BOHEMIA June 2013
A Central Texas Art & Literary Journal
FREE DERRY She fights for what she knows is right.
Ghetto Love Story I live for you I die for you.
LiNDSEY STERLiNG
& Lee Coulter Touring the planet.
Summer Beauty
Refreshing routines for boho beauties.
Fashion Photography POETRY FICTION Music June 2013• bohemia • 1
Bohemia
June 2013 Volume 3, Number 5 ISSN No. 2162-8653 Editor in Chief: Amanda Hixson Assistant Editor: Stephanie Rystrom Writers: Pete Able, Katie Croft, Susan Duty, Caleb Farmer, Jim McKeown, Meg Miller, Jessica Purser, Whitney Van Laningham, Missy Von Parlo, Gary Lee Webb Photographers: Cecy Ayala, David Irvin, Pat Jones, Bonnie Neagle, Belladonna Treason, Cynthia Wheeler Thank you to the Boho Model Crew located in Waco, TX! Also, Bohemia wouldn’t exist without the regular contributors and friends who lend their talents frequently. Cover credits: Model Belladonna Treason Photographer Bonnie Neagle Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX and represents a Central Texas perspective. We take submissions from around the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions-based journal and staff-produced magazine. Contributors, please follow our submission guidelines. More information is available at www.bohemia-journal.com
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Table of Contents ABCDEFGHIJ
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Expensive Love Photography by Bonnie Neagle.
Free Derry
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Historical fiction by Pete Able.
Laundry Day
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Photography by Design Cortex.
Bohemia heads to the laundromat.
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Ghetto Love Poetry Nine poems to theme.
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Ghetto Love Stories
Short stories about love and life on the other side of the tracks.
GI This Star Dances Bohemia interviews violionist Lindsey Sterling.
HG No Kiwis Here
Bohemia explores the lands and underlands of New Zealand.
C Gay Men, Gay Marriage
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JG
Meet two men who want the liberty to get married.
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Photos by Bonnie Neagle Hair and makeup by April Renee MUA Models: Belladonna Treason and Jonathan Lewis
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FREE DERRY by Pete Able
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first saw my sister kill a man on August 15th, 1969. She used a pistol, close range. Close enough to see his eyes go wide with fear before the back of his head opened like a flower in bloom. 12 • bohemia • June 2013
He, being a member of the local police, brandished a baton. It triggered a memory. I, too, held that memory close to my heart. But my ways were more subtle. A negotiator. A demonstrator. A sign-holder. My sister and I share the same beliefs on the cur-
rent state of affairs, only she cuts to the point more emphatically. On that day she crossed a line. “I can’t go back, John. I can never go back.” “Aye, sister. I know. And I both love and hate you for it.” Most folk in the outside world, and by that I mean folk not of Irish kin or live under the unspoken yolk of tyranny supplied by
the Brits across the pond, most of them believe “The Troubles” began a few years back. Some might even remember the struggles for independence in the early part of the century. The rest of us know, as it is with nearly all conflict, the truth goes back a ways. In the 16th century, Queen Elizabeth had the brilliant idea to encourage Protestant Scots to
immigrate, and soon the seeds of disdain and suspicion blossomed into outright rebellion from the Catholic Irish farmers, my ancestors. Over time, the new landlords laid claim to the good earth, and we Irish were left with potatoes and famine. Fast forward a hundred odd years, and the storms of oppres-
sion thunder on the red horizon. Casey and I were but sixteen when we joined the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association in 1967. She was her father’s daughter and make no mistake. A fiery spirit, wild-eyed. Passion
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emanated from the very pores of her skin. I remember her speaking, her fist pounding a desk even as her heart thundered away inside her chest, pulsating with love for her countrymen and empathy for their struggles. I stood in the shadows, admiring, envious. Her unkempt, raven hair bounced off her bare shoulders. Other men loved her, too, as you might well imagine. But would they die for her as I would? Would they give all their possessions, sacrifice all their future dreams just to give her one day of peace? No, and how could they? They did not know her story like me. They hadn’t lived it like me.
For me. For Casey. I fear for her. Protect her, John.” I nod. Casey cries in the corner. She wipes her flushed cheeks and murmurs, “I’m going to kill those boys.” The world sees the plight of Ireland and remains confused. Irishmen fighting Irishmen? Our story is filled with nothing but acronyms like IRA and RUC, with vague references to religiosity. We fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. The root causes are irrelevant now, trumped by a simple matter of the haves and have nots. With some, like my beloved sister, the scars burn deep.
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n childhood, the reasons for anger and discrimination are indistinct. Terms like “loyalist” and “nationalist” do not carry the weight of meaning behind them. Even “Catholic” and “Protestant” hold no clear definition. And so common ground can be reached. Games can be played that cross the invisible barriers of family and neighborhood. Then the burden of understanding arrives, and with it the need for identity. Friends and alliances falter. The walk home from school loses security, and suddenly we find ourselves hurling insults at boys and girls who used to play soccer with us in the streets. Suddenly Casey is scratching the faces of the Cooper boys who try to rip off her clothes one Friday afternoon. Suddenly I’m breaking bottles from the gutter across the backs of their bloody heads. Suddenly we’re home, and our father teaches us that the world is darker than we’d imagined. “John, the day is coming when we’ll have to stand strong, together, as a family. I need you to be strong. 14 • bohemia • June 2013
and I warned her to remain cautious. It was like telling the wind not to blow. God love the girl, she helped organize a march from Belfast to Derry three months later. Five miles from Derry, loyalists attacked. We scattered, the RUC turning to look the other way with smug satisfaction. I lost Casey for a time. I feared the worst until later that evening I spied her hiding behind a barricade with Billy Mc Millen and some of the more radical members of the IRA – the Irish Republican Army. They hurled insults at officers and loyalist rioters, who in turn tossed tear gas canisters into the growing crowd behind the blockade. I saw the flame in is a blustery October day. Casey’s hand. In her other, a bottle Casey is seventeen and her of clear liquid. influence among the leadership is “Casey!” undeniable. My father’s warning She turned and waved me away. echoes through my mind. A march She lit the cloth sticking from the she helped organize through the top of the bottle and tossed it as far center of the town Derry is banned as she could. Two men caught fire by the Loyalists, the Unionists, the and rolled on the ground, patting mostly Protestant population of cit- their legs. izens who want to remain tethered to Great Britain. They have the ater that night, my father and I backing of the local police force, sat in his bedroom on rickety the RUC – the Royal Ulster Con- wooden chairs. Casey laid on her stabulary. dusty mattress, staring out the bro“Traitors, all of them,” Casey ken window, smashed by loyalist tells me. stones only hours before. “Can you blame them? Ev“My beautiful daughter. Don’t eryone has their motivations, Case. let your hatred blind you from our They conform to get power. They larger goal.” don’t even see it, sister. When your “Aye. And don’t let your naneeds are met, others needs take a ivety keep you from achieving it,” back seat.” she retorted. “We’re marching. The RUC can “Casey, we will win. It takes go to hell.” time to enact change by peaceful Batons. A wicked blow means.” strikes my shoulder-blade. Casey “How do we win, father? With grabs the officer’s wrist and bites, elections? The Unionists rig the drawing blood. Her face is etched results. If we win one year, they in his mind, and her picture appears re-draw the map the next. They on some posters. Both my father control the government. They con-
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trol the housing, the schools. They control everything that makes us free.” “They? They? Dear child, can you not see that it is all our people? When we kill, we kill our brothers and sisters. We kill our children.” At this my father turned away. He was an emotional man but did not want to have his own daughter see his tears. “Our people should be one voice, one country. United with the south. Two Irelands means two voices. We will never have peace so long as this fact remains.” With these words, I knew my sister had defined her allegiance. While she would remain faithful to the goals of the Civil Rights Association, her heart had been permanently stained. Violence was
acceptable, even preferable when provoked. Whether my father and I agreed was irrelevant. Whether the majority of the community agreed was similarly unimportant. The world was changing. Late that night Casey and a group of nationalists erected more barricades and painted a mural on a large stone wall. It read, “You are now entering Free Derry.” A war was starting. The night before was merely the opening salvo. And with it the Free Derry Ghetto was born.
charge bore scars on his wrist. He recognized Casey at once. They didn’t even ask for information. Binding us to chairs, their unbridled fury brought a severity to their blows unseen before. My sister’s radiant face swelled and turned purple. I kissed her forehead and held her in my arms. I sang. Beatles’ songs at first, then children’s rhymes from innocent nights long ago when a young girl in a tattered nightgown would climb into my bed to hear me read. How our parents agonized over our late nights together, fighting off sleep and laughing at the absurdity embers of the RUC began of some of old Grimm’s fairy tales. raiding homes after the riots Now we lay together on the dirty, in January. They tormented any cement floor, our father battered they found inside. When they arrived at our house, the officer in
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Her hair had been cut short, and despite the dirt on her face she was still unmistakably beautiful, unmistakably Casey, unmistakably my sister. She left with a group of men in army fatigues. They followed her lead.
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and bruised and shivering under the covers from a fever that refuses to break. The nurse offers little hope. The fairy tales seem far away. When he dies, Casey says nothing. She tosses a booklet in my lap, turns on her heels, and exits the room. I turn the book over. It is a copy of the constitution for the Republic of Ireland. I heard reports of her involvement in raids. In August of 1969, a loyalist group called the Apprentice Boys held a parade celebrating British victory over King James in 1688. Old James had converted to Catholicism and given concessions to the Irish. This didn’t sit well with his daughter, Mary, so she and her husband had James banished. He returned and intended to come to power via Ireland. At the time, 16 • bohemia • June 2013
Derry was largely protestant and loyal to Britain. They succeeded in rebuffing King James’ siege. The parade didn’t sit well with our people. We protested. It turned violent. Scores were wounded and several killed, including a young boy ripped to shreds by the bullets of an artillery gun used by the RUC. Later that night, on August 15th, I found myself hiding inside the blasted remains of an abandoned warehouse. RUC officers entered, batons at the ready. I raised my hands to show I held no weapons but they advanced anyway. The gunshot left my ears ringing, and the officer crumpled to the ground. Casey grabbed my shoulder and shoved me out the door, her pistol still smoking. “Run.” Her eyes were urgent.
he next two years saw an explosion of political violence in Northern Ireland. The IRA had split into two factions – the Official IRA and the Provisional IRA – the latter of which had an explicit goal of waging an armed struggle against British rule in Northern Ireland. They saw themselves as defenders of the Catholic community. I did not wonder at which group my sister belonged. Free Derry became an impassable fortress, blocked from access even to the British army. New blockades were raised every month it seemed. Explosions rocked buildings weekly. Gunfire peppered through the streets at nightfall. The British army, in conjunction with the RUC, did what they could to quell the uprising. Curfews were instituted in 1970, but they only applied to the area where mostly nationalists lived. This ended in more riots and four people dead. In 1971, internments without trial began. Of course, nearly all of the internments were republican nationalists. The means to gather information from those they deemed activists and a threat to security were, shall we say, creative.
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oday is Sunday, January 30th, 1972. The Civil Rights Association organized another march, and I am among the leaders. We plan to march to Guildhall, where elected Derry officials meet. The British soldiers are out in force. They have only been bystanders
before, letting the RUC do the dirty work. This time they erect barricades, preventing access to Guildhall. The tension is palpable. We are 15,000 strong. A group breaks off from the march, led by a blackhaired angel in fatigues. They push the barricades into the soldiers as a symbol of unity and strength. Water cannons. Tear Gas. Rubber bullets. I hear Casey scream, clutching her side. She stumbles, coughing from the gas, and crashes headlong into the side of a parked car. Stones fly toward the soldiers. I watch one strike a soldier’s plastic face plate, knocking him over. It takes a moment before I realize that the rock left my own hand. I reach
Casey and prop her up. “John. You must leave.” “I can’t do that.” I drape her over my shoulders and carry her away from the violence, but rubber bullets pelt my legs and we fall. A window shatters overhead, and a rifle with a scope sticks out. “John. Please.” Casey rises to her knees, begging me to go. My father’s words return. Protect her, John. “Sniper!” A soldier yells. “Take them out!” They draw weapons. Real weapons. Casey raises her arms. I find strength in my damaged legs and leap toward the soldiers, in front of Casey. I don’t feel pain. My father holds
out his hand, and there is joy in his face as my sister flees through the crowd. I see the green Irish hills of my ancestors, grass swept low by the northern gusts, black soil tilled for all to share. There is peace, and I pray it will find my sister’s heart and calm its wrath. Light fades, and with it grows an unbearable sadness. I will miss my sister, just as I already miss the life that might have been, in a world without differences so vast and undefined that a family can find common ground on only one virtue: love.
And the battle’s just begun There’s many lost, but tell me who has won The trench is dug within our hearts And mothers, children, brothers, sisters Torn apart** ** Lyrics by U2 – “Sunday, Bloody Sunday”
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Laundry Da
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ay Photos by Design Cortex Hair and Makeup by Missy Von Parlo Models (from left): Brent Phillips Jocelyn Fulbright Stephanie Rystrom Abby Eades & Ethan Smith
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Soap and quarters and bleach and laundry Are words I use at the laundromat Reading the news, and watching the people That’s what I do at the laundromat At the laundromat my heart grows fat As my clothes get dry I stop and sigh
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Laundromat There’s a girl washing her clothes I’m in love but nobody knows She looks sixteen or seventeen My mind grows dirty when my clothes get clean
She’s so young and tall I’m gonna give her my all (or Borax) I’m not a subtle guy I’ll go to her and sigh “If I don’t see you again my love I must surely die.”
Clothes go round and round And my heart goes up and down She’s drying her jeans In separate machines She’s loading up her granny cart Goin out the door; it’s breaking my heart** **Lyrics by Dead Milkmen
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Minimum Wage Job Shift End Plea by Amanda Hixson
And vacuuming
Come home with me To my shitty apartment That has no central air No heat Just gas furnaces That make scary Noises when they breathe
I don’t have cable I don’t have a dishwasher Some of the pots smell Kinda iffy at best
Come home with me It’s late and we’re both tired I know it’s a long drive for you It’s raining The streets are wet And there’s no traction On your tires Come home with me even though My neighbors stay up too late Shouting profanities
There are stains on the carpet From the previous resident I hope I still have electricity I hope I didn’t bounce another check Come home with me tonight If you don’t mind tight spaces Condiment sandwiches Or cracked paint Come home with me, boy, otherwise I’ll be in that place lonely
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your heart would have looked beautiful in writing by Josch Beres it doesn’t matter if you never wrote a love letter. I read you in the awkward silence – how you shifted, cigarette smoke your crown as you tapped Elliot Smith out with your foot strumming your guitar. it doesn’t matter if we said less and felt more I tried my best to read you but you cut me when I turned the page when I told you your heart was blank you folded mine into an airplane and watched it fly into the trash can.
love without by Josch Beres when seventy-two hours refused to exist and your lips slept peacefully in the native creole stars of my eyes once, twice, a thousand times I looked at you swearing under my breath because you were too cold outside, yet, you insist that love hides in the distance I tempt it near with whispers, uranium kisses; all raw reverie leaking from eyes and throat. loving you is what comas feel like – colonized migration, enzymes and pathos, plane rides over the deserts of west Texas
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Gravedigger by Alex the Great He digs the holes run deep Closed caskets keep secrets tightly wrapped The truth mummified under lies She searches high and low for treasure of highest value only to her He, gravedigger She, archaeologist both on missions polar opposites yin and yang yet needed hide and seek is the basis He digs holes, buries secrets the truth buried alive She tries to revive it but she, archaeologist Not an M.D. 32 • bohemia • June 2013
[outloud] by Dargan Dodd from one sinner to another my legs are tired from this trouble we’ve wandered far from where we started or so we thought in our denial … to understand the difference a past makes to comprehend the fullness a future holds to simply acknowledge what we gave as our present to eachother we gave in to one another routine attacked us like a stranger without thought of repercussion without worry of survival from one sinner to another close your eyes to rediscover what it was about the other that first caused you to truly love her
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The desert and Them The Hearted by Joel Haesecke The power I feel is only temporary. My doubt is the truth, however scary. I am weakest when operating under an illusion. Truth will shake it, leaving the confusion. I want to feel, not to know. Not to be protected, I want to grow. Inside alone, I need to connect. I nod to other travelers at the intersect The separation, my false superiority, Trampled beneath as I walk this city The forgotten shuffle, like a dance On this vast concrete connecting the expanse I open my heart, examine the blood My humanity reeks, my tears are a flood I finally break down, assuming I had started Not the broken or down I am a part of the hearted
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by Ramona Itule-Patigian On the streets, and in every backyard On nights I knew no better Every time I left and upon my returns This prickled desert aged without memory My old, dear friends became half men Swept in pin pupil daydreams, seduced by waking sleep became train jumpers, half strangers with shared slides and secrets Stupors in the corner, nodding murmurs of the dim-lit glazed and restless This dusty, hot earth that first weaned me into bloom The womb of my womb, paved stretches that were once blank openings walks from the bus stop, summer time hide outs fire blooded patches of the untouched Cement has eclipsed adventure robbed boys of men and both of recollection
Westside by Chryss Yost My house jingles in the city’s hip pocket, with the shaggy palms and the paleta man. The street twists and constricts and we feed the rats to it. Red and blue pits run loose, growling with the pipes under the gritted crossroads. This house wears its grassy caul, gnashes its teeth to strangers. It’s your hood, baby, says pops. When they rip it off your head, I say let them.
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Ghetto Love Story by Meagan Smith I woke up and saw 6:32 on my phone. I could smell the cooking Ramen, which means my baby’s home. I yawned and stretched-- rolled over in my sheets exhausted from the doubles and feeling pretty beat. My phone made a “bzz” and from my baby, I read: “Good morning my beautiful angel, ready for dinner in bed?” The butterflies went crazy and swarmed around my tummy. We’ve had ramen the last two months, but the way he makes it is too yummy. In walked my browned-eyed beau, with his beaming smile that I adore and a tray that held a stogie, OJ, and Ramen-- what more could I ask for? I know we’re broke, and ever so poor, but that quickly fades away when he walks in the door. And sure we work our butts off to have ends barely meet, but waking up to him for the rest of my life-- simply can’t be beat. I’d rather be broke, living wholly with my best friend than to have all the money in the world, and die alone in the end. With his selfless heart and loving smile, I knew it couldn’t get better. And sure, my account may read 0.00, but a love like this lasts forever. We love each other wholly, all our debts and all the glory... in this four wall apartment writing our ghetto love story.
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submersion Photos by Pat Jones featuring Savannah Loftin
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summer beauty by Missy Von Parlo
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he sun is out and summer fun is in full swing. We all know that drinking plenty of water not only helps battle the Texas heat, but it is great for your skin. Do you know that hitting up the farmer’s market and snagging some yummy seasonal fruits and veggies can be beneficial to your dermal woes as well? Counter the damage of too much fun in the sun by eating healthy this summer. Step one, eat berries! Yep, yummy berries. Raw, in a smoothie, or over ice cream, berries are good to eat and great for your skin. Raspberries, strawberries, cranberries, and especially blueberries can give your skin a smooth healthy glow! Berries are loaded with antioxi42 • bohemia • June 2013
dants and help your body produce collagen. Collagen is that stuff that makes your skin smooth, supple, and youthful. They are also great at fighting free radicals which are generated by too much UV exposure! Plus, they’re totally delicious, so there is no excuse not to love them. More of a veggie fan? Hit up your local produce stand for some fresh carrots. Carrots can help prevent dry skin. They contain betacarotene which your body uses to produce Vitamin A. Vitamin A moisturizes skin, perfect for recovering from those Texas sun burns. Carrots are also full of Vitamin C, which is wonderful for your skin.
What’s not to love here?
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f you are a traditional summertime cook-out person, swap your regular old baked potato or fries with sweet potatoes. They are colorful, offer an interesting change of pace, and they provide Vitamin E! Skin protection at its best, and it helps boost the effectiveness of Vitamin C. This summer, work on beauty from the inside out. Drink plenty of water, and eat right! Don’t forget the sunscreen! Images: hair and makeup by Missy Von Parlo, orange photo by Marcel Van Es Photography with model Jessica and cherry photo by Bonnie Neagle Photography with model Leah.
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Hair and makeup by April Renee MUA Models (from left): Stephanie Rystrom Rebecca Kieran & Taylor Rhodes
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Ghetto Love Story by Jen “Freedom Lee” “That’s ghetto” is a cute phrase, fun to use, but applied so freely these days it has lost much of its meaning. Growing up in Oakland, CA, during the eighties, I suppose I could rightly use the word. When your parents move you to WA state because of the gunfire, you may be a child of the ghetto. I loved my home because my family was there. It was all I knew. Even now, as an adult almost 30 years later, I love the ghetto as home. As the place I am from, the place where life happened.
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buckets of love
by Katie Croft
Make this great vertical herb garden from a discarded pallet. It’s simple and easy and allows for some creative fun.
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what you will need: 1. Pallets can be found in most alleys and industrial areas. Many businesses such as nurseries will give you a pallet if you ask 2. 12 metal or plastic containers with small handles 3. Drill and several bits of different sizes 4. Screw Hooks 5. Paint Brushes 6. Paint, we choose Vignettes Chalk Paint, but Outdoor Latex will work as well 7. Potting Soil 8. Herbs
Instructions: Kelly MacGregor, expert crafter, showed Bohemia how to construct an artsy-looking planter using minimal time and materials. First begin by painting your pallet, so it can be drying while you are preparing your pots and plants. We choose a large leaf design and three bold colors. You can be as creative here as you would like. Next you will mark the spot for each of the brass hooks with a pencil. We choose three across and four down. We positioned each hook approximately four inches from the edges and then the center hook followed the centerline of the pallet nails. We started with the top board and skipped every other board. Then simply hang your pots on the little hooks! As your paint is drying you can prepare your pots. If they do not already have drain holes, drill 2-3 in the bottom of each pot to meet your watering needs, this will be dependent on your climate. You may also adjust the size of your drill bit to allow for more or less drainage. And as an afterthought, Kelly suggested we ad labels to our pots. She had a bag of old spoons, and wrote the herbs names on each inserting them into the soil! You could label your plants by writing on the exterior of your pots, writing on smooth river stones, or making little paper flags. Whatever items you have handy that suits your fancy can be your label!
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Emma’s Journey Home
by Tammy Bailey mma trotted down the street, weaving between parked cars and dodging traffic. She was tired, hot and very itchy. She stopped often to scratch at her ears and neck, but found no relief. Fleas had made themselves at home in her fur, and he tickling of their parasitic feet on her skin nearly drove her mad. They feasted on her blood, biting her. She tried biting back at them, but her mouth hurt from lack of proper dental care. Her diet didn’t help, as she subsisted on trash she found along the way. She had faint memories of a better life. Images of good food, soft beds and caring owners flickered in her small head, but that was such a long time ago. She had no idea how long she’d been traveling on her own. Weeks, maybe even months had passed since her last comfortable night without fear of predators. Nights were the worst. Whenever she managed to find some out-of-the-way place to rest, she could never relax. Feral cats, bigger dogs and even the occasional coyote threatened her and she had to stay alert. Daylight brought visibility, also the human threats with their busy feet and loud cars. It was a frightening world for Emma. The sun beat down mercilessly upon her that day, yet she shivered constantly. Her tongue hung out of her mouth like a tiny pink flag. Just as she didn’t know how long she’d been running, she didn’t know how much longer she could go on. With no idea where she was going, she continued along her way. Suddenly she heard the squeal of rubber on pavement. A large truck
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stopped just feet away from her, and a human approached her. Emma was exhausted. As the human drew closer, it spoke in low, reassuring tones. Emma couldn’t recall the last time anyone said anything to her besides, “Get outta here, you mutt!” But this human seemed different somehow. Crouched on the scorching pavement, Emma watched intently, here eyes fixed on the human. It didn’t tower over her, intimidating her like most of them did. This one knelt down on her level, and tried coaxing her closer. Emma didn’t move. The human drew closer. “It’s okay, baby, I’m not gonna hurt you,” it said over and over. Something buried deep in Emma’s fading memory was jolted to the surface. Humans could be cruel, she knew. But humans also had food sometimes, and she was so very hungry. She didn’t move as the human inched closer to where she lay on the street. As a hand reached out to her, she made her decision. She’d lost her zeal for living on the run, and suddenly surrendered and rolled over, showing her belly and submitting to her fate, whatever it was to be. The human picked her up, oh so gently, and carried her to the big truck. Climbing in with Emma still lying on her back like a baby, the human settled her in front of a vent that blew blissfully cold air. Emma’s bright button eyes looked around in wonder. They soon arrived at a place with cool water in a bowl and warm water in a sink. A stiff brush felt like heaven on her itchy skin, and the
knots and tangles in her long fur were gently unraveled. Emma’s fleas abandoned her as shampoo assaulted them, and the road filth swirled down the drain with the suds. Emma’s nails had grown uncomfortably long during her time on her own; so long that her feet turned out and altered her gait. The human tenderly clipped her nails so she could walk properly, and Emma licked its hand in gratitude. A bowl magically appeared with kibble in it, and Emma tried her best to eat it with her ruined teeth. It wasn’t long before the human realized crunchy food was too great a challenge, however, and another bowl with soft canned food was presented, Emma ate eagerly, snorting in a most unladylike fashion as she plowed through her first good meal in ages. Her belly was full, her feet no longer hurt, and she was clean from the tips of her ears to the end of her abbreviated tail, Emma felt something from the human, something deep and genuine. As she drifted into what would be her first truly relaxing sleep un a very long time, she recalled what that feeling was that was being showered on her.
Emma finally remembered love.
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[the greatest of these] by Dargan Dodd
I am a bride. The night before my wedding, I drink with the world and offer myself to its ways. I wrap my arms around it. Allow myself to be consumed. Hollowed with it. The world is content with me this night, and I with it. It gives me everything I ask. I oblige to its requests. I am merry, enjoying its nectar before stumbling into its bed.
darker than the deep, like the void in my heart. Like the pits of a cave, they know no light. They are calloused like the scars that cover it. They have become a place where nothing exists. My carelessness has left me alone and empty. A brittle, broken bride.
I am brittle. I am a brittle, broken bride. I have known my groom forever, even when I didn’t know him.
The next day, my altar is ready. I see my groom from a distance, awaiting my company. He tries to meet my gaze but the weight of lies and secrets and shame is heavy. My eyes are distant and downcast. Deceit carries them. It holds them still, lifeless. My dress is dirty and tattered, tainted — a torn taffeta. My hair is crinkled and coarse. Split like a bird’s nest. It sticks out like straw from a scarecrow’s flannel. A thistle. I begin to think on the murder in my heart. The cuts are fresh. They seep from my soul into my skin, marking me with a scarlet letter. Less than 12 hours ago, my dreams still were real. They had happy endings. They had pink skies and eucalyptus trees. Now they are abandoned and betrayed, hurt and squandered. They are 56 • bohemia • June 2013
His pursuit was constant, yet reserved. It was steadfast and passionate, yet gentle and soft. It was filled with devotion and truth, kindness and patience, dedication and perseverance. He was blameless in his quest. His search for my heart was pure.
throbbing. Some of them hurl insults. Some of them spit at me. Some of them mock me. And each of them carry a cold, gray stone in their fist. Who is this woman who dances with the devil? Who is this wicked sinner who has no fear of God? Who is this wretch, this prostitute? Their words fill my ears and dance through my head. They swirl through my body, leaving a trail of ink in my veins. I don’t deserve his presence, his life, his pursuit, his love. Look at my smudged face and the sackcloth that wraps my body. My tangled hair. My empty eyes. I am not fit. I am not worthy to be his servant. I’ve already lost my fight. I’ve already traded my jewel for coal. But then he greets me. And extends his hand toward me. And everything stops.
He is a righteous man who has longed only to know me. So I return to him, dressed in shame, an unworthy mess. I limp down the aisle, afflicted, a leper. The crowd gasps as I shudder through each step, a weary soul, foaming at the mouth. As I get closer, their murmurs rise to a swell, drowning out the sound of the processional. When I arrive at the altar, I turn to face the guests and see my friends and family, my loved ones and all those who I have ever cared about. But they don’t recognize me. They don’t know this person who stands before them. They begin to grow even more livid, now shouting, their rage brimming, their faces reddening, their blood
The crowd disappears. A tranquility has replaced the riot it left behind. Open space surrounds us. It’s only him and me and the air we breathe. The sound of stillness buzzes softly in my ear. It reminds me of cicadas on a summer’s dusk. He stoops to the ground and cups a handful of water in his palms, extending them over the filth of my feet. It splashes over my bone, turning to dirt as it dribbles down my skin, streaking my ankles like the salt running down my cheek. He gazes at my face, lovingly, and pats me dry with his hair, never losing his stare.
His smile is peace. He doesn’t notice the stained tatters that dress me, the mud that smears my face, the thorns that tear my hair, the crimson that blots my breast, the absence in my eyes. I look at him and am transfixed, frozen by the galaxies in his eyes, overwhelmed by all they contain, their starbursts, their solar flares. They spring forth like a fountain, a wellspring, a beacon. Their depth is impossible to grasp. Unlike the sky, they have no horizon. Their pureness persists for the infinite.
consumes me. His thoughts invade me. His breath fills my lungs, creating a fire my soul cannot contain. It spills into my insides. My body reacts with chills and fever. Beads of sweat cover me, my body kissed by dew. I focus with all my might. I close my eyes, trying with all my being to take it all in. I weep. Phrases flow through my head. I search for the most beautiful words I can find to explain how beautiful this moment is. But my words aren’t enough. He far exceeds them.
My nature cannot comprehend him. Yes, I get it. He loves me. He really, really loves me. But why? Look at me. I am a prisoner of my flesh, held captive by my desires. I am proud and boastful, weak and trembling. I am confident only in my filth, my wounds. I should walk away from this altar never to return. To live my life without him. Because I am unworthy, undeserving. I am a pagan in his temple. I dine with pigs. I share in their slop and sleep in their stool. I am a beggar, an outcast, a thief. Yet the closer he gets, the more grace I feel. The closer he gets, the more he
I run across the altar and into his waiting arms. My gown is now the purest shade of white, a snow that does not exist on earth. It comes from heaven, from the crush of an angel’s wings. The light that reflects in my eyes is brighter than any star could shine or any sun could burn. It is more pure than the world’s exposure to the sun could even physically create.
And that’s when it hits me. His love is enough. His embrace is enough. He has chosen me. He loves me for me, exactly as I am. I no longer have to be afraid that he will leave when my flaws are exposed, that it might change his mind. That he might quit loving me. I no longer have to be ashamed of my failures because he knows them already. And it doesn’t matter. He has made up his mind to love me. My name is written on his heart. He has loved me for thousands of years and he will love me for thousands more. For eternity. I have died every day waiting for this moment. Time has brought me into his arms.
A brittle bride — embraced.
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Jim E. Wilson Forgets You by Christopher David DiCicco
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hen Jim E. Wilson no longer remembers how to spell the word “you”—it’s time to be careful. The neighborhood is not the same. Where broken bottles found themselves, now so do fatherless boys, spitting insults from curb to curb. Mothers who yell from front ripped screen doors, “be careful out there—it’s getting late” have no one to look for across the street. Jim E. Wilson told them so. “There is no fucking you on this block, on these streets, around the fucking corner,” he told one lost and crying maternal unit, who was aching to hold her lost and crying little boy thing. When Jim E. Wilson tells you, there is no “you,” things get 58 • bohemia • June 2013
simplified. Everything becomes units of measure or pieces of property—because when Jim E. Wilson made no difference—just like you—you were a cop and you were my brother. He buys ice cream for the little kids. “You should see them lick,” he told one officer before getting in the passenger side. “Let’s take a ride with the windows down and talk about whatever it was you wanted to talk about.” When Jim E. Wilson came to my school, I was a little girl, wanting my mother’s love and maybe a daddy who didn’t dabble in the art of prison tattoos. When Jim E. Wilson walked up the three flights of stairs four
years later and pushed open the door to apartment 2B, he stepped over a dead dog and didn’t even notice. It could have been my brother for all he cared. Except, my older brother wasn’t around. He had gone out one night to do something about Jim E. Wilson and never came home. Sure, we tried to call him back, but Jim E. Wilson told us to “knock it the fuck off. These are my streets. You was disturbing them the other night, looking around, trying to make things a better place, so you is done—forgotten.” We cried a lot that night, mother and me, and the motherfuckers around the block who said,
“you ought to do something.” “That’s what fucking happened. Get out of my mother’s house, you motherfuckers.” When Jim E. Wilson fills up the gas tank, all the kids watch him and wave. He never pays—except for a little attention to me or any other pretty pretending not to see him stare. When Jim E. Wilson swallows down the last of the candy, nothing sticks to his teeth. He gets it all in one bite. He always offers the next mouthful to me, then drugs to the entire street. Jim E. Wilson hands it out. They love him for it. Some of them. They jump up when he walks down the block, yelling, “wait for me.”
When Jim E. Wilson takes them out, he doesn’t take them far, and he always lets them in again. When his car stops, they have to go. They always want more or another mile. But when Jim E. Wilson tells them there out—there out— standing there next to me on the curb, crying and wishing “you” were here to do something about it. Then they remember there is no more you left. Not once Jim E. Wilson has had his way, and when Jim E. Wilson plays polite, my mother always cries to herself and yells at him to get the fuck away.
Last Saturday, when Jim E. Wilson closed the door to my mother’s room, he mouthed, “look at what you made me do” right at me. So when Jim E. Wilson, stood there in apartment 2B two days later, smacking his sugarcoated lips, telling me, he “might make you something to remember, sweetie,” I stabbed him with a screwdriver four times in the chest, once for each year he had forgotten, and told him—this is for “you.”
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Photos by David Irvin
city lights Models (from left): Beka Vande Velde Ta’Coya Cotton & Serena Teakell
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Royals I’ve never seen a diamond in the flesh I cut my teeth on wedding rings in the movies And I’m not proud of my address, in the torn up town No post code envy But every song’s like gold teeth, grey goose, trippin’ in the bathroom Blood stains, ball gowns, trashin’ the hotel room, We don’t care, we’re driving cadillacs in our dreams. But everybody’s like cristal, maybach, diamonds on your time piece. Jet planes, islands, tigers on a gold leash. We don’t care, we aren’t caught up in your love affair.
