Wildflower Magazine | October 2012 by Wildflower Magazine

VOL. III I S S. IV

TABLE OF

8 20 8

From the inside out: Featured artist Vanessa Rivera by Jessica Farkas

October: An autumn afternoon by Kelly Ash

32 32

Mad for Madrid by Meredith White

CONTENTS

36 36

I Bet They’re Asleep All Over America by Natalie Parker-Lawrence

Nomad by Ashley Hennefer

Jessica’s Fall Jams by Jessica Farkas

E D I T O R N O T E S 6

Ashley Hennefer, editor When we put out our call for submissions before each issue, the question I get most often is, “What’s the theme?” Besides our popular annual science fiction issue, Wildflower doesn’t really have themes. Well, at least not themes we set ahead of time. There’s always a theme that emerges once the issue has been compiled, but that happens because of the amazing work we receive from contributors around the world. But for some reason, this time, as soon as someone asked what our theme was, I said it was “challenge.” I’m not quite sure where that came from, but since it came out so organically, I just went with it. I must have been having a challenging week at the time. We’ve shared different kinds of challenges in this issue. We are fortunate to include an excerpt of our spirituality columnist Natalie Parker-Lawrence’s play, I Bet They’re Asleep All Over America, which explores insomnia through the eyes of different characters. In my piece, Nomad, I try to find my place in the world. And Meredith White and Kelly Ash, two more of our lovely columnists, share the best part of challenges—overcoming them to find the things and places we love. The art by our featured artist, Vanessa Rivera, walks a fine line between dream and nightmare— just in time for Halloween. Don’t forget to check out the playlist on page 58 to get in the groove for fall. Next week, I turn 24. I started Wildflower when I was 20. I can’t believe my little project has come so far. But it’s ready for a change, and so am I. This coming January, Wildflower will have an entirely new look. We’re really excited about it. We hope, if you’re reading our mag for the first time, that you’ll want to get involved. If you’re interested in being a part of the new Wildflower, email me at wildflower.magazine@gmail.com. Thanks to everyone, especially our awesome Wildflower assistant editor Jessica Farkas (she’s much more of a co-editor, really) who helped us produce four unique, awesome issues this year. I’m so proud of all we’ve done together. I’m excited for the future, and the challenges—and triumphs—it will bring.

Jessica Farkas, assistant editor Sometimes life gets heavy. And as human beings with finite strength, we are only capable of balancing so much of its weight before everything comes toppling down, crushing our chests and making it physically impossible to breathe. When I read Ashley’s email indicating the theme for this issue of Wildflower would be “challenge,” I had just gotten home from my third job of the day. It was 2 a.m. and I had been working nonstop since 6 the previous morning. “Relevant,” I thought as I shoved aside the mountain of bills forming next to my computer to make room for a glass of Pinot Noir. I closed my eyes and sipped the blood red liquid, swishing it underneath my tongue at first then allowing it to pass through my esophagus and warm my belly. My computer chimed, interrupting my first break in 20 hours. New email message from Fed Loan Servicing: “This is just a reminder that your student loan payment is past due.” I swallowed the rest of the Pinot in a single gulp. Back when I used to live steps from the beach in San Diego, I had a nightly routine of sitting by the ocean and talking to the stars. It’s cliché, but when my problems seemed giant, this simple exercise helped to remind me how small I really was in the grand scheme of things. Now the closest beach to me is more than 200 miles away. But that’s okay. Because what this perfectly timed issue has taught me is that I don’t even have to leave my computer to be by the ocean. You, wildflowers, are my ocean. Reading through the thoughts and getting lost in the images submitted to this magazine has served as a much needed reminder that I am still small. It has reminded me that every single woman has her own story and her own struggles. Every single woman bears her own weight. So thank you, contributors, for giving me back my breath. My hope for our readers is that this issue will take some weight off your chests, too. I hope that however heavy your lives may feel right now, you can find solace in knowing that we are all in this together.

from the Vanessa Riveraâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s intricate and haunting images are the stuff of dreamsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; and nightmares. 8

Opposite, Clothed figure, charcoal, white charcoal and carbon pencil on toned paper. Right, Maypole, white and black charcoal and carbon pencil on toned paper.

inside out Interview by Jessica Farkas

Juice, watercolor and Photoshop.

How long have you been creating art? I have been drawing ever since I was a kid. I did a lot of arts and crafts, gluing macaroni on things. I didn’t start drawing seriously for a long time though. I was given my first sketchbook in eighth grade. I started rapidly filling up the pages and I haven’t stopped drawing since. It’s been 8 or 9 years now I guess.

What is your preferred medium? When drawing I like to work with pens and inks. They are fun and you can do so many different things with them. But I also like traditional oil painting. I often jump back and forth between the two. They both have places in my heart.

Clearly you have immense talent. At what point did you realize that art was more than just a hobby for you? It was something I did all the time in high school: during classes, at home instead of homework, or pretty much any free time I had. About halfway through school I noticed how much time I was spending drawing and figured it was something I should keep up. When I was looking for colleges, I knew that an art school was the place for me.

Your work has a unique style all its own. How would you describe it? It’s kind of an odd stretch of reality. My pieces are weird, dreamy, and often dark. Egon Schiele meets Roberto Ferri.

How does an artist discover that style—the one that makes her work different from anybody else’s—and how has yours evolved over time? It’s a long process of exploring. It’s constant sketching and trying different things. Eventually I noticed a pattern in what I was doing. When I was younger I was inspired by anime and Japanese culture. I drew a lot of characters. In high school and college I was drawing from photos, mainly, realistically. It helped my skill grow but the creativity was gone. I ended up kind of mixing the two. It just fit for me.

Describe for us the process of creating a new piece, from concept to completion. It usually comes from finding something beautiful. I’ll see a photo, drawing, or other piece of artwork that I like. I’ll try to emulate it through sketches. I’ll draw a dozen thumbnails to figure out composition and placement. I’ll gather a few reference photos. Then I start. I don’t really do much process work. I just jump right in to the final piece. My Ideas tend to fall into place.

What is the most challenging part of that process? The very beginning. Taking the idea from your head and making it real. Creating something from nothing ... it’s hard.•

Creating something from nothing... itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hard.

Above, sketches. Opposite, digital portrait.

My pieces are weird, dreamy, a Egon

Above, Ellie Clark sans tattoos. Opposite, Business Time.

and often dark. n Schiele meets Roberto Ferri.

Above, 6-hour pose with black and white charcoal on toned paper. Opposite, 6-hour pose with black and white charcoal on blue paper.

Octo

an autumn

Words and photos by Kelly Ash

ober

n afternoon

While walking along trails and paths, I not only hear the sound of the fallen leaves crunching beneath my feet, but can also smell the scents that can only be described as distinctly autumn. The neighbors have begun to light fires in their woodstoves, decorate their porches with corn stalks and pumpkins and school children have taken to wearing their new fall jackets. There’s that chill in the air that I crave, a freshness that warms my soul and I know that autumn has arrived. As the season changes from summer to fall in that seamless way it does, I often find myself outdoors. Visiting parks and farms, walking and watching the leaves pile on the ground and picking that perfect pumpkin that will have a place of honor in my home until the time comes for carving. I’ve always thought pumpkins were quite magical. Not only did we as children believe a pumpkin could turn into a beautiful coach to take us to a fancy ball with the wave of our fairy godmother’s magic wand, but they also have the power to bring together family and friends. As a symbol of both Halloween and Thanksgiving, the pumpkin adds a warmth and richness to your home and holiday gatherings. Whether walking along a nature trail, picking apples for that pie I’ve been meaning to make or selecting that perfectly plump, orange pumpkin, I can feel that fall is here. And although autumn may be months long, the moment Mother Nature is at her peak is just a short couple of weeks, and I cannot help but want to run outside and soak it all in before winter arrives and paints those warm coppery hues white with snow. •

â&#x20AC;&#x153;

Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s that chill in the air that I crave, a freshness that warms my soul.

MAD STORY AND PHOTOS BY MEREDITH WHITE

FOR

ADRID 33

WHEN I

MY TIM GIVEN FAIRLY OPINIO IT IS ON BEST C WORLD

WAS IN THE MIDST OF MY UNDERGRADUATE “CAREER,"

I spent some time studying at a university in Madrid, Spain. My time there has given me the fairly biased opinion that it is one of the best cities in the world. In the interest of convincing everyone else of it’s superiority, here is a list of some of the best things about this majestic metropolis.

Retiro Park (aka El Parque del Buen Retiro). This massive urban park sits at the edge of the cultural center of the city. It is over 350 acres and has gardens, a lake with rowboats, and this awesome crystal palace. Though a friend and I had a surreal and “memorable” experience with a flasher in this very park, I remember it fondly nonetheless for my many positive experiences studying, watching street performers, lazing in the sun, and going for walks. 34

El Rastro. This is a flee market extraordinaire and cultural experience wrapped in one. Art, jewelry, clothing, antiques, and unique wares from hundreds of vendors converge in central Madrid each Sunday (and other assigned days on occasion). My all time favorite pair of earrings was purchased at the Rastro for a mere 2 Euro.

El Corte Ingles. Department store. Grocery Store. Furniture. Clothing. Gourmet goods, meats, and liquors. Think Harrods but with tons of duplicates around the city (and country). I can’t put my finger on why I love this landmark so very much, but I miss it all of the time. Runners Up: Zara, Mango

ME THERE HAS N ME THE Y BIASED ON THAT NE OF THE CITIES IN THE D.

Nightlife. Nobody, nobody, nobody loves a good time more than the Spanish. Between discos and irish pubs, underground flamenco shows or “los heavy” music, clubs open all night and chocolaterias open even later … Madrid never sleeps. Never did I feel more like myself than in this city for night owls. Dining at 10:30, tapas after that, and heading out for the night at midnight. I don’t regret a single sleepless night spent in Madrid.

Flamenco. The music… the passion… the rhythms and costumes. I love absolutely everything about this art; from the syncopations of the guitar to the flirtations and nuances of the dance itself.

I could go on and on forever about the unique spirit of this city, and further afield in Spain as well, but I'll stop here for now. I hold my memories and photographs of this time closest to my heart, and anticipate my next adventure with great enthusiasm and maybe even openmindedness that another city might be just as wonderful.• 35

I Bet Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re Asleep All Over America an excerpt of the play by Natalie ParkerLawrence 36

Production Notes: This dark and funny play is a full-length play with nine monologues. It runs about 60 minutes. It can be done as a one-person show, a two-person show, a five-person show, a nine-person show ... The cast can be any race or gender or age (21-81). Set Design: Minimal Set. Suggestions: Big Clock with time changes so that each monologue begins at a different time in the morning. Each character walks in and changes the hands of the clock. For a big cast, the set includes room for a sleepwalking dance between some of the monologues. There is water imagery in every monologue. Characters: Every character dresses in some form of sleepwear; some may be partially undressed. Everyone is having trouble sleeping and all of the monologues reveal the concerns and anxieties that keep these characters awake. They pace, yawn, drink, pray, sing, cry, watch TV, listen to music, etc. Sandra, a rich middle-aged business woman Robert, a middle-aged gay man Milford, a bait-shop/restaurant owner and farmer Liz, a middle-aged teacher Garrison, an older businessman Barbara, an elderly woman with dementia, escapee from a nursing home

Sandra

All my bad dreams are about me all the time. It’s always the same.

