Phoenix - Winter 1976 by UT Media Center

phoenix winter 1976 unlvelslty of tennessee

Where Do I begin and end? And where As I strum the thing, do I pick up That which momentously declares Itself not to be and yet Must be. It could be nothing else. - Wallace Stevens

The Man With the Blue Guitar All art-music, poetry, storytelling, painting - is an attempt to capture reality. The attempt never quite succeeds, yet all of our contributors have come to terms with some of their own world. What they have in common is a sharing of themselves through the creative use of language and form. The Phoenix invites you to share your creativity with the university. Send your contributions for the spring issue to the Phoenix.

cover by John Murphy

EDITOR Susan Betts MANAGING EDITOR Connie Jones NON-FICTION Tom Wright FICTION Eric Forsbergh POETRY Paul Roden Marla Puziss ART Phil Rose PHOTOGRAPHY Jonathan Daniel EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS John Furlow Ruth Garwood Teresa Grant Micki Harris Lynn Hofferberth Lori Kildgore Judy Peach Robin Poole Rick Sanders PRODUCTION Jeannie Sprague

"Because I'm Good" .... Professor Robert Drake, interviewed by Max Heine

You Turn Me On, You're a Radio ....... satire by Tom Wright

5 8 11

Changes ......... fiction by Mark Alan Sweazey

14 24

Profile: Jed DeKalb ............ by Micki Harris Pick 'N' Grin ......... feature by Ruth Garwood and Lori Kildgore Profile: Sandra Blain ....... by Lynn Hofferberth Down Home Live ..... feature by Janice Shepard

28 29

CEB Presents .... by Rick Sanders & Tom Wright

A Three-Fold Cord ..... fiction by Rockford Davis

New Music at UT ........ feature by John Furlow

ART jPHOTOGRAPHY

10 16 22 26

POETRY

Oliver Loveday

Ron Cooper, Jed DeKalb, and David Dulaney

John Coward, Lucy Talikwa, and James Seeley

Richard M. Kelly and Leslie Toomay

Cheryl Goldfeder and Michael Haykin

Sandy Bonder, G. Lindsay Chappell II, and Larry L. Wingate

Kyle Day, Teresa Duncan Merritt, Jack Boyles, Bob Wade Steven Lavaggi, Glenn Morgan, Carroll Barger, and Jonathan Daniel

ÂŠ Copyright 1976, by the University of Tennessee. Rights retained by the individual contributors. Send contributions to Phoenix, Room 5, Communications Bldg., 1340 Circle Park Drive, Knoxville, Tennessee 37916.

feature

"Because I'm Good" A Phoenix interview with Dr. Robert Drake

by Max Heine

A photo of Flannery O'Connor hangs on Dr. Robert Drake's office wall. Taken about a year before her death in 1964, the picture shows the famous Southern writer standing on crutches in front of chicken wire. ''That chicken wire is where she kept her peacocks," said Dr. Drake, lifting a peacock feather from his pencil holder. "I got this at the college in Milledgeville (Georgia), which is near her home. 1 also have one which her mother personally gave me."

Dr. Drake, University of Tennessee English professor and fiction writer, had not yet published his first collection of short stories when he visited Miss O'Connor in 1963. She liked his stories and introduced him to her agent in New York, who helped him get his first book, Amazing Grace, published. Leaning back in his chair, Dr. Drake recalled her as a plain-spoken woman who had no small talk. "She was a quiet person, but the type of quiet that you felt she could scream your head off if she wanted," he said. Photos by Jonathan Daniel

Whether Dr. Drake is reminiscing about his childhood in Ripley, Tennessee, when he was expected to become a concert pianist, or jelling an anecdote about the poem he sent to Adlai Stevenson after his Presidential defeat, Dr. Drake spews out words almost faster than the ear can catch them. One might wonder how a native Southerner learned to speak so rapidly. Part of the reason could be that his education included a master's and doctoral degree at Yale, after his bachelor's and master's degrees at Vanderbilt. He taught at the Universities of Michigan, Northwestern, Texas, and for the past ten years, Tennessee.

Though she is one of his favorite writers, Dr. Drake said Miss O'Connor was not the most influential on his writing. He cited his composition teacher at Vanderbilt, Donald Davidson, who was part of the "Vanderbilt group" of writers in the 20's, as a big influence. "Everyone in the class was writing fiction except me," he said, "and 1 was writing poetry. 1 liked the discipline of poetry, and 1 still do." He didn't get around to fiction writing until his first year at Michigan, when the chairman of his department suggested he write down all the old stories he was tossing around. He did just that in that summer of 1956. "They were awful-but 1 was learning. 1 sent some off, some were even accepted. It certainly wasn't what 1 expected. Writing always seemed nice to me if you had the talent, but 1 never thought 1 had the talent." But now, with three books of short stories under his belt, it appears that Dr. Drake does have talent. "Writing satisfies me because 1 feel like I've told the truth about the world in which we live-in flesh and blood," he said. "Robert Frost said 'A poem is a momentary stay against the confusion of the world,' and 1 think a story is the same. Every writer is selling his own perception of reality." y

Flannery O'Connor

Photo by James Arnall

"I've been teaching 20 years now and 1 feel older than God," he said. "It did me good to get out of the South and learn about the rest of the country. 1 was fascinated by the Midwest in a very morbid sort of way," he said, smiling, "yet at the same time charmed by it. Everyone there was so healthy and romantic and progressive. 1 wanted to scream at them and tell them about sickness and death." "I also learned that many people are hostile to the South," he added, "but then, 1 tried to wave the Confederate flag everywhere 1 went." Dr. Drake considers his Southern heritage an integral part of his writing. "I was around big talkers all my life. Some of them bored me to death. 1 couldn't understand why they all told the same stories over when nothing was new. Now 1 realize they did because they were good stories. These old people are my main resources." Miss O'Connor's stories are much like the old homespun tales, as Dr. Drake sees them. "She was very honest," he said. "She only told one story, and she told it over and over, but she did it well each time."

