Phoenix - Spring 2002 by UT Media Center

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From the editor: Found Art, Found Inspiration Where we are today, every word is a discovery; every click of the

shutter, an epiphany. At different speeds, we are all traveling through the triumphs and sorrows of the past year, trying to make sense of who we are now. Sifting through the rubble of the fallen Twin Towers, or dissecting a personal tragedy, what do we hope to find? Perhaps we are searching for meaning in the wars that rage in the world around us. Or maybe we are trying to quiet the conflicts within ourselves. Although we at the Phoenix hesitate to ascribe a theme to an issue, we find that the selected works often complement each other to create their own theme, and this issue is no exception. Pervading the featured works is a sense of conflict, and of urgency. Jes Owings' "(De)constructed Landscape" and Hamilton Ellis' "_ak Rid~" paint a global apocalyptic vision, while Chrissey Turner's short story and "Anna's Dreams" by Trisha Brady address the conflicts that are waged within the mind. Yet, conflict need not be dark. Thus, the insightful humor of Catie Tappan's "A Recipe" and Joseph Kaegi's short poem collection. From the starkly realistic (such as J.P. Schuffman's "For Grandchildren") to the surreal and unsettling (Erin Gellar's poem "The Biological Tanning Timer"), the contributors dare to question their world, to assimilate information and experience, and to find beautiful jewels in unexpected settings. The jewels of these writers and artists can give us the wisdom to learn to heal, not merely cover, our scars; the courage to pick up the pieces of shattered things and reassemble them into something of astonishing beauty. Peruse and enjoy the pages that follow. You may even find some inspiration of your own. Sincerely, Jenny Darden Editor-in-Chief

ect\ Wy- i y'\--- uV\ fef Jenny Darden Nli}V\~i fI~

eC\ltOY Noah Lane

?Detr\j eCh:.t6Y Eleanor Scott ,-h6Y1 ed \toY Kea Wheeler

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Michael Brill

c\.e<;(qy1e( Natalie Pless

Ana Anderson Leslie Salyer Sarah Sherburn Scott Thurman Renee James Richard Riley

@copyright 2002 by the University of Tennessee. All rights reserved by the individual contributors . Phoenix is prepared camera-ready by the student staff members and is published twice a year excluding special issues . Works of art, poetry, fiction, and non-fiction are accepted throughout the academic year. Phoenix, Room 5 Communications Building 1345 Circle Park Drive Knoxville, TN 37996-0314

Jane Pope Eric Smith

Online: http://web.utk.edu/- phoenixl/ E-mail: phoenix 1@Utk.edu

College Cuisine (Jenny Wilhoite) 2 Verity (Carla Spurgeon) 2 3 Untitled (Brooke Horne) No Vacancy (Kristi Maxwell) 4 Insertion (Hillarey Adamick) 5 (De)constructed Landscape (Jes Owings) 6 Short Poem Collection: 7 Three Days Off Mean Almost Over Easy (Joseph Kaegi) 8 Door (Sarah Kendall) At School I Drew Ghosts (Robin Witherspoon) 9 Fuel (J.P' Schuffman) 10

12 To Morph (Beth Buczynski) Anna's Dream (Trisha Brady) 13 Written on the Balance Pages of my Checkbook (Adam Herrington) 14 Adam and Eve (Ellen Mallernee) 14 Reckoning (Ben Samples) 15 Untitled (Katie Hartley) 16 Underground Magazine (Charles Chandler) 17 Ishtar Drift (Carlos Anderson) 18 Untitled (Jes Owings) 19 Sister (Beth Buczynski) 20 21 Thoughts (Lauren Luck) Anatomy Class (Chrissy Turner) 22 _ak _idge (Hamilton Ellis) 24 Untitled (Sarah Summerford) 25 A Recipe (Catie Tappan) 26 The Biological Tanning Timer (Erin Geller) 27 For Grandchildren (J.P. Schuffman) 28 28 Untitled (Jessica Meyer) Untitled (Jessica Meyer) 29 Untitled (Kenniffer Clements) 30 Go Away (Nick DeFord) 31

College Cuisine The ungrateful mindless muffled munching Of my roommates Repulsed by the sounds And the sight Of a half eaten pizza The missing part of the pie Leaving a grease outline of its former self Their mouths move slowly, Half open Like thin cows chewing A question flickers in my mind When was the last time I swallowed something of substance? A quick glance in the mirror swats the notion Nauseated by what I see Addiction offers solution Strictly powder diet They cut another piece of the pizza Repelled, I return to my room To cut my own serving A line, a snort, another Eyes dilate Body dehydrates No longer hungry Merely annoyed By the slice left on the counter My slice

