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Identifier
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cpj0276
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Title
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The Cooper Point Journal Arts Issue (March 12, 1982)
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Date
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12 March 1982
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extracted text
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Arts & Events
The Artists' Co-op Gallery , 524 South Washington , will leature walercolorist Lynn Pa.8Z8
and oil painter Gloria Bourdon as Iheir artists
of Ihe week through April 17. Hours are from
10 a.m. to 5 p .m . Monday through Saturday.
Thul'!lday April 8
The State Capitol Museum, 211 West 21 st
Ave ., presents a tribute to Seattle artisl L1sel
Salzllr now through the 18th. The show includes portraits and landscapes in oils, waterco lors , pastels, elchings and enamels. Salzer
holds several awards, inc lud ing two awards
from the New York Syracuse Museum of Fine '
Art, and her works have been exhibited in
both group and solo shows at the Smithsonia n Institution , Museum of Contemporary
Cra fts in New York and the Seattle Art
Museum . The exhibit will be open during
museum hours (Tu esday- Friday, 10 a.m : to
4 : 30 p.m ., Sa turday and Sunday , 12 noon to
4 p .m .l .
Tuesday April 13
The Tuesdays at Eight Lecture Series presents a preview of TESC's summer foreign
studies. 8 p.m. , Recital Hall of the Communication Building .
Hamlet B&W , 152 mins., 1948. Directed and
produced by Laurence Olivier. This film won
five Academy Awards. and remains the definitive screen ver sion of the immortal Shakespeare play . Ti ckets $1 .25 . Lecture Hall One, 4 ,
7, and 9 : 30 p.m .
Is Peaceful Revolution Possible? , an open
discussion sponsored by Central American
Group Contrac t, may be allended today at 12
noon to 1 p.m . in CAB 306.
The Artists' Co-op Gallery , 524 South
Washington , are featuring as their Artists of
the Week potter Joy Matheson and watercolorist Priscilla Pryor, Hours are 10 a.m. to
5 p. m . Monday through Saturday .
Grabber p lays at Popeye's , rock 'n roll . NeKI
week Ryan also r ock , plays Wednesday
through Sunday. $2 cover Wed .-Thurs ., Fri .
and Sat. $3 . Sun . $2 , and Man and Tues . $1 .
Wed . and Thurs . 25t schooners from 9-10,
and Mon. 2 for 1 hamburgers, 24 tO Wes t
Harrison .
Foundations of Visual Art Program Show ,
featuring drawings, pain ting s and sculptu re
ref lecti ng five weeks of work based on Ind ividual ly chosen themes by st udents who have
been st udy ing with Evergreen faculty members
Marilyn Frasca and Su sa n Aurand IS on di sp lay in Gallery Two o f t he Evan s Library .
Open durrng regul ar l ibrary hou rs
Wednesday April 14
Chess Club meets 7-10:45 p.m., CAB 306.
Bring sets, for more information call Jake at
754-8348.
John Hammond performs courtesy of the South Sound (oncert Company Thursday.
April L!. for on!' show only, 8 p.m. in TESC library 4300. Tickets $4 in advance at
TI 'lC bookstore.
The Road to Babi Var , part two of the Holocaust film series, is presented by EPIC In
Cab t to at noon. Admission is free.
First Annual Evergreen Pool Slalom . Events
for men . women. all ages and ability levels of
kayakers . $5 entry fee . 1 t p .m .- noon warm-up.
TESC POOl . Information 866-6530.
Folkdancing ton ight from 7-11 p .m . lor all
at Ihe Organic Farm . Free .
Bee Bop Revisited plays at the Rainbow
Restaurant. W . 4th and Columbia . $3 .50 cover .
sho w starts at 9 p m .
Th e Harmonic Tremors play the 4th Ave
$2 r.over 9 p In
Friday April 9
Saturday April 10
Tw o on e-man exhibitions , t eaturing recen t
drawings by James Haseltine and woodwork '
by Earle Mcneil. will be featured now through
May 9 in Gallery Four of th e Evan s Library . f,
recept ion to open Ihe spows wi ll be host e(!
from 8 to 10 p .m . Gallery hours are from noo"
to 6 p.m weekday s and 1 to 5 p.m . Saturday,
and Sundays . Admission is free .
Poetry Corner
The Harmonic Tremors play Ihe 4th Ave
Tavern , $2 cover 9 p.m .
White Hart Will play traditional Celtic tunes
and songs played on ei lt ern. bouzouki. Iri sh
pipes. f.dd le. rnelodecn. concertina , camp·
organ and mandolin at Olympia YWCA, 220
Ea st Union . Denny Hall and Judy Wayenberg .
ref ugees from the "Sea Level Ranters" and
"Beggars Rant ." will be joined by multiinstrumentalist Jay Gelzer for music by some
of th e Northwest's finest British Isles
musici ans . Also Kay and Dusty Rhodes play
folk songs from the 60's "folk scare" on guitar
and banjo . Doors open at 8 p.m. and admission is $2 .50 . Sponsored by Applejam .
A Midday Summer's Sleep
Tht' ,ablf'd limbs relax as both the oars
Abillldoned swivel in their tethered locks.
1 h,· sun li es molten on the polished rocks,
An I wafpr gli'itens in the opened pores.
DRY ICE
parts and pil'ccs
'> Iil~ '
to my tongut'
like dry icp
eXI",,,ng another layer of skin
stPdlll~ off my paper label
your kiss
• monique dubo~
.
place
a plilcf'
a place aparl
aparl
a part
parts we play
v, f' part today
a part of fll 'J Ce
at peace apart
a part apiece
apart
a piece
Meeting.
Through Saturday, April 17, The Powerplay
at Astair's. Northwest club band. $1 pitchers
Wednesday 7-9 p.m .• no cover for ladies on
Thursdays . 118 E. 5th, Olympia .
Coming Attractions
T a v(-~rn .
Friaay Nile Films presents heart of Glass
1976 . 93 minutes . Color . Germany Featurr ng
Josef Bierbl c hler. Ste fan Guttier, Clemen s
Scheit z. Sel .n the pre-Ind us tri at past, th e
s tory tell s of a sm all Germ an town that lo ses
the secret o f making its unique Ruby glass
The tow nspeople turn to mad ness. murdel
and magic in a desperate effort to recover th e '
pure ingredient Ihey have lost. By Werner
Herzog . Lec ture Hal l One, 3. 7 & 9 :30 p .m .
Adm ission : $1 .25 .
Gay Resource Center Business
7 p .m . LIB. Lounge 3200.
I blpno a swarthv Ilap as lethe bores
A. Llrrow in my brow and light collects
Along the brlltle cliff. The breath connects
A mellow cu. iE'nt to the craft. The shores
Glissade h"sitiE', where snakes and ravens
~l1dge
Th~ heat, and '.pllow primrose bakes upon
Th, beaches. lor·g within the windy throat,
The Asian Pacific Isl e Coalition of Evergreen
w ill be sponsoring events
part of the celebration of Asian·Pacific Heritage Week on
April 28. Events include a lashion show at 12
noon in CAB 2nd floor lounge , a performance
by Taiko of Seattle, 7 p . m . in the Recital Hall ,
with a film about Japanese-Americans
im medi ately following. All events are free and
open to all.
as
April 15. 16 . and t7 : The Legendary Blues
Band plus Iri s Hill Band . play Popeye·s . 2410
West Harrison . Tickets : $5-$7 .50. available at
Rain ey Day Records . TESC's Bookstore and
Sound City at South Sound Center.
All submissions for Arts and Events must
be received no later than five o'clock Friday,
the week before they are to appear. Submissions must be typtid double-spaced, and no
longer than seven lines. No exceptions.
Revision
As i look through
blue windowpane shifts the scene()ut'iide,
icy fingers massatie my back,
shivers race through my body;
i dance to enrourage warmth,
close my eyes and
feel the m1Jsic,
head is floating through pink and blue
as my motions beco'lle automatic.
Eyes open; change .)f sC"ne,
,1 smile.
Sweat.
11sid ~,
ThE' h~art upon its bed of pulse is SC.1g.
I hardlv feel these curious fishes nudge
The rubber bottom of my drunken boat.
Nathan Jones
Romantic
Stp,lIn ,oaked Windows
swept III a early breeze,
ingots of silver
forged to stoir trees.
a
peac" .
Patri cia Jatc /ak
Classifieds
SURPLUS Jeeps , cars, and trucks available.
Many sell under $200 : call (312) 742-1143
extension 6793 , for information on how to
purc hase.
rain plays
a familiar thpllle .
Sippin g tea to Tchaikov~ky .
lost in a dream.
Hopeless ly, hopelessly
of that strain.
A pretentious ca ncer.
complet ely in vain
Mark Raphael
COME STEPPtN th ru creation with an irie
med itation. Lislen 10 the rhythmi C sounds of
root s reggae music . Sal. Nites 7- t O on KAOSfm 89.3 ,
SHARE lovely 2-bedroom furnished Wes ts,de
home with flfeplace , large yard, co lor TV . full
kitchen . You furni sh own bedroom . $1751
mo nth plus util iti es , li g ht smoker s O .K ,
vegeta rians preferred . 943-7986 even ing s or
weekend s . No pets (I have two cat s atready)
35 YEAR OLD MALE desires the companions h.p of a female who IS in teres ted in a lasting
warr~ relallonship . Pl ease contact me at :
James Lacey , Wd . V. Western State Hospital ,
PO . Box 94999. Ft. Steilacoom, WA 98494 .
by luna
NOTHING BETWEEN YOU AND THE OCEAN
except dune grass. bird s, and seasands.
Casual fulty eq u i pped cabins sleep 1-5.
2 room s plus kitchen and bathroom . From $24
nig htl y f or 2 . Additional persons $3 . Info and
reservations : So u ' wester Lodge, Seaview.
Phone 1-642-2542.
Left Over Poetry
Dinner for one.
I am lonely to see the food
left over.
the music throbs fwm the speakers,
enters every i 'ore, ~ulsing;
it overwhelm< me.
Someone spei,ks;
(at least their lips moved)
i nod but do not understand
and begin to realize how removed words are
from our thoughts i understand now that
there is no way to express my ideas
or my abstractions;
words are only rou~h approximations.
Hidden meanings become so clear that
i wonder at how i never saw them before;
John Basye Everything i think or dream comes as
revelation;
it is then i realize :
everything we know is wrong,
an illusion,
a fict ion of our subjective minds.
. A moment later, everything is so absurd
and so silly,
someone asks " how are you?" and we
laugh for '/, an hour.
My jaw hurts from that concrete smile
plastf'red on the face .
Laugh. and it s(.'Cms I'l l never stopi can't stop;
i watch as the wall slips,
the rainbow sheets drip and
thE' room melts into a warm and drifting
sea of motion.
Flush .
.,
--.~.
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CATS-EYE
By Carrie Gevirtz
Dear lonely literati, and you are all lonely literati, here it is : Milli uns of
M~rbles II. He~e is another in a not so long line of Evergreen literary publi -
cations . But thIs one is struggling to stay alive and become quart erly.
Literary magazines at Evergreen have been ex travagant , leng t hy pro jects
n d usually p~t out by sn:all ~roups formed through the Art s Resource
~ent~r, whIch ~s no longer 10 eXIstence. In th e mid-70's a publicati o n called
JUeml-Urge which was a CPJ supplement bega n the literary ma gaz in e trend
~t Evergreen. Soon after Demi-Urge, the ARC produ ced Rainroo ts which
f,.vas a nice step up from Demi-Urge, in maga zi ne form with a staple binding
~nd bond paper. The fanciest Evergreen literar y publication , T etrahedron,
f,.vas produced in 1977 by Daniel Hathaway . It is the si ze of a paperbac k
~ith perfect binding and coated book paper which reproducl'd v is u ~ 1 images
I::
.,
~ell.
h- After a slight lull in literary magazine histo ry , Randy Hunt ing produ ced
I think it important th at College Literary maga l ines exist if for. no other
reason than to give 'students an outlet for their rage at the receptIOn gIven
their works iriCre-a tive Writing Classes. However, I do no.t think the so le
purpose of a magazine is to provide equal opportunit y . Anyone who
wishes to read both good a nd bad poetry need o nly turn to a ny Sunday
Supplement. Nor do I think a college ma gazine sho uld exist simply to prove
the editor has friends . All writing constitutes a radical act and therefore
must change the world of the people who read it. If stud en ts feel academic
or class standards inadequate or outdated, then it is th eir duty to articulate
standards fo r themsel ves and thei r contempora ries. I would like a ll student
magazines to proceed from a lively, ene rgeti c, brashy manifesto. Though
publication of a piece sho uld not be depend ent on cllmplete ag reement
w ith that manifesto , the magazine speci fi cal ly by statement o r ge nerally by
its choi ce of content sho uld teach something tll its camp us about
aesthetics, the quest for qu ality , and the lit era ry act. After all. Olympia
already has a Totem Tidings . After read ing sll ch a maga zine, I wou ld hope
th at eve n this middle-age literary dog wou ld have a few mo re parlour
tri cks, and many more literary recollec ti ons .
~ . "ldr..l Simtln . Ti g htr" I""
Ilfillium in 1980 with a group from the Arts Resource Ce nter. And a yea r
ater, Larry Stillwell , myself, and a group from the ARC produ ced Ti g ht Irope . Trillium was funded by the ARC budget. And Tightrope was fund ed
~y a grant from The Evergreen Foundation just like Mil lio ns of Ma r bles l.
trhese publications all meant to set a trend ; to become year ly or bi -yearl y
·oumals. But they pushed their budgets until they were dry a nd crea ted
IVery nice, one-time literary magazines .
Millions of Marbles is using a different app roach: it is a mo re modest
publication with less emphasis on being a fancy book . It is a n issue of the
CPJ that may hang around your house a little longer but still will eve ntually
~et tossed aside. But never fear! Next quarter there will be Millio ns of
Marbles IlL
. A !ittle over a year ago , I started working as an edi tor o f Ti gh tr o pe. I
was 10 charge of soliciting for art submissions. I went a ro u nd to qll the
classes and modules and explained that the publication would be" pr inti~g a ll
forms of black and white art, so people shou ld subm it. But the art su bmissions were slim. Some artists claimed tha t they were afraid to lea ve their
work with anyone. Others claimed their work wasn 't go od enough. And
most were worried about the reprodu cti o n quality of th eir wo rk. All these
are legitimate excuses not to submit work . But th e only way to ma ke th is
publication into a worthy rag is to support it .
. When I started work on Millions of Marbles L I repeated th e sam e
.:ourse, soliciting for submissions. I was pretty sa ti sfied with the a mo unt of
willing artists I found . But still MMI was dominated by p(H' tr y, just like
most college literary publications. I have nothing against poet ry but I a m
happy to be able to break the mold with th e a rt theme in Million s of
lMarbles II . This issue is dedicated to those who crea te images. It is un fortu Inate that I couldn't print your work o n nicer paper but I am ver y ha pp y to
[be able to print it at all.
I hope you like it.
1981
3
,
,
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Photo, anonymous, page 5
Constellations, John Bauman, page 5
Photo, Jacques Zimicki; page 6
The American Kid, Larry Stillwell, page 7
Drawing, Helen L. Horeth, page 11
Photos, Laura Jolicoeur, page 12
Wash, Mel Pratt, page 13
"Walt Says Hey," Photo, Gary Oberbillig, page 14
Contact, David Appleby, page 15
The Wonderful World of Willis, pages 16-17
Drawing, Helen L. Horeth, page 18
Back in Place, Steven Barnes, page 19
"Looking for Critters," Drawing, Lhisa Reish, page 20
Photos for The Seattle Aquarium, Laura Jolicoeur, page 21
Jamie Teaching Me To Hang Gear, Carol E. Butler, page 22
Photo, Mark Shumaker, page 23
Drawing, Resh, page 24
bus ride, Monique Dubois, page 25
Euclid Ave, C. Valentine, page 25
"The Kiss," Drawing, Sherry Buckner, page 25
Photo, Mark Shumaker, page 26
Photo, Abbo Peterson, page 27
Waking Up Dead, Tornbow, page 28
\
anonymous
CONSTELLATIONS
By /01111 Ballman
©
Copyright 1982
by individual contributors
Edited, Designed and Produced
by Carrie Gevirtz
Cover and back by Jacques Zimicki
Thanks to Randy Hunting and Larry Stillwell
for design and layout help
and Carrie Janes for advice on poetry editing.
The CP1 Arts Issue, March 12, 1982
.1
Many new students, if they 're
aware of the local constellations at
all, are confused by their significance .
They are not hard to discern, even if
you've never had them pointed out.
The next clear evening go out to Red
Square after twilight but before midnight. See that group of stars seemingly perched on the library overhang? That's the Machine-gun Nest.
Now look over the CAB for a sort of
box-shaped group, with two bright
stars to the left. That's the Tear Gas
Lobber. Also on the CAB, but out of
sight, is the Sniper.
Why these militaristic images? They
cannot be understood without examining a part of the wider mythic
system of the early days here at Evergreen. Have you ever noticed those
little brick boxes scattered around
LdlllpUS I 1 he original Evergreeners
con::.idered the::'l' to be the entrances
to the underworld . The traditional
Evergreen conception of Hades has so
much in common with other myths,
worldwide , as to be wonderful evidence for the existance of Jung's
"co ll ective unconsciousne ss." The
underworld here is the world of the
"s team tunnels, " broad concrete
passageways underneath the whole
campus, hot, 'and filled with liillowing
steam. If Dante were here today , he
would not lack for inspiration.
But the tunnels contained more
than mere vapors. Our predecessors
believed that if they violated the
limits ::.t:t by the gods, especially
collectively , a veritable army would
condense in the tunnels, and emerge
to put down the rebellion . This then
is whence come the nighttime terrorists on the roofs . From the unconscious mind via thl:' steam tunnel s.
Don 't think that these were mere
stories told to freshmen to make them
behave. This myth was believed by
much of the student body. And we
shouldn't scoff too loudly, the rules
against entering those brick boxes is
still on the books.
It's a pity that these early Evergreeners never tried to go beyond
their self-imposed limitations. They
never really tested their gods. Even
though they had a wonderful afterlife
myth, attainable through death or
graduation, they didn't want to go
there any sooner than they had to.
The tradition dates back to those
days that Evergreen is but a preparatory step on the road to paradise,
which is said to lie to the north,
about 70 miles north on 1-5. It's nice
to think that we all , past present and
future Evergreeners, will see each
o th er there .
5
THE AMERICAN' KID
B,II tarry Stillwell
~,~
The moon over the neon carny sat
pale and quiet in the black midnight
sky . Lights and music whirled up
from the rides and stands and dissipated over the lake . Terry swung in
the warmth and darkness at the top
of the Ferris wheel, watching the
bright, mechanical carny below him.
He saw the dark of the lake to the
left, dark that met the dark of the sky
and ringed this electric bubble. Dull,
square city-buildings sat fat and gray
on his right. In front of him, strings
of streetlights and car lights ran down
along the concrete arch of the old
Westside bridge. The green neon of
the revolving Tumbler shimmered in
the glass side of a bank.
He looked to see if she was there
yet; his vision swept and darted over
the whole expanse of rides, games,
,and foodstands, and all the families
and teenagers swarming in between
them . Near the base of the Ferriswheel they were giving out cigars and
little American and Confederate flags
to anyone who could swing a sledgehammer and ring the bell. Highschool
boys in team jackets and tractorhats
carried huge stuffedanimals over their
shoulders for highschool girls with big
breasts tucked into tight pink and
white cottonshirts and haltertops. But
he didn't see her. Good, he thought,
maybe she's not coming. That's it,
then. No more, Goodbye. He looked
down at the spectacle below him and
it seemed that some alien egg had
hatched here in the parking lot between downtown and the water and
given birth to this bright and bubbling,
but neatly-contained, neon mechanical
chaos . Terry figured he'd be glad to
get out of Olympia .
,
"1' .
..
I
The operator sent him around one
more time and brought him down.
Terry headed for the Round-Up, his
favorite ride, given the absence of a
rollercoaster . The Round-Up was a
big tub that spun around vertically
while the rider was held against the
side by centrifugal force . Terry
clipped the safety chain across his
,;"
narrow compartment, and waited for
the other compartments to fill up.
None of his friends would go on this
one with him; he'd told them he'd
find them later. The tub began to
spin and then tilt until it was spinning
almost at a right angle to the ground .
Terry found himself suddenly staring
almost straight down at his friends
for a moment before he was spun
around and to the bottom. The
familiar weight of gravity relaxed
him; he smiled up at the moon, and
in an instant was wrenched into the
air and staring down at his friends.
The sensation of not falling when his
body knew it should be rippped into
him like a chainsaw into a tree. He
shuddered and shook and then
laughed and couldn't stop laughing.
He spun around and around . At the
bottom of the swings he would relax
and grin to himself at the sensation of
the ride. Then before he could think
he would be flying without falling
above the crowd. And he would be
laughing and unable to stop.
The laughing exhausted him . Some
of his friends who had seen him
laughing decided they wanted to give
it a try after all. They flashed their ..
tickets and ran up the ramp. Terry
went with them but it wasn't as
exciting the second time and he didn't
laugh . His friends didn't laugh either.
They wondered why he'd been laughing so much . They were a combina- .
tion of scared and bored, Terry
thought. They didn't like it here
much, it was just an e'xcuse to be
with their dates.
Terry like the neon carny because,
even though it was pretty dull · and
commercially predictable, it was still
something like the old carnivals he
imagined to have existed not long ago
in America and Europe. It was still a
little romantic, but by that Terry
didn't mean the kind of romance his
friends were using it for. Stuffed
animal r0n:tance, Terry called that.
He liked the carny but he would have
liked it more if it had girlie shows
and whores and tough men who got
in fights, and if it had more of an
atmosphere of sex and violence in
general. Terry wasn't too experienced
in either of those particular human
aptitudes, nor did he seek them out
usually, but he wished he could come
to a carnival and give them a "try. Or
at least a look. This, though, was the
Jay Cee's carnival; it was very tame.
Terry was looking for excitement ,
anything out of the ordinary. Some
of the rides could thrill him for a
moment, but only for a moment. The
funhouse had a decent Hall of Mirrors
but that was all, it was a disappointment. The games were stupid and the
prizes not worth winning, the food
not much out of the ordinary. Terry
knew, of course, that this summer
parking-lot carny was the best he'd
get in Olympia and he made the most
of it. He threw himself into moments
of potential thrill like a drunk diving
into an argument. He left his friends
far behind in his seeming loss of
control.
As always, however, Terry was in
more control than they were. He
knew how to find what he wanted
here and how to get it. His friends
just drifted around semi-happily, too
stoned or too sophisticated, Terry
figured, to go on any of the scarier
rides. Or actually too scared. Like
him, they mainly walked around and
watched the crowd.
Terry was quite amused to see
many of his neighbors here, out for
their one weekend a year at this little,
portable amusement park. Terry liked
watching and thinking about the
people he knew, especially in unusual
situations like this. "These are the
American people," Terry thought, as
if trying to imprint their pictures on
his mind. He watched his friends drift
between the rows of stalls. 'These are
my friends," he thought to himself, as
if hoping to erase what he knew
about them by abstracting them into
examples of typical, modern, American folk.
Terry bought a foot-long hot dog
and slipped away from his friend s
7
I,ll
1,\, /1111 11
~
I
without saying anything. Squeezing
between two trailers set behind the
glare of the rides, he ate his hot dog
and walked quickly, face down, past
the stream of people still arriving for
their once-a-year thrill. Kids on bikes
with huge, lancelike cotton candies
chattered on the sidewalk behind
him. He didn't want to be seen by
anyone he knew ; he was catching' a
bus and leaving town and he didn't
want anyone to know .
He pulled his wallet from his right
front pocket and checked his bus
ticket one more time . Twelve-fifteen,
it said. He looked at his watch. It
was five past midnight. He had
already checked his pack at the
station for loading. He cut through
the dark downtown park to avoid
being seen and waited in the shadows
until his watch said ten past , then he
crossed the street and entered the
Greyhound station . He was t.oo
nervous to feel that all his precautions
were sillv ,
,
Twenty-eight hours later he was in
Denver. It was three-thirty in the
morning . He had been awake all the
first night and slept the next day until
early afternoon, then ridden across
the desert in five hours of late afternoon and early evening and seven
and a half of total darkness. He had
counted the hours, every one of them,
staring out of the window in that
curious reverie induced by the constant hum of motorized travel. He
had disembarked into the vacuum of
a big-city bus station. Once the
handful of riders from Salt Lake had
cleared out, Terry was pretty much
alone. He bought some coffee from a
machine, settled down in a chair in
the darkest corner he could find,
propped his feet up on his pack, and
fell asleep immediately .
It was eight-thirty when he awoke
and he figured he 'd wait awhile
before calling his brother. He was in
no rush to see anybody. He sipped
his cold coffee from its soggy cardboard cup and watched the bustle of
the bus station. They were announcing a bus for Washington, D.C. Some
tall, thin guy who looked to be about
thirty-seven or so, and who looked to
Terry like either a Congressman or a
real-estate agent, was asking at the
window if the bus went through
Cincinnati.
"Kansas City, St. Louis, Louisville
and Lexington," the man at the
window droned . "You can change
buses at either Louisville or Lexington," he said .
"Well, what I really want is Springfield, Illinois," the thin man said
tentatively .
"You want Chicago , then. Chicago,
Illinois. This here' s Washington .
Chicago is at five a.m ."
"I don't want to go to Chicago . I
want Washington, D.C. " The thin
man looked scared to death at the
idea of going to Chicago. Terry
turned away. He noticed that on the
wall schedule the bus to D.C. was
called "The Presidential ."
He pulled a worn and folded postcard from his back pocket , found his
pen in his T-shirt pocket, and stared
at the message he had written. "Dear
Sharon, did you get my note? I
waited until midnight. Please tell me
what you want, though I think I
know ." He crossed out the last
sentence . Then he wrote: "T.K. told
me at Lakefair . I'm in Denver now .
Don't know when I'll get back . to
Olympia . Pretty picture, huh? Your
friend, Terry." On the other side was
a picture of the Olympia Brewing
Company in Tumwater, Washington .
Terry checked the fixity of the stamp
and mailed the card.
He walked over to the station's
lunch counter and ordered a hamburger and coffee, browsing through
the short shelf of twenty-five cent
paperbacks with their covers torn off.
There were two copies of "None Dare
Call It Treason." When his order
came, he took it over to the pay
phones and called his brother's house .
His brother's wife, Anna, answered .
He told her where he was and she
said Tom would pick him up wAen he
got off work. Tom worked in a warehouse that put out bumperstickers
and stationery and such with cute,
risque messages . She said Tom would
probably pick him up about fivethirty.
"Are you sure you'd rather wait
there than take the bus?" she asked.
"Doesn't matter. I'm fine. See ya
later, Anna ."
"Okay, Terry. It'll be nice to meet
you ."
"Okay, bye ."
"Bye . Plan on having dinner here ."
"OK, bye ."
"Bye, Terry."
Terry hung the phone up and sat
wondering what his sister-in-law was
like . Tom had met her two years ago
when they were both stationed at
Fort Collins, just north of Denver.
She was twenty - three, Tom was
twenty-eight. They'd gotten married
last summer. Terry was twenty . He'd
never been out of the Northwest
before . He wondered if he would
think Anna was pretty. He always
liked Tom's girlfriends more than he
liked Tom , anyway. Maybe he'd go
to Washington, D.C., or Cincinnati.
He didn 't even know what state Cincinnati was in. Maybe he'd go to
New England or Florida . Any place
but Oly, that's what he figured.
Money would be a problem . Maybe
he could find some work here in
Denver. Shit, he thought, I haven't
even been outside yet. He went back
to his seat and hoisted his pack and
stepped out into the street. '
He was amazed at how low and
wide and open everything was . The
streets ran straight for miles , it
seemed . The buildings around him
were all low and flat. A ways off, he
could see a cluster of shiny , tall
buildings rising above the others, but
the rest of the city seemed low and
flat. Sunlight streamed down unrestricted . In one direction white-topped
mountain peaks framed the light blue
t,
I
I
sky; in the other a huge mass of
pure-white cumulus clouds towered
over the horizon.
The day was getting hot and it was
only nine-thirty . Up north it would
probably be cool and wet and the
clouds would be hanging much closer
to the ground, too close to see in
their real shape, so close that all they
did was make the day gray and
oppressive. And of course rain, it
rained all the time in Olympia. In
Denver, his brother said, it didn't rain
much at all, it was always dry and
sunny , and hot in the summer .
Olympia was a rain forest and
Denver was a desert. The desert
Terry thought, was just fine with him:
He wandered up and down a few
blocks, though, and was disappointed
and surprised to find not much of
interest in the shops and offices.
Everything seemed standardized, like
he'd seen it all before. The sun felt
good bu t the ci ty, this part at least,
seemed boring . He wandered around
for a few hours in first wider, then
narrower, circling of his starting
point. Bored and tired, he returned to
the bus station and had another
hamburger.
The American Kid was the name ut
a book that he read in the bus station
while waiting for his brother to pick
him up. There were these two guys
playing pinball and the one with
short hair had the book in his back
pocket and later he put it on the
other machine and Terry picked it up
and started' reading it. The guy whose
book it was said Terry could have it
if he wanted it. He was done with it
anyway, he said, and he didn't really
like it much and if Terry did then he
should keep it. The guy said he was
in the navy, stationed in San Diego,
and just passing through Denver,
which was where he was from
actually , near Denver anyway, and
he was waiting for a bus to Newport
News, Virginia, which wasn't going
to leave for a few hours, like ten. He
said, 'This here's my buddy from
school. He came down to hang out
with me while I'm waiting. Name's
Mike, my name's Steve. Keep the
book, brother . It's yours ."
Terry said thanks and wondered if
they were going to hang out in the
bus station for the whole ten hours
and wondered didn 't Steve have any
other friends or family to see while he
was in Denver, but he didn 't feel
much like talking so he went off to
read . "Take it easy, " Steve said.
"Yeah, take it easy ," Terry said.
The Am~rican Kid was a cowboy
who lived in Texas when it was an
independent republic and being fought
over by Mexico and the United
States. He fought for the Americans
under Sam Houston but was courtmartialled before the battle of the
Alamo because of the false testimony
of an old friend who was an officer
from the same town in Texas as the
Kid and who was in love with the
Kid 's sweetheart. After that, the
officer felt too guilty to let the Kid
die , so he helped him escape to
Mex ico . Actually, it was in Mexico
that he got the name The American
Kid when he took to robbing rich
Americans.
The American Kid was a very bitter
person . The Mexicans were after him
?ecause he was an outlaw and especIally because he'd fought against them
in the war , The Americans wanted
him back for treason; his "friend" the
officer , who had avoided the battle at
the Alamo which had wiped out their
company, had had second thoughts
about letting him live, so he volunteered to bring him back dead or alive
and was deputized . The book spent
considerable space chronicling the
bad guy chasing the good guy all
over Mexico, with help from the
Mexican army who, lucky for the
Kid, were less than enthusiastic about
this U. S. officer trying to capture a
criminal in their territory .
Finally the Kid learns who set him
up for the court-martial and he slips
bac k into Texas to trap him . Hiding
frnm the local law but leading his
pursuer on , the Kid sets it up so that,
drunk and overconfident and seeing
he has the Kid trapped helpless without his guns, the deputized officer
admits to his lies and boasts about it.
The Kid has his old girlfriend, now
his pursuer's wife, hidden in the next
room, She reveals herself , her
hu sband tries to kill them both , the
Kid dodges the shots and socks him
in the jaw, the woman testifies in
court , the Kid is cleared, and the real
villain is sent to jail .
It was a simple book but there was
something Terry liked about it. He
particularly liked the part near the
end when the woman told the Kid she
had always loved him but she couldn't
love him when she'd thought he was
a traitor but now she did again and
the Kid just said screw you, or words
'to that effect, and rode off into the
sunset. Screw you, that's right, Terry
thought. Screw you , Sharon. Terry
identified with the Kid , who was
brokenhearted and bitter and lonely,
but tough . He wondered how the rest
of the Kid's life went after he left his
hometown for good. He thought the
Kid was pretty smart to set the kind
of trap he did and get away with it
and to always stay one step ahead of
everybody else . He wondered if the
Kid would keep on committing crimes
or go straight. He decided it didn't
matter, really, but he continued to
wonder about it even after his brother
picked him up at seven-thirty.
Terry was sitting at the lunch
counter drinking coffee when his
older brother Tom came into the bus
station. He was on his third hamburger of the day. He saw his brother
come in the door at the other end of
the waiting room and look for him in
the crowd . The station was very
busy. Terry acted like he didn't see
Tom. Tom finally saw him. He came
over and leaned his rear on the next
stool.
"Hey , Terry."
"Hi, Tom . What's happenin'?"
"Oh, not much. You alone?" Tom
looked around.
"Yeah, I'm alone."
B
9
") thought maybe that girl'd be
wit h ya."
"What girl?"
"Oh, what's her name. You know."
"Well, she's not with me. I came
. I,l wn on the bus."
" Yeah, I can see that. "
"Okay, if I stay a few days, maybe
,-J couple of weeks?"
"What're ya doin' here, Terry?"
" 1 don't know, I just had to get
away , I guess. Bussin' tables sucks.
I'm thinkin' of maybe goin' east,
maybe Florida. Maybe New England.
Pick fruit or something."
"Mom knows you're here?" It was
a question skeptically assuming an
affirmative reply.
"Uhh, no. I figured I call her from
you r place."
.
"S hit, Terry , she ' s gonna be
worried."
'Tm a big boy, Tom. I'm twenty
years old, remember? What's Mom
think, I'm gonna stay in Olympia the
rest of my life?"
Tom looked impatient. "That's not
th e point, buddyboy."
"Look, Tom, don't give me a hard
time . I can go somewhere else, if you
want."
T here was a long pause while the
two brothers eyed each other. Tom
stood up. "You ready?" he asked
finally.
"Yeah, let's go," his brother
answered.
"Let 's go," Tom agreed. Terry
grabbed his pack and they headed
across the waitingroom.
"Tom."
"Yeah."
"Okay, if I stay for awhile?"
"I don't know, Terry . Depends on
Anna. We're not too used to having
visitors. A friend of mine from the
Air Force dropped in last winter and
stayed over a month . It was terrible .
He and Anna didn't get along at all.
I had to keep them apart. You can
stay a little while, anyway."
"How long's a little while, Tom? A
day? A week?"
"I don't know, Terry, we'll have to
10
see. " Tom pushed the door open and
. Terry stepped through with his pack,
out onto the sidewalk . There was still
light in the sky. The night was warm.
'The weather- here -i~- great," Terry
said.
T om was fumbling for his car keys
and didn 't hear him . "I mean, shit.
You should be able to stay, you're
my brother. " He clicked the lock and
opened the door, turning to take
Terry's pack . " I mean, I don't even
know if you can stay or not but shit,
you're my only fuckin' brother. "
Terry handed him his pack and
together they pushed it into the back
seat. Terry started around for the
passenger's side of the car.
"Yeah," he said, leaning on the car
and waiting while his brother slid in
and reached to unlock his door.
"Yeah, I know. "
Screw you, screw you , screw you,
screw you . That's what he'd tell her if
she ever wanted him back . Screw you
twice, screw you good. Screw you in
Tacoma, that's what the Kid . would
have told her. Or some such words to
that effect. 'Course, she never would
want him back, there was no mistaking that.
Terry was on his second "'Ihiskey,
Tom was on his second beer. The sun
had gone down and they were
huddled over a red glass, fish-netted
candle at Tom 's favorite bar . It was
nine-fifteen. Tom had called home a
half-hour earlier and told Anna to
put their dinners back in the oven.
With their third round they ordered
nachos. Terry's thoughts wobbled
more and more drunkenly between
Sharon, the American Kid, and Tom.
Tom was telling him about Anna. He
told Terry what Anna's hobbies
were : birdwatching and rug hooking.
Terry downed his whiskey and took a
long draw off Tom's beer. He ordered
another round. Tom told him about
sailing on a lake. Terry thought of
the American Kid on the lam in
Mexico. He thought of the thin man
at the bus station who was scared of
Chicago . He thought of Sharon and
he almost started crying. Tom said
they didn't know if Anna could have
children or not .
Three hours, five whiskeys, and
five beers later they were on their
way home. They drove through dark
streets without speaking. Terry got
. lost in the maze of right angles. They
passed block after block of mediumsized suburban homes. Terry was falling asleep, his brother was opening
his car door for him , leading him up
the walk, opening the front door.
"Shhshh," he whispered. Terry remembered being handed blankets and
a pillow. He woke up in the dark
holding them on his lap, sitting halfundressed on the couch . Moonlight
came in through the picture window .
He undressed and sp'read the blankets
out on the couch, then stepped
quietly out onto the lawn, easing the
aluminum door shut behind him.
The air was warm and dry on his
skin. He wondered if he'd ever felt so
comfortable. The grass under his feet
was cool like paper. He could hear a
lawn sprinkler gurgling and whooshing not far away. He rubbed himself
and stretched; it felt great to be outdoors and naked in the middle of the
night in Denver , Colorado. A sky of
stars and blackness stretched taut
over the neighborhood .
He lay down in the cover of a
wide-hanging elm, lay on his back
and rubbed himself and thought of
Sharon, thought of how she'd looked
and felt and what she'd said , imagined her there before him , imagined
her rubbing him, imagined himself
begging for love . The American Kid,
she said, I'm in love with the American Kid . I am the Kid, he said, I am
the American Kid. You're not, she
said, you are not the American Kid .
The next thing he knew it was dawn .
WASH
By Mel Pratt
Third Date
Second Date
Steven Moore
Untitled '
Lulu is an adaptation of sex, art,
society, with all the internal problt'ms
intact.
Her verbal language is syncopated
with a narrow spectrum of body
language.
Instead of being a famed free-form
dancer, she lives in a seedy, stucco
motel outside of Phoenix.
Allan Carