2 • bohemia • April 2012
Letter from an editor Amanda Newhouse Hixson called me last April and told me she wanted to start a magazine and asked if I would I help. Two thoughts immediately came to mind: one, I could never say no to one of the most cheerful, brightest, conscientious, and hardworking students I have had in my teaching career; two, she probably wanted some advice as to printing and perhaps handling submissions. On this second thought, I was completely wrong. About a month later she called a meeting at a local restaurant. Amanda had assembled an impressive group of artists, photographers, writers, a salesperson, and even a business planner. Photo by Joshua Schnizer
When I saw Amanda’s enthusiasm, which quickly caught on with everyone at the meeting, I began to see that her vision for Bohemia was much, much larger than I imagined.
From the beginning, all hands pitched in and we put together our July 2011 issue. We had a proofing party, and everyone was tense with anticipation as we awaited the pages from the printer. Giddiness reigned as each “bohemian” saw a poem, a story, an article, a photo actually in print with the by-line right there in black ink. I must confess I was as giddy – if not more so – than anyone else. We are all so proud of that first issue, but it did not even begin to hint at what was in store. We quickly grew to 48 pages, we ramped up the number of submissions, increased ad sales, and improved all aspects of the design. While we all still cherish our first issue, it is a pale shadow of the magazine our subscribers received in January 2012. Some of that original crew are no longer with us, but Amanda’s hard work and enthusiasm continues. Her vision of an outlet for the vast untapped talent in Central Texas continues. As we approach the first anniversary of Bohemia we have some bold plans for the future. We want to expand the number of pages to 100, we want to expand distribution beyond the 60 or so locations we now have between Waco and Austin, and we hope to increase the frequency of publication sometime next year.
Concerts April 16 April 17 April 24 April 26 April 30
To everyone who has subscribed, bought ads, supported us in so many ways, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts and pens and cameras. I see a bright future for Bohemia, because we have a bright, energetic star at the helm.
-Jim
Jim McKeown
May 1 May 3 May 7 May 8
Illustrations by theTaxmen
Guitar Ensemble Country Ensemble Rock Ensemble Wind Ensemble McLennan Steinway Series presents “Carmina Burana” by MCC Chorale Vocal Ensemble Spotlight Musical Theater Waco Jazz Orchestra McLennan Steinway Series presents “All Gershwin” by Waco Community Band
Culture April 19-22 Hamlet April 21 Hispanic Heritage Festival
Photographer Will Campbell submitted this photo to our publication and we are pleased to print it. The purpose of Bohemia is to inspire people to create and submit their work. Please see bohemia-journal.com for directions on how to submit your work to the journal.
Learn more at www.mclennan.edu/calendar
April 2012• bohemia • 3
Legacy Café & Art Gallery Steep your senses with aromatic coffee, local art, and tasty food in downtown Waco. Spacious studying areas
Live jazz every Friday night Free wi-fi
Free refills on coffee
Spoken Word poetry every Saturday night 725 Austin Ave. Waco, TX 76701 254.752.5200
Hours: Mon - Thur 10am - 10pm Fri & Sat 10am-11pm Close on Sunday.
Colleagues
Editor In Chief
Assistant Editor Managing Editor Assistant Manager Office Administrator Lay-Out & Ad Design Ad Sales Writing Team Submission Acquisition Photography Team Illustrators Hair & Makeup Fashion IT Director Promoter
Amanda Hixson Jim McKeown Eric Doyle
Contributors Art
Photography
Haley Allen, Will Campbell, Gonzalo Canedo, David Irvin, Erin Shephard, B. Treason
Stories
Rick Allen, A.K. Amberg, Don Bolding, Michael Alan Gill, Jennifer Johnson, Susann McDonald, Jim McKeown, Will Parchman, Amanda Rebholz, Eric Schaefer
Renny Quintero Jessica Randazzo Megan Barnett
Poetry
Whitney Van Laningham Mandy Bray, Kayla Hawk, Whitney Van Laningham (lead), Jim McKeown
Models
Eric Doyle, Amanda Hixson, Ari Young Katherine Ramirez, Jessica Randazzo, Steven Ruud (lead), Joshua Schnizer, Cynthia Wheeler theTaxmen (Renny Quintero & Steffany Bakenbusch) Amy Cook Kris Ann, Serena Teakell Jeremy Newhouse Dominik Young
Taylor Branch, Tanner Freeman, Natsuki Otani, Joshua Schnizer, Shay Scranton, Trent Wolff
Cover credit
Pete Able, A.K. Amberg, Cynthia Barrios, Mandy Bray, Holly Elizabeth Cook, Alicia Curione, William V. Davis, Eric Fowler, Amy Lam, Amanda Hixson, Sandi Horton, Jennifer Jefferis, Jesse Jefferis, Isis Lee, Ezra Perry, Erica Photiades, Eric Schaefer, Devin Stroud Taliyah Davis, Eric Doyle, The Boho Girls are Amy Cook, Kris Ann, Serena Teakell, and Whitney Van Laningham Photography by Steven Ruud with Balance Imaging, Model Whitney Van Laningham, Makeup by Amy Cook
____________________ Bohemia: Waco’s Art & Literary Journal (Waco, TX) Volume 2, Number 2 April, 2012 ISSN No. 2162-8653 Printed by Waco Printing Company
Contact Bohemia through www.bohemia-journal.com
4 • bohemia • April 2012
Table of Contents
20 22 26 27 29 30 32 34 35 37 39 40 42 44 46
Photo by Pablo Moran
18
Dreams Within a Dream: Theme Poetry Night of the Dark Souls by Eric Schaefer Sharp Edges by Will Parchman Glass Bridge by Michael Alan Gill The B-Side by Amanda Rebholz In the Matter of Marriage by Don Bolding Gail Allard & The Medieval Art of Glass Blowing Am I Awake or Am I Dreaming?: The Surreal Photography of Pablo Moran Turning Ordinary Objects Into Extraordinary Artwork: Jeremy Newton BoHo Threads: Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made Of Moonshine Pin-Ups by Lone Star Pin Up Dream Theme Contest Winners: Taylor Branch & Trent Wolff Dew Drops by Amanda Hixson Art With a Pulse: Lindsey Ebert Waco, TX Thematic Poetry Keepers of the Veil by Jennifer Johnson Dream ReWoven by Jim McKeown Self Discovery Through Dream Analysis by Susann McDonald Feature Poets: Jesse Jefferis & Amy Lam BoHo Eats: Royal Restaurant for Thai Cuisine BoHo Beats: Tea Aguilar & Die, My Child Diverse Verses & Spoken and Heard: Soulful Sessions in Waco Contributor’s Pages
Photo by Katherine Rameriez
6 8 11 12 13 15 16
Photo by Cynthia Wheeler
Sweet dreams Are Made of These
April 2012• bohemia • 5
Dreams Within a Dream: Theme Poetry
Inside the nightly f lights of teenage girls by Amanda Hixson
In my world I am alone but not lonely In my head I entertain myself if only I think I am amusing that’s okay In my bedroom the walls are transitory That’s why I litter them with faces and stories I can pop in and out of their realms easily If sorrow management is a skill Face it, erase it, forget it and let your subconscious do its job I wish my bed were a boat, anchors away… “All aboard,” he said, “3 minutes to pack” Alas, what to stockpile and what to chuck over the side? I wish my bed’s whereabouts’ anger away
Photo by Steven Ruud
requiem by Alicia Curione
I float in the clouds with peace and understanding Many I know are all around me Is this a dream or am I dead?
All are bored, quick think of something else to say
All I know is I am looking ahead
What if walls could melt and boats floated in outer space?
Now that I see my mom and dad
My God the Storm
I am more than positive this is not the end.
by Pete Able
My God the Storm Bellowing forth drenching grace Slick the track of endless race Gray skies rolling, rising, falling Thunderous voice, always calling Overture of bass over pale hill Lurching forward never still Look to horizon of eastern plain Clouds give way to stillborn rain Beacons of light break the night Painting pictures, faith without sight Shadows of doubt fight sunbeams warm My God the Storm My God the Storm
6 • bohemia • April 2012
Photo by Steven Ruud
Fine wine by Cynthia Barrios
I have searched and found no truth but this: That beauty maddens the brain like wine My eyes are tired and my hair is wet But let me take your chin and tilt it, there Drink my bitter draught, there now Let me make a welcome of this indifference Join me, for we are all indoors Beating drums between our knees Celebrating I know not what Music and men and oceans and touch The fantasy of significance, the fantasy of what was Hearts that pound and fine May mornings— Drink, drink and be mad! Beauty shut my eyes and I slept for years I dreamt my past (you were there; we all were) Remembered like a fisher’s tale told on a wine-dark sea So much richer than this, what is real and colorless and where I have nothing That I am helpless but to believe Photo by Gonzalo Canedo
Night Fishing by Eric Schaefer
Don’t be afraid, ‘little man’ The darkness is going away And the storm is letting up Your momma will be worried She’ll have called us some help Supper was cold hours ago
The body of a 25-year-old man, found in Lake Arlington late Friday was found about eight hours after the body of his 5-year-old son was found. Authorities spent much of Friday searching for the man who went fishing with his son in a canoe Thursday night. The two drowned after their canoe capsized during a storm late Thursday. Searchers found two life vests. Fort Worth Star Telegram, July 17, 2009
When I was your age, ‘little man’ My papa took me on the lake at night Baloney sandwiches and rhubarb slices Bottles of Nehi anchored our sack Bass for Granny’s chicken, we’d exchange Then clean up for bed full of safe dreams Forgive me, ‘little man’ I don’t know what I’m watching Papa never had a preserver on me This undercurrent tugging on you I can’t see My mind is forgetting and my skin stings These thundershouts are not innocent
Photo by Gonzalo Canedo
April 2012• bohemia • 7
nIGhT OF the dark SOULS by Eric Schaefer
“Hurry, get inside,” entreats the hulking figure, waving his Roadway cap. Bloodied and panicked, the besieged desert tourists obey, Carrying a comatose chassis into the lonely diner. “We stopped to picnic,” the discomposed man informs. “But some lunatics . . .” “What on earth is happening?” cries the unordered woman. “My daughter needs help.” “I’ll go,” the teamster asserts, “Give me your keys.” “You can’t have our car. Take hers. We’ll call for aid.” “Don’t have one,” the fleshy waitress sours behind the counter. “Intoxication.” “The phone’s all static,” he curses and menaces forward. “I’m gonna need to borrow them wheels.” The hash-slinger racks and trains a shotgun. “Let’s all take a breath.” “A crowd is coming,” claims the mother weeping by the window. “Lunch Lady, if I’m staying, you help the woman and I’ll have the gun.” “Darlin’, now I’m giving the orders. Help these folks to the freezer. We’ll be safer.” “Sounds like a death trap,” doubts the father. “We should bolster the windows.” A glass pane shatters. Cadaverous arms encroach. Coyote wails tear an expiring sky. “Give me the gun” “Get in the freezer” “Grab some hammers” A little girl coughs.
Illustrations by Natsuki Otani
8 • bohemia • April 2012
oh pretty puppet by Isis Lee
It started out a perfect scene with the idea brooding in the mind of a dreamer… Oh how they carved such a beautiful cage as they painted it building perfection a stage! Between the two they drew out true fiction, and presented a story of a girl in submission: I was casted to star in this fantasy role Where they made me the star In the stories they told. How I danced and I twirled As they pulled on my stings With a smile painted on To fool all company. How they swoon over my dance And speak kindly of me As they prance me along Perfect Dolly they see! Spinning faster, and faster! Always right on the mark Moving rapidly twirling Till I come to a part Where my strings got me tangled And I come to a stop. How my dance is now broken And I’m trapped in a web As I see how I’ve been pulled Like a mindless puppet. I’ve been doomed to this movement Always pushed to present A perfect illusion Every moment till then. As my mind now sees reason I will scream to be free A prefect Dolly so perfect All a play to be seen! Realization takes over And I pull on my stings Seeing I’m bound like a puppet, “They think puppet of me?”
As I’m flushed with a passion To be free suddenly, Torn away from the structure That they have built for me. My struggle is violent To shake control off of me Till they let go of trying To keep me so pretty. Not a Dolly. Not perfect. No dream to be told. No perfection. No perfect world watching me grow. I’m alive and I’m breathing And I’m reaching the end
illustrations by theTaxmen
Of this story of fiction That I long to confess. For in truth I am willing To accept fate to be Without lies, or the stage That they have built for me. No longer a puppet Tied down to their script I dance and I twirl As I think to be fit. No more spotlight that shines When I’m expected to dance No more porcelain smiles To force hiding who I am. Now this puppet turned real girl Is aware and set free Choosing only to speak truth And forgetting the dream.
puppet
by Holly Elizabeth Cook I am but a puppet on a string, Forced to speak words I do not mean, My life is just a steady flow, Everyday the same old show, I’d like to get away from it all, But I sit here like a ventriloquist doll, Faking a smile and playing their games, I’m starting to wonder if things will ever change, I’d like to take scissors and cut myself free, And finally be what I wish to be, I’d to break free and follow my dreams, But I am but a puppet on a string.
