Phoenix - Spring 1998

UT KNOXVILLE LIBRARY

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The Phoenix Literary and Art Magazine would like to present the Cultural Exploration Issue. This issue represents a variety of cultural experiences as they are conveyed by each respective artist.

Literature and art are cultivated forms of expression and serve the individua,l as a vehicle for reflection, a mirror of the spirit, and a mode of evolution as they interact within the context of their local reality.

What is displayed within these pages is that component of our immediate locality as understood by the people in it.

Take time to consider each piece, and envision the dimension of the artist as she or he interprets their world. Here we may grasp understanding from enmity, compassion from anger, and a sense of unity in a plethora of diversity. Coalescing these experiences captures the possessed within each one, and elucidates common ground in a multitude of complexity.

Jason Aldred, Editor

The Downtown Wigs

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Doxology sweet wild africa Requiem for Versace (The Mall) Stranger Swimming Among the Masks Black Bitch Nostalgia, November, No Sun Untitled

Sidney Setzer Marcus Preston Jena Giltnane Will Grover Damian Rogero Pitt Jennifer Wood Nina L. Small Heather D. Scott Steve Heatherly

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A Stranger in a Civilized West Excerpts The Londoners

Ushma Shukla J ena Gil tnane Puneet Sharma

5 Signs Following Memories Mystery????

Vol. 3 Jesus Blues Last Home Game Man with Umbrella Untitled Appalachian Mountain Man S.Brng

Susan Edwards Shane Kelly

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Sage Andy Ashby Wes Hope Erin Zammett Elise Stephens Jodi Hays Jason Englehardt

CONTENTS

11.

I see in their ephemeral faces Mary Margaret couched in a long succession of Persia blue.

Those indolent chameleons who peer through storefronts. _ A fat man declaims St. Paul dressed in a bass fishing shi How the Monophysite has ran slip-shod over the Pre-Ada when the Nicene Creed is read!

How the winds put their august coiffures amiss!

In the afternoon, after the business man is ensconced in his office, the top heavy, chemical scented, texturized bouffant is pressed against the glass on the cross-town bu Elderly adventuress entranced by the working class para elderly ladies much agitated by the gunfire they've seen and heard on television.

The Lollards have made shambles out of the doctrine of t Holy Trinity, yet the street preacher doesn't know it.

He is ardent, and he is fat.

There are no indulgences, no pieces of the True Cross or scarification.

There goes Beatrice and Cisalpine.

Elderly ladies are so lonely after their husbands are dead.

They ride the buses all day and buy two-for-one at drug stores and return home with tins of Danish cooki Who knows where they go.

The disenfranchised transit riders pass along unnoticed.

2.1

POEM a.

PIECE a.

1

3.

4.1

PIECE b.

grant me Grandfather the buffalo so I may teach the earth the cry of my people

POEM b.

1 5.

Red like the ant hills that grow taller with the climbing sun ... taIllike Babylon, crumbling Fire ants ignite the bush, crackling like each cell of the plant stem has come alive 3-D transport in action ...

Red like the sun that dips fast in the West, as the winds of the Sahara begin to blow...

Orange like clay dust that cakes between your toes never quite washes clean Like the lizards that peek from the low shrubs and bob their heads, analyzing your every move- gone! in a flash Orange bronze orange like antelope and water bucks, gleaming from the water-hole, shrinking as the rainy season is forgotten ...

6 .II----~P_.::.....O=EM=_=___=_C.

that have seen family come, go, expand, grow ...

Yellow like _p lack-bellied warblers hanging miniature suns from the palms ...

Red like Hibiscus, Orange like Bird of Paradise, Yellow like the heavy balms of the Forget-Me-Not tree ...

Green! Lush green! Green like the treetops with their ears pressed back listening, flat to the horizon ... patient for the rain Green like a coconut palm, ready for you claim its fruit suckle its milk swallow its soft flesh ...

Like the rubbish of the gutters, flowing evergreen, pungent and amazingly sweet ...

Red like Hibiscus, Orange like Bird of Paradise ...

Red like Hibiscus, Orange like Bird of Paradise, Yellow like Forget-Me- Not, Green as the Savannah ...

Yellow like mango nectar, bursting with pulp and juice and pure sugar...

Gold yellow gold like kente cloths stripes that story tell an unwritten past ... like old mud walls

Blue, deep and calm and wide CRASHING! waves ... the night is an ocean, too navy ebbing from which we see the village underwater

f"

Blue like Calico on a new mother, Like Obruni * eyes scanning the motherland ...

Red like Hibiscus, Orange like Bird of Paradise, Yellow like Forget-Me-Not, Green as the Savannah, Blue as the Calico ...

Indigo ... dark and pseudo-black like magIc, Like the ancient shrine, spattered with blood Indigo like the ink that began writing their history w ashing away their color

*Obruni: (Asante Twi) fairskinned or from across the sea

Day after day, I find myself filled with a longing for a country in which I have never lived, that I have only visited four times and hated for its winter heat.

I am filled with a longing indescribably bitter, a need to see the burning sun rise and hear the calls of the street merchants; to experience the sands and noise of Juhu beach, the bells and cool marble of the temple. Color and Festivity in noise and dirt and people. The sweaty humid city streets. The splendor, the poverty.

She calls to me, this goddess, the land of my mother, my people. I long to anoint myself with kunku and chandan, to pray in her holy cities and drink of the sacred rivers. To cleanse myself in monsoon rains. I am like one exiled to a strange land, whose customs I do not and cannot understand.

The smallest experiences are hurled back at me, dressed richly in memory. The smell of henna, spices, and clothing, Incense, Sulfur. The exhaust of buses in the heart of a city. The sounds of traffic and music; voices raised high, heralding comings and goings.

A brilliant shade of blue or green, or a vibrant red rarely seen under Western skies will take me back on the wings of imagination, and I am as my great-grandmother; a girl dressed in colorful clot ing water back from a village well. I long to love my 0 country, to praise her in the language of my fathe ~ But I remain, exiled, a stranger in the civ' iz

s.1

STORYa.

6 Sept. 1997 I'm here! Last night I slept with sweat pouring from every inch of my skin, on top of a scratchy mattress, under a sarong I bought in Holland .. .! thought for sure I was told sheets were provided. I'll survive ... outside my window is a huge! palm tree, plastered with signs of campus events.

