BOHEMIA BOHEMIA
usic, fiction art, fashion, photography, music, fiction poetry art, art,fashion, fashion,photography, photography,music, music,fiction fiction&& &poetry poetry & poetry
APRIL 2014
Bohemia explores the li of ordinary people. Bohemia explores the lives of ordinary people.
www.bohemia-journal.com Bohemia explores the lives of ordinary people. www.bohemia-journal.com Bohemia explores the lives of ordinary people.
APRIL 2014 APRIL 2014 APRIL 2014 APRIL 2014
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ORDINARY PEOPLE
Astronauts, Firefighters, Soldiers, Musicians, Writers april 2014• bohemia • 1
all my
ORDINARY PEOPLE
ALL MY FRIENDS ARE
HEMIA
April 2014 Volume 4, Issue 4 ISSN No. 2162-8653
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Editor Amanda Hixson
Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX. We take submissions from around the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions-based publication and self-produced magazine.
friends
ORDINARY PEOPLE with extraordinary lives Bohemia’s HMU team includes Alex Williams and Shannan White who did work featured in this issue.
ABOHEMIA B Our incredible writers include: Peter Able, William Blackrose, Michael Alan Gill, Caleb Farmer, & Gary Lee Webb Our photographers are a team and this issue contains work by Jon Goddi and Nellie Fitzjarrell.
Fashion editor Aoife Gorey
The Boho model crew does various unique shoots with us throughout the year. april 2014• bohemia • 3
ORDINARY PEOPLE
all my
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BOHEMIA Read our submission guiidelines at www.bohemia-journal.com to find out how to place your poem, art, short story, essay, or photograph in Bohemia. Cover shot by Jon Goddi with Jon Goddi Photography. Cover features Kenyai O’Neal. Cover shoot includes from lefft: Jonathan Newhouse, Auggie Del Rey, Brenda Flores, Toni DeRouen, and Kenyai O’Neal. Boho HMU included Alex Williams & Shannan White & styling by Aoife Gorey Photographs pgs 1-19, Jon Goddi Photography
friends april 2014• bohemia • 5
BOHEMIA April 2014
www.bohemia-journal.com
Writings In the Journal of A Woman by Kaspar Wilder
I am a black-and-white woman, None of my secrets are kept. The thin veil of politeness that surrounds any Decent human being, by Michael Alan Gill has been ripped away from me, exposing my bareness for all to see. I look down at myself, Feeling the smooth roundness of my belly. I am naked and defenseless, and cruel knives stab into my flesh, shaping my body To an unwanted perfection. A faceless seamstress paces around me, Her indifferent eyes burning into my soul. She pins my lips up, Sewing me into a bound beauty. I scream an unheard scream, Dragged down into a darkness that threatens to swallow me. I am a woman. Let me be a woman of my own.
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1 - 19 Cover Spread Jon Goddi
24 Mary’s Stand Musae P Adumbratus
27 Old Man Ilya Prints
29 Kagie
Michael Alan Gill
30 Super Market Randall Brown
33 First of Month Noelle Marie Faleis
37 Cooking With Jim Ruth Sabath Rosenthal
39 Attention on Girl Jessica Kelter
40 The Right Stuff Gary Lee Webb
44 Ordinary World Nellie Fitzjarrell
52 Beautiful Creature Peter Able
58 New Eyes William Blackrose
60 Everyday Heroes William Blackrose
64 Listen & Write Caleb Farmer
68 Contributors
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911
by Michael Pacholski
For people, accidents are horrible For poets, things smashing together can be great the cries the gristle the blood crygristle, gristleblood blistlegrood the poet mutters with a tee-hee laugh at the scene of creation. This is the shy center where ears deafen and throats grow mute around the quaint detached madness of ventilators and resuscitation Within such sirens, in fear we cannot move. So we might as well be still and think to pass the time. An other, untouched, alive and quiet, arrives, settles tunes in to every last, crystalline breath In every lip, a word In every word the shape of a note steel grey music for an audience of wing and fuselage and clattering bones made with sirens Maelstrom is a tragic, good word.
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To Ordinary People (Some Unsolicited Advice) by John Laue
If the dead divest themselves of you, even dramatically, don’t be dismayed. It means they’re regaining strength. Remember, they’ve changed; you may not fit with who they are now. They may see you as dinosaurs, relics of a past they’d just as soon forget. They may remember cruelties and be grateful that in their novel world you’ve become extinct. Look into yourselves and see what toxic wastes you carry, what obnoxious ancient prejudices. You may do violence to them by your careless speech and crude self-righteousness. You may hate their very cores and be unaware of it. But if you treat them gently, even love them they may stay with you. Then you’ve great cause to be glad for among their houses rising from the ruins, you may find your true humanity.
The East Point Vein Depression by Brett Stout
We were friends for a long time. I remember the first time that I saw you. That moment is burned into my brain forever. We were fast friends the first time we talked at work. You were the only person that didn’t yell at me or correct me on something I was doing wrong. You took pity on a lowly 18-year-old punk rock dishwasher and I appreciated it. Kind and the restaurant industry don’t go hand in hand; especially in the back of the kitchen. I remember that you hated the job as much as I did, but you had the sense to quit before I did. I kept hammering it out for another year somehow. We grew apart when you left the job. Conversations, funny stories, and drunken nights became fewer and farther apart. You fell into a bad crowd. I tried to warn you about them, but my words went unnoticed. I remember that summer day you came to the back of the kitchen and asked me for some food. I fixed you some chicken fingers and fries and gave you some of my cigarettes. You looked pretty bad. Your beauty was now hidden under the dirt and foul smell that you were wearing. I heard crazy stories about you from time to time. My friend Joe even said you gave him a hand job for ten bucks over in Candler Park. I was sad to hear that. I remember the last time I saw you walking down Moreland Ave. I wondered where you were headed and what you were doing, but I didn’t stop to ask. I now regret that. A week later I heard you were found dead in some ghetto apartment complex on the Southside of Atlanta. april 2014• bohemia • 11
Dolly
by Andrew Jarvis
That doll has no hair, a baldy without a perm or a hat hiding the shine. It has one leg, as if a dog found the other and ripped away the bleached leg bone. And the eyes, the fakes of plastic glass had seen the rats biting them to blind. The lips are smiling like a girl at a party with a pink parasol. She must have loved it, blessed it with ballet to remind her of mother. But it has no umbrella, nothing to block the rain and glow that grin again. A hauler digs up dolly and waves the leg around, making the love heap move.
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Terrance
by Ann Howells
It’s a girls bike, but he doesn’t mind, cap pulled low above his eyes, jeans, hi-tops, striped shirt—today it’s the red one. Children wave and shout, Hi, Terrance. He waves back. If he bends a spoke or has a flat, someone stops, tucks his bike in the car, drives him home. He pedals gravel shoulders: county roads, rutted lanes. Sometimes over the bridge, down the island. Sometimes north to the state highway. Along marshes, through parking lots, he gathers bottles in a basket wired to his handlebars; two more flank his back wheel. Terrance returned this way from war. He collects pop bottles—it’s his job— returns them, spends the change on beer at the bar. Like the other men.
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Of Plumbing and Nightmares by Brett Stout
I’m sitting in the work van with my co-worker Marvin next to some vacant mall out in some North Atlanta suburb at five in the a.m. It’s freezing and black outside. I sit and smoke cigarettes and drink my crappy gas station coffee while Marvin snorts a line of speed to get him going and then puts in his dentures that were resting on the van console. We should be inside working, but the boss isn’t here this early, so fuck it and fuck him. I need a few more minutes to wake up and procrastinate and then it’s back to the concrete. The concrete has been killing me for the last three days. It’s my job to take the heavy electric saw and cut the concrete into huge blocks. Then, once I’m done cutting them into rectangular blocks I have to lug these chunks of concrete weighing over fifty pounds each up twenty steps and around the corner to the giant green dumpster. My back is killing me and my hands are chaffed and bleeding from yesterday. I continue to sit in the van smoking cigarettes and drinking crappy gas station coffee while feeling forty instead of twenty.
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Man at Dusk by Casey FitzSimons
They gape in wobbly loops, his cut-off jeans; his shirtfront gaps. He holds the paper crisply, stares out the front door past the holey screen, sits there chewing on his lower lip: Good or bad, the news won’t change his mind. In the cul-de-sac, U-turning ‘round the bend, the last FedEx truck comes, gears grinding. Grass and gravel mingle where the asphalt ends and glitters, littered with broken glass and nails, like teeth and diamonds at nightmare’s edge. Mothers call; homing fathers check the mail; children gallop, screaming. In the rubbish hedge that parallels the leaning cyclone fences there’s waste, he knows, but nothing worth mending.