"It's especially satisfying if I'm proud of what 1 wrote,'路 he continued. "I know no one else has seen it like 1 have; it's peculiar to me. It is me. And it will outlive me if 1 die and still be true." Dr. Drake said someone once asked Miss O'Connor why she wrote. He lifted his nose, mocking the face of a disgusted woman, and said, "Because I'm good.".

satire

you turn me on, you're a by Tom Wright

Anyone who has driven much in Tennessee realizes how difficult it sometimes is to find a good radio station. Once the big-city stations fade away, there is a serious shortage of good music. For example, you may like classical, but you won't hear it. The closest you'll come to Beethoven's Fifth is billboard ads for Early Times. The nearest you'll come to rock is "Rock of Ages" (a dozen times). And any stock prices you hear will be for the kinds that walk on four legs and smell bad. But there are a few interesting stations scattered across the state, and you might want to listen to them the next time you're traveling. Here they are: When driving between Knoxville and Nashville, tune to 736 on your dial, station WDDT. This station plays very little music, but they have a pig named Ed that gives the weather. Once an hour Ed comes on

and starts grunting. One grunt means rain; two grunts also mean rain-and so do three grunts. That's all the grunts Ed can handle, but he still has a 75 per cent accuracy rate. (In this state, how can he miss?) Another interesting station is WKIN (1210 kc), which you can pick up between Nashville and Memphis. This station's most significant feature is a daily diction lesson for its listeners. The lessons deal with the pronunciation of difficult words, and they have been very successful. The program is endorsed by Porter Wagoner, who says, "Yes. Now you, too, kin lurn to say 'flar talles' jist lak me." If you're in the Nashville to Chattanooga area, try listening to WSIN, 598 on the dial. This station features all-day preaching, praying, and hymn singing, with an occasional live-on-the-air miracle. The most recent miracle happened to Stella Mae Clapp, who, during one frantic exhalation of the Holy

III Spirit, was relieved of gall stones, jaundice, and the deed to her farm. Finally, there's this advice for those who sometimes drive into northwest Tennessee. There are no radio stations up that way to recommend, so it is suggested that you stop at Big Ernie's Roadside Rattlesnake F arm and Souvenir Shop. Along with "Let's Fly United" bedspreads and "If-your-heart-ain'tin-Dixie-get-your-ass-out" ash trays, Ernie stocks pet birds. Buy one of the talking crows ($2.98), take him with you, and he'll give you a solid two-hour performance of the greatest hits of Percy Sledge. That will keep you till you get to the Mississippi, at which point, sling the crow in the river. (Singing crows are illegal in Arkansas.) That's all the recommendations from this end. However, if none of the ideas above appeal to you, you might do this: buy a '63 Buick and try to get the springs to squeak in 3/4 time. Good luck, and good listening.â&#x20AC;˘ Photo by Jonathan Daniel

fiction

by Mark Alan Sweazey "I can understand why people collect stamps or coins or even sea shells. But hair? Really!" complained Duncan. He was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake in accepting George's invitation for a weekend in the country. He had imagined a more refined atmosphere, but both George and his sister were indulging in an awful amount of crude behavior. In the office George had seemed quite a sophisticated fellow; maybe a trifle sporty, but polite. Funny how people act in their homes, even with guests around. "Oh? Has Suzanne been at you again?" asked George. He was stretched out on the chaise lounge on the patio, sunbathing and enjoying an after-breakfast nap. He didn't seem very concerned with Duncan's complaint. "It probably seems perfectly normal to you, seeing as how she's your sister ... But a hair cocoon? Well! .... And who's ever seen a caterpillar big enough to fit that thing she's made! She must be insane." George laughed. "The cocoon isn't for a caterpillar," he said. "Suzanne's making it for herself. She thinks she can climb in and after awhile crawl out full of beauty. You know what I mean?" Duncan was silent. George was making a sick joke, he thought. He did not enjoy that sort of prank.

"Actually, it's not too bad," continued George. "Suzanne's always ready to help out with things so that she can snatch hairs off your clothes. Keeps things tidy, sort of." "If you don't mind my saying so, I think it's disgusting," said Duncan, resentfully. George laughed again. Then appearing more serious, he added, "But it's clean! She shampoos it every Saturday. And it'll make you feel better to know she collects hair only from people she likes. Virtuous and all of that." So it's a horrible joke, thought Duncan. Tasteless. And I resent him for using me to amuse himself. But then it is rather a compliment to me the way he puts it; Suzanne collects hair only from good people. I suppose I can go along with a joke if it doesn't become too vulgar! "She's taken quite a lot of mine," said Duncan, winking at George. "She even got into my brushes this morning. I brush my hair a lot, you know. Keeps the wave in." "That reminds me of the time I took some long hairs off the cat's pillow and told Sue they came from the minister's wife," said George. "She just laughed like crazy and began tying them together until they were a couple of yards long; I thought I had fooled her for sure. Then, when I was asleep, she tried winding them around my head. God ... just like a spider and a fly. But that's why I have a crewcut; I can't stand hair around my face." "Yes. Well, I prefer long hair myself," replied Duncan. "But I only

Illustration by Joyce Miller

have to stay another day, .otherwise I think I'd get it cut." "Naaa. You'd get used路 to Suzanne. Like when she was a kid, everytime she'd walk into a room looking for a lap to sit in, everyone would stand up or rush off to do something. So she'd sit on a little stool and wait, trying to look cute. It was repulsive. But you don't notice after a while." "Well, really, I don't think she's that revolting," said Duncan. He wasn't being entirely honest, but the joke had gone too far. It was getting tiresome. They could be discussing art or something, instead of making ugly jokes. "Thank you, Duncan," said Suzanne, who had just waddled onto the patio hugging a big heap of crocheted hair. "But it doesn't really matter if I'm repulsive, because I'm finished. It's glorious, isn't it?" "Glorious," repeated George, admiring the cocoon. "Isn't it glorious, Duncan?" "It's really something," murmured the house guest. He felt confused

again, uncertain where the joke began and where it ended. "I'm so lucky, Georgie," said Suzanne happily. "Did I tell you I got some hairs from the visiting librarian? She's really so intelligent; I always did want to be intelligent, you know." "Fine," replied George. "That's fine. I'm glad to hear it." "Do you think I should send her a note and thank her for the hairs? I really do appreciate having them." "People always get a lift when they feel they've helped someone," said Duncan philosophically. He closed his eyes and lay back in the chair. He wouldn't try to understand; he'd just coast along. God, collecting intelligent hair. I wonder what she thinks my hairs have. Not that I haven't been called a Beau Brummel before. Actually, that thing is rather pretty-like a spider's web, sort of. Catches sun. "I have seventeen yards, now," said Suzanne. "Besides all those other bits which I'll leave for you, Georgie. Not rejects, really, but rather average virtues, if you know

what I mean. And I've figured out just what to do tomorrow." "Leave a hole in the top and climb in?" asked George affectionately. "Don't be ridiculous. You know a cocoon has to be snug! What I'm going to do is adjust one end to myself when I'm on top of the hill. That way it will wrap snugly when I roll down." "Oh, I was thinking more of a suspended sort of cocoon, like hanging from a tree or something. You're rather a flighty type, you know," said George laughing. "Oh Georgie! You're insane," shrieked Suzanne, playfully slapping at him. George stood up and stretched. "Well, time for my morning constitutional! Join me?" he said to Duncan, "A few laps around the field?" "No, I think not," replied Duncan, blushing. George really does have a splended physique, he thought. "Should keep in better shape, you know," George called back over his shoulder as he jogged off across a clover field.