6 Sept. 1997 I wish I had words for everything I want to write down The music seems to come from everywhere, singing me to sleep and opening my eyes to wake .. .! sense everything brand new... the orange I ate today was hard and green but inside sweeter than Eve's own fruit, I'm sure I sat with them on a peeling wooden bench, painted whitebaked off-by African sun, three Ghanaian girls Obia, Ani, and Ginivera shared my orange Today I walked the dirt roads with concrete gutters- at home it must be backwardslizards scurried underfoot and chickens ran to hide ... the music moves like African winds, sounding the call for my soul. .. so beautiful 9 Sept. 1997 No water for three days .. .! smoke my last cigarette and feel the heat like waves, pushing out from my center and pulsing to my digits, hitting my skin like uncaged energy...

22 Sept. 1997 Where is my home? .. 50,000 miles away I'm living breathing eating becoming a whole new

culture ... A culture I will never fit into, like grasshopper squeezing into an ant hill, I forever be bumping my head on ceilings ma for ants 25 Sept. 1997 A young man named Barnabus escorted home from lectures today, and I learned the story behind his limp- a refugee from the Liberian civil war, he arrived on the shore of Ghana with a boatload of 500 others , from which only three were taken in ... the rest sent back to sea ... he was one of the lucky ones, young and strong and smart enough for University...

His father, dead ... two sisters, three brothers, all killed in the crossfire of the war. He was shot, as well and got off the boat here with the bullet three days old in his thigh ... his limp will forever remind him of the horror.. .

Hspiraling ... the center cannot hold" How sad it is that millions of Americans will never know that this tragic civil war ever took place!

But the day got stranger exponentially... a young woman, Sekima, showed up at my door, explaining that my presence was needed immediately, and that I should go with her I have something to show you, Akusa, you will be my best friend She takes me to her home ... on the clay packed floor two babies play with a pregnant dog ... Aisha is three and speaks four languages Oausi, Ga, Ewe, Twi ... Sekima found Aisha as a newborn at a marketplace, another girl-child abandoned She wants me to meet her uncle ... we walk around the dirty, open-air, mud house and through white gates from which roses

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Id man I quickly realize . s collection of wives, as 'rna boast h'IS strength and riches ... he tries to give me c200,000 ($100) to visit him agaIn ...

Why can't he help Aisha?

ming crackle frightens me - a thousand red and sucking the nectar - they swarm in army rows, rolling up the flower stems amazing Africa!

30 Sept. 1997

Meeting Kelly, an American boy was like wearing beautiful shoes too tight too long, and finally slipping into a pair of Birks ... yesterday we drove to the Volta Region We played High Life full volume in the blazing sun ... the landscape was flat, expansive, scanning the horizon - - overwhelming - savanna fields with wildlife roaming ...

We crashed the night before on a grass mat in the community room of a catholic mission, we shared a blanket ... there was no soap to bathe this morning, they say we can't if we want to take part ...

African dance! beat blood rhythm beat beat drumming with my sisters a chameleon crosses the street slowly, mechanically twitching as a leaf might skip slowly across a path SPLAT a run a way tro-tro ends the dance of the lizard speaking Twi with food vendors who cook kenkey for me, even offering a fork for the Obruni "Men-daasehy" I offer... they giggle and tease a beautiful woman in my dance class coffee brown skin, dreads ending in cowry shells the same around her ankles and wrists click click click like chains 15 Oct. 1997 On my way today, I pass a cluster of trees emerging from an ant mound four feet high trees like carrots stuck in mashed potatoes- I look across the horizon to see bush savanna leading to thick green mountains, not soft and rolling like Tennessee, but wild, rough, untamed bush mountains .. .! stoop across a fence to smell like paradise flowers bright orange like a parrot beak and a sharp, hum-

10.1

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29 Oct. 1997

African sweet stench market ... we purchase two goats and two chickens, they cry in the van they know they know how could they but they do in the market I smell something dark and sweet, like death, and under a vendors table I spy a limp form (sleeping, I hoped, but knew otherwise) a small dark head has slipped out from under the cover fuzzy top baby head dark evil Africa cannot feed her...

First Sacrifice of the day This is the dark continent, here now today to the village of the shrine, we pass the sacred forest in which runs the waters of earth gods, sprung from the ground in the com pound we are ordered to take off our

clothes our jewelry even our panties ... we are covered with only a cloth batik

ture in my mind of the dying goats kicking in the sand

We must have pure thoughts to enter the courtyard, our shoes are taken inside the circle, a sea of small black faces surrounds us children, suffering ... what does the priest do for them?

it's beginning we kneel in front of the shrine one priest, two Americans, two chickens, two goats a pit is dug, the priest performs libation, pouring splashing alcohol in front of the shrine, it runs down a rivet, almost to the pit We drink too, offering the last swallow to the gods of the earth an offering we kiss the dirt, kneel stoop our forehead in submission to the gods the goat cries bright fire engine paint red life blood pours from his throat, the priest carries the goat, kicking to the four corners, smattering it everywhere, coating the ancient worship ground - they hang the entrails on the gate to the shrine, the living goat cries for his brother... as the animals are sacrificed, the crayola red swirls in the alcohol, trickling down the crack, deep into the earth earth gods feasting We eat the children eat the men and women together eat and all I can think of is the pic-

11.

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good faith that you are not deadyour position could never afford to dieI saw you today at the mall-

skin riding my ten-speed to the mall ~.m(:~l{,!p.gl uJl.e aromatic funk of city buses gutsy motorcars and grease drivers h"

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I toured the department stores e aromatic funk of your perfumes g,m~~t,nl, e gutsy headstrong girls who wept At your funeral last week. Funny to think That week before last I was a fly on the wall At one of your parties in Monaco-I am sure You will not remember me, but I was there As surely as I am here now, and you are notAnd as a fly, I attended sans invitationAnd now, today, I attended your wake at the Mall, and it occurred to me that what we see Here, in these estrogen-testosterone halls,

In the flesh walking down the runway, in the Stick women vomiting into toilets, in the Girls pressing their noses against plate glass and Counting their greenbacks to see if they too Can join this most elusive club-Cof course They cannot, but they die trying)-it occurred To me, to me then that the week before last You threw a party in Monaco and spilled some Champagne on a tablecloth and threw the tableCloth away, and as a fly acting sans invitation I took the tablecloth and gave it to a homeless Woman in Paris, who turned it into a wedding Gown for her crippled daughter who has Never even heard of Versace or walked through

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these Testosterone-estrogen halls or witnessed the gruesome Flesh on the runway or the stick women in the WCThe daughter was married wearing a Versace original, And you never even knew. Now click speed back To the mall today, the girls with the bodies of women And the sexuality of a Gorgon, the ability to turn Men to stone-they took their cues from you, Versace, They bought their weapons from you. They wait in Vain for the next Instruction, but alas, you are gone.