Hollow With gossamer wings Sitting upon the chafed red earth Rubbed raw by , Arid ignorance Utters a throaty whisper Do not be careless With me. Quietly, A vine of sweet wisteria Brought forth by the Grace of nature Speaks About redemption,

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Enclosed in its own time, the box on the closet shelf, pungent with the smell of decay held some of my father's last possessions packed in a Tampa Nugget Cigar box. Old check stubs, letters from family in New York, Boy's Town stamps for 1960 his driver's license, pictures of the Jacksonville home on Skye Drive West. I picked through the box that held my father's voice, his laughter. Bits and pieces of his legacy to me, his youngest daughter. My father has been dead for forty years but time has not stopped the memory of the year I was in second grade and he walked into the bathroom and into heaven. I need to talk about the last day of his life in October 1961, the last day I felt comfortable talking about fathers, a sad and scared little girl. The two of us alone in the house that day, he stood and said, II I'll be right back I I didn't hear him slump against the cool pink tile. He couldn't hear my ferocious banging on the backdoor of my childhood. No one answered. No one. 2.

In the evening after flashing lights and Sirens gently took my father away someone dared me to lie down on Daddy's side of my parent's bed. Did they think a ghost waited in shadowy corridors in my father's empty clothes? Phantoms wait even now in boarded up places where I struggle to hear my father's voice. 3. /I

My Oountry 'tis of Thee /I

It was November we drew pilgrims, turkeys, fat orange pumpkins cornstalks and Indians with corn.

/I Sweet land of liberty, To Thee I sing /I

Hands on hearts pledge allegiance to the flag /I

Land where my fathers died /I

I can't sing that part Everyone will know And whisper IIHer daddy's dead II She can't sing that part II Even today I don't sing that part.

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The old man who owned Dan is Gas n l Go was not Dan. Dan had died of the walking pneumonia twenty or so years back. Sheb was his brother, and he had been left the tiny pump station in Dan s will. Back then it had seemed like a blessing. The station would get Sheb out of the plant, and on the road to gainful self-employment. That had been two decades ago. He liked this job, though. It was quiet work where he could keep to himself most of the time. And whenever a stranger came through, Sheb was always helpful. He liked people well enough, so long as they were civil. In years past, this had been a full service station, but now with his back and legs going, he usually just wandered out and took peoples money. He chitchatted for a bit if they were in need of some company and then sent them on their way. They always promised to stop in on their way back to wherever they came from. None of them ever did. It was a simple life, no worries - none he could do anything about, anyway. Money wasn t so good, but he couldn t remember a time when it ever had been. When he still owned it, his brother had been smart enough to erect a sign just up the road that read, Dan s Gas n Go, Last Gas for ??? Miles. There was a BP about ten miles west, back in town, but folks headed west didnlt know that. Sign or not, traffic on this part of Route 50 was no more than a trickle most of the year. During the summer he might see twelve cars a day, so when the Chevy s headlights appeared, they were a welcome sight. It was flat country, and Sheb could see the headlights from more than a mile off. He made his way over to the door and leaned heavily against the frame. Noone ever came through without stopping, not at night. A minute later the Chevy pulled up and turned off its engine. The driver stepped out and gave Sheb a quick nod. Sheb could see that the young man was in a hurry. His hair was tossed about on his head, and much of it fell down over eyes that looked a little more bloodshot than the usual case of road weariness. They seemed almost wild with exhaustion. His face kind of sagged a little, and an unlit Cigarette hung limply from his mouth. Sheb smiled brightly just the same, and raised his hand. The man looked at him briefly and stopped as if he might say something, but just went to the back of his car and removed the gas cap. Hey there fella, Sheb said, and began walking over to the pump. The night was cooler out here than Kevin had expected. He watched silently as the old man began making his way over to the Chevy. "I can pump it myself, Kevin said with as much politeness as he could muster, but the attendant just kept on coming, that big nearly toothless grin hobbling unrelentingly toward him. "Donlt mind if you do, the man who must have been Dan said. "These legs of mine donlt work half a damn. So, I guess the name don lt fit anymore. There was a momentary pause, and Kevin obliged him by asking what the old man meant. Well you can still get the Gas, but the Go got up and went. Somehow Dan s grin got even bigger as a low, dry laugh rolled from his throat. Kevin smiled thinly. He didn t have time to get into it with the old guy. He could still get a few hundred miles down the road before he had to find a place to sleep. Wordlessly, the young man removed the nozzle and began pumping his gas. Sheb crossed his arms and leaned up against the Chevy s passenger door. He watched in silence for a moment, and noticed the unsmoked Cigarette still hanging between the man s lips. You want me to go inside and get you a pack of smokes? Two dollars a pack. As if he had become aware of the cigarette for the first time, the man plucked it I