April 2012• bohemia • 9
Waiting in cars for teapots by Mandy Bray
A man leaves three little girls in his car while he runs, coat over head, into the tiny shop for his wife. She is two hours away, full with a fourth and wanting a teapot.
by Erica Photiades
Not just any teapot: not the schoolhouse
I know a woman
or the toy box, but the red post
Who writes poetry on post-it notes
office with little letter slots and
Backs of receipts and scrap
the stacks of envelopes
Anything folded and tucked away
in stamp-sized window panes.
Illustration by Natsuki Otani
She bumps into strangers in the street
St. Andrews is raining now.
She grasps them briefly to steady herself
On the beach, legions
And slips them the poem
of dark stones stir under
Discovered weeks, months later
darts of rain, lifting
Gone to pull out change for the meter
and lilting in aberrant waves.
They find instead A message of love
And six bright eyes blink
Of hope
out, waiting, from the green mini-van.
Post-it
Of their dreams forgotten and unrealized Illustrations by theTaxmen
The things we want. For Rapunzel’s mum it was cabbage. She made her man sneak out at night to nab some. He got off with a warning
I’ve asked her why, countless times Why bother? What if it’s lost in the wash, or falls into the street? What if they hate poetry? She smiles, benevolent.
the first time.
It’s not the answer I care about, not even the question, she says.
But this cabbage-want:
Then she stands fast, too fast.
under stars of night,
She totters, and I reach out to catch her
under omen of curse.
Her fingers are fast as hummingbirds
He went back. On the drive home for those girls, the stars Were bright as stories.
Next week, I reach into my pocket for a quarter and pull out a post-it I unfold it, read and smile. It says, simply, “Now you know why”
Illustration by theTaxmen
10 • bohemia • April 2012
Sharp Edges by Will Parchman
Then I was in a room, absorbing verbal lashings from a woman only vaguely familiar to me. It was an ex but not an ex, a face with no face and gravelly words emitting from somewhere beyond. There was anger without a topic until the water pulled me under and I could see the shark again and feel him around my neck and see him weave into the deep and come forward but I knew he was not for me. I thrashed at the water and pulled myself away, down, down, black again, and then blinding white.
illustration by theTaxmen
I fluttered in and out of fever dreams like a finch through the latticed shadows and the yellow-green leaves of autumn, crinkling around branches like old newspaper yellowing and ripping and curling back. I am here, of course. I am in this bed, in the corporeal world, in an indebted nation, in a crumbling city, in bleary eyed confusion. And I am gone. The shark was always there. Even when they didn’t know, couldn’t possibly have known, he waited. I could see his tooth hanging from my neck earlier in the day. I’d found a rawhide necklace in a bin in my closet with a pearl-white, razor sharp shark incisor dangling from a link chain. I curiously lifted it from below some old crumbling paperbacks, fingered the tooth with my thumb and almost immediately drew blood. Without knowing where it came from, I saw myself wrapping the rawhide around my neck and clasping it closed. These shadows of memories were in the corporeal world, but here I saw the manifestation and it was terrible. I pushed onward because it was predestined and I was not my own, as it goes in dreams. Creeping dread came in continuous waves and this horrible avatar swallowed it all and kept me from saying a word. Whatever came of this, I was an accomplice. We ran through verdant fields with smiles and light steps, all of us known to each other but somehow strangely found in this place, old friends picked by happenstance and put here by chance or something more sinister. The day was light until the cave came upon us and the light left. We pushed onward until we could see only the backs of our lost friends and the crisp brown clay crunched underfoot and everything smelled cool and damp. Knowing laughs escaped the dark and we were happy in this place. Suddenly, white speckled paint, a ceiling fan, a foot, a dresser, a leg, a ceiling fan, inky blackness and I am gone again.
THE
BIKE
SHOP
Gasps. It is dark outside. I can see through a broken blind. A car alarm shrieks, red, black, red, black, until it beeps off and I’m plunged into nothingness again. Sweat beads down my neck and pools next to my pillow as I dab at my forehead with a clammy palm. I again finger the small tooth hanging long around my neck, breath coming in short rasps as I carefully feel along the sharp edges. In a minute, I have lost myself again. We emerged from the cave and gained a new purpose: a mission to the steep chalky seaside cliff. We knew the way. There were good friends now, known friends, and one was marked for death, for the shark. Once again my throat swallowed itself, and I was hopeless against the tide as I cursed this place in a corner of my mind. There was a rattle in my ears that would not leave as we ran now, faces contorted with excitement as the sea came into view. Things changed then, as they do in such places. The shoreline shrunk and became elastic and we were suddenly around a deep eddy and I knew the shark was here. I could feel him digging into my chest and he thrashed into view. A friend, a good friend, stood tall on a gangplank across the eddy and was happily looking away, toward the group which had by now turned away to watch the sea from the cliff, and the darkening sky as the sun was shrouded in a pall of yellow mist. The shark circled round and still I could say nothing as I watched it flip its tail, launch skyward and drag him deep, thrashing all the way. By now I had gained accomplices, those watching and doing nothing. Finally it snaps, my throat gives way and the screams come. As if from a willing daze the group whips round to witness the scene as the shark rocks its head in all directions and we all scream and rush for tools that do not exist here. I run and suddenly the air is viscous and my foot hits midair and I can see the shore and the eddy and the gangplank and the displaced water and the terrified faces and it is all gone.
OPEn
7 dAyS A WEEK
1509 Herring Ave Waco, TX
(254) 664-7791
I am awake again in the world and the necklace is on the floor.
April 2012• bohemia • 11
Glass Bridge, Dark Chasm, and the Beautiful Faceless Lady
Illustration by Natsuki Otani
by Michael Alan Gill
I can hear the metal grinding. It is a loud obnoxious sound that permeates the entire dream. It is the roaring of a metal beast— the mixture of desire and fate; a monster that works both for me and against me throughout my life. I see every crack in the machine. I see gears spinning and wheels turning. My soul circles the machine, and I see its every part. But when I try to venture inside, my soul is torn away from the machine, and placed in a constantly tortured body. I see a room—perhaps an apartment. There is a tan love seat in front of two windows. In the room I see a man—myself, perhaps—standing frozen in front of a woman. She is wearing a red t-shirt and dark-wash jeans. And she’s screaming. I know she’s screaming because of the way she’s moving, but still all I can hear is the grinding of the metal beast. And as this woman—the one who is yelling—gets louder and louder, I see her, not as an outsider looking in on a conversation, but as the man—frozen. She moves closer and closer to my face. I can see every crack in her skin—there are very few, actually. Her face is youthful and pretty. But she is yelling. She moves her right arm up and down, pointing in my face with every motion—getting closer and closer to me. Trying to terrify me—and she’s succeeding. Finally, when she gets so close that I can smell her flesh and hair and breath, I see her face change. It is no longer youthful and pretty. It is crazed—almost demonic. It is a face of pure anger and hatred. And it fills me with fear. And I try to move. I want to force myself to react. But I cannot. My body is frozen. Much worse, my tongue is frozen. I can do nothing and I can say nothing. The harder I try to react, the more cloudy
12 • bohemia • April 2012
the room gets. Finally, after so much trying, the room is entirely dark. It stays dark for a little while. Then, when it becomes lighter outside, I see two, maybe three men—ghoulish looking men at that. They are dressed in white, long sleeved shirts. There are three buttons that hold the collar together, but they are all unbuttoned, so you can see their chests. They are wearing leather head coverings—like hats or crowns. And they are screaming—louder and louder—I can hear them screaming over the grinding of the machine. I know they’re going to try to hurt me. They are carrying pieces of metal. They’re going to beat me to death with them, I know it. I close my eyes, in hopes that I can get away from them. But again, I can see the machine. And the longer my eyes are closed, the louder their yelling gets. The grinding of the machine gets louder and louder. The voice of the men and the machine are in sync. They are a loud, grinding sound that permeates everything in the dream. I open my eyes and the men haven’t moved. They are frozen. Like statues. Maybe they weren’t attacking me after all. Maybe the machine was just yelling at me. I close my eyes for a second and I am in a different place. I see a long glass bridge, and a large glass platform. Sometimes, when I cross this bridge, I fall, but other times I can get to the platform. In the middle of the platform there is a lady. She is beautiful, but she has no face. Her hair is colorless. She is in a long white dress that looks like a baptismal robe. And she is suspended in the air. She’s not yelling—she can’t say anything, because she has no mouth. But the machine is still grinding. As I get closer to her, I want to touch her. I want to feel her and ask her questions about my dream, but she can’t hear me—I can’t even hear me. I know that I’m talking. I must be screaming! But still she can’t hear me. I try to jump towards her to pull her down, but she is just out of reach. After a few tries, the glass underneath me breaks and I fall into a dark chasm, only to realize that I was standing above the machine the entire time. I fall
into the machine and am burned to death. But still I can hear the machine grinding and screaming so loudly. It hurts and it is terrifying. It goes on for hours, that grinding.
The moments when I close my eyes are fluid – not like poetry or a symphony, but in that there is no division between one moment and the next. Chaos. A metal beast with a pulse, only withheld by a faceless beauty who has no inclination toward the answering of simple man’s questions; men who stand like statues, waiting to release violence on the world; the woman of outward beauty that wears, speaks, and soaks in her anger – these are all real things. I have yet to find each one’s application, but it exists. Maybe I’ll never find it. Maybe I’ll find it tonight when I go back.
Photo by Gonzalo Canedo
The B-Side
Photo by Jessica Randazzo
by Amanda Rebholz
S
he has wind-snarls in her long hair from cranking down the windows and rides with her feet on the dashboard of the car, a habit she knows drives me crazy—but not as much as her penchant for messing with the radio dial and spinning it lazily between two fingers of her right hand. The music flies by like the miles, like the yellow broken lines on the highway between here and Vegas; snatches of Dylan, Coltrane, Metallica, Elvis. She is always restless and in the six months we’ve been together I can’t remember the last time she listened to a song in its entirety.
people to find in the hopes that it will brighten their spirit a bit.
“How far’s left?” she asks around a mouthful of gum that pops and snaps like sheets of fragile ice between the glittering white perfection of her teeth, and I check the odometer and smile faintly. “Another hour, maybe,” I answer, reaching for the bottle of water wedged into the console, twisting the cap off with a practiced motion of my thumb and forefinger. I’ve gotten good at doing a lot of things with my right hand while I drive, since we’ve been on the road for what feels like forever. I can’t dial a phone, though. She left our cell phones turned off and on the charging docks back in New York, giggling when I protested. “People lived for hundreds of years without these stupid things,” she told me with a smirk, “and we will be fine for two weeks.”
“But it’s going to be so much fun,” she promises, grinning brightly. “We can count cards and win a million dollars, and give it to our friends. We can buy a little house in Joshua Tree. I don’t want to go back to New York anymore.”
She is every poem I ever thought of, words that haven’t been invented yet. She taught me to
dance and appreciate the gravel voice of Tom Waits and tell the difference between the types of roses. She is always hungry, making me stop at every roadside stand we pass, every diner with laminate flooring and dirty windows and grimy jukeboxes with some of the buttons permanently depressed into the panel. She eats ravenously and keeps bottles of cheap wine in her messenger bag and she throws pennies onto the ground for other
“I’ve never been to Vegas,” she tells me, pulling out a bottle of polish and shaking it, bending forward to put a new coat of purple glitter on her toenails. “Have you?” “I’ve never been the gambling type,” I confess, turning down the radio a notch until the Portishead song fades into a dull murmur under the slipstream of the breeze through her half-open window. I don’t know how she can paint her nails with her hair in her face like that.
“Everything’s in New York,” I tell her, surprised. We have good jobs there, she as the art director for a gallery, me as a sports journalist. We have a small apartment and a cat with mismatched eyes that she insisted we name Bowie even though technically both of his eyes are the same color. “New York’s home.” “No,” she says simply. “Home is here with you. That place is too crowded and too crazy... everything’s in a rush. I like it here.” “Eventually we’re going to run out of gas,” I tell her gently, “and we’ll have to go on back.” She pouts, says nothing, finishes up her paint job. She caps the polish and drops it into her purse again, then wiggles her toes as the sunlight begins to dry them. After a moment, she murmurs, “I want to stay with you, but I’m not going back.” “Hey,” I begin, a hint of worry in my voice. Her mood is always infectiously happy, brilliant, as dazzling as the sun on the desert sand ahead of us for miles and miles. “Don’t talk like that. You’re not being realistic, baby.” “I’m as real as it gets,” she argues passionately, her eyes fiery when they meet mine, “and I’m telling you. I don’t want to leave here. Don’t you like this? It’s so peaceful out here... there’s no traffic, no pressure, no constant hustle for cash. There’s just us and the radio.” “So maybe we’ll go back to New York and start saving up, you know? Put in our notice after awhile and get a place out here. Nothing
Photo by Cynthia Wheeler
says we can’t move out here. But we only have another week of vacation time before we have to head back,” I reason. When she gets like this it’s hard to talk to her. She’s a stubborn girl and I can’t remember the last time she did something she didn’t want to do. Negotiations are like trying to kick a boulder down the street in soft-toed shoes. “I don’t know,” she murmurs, distant, gazing out the passenger window. “Don’t you ever think maybe there’s more to life for us than this?” “What do you mean? Like kids?” Because we’ve discussed marriage, even though our parents think we’re crazy. I’ve already picked out the ring, though I haven’t bought it yet. She is built for motherhood; those eyes will look beautiful with crow’s feet, and she will make mixtapes to play for our baby and whisper poetry into its ear as it falls asleep every night. She is the ultimate lullaby, the final charm against anything that might hide under the bed. She’s got more sunlight in her than Joshua Tree does. “Like anything,” she says. “I dream it sometimes, you know? That we can just make the rest of the world go away, that we can just be... in stasis, I guess. No responsibilities, no expectations back home... just us.” We drive in silence awhile until she sees the turnoff for a diner up ahead, and we take the exit, the tires crunching over hard-packed sand. The place is small and lit with unflattering halogen and everyone looks at us when we walk in. I know that I look gaunt, skeletal next to her. Too tall, too thin, unremarkable, an old twenty-seven. She looks radiant as ever, the light throwing gold and copper into her hair as she finds us a sticky vinyl booth and picks up her laminated menu. The waitress is old and tired and there are deep T-shaped scars on her wrists from a time when
April 2012• bohemia • 13
she got tired of fighting. She takes our drink orders and vanishes to get them. My girl drums on the table with her fingertips, twirls hair into gordian knots around her knuckles, purses her lips in thought. She orders a stack of pancakes and eats some of my bacon when our food arrives. A man at the counter has a Vietnam hat on and a smiling badge pinned to his denim jacket. Some people never got over it. My girl hops up, goes to the jukebox, puts on “American Pie”. The man offers her a wan, grateful smile and nods to the beat over his coffee. That girl could save your soul with a tracklist, I swear. As always, my wallet’s empty when I look, but we settle up with the waitress in other ways. We leave a cassette tape under a crumpled napkin and head out to the car before we’re caught. We’re analog anarchists, her aural fixation paying off our karmic debts before the B-side plays.
“Almost there,” she says excitedly, watching the odometer. Up ahead, the silhouette of Vegas is still just a dream but we imagine that we can see the casinos, the skyline, the glamour. “Just a few more minutes.” She touches the radio, scans the dials. “We should be getting in good stations now, this close to the city.” The song comes through the airwaves as we top the hill, and I see the skidmarks on the highway, the twisted edge of the guardrail. There’s no sign of the car that caused the damage and no emergency vehicles, so the accident must’ve been old, but I feel a twist of empathy. “I hope they’re okay,” she says softer, somber, and pulls her feet higher on the dashboard. “Me too,” I murmur. My hand flickers on the steering wheel, and for a second I can see through it. The radio goes quiet after a brief burst of static. I close my eyes and press down on the accelerator. “Hey!” she says brightly, and I open my eyes. She is leaning against the hood of the car, her long hair streaming in her face, and everything we’re going to need on our journey is bundled into the trunk. The cat’s staying with friends and for a brief moment I feel a swell of panic. We’re
WACO lock & key
really doing this, driving across the entire country to Vegas for our first vacation together, and I want to call it off. But then she smiles and holds up a shoebox full of her mixtapes and I smile, pull the keys out of my pocket. “Vegas or bust, baby,” she laughs, sliding into the passenger seat as I sink behind the wheel. “I’m glad we’re doing this,” I say suddenly, looking over at her. I’m going to spend the rest of my life with this girl. Our parents don’t know a damned thing. “Me too,” she says, and her smile is worth a thousand songs as she puts her feet up on the dash. Photos by Jessica Randazzo
InSpiritry
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14 • bohemia • April 2012
S
Anne McCrady Poet, Storyteller, Speaker, Consultant www.InSpiritry.com Facebook/AnneMcCrady annemccrady@InSpiritry.com
In the Matter of the Marriage by Dan Bolding
Ginger had put her arms around his neck and tickled his chest from behind before she went to bed. “Honey, are you going to be much longer? You said you needed to be up early. We need to take care of you.”
den? He sighed and went to sleep, and he thought that she did, too.
thought she was just going to melt in tears. But here I was alone.”
He woke up when he heard gentle sobbing. He reached to her side of the bed and felt her pillow empty. She was sitting up. “What’s the matter?” he said.
He was a little disturbed by the graphic description. “Ginger, Honey, that’s ridiculous. Where the hell that came from, I have no idea. That’s...obscene. It’s a dirty dream. Come on, let’s get up and walk through the house. Everything’s still here.”
“I just had a bad dream,” she said. “Oh.” He ran his hand over her back. “Are you okay?” “Yes, I’m okay.” She did, and after she reached for a tissue, he clasped her hands. “Is it okay? Can you sleep now, or do you need me to get you something?”
“I’ll try not to be up all night, but once I get the last check written here, I need to pick some money off the tree in the back yard. I think the big one is pretty much bare by now, so I’ll have to get some seven-dollar bills from the little one. Too bad they won’t have time to grow into tens.” She tickled his chest some more, but her fingers tensed a little. “If you’re still talking about the coat I bought for Billy, I can take it back and get a lighter one. But he needs something. I don’t think we need to shop at Goodwill yet.” “No, not yet. But everything he gets doesn’t have to be top of the line. But at that, we’d be making it if you didn’t need new art supplies every week. Want to see what the totals are from three stores, all of them with names I can’t pronounce?” “But I need good—We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” She whisked off to the bedroom. She slammed the door. With the transfusions all stamped and neatly stacked thirty minutes later, he followed her. He didn’t turn the light on, but he didn’t try very hard to be quiet, either, and he didn’t try not to bounce as he yanked the covers up to his chin, facing away from her. Her spine curved a little, but she gave no other sign that he had disturbed her sleep. He guessed she hadn’t fallen to sleep at all. Little spats over the checkbook used to be louder, and they used to make her cry, but they had ended the scenes in each other’s arms. She would go to bed alone, but when he came in, she would stretch and kiss his shoulder. But he thought the disputes needed to escalate a little until they came to some agreement. Couldn’t some of her art stuff come from discount stores? What was the difference between one chunk of charcoal and another? And why weren’t there ever enough giant books in the
“Oh...no, just hold me a little while. Well, maybe, let’s just walk in the living room.” “Yeah. I kind of got the creeps, too.”
“Well, come on and lie back down.”
Illustration submitted by Joshua Schnizer
J
erry stayed up late to finish paying bills. He was most of the way through, and he already knew he would have to call their broker and sell some stocks, and he hated the idea. He expected to hear a resigned sigh on the other end of the line; he always expected to, but he knew that what he actually heard was breathing while Stan looked him up on the computer. Jerry and Ginger weren’t in bad shape, but he had had to sell small amounts three times in the past two years without adding anything, and now was the time they really needed to be building, with their first little boy sleeping in the next room and a federal government that seemed to be loose in the mall with a flask and a pocket full of credit cards.
“Honey, I dreamed you were divorcing me.” “WHAT?” “YES! I was in the house alone and feeling terrible because I didn’t know where you were, and all the furniture was gone, and there were just card tables and folding chairs, and a cot in here, just one, and then there was a loud knock on the door, and somebody slipped something under it, and it was this paper that said, ‘In the Matter of the Marriage of’, you know, us. I was with Janey when the guy handed her that thing from Tom, right in their front yard. I
Seeing their beautiful cozy furniture in place, they went back to bed. She was still sniffling. “No monsters under the bed?” he said. She sniffled out a chuckle. “No monsters under the bed,” she said. “Really, Babe, I’ve never given any sign like that, have I?” “No, no, of course you haven’t. It just came out of nowhere.” He held her until she drifted off to sleep, genuinely this time, and then turned over. He had started sinking into dreams when his eyelids flew open. A chill shot through him. He turned slowly and looked at his wife, sleeping peacefully. He turned back. The moonbeam streaming gently through the window had always been his teddy bear, lulling him to sleep. It began to look stark pale and cold. He saw the shadows it cast for the first time. In the morning, she sensed his fear and started trying to cheer it away. She wanted to burn the thing that had appeared to her on the bare floor, but it had no substance. There was nothing to set fire to. It wouldn’t burn. Photo by Gonzola Canedo
April 2012• bohemia • 15
From Murano to Salado:
The Medieval Art of Glass Blowing by Whitney Van Laningham
I meet Gail Allard in the back of his tinroofed, tworoom gallery. Pristine orbs and other various contortions of glass adorn the wall shelves that hang on every possible surface. The front of Salado Glassworks is immaculate, filled with glass artwork of every color and shape imaginable. The back of the store, however, is like entering another realm. Two large pieces of equipment— an oven and a furnace—hum against the far right wall. Allard is wearing his work clothes: a white tank top, khaki shorts, and a red bandana tied loosely around his head. He offers me a beer, and we sit; he on a pile of wooden beams, and I in a silver folding chair. This is the room where all of the glass is heated, warped, stretched and formed into beautiful works of art. The glass goes into a 2050° oven and emerges a masterpiece. Glass blowing is an ancient art, famously emerging from the Venetian island of Murano in the early 10th century. Thousands of years ago, glass blowers were among the most prominent members of society. By the 14th century, glassblowers were allowed to wear swords and often saw their daughters married into upper-class families. Glassblowers were also immune from political persecution in the Venetian state, a perk that kept most of them colonized on the island. Centuries later, glassblowing is still a prominent part of the art culture in Salado, TX. Visiting this small town is like taking several steps back into the past. Perhaps it is not as foreign as ancient Rome, but there is an antique feel about the town that doesn’t just come from the various vintage stores lining the main drag. The buildings are old and comforting, and the people spilling out of the local wine bars are friendly. Perhaps this congeniality comes from the wine, or maybe it is because they are so used to tourists. Over
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Unless noted, photos by Aubrey Caroll and Gail Allard
100 artists are currently residents in Salado. Their creativity radiates through the windows of kitschy craft stories and from the strings plucked by a stand-up jazz bassist on the wooden porch of a gift shop. Salado Glassworks, however, stands out amongst the withered antiques and fragilelooking general stores. It is the unique gallery that Salado needed in order to keep in touch with its vintage roots while bringing to the table a modern signature. Allard has been blowing glass for nearly a decade, but he and his wife Jennifer made the move to Salado about a year ago. Before owning Salado Glassworks, he worked at Ryno Glass in Temple, TX for nine years. In 2000, he began his apprenticeship under Bob Rynearson, owner of Ryno Glass. At first, Allard was completely uninterested in glass blowing. “I couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to do something so hot,” he said. He developed a passion for the aged craft under Rynearson’s tutelage, and began creating glass art professionally. After working another glass job in Temple making architectural glass panels, Allard began working for the Salado Arts Workshop, a nonprofit organization. Salado Art Workshop is an artist community within Salado that helps teach valuable art skills to students and professionals. Allard spent about five months working with the organization before deciding to go out on his own and create Salado Glassworks. “That really solidified that I needed my own place, not working for anyone else,” he said. “In June, Salado Glass Works was incorporated, and we’ve been here ever since, drinking beer and having fun.” The glass blowing process is more like a performance art than a trade. A 200 lb. sheet of clear, molten glass goes into the oven at 2050°. For a glass blown object, a blow pipe is preheated and then dipped into the molten glass so that the liquefied substance gathers at the tip of the pipe, like honey on a dipping stick. The glass is then worked by a variety of mediums, such as gravity, human touch, and hand towels. The glass is rolled and shaped, and then popped back into the reheating chamber, nicknamed the “glory hole.” It is pinched, pulled, and warped into shape
with tweezers or cut with shears. The artist, or a participant, blows through the end of blow-pipe to inflate the bubble of glass to the desired size. Wood blocks are used to shape and cool the glass, and when it is finished, the piece goes into the annealer oven to set. Allard allows customers to blow their own glass ornaments every December, which is where the performance art comes in. He shapes and molds the glass while the customer blows through the pipe to inflate the glass. The finished product is all the more beautiful after watching the process it took to get there. Most of Allard’s pieces are quirky, colorful shapes suitable for high-end or personal galleries. Allard explains that an artist needs to do what he loves, but that getting paid is a high priority too. “[Glass blowing] isn’t a high paying job,” he said. “Its not about glory, or getting rich and famous. Its about getting out there and creating. You have such a short time to get out in the world and make something happen.” His passion for glass blowing stems from the ancient past of the craft. “This is me kind of carrying on an old tradition,” he said. Unlike the Murano glass blowers, Allard isn’t creating art for the benefits of high society. His passion lies in the performance artwork, and the final product of his craft. Despite the fact that glass blowing has existed for centuries, Allard manages to put his own unique twist on his artwork. “Its not so much innovative,” he says, “Its just reinventing the wheel.”
Photos: Facing page - Artist photo by Ben Guttman, Glass Blowing photo by Aubrey Caroll; This page - Glass Blowing photos by Aubrey Caroll, Completed Artwork photos by Gail Allard
April 2012• bohemia • 17
Am I Awake or Am I Dreaming? The Surreal Photography of Pablo Moran by Jim McKeown
M
agazine editors, who feature photography, have untold numbers of photographs cross the editorial landscape. Most are snaps with a touch of cleverness in the color, the composition, or effects. Most of the pix never make it beyond that first cursory examination.
Many have a special something which captures the eye and earns at least a second round for consideration, but even the majority of these never make it any further.
early age. His photos seem to defy gravity, physics, and the rules of light and motion. Pablo says, “I want to express emotions I don’t feel comfortable expressing in words.” Untangling Pablo’s ideas requires as much effort as does unraveling his images. He insists his work is not autobiographical, however, he “speaks to the curious and those who want to be
However, on rare occasions, an artist’s work immediately captures the imagination, the awe, and the complete respect of those charged with maintaining high standards at a publication.
Pablo, a shy and reserved young man, began his interest in taking photos with a simple point and shoot camera. He then learned Photoshop©, because he wanted “to create other worlds.” His main interest in photography revolves entirely around the unexpected, the unexplained. He wants his compositions to give even the casual observer pause. Deciphering his work requires a great deal of concentration on even the slightest details, which, in turn, draws the viewer more deeply into the “other world” he envisions. He has certainly already accomplished that feat at an
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Even if the viewer does not come up with the same word or phrase he used to begin the project? “Absolutely! As is true of all art, viewers must make a connection. The art must make them think of some idea or emotion.” To Pablo this is the secret of his art. He believes all artists should aspire to this goal. When asked about his influences, he lists Francesca Woodman, known for her self-portraits and dark images. Cindy Sherman, another photographer he admires, also does self-portraits, but they are not about her, Pablo explains, “She depicts women in a number of different roles.” He quickly adds, “I believe, as an artist, I should stay true to myself and not compare myself to or imitate, other artists.”
Bohemia is no exception. When we first looked at the work of Pablo Moran, several staffers sucked in a deep breath of surprise and admiration. His photos immediately draw in the eye. No one wants to miss even the smallest detail in his unique and ethereal compositions. Pablo Moran, born in Houston, moved here to attend McLennan Community College, and then moved to New York to continue his education. He enrolled at the School of Visual Arts to study photography. Attending school with loans and a scholarship, Pablo hopes to graduate in 2014.
am so grateful and happy that many fans have admired and supported my work,” he pauses a moment, then continues, “that is my aim, to please my audience, to make them think. I want them to try and take the shot apart and discover the meaning behind it.”
challenged by a picture.” Check that goal off the list as well. His plans for the future are to continue working and shaping his photos. “But, I also want to keep growing and stay free-lance and question my own views of what makes a photo express my feelings, insights, and emotions.” Pablo says he tried poetry, but he could not avoid seeing “an image connected to the words and phrases.” No matter what media he uses, Pablo’s first goal is “to be proud of my work.” First published in The Stone Circle, MCC’s student literary and visual arts journal, this issue of Bohemia presents his first commercial publications. This young man seems primarily concerned with the quality and effectiveness of his photos. When asked about his future plans, he sidesteps the question. “I
Asked about his process, he says, “I start with a phrase or a word, and I build an image around that idea. Sometimes it takes me a couple of weeks to decide how I will depict that word. Then, I gather props, set them up, shoot and edit until I get it just right.” When asked about the photo to the left, he responded, “I was experimenting with a new lens that gave me a low depth of field.” His favorite camera is an Olympus E510 DSL with a 14-242 MM lens for portraits. “I feel most comfortable with this camera. It seems to fit my hands and my vision.” Asked about advice for beginners, his boyish grin says it all: “Everyone has to figure it out alone. But there is a lot of information on the internet.”
April 2012• bohemia • 19
Turning Ordinary Extraordinary up winning 5th place out of 62 students. He won a scholarship to Kilgore College, where he began to study art. In 2005, he received his BA in Studio Art at Stephen F. Austin State University and then his MFA for Sculpture at Texas A&M Commerce in 2010. His real artistic breakthrough came during the summer of 2009. Newton attended a summer graduate program at Yale University in Hartford, Connecticut. He began working with his mentor and fellow sculptor, Michael Stickrod. “The piece that I worked on there, called Healing, was the strongest conceptually,” Newton said. “[Stickrod] and I were walking and looking for ideas. We saw a telephone pole densely covered in staples from hundreds of flyers that had been stapled to it. And I thought, “What if I removed all of the staples?” Shredded, pink, rubbery material sits in a little plastic bag on the table in front of me. Next to it is a similar bag filled with multicolored, sharp looking bristles. There is also a pile of blood red wooden sticks, and blue-tinted balls of rolled up paper. Jeremy Newton, an artist, sculptor, and professor at McLennan Community College is waiting for me to figure out what these substances are. I guess that the pink shreds are eraser shavings, and he tells me that I am correct. He explains that the wood pieces are boiled matchsticks, and that the colored bristles were individually plucked from several toothbrushes. The balls of paper are mostly blue because they were torn from a US map of lakes in New York. These aren’t just deconstructed household objects. They are Newton’s livelihood. Newton’s main art form is sculpting, which he does by using ordinary objects to convey a deeper meaning about the subject of the particular piece. He breaks down office supplies and household products and shapes them into larger-than-life sculptures. “The breakdown of the material is spiritual. The materials are resurrected in their new form,” Newton said. “I use very common materials, but I alter them in a way that you wouldn’t immediately recognize. I want the viewer to contemplate its new identity.” In high school, Newton had dreams of playing baseball in college. But during his senior year, he entered an art symposium and ended
20 • bohemia • April 2012
Newton spent three days removing all of the staples from the pole. As he removed some of the more deeply imbedded staples, chunks of wood began to come out with the staple. He related the physical holes left by the staples to the emotional wounds in life, and the scarred, damaged wood to the Christian cross. “The staples in the wood were like hindrances in a person’s life. Even if we try to remove the staples, there is still a leftover scar or a memory that remains,” Newton said. He compressed the staples into a cylindrical mold to form a new pole with staples sticking out at every angle. It is flanked on either side by photographs of the original telephone poles. As a new image, the staples could be re-purposed and thought about in a whole new light. In contrast, his six-foot-tall staple stalactite piece uses staples to represent a force that brings humanity together. Thousands of staples are connected together and suspended from the ceiling like a giant, metal hanging rock. The thought-provoking nature of Newton’s work inspired Art Center Waco’s executive director, Mark Arnold, to curate an art installation featuring these pieces. “The staple stalactite piece really struck me in particular,” Arnold said. “It was kind of the clincher for the show. It is very simple, but very provocative.” Arnold was approached by Newton when Newton first started teaching art appreciation at MCC.
“He brought us a portfolio of his work, and we got things started. I had never done an art installation here at MCC, and I thought it would be a great opportunity to show his work,” Arnold said. Newton’s other pieces, like his 4x6 ft. pile of eraser shavings, and boiled matchstick cubes, are also featured in the installation. “I’m really pleased that the exhibit is at the Art Center Waco so that I can show my work in person,” Newton said. His work is so unique because it features common items that most artists would overlook. Newton buys most of his materials at the supermarket or office supply stores. If they don’t have enough of what he’s looking for he usually purchases everything on the shelf and then waits for more to come in. A lot of his materials are actually office supplies intended to aid communication, which is something that Newton attempts to convey in each piece. For two months, Newton ground 400 Pink Pearl erasers to garner the amount of shavings needed for his eraser installation. As a symbol of memories and mistakes, this piece asks the viewer, “If you were to erase all of the mistakes in your life, how high would that pile of eraser shavings be?” “You can tell that his art is very personal,” Arnold said. “It is very modern and provocative, and it makes you think about what art is. He’s recycling different objects and using articles that are seldom used. I want that thought process to come across in the show. I want people to come here and see the artwork and think about what he’s doing.” Inspired by artist Tara Donovan’s toothpick cube, the boiled matchstick piece contains the most unrecognizable substances. At first glance, the viewer just sees the different colored cubes. But looking closer, the thin strips of wood and leftover match heads are visible. Newton boiled the matches, and then packed them into geometric molds to set. The result is three brightly colored cubes and one pile of dark ash. “I get to know the materials better because I break them down in this way,” Newton said. The Art Center Waco is now featuring Newton’s modern art installation, titled Concept-ion-al, until April 28th.
Objects into Artwork by Whitney Van Laningham Photos by Joshua Schnizer
April 2012• bohemia • 21
BoHo Threads: Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On Photos by Cynthia Wheeler
Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air: And like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp’d tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.
The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158 William Shakespeare 22 • bohemia • April 2012
Tuesday by Ezra Perry
They started it all Over the phone When she was feeling All alone. He was just a friend When she was down But with time this led To a room out of town. They watched tv Laughed and cried, Drank some wine, Then said goodbye. She couldn’t wait until the next Tuesday. On Tuesdays, she was there As a friend then a lover Starting on the couch, Always ending under covers. It seemed so long Waiting six more days. She just couldn’t wait Until Tuesdays. They talked about the day When they could be together As lovers and friends Living Tuesdays forever.
Einstein dream by Devin Stroud
I woke up in math class inside a thirsty puddle of drool. Einstein was next to me scraping chewing gum off the bottom of his desk. I started to ask him what I missed but he just stuck his tongue out at me and said he wasn’t paying attention either. We began a shared interest in the structural composition of procrastination and the female form. We agreed that hipbones were very important. After class in the halls I told him that I saw the romance in the shared chocolate kiss of two factory robots and that when I got sad I thought about the loneliness of a throne missing its ass. He told me in a cold glassy look that I needed to get laid. Either that or invent an atom bomb. Then I woke up again. It was a miserably cold and rainy day.
Dream Path by Sandi Horton
If you only follow the paths made by others, How will you find your own dream? Life is not a linear journey Fulfilling the expectations of others. Your journey is your life Full of unknown turns and detours. Carpe Diem. Follow your dreams.
While his kisses were sweet And his smiles were kind They had to admit They were crossing the line. There was too much at risk. It couldn’t last So Tuesdays became A thing of the past. He moved away To start a new life. He took a new job And took his wife. Now he’s gone And there to stay Out of reach And far away. In thoughts and dreams Every now and then She thinks of him And it’s Tuesday.
April 2012• bohemia • 23
We’ve Both Ached by Jennifer Jefferis
We’ve both ached you and i no one’s immune from a good cry or a bad one the kind that shake not just your body but the foundation of your being
Why don’t we try to remember how we used to feel or feel right now and reach with inner intuition that connects two souls so we can finally
Photos by Cynthia Wheeler Hair and Makeup by Amy Cook
be whole
24 • bohemia • April 2012
Where the Years Went By A. K. Amberg
The pit of my stomach unraveled into a thousand waves like the ocean when I saw her. The grackles had returned like a troupe of gypsies, their stormy voices announcing as the door swung open for her. Then I woke up and we had grown old.
She Awoke By Rick Allen
She awoke with the bed sheets soaked. The sweat was cooling on her breasts and thighs as she rose to look out the cell window. It was hours til Invitatory. It had been a cool May night when she went to her cell after Compline. It was almost cold now, yet she awoke with sand on her feet, her sandals torn, her habit now a dull brown, her veil gone and strange small thorns in her hands. The dream was so real…
April 2012• bohemia • 25
When You Wish Upon A Star When you wish upon a star Makes no difference who you are Anything your heart desires Will come to you
If your heart is in your dream No request is too extreme
Like a bolt out of the blue
When you wish upon a star
Fate steps in and sees you through
As dreamers do
When you wish upon a star Your dreams come true
Fate is kind She brings to those who love
Fate is kind
The sweet fulfillment of
She brings to those who love
Their secret longing
The sweet fulfillment of Their secret longing
Like a bolt out of the blue Fate steps in and sees you through When you wish upon a star Your dreams come true “When You Wish upon a Star” is a song written by Leigh Harline and Ned Washington for Walt Disney’s 1940 adaptation of Pinocchio. Models: Erin Shephard, Melissa, and Necrofoxx Hair and Make-up: Blood and Glitter Makeup Clothes on Erin Shephard by Sew She Said
26 • bohemia • April 2012
Dream Theme Contest Winners: by Kayla Hawk
Earlier this year, Bohemia held a contest for art submissions reflective of our April issue’s “Dream” theme. Two amazing artists heeded our call.