I can’t sleep, and I can ALWAYS sleep. And anywhere. Even on buses going up and down hills in Italy. With strangers. Not even on my own pillow. I leaned up against a wall at a Chinese restaurant once. I slept there for a good 15 seconds before the 90-year-old-hostess, if that’s what you want to call her, said “WAKE UP!” At least I think that’s what she said. I need to be bone tired. That would be something, a good kind of tired. A bone-crushing, screaming-my-name-all-nightlong-doing it-like-otters kind of tired. Hell, everybody needs a night like that. Most people substitute scotch or Oreo’s or running. Running is too hard, but nothing beats Oreo’s with cold, cold milk. If you mix scotch and Oreo’s, you can stay up for days. At least I can. I am a pacer. I do this every night, like a gerbil or a truck driver. I want to be exhausted enough to breathe heavy, to snore loud enough to wake the neighbors, to wake the dead, to wake my neighbor’s dog who’s dead and buried next to the purple crape myrtles in the back yard. My neighbor, who is a moron by the way, crushed the puppy in her recliner. A new puppy in a new recliner. It was traumatic and a mess. They called the fire department. What were THEY gonna do? Free the dog like getting a cat out of a tree? They told her to take the whole chair and put it on the street. A brand new chair. It’s still there, by the way. Just think what will happen when whoever picks up their street-bargain recliner. The surprising things people throw away so other people can bring something new home. My friend’s husband brought home syphilis a few months back. Gave it to her. She was really surprised because it’s in her mouth. Then when he found out, he picked up his gun and his dog and went on a hunting trip with his buds. When he got home, he found a completely empty house except for three notes on 38

the kitchen counter: one to him, one to their daughter away at college, and one to the dog. The one to the dog was the longest. She vacuumed when she left. She didn’t want any of herself left behind that could touch him— not even pieces of her hair from her comb. She took every stick of furniture. I know where he can get a real good deal on a recliner. There’s a real ass at work. She asked me today if I had been saved and I said, “Saved from what?” She said the fires of hell, and I exclaimed, while looking at her eyes—really too closely set to be believed—there is no hell. But who knows? I love it that 78% of all Americans believes that hell exists, but only one-half of one percent of them believe that they are going there. You gotta love the possibility of the drama: screaming demons, ice, pitchforks, lava, and boiling mineral water. So if they aren’t going, then who is? OK— let’s make a list. I love to make lists when I can’t sleep. (Grabbing a pencil and paper) Title. Who I Would Send To Hell. I think it’s Whom I Would Send To Hell. Number One. People who don’t know how to differentiate between who and whom, it’s and its, their and there and they’re, and to, too, and two. Number Two. People who don’t turn off their cell phones at the theatre and movies and church and the opera. Number Three. Men who bring home syphilis. Number Four. People who crush small furry things in recliners. Number Five. People who ask you if you’ve been saved. Why don’t I have more input as to this process? Some people count sheep to get some shut-eye. I count the people who I’m sending to eternal damnation. I'm good at it. It relaxes me.

Robert

(has a glass of water beside him)

Oh God, I just had the worst dream. The fish died. All of them. Even the Flaming Star, the expensive one. Even the bubbles were gone. All of their little mouths were sticking up out of the water. Like tulips that want to open but can't, those little tight ones? The fish mouths— they were sticking up out of the water. (He takes several sips of water.) All my bad dreams are about me all the time. It’s always the same: I’m in the bathtub. And I’m drowning. I try to come up out of the water, reaching for the light. I can almost touch it. But it’s the ceiling fixture, not some spirit guide. It’s the one I bought for a very pretty song in Venice. But in my dream, while I’m drowning, I’m wondering who’s going to inherit this gorgeous fixture. I really love this light, but not while I’m looking up at it through the water. In fact I hate it. I need the air, and the fish need the water, and nobody needs a light fixture. Nature is so screwed up. Do you know what a Judas Horse is? It’s a specially-trained stallion. Out west this horse leads all of those wild mustangs from the canyons through the desert into the corral on the ranch. He’s gotta be a smarter horse, right? But very unpopular. He’s beautiful and strong. He’s the one everyone follows. And then the gates shut tight. And those free tempestuous beasts become everything from transportation to dogfood to French cuisine. You can lead a seahorse to water. But you can’t make him ... unless you lock the gate. But here’s the catch—not only is he new, he never sleeps over. In fact, he never sleeps. I know for a fact he’s tired. I’m tired. He said that sleep seems so intimate. Jesus Christ, that’s just a little ironic. He said that my house has too much light and too much noise. Well, fuck. And then he asked me if I would turn off the fish tank because of the music in fifty-five gallons of tropical bubbles. Life’s a little noisy. Noi-fucking-sy. He said that the fish irritate him. Maybe I can turn the tank off for the time he wants to sleep. He said that the fish stare at him. I

don’t know about the fish, but I do. I told him that I would watch over him while he slept. I thought that would be kind of sexy, but he really stayed up then. I whispered my real recipe for ten-layer dip in his ear. And I mean all of the ingredients, not just the ones you give to people you just want to stop asking you, like your mother’s friends. Not a blink. I showed him my copy of the pop-up kamasutra. He didn’t even ask any questions about the worn-out tabs. Not a blink. So, I told him: Just get up then! Grab that toilet brush! Write a goddamn novel! Do a faux finish! The bathroom—it has a medieval/beach motif. Decoupage some shells. Decoupage the entire fucking bubonic plague including the fucking Mongol rats inside the shower stall. Last night I took him to the Hard Way To Go. It’s a new bar in downtown Memphis. Great DJ. They had Midnight Bingo. I thought I was gonna hit the jackpot of sleep tight and nitey night. But no! Instead, B6—Bustin Out All Over; I14—Incessant Insomnia; N30—New Sheets, 600-thread count, untouched by sleep; G48—Goodnight, Moon, Goodnight, Robert; O69, O yeah, midnights really knock his dick in the dirt. What a fish dick! And then he had to go! He put on those Dockers really fast. Oh, I know. Don’t tell me. I even put up with Dockers. I try to suffer in silence, but still! I threaten to execute my fish to keep that boy here sleeping. OK, I can buy new fish, but I’m not going to replace that light fixture, even if I dream it’s watching me drown. And I can replace this dream of a man but not for a few weeks yet. I’ll give him a little more time. To get used to my daydreams. Maybe I just need to use better bait, like serving scones with lemon curd for breakfast and stone-ground cheese grits. No one gets that recipe, even if they spend the rest of their nights here—too many secret ingredients like whipped cream with seven big wet drops of vanilla beaten in. Drop. Drop. Drop. Drop. Drop... Well, you get the idea. Maybe I need to get a bigger net. He just needs to figure out who he is in the animal kingdom. I know who I am. I am quite the catch. I am the Judas horse. 39

Milford Me not sleeping is not going to make it rain. Dammit. Just rain. Please God, just make it rain. It’s just water, for God’s sake. That’s what Julia said. Just rain. And then she walked out the door. Maybe she took the rain with her. I know she took my heart. Might as well get up and write up the grocery list for the store. (He picks up pen and paper and writes his list.) Barbeque Sauce. Stuffed Jalapenas. How do you spell that? H A L O ... Hell ... P E P P E ... Green and Hot. Jello—Red. Fruit Cocktail. Pigs Feet. Pickled Eggs. Bologna [ee] Logs. To tell you the truth, I’ve never seen anybody eat those pigs feet, but hunters and fishermen buy up them eggs and bologna things all the time. We just wrap them up in wax paper and they take them away. S O U S E. We sell lots of souse. My grandaddy made it all the time. He would make it when it rained. It’s chicken and pork and ever-thing left over. You have to cook it. Make like a jelly. We have mild and hot. He used to make it in the basement right down them steps. Now we get them in these big plastic jars, wholesale, at Costco. And people who member my grandaddy sometimes order it with their lunch. They tell me it aint the same. I know that for a fact. L I V E R Cheese. We sell a ton of liver cheese. It’s gray and it smells pretty bad. You gotta eat it here though. You can’t take it with you if you’re hunting cause the deer can smell it even if you leave it in your truck. Deer got pretty smart noses. And women say no sirree to loving if you or your truck smells like liver cheese. What’s that noise? Crickets. My Lord. They got in the sink. Jesus. Somebody must have left the hatch open on the bait box. Guess they’re looking for water same as me. I sell crickets for $1.25 a tube. I buy them for 75 cents a tube down the road in Corinth, Miss-sippi. It works out. Cept if they all crawl out and die. That’s profits walking out the door. That reminds me of my sister. She worked in the vet that usta treat Elvis’ dogs. When they took one dog’s teeth out, they were just gonna throw those suckers away. When they 40

took them out, people said, "Make them into earrings!" Some crazy woman from England or Holland offered her a hundred dollars for them at the candlelight service the year Elvis died. Just think of all the teeth earrings you could say belonged to Elvis’ dogs. No, that’d be mean to make profits that way. Julia said that some people are just way too pitiful crazy stupid to cheat.

There ain’t no new water in the world. I’m just waiting for the old stuff to come back around. Dirt on my hands, fingernails. Manure on my clothes. Alfalfa and soybeans in my shoes. It’s no wonder I can’t keep a decent woman. I, of course, am not counting Wanda and Vonda at the drive-in on Summer Avenue. They’re Chinese twins from Batesville, Arkansas. You can be with Wanda and Vonda all you want but it never does take your mind off when it don’t rain. You can pick up a Chinese woman and use them a while, but don’t buy one for keeps. And never let a woman live on your farm if she ain’t your wife and unless she can understand real things like weather. Women will leave you on account of a lack a rain a lot quicker than if you take up with another woman.

Then you got to take your crickets and go fishing. Or you can cry. Or you can screw Chinese women till your eyeballs fly out your head. But after the screaming, when it all comes down to it, all you got is to pray and plant again. It’s called faith or foolishness. That’s what Julia called it—foolishness. I got to say that today I’m not too sure myself. I guess that’s why some people drink themselves half to death and screw women they don’t even know too well in strange motels. I buy my own soap. I sleep on my own bed with my own pillow. I got my dogs—Hemorrhoid, Paranoid, and Emphysema. I can find myself in the shower if I need to. You ever put your hand in the earth—not playground dirt—that’s like scooping up bread flour—but some good black dirt that you can taste when you breathe it in? Well, you got to find a woman who can taste dirt and taste you at the same dang time, ever time. If you don’t, she’ll worry the wings off a fly. And you. I’m looking for a God who talks back, a magic woman who can taste dirt, and a load a big fat gray clouds getting ready to bust down. If there’s not a good country song about my life, there ought to be. “You are what you are and you aint what you aint” . That’s John Prine. He’s the voice of God. I bet he’s got clean fingernails and plenty of women. Maybe that’s the way to go. Maybe I could learn to sing when it rains. I can’t do nothing else till it stops. Julia—I bet she’d come back if I could play the guitar. There aint no new water in the world. I’m just waiting for the old stuff to come back around. It needs to come sooner than later.

Liz

(manic)

You a witch. My students call me that sometimes. Crouch down. Put your French books on top of your heads. The tornado will fly over the school. You will be safe. Your French books will keep you safe. You'll see. Please stop screaming. Yes, you can pray if you want to. Your

French books will keep all of you safe. Then the roars of a thousand trains. And the screaming of over one thousand children. Safe underground in the basement of the school built long ago as the place for a swimming pool for the rich children who were supposed to swim there forever, but left empty for the Black children who hide there today. Today the rushing sounds overhead stopped. The students took the books they clutched off their heads. And then they looked at me. You a witch. I want to believe it happened today because my eyes change colors. My hazel eyes turn gray or blue or green or even violet like Elizabeth Taylor. If I can just fall asleep, I can dream of other things besides Liz and her eyes. I wonder what keeps her up at night? When I wear a purple sweater, my eyes turn so green, they scare the children at school. Even the rough ones avert their eyes, keep walking. My eyes scare me when I sleep, if I sleep. My eyes never turn the color of the Montana sky, that blue color, that Popsicle blue that I never ate except when my ice cream man was out of grape. The blue of the sky does not exist in nature on earth. It’s manufactured and American, a color you can only smell. Today at school, the sky was blue like that. Too blue. And then yellow and then brown. And we could smell water and dust, rushing towards us. Even in the basement. Sometimes I think it would be advantageous to be a witch: cast spells, cause warts, burn barns. Basements aren’t the same as barns. Batman has a basement, doubling as a cave and a closet. Nobody has a basement like Batman. He slides down the pole and gets into his Bat suit on the way down. How does he change his clothes back? He can't walk through the front door. He can't slide back up. In sixth grade, Sister Mary Placide [seed] said thinking about Batman and his pole was one of the impure thoughts that I had to confess on Thursday mornings. I just wanted to see if I could change into my uniform a little faster. Saddle oxfords take a long time to polish, squeeze on while they're wet, and tie. People can’t slide back up. Humans can't slide backwards. Men can’t change the laws of gravity. 41