This is vitriol, sparse on solutions though never lackIng

In accusations-but I am tired of watching a generation Fall on its face trying to imitate you. Now some will say That this is you crucifixion, martyrdom a priori, But I believe that the laurels are unearned, should be Returned ... When death loosens your grip, we shall all Crawl into the light, naked and beautiful despite you.

PIECE c.

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tJ ~-) 'f'J ~-' ;0!)~~~~ Goddess raised me safe from the outside. She let me playas =.~"'-.> :;'I~~) ~tt'~Yi~ in her castle, for it was the only place that she knew. The )' c:';)~/ ca~'§lira'P) ore and more each year as I watched Bad Goddess disapI_~~~~j ~~ _~~e. ~ t!ll~j~ ' '~ c.om: back w~th presents and stories. Good Goddess said that ~~r::?;' y~.~llj !~= .ddess enjoyed herself, she neglected everyone but herself. .cJ'\\:9'" ~~~t~,~~- , d~~~_ d not re.ally love us. . .. . ~ ~ - ~W)1~eh~ I ,urned eIghteen, Good Goddess took out all the lIttle fIsh In I~\~'-i-,",. ( ~e p~1!l~) and r~leased them in the man-made waterfall that runs under ~!?-~) ~llst41-eayth~ castle door.

Bad Goddess dropped in a dozen masks and let them sink between the rocks and the blue plastic seaweed. Masks of iron, paper, wood. Masks from Bali and Singapore, Mazatlan and Cozumel, Frankfurt and Warsaw.

Good Goddess slaps my hand when I dip it into the water. Bad Goddess whispers, "Tap the glass, see what faces do."

Tap. Bali opens its eyes, shuts its mouth, floats to the top.

Tap. Tokyo spins on its nose.

Tap. Mazatlan somersaults in the water and laughs.

Good Goddess snatches my hand and drags me away from the tank.

Bad Goddess dives in, she swims among the faces.

Good Goddess wears a mask herself. I catch a glimpse of the shriveled skin underneath. It peel and hangs like paper mache.

I bite the hand of the Good Goddess. She gasps, lets go. I run to the tank. Dive in.

Like Bad Goddess, I swim among the masks of the world. Like Bad Goddess, I can only wear my own face.

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PIECE g.

In a cold, empty living room, reflecting on past adventures in ardent foreign lands.

Rearranging the pictures in neat plastic books, just in case anyone ever sees them.

Practicing the stories, honing their delivery to perfection, but the words sound hollow echoing from the barren walls, while the shiny new telephone stands by in silent mockery.

Later, Latin rhythms fill the room and shout, a message of frustration and distaste.

Friends and neighbors sometimes hearthey tap their feet and bob their heads, but nobody understands Charlie's plea (La sal no sala, y el azucar no endulza).

A triumphant return was expected, a smooth transition into an old role, but with a new twist.

From extranjero to local son, now worldly and enchanting, wizened by the many miles.

But that's not how one is seen by the indifferent masses passing by eyes fixed to the ground, or gazing off into space,

or staring right through you- still a stranger.

The presence and support of old friends is unwaverIng, and raucous reunions lighten the mood, but they have their own lives, own identities.

The Stranger has none.

In a place where everything is familiar, but nothing is the same, and where the gone are quickly forgotten, he finds nothing awaiting him in the new paradigm.

Yet the Stranger is content, in a way, to let all the familiar faces pass by, and continue to ignore their former acquaintance, classmate, lover, while he forges a new identitytakes what he has learned and continues constructing himself, like a sculpture.

A few heartfelt hugs are all that is neededa solid foundation for launching a new life, entering a new reality.

He now stands before an empty canvas, stretching out into time.

A new piece that takes on color and form as the pathways that emerge are explored, and the artist finds self-realization and . . meanIng once agaIn.

.=...PO..=....;E=M:....:.=.....=.f路------I119.

My mama didn't raise no bitch Black bitch A simple phrase Cruel words Scrawled quickly Carelessly On my roommate's Boone board with a black dry erase marker on a white, dirty surface "Fuck you, BB!" It was not bold nor beautiful those letters stood for I could be dense Naive-no longer Black bitch Tell me What is a black bitch? cause I sure as hell don't know clueless to the fact that racism still thrives "IN GOOD ... OLE ... ROCKY TOP! HICKVILLE, TENNESSEE!" My face flamed fire.

Furiously, I glared at those words that would be forever etched into my memory. Carved by a cruel pale hand. I knew that a lot of the white girls on my floor didn't like me. They hated me, even though I had done nothing to them. I was only trying to be "bout my bidness." But I had "run" out one of their own, scared her away. Now I had to pay.

20.11--_~P=--=I-=-E--=.....;CE~h.

SO th ey said. When we passed in the hall, none smiled. Their long dirty greasy hair hung past their pale pink faces hiding those cold blue gray green eyes.

They n ever looked at me.

When they did- eyes averted a way as if they were scared timid animals. I was the cruel beast.

Black bitch. How I intimidated them ...

Rinnnggg!!

"Hello?"

"This is Clement Hall front desk." ''Yeah?''

"Music's t oo loud. Turn it down.

Noise complaint."

Damn, girl lives right next door If my 2pac and my Biggie bother her so much why can't she come and tell me to turn it down, huh? why call the front desk when I live right across the way That's some dumb shit tattle tale little girls Afraid to approach me Afraid that I may snap off their pretty little heads But does th a t make me a Black bitch? cause I don't take no shit no shit off nobody

in their eyes-it does Black bitch Black woman wearing my red do-rag wrapped around my wrap sportin my turquoise furry slippers Looking up, not down Why am I called the Black bitch? cause I am angry self-reliant defiant strong young smart I hide things in A fool once wrote that black women are the cause of interracial dating We cause the problem because we are too masculine nit-picky ugly not sexy lazy not feminine un -feminine voices too deep hair too na ppy hair too short clothes big and baggy he stereotyped all black women as nothing but Black bitches Once again

means being strong like the mule of the earth when the chips are down urging my man to keep on when my baby wants to give out working two jobs to pay bills writing angry poems when I am more than just a little pissed off this is more than PMS wearing my hair up wrapped around my wrap in my red do-rag sportin my turquoise furry slippers given to me by gr eat- great- grammama Phine looking UP, not down not afraid to be rebellious to speak up when they spe(l: down at me not let them brush past bump into me call noise complaints on demand to see my ID listen to me say no what can you do If being a black bitch m being like that Then honey, I am like that all that

If being a black bitch

POEM

21.

