BOHEMIA August 2013
Dancing Planets
Ten Million
Fireflies Bikinis and
Bermuda Shorts
Mike Bartoszek Poetry & Fiction hitchhiker across the universe
Fashion & Photography
Art & Lifestyle
Extraterrestrial Dance Party
August 2013 www.bohemia-journal.com
Bohemia has landed August 2013• bohemia • 1
Portraits by Gena Deeds-Page gdeeds@yahoo.com facebook.com/GenaDeedsPage civa-artists.ning.com/profile/GenaDeedsPage
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712 Austin Ave. Waco, TX 76701 M-F 8:30am-8pm
www.croftartgallery.com info@croftartgallery.com [254] 714-1710
An art show featuring the work of H. Jennings Sheffield visit jenningssheffield.com for more info on the artist. Opening Reception September 6th, 2013 from 6-9p.m. Show Duration: September 2nd-27th
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Bohemia August 2013 Volume 3, Number 7 ISSN No. 2162-8653 Editor: Amanda Hixson Assistant: Stephanie Rystrom Fashion: Brittany Amara Lilljedahl Beauty: Missy Von Parlo Writers: Pete Able, Katie Croft, Susan Duty, Caleb Farmer, Jim McKeown, Meg Miller, Jessica Purser, Whitney Van Laningham, Gary Lee Webb Photographers: Cecy Ayala, CJ Hudgins, Pat Jones, Bonnie Neagle, Belladonna Treason, Genna Ware, Cynthia Wheeler Thank you to the Boho Model Crew located in Waco, TX! Yes, these girls are Waco, TX. Also, Bohemia wouldn’t exist without the regular contributors and friends who lend their talents frequently. Cover credits: Model Amara Love Photographer Cynthia Wheeler Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX. We take submissions from around the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions-based journal and staff-produced magazine. Contributors, please follow our submission guidelines. More information is available at www.bohemia-journal.com
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Extraterrestrial Dance Party by Cynthia Wheeler with August poetry selections These Planets Dance -Some Homes For Aliens by Gary Lee Webb
Bring Me My Spaceship. I Want To Go home. by Ravenblakh Photography
Fictional short story selections for our theme. Art by James McCarthy
Ten Million Fireflies by Pat Jones Photography and Genna Ware
A Starry Night Bohemian by Mike Bartoszek
We’re the aliens. We’re the savages. Photo by Cynthia Wheeler featuring Amora Love
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Greetings Earthlings. This issue of Bohemia is brought to you by space cadets. Our mission is as always:
58 60 72 74 88 95 98 I come in Peace. 6 • bohemia • August 2013
to keep making Bohemia.
Martin Museum by Jim McKeown Summer in the City by Cynthia Wheeler Coco Me Beautiful by Missy Von Parlo Water Lillies by Design Cortex My Bohemian Home by Linda Carter Hill Walking With Jason by John Hunt Contributor’s Credits
Let’s Dance!
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s Bohemia a literary journal or a magazine? We’re both, bitches. Is Bohemia local or international? We’re both, bitches. Is Bohemia traditional or modern? You guessed it. We’re both. Follow our themes. Send us poetry and short stories, art and photography. Or aliens from outer space are going to come and eat you. This month Amara Love takes the cover in a photograph by Cynthia Wheeler created at an intergalatic-inspired session with the very talented lady. We got creative with fish tank tubing. In addition, we have photo shoots by our official photobugs involving ten million fireflies, swimsuit clad pedestrians, and boho lovelies wading in a murky summer creek. Incidently, the official name of our theme is Extraterrestrial Dance Party, and therefore our submissions are littered with stars and planets, UFOs, neon braided alien soccer goalies, and landscape paintings from an alternate universe. Bohemia can be serious, beautiful, hip, or sometimes we just get crazy-with-the-cheese-whiz. Special thanks to staff: assistant editor Stephanie, fashion planner Brittany, our scrappy/ happy team-o-writers, our photo mavens, and the Team Bohemia model squad. Beauty editor Missy Von Parlo is amazing and our HMU team makes us beautiful. Is it really almost the end of summer and time for us to start planning creepy Halloween photo shoots? Why yes, yes it is. Write, write, write, write, write, write, write & don’t forget to live long and prosper.
Amanda
Peace, love, Corona, & kitty cats.
PS: Next month we’re going back in time... bitches.
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extraterrestrial dance party Photography & post-processing by Cynthia Wheeler Photography Lighting by Pat Jones featuring Amara Love Illustrations by Fabio Sassi
Because Mars by AJ Huffman
is electric, red, and resistant to changes imposed by the time-space continuum, it was the perfect place to build the alien discothèque. Planetary minions flocked to its garish lightshow. 12-eyed Saturians decked out in full John-Travolta-Saturday-NightFever regalia glow like ghosts under the strobing black-lit mirror ball. The Uranian revival of Donna Summer’s greatest hits streamed through the Milky Way like a midnight meteor shower. There was a hesitant fear of crosscontamination caused by so many sequins, but precaution was thrown to the vacuum, when the local black hole closed out of respect for the blue-man group’s light-year tribute to Abba.
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“you smolder in the crater of ice” Comet Thoughts by Donal Keohane
Comet Thoughts by Donal Keohane
One hundred million miles away It hurls across the sky. “Hale Bop” they say “is just a trailing flow of ice” Through time it wanders Where space and time are fused; It’s birthday finite minds can only guess; It’s lifespan no one dares conjecture; It’s purpose, role and destiny we do not know No more than seers of Egypt Four thousand years ago. For all it’s height and depth and breadth It’s just a speck propelled by Forces greater than itself. It’s presence calls for cause and reason why. For some it is a chariot to eternity; Convinced they left this world in prime of life To catch a ride to levels beyond their dreams. To earthlings it will appear again Two thousand years from now. From what existence will we see it then? Honest minds cry out “How mighty are your works o God”
Being Sent Angels or a Detached Retina by Chanterelle Atkins
On Saturday, was I sent an angel in the shower: God’s messenger? Tiny headlights in my periphery drifting like bioluminescent amoebas or is this a detached retina? Do I fight what is real, seeing a mirage in the possibility that it must be something better than than the blunders of biology, wishing upon the flashes and drifters as the Perseids of my mind. Or is it simply neural firing?
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Astronomy For Idiots by Bradley Lastname
Procure a copy of GASTONOMY FOR IDIOTS. White out the letter ‘G’ from the title of the book. You now have a copy of ASTRONOMY FOR IDIOTS. “But isn’t it still a book on Gastronomy?” you ask. Well, that’s a pretty intelligent question, coming from an idiot !! Take the paperback outside. Turn to page 62. Use a powerful magnifying glass to focus a sunbeam over every letter ‘O’ on the page, and burn a hole in every ‘O’. With a writing implement, connect all the burned “O’s.” The burned “O’s” have now formed a constellation. Name the constellation anything but ‘Late4$upper.’ Now call the constellation, and it will come. What, you want the constellation to fetch your slippers, too? Constellations only do that for Carl Sagan.
Meteor
by Trier Ward Oh my fallen star how long will you hold the heat of the night in your hardening heart as you smolder in the crater of ice, bound all around by the mocking eyes of snow in this crystal paradise? How long will you smolder? How long will you shiver? How long will you burn bright?
ce. use the force.
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shindig
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Where the Music Is by Jennifer Johnson
I want to go where the Music is Where the Singers sing And the Players play And the Dancers sway And Life is afraid to knock. The Clock is afraid to tock And I draw the curtain on the Day To let in the Night, Where everything Right is Wrong And everything Wrong is… Not what I am Afraid of Because the Lyrics are loud And the Notes are clear And I can’t hear… And I can’t hear… The Good people And it hurts so Bad and Feels so Good that That I don’t have to feel… Anything at all Where the music is.
by Andrew Lamont smashed Red Rock bottles litter the landscape; pilots too drunk to operate bottle rockets twist their skinny legs in the two-moonlight, twist another lid off & swear a sip of water what little there is in bitter anticipation of the proportionally large headache poised like Curiosity to pick & drill & grind & crawl
“some may believe the sky is falling”
Jor-El of Krypton
by Richard King Perkins I An unasked burden has been lashed across our backs. When perilous stalactites threaten to shower, some may believe the sky is falling, though the stars will not descend. Looking to the outer rim, we notice our lone satellite and send a handful of others to comfort; that she does not breathe, and send still others to resuscitate. Together, out of the hollow sphere we fly, wearing our flag like a dragging cape— believing in the rightness of our invulnerability, and still we cannot cross to those spawnless strangers we imagine to be our fathers.
UT There.The Truth is OUT There 12 • bohemia • August 2013
e.The Truth is OUT There.
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“one gazes up and floats with them in space” Human Being by Joel Cifer
I find myself with the urge to go and do. When I am going and doing I am a force of will divorced of emotion. Task oriented. I can see things in terms of systems and processes. Roles that need to be assumed and responsibilities that need to be shouldered. In this going and doing, the force of momentum elicits fear in most. When I can just be, my existence is enough. There is nothing to be proven. Nature flexes and pulses with every breath I take. Insecurities take on a sweet sadness like the memory of an aunt’s cobbler. It is the longing I connect to. Just wanting to be okay. It can’t be for anything you did or it isn’t really love. A peace in knowing we matter. Our bodies as intricate and complex as a universe. God is everywhere. I want to be.
Judy Jetson by Devin Stroud
Deadman Lake
shocking grasping lips of juice and softly blue flame of your mystery candy scented glistening mouth of disaste baptize me in thy utterance come with stabbing thoughts come with the attack of spring come with gentle wrath erupt with your suicide inside me.
by J.S. MacLean
A rush of August stars spilled into bottomless water along the cusp of night. Three young men dive in. One gazes up and floats with them in space. One retrieves a voice, relinquished long ago by some ancient waterfall. One creates a memory of a rumbling chant down the bank onto the obsidian surface, pooling in the hollow of life.
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er
2
me up. beam me up. beam me up.
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(Inset) Will we be visited? The worlds of Gliese 581 are only 20 lightyears away. (At right) The ocean world around Kepler-22.
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These Planets Dance
– Some Homes for Aliens by Gary Lee Webb
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Have you ever wanted to travel into space?