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The Orthodoxy of Wrenches and Purple Glue by Brett Stout
I spent almost seven hours under an old abandoned house over in East Atlanta today. At first the smell of cat piss and bugs crawling on me bothered me a little, but after a few hours I got used to it. I had my little piece of plastic I rolled onto the floor to try and keep some of the funk off of me. It made for a fine pillow bunched up throughout the day though. My co-worker Tim was outside all day handing me shit I needed for the water pipes I was ripping out underneath the house. After lunch, in the right and darkest corner of the ground I found a used syringe laying there. I observed it for a while with my flashlight since I didn’t have anything else to do while I waited on Tim to hand me more shit I needed. I guess a junky crawled under here at one point and shot up or something. Being the new guy at work really fucking sucks; that’s all I know at this point.
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Our America [Everyday Heroes] Stories, poetry, & photography
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Mary’s Stand
M
ary lived in a small town, a town like many others. There was a church and a liquor store and a few houses. The houses were far apart giving the good people of this little town freedom to indulge in their hobbies, their relationships and their sins. Mary lived in goodness. Her hobbies included knitting and gardening. She greeted her neighbours when she came across one, on her way to the grocer, or going to church. The church was usually empty. A minister came from the neighbouring town to give a sermon, once every month. Mary, however, went to church every Sunday. She prayed, for herself but mostly for her town. “Mary, how are you today?” Mary did not like Peter. He had a dark cloud around him that only she could see. “I am good and you?” Mary was always polite, so she always greeted back although every instinct in her body warned her to run away, to flee and not look back. “I am very good and the weather is nice.” Mary nodded and tried to retreat, but Peter kept talking for 24 • bohemia • april 2014
by Musae P Adumbratus
half an hour, about the weather, her garden and the state of the roads. On her way home Mary stopped. Something that nagged at the back of her mind, jumped to the forefront. She noticed a red stain on the leg of one of his pants, and wondered what it looked like. Now she remembered. Her father’s pants looked the same after they slaughtered sheep on the farm. The same dark red, crimson stains. Peter was not a farmer. Mary pondered this for days, weeks. She met Peter again, and small things jumped out. Small things like scratches on his face. He laughed and said a cat did it, but it must have been a big cat to make marks like that. She went to church again that Sunday. The church was empty. Mary went on her knees and prayed. She left an hour later and knew she had to visit Peter at home. She knew where he lived, but had to make a stop first. A few people greeted her, and like always she politely greeted them back. She even stopped and talked to a few people. Peter greeted her at the door. He looked surprised and after talking to Mary for ten minutes realised that she would not leave, so he in-
vite her inside. They drank tea and talked about the weather, his garden and the state of the roads. Mary excused herself to go to the bathroom. She stayed away a long time. Peter was about to go look for her when she returned. Mary apologised, and told him that she would be going. On her way to the front door she slipped and dropped her handbag. She moaned and held on to wall. Peter sighed impatiently. He leaned over to pick the handbag up. He did not see the hammer or feel the blow to his head. Mary struck him a few times. Afterwards she went into the bathroom to wash her hands. She washed the cups and closed the door softly on her way out. A few blocks away she stopped at a payphone. “Officer, you have to visit 5 West Street. There is a dead man in the lobby but please look in the basement. There is a girl locked in a cage. She is alive but badly hurt, so please hurry.” She listened for a while and smiled, “No need to know who I am, dear.”
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Photo by Jon Goddi
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The Musing of the Old Man by Ilya Prints
F
riedman does not sleep at nights. Wakes up, well before dawn, and memories squeeze his head and do not let him sink into a doze. Gets up and lies down again. From the depths of the memory float some seemingly forgotten people and events, old friends and colleagues, who are already gone or survive somewhere, scattered around the world. “The past, with all its troubles and misfortunes, has to go to the back. We should not get bogged down in it,” he tells himself. “In the past...”
“In the past, there is no one. Let’s think about every day as the day when you’re newly born and have just come into the world, full of hopes for future… What kind of future?”He asks himself with a chuckle.”You are just lost between the past and the future! “ He seems to be tired of his years, an elderly man in an old-fashioned jacket, with tired sad eyes and oldfashioned notions of honor and decency. Children brought him here when he was already quite old. He remembers how, having descended into this apartment, still could not hide his surprise - for he had done nothing for this country to get such a lovely home. In his old country, to get an apartment, it was necessary to work for half a lifetime. “God bless America”, he repeats one of the few phrases that learned in the unfamiliar language, “God bless America”. His children do well here, and he has something to be proud of. Educated, know how to work. “But this is not your doing,” says the eternal inner skeptic. “This is your Jewish tradition, to commit your last piece of bread to giving an education to your children.” “But how much efforts is required to follow this tradition!” he exclaims to himself. His days are filled with dull monotony. Once, the meetings with
his granddaughter were as a light in the window, but now... In her rare, rather out of a sense of duty, visits, it feels like she is preoccupied with something, somewhere in a hurry. “She listened to my tales with bated breath,” he recollects sadly, “And what fairy tales does she listen today? And who tells them? … But do not take offense at the kids. They have their own life that you just cannot understand anymore. The world has changed… Yes,” he argues with himself. “The world has changed, but the people have not changed - wisdom and stupidity, rudeness and virtue still go hand in hand… Children do not owe us neither earlier, being small, nor now,” he repeats over and over again, as if to remove all doubts. “You just have an overcast mood today,” he hears the same inner voice. “This is your elderly depression. You’re ridiculous with your feelings - a man who grew up in a time when there were no air conditioners or computers, not even television, not to mention I Phones or I Pads. You cannot judge the current generation.” “But…but the generation is, first of all, people,” he is trying to argue. “Old people always talked about how much better it was in their youth”. “Perhaps,” he concedes and un-
consciously straightens as it seems a new person awakens inside him. “Man, cheer up! Go outside, and breathe fresh air, and look around. You will see - strangers smile at you! The world is really wonderful!” He goes out onto the balcony of his apartment and, for a long time, looks, looks at the steady stream of cars and hurriedly rushing on to their affairs people, an elderly man in an old-fashioned jacket, with tired sad eyes. In his memory often pops up a picture he once saw here, outdoors, a picture that had shaken him, - an old couple, she hunched, wrinkled, with a cane, and he still high, but much stooped. Go slowly, stepping carefully, silently, holding hands. Probably so, dignified wise old age looks like. Perhaps, just on such people, the world stands.