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And we’ll never be royals.. It don’t run in our blood, that kind of lux just ain’t for us. We crave a different kind of buzz. Let me be your ruler, you can call me queen B And baby I’ll rule I’ll rule I’ll rule I’ll rule. Let me live that fantasy.
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My friends and I we’ve cracked the code. We count our dollars on the train to the party. And everyone who knows us knows that we’re fine with this, we didn’t come from money.*Lyrics by Lorde
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Lindsey Sterling by Gary Lee Webb
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C
an you imagine having a third of a BILLION hits on your videos? Lindsey Stirling is a musician and a composer known for combining dance with her exquisite violin performances. She has been doing both since a young child. When her family could only afford lessons for one, she chose violin. Thus, her dance is self-taught: a testament to her strength and determination – after 20 years of teaching herself, one certainly cannot tell that she never had a dance lesson.
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Lindsey has made quite a name for herself over the years. In 2005, she became Arizona’s Junior Miss, and went on to place first in the talent category at the national level. In 2010, she became a quarter-finalist on America’s Got Talent. Afterwards, she began making You-Tube videos with Devin Graham, and now has two You Tube channels with over a third of a billion views. Yes, “billion” with a “B”. And that number is growing quickly (in May it was “only” a quarter billion). How long until she crosses the billion mark ?? Moreover, in September 2012, Lindsey put out her first CD, “Lindsey Stirling”. During the last couple years, the violinist has been touring the US and Europe, giving performances to sell-out crowds. And this year, she included a couple of concerts with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in her US tour. Busy lady!
Bohemia: You had a successful European tour last year, and are about to start another 25-city European tour. Which city are you looking forward to most?
Lindsey: I like both for different reasons. I enjoy being close to home because it feels safe and familiar. But I love performing in Europe because the audiences are amazing! Not that my audiences Lindsey: Europeans have proven in the US aren’t amazing too, but to be an amazing crowd! I look they have SO much energy and it forward to playing in Europe again really boosts my own performance. because my concerts there always Energy is very contagious. have so much energy. My most “electric” and enthusiastic crowed Bohemia: How does it feel to have last trip was in Paris, so I’m really become so successful, so quickly? looking forward to playing there Did you ever expect this? again. Lindsey: I am honestly shocked at Bohemia: Now that you have had how much support I’ve received. In both American and European tours, my blog, Leave an Impact (www. which do you prefer, and why? lindseystirling.com/leave-an-im-
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pact), I talk about this a little bi how amazed I am that people a ally care about what I have to I have dreamed of this … I wan make a difference, and I wan share my music with the world. witnessing all of this happen is v surreal. I honestly can’t believe feel very blessed.
Bohemia: A couple months you played in an open-air ve in Austin, Texas … standing ro only. How does it feel to have s devoted fans ?
Lindsey: I feel very honored. I honestly say that I have som the most genuine, kind, good, l
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it … actusay. nt to nt to . But very e it. I
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fans on Earth. I would never have been able to do any of this without their help. Bohemia: A month ago, I saw your testimonial for your church. How has your religious background helped you? Lindsey: My beliefs have made all the difference. It has given me purpose and direction in my life and has guided me to be the person I have become. I believe that the Lord has given me the creativity and inspiration behind my music. I believe He has a purpose for me, and that I can be a force for good in this crazy world (lol). I would
be a VERY different person had I release a “covers” album and posnot chosen the freedom that living sibly a Christmas album at some a moral, honest life provides. point. I definitely want to release another album of “original” songs Bohemia: I see you have several within the next year. album projects in the works. Can you tell us which will be finished Bohemia: Is there anything else first? What is next for you? you would like to share with the fans of Bohemia Journal ? Lindsey: I have several singles/ music videos in progress, includ- Lindsey: Thank you, Gary, for this ing “Final Fantasy,” “Pokemon,” opportunity to speak to the fans of and “Star Wars.” I’m guessing that Bohemia Journal! You guys are the “Star Wars” will be done first, but best! I can’t be entirely sure. I have also been collaborating with some pro- Bohemia: Thank you again ! ducers in LA this week, so I have a lot “in the works” (lol). As far as a physical album, I would like to
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A Novel Music Tour With Lee Coulter & Company by Megan Miller
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ne of the unexpected pleasures of the nomadic life is finding myself in RV parks where touring musicians are resting between gigs. When you wake up and see that the rig down the row from you looks like this:
…well, you know it’s going to be a special day. Lee and Sharisse Coulter are on a unique tour, promoting both his latest CD “Mr. Positivity”, and her new novel, “Rock My World”. As a result, some of their dates combine the best of both worlds, a book event with great music.
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Lee was voted “Singer-Songwriter Discovery of 2011” by Sirius XM radio listeners, with good reason. His music is open and accessible. He cites Paul Simon as one of his influences, and a love of well-crafted lyrics is evident in his songs. “Mr. Positivity” is a very apt name for his current collection - you can’t listen to it without feeling good. At TEDxYouth in San Diego last year, he gave a talk on “The Music of Life” and the entire audience joined in to prove his thesis which you can view on YouTube. Billed as a story of “love, friendship and betrayal in the music industry”, Sharisse’s novel draws on what she’s seen and experienced as part of Lee’s career. She says that she read a great deal of “chick lit” during semester breaks while she studied for her degree in Anthropology, and was always frustrated by the female characters that needed to be
rescued. “A man swooping in is kind of condescending. I wanted to read about a female character I could relate to,” she says. Rounding out the trips’s entourage is their four-year-old son, Kai, and also their friend and tour blogger, Kate. The current tour is scheduled to last six months and encompasses 55 cities. When they return in the summer to San Diego, they may extend their travels into the fall to visit college campuses. Follow their tour and learn more about the album and book at: leecoulter.com
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Photos by Jessica Purser
No Kiwis Here: New Zealand Part One by Jessica Purser
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here was a line a hundred-people deep at the VirginAustralia economy counter in Melbourne. I had exactly ten minutes before my flight started boarding. I was torn for a couple minutes: I like following proper procedures, but I also like making my flights. Most times, there’s an announcement like so: “Will anyone for Flight #164 please come to the front of the line (or counter #4)?” This time, there wasn’t. I stood in indecision, realized I now had two minutes before boarding started and made my move to the very empty business class counter, shrugging apologetically and explaining I’d miss my flight otherwise. Five minutes later, I was on my way... but it’s always when I’m al72 • bohemia • June 2013
ready running late that my gate is literally the one farthest from the check-in desk. This was not a particularly auspicious start to my trip to New Zealand. Nor was the fact that there was no one waiting for me at the YWAM base. The front doors were locked,
there was no one at the front desk, and I couldn’t find anyone on my walk around. Eventually, I found an open door that led to a courtyard and several people learning a Maori stick dance. I just strolled on by them and into the building, so clearly, security wasn’t a big deal. After I opened the front door and
brought my bags inside, one of the dancers was sent in to find out who I was and eventually got me situated in a room. Room to myself! Four days to myself! Moderately decent wifi! Bliss. After sleeping in to a ridiculous time on Wednesday, I caught the local bus to Auckland proper. I was on a mission, to first find Burger Fuel, which Phil Keoghan (host of the Amazing Race and a NZ native whom I met once) had posted a video about on the Amazing Race website, and then to find warm clothes. It was supposed to snow next week. My new inability to pack weatherappropriate clothing meant I only had two pairs of jeans and a summer jacket with me, along with shorts, t-shirts, and sandals, none of which would obviously be useful. Auckland isn’t a very touristy city, and I actually spent most of my time there sleeping, eating, and getting ready for my bus tour of New Zealand. There’s three main bus tours: Stray, Magic, and Kiwi Experience. Kiwi has the party reputation, and Magic had a special on when I booked, so I went with them, and I’m so glad I did. After some Dunkin’ Donuts - which sadly might have been the highlight of my time in Auckland - I was on my way! If you didn’t know, New Zealand is made up of two major islands, creatively named the North Island and the South Island. My tour went from Auckland on the North Island to Christchurch in the South via a ferry that left from Wellington. This first half of the tour was just on the North Island, and our first day was spent traveling from Auckland to Rotorua... although I opted out of the last bit of the drive because we were passing through something
known as Hobbiton. I’m not a huge Tolkien fan; I’ve read the Lord of the Rings trilogy and the Hobbit, and I started the Silmarillion, but I don’t own them nor have I read them more than once. I have seen all the movies though, and I couldn’t pass up the chance to see the Shire. It’s just as amazing as you would think. Unfortunately, the Green Dragon pub was still being built, so it wasn’t part of our tour. Also, it was cloudy and drizzly; I’d love to go back on a bright, sunny day! And then I got to bottle-feed a baby sheep! There was even an Irish pub in Rotorua, where I had actual, real Guinness (whilst others had bottles of Corona... why?) and way too much food. The next morning, we stopped at the thermal mud pools and drove by Tawhai Falls where our driver insisted it was used in LotR in the scene where the people of Gondor find that Gollum has followed Frodo and is bathing in a sacred waterfall. It very well could have been, but the Internet is divided, and it didn’t quite look like the waterfall in the scene. Taupo - our next overnight stop - had a beautiful lake and a picturesque river and a really excellent Chinese restaurant, but I was way more interested in the fact that it has the cheapest skydiving in NZ. I’d