Mankind has been interested in visiting the heavens since antiquity. In his play, The Birds, Aristophanes had his adventurers travel into the heavens to reach Cloudcookooland, four centuries prior to Christ. Around the same time, Hindu literature chronicled spaceflight (within the Ramayama). But it was the second century AD Roman author, Lucian, who first had his heroes reach the Moon carried aloft by a tornado (in his True History). That adventure not only tells of their travels, but the geography, inhabitants, and strange creatures of three planets and an interplanetary war. Over the centuries, we have learned much more about alien worlds really look like, and our authors have taken us much farther afield. We no longer expect to be able to travel using the rising vapours of dew, drawn by birds, as in Bishop Francis Godwin’s 17th Century novel, The Man in the Moone. We first learned of our own solar system, and then of planets around other stars. Currently that count stands over 900 confirmed exo-planets and over 4000 possibles, but the number of detected planets should increase greatly as the Keplar Space Observatory continues to monitor 145,000 Milky Way stars. And there are some interesting planets out there: planets orbiting binary stars, gas giants frenetically orbiting their star, and only 42 light years away is a roiling hot water world (GJ 1214 b), with gravity 9% less than Earth’s. But are any of these habitable? And how do they compare with the alien planets of fantasy and science fiction. Will we find a Dune, a Bar18 • bohemia • August 2013
soom, a Darkover or Krypton, a about Barsoom, a world covered in Cachelot, or Athshe? Will we find red grass, canals, thin air and low any earth-like worlds ? gravity, and both red and green martians. Edgar Rice Burroughs For me, the name Arrakis (“ar- based his stories of noble, warraqis” is “the dancer” in Arabic), like Barsoom, on the actual planet evokes memories of a sand-filled Mars, which turned out to have less world, populated by giant sand air and water (and red rocks, not worms, and millions of Fremen red sward). But had Mars been a warriors ready to conquer the gal- little larger, with more greenhouse axy. This is the planet, Dune, an gasses, it could easily have been earthlike world other than being the world of Percival Lowell and dryer than our own Atacama Des- Giovanni Schiaparelli. ert. Its biggest mammal, other Vulcan (of Star Trek) is another than man, is the Kangaroo Rat, dry, Mars-like world. Muad’Dib, which the natives adMarian Zimmer Bradley based mire, and whose name the protago- her 29 Darkover novels on a much nist assumes. But could there be more earth-like world, metal-poor such a place? and cold, Cottman IV also known as Darkover, which like the planet At this point, we know of 3800 Krypton (of the Superman comstars within 25 parsecs (82 light- ics) circles a red-giant. Could years) of Earth. We expect 6000 there be such a world? Certainly! planets around those stars, but cur- The star Formalhaut is metal-poor, rently only 474 of them are known much larger than our sun, and has a to have systems, with 574 planets planet which has actually been imconfirmed. 80 of those are not gi- aged. Formalhaut b is a giant, but ants, but remember that the easiest where there is one planet there are to detect are the big giants, or the usually several. In fact, there are planets in tight orbit, so we expect three close-by K-giant stars known lots of earth-size planets. A dozen to have at least one planet (stars have been direct-imaged (e.g., For- Pollux, γ Cephei, and ι Draconis), malhaut b), but that requires a big and we know of two dozen more. planet far from any star. Wikipedia Whether any of them will have a lists 21 terrestrial exoplanets with- cold, earth-like world with psionic in 50 light years, with 6 possibly aliens is question for the future, of habitable. Extrapolating that tally, course. I expect a few hundred habitable At the other extreme are the planets within 25 parsecs. And we water worlds. Alan Dean Foster know that the amount of water var- wrote about Cachalot, a world of ies from system to system … a hab- almost no surface land, populated itable warm desert world is quite by dolphins and whales brought possible. from Earth in AD 2300. He also wrote about Tran-ky-ky, a heavily We come close to having one in iced world. Our own Solar Sysour own system. I grew up reading tem has Europa, a small, icebound
waterworld. It is thought to have a 20 kilometer thick skin of ice covering an ocean that could be hundreds of kilometers deep, heated by tidal flexing. Technically it is not a “dwarf planet” like Pluto or Ceres since it orbits Jupiter and not the Sun, but it is the same size as one. Outside our solar system, water and ice worlds come bigger: I already mentioned a hot water world (GJ 1214 b), comparable to Earth in size. There are several waterworlds larger than Earth, ranging up to Neptune size: e.g., Kepler 62 f, an Earth-temperature world, 40% larger, thought to have a very deep ocean on the surface and Kepler-22 b, also Earth-temperature with a very deep ocean, but Neptune-sized. The best world for humans would not be one of these extremes. These too should exist, and fantasy literature is full of them. Many of them are forest worlds, for example, Ursula LeGuin’s 1976 novel about the planet Athshe, The Word for World Is Forest, and Alan Dean Foster’s 1975 novel, Midworld. Such worlds should have a mixture of land and ocean, and various terrain types. But if the world appears normal, it may be different in other ways. The movie Avatar is centered on a large, forested moon (Pandora) of a fictional Alpha Centauri A gas giant, Polyphemus (to date, we have not yet detected any of the Alpha Centauri A planets and only a single earth-sized planet around the Alpha Centauri B). Polyphemus is slightly smaller than Jupiter, located in the habitable zone of its star, and has many moons. The moon Pandora appears normal, but it has a world-wide neural network of communicating flora and fauna,
A real-life Tatooine ? The two Kepler-47 planets orbit a double star, orange and white.
and some large deposits of superconductive mineral, unobtainium. For all intents and purposes, the planet is aware. And the mineral allows mountains to float in the moon’s strong magnetic fields. Another sentient world appears in the Stanislaw Lem’s eponymous 1961 novel, Solaris. The world is actually covered with a single planetwide organism, an enormous mind capable of telepathic communication, but too alien to really be understood by the human characters. The book has been turned into a movie three times, but the movies have not focused on the main character, missing the point of the book. As the author says: “I only wanted to create a vision of a human encounter with something that certainly exists, in a mighty manner perhaps, but cannot be reduced to human concepts, ideas, or images. This is why the title of the book was Solaris and not ‘Love in Outer Space.’” The idea of a habitable moon (as in Pandora) has been seen elsewhere, of course. The Star Wars saga has “The Forest Moon of Endor,” home of the Ewoks. While we cannot actually see any such moons yet, habitable satellites of a jovian planet at just the right distance from its star turns out to be quite likely. Thirty such jovians are
known to be in the middle of their star’s habitable belt. One other strangeness from Star Wars also turns out to be possible. Fans of those movies may recall that Tatooine orbits a double star. So do the planets (currently two known) of the binary Kepler-47, and Kepler-47 c is in the middle of the habitable zone. Fiction and reality can mirror each other. In fact, the Keplar Space Observatory has detected several such systems. Another science fictional theme is the rogue planet, ejected from its system and wandering by itself through space. It turns out that those are not uncommon, and the bigger ones are in fact viewable. Unlike most planets, there is no nearby star to wash them out. So one of the dozen extra-solar planets we have actually imaged is the lonely CFBDSIR J2149. Like Jupiter, it glows ruddily in its own heat, and does not need reflected light. But for the most part, we should look at normal systems, for example, the Gliese 581 system of 6 planets, three in the habitable belt, only 21 light years away. The Ukrainians apparently agree: on 9 October 2008, they used a radio telescope to send a message to the Gliese 581 system. So we may be visited by the Gliese 581 equivalent of Star Fleet in 2030. August 2013• bohemia • 19
On Arrakis (the planet Dune), Muad’Dib is the Kangaroo Rat, admired for its wisdom, painted here by Friedrich Wilhelm Kuhnert.
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Bring Me My Spaceship, I Want to Go Home. Photography & post-processing: RavenBlakh Photography
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Model: Samanfah Wilson Designer & Stylist: Jackalopeland 22 • bohemia • August 2013
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Charlotte is a fashion, portrait, and conceptual based photography student, currently living in London. Heavily inspired by film, and the work of director David Lynch, she has an infatuation with colour and strange characters. 'Bring Me My Spaceship, I Want to Go Home' is a collaboration between Charlotte and Jackalopeland; it reflects a disconnection from ones surroundings, and selfexpression through fashion. 24 • bohemia • August 2013
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-The Last Words of Mark II, First and Final King of Plutoby Ty Hall
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lutonians, as everybody knows, listened exclusively to music produced in western civilizations on Earth between the years 1977 and 1987. A knee-jerk assumption would be to attribute this particularity to their impeccably poor taste in the finer arts. But in reality, it is due mostly to the binary properties of synthesized sounds. For example, C4 (middle C) is 261.63 Hz (with A4 equaling 440 Hz), which translates to 10010100 00111100 01111111. This code is eventually translated into sound, which in turn is retranslated when passed through 26 • bohemia • August 2013
“The Place Where Forgotten Dreams Dwell” by James McCarthy
Plutonian ear holes back to binary. Middle C, on Pluto, roughly translated to “Howdy everybody I know that I love from the top of my head to the toes on my feet” (which may or may not be saying very much, as the average Plutonian is only about the size of the tip of a dull pencil. Then again, love is relative). This binary quality of synthesized music speaks to them on a deeply rudimentary level. Taco’s “Puttin’ on the Ritz” (adopted as Pluto’s trans-national anthem) instils great patriotism and nostalgia in their little Plutonian hearts. This music was discovered accidentally in April of 1977 (Earth time) by Mark the Second who, upon sharing his discovery with the planet, was
promptly made Pluto’s first king. He took office that same year on August 15th, and every radio on the planet played Cat Stevens’ “(Remember the Days of) The Old Schoolyard,” the recoils of which were actually picked up on Earth that same day (it only takes about four hours for radio waves to travel from Pluto to Earth). Believing themselves to be the sole beings in all of the universe to have ever heard this music, Plutonians eventually decided they wanted to share this gift with all of creation. So they constructed a meeting place called Plutio 54, and in 2007 (Earth years) they began sending out invitations. This highly coordinated effort involved interrupting what they
deemed to be the most important media of every planet with Rick Astley’s masterpiece “Never Gonna Give You Up” (01001110 01100101 01110110 01100101 01110010 00100000 01100111 01101111… translates roughly in Plutonian as “Hi things that live and think with ears, please come to our totally neat shindig on Pluto”). Unfortunately on Earth (as with the other planets) these invitations were interpreted as funny, annoying pranks to show your buddies, and thus was disregarded. For nearly a decade they waited for a response. Just sitting there in Plutio 54—tiny little heads sullenly buried in their tiny little hands—listening to an endless cycle of Falco, Europe, Men Without Hats, etc. ad nauseam. And with the constant barrage of musical angst invading their tiny little minds, the Plutonians started to become insecure about themselves. They would say things like “Nobody likes us because we got demoted to a dwarf planet,” or “Do I smell funny? Maybe I smell funny. Hey, you, come over here and smell me. Do I smell funny to you?” Eventually, this angst turned to anger and eventually aggression. They decided to invade every planet that did not attend their party, and show them what for. So all the little lice-sized Plutonians piled into the planet’s only spacecraft (a white orb weighing 2.7 grams with all inhabitants on board, with a surface area of 5027 mm2) and took off toward the nearest invited planet—Earth—angrily chanting “Attack! Decay! Sustain! Release! Attack! Decay! Sustain! Release!” over and over again. But a glimmer of hope filled their itty bitty hearts when the miraculous tones of Rick Astley were picked up by the ship’s frequency receiver. “Maybe,” Mark the Second said airily, “they thought they were hosting the party. Or more likely, they heard this wonderful truth and couldn’t stop listening. This is delightful! Full speed ahead! Ride those waves!” So they followed the sound waves to a house. “What
are these strange characters?” they pondered, seeing the “ΔΖ 80’s Party” printed on a banner above the threshold. “It must say ‘Welcome folks from Pluto’” someone suggested. Probably. They came in through the bathroom window. “These beings are giants! Though they look kind of like us, they’re humongous,” Mark the Second mused. Distracted by the flashing lights and bright neon tube tops, the captain crash landed underneath a couch. The spacecraft was instantly pursued by an enormous hand and captured. “Got it!” the captor shouted to his buddies with the orb between his fingers as he returned to the table. “My shot, right?” The gargantua dunked the spacecraft into water and shook it twice, jostling the Plutonians from one end of the sphere to the other, killing at least seven-dozen. The craft was then sent hurling through the air into a red receptacle full of yellow liquid. It came down with a thunderous crash, filling almost instantly with Keystone Light. With that, Mark the Second—gasping for his last sweet breaths of nitrogen— spake his last words: “I’m afraid this has all been a terrible waste of time.” Smile Capitol of the World The actual nickname of Pocatello, Idaho by Philip Kobylarz