Damn. Just fall asleep. I don’t know why men collect toy trains. I know why men chase big ones: to beat tons of rushing metal, to go faster than some inordinate speed. Men do not believe the laws of physics were made for them. The trains under the Christmas tree that don’t go anywhere are as mysterious as the trains that fill up a bedroom, an attic, a baby's room, or a Bat cave. Is it the controlling of small universes? Is it the pulling and pushing of switches, the placing of trees, the building of stations? Stay on track! Do men expect crashes to wreck lives and create civilizations? Do they set up the crash, watch the crash and then ignore the clean up after the crash? Is war just another series of crashes that go boom? Are any soldiers faster than any speeding bullets? Can Superman beat the train that Batman rides? Stop this. Just fall asleep. Women, even the veiled ones, if men let them, would go to the ends of the earth to avoid crashes. We don’t send our lovers, husbands, cousins, brothers, fathers or sons to the ends of the earth. Someone else does. And now they send women to implode themselves among explosions in far away places. Women avoid crashes, but men look for them, and when they can’t find them, they build them. When men can’t explain their troubles, and they can’t construct a crash, they search for witches. We can will away tornadoes. We cannot will away the crush of trains or the curse of rushing men. Go to sleep. Take your tongue off the roof of your mouth. Men proved women to be witches using two tests. If a woman, especially one with property that some man wanted, did not boo-hoo when she heard the story of the Virgin Mary, grieving over the body of Jesus, then that accusation made her a witch. She could be real sad about Mary and her dead son, but older women do not have as many active tear ducts and cannot cry easily. And because they cannot cry on command, that physiological anomaly made them automatic contenders for the second test: quick swims in deep icy rivers. See, if she sinks and drowns, 42

she is NOT a witch. Oops! Sorry! But what does she win, ladies and gentlemen? BEHIND CURTAIN NUMBER THREE, she wins that, YES, damp ticket into paradise. If she somehow manages to float, she is a witch because no one teaches girls to swim, and then they burn her. Or hang her if she lives in America. She loses no matter what. We lose no matter what. Magic or the threat of magic killed millions of young and old women this smoky way for centuries. When our only career options then were mother, virgin, whore, or witch, this parachute became heavy with their drink much too quick, and like Ophelia's dress, pulled us from our melodious lay to muddy death. This path, though moist, seems like a viable option on some days, inviting, allowing eternal sleep at last. Please. Take your tongue off the roof of ... Relax. Yes. Just fall asleep. I am the teacher who saved children with their own textbooks. I will them to be safe and dry. I am the woman who stays brave. I do not cry. I stay with children without a book over my head. Those gals who stood around the crucifixion site? They misinterpreted the cause of death: not nails in hands, not crowns on heads, not crosses on shoulders, not spears in sides, but instead water in lungs, drowning in body fluids. Drowning. They cried big time. But they were alone under the cross, up on the hill. No guys lined up to give out big bear hugs or tissues at the funeral home or help move the big stone away. Those disciples were hiding. It was the ladies who stood tough. If I didn’t want to look down at the face of a boy in a coffin, dead because he might have tried to beat a train, I still knew that the boy who lost the race with the train was my cousin. I did not cry because I was too tired to engage. I was too distanced just like on

Go to sl your ton roof of

any other day. I was far away in my head. My family was far away in their hearts. Because my cousin was not Ophelia. He was Anna Karenina, one who willfully sought his own salvation, rushing with his car toward the train instead of using his head. If I didn’t cry when a boy was killed by a train, a boy I played with on the family farm or sat next to at the children’s table at Thanksgiving or whose sister I stayed awake with until 3 o'clock in the morning, listening to a new 45 of Ray Charles singing, "Hit the Road, Jack," thirty times on a record player while he slept in the next room, years of many nights will pass before I can fall sleep on the first or the thirtieth try. What are you thinking? It happened so many ... Just go to ... Who wouldn’t lie awake at night worrying

leep. Take ngue off the your mouth. about the Romans killing your son, the sanctimonious drowning and charring of your tearless and soaked ancestors, the North Vietnamese killing your friend's brother, European trains taking your children to death camps, your students' mamas boyfriends raping the little girls in the house, a house with no books to protect them except the phone book. Like railroad cars, one behind the other, these visions connect and lock on endless tracks in the night. I do not hear the brakes. I do not feel the trains stop sometimes until dawn when the alarm clock next to the bed flashes and clangs so that school bells and fire drill bells and tornado warning sirens keep me awake all throughout the day.

I know why women wave to engineers: to blow the whistle even though they do not know us, sitting at intermittent crossroads. Engineers wave if women are 5 or 20 or 45 or 91, if we are virgins, whores, mothers, teachers, scientists, accountants, or even witches. Trains pass us at mindless speeds or at soporific crawls: many cars lumber with their heavy loads at all hours of the night. The bloody crossing arms wave up and down, their whistles crying from far away. Trains hit and miss boys, search for children, head for trestles over marshes and shallows and sleep.

Garrison

(holding a glass of bourbon) (drinks during the entire monolog) I have a lot of questions. And I can’t get the answers by counting sheep. Maybe I can do it with shots of Makers Mark. We shall see what we shall see. Movies piss me off. I don’t even want to sit in front of one anymore. Cable is a waste of shit except for ESPN. Why is it that Hollywood makes heroes outta men who have weakness or somebody who is hurt or diseased or maimed or friggin crippled? Lee Marvin, John Wayne, Stallone—they were strong or they died. No in-between. No flaws. No fuckin excuses. No sob stories. Rain Man, Dustin Hoffman—autistic. Regarding Henry, Harrison Ford—shot in his head. A Man With Two Faces, Mel Gibson—melted face. Sixth Sense, Bruce Willis—he’s fucking dead. A Beautiful Mind, Russell Crowe—a wacked out psycho. At least he gets to have a hot wife. The Big Chill, William Hurt—blown away dick. Braveheart, Mel Gibson—cut-off unit and cut-up guts. He's still screaming, “Freedom!” Until lately, my Johnson has been a damn fine soldier. You still got to put a helmet on that soldier. It’s a crazy world out there. So what are they trying to say—these movies? That unless men are brought down and made into losers, that we are nothing? No big trauma and therefore no awareness? I don’t buy that shit. I got me a shit load of aware43

ness. And I get more with every full glass I empty. Me and John and Marvin and Sly. No water—no ice. So when you go to the doctor and he tells you that men your age—men, my age, my ass—men have a problem with ... you know ... keeping at attention, what then? Who can make you feel better? Your pharmacist? HBO? Instead of counting sheep, let’s count the people who you can’t count on to take your mind off all the shit in your life. People you can’t go to for comfort: Number one: I got a 17-year old, works for me, who, for the love a God, can’t say the

on, and I mean nothing. He runs through the sprinklers, going “wooooooo.” All the whole neighborhood knows. I guess it helps keep that girlfriend of his happy. Something is also making his dick stand up at 3 o’clock. I used to run through sprinklers when I was five. Should have kept that up. Number three: I might have sent my wife something that was meant for my girlfriend. The fucking US mail messed up. It was a giant stuffed giraffe. My wife had the nerve to call me a cheese dick. I wish I had Alzheimer’s so I wouldn’t remember that I married someone so fucking ugly and mean. My dad’s in the hospital with that shit now. He was giving away one-dollar bills at Walmart. He claims that Whoopi Goldberg is his nurse. He calls her “black bitch,” but this woman takes care of him anyway. How does she do that? My dad escapes at night from his room sometimes. He curls up in other women’s beds. He did it when I was a kid too. When he didn’t have Alzeimer’s. My mother would think this was just about normal. The women at the nursing home seem to like it, and it makes everyone peaceful for a little while. Getting a little P-E-A-C-E. Getting a little P-I-E-C-E. Number four: My girlfriend thinks my “dilemma” is her fault. I let her take the fall. I’m sticking with it. New pussy is supposed to do the trick, but it’s not working for shit. My wife can’t stand to touch me. My girlfriend, at least, touches me. She’s the latest in a long line of women. They make me feel like a king—at least for a while. I like them about 26, blond, skinny, and stupid enough to believe me when I say my wife doesn’t understand me. I tell them what to do, and they pretty much do it, until they grow up a little and don’t need the cash so much. Then I have to dump them. Sometimes they wise up and dump my ass. I always try to do it first.

No heroes anymore. Maybe I’ll be punching my own pillows for a while. fucking name of my business on the fucking phone. (Imitating) “Dick Swain, Dick Swain, Dick Swain.” Are you kidding me? It’s Dixie Queen, Dick—see Queen, DICK—SEE— QUEEN. That kid from Mississippi nails every girl who works for me. Jesus. Number two: I turn on my 94-year old neighbor’s riding lawnmower every Saturday morning. He goes around and around like that damn energizer rabbit all day. I do NOT come over and turn it off. I let his 80-year-old girl friend do it. She runs along side of it to give him a sandwich and water. He takes it like it’s a handoff, like a baton in some crazy race. He WANTS to ride it until it runs outta gas. Even if all the grass looks like brown fucking pubes. He will ride that thing until dark, until she pulls him off. He doesn’t care about how much noise he makes, how much gas he burns. His whole life is Saturdays on that machine. And now he’s been going out to get everybody’s newspaper in the neighborhood without shit 44

Number five: my daughter. No, actually, she’s the only thing I love in this world. How did that happen? My wife said that if I could name my daughter’s pediatrician, she would sign the divorce papers. Nobody’s talking, and I don’t have a fucking clue. Number six: a guy I knew in prison when I was in Vietnam. Actually Australia. Got caught with his stash stuck in my Marlboro carton. I was just carrying it, ya know? I wasn’t doing nothing. I spent a sweet two-week stay in a fucking dungeon. And it was a fucking US Army dungeon. Well maybe not so sweet. Even the Red Cross made us buy shit from them. Nobody gives shit away. They made me pay for a fucking hard-boiled egg. Anyway, they said I was gonna be there forever and never go back to the states even when the war was done. I was 19. I didn’t know if I was gonna get out. They beat the bottom of my feet. The fucking army did it. That’s against some genocide convention. Geneva. Genocide. Geneva. I didn’t know it would just be two weeks. Suppose you don’t know when people are gonna let you go or stop doing something bad? I didn’t know ... I didn’t know ... Need another drink. When I got back to the front, my unit was all gone, all dead. Everybody. Sometimes smoking some weed can save your sorry ass. And last, Number seven: Ivana, a prostitute, who got everything in working order. It was great. After about the third time, I thought, bingo, this was the way to go: sex without talking, sex without having to hold somebody after, sex without extended care: perfume, jewelry, movies. It was perfect. The only problem, and this is what is keeping me up nights: Ivana is not who she seems to be. Oh, she’s beautiful, and she makes me cum like a fucking freight train, but, you know, she’s a little different. She’s ... well, she’s ... Ivana is really an Ivan. Scared the shit outta me when I wanted something other than a blow job. I started screaming. I almost hit her. Him. I got dressed so fast I left my good black belt back in the hotel. She can ... He can keep it to hang himself with. Hey—just because she ... he was successful, don’t make me queer. And don’t say it does.

No heroes anymore. Maybe I’ll be punching my own pillow for a while. I’m thirsty. I need another drink. Have you seen The Crying Game? (sobbing) I didn’t know. I didn’t see ... I didn’t know ...

Barbara

(runs in from offstage or from the audience) (wears a bandana scarf under a baseball cap) (carries a fast food container) (has a hairbrush in her pocket) Hey! They was supposed to put some rice in here. But they didn’t give me no rice. I had me some appetite for rice. All I been is depressed. I cuss and pray. Nothing seems to work cept the praying part. I guess it depends on what you pray for. Can’t sleep. I’m a handful for the doctors. They hate to see me coming. Yeah. My hairbrush. It hurts my head. I’m gonna have to get rid of it. I usta drive a garbage truck. We’re outta the Bellevue barn. I drive for Pokey. All of a sudden I couldn’t drive no more. I couldn’t turn the damn wheel. One of my breasts got bigger than the other one. It just kept on growing. Didn’t hurt nothing though. One day I was taking a bath. I guess it was my soapy hand. I felt a big motherfucker of a knot in this one (picks up her left breast). They can take it off if they want. They can take off both of them. My sister’s boy takes me around. He says my stomach is so empty—cause they been cutting so many things outta there too. He says that I’m so empty he could put a raccoon AND a possum in there. He bought me some red boots. My feet still look fine. I can still run. I can still run far far away. That boy says I’m not right in my mind. I just don’t know. I’m glad about them boots. I can still run far. I thought I got two more years to work. I got laid off and no disability. I wanted to work. The Lord wants me to sit down, but he’s got to catch me. 45

My godmother—she told me that God told her that I was gonna die. When people get religion, they change. They get mean. The devil can pull some mighty good tricks too especially when you aint looking. At the hospital I run my walker into cars. Into people with charts. Into people with cafeteria trays full of hot food. They cuss at me. I cuss back. But sometimes when they walk away from the mess—I pick it up and eat it. Hell, it’s still good and hot. Don’t look at me that way. Those hospital floors are cleaner than the ones at the nursing home. They are cleaner than at my house. How long have I been gone? One minute longer than eternity, I bet. I know a little bit. I was 24 when I started on the trucks, pulling the can from behind the houses. One time I asked a woman in one of those big ass houses for some water. She said she didn’t have any. That aint even a good lie. Shoot. I usta want to be some computer technician. You just type all day—real still like. You get to wear clean clothes. They care about how you smell. You get cold water whenever you feel like a drink. Sometimes you even get ice. Now I get so tired. I feel like my eyelashes be plum worn out. I want to lay down. But then I remember I can sleep when I'm dead. I bet I can find me a Mrs. Winters restaurant on this street somewhere. They got chicken and dumplings. That might taste good—even if they are big, thick, and gooey. Black people don’t eat them though. Just white people that don’t know no better. I’ve bust out the nursing home five or six times now. The trick is to not get noticed. I been invisible all my life, and now that I’m 65, they want to find me all the time. Now they want to lock me up. That’s a load a shit! I hadn’t put my teeth in since Thursday. Can’t put my plate in. I aint got no taste. The only thing that soothes my stomach is some marijuana. I aint had a joint for the longest time. (pointing) You got some ganja? You? You got a J? You? My doctor says they don’t know why it makes you hungry. They just know it does. How about you? I don’t even really want to smoke. Not ... (throwing up and spitting). I stay like this. Throwing up. 46

How long h been gone minute lon eternity, I

I’m so sick a people like nurses saying, How you doing? God damn it. I feel like shit. Some nigger nurse buried a needle deep in my arm, and I put on a show for everbody. I don’t like to be pushed and punched. I wanted to put my foot up her ass. I screamed right in her ear, YOU HURTING ME. YOU THROUGH! They had to get the doctor to do it. I ain’t going to let nobody hurt me. I need to put my bed in the doctor’s office. I call the doctor my husband. The fucking nurse says he’s already married. I don’t care. I get a cramp in my side whenever I turn like this. My scalp is itching. In the chemo book it says do not dye your hair. I don’t obey books. (pointing) Wasn't you in the doctor’s office a week ago too? (pause) I thought so. My family don't have much time for me. They don't visit. Of course they didn't visit before the nursing home. That's why I got me some fish. My brother drowned in the bathtub when he was little. My mother said she wished that it had been me instead but that no one asked her to choose. I see him—his ghost—all the time. He’s calling me. His ghost might be in your mirror too. It might be Jesus though. People never get over being put to sleep. They fight to get to sleep, but then they fight the anesthesia doctor too. Mine was from a country like India or Ireland. It was some “I” country. He was very dark. I still liked him. He didn’t pay me much mind though. He didn’t even look at my face. Sometimes—when you escape—you get tireder than you thought. Even if you get all the way to the corner of McLean and Union Avenue. And that is something to be proud of. I need a award for that. The people at the nursing home come to look for me eventually. I find a little comfort in that. You better look to Jesus. He sees everthing going on. Jesus couldn’t sleep neither, and he yelled at them disciples. Wake up!! Jesus was illegitimate and poor and nobody really liked him. And he still

have I e? One nger than I bet.

got a loada shit done. If you act too crazy, people you know will call you “harmful to yourself and society." And then they do something so you will be quiet,

like they done to Jesus. My mouth is so dry. I got a problem with my eyes. They just hurt. I had a porta- cath in since 2005. They just took it out. My fingernails came back. My friend’s hair came back all curly after chemo. It usta be black. Now it’s a salt and pepper color. Jesus can do nothing about fingernails or hair color. There aint no prayers for beauty or glamour. It takes me a hour and a half to do things it usta take 5 minutes to do. (Sound of a passing car) BABY, here I am! (Disappointedly) If somebody five years ago had told me I’d be doin this, I’d said they was crazy. Something better happen soon. Believing in living is hard. Dying is hard. I hope I’m doing this inbetween part okay. The Spirit of the Holy? Where is it? I am going searching for it whenever they decide to pick me up. (pointing) Hey, is somebody feeding my fish? Somebody feeding my fish? Anybody? You? My fish dead? Those fish—they’re the only thing I can leave to somebody. I’m like a fish looking for water. But I think if a fish is looking for water, she’s already dead. I keep running away from the dry parts of my life. That’s all life is—worrying about getting rain and then always looking for protection from it. That’s why people eat each other— not for real. I’m a hoot, aren’t I? But for sure that’s why that fox ate that gingerbread man after he carried him across that river. He was hungry. And that gingerbread man was just plain nuts. No brains. When you escape from the nursing home at night, you get hungry. You would eat a gingerbread man too. You just don’t know it yet. •

NOM

words and images fro by Ashley Hennefer

MAD

om the nevada desert

I’m on my third cigarette already from the pack of American Spirit I bought less than a half hour ago. Still don’t inhale; I never properly learned how to let it fill my lungs.

I think of him and how he wouldn’t kiss me with this taste in my mouth. I think of him and how he’d shotgun smoke into my throat, sliding his tongue in after, suffocating me viscerally with love and a punch of longing. I think of my mother and how she’d kill me for smoking. But it’s nearly night and I’m alone. The radio is broken and I sing loudly to a song I’ve never purposely written, something that pours out of the deepest parts of me. I tap on the steering wheel. No one has ever appreciated my beat, my rhythm; few have matched it. A pulse that only the moon controls. My feet are naked and sweaty. Summer is not my season. My mind wanders to a thought of awaking in a warm, dark room, before the dawn, the night sky an inky blue. Are these memories mine? How do I feel them in my core? This is how stories begin. I pull over to write. I jot down a few lines in my notebook, take out the camera, take a few shots of the sunset that turn out like shit. I roll down the window.