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Kagie by Michael Alan Gill
B
uried somewhere, deep in the place where old census data and military records are kept, you’ll find a man’s name. He has no place in the American National Biography or on a list of the world’s most influential people. There is nothing special about the way he carried himself or spoke. He was not a scholar, a doctor, a priest, or a mathematician. He wasn’t a folk hero or a genius—he was a man; the best one the world has made yet. My family moved a lot when I was young. The family of a man who makes his money off of religion is guaranteed a regular diet of scripture and doctrine, but you can never guarantee that such teaching will be palatable to the people who sign the man’s checks. When you make money telling people how to live their lives, you must also make sure to tell them exactly what they want to hear, exactly how they want to hear it, or you might find yourself homeless and broke. My dad was such a man that, after 13 months of hellfire and brimstone had poured from his mouth, the back-woods Baptist church he pastored decided to ask him to resign (the Christian way of firing a man with a family). At the time, we were living in the church parsonage—a house that the church owns and offers to the pastor and his family, provided he is still on the pay-roll. After my dad lost his job, the congregation insisted that we leave immediately. I was fourteen; my younger sister and brother 28 • bohemia • april 2014
were twelve and nine, respectively. This was the first time we had ever had any question about where we were going to sleep at night. Everything was fine. I don’t remember the search for a house, or anything else, except for the few high-volume discussions my parents would have about what they were going to do—my mother worried, my dad assured her everything would be fine and my siblings and I continued our youthful, careless existence. I remember that phrase being repeated, like a religious rite—everything is fine; if you asked the right person, they would tell you: it really was. My dad had a plan—we would stay with my great grandparents while he searched for a job. He repeated the rite, whether it would do any good or not: everything is fine. If you are ever in Winnsboro, Louisiana, past the stores, library, bank, Wal-Mart, and restaurants, where the pavement turns to dirt, you’ll find a red brick house. The crushing of acorns underfoot greets you as you step over the cracked concrete driveway and walk to the creaky screen door. The heavy, red door that once stood open, ready to receive anyone, is now closed; there’s a golden knocker with two names engraved in the middle: Dock K. and Maurisce Smith, my great grandparents. Once you pass the threshold, you can turn your head in any direction and see lattice art, paintings, family pictures, decorative plates, wall-mounted candlestick holders, and colorful,
ceramic chickens placed precisely around the house, teetering on the edge of decoration and clutter— much of the art was made by members of my family. Through the entry way, past the kitchen and dining room, you pass another threshold that takes you into the living room. The cream colored, polyester floor is cut off by a piece of gold trim that separates the kitchen floor from the soft, latte-colored shag carpet that covers the floor of the living room. Immediately to your right, there’s a grey rocking chair that creaks in defiance of anyone who would force it to move. My Poppa Dock had been retired for years. His wrinkled hands were permanently bent from years of arthritis that he accumulated from his job as a carpenter. His face, swollen and red from the thick chunk of tobacco stuffed in his cheek, was old, tan and wrinkled. He had been married to Meemaw—Maurisce Smith—for 63 years when my family moved in with them. They seemed utterly thrilled to have family staying with them. Every night, we would watch the news, wheel of fortune, and reruns of Good Times. My Poppa Dock, in his noisy, grey rocking chair, sat closest to the TV. He turned the volume up as loud as it would go. Years ago, in 1944, he had been a soldier. His stories of war had been scarce for years, but he once recalled a day in June, running towards a beach. He described the
death that surrounded him to the family—he said that there were, “dead bodies, stacked like fire wood.” One man whom he had followed into a foxhole was shot in the head in the middle of a conversation. His voice was solemn and calm when he spoke of the death that surrounded him. Poppa Dock laughed heartily when describing his first drink. A catholic chaplain crawled next to him in a foxhole and offered to pray with him. “Son, would you like to pray with me?” the chaplain asked. “Well, I’m not catholic, but I think I would like that.” After the prayer was finished, the priest asked another question. “Son, would you like a drink?” “Well, I don’t drink….but I think I would like that.” The lamp shade that sat next to where Poppa Dock seat held the small device that we used to record his stories. After living with my great grandparents for nearly eight months, my dad was offered another pastoring job in the same town. We moved into a new house, not far from where they lived, and kept in touch regularly. Years later, after an accident had left him mostly immobile, Poppa Dock was placed in the local nursing home. His daughter Patricia—my grandmother—visited regularly. He was under the care of wonderful nurses in the last years of his life. The last night I saw him, he was lying in bed under a soft cotton blanket. His white, V neck shirt was stained with tobacco spit that had dripped from his chin. He
hadn’t been eating. My grandmother dripped water into his mouth, with a straw, slowly; but, with each sip he would let out a bone rattling cough. His chest quivered and he convulsed in bed. I was standing by him in a moment of placidity; a tear ran down his cheek as he wheezed out feeble breaths. I bent the first knuckle of my index finger and wiped it from his face. That was the last time I touched the living man.
The cool metal chilled my hand, and the weight of the casket was heavy, despite the other men who held it up. We walked to the hearse, and followed closely behind it on the short drive to the back of the building, where he would be buried. The metal frame that lowered his casket to the earth was completely silent.
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Lost in the Supermarket Randall Brown
M
ore like forgotten in the cereal aisle, five-years-old, tiny Keds poking out of the cart. Had my mother grabbed the wrong kid? A bearded man, raw artichoke leaves hanging from dark chapped lips, passed by, asked if I’d seen Walt. The Quisp alien, King Vitamin, Count Chocula, Cap n’ Crunch, the Trix rabbit, the Fruit Loops toucan, the Lucky Charms leprechaun danced on the shelves, promising surprises. I’m all lost, the bearded man chanted. From what box had he escaped? I reached out, took his hand, me and my cart pulled like Santa on his shuffling sled past my mother, forever there, fumbling with her change. 30 • bohemia • april 2014
in the midst of the greatest waffle house by Elena Botts
i am in the midst of the greatest waffle house in all of southern kansas so i want you to know i was electric-eyed too once before i spilled over as steadily as molasses, grown my child’s hand to fit out of father’s tidal-rolling grip, wicked my eyes in midnights, charcoaled ‘til the lightbulbs learnt no longer how to ignite, just i burn out, swinging sweet and lonely, no lost signal fire, not a beacon like a symbol to hold steadfast and all that, just a gas station, 3 am until noon, advertisements glimmering, attendant sleep-fingering his chin, the fingertips as misaligned as my footwork on the street that i could weep for my alternative lives, my ghosts like housewives confined to an unconscious faithlessness in their own lives, minds opening and closing like window-blinds. still my specters come alongside, like spring girls, a hint of smile and then the clouds come by. the little boy, his eyes stirring for the first time discovers the quick lash of rain against his back and it’s over. we’re all mud now. unspoken lives veering off the highway, plucking the plug from the truck and filling it up. that girl, she smiled at me from across the yard, the carousel, the dogs raving in the dirt, filling the air in half-moon cries. for thirty untenable seconds, she knew me like no one else did.
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First of the Month by Noelle Marie Falcis
L
ate. Every first of the month it is the same thing. The first hits, then soon the second, the third… and before we know it, the fifth slips by, and it’s later than late. My mother drills her fingertips against the counter. They never pay rent on time, she says. Do they think we’re made out of money? She asks the question. We have bills too, you know, she shouts. Do something, Ernie, she directs at my father. We own an eight-unit complex in which our family occupies apartment one, and our grandfather occupies apartment five above the washroom. All the other apartments, we rent out, and every one is taken except apartment six, which for some odd reason, goes through renters like water. The current tenants – a family of seven, four sons and one daughter, my mother complains about. Mother thought it would be great to put a family in that apartment, better for stability she said. Longer rent, she nodded. Until they moved in. Mother has a roast slowly cooking in the oven for the past four hours. She has water boiling on one burner for Jesse who is sick and sleeping in the bed she shares with father, rice is cooking on another, and on a third, she is stirring diced potatoes freshly peeled because we do not do that boiling nonsense, and everyone in this family enjoys a good crunch in their potatoes. She shakes her head side to side, little wisps of jet black curly hair around her temple rising and falling – Too much. I cook. I clean. I cook. I maintain this place. I cook! I should retire. What then, hmm?
She says that to no one in particular, but I am seated at the counter and therefore partially her audience. I look up and watch her whip from stove to counter to fridge and back. She complains all day, but all this movement, it is how she says your mother loves you, sweetness.
“My love, please,” Father says from the sofa. He pulls his small dark feet off the coffee table and places them firmly on the ground, then his elbows on his thighs, sticking out sideways like the points of a triangle and his head the top. “I suffered an angry client who receivedapril his 2014• shipment late•bebohemia 33
cause of that lazy—“ he stops himself, then lifts his hand towards her, “And now this.” He finishes, “I am tired.” “I’m tired too,” Mother counters. “I’m tired but still I take care of what needs to be done. Are you going to do something? Or should I?” she threatens. No sound comes from the sofa, and when I look up from my book that I am not really reading, I see that my father’s head has turned a ninety-degree angle, and he is now looking at the floor. “Don’t worry,” he says, standing up. “I’ll take care of it.” His monkey feet pull his loafers to him then he slides them on. The door opens and shuts. A short time later, he comes back. He makes an A-O.K with his thumb and forefinger. Mission accomplished. “There,” he says. “Satisfied now, my wife?” “Really?” she perks up, “So fast! How?” “Me and the father, we discussed at length—man to man. And in conclusion, I lowered their rent.” “Aye! Are you crazy?” she says. “One thing!” she yells, flailing her arm into the air. “I ask you one thing! And look how you ruin it! Lower their rent? What’s wrong with you?” “Tess!” Father responds exasperated. “Tess, you listen to me. Don’t you remember when twenty dollars was more than what we could afford? Remember when sometimes we didn’t even have twenty dollars? Not for gas, not for food, not for the kids. It could be like that for a week, a month! This time was not too long ago, Tess, and I do not know about you, but I will never forget what it is to be a 34 • bohemia • april 2014
father who cannot sustain his family. I will never forget what it is to grovel at another landlord’s feet, asking one more day, one more day, I’ll have the rent. It disgusts me!” he says, slapping his hand against the counter. His cheeks glow red like blush or overexertion on his dark brown skin, and I am surprised. He looks sick with his eyebrows furrowed so low. His eyes narrowed together, they look like shadows. He shakes his head, and turns to walk out. The door opens once more and gently falls shut. “Five kids.” We can hear him from outside. “Five kids, and you think they do not have their own problems,” he says sadly. His voice trails off as he walks further away to the mini vegetable garden the little girl in apartment four was growing. A silence descends as soon as the sound of his voice and shuffling feet disappear. Mother says nothing. I don’t know if she feels ashamed, sad, or still angry, but for once, she has the common sense to keep silent. “Baby,” she says using the nickname my family gave me, “Help me with your father’s dinner. And fix up some hot chocolate for Jesse, will you?” My mother pulls the roast out of the oven, and no sooner than five seconds, she has it on the counter and she is already cutting the first slice. The fat and oil is still sizzling as she cuts. “Your father likes the ends the most,” she murmurs. I scoop rice onto his plate followed by a generous serving of potatoes. Absentmindedly, I grab the pepper, the garlic salt, the hot sauce, and soy sauce. We all know how he likes his food: a barrage of
flavor, almost too much spicy, and a lot of salty. We look at his plate in one moment of quiet and my mother says quietly, “He is a very good man,” and if suddenly realized I am there, she shoves me with her shoulder, “Quick! Take it to your father before it’s no longer hot, hot, hot!” I carry the plate to the table and quickly, I slip on my shoes to go outside. Just as the door begins to close, I can hear my mother from inside. “Aye! Stupid! You forgot Jesse’s hot chocolate!” The banging of pans on the kitchen counter and cabinets opening and closing abruptly stop as the door shuts. I shake my head as I scan for my father, the image of my mother whipping to and fro in her realm of kitchen still vivid in my mind. I smile, because though she is often hard headed and my father often tired, they are the depiction of love.
