Phoenix - Spring 1992

editor de ana duncan managing editor cecelia prewett graphic designer angie dobbs assistant to graphic designer kurt zinser

copyright 1992 by the university of tennessee. all rights are reserved by the indivudual 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 throughout the academic year. send submissions to phoenix, room 5 communications bldg., 1345 circle park dr. knoxville, tn 37996-0314. Š

art editor roger smith fiction editor rick joines non-fiction editor sarah lynch poetry editor rachel newton supporting staff amy janutolo ruby dhaliwal kerri burke lea noel michael hendrix katherine larrabee tammie wells

staff

staff advisors jane pope eric smith

art

untitled, melody reeves a machine for announcing a desire,

2

timothy winkler untitled, don minton

3 4

mother and child, self portrait i and ii,

kelley walker

contents

front and back cover photos from floating series by diane fox

poetry interstate through kentucky 75 miles per hour, s.b. crow i've gotta tell you, britton blasingame winds of winter, heidi larsen portrait, rose becallo the things that tell, adrienne mccormick bathwater, britton blasingame uh-oh, doug carmichael just friends, ruby dhaliwal rockford 1990, christina bucher

2 4 9 18 19 20 21 21 29

fiction the snow globe, amy britnell jumpstart, a.j. dumsch the oak tree, winston brooks

10 22 30

non-fiction student profile: preston h. farabow, sarah e.lynch

6

doorway to ... , chris kinser in lim bo, chris kinser landscape, scott betz untitled, amy jan utolo black and white, amy rubenstein la pd beet #2, jason terry electric cowboy #2, jason terry preci pitation,

patrie king and ana reinert untitled, noah hu untitled, garethjones untitled, noah hu untitled, noah hu untitled, lori mcnutt

5 8 8 9 11 12 13 13 14 16 17 18 19 20

aiki and klarence, cousins,

tinah utsman

21

scenes from the life of the virgin,

carlyle poteat untitled, derek elwell untitled, kelly white untitled, sam turner artist's block, fay boston SHEilds, jennifer poppen untitled, don minton apollo and daphne v,

ann chang

23 24 25 26 27 28 29 32

75 miles an hour

I suddenly realize I've got a hound crawling at my insides and my damn heart in the back of the truck

Melody Reeves

untitled plexiglass etching

rolling around like some fat spoiled nephew kid in a striped shirt scratching the hell out of my paint I should have known he wants to eat so I pull off curse you and try to think what to feed this monster that's just going to cause me more pain after some meaningless sweet break sugar high then cramps and exhaustion from malnutrition.

I should have eaten before I left I should have checked on the dog I should have showed you how much I loved you when I had the chance.

S.B. Crow

Tim Winkler

A Machine For Announcing a Desire pen and ink

~4

Don Minton

untitled photograph

Lies are the only proven aphrodisiacs this much is true -- I can take you anywhere Bathe me with the starshine of sandaled Rio as we sip strange champagne from paper cups -- It is imperitive that we loosen the corks to free our souls from the bottles And our bodies?

-- Whole wineries could not contain the flesh I am a meal appetite worthy indeed

tell you

All the preliminaries Afterwhich we do everything imaginable

Britton Blasingame

Kelley Walker

Mother and Child, Self Portrait I printmaking/mixed media on wood

Kelley Walker

Mother and Child, Self Portrait II printmaking/mixed media on wood

5~

Engage

Upon Reading Rimbaud at Thirty Thousand Feet

I approach her like the nausea that accompanies hunger: slowly tempting the feast, stirring a longing for nourishment , building to discomfort and delirium. spinning, cold chills mount along my spine.

Sweat burdens my brow and stings the corners of my eyes.

I yawn, weary of anticipation, -as if to yawn would lull the hunger to sleep.

Look inside the sculpture lab at the Art and Architecture Building and you might think that you've stepped into a battlefield. Bony segments, and spiky spine-like things poke out and hang from every table and light fixture in the place. These are not the ravages of war, but the offsprings of a complex thesis developed and designed by Preston H. Farabow.

Through the university's College Scholars Program, Preston got the chance to "tailor-make" his class curriculum by combining the fields that most interest him: anatomy, philosophy, creative writing, and the visual arts.

Preston's works attempt to demonstrate the notion of breakdown in all aspects of society and the individual. He uses the shape of the human body, specifically the curve of the spine, as a metaphor for his theme.

Preston strives to "... create poetry that is sculptural ... and sculpture that is poetic."

Upon deciding on the idea and the form for a project, the sculptor explores junkyards for scrap metal and other materials. The construction of the sculpture and of the poems, which are all created simultaneously as organized pairs, can take up to an entire year to complete. Although, the poet confesses that he never feels as though he truly finishes a project.

Preston Farabow shows us that seemingly unrelated fields can be channeled into something as con-

crete and unique as his sculpture.

To me, their accompanying poems serve to better illustrate the theme of his works and to isolate some of the thoughts that went into their production. To see his work in person, look for his combination showing and poetry reading opening August 4 at the CandyFactory.

Sarah E. Lynch

Twelve Stories Up

Bacchus Rockus

Exhausted, and from the climb as well, our martyr pauses to catch his breath through bouts of phlegm and spit.

Desperate sweat bleeds from his pores, then crystallizes on his flesh, pulling the skin taut in thickening air.

Standing on the ledge, our martyr reaches for his cock, bends it through the jagged brass teeth and releases his loaded bladder.

martyr stands to piss, too quickly, the rush folds him to his knees, he submits, bows, purges, then rises slowly to the task.

Watching as the clear fluid flees his gender, he follows the stream until it explodes in the artificial light below.

OUf

7~

precious metals Jewelry pieces by Chris Kinser entitled (left to right): Doorway to ... and In Limbo.

Materials used include . titanium, gold, bronze, copper, silver, and stainless steel.

winds of There 路is a cold wind tonight And I fear my thin flannel coat Is inadequate protection from The coming winter storm.

I saw a man fall today A street survivor.

Maybe he misjudged the curb, .

Or maybe he was drunk, Or maybe he was just tired Of being cold.

Scott Betz Landscape charcoal

I read a book tonight By a fine Jewish scholar On Shakespeare and prejudice.

Inside the cover On the yellowed title page: "London, 1942".

And beneath A tender dedication To Annie, a daughter Lost in the dew of youth: "God made thee mine, but sought no rede of me, Nor yet of her, our daughter, when he took . . . " The language of the work is guarded Not to bring offense Yet bearing up the literate flow A rock of ancient grief.

A cold year - London, 1942.

The winds drive before me Yellowed scraps of newsprint And chase about fragile leaves Thinly veined in frame And I pull close about me My weathered old coat Knowing still, its scant Protection against the Ensuing winter storm.

Heidi Larsen

After the construction paper nose had been pinned on Rudolph, "Joy to the World" had been sung, and the entire sixth grade had received the obligatory candy cane, it was time to mill around in the gym and exchange presents.

Phoebe usually tried to keep a low profile during this portion of the festivities because she could not bear the kissing, the cooing, the high-pitched squeals of a million blonde darlings in fuzzy sweaters and pincurls, exchanging plastic champagne bottles filled with bubble bath and seethrough tubes of colored lip gloss. The boys were worse; the gifts they gave each other were invariably loud or messy or both, certain to crawl up her unsuspecting leg, stick in her hair, or inflict some other humiliation as yet unforeseen. The most severe trial, however, were those who had paired off around the gym, two by nauseating two, furtively holding hands and exchanging vials of Woolworth's cologne and stuffed pandas bearing tiny satin hearts proclaiming "I • You." For the sixth Christmas party in a row, she took this opportunity to retire to the refreshment table, contemplating the tiny silver pellets that littered the roommothers' cupcakes and wondering if they were safe to eat.

When she caught sight of Tony, he was lurking in the corner of the gym beneath the climbing pegs, clutching a box gaily wrapped in red-andgreen Snoopy paper. She snorted in contempt and hastily stuffeCl the uneaten half of her cupcake into the pocket of her jumper.

She had often seen him gazing at her from afar, and although they'd rarely spoken, she sensed that he believed the two of them to be kindred spirits; which, in the broadest of senses, they were. The Fat Kids. Forever doomed to life without a seesaw partner, confined to the bottom-most row of the playground pyramid, always lagging behind, huffing and puffing, in the President's Annual Physical Fitness Test.

With his wild mop of curly brown hair and thick ,~10

glasses, his hamlike forearms and his air of determined jollity, he embarrassed her. She wore her fat like a scarlet letter, wearing the tentlike jumpers her grandmother made, changing for gym in the privacy of the shower stalls, bringing an unobtrusive popcorn cake and juice box for lunch. Tony, however, basked in his deformity -- belly-butting the other kids at recess, threatening to sit on them, chortling through the cafeteria bearing a lunch tray in each pudgy hand.

With a swift and sickening feeling, she realized that she had not averted her glance swiftly enough, and he was thundering toward her with his gift and an enormous Cheshire grin. The crowd parted for him in two great waves . She looked desperately around, hoping against hope that she would discover some other poor unfortunate on the receiving end of his beaming, gaptoothed goodwill . Her fingernails dug little crescent moon shapes in the fleshy part of her hand.

But he was before her, arms outstretched; the gift was inches from her nose . She stared dumbly at the pattern of the wrapping paper; a million Snoopys and a million Woodstocks decorating a million doghouses over and over and over.

"Merry Christmas," he gurgled. He was pink with exertion; his chest heaved with each shallow breath beneath his orange-and-green striped T-shirt. She accepted the gift at arm's length, as if it were a bundle of live snakes.

"Open it," he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops with a little hitching motion. He had a smattering of powdered sugar on his chin.

She removed the paper the way her grandmother would cautiously, methodically, separating the bow and carefully folding the wrapping paper into a neat and reusable square.

She ripped open the box, which had once held a pair of Red Goose Shoes.

Beneath a layer of funny papers, Santa Claus leered up at her -- his body a shiny red plastic,

his face the false orange-peach color that is supposed to resemble flesh. His round belly was transparent, with an entire village trapped inside. When she lifted it from the box and shook it, a miniature snowstorm swept up to engulf the townspeople.

Tony directed his fat, earnest gaze at the floor between his feet. "I just wanted you to have it," he said. "I picked it out myself."

