Editor Amy Britnell Managing Editor Mika Graham Graphic Designer Jennifer Hadden-McMichael Assistant to the Designer Angie Dobbs Art Editor DeAna Duncan Fiction Editor Ron Jenkins Non-fiction Editor Cecelia Prewett Poetry Editor Joel Pendergrass
The staff would like to express their appreciation to: Jane Pope and Eric Smith, for their many daily consolations and encouragements; to Betty Allen and Debbie Tappan, for leading us
Supporting Staff Angela Barnebee Kellie Carter Marc Cruser Jon Davis Jenny Lawson Sarah Lynch James Moody Rachel Newton Andrea Sisk Roger Smith
through the terrors of word processing; to Linda Graham and Karen Cole, for their patient answers to our frazzled questions; and to the UT students, faculty, and staff, for allowing their talents to shape the pages of this publication.
Staff Advisors Jane Pope Eric Smith
PHOENIX
ART SOUTHERN FRUIT, Yifei Gan ................................ 3 MAEN GORSEDD II: VORTEX OF THE DREAM'S EYE, Michael Janke ............................................... .4 SILHOUETTE, James Lowen ................................... 5 RUGBY:ELEGANT VIOLENCE, David Haynes .......... 6 UNTITLED, Ashley Jackson ............... .. ... ... ............. 8 UNTITLED, Sungyee Joh ................... .. ................... 9 UNTITLED, Paul Davis ............... ......................... . 10 P.O.W., Kimberly IIes ........................................... 11 UNTITLED, Cheryl Mendenhall ..... ... ...................... 12 SISTERS , James Lowen ......................................... 13 LI LADY, Yifei Gan .............................................. 14 FEATURE PORTFOLIO, Earl Watson ..................... 15 UNTITLED, Ashley Jackson ................................... 19 UNTITLED, Chris McClurg .................................... 20 UNTITLED, Chris Kinser ....................................... 20 UNTITLED, Cheryl Mendenhall ......................... ..... 21 NIGHT AND DAY, Christopher Wagner. ......... ......... 22 UNTITLED, Michelle Stark ........ ............................ 23 WILDFLOWER, Ashley Jackson ............................. 24 STARGAZING, Ashley Jackson .............................. 25 CONTINENT, Susan Wood Reider. ...................... .... 26 UNTITLED, Sungyee Joh ......... ... .................. ......... 28 MEPHISTOPHELES WALTZ, Michael Janke ............ 29 REMNANTS, James Lowen ............. : ...................... 30 DETAIL, James Lowen ........................ ....... ........... 31 UNTITLED, Chris McClurg .. ..... ........ ........... .. .. .. .... 32
POETRY VULGATE OF TRANSIENCE, Thomas G. Stanton ...... 2 CLOUDED PICTURES, Margaret Cooter ~ ................. .4 OUT, Kirt Gunn ................. .................................... 5 IN MY FATHER'S STOMACH, Donna Doyle ............. 8 SUNDAY DRIVE WITH CLARE LUCILE, Frank McGinley ............................................................ 13 RIVER MAN, RIVER MAN, Linda Parsons ............... 14 ARIA, Glen Cruden .............................................. 19 I MADE THIS POEM FOR YOU BECAUSE, Michael Nelson ................................................................ 24 PELVIC, Donna Doyle ...................... ......... ........... 28 PLAYGROUND, 1967, Donna Doyle .............. .......... 29
FICTION THE WEEKLY VISIT, Catherine Emanuel. ................ l 0 DOWNSTREAM, Matthew Edens ............................ 22 FAIRLAWN, Keel Coleman .... ................................ 30
University of Tennessee Spring 1991 Volume 32 Issue 2
NON路FICTION A STUDENT'S PERSPECTIVE ON WAR, Cecelia Prewett ............. : ... .............................................. 27
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MICHAEL JANKE MAEN GORSEDD II: VORTEX OF THE DREAM 'S EYE GRAPHITE 20 X 30 INCHES
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My past, is near y miracle. The love affair was suffering ills, The sort that won't get better, and she moved To the country, took her dog, a pile of books And too many bottles of wine To a clapboard cottage slap in the middle of sixty half-wild, half-pasture acres Was to walk each day at day break To write that book she'd chattered on about But she rose each weekday just in time To make it to the job she'd had before And though some legal pads were scribbled on They ended in the garbage can: No, for all that time, one moment stays As somehow changing past to present; The kind handyman, who flxeo the pump, the water Heater, brought fresh fruit to her hands, Misread her smile of thankfulness for loneliness profound And understood her open ways as somehow begging more So grabbed her in the kitchen, intent on friendliness, And ended with much violence that neither understood. I need no camera to take me there, to make me see How the light fell golden on the floor, to feel flerce shock At what well-meaning souls can do, changing still that girl Into the someone I am yet becoming. Margaret H. Cooter
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Jesus saves up to twenty percent when he shops with us. Shroud of Elvis table cloth: White linen portrait of a king done in bacon grease. Elvis at the last supper surrounded by twelve bulldogs with pool cues. Hail Mary full of grace the lord is with you on the dashboard of a '72 Impala full of dead Mexicans parked at the bottom of the Potomac river. Michael Jordan on the cross; I keep trying to throw him the ball, he keeps trying to catch it, but he just tears at the flesh of his nailed down hands. Poverty is a poison-ivy straight jacket: trapped, itching, writhing, no way out. John the Baptist posing with the Bee Gees in a white leisure suit , but nobody could replace Andy Gibb. Plastic babies melt into a pool on the floor and mix with the cigarette ashes and the tears. Circus clowns in bathtubs smoking cigars and coughing up blood. There's no way out. Jesus; won't you fix my car? I've got to get out. Kirt Gunn
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IN MY FATHER'S STOMACH J. ASHLEY JACKSON UNTiTlED ULTRA VIOLET PHOTOGRAPH
After surgery, the doctors realized their mistake. Attempting to relieve internal pressure, they sliced his cancerous stomach, so swollen he looked pregnant. The doctors didn't know until it was too late, until after the incision, they had forged a gaping hole that would not close. We would not believe what it looked like in there, they told us. Tumors, the size of grapefruits, they told us seeking absolution as much as gratitude for their vivid cliche. White gauze turned sepia, and black stitches strained, unable to hold the mess inside. Every breath every cough oozed forth more liquid stench, soaking the bedsheets where his bony limbs jutted. A tired night nurse delivered clean, white towels, wrinkling her nose at the smell. Vitals no longer taken, menu cards no longer checked, she recalled the print in her nursing 's chool text: Stage III.