Suzanne smiled at Duncan. "I'm glad George brought you this weekend," she said. "I mean, it's very special to me; the cocooning and all." "He didn't mention the cocooning before 1 came. But it's very nice. Of course, I've never seen one before ... " "Well, not everyone makes cocoons, but then it's probably because they've never thought of it, don't you think? People change what they can and live with the rest, you know. But 1 have to change everything. Like George says, I'm repulsive." "You've done a good job of it," replied Duncan, sympathetically. "Making the best of the situation, 1 mean." Suzanne leaned closer. "Of course 1 know it's an escape, but it's lonely if people avoid you. If 1 didn't believe my metamorphosis would change things, 1 might have an entirely different attitude. Not so happy and all." "Actually you are probably justified in making a cocoon," said Duncan, after some reflection. "But 1 have to admit I'm ignorant about cocoons. 1 didn't know they worked for people." "No one's needed one so much," replied Suzanne. "I do need one." She laughed suddenly and held up a handful of hairs. "Here, I've collected more hairs while we were talking and 1 don't need another one at all, my cocoon is finished. Well, I'll tuck them behind my ears for

good luck. Your hairs, you know." Duncan smiled. How ridiculous, he thought. 1 really do feel complimented. Sunday was a perfect day for a cocooning. Giggling, Suzanne led the two men to the top of the hillside orchard. "Apparently there isn't any question in her mind about how to cocoon," commented Duncan. "Do you think it's sort of an instinctive thing?" "I think you're overly concerned," replied George. "After all, she's had thirty years to figure it out." At the top of the hill, Suzanne snuggled onto one end of the long hair blanket, tucking it securely around herself. "If you'll give me a little push, Georgie, it should work like a jelly roll and snug up fine." Duncan saw one last glimpse of Suzanne's tear-wet face, and heard her giggle as George heaved her away. Now! Away she rolled, over and over into the blanket of hair until only a fat cocoon rolled down the hill. It giggled, spun, bounced along, and finally hurtled off a rock ledge. It landed far below in a bed of wild iris that had finished blooming, and lay still. "Splendid!" cried Duncan. "Yes," agreed George, "but 1 wish we'd brought some beer." Duncan looked at George's back and sighed. Gently, he picked off a hair from George's shirt and added it to the other hairs in his pocket. That's five full of virility, he thought. â&#x20AC;˘

路 music/photography

Jed DeKalb

his own and in high school began taking concert pictures. He received free passes for helping the groups unload their equipment backstage before concerts and used Jed DeKalb is a music-lover, but that's those opportunities to shoot pictures. His not why he has a front-row seat at every friends encouraged him and were soon concert. For DeKalb, it's all in a night's bu~ing his photographs themselves. work as a concert photographer. DeKalb admits that it's been a long time A big break came for DeKalb last winter since he enjoyed a concert, because he with Z. Z. Top. Jed showed them some takes better pictures at concerts where pictures he had previously taken of the he doesn't like the music. Taking the right group and the guitarist bought them. The shot is only part of the challenge for group asked Jed to do its Fandango cover DeKalb, who says, "It helps being tall at and flew him to Canada to the job. "They concerts." His height and his hiking boots chose the shot," he says. "It's not the one 1 enable him to hold his ground against would have chosen." His George Harrison angry fans who try to push him out of the picture won third place in the Circus way. The fans are often distracting. At the Magazine photography contest and was Lynyrd Skynyrd concert, a girl near him the only black-and-white that placed. threw up, another tore off her bra, and his DeKalb was pleased, although he thought camera toppled to the floor. "I try to be "it should have won first." This past courteous to others," he says, and takes it summer DeKalb was selected as a fellowall in his stride. ship student at the Maine Photo Workshop. A senior in Marketing, DeKalb has lived He describes it as "really nice" and asserts in South America, Massachusetts, that he learned a lot as a participant. A Georgia, and Tennessee; his family is now photograph he took while in Maine is the in Minnesota. Tall and soft-spoken, he winter quarter Phoenix poster. confesses to shyness. He laughingly recalls DeKalb initially joined the Beacon staff the early days of his partnership with Bill when a roommate kidded him about only Johnson, a local disc jockey, when taking concert shots. He enjoys the versaJohnson acted as his spokesman and he tility that the Beacon offers him. With no was the silent partner. definite career plans ahead, DeKalb would When Johnson's partner, a local photog- like to combine his business experience rapher, quit, Johnson offered DeKalb the with photography and a chance to travel. chance to go in with him. Johnson, who One kind of job he suggests is a marketing knows all the promoters, gives them two job for a photography company. But right or three photos from previons concerts now, says DeKalb complacently, "My and DeKalb gets a backstage pass or career's at the Beacon.". tickets. DeKalb first became interested in photography while watching his father shooting rolls of 35mm film at Christmas. He experimented with the family Leica on by Micki Harris

Photos by Jed DeKalb and Jonathan Daniel

art "Sculpture is a more real medium for me. You can touch and feel and look at it." The sculptures are simple metal constructions of salvaged materials and rusted parts from farm machinery. The sculptor is Oliver Loveday, a senior fine arts major. Other contemporary artists have influenced Loveday's treatment of his medium. "Picasso," he said, "liberated sculpture so that it is no longer living in the shadow of Michelangelo. He was one of the first to do welded pieces." Loveday uses soft steel and electric arc welding to produce what he calls "a little bit of story-telling." Loveday grew up on a farm; his use of farm machinery in his work is reminiscent of his childhood. Over half of the pieces in the recent exhibition on the Undergraduate Library plaza feature farm machinery. "Man is fascinated by machines until they become icons for him. In my sculpture, I am taking machinery, undoing it, saying machines are not holy. Man is holy."