Phoebe felt a whirlpool of hot, molten shame forming in the pit of her stomach. Each pair of sixth-grade eyes were appraising her, judging her, shelving her away under a special subcategory marked Freak. She imagined herself at the Barnum and Bailey Circus again, watching T om Thumb wed his dwarf bride, Little Lulu, atop an enormous wedding cake. She remembered with sickening clarity the cottoncandy smell, the five-dollar program with a heart-shaped glossy of the beloved couple, the lewd remarks that the' grownups around her snickered in each others' ears.

Clutching the plastic Santa to her heart like some sort of talisman, she ran out of the gymnasium, past the giggling sixth grade, past the roommothers' grinning approval. She flew down the disinfectant-slick hallway toward her only \ place of refuge.

The girls' bathroom was a buttery-yellow tile, smelling of liquid soap and Aqua Net. She barricaded herself in the last stall, propped her feet against the locked door, leaned her head backwards to rest on the toilet tank.

She waited there until 3:15, when the banging loc~ers and thundering feet had subsided and the last teachers had passed by, laughing as their heels clicked away. She retrieved her purple backpack from her locker, stuffing Santa in the very bottom, on top of an uneaten grapefruit half and some melba toast thoughtfully packed by her mother. That week, Phoebe was on the Scarsdale Diet.

Her grandfather was waiting for her in the breezeway. It had begun to drizzle, and Grump hurried over with his poncho outspread, to shield her from the rain. Ordinarily, this hovering would have embarrassed her, made her draw up a couple of inches taller, oozing adolescent disdain. Instead, she felt her insides contract with big shuddering sobs. She could not stop the waves of misery that swelled up from within the hot melting place. Grump knelt beside her, demanding to know what was wrong with his Sugar Bee, and produced a wad of pink tissues from an interior pocket. He expected some kind of tearful explanation, but she could not stop to breathe. She could not put words to her humiliation; she could not tell him that she was the Elephant Woman.

The interior of Grump's Cutlass was warm and womblike, an explosion of ice scrapers, nasal spray, Styrofoam coffee cups, empty Kleenex boxes. Grump seemed embarrassed by her torrential despair; he gently patted her knee as he drove.

Her grandparents' house had an air of peculiar stillness, like the ticking of a clock. She had been coming there after school for as long as she could remember. Her grandmother saw her -puffy red face and pulled her in tightly, smothering Phoebe in her cotton smock. Phoebe heard her grandparents mouthing concern above her head; she could not hear their words but could feel their lips moving in that stillness: What's wrong with her? Did she hurt herself? Did those little children say something again?

She remembered when she was very little and stubbed her toe on the coffee table. "Bad old coffee table!" Nanny had said. ''I'm a'gonna whoop it." And when she had given the offensive table a little slap on its marble top, Phoebe had felt somehow vindicated.

The back bedroom was freezing, but Phoebe liked its big cherry four-poster, Nanny's bolts of

Amy Janutolo untitled lithograph

material, the way that the room was separate from the rest of the house. When she was very little, she used to take the most brightly colored fabric, suspend it from the curtain rods and bed posts, and then twirl around and around in the center of the room, pretending that she was Alice in Wonderland, falling down the rabbit hole.

She usually became nauseous and was forced to lie down, left with the vague feeling that something she'd been trying desperately to effect had somehow just not happened.

She retrieved her fifth-grade yearbook from the musty depths of the storage closet. A newspaper clipping fluttered from one of the pages; it was a yellowing image of herself, winning the public library's summer reading contest.

She hated the round little suns of her cheeks, her knees bulging above her stockings, the way that the buttons on her plaid jumper were straining to escape. She was standing in the parking lot in front of the library, squinting and holding up a plastic trophy. She look bewildered, as if she had just discovered herself on another planet. She put the clipping in her pocket along with the uneaten cupcake.

The rows of faces in Phoebe's yearbook were littered with her opinions of them, penciled in with a grape-scented marker -- moustaches for the fluffiest girls, horns for the boys who tormented her daily. When she got to Tony's face, it had been obliterated by a whirlwind. Only his tuft of curls was visible above her penciled rage.

He was a mirror for her shame, for everything she hated about herself and her body. She was angry that he had drawn attention to her, making her three-dimensional when she longed to lie flat, like a chameleon. She was angry at the sixth grade, at her mother's imagined delight upon her discovery of the gift, at everyone who wanted to conveniently join her with Tony in connubial obesity. She imagined their life together: fat ~12

kids, fat dogs, fat kitchen well-stocked with Twinkies and Raisinets. She grabbed the page and poked a hole where Tony's face used to be.

This was marginally satisfying, but she needed more destruction. She wanted to smash the snow globe.

When she peered into the depths of her backpack, the snow globe was still there, its orange Santa-face beaming idiotically. She hated its jolly red-cherry cheeks and its jolly fat mittens resting on its jolly fat stomach. She hated the feel of the dime-store plastic in her hands.

But she couldn't make herself throw it. She just kept staring at it and thinking that if she smashed Santa it would kill everyone in the snow village: everyone in the red brick houses, the white-steepled church, the quaint horsedrawn buggy. She shook the globe, watching the glitter-white flakes envelop the townspeople. She had never felt so isolated. She wondered if she could wish herself on the other side of Santa's protective belly, amid the glittering snow, the serene plastic houses; Alice, falling down the rabbit hole.

by Amy Britnell

Amy Rubenstein Black and White photo-stat

Jason Terry

Electric Cowboy #2 color photocopy

Jason Terry

LAPD Beet #2 color photocopy

13

THE

patrie king

.--.--

ana r elnert .