Taylor Branch When not playing for one of Waco’s most loved bands, Johnny’s Body, or attending classes at TSTC, Taylor Branch is laying an intricate, at times colorful vision on an array of canvases. Despite having a raw talent for mixing colors and adding 3D elements, it’s interesting to note that he’s only been working at the craft for three years. In fact, the desire came from a basic source: the need for wall art.
Inspired by everyday surroundings, music, and the occasional crazy idea, his works have gained enough popularity and mass to be sold. He also takes specific requests, having had worked featured at Cameron Park Zoo. With a range from bright to dark and ominous, there is something in his catalog for everyone.
Photo by Joshua Schnizer
Contact him on Facebook or Buy, Sell, & Trade to grab a piece while he still has some available.
Photos by Katherine Ramirez
Trent Wolff
For sixteen-year-old Trent, art is more than just a hobby or a talent—it is his life and future. A member of the Robinson High School Class of 2014, he not only takes an art class, but hopes to follow the field into college and eventually become an art teacher. Trent enjoys local concerts and Starbucks. He got his first sketchbook at a young age, and his favorite kinds of art to create are abstract and portraits, although he’s not limited to either. For the picture that won our first themed art contest, Trent used a ballpoint pen, and then filled the face with India Ink and watered-down blue paint. Trent says, “The art comes from the limitless reaches of my brain.” April 2012• bohemia • 27
Customer Rated #1
Smoke Shop in Central Texas Specializing in American Made Pipes & Water Pipes
916 S. Valley Mills Dr. Waco, TX 76711 254-732-4868 28 • bohemia • April 2012
HOURS:
Monday - Thursday 11 am - 9pm Friday - Saturday 11 am - 10pm Sunday Closed
Let her be by Amanda Hisxon Let her be a girl Let her do girl things Amuse herself and us And do not pluck her wings
Dew drops by Amanda Hisxon
Pink and purple form the undesign of dawn’s melodic chaos The delicate and perfect colors pale, surrendering to the burden of the bountiful blues Then yellow’s deliverance melts the new day’s pastels into minute telltale puddles of the morning’s peaceful overture.
Let her sing a song Let her scrape her knees Let her lose her way And get lost in her dreams Let her tra-la-la Let her make mistakes When she winds up back to you Take up her embrace I am pleading Let the girl be, let the girl be Let her be a girl, let her be a girl Let her be a jolly girl for now Before the world has its way
Laura’s Eyes by Amanda Hisxon
The pretty eyes of Laura hide a sea of trials, waves of strife that beat the sand just like a tide beat the beach of Laura’s life. The jealous world is on her case. Envy almost always traced to regrets of the “grow up” race. They lost their smile in their haste. Photos by Cynthia Wheeler
Hardships do not haunt the eyes that laugh as if they’ve never cried. With childlike abandon she’ll embrace a contagious smile upon her face.
April 2012• bohemia • 29
Art with a pulse: Lindsey Ebert by Kayla Hawk
As sneering glances and negative whispers fall away to more open mindedness, it’s clear that history comes full circle on taboo subjects. One result of this has been the statistic that four in ten people have a tattoo. In towns across America, new shops are opening daily to fulfill the rising need for body art and Waco is no exception. With a handful of parlors to choose from, one has to set themselves apart as a distinct experience and Art Ambush’s amazingly talented, Lindsey Ebert, is just that difference. Hailing from Cleburne, Texas, Lindsey moved to Waco to pursue a degree in Nursing from Baylor University. After two years in the program, she switched to Fine Arts, learning some new techniques to add to her natural ability. After experiencing the world of tattoos through a significant other, she got offered a job as an artist after her art was discovered. Fast-forward over a twoyear apprenticeship, trips to International Tattoo Expos, and photography in tattoo magazines and it’s easy to understand why her waiting list can reach four to six months out after just ten years in the business. The majority of her clients are long-term, asking her to work on multiple designs or larger pieces, such as sleeves, full back pieces and jackets. I had the opportunity to sit in on one of her sessions and not only see her in action, but pick her brain on her art and talk with her customer to get his opinion of her work. Her workspace is every bit an artist’s enclave with a wide-range of art on the walls, sketches littering her drawing board, gold-framed paintings of her dogs, and—let’s not forget—the Star Wars lunch box. With each creative process different from the next, Lindsey has done it all. Sometimes the client has a strong idea of what they want while other times they leave much open for her to interpret. And, sometimes there’s a bit of give and pull in both directions. At the session, she not only painstakingly situated 30 • bohemia • April 2012
the stencil on the client’s torso, but she used a marker to freehand some of the background elements. Customers love her openness and artistic integrity during the process of drawing and planning out their visions. She understands both the visual and the meaningful aspects of the desired work and often, with her input, the piece manages to exceed expectations ten-fold. The petite, blonde with enviable purple accents is more soft-spoken when it comes to her accolades. During Waco’s Tattoo Expo, she won a number of awards for the tattoos her customers submitted: first place floral, first place black and gray, and second place black and gray portrait. The humble attitude comes from her insistence that her work is just a part of the service industry, saying, “I feel like I’m just the medium.” Though she has a style of her own with her art, it doesn’t always come out on something as individualized as body ink. For her art outside the world of tattooing, she’s very much a mixed media artist with her studio containing random collections of things she knows she’ll one day use--maybe when her books slow down. Her entire walk in life is an influence; she’s unable to nail it down to one thing, except in Art History, where the High Renaissance is an easy favorite. For her future endeavors, she doesn’t plan on heading out of Waco any time soon. She loves to travel, but she also feels this town is the best central location for her clients to come and see her (even the international ones). She’s looked into a few guest spots at other shops, but she’s kept so busy with Art Ambush that it’s hard to meet the requirements. To see her work, check out her website: www.linlindesign.com or www.artambush. com.
Photography by B.Treason Photography • Hair and Makeup by April Hill
April 2012• bohemia • 31
like the sky’s closed eye-lid and even at this hour
the caffeine-watchful pupils of hairy truckers, hauling God-knows-what, but probably cattle,
Illustration by Tanner Freeman
WACO
By Adam Amberg The sun sets on I-35
and for all this, I close my eye on the city, casting on her the shadows of tomorrow, till she turns on her lights, which are the smoldering embers of a little city whose fire won’t die.
over bridges over rivers, who soon find they’ve reached only the Gulf of Mexico, dart from exit to exit. Old veterans eaten by war and locusts lounge under the highway. They squint with something horrible beneath their gaze, scouring the horizon for their next happy fix
32 • bohemia • April 2012
Illustration by Shay Scranton
Photos by David Irvin
I-35, South of Waco By William Virgil Davis The Ford pickup, painted red but rusted, straddled the center line. Both back fenders were dented in. It was almost noon in Waco. The truck stalled in the sun, in time, in Texas. As if in a dream, it began to move forward slowly. There were three of them in the cab: two men and a dog. One was brushing his teeth. One was drinking from a brown bottle. The dog was driving. Copyrighted by William Virgil Davis and reprinted by permission.
April 2012• bohemia • 33
Keepers of the Veil written by Jennifer Johnson
Photos submitted by Gonzalo Canedo
I dreamed. I was standing in the doorway of a place that was like nothing I knew, but it felt comfortably familiar to me. I immediately recognized the musty smell of old mildewed paper piled up, reminding me of bookstore mazes packed from floor to ceiling. I felt a treasure hunter’s excitement tingling on the back of my neck. Opening my eyes, I turned my attention to the shelves, arranged like the mazes I knew. But these mazes were not crowded with books. These were cases packed with skulls. A gasp quietly escaped my lips. I heard a woman say, “Welcome to the Library of Skulls. I’m Caroline, the head librarian, and I will explain everything.” She was wearing an old Victorian dress that fit her stern demeanor perfectly, but she was transparent and floating. “Follow me and I will show you what you have to do. All of the people you see here, the keepers, have to work here until they learn whatever it is they need to know to move on. Once one’s task is complete here, you move up to the next plane of learning.” I listened in silence as I followed Caroline through the place, realizing that I had died. Oddly, I was consumed with more curiosity about this place than thoughts about my death. As she talked, I noticed the transparent people, dressed in the garb of various eras, floating at all different levels and performing their tasks. I wondered how long they had been here. She stopped in front of a bookcase at the entrance of the huge maze. “This is where you will start.” She motioned towards the dusty skulls piled on the bottom shelf. I waited for her to explain more. She remained silent, so I squatted to examine the skulls closely. The skulls were made of a brown stone, like the rocks of dry river beds. Each skull had colored gems set in the eye sockets. I reached out to touch one but quickly pulled my hand back. It felt wrong. I glanced up at Caroline, intuitively understanding that I must never touch the skulls. Caroline took this cue to explain: “Your job here is to clean the dust from the gems of 34 • bohemia • April 2012
the eyes. Each skull belongs to a person alive on Earth and the color of the gems is the color of their eyes. If the dust gets too thick it will disturb their eyes and cause them to flutter open. If this happens, the person will see this place. And no one must see this place.” She went on, “You should know that the skulls with blue eyes are to be dusted last because all the other colors are younger and must be kept cleaner. You may begin.” With this last statement Caroline handed me a feather duster and I was left to begin dusting eye socket gems. I had a million unanswered questions. After working for a very short period I began to hear the tinkling sound that the wind chimes around my bed make. I looked up and saw the ceiling of my bedroom. My plush cotton comforter was snuggled up around my shoulders. My first instinct, after waking up, was to call my grandmother and tell her all about that strange place. I reached for my phone and dialed her number. She answered, and I rushed right over her greeting. “I had the strangest dream last night, Mo. I went to this weird library.” I could hear her smiling as she replied, “Oh! You went to the Library of Skulls? That is the coolest place, isn’t it? My job there is to remove the skulls from the shelves with eyes that are ready to open. What was yours?”
Dream ReWoven written by Jim McKeown
Art by Gonzalo Canedo
Seated at a kitchen table, I watched her scramble eggs. I looked down and saw orange juice, lightly browned toast, and a mug. I ate the eggs, drank the juice, and munched on the toast. “Let’s take our coffee into the living room. It’s more comfy there.” I slowly sank into a red sofa, and she sat on my right in a beige chair with large red flowers. “So. What are you reading, and why are you here?” I watched a thick cloud of smoke rise from the cobaltblue mug. “The Charterhouse of Parma and I don’t know.” “Please close your tray table and bring your seat backs into the full upright position.” An attendant carried a bulging bag of cans, bottles, and cups. “We will be landing in a few minutes. The temperature is 4 degrees celsius and the local time is 2:15 PM on June 16th.” A cramp took over my body. The seat pocket held no magazines, no barf bag, no book. Where was my book? I always bring a book, and I stick the boarding pass into it. Maybe it is in my pocket. Nothing. No money, no keys, no ID. I do not remember boarding this plane. Where have I come from? And, more importantly right now, where am I going? Walking down the jet way I pulled a small, wheeled suitcase; my laptop strap rubbing my shoulder. The air was surprisingly cool. Then I remembered the voice said “June 16th.” How could it be so cold? I entered an empty terminal that was not at all familiar: no chairs, no tables, no boarding counters – nothing. “Welcome. How was your flight?” “I don’t know. Where am I? How did I get here?” She knitted her brow. “Sydney. Australia. On that plane.” Then I recognized her. Beige jacket, white, collared shirt, gray, knitted scarf, short blonde hair and small, red-rimmed glasses. “Sarah.” “Let’s go. The car is right outside.” I followed her like a lost child, and put the suitcase and laptop in the back of a large white vehicle.
“Stendahl. Hmmm. Have I taught you nothing? White and Malouf. That is all there is.” *** “Aaah!” he woke with a cramp and tried to bend his leg to rid himself of it. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the details of the house, the woman and her voice. Where on earth do dreams end – or begin? Reality begin -- or end? *** The steam from the cup rose to the ceiling. He followed it with his eyes “It’s getting late. You must be tired. Let me show you to your room. I have a few things planned for tomorrow.” “Any hints?” “Oy, hints! surprise.”
Nah, I’d rather it all come as a
He grabbed his suitcase and laptop and followed her up the stairs. A lamp bathed the room in a soft glow. Nothing fancy, but definitely comfortable. *** After his usual pre-bed routine, he returned to the room. He settled under the quilt with his book, and opened to the last few chapters of the Stendahl. A thin shaft of light from the hall pointed to the window. Moon light began spilling into the room. Why am I here? What do I want?