never really thought about skydiving before, but I was all about it as soon as I got there. It could be in part because NZ is an “adventure” destination, and there was no way I’d go bungy jumping - in short, because if the cord rips, you could just end up maimed for life whereas if your parachute fails, you’re likely dead. I’d rather die than be maimed for life? Unfortunately, the weather was rainy and cloudy, and they weren’t allowing anyone up. I was determined not to let that ruin my dreams of skydiving though. From Taupo, we headed into the National Park, by way of Waitomo Caves. If you’ve never heard of them, they’re famous for glowworms. There was a darling general store and not much else in the town, but that didn’t really matter
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because we were only there for the caves. You could spend an extra 20 NZD to go on a boat ride through the caves, but the basic tour we all did was enough. I saw glowworms hanging from the ceiling, stalactites and stalagmites, and cassowary bones. I even learned how to use my camera, as one of the girls from the bus was incredibly kind enough to give me a short tutorial on it and then take it completely to set the right manual conditions for the near pitch-black darkness. Unfortunately, everyone else kept using their flashes to try to take pictures of the glowworms, and hardly any of my pictures came out. When we got the National Park, it was still cold, wet, and miserable, so I made my dinner, forewent the walk around where there was still a ski resort open as I favored not getting completely soaked and I didn’t have a proper coat, and went to bed early. It was supposed to snow. I had no desire to actually see snow in September. (I might also have realized there was only two weeks until I was back home after nearly six months and therefore been a tad bit homesick.) The drive to Wellington was a quick one, which was nice; Wellington’s a vibrant city, even if its architecture leaves something to be desired. It was absolutely freezing, so I spent the afternoon in themMuseum of New Zealand. They had some really brilliant, interactive exhibits about colonizing a new planet and contemporary Maori art... and a colossal squid, the only complete colossal squid on display. Now that was cool! It started hailing on my way to find dinner. The weather on the North Island was seriously the
Under the green hills of Waitomo lies a labyrinth of caves, sinkholes and underground rivers. The caves were carved by underground streams pushing through soft limestone over thousands of years. Many have amazing stalactites growing down from the ceiling and stalagmites growing up from the cave floor, pointy cones of layered rock formed over centuries by dripping water. The cave walls are decorated with galaxies of native glow worms.
worst. Cold, wet, miserably, rainy, etc. We had about two hours of sun the entire four-day tour. Then the crossing from the North to the South island the next day was literally the most harrowing boat ride I’ve ever been on. The older people taking pictures out dirty window with fancy cameras were hilarious, but there were times when the ferry was literally at a 45-degree angle with the sea and
other times when the entire front as far as I could see was underwater. I mean, I’d always wanted to see the sea life in the Cook Strait, so it’s all good? Next month, I get off the ferry in Picton - clearly, a very long ferry ride - and journey around the South Island.
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The Shire, sets built in New Zealand to film The Lord of the Rings movies.
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Gay Men, Gay Marriage, Gay Rights
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by Jim McKeown
hen I received my May 13th issue of The New Yorker Magazine, the first thing I examined was the cover art. Dating back to February 1925, these miniature works of art have enthralled me week after week. This particular cover would have significance for my interview with two married friends of mine. The cover is a charming scene from Mother’s Day. A couple huddle together in a kitchen examining a greeting card. Both seem to be on the verge of tears. One has a pink bathrobe, the other blue. In the background are two photos – each with the same couple also dressed in pink and blue. A pair of coffee mugs, pink and blue, are on 78 • bohemia • June 2013
the counter alongside the coffee maker. Deeper in the background, three children peek around a corner. When I first saw the cover, I thought, “Nice charming picture of a scene probably repeated all over the country thousands of times on May 12th.” The couple seems to have wedding bands, but oddly enough, the pink band is on the right hand, and the figure in blue wears it on the left. But there was something else. As I stared at the cover – after all the details of these drawings are significant – I realized both the figures were women. This brought to mind the number of shows which have been popping up lately with Gay characters. Of course,
“Will and Grace” is probably the best known, but “Glee” and the recently canceled series, “The New Normal,” are interesting shows depicting gay life. Even soap operas, such as “Days of Our Lives,” now feature young people struggling with their sexual orientation. So, I sat down with two close friends, Randy Culp and John Moody, to try and get some perspective on Gay Rights in America today. Randy works on a drilling rig in the Gulf of Mexico, and is, to his knowledge, the only gay man so employed. Randy believes “coming out” requires numerous experiences which occur every time a gay person meets some-
one new. Randy had to undergo three separate coming out events to begin. Of course his family was first. He was married, and the couple had two children. Randy says, “My wife was not supportive. I faced a grim prognosis of melanoma, and I realized I might die in the closet. I did not want that to be how my life ended. I simply had to change my life – the pain of the closet was too great.” Furthermore, many times my wife used my being gay to prejudice the court and friends against me. I was incredibly fortunate to find a good attorney in Waco, and a good judge that refused to let prejudice sway them. I was awarded custody of my son, at a time when it was incredibly rare. For that matter, it probably still is very rare.” Randy believes his coming out was a move toward freedom and integrity. “I was raised by a Baptist minister, who taught the mistaken belief that homosexuality was something one did rather than who one is at the deepest core of one’s being. The ability to make that distinction is a move toward wholeness.” Coming out at work was another matter. “There were times I really feared for my life. The men on the rig did not want my laundry washed with theirs. I had been with the company 20 plus years, and no one ever complained.” But when his orientation was discovered, attempts were made to fire him. Randy recalls, “Some friends stood up for me with the Number two man in the company and told him my work was exemplary, and I should not be fired. He agreed and my job was safe. About three years ago, he was moved to a new rig, but he know the supervisor, and he told the men he was “in Randy’s Corner -- his job performance speaks for itself. In Texas today, there is no law on the books which would prevent the firing of men and women solely because they are gay. Randy says, “It remains a huge fear for the gay folk in Waco. You know Waco is an acro-
nym that stands for “We Ain’t Coming Out.” Randy now works in the Bay of Campeche, Mexico. We have gay people that work in our galley -- not part of my company, but on my rig that is contracted to another firm. One of our people onboard is transgendered. Mexico seems to have less of a problem with the gay and transgendered people than the US; however, there are only two Mexican states that allow gay marriage.” John was also married 11 years, but the couple did not have any children. John also felt “different.” He says, “I was raised in a strict Baptist family, and the subject was never discussed. My wife was raised as a Southern Baptist, and one day, she said, ‘We need to talk.’” She proved to be understanding and supportive. John adds, “In a strange way, we became better friends after we separated than we were during marriage.” John and Randy met at a Humanist Covenant group which still meets at the UU Fellowship in Waco. By way of disclaimer, I am also a member of that group, and I have known Randy and John for about 4 years. John tells the story of their first encounter. “I saw Randy and we talked after a meeting. I felt this was someone I could relate to. We could understand each other. We went for coffee, and, well, here we are six years later.” John and Randy were married on August 25, 2009 in Connecticut. Randy says, “We wanted a beach ceremony and we needed a state that would give us a license with a minimum waiting period.” They found a UU Fellowship based in an old church. “We had the beach wedding, so we were married in the eyes of the UU Fellowship, and then we went to a church to be married in the eyes of the state. We hoped our families would be more accepting of that ceremony.” When asked why they wanted to get married, an important reason was to “cement” their relationship. Randy says, “I always hear people say, ‘It’s just a piece of paper,’ but it is much
more than that. To us it is a public proclamation of our love and commitment.” John and Randy believe their relationship changed for the better. Randy adds, “It intensifies the meaning of the relationship and the responsibilities we have toward each other.” Randy believes that change will come slowly, but as more gay men and women come out of the closet, they will become better understood and tolerance will rise. “We see that with more and more states allowing samesex marriages.” When asked about the comparison to the Civil Rights Movement of the 60s, John says, “It is a legitimate comparison, because neither gay people, nor African-Americans have any choice in their orientation or their skin color.” I challenged John on this, because a frequent response from opponents of equal rights for gay men and women is that anyone can see the race of a person – but not sexual orientation. John retorted, “That’s true, but imagine there are three people in a room: two white men and a black man. Now imagine one of the white men is gay. As soon as anyone finds out that fact, the gay man immediately becomes part of a group without protection of the constitutional rights everyone else takes for granted.” As Randy pointed out, the pain of staying in the closet is too much to bear. John agrees, “We just want to live our lives together and enjoy all the benefits everyone else takes for granted.” Randy adds, “When people get to know us, they can see how ordinary we are. We have a home, we share chores, we support each other, and we built a relationship of mutual trust and understanding. All we ask is that people put aside their preconceived notions of what it means to be gay, and judge us on our characters and on the jobs we do in the community.