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Visitors ceased, only close family stood by, desperate to attain his one word requests. Ice. Pillow. His rotting stomach, once full of deep belly laughs, garden tomatoes, greasy fried trout and leftovers, scraped from our plates to his. Daddy's stomach, the one I stood on as a child, would no longer hold me. So, I performed a simple task, reached for a fresh towel and applied pressure to another wound that would not heal. Wishing I could crawi inside and be born again caesarean. Donna Doyle
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Wen Michael pulled into Parkview Memorial's parking lot, she immediately counted the floors, then the windows-fourth floor, third window. What was that shadow passing the window? Was it John? she mused, still sitting in her red Mercedes sports car. No, couldn't be, she thought as she removed the key from the ignition. This month he was catatonic; there would have been two shadows, one for his keeper. Still sitting in her car, she adjusted her rearview mirror to check her lipstick. Aloud, she said, "What the hell. Who am I trying to impress?" After she locked her car door, she began the walk which had become rote the last four years, four years of playing the dutiful wife to q man she had never loved. What was it Confucius said?: "He who married for money deserves it." Laughing sardonically, she thought, And she who marries for money gets screwed royally. At the first set of doors, Michael rang the buzzer. Through the small window, she saw an old man in a yet older uniform rise slowly and amble toward the door. After opening the door a slither, he peered one eye at her and said as though delivering some secret password, "Mrs. Dillsworth, come to see your husband?" Tempted to say something snide, Michael ducked her head and retorted, "Yes, Charlie," and then thought that another four years of these Saturday outings and she'd even know the janitors on a first-name basis. "Nice day out, huh?" Charlie said with his back turned, probably unaccustom'ed to hearing intelligible responses. "Yes, it is," Michael said as she ventured to the next set of doors, these barred. Again, she rang a buzzer. This time the attendant was new, and although younger, he still moved in that same lethargic manner. Everyone, patients, attendants and even visitors who lingered
past an hour, moved like robots with weak batteries. Hearing the keys turn, Michael chimed, "Mrs. Michael Dillsworth to see John Dillsworth." "Oh, okay. Follow me, and I'll get him," the attendant said, obviously as thrilled to be there as Michael. As she trailed him down the hall, she noted, as she did on every visit, the sterile, barren quality of the building. It was as though they were twins sliding down the birth canal. This entry into the world, however, was without blood, feces, and urine. Test tube babies. Looking at the man's feet, Michael marvelled over the man's shoes. They were rubber-soled, and yet they didn't squeak on what appeared to be a spotless floor even thought he shuffled his feet. "In here," the man said as he pointed to a room with green vinyl furniture and some cheap cardboard imitation oil paintings, the kind the A&P gave away with ten dollar purchases, the same sort her mother had us-
ed to decorate their tiny house. She never, in all four years, ever examined the pictures. No, instead she traveled to the window, the only window. The window itself was off-center, to the far right of the room without another on the opposing side to balance it. On her first visit, she remembered thinking its placement odd; now it seemed normal even though it was too narrow, probably to discourage a suicide attempt, even though someone would have to file all day to get through the bars. She was drawn to the window like some plant searching for light. Throughout her visits, she stood there, needing a reminder perhaps that there did exist an outside world, or when she was in the mood to torment herself, to gaze upon the bright shiny symbol of the money she had married. There were only three bars on the window. Looking out over the parking lot at someone's failed attempt at horticulture,
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she noted the divisions, the clear-cut dividers that always remained. On windy days, however, leaves blew from the big oak to travel across each barred sector. And when visitors left, cars shifted from one section to another until they left her view. "Mrs. Dillsworth," a black orderly said as he led her husband to one of the chairs, it too green vinyl. "John is doing so much better today," he said in the high pitch fake voice mothers use with their children. Pretending that she too saw marked change, Michael said, "Wonderful," and then watched the man do everything except bend John's knees to get him to sit. "If you need anything," the man said as he awkwardly rose to leave. Turning to face her husband, Michael said, "Your mother said she'd be in later this week, John." Marvelling at her own words which littered the air like comic strip dialogue, Michael thought that the old biddy wouldn't come. She couldn't handle seeing a Dillsworth in a less-thanplush environment. "Oh, Katie finally decided on a major. She's going to major in history," Michael said as she wondered at their only child's decision. Katie, who couldn't face her own family history enough to come home, who found European vacations a pleasant escape from familial obligation. Katie herself had been a miracle. She and John had had sex so infrequently, and she had disliked the act so intensely that in her naivete, she thought that they could never create life. After looking at John's blank stare long enough to affirm the vacancy, Michael turned back to the window. The leaves on the oak in the parking lot were changing. They were a series of burnt orange, vibrant red and brilliant yellow. When she visited next, the oak would probably be bare. For some reason that thought saddened her. She didn't like change. Change meant that time had passed and that she was still in this room, still in this marriage. All the lawyers she had consulted had advised her against divorcing a mental patient. They had said that the process would be long and that it would probably result in a small settlement. His