~

--.--

.

~16

路

portrait

Miss Elsie knew such problems late in life.

She couldn't quite remember where she kept the peppermint for tea, or chamomile to calm her nerves. She'd clatter amidst all the canisters of spice, herbs and flour, spilling oregano and whispering about tree branches scratching window panes or how her father's oboe practice made her dream of large animals performing stunts.

Noah Hu

untitled monoprint

She thought back to their holidays in Kent, the barren windy beaches, the shore sublime. White crashing waves would then uproot her crazed, distressed intensity for things.

Sea poppies sprawled on rocks. Wind-driven sand stung her eyes, took her voice, her breath.

Rose Becallo

The day we first met, the loads we carried, and the recognition, were equal. How we walked with our heads up, without bending forward under the telling piles, I don't know.

You speak of people in your life in the way that children see violence without knowing -these could be my own, your brother or your dog, that time you all went out to eat, what embarrasses you.

Noah Hu

untitled monoprint

'4~"

,n~

:~:<;

that tell

Even if we had collided that day, these proofs would still be scattered between us.

So we circle, each trying to decide how much to abandon, or reveal.

Adrienne McCormick

19

Lori McNutt

untitled charcoal

I remember the deep, warm baths you used to give me and you telling me not to drink the bathwater I remember red and gold wallpaper and running about wet and naked with 路 a mask of washing cloth on my face and falling down dead from some invisible oppressor I remember father on the toilet snatching the wash cloth from my face placing it across my lap, saying, cover yourself I remember being unhappy with him

Britton Blasingame ~20

bathwater

can you look through me like a fish tank and see, glinting brown eyes blinking slowly behind the miniature treasure chest and plastic seaweed, while goldfish swim in endless circles never touching

just friends

Ruby Dhaliwal

Tinah Utsman

Aiki and Klarence, cousins photograph

Waiting for a parachute to open may be something like the moment before you laughed when I called you another girl's name

Doug Carmichael

21~

I was born a howling little wretch, pulled far too soon from my mother's womb. Wrenched from the comfort and safety of her anesthetizing woman-orb, I was thrust under the harsh glare of a 60 watt auto mechanic's lamp. The black midwife's hands reeked of ammonia and my mother shouted far beyond any gravid pains I had caused her. I have not yet filled my guilt quota.

My past is being conjured up at the editing console of my mind to substantiate the random nature of my here and now. Any tired old lines used in these following pages will be laughed at by those "in the know."

Derision may arise, confusion result. Viz: What the hell is going on?!?

First come the bugaboos. . . Those who make me nervous: blacks, whites, bums, rich bastards, mental deficients, geniuses, women and men. I am not black.

I am afraid of forgetting to say "African-American." I am whitebread. I cannot call myself "Euro-American" because this is considered a redundancy. This means that I am redundant. I used to walk through a certain city park and always this dirty old man with one leg would ask for my money. I had to refuse on account of the thickness of my wallet; he would think me

cheap to give only one dollar. I now avoid city parks and that poor bum of a vet thinks of me as a rich bastard. (Bear with this Puritan accounting. It will, hopefully, purge my life of dross American confessionalism. ) I tremble at the thought of young Einsteins and child morons. They are flip sides of the mental coin. I find the extremes of stupidity and brilliance too urgent to respond to with the necessary amount of compassion and I put little faith in eugenics evening the score. (Someone once told me that the only true equalizer is death.)

If this were a Catholic movie, I would now be awfully close to contrition. There would be a close-up of the priest's benign smile over on his side of the confession booth and then a quick cut to a medium shot of me, grimacing but already visibly lighter from a desperate load of bigotry and perdition. After this next paragraph, visualize the scene in the Catholic

movie, "The Mission," where Robert DeNiro prostrates himself before what he thinks to be a vengeful God in the steaming jungles of South America. A dark sinewy native in a loin cloth cuts off the overwhelming burden of metal armor that is tied to DeNiro's back and kicks it over a cliff. Jeremy Irons, the pacifistic Jesuit priest, smiles a holy smile. I'm nearly there.

I want to be valid to the common man and/or attractive to the uncommon woman. As of yet, I've experienced neither situation and I'm getting nervous.

In fact, the whole idea of sex makes me nervous. I cannot kiss the men I love. Homosexuality has its own built-in signals. So I will respect my fellows from the required distance. On the other hand, I will always kiss the women I love. May they never mistake my af-

Carlyle Poteat

Scenes From the Life of the Virgin intaglio

~

fection as a slander to the substantial rights of their gender. I respect very much the maternal pain of childbirth; I have a mother.

The protagonist will resemble me only when I wish him to. (The petty prejudices in evidence above are those of the protagonist.) This man of the narrative will be afforded a modicum of empathy, but he will also be fastforwarded past any sentimental sympathy.

When sympathy and empathy cohabit the same written space, they become synergistic like coffee and cigarrettes; they burn off the reader's energy and leave only noncritical exhaustion. I want you to be critical with this man because he is so uncritical of himself.

The protagonist might have many strange and noble intentions in the following, but please realize that only his actions will account for anything. (Intentions, though pure enol:lgh when conceived, seldom make good commodities in the result-oriented market of human relations.) Fast transitions will edit the narrative.

My intention last night was to sleep deeply and to perfect my R.E.M.'s. Unfortunately, through the darkest hours I was troubled by a dream involving George Sanders. He was sitting at my kitchen table, smoking my cigarettes one by one and making lewd passes at my mother, who was cooking eggs. The dream ended, as all dreams do, with me falling off a cliff. I edited myself a quick awake and professionally censored out my messy death on the canyon floor.

George Sanders is lord of the 40s and 50s suave school of cinematic acting. (Without losing the part in his hair, he saved the world from satanic alien children in the film "Village of the Damned".) He destroyed his mind with a service revolver. His suicide note was as dry and succinct as his Method. "I'm bored," wrote George.

Life is tedious and so it will be expanded and reworked beyond any logical boundaries. I am never Georged because I am able to extend any mundane sensory experience that I have into a vivid three second metaphor. My life has as much abundance and

significance as your best Italian operas. For example: When I was nine, my step-father decided the time had come for me to open a bank account. "Son, you can't shirk your responsibilities as a consumer." I remember holding $23.49 in a Mason Jar and feeling the burden and pride of joining the free market economy and accruing interest on my American currency.

Mother's note: Son, you are a liar. You were brought forth cesarean. The hospital was sterile and efficient. The doctors and nurses were as white as the sheets I lay on, unconscious to your screams. Don't deny the fact you have a brother.

I had stolen the $23.49 from my brother's piggy bank.

The financial institution that my step-father selected for me had huge panels of stained glass above the transoms at the entrance. I remember the 3 o'clock sun shining directly through this random arrangement of Modernist glass -and transfiguring por-

tions of the bank lobby with its light. I carefully placed my Mason Jar down on the gray linoleum and walked straight into the colored air. Red, green, violet, azure: these tinted sunbeams blended with the floating dust, the wax shine on the floor, my dancing body; they softened the business air. My metaphor here is happiness. A clean, simple happy.

I visualize my step-father positioned far off from the colors, avoiding their swash of softness and standing rigidly embarrassed on the cold gray linoleum. Does he have a metaphor for this past event? I doubt it. My step-father hopes to renegotiate his sad life. I can never know his life's metaphors.

What I think he wants is to have his life edited like mine. He watches enough television to know that a decent plot and fast pacing relieve tedium, that flashbacks can resolve old wounds, that commercials provide a much-needed rest before the climax of a story. Many of these commercials also provide vivid sexual fantasies.

23

Derek Elwell

untitled mixed media

I would like to think that the beer I drink could cause spontaneous orgies in my backyard. My young wife tells me that although these bimbos are ample, they are an anomaly.

"Have you ever, in true life, seen a fashion model?" she asks.

"Yes, I once saw Brooke Shields far off in a crowd of fur coats, but she looked anorexic ... too lightweight for lust." My answer to her is the only untruth that will be acknowledged in this story.

Erudite quotes will not come at the beginning of each of my life's chapters. You needn't be influenced by the remarkable thoughts of famous writers. This televised text will be given a fighting chance before being blown up by the literary canon. Quotes will come at the end of each chapter, like credits at the ~24

end of your favorite movie. Time now for a recipe break: My Mother's Scrambled Eggs: Take four free-range eggs, crack each one individually over a mixing bowl and watch the viscous stuff slide out of the shell into the bowl. Whip eggs, but do not froth. Above the mixing bowl unleash a dash of black pepper, a liberal amount of garlic powder and two drops of Tobasco Hot Sauce. Pour eggs into a cooking vessel on a medium flame burner. I would suggest using a one quart kettle, with a bit of melted butter in the bottom, rather than a frying pan as this will cut down on the mess. The eggs will cook rather quickly so watch that they don't bum. Use a wooden spoon to scrape the sides of the pan and pull off the flame while the eggs are still moist. Serve over wheat toast. Reputed to

strengthen a son's ailing hair follicles and bolster a husband's libido.

Physically, I am troubled with a tight scalp and an abundance of loose joints. A dermatologist has told me thar my hair follicles are actually being squeezed out of my head. Upon hearing this news, I slid out of the patient's chair, more as a result of loose joints than grief. It sounded like popcorn -- my knees, toes, ankles, fingers, hips and so on -- all my joints cracking under the strain of premature baldness.

I admit that I do have a twin brother. He is male.

He is white like me. Because we are fraternal, I despise this question: "When you prick your finger with a pin does your brother feel your pain and vice versa?" This is stupid. There is nothing para-normal about us. We do not even look similar, he being Aryan and I being Semitic. For a character to relate to and sympathize with, it would make me very happy if you choose my twin. You can think of him as my shadow, the alter-protagonist. As a quick transition, here is a story concerning him: In grade school, my best buddy had a very strong vocabulary for a seven-year-old. One day on the playground, a big red ball rolled up to his feet. "Gimmee my ball, you dick," hissed the school bully. "You feel anger because your primal sense of possession is threatened," answered my friend, without picking up the ball. The bully broke my buddy's nose with one swift punch. Articulation of the problem doesn't solve it. My brother is my buddy.

As children we would swim in a nearby river that would tum a dark brown with the rain. It was like swimming in a freshly plowed field. There is no deeper metaphor here; it was just a dirty river, filled with chemical viruses and old automobile tires.

by A. 1. Dumsch "Where are we going on this mighty river of earth, a-borning, begetting, and a-dying -- the living and the dead riding the waters. Where is it sweeping us?"