She pulled her robe close, sat, then folded her hands in her lap. He reached out and touched her hands. They were cold. “Up where I come from, we have a saying – ‘Cold hands, warm heart’.” He suddenly recognized a nervous shadow on her face. She bit her lower lip. “If you are really cold, get under the covers.” “Oy. I have no idea what you might or might not be wearing under the coverlet.” “Well, I have no idea what you might or might not be wearing under that robe. So we’re even.” She smiled. “Of course, I could get up and rummage through my suitcase pretending to look for a robe that isn’t there. Or…” “Or?” “…you could remove the robe slip in beside me.” Sarah hesitated long seconds then stood, untied the belt, and let the robe drop to the floor. She lifted the covers, and slid in beside him. Her white nightie and matching panties had a silky glow. He closed the book and put it on the nightstand. “What does this mean?” “What do you want it to mean?” “Nothing.” “Nothing?” “Nothing.” “Not possible. We’ve had an unusual relationship these last three years – reading together, chatting on-line, sharing books, sending each other gifts. I bought a ticket I could barely afford, flew over 12,000 miles, spent more than 24 hours in airports and airplanes, with only the dimmest hope that something remotely close to this might possibly happen. We are way beyond nothing.” “What do you really want it to mean? Why did you come back?” She shifted her weight a little, the springs creaked, and her knee touched his leg. Sarah jerked it back, “Sorry!” “That’s okay. It didn’t hurt.” Now it was his turn to stare. He waited. wondered how long he should wait.
He
She pulled the covers up to her neck.
“Where are we going?”
The door creaked. She entered the room and stood a few feet off to the side, again staring at him.
“I just don’t want to be hurt. I have been hurt so many times, but I really think you are different.”
“My house.”
“You didn’t close your door.”
“Different? How so?”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“Did I need to?”
“No worries. I have plenty of empty rooms.”
She frowned and shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know. I read it in your e-mails, your reviews, something…sensitive.”
She pulled away from the curb and turned into a driveway alongside a large brick home with a gabled roof.
“Did you want to talk some more? Come, sit by me and tell me what is on your mind. Jet lag won’t let me close my eyes.” He patted the quilt.
“Well, I can promise you I will never, ever hurt you. You are a good and wonderful friend, and I don’t want to do anything that might jeopardize that.”
April 2012• bohemia • 35
She continued to stare, but the tension left her eyes, her cheeks. “Come here. Just let me hold you. As long as you like. She moved closer and laid her hand on his chest. Her leg brushed his again. He kissed her on the forehead then reached over to turn out the light. *** The bed shifted slightly as he felt Sarah move. She stood, slipped off her nightie, and with only the white panties on, she slipped back into bed. “Now we’re even.” She snuggled closer and closer until he felt the entire length of her body against his. Waves of warmth ran up and down his legs, his back, his arms, yet he lay frozen in place – unable, unwilling to move even the slightest bit. He even held his breath fearing the smallest activity might awaken him from what might or might not be a dream. He closed his eyes and drew in her scent. What was it? Orange blossoms. Oranges. Sunshine, summer, sweet, juicy. All good, all good… *** She drove him all over Sidney. They visited the neighborhood of her childhood, her school, the shop where she worked her first job those summers long ago. They stopped at a bookseller, of course, and he found Happy Valley by Patrick White – a novel he could not find at home. They stopped for lunch, and she told him the story of her life. Everything. Every detail with all the nervous energy she could muster, as though if she stopped she could not begin again. Almost three hours later, they headed back. Sarah and Gerry cobbled a late dinner together from a few things they found in the kitchen. When it was ready, she opened a bottle of wine – red -- and they sat down. He toasted her. “I had a wonderful, marvelous day. Today made the entire trip worthwhile. To Sarah and Australia. Cheers.” “Cheers.” She smiled again, and stared for a second or two. They clinked glasses and sipped. *** In his room, he went straight to the window and looked out toward Sydney again. The door creaked, and he heard her slippers on the carpet. She stood next to him, and he put his arm around her waist and kissed her on her cheek.
the light and slipped in beside her, took her in his arms, and kissed her lips as softly and gently as he knew how. “Good night.” “G’night.” They snuggled. Once again, the orange blossoms filled his nose, and he could not, would not stop the sensation flowing over him. I’m dreaming, dreaming…
“Do you still wonder ‘What this means’?” “Some.” “Have you thought about it?’ “Some. Have you?” “Almost every minute. happening.”
I can’t believe this is
She pinched his arm. “There.”
*** Once again, she drove him to places from her past. She was showing him who she was, where she had been, and all the things she did and loved. Of several remaining questions, he focused on one -where was she going?
He kissed her a third time and gently stroked her back.
They stopped for tea, and this time she demanded he tell her his story. He started with his family, his early schooling, college, his failed marriages, and his late-in-life career change.
“Remove your shield and I will give you the best you ever had.”
After a museum and a book shop or two, he took her to a quiet café. They dined on steak and shrimp – his favorite meal. He tasted his first authentic Australian beer, which she had promised to buy him -- how many months before? Finally, they walked to the car holding hands, like 16-year-olds. He opened the car door for her, she looked at him, but he could not decide whether or not to kiss her right there in that crowded street. He decided to wait. *** Once again, he stood at the window and stared at the moon. The door was open a bit, and he heard no sounds. He got under the covers, opened his book, then closed it and stared at the door. A shadow passed by, then back again, and again. Then it stopped before the door. The door creaked and she entered. Without a word, she came closer to the bed. “How are you?” “Fantastic. Perfect. Wonderful. You have given me another fantastic, perfect. wonderful day.” She stared at him, with that now trademarked subtle smile. “My bed is larger, would you like to come there? We might be more comfortable.” He breathed. “Okay.” He rose and followed her down the hall to her room. The bed was much larger -- the decorations simple, but elegant. She removed her robe to reveal a long, green, silky nightgown.
“Do you like back rubs?” “What do you think I am, crazy? Of course! Who doesn’t?”
“Oh, really. And what if I don’t like it?” “You can get up and put your gown back on, and I won’t be able to touch you, its magic is so powerful.” “You are an amazing man. Who are you? Where did you come from? Why are you in my life?” He thought for a split second and gave her the answer he had been toying with all day. “To make us both happy.” She bit her lower lip, “That’s all I want.” *** At home, he slowly unpacked his bag, moving mysterious envelopes and bundles of conference papers to the side. His bewilderment grew when he found, at the bottom of his suit case, an envelope with a strange color and texture. He opened it and tissue paper slid out. He unwrapped the lightly taped paper, and found the green panties neatly folded. He turned the events over and over, trying to make sense of where he had been, what he had done, who he was with, and what he had seen. It all began to fade like a long-ago dream. They continued to share books and thoughts and gifts, as well as chatty e-mails about students, friends, and family. But one day, Gerry realized she had made no mention of his visit. Nothing, not a word. He opened his e-mail and typed: “May I come for a visit?” In about five minutes, his phone rang. “Hello. When?” “That is entirely up to you.
“It’s…I mean, you’re beautiful.”
“Yes! Do you want me to talk you into it?”
“It’s my shield. It protects me. I’ve always had one, and I thought when I wore it, the monsters in the closet could not get out. Nothing could harm me.”
“Find me a hotel or bed and breakfast close by. You can’t go past the lobby, and I won’t come to your house.”
“Are you still worried about monsters?”
She laughed. “Sure, whatever you want.”
“What things?”
“…A little.”
He gave a half laugh, “If I knew that, I would have them figured out, and I wouldn’t be looking or wondering.”
He took her in his arms and kissed her as passionately as he knew how. At first she was tense, but then he felt relaxation flowing down her back.
“I’ll look into flights right now. itinerary as soon as it’s set.”
“You’re a strange man Gerry.”
She turned the covers down, turned off the light, and opened the curtains to a gibbous moon. She stopped for a moment as if she were expecting a sign. She looked over her shoulder as he got into the bed. She followed and got even closer than she had the night before and kissed him again. He held her so tight and so light -- to be tender -- to feel every square inch of her body. She barely blinked, and he could not decide what that meant.
“What are you looking at?” “Oh, things, Australia, the stars. Trying to figure things out.”
“Is that good or bad?” “What do you think?” “I think I am about to fall asleep.” She slipped off her robe and it drifted from her hand and landed across a chair. She then slipped off her red nightgown and jumped into bed. He turned out
36 • bohemia • April 2012
I’ll send my
“Sounds good. I can’t wait to meet you.” *** A year and a day from his original dream – if that’s what it was -- he closed and locked his tray table and slid his laptop case under the seat in front of him. The attendant walked by with a bulging bag of cups, cans, and bottles. “Your first time in Sydney?” His seat mate, entirely silent until that moment, jarred him back to reality. He looked at him for a moment. “I am not sure.”
Self-Discovery Through Dream Analysis by Susann McDonald
Photos by Gonzalo Canedo
In our quest for self-discovery, dreams provide the most universal and readily available insight into our deepest, unconscious selves. April 2012• bohemia • 37
I
n our quest for self-discovery, dreams provide the most universal and readily available insight into our deepest, unconscious selves. Leading a meaningful life, respecting and valuing ourselves, and feeling connected to other people are universal needs. Whenever they are unmet in collective life, symbolic art, social movements, and other cultural forms will emerge either as symptoms or attempts to restore what is needed. When unmet in personal life, dream images attempt to restore the balance. Dreams seem always to correct or compensate for one-sided, conscious ways of living. We know that when someone is prevented from dreaming, they become physically and mentally ill. So we know by implication that dreams have a healing effect and that their work of healing takes place even if we can’t or won’t remember them. Carl Jung’s work, however, has repeatedly shown that bringing unconscious images and symbols into conscious awareness greatly increases their healing potential.
Dream images usually seem strange and mysterious. They may even be frightening. They make sense only when recognized as symbolic rather than literal. Jung taught that dreams are “the best possible representation of their psychic contents” like that of other “psychic products” such as myths, fairy tales and fables. He cites the example of fantastic stories such as Aesop’s fables, which on the surface may seem like nonsense, but have a “hidden moral meaning” to “anyone who reflects upon it.” Reflection and a receptive attitude toward the mysterious are requirements for discovering the richness of dream symbolism.
If you have ever watched a pet cat or dog sleep, you know that animals dream and that dreams are a natural life experience. Dreaming is an ancient human experiencs, and dreams are often formed of very old, symbolic images. For example, a
middle-class school teacher might dream that a cougar lives in her home, while a mild-mannered, suburban youth might fight wolves in his sleep. A Swiss banker might have a vision similar to a ceremony from an African culture. This universal, archetypal quality of dream symbols is why Jung insisted on an analyst being familiar with folk lore, mythology, ethnology and comparative religion. Dream analysis is a little like reading a pictograph from an alien culture. Jung believed that the healing purpose of a dream is to teach, to compensate one-sided conscious attitudes, and to facilitate self-awareness by using symbols from both the personal and collective unconscious. Ironically, as one discovers the universal, collective unconscious, he or she feels both more intimately connected to the rest of humanity and more uniquely individual.
And then there are “big dreams” that may be remembered for a lifetime. Jung taught that big dreams usually contain images that have reappeared in myths and rituals throughout human history – archetypal images that are “collective and objective.” The purpose of big, archetypal dreams, like that of little dreams, is to bring conscious and unconscious attitudes into harmony, but the part of the unconscious they represent is the Self, “the universal human being in us.” Big dreams may make us feel as if our future life’s path is opening or that God is trying to communicate with us. Failing to heed and honor our big dreams may lead to a loss of soul.
Most dream symbols are universal, but a specific dream image will also have personal implications – to the point that most analysts are persuaded that everything in your dream is part of your psyche. However personal the image, though, it must be understood symbolically. For example, I might dream of a tiger when feeling a bit burned out, but you might dream of a red Ferrari. Does that mean I should purchase a pet tiger or that you should race in a Ferrari? Here is where integration of dream symbols into conscious awareness comes into play. Probably, I just need to be a little more assertive, and you just need a little excitement in your life. These are “little dreams” whose meanings are mainly limited to every day events and whose purpose seems to be self-regulating – like drinking water when thirsty or getting more rest when tired. While becoming conscious of their meaning can provide needed energy for living, taking them literally might be a bit foolish. On the other hand, ignoring them would certainly be unwise. Burn out, if unrecognized and unameliorated, can lead to serious life crises.
Photos submitted by Haley Allen
38 • bohemia • April 2012
So how does a person begin to recognize the meaning and discover the healing power of dreams?
It is always helpful to write out a dream as soon as possible, while the images are fresh and unedited by the waking ego. Don’t try to interpret your dreams.
Analysis and interpretation are not synonymous. Simply honor the dream and let the images begin to integrate into your consciousness. Ask yourself what associations you might have to the images in your dream. Ask how your dream images may have appeared in other places – stories, myths, or movies, for example. Do they bring up memories or feelings about your life? Why do you think these specific images and memories are appearing to you just at this time? What is their purpose? If possible, after you have kept a dream journal for some time, look back at earlier dreams and see whether similar themes repeat themselves. If your curiosity is aroused, and you want to look a little more deeply into your psyche, consider making an appointment with a Jungian analyst – someone trained to analyze dreams.