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as she accompanied the man back into the room. By now urine had formed a moatlike puddle around John, and the seat and legs of his jumpsuit were a deep brown. "Well, John, how's about you and me going for a little change," the man said as though this were not the first time he had witnessed a grown man's wetting his pants. No wonder the furniture's vinyl, Michael thought as she resumed her window post. "You want I should bring him back out again?" the man questioned as he tried to avoid stepping in the puddle. "No, thank you. I have another apointment today anyway," Michael said as she thought "another appointment" sounded callous. She had no other appointment, no other duty, but she thought she'd go shopping, that she would buy herself some expensive trinket. Whenever John did something horrible on visits, she rewarded herself for having come. She had bought the car when he was in his violent phase. He had tried to hit her, but an orderly had stopped him. That
mother had forced her to sign a prenuptial agreement. At the time she thought that his mother was concerned about the family fortune. She learned later that she merely wanted to cement her life to his. Now at least she had power of attorney and expensive ornaments to hang on the withered branches of her life. Realizing that she hadn't said anything in a while, Michael filled the silence with her pat question. "Do you need anything?" As she spoke, she turned to face this man in a tan jumpsuit who stared at the opposing wall as though it were some boring movie he hadn't enough energy to stand and change. Catatonic, the word sounded like a drink with gin. I'd like a catatonic; light ice she thought and almost laughed. What prevented her was the steady stream of yellow liquid dripping from John's chair. Looking back outside the window, Michael whispered, "Christ," and then headed for the door. "Orderly!" she said in a loud, firm tone. "Yes ma'am," replied the same man who had originally led her to the room. "John's had a little accident," she said
day she didn't wait for "a change" either. When she walked out of the building, she felt relief and a certain element of surprise, the same feeling she used to get from going to afternoon movies and leaving the darkened theater to discover its being daylight. That visit was good for at least a week away. Of course, she would call the psychiatrist and ask for some new treatment. She could feign concern. . That call might even earn her the dress she had seen on the model last week. At her car, Michael fumbled through her purse for keys. Once she found them, she turned back to face the building. She never needed to count the stories for the window when she left from a visit. Staring at the bars a second longer than usual, she shook her head and thought, It's just a window, after al/, just like every other one in the building. Catherine
B. Emanuel
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with Claire Lucile She shoots you a serious glance, saying, "Spread the towel out over the seat before you sit down. " She keeps the velvety, couch-like seats as fresh As the day she purchased "Kate"--A large, burgundy Ford. The floor mats are lined with worn K-Mart bags, And keep the dust of my feet from spoiling its "newness." She heightens herself upon her Atlanta phone book Softened by a crocheted pillow, mashed to lumps over the years. Her chiffon, scarf-tied head peers at the rear view, As experienced eyes behind cat glasses Check for traffic at the end of the drive. As we cruise along the lazy streets, wing tangling our hair, We see the town has retired to front porches To nap, read funny papers, and share news of engagements, And births, and deaths, and Memphis socialites, As Coke-Colas help pot roasts digest. A faded plastic pOinsettia dances on "Kate's" aerial, Bidding Happy Holidays to all On this scorching August day. And it is a holiday for me--Claire Lucile is in town. Frank McGinley
JAMES LOWEN
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YIFEI CAN LI LADY
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River Man, River Man I know of your enduring love-Holston waters, covered banks twining their long way back to yOU. My lake was the Old Hickory, my inner tube a branch rocking by. I knew when black things swam beneath me, the mouths of water moccasins, the unseen floor, opening. Is there green left in your river, mayapples on your banks? Do you wade the lee side, counting stones so clearly underfoot, minnows coming like pups? I could be with you now, arranging tea, touching your sleeve. I could leave this house, though it pulls me under. Some things are mine--the sideboard, the mission desk, my daughters' paintings. They could be skiff, keel, best wind. Is your riverbottom sure, do lilies root quickly, damselflies beat and mate? If you row out to the middle, I will call your name twice. Linda Parsons
(for JDM)
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" I know a lot more about your world than you know about mine. I grew up in your world. You don 't know a damn thing about the black world, compared to what I know about you. "
are as f~ank and unsettling his paintings . He crosses one big black cowboy boot over the other and talks about the way he sees America . " What bothers me is when viewers don 't look at my work for what it is-- an emotional statement from a young black man who saw this stuff . They look at it and wonder : 'What art movement is that? What ap-
"rhe opinions of Earl Watson I ~s
plication is he trying to do with those strokes? ' Look at this for what it is--because it's just an expression of me. That's what I saw and that's the impact it had on me. Instead of asking where does this fit in the art world , ask where this fits in your world ." Earl was born in 1965 in Vicksburg , Mississippi . The world of his art emerges from his experiences at 4125 Sunset Drive , two blocks from the Moonbeam Strip . " It's like a legendary neighborhood , well known for the criminal activity . I've been there since third grade. We still live there ." Earl has a determination and an easy confidence that were instrumental in his decision to pursue his talent . He recieved a B.F.A. from Jackson State University , and will recieve a masters in graphic design in 1993. " People who are not related to the art field have helped me with my art by their dedication and the way they tackle problems . I took ideas from them and I put it into the way I approach my work. My mother, for instance, the way she takes things slowly , takes her time ." Earl cites a variety of sources that have influenced his work, from comic books to Rembrandt and Picasso. Although he exudes self-assurance regarding himself and his work, he admits a long-standing fear of picking up a paintbrush . His first painting was produced just last year.