-- James Still

Kelly White

untitled clay

25~

sam 'T urner

untitled

\n\ag\\

O

Fay Boston Artist's Block woodblock print

27

Lightly we raced into the woods, lips licked -- moist and pursed to make the call, the slow-whistled descent we'd discovered the screech owls believe is a sister or brother beckoning.

They send replies, winging toward conversation.

First-found excitement drove us into the trees to get closer, to see the souls we mimed; a ll the while we insistently repeated the fa lling notes as if to force a n appearance.

As we squatted, eyes and ears wrestling with the dusk a nd the birds' rustling flight, the sudden deep note of a hoot owl cut through the air behind us.

Ancient and eerie.

A demanding bassoon following the lilting of flutes.

Wide-eyed, we sat back on our heels, relishing the echoes of Night's mystic orchestra.

Christina Bucher

rockford

Don Minton

untitled photograph

It was a cold and sunny day when I left Memphis after spending Christmas ~tL~y parents' home. I found my win\ se ' 'n the coach section of the ,'I!: . , / , s glad to be leaving Mem'T" ' / -J-~~=-I' Li , .' me reason the city drags me ~B.~~'~-'know I was raised there, but I ; "i ' ~ like to spend much time there. It was depressing going back to that city and seeing all the places I used to go shrunken with time. The people looked strange and threatening. I guess that's why I enjoy being away from it now so much. It scares me to think that one day I'll be back for good.

I pressed my forehead against the round window, and my breath began to steam up the inside plastic. I thought of the past week I'd been home. I was on my way now to meet some friend in Salzburg for the rest of the holid season. And by all rights, I sho have been excited. Nonetheless, I on the brink of tears. I had this strang feeling of sad understanding. I star out over the city and the river as the plane took off. As it leveled and headed east, I leaned back in my seat and gazed into the clouds.

"Excuse me sir, may I get you a drink?" asked the smiling stewardess.

There was a pause. Then she spoke again. ~30

a "Sir ... sir. May I get you something to drink?"

I didn't answer. I heard the stewardess though; only, I couldn't make myself turn and speak to her. I thought it wouldn't matter if I didn't answer. I assumed she would just go away. I was wrong.

"Sir, are you alright?" I heard her ask.

I thought to myself "Don't you realize we're all going to die? Christ!

We don't have much longer, any of us!

We're all going to rot!" Containing my outburst, I turned to her and with a flirting smile said "Coke, please."

In a few minutes, she put a clear plastic glass Ind the red and white can on my tra . I did not thank her.

Rea to my tweed coat, I pulled sn shot made in 1969. It was a ~~J;f:of my family somewhere betn Houston and Memphis at some oad sideliner called "Bob's". Staring at the picture intensely, I noticed what everyone wore. My mother was wearing her hair in a beehive. She had on a black and white dress. She still had a figure. My brother was sporting a yellow turtleneck. His face had a Cheshire cat grin, closed eyes and ears sticking out because he hadn't yet grown 'into them. Next to him, my

ree sister stood in a

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white sweater. She ~ , n with a forced smile.M\Ut~/lIt\路 ffr.f+~ fitted in a grey wool , SUl~~' (a tie I still wear). is dark hair was trimmed short and in his arms, he held me. Dressed in shorts and a blue blazer, I was pointing at the camera and smiling as if I was the happiest child alive. Finally, next to my father stood my grandmother. In her dark green dress and large gold brooch over her left breast, she stood tall. With her hair neatly sprayed, her smile was strong and boastful and her cheeks were red and full. The background included a parking lot full of old cars.

Across it stood a sign that read "Pepsi" and "Bob's" underneath. Behind that sign, the blue sky and brown field stretched far across the flat part of the country until they came together. To the left was the highway with a lone, brown Oldsmobile.

It was a simple picture. To a person who did not know who we were, it would be very ordinary and dull. As I studied the faces, it bec~ \ e the most complex picture in i l,le world.

Memories flooded my m 'n\l, but the one that stood out most wa o~ about my grandmother. ~_ I remembered staying '. '

grandmother when I was a child; but when I was old enough to appreciate who she was, she was too frail and tired to be of any interest to me. I usually tried to distance myself from her. I was young and did not concern myself with what an old lady was doing.

The plane bounced through turbulence over the Atlantic. My thoughts were still with the land. I thought about the week past and how when I touched Grandma's hunched back, it was warm and soft. It felt like if I pressed too hard when I hugged her that she would shatter and fall into a pile of dust in the floor. If most of my memories of her with me were ~s a child, the other memories were of'her worsening condition. I didn't think she was going to make it through this holiday season.

It's what happened when I went to see my grandmother at the nursing home that haunts my memory now.