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he day I saw a UFO I knew I had to quit my job. It was that simple. As simple as a bright light hovering over a 6,700 foot dun colored mountain at 4:38 a.m. Most of the really important things that happen in this life happen when it’s dark out. Pitch black. The mountain stood at the end of my street on the outskirts of a long forgotten college town in southeastern Idaho. This geographic location meant that the name of the peak– Chink’s– could be a blatant racial slur and there wasn’t anyone for deserts in the distance in any direction who would ever care or feel an inkling of shame about it. As long as they kept cranking out mediocre Mu Shu Beef at Wang Lin’s
grease pit on 4th Street all was good. It is a damn tall mountain, too, as big as the mythical South’s Smokies, but this one is burnt by the sun to look like a multi-layered potato. Its parsley sprigs are juniper trees and it has some crazy stubble of antennae on its head. It also, in the right light, can look like a deflated beehive. Or failed pizza dough. But it wasn’t any aerial lights that were shining that fateful day in June when I took the dog out for her morning crap. There was a glowing orb, a halo with no hole, and it hung there shimmering, but not like a star. It pulsated as if it were beckoning to me in some sort of Morse code language of blink– glowing and spurting out tongues of energy. An otherworldly form of gesturing. Like it desperately wanted to tell me something. And that something was that I was ruining my life. A so-called rational person might be inclined to say I was seeing things due to my tenuous existence on this ball of life known as the Earth. Sure, I am neither astrophysicist nor an M.D. but I am, or was, a teacher of fellow humans. I knew things. Important things. My gig was that of an instructor at an English teaching school associated with a real life university. I taught the mechanics of grammar and the art of speech to twenty-somethings from Saudi Arabia, South Korea, Japan, and Taiwan. They loved and revered me and I was the kind of person who would never do them wrong or sell them untrue information. I was an educator and self-proclaimed skeptic of false prophecies. I was a sort of secular Mormon prophet. Only without the harem. What can anyone or I really tell anyone about foreigners? They are the true aliens. The weirdest thing about them is their food and the way it smells. Of course, they think the same about hot dogs and chalupas. They’re only foreign because they so want to be like us, empty headed and American, addicted to sugar and unrealizable dreams. And the sad thing is that sometimes they think and see themselves as lizard-skinned, cat-eyed, creatures from a distant nebula just because they aren’t us and will never be admitted
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into the club. The funny thing is how they think we’re the standard of normality. We, the people who put cheese on everything to make it, finally, good. The English language school sat in a semi-decrepit former office or even bank building at the end of the two mountain ranges that hemmed in the town, at the open arms of a naturally formed Y of habitation and occasional moose-wandered wilderness. Within its prison-like shell, in a yellow brick perfunctory box renovated to look like a modern office, there is a room that contains hundreds upon hundreds of taxidermied birds. Owls spreading their wings stacked on red tail hawks stealthily searching for prey. This room was the first clue. What we actually taught under the guise of language acquisition was this: how to smile constantly, how to pretend to be happy, how to don’t worry in the artful deceit of please, at all times, be fake and have a nice day. Since the syllabi (or alibis) and the objectives all came from a series of anonymous, apocryphal corporate writers, this was quite an easy task. Coincidentally there are as many theories about our friends from above as there are proofs of crashed vehicles and wheat fields that have been pattered. Here’s a bit of advice: when referring to them, always write or say “our friends from above”. It’s not even funny to do otherwise. One hundred and one rules for how to behave in the corporate workplace and one hundred and one hypotheses on how to teach a language. 10 rules on how to refer to Them. Do the math. Simplicity is always the answer we are looking for. Sightings, governmental conspiracy theorem, cover-ups, visitations, etcetera. No one really talks of how a long time ago they had been with us, cohabiting our reality. Except late night radio shows on AM. There are mentions of craft in the Bible. Woodcuts, in Renaissance paintings. They could be our beginning and ancestry. One day we’ll figure out what planet we come from (the true mission of NASA). The previous parenthetical will be black markered out. That’s where the unidentified aspect of everything comes in. Just as we can really never know who are great great 28 • bohemia • August 2013
great grandparents were, we don’t actually see these things darting about like steel cigars in the sky, behind clouds of mountains. I maintain I saw what I saw and it was the only valid form of epiphany that’s worth discussing. Really the discs that float above forests in Switzerland, or in the distance between telephone lines in a cornfield of Nebraska, or the balls of light that flew in the skies of a warm Phoenix evening, or the glowing donuts that appear in infrared films shot by the space shuttle crew are all just memories of the great exodus that hasn’t ever been written down in the various arrays of bibles wild-eyed preachers are ready to quote from on Sunday morning lowbudget t.v. shows. The true indication that they exist is in the here and now. The evidence is in the way we cannot communicate with one another because we can’t ever document the origins, the virgin birth of the big bang, if one will, of our collective, for lack of a better word, spawning. It is that long awkward silence. We cannot celebrate the beginning. We are not allowed to. Take for instance my recent boss, of a long line of bosses bred specifically to be of the boss race. Randall, as he called himself, was the kind of guy who could simply never find a suit coat that fitted him properly. He was the type whose consciousness was forever itself hovering between what was real and the clever forces that paint the skies interesting. Sure, he could seem like he cared about the stresses and angst of students caught in between cultures in his center for “higher” learning, but he only had two temperaments: mellow and mellower. No one remarked how obvious his iris-less eyes were because everyone became instantly lost in his toothy grin and well-meaning demeanor. For him, every crisis about grading or student housing or the teachers’ inability to make classes more fun than a New York Times crossword was met with the assumption that everything would turn out, somehow, “okay”. Of course, it had to be o.k. Everything would be copasetic until the day giant discs appeared over the world’s biggest cities and he could assume his true role:
commander of the ultimate exchange program once dreamed up and fabulized as Soylent Green. As I write this, the sky above the high desert lacks even one cloud. They know I’m at work on a heretical tract. They will only strike when and if I can get this published in a small printed collation read mostly by the loving mothers of the writers it features: a small press literary magazine. Those are even dying. It’s part of the megaplan. The last samizdat forum of individuality first slowly, now rapidly, being phased out. They will be in charge of the dreaming when it is time. The one collective dream. Don’t think I haven’t been preparing for such a moment. The truck is gassed up. The guns are hidden, taped up under the seat. If these are my final last words, it can be assured that I’m not giving up without a fight. The reason for this is that I’m not one of them. Somehow, I slipped through the cracks. I know they can feel me sweat when I see the orbs receding, bobbing over the tops of the asparagus-topped juniper trees, flecking into the horizon on badly moonlit nights. And I’ll stand my ground being the proud Neanderthal that I am– the last one who believes in animal fantasies of love, friendship, and freethinking. Venues full of truth that no one reads about or thinks of anymore. Not when the wi-fi is on. They cannot eradicate the ape in me. And this is the reason why I cannot any longer hold a real job. Jobs are known to them as “perceptive servitude”. This will be made clear by a tangential story. At the front of the English teaching school was Randall’s henchman, a guy anonymously named Bill and he had the ability to see right through me. He had the training. He was bred as a seer. With paper-thin spectacles, he tried to hide his own pupil-less eyes. When he spoke, his voice trembled in fear because he knew he was hiring a teacher with writerly pretensions, and as most know, writers equal danger. One curious thing is that our friends from above don’t even have an alphabet. All communication is telepathic or carried out through subtle hand gestures, barely perceptible to the human
August 2013• bohemia • 29
“Time is the Great Harvester” by James McCarthy
animal who relies on the much more vulgar form of body language. Further proof: Bill’s desk was chaos personified. He, perhaps, didn’t want to signal that he was one of them by possessing an organized, sleek workspace. As he could see through anyone, anyone could see through him. Charts, tables, grade percentages, spreadsheets were all his obsessions. The trembling of his voice revealed his uneasiness with being the one appointed with the duty of controlling the façade of a language school. He left his office only to enforce his rigid, rule following will on instructors. This he did through an endless array of nitpicking questions. He constantly quoted the objectives of learning and the need for grammar, and in doing this, in playing it real uncool, he blew his cover. He also smelled like dollar store lotion. From the handbook: “Teach students the vocabulary of the body by singing the Hokey-Poky song”. Where in the world could they have gotten this from? Come on, only an alien would let this slip. “Epiphanization” is my term for the moment a human sees through all the crap, the falseness, and the plastic guises they have put up and understands what is going on, what has been going on for ages. It doesn’t happen to many. It’ll happen to you, but when it does, you’d better run. These days, I don’t even bother to look up anymore. The sky is full of little silver twinkling things. It’s more and more obvious and if you really spend an afternoon watching, you can tell they’re getting bolder. Just switch on the evening news. It’s all right there, broadcast on such a low band that people are getting immune to the subtexts. The news is now a commercial for them and what they want us to be. There’s even a ring tone for it! It’s pure B movie stuff. How stupid do they think we are? How stupid do they think some of us are? Desolate, jagged, harsh, knife-bladelike mountains shaped and torn like an old cloth writhe to the end of perceptible distance. Like fences in all directions that don’t hold anything back, the mountains surround and change colors from a greenish, gray tint to a low burn30 • bohemia • August 2013
ing orange in the day’s heat. A Martian resort whose background turns deep purple when it’s about to rain. Tucked in the high altitude crevices and folds are pine and spruce trees, scared aspens, and a lot of juniper that covers hills and stretches into sage benches of abandoned fields, all a-tilt. This is the maniacal landscape that reminds them most of home. Some crazies have put up a silhouette of Bigfoot because there is something about the grand nothingness that beckons primal thoughts. It’s why they came here. It’s the perfect place to establish a colony. No one would think to look here. Idaho. This state with a made up name is the personification of a weirdness they just adore. Most people can’t even distinguish Idaho from Iowa anyway. It’s what paradise turns into when it’s made out of pure hell. The phone is currently ringing. I will not answer it. Fuck, I just quit my job so that means I’m not taking any calls. I did it via e-mail. I am not giving them a chance to touch me. I know who it is anyway. It’s probably my students wondering where I am. How I could disappear like that. I’ll have to just let them wonder. It’s really too late for them. Or, it’s the guys from the language school. They’ll want to have a meeting I will never grant them. They’ll want to talk about “what went wrong”. They’ll try to get me to see things from their point of view. They’ll have objective sheets and brochures and suggestions. They will talk to me smiling. Their eyes will never blink. It has been eighteen rings until it the phone finally mutes itself. No normal human lets a phone ring for eighteen rings. Unless they’re just about to murder. Finally, the high desert brings rain. Behind the storm scuds ripped to shreds by the rounded pyramid of Pinpoint Mountain, I can hear a subtle hummm. I know the saucers are taking the opportunity of weather to deploy more of their kind. Horses whinny and that means they know too. I’m not as stupid as they think I am. And horses are never wrong. The truck is gassed up. I’ll get some ammo at Buck’s. I’ll get a case of cheap white wine. I’ve got my mu-
sic. I’ve got a little time before the take over is complete. Just read the newspapers people. Study the newscasters’ faces and watch them on the verge of flinching. It’s happening everywhere. It’s happening day by day. Watch the vapid t.v. shows and the clues are there. No one talks about anything these days. It’s all smiles and whatever, whatever, until they own you. Until you can’t think anymore. There’s only two places our kind has a chance. Death. Or Canada.
Night of the Comet by Jane Hertenstein
I
t will not come again . . .
Mark Twain once wrote, “I came in with Halley’s comet in 1835. It is coming again next year, and I expect to go out with it. It will be the greatest disappointment of my life if I don't go out with Halley’s comet.” Twain died on 21 April 1910, the day after the comet’s closest sweep. The last time we had a visit from Halley’s was in 1986. I will not live to see it again. Technically, I didn’t exactly see it in 1986 either. I believe it was the springtime when we went out to view the comet. This was before Internet and live blogging. For amateurs such as ourselves we had to read the to figure out the optimum time to catch a glimpse. The best time was before dawn. So sometime in the middle of the night my friends and I decided to go comet hunting. We had to borrow a car and what we came up with was an old shortie school bus. Next we had to pool our change to come up with gas for the bus. Then we had to get out of the city, away from the light pollution. Little did we know how far we’d have to go. We drove I-55 past the Saturn rings of suburbs and warehouses that circled the city. Past the Des Plaines River, a geographic marker, which meant we were out of Cook County and past Joliet—yet the sky was still twilight!