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" I was doing everything except painting ... 1 was kind of afraid of color. I wanted to paint, but there were certain levels I had to conquer before I could be at that place where I wanted to be in my artistic career . I've been working in acrylics, but now I'm trying to take it to a new level : oil painting . The more you , as an artist , can learn from different materials , the better artist you can become. You just can 't limit yourself ." " If the urge to paint really builds up and I have to do it, I'll put everything aside and I'll paint , sometimes all night--I'II just sit there all night for weeks at a time , just paint until I finish , until I get my satisfaction. " Earl Watson , however , doesn't appear to be someone who is ever satisfied. His refusal to find a complacent spot in the world where he grew up landed him here at UT, a few hundred miles from home , surrounded by a new set of opportunities and challenges . Earl wants to use his own experience to help other kids from neighborhoods like his clear a path for themselves in the world . " What this is , basically , is a wai of showing some of my people that a bad attitude is something hopeless .. .This is just to show a lot of kids that you don 't have to be this way all the time . I want to go back and show it to them : make up your mind , be what you want to be, and don 't give up. If it was important enough for you to start this thing called education , it must be important enough for you to finish it. "
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'Jnstead of askil ask where I
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9 where does this fit in the art world,
li s fits in your world. I
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\ How can you go forward when you don't know what's happened in your past? You can't feel good about yourself when the only thing you've heard is that your race hasn't contributed anything, so you should just be quiet. You can't learn anything unless you find out the truth. I
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• Have you seen how we strive so perfectly to escape meditation? How hunger drags you, Neanderthal's lover, into its cave, your senses clubbed; and all the world is black shadows on a grey stone wall. J. ASHLEY JACKSON
But find the flame that jumps out of the hot heart of your desire, like an idea, and let the fire roar unquenched: Love will burn you a new body from the inside out-God's empty flute; you will sing beautifully and never try.
COLOUR ME BY THE NUMBERS ULTRA VIOLET PHOTOGRAPH
The way she and I sing with our hands when we touch; and the motion is language, like waves of meaning that rise and fall above a silent ocean. How we hold our open faces below the communion cup and taste the wine in our mind before it comes, burning through our bodies, touching us everywhere, the way we touch one another, she and I. Glenn Cruden
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Downstream Matthew Edens
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I remember that I was sitting on a tombstone when I heard that Terry McDole was dead. Alan was the one that told us and I almost lost my grip on the beer I was holding when he did. Booker wasn't so lucky. The fizz of his Budweiser as it foamed out into the grass and the faint rippling of Drake's creek off down the hill, behind the graveyard, were all that was heard for a good five seconds. Up until that point it had been a pretty typical Saturday night. I had gone over to Steve's and we had picked up Booker and a couple of six-packs. Then we drove out to the graveyard and sat talking and watching the stars while we drank. We were just starting the second six-pack when Steve saw
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Alan's headlights coming down the lane that turned off Highway 52 and went back to the cemetery. We were afraid he was the law until we heard the rumble of that 442 coming through the set of glasspacks that me and Booker helped him put on. He just drove up, got ollt without turning off his lights, and announced that Terry McDole was dead. "How?" I asked. "They think he killed hisself," Alan answered and that was when Booker dropped his beer. "When?" Steve finally managed to ask as he sat down on the hood of his mom's Buick. "They think it was sometime last night. They didn't find him until this morning." "They?" I said to no one in particular. "The cops," Alan began. "Danny White saw McDole's truck parked by the bridge real late last night." "Which bridge?" I asked. "The one over Drake's on 52. Danny didn't stop though--he just figured Terry'd left it there. Eric's dad found the body this morning--they were rounding up a few cattle for the sale Monday." "Was Eric with him?" Steve asked. Eric was Terry's best friend and Steve knew him pretty well. "Yeah, I think it kind of freaked him out. I went over to see him this afternoon, but his Dad said he got into the car and left when the cops showed up and nobody's seen him since." Booker reached down and picked up his beer. It
was empty, so he threw it down again. "How did he do it?" "They figure he must of jumped." "The bridge ain't that high." "He must have dove in, hit head first." "He break his neck?" I asked. "Probably, damn fool missed the water, and busted his head on one of those big limestone slabs." I looked at Steve, and he looked back at me. We knew the rocks Alan was talking about. "It was quick then." Booker said. I got up off the tombstone and looked behind me, down the hill, and through the trees to where the creek ran. The bridge was about a mile to the north. Everybody must have realized that, because they all got quiet again for a few seconds. I looked down and read the tombstone I had been sitting on. It said William Dole 1932-1949. We had been going out there for nearly a year and it was the first name I had ever bothered to read. "Missed the water," Steve said. Then he snickered. "What a dumb ass." "Don't say that." Booker said. "You have to admit, it was pretty stupid." "It's different now." "Yeah," I said, "now he's dead and doesn't give a damn what we call him." We all fell silent again. Terry had always been the kind to get into trouble. For as long as any of us could remember, Terry was always being sent to