Clinton lean ed up against the rail overlooking the Thames. Today was the day.

Time to go back home. The eternity that was six months never fully digested in him ; it remained lodged painfully in his throat.

But it was over, finally. He looked forwar d to the flight tonight, getting back to America. It was like falling backwards into a heap of fluffy pillows. He seriously could not take any more of London; h e was scared that if he was exposed to this place any longer, it would change him into one of those guys in the red suits and the big tall black hats. Mother would never let him in the house. Jenny would break off the engagement. But it was for them that h e urged to get back, to feel that splendid thing called love again. And to stop his life as a Londoner.

The wind picked up just slightly.

How bizarre his swirling emotions now. The happiness intended for him was not to be.

Dribbling a cigarette languidly over the rail, thumbing his right forearm , starin g blankly over the choppy, forbidden r ipples of the gray Thames, all revealed a strange cosmic irony on this exhaustibly anticipat ed day of departure. Even the always present grace of the gliding birds of the Thames did not supply the comfort he needed presently. So what did he want? What kind of laced barbiturate would wrench t his black gloominess from his psyche? Possibly this doomed, manic experience would only end the moment he took his seat on Flight 445 to New York. Possibly then his insatiable thirst for comfort on this day of reckoning would be fulfilled. Possibly then a wry smile would creep up on him, or an elegant smile from an attractive stewardess would h elp beset his volcanic frustrations of the past six months. He couldn't tell. It was all to come in time. In time. Ten more hours.

Those light-winged gulls that danced about the flowing water mocked him sweetly with their floating grace. Nice try.

Stupid birds. I would suggest migrating to

22.1t--__----'-S_T--'-O_RY_c.

Holland or so~ . nee th~ States are way too far . Clinton smiled at this thought and took anoth er drag out of his cigarette. And take your silly pigeon fri ends with you. One of the awful truths that involuntarily reveal themselves as you en ergetically visit London in the hope of learning, seeing and doing wonderful n ew things is the insane r eality of being the odd beneficiary of the pigeon's acquaintance.

Clinton h ated this. Normally, a stroll through the evergreen pleasantness of New York's Central Park brought out shy but stubborn flock s of intruding pigeon s, but once their God-given duty to lute you for every piece of bread was finish ed, they left you for some other unlucky sailor. Through his frequent and unnecessary office "out-tolunches," Clinton observed m any times at Trafalgar that the London variety of the pigeon toted a much haughtier ch aract er.

Once given their allocat ed ration of bread, they ostentatiously proceed to dress themselves by the hundreds all about you and your clothing. This intimacy is something you can do without, certainly. Then you're left ther e looking like a drunken beggar with London's guffawing business elite in your face trying to tell you tourist the proper way (god let there be none!) to feed a pigeon!

Clinton was missing Mother, too.

He felt sorry for h er loneliness, especially since the passing of Father. Let alone a brother in Maine and a few relatives scatt ered h ere and ther e, sh e h a d no real family around h er. Clinton always tried to keep an unsympathetic face to it all, reassuring h er that sh e h a d plenty of friends. But this ar gument was difficult to punch home after sh e moved to that peaceful little car e home for the elderly. He had settled h er in those first few precarious days , just a few weeks after taking his new job at British Tek in New York City. He had worked h ard to please h er in his career and in h er immediate daily life, frequently taking long walks

Shenandoa near their home, and often visiting h er broth er in Maine, and while there, sailing a little in the fresh, cool Atlantic air.

She had been h appy then. And he knew in those moments, most definitely, her spirit had not died with Father, no matter how much it was stabbed and beaten.

Yeah, she was happy. She was always proud of Clinton. She loved him. He loved her. And he loved this land called America, the smells of the Shenandoa in spring, the colors in fall, the life in summer, the peace in winter.

J as, his American/Indian friend and co-worker, had surprisingly taken to the city with a heavy dose of indifference. Get this, during the six month stint, he even found himself a young, cute waitress at The Eagle named Marie, and went with her with the same stroke of indifference, this time unfortunately directed to sweet Diane, his American fiancee. The atmosphere in London seems to do that to you: drug you.

It's mild sedation, but it's truly enough to blacken your soul just slightly. Jas thinks so, too. But in the same sense, he claims it lightens the soul and opens your eyes to a n ew world. Yeah, your open eyes have gotten you into a heap of trouble, friend. That weirdo!

The Eagle had been the undisputed h angout for the two Americans from the get -go. It was right by the office, it was full of all types, and Clinton, as much as he h ated to say it, liked the beer and food there. It was okay, he would claim, nothing special, nothing bad. This was just the quaint spot wh ere conversations amuck would arise for no particular reason.

Usually Clinton complained about his day with the utmost criticism, while Jas, doped on one whiff, as he would claim, of the London atmosphere, sat smiling, commenting and looking wide-eyed all around him.

Clinton's sour mood may have had its odi-

ous beginnings from this crazed, happy-golucky temperament Jas constantly flaunted, reason being Clinton quite discreetly felt his usual control over the relationship slowly slip away to this smiley, likable Indian. In r ebound, Clinton dubiously discussed the banalities of both his day and the city in general, and surprisingly found out that his frequent criticizing rants greatly satisfied both his frustrations and Jas' hidden desire to r eturn to normal. It wasn't at all hard to come up with these oral essays on London.

Not for Clinton, the Great American Sage.

Actually, it came quite easy having such a big American dog watching his back.

It was just when Marie began giving J as the interested side-eye-shot as sh e clear ed some dishes that Clinton started becoming increasingly annoyed about some of t h e events both in the office and on the London streets. Earlier that day, he'd listened to a commoner play "Wonderwall" to the delight of a usually somber tube crowd, after which he was "obliged" to fork over five pounds for the show. His only fiver.

Then to make matters worse, his switchover at Embankment Station was halted by a trust y bobby who requested to see his underground pass. Of course, h e had none.