Photos by Steve Plunkett

music

A World of Music in Knoxville by Ruth Garwood and Lori Kildgore

路 .... teaching people, not music

Children burst through the doors carrying banjos or guitar cases. Upstairs, a young man pounds a trap drum set to the rock song his instructor plays on an electric guitar. Down the hall a fiddle class practices "Orange Blossom Special," while a classical guitar class warms up. A man walks into the store carrying a fiddle, and the salespeople pick up instruments and form an impromptu bluegrass band. Music, people, and the sheer joy of playing a musical instrument are all important at Pick 'N' Grin, home of Music World, Inc. Music World is the umbrella title for music enterprises centered around stringed instruments, bluegrass, and rock music. Locally, Music World operates out of Pick 'N'

Grin, which opened last May. It served 600 students with a staff of 10, but now, with a staff of 26, it is bringing music to even more people. For Wayne Goforth, developer of the stringed-instruments teaching method, "the success of this thing is overwhelming." Goforth began giving banjo lessons when he was a music education student at UT. He soon learned that conventional music notation was only partially successful, so he began using tablature, a form of notation used for lute music before modern notation had been devised. Because he had so many students, Goforth switched from individual lessons to classes. His lesson material, which had to be simplified for the classes, was printed on large cards from which Goforth taught. His format evolved into ten weeks of one-hour lessons. Doug Klein, drummer with Clifford and the Martells, became part of Music World through B.H. "Corky" McCorkle, president of the company. "I was at Duke University working, on a master's," Klein said, "and I asked myself, "What do you really want to do?' The answer was, 'Play the drums.' So I came back to Knoxville and saw Corky hammering on this place (Pick 'N' Grin), and he said, 'I need a drummer.' " Klein has devised a new method of teaching drums which uses the entire trap set (cymbal, snare, bass, and high hat) in the first lesson. "All the other methods were teaching the same thing-snare drums-which is really formal. Kids want to learn to play all the drums-the whole trap set. There was no method for the trap set, for coordinating four limbs," Klein said. Using tablature, which consists of charts marked in measures with numbers for beats or notes, the first four lessons help the student learn some basic rock beats.

Photos by Joe Willis

The student plays the entire trap set on the same beat, using both hands and both feet. S/he then learns to play one hand on a different count, progressing to moving all four limbs independently, playing cymbal, bass, and high hat in coordination. In the sixth lesson the method switches to traditional drum notation. By the tenth lesson the students are learning syncopation. The instructor plays a song, and the students play the drum to the music. The students progress quickly and learn to improvise. One student, who began taking lessons in July, played drums so well that he sat in with the Martells when they backed up Bo Diddley New Year's Eve. A student who signs up for lessons - for any instrument offered - need not have had any previous experience. The lessons are designed as if the student had never seen the instrument, and enjoyment is the key concept in the teaching methods. Beginners in banjo classes, for example, begin learning such songs as "Cripple Creek"

and "Old Dan Tucker." With progress, they go to more difficult songs like "Foggy Mountain Breakdown." Learning songs helps the student gain a feeling of accomplishment, and, according to McCorkle, the enjoyment is why it works. For an average class of 15 students, each lesson is split into two parts. The first thirty minutes are spent tunin~ up, reviewing, and soloing the previous week's lesson. The last thirty minutes are spent introducing new material. There are five levels of lessons, each of which can be learned in a ten-week session. McCorkle said that "half of the students, conservatively, go on beyond the first session." Another reason Music World has been successful, according to McCorkle, is that they "take the cream of the student crop, turn them into teachers, and send them into the field." For example, a banjo student who wishes to become a teacher goes through 14 weeks of training. The potential

instructor first becomes a graduate assistant and aids an experienced instructor in a beginning class. Each aspiring teacher then spends three or four weekends at instructor school "teaching" all ten of the beginning lessons to other would-be instructors. Potential teachers evaluate each other's work, consider the care and renting of musical instruments, and discuss basic business practices. The training, Goforth said, "is really rigorous. Doing the ten in that time is a feat. "We try to teach our instructors that they're teaching people, not music. They are, at the same time, entertaining," Goforth explained. The people who successfully complete the training are awarded a certificate from the American College of Music Instructors, and having learned to teach banjo, the new teachers can teach any of the other instruments in the Music World courses. ''They have the methods; all they have to do is learn the instruments," said Goforth. Pick 'N' Grin participates in several music festivals, providing sponsorship and looking for talent that can be molded into the professionalism of a certified teacher. More teachers are needed, especially to meet the increasing demand for bluegrass instructors. "Bluegrass could be a kind of tennis thing that captures the imagination of the people, because you can participate," McCorkle said. He attributes this growing

interest to bluegrass itself, saying, "It is timeless, not dated." Goforth, Klein and McCorkle all stress the importance of enjoyment in the success of Music World and their teaching methods. Bluegrass or rock, the lessons and the music are fun for instructor and student alike. The instructor has the enjoyment of performing and sharing instrument techniques. The student, however, experiences the sublime pleasure of developing from a novice into, as Klein puts it, "a real shit kicker.".

art

Sandra Blain by Lynn Hofferberth

"Even utilitarian pots must do more than serve a utilitarian purpose," Sandra Blain said. "Any object in clay is a form which exists in space; thus, it should convey strength and excitement." Blain is an assistant professor in the Crafts, Interior Design and Housing Department of UTs College of Home Economics, a position she has held since fall, 1969. She is a full-time instructor; her ceramics classes usually contain twenty students. For fifteen of them, working with clay is a new experience. Students begin experimentally. There is no rigid step-by-step "this is how it is done" lecturing, because "there is just no right or wrong way to make something," said Blain. "We insist that the student try to express him or herself and not be disturbed by directions, slides, neighbors." Blain is an artist as well as a teacher. "My goals are to educate people toward an awareness, an appreciation and an understanding of crafts, whether in the use or in the production of craft objects for the environment in which we live." Ceramic pieces can serve a multitude of purposes, from sculptural to utilitarian, and should incorporate both. Blain said she was frustrated at first when she looked at the work of so many other artists; their pieces all looked alike. It was then, for the sake of individuality, that she began to use hand-constructed methods. ''The importance is in being yourself-to bring out your own uniquePhotos by Jonathan Daniel

ness through your medium. Clay is a direct medium - it is responsive to even the subtlest of moves," Blain said. The unique Sandra Blain style keeps h er work in high demand. Most of her pieces are handbuilt, using the pinched, slab, or coil techniques. While the clay is still soft, Blain will decorate her work not only with tools designed for pottery, but with almost any odd object she can find. Though she sometimes works 18 hours a day, six days a week, Blain still finds time for public service activities. She is a member of the Southern Highlands Handicraft Guild and serves as assistant director of the Arrowmont School of Crafts in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Arrowmont offers a variety of art and craft courses, for modest tuition, during the summer. The real challenge for Blain is finding enough time for her own work. Blain has exhibited her work both regionally and nationally since 1964. More recently, she has displayed work at The International Ceramic Symposium Exhibition in Gatlinburg, Tenn., The Springfield Art Association Invitational Craft Exhibition in Springfield, Ill. Just last month, she displayed her work in a oneperson exhibition at Maryville College. Her list of honors, memberships and displays is endless. Ceramics, after all, is not just clay ashtrays. Ceramics is taking a creative part of yourself and designing an aesthetically pleasing and useful object. "It is just like any other field," she said. "You have to be good in it to make a go at it." And Sandra Blain is good.â&#x20AC;˘

photography

David Dulaney

L-__________________________________ Ron Cooper

John DeKalb

poetry

1976 oho the little drummer whose rapid hands upon the march ripped time a due festoso beneath the brown hands beneath the leather hands stopped but a moment always (pressed soul to canvas the imprint of beauty rubbed away) marching backwards as we age along tell me how did you fare when casting up your music toy to fright the silly british did you feel a momentary pulse of purity (the ripples of the heart of innocence?) or did you throw down your face into the leaves and bargain with the earth? perhaps you are still too young with pockets full of boy-things and mother's wet kiss upon your cheek but surely you heard the men talking did they speak of death and dying, sacrifice and fear or did they whisper through their fires of dreams between ages the passage of mystery into stone? playa little now a little roll to loose the centipedal feet of time a little march so we might know the meaning of your bliss

In the Barber's Chair I am the guy who jerks at the neck in the barber's chair when the leather-slapped blade touches the back of my neck. "He has good hands," I tell myself as the silent steel spits at my skin like a snake.

-John Coward

A Christmas Story

My body is responsible, Being touched, remembers something of itself, that I am it also, Claims my name, surrounds me Through fever dreams the verge of invocation: I try to form the word for you Until finally, your apparition out of my calling, our recognition. Middle earth and heavy air, The winter was one color, divided into celebrations. We moved from room to room, clothed, apologizing, Suspicious of our Immanuel: that after all our concentrations We might forget-memory into imprint, Molecular catalogs of every way we could have beenWhat makes this event Impressive and substantial? Our having bodies in dim rooms, dying trees; How through our winter illness, touching; In doorways, exclaiming to the raining stars?

-Lucy Talikwa

-James Seeley

(untitled)

Playing Ghost She is on automatic pilot today gliding through time over familiar routes ... and memorized maps, while I zip by the guards to the valley of the past where echoes are hung and shadows trapped like stains on yesterday's concrete. The navigator is busy plotting. This is the task of the day: a way to return a possible place-a timewhere the past and the future connect. Meanwhile, I laugh She sighs We bite our nails And all in all act quite alive.

-Cheryl Goldfeder

stooped and watchful like a gawking heron with the freeze of the sun and sharp edged shadows, as though the sand, almost glass, wasn't enough. i crouched in the whitest designs by the dunes where winter storm's ocean splinters lay about, bleached and salted. a day so thin and tight my feet flattened grains to a moan, so tense the waves set the spring too quickly and the air refused to snap. its only lover and mother dragged a starfish on his back and left him there to battle. waving his glistening fingers slowly arching till he tore. shorebirds scattered his surrender shrieking while the water-foam kissed their feet.

-Michael Haykin

(untitled) you've trapped two birds in the same rusty cage, neither sings until the other sleeps and they steal each other's seed, they won't press against the bars to feel the tips of your fingers. when you rise each day you place them by the morning window and set your plants beside them, the plants lean for the quickening day then wilt as the afternoon lengthens. your birds lift their heads with their drink, and watch the water they shake from their feathers roll down the leaves.

-Michael Haykin

The Models The way we see models it must be for the speckless gold of their bodies. Their fresh breasts arranged under the aluminum lights, their liquid teeth, and button chins. Give me a crutch, I must be a mutant. What does the photographer ask? Am I to be bent in half from love after seeing them, their fawn hands showing off tires? The light is so bright, the air so thin, odorless. The desire pales. I will turn, fold around you, touch your narrow face. We will moisten our lips.

-Sandy Bonder

A Widower It is the clean heat, the powdery sand, the hooked spine of a white shell. This is absolute. There is the stone blue sky and the blade of a wave. There is no flesh on this arrangement. You walk every day, and are a thin whip of beach grass in the distance.

There is no more coming to bed, or a terse reply, or a rain of goodbye kisses and the tense confusion walking from the station out to the wet car.

-Sandy Bonder

Etc.

The Leopard Game The day's koan is How can I love you if I don't have the means? It is a beast with which I must wrestle if I am ever to know myself. Without nutrition I will go until the question is resolved Even though rice is the mainstay of all good people. The black leopard lurks Claws sharpened, cleaned and his nostrils search the wind. He leaves his dry wheat field For a position at the feet of my thinking body. If I realize how love can be, the leopard will then have me Even though rice is the mainstay of all good people.

-G. Lindsay Chappellll

I pace myself with measured stride passing by the days attention focused on the last sign post just two laps around the track hopefully jogging across a calendar of my own making forgetful, unremembering -time is unchangingonly people run

-Larry L. Wingate

The Festival of Ring The festival of Ring began at night: a fragrant wreath was placed on Rhino's neck; the bears were fed with jellies. The all-white penguins ran to walk in circles. "Check the sullen parrots," cried the counting master. "Here," "present," "yo," replied the parrot cage. The elephants were prodded to walk faster; the panthers ate their sausage in a rage. "Check the thickets," the counting master cried. "Full of burning eyes," replied the thickets. The perfumed ox shook rubies from his hide and trampled out the music of the crickets. The blackbirds shifted in the trees and then the festival of Ring began again.

-Richard M. Kelly

grown-up banana bus would rumble me to school. gouge manila paper with a big black pencil. tree. house. cat. a plaid lunch box on a wooden bench. Kool-aid from a thermos and a twinkie for dessert. a story-voice would ramble charlotte's web-lazy. then banana rumble home to the bosomy warmth of the big black chair cartoons and the spicy smell of steaming food. streetlights then clean sheeted bed quilted puffed drawing me to dream shine sweet sleep. Now in early straining hours I am leaving lipstick stains on coffee cups.

Heading South Heading South out of New York City in my second-hand Greyhound bus, the Silver Queen, I turn into the maze of Jersey, lost in a land of STP. The men in the station laugh, ~'There's no way to get that old bus South," but a dark girl behind them moves beside me in a dream-fulfilling car and promises she'll get me there. She has beauty and compassion.

o rare and tender traveller, rising like a talisman from broken glass, and tire-irons, beer cans, and fear, take the wheel and lay a rubber ecstasy! The miles click by like heartbeats in the dark and our mileage is fantastic in the car until the sun comes crashing on a highway sign: "Welcome to Detroit" - my God, she lied! And now she calls the family: gangster brothers slashing the upholstery, aunts and uncles ripping out the windows, and the father with the steering wheel half chewed from out the shining limousine. Heading East out of Detroit City I worry now about my bus huge and empty in the stalled New Jersey night putting on the dog for moon-eyed children who ride the wreckless Silver Queen beyond the everglades.

-Richard M. Kelly

-Leslie Toomay

Jack Boyles

", Bob Wade

Teresa Duncan Merritt

Kyle Day

Country Music

Down Bome Live in Bast Tennessee above, T.G. Sheppard;

below, Mel Street by Janice Shepard Country music, for too many, has come to mean TV screens, radio dials, and plastic phonograph records. There are some places left, however, where a person can hear live music, see local people performing it, and maybe even get a chance to join in. One such place is the Warbonnet Restaurant, on Route 73 in Gatlinburg, where, on Friday and Saturday nights, R.C. Jett and his band tune up and play for the night owls that congregate there. The show starts at midnight and lasts until three a.m. The

crowd-children, parents, middleaged men in double-knits, longhairs in jeans-is hard to categorize, but the music is not. Jett sings classic country: songs about railroads, broken-hearted lovers, and unfaithful men. He sings prison songs, truck-driving songs, and the hits of Jim Reeves, Hank Williams, and Merle Haggard. Jett will sing and playas long as customers drop money and requests into the plastic breaq basket near his microphone. On into the night, as waitresses move from table to table the sounds of Jett's guitar echo off the restaurant walls. Eighty miles away, in Clinton, Tennessee, stands the Ritz Theater, home of the Red Speeks Country Music Show. Red (his given name is Verlin) has been a country musician for more than 30 years. Proud of his country music show in Clinton, he is determined to see it grow. "This is the biggest, cleanest, most inexpensive country music show in the country," Red says. "We

have more good live entertainment than anyone else in the area. We've had over 2,000 pickers and singers on this show stage since the show got started in 1973." The atmosphere of the Saturday night shows is warm and energetic. The old Ritz Theater itself contributes something. The lobby floor is pink and yellow terrazzo. Photographs cover the walls and the staircases have gleaming brass handrails. On one wall a pair of red, white and blue boots, decorated with American eagles, frame a photo of the theater. The show moves rapidly. One recent Saturday night, Speeks was rushing around, making sure everything was right: a word to a musician, a chat with his manager, a hurried talk with the sound man. He answered everyone's questions and made certain all the guest entertainers were relaxed. Most of the talent was local. A gospel group belted it out for Jesus; a bluegrass group followed. One

after another, performers came on and put everything they had into a quick burst. "I never know who's going to be here," Speeks says. "We'll have eight to ten country bands in one night, and we don't always get everyone on." With the environment, excellent musicians, number of performers, and informal atmosphere, the show resembles a fledgling Grand Ole Opry. The resemblance is only logical to Speeks, who reminds everyone this area "is where country music got started-here and around Johnson City. There is a lot of great talent in East Tennessee, and we're going to expose it." A new show which will use local talent, the Knoxville Opry House, has opened in Knoxville. Jim DaFord, a former promoter, presents the show every Saturday night in the WNOX Auditorium. He has brought in such Nashville performers as Mel Street, Ray Pillow, and Narvel Felts, but wants to do more. "I want to show bluegrass and gospel bands, cloggers, and other local talent. 1 want to provide good entertainment for the community," Da Ford says. The Warbonnet, Speeks, and DaFord shows provide an outlet for local talent. These live shows in East Tennessee help satisfy the area's passion for country music without sacrificing the informality and sense of community from which country music grew .â&#x20AC;˘

photography

Steven Lavagg;

Glenn Morgan

Jonathan Daniel

Carroll Barger

music

the sounds of the humpbacked whale in concert

The group members are chosen for their interest rather than their musical ability. "If they have the desire, we can teach the technique," said Young. "If people are not open to new music, they are usually not open within themselves. This creates a necessity to open them up. The understanding has to be non-verbal," Young said. Young and others involved with New Music feel thatdue to its complexity - it takes a personal trauma for a person to really be able to get into this type of music. It is extremely hard to play, and to play it well takes many grueling hours of rehearsal. For the concert presented this fall, the Ensemble practiced one piece for twenty-five to thirty hours. When the piece was performed on stage it lasted eight minutes.

Hew Music at (IT by John Furlow

The New Music Ensemble performs the unusual. A Chinese gong may be struck and lowered into water, producing incredible sounds. A piano, played by plucking the strings and moving the hammers from the inside, takes on an entirely new dimension. Music, for the New Music Ensemble, is not limited to sounds from instruments. Rather, instruments become servants to imagination, and an unlimited range for new music opens. New Music Ensembles began springing up on college campuses in the late 1950's and early 1960's, arising out of the classical tradition of music. Yet, of all the contemporary arts, New Music is the least known or understood. Like an orchestra, all instruments are represented, but instead of, for example, an entire violin section, there is one violin. The resulting ensemble of twelve to fourteen players is considerably easier to manage and much less expensive. "Of course, UT got started late," said Dr. Stephen Young, associate professor of Music History. However, by 1971 the UT New Music Ensemble had become a fact instead of an idea. Young himself became conductor of the ensemble after a futile search for someone else.

The New Music is also difficult to listen to, even for music majors. A fusion of very technical work and a sense of emotion, new music is irregular in sound and rhythm. One trend has resulted in very free attitudes on the part of the composers, with the resulting compositions calling for near-improvisations on the part of the performers. Another trend is represented by precise pieces, in which all the notes are written down and the composer knows exactly what is going to happen. By learning to play these very complex pieces of music, performers reach a level of virtuosity that could not be realized with other forms of music. As the players get better, however, the composers write more difficult music for them. This year the Music Ensemble will have two or three concerts. The first concert, held during fall quarter, consisted of a dance show, an electronic piece, and an acoustic piece. The next concert, scheduled for the end of March, will feature a special piece that was written for electric piano, flute and cello. The idea for this concert came from tapes of the sounds of humpbacked whales, and during the performance the flute player will be singing and playing the flute at the same time. New Music is a complex type of music that takes intense effort to play and careful listening to appreciate. Few people at UT are aware of the New Music Ensemble, but it is here, and it is worthy of very careful attention. â&#x20AC;˘

music

CEB Presents by Rick Sanders and Tom Wright

The Campus Entertainment Board is one of UT's busiest campus organizations. It is also one of the most criticized. Comments such as "too few concerts," "no big-name concerts," and "poor scheduling" are heard frequently. Such comments are sometimes accurate, but they are not fair appraisals of the CEB's work. The students on the CEB obviously cannot devote all their time to the board. Yet, arranging a concert can be a full-time job. The negotiations required to arrange a concert with a promoter are complicated, time consuming, and sometimes frustrating. Examples: After weeks of back and forth contacts, Eric Clapton decided not to perform at Stokely because it was not air conditioned; a Bruce Springsteen concert, under negotiation since September, is on one day and off the next; and a single missed telephone call can mean a lost chance for an Elton John or Joni Mitchell concert. There are also problems in scheduling space for concerts. Nearly every activity from sports to science fairs takes precedence over concerts, and opportunities for shows sometimes are lost simply because there is no place to hold the show. Neyland Stadium, suggested by some as an ideal site to bring groups like the Rolling Stones, is not available for concerts. Some universities have such large activity fees (Vanderbilt's is $150) that shows can be brought outright with little regard for profit or loss. CEB, however, succeeds or fails on its own. It receives no activity fee funds, and if a CEB-sponsored concert flops, CEB takes the loss. Despite all these problems, and others (a poor ticket-distribution system, slow paperwork, unreliable promoters, etc.) there is some good news. Recent CEB-sponsored concerts (Gove, Linda Ronstadt, Jimmy Buffet) have been successful, and CEB is attempting to concentrate less on the big, splashy (and risky) shows and more on smaller concerts. Peggy Riley, Chairperson of CEB, urges students to support the smaller concerts. ''The small concerts may be where you'll see the rising performers. For example, a few years ago we had Jim Croce in the Rafters, and nobody knew about it because he wasn't a big name." If the small concerts continue to be successful, Riley says, promoters of the big-name acts may come to recognize the concert potential at UT. This, coupled with CEB's attempts to obtain fulltime staffers and to streamline their operations, may result in such a quantity and variety of entertainment that everyone-especially the CEB-will be happy.â&#x20AC;˘

fiction

Lithograph by Phil Rose

The Three-Fold Cord by Rockford Davis

was standing in the observation dome watching the spiraling debris glow and flash and disappear forever as it passed Schwartzchild's Limit. It was the universe's point of no return, for once past the limit even the speed of light was not enough to overcome the crushing gravity of Omega. 1 had often thought of the irony of naming that great, black, sucking hole Omega, but I no longer found the humor there 1 once did. The last few months had seen all humor and good spirits drawn into Omega as surely as if they were subject to the star's gravity. The last remnant of the universe had been making its quickening descent into Omega, and only the generators of the Holtz field prevented us from following. The show was unique, but the price was absolute.

So 1 stood there and watched the show and struggled to regain some of my usual self-confidence. 1 was losing myself to dark thoughts when Iblis padded in and assumed the posture of polite interruption. 1 waited the necessary few seconds that denote respect before offering the formal greeting. "Iblis's family is always welcome at the table of my family." "As your family is at mine," he replied with dignity. The purely ritualistic invitation was necessary, but not practical. Neither of us could eat the other's food and and survive, but the words had to be said and the offer respectfully acknowledged. Iblis, like all of the Kelpie race, was larger and heavier than a man. They were stronger, faster, and probably more intelligent than man. The only thing they couldn't match us in was breeding. Man outnumbered Kelpie many thousand to one. Not that it had mattered, finally. We weren't in competition with them; we were lucky to have found them. When Man had finally escaped from his own solar system and explored interstellar space, he had found many kinds of life-some intelligent, some not, and some he was not capable of judging. All had incomprehensible social patterns. Nowhere did Man find a race he could work with and really understand. Xenophobia had appeared like a small infection, but the men afflicted with it had died out like their ancient ancestors who could not adapt to the coming of the glaciers. So Man went on, fearing he was alone, until he met the Kelpies. When he found they had a social structure he could understand, he welcomed them like brothers; the fact that they looked like a cross between a horse and a lion was hard'ly noticed.

Iblis shifted slightly into the posture of a news bearer: "The instruments are engaged in informing one another that there are but nine hours remaining." Iblis was speaking in the high tongue in accord with the solemnity of the occasion; and it was my choice whether to change into the lower, less formal, tongue. "The instruments witI tell us nothing that we don't already know. If you like, you may spend the time with your family. I can do all that must be done here." "We have decided that I should be here," he said, "but they would like to come up into the dome later, if that is permissible."

Generally, the dependents of station personnel were not allowed into the dome, officially because of radiation danger; but actually because looking into Omega was hard on the mind. We had already lost several technicians that way, and they had been especially picked for their stability and unimaginative natures. "It is permissible, but 1 would advise that they stay below until we are in the final hour." If Federation Central didn't like it, they could fire me. Iblis settled back on his haunches, muscles bunching and cording along his back as he held his head even with mine out of politeness. "I also think that is best. It is hard to view that without some fear," he said, indicating Omega with his muzzle. "Harder for me than for you," I thought. Iblis carried his family back eight hundred generations, which was not an especially long time for a Kelpie. His line had been interrupted during the Last War of the Dragons, and he traced his family from that time. He knew his ancestors by name and family for sixteen-thousand years past. Some members of his race could name ancestors back

seventy-five-thousand years. So, in a sense, Iblis was like me; I could barely recall my grandfather's name. But he still had all those years of family standing behind him like ballast, slowing his fall into Omega. I was freer than he from the weight of obligation, though.

