings them together: his curiosity and her practical thinking balance each other out. In the case of his going to Vietnam, it was her counsel that saved him from himself.
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n December 7, 1972, the day after Pat was initially supposed to report to the army, he and Linda went out with a few friends to the Hill Top Bar. The principal of Cleveland High School had signed off on his deferral, and he didn’t have to report until February. As a waitress set down Budweisers for the table, the Cardinals game on TV at the bar was interrupted by breaking news. Melvin Laird, U.S. secretary of defense, appeared on the screen behind a podium. He looked directly into the camera. “We have a special announcement con-
cerning the draft for the war in Vietnam. From this day forward, the draft lottery is canceled. No further draft lottery numbers will be called upon to serve. Those who have been drafted but have yet to report are also exempt from service. Thank you, and goodnight.” The bar erupted with cheers as if Lou Brock had just hit a home run. Pat turned to Linda for a kiss. He would not have to go to war. He felt like the luckiest man in the world. When I hear this story, I can’t help but wonder where this left my grandpa in his life. Sure, he was immensely relieved to have avoided going to war, but he had spent the last two years anticipating what felt like the inevitable. Now that he wasn’t going to war, I can only imagine he felt lost as to what to do next. He had the teaching job at Cleveland High School, but his contract was up at the end of the school year and he would have to find another job. Without a war to fight, Pat suddenly realized he had to seize the rudder of his own life. He didn’t have the imminent possibility of death or severe injury as a result of war hanging over him. He also no longer had to worry about leaving his girlfriend. They got married the following year, in 1973. Perhaps once they conquered the impossible and weren’t separated by the distance of war, Pat and Linda felt they could take on anything together. Fifty years later, it seems as though they were right.
pen and ink by Will Blaisdell
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Return to Sender Sean Agniel
“Sometimes,” she says, “The words come falling out my fingers. A cataract of memory and phrase Dripping across the page, without purpose? But how could that be? They came from somewhere (or One?) Appearing now for some use Or another.” And then her eyes fix On the mystery befallen, First one and then another Cross and amuse her gaze. Popcorn movement of Consonant and vowel that, Mistaking curtsy for shove, Bow and elbow blow Until leapfrogging into View, they mix-master each Other for cause and new Moment of meaning that reveals: Some tenement of Meeting.
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photograph by Miles Schulte
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Confession Peter James
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Struggling to return To a neglected position. I try to interne A will of submission. I try to discern A divine tradition. Only this concern has no new edition. I hope for a position Of great grace and ambition. Is this attrition? Will any good come to fruition? Am I forgiven? What is my condition? This fearful disposition Dispelled by my own volition: A graceful, good turn Of repeating remission.
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digital drawing by Alex Deiters
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photograph by Miles Schulte
First Love Bill George
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y mother was my first love, so, when she sent me away because she was busy, I felt the sting deeply. “There’s a new girl in the neighborhood,” she said. “Why don’t you go over there to make her feel welcome?” I was six years old. The neighborhood to me was both ends of our block from the railroad tracks at one end to Gimbel’s grocery store at the other end. “Number ninety. On Marlboro. The next street over. You can find it.” Her nonchalant waiving of my limits of exploration confused me. Of course I could find it, I thought, but did she want to get rid of me so much that she was sending me off into an undiscovered country? The house was twice the size of our house, a double block that looked as big as a destroyer amid a flotilla of much smaller houses on Marlboro Street. As I was standing on the sidewalk while I summoned the courage to knock on the front door, a woman appeared. She looked like Harriet Nelson from Ozzie and Harriet. “Come in,” she said. “We were expecting you.” Well, that was a surprise. If at the time I had known what the word conspiracy meant, I would have used it to describe the confusion I felt for being rejected by my mother and welcomed by another. Confused thoughts fell away immediately, however, when I saw Paula. She was lovely. Her cheeks were mottled pink and cream. Her hair was blonde, and her eyes were even deeper blue than my mother’s. What she thought of me, I didn’t know, but she took my hand and led me through the house, stopping