What were the chances anyway? There went his only ten note. It was all absurd. Even the minutes that seemed like hours on the tube from busy station to busy station, spent looking dead into the rough, pouty faces of the people across from him through every bump, twist and turn of the train, easily unnerved him. Nothing tastes right h er e. Everything's just ... bland. Ain't that r ight Jas? Jaswinder?

Too many houses look alike, Clinton mused. It's quite disturbing. What's called for is a full scale reorganization of the archit ectural design programs in the schools across the country. Possibly it's just the textbook. Maybe they need a new textbook, a modern textbook. A nice shiny $99 textbook, set with glossy, colorful pictures of

building types outside the Isles . Granted, they do have a swell tradition in architectural design, common as it may be. But wouldn't a field trip to various countries around the world, including the United States and Canada, be a wonderful learning experience for these young bawdy, easilybrainwash ed ruffians? Give the young lads a taste of another flavor of coffee or another brand of beer. My guess, a cool Molson or Heineken wiggles their taste buds. Then, of course, all of the houses, banks, malls, schools, and post offices. Their eyes would widen, mouths would drop, hands would shimmer. Oooh, the taste of new knowledge.

How beautiful these fine, fine buildings!

Different, but fine, fine! I like it. You? "Historically speaking," began J as, "establishments such as these mean something. The more archaic looking, the richer, the finer they appear. Quite frankly, I like it. The hotels h ere. They're unique. The Dorchester: exquisite! Claridges: immaculate! Savoy! My friend, I would live in a hotel!"

But there's got to be a limit, don't you agree? Granted, my high school English teacher would love to die in this very pub and good old artsy-Darcy would not cease to rant about the mosaic of symbolism contained in the sh eepish boredom of the warring horses in those paintings that hang from the walls, and me, yeah I could also tell you those horses would rather be eating h ay, but geez, do I h ave to see it everywhere, every place I go? There's no escape from this blasted style of dormitory. Thank God for some trees in London, and fog, to block out this sight of pure, unrelenting monotony! The epitome of monotony! That and cricket!

It was time to go. It was time to leave the Thames railing and the birds that mocked him all this time. He wished to leave his thoughts, too, and hopefully his whole experience at t h at green tarnished

rail of the South Embankment. What pleased him now was that he was mostly packed, so was Jas. But his Indian friend was still at the office "finishing some things ," probably also finishing Marie.

Clinton had said his much awaited farewell the previous day. Not much of a good bye.

His co-workers, nice as they were, annoyed him too much with their jabbering lip for Clinton to put in a wholehearted effort to say so long to them. He took a taxi through central London toward Hyde Park, managing to take final peeks at the passing historical monuments and all of London's claimto-fame on the way. But the weather just ruined it too much. The brief sun that had awoken him this morning did not last too long into the day, rain had easily out-shoved the hot life-giver once again. It was n ever any contest; once the gray rolling clouds had made up their dissuasive minds to rain, the sun almost gladly obliged as if it held some sort of debt of honor with the clouds. But still the city operated amazingly. People still hustled through it. Always going somewhere.

He met Jas under the pattering canopy of Geales, a quiet, reasonably priced seafood restaurant. Jas appeared dramatically out of the simmering mist produced by the rain, soaked trench coat decked upon his shoulders, black nylon umbrella bobbing above his head, dark chubby facial skin stretching outward presenting his common smile. Clinton nodded to Jas and shook his cold hand as they entered the warm fishy confines of the establishment. It was lightly occupied and considering the early afternoon hour, Clinton and J as easily found a table near the window.

"I said good-bye to Marie," Jas stared out into the rain. "It was tough letting go of that, I must admit. Best sex I ever had."

"N eed I remind you that there is a certain someone named Diane .. ." Clinton just shook his h ead in disbelief, as the wait-

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er jotted down th eir orders. It all made him glad he was fully engaged to Jen ny. That feeling of definite, one hundre d per cent security gave him t h at mu ch n eeded inden tation in America, which always proved to be greatly pacifying durin g h is time in London. Jas ramb led on about Marie and eventually h is good-bye at the office. His coworkers had given h im a cute minia ture United Kingdom flag and a nice n ew calculator. But all t h e while, Clinton's wide smir k sorely put Jas' to sh a me. They wer e leaving today! As time flowed, h e felt t h e sh a dow of obscurity and discomfort wan away.

Jas su ddenly looked up at him.

With a strained looked of sudden revelation, he struggled to swallow a h ot sip before letting go what h e h ad to say, "Oh yes, Clint!

Before I forget! I meant to tell you. I saw your moth er here in London, down in Covent Garden, sh opping!"

Then the world fell ...

And, of course, following this transmission t h at seem ed from another galaxy being so su dden-so untimely!- and so extraordinarily unbelievable, came the expected cou ghing fits and regurgitat ed coffee from t h e man across from Jas. Once again Clinton felt himself t hrown blindfolded into ice cold water. And after th e shock wore through an d was replaced by a dumb silent look, Clinton mu stered some choppy, frozen words: "Huh? What .. ?" And each time J as started to explain , h e was inter rupted: "You're mistaken ... There's no way you could've seen ...In London? ..Geezl...

She's ... in the U.S." Th en , wh en J as gave up trying to interject, Clinton assumed a sudden seriousness, "Jas, sh e's not h ere .

Mother h as t h at look of a t h ou sand or so elderly women. She even looks British."

J as looked at Clinton with a strange fright. Clinton seemed weir dly disturbed by t h e notion t h at his mom could actually be h ere in London. Plus, it came from Jas . Jas' qu aint knack of being on top of things also aided to t he cracklin g fir e

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burning in the pit of his stomach . But despite the keen visual pr owess on J as' part, if h e even possessed this rare human trait especially being a robot in front of a Compa q Presario all day, Clinton never once seem ed to weigh the sheer odds that clearly claimed that the ch ances of his mother living a normal, r etired life in the gr eater London ar ea, wher e it isn't stran ge to find hundreds of people looking exactly alike, were extremely slim.

"J as, you n ever saw my mother," he per sist ed, trying to put words into J as' mouth, or possibly convinced that if h e said the hopeful phrase enough times it would become true. ''You mean to t ell me that a mong thousands of shoppers in Covent Garden that you, like a brain surgeon, m anaged to pick out my mother?!"

"Of course not. The chances of that h a ppening are very slim. And me being a robot in front of a computer... " "Okay, so you didn't see h er?" "No, I just spoke to h er." "Huh?" ''Yeah.'' "Wah?" "For fift een minutes." ''Yeah ?'' ''Yeah .''

"Whoa ... " "Her e. She gave me this." Jas h anded over a slip of paper with an address .

"Sh e wants to see you."

"H a mpst ead? God .. ." Clinton leaned back , staring at the address. He wasn't r eally flipping with joy from the fact that his mother lived in London. Rather, h e felt queasy. A dark cloud flo at ed above him, and h e felt invisible r ain drops pound him . His sunny day was gone, much like London's.

He peer ed out the window. He actually had something in common with this city...

He was in the tube again. Jubilee Line ...

He r eally thought that his mother emotionally fell apart the inst ant sh e was endowed with retirement. Throughout h er self-ma de h ectic life, sh e never failed to put the things most precious to h er first on h er list of respop.sibilities, even if it meant miss-

ing days upon days of work to care for him.

A child's welfar e, to h er, was valued at more of an en grossing for tune than a good living.

Off the tube at West Hampstead Station. Not much of a r u sh here. Could it actually be the r ain? Yeah righ t. But Clinton pret ended it was the reason.

Several tourist s rush ed by him carrying bags with "Harrod's" written fashionably on the side. He entered t h e street above and peered at the a ddress on ce again. It was his first time in Ha mpst ead. Cute. Scenic. Still London , though. And with th at , Clinton's gr ay clouds r eturned. A few locals braved the st eady downpour for a few measly shillings as t h ey st r ummed t h e friendly tunes of the ever-popular Beatles outside the st ation. Very cute.

He h at ed t h at he h ad never invested in an umbrella. Maybe t h at was the key to liking this place. Perhaps just h olding that stylish hooked end of an umbrella m agically gave you the dash of toler ance needed to cope with t his bloody place. Maybe. Mostly, h e would like to see these r ed double- decker bu ses and black r oach es-for-cabs vanish miraculously.

Tra ditional and unique, you say? Until you've spent months upon months in th em or looking at them, you h aven't really lived her e. ... Twenty minutes went by. He stood ther e in the rain, statuesque, staring into oblivion. Actually, his gaze was tunn eled toward something. A cute duplex with a light ly br owned stucco exterior cozied itself in fr ont of him . Herds of bu shes and wild shrubber y n estled through out the tiny yet opulent-looking front yard. Slowly, the r ain died a way. Clinton peered t h rough the wat ery mist to see a ru sh of green sh oot out of the vegetation in the yard, unleashing their lovely ever green smell. It was beautifully t empting. Clinton wanted to eat it all up . But t h e final impression taken from the fl at's welcoming beckon ma de Clinton think

flat's welcoming beckon made Clinton think he was in som e non-existent world, some kind of fantasy land much like the temptingly sweet one two young juicy kids named Hanzel and Gretel stumbled across one fine day in the forest. Clinton tried quickly to think back to the moral of that god-forsaken story, but failed. He was merely left alone with this sweet, lovely home presumably belonging to his retired American mother.

This distasteful association did numbers with his brain, relentlessly confu sing him while shaking the entire cosmic equilibrium of the universe. There's no way Mother lives like this!

Clinton's emotions at the moment were numerous but insoluble with each other. Surprise, happiness, anxiousness, doubtfulness and a bit of jealousy perturbed him. Perturbed him for twenty minutes outside his mother's- yes, checking the address one last time- his mother's gate.

Clinton felt like he had stepped out of the main flow of society, through an infinitely large mirrored sheet, and into a dimension where only h e stood, puzzled among peace, grayness and this sparkling house. With this sense of physical journey, came a detachment and isolation from his own mind, almost like erroneously finding yourself suddenly among the insane in a mental ward where a totally different consciousness exists ... .. .Moments later. Clinton found himself at the door. Fine architecture, h e observed. Also distinct, next to the door, near the bell, hung a stylish plaque with the warming words "God bless our home" embellished on it. Clinton smiled as h e adj usted his gabardine trench coat before ringing the pale colored door button. The words calmed him slightly, the first time they have ever managed to do so . For the most part, this was clearly because finally he was able to associate the peaceful scrip ture with his mother. Childhood never brought him such association of any reli-

gious kind. It wasn't a catastroph e eith er.

Clinton never saw th e lack of strong spiritual beliefs as something predestined for the dogs . Specifically, the fact that he always saw his mother as the epitome of "good" and "purity" in his life and having achieved such pillars of grace without the need for spiritual puppet strings made him even more question the fundamental purpose of religion.

The door opened and Mother was there, standing like the day he left her last.

Pride in her eyes, tears as well. Clinton stood tall just as a sultry breeze blew around him. Sh e looked well. Still, much like any other ordinary mother. But there was a stronger glow, an old fashioned glow, something from another age, another time, when Father was alive ... Her whole person levitated on some higher air, almost like royalty, bringing forth rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes and luminous silver h air.

Clinton hugged h er.

"You look well. .. " She muttered.

Clinton stepped away from the embrace.

"Uh ... you, too."

"Won't you come in? I'm preparing dinner." Clinton entered and was touched delicately by his surroundings. The living area was simple yet mystique. There was nothing that shouted wealth, then again in some ways the various pictures, paintings, tables, lamps, clocks and soft library-like wallpaper together generated a more tranquil atmosphere than any kind of superficial opulence. The smells dazed him. So much unlike the other world, that outside world, that common London. It seemed like the air held delicate honey drops that whisked here and there, tickling you gently on the nose before scurrying away with giggles of delight. Clinton couldn't help smiling at the scene. Moth er led him into the living area and sat him down where a cup of warm h erbal tea waited for him.

"Tea," he observed. "How great not to have coffee."

"I thought you would like it." Oh,

was that a spot of an English accent, Mother!? "Clint .. .I'm very glad that you came. There is so much that has happen ed."

"Yes, I see." Clinton snickered playfully at the expected comment.

"How... what happened? My guess: this isn't a vacation," h e commented, looking around.

"This is ridiculous. You loved it at home ... didn't you?"

Mother's head bowed to one side. ''Yes, of course. I love Virginia. It will always be home, I have no choice. That is who I am, where I came from. But-Clint, m ay God forgive me- I...I wasn't happy.

Mter you left for New York, then London, I h a d no one. What did you expect me to do?"

"Come on. I was around and you had friends at the home."

"No, Clint, those weren't friends and I hated that home. Old, disabled people all around me. I was sad and it wasn't long befor e I became sick with depression. I felt as if there was no escape from the box I was in. Nothing seemed real, everything was fake . Visitors came with fake love, volunteers brought fake gifts, therapists spoke with fake concern. Clinton, I wanted to escape."