My parents had done all~ey C~ld for her. They had visited i1al~ everyday, and the home r fro institutional. The Kirby OaK ' si~g""( Home was decorated for Ch . t ....,"When we got there, all of the re . ~ \ . were gathered in the dining room Christmas program which had alr~~g~~ started. In the hall were the rest o"t latecomers. My father got us some coffee and cookies from the table in the hall. We stood there as we spotted Grandmother sitting at a table as some girl sang. Mrs. Forbes, her roommate, was sitting next to her. I've never seen so many old and crippled people in one room. It shocked me. My stomach felt queasy looking at the people slumped over in wheelchairs, staring through their glasses. ,Their eyes looked hu~ge magnified by the thick lenses. Did they even know what was going on? To be fair, there were some there who were still able to function by themselves and

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enjoyed the show:. But the others, with their nurses and walkers, chairs and hearing aids, orthopedic shoes and braces, sat motionless. They were like statues in some bizzarre garden. "Why do we go ~ mti ~ uble?" I asked myself. ~::- .', After th~ I . (.f topped singing Christmas c~ ) we slipped over to where my grandmother was. She didn't recognize me. I told her who I was in vain. I hugged her and felt her wrinkled skin next to my smooth cheek. Her whiskers pricked my face. She hadn't been shaved today. I guess she was cursed to have good health and a bad mind. She was born in 1899. She had outlived her mind. I don't even think she was aware it was Christmas.

My father pulled up a chair and began telling her our plans for Christmas Day, and how my brother and sister were doing. She just sat there and pushed the cookie on the table in front of her. She did not look as though she heard him. She couldn't make herself listen. He asked if she was enjoying the carols, but she just looked ------4 at him and smiled. Ever so calmly \\'\\ looking up, she glanced at me and ask~\\ ~ d him, "Who's that?" My father quick~ x laine that it was Gareth, her :f "Why do I bother? Why ~ time to come here and torture 1~\ I thought. But I knew why; \ and I knew that she recognized me.

Somewhere in the dimly lit halls of her mind, she could see a familiar face. She just couldn't quite recall the name.

I watched my father with his mother and tried to understand how a man who seemed not to understand me had so much compassion and understanding for his mother. Maybe it's because he doesn't have to hear her ideas. He can be a father to her and not a friend.

Whereas with me, he is less a father now and is having a hard time becoming my friend.

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Father left to talk with some of the other residents that he had gotten to know from visiting his mother there.

My mother now sat next to my grandmother . . She pulled out some Christmas cards that had come to the house for our family. She showed them to Grandma and told her that they had been sent to her.

I supposed it made my mother feel a bit more at ease. She had to make up something to talk about; otherwise, nothing would be said. My father came back and stood behind my grandmother and listened to my mother.

"And this one is from Aunt Edna.

Doesn't it have a pretty poinsettia on the front?" my mother said. "And here's one with the three wise men on it from your old neighbor. It says, 'May you be blessed with every happiness this Christmas!'" Handwritten under the print she read, "To a dear friend I'll never forget. I hope the holidays are truly happy for you, Merry Christmas, Robin." It was really signed by my mother's friend, Paula, but Robin was the lady who used to live next door to my grandmother. Robin had actually died about a year and a half before.

Santa Claus was currently coming around to each table handing out little gifts. He gave my grandmother a plastic Santa pin for her dress.

Suddenly, as I evaluated my own position, I abruptly left before my tears spilled in front of my father and everyone. It was as if I had floated momentarily over the room a.nd saW myself against the confusio~ 1and lost lives of that room. ~ter seen my father cry, and he /'er seen me cry. I didn't ha e to show my father tear ness was just one of the obst cles tha had to be overcome before either of us would begin to come closer.

I ran as casually as possible to the bathroom and locked the door. No

longer could I hold in my feelings. I leaned over the sink and sobbed. As each tear dropped from my eye, dark stains grew on my red and green tie. I looked into the mirror and saw myself crying, reduced to a trembling pile of emotion. Staring into the mirror, I saw a horrible transformation. My back hunched over. My cheeks sunk in. My young face wrinkled. My hair thinned and white. My hands trembled and curled. It was then I realized that I would eventually have to come back to Memphis, not only to make a living and raise a family, but also to take care of my parents in their second childhood. Next, I had a most morbid thought. Wouldn't it be better if my parents didn't grow old and outlive their minds? Would it not be better for them to suddenly have a quick and painless death? It was selfish of me, I knew. I was trapped. My freedom was restricted because of my duty to them.

If I were to have my own family, would my wife be willing to understand the responsibility I have to endure? My brother would not come to help me. My sister would not come home because she doesn't get along with my parents. It was me who would be the one to care for my parents in old age. Now it was clear what my destiny was. It was apparent why every time I came home they made me see Grandrna. It was training. I was slowly learning how to care for my own parents when they would no longer be able to care for themselves. I thought of all the turning points in Grandma's life as she travelled faster and faster toward that ultimate release. Before the final stop, there were many trying times for my father.

One of the first steps was taking her car away. Then he moved her into a guest home. Most recently, she was i a nursing home. Each step, my father became more and more confused; .

creasingly more distant from his own family, as he tried to come to terms with the passing away of his last parent. When he'd come home from work, my father would take off his white doctor's coat and hang it over the back of one of the dining room chairs. Then, I would hear his heavy feet gently march across the green kitchen floor. His huge hand would pull at the smooth wooden cabinet door.

The glass would hit the counter with a distinct rin , depending on the type of ~ from ich he chose to drink his antines scotch. ' he would say as the Q the ice. ," I'd say. n sip having reached his gut, uld sit in his chair and begin 0 ing at the day's mail. The more bills, the faster he sipped. The angrier he was, the more forcefully he would tear the mail and slam it into the brown wicker basket.

The second was made with less water. Sometimes, he would get up and walk into the backyard. I'd watch him through the large picture window in the den. He'd walk around the yard and stop periodically at the taller trees.