the principal for paddlings from Coach Lovell, the elementary school gym teacher. If anybody was ever making any trouble, Terry was somehow involved. Terry was always the wildest person any of us had ever known, always the first to rebel. He was first to cuss, first to smoke, dip, chew,' drink, smoke grass. He was the harmless sort of rebel though, never did anything to anybody, never pressured anybody, friendliest person you ever met, and now he was dead. He was first again. It didn't make any sense. "You remember the time in Mr. Driver's room," I began. "Yeah," Booker said laughing. "I'd never seen anybody actually turn green before." "I never found out," Alan asked. "Was he drunk or stoned?" "Probably a little of both." I said. "I remember he turned to me and mumbled how he 'didn't feel so good' and then he just got up and ran out." "Yeah, the sound of him running down the hall stopping every ten feet to throw up." "And Driver trying so hard not to laugh." "And then," I said as we were all laughing at the memory. "Then the bell rang." "Shit what a mess," Alan said. "Yeah," Steve said. He said it real slow and quiet-like. We all sat there and stared at the grass
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downstream for a minute and then Steve got up off his car hood and took three beers out of the sack that we had slid under the car when Alan first drove up. He gave one to Booker, one to Alan, and opened one for himself. "To Terry," he said as he held the warm Budweiser up into the cool spring air. "To Terry," I repeated and then drank to his memory. There was only a sip left, it didn't seem like it was enough.
Terry was always the wildest person any of us had ever known, always the first to rebel ... He was the harmless sort of rebel though, never did anything to anybody, never pressured anybody, friendliest person you ever met, and now he was dead.
"As most of you already know, I am sad to an路 nounce that one of our students took his own life over the weekend. On behalf of the faculty, staff, and myself, I would like to say that we will all miss Terry. MCDole and the school will not be the same without "him. The funeral will be at noon on Wednesday and all those planning to attend please notify the office by tomorrow afternoon." That was how Mr. Meece officially announced Terry's suicide. He then went on to congratulate the basketball team for their Friday victory over Greenbriar, and announced that the National Honor Society meeting scheduled for that afternoon was cancelled, and that tickets for the Drama Club's spring performance-- Oklahoma--would go on sale today during lunch. Other than that announcement, things went pretty much like they always did.
Mr. Driver brought up the subject of suicide for review in my third period Sociology class, and there was more quiet, serious chatter in the halls during the morning break than usual, but that was about all. I went home after school and tried, during dinner, to keep the parents off the subject of Terry and the whole suicide thing. Every time anything bad happened, I always felt like they were watching me to see if I had anything to do with it or if I was contemplating some similar action in the future. Mom dropped a real subtle hint by saying that if Terry felt like "ending it' all," he should have talked to his parents. Dad mumbled something about all those McDole's being "no good," and how the whole thing didn't surprise him before he got up from the table to go read his paper. After he left, Mom started giving me this thoughtful look she always gets before she wants to have a "little talk," so I excused myself and drove out to Steve's. We went out to City Lake (it's not really a lake; it's not much bigger than a fishpond) and threw rocks in the water until a little after ten. We didn't talk much. School-seemed deserted Wednesday. I didn't go to the funeral--like I said, I wouldn't have called Terry a friend. Besides, I hate funerals--Mr. Wiseman, the mortician, has given me the creeps since my Grandma died when I was four. I hate hearing old people talk about other dead old people that I never knew. I never know any of the people that Mom and Dad try and drag me up to Wiseman's to pay my respects to. How can you respect people you only met once or twice, people that always forgot your name? Most all of my great aunts and uncles generally mess up and call me Brian, which is my older brother's name. Booker went to the funeral though, and he said half the school must have been there. I think the other half said it was going and skipped. Booker said there were people there that he had never known were Terry's friends. I suspect a lot of the people that went or skipped that day weren't, but I didn't say anything about it. Eric was at the funeral. He sat on the front row. It must have been hard on him. Terry and him had been friends as far back as at least second grade. Nobody had seen him since Friday. Booker told me that he went to The Grill after the funeral and
Eric was there with a bunch of people him and Terry hung out with. Eric got in a fight with Jimmy Case, one of Terry's other friends. Booker said they started yelling and cussing at each other, but he never did find out what it was all about. Jimmy was fixing to hit Eric, when Mr. Simms--he runs The Grill--broke it up by threatening to call the cops. As far as me and Booker could figure, Eric must have said something bad about Terry and pissed Jimmy off. ' Everything was pretty normal Thursday morning, but after lunch, I was sitting in Schrader's Chemistry class looking out the window when two cop cars pulled up in the parking lot and Danny White and Chad Civil's dad got out and went in the building. It caused a pretty big stir--when both Richland's patrol cars show up at school, it usually means somebody's getting arrested. The whole class--even Schrader--had gotten up and was looking out the window when Danny and Chad's dad brought Eric out. He wasn't handcuffed, but they made him sit in the back.
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That evening, after baseball practice, me and Steve drove out to Eric's looking to find out what had happened. Eric lived out toward Westmoreland, on the creek. The bridge was on their land. Eric's car was there when we pulled up, but he wasn't around. His mom said he was down at the creek. We found him, sitting on top of one of the big slabs, out in the middle of the creek, dangling his feet in the cold water. There were still faint chalk marks on the rock. In early spring, the water under the bridge is about four or five feet deep; closer to summer, it's two or three. It was about four now, but you could get out to where Eric was by jumping from slab to slab. The rocks were huge, they must have weighed a couple of tons. Big, perfectly square things that stuck up at least a foot even when the water was at its highest. My dad said they were blown off the bluff when they built the bridge. They're near the banks mostly, but one or two are right out in the middle. It's a great place for wading, skinny-dipping, or making out in the cool shade under the bridge. I had been there so many times before, the chalk lines and stains on the rock seemed out of place. "Hey Ryan, Steve." Eric glanced up from the water. "How's it going," I muttered. Steve nodded. We both suddenly found it hard to talk. "I guess you want to know what the cops wanted?" We didn't say anything. Steve sat down beside Eric. I stood on the closest rock and listened to the cars going by on the bridge overhead. "It wasn't suicide." He paused a minute. "I was there, I saw it all. Me and Terry were drunk, we'd been sitting on his back porch, playing quarters all night. You know his mom never did give a damn what he did. Anyway, he was going to drive me home, and he stopped the truck on the bridge. He said a swim would sober him up. He told me that if I jumped, he'd give me ten dollars. I told him he was nuts, and he called me a baby. Then he dove right over the edge, simple as that. I climbed down and he was dead. It was a mess." He looked up. He was crying. I,don't think I've ever seen anything more pitiful than those tears on
Eric's chubby little face. "I was going to call the law, I swear. But I was still drunk. I got scared. Thought maybe they'd try and blame it on me. I don't know. I just walked home and left him lying there." "So it wasn't suicide?" Steve asked. "No, he just missed the water." "Missed the water," I repeated . "Don't you see though? I left him there. My best friend and I left him there, bleeding everywhere." Eric started sobbing then. It was awful the way it echoed under the bridge. Me and Steve climbed off the rocks and left him there.
Friday was just like any other Friday. The truth was kind of a relief and let everything get back to normal. Suicide was something that kind of bothered everybody, but Terry doing something stupid was nothing special. That night, me, Steve, and Booker all went to the basketball game over in Westmoreland. We lost, 73-72. Roach, he played ball with Alan and Booker, started a fight with a couple of guys he hated on the Westmoreland football team--one of them had beat out Roach for AII-District--and it pretty much turned into a brawl. Steve got a black eye, and I'm pretty sure Booker broke some Westmoreland guy's nose. I grabbed the nightstick Booker made in shop year before last and keeps under his driver's seat and waved it around so I managed to stay out of most of it, but the cops came close to arresting me when they came and broke it all up. After all of that, we drove home, drinking part of the twelve-pack Booker had stashed in a cooler in the hatchback as we drove. It was pitch black as we whistled down 52 towards home--the kind of dark it only gets around here. I looked to the south and could barely make out the glow that the lights of Nashville made on the horizon. It was almost like a sunset, except it was too harsh, too yellow. Everything was so real, so much in our control that night: the road--two lanes of blacktop stretching out to the edge of the headlights' glare, Steve's Led Zeppelin tape--so loud you nearly had to scream over it, the cigarettes our parents didn't know we smoked and the beer they didn't know we drank--the cans
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were almost too cold to touch, they had been on ice through both a basketball game and a brawl. All of it, the friends, the beer, the adrenaline rush from the fight, and the clean, crisp, Tennessee spring night, it all combined to make you feel unstoppable, immortal, as if there were no limits--only an endless band of asphalt stretching out to the ends of the earth. Unless, of course, you stopped to think about Terry McDole, lying on a cold slab of wet limestone, his blood and brains drifting downstream.
~ Because
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I'm trying to fill the in-between by looking through this lens, by sending static through this wire to you. I've heard it is possible not to squander time-sometimes it's enough just to have a look around or listen.
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KERRIl. SWANEY (ARTIST) J. ASHLEY JACKSON (PHOTOGRAPHER) WILDFLOWER
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You, my muse with a body and a name, are out there running in a circle while I am strapped in here, spinning.
ULTRA VIOLET MACRO PHOTOGRAPH OF PAINTING (TRANSPARENCY)
I can't see the hand but think I feel it reaching, sense the shadow of you over me--this darkness I stutter your name into, not knowing how much farther I can stretch.
I am sitting in a restaurant, reminiscing about an afternoon last summer when I watched a bumblebee making his rounds in the clover, using the same system as a man eating ribs next to me-I stand over, he leaves one for another and another, then returns to the original--the flower trembles; a bee is digging into its viscera. Moonlight is entirely hollow, a reflection we crawl into. Can anybody really say why a flower blooms, the seasons change? The flower, the bee sink into autumn's non-solution of how I want the world to be. We laugh, we weep. There are lines and there are lines--little white houses we come out of to walk down the road together. Sometimes, when it's really late, all the doors are locked and I stand with the dark sky across me, trying to break it down, crying your name. The answer: "your name"
The mood is raw fear. It feels at times as if someone is strangling you; slowly releasing his grip enough to let you breathe
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and then tightening his hand little by little to cut out the air.
A Student's Perspective of War
Fear.
Lonel iness.
Alienation. I am sure every UT student is experiencing one, or all, of these emotions. Ever since the Persian Gulf War began on January 16th, a subtle transformation has occurred on the UT campus. Everyone is more preoccupied than usual. On top of school worries, almost every student (and faculty member) has a friend, a family member or a boyfriend or girlfriend serving overseas. There is a constant undercurrent of anxiety. Each individual is experiencing the growing fear and restless attitude on campus. Sometimes these powerful emotions conflict with their opposites. When people don't support a war, understandably they are not going to agree with those who do. Continuing along this idea, I have observed four groups forming on campus. The first is the anti-war. A few hours after President Bush's TV address the night war began, this group started a march through Presidential Courtyard. A pro-war group then began a counter protest showing support for Bush, and following the anti-war protesters. The anti-war protesters gathered at the International House and held a candlelight vigil. On the other hand, the pro-war group was more vocal. Chanting "USA, USA", an estimate of 1,500 people marched to Circle Park while various students addressed the crowd. It is my assumption, through recent newspaper editorials and letters, that actions and reactions of both groups that night were
misread- and conflicting. Some people have called the pro-war demonstration a celebration of war. But why can't this just be the way both these groups dealt with their feelings of fear and anxiety? The third group is the helpless one. Or rather, the quietly sad group. This does not necessarily mean these people are passive, but they are just not vocal in expressing opinions. I consider myself to be in this group. I feel this group admires the protesters, but cannot decide exactly how they will deal with the war. Personally I think war is used as a means to find an end to something that will never have an ending. It seems pointless in that context. But, I feel also that Bush should be supported. So then what? Sometimes I feel so overwhelmed by my feelings, that by the very fact they are deeply personal, I cannot be vocal about them. The last group is simply the apathetic people. The day after the war began, I was amazed to overhear students discussing how upsetting it was that their soap operas weren't going to be aired due to the special reports. They were incredulous that something like war could reschedule the TV programming. I was in turn incredulous that they could be serious. I thought maybe I'm being too hard on them. Maybe this is their way of dealing with the reality that we are truly at war. But I really think I might be making excuses for these people. There have been throughout history the apathetic people. And I am positive the future will not be lacking
these individuals. Life on a campus as large as UT can feel alienating in itself. But with the war adding to the stress that we as students can do nothing to alleviate, tensions have increased. Now, perhaps more than ever, we must be aware of each other's needs and feelings. By the time this is printed, the war might be over. I pray it is, and this essay is just serving as a journal for the timely events. But if it is not, there is no doubt the casualties will be higher, and the fear greater than it is now at the beginning. Cecelia J. Prewett
rr .. L
he location is Parrot. It always gives me the creeps to come out here. The economy is depressed. The road is one lane dirt. Houses are tarpaper shacks full of flies. White trash. Somebody told me the white crosses beside the road were sites of lynchings. There are no addresses. We find the house by way of this hysterical young woman waving her arms in the middle of the road. Even in this seventy-five degrees she's wearing flannel with a t-shirt advertising transmission service. The rest of her moon-pie body is stuffed into the darkest denim I've ever seen. She's yelling for us to hurry. "Mama's dying--she in the house--quick--she says she see Jesus." We pull into tbe dirt-patch-yard. Before the unit is stopped Peter and me are running toward the slanted house. When I say slanted I mean it. The whole house is leaning like it got caught by a really mean wind. Carrying jump packs, oxygen, and the EKG, we are the new messiahs coming to prove the rightness of modern medicine. Leaping toward the porch my foot is falling--falling through the step I just broke. God I can't get out until somebody pulls
I
me. Steve lifts me from my hips onto the porch . I take the two steps to the door and get stopped cold. My legs don't work. It's like I'm moving through the room with my eyes. There's only one room. It smells like urine ... like something dead ... rotten. A tiny bed is against the wall next to a stove and a giant chair. I can see because of a lamp burning on the stove and the cracks between the wall boards. The floor is covered with different shades of linoleum--peeling. A man stands in the corner. Peter's telling me to bring the tank. I start to move until I see the victim, one Euphrada McGillis sitting in the big chair. She's one fat bitch. A fifty-two year-old diabetic with history of heart disease. Over her head hangs a cloth airbrush painting. Jesus standing on top of an anatomically correct heart--dagger through it dripping golden blood. Jesus has a smile that shows his teeth. Peter's staring at me. "Boy, get over her NOW! You ain't in no museum." I trip and fall to where he's kneeling and begin to turn myself off. Each of the two hundred beeps I hear in the next minute are no longer heartbeats but signals telling the conditions of the obese flesh moun-