Chatter stop, on the groove highway. by Jesse Jefferis
Dream by Amy Lam
We’ll ride through many speed traps, but never stop.
I started my bike up a too-big hill and nothing
Sammy Davis rued the day when jazz was read. It’s a boost to the boxes in my head.
but I suddenly knew that I could. No questions. No question.
in my silly body thought I could make it. But something kicked in and it wasn’t heroin
I rode up higher and higher My thighs burned. I passed the sun done setting
We’ll grind, knead, & masticate all the little piggies.
passed shadows distorting houses with creepy blanket-draped window panes I pass
Ain’t that great!!
a litter of old empty beer bottles lined up in two rows outside of a lonely driveway
I wanted to hang from the rafters, but I read Bukowski, instead.
I pass uphill start downhill and find that there are no breaks and I don’t worry because I feel so free (finally) Only one thought crossed my mind and it was
Amy Lam Photos by Katherine Ramirez
“There’s no reason to be afraid cuz I’ve got my feet and mother nature’s grass to break my falls.”
Jesse Jefferis I Tried by Jesse Jefferis
There are moments in a man’s life in which he has to say, “Ok, I tried with all my might.” Some things are meant to stay. And some things are meant to go. And my time has passed. (The wind picks up. It was calm a moment before that. And it is calm again.)
Jesse Jefferis performs poetry at Bohemia Nights, a weekly spoken word and acoustic music open mic event held in Waco, Texas at Legacy Cafe and Art Gallery on Saturdays from 6 to 8 PM.
April 2012• bohemia • 39
Royal Restaurant for Thai Cuisine
by Jim McKeown
Photos by Katherine Ramirez
I first dined at Bangkok Royale about eleven years ago. At that time, the family-owned restaurant was located in a strip mall on the edge of the Baylor Campus. Always crowded, I frequently had to wait for a table. They outgrew that spot and after seven years, moved to their current location at 215 South University Parks Drive at Franklin. They have occupied this site for four years. We recently had a minor celebration, and Bangkok Royale surged to the top of our list for a nice, quiet, tasty dinner. We arrived early on a recent Friday evening, and we didn’t have to wait for a table, but the dining room quickly filled. By the time we finished dinner, a few people patiently waited for a table. While the original site was pleasant, the new place is spectacular -- new tables and chairs, new china, and many new wall hangings. The food, however, is the same -- excellent.
40 • bohemia • April 2012
They also have a new, expanded menu with lots of variations on our old favorites. The food is hot and plentiful. The jasmine rice is especially good. Any of their dishes can be made with beef, chicken, pork, or tofu for Bohemian veggies. The selection of appetizers is truly wonderful. The “Bangkok Platter” has a combination of 2 fried spring rolls, 2 golden angel shrimp, 3 toong tong, and 3 gouza. Toong tong – also known as golden monkey bags -- are little packages of fried wonton skins stuffed with meat and veggies. Two varieties of dipping sauces are also provided. Lately, I have been on a curry streak, and Bangkok has the best curry dishes in Waco. The choices are yellow and green curry. I find the green has a bit more tang than the yellow, but the chef will honor requests for mild, medium, or hot. I decided to try the pork, since I usually get chicken or tofu.
The meat had a level of tenderness I rarely see in Waco. The veggies were hot and perfectly cooked. Save some of the rice and mix it with the leftover sauce. I also had a bottomless cup of delicious hot Thai tea. The iced Thai tea is another favorite of mine, but that does not include refills. My wife Ramona had an old standby – Pad Thai. We have started making this at home, but we still get it at Bangkok on occasion so we can know exactly how it is supposed to taste. Bangkok Royale is a great place for something truly different for dinner or lunch. They are open from 11:00 AM to 10:00 PM Monday to Friday and Noon to 10:00 PM on Saturday. They are closed on Sunday and between 3 and 5 PM daily. The phone number is 254.757.2741
April 2012• bohemia • 41
BoHo Beats: by Kayla Hawk
Photos by Steven Ruud
Die, My Child
E
very once in a while—usually during a writing excursion—I follow the twisting and winding world of YouTube and happen across a band that I find truly incredible. Most may not have much in the way of live shows, signings with adoring fans, or merchandise to sell. But what they do have is a hungry, online fan base waiting to scoop up their next EP serving. Die, My Child is that kind of band.
Part of their musical drive stems from the loss of one of the first members of the band. Losing such a close friend has strengthened their bond; there will neither be a replacement nor any other addition to the core. And, since their dear friend is still very much a part of what makes them a band, there really isn’t an empty space to be filled. The duo’s collective goal with their music is
A quietly charming duo, Cameron Smith and Jake Taylor started playing music together in Fairfield, Texas years after meeting on the tee ball field. Once graduated from high school, the two moved to Waco. These days, Cameron attends MCC and Jake is splitting time between here and his job back home. Though the two have other avenues down which their lives are going, they agree that music is the most important piece. On paper, Jake plays bass and guitar while Cameron provides “the rest”— which includes, but is not limited to: vocals, extra percussion, shakers, a glockenspiel. For their current album, Cameron even did most of the writing. In person, however, the two can barely be separated, complementing each other in a way only those who have been together through thick and thin can do. With a base of melancholy lyrics set against a perfectly matching instrumental tone, the boys take their inspiration from some seemingly unlikely sources. For Cameron, Soulja Boy’s online entrepreneurship proved a good model while Alan Jackson’s lyrical ability and Franz Liszt’s compositions gave him a genius toward which to aspire. Jake, for his part, is influenced by Chicago band Smith Westerns and Buddy Holly. 42 • bohemia • April 2012
Despite having never played their music live, the two have high expectations of success with their band and neither of them wavers due to inexperience on the stage. Writing good music and spreading the word seems to be working just fine. As Cameron says, “Playing live is so overrated.” To continue getting their name out after the slow decline of Myspace, the duo began posting music and videos on their Youtube channel, website, and Spotify, and to advertise their existence on Facebook—all of which has given their grassroots campaign some oxygen for the fire. Their online presence has helped win them a relationship with a producer in Austin, Kevin Butler, who worked with them on their album. They have also made a few contacts that, hopefully, are moving them toward their hope of one day getting signed. Though they recently held a listening party for the LP, they already talk about recording their second album and are hopeful to have the tracks ready for eager fans by mid next year. They have also experienced a tremendous amount of support from their hometown—a love initiated by Cameron’s mother, Nora Smith, who Jake made it a point to give a shout out to. She, along with their friends and area fans, give a more personal excitement to the thousands of followers around the world.
to be successful creating something that listeners can identify with. It “all comes from a certain place” for Cameron and he hopes his words can “bring people together”. And, seeing how their catchy rhythms and honestto-the-bone lyrics seem to resonate with much of Waco, that wish might have already come true.
If you want to join the fandom, you can like them on Facebook and check out their videos. Their debut album Omnia Figmentis is out now; you can message the band or buy a copy at Art Ambush, on iTunes, or on their own website: www.diemychild.com.
Tea Aguilar bished paintings—he pulls from everything in his environment to fulfill the vision of his imagination. His portfolio is remarkable for its diversityt: acrylic, chalk, spray paint, sharpie, pencil, oil, and pastels. He literally knows no limits.
S
itting in the beautiful square next to the Hippodrome in downtown Waco, my wonderful assistant and I braved persistent swarms of pigeons and bats to talk to one of Waco’s most innovative artists: Tea Aguilar.
With a diverse live show of explosive sounds and vibrant visuals that affect nearly every sense, and a charismatic and honest flair in conversation, everything about Tea draws you in until you feel so immersed in the experience that the thought doesn’t cross your mind that you have other things in your busy schedule. Time, consider yourself spent. Though native to the area, the Waco High Alum spent a few months on the West Coast before moving back to his hometown. Growing up, his influences derived from hanging with an uncle who airbrushed lowriders. He began to grow that early interest into his own loose, conceptual artistic mindset soon thereafter. Tea is a lover of all things abstract. Uniformity is not an option. With every type of canvas he can find—tarps, walls, refur-
Musically, Tea started out singing and playing the guitar while simultaneously playing a percussion set . At the ripe young age of 14, he brought the local clubs alive; his dad had to come along to provide a responsible presence in the early days. Despite being raised on country and rock, his eclectic tastes helped him pursue a more metal, organic sound with bands such as Spore 333 and his first solo project, Mr. Aguilar. But fitting his work into any type of genre is where things get tricky—and not in a bad way. While working on a soundboard—after producing an acoustic version of his chosen song—he is liable to add both a drum kit and small, percussion elements mixed with riffed beats and fluid vocals. But he doesn’t stop there. Between the synthesizers and the seemingly random percussion noises, he’s known to throw in a wall screen that flashes colorful, abstract designs. His ad-hoc mixtures overflow the bounds of music to form accompanying visual expression. With so many options to each song, it’s easy to see how interchangeable all the parts of the cog are: Tea can play with multi-talented artists— the likes of Daniel Cole (of Fonedead fame), Sitina Gutierrez, and Joel Montelongo (both from Spore 333), who rock along with him— or he can take the light all by himself. And if he’s tired of playing his main tunes, he’ll jam out an improv session for your listening pleasure with the kicker being that you will probably not know the difference. Mind, consider yourself blown.
things wrapped into one. He’s as diverse as his tastes and his ideas and his music and his art. Not one thing seems to end fully before another piece can take over. Sometimes it all works together, sometimes it works apart, but it is never completely separated from who he is. Though he would say that different stages in life breed different purposes, right now his message is simply to stay “positive throughout everything”. And in some ways, as with many starving artists, he’s about “survival”. His art might be an incredible way to express himself, but it can also put food on the table or pay for a mic in the studio. Speaking of studio time, with fans hungry for more of the experience, there are nine tracks and three that might be added for the new album. His main goal for this recording go-around is to do it all himself: “creating new audio art and recording this moment in time, like audio hieroglyphics.” He wants time to experiment, and time to work his talent through the recording aspect. Once finished, the gem will be available in a few regional indie stores with a plethora of online choices, as well. He hopes to be able to do a small tour here in Central Texas while making a few stops out on the coast. Though he wouldn’t be opposed to signing with a label, his main wishes are for distribution, proper management, and a PR person. Further goals would be having his work licensed and in film. For music locales to see him in action or to check out his art, you can like him on Facebook. And, when the album drops, make sure to pick it up locally or check nearly any retailer online (Spotify, iTunes, Amazon, etc.) for your copy.
Talking with Tea for any length of time, there is a real sense that he’s so many April 2012• bohemia • 43
Diverse Verses
& Spoken and Heard: Soulful Sessions in Waco by Mandy Bray
Photos by Joshua Schnizer
Union Building (SUB) Den throughout the Wednesday evening, averaging around 70. The crowd fluctuated from a mesmerized silence to a thrum or even a roar, depending on the style of the poet. Diverse Verses is a relatively young spoken word poetry group in Waco. Founded in 2009 by Baylor graduate student Sydeaka Watson and current senior Christopher Pierre, Diverse Verses became an official student group at Baylor in March 2010. However, the goal of current president Christopher Pierre is to reach out beyond the campus borders to connect with other poets and spoken word artists in the area. On February 1, Diverse Verses hosted Mic Check, a nonprofit poetry group based out of Bryan, Texas, to perform alongside its poets for Soul Session. The poet lineup alternated between performers from each group.