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HOW I CAME TO LOVE ITALIAN WINE By Jackie Townsend
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merican children don’t grow up with wine as an inherent part of meals as Italian children do. We drink milk, and while wine might be at our tables, lumped in with beer or liquor, we inherit almost a fear of it. It is illegal after all; we might be arrested if caught drinking it under twenty-one, our parents might remind us. Not to mention that it tastes horrible. Since an Italian’s taste for wine is absorbed over time, the idea of getting drunk on it, as this one teenage American did once, is obtuse. My first exposure to the beverage came not at a table but in my best friend’s bedroom before a high school party. We passed back and forth one of those jugs of Chianti wrapped in straw until it was empty. I don’t have to tell you how the night
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ended. I stuck to beer after that. After I graduated college I began to drink wine again, this time as a form of luxury to accompany my new and trendy (at the time) eighty-hour-work week. It was a welcome change to come home Friday night and relax over a glass (or two) as opposed to being out with my friends getting blotto at happy hour (Margaritas, anyone?), as we young Americans like to do in order to forget the fact that we are living to work and not vice versa. The wines I bought were from corner liquor stores. Screw tops, mostly white, carried out in paper bags filled with cans and boxes of the processed foods I grew up on. I had moved beyond Gallo, but still mostly drank California wine because that’s all they had. As my income increased, so did
the prices I paid for wine because as a proponent of the American Dream and at the forefront of the dot.com boom, I understood concepts like more, bigger, and higher (as in price) to mean better. But now I know the best Barolo vintage of the last decade (2006); I know why certain years are better than others, and why some years are exceptional. I don’t need to know all the technical details of winemaking, but I know that passion and obsessiveness to detail contribute significantly to consistent, excellent vintages, even when the elements refuse to cooperate. I know that weather, for instance, can wipe out an entire year’s work. The moon, where the peaches fell, certainly there’s luck involved, not to mention love, life, andVERITAS...
Wine grows with us. Or we grow with wine; I’m not sure what happened to me. It was a slow metamorphosis, a change that took place without my knowledge. For one, I’m less influenced by price. Good wine doesn’t have to cost a lot, a simple concept perhaps, but one that’s taken me a while to arrive at. Secondly, while my roots are Californian, given the choice now I reflexively reach for the Italian bottle, for the complex, tannic and dry over the bolder, stronger, and fruitier. My Rombauer chardonnaydrinking sisters remain confused by my defection. No doubt they think that I have been brain
washed, that my long love for the Italiano has turned me over, and perhaps, unimaginably, it has. Wine enthusiasts say that to really understand a wine you must understand its culture, you must dig your fingers into its soil and feast with its people. Perhaps on one of the many visits to my husband’s Piemon-
tese family I accidentally planted a seed and now that seed has sprouted a root. Not just any root, but a Nebbiolo root, those that dig deep into the weather beaten hills of Tuscany’s dark cousin, the Langhe region, hills with earth so thick and chalky that the vines’ roots must grow deep to survive. They must live long lives; some of them are over a hundred years old. The Dolcettos, Nebbiolos, and Barolos, I could be anywhere in the world, but when I sit down to drink these wines, it’s like I’ve come home.
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Let’s Go Thrifting!
BOHEMIA ROCKS THE SALVATION ARMY
by Amanda Hixson
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ometimes a girl just needs to know how to be thrifty. Being thrifty isn’t only a way to save money when you are broke, it’s a way to be creative and it is a lifestyle choice. Bohemians prefer the finer things in life for sure, but learning how to reuse, recyle, upcycle, repurpose, find, borrow, and make things yourself helps us lead a life of moderation that is friendly to our Earth by conserving the planet’s resources. Consignment shops, vintage stores, resale shops, and donation centers such as Goodwill and The Salvation Army are great places to get good deals on gently used apparel. It is fun to pretend like you are on a treasure hunt because in places like these, you never know what you will find! Waco Boho model Amora Love accompanied me to our local Salvation Army recently, and she was able to scramble around the store and come up with five amazing outfits in a matter of about fifteen minutes each. Her first ensemble, as seen on these pages, at left and right, consisted of almost knee high pleather heeled pointytoe boots and a color-blocked aqua and sea green snap-button shirt. The shirt stunningly matched Amora’s electric blue dyed locks. Amora brought some basic black
shorts and pink fishnet stockings to act as a base for the outfits she carefully chose. Finally, Amora cinched
a belt around her waist and a navy scarf around her neck to complete the somewhat nautical look.
Photos by Amanda Hixson Featuring Amora Love Hair and makeup Amora Love June 2013• bohemia • 83
Continue to wear a long-sleaved shirt throughout the summer by rolling up the sleaves and tying up the front tails to show off your midriff.
Photos by Amanda Hixson Featuring Amora Love
Pointy-toe pumps and underthe-arm purses make a splash in Waco, TX. The long and wide aisle in the store made for a great inpromptu runway for Amora Love.
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Another romp around the store and Amora found a patterned shirt that appealed to her senses and a white vintagey purse (far left) that matched another pointed-toe pair of shoes. The pink bloomers that Amora fount next were surprisingly cute and she joked that she felt like MC Hammer. She pulled on a blue gingham checkered shirt and another pair of pointy-toe shoes-this time in neon yellow. The look came together splendedly, which goes to show that true Bohemians are adventureous enough to give unconventional pieces a try. The next little treasure that Amora found was the orange, yel-
low and gold, padded, zip-front vest shown below. The earthy tone matches her skin and makes her eyes pop off her face. The vest also gives her a chance to show off her cute tattoo. Last but not least, Amora decided to see if she could find something fancy and it didn’t take long for her to track down the perfect little black dress and a pretty fur-lined collar, full-length tan
trench coat. She joked about the irony of wearing such an outfit in a thift store, but that’s just how we Bohemians roll. It doesn’t take a lot of money to have fun and increase your wardrobe. And shopping at the Salvation Army supports the good things this organization does such as emergency disaster relief, youth camps, elderly services, adult rehabilitation, and much more.
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My Guiltiest Pleasure:
IRON EAGLE by Susan “The Sooz” Duty
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sually in the first five minutes of meeting someone new I tell them three things: my name, my goal of learning the banjo before I die, and that I love the 1986 film Iron Eagle. When thinking of the subject for this premier article of mine, I first thought that I would review this film, long forgotten in the bin of cheesy cinema and way overdue for a critique. I was probably about ten years old when I first saw it and soon after I developed a huge crush on one Jason Gedrick, who plays the young, rebellious protagonist, Doug Masters. For those of you poor souls who are unfamiliar with the plot, here’s a very brief overview: Doug Masters, son of an Air Force colonel who’s shot down over a country in the Middle East, must devise a plan with the help of a somewhat hesitant retired colonel (played by the one and only Louis Gossett, Jr.) to rescue his dad before it’s too late. The movie is essentially “aviator porn”, coming out the same year as Top Gun. For whatever reason, 1986 was the year of the F-16 fighter plane film -- a subject for a different day. Iron Eagle has become a quotable favorite in my family, namely for its overly cheesy lines, ramped up 80s hair band music and exaggerated and very unbelievable plot. We hold it dear for the same reasons we love Tommy Boy, Billy Maddison and Black Sheep. So take that for what it’s worth. Watching it recently got me thinking about “popcorn cinema”. A definition of that term is provided by my favorite Baylor Film and Digital Media professor as the class of films one sees “for entertainment only, without the expectation of anything deeper.” I also thought about popcorn cinema’s merits and what the hell the role of film is in our culture in the first place.