"You h ad me-" ''You were in LOIl~Qj~W~Wยงic"

elderly men, artists, the home to paint. ors they painted, the portraits. For once, I began to admire they seemed to be my

back door. Clinton's a

just silent bewildermen ~~~'l'tii~~~~ry froz e. A dignified, scholarly looking old man stood motionless at the arched entrance to

the living area. The man waited patiently by the entrance with slightly surprised but sympathetic eyes directed toward Clinton.

He studied the American for a critical minute before the flowing brown hair, forgiving eyebrows, putty nose and steady red lips redeemed their mother's appearance.

Then a gentle smile dawned upon the newcomer's face.

"The picture. You look just like the picture." Calmly h e approached t h e frozen Clinton. "Cheers, boy. I take it Mum h as told you about h er special painter.

Handsome lad. Staying for dinner?" This is a dream ... right?

With the wonderful countryside British meal completed, Clinton and his mother's new soul mate, Roger Morris, found themselves in his old, cluttered work shed at the rear of the house. Dinner h ad brought out much about Roger and his lavish career. Naturally, if Roger had been a coworker, his flat's landlord, or even the doorman, he would have easily taken a liking to Roger's unblemished personality. But the fact such a well-spoken, multi-talented, energetic and mannered man (not to mention fiendishly handsome, and totally unlike any Brit Clinton had ever met) was with his loving American mother made Clinton's stomach cringe. Roger spoke as if his words were scripted, they were so fluid and tangible. Throughout his calm, lurid life, painting had been his one true love and now that h e was free of all career constraints, Roger was back to where he wanted to be: painting and sharing his magical brush with others. He had gone back to simplicity; to his childhood; to his love; with his love, here, nestled quietly in the essence of London.

Clinton enjoyed wandering in the shed which almost was like a museum with all of Roger's beautiful pieces of artwork hanging from the walls. Especially captivating to Clinton was one particular painting, a dark night image of a city. It was entitled

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"City Lights" and to Clinton it reminded him of New York Cit y. "New York City?" h e inquired. "No, London ... " Clinton slowly crept closer to liking this man, but still h e was without consciousn ess to grasp the entire movie-screen story that took his mother across t h e Atlantic to England virtually on the wings of this superhuman.

"I want you to understand, I didn't intend to be some sort of comic book superh ero. I saw t h e depression in your mother, but then instantly, almost magically, sh e was shining with vitality as sh e joined u s with the paintings. We told the group of many things, mostly about the paintings.

Mostly, sh e asked me about the "outside world", where I was from, what my home was like, the smells, the colors there.

During that week, we sh ared a great deal, sh e and I, and me also being in my waning years, took that opportunity to live, to really live and m eet n ew people. That is why I volunteered for that overseas art program. I love being everywhere. Every new land a mazes me and I must paint it! Every new land is a new experience and, as I told your mother, new smells and new colors. That is the essence of new land."

Clinton, humble but attentive and almost accepting, stood in retrospect, "So you just took Mother from America."

"Took? Such a h arsh word. Mter our luminous talks, sh e wish ed to leave, but somehow I h ad already known h er wish by the shapeless soul I encountered when we first met. Sh e poured so much sadness to me, I was fearful sh e would die from emptiness after this exhaustible confession. But I told h er of this n ew place of wonderful smells and colors."

"London?"

"No. Faith. She had no faith.

Hence, sh e could not t r u st that things would be fine. Sh e could not conceive an ything getting better once it went bad." He paused before continuing. "I did not preach

to h er, but told her to find and listen to her faith , like she may have done once before.

Find it, harness it, and nurture it, because one day you may need it." Clinton glanced " up at Roger, his wrinkled encasing did not fe ster his sincerity.

"So you brought her to London."

Roger nodded. Clinton mused a bit on the reality of it all, then started chuckling.

"London! God!. .. " Clinton looked skyward in amazement and disbelief. His abrupt percu ssion of laughter cut the tranquil air and seemed to bring the conversation back to earth . His glass partition between him and lovin g London had teetered a bit, but he could only think of America and home and the ludicrousness of his mother leaving such a hind for the dank mysteriousness of London. His chuckle reduced to a smile.

Roger read the transparent thoughts of Clinton. "Th ere isn't as much to say about London as there is to say about New York or Washington. It's strictly individual the way people fancy, love and admire t hings. Strictly individual. No one can explain it. But one thing is true: You must really know something inside to fall in love with it. To love is to be with it physically, emotionally and spiritually. In your very own way. Love must be realized and explained by you individually." Roger paused and looked at Clinton as if Clinton was the one that was unexplainable. He gestured to the American. "Come this way. I would like to show you something ... "

There are those little things in life that stimulate our usually dormant vitality.

For each of us it is different, but all the same they give us a common medicine: a thrill, a wild crazy thrill. It then becomes love and fulfillm ent and a fr esh resilience for life. Roger h ad taught him about life in one evening. Now he was also willing to show h im. Under the tarp in the garage, Clinton saw the essence of his London. Not the bickering bobbies, or his puppet-like co-

tworkers, but t h e pot entially fast -paced, teeth-grinding danger t h at all underlined the rugged ston e exterior of everyday London. It came in the form of a Ya mah a, plain and simple, a 70s version, black and sleek, small but trendy. Its met al spokes were stars as t h ey caugh t each ray of light and sent them sparkling back in your eye; the uncovered engine, bold and fearless, stood out like a guard's h eft y ch est , r eady for a beating; t h e h andle bars, m agn et s for your hands, r uler of direction , conqu eror of obstacle; leath er seat, an gry tires, an d t h e words "Yamaha" i)nprinted on th e side fin ished it all. Clinto'n 's shifty eyes met Roger's . Roger h eld out a finger. The keys rolled on it. "Do London. Wr ite me about it." .. .The last I was Mother. The last I thought was "wh y?" Bu t it did not matter any more. Noth ing mattered. Once your hands grip th at steel bar, it is another world, a super world, a h eaven beyond h eaven, a powerful, gutless h eaven ... The ripping sounds gut t h e road like a ch ain-saw and I am off with a blue coolness in one eye and red fire in the oth er.. .It is cool.. .Down the A41 at high speeds with fru st ration passing me by, risk with me, and dulln ess aside ... To central London .. .All of th e glitz and glamour appears through t h e dark visor of my helmet as I slow the pace. It com es with peace ... Just sights, brief sounds, that's all I want ... The night life is in full gear.. .It is their time .. .It is my time ... Lights reflect off the shiny roofs of cars, cabs and buses ... More reflect off t h e wet pavement revealing anoth er, h azier London ...Throu gh the shopping districts .. .P ubs in full swing ... Partygoers relentless in h ow drunk they can get on life ... Harrod's, that beautiful castle of light, pinnacle of all brilliance, shines up ahead and soon behind me ... Another biker rides along beside me for some time. I look over and see a h elm et turn my way and nod t h en continue .. .I love the rush , the ride. People wave at me and

smile .. .It is life's music, life is playing a tune for me ... Through the t h eater dist r ict .

Endless lines for shows of all n ature.

F a mou s h er e fir st .. .I motor by... Th e lu scious lights of Picadilly and Leicester Squar es illuminat e t he sky as I bask in their glow.

Ever ything h a ppen s h ere. The whole world h a ppen s h er e ... To Tower London and r oyalty.. .I speed by.. .Just speeding by I consume t h em all, I consume ever ything! I h ave it all, this is my essence, this is my London ... Forever mine!... Look through my visor... See my hidden eyes, then you will see my hidden love .. .Look at me speed, look at me turn, look at me stop then go on green! ... Look at me long for something that was n ever mine!... Now see me r ace by you ... See me leave and ch ase my love while you st and still in life. Let me go! Let m e race around Hyde, swerve thr ough Ken sington! See me leave you all. See me leave it all! See me leave ... I'm leaving.

Leaving? ... ... Clinton lay on the wet pavement. Lights swirling arou n d him. He felt dizzy and tired. He felt like sleeping some more . But darkly dressed men with conesh a ped h ats sh ook him . Ther e was chatter.

There was Mother, crying, with Ro ger.

Ther e was J as, h ands in pocket s, worried.

And yes, ther e was t he Yam aha, lying alone ten feet from wh er e h e lay. What h ad h a ppened? But Clinton knew, r emark ably. He knew the whole story. He h a d lived it. On this highly anticipated day of departure, h e r ealized the golden t r uth of it all. This place was n ever for h im. He knew it from the beginning. Lying ther e, h e saw that the city never liked him either. The two didn't mix and no faith or patien ce or friend would ever reconcile t h e two. He just didn't belong.

America was his always. His home. Ther e J enny waited for him. But what about Mother ? Oh, Mother. Sh e came to him and h eld his hand. "Clint, let 's go h ome ." H e looked at h er st ran gely. Her despair and

an guish was evident. Her love was evident.

Th e love of a child and its engrossing fortune. Sh e h ad it once again. She was back.

But h e was still lost and confused. The last six mon t h s ... t h at night ride ... they were two colliding worlds.

Slowly and quietly, Clinton leaned his h ead back . It h urt. Somehow an angry London flipped his bike. But h e wasn't an gry an ymore. He wanted Mother, to be h ers again. He wanted to be on her level once again, like in America. But he couldn't be angry anymore. His mother was her loving self, and even as a Londoner, she was there wit h him like the days of old. And he, seeing t h e calm nigh t sky, the moon, then his mother, closed his eyes and ... "Let me stay, mom. Just let me stay here." ... wondered wh at was next .

I begin stepping down, With time a cruel chain-a-dragging, As I thought, "Rake no more."

I opened the mammoth door.

Entered I into the bowels of the grimy black, Swirling dust upon the blocked tomb, Giving off an eerie gloom; Lonely motors humming tune; Pumps groan for hissing steam that knocks and pounds to be free.

As I step toward the suction, I can hear its moaning seduction I pull free the rusty stopper from its gaping head, And lay the iron cross upon its bed.

I turn the handle.

As the air pushes the chrome cylinders, The iron gray door groans a wake There to greet is the box of fire belching cinders and fiery embers.

The head enough to singe the flesh.

I grab the heavy rake;

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Its fire fell upon the s I plunged the rake into !el:~~~~~t;ft~~ pulling, busting, poking, \J gJn'~r~f':'j'rtlIJ~JIJ I begin asking Why the inferno is eternal, With a dragon breathing fire To push the demons to their ire?

With cloven hoofs and pitchfork rakes, They despair at their fate.

Hells-a-popping, as they say, Soon to bust all our way.

For the minions, which are many, Have been calling for our pity.

As the choking smoke gathers at our door, I reach for the handle to lock out the hordes.

As the fire brick disappears, The stoking furnace rages clear.

As my red eye gives to white eye, I wearily ascend the steps. to begin again, With "Rake no more," Raging through my head.

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It was a very Ukrainian day And I walked very much like an old Ukrainian womanhead down, one arm holding my coat closed, one hand always in my pocket.

It wasn't so much the cold that sent me back there; it was the gray and the suffocating clouds.

I had always thought I would hate not seeing the sun, but that day the memories came before I could complainAnd I could not deny that I missed the bundled-up babushki and the gray-ness that let me rest from trying to smile all the time.

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Editor: Jason Aldred

Andy Ashby Christine Baker

Managing Editor: Lisa Kammerud

Mark Cherry Dorian Deluca

Graphic Designer: Katie Daniel Assistant Graphic Designer: Joshua Sage Newman

Fred Grim Holly Hunnicut Neal Maynord

Art Editor: Sara Lansdown

Alissa Nesbit

Fiction Editor: Puneet Sharma

Jocelyn Trimble

Cara Polinski

Courtney Watson Non-Fiction Editor: Josh Hagan Poetry Editor: Whitney Matheson On-Line Editor: Kai Nguyen

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Jane Pope Eric Smith

Internation al Graphics: Dover Publications

Š copyri g ht 1998 by the U ni versity of Tennessee.

A ll rights reserved by the indiv idual contributors.

Phoenix is prepared camera- ready by the student staff me mbers and is published three times a year.

Works of art, poetry, f icti o n, and non-ficti on are accepted thro ughout the academi c year. Send submi ssions to Phoenix, room 5 Communi cati ons B uilding, 1345 Circle Park D ri ve, Knoxv ill e, Te nnessee 37996-03 14.

T he Phoenix wou ld like to extend spec ia l th anks to Jane Pope, Eric Sm ith , Linda Graham, Kare n Bay less , Betty A lle n, and Debbie Tappan fo r the ir valu abl e assistance in production of thi s iss ue.

University of Tennessee 1998