Make yourselves at home, we’re gonna start in about 5 minutes, aight? At a Diverse Verses event, there are a few simple rules: Have Fun, Respect the Poet, and Respect the Mic. There are two microphones, in fact, and a single black stool on the stage at Diverse Verses’ inaugural Soulful Session (“Soul Session”) event, kicking off Black History Month, on February 1. Some would associate poetry readings with being being solemn or soporific. Diverse Verses topples this stereotype with triumphant energy. Throughout Soul Session, the poets’ words don’t fall empty on the crowd, but reverberate back with clicks, shout outs, and claps. One poet nails her clincher line so well that the others cheer, throw plastic plates in the air, and storm the stage. Even the introduction and opening announcements are banter-filled, right down to the prayer: We would like to thank you for our astonishing swagger. Amen. Plenty of walk-through traffic milled in and out of the dark basement of Baylor’s Student
44 • bohemia • April 2012
Throughout the night, the performances ranged from poetry to rap to balladry, even including a beep box solo and a Scooby Doo impression. One poet seamlessly intermingled song and spoken word onstage. Another allowed his voice to crescendo higher and higher until he stepped out of the spotlight and in front of the microphone, allowing his raw voice to carry, unaugmented, across the room. “Spoken word is the heartbeat of our group because we’re not just about reciting poetry, we’re about writing our stories and performing them,” says Pierre. “We see poetry as a stage, and we like to have the stage to perform on with our body language and to speak with different tones and our facial expressions.” Soul Sessions is a monthly event held by Diverse Verses at Baylor and is open to the public. The group also meets twice a week on campus and has held performances at various venues around
Waco, such as Beatnix and the Jubilee Theater. “We have had students from TSTC and MCC who have served on our executive board to help with planning for Diverse Verses,” said Pierre. “This isn’t just a ‘Baylor group’ but an organization that wants to get everyone involved in this grassroots movement in the city of Waco.” A typical meeting includes 10-20 students and consists of watching and discussing YouTube videos of spoken word performances, planning future events and workshops, and concludes with an open mic session. Diverse Verses is passionate about reaching out into and connecting with the Central Texas community. The group leads writing workshops for youth through a partnership with Mission Waco, and donates any money it raises from its performances to soup kitchens
nervous about next year; hopefully people will step up to the plate.” Diverse Verses also desires to grow its membership from external sources: “From nonBaylor students, [the response] has been really slow, but we’re still trying to participate regardless. Waco’s a little slow to appreciate the poetry… but if we have 10 people show up, we’re happy.” The group has found a tremendous support network from other poetry groups around Texas, namely, Killeen Poetry Slam, Bohemia, and poetry slam teams in Ft. Worth and Dallas. Diverse Verses has a goal of creating a competitive poetry slam team to be able to travel and compete.
and other nonprofits in Waco. They have also performed at the Waco Cultural Arts Festival for the past two years. “We worked with Mission Waco to try and bridge the gap between Baylor and the Waco community so they can grow an appreciation of poetry,” explains Pierre. “This year has really been about getting exposed, and getting our name out there. We’re not really seeking to profit. We’re just looking for a place to be creative, for people to share their emotions, their feelings, and their life stories. Hopefully, that will inspire someone else to tap into their inner poet so they, too, can share stories.”
“We are really inspired by the Texas scene because they’ve embraced us; they’ve shown so much love and support for us that we really do look up to them,” Pierre says. Some poets in particular that have supported the group are Rudy Francisco out of San Diego, Ebony Stewart out of Austin, and Texas hip-hop poet Tro’juan Soule. In the Texas poetry scene right now, Pierre sees Waco as a “faint heartbeat.” With the energy of Diverse Verses, that drum is beating a little louder than before.
As an officially chartered student group, the artistic group has the unique challenge of having to conform to certain guidelines set by the school. “As poets we like to be expressive, but at Baylor we aren’t allowed to use profanity,” Pierre explains, “We have to be really careful about homosexual topics or religious topics.” Despite the restrictions, the group seems to find no shortage of topics to cover or new forms with which to experiment. One of their favorite activities as a group is freestyling. Pierre, a senior at Baylor, hails from Alabama and will join Teach for America in Memphis after his graduation in May. One of the challenges that Diverse Verses will face in 2012 is the loss of most of their senior staff due to graduation. Although Pierre and others are making an effort to train underclassmen, not all are willing to put in the hard work behind the scenes to run the group: “We’re a little bit
April 2012• bohemia • 45
Boho Contributors PETE ABLE has been writing fiction and poetry since high school. His screenplays have been finalists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE International, and the New York Television Festival, among others. He lives in Woodway with his wife, Melissa, and daughters Joanna and Lila. He is currently the director of Financial and HR systems for Baylor University. Haley Kattner Allen was born in Dallas, Texas in 1989. Inspired by the scenic landscapes, rustic charm, and beautiful, natural light of Waco and her hometown of Riesel, she completed her first photographic series shortly before moving to Worcester, Massachusetts where she studied Studio Art at The College of the Holy Cross. Upon her graduation, she moved back to Texas where she continues to progress as an artist. Haley currently lives in Dallas, Texas. Rick Allen is a cooperator, problem solver, facilitator and entrepreneur. He loves reading books and mags printed on paper. He loves gardening and growing new life in his yard. He has loved working in mental health and education. He has been married 30 years and has lived in Waco 30 years. Coincidence? He is happy to be alive. A. K. Amberg is a kindergarten teacher by day, a surprisingly fitting job for a poet and writer by night. He lives in Waco with his wife and has published in the US and the UK, including his own book of original poems and prose, The Least of These. www.adamkamberg.net Megan Barnett was born and raised right here in Waco, TX. With a love for art and design, she could always be found with a pencil, paintbrush or a sketchbook in hand. Megan graduated from Abilene Christian University in 2009 with a BFA in Graphic Design and jumped feet first into the design community. Since then she has designed advertising on a local and international level. Find more of Megan’s work and bio at www.justlikethatdesign.com. Cynthia Barrios is a linguaphile who occasionally has problems listening to what your saying because she’s too busy trying to place your accent or thinking about a word you used five minutes ago. She enjoys being outside and dragging people outside to join her-- because of this, she has played on many truly great playgrounds around the world. Cynthia entertains friends with ehr human tricks of juggling and excessive trivial knowledge, and her legendarily terrible dancing. Don Bolding was born in the middle of the 20th Century in San Angelo, Texas, and lived there until he was 30 except for four years in the Navy, where he landed a gig as a “journalist”, or p.r. man. He wrote and edited for several years for the San Angelo Standard-Times and got a B.A. In English before floating up to Dallas-Fort
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Worth. He found more writing gigs and a seminary at TCU, where he got a master of divinity degree. Then he floated on down to Centex and found some more writing gigs, the latest at the Waco Tribune-Herald. Two crashed marriages. No kids. Gonzalo Canedo was born on the 25th of December 1979 in A Coruna, a Galician city in Spain by the seacoast of the Atlantic Ocean, in the Europeans land’s end. Nowadays he lives in Edinburgh, where he’s studied Media Technology and Creative Industries. You can find more about Gonzalo Canedo at www.canedo.weebly.com. He dreams of wild reeds and rivers. Alicia Curione is owner of A.C. Creations Film Studios Entertainment which is based out of Waco. She holds a B.A. in Social and Criminal Justice and will be graduating this Fall with her MBA (with a specialization in Marketing). After which, she plans to obtain her DBA. Alicia currently gives back to the community by volunteering at the Waco Humane Society as a medical transcriptionist. William Virgil Davis’s most recent book is Landscape and Journey (2009), winner of the New Criterion Poetry Prize and the Helen C. Smith Memorial Award for Poetry. He has published three other books of poetry: One Way to Reconstruct the Scene, which won the Yale Series of Younger Poets Prize; The Dark Hours, which won the Calliope Press Chapbook Prize; Winter Light. His poems appear regularly in leading journals. He has also published half a dozen books of literary criticism, as well as scores of critical essays. He is Professor of English and Writer-in-Residence at Baylor University. Eric Fowler was born in Michigan and joined the military shortly after graduating high school. He was stationed in Germany and fell in love with the culture. He has also traveled to Kosovo, Macedonia, and Greece, before finally coming back to Texas. He has two children whom he loves, and is currently living with his girlfriend and her son. He has recently discovered his artistic side-- dabbling in chalk pastels, charcoal, and more recently, poetry. Tanner Freeman was born in Fort Worth, TX however has spent the majority of his life in Waco. He recently graduated from Abilene Christian University with a Graphic Design degree. Most of his interests are rooted in real love for getting outside and seeing the world, such as driving to Austin for the afternoon or teaching ESL courses in Mexico City. He has a fascination with the Americana of the sixties and seventies, which comes out in his work. Freeman and a friend, Taylor Smith, have started a design company here in Waco called Deuxtone. Michael Alan Gill calls Waco his home.
Born far from what most would consider humble beginnings, he has gone from living in great wealth, to being a homeless musician. He has always had a passion for music, poetry, and writing. From a very young age he has been a bold person, unafraid to ask questions. To quote one of the most influential men in his life, John Locke, “I attribute the little I know to my not having been ashamed to ask for information.” David Irvin is a Waco-based freelance journalist, photographer and (nearly) Master Librarian. He is a fellow of the Knight Center for Specialized Journalism in Maryland, a member of American Mensa and the Alpha Chi Honor Society at the University of North Texas. His writing has appeared in dozens of newspapers, magazines and blogs, including Flakmag, the Montgomery Advertiser, Arkansas DemocratGazette, USA Today, and Chicago Tribune. Jesse Jefferis “As a man thinks in his heart, so is he.” I see the structure of words; when I use them, the ocean is clear in my sight and meadows with their bed of daffodils spread out through my view. Words offer me an escape, a quiet brook to fall asleep by. They also give voice to reason in the fiber of my being. Writing awoke something in me only God knew was there. This bio tells not what I’ve written, but why I write. Jennifer Johnson is a full-time college student, writer, identical twin, and above all, a mother. Wacoan by birth and after traveling the North American continent for 10 years, she currently resides in her hometown. Jennifer enjoys continually searching for ways to heighten her attempts to paint a story through words that will entertain readers. Amy Lam Born in Dallas, TX. Distant relation to Bruce Lee. I’ve been collecting rare firearms since the tender age of six, and am currently restoring an M1 Bradley. Just turned 30 and am starting a liquid diet. Mostly vodka fruit juice medley. The Virginia Slims help me between meals. There’s not much more to me, but I write good. Isis Lee Passionate about life, the arts, and is proud of her Aztec roots. Currently she is studying psychology and music at MCC and plans to pursue degrees in writing as well. She thanks her father for sharing with her his passion for words, and for finding the ability to convey the human experience through self expression. Her influences include Salvador Dali, H.R. Geiger, Edgar Allen Poe, Betty Page, and above all George Carlin. Susann McDonald is a diploma candidate at the C. G. Jung Institute in Zurich, Switzerland. In the clinical phase of her training, she is the only Jungian analyst in Waco. Susann is accepting clients in Waco, Texas. By analyzing the
rich symbols in dreams, fantasies, poetry and art, Susann helps her clients discover their true selves. Susann has more information about Jungian analysis on her website: susannmcdonald.com. Email questions to susann@susannmcdonald.com. Natsuki Otani is an England based illustrator from Tokyo with a style that is best described in colour. Bold vibrant colour forms the basis of her working practice that seeks to unite dreams and reality, her surreal macabre touches are the counterpoint to her sweet and childlike innocent subjects. She is very flexible and open for commissions and collaborations of any kind. www. natsukiotani.co.uk
Joshua Schnizer is originally from Brazoria, TX. He moved from the gulf coast to Waco in 1994 to be closer to family. He is currently a full-time student at TSTC-Waco, pursuing an Associate’s degree in Media Communications & Information. He is an artist in the mediums of graphite/ realism and photography, as well as a published poet. He shares a home in Waco with his girlfriend and their three dogs. B. Treason April Hill is a native Texan who first picked up a camera at the age of nine, she soon knew that being a photographer was what she wanted to do. Not too long after, April found another niche in the makeup artistry. Thus began
B.Treason Photography, and Treason MakeupArtist. She is well established in the Waco and Austin areas. April has been making people look and feel beautiful, whether through her makeup artistry or photos for seven years. Cyndi Wheeler is a Waco native and mother of two. 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.
Will Parchman is a professional journalist, a shameless soccer enthusiast in the land of pigskin, a restless traveler, an encyclopedic reader and occasionally moonlights for parties as a foppish dandy from England’s Victorian era. Erica Photiades is a transplant to Waco from Detroit, Michigan. Having never been to Texas, she moved to Waco last year to teach 6th grade orchestra. She has played the violin for 22 years, and has picked up cello, bass, viola, percussion and guitar along the way. While her first love is teaching, she enjoys the creative challenge of writing fiction and the physical challenge of running around Cameron Park. Wacoan Ezra Perry is a pen name for a hardworking girl trying to juggle work, family and finances while still trying to fit in as much time as she can to express her creativity. Ezra loves writing, reading & drawing; retro architecture and furniture; IKEA and wearing black; plants and working in the yard; music; her dogs; anything mysterious; all things artistic; long hair, mascara and eyeliner. She wants to live in a treehouse with peacocks in the yard. She’s a gypsy living in grandeur one year and her travel trailer the next. Amanda Rebholz has been writing since she was old enough to hold a pencil, and has been published with the Waco Tribune Herald, American Horrors, Bloody Disgusting, Fangirltastic.com, Pretty Scary, Morbid Curiosity, as well as worked as a photographer, music promoter, press liaison, screenwriter, voice actress, and an emcee for multiple horror film festivals. Steven Ruud I want to be classified. I am an artist who uses photography as a way to communicate and make sense of this small part of the world. Buy a ticket and enjoy the ride. stevenruud.zenfolio.com Eric Schaefer is a graduate student in English Literature at Baylor University. His concentration is early twentieth-century American writers such as Fitzgerald, Wharton, Anderson, and Lewis. He draws inspiration from big cities, small towns, Southern culture, and the kindness of strangers. In addition to the written word, Eric is passionate about cinema, music, art, and happy hours. He maintains that whenever two of these creative forms are gathered together it is a party. And whenever three or more are present there is Bohemia.
April 2012• bohemia • 47
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