Where will you be singing
Home Sweet Home
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Waco, Texas is a beautiful place to live, founded in 1849 by the Huaco Indians that lived on the land in the present-day downtown area. Waco offers some major attractions, five historic homes, seven recreational venues, and nine arts organizations staging theatrical and musical productions, as well as art exhibitions. Waco is also brimming with Texas history, economic opportunity, and a rich variety of cultural experiences. With three college facilities including: Baylor University, McLennan Community College, and Texas State Technical Institute. The city boasts one of the of the biggest and best municipal parks in Texas, Cameron Park. The 416-acre park is located in the heart of Waco, next to downtown, situated on the Brazos and Bosque Rivers. It hosts numerous races, triathlons, boat races and more.
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Cooking With Jim by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal
C
ooking with Jim. Actually, with him in spirit, in the kitchen of his quaint brownstone on West 12th Street in Manhattan, decades after his death. And quite at home with him, I chop and slice; bake, twice-baked potatoes — their skins crisping to perfection; roast, the prime tenderloin of beef he’d earlier instructed me to hand-rub with coarsely ground black pepper and kosher salt. (I used sea salt and that was ok with him.) Right now, he’s reminding me to stir my roux, then I should add crisp bacon bits, made earlier, to the chopped spinach I just finished sautéing. He says I should wait till the last minute to toss the mélange of local field greens with the lemongrette he had me make in lieu of vinaigrette, because, it seems that vinegar often spoils the taste of wine. As for the wines with dinner: for the salad, I’m chilling a 2011 Seyval Blanc from New York State; with the beef dish, a 10-year-old California Zinfandel; this followed by a 2010 Pinot Noir from Oregon, paired with artisanal cheeses from Vermont and Connecticut, plus crisp sourdough rolls and flatbreads; and, in the frig, chilling, a late-harvest, Long Island Riesling to complement the secret confection hidden away on a silver tray till it’s time for dessert. According to Jim, red wine should be served at room temperature and since older reds have a layer of sediment in the bottle, he said the Zin will need to be decanted, and that, right before serving; he wants the Pinot to breathe 15 minutes, or so, in the glass before being drunk. (The aeration of younger reds will rid those wines of their chalky tasting tannins.) All this for my guests who’ll soon be sitting round my dining table akin to Jim’s 60 inch round green marble slab of a tabletop, where, before the first bite of the Jim-inspired, 5-star meal, I’ll raise my glass to the big bald guy —James Beard, “The Father of American Cuisine.”
Artwork and photos provided by http://pixabay.com
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Attention on a Girl in a Bookstore by Jessica Kelter
I
thumbed through the cookbooks along the shelf, not really paying attention to the titles on their spines. Why was I in the Dietary Cookbooks section? My mother told me to come this way. She must think I’ve gained weight. On the opposite side of the shelf I heard a girl having a conversation with herself. No – not herself. On the phone. Duh. I shouldn’t be so lucky to hear somebody talking to themselves in public. That doesn’t seem to happen in real life. Wait. Scratch that. I heard an elderly man talking to himself as he read a magazine on the other end of the bookstore. He was happy about whatever it was he was reading. The thought made me giggle. The girl on the phone paused, probably wondering if I was eavesdropping or maybe I was the kind of girl who talked to herself in public. The books on the opposite side of my shelf must have been for self-improvement because the girl read off different titles into her cellphone, including Healing After
Loss, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, How to Survive the Loss of a Love, and Widow to Widow. She made some “mmmm” noises and I imagined she was pursing her lips in deep thought. “Yeah I’m still here,” she said into her phone. “You don’t think she’ll be mad at us for getting her one of these?” “Yeah I guess… I just don’t want to keep bringing it to her attention.” “Okay, you’re right. You’re right.” “So which one should I get?” “Alright I’ll put that one back.” I listened to her shuffle the books around and I began to wonder if she had a stack in her arms and she was pulling one from the bottom. Her phone must have been tucked between her ear and shoulder. She made some grunts of struggle. Into her cellphone or maybe to no one in particular: “I’m –” and then a stack of books falling to the ground. “Fuck.” I hurried to the other side of the shelf to help. “I’ll call you back,” she said into the receiver as she lowered to her knees.
Left, reading woman. Photo provided by www.pixabay.com
She wore acid washed overalls and a tie dye t-shirt underneath. Her hair was bleached blonde and it was long and messy but the flyaways and frizz looked intentional and tasteful. Her glasses had large square lenses that magnified her eyes about three times larger than their actual size. She was the living embodiment of frantic. And she was beautiful.
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Ladies with the Right Stuff by Gary Lee Webb
W
e know the names of Alan Shepard (the first American in space) and John Glenn (the first American to orbit). If you are interested in space exploration then you may know the names, Yuri Gagarin and Valentina Tereshkova. But how many other female astronauts do you know? As of June 2013, 57 women have flown in space, about 11% of the 534 astronauts and cosmonauts, including three Soviet women and 44 Americans (ten from other countries). Do you know the names, Jerrie Cobb or Wally Funk? Why not? The first woman to fly in space was a Byelorussian living in central Russia, Valentina Vladimirovna Tereshkova. Tereshkova was a sky diver, a secretary of the Young Communist League, and the daughter of a World War II military hero. During 1962, she was among five Soviet women selected and given intensive training, learning how to fly MiG jets, handle weightlessness, and (if necessary) parachute to safety. November 1962 saw her commissioned as a Soviet Air 40 • bohemia • april 2014
Force officer, and on 16 June 1963, she piloted Vostok 6, orbiting the Earth 48 times (a new record). Just behind the Soviet Vostok program was the American Mercury program. Alan Shepard was the first American to fly, May 1961, then Gus Grissom. John Glenn was the third American to reach space, and the first American to orbit the Earth, February 1962. So there were American men flying at the same time as the Russians. However, it was just over 20 years after Tereshkova’s flight when Sally Ride became the first American woman to go into space, flying two missions in 1983 and 1984. Why did it take so long? I met Mary Wallace Funk, a/k/a “Wally” Funk, one of thirteen women who had trained for the Mercury program along with Jerrie Cobb and others, while at a conference (May 2013). At that conference, she had asked the same question in her keynote presentation. Later during the conference, I spent almost an hour seated next to her, chatting and answering questions.
Early U.S. space efforts were under the aegis of NACA, the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics, which oversaw secret military operations. After the Soviet launch of the Sputnik I and Sputnik II satellites in 1957, President Eisenhower decided that the U.S. needed a non-secret public space agency. The National Aeronautics and Space Agency, NASA, was born. NACA was an all-military operation, thus women were naturally excluded under the laws of the time. With the creation of NASA (a public program), that should have ended, but President Eisenhower insisted that all astronauts be drawn from a list of 508 military test pilots (thus effectively excluding both women and Neil Armstrong, a civilian) and that they must have a STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, or Mathematics) degree. One of the most famous American aviators at that time was Geraldyn Cobb, better known as “Jerrie”. She had won the Pilot of the Year award, had the 1959 world record
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“Her childhood dream was and still is to fly in space.” Above, International Space Station Cupola. Photograph provided by pixabay.com
for the longest nonstop flight, had the 1959 world light plane speed record, and in 1960 set a world record by taking a lightweight aircraft over 37,000 feet. In 1961, NASA Administrator James Webb appointed her a NASA consultant. She even took all three stages of astronaut testing. When the Navy refused to allow any other women to use their equipment for similar testing, she and another aviatrix took the fight to congress and the Kennedy white house. Several of the women went on to unofficially take as much of the testing as possible. In Congress they found some support, but also great opposition. Several of the astronauts testified that women had no place in space. As John Glenn told Congress “men go off and fight the wars and fly the airplanes”; America’s social order would not allow the women to do so. Perhaps he was correct: Glenn was admitted to the program despite not yet having the required education (he received his Bachelors of Science in 1962 after his Mercury flight orbiting the earth). The women had better luck in the Kennedy white house. We can only speculate whether the women would have been allowed to train 42 • bohemia • april 2014
with the male astronauts, had the president not been assassinated. But when Johnson’s executive assistant drafted a letter to NASA questioning the requirements used to prohibit women from the space program, Johnson did not send it. Instead, across the letter, he wrote “Let’s stop this now!” After failing to get women into the U.S. space program, Jerrie Cobb quit NASA and began 30 years of humanitarian work in South America, putting her aviator skills to good use. She has been honored by the governments of Brazil, Colombia, Ecuador, France, and Perú. She was even nominated for the 1981 Nobel Peace Prize for her countless Amazon jungle missions. Another famous American aviator was Wally Funk, flying solo since age 16. She had become a flight instructor, training over 700 US Army pilots at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. Ironically, while she could train military pilots, she was not allowed to be one, and thus barred from the space program. Wally actually outperformed John Glenn in her astronaut testing, and two other women did better in the tests than she! After being barred from actual astronaut training, she became
a Goodwill Flying Ambassador, flying over 80,000 miles during a three-year period. She has since trained over 2000 more new pilots and from 1974 to 1985 was an Air Safety Investigator for the National Transportation Safety Board (the first woman to do so). This woman knows her aircraft: she earned instructor ratings in seven different categories of aircraft. She also loves speed, placing and even winning air races. Since leaving the NTSB, she has developed pilot training programs and lectured around the world. This author can attest: she is a riveting speaker. Her childhood dream was and still is to fly in space. She has trained with the Russian cosmonauts and signed up with Virgin Galactic: it is only a matter of time before she lives her dream.. How much better would our space program have been if these ladies had been allowed to be part of it? We will never know. Granted that they were only civilian aviators, not military aviators, but they certainly had the right stuff to fly high. Their record is stellar.
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Ordinary World Extraordinary Girl Photography by Nellie Fitzjarrell Featuring Whitney Brady
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Shoes provided by
La Pupa Human Masha Kukharchyk is a Polish woman who owns the shop at Etsy.com and she is crazy about fashion and design. She lovingly made these shoes for Bohemia and will be offering them up on her site for sale soon. Etsy allows people to contact shop owners directly, so look her up and reserve an order. Bohemia loves
where you can buy and sell handmade things, vintage, art, and supplies. Bohemia loves vintage.
april 2014• bohemia • 45
“Ordinary World” Came in from a rainy Thursday On the avenue Thought I heard you talking softly I turned on the lights, the TV And the radio Still I can’t escape the ghost of you What has happened to it all? Crazy, some are saying Where is the life that I recognize? __Duran Duran
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april 2014• bohemia • 47
Long Ride Home by Jessica Cory
Five a.m. ramblings and charcoal sketches of the backs of passengers’ heads from the bus ride to the city pulsate through paper-cut fingers. Heavyset with even heavier hair held in position by eighteen layers of extrahold from one of those aerosol cans bored fifteen year olds huff from. Scrawny and smelling of stale Buglers and patchouli, shoulder-length stringy locks sway with each pothole.
48 • bohemia • april 2014
Cell phone plastered, chatting away precious minutes of human interaction. There is pride in multitasking, each venti skim latte blended with extra day planner. Asleep, drooling, headphones locked and loaded. On what is uncertain. Hands carved deep in pockets, full of greed and empty mornings. Yawning with a rearview glance, the exhausted driver carries on, exchanging observances for twenty-five cents.
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New York, New York
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NY, NY
by Jay Dardes
Faceless Joe gets a face when he goes out into the streets. Hands in overcoat pockets he strolls the rivers of men, Searching faces and stopping to light a cigarette Like a detective or a spy. Joe the grocer gets a face.
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A Beautiful Creature
A Beautiful Creature By Pete Able
Ableof those special girls OllieBy is Pete not one who finds the mold for any situation and promptly breaks it. Despite her unusual name, she wants to Fit llie In. is not one of those special Sixteen, hair like the color of nearby girls who finds the mold for Bryce Canyon, and a pretty enough any situation and promptly breaks face to avoid some of the more init. tense hazing in school, but also rarely lumped in with that set of Despite her exclusive unusual name, femme fatales that rule the hallways she wants to Fit In. and classrooms with sharp tongues and Sixteen, hair like the color above-it-all eye rolling attitudes. Ollie of nearby Bryceto Canyon, a desperately wants be liked byand everypretty enough some of one, and thereinface lays to theavoid problem. Social land mines make progress unthe more intense hazing in school, easy for both boys and girls in high but also rarely lumped in with that school. For boys, the dividing lines are exclusive set of femme fatales that sharp, distinctive. Football athletes, rule the hallways classrooms other athletes, band,and honor society, with sharp tongues above-it-all shop, skaters, losers.andMixing friends or your own activities between these eye rolling attitudes. Ollie despergroups is akin to violating Dr. Egon ately wants to be liked by everyone, Spengler’s warning about crossing the and therein lays the problem. streams in Ghostbusters – “it would be Social land mines make bad.” progress uneasy for both boys and But for girls, the lines are hazier, like they’ve been drawn in sidewalk chalk girls in high school. For boys, the an afternoon can wash dividing linesthundershower are sharp, distinctive. away, only to reappear in the next mornFootball athletes, other athletes, ing’s sun drawn by someone else with band, honor society, shop, Maddenskaters, new ideas on proper decorum. losers. Mixing friends own ing, confusing, and aboveor all,your it makes that crossing the streams warning activities between these groups so is very to follow.Dr.Ollie hadSpenfound akin difficult to violating Egon herself on the wrong side of a dividing gler’s warning about crossing the line a few times in her short high school streamsand in Ghostbusters – “ittowould career, the effort required climb be bad.” out of the pariah pit had nearly killed that desirethe to Fit In. The overwhelming But for girls, lines are thing is, once you are back In, it is kind hazier, like they’ve been drawn in of nice. And for those that aren’t, you’re sidewalk chalk an afternoon thunpretty glad you aren’t them. dershower away, only to Which is whycan Olliewash is confused. reappear the next She’s at ain party, and morning’s Josephine sun appears to have some kind of a secret. drawn by someone else with new A lankyon volleyball Josephine sits ideas properplayer, decorum. Madon a log across the fire pit. They are dening, confusing, and above all, at Byron’s house, a six foot three wide it makesforthat the streams receiver the crossing football team, and Olwarning so wouldn’t very difficult to follie admits she mind finding out up close if his breath smells like walow. Ollie had found herself on termelon from those gum line sticks the wrong side of aTrident dividing a he routinely chews during games. She few times in her short high school snaps awake, suddenly self-conscious career, and the effort required to of her day dreaming.
O
Esmerelda, Esmo for short, hands Ollie a beer. It is warm and bitter, much like others she’s tried to courageously swally killed thatfootball overwhelming desire low at other players’ parties. She much prefers the mixed drinks, to Fit In. The thing is, once you are heavy on the fruit juice mind you, though back In, it is kind of nice. And for if she’s not careful even the vodka or those that aren’t, you’re pretty glad tequila mixes can lead to a screaming you aren’tinthem. headache the morning. Her parents Which the is why Ollie is conhave assumed recent attachment to morning coffee is part of the natural fused. order of teenager taste buds transform She’s at a party, and Joseing into adulthood. phine appears to have some kind of Ollie takes another sip of beer before a secret. lankybehind volleyball player, tipping theAbottle her back and Josephine sitsofonitsa contents log across spilling some to the the ground. Not too much, though. She fire pit. They are at Byron’s house, needs keep the illusion of enjoyment a six to foot three wide receiver for a bit longer or risk a refill and greater the football team, and Ollie admits assumptions about her drinking abilities. she wouldn’t mind finding Josephine sits beside her. Sheout hasup a closecan if his like wasoda andbreath seems smells to thoroughly enjoy it. They tradethose easy Trident banter. They termelon from gum laugh and nudge one another close sticks he routinely chewslikeduring friends, though they’ve only known one games. She snaps awake, suddenly another for a few months. Josephine is self-conscious of year her day dreaming. new to school this but she has alEsmerelda, Esmo for short, ready managed to make friends hands of just about everyone in the junior class. Ollie a beer. It is warm and bitBy estimations, Josephine doestried not ter,allmuch like others she’s drink, does not offer her body as a toy to courageously swallow at other experiment to boys, does not regularly football players’ parties. She much participate in the gossip crusades that prefersdaily the toward mixedthe drinks, on march doomheavy of unsuspecting girls who’ve allowed their interthe fruit juice mind you, though if ests move a few even standard she’stonot careful the deviations vodka or away from popular. tequila mixes can lead to a screamIt pains Ollie to admit it, but Josephine ing headache in the morning. Her stands a few rungs higher on the social parentsIthave assumed the recent atladder. makes no sense. Esmo returns. Her voicecoffee is louder tachment to morning is than part itofneeds to be despite the music the natural order of teenagerpumptaste ing from the outdoor speakers. She buds transforming into adulthood. notes Ollie’s half empty beer bottle and Ollie sip of replaces it withtakes a new another one. Josephine beer before tipping bottlesheberaises her soda can to the indicate is good. No questions from Esmo, she just hind her back and spilling some of rustles Josephine’s hair playfully its contents to the ground. Not and too the two share a laugh. Esmo notices much, though. She needs to keep Byron tossing a football with friends on the other illusion a bitunbutlonthe sideofofenjoyment the lawn. She ger or a refill and greater astons therisk top of her blouse, winks, and walks his way. sumptions about her drinking abiliJosephine laughs sits and beside shakes her. her head. ties. Josephine She She engages Ollie and asks a myriad
oughly enjoy it. They trade easy banter. They laugh in and one of personal questions thenudge most inofanother like close friends, though fensive way possible. Ollie finds herself they’vedetails only known oneincluding another for sharing of her life, her recent struggles with depression and a few months. Josephine is new to her inability connect withhas heralready mother school this toyear but she on any level. Josephine rarely interjects managed to and make friends of just her thoughts, it occurs to Ollie as about everyone in the junior class. she’s speaking that Josephine may the best By listener all estimations, Josebe she’s ever known. Within twenty minutes a kinship forms, phine does not drink, does not ofthat hadbody circumstances proved differfer her as a toy experiment to ent, would have lasted a lifetime. boys, does not regularly participate The following day at school, Mrs. Pitts in the gossip crusades that from Social Sciences tells Ollie march she is daily toward the doom unsusunique. She is special. She of should not confine herself to the normal and obvipecting girls who’ve allowed their ous. Free to spirits are aborn the interests move fewoutside standard box. It occurs to Ollie that Mrs. Pitts deviations away from popular. was speaking to the entire classroom. It occursIttopains Ollie to admit but her that Mrs. Pitts hasit,more Josephine stands a few rungs highthan one class throughout the day, and that she has been teaching Social Scier on the social ladder. It makes no ences sense. for 18 years. It occurs to Ollie that Mrs. Pitts is not the only Social SciencesEsmo returns. Her voice is teacher in the school district, louder than it needs to be despite and that her district is one of thousands the music pumping from the outacross the country. It occurs to Ollie she herOllie’s classdoor speakers. She and notes mates have been hearing the same half empty beer bottle and replaces message from the same teachers, teleit withprograms, a new one. Josephine vision magazines andraises other her soda can to indicate she good. Authorities on Life since gradeis school. No questions Esmo, she kind just When everyone from pursues the same of different, won’t they all end up identirustles Josephine’s hair playfully cal andcreatures the two anyway? share a laugh. Esmo In the hallway, Esmo and Josephine notices Byron tossing a football speak intimately near Esmo’s locker. with friends on the other side of the Tears have streaked Esmo’s mascara lawn.Josephine She unbuttons top of her and nods the empathetically. She takes Esmo’s hand, closes her blouse, winks, and walks his way. eyes, and whispers quietly in her ear, Josephine laughs and shakes her a prayer of supplication on behalf of a head. She hug, engages Ollie anda slight asks friend. They and Ollie feels aping myriad of personal questions in of envy. She chides herself. Is this the most inoffensive way possible. how Josephine would feel if she found Ollie spending time with another friend? Ollie finds herself sharing details of Ollie again wondersher howrecent Josephine’s her life, including struginherent goodness could feel so threatgles and her inabileningwith to herdepression own self-esteem. ity to connect with her motherShe on After school, Ollie walks home. climb out of the pariah pit had near- has a soda can and seems to thor- any level. Josephine rarely inter52 • bohemia • april 2014
jects her thoughts, and it occurs to Ollie as she’s speaking crosses the railroad that Josephine may tracks just past the be the best listener Dollar General and she’s known. tries to ever avoid the mudWithin mindy areastwenty hiding underutes a the kinship forms, neath tall grass by the side of the road. that had circumstancJosephine up next es provedpulls different, to her in her Toyota and would lasted a unlocks have the door, offerlifetime. ing her a ride. Ollie ac Theabout following cepts, asks Esmo, and Josephine politely day at school, Mrs. declines to Social discuss Scithe Pitts from details. Ollie accepts ences sheeleis this astells well, Ollie another unique. She is special. She should ment of Josephine’s righteousness that not confine herself the normal washes over you like atorecurrent cool breeze in summer. and obvious. Free spirits are born Ollie wants to know secret. She outside the box. It her occurs to Ollie presses, Josephine resists, so she that Mrs. PittsThey waspark speaking the presses more. on the to street entireto classroom. occurs to her next Ollie’s house It and the door unthat Mrs. morestays thanplantone locks once Pitts more, has but Ollie ed firmly in her seat.the Nearby, garbage class throughout day, aand that truck beeps as it lifts and empties she has been teaching Social Scicans. They talk. Despite the religiosity, ences for 18 years. It occursthe to way OlJosephine owns her goodness lie that Mrs. is notlife theowns onlytheir Soeveryone elsePitts in Ollie’s cial Sciences in the cynicism. New teacher friendships wereschool tough sledding the earlyisdays, district, for andJosephine that herindistrict one but the constant heartbeat of decency of thousands across the country. so wore down walls that friends began to seek her It occurs to the Ollie sheof and out. Half battle lovher people classmates haveyou been hearing ing is in what choose not thesay same from same to or do.message The other half the is consistency. She owned joy, as if itprograms, is the one teachers, television and only thing that could make her cool. magazines and other Authorities on A month later, Ollie sits near the front Life since grade school. row in a church pew. The sun shines When everyone pursues the through the stained glass imagery, same kind of different, painting crystalline colors won’t acrossthey the stage floor. Josephine’s picture on the all end up identical creatures anyeasel way? is just another surreal reminder of the new reality. Four days since police pulled her Inbody the from hallway, Esmometal and the twisted Josephine of her Toyotaspeak sedan atintimately the bottom ofnear the Esmo’s locker. Tears have interstate exit. The blood theystreaked thought covered the seats tomato nods basil Esmo’s mascara andwas Josephine
soup. She was delivering food to shut-ins. Not even her parents knew. empathetically. She takes Esmo’s Ollie’s face is stoic, but she is screamhand, closes eyes, and justice. whising on the inside her about fairness, in her ear, prayer of Apers chill quietly lingers now that thea warmth of Josephine’s heart gone.ofShe wraps supplication onhas behalf a friend. her armshug, around bodyfeels and astifles They andher Ollie slighta cry for the third time. Ollie can feel the ping of envy. She chides herself. old cynicism returning. For a moment Is this how would feel she bathes in Josephine it. Life is shallow, purif she found Ollie spending poseless. A great, cosmic joke. time She Josephine would withwonders anotherwhat friend? Ollie again say, and as if waking from a long needwonders how Josephine’s inherent ed sleep she knows the answer. Ollie goodness could feel so threatenpretends her arms are Josephine’s, ing to herher, own self-esteem. comforting holding her close. She Josephine’s After school, feels hands Ollie on herwalks face, turning toward Esmo, who sits home.it slightly She crosses the railroad alone silently. The General torch is tracksweeping just past the Dollar passed, and Ollie rises above the meland tries to avoid the muddy areas ancholy and sits with her friend, letting hiding the tall grass their tearsunderneath mingle as one. by the side from of thethe road. Josephine The angels window above stretch their wings overinthe girls, pulls up next to her hertwo Toyota reminding Ollie that Josephine and unlocks the door, offering was her something altogether different, where a ride. Ollie accepts, asks about her light shone in darkness, and darkEsmo, deness did and not Josephine overcome it.politely That she clines toall, discuss the details. was, after a beautiful creature.Ollie
accepts this as well, another element of Josephine’s righteousness that washes over you like a recurrent cool breeze in summer. Ollie wants to know her
secret. She presses, Josephine resists, so she presses more. They park on the street next to Ollie’s house and the door unlocks once more, but Ollie stays planted firmly in her seat. Nearby, a garbage truck beeps as it lifts and empties cans. They talk. Despite the religiosity, Josephine owns her goodness the way everyone else in Ollie’s life owns their cynicism. New friendships were tough sledding for Josephine in the early days, but the constant heartbeat of decency so wore down walls that friends began to seek her out. Half the battle of loving people is in what you choose not to say or do. The other half is consistency. She owned joy, as if it is the one and only thing that could make her cool. A month later, Ollie sits near the front row in a church pew. The sun shines through the stained glass imagery, painting crystalline colors across the stage floor. Josephine’s picture on theapril easel is just another 2014• bohemia • 53
surreal reminder of the new reality. Four days since police pulled her body from the twisted metal of her Toyota sedan at the bottom of the interstate exit. The blood they thought covered the seats was tomato basil soup. She was delivering food to shut-ins. Not even her parents knew. Ollie’s face is stoic, but she is screaming on the inside about fairness, justice. A chill lingers now that the warmth of Josephine’s heart has gone. She wraps her arms around her body and stifles a cry for the third time. Ollie can feel the old cynicism returning. For a moment she bathes in it. Life is shallow, purposeless. A great, cosmic joke.
She wonders what Josephine would say, and as if waking from a long needed sleep she knows the answer. Ollie pretends her arms are Josephine’s, comforting her, holding her close. She feels Josephine’s hands on her face, turning it slightly toward Esmo, who sits alone weeping silently. The torch is passed, and Ollie rises above the melancholy and sits with her friend, letting their tears mingle as one. The angels from the window above stretch their wings over the two girls, reminding Ollie that Josephine was something altogether different, where her light shone in darkness, and darkness did not overcome it. That she was, after all, a beautiful creature.
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Opening New Eyes By William Blackrose
R
ecently a writer friend of mine asked me how I manage my writing career and my family life. I’m the parent of a child who has special needs and so he was curious about our unique challenges. The question, in fact, doesn’t really have a simple answer and was a little more complex than he realized. You see, my wife and I are both authors, and our son, who is deaf and has Autism adds some interesting elements to our household and our daily lives in general. The demands of raising a child with autism are great, and, quite naturally, families who are doing it frequently experience high levels of stress. For us, this stress can make it dif58 • bohemia • april 2014
ficult to find the time and the focus to write. Planning for his needs is incredibly time consuming. We are fortunate to receive assistance from the state of Texas. The state helps find him things to do, such as helping out at Fuzzy Friends by walking the dogs. Currently, a case worker for the state is researching employment options for an individual with his needs through a program called DARS or Department of Adult Rehab Services, and we are hopeful that they will be able to find him something. Knowing how to access state aid can help alleviate some of the challenges for a special needs family. I hope that the state also is educating the public on the value
and strengths my child can bring to a company’s team. What many people do not seem to understand is that as autistics get older, they can develop better control and focus Autistics also tend to have high IQs. Their observations can astound you! For example, my son will be multitasking, juggling two or three complex activities, and he will stop all of them to point out something insightful that I otherwise would not have noticed. Each autistic individual is unique. There aren’t as many definitive, clinical characteristics as one might find when meeting the needs of a child with another type of spe-
cial need; and therefore parenting an autistic is an experience unique to each individual family. Unique kids, unique families, unique experiences. And so how do my wife and I do it? Most of the time, we put off writing until late at night or early in the morning. If my son is busy playing his games, I can usually edge in on him and get enough room near the computer to work. Sometimes I take my laptop with me when I head out somewhere in order to get in some additional creative time.
There are compromises we make that are necessary, but I don’t want them to overshadow the truth. The truth is that I would not trade the time we spend with him for anything. His observations are enlightening. His views on the world that surrounds him frequently open our eyes to a new perspective. How do I possibly find the time to write given my situation? Finding the time to write is challenging for all writers no matter the situation. My son is an asset. He grounds us. When the world is act-
ing crazy, he gives us an excuse to step away. This, in my opinion, is invaluable. Though juggling time is always a tricky task, I have to say that having him here offers a very clear picture of reality. As a writer, I may tend to get caught up in whimsy; he is my anchor to reality and my writing is all the better for it.
April is Autism Awareness Month. april 2014• bohemia • 59
Writing Tools: Recipes for Writers “Everyday Heroes” By William Blackrose
Writers love their heroes, and readers love to cheer for them, but often the heroes in the background are forgotten or relegated to stereotypes. 60 • bohemia • april 2014
W
riters love their heroes, and readers love to cheer for them, but often the heroes in the background are forgotten or relegated to stereotypes. We have all read our share of stories with the alcoholic cop, the fireman who feels underappreciated, even the EMT that is fed up with seeing death all the time and many other clichés in these fields. Therein lays the problem. Let’s take a look at these people for a moment rather than just using them for filler in the background. Police officers, who are often men and women with children at home, put themselves in harm’s way every day to keep us all safe from the lowest form of humanity. They have to wade into the filth every day and try to walk away at the end of the day without bringing that darkness home. Are there officers who drink, get violent, and even corrupt cops? Of course there are, but unlike the media sometimes portrays them, these are in the minority. That might be something to keep in mind in writing. Does that mean I am saying not to write about corruption, or not to use these stereotypes? No, not by a long shot. I only ask you to remember that for every dark sheep, there are a dozen officers driving themselves forward into the breach to keep us all safe every day. Firefighters get mixed portrayal in fiction. I have seen excellent examples at both ends of things. I have seen a character that was so altered by his experiences that he began setting fires just to play the hero because he only felt normal when he was seen as such. I have also read stories about someone so terrified by being trapped once that the fear consumed them
entirely. We cannot forget the realities of these heroes though; these are men and women who, by their own force of will, enter an inferno to try to save people that they often do not even know. The do this every day and face the very real chance of being harmed or even killed every time they enter a blaze. Do I want to see them in fiction as flawless symbols of courage? Perhaps not. They are still humans and as such are going to be flawed as the rest of us. All I ask is that you look at the deeper sacrifice they give every day before planting them in the background. At last, but never least, we come to the EMT. These are perhaps the most maligned of the emergency response teams, and are barely ever more than a line or two in the aftermath of a scene. These people spend every day around the sick and dying, as much or more than those in a hospital do. The biggest difference in my own eyes is that while a hospital deals with the same thing, the EMT is often alone. They are also often working in a dangerous location trying to save a life that otherwise would not even make it to the hospital. When I see them relegated to the backgrounds and aftermaths, it saddens me because they could be rich and vibrant characters if given their due. Yes, many of them have issues, sometimes even more than other emergency service people because of seeing so many die in their care. How could you not be affected by that? I just hope that someone might portray them with a bit more depth, and heaven forbid, perhaps some compassion. Those of you that follow my articles will probably notice that this one is different than previ-
ous articles. It is the first in a series of ‘recipes’ that are going to be designed to help you think more about character backgrounds and motivations. After all, those I have written about this month are more than heroes of a story; simply because these are all ordinary people called on to do extraordinary things.
april 2014• bohemia • 61
- Joe’s Pub 06/17/14 - New York, NY MA - The Sinclair 06/26/14 - Cambridge, a, PA - World Cafe Live 08/12/14 - Philadelphi DC - 9:30 Cafe 08/13/14 - Washington - Bowery Ballroom NY , rk Yo w Ne 4 /1 8/13
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Gem Club Live
See story next page
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Listenr while you Write by Caleb Farme
“We shape the tone of every situation by having absolute control over the soundtrack of our lives.”
Gem Club Julianna Barwick
M
usic has an appropriate place in almost every scene of our lives. We walk down a sidewalk with our personal soundtrack inspiring us through our headphones or hit the final chorus of that perfect jam at the end of a workout when we need one last burst of adrenaline. Weddings are celebrated and lives are memorialized by songs chosen to befit the moment. The days of carrying a boombox on your shoulder or facing the awkward stutter of a Discman skipping after you hit the most tame of bumps on the interstate have come to an end. We no longer record songs off the radio with cassette tapes or engage in rituals of blowing into dusty CD players or washing/rubbing/doing 64 • bohemia • april 2014
voodoo on scratched discs. Now we shape the tone of every situation by having absolute control over the soundtrack of our lives. Of course, some situations require that certain qualities be present in the music being played. Reading and writing is an example. Not just any type of music will get the creative juices flowing and allow you to avoid distractions. Personally, I find that something with subtle vocals, something without a lot of moving parts to be perfect, and, while there is always the option of listening to classical music, I often want to explore a few options from some independent labels. Next time you find yourself curling up on the couch with a good
book or working on your own submission for Bohemia, try filling the background with something of this sort. Allow me to suggest a few options. I’ve read many books while listening to Julianna Barwick. Her music is built on her continuously looped vocals and sparse, ethereal music. Fans of Sigur Ros will especially enjoy her albums. Her latest album, Nepenthe, was even recorded in Iceland. Her music has a beautiful subtlety to it with most songs slowly adding more layers as the vocals loop a phrase or sometimes just a noise. The music doesn’t feel placed in a certain time or location, which makes it an excellent companion for fantasy novels based in
Andrew Bird Noble Beast
rwick
Julianna Ba Nepenthe
Gem Club In Roses
“I’ve read many books while listening to Julianna Barwick.... looped vocals and sparse, ethereal music” places like Middle Earth. Another bonus of her Nepenthe album is that it is available to stream for free on Soundcloud. Gem Club is the second group on my list. Vocals are a little more present on the band’s most recent album, In Roses, than in Barwick’s work, but without some effort, it’s tough to make out what is being said. There is less of the looping, circular nature of Barwick’s album and more forward movement. Even though the trio’s lyrics are hard to pick up, there is a sense of emotion and sadness in most of these songs which transcends the lyrics. There is such a level of emotion and beauty that can be felt in these songs.
Andrew Bird is better known than the previous groups, but his inclusion on this list is because of his lesser-known album Useless Creatures. Originally paired with Noble Beast and released as a bonus disc, the album eventually became available on its own and includes 9 songs of instrumental music. Bird’s ever impressive whistling is present throughout the album and many of the songs tell stories just through the music. Nyatiti is an especially fun song that always causes me to visualize a giant beetle stomping through the grass. Most of the album is upbeat and can help wake you up when you’re having trouble finishing a late night project.
There are plenty of other great artists and albums that are paired well for the tasks of writing or reading. Some, like Sigur Ros, are very well known. There are also a host of instrumental bands that I might mention, such as Waco’s own Zombie Western or the popular Explosions in the Sky. Lastly, of course, many people have their own preferences for writing music. Stephen King, after all, cites Metallica and Anthrax as two of his favorite during a writing session.
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BOHEMIA Behind the scenes, our Boho HMU, Shanna & Alex.
BOHEMIA
OHEMBOHEMI IA
Behind the Scenes of Bohemia Bohemia plans to feature more shots from behind the scenes at our events, photo shoots, meetings, and maybe some of us just messing around in each issue. Thank you for your continued support. Find us on facebook. /bohemiajournal
BOHEMIA BOHEMIA Jon shooting with Boho models, rain or shine.
Nellie and Whitney did a shoot in do wntownWaco.
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contributors ALL MY FRIENDS ARE
Pete Able has been writing stories and poetry since college, or almost 20 years. His screenplays have been finalists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE International, and the New York Television Festival, among others. He lives in Woodway with his wife, Melissa, and daughters Joanna and Lila. He is currently the director of Financial and HR systems for Baylor University.
ORDINARY PEOPLE
Randall Brown teaches at Rosemont College’s MFA in Creative Writing Program. He is the author of the award-winning collection Mad to Live (Flume Press, 2008), his essay on short fiction appears in The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Writing Flash Fiction: Tips from Editors, Teachers, and Writers in the Field, and he appears in the Norton Anthology of Hint Fiction (W.W. Norton, 2010). He blogs regularly at FlashFiction.Net.
Caleb Farmer was born a Hoosier before making his way to Waco. He enjoys playing music with his band Cellar Door and collaborating with the Waco Music Co-op. He and his wife Ryn believe in loving where you live and engaging the community and Waco is a place they both have come to love. Some of his favorite musicians are A.A. Bondy, Josh Garrels, and Andrew Bird. He has been writing for Bohemia for the past three years.
Jessica Cory earned her MA in English and Creative Writing from East Carolina University and currently lives and writes in North Carolina. Her work has previously appeared in Emerge, A Poetry Congeries, and Menacing Hedge, Elena Botts grew up in Maryland, among other publications. She curand lives in Northern Virginia. rently teaches community college She’s been published in over twenty freshmen. literary magazines. Winner of four poetry contests, including Word Jay Dardes is a retired psychoWorks Young Poets, her poetry has therapist who lives in the woods of been exhibited at the Greater Res- Northwestern Pennsylvania with ton Art Center. Check out her po- his wife, Elaine, and his dog, Greetry book at allbook-books.com. tel.
Nellie Fitzjarrell is a freelance photographer working in the Waco Texas area with 10 years of experience and continues to do work with Photography By Doug Fitzjarrell. Her hobbies include spending time with her dogs, enjoying Cameron Park, kayaking, and living each day as it comes. She treasures seeing the artistic side of life unfold through the lens.
Musae P Adumbratus She is brave. She is fearless, expressing her thoughts and feelings without fear of judgement. She expands the limits of her creativity, reaching into unknown dimensions. She asks and searches. She is me, unbound.
William Blackrose is an Egyptian born writer and photographer that is dedicated to using unusual perspectives in all his projects. Constantly flipping gender as well as style to craft new perspectives, he is working on his novel. His current works include Twin Minds, Tears of Kharon, and his newest project Bloodfire. 68 • bohemia • april 2014
Noelle Marie Falcis received her BA in English at UC Irvine. She is currently at Antioch University completing her MFA and serving the literary journal Lunch Ticket. She is an advocate of Hip Hop culture and strives to educate, uplift, and empower through dance and writing. Find out more at noellemarie75.wordpress.com
Casey FitzSimons is host of a reading series in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her poems have appeared in Red Wheelbarrow, Midwest Quarterly, Sand Hill Review, Newport Review, and many other print and online journals. This year she placed first in Ina Coolbrith Circle’s “Poet’s Choice” competition. Her chapbooks include The Breeze Was Mine: Poems in Form (2013), Riding Witness (2012), and No Longer Any Need (2011).
with extraordinary lives Michael A. Gill hails from the small town of Rosebud, TX, where he lives with his family-- his parents, a brother, a sister, and his grandparents. He is currently enrolled at Temple college and is working on his first novel, All These Demons. Jon Goddi says, “Photography is my calling, my profession, and the thing that will undoubtedly drive me insane someday. I don’t photograph subjects. I photograph the way they make me feel. I’m very raw, bold and edgy with my style.” Ann Howells’s poetry has recently appeared in Calyx, Crannog (Ire), Magma (UK) and Spillway. She edits the poetry journal, Illya’s Honey, recently taking it from print to digital. She has two chapbooks, Black Crow in Flight (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2007) and the Rosebud Diaries (Willet Press, 2012). Andrew Jarvis is the author of two published chapbooks of poetry, Choreography (Johns Hopkins University, 2007) and Sound Points (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2013). He holds an M.A. in Writing (Poetry) from Johns Hopkins University and a B.A. in English from the University of Maryland. He has published poems in Red Fez, Rattapallax, Fickle Muses, and River Poets Jornal.
My name is Jessica Kelter. I am 18. I’m a senior in high school and a sophomore in college. I have a thing for politics and writing.
Ruth Sabath Rosenthal is a New York poet, published throughout the U.S. and internationally. Ruth has 3 books of poetry: Facing Home and Beyond, little, but by no John Laue has edited Transfer and means small, Food: Nature vs Nurbeen Associate Editor of San Fran- ture and a chapbook Facing Home. cisco Review. He presently coor- For purchasing information, visit: dinates the monthly reading series www.ruthsabathrosenthal.moonof The Monterey Bay Poetry Con- fruit.com sortium and is Editor of the online magazine Monterey Poetry Review. Brett Stout is a 34-year-old writHis sixth and seventh books, Word er and artist. He is a high school Gains and Head Lines and High dropout and former construction Lights were published in March worker turned college graduate and and July of 2013 by Writers and Paramedic. He writes while mainly Lovers Studio, Taiwan. hung-over on white lined paper in a small cramped apartment in Myrtle Michael Pacholski was born at Beach, SC. He published his first 3.01 p.m. on Wednesday, Jan. 31 novel of prose and poetry, Lab Rat 1968 and was writing poetry in his Manifesto, in 2007. http://bretthead by 3.01.0000000000000001. stout.deviantart.com/ It only took him that long because the doctors and nurses insisted on Gary Lee Webb is a 16-year resibathing him. He has since grown dent of Waco. He has lived on up, received a degree in Creative three continents, visited four, and Writing and currently works as a speaks many languages … badly. nurse’s aide. Publication credits His credits include over 250 public include Comstock Review, Every speeches, four decades of conferDay Poets, alittlepoetry, Karamu, ences and contests, assisting the Farrago, Bohemia Journal (again, Waco Cultural Arts Fest, and over “gracias”). three dozen publications. He is 58, married 37 years, and has 4 daughIlya Prints lives in Lynn, MA. ters. Some his works, poems and flash fictions, have been published in the I’m Kaspar Wilder, the young girl several literary magazines, “Calli- who won the youth division of the ope”, “Exercise Bowler”, “Spark”, Poetry Slam during the Waco Cul“Bohemia”, and others. tural Arts Festival in 2012. april 2014• bohemia • 69
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