from his mouth, examined it thoughtfully for a moment, then tucked it behind his ear. "No," he replied, "I'm not really smoking anymore. " Sheb laughed at this. "Yeah, me either, " h e said, and patted the rectangular bulge of a cigarette pack that protruded from his shirt pocket. There was a brief pause. "Where are you headed in such a hurry? " This is what Kevin had hoped would not happen. He prayed that his tank would fill up soon. "I'm headed out west, probably to L.A. " "You an artist, or an actor? " Dan asked, his eyes never leaving the darkened horizon. That surprised Kevin. "How did you know? " "Anybody going to L.A. is either an artist or an actor. " The old man glanced over at Kevin, "I guess they all make it though, cuz ' lain ' t seen a one of 'em come back through here, and I never forget a face. " The gas pump clicked off. Kevin replaced the nozzle, and read the price. He counted the money and handed it over the top of the car to Dan. "I don 't need the change, " he said. "Thanks," Dan replied, not bothering to count the wad of bills himself. Kevin opened his car door as the old man began hobbling back towards the gas station. "You have a good night now," he said without turning back around. I never forget a face. Kevin lingered for a moment, half stooped into the car. It couldn't hurt to ask. Besides, the guy seemed sane enough, and if old Dan started rambling, he already had a full tank of gas. He could leave whenever he wanted to. The old man would probably just say no, and that would be the end of it anyway. "Excuse me sir. " Dan stopped and turned to face Kevin, a smirk playing on his wrinkled features. "Yea?" "How many people have come through here in the last few days." The old man thought for a moment. "I dunno, a dozen maybe." "Do you think if I showed you a picture of someone you would recognize them?" Dan smiled, "It's that girl, ain 't it? " Kevin 's eyes snapped up to meet the old man's. His heart began thundering in his chest. He had seen her! "She come through here about two days ago. That's why you 're in such a big rush." He chuckled to himself, "I guess I'd have my panties in a knot too, if I ' d lost a girl like that. " Kevin's hands flew to his wallet and before he knew what was happening, he was shoving a picture of Susan in the old man 's face. Dan moved back a step, and took the picture from Kevin. He examined it for a moment. When he looked back up he was grinning. "I said to myself when she pulled up: that's the kind of girl that 's got a man following her. " "Did she say anything about where she was going? " "She said she was headed west. I told her to take it slow, and see the sights. She said she might do just that. She had a really pretty smile as I recall." The old man stared at Kevin and handed the picture back to him. "My advice to you would be to keep headin' the way you're going, but not so fast. You 'll be no good to her dead. And if you don't mind me saying, you look like something the cat dragged in. Get cleaned up a bit, and have a little faith. You'll catch up to her in time. " He patted Kevin on the shoulder, a small comforting gesture. "Go on now. Quit wasting your time lollygagging around here." "Thanks. Thank you so much, Dan. " Kevin began trotting back to the Chevy. Sheb smiled. "My name's not Dan, " he said, chuckling. The young man turned around, "What was that? " "Nothing," Sheb said. The young man smiled and waved a goodbye. Sheb watched as he started up the Chevy 's engine and drove off, taillights fading into the darkness. "My name's not Dan, " he said again, and smiled that nearly toothless grin. 11