"Nursery" by James McCarthy
We were running out of time—soon it would be getting light. So we took the next exit. Though we were definitely away from subdivisions, we could still see the ethereal green glow of Chicago in the distance. We kept driving looking for dark sky, taking narrower and narrower roads, bumping over broken pavement and then down dirt roads. Finally we parked. There was not a single house or person around. It was now or never to see the comet. We tramped over open ground and in the near-dark sighted a mound, more like a heap of dirt or slag, so we climbed up for what we supposed
would be a better view. I lay down on the rough hillside next to a guy I had a crush on. I could smell the dew around us—and something else, nose tingling and acrid, like plastic burning. Anyway, I imagined it being romantic, lying together, waiting; he reached over for my hand. We didn’t spy a comet, but I felt a cosmic flash and heat radiating from inside of me. Slowly the sky lightened, and we came to realize we were sitting on a toxic waste dump outside the Joliet Arsenal Plant. My friends and I hurried to get back into the city before rush-hour traffic stopped us in our tracks. We were on
Lake Shore Drive when we ran out of gas. Had we been paying attention to the gauge we might have noticed we were running low, but back then we were ALWAYS running on empty. Who was to say we wouldn’t make it back on fumes? I remember sitting in the right lane with traffic building and cars honking, afraid of getting rearended any minute while my boyfriend and another guy walked to go get gasoline for the tank. They returned with a plastic jug just as a city tow truck pulled up to get us off the roadway. We made it home, comet-less and possibly contaminated from rollicking around on an industrial Superfund site.
August 2013• bohemia • 31
A few years later the arsenal closed down and was turned back to prairie and Mike and I got married and had a baby girl with more or less all her limbs in tack and toes and fingers accounted for. Since Halley’s other comets have come and gone unseen. For my husband and me the memory of a crazy night out comet-watching is like a fuzzy, white streak against a fast and far-receding past. It will not come again.
ATTACK ON HOLLYWOOD by Roger Leatherwood
A
ll the latest slingshot formulae and matter-spitting devices aided the Krn’ith to appear above the outskirts of the dense suburbs , sliding along the crease between their universe and the sore ripples above the Earth, mottled and open by years of television signals and ultraviolet smog. The 77 ships appeared as if being dropped from a secret fold in a magician’s hat. The Krn’ith were four-legged blue aliens that walked upright and had a highly advanced intelligence although they looked not like big-headed insects so much as resembled great danes, albeit with more grace than walking dogs might have. With long fingers and a third invisible eye, they communicated in gestures and psychic emanations. They were here, invisible and in stealth, to visit upon the cultural navel of the Earth their amoral plans of experiments. Upon Hollywood, the maelstrom of corrupt activity, disease and nefarious decay that their measurements had identified as the core of the decadent remnants of godless Earthly civilization. “It’s more inland that I thought,” Skeer thought at his equal (no Krn’ith was superior to any other, only on different tiers of equality), Fleer. A landscape seen for the first time in actual atmosphere moved under 32 • bohemia • August 2013
them like a sheet: mountains and rivers, punctuated by quilt squares of steel and chrome buildings, with rocky grids and spitting car things. Closer they winked to a central loud crosstreet inhabited by humans and blinking in the dark. Loud and attractive, like a star or satellite laden with jewels. Amid the cowboy hats and miniskirts, the Krn’ith cycling accelerometers and tracking lasers twisted the noise distortion fields and sslloowweedd matter. Quantum magnets pinched space, and the atomic mousetrap closed the bubble onto Hollywood Park, and a switch went on starting: ::TIME STOP:: The sun stopped moving, and the native plants froze in their photosynthetic cycles. The Krn’ith observed the inhabitants of the central building, packed in obscene proximity, under flashing lights, pulsing and undulating in a sexual, heathen rhythms. Inside the Grand Agave, the natives were dancing to Donna Summer, to Kashif, and to Cheryl Lynn. Krn’ith scientists had determined that Lynn’s “Got to be Real” was the epitome of mating music in the last 150 years, beating out Ravel’s “Bolero” by a wide margin. But here the natives, these sweaty decadent humans were merely moving back in forth in unison, not touching each other or exchanging bodily fluids - or ingesting chemicals - but simply dancing. A form of physical self expression both sexual and spiritual. And also smiling. The DJ, Longhorn Steve, announced with a Texas twang each subsequent song, full of energy and (the Krn’ith not realizing) half a dozen Shiner beers. Little did he know that the entire club that he had this gig at - three nights a week at $90 per plus an open bar tab - was now in -::TIME STOP::_ and they could continue all night, but that the night would continue well into the next millennium. “Is this really Hollywood?” Fleer gestured, his thin paw scratching the monitor glass. “Let me check the readings,” Skeer
waved back, his brow such that it was furrowing. In ::TIME STOP:: the readings were deep and infinite. The other Krn’ith in the other ships howled and became excited. They scanned no hookers selling sexual favors for acting credits. There were no human vermin padding the accounts or running stop signs. They could not unearth any sin. No broken souls, no dark satanic believers or goat blood sacrifice. Their objective - to suck up human experimentals, to operate and to attempt to mate their purloined cow fetuses with human zygotes they captured without anyone noticing in the oblivious burg of twisted Hollywood - would have to be abandoned. The partiers in the Agave on North Tuscany Stone in Hollywood Park partied on, dancing with the closest, most energetic member of the opposite sex that they could find on the dance floor at a glance, alone on a Saturday night, and under the pulsing globe of mirrored spotlights. They didn’t realize, all 95 of them, that they would be dancing all night long, that they would never get tired, that they did not need to get home, to go to work tomorrow, to preserve their energy, even had to stop after a while, that the night was not only young, but ageless. ::TIME STOP:: had released them, froze the arrow of aging, and bestowed the dance of the beat around, the disco inferno, the rapper’s delight, the foxy good times, the hustle and the funk into a bottomless fold of timeslip to last forever. “Our calculations - we skipped over a fold and are not on course.” “This isn’t Hollywood?’’ Mistakes were made. “It’s . . . Hollywood Park!” “In California?” “No. In Texas. Near San Antonio.” Needles scratched and panties flashed. The programmed light show changed to a throbbing pink and olive pulse that throbbed to a David Bowie song from the ‘80s. Kweer, in ship 47, thought to Schmeer in ship 12:
“Cold Moon II” by James McCarthy
August 2013• bohemia • 33
“Texas? Is this the navel of the decadent remnants of Earth civilization?” “No. It’s the shit-kicking capital of line-dancing and BBQ.” Beer in large mugs and tits shaking under thin polyester tops overtook the monitoring frequencies. The closest the Krn’ith got to sensing a dark shadow of dread was a couple snorting cocaine in one of the stalls in the bathroom, but it quickly transformed to a blowup in which love, life, and the energy orgone power of orgasm became imminent. The Krn’ith watched and on many occasions danced along, in invisible and psychic patterns, along with the Texans trapped and released to endless funk. And they began to understand and to empathize with the Earth humans, not so corrupt, not such easy pickings for their amoral experiments, after all. After 996 krell years the Krn’ith turned off the modulators and the quantum magnets and opened the atomic mousetrap, causing time to SPD up. ::TIME START:: blinked off and the inhabitants slipped back into the now, a little dizzy and thirsty and in need of a good massage. Wanting to salvage their mission, the Krn’ith moved to environs east and attempted to possess the polo horses paddocked in the stables in nearby Brackenridge Park but the horses were dumb and had no religion. Also, they couldn’t dance worth a damn and when they tried, with those hooves they kept stomping on the Krn’ith’s paws.
implied, to him, the earth’s obvious roundness, though he knew it might not if he didn’t already know it was orbal. And he asked himself: Could ancient astronomers have realized it was a ball by watching what he saw, if they didn’t already know it was round? Of course not, he muttered. It was a stupid question. They’d have had to know it was round, just like they’d have had to know that the wars they fought weren’t going to end all wars. Or they would’ve stopped fighting wars. Wouldn’t they? He shook his head. No, maybe they’d believed otherwise. Or wanted to. And that was the difference between the good and the evil, too, wasn’t it? The believing? Albert looked up at the blue part of the sky for an answer but it remained mute as another bag rose on a gust and floated into his roses. Across the street the little park was littered with plastic bags and bottles and pizza boxes. And orphaned newspaper pages. But he wasn’t having it here, he imposed order on his little world. Against all odds. When he pulled the bag from the bush it snagged on the thorns, tearing. So now he couldn’t reuse it. And climbing his porch steps, he held a bag in each hand. One to keep, the other to toss. But crumpled up small, he couldn’t remember which was the good and which wasn’t. And he turned suddenly, uncomfortably, to look again at the sky.
God Play by D.Z. Watt
(30 Seconds till) Reveille by Jim Eigo
O
“You humans are so drearily alike,” said the alien into my ear. “No backbone.” Though I write ‘said’, I want you to understand (as I myself have comprehended only in retrospect): all the invader’s ‘statements’ arrived by way of sentence-long interjections directly into my spinal column. Probing under my left lid, this
nce he’d believed not only in God, but in man. Albert grabbed a plastic bag that billowed into his little yard, compressed it to a ball, and held it tightly. Fluffy white clouds drifted by, but on the horizon dark ones lurked. Their movement across the infinite blue 34 • bohemia • August 2013
being of light and shadow thoroughly sounded the pupil. What would the intruder discover? I wondered. How would he (for yes, this halfway luminous being had sex) use it against me? Now he was blinking his findings—on and off again, as if he in essence were semaphore—in the direction of his light-and-shadow companions. Many more of them than you’d humanly expect had fit themselves into my twoman pup tent. I never thought to wonder whether they’d eaten my absent expedition partner. How might I crack the interloper’s code? I asked myself instead—when suddenly there it was, a scroll unrolling in midair, in need of no key to open it, clear as the daylight streaming into the tent. Had I really left the flap open all night? All that my visitor blinked I now (without any effort) absorbed. “In the flickering eye of the dreamer,” I ‘overheard’ him ‘say’, “observe how an emerging world, many dimensions hotter than terrestrial summer, will now spontaneously sizzle and spit.” Where was this smoke I was smelling coming from? “Still, on the griddle of his bedding, note how his naked frame will now paradoxically shiver.” Regulation issue pajamas fed the flames an instant and were gone. All of a sudden I was freezing, even as I (I could not help myself) unloaded into the light. At his core a man is no more vulnerable in sleep than he is upon waking. But try though I might to funnel that sensible assertion into the disintegrating ear of reverie, I failed again and again, doomed like a feathered fish to flap and flap, except I can’t. Help! I tried to cry out, Help! In a flash, like a ring of candles wreathed around the heap of ashes that was once my sleeping bag, my new friends, roughly a brotherhood, closed ranks and ‘laughed’ and ‘laughed’ and ‘laughed’. It wasn’t long before I was laughing with them.
Waiting For a Sign by Robin Chavarria
Y
ou ever have that ache that comes with doing things? Or for that matter ever have to deal with that moron that says, "The beginning is the end?" Well honestly, they're a jackass. It's not a matter of opinion because someone else was doing it before them, chances are they were doing it better and had more of inclination of what was actually going on before I stepped into this pile of cosmic bullshit. And now that I'm knee deep in something we perceive as infinite, I must say that I think I would been more content dying in a car crash, getting scrubbed from realestate with the blast, or heck, dying from natural causes. Now I'm just eternal because I was a dip shit thinking he could fix things and avert a planetary catastrophe. Before that I was amateur mechanic and minimum wage powered-janitor at a super-secret-mega-corporatethink-tank-facility. Now, because of the circumstances that have befallen I am now at the nexus of world's within my line of sight. None of it a place I want to be, but it's the only real choice I have is to keep moving forward. I can back, I can change things but it just messes everything else up more. The possibilities for fuck ups are endless when you're a monkey at the controls. The only thing that remains a constant is that which was and that which will be. Everything else ongoing is susceptible to change at the whims at whatever happens to be at the wheel. Yes, I'm referring to other beings that exist within the frames. People where I came from, called them gods and their agents; being much akin to angels and demons. They had tons of different names, looked differently, acted differently and were all pretty much out of touch with how things were for mortal beings. Being the new kid on the interdimensional block, I was susceptible to the passions that drive humans to rise up and do things against the grain. The only problem was the repercus-
sions because people never see the impact they make until after you've seen thousands of years of progress. Especially when a god does something and brings about the genocide of species that are not their pets. The lack of accountability of these assholes led to deaths and erasure of untold quadrillions of the span of millions of aeons. It's taken me a very indeterminable amount of time to gain control of my faculties, learn the rules of what's acceptable and what's not. One: Under any circumstances, do not mess with time as it was. Two: Understand that working with other deities is foolish, since they themselves are assholes that need a good reality check; so if you work with them prepare for betrayal. Three: Influencing the affairs of mortals is foolish and leads unnecessary death and destruction especially when they establish religions based on your appearance and deeds. So just don't. Four: Don't worry about food, water or sleep. You're infinite now, that means to engage in that sort of routine makes you vain, and I hate vanity. Five: Even if you choose to abstain from the insanity, prepare for war. Other powerful beings will involve you whether you want them to or not. Rarely is it ever the case that you will be left alone because the gods are crazy. Of all the dimensions, time and space are the most volatile. So, tread with caution. Six: Learn to deal with the loneliness that comes with being eternal. Being in love and making children is perhaps the most dumb-assed thing you could do when you're a 'god.' The offspring produced by these unnatural unions are of the most messed up and insane variety. To think, I thought that inbreeding was one of the worst things to be inflicted on the gene pool; Try deities having children, and it'll make a genetic disposition for extra chromosomes, disposition for violence, edible pork products and pyrotechnics seem like favorable traits to have. Failure to adhere to the first rule above, will bring forth a legion of infinitely spawning cosmic police. I heard
from one such deity that they called, 'The Inevitable' since just one violation of cosmic is enough draw them forth like sharks to blood in the water. My personal definition for them is, "PITA" which is short for pain in the ass. Destroying them is easy, running from them is harder and making them stop trying to murder you is nigh impossibly. I've seen some of the others make armies of their own to fight on endlessly, others have managed to appeal and atone for their violations by making contracts to arbitrarily curb their violations of their law. Which I suspect their existence was also willed into being by someone who got sick of seeing and dealing with all the crazy bullshit. One thing I guess you're thinking is, "Do you gods ever kill each other?" Sure. It happens often but they're always resurrecting, some other new comer is stepping into their shoes or they had believers hidden away somewhere to keep them constant. It's a load of horse shit but I haven't come to terms with quantum physics or any other sort of higher established science. I know what I know and I like to keep it as simple as possible. When gods go to war, it's absurd either because the level of violence involved or the stupid games they play with each other. Did you know chess was one of those games? I didn't, I assumed it was invented by some long dead smartass bastard that had too much time on their hands. Well I was wrong, it was invented by a being who decided they were going to look like an obsidian goose because they grew sick and tired of looking human. I managed to get him to not destroy the humanity I came from by playing him in a game of chess. We stalemated, so an agreement was stricken that he would just create an alternate time line in which mankind was just evolved from prehistoric anthropomorphic geese. Last I glanced to that side of the cosmos, they were discovering fire. Let's hope they don't ruin their world like so many others have before them.
August 2013• bohemia • 35
A little while ago, I decided I'd live amongst the race that gave birth to me. I agreed to not use my powers to shape their existence without first consulting the cosmic robo-police. So here I've lived amongst mutants and savages waiting for a sign, a chance to navigate amongst the stars as a man rather than some semi-omnipotent jerk. The years haven't been nice to my body, mind or soul but I will do what I can with what I got. Next tin can that touches down, I'm going to take a look at and build my own. With a bit of hope, maybe the Almighty might smile on me and give me the chance to do something right. Then again, I'm just an old man mumbling to no one about nothing other than the forever that comes when you cheat death.
About the Artist: Surrealism and Landscape by James McCarthy
I
’m originally from Kalamazoo, Michigan where during the early 1960’s I was part of the first generation of TV kids. Besides cartoons and comedies I also liked science fiction and fantasy. At the same time, nature and the changing of the seasons made a profound impact on me, especially the mystery and melancholy of Winter. Even though my family moved to Florida when I was ten and I’ve lived here ever since, I’m still fascinated by Winter imagery. I graduated from Tampa Catholic High School in 1974 and attended the University of South Florida as a painting major from 1977-1981. I had no real direction at the time though so I went to work for my father at his commercial art studio for twenty-five years. Finally, in 1999 I realized my true calling and began seriously painting. I’ve exhibited my work in various galleries in the Tampa Bay area. I like to paint spontaneous organic imagery (in Surrealism this is known as ‘biomorphism’). However, I also
36 • bohemia • August 2013
"Elements of Our Relentless Night" by James McCarthy
consider myself a landscape painter. I like to depict the seasons and weather. Some of my landscapes are also influenced by places in and around my neighborhood here in Brandon, Florida which I then ‘embellish.’ I’m also fascinated by the scenery of the British Isles with their rolling hills, mountains, gardens and especially the ruins. I would like to live there someday if possible. Often my inspiration comes from music, particularly ‘mindscape’ music such as prog rock, psychedelic, new age, medieval and certain classical music. Besides the seasons, which
also represent the passing of time and our mortality, recurring themes in my work involve creation and death along with the big question: is the Final Door a door to infinity or oblivion? You will see my artwork on various sites such as DeviantArt, Redbubble, Visionary Art, Tumblr, Utopic Studios, Saatchi Online, Zazzle, etc. I’m also on Twitter and Facebook( ArtUndiscovered James McCarthy). www.surrealseasons.webs.com Email: jmccarthy12@verizon.net or surrealseasons13@gmail.com
A Keen Summer Memory… by Pete Able
W
hen my dog, Higgins, barks, I do not take notice. I do not sit upright, alert, muscles taut like a cat bracing for a cold bath, arm-hairs tingling and shooting straight from my pale skin like arrows. Higgins barks at everything. He is skittish, old and decrepit. His ears don’t function like they did in his younger days, when my wife could tell I was nearly home by observing Higgins’ frantic movements near the back door while my Dodge Stratus hummed down the road the length of a football field away. Today I can park an eight-cylinder truck in the driveway, insert key, turn lock, open the door, plop on the sofa cushion, exhale, and literally step on Higgins’ tail before he acknowledges that yes, I have arrived home, and no, I am not an intruder. This is why I did not hesitate to walk toward the faint sound of static at 1:00 am in Mother Neff State Park. As age 40 approaches like a freight train, it is a sad fact that sleeping through the night proves difficult. There are many reasons why a solid seven hours of sleep often escapes me, but on a clear, warm night in August, with nothing between my back and the rocky ground except a one-inch foam protector and a sleeping bag, the sudden urge to urinate doesn’t help. Higgins followed me at first. I motioned angrily for him to stay at the campsite and guard Melissa and the
girls, but his eyesight isn’t the best either. I glanced around and noted with some relief that ours was the only tent in this particular area. Camping in Central Texas in August is not high on most folks’ bucket list, or so I guessed. Back to the barking. Higgins stood rigid, like a bird-dog, only not pointing, just resolutely not moving forward, hair bristled and throat growling, interrupted by his shrill “little dog” shriek-bark that only comes when it is raining outside and he wants in, or when camping and you desperately don’t want to wake your family or any tent-encapsulated neighbors. I walked ahead, ignoring him in the hopes he would regain his courage and face the raccoon/possum/armadillo that had him spooked. Besides, my bladder was becoming more persistent. I found a medium-sized mesquite tree for discretion, fiddled momentarily with the button on the fly of my boxers, then relaxed to the sound of my own private waterfall. The static sound intensified. I looked up, and for the first time since waking up and walking out of the tent with Higgins at my heel, my own hairs stood on end. If you’ve seen the movie Predator with Arnold Schwarzenegger you will have a better understanding of the illusion before me. Liquid glass. Circular, like a mirror, only it moved with the slight breeze and appeared to stretch between the lower branches of some live-oak trees nearby. The moon provided enough ambient light to demonstrate the apparition’s reflective qualities. It am-
Stock imagery
plified the surrounding landscape, but distorted it as well, like thousands of tiny fun-house mirrors glued together. I had long finished peeing, but like Higgins, I stood transfixed. Only I wasn’t shriek-barking. My mouth hung open slightly, and I remember saying “hello?” knowing there was noone there to answer. There are moments in your life when you come home from a hard days’ work and the thought of investigating some new reality makes you want to curl into a fetal position and pull a blanket over your head. But sometimes, and I’ll admit the feeling grows rarer these days, sometimes there are moments where you wish the world held the kind of magic that kindles the spirit-explorer deep within. I stepped forward and cautioned Higgins to stay behind, which he was all too willing to oblige. When I stood just a few feet away from the shimmering window, I found my own indistinct, reflected image hovering above ground in tune with the surrounding bushes. Despite the warm, humid air, I could sense heat closer to the luminescent material. I reached my hand forward, intending only to get a sense of how hot the substance might be, but as soon as my fingers neared the stuff they stretched toward it. And by “stretched” I don’t mean my arm and shoulders came with them. I mean my fingers literally extended from my hand until they became one with the mirrors. Pain, then numbness, like an onslaught of carpal tunnel syndrome. I August 2013• bohemia • 37
moved forward and grabbed my forearm to pull back, but I noticed the window had changed – it was no longer reflective but rather opened up like a vast cavern, a portal into a black void. No stars, no light of any kind. Emptiness. A strange sort of excitement enveloped my body, and I knew no more for some time.
T
he alien planet, I later came to understand, is known by astronomy researchers on Earth as Kepler-62e, named after the Kepler Space Telescope launched in 2009. It sits comfortably in what is known as the “habitable zone” of the constellation Lyra, orbiting a star (the aptly named Kepler 62) slightly smaller and older than our own Sun. Researchers have been narrowing their focus on this little solar system for a number of years, trying to determine if surface water exists, and more importantly, chlorophyll, the pigment in plants that plays a crucial role in photosynthesis. Uh, affirmative, commander. I grew up in Houston, but the humidity there has nothing on “Adon”, as the locals call it. Perpetual clouds and moisture aided the lush landscape, so thick it settled into droplets on my skin and soaked through my boxers. I found that I was on my knees, so I rose and discovered that extra effort was required. Using both hands to brace against my right thigh, I stood and felt the full weight of twice the Earth’s gravity sitting like a sumo wrestler on my shoulders. The faint static sound I had heard back in Mother Neff State Park reverberated softly, all around me. I could sense the hairs on my head, arms and legs stretching higher, like I had just scooted across a soft carpet in wool socks in anticipation of the shock of my life on the nearest doorknob. With all the moisture, the place smelled like it looked – a damp rainforest. Apparently the liquid glass that sucked me inside was a wormhole of some special significance. A technological marvel on Earth, it represented many 38 • bohemia • August 2013
generations of trial and effort among the aliens, and truth be told, it was kin more to biology than technology. Hold on to your hats, folks, because stuff’s about to get real. The alien life forms were actually tiny microbes. Millions of these microbes “glue” themselves together to form a single sentient being, and yet each microbe is its own consciousness, for lack of a better term. I can’t communicate with the microbes directly, but I can see that the creatures in front of me are the sum of many parts. Imagine if the cells of our body were barely visible to the naked eye, were made of some kind of radiant material, and could float around and join forces with other cells to form whatever object they wished depending on the need at hand, and you will get a reasonable impression of the creatures on Adon. These creatures, we will call them Adonites, do not eat, sleep, play hopscotch, or generally do any of the preconceived activities we are familiar with on Earth. The best I can explain – they absorb and expel energy, wherever and whenever needed, each with distinct functions but always working together toward a common goal. And here’s the really trippy part: they can even absorb memories. Malleable memories. Whatever neurons are firing in our brains to keep memories alive (and therefore our ability to exist as functioning sentient beings in rational society – ever seen the film Memento?) – they hold energy, or rather they “sweat” energy the same way we sweat sweat. Just stick with me, here. Our memories have energy residue, almost like the moon’s halo that sometimes forms when thin cirrus clouds thousands of feet high refract the moon’s light via the tiny ice crystals inside. Faster than you can say “mothership,” the Adonites transformed into what I must describe as humans, and not just any humans. “Melissa?” “Hello, Peter.” It even sounded like my wife. Repli-
cas of my daughters, Joanna and Lila, also formed next to her. Even the landscape changed into the familiar woods and hills of Mother Neff Park. Other Adonites joined my immediate family, and in every case they looked and sounded like people I knew on earth. Friends from childhood and college. Lanie, the large woman who runs the cafeteria at my office. Millie, our tax accountant. Michael, a bully from elementary school. Ex-girlfriends sidled up right next to my wife. Most shocking of all - my father and father-in-law, who had both passed away. And yet there they were right in front of me, clamoring to get to know me better. I nearly fainted.
C
onversation began crudely, but as my memories contain not just images but words, the Adonites’ mastery of the English language moved swiftly. Within minutes, toddler-like gibberish transformed into the Socratic method of learning, a strange experience to have with Lanie from the cafeteria or Deanna the ex-girlfriend who ripped my heart out with her long, cruel, talon-like fingers. I’m digressing. Back on point… The static energy that surrounded the place seemed to increase my capacity to learn as well. I felt like Neo in The Matrix, hooked up to some kind of biological machine transmitting information. Neither slaves nor masters exist on Adon. Working relationships are entirely symbiotic, so even the traditional corporate hierarchies we find familiar – managers, directors, vice presidents, CEOs – all these were foreign concepts. There are no spaceships, no alien city skyscrapers clawing toward the heavens. There were no buildings of any kind that I remember. Their world remained mostly primitive, something akin to Earth’s pre-historical period, but without the dinosaurs and saber-toothed tigers. The lone exception to this aboriginal lifestyle stemmed from a particular group of Adonites who had a wellorganized network of communica-
tion, allowing them to harvest energy sources on Adon and transmit them to the various colonies – not unlike our Middle Eastern counterparts who control vast oil supplies. In seconds the Adonites were asking me about terms like terrorism and oil embargos and “diplomatic sanctions.” I couldn’t answer their questions quickly enough. So right - The Colonies. As best I can tell, races and nations in the sense we understand them do not exist on Adon. That isn’t to say there aren’t different types of Adonites. They classify themselves differently than we do. The closest parallel would be the different personality traits we commonly identify on our psychological exams. Extraverts, Introverts, Experiential, Conscientious, that sort of thing. This isn’t to say there aren’t problems. One type in particular – I’ll call them Neurotics – they seemed generally not well thought of, and in fact they often infiltrated other groups for no other reason than to destabilize so far as I could gather. The Neurotics gradually replace other aliens in the main body, eventually taking over like a virus. They don’t exactly kill the microbe Adonites they replace, but the little guy ends up on his own, often pointlessly wandering the world for long periods of time without any connection to a larger group. I found this thought excruciatingly sad.
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et’s get back to the memorysucking, for lack of a better term, because ultimately this is what led to my departure. Voluntary departure, I might add. As more and more Adonites formed human bodies, humans from my past and present life, the phenomenon took a strange and sinister turn. They did not mean me harm, of this I am sure. But the replications in front of me were all based on my memories, my own subconscious thoughts. They did not represent my family, friends, and co-workers as they really are, but rather as my own mind had the ability to create them. Conversations that
started as innocent information gathering began to turn into psychological profiling. When you are surrounded by clones of people created from your own subconscious, what you think of yourself matters more than you can possibly imagine. Voices and mannerisms began to reflect my own subpar qualities. My answers were increasingly met with the sort of underhanded cynicism I greet all improbabilities, no matter how wondrous. Every regret I had with each individual floated to the surface, making every private conversation turn painful in the end. Memories where I lacked self-confidence or promoted bravado with a sickening misplaced pride turned into soul-crushing exercises of pity and self-awareness. Understand, these feelings did not all launch at me like word-missiles from the banter of an Adonite inquisition. They cut their way, wordless, into my own heart as skillfully as any surgeon. A deep depression enveloped me, heavier than any gravitational pull. I feared I might never recover. I looked at the three people closest to me in the crowd, my wife and daughters, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, caught a brief glimpse of hope that my failures as a husband and father were not the end-game. I clung to the thought, found the energy and strength to turn and run toward the wormhole. It felt like I had one of those bungee cords strapped to my torso, willing me back into the angry mob. I reached out, and as before my fingers stretched away from my body. Soon the resistance at my back subsided, and I was falling once more, into darkness.
I
returned to find Higgins exactly as I left him – shriek-barking and standing rigid, his lower torso shaking with excitement. The liquid glass of the wormhole faded into nothingness, and I briefly considered I had made the jump in the nick of time. It wasn’t comforting. I found my way back to the tent, kissed my girls, and lay on top
of my sleeping bag. I stared through the mesh windows near the top of the tent at the stars overhead. The night sky was beautiful, full of mystery. I wondered which of the lights might be Adon’s sun, Kepler-62, and whether my new friends with all their intricacies could fathom the majesty of a bright, star-lit night the way we can in our frail, human bodies. I wondered whether those moments of reflection on Adon, the most real and heart-wrenching self-awareness I had dared to explore, would change me in ways I couldn’t yet understand. I haven’t been camping since. I’ve attended a few movies about the end of the world, alien-invasion, that sort of thing. And I laugh. For all the weaponry and vitriol on display, it pales in the wake of the Adonites’ piercing energy force. Today I planted flowers in my yard at the eager request of my youngest daughter, Lila. The going was slow and arduous, but soon Melissa and Joanna joined us. Neither my wife nor I have green thumb. In time we usually kill what we plant, whether via neglect or overly managed care. This project was no different. One activity, jointly pursued, begun in hope and with an uncertain end. Lila grabbed my hand and prayed for the flower to grow. Then she promptly dumped a bucket of water on top, nearly drowning it. Later I would find that Higgins had dug it up and ate it for an afternoon snack. Life’s imperfections on full display, haunting me like the over-indulgent fears of others opinions. Images from Adon resurface. They taught me that all failure is memory, and it can be buried or resurrected at will. But this too I learned. Memory safeguards my love and holds it fast. Not mere reflection, but the warm, radiant goodness of past realities. It’s the memory that binds. It’s the journey that resonates.
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ten mil ion fireflies Photography by Pat Jones & Genna Ware
You would not believe your eyes If ten million fireflies Lit up the world as I fell asleep ‘Cause they’d fill the open air And leave teardrops everywhere You’d think me rude But I would just stand and stare I’d like to make myself believe That planet Earth turns slowly It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay Awake when I’m asleep ‘Cause everything is never as it seems ‘Cause I’d get a thousand hugs From ten thousand lightning bugs As they tried to teach me how to dance A foxtrot above my head A sock hop beneath my bed A disco ball is just hanging by a thread
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I’d like to make myself believe That planet Earth turns slowly It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay Awake when I’m asleep ‘Cause everything is never as it seems When I fall asleep Leave my door open just a crack (Please take me away from here) ‘Cause I feel like such an insomniac (Please take me away from here)
Why do I tire of counting sheep (Please take me away from here) When I’m far too tired to fall asleep To ten million fireflies I’m weird ‘cause I hate goodbyes I got misty eyes as they said farewell But I’ll know where several are If my dreams get real bizarre ‘Cause I saved a few and I keep them in a jar
I’d like to make myself believe That planet Earth turns slowly It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay Awake when I’m asleep ‘Cause everything is never as it seems When I fall asleep I’d like to make myself believe That planet Earth turns slowly It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay Awake when I’m asleep ‘Cause everything is never as it seems When I fall asleep I’d like to make myself believe That planet Earth turns slowly It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay Awake when I’m asleep Because my dreams are bursting at the seams Song lyrics by Owl City
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featuring (from left): Amara Love, Brenda Flores, Jocelyn Fulbright, Kenyai O’Neal, and Jasmine Ware
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I’d-like-tothat-plane
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-make-myself-believe et-earth-turns-slowly
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a foxtrot above my head a sock hop beneath my bed a disco ball is just hanging by a thread
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you would not believe your eyes if ten mil ion fireflies lit up the world as I fell asleep
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‘cause everything is never as it seems when I fall asleep
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a starry night bohemian Photography and story by Mike Bartoszek
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S
“Stars have always fascinated me.”
tars have always fascinated me. There is something about the idea that the universe is beyond what our minds can imagine and how insignificant our lives really
are that resonated with me. You should do what makes you happy. Since 2010, when I bought my VW bus (old hippie van), I frequently camp where you can see more stars
than people that live in the towns nearby. I thought what the hell, lets give it a try, I grabbed my wife’s Nikon D3000 and went out and took some pictures in the dark. August 2013• bohemia • 53
currently living in the Killeen area conglomeration. In high school, I lettered in Wrestling, Journalism and Theatre, freelanced as an event stagehand and rigger for I.A.T.S.E. 331 (eventually becoming president), volunteered at Vive Les Arts amateur theatre, and worked for a few local concert production companies. I went to Central Texas College, where I studied Radio TV Broadcasting. In 2006, I took off across the country to work for Royal Caribbean as a Head Video Technician for their ship Vision of the Seas where we toured around Mexico, California, Washington, Canada, and Alaska. At that time digital cameras were just getting up to 4 megapixels and I had a Kodak Easyshare. That little Kodak was really my first step into photography. Visiting Canada and Alaska and seeing those giant rug-
Mike &
“My first few shots were anything but stunning.””
ged mountains and whales jumping out of the sea really locked my heart into landscape photography. Soon after, I moved home to Killeen, married my wife Amber, and took a job as a Producer/Director for KNCT, while still shooting freelance video, and working as a rigger, stagehand, camera operator for arena events and concerts that come in to town. I was one of the lucky people that knew right out of high school where and what my career path was going to be. I will always be in the entertainment industry some way, some how. In the future, with luck, my VW will keep on galloping along down the hot Texas highways and I’ll be able to show some of my photos at a gallery somewhere and maybe make a few bucks from them! Until then, I’ll just enjoy the solace of the unimaginable universe and take pictures to show my friends.
Amber
M
y first few shots were anything but stunning. There was quite a learning curve. You have to really pay attention to any stray light from any direction. Make sure your friends don’t walk over with flash lights because they have to pee. And pray raccoons don’t knock over the camera in the middle of the night. Trial and error rules my night sessions. I’m not accomplished with Photoshop. I much prefer to make a “photo” than a “painting.” anyway. Composition, light, and color are key for me. I don’t do composites. I don’t edit things out. I take a shot and what the sensor captures is what I save. A little of my history, I was born in Las Vegas in October of ‘83. My dad was military, so we moved from there to Oklahoma then to Germany then to Louisiana then to the great nation of Texas. I am now
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What Do You Want To Know About Mike Bartoszek? Favorite movie: An old black and white flick called Harvey. Favorite book: When I travel for any decent length of time, I bring with me a copy of The Hobbit. The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy is my second grab. Favorite restaurant: Jason’s Deli, or any deli really. I like sandwiches. Favorite band: Blind Guardian. Fantasy vacation: Scandinavia, or back to British Columbia. Victoria, Canada was one of my favorite places to be. TV show: I don’t support paying cable providers to watch ads, so I don’t watch much TV, but I did watch every Stargate episode ever made (SG1, Atlantis, U) and I am currently loving Doctor Who.
Article of clothing: : /
Color: Deep, dark purple.
Hobby: I have a 1976 VW Westphalia bus. Vehicle restoration isn’t a hobby of mine, camping is. I try to spend as much time as I can spare hiding in it, in the woods.
Charity/cause: The Humane Society, and our Food Bank. I’m a local socialist and a national libertarian.
Dream job: Traveling either as a video professional as part of a concert tour, or owning my own shop of some sort in town. Right now, ice cream shop and 1 screen movie theatre are on my mind. I’m getting tired of working for people. Favorite art: Landscape photography. Living vicariously through where other people have gone helps to keep me from wandering, but at the same time drives me to go.