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I
t could be firmly argued that at the advent of motion pictures their sole purpose was for entertainment. Forty-five second films were viewed through machines called Kinetoscopes, providing hardly enough time to evoke much thought on the part of the viewer. You paid a nickel; you saw a dog performing tricks. End of experience. As cinema evolved with technology, suddenly audiences were introduced to films like D.W.Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation, which certainly provided material for discussion and reflection -- enough to get the attention of the NAACP (and for good reason). So motion pictures found a new purpose other than surface level entertainment. Filmmakers from
then on were presented with a fork in the road from which they could decide the direction of their film: mindless entertainment (explosions, sex, fast cars, etc.), or deep, thought provoking entertainment (think cinematic philosophical discourses like I Heart Huckabees or the whole catalogue of European Art Cinema). I’m not so naive as to assume all films fall into either one of these black and white categories -- certainly many provide a pleasant blend of both. But for the sake of this article, I’m talking about the real thoughtless stuff. I had an experience recently where I accidentally wandered into Michael Bay’s most recent flick, and then I accidentally stayed for the entire thing. The best description I can come up
with for the experience is that I felt like my mind and soul had been violently raped. This is what I’m talking about. Iron Eagle probably falls more into this class of film. So if I hate Michael Bay, why do I love Iron Eagle? Here’s the answer I came up with: it’s cheesy, ridiculous, mindless entertainment (and it has Jason Gedrick in it). Do I hate that the American box office is filled with films like these because sex sells and explosions look attractive on a forty foot screen? Yes. But does that mean popcorn cinema should be written off entirely? No. What, then, are the merits? Escapism for one, and spectacle for two. The world is a grim place outside the confines of a dark, cool theater. To have the option of disappearing June 2013• bohemia • 87
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into a film that doesn’t necessarily send you out the doors thinking about its comments on the human experience isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes you just want to laugh until you pee your pants a little. And spectacle is equally fun. I don’t find gun violence especially appealing, but that doesn’t mean I don’t OCCASIONALLY want to see a good ol’ fashioned gun fight on a huge screen in front of me. This is mostly because I don’t ever anticipate being in a real life scenario where I’d be required to use a gun. Same goes for spaceship launches and dangerous, fast paced car races. This is the original wonder of cinema, the genesis that creative human beings have later expanded on. And these films are worth attention. Without them, our theater experiences would all be the same.
They provide variation and echo back to motion pictures original intent. Iron Eagle isn’t just fast planes and oiled up navy pilots (shame on you, Top Gun). It has a plot. The dude has to rescue his dad from a very stereotypical Middle Eastern bad guy, and make the transition in real time from boy to man...via a fast plane. It does make you think -- a little. And so perhaps the reason I love Iron Eagle so much is that it just barely tows the line between the two ideas (also Jason Gedrick). I have my opinions and I fear I’ve come off so pretentious in the past few paragraphs that I need to stop what I’m doing right now, go buy a pair of black rimmed glasses and finish this article drinking over priced coffee at the Starbucks down the street. But my point is that popcorn cinema has its rightful place in
the local theater and deserves attention. My secondary point is that I still hate Michael Bay, but that’s alright. After considering Iron Eagle and the other subjects of this article, I’ve lost a little of my hatred. And if we can all learn to hate Michael Bay a little less and give all types of cinema a chance, then maybe there’s hope for humanity yet. Do me a favor: go rent Iron Eagle and enjoy one of the biggest balls of 80s cinema cheese for an hour and fifty-seven minutes. Do me another favor: get to a theater, and no matter what your selection, enjoy the greatest storytelling medium ever invented.
Happy viewing.
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Contributors Pete Able has been writing fiction and poetry since high school. His screenplays have beeen finalists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE International, and the New York Television Festival, among others. He lives in Woodway with his family. He is cur-rently the director of Financial and HR systems for Baylor University.
Christopher David DiCicco loves his wife and children, and sometimes, writing short stories, which he does in the attic of his Canal Street home, in ever-happening Yardley, Pennsylvania—far from Texas, but also pretty big. He is a friend to words and small animals, and doesn’t mind that he teaches high school English or advises a small student-run literary magazine called Howler.
David Irvin is a Waco-based free- lance journalist, photographer and (nearly) Master Librarian. His writ- ing has appeared in dozens of newspapers, magazines and blogs, including Flakmag, the Montgomery Advertiser, Arkansas Democrat- Gazette, USA Today, and Chicago Tribune.
Contributor’s Pages
Spoken word artist, author, playwright, actress, and vocalist originally from CA, now based in Dallas, TX, Alex The Great is the author of five collections of poetry and has performed all over the country. She has a one woman play entitled Passport To Womanhood that is currently touring. Tammy Bailey has been in love with words since her parents began reading to her as a small child. Before she was in first grade, she was reading bedtime stories to THEM. Reading begets writing.
Josch Beres spent the bulk of his childhood in Killeen, Texas. In the United States Air Force he served as a Russian Linguist. In the spring of 2011 Joschua enrolled at Texas State University - San Marcos where he is currently an undergraduate student majoring in International Studies with a Russian Focus. Katie Croft lives, loves, lies and cries in Waco TX with her partner in parenting, three kids, and a menagerie of animals. She graduated Baylor with a BFA and owns The Croft Art Gallery. She is a photographer, painter, and drawer of things, a Nanowrimo winner and lover of literature.
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Dargan Dodd once gave birth to a manatee. He named it Jon. Dodd grew fond of Jon. One day, Dodd grew hungry. So he cooked Jon. Jon tasted like old applesauce. Upon finishing, Dodd cried until he fell asleep in his backyard, waking up when the rain hit his face. A lover of light rain and remixes, Susan Duty, known affectionately as “The Sooz”, is a self-proclaimed screenwriter and essayist. Slated to graduate from “Bear School” with a degree in Film and Digital Media in December, the Sooz has lofty goals that include obtaining health insurance and a living wage. Joel Haesecke is an author, comic, bartender, philosopher, father and husband. He eventually and accidentally graduated from the University of North Texas with an undergraduate degree in Psychology. This qualified him for…nothing, but prepared him for everything. He enjoys questioning reality and physical altercations. He lives in Mclennan County. Amanda Hixson studied Journalism at Baylor University, wrote and performed poetry locally, sought a degree in Education, taught in high- poverty areas, and then decided to start Bohemia in Waco, TX.
Pat Jones became interested in photography 7 years ago. He found very little help in Central Texas, so he actively sought out other photographers in order to start a photography club. Since then, his work has been seen around the world. You can view his work at Pat Jones Art Factory, www.patjonesphotography. com
Jennifer “Freedom Lee” is a part-time painter/writer/poet who pays her bills as a waitress & office manager. She is often awake until 3 or 4 am so she can do waht she loves! The recent loss of her father inspires her to love now. Carpe diem.
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Jim McKeown has an MA in Literature from Baylor University and an MFA in creative writing from National University. He teaches literature, creative writing, and composition at McLennan Community College. He lives in Waco with his wife, son, two cats, and their faithful Lab, Marcy.
Stephanie Rystrom is a photographer, model, fashionista, and momma in Central Texas. She’s a bohemian at heart, currently working on her BA in horticulture, and enjoying life day by day. 20 years young and a lover of the arts, for Meagan Smith is an artist herself. Her artistic lifestyle con- sists of playing a few instruments, singing and writing. Her artistic lifestyle also includes painting, drawing, or concaucting anything that can be cut, pasted, sprayed, or hot glued. She also really en- joys taking photographs, doo wop jams, her vinyl collection, and her Fender.
Belladonna Treason 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 that, she found another niche -- make-up artistry. Thus began B. Treason Make-Up. Treason is established in Waco and Austin, TX.
Contributor’s Pages
Central Texan Megan Miller gets older every day, but apparently no wiser. Having embraced the path of the Cosmic Fool and finishing up a tour of the country, she is intent to settle down and live a life of quiet obscurity in a small town with her husband.
Bonnie Neagle is a native Texan who is married with 3 children; Alley, Isaac and Parker. Her love for photography started during middle school and has grown ever since. She was recently featured on Senior Style Guide’s blog. She also co-owns First Sight Photography with Marcel van Es. Jessica Purser has been writing and travelling since she was a little girl. Currently, she spends most of her time talking to people about STDs and resides near Chattanooga, TN. You can find her online under the name jesspurse on instagram, Twitter, and wordpress.
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Jackie Townsend received her MBA from Berkeley, spent eight years on the fast track to becoming a partner with a financial services consulting company before burning out. After coming to terms with what is important in life, she began writing and hasn’t stopped since. She just released her second novel, Imperfect Pairings. For more information please visit: jackietownsend. com
Gary Lee Webb is a 15-year resident of Waco. He has lived on three continents, visited four, and speaks many languages ... badly. His credits include over 180 public speeches, four decades of confer- ences and contests, and both non- fiction and fictional publications. He is 57, married 36 years, and has 4 daughters.
Chryss Yost is co-editor, with Dana Gioia and Jack Hicks, of California Poetry: From the Gold Rush to the Present. Her poems and essays have been widely anthologized and set to music. She works as an artist at the UC Santa Barbara Library and teaches poetry at the Santa Barbara Music and Arts Conservatory.
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