••••••••••••••••••••••• •••• Untitled Katie Hartley

• • • • • •• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •• • • • • •

-s, he wait s d r a h ring, he orc ve, i n t g h t b o r n o f s p t h i n i n l i g h t , o l y m s li e, M y lov a t c h w o r k o f e r s a n d l e a v e , p w e t o z l a e f e h f r o b In t e s f u l l r h a i r i n t h e f gold e r t r e d he Un us o blue ay with a nimb All a s w w b e r r y h a i r , s e y e s o f d e e p s ; s a t Her str er face with i ue of her dre h h e d h n t u ss; Ro e by r u z t h e g r a n d t h e wind; a h o t s i e w d rn Ma ir a is i n t u h the a , I t s flow i s i n t u r n w i t t h e clouds, o f light h I t s flow i s i n t u r n w i t o f w o r l d a n d , eyes, d t I t s flow e r s o f s k y a n l b u t m y h e a r s m i l e a n d h e r v l T h e m o m a s t e r s o f a r s e l f a n d h e r d; w o he bloo d, The sl pped in swift red of a r t t h e bloo s s i i h d e c o h i t o h l b W away in d is the T h r o w n e d is t h e bloo o f h e r e y e s , k i s s e r r Oh t h e s k y i s t h e b l u r e I t a s t e d h e m s , o o e f o h l saw soul vy b And t dy and es hea e that I The blu ade of the t r e ne with h e r bo e h o reez In the s sought to be in the b of world r i a I h e r r f ou Whe eiling sway o th r love to the c And the that expands rass undernea truth and he r g And all green of the r smile and he e e ; h h t g and bein And r words t in one its, A n d h e a l l t h a t is b u she wa d r a e h h c t r And the o love, i n n s h a d e ; y m h love, O t and i Oh m y e k h e r i n l i g h its, e she wa e r e h And I s t its . . . she wa e r e h t e . . . my lov , e v o l My I

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Oh God, he's looking at me again. I hope that he doesn't pick me again like he always does. I don't know why he does it. He must be really desperate, that's why he always picks me, but it's not working. I am five years old, and I am at my grandmother's house, and it's raining. The power is out and it's totally dark and my grandmother is yelling because she doesn't have her hearing aids in. -BANGI am lying on the sidewalk, I am thirteen, and I just fell off my bike and there is blood all over the place. I am scared of blood. I am nine, and there's this guy who's bleeding from a big cut in his stomach, and I'm afraid to move because he might just get me. It's that girl again, she always punches me until I give her my lunch money. I feel sick to my stomach. I've been home from school now for a week and a half with the flu. I'm in the sixth grade. Every two hours I wake up and vomit in the bucket by my bed. Sometimes I miss and it's really beginning to smell. I hate going to uncle Bob's farm, it always smells of manure from his pigs. He's a pig. When he's not out with the pigs, he's shoving his face full of food. I hate going to anatomy class, it's right before lunch and we have to dissect things that never did anything wrong to us. And then when we get done with them we have to go and eat them. Not me, I'm a vegetarian. 'What?!' my dad asked. I am twelve and my dad is having a big roast for the family for Christmas. 'Eating meat is cruel and unusual punishment for the animals,' I said. Why did they have to beat him with their nightsticks? He was only taking a loaf of bread to feed his family. I don't like my family, that's why I ran away. I'm fifteen, and I have no idea what to do, maybe I could be a prostitute.

Stop, no. I am nine and my sister is raping me. When she gets done, she does it again. She tells me not to tell anyone. I am not going to tell my mom about the C in English, she'd kill me. I'm eleven and going to commit suicide, but the rope is too thin and it breaks. I can't wait for spring break, my best friend Jamie and I are going to Florida and it is going to be so much fun. Recess isn't fun. I'm in fourth grade and all of the fifth and sixth graders take everything and won't let the fourth graders have any. I am four and see things on the wall, boxes and circles and faces. My mom comes in my room and tells me to stop being crazy and wasting her time. She raises her hand to spank me and I close my eyes. Stop. Okay, here's my lunch money. I don't tell her about the ten that I stole from my dad's wallet. I am ten now and my sister is still raping me, her boyfriend does sometimes too. He tells me that if I tell anyone that he is going to kill me. It is not nice to Kill stuff at all, especially when you don't want to. I can't concentrate in class because I keep on thinking about it. It is my own little secret. I am sixteen, and it just came out all red and bloody. The coat hanger did hurt a little, but not as much as the thought of having his kid. Don't kid me. I am eight and my dad wants to know if I broke the front door window. I stare out the window a lot, especially at the birds. I'm twelve, and I wish that I could be a bird and just flyaway. I am six and I am at Uncle Fred's apartment for Christmas. I find out that reindeer really cannot fly and there is no Santa, I'm crushed. Jamie crushed out her cigarette, then we get in her car to come home. It's the first night of camp, I'm eight, and I'm already homesick. I was sick with the flu for three weeks in sixth grade. I am six and there is something in my closet, I can hear it. My mom tells me that I am crazy; she wants to take me to some special doctor. She never did, I refused to go. I refuse to continue to go through this torture, I am getting out of anatomy class no matter what it takes.

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Sexy computer voice purrs, Knock knock. Dutiful, dim: "Who's there? The coil of her voice: The serpent, dear! I'm everywhere! r open the window to let her in and find a haggard crowd of men huddled, chanting prayers . II

The youngest in the middle, one arm shriveled, sinks to the muddy sod. Face twisted in grief, he rocks and weeps: Someone's killed his infant son. Outside his range of vision, his good arm cradles a gun. The oldest man, gray hair, eyes, tie has papers to prove the baby's mine. r will have to bury it. He hands me a stone swaddled in Chinese newspaper, so heavy r can't carry it.

r wheel the rock to the funeral home and choose a sun capsule casket lined in ultraviolet satin. Whimpering for the stone r cradle to my breast, r strip naked and climb in. Twenty minutes and we're born again into carcinogenic light. We emerge every morning, deformed but alive.

For Grandchildren Boy that War sure was Great, said churchill to stalin one sunny after (the war) noon And my Grandfather watched as a firing squad killed and killed and killed and killed eight of his best friends (comrades all) and his commanding officer (Lieutenant p - ) Said my Grandfather to me one rainy gray after (the war) noon, I died that day too. And my Grandmother walks in, she knows by the way we are sitting what has been said (She looks like she might cry.) II

Said stalin to churchill, It was Great indeed (we shall have to do it again sometime. ") II

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Adam Herrington has been at UT long enough to commit only halfway to anything he does. As a vocal opponent of Tang and the use of the word "irregardless," he reserves the right to an open tab. "Hi, my name is Hillarey Adamick, I am in junior painting, and I love Phoenix !(They paid me to say that.)" Catie Tappan: Likes: Statues of the Virgin de Guadalupe and any food that you would eat from a bowl (cereal, ice cream, etc.)' Dislikes: Boys who are confused about currently perfect relationships and Russell Bivens from the Alive at Five show. Beth Buczynski: senior - English/Creative Writing, a Yankee from NH who enjoys: fresh air, live music and sleeping. Influences include: Pablo Neruda, William Carlos Williams, Marilyn Kallet, and his insane friends . Kenniffer Clements: "I love sports, movies, music, and taking pictures - especially of people." Jes Owings: "I'm a second year graduate student in printmaking, and I like a good joke. Like, What goes, "Ha Ha Ha... Bonk"? A man laughing is h ead off." Sarah Summerford: is into Studio Art. She's also a senior. Chrissey Turner: "I am a senior in pre-vet, and enjoy working with animals. For fun I like to go out with friends. I have no one strong influence in my writing." Nick DeFord: is a senior in drawing. He believes the artistic Muse hangs out at two places, garage sales and Lowes, and that she is not th.e type of girl you want to take home to your mother. Jessica Meyer: studies Art at UT as a graduate student. Ellen Mallernee: is a junior in creative writing with plans to move to New York City and write her fingers off in the luxury offices of a posh magazine. Along with Willow, writing is her therapy and her happiness, and she 'll be writing until she is old and shriveled. Lauren Luck: from Memphis enjoy sports. She spent the past three summers in Italy becoming fluent in Italian. Her major is Graphic Design. She spent her sophomore year at Atlanta College of Art with "a great teacher. Thanks Bonita and Baldwin." Ben Samples: a senior in creative writing. Kristi Maxwell: is a senior in journalism and has been pu路blished in the Phoenix several times. Joseph Kagi: biographical information unavailable. Robin Witherspoon: biographical information unavailabLe.

Carla Spurgeon: is a junior in the College of Nursing. Her inspiration for writing is drawn from the conditions of our earth as well as the psychological manifestations of the human condition-how we respond to things such as illness, love, or the spirit. J enny Wilhoite: is a senior in Literature. Carlos Anderson: is an Undecided student at TIT. Hamilton Ellis: is a freshman majoring in University Undecided. Erin Geller: is a senior in Writing and a past contributor to the Phoenix. J.P. Schuffman: is an Arts &: Sciences Undecided major. Trisha Brady: is a graduate student, studying Art. Katie Hartley: is a senior in Advertising, and is working on a minor in Business and French. The scene in the photograph captured her attention and was the only thing keeping her awake after a very long sleepless night in Venice. Sarah Kendall: is a senior studying Art History. Jes Owings: is an Art graduate student. Brooke Horne: is a senior, studying Studio Art. Charles Chandler: No biographical information available.