Drink: Soft - Tea Hard - Rum & Coke Food: If faced between dying from diabetes or giving up pastas and breads, I think I’d choose death. Animal: The gorilla. They’re giant, powerful, solemn vegetarians, and a manta ray, another giant solemn animal.
Influential person: George Carlin August 2013• bohemia • 55
Hitchhiker through... the Universe Photography by Mike Bartoszek
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e
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-----Schedule FALL Ann Johnston The Contact: Vigil Mixed fibers 84" x 36" 2011 photo credit: Bill Bachhuber.
Ann Johnston The Contact: Vigil Mixed fibers 84" x 36" 2011
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he Martin Museum of Art is among the shining jewels of Baylor University. Director Karin Gilliam has unbridled excitement about the events scheduled for this coming academic year. On September 10th, Galactic Journal, a solo exhibition of contemporary paintings, drawings, and collages by Yale Professor, Robert Reed will open. Reed was born in Charlottesville, Virginia. He received a Bachelor of Fine Arts in 1960, and an MFA in 1962 in painting. In 1969 he landed an appointment to the painting and printmaking faculty at his alma mater, Yale. His work is included in the permanent collections of the Whitney Museum of American Art, the Yale Art Gallery, the Hirshhorn Museum and several other venues. His work explores “the structural mechanics and behaviors of complex object systems through precisionist pictorial techniques,” according to Baylor’s press release. The exhibit will run until October 10th. Reed will present a public lecture at 4: 30pm on Thursday,
September 12th with a reception and gallery talk to follow. The event is free and the public is cordially invited. In October, renowned quilt artist Ann Johnston, will present an exhibition entitled The Contact, which comprises – so far -- a series of 13 quilts, all seven feet tall. She has written numerous books and presents lectures nationally and internationally. The museum will host a reception on Thursday, October 24th from 5:30 to 7:30 PM and the public is cordially invited. But the exhibit which has caused the most buzz on campus will also open on September 10th and run through November 14th. The exhibition, Ansel Adams: Distance and Detail, will feature 29 iconic black and white photographs by the renowned photographer. Ansel Adams was born in San Francisco in 1902. His love of nature and the environment started at a very young age. A pivotal event in his life occurred during a family trip to Yosemite national
---------> atthe
Martin Museum
of Art by Jim McKeown
Park in 1916. He had planned a career in music, but the gift of a Kodak Brownie camera changed all his plans. By the time he reached 17 years of age, he spent a summer internship with The Sierra Club, a group dedicated to preserving the natural wonders of the world. Adams, more than any other photographer, helped establish photography as a legitimate
Robert Reed Washington Park Acrylic, oil marker, canvas, wooden frame 84 x 144 in (two parts 72 x 84 in) 2003-2009
art form. His photos are so wellknown, many of them are easily recognized by even the most casual museum visitor. A reception and gallery talk by Rebecca Senf, curator of photography, Center for Creative Photography at the University of Arizona, Ansel Adams Archive will be held in the Martin Museum September 26th from 5:30 to 7:00
PM. The museum will also host a Free Lunch Monday, a complimentary lunch and informal chat with Baylor photography professor, Susan Mullally, on Monday, October 21st from Noon to 1:00 PM. Seating for this event is limited and reservations are required by October 11th. For reservations please call 254.710.3503 or email adair_mcgregor@baylor.edu. Events are free and open to the public. The Martin Museum of Art is located in the Hooper-Schaefer Fine Arts Center on the Baylor University Campus the main entrance off University Parks Drive. Museum hours are from 10:00 AM to 6:00 PM Tuesday to Friday, and 10:00 AM to 4:00 PM on Saturday and 1:00– 4:00pm on Sunday. The museum is closed on Mondays and university holidays. Admission is free and all events are open to the public, unless specified otherwise. For more information, call 254.710.1867 or visit the museum website at www.baylor.edu/martinmuseum August 2013• bohemia • 59
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summer in the city Photography & post-processing by Cynthia Wheeler Photography
Model: Ethan Smith
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Model: Abby Eades
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coco me beautiful by Missy Von Parlo
Ah, coconut oil — how we love that sweet smell, creamy texture, and buttery taste. Is there anything this superfood can’t do? Not only can you cook with it, but you can wash with it, moisturize with it, and more. Have you started incorporating it in your daily life? You can use it as a substitute for oil or butter when cooking, or simply use it in your daily beauty routines. There are several ways you can substitute coconut oil for the chemical-laden beauty products you see on every drugstore shelf. Sounds fun, right? Here are a few ways I use it.
Weekly Hair Mask. Combine coconut oil and a little bit of honey, warm it up and coat your hair. Leave it in for an hour then wash out (thoroughly). I am slowly bringing my hair back from the dead with this. It is so soft now!
Cleansing Facial Scrub. I keep a little jar of coconut oil and one of baking soda in my bathroom (repurposed baby food jars work perfectly). Get a tiny bit of coconut oil and add a pinch of baking soda and scrub away. I do it once a week and my face feels smooth and has a healthy glow!
Eye Makeup Remover. I cleaned out an old hair care product pump bottle and filled it with 1/2 cup of warm water, 2 tsp coconut oil and 1 tsp organic tear-free baby shampoo. It gets off the most stubborn makeup off easy-peasy. Plain coconut oil works too but I prefer my little cocktail.
Hair and Makeup by Missy Von Parlo, Photo by DSR Photography, and Model Jessica Kehrer
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water lillies
Photography and post-processing by Design Cortex Hair & make-up by Missy Von Parlo
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jocelyn
fulbright
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s e d a e y b b a
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stephanie 80 • bohemia • August 2013
Fashion planning: Stephanie Rystrom August 2013• bohemia • 81
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Male models: Ethan Smith & Brent Phillips 86 • bohemia • August 2013
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my
bohemian home featuring Linda Carter Hill
“my home & my heart”
L
inda Carter Hill truly loves her dwelling because she decorates it with pieces of herself and loved ones. Each home object, she carefully acquired, caefully kept, carefully displays and it all makes sense in the tapestry of her memories. Linda doesn’t live lavishly. She lives simply in a beautiful three bedroom/two bath condo in Central Texas. Her neighborhood is quiet and her home is her oasis. A certified yoga instuctor and “people person” by day, in the evening she values quiet time meditating and the capacity to entertain and board visiting friends. “I try to live well, and live with good humor. My home reflects my heart, my taste in art, and my silliness.” Linda lit a multitide of candles about the house, poured Bohemia a glass of Sangria, and shared with us some of her life stories reflected in her decor.
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Photos by Amanda Hixson
pillar candle sticks “Instead of the traditional and typical pillar candle on the candleholders, I chose decorative rain sticks by Funkengruven. They are so fun! Where did I get them?? At the Bob Marley Festival. Where else?” “Milagros are religious folk charms that are traditionally used for healing purposes. In Spanish, the word milagro literally means miracle or surprise. Milagros can be offered to a symbol of a saint as a reminder of a petitioner’s particular need, or in gratitude for a prayer answered.”
Linda at home with her poodle.
fridge magnet mottos “Eat Taste and Heal is an Ayurvedic Cookbook. Basically it contains a questionnaire that helps to discern which foods are best for one’s physical constitution or DOSHA (body type). Vata, Pitta and Kapha are the three Doshas. Each Dosha has a unique set of characteristics. The small cabinet in the corner is my tea drawer. I keep all sorts of herbal teas on hand. Herbal teas can be served hot or cold and have a wide variety of holistic medicinal benefits.”
“The Cherub fruit bowl. Everyone in my family thought it was hideous. I think it’s beautiful. I love that they are pointing at you. Like, “Hey you! Eat more fruit!” I’m a refridgerator magnet junkie. I grab one every time I travel. Some I picked up at trinket stores and others were gifts. My spice rack is well stocked. I enjoy cooking, flavor and spice. The puka shell bread basket and the coconut shell sugar bowl were finds from the International Festival in Houston.” August 2013• bohemia • 89
I am rig
ht her
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e
w o n t h g i r
gypsy altar
gypsy altar
“I purchased this piece in Galveston. I love fleur de lis and the fact that it was created on a piece of tin. I added the string of pearls just for fun. More accoutrements were required once I realized, ‘SHE looks like a MAN!’”
“That’s the ICE MAN. I purchased this rugged guy from Story Sloane’s Gallery in Houston, Texas from his collection of black and white Houston Historic Photography. He’s HOT and COOL AND he’s a Texan! Makes you wanna unplug that refridgerator and get an ICEBOX.”
“I LOVE this candelabra! It’s seen a lot of wax in it’s day and is a beautiful piece of artfully waxed wrought iron. The rosary that adorns this piece is a souvenir from when I took my son to the Basilica in Mexico City. The piece of mixed media to the right is called “Form Vs. Function” and was created by a brilliant artist from Seguin, Texas named Lisa Hohertz.” August 2013• bohemia • 91
(Above right) Linda collects and frames Rolling Stone magazines and album covers. She also has fashion illustrations (adjacent wall in coral frame matte)
“a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose” bohemia 92 • bohemia • August 2013
“The Robert Longo black and white prints are the BOMB!!! My son is waiting for me to die so he can confiscate them. I bought them in an artsy district of Houston from a guy that was selling tye dye dresses. We made a deal and I basically stole them. The pen and inks were in my great aunt’s house when I was a little girl. They are beautiful and detailed. I hang them low and near my big chaise under the light so that I can admire them. I have caught my poodle staring at them on several occasions. My son wants these as well.” “The Waterford Crystal Millennium Edition champagne bucket and coaster is a testament to my love of wine, champagne and the beauty of living an artfully eclectic and exquisite lifestyle. The crystal ball was a gift from someone I used to know. If you have never looked into a crystal ball you wouldn’t know that the reflected images are upside down. The gift should have been my clue to RUN! It’s beautiful though and a great conversation piece.”
Contact Amanda at amanda@bohemia-journal.com if you have a Bohemian house to showcase.
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kwb
keep waco beautiful Organization provides volunteer oppurtunities for people who want to make a difference! What does Keep Waco Beautiful do for Waco? Keep Waco Beautiful is an organization in Waco, TX with over 13,000 volunteers and 400 members. Their mission is to make Waco cleaner, safer, healthier, and more beautiful. KWB sponsors clean-ups at the lake, river, and in Waco’s neighborhoods. The organization goes to the schools to educate children with hands-on projects that teach litter control and community pride. KWB raised 200,000 to build Indian Spring Park, lighted the Suspension Bridge, and assisted Waco in developing Miss Nellie’s Pretty Place. KWB raised over 2 million to build Heritage Square in downtown Waco. In order to make sure these projects continue, join and get involved today. An individual membership is 35 dollars. A family membership is 50. Businesses may partner as well. Your tax deductable membership donation will get you an auto decal, a t-shirt, and more. Find out how to volunteer, donate, or join at www.keepwacobeautiful.com
keep waco beautiful Making Waco a Beautiful Place to Live, Work & Play!
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Walking With Jason: A Father’s Exploration into the Power of the Wilderness Excerpt from: Walking With Jason by John Hunt
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alking With Jason shares John Hunt’s story as he follows in the footsteps of his late son, Jason, and embarks on a cathartic journey of self-discovery, understanding and appreciation for the benefits of nature. While hiking the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Massachusetts in 2010, Hunt experienced the value of learning through nature, the importance of developing a strong sense of self and the power of wilderness therapy. Jason was an outdoor educator, and the book spotlights the individual stories of some of the outdoor leaders that Hunt encountered. These personal stories provide insight into not only the teachers and guides of these programs, but also the powerful impact that exploring in the wilderness can have on the development of mind, body and spirit. “I wrote this book to share with others the value and success of therapeutic wilderness,” said Hunt. “Nature truly was nurturing for me as I struggled with the loss of my son and discovered the educational power of the wilderness.” In addition to Hunt’s journey and the stories of the people he met, Walking With Jason addresses the issues relating to the developmental and behavioral challenges children face, a parent’s influence
and the rising field of Outdoor Experiential Education. Hunt’s experiences with grief and self-discovery come together in this inspirational book of loss, learning and healing. For more information, please visit www.jwhf.org.