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m a girl of the West. No, not a girl; almost woman now. A desert woman, like my kindred spirits in the Middle Eastern sands. Wrapped in scarves and secrets. I still feel young, wrapped up in short hair and five feet, four (and a half) inches. And yet, the knowledge in my body is innate and ancient. Who am I and how was I born into a vision of spinning globes, twisting my heart like whirling dervishes, thick volumes of both filled and unfilled pages? My hair and eyes both light and dark. I exist in the moment before the dusk. The hour before the dawn. Hovering somewhere in between the bodies of two men. An offspring of both my parents. The other half of my brother. Wandering and homebound. Where is my place in the universe? In the center of everything is where I belong. I start the ignition. Behind me, the lonely road smiles silently, welcoming. Ahead of me, the cityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s polluted halo beckons me in. â&#x20AC;˘

The radio is broken and I sing loudly to a song Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never purposely written... 52

Are these memories mine? Ho

ow do I feel them in my core?

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m a girl of the West... 56

BY JESSICA FARKAS

Jessica’s Fall Jam As a lifelong lover of all things summertime, my favorite musical genres have always included reggae, ska, and surf pop. When I was living in sunny California, I could groove to these types of music all year long. Now, however, as the storm clouds begin to form over my head in a much cooler Nevada sky, I feel inclined to replace my Tribal Seeds, Less Than Jake, and Best Coast playlists with ones more fitting for the changing season. I am always open to broadening my musical horizons, so creating a list of the top ten albums I’m most excited for the release of this fall was fun. Here is what I came up with: 58

Grizzly Bear, Shields

(release Date: September 18, 2012) Grizzly Bear’s new album, Shields, was recently released and has since received killer reviews. This is the fourth studio album the indie/folk rock band from Brooklyn, New York has set free into the musicsphere, and it is also their fourth I am utterly obsessed with. If you haven’t picked it up yet, what are you waiting for?

Mumford and Sons, Babel

(release date: September 21, 2012) Babel is another record that was only recently made available for our listening pleasure. If you signed onto Facebook the week it was released, you were probably bombarded

with posts about how much your friends were digging it. Before Babel, I could name one Mumford song. Now I can name them all.

they formed after connecting via a Craigslist ad. If you can listen to their song “Generator ^ First Floor” without getting the chills, good for you. I certainly can’t. I also can’t wait for their sophomore album, Diluvia. For a sneak peak (well, listen) at one of the new tracks, visit their website www.freelancewhales.com and click on the Free Download ‘Locked Out’ link.

Bat for Lashes, Matt & Kim, Lightning The Haunted Man (release date: October 2, 2012) Matt & Kim are an indie pop duo also hailing from Brooklyn, New York. Their music is upbeat, energetic, and impossible to listen to while simultaneously feeling sad. These two have gotten me through some rough times in the past, so I’m hoping their new album will help get me through the cold and weary Nevada days that loom in my near future.

A.C. Newman, Shut Down the Streets (release date: October 9, 2012) A.C. Newman is Carl Newman, frontman of indie rock band The New Pornographers. I’ve been awaiting a new TNP album since the release of their last one in early 2010, but will definitely settle for the solo project of my second favorite New Pornographer. (Sorry, but Neko Case 4 life. Duh.)

Freelance Whales, Diluvia

(release date: October 9, 2012) The Freelance Whales are a band I fell in love with immediately following the release of their first CD, Weathervanes, in 2009. They are nothing short of phenomenal. Perhaps my favorite factoid about these guys is that

(release date: October 12, 2012) Bat for Lashes is the stage name of English singer-songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Natasha Khan. This woman seriously does it all. She writers her own songs, sings them, then plays all her own instruments including piano, bass, guitar, and even autoharp. The Haunted Man will be Bat for Lashes’ third studio album. The album cover features a butt-naked Kahn carrying an equally butt-naked man on her back. Tell me you don’t love her already.

Ben Gibbard, Former Lives

(release date: October 16, 2012) If Ben Gibbard is not one of your top ten crushes of all time ever, clearly you are not a twenty-something female since I’m pretty 59

sure all of us have listened to Death Cab for Cutie and/or The Postal Service before bed every night for the past ten years of our lives. Although Gibbard has been performing solo live shows for years, (in addition, of course, to his performances with Death Cab and Postal Service) Former Lives is his first solo album. I would follow this unbelievably gifted songwriter into the dark any day, and I will definitely be purchasing this album the moment it’s available on iTunes.

Shiny Toy Guns, III

(release date: October 23, 2012) Shiny Toy Guns is a Grammy nominated alternative rock band from Los Angeles, California. Their sound is the perfect mix of dance, rock, and electronic, but they have also been described as “glam goth” and “new wave chic.” Suffice it to say, Shiny Toy Guns doesn’t fit the mold of any one genre. And their dynamic as a band is just as confusing. For anyone like me who quit keeping track of who was and wasn’t in the band this second, my research indicates that vocalist Carah Faye Charnow and her former husband, guitarist Daniel Johansson did rejoin for the upcoming album. However, apparently Johansson has since left the band again, most likely due to his and Charnow’s divorce. Regardless, I have yet to be disappointed with a STG album and don’t anticipate being so with this one either. 60

Alicia Keys, Girl ON Fire

(release date: November 27, 2012) I have admired Alicia Keys as an artist since I was a kid. This woman is gorgeous, down to earth, and talented beyond words. She has been creating best-selling music since 1997 and it doesn’t appear she will be stopping any time soon. The upcoming album Girl on Fire is Keys’ fifth, and one she has said she hopes “liberates and empowers fans.”

Azealia Banks, Broke With Expensive Taste (release date: early 2013)

Why not end this list with my newest guilty pleasure, the rapper from Harlem formerly known as Miss Bank$? Whatever. I dig that song “212” and don’t act like you don’t. Sure her music is vulgar, raunchy, and she is all about using the C-word. But she also doesn’t really care whether or not you like that about her. And well…I really like that about her. •