JAMES LOWEN REMNANTS (POMPEII ) PHOTOGRAPH
t ain in the chair. I take its blood pressure while Steven starts the oxygen. Euphrada is screaming shit like, "Jesus I'm coming I'm coming--Waited long enough now I can see your face. Don't scare me Lord--Please don't scare me." M oon Pie girl is in the corner. She keeps lifting her feet off the floor. One after the other. Marching in place. Piglet sob, then, "Daddy ... sniffle ... she's goin' ... she seeing Jesus... she goin' .... " Peter asks the man in the corner to get Euphrada's medication. "Here it is." He holds up a milky plastic bag f ull of tablets and capsules. Every , one looks different. Like a bag of French Market beans. " Christ. We'll need those for the doctor. We're going to take her to th e hospital." Peter always ends up in control. "She hasn't had a heart attack. Not yet. We'll need one of you to come along." The old man looks out the door at th e ambulance, then at his daughter. "Lizzy. You go. She likes you better." Five minutes later we got Lizzy up fro nt beside Steven while Peter and I are in the back with the victim. Befo re we start to Dublin Community Hosptial, Peter jabs her with saline
solution. He's watching the EKG. "Get another b.p." Her arm is str-aight up in the air holding a fist. People are really strong when they're on the edge of a heart attack. I try to put her arm on the stretcher by standing and pushing down. "Damn, she's strong." "Ah, forget it. We're almost there." The bitch is screaming for water. They always do. Peter wets a towel and puts it in her mouth. She sucks like a baby. If they drink while their system's overloaded they puke. Steven drives like a madman. We cover thirty miles in twenty minutes. At the hospital we drive her into the sterile-sour Emergency Room. She disappears into the third room and we can still hear her screaming, "I see his face ... It's all white ... I'm alright .... " We give our report to the doctor and head for coffee at the nurses' station. Two students and an idiot oldster paramedic. Saviors. We begin to hit on the hot little candystriper behind the counter. Standing against the groutless tiles in the corner is Lizzy. The insurance whore hasn't gotten to her yet. From tear-chapped face to grub-sandaled feet, she's the dirt who visits the heaven of sterility. Keel Coleman.
JAMES LOWEN DETAIL (VENICE) PHOTOGRAPH
II
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James Lowen is a fifth year architecture student pursuing photography. "Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity." -Kahlil Gibran Chris McClurg is a senior in illustration. Frank McGinley is a graduating senior in English, concentrating in Technical Writing. After graduation, Frank plans to go west where he'll attend graduate school in 1992. "I draw most of my poetry and creative ideas from my life in a small Southern town." Cheryl Mendenhall is a graduate student in graphic design. These two collages are part of a series in which she has been experimenting with the use of certain elements to influence the viewer's interpretation of the piece. Mike Nelson is a senior in English, concentrating in creative writing. Linda Parsons is a graduate student in English and editor for UT Audit and Management Services. Her poetry has appeared in The Georgia Review, The Iowa Review, Louisana Literature, Apalachee Quarterly and Kalliope . Cecelia Prewett is a junior in journalism. Susan Wood Reider is a senior in drawing and watercolor. "Our heads are round so that thoughts can change direction. ' , -Picabia Thomas G. Stanton is a graduate student. Michelle Stark is a senior in anthropology. Christopher Wagner is a junior in graphic design. "When I think about it, design is fun ... TEDIOUS ... but fun."
Copyright 1991 by the University of Tennessee. All rights are reserved by the individual contributors. PHOENIX is prepared camera-ready by student staff members and is published twice a year. Works of art . poetry , fiction, and non-fiction are accepted throughou t the academic year. Send submissions to PHOENIX, Room 5 , Communications Bldg ., 1345 Circle Park qr., Knoxville , TN 37996 -0314 .
Keel Coleman is a senior in English. "Fairlawn" is taken from an experience he had while working as a volunteer in a rescue squad in southwest Virginia. Margaret Cooter is a graduate student completing requirements for teacher certification in history and English. Glenn Cruden is a graduate of U.T. with a B.A. in English/Writing. "Aria" is dedicated to Sandy Bales. "Above, the gemmed azure is The naked splendour of Nuit; She bends in ecstasy to kiss The secret ardours of Hadit." Aleister Crowley The Book of the Law Paul Davis is a junior in graphic design. Donna Doyle is a junior in English, concentrating in creative writing. Matthew Edens is a senior in creative writing. "Downstream" is his first published work. "I am not I; thou art not he or she; they are not they." -Evelyn Waugh Catherine Emanuel is a graduate student in English. Her poetry has been published in Coal Mountain Review. Her story in this issue was written several years ago under the title "Steel Perspective." When the author reviewed the story recently and presented it to her writers' group, she was told the title "stank." Hence, "The Weekly Visit." Yifei Gan is a visiting artist who is working on a Ph:D. in Education. "Beauty comes from nature, from the heart, through the eye and the hand. Beauty is a mixture of nature and the artist." Kirt Gunn is a senior in theatre. He dedicates his poem to the Reverend Ken Griffith who once said, "You can swim in the ocean all you want, but when somebody says there's a dog in the pool, it's time to haul ass." David Haynes is a graduate student in journalism. Kimberly lies is an alumnus of the University of Tennessee. Michael Janke is a junior in sculpture. Chris Kinser is a senior in metalsmithing. "My work has a very dark side which comes from the marriage between cynicism and humor. The gold figures in my work relate to both the maker and the viewer. I hope that viewers experience more than one emotion from my work."