We both gazed down toward Omega. Except for the sphere of excited atoms at Schwartzchild's Limit, nothing of the star itself could be seen. The light it produced was shackled by its gravity and never left the surface. Omega was not a giving and providing star; it was a grasping one. It took all there was to take and crushed it and held it to itself to enable it to take more. It had drawn the light from a billion suns and laid it around itself, like a blanket only a few atoms thick. Then Omega had drawn the suns themselves into its grip. Strengthened by each acquisition, it had pulled more and more into itself, pinching the suns like a miser until all the space between their atoms was gone and they became like Omega, hungry for their former brothers. Great and vast spiral galaxies touched Omega with a tentative arm and were drawn in, their own parts assisting the devourer. About the time man had left his own warm world, the power of Omega had become unchallengeable, and the path of all things had been determined. Man had laid great plans of expansion over a shrinking universe, and forty thousand years of wandering space had brought him here, to this lonely piece of rock, to watch the end. A morbid curiosity, perhaps, but what else was there to do? "'The sun also riseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteneth to his place where he arose,' " I murmured as the snatch of old verse came to mind. Iblis turned his head to look at me and I could see myself reflected in his great brown eyes. "Is that a wisdom?" he asked. The Kelpies were interested in the wisdoms of man, often more so than man himself.

I t sounds like one, doesn't it? But the man who said that had just finished saying 'One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth forever.' Which, under the circumstances, hardly qualifies as an enduring truth." Talking with Iblis always improved my spirits; he was so orderly and sure.

"The man who said these things, was he of your family?" Iblis asked. He wasn't just being polite, his whole judgment structure was built on the concept of family, and it was as important to him who said something as what they said. His question had taken me by surprise, and I took several seconds to think of a reply. I came dangerously close to waiting the amount of time that would indicate offense. "No, he was of another and far more ancient family. He was not of my family as you reckon descent." As he reckoned descent? What other way was there, I wondered.

Iblis was wanting to ask me more about my family, but he was having difficulty overcoming his cultural sanctions against intruding in another's history without invitation. The Kelpies realized that men had and respected their social structure, but men had learned it with their heads, and it was not the firmament upon which they based their lives. Man had never had as strong a system as the Kelpies, and forty thousand years of being sown like seeds on thousands of different worlds had weakened what little system they did have; so when the Kelpies were found, with their ancient traditions and orders, it was easy and comforting to adopt superficially the same conventions. It was like having the form without going through the agony of developing it. Iblis knew all this, but he still could not believe that I would not be offended by a casual question about my line. "You eat alone." It was as close to asking a question as he could get without feeling he was offending me. He stood in the posture of exact description, and I could tell

that he was embarrassed. Eating was tied directly with family. To eat alone was not to have a family, to be unwanted and not fully human, or Kelpie. The Kelpies had developed a complicated system of postures that one could assume to make clear exactly in what context a statement was being made, so that misunderstanding could be avoided. Iblis was saying that I ate alone but it was an exact statement and carried no implied meaning whatever. I could ignore his statement without offending him. "My family, what there was of it, decided to remain in fa miliar surroundings and conduct themselves according to their various natures until the end." It was a lie, but somehow I couldn't bring myself to say that I had no fa mily, no string of names culminating in my own. "A decision I could not have made. Without my family I do not think I would know what my nature is, and without knowing that, what would any actions avail me?" Iblis was truly puzzled. I think that for the first time he was realizing how autonomous and isolated men were. Compared with the Kelpies, that is. I wondered how it would be to discuss every decision with my family, argue precedents and discuss what action someone ten thousand years dead would have taken and why. I couldn't comprehend it. I was here because of a decision I a lone had made, and my nature was what I had made it to be.

Time was slipping away, and Iblis left me to monitor his instruments. As he padded across the floor toward the stairs, just for a moment I saw him in multiple image, like the infinite reflections in two mirrors. I turned back to the instruments and began the careful gathering of futile data. The hours passed slowly, and the machines hummed a nd chuckled to themselves over the wonderful things they knew. My eyes were drawn more and more to Omega, and I neglected the machines. The final rays of light and bits of matter were being gathered in, falling with ever increasing speed toward their home. I wondered whether some of that light might have shone on Earth long ago, and traveled unimaginable distances just to flash by me now, in review before Earth's last son. I became obsessed with seeing every particle that might have been a part of Earth, a stone, a mountain, a speck of dust. I felt Omega pulling strongly at me, and I was too light to resist. I kept looking out, perhaps hoping to see

one lost, unsuspected ancestor in the diminishing light. They were all falling, or had already fallen, into their final resting place. I felt light-headed and found that I was talking to myself in a voice I could not at first recognize as my own. "Goodbye, Neanderthal; goodbye firemaker. Fare thee well, Zoroaster and Mohammed. Bide with God, Attila." I was talking in sing-song, and I could not stop myself. "Adieu, Caesar Augustus, adieu. Adieu, legionnaires, faceless and forgotten, rest well. Goodbye, Jesus; Isaiah, goodbye. Goodbye, Preacher, I'm sorry I misunderstood you. Poor dwarfish Kant, poor twisted Schopenhauer, goodbye and good luck." I was crying and shaking, but I could not stop. Tears filled my eyes and I could not see. .. but I could see. They all rushed past, falling quickly and leaving me, but staying. I said goodbye to them all. I am calm now and Iblis has brought his family up into the dome. The sight of Omega does not seem to alarm them and they talk softly among themselves. I still look out now and then, but I can turn away. The last stragglers are coming in now, the far travelers who had the farthest to come. As Omega pulls them in, it is unraveling the fabric of space and time, and soon there will be nothing and Omega will be ... elsewhere. Before that happens I wil) turn off the generators and Omega will gather us in, the last sheep to join the fold. I look across at Iblis and smile, my first in many days, and we both stand firmly rooted and act in accordance with our natures . â&#x20AC;˘