to meet and pet Harvey, the Winstons’ collie, whose wagging tail suggested I had passed a test of some sort. We kept moving to the back yard, where we lay on the grass while we looked up at the puffy clouds scudding across the sky to identify their shapes. After we ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the Winstons’ kitchen, Paula’s mother gave her ten cents for us to walk up to Gimbel’s for popsicles. Paula bought a cherry one for herself and a vanilla one for me. “Vanilla’s so plain,” she said. “My father always gets vanilla.” “Try it,” I said. Before opening my popsicle’s paper sleeve, I slapped the popsicle against the edge of the counter to separate the two halves, then slid one of the halves out and handed it to her. “Go ahead. Try it.” She touched the tip of her tongue tentatively to the top of the vanilla pop as if she were afraid of being stung, but then she moved her tongue across her upper lip and closed her eyes. “It’s good. I never thought it would taste like anything. Do mine,” she said, handing me her popsicle. After I slapped her cherry popsicle against the counter to separate the halves, she opened the sleeve and slid one cherry pop out and handed it to me. “Try this one.” When I mimicked her tentative tasting technique, she punched my shoulder, “Taste it,” she commanded, so I bit off an inch. “It’s good, too.” “See,” she said as if she had won some contest of importance. We walked out of the narrow store and sat on the sidewalk with our backs leaning
against the storefront, each of us eating one vanilla and one cherry half. As customers came and went, they looked down at us, and, if they knew one of us, they usually would say hello. The first time this happened, Paula said, “Hi, this is Billy” while pointing to me with her left hand. So, when someone who knew me entered the store and said hello, I said, “Hi, this is Paula” while pointing to her with my right hand. When school started in September, I walked the four blocks to school alongside my sister, Molly, who was in fifth grade. Along the way some of her friends would join us, and she would either ignore me or talk about me as if I weren’t there. One time she read my homework assignment aloud to her friend because I had misspelled much as mush. The two laughed uproariously as she read, “I like school very mush. My best friend is Paula Winston. I like her very mush.” When I grabbed at my homework paper, it ripped, so, when I turned it in to Sister Grace, I told her my sister had ruined it with hopes that she not only would forgive me but also get Molly in trouble. Sister Grace said, “Sisters can be quite the trouble, Billy. Can’t they?” “Yes, Sister.” “But sisters can be good to have at times. Remember that, will you?” I wanted to say, “No, they are never good!” But I didn’t. I just looked over at Paula, who was listening attentively with, I knew, a sympathetic ear. When we walked home together as we usually did, I told Paula the whole sad story. When I had finished, she stopped walking, leaned over, and kissed me on my cheek. I almost dropped my books and kissed her back right there on Locust Street and probably would have, but she kept walking and started talking about the story Sister Grace had read that day in story time about the boy who always tried to take the biggest piece of pie or cake. His mother solved the
problem by filling the biggest piece with horrible tasting medicine. “Wasn’t that clever?” Paula said, as if nothing extraordinary had happened. “Yes, it was,” I agreed. When we got to the corner of my street, I thought maybe I would kiss her goodbye as I had seen people do in TV shows or movies. I looked at her for some sign that I should do more than say goodbye but, seeing none, just said, “See you tomorrow, Paula.” She smiled as she usually smiled and said what she usually said, “I hope so, Billy,” and kept walking to Marlboro Street. As I watched her go, I lingered on the corner with an unexpected sorrow in my heart as if I had bid her goodbye forever. A few months after that first kiss, Gregory Murphy handed out birthday party invitations to the entire class. Although he was not one of the popular kids, his party would be the first boy-girl party, so the class was abuzz with its novelty. When my mother read the invitation, she said, “What nonsense! On a Sunday and a school night!” “Can I go? Everybody will be going. It won’t be that late,” I said in my most reasonable voice. “If everybody was going to jump in the river, would you jump in after them?” As I was contemplating how I could possibly answer her question, I saw a smile breaking on her face, “Yes, you can go,” she said, but then added “if you’re good.” In those days, we lived in a three-bedroom house: the middle room for my sister, the back room for my brother alone after he convinced my parents to kick me out of my bunk bed and have a second door installed so that he could study for college, and the front room for my parents and me, where they had their big bed and I had a small bed that fit nicely into an alcove. When I was getting dressed for the party in that front room, my eyes fixed on a little black velvet box on my
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photograph by Nick Sanders
mother’s dressing table. I put it in my pocket and rushed downstairs. My mother grabbed me by my two shoulders as I was heading for the front door. “Wait!” she said. “Let me look at you. Are you presentable?” “Yes,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes at such a question. She would have kept me longer if I had. “Don’t forget this,” she said as she handed me the wrapped present that we had picked out together at Kresge’s on the Square, a puzzle of the United States with the forty-eight capitals identified. My mother was big on educational presents. “And this,” she said, handing me my jacket. “It’ll be getting cold once the sun goes down.” Since the Murphys lived on the upper part of my street, I walked to the party. I waited on the corner for about ten minutes in hopes that Paula would be walking as well. When I saw Jackie Dunbar, who lived on my street down by the railroad tracks, coming my way with a present in his hand, I knew I would have to abandon my plan of waiting for Paula and walk the rest of the way with Jackie. At the party, we played pin the tail on the donkey and musical chairs. I went out of the
chair game early, but Paula was one of the last to lose a chair. When it was down to her and Bobby Calore, he pushed her to win the last chair. I called out, “Not fair. She got pushed.” Paula looked at me and said, “Don’t be silly, Billy. It’s just a game.” All of the kids started chanting, “Silly Billy! Silly Billy! Silly Billy!” until Mrs. Murphy stepped in the middle of the room and said loud enough to drown out the jeers, “Presents. Gregory’s going to open up his presents now,” so mercifully the kids stopped the chanting and followed her and Gregory into the dining room, where a hill of presents lay piled on the table in the middle of the room. The chairs had been pushed to the corners of the room, so all the kids pushed up close to see the presents and how Gregory would react when he opened theirs. Still feeling the warmth of my reddened face because of the shame of their chants, I held back. I looked over at Paula, hoping for an apologetic or a sympathetic look for what she had said, but her back was to me as she pushed close to the table of presents with everyone else. Without being noticed, I edged backward toward the front door where our jack-
ets were piled in a mound on a white wood bench in the foyer. I picked out Paula’s red coat and hesitated. I didn’t know if I wanted to give her my present anymore, but I went through with it anyway by slipping the little black velvet box into her pocket. Then I walked slowly back into the Murphy’s dining room, where Gregory had almost finished ripping into the presents that all of our mothers had meticulously wrapped. I saw my red, white and blue box labelled “Puzzle of The United States” in a stack to Gregory’s left in front of his mother, who had a piece of paper on which she was noting who gave her son what so that Gregory or she could write thank you notes. Just as the birthday boy had ripped open his last gift, his father emerged from the kitchen with a large rectangular chocolate cake, cut into squares, which he set down next to a stack of paper plates and a pile of silver forks. It was all so neatly timed I wondered if they had practiced it. As I was inching up to the front of the line for the cake, I tried to catch Paula’s eye as I reached for the smallest square left. Paula sat next to me on a couch as we ate our cake from paper plates balanced on our laps. I wanted to whisper to Paula of the present awaiting her in her coat pocket, but I was afraid of two things: first, that I would spill crumbs on the Murphy’s clean rug, and second, that Paula would say something that would cause more jeering and chanting, so I ate my cake cautiously and silently. As we were finishing eating cake, the rush of parents, including Paula’s, arriving to drive their kids home brought a confusing and swift end to the party. On Monday morning, Paula was in the coat room surrounded by a gaggle of girls. I could see in the spaces between them Paula’s extended left hand on which she wore
my present, a shiny diamond ring. To keep it from slipping around on her finger, Paula had neatly fitted a pad of Kleenex or cotton on her finger beneath the ring. After we stood and said our morning Hail Marys, one for our parents, one for our bishop, and one for all Sisters of Mercy, Sister Grace bent over Paula as she was just settling into her desk in the front row by the window and then started walking with her toward the hall. The room reacted with an audible sucking in of air and then a gathering wave of whispered “Wooos” until Sister squelched all sound by clattering her large wooden rosary beads hanging from her waist and fixing her eyes on all of us. The two of them then disappeared into the hall through the room’s front entrance. As I stared down at my desktop and frantically searched my imagination for what Sister Grace might be saying to Paula, I looked up when the whispering wave started building again and then hushed when Sister Grace and Paula reentered the room. I could see that Paula’s fingers were bare. Although I tried, I couldn’t will her to turn her head to look at me in the back row by the cloakroom. She was always attentive during class, but she seemed especially attentive this day. I had to wait for recess to learn that Sister Grace had told her that I shouldn’t have given her my mother’s ring and that she would be keeping the ring until my mother or father retrieved it. “I’m sorry, Paula,” I said as I felt redness rising into my face as I did during the party when all the kids were chanting at me. “How did she know I gave it to you?” “I told her.” “How did you know?” Paula just tilted her head and her deep blue eyes widened to look at me, seeing me as the silly child I was, someone far less aware of the ways of the world than she.
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digital art by Alex Deiters
You Can Only Dream Aidan Pike Through a threshold and out of the inclement And torrential hypethral sky, Balagus glass keeps the acidic deluge ashore, From the inner dwellings of the bletherstakes store And razzmatazz of the cloudburst, Plethora of conglomerate thingledos and uproarious doohickeys, Shelves of balungaloos and tritoodalics and jars containing optical jesutifits, Footsteps wander and caloojulate throughout, Keeper of the bletherstakes’ wilujery and misfortunes Sold innumerable masses of trinkets and all belong to nobody, Belonging to nobody but himself, Himself is undetermined, maybe a bragujulus, Maybe a narzuwhitz, but all return in search, In search of themselves through him, Himself contains all, Everything but the thing you need, Himself is a bletherstakes and knows all, Only the bletherstakes honestly know none, Possessing only some or all of codswallop and truth, Truth of all is not yet known, The bletherstakes know diddlysquat, All you’ll find in their wretched emporium Are eyes of balagus bugs and wings of vormeers. This store you’ll find at the denouement of a road, A road of which no one has been or ever will be. If only people would dream, then the truth could be a thing.
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acrylic by Jack Hulsen
The Quest Frank Kovarik
24 When you wake up in the morning With a vague suspicion forming In your mind that something’s missing, Well, then you’d do well to listen To that voice that keeps repeating Expectations you’re not meeting— All the promises you’ve broken— And it’s good that you’ve awoken To the fact that there’s an absence, Something that you haven’t had since Back before you turned that corner, When the latter was the former. And now you know you need it. You can find a book and read it. You can track it down and shoot it, Or just go out and recruit it. It might hurt to realize You’re not at your best, But that doesn’t mean You should give up the quest. It’s that feeling that you carry That sustains you when it’s scary. It’s that confident expression In the face of your depression. It’s that extra bit of effort That can get you through the desert. It’s that attitude of good will When you feel so mad you could kill. It’s that truth that you aren’t seeing Though it’s written there in neon.
It’s the last-minute connection And the crucial course correction. Now you know you’ve got to have it, You hop to it like a rabbit, Circle round it like a hawk, Or put on your shoes and walk. It might hurt to realize You have failed a test, But that doesn’t mean You should give up the quest. Though you’ve had this revelation And you feel the motivation To change every last bad habit And to live life like an abbot, As the days pass by like train cars, You might feel pain in the old scars. You might find yourself backsliding, Your get-up-and-go subsiding. So just know the day might come When you feel you’re just a bum, And that thing you thought you had Smells like milk that has turned bad. But just keep on looking for it ’Cause you know you can’t ignore it. Don’t pretend that you don’t mind it. You never know where you will find it. It might hurt to realize You’re like all the rest, But that doesn’t mean you should give up the quest.
Crown Alexander Preusser
25 Perched atop my head A wreath of jewel and gold Etched in my forehead A pattern of pain and accomplishment Each day a burden, a weight on my shoulders More constricting than a noose More concealing than a mask An illusion built upon lies and deceit An illusion which I must uphold So day by day I bear my crown
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painting by Nathan Rich
SISYPHUS, WINTER SOLSTICE 2021-2022 27
PHOTOGRAPHY BY MILES SCHULTE
LAYOUT EDITORS JACK FIGGE GEORGE HENKEN NATHAN RICH LUKE DUFFY ALEX PREUSSER
MODERATORS FRANK KOVARIK RICH MORAN
LITERARY EDITORS TAGGART ARENS GAVIN LAWHORN ALEX WENTZ CODY COX 28 LUKE DUFFY ALEX PREUSSER JUDE REED CHRIS ST. JOHN AUSTIN WALD NICK SANDERS
ART EDITORS
NATHAN RICH OWEN RITTENHOUSE ALEX DEITERS LEO SMITH