He'd stand at the bottom and stare up at them as if he was searching for a squirrel hiding behind one of the limbs.

He'd walk on until he came to a tree he called General Lee, the biggest tree in the yard. The second largest tree, growing in the front yard, he called General Grant. He'd get to General Lee; again, he'd stop directly at the bottom of it. He would be so close to it \ that his feet would be on the roots that rose up, anchoring the huge oak to the ~round, look up into its limbs and .p~~e his in against the gritty and One time shortly after he other into the nursing him place his drink down s around the tree. His

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Ann Chang Apollo and Daphne V pencil ~32

big arms didn't even reach halfway around the trunk. He stood there hugging the tree looking up into the branches. I never knew what he was looking at. He'd stay out there sometimes until my mother would get worried and tell him to come eat his dinner.

I'd watch him and wonder who this man was. This man I'd spent my life with. Who was he?

Often, as I watched my father, I'd think of what he would look like with tears painfully pouring from his eyes. I would think to myself, I must leave here and find not only myself but also him. For if I was to ever be at peace with myself, I must discover what lay at the bottom of my father's heart. I thought that this would help me see into my own heart because I was part of him. This was why I more than loved this man that I didn't even know.

There is no pain as great as not knowing your father.

After I regained my composure, I returned to the dining room. Some children from the local elementary school were now singing carols. I sat down next to Grandmother again, put my arm around her and kissed her cheek. My father was sitting on the other side of her. My mother had gone to put some medicine in Grandmother's room. I looked at my father and he looked into my swollen eyes. It may have been the first time we had ever looked into each other's eyes. He knew where I had been. I didn't tell him, and he didn't ask any questions.

He knew I was now more capable of understanding.

"Are you ready to go home?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I said.

We got home that day about two o'clock in the afternoon. My parents sat in the den watching football games.

I stayed in the kitchen nibbling on the cakes and candies as I called my

brother and sister. That was how I spent that "joyful" day.

As I spoke to my sister, I lied to her.

I was trying to salvage what I could from the truth she had so surprisingly told my father a couple of years ago.

Sometimes, it is better to lie.

"Dinner was fine. Mom cooked a big turkey and all the usual. We missed you."

"Well I wish I could have been there, but I had a nice time here. My friend Josh from the store had me over for dinner with him and his wife. How's Mom?" "She's a bit stressed from all of the pre-holiday work, but I think she'll recover now that Christmas is almost over. We talked about you at dinner.

They were telling me all about what you'd been up to."

We talked on and finally I told her goodbye. I didn't bother mentioning the trip to see her because I probably couldn't go if my dad didn't pay for it, not wanting to get her hopes up. I didn't need to upset her anymore than she probably already was. Spending Christmas away from home when you don't have your own family is pretty tough.

I was packing for my departure early the next morning. My father came into my room to tell me goodbye, because he wasn't able to go to the airport.

"Thanks for coming home," he said, "it was great to see you."

I didn't know exactly what to say. It was such a change for him not to be talking from an authoritarian level. "It was good to be home. I missed you. It's nice coming home, because nothing changes much. I mean, I can always come home," I said.

"Take care of yourself. I'm not going to be able to make it to the airport; I have to be at the hospital early. Sick people can't be put on hold. I just want you to know that whatever you do, I

said.

Then he handed me this picture, and said "I want you to have this. Try to remember your grandmother and our family like this." He hugged me and went off to bed. I looked at the picture and read the writing on the back, 'This picture was made two years ago. I am the gal in the middle. This is my family, the kids have really grown in the last two years. Brown Jr. is red-headed and tall like his dad, six feet three inches." My father never was redheaded, but I guess that never really made any difference. I suppose my grandmother was always a bit of a dreamer.

The captain announced our altitude over Ireland. For the first time since take off, I thought about my destination. "I must write my father and thank him for the picture when I arrive," I thought to myself. As I looked again into the faces of my family in this picture, I think I understood why my father used to stare up into the tall enduring trees . It's something deep within us. It's something that controls us all.

It's something we cannot escape.

diane fox is a graduate in graphic design. fay boston is a non-degree graduate student. lori mcn utt is a freshman in art therapy. kelly white is a second degree undergraduate

in ceramics. amy rubenstein is a fourth year student in

graphic design. don minton is a senior in architecture. scott betz is a graduate in painting. sam turner is a senior in graphic design. melody reeves is a graduate in printmaking. carlyle poteat is a graduate in printmaking. tinah utsman is a graduate of computer enhanced

by Winston Brooks

contributors

design and photography. jennifer poppen is a junior in printmaking. kelley walker is a senior in printmaking. derek elwell is a senior in sculpture. jeff reep is senior in graphic design. patric king is a senior in graphic design. ana reinert is a senior in graphic design. noah hu is a first year graduate. chris kinser is a non-degree student in metalwork. tim winkler is a freshman in anthropology. amy janutolo is sophomore in graphic design. jason terry is a graduate in printmaking. adrienne mccormick is a graduate in creative writing. s.b. crow is a graduate student. a.j. dumsch is a graduate student. amy britnell is a senior in english. winston brooks is a senior. ruby dhaliwal is a senior. britton blasingame is a freshman in english. christina bucher is a graduate student in english. heidi larson is a junior in english literature. doug carmichael is a graduate student in biochemistry. rose becallo is a graduate student in creative writing.

university

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