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Excerpt
hat do you think of when you think of the wilderness? The word is derived from the Old English meaning “wild beast”—a place of wildness. Is it a land of “lions, tigers, and bears”? Do people live there? Is it barren as a desert or an ocean, or is it full of vegetation, trees, rocks, mountains, streams, and rivers? Do you fear what you cannot see as in the woods, where unseen dangers lurk behind each rock and tree and around the bend? Or do you fear what you can see as in the desert and on the ocean, which is nothing for miles and miles? Do we fear both the desolation of the empty spaces as well as the enclosing hidden-ness of the woods? The power one gets from being outdoors, from being in nature, and from working with nature to help another person takes on its own mystical sense of fulfillment and becomes another acknowledgment of higher truths and presence.
I learned that the Greeks have two words for time: chronos and kairos. Chronos time is measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years. It is the time on the clock that we can lose track of. It is the time that hurries by. Kairos time cannot be measured. It is quality time that can be defined only by what happens in it. It is the most important type of time because it affects us, who we are, our lives, and our futures. It is the time of stretch, of personal growth, and of development. It is the time of the Wilderness. I learned that there is actually a third time—a time to walk away, a time to regroup. …The emotional trauma of not being able to help Jason caused me to leave the National Ski Patrol. It wasn’t something I could just pick up from the previous season without seeing Jason’s face in every injured skier. Jason’s death was a time of its own wilderness, its own sorrow. Time was normal, time was fast, and time was slow all at once. We had time to think and time to carry on but little interest in doing so. Everything seemed to take longer, but time passed before we were aware of how late it was. My only answer, my only justification is that our traumatic journey with Jason in 2001 planted August 2013• bohemia • 95
the seed for my journey since. The Foundation, the Appalachian Trail venture, the many interviews, the different camps and schools visited, and the seminars attended were all continuations of those nine days, or rather, a chance to be with Jason longer. It was a chance to understand the person of Jason as well as what he found in the outdoors and his work with youth that gave him so much pleasure and growth so that maybe we could in some way help others like he had. At the time of Jason’s death, the outpouring of support told us, his family, that others understood the person he was, the man he was becoming, and the contribution he made to their lives. We looked for a way to continue such contributions and decided to create the foundation in his memory. To date, the foundation has helped boys and girls alike from across the country to experience wilderness programs in Connecticut, Maine, and Arizona. The many testimonials excerpted [in this book] speak directly to the profound impact that Jason’s foundation and wilderness programs have been fortunate to facilitate. Nature and the wilderness have been instruments of personal change, growth, and development throughout history. The Buddha, in his quest for enlightenment, is often 96 • bohemia • August 2013
shown meditating under the Bodhi Tree. In writing the Psalms, King David used the deer, thunder, and lighting as analogies drawn from nature to reveal God in his entire splendor. The prophets all lived in the wilderness. Jesus Christ, in preparing to begin his ministry, the work of his Father, fasted for forty days in the wilderness. Then, Jesus and the apostles ministered in the outdoors, slept by lakes, and prayed in gardens. Enlightenment, or belief in the Creator, was gained, encountered, and understood by being in the wilderness. Many have written that Aristotle and Socrates taught by walking about with their students in open discussions. Why is it so special when a teacher offers to take the class outdoors? I never saw a class refuse the offer to go outside from such a “cool” professor. Realize that these writers and world leaders came from a time that, compared to today, would be considered “primitive.” They came from societies that were agrarian with some pre-Industrial Revolution manual labor skills and yet with sophistication that amazes us today. Life existed without the technology of instantaneous communications that we have today
and lacked, as well, the scientific discoveries that have “improved” life as we know it today. Cities, except for a few, were not big then, if they existed at all, so wilderness was close by, around them constantly. They didn’t have to go too far to get lost. So the question that begs to be asked is, what was it that they needed to get away from? They didn’t have global warming concerns; they didn’t have the atomic bomb; they didn’t have the electronic jangle of TVs, radios, portable sound machines, tablets, and mobile phones; nor did they have the Internet or texting. What did they need to get away from? What they and each of us needs to get away from are our everyday lives in order to find our inner spirit. In breaking through and leaving behind that which consumes our energies, talents and time, we are open to see who we really are. The silence of the wilderness with its mountains, rivers, forests, and challenges provides us with that grounding, ties us to who we really are, gives us the hope and confidence to move forward, and recreates us. Honey flows from rock.
Where will you be singing
Home Sweet Home
Find a forever home. . . with Natalie Morphew
Natalie Morphew Natalie Morphew, Realtor nataliemorphew@gmail.com 254.229.0261 c | 254.399.7024 w www.nataliemorphew.com
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. The three college facilities include: Baylor University, McLennan Community College, and Texas State Technical Institute. The city boasts one 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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Peter Able has been writing fiction and poetry since high school. His screenplays have beeen finalists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE International, and the New York Television Festival, among others. He lives in Woodway with his family. He is currently the director of Financial and HR systems for Baylor University. Chanterelle Atkins is a native Mainer, living in Wiscasset with her husband, Kevin. She graduated magna cum laude from Emerson College with a B.S. in marketing communications. She is employed as Director of Administration at the Portland-based healthcare consulting firm, Compass Health Analytics, and previously worked at Harvard-affiliated Massachusetts General and McLean Hospitals. In her free time, she enjoys poetry, picnics, skiing and fly-fishing. Mike Bartoszek is a military kid whose family decided to settle down in Killeen. Working in entertainment the past 12 years he has worked on shows ranging from ZZtop to Cats, and after ending his employment as Head Broadcast Tech aboard a Royal Caribbean cruise ship, works full time as a local KNCT PBS Producer/Camera man/Director/Editor. Hello! I am Robin Chavarria. I am 28 years old. I work retail at Games N Things in Waco, TX selling video games and the like to people. In my spare time, my hobbies are art, mu- sic and writing! Simply put, I enjoy the arts and like to share my thoughts! Joel Cifer s an author, comic, bartender, philosopher, father and husband. He eventually and accidentally graduated from the University of North Texas with an undergraduate degree in Psychology. This qualified him for…nothing, but prepared him for everything. He enjoys questioning reality and physical altercations. He lives in Mclennan County. Jim Eigo is an architect of two reforms of AIDS drug regulation, expedited approval and expanded access, that have helped bring many treatments to many people. This work is profiled in the Oscarnominated documentary, How to Survive a Plague. You can read his recent flash fiction at cleavermagazine.com. 98 • bohemia • August 2013
Ty Hall lives in Texas, makes up stories, and tries to be good. Jane Hertenstein’s current obsession is flash. She is the author of over 30 published stories, a combination of fiction, creative non-fiction, and blurred genre both micro and macro. In addition she has published a YA novel, Beyond Paradise and a nonfiction project, Orphan Girl: The Memoir of a Chicago Bag Lady, which garnered national reviews. Jane is the recipient of a grant from the Illinois Arts Council. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.com. She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. She has is the editor for six online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press ( www.kindofahurricanepress.com ). John Hunt is the Executive Director of the Jason William Hunt Foundation, an organization set up in 2003 in memory of his son. The foundation helps support outdoor experiential education programs and creates scholarships for children at-risk. John loves spending time outside, and is active in social work through his church. He currently lives with family in Batavia, Ohio. My name is Jennifer Johnson. Words have always been a huge part of my life. From my earliest memories as a child, there was always a book or pen in my hand. I haven’t always shared my work with others, but I recently decided to give it a go. Pat Jones became interested in photography six years ago. Finding very little help when starting out led him to seek out photographers to work with and later to start a forum for local photographers. Pat lives in Robinson, TX. He does wedding, pin-up, boudoir, fine art, and glamour. Born in Ireland and schooled there and in the USA, Donal Keohane has been a practicing artist all of his life, having his work displayed in galleries, museums, churches, offices, and private homes. The conviction that creation shows forth the glory of God leads him to base his subject matter on nature in all its diversity.
Recent work by Philip Kobylarz appears in Connecticut Review, Basalt, Santa Fe Literary Review, New American Writing, Poetry Salzburg Review and has appeared in Best American Poetry. His book, Rues, was recently published by Blue Light Press of San Francisco. His collection of fiction, Now Leaving Nowheresville and book length essay Nearest Istanbul are forthcoming. Andrew Lamont is a second year MA student in Linguistics at Eastern Michigan University. He’s had work published by Eunoia Review and Third Wednesday. He was the founder and a co-president of his high school’s UFOlogy Club. Bradley Lastname, or B-Dog Lastizzle as he is known by his peeps in the hood, is the author of Oracle Whip, Your Pretty Typeface is Going to Hell, Eraserhead Visits Wittgenstein, Malcomn + Madame X, Bela Tarr Has Feathered His Nest, and Several other books of poetry and fiction. Roger Leatherwood worked on the lower rungs of Hollywood for almost 20 years before returning to print fiction where at least the stories he could tell were his own. His work has or will appear in Skive Magazine, Oulipo Pornobongo, HorrorSleazeTrash, Bright Lights Film Journal and others. J.S. MacLean is an independent poet who has been published in a variety of journals in Canada, USA, UK, India, and Australia. These publications include Ice Flow (University of Alaska), Hulltown 360, Literary Review of Canada, “The Chimaera”, “Shit Creek Review”, and “The Literateur”. He has a collection, Molasses Smothered Lemon Slices available on amazon.com. In his spare time he works. You can find artwork by James McCarthy on various sites such as DeviantArt, Redbubble, Visionary Art, Tumblr, Utopic Studios, Saatchi Online, Zazzle, etc. Jim McKeown has an MA in Literature from Baylor University and an MFA in creative writing from National University. He teaches literature, creative writing, and composition at McLennan Community College. He lives in Waco with his wife, son, two cats, and their faithful Lab, Marcy.
Fabio Sassi started making visual artworks after various experiences in music and writing. He makes acrylics with a stencil technique on board, canvas, or other media. In addition, he uses logos, tiny objects, and what is considered to have no worth by the mainstream. He often puts a quirky twist to his subjects to give them an unusual perspective. Nevertheless, he still prefers to shoot with an analog camera. Fabio lives and works in Bologna, Italy. His work can be viewed at www.fabiosassi.foliohd.com Devin Stroud was carved from pine on a vacant Mississippi night. He was raised by Dionysian ninja turtles and mentored by gloomy Apollonian grunge bands. Trier Ward is a mother, scientist, and poet. She lives in Dallas, TX. Her poetry has appeared in Rolling Thunder Quarterly. In Texas since 1993, Genna Ware, 43, haa been shooting along side Pat Jones for 1 year. She’s a 911 Operator of 8 yrs. Photography is an incredible passion of Genna’s and she enjoys all types. Gary Lee Webb is a 16-year resident of Waco. He has lived on three continents, visited four, and speaks many languages … badly. His credits include over 210 public speeches, four decades of conferences and contests, and both non-fiction and fictional publications. He is 57, married 36 years, and has 4 daughters. Cyndi Wheeler is a Waco native and mother of three. She writes, paints, and does graphic design. Her true love is photography. She has been a volunteer for Waco Center For Youth for four years.
Contributors August 2013• bohemia • 99
10TH ANNUAL
FEATURES: POETRY SLAM, AUTHORS, POETS, BLOGGERS, SCIENCE FICTION/FANTASY OPEN MICS, AUTHORS’ PANELS SEPT 28 & 29, 2013 INDIAN SPRING PARK WACO, TX wacoculturalartsfest.org/wordfest 100 • bohemia • August 2013
Greater Waco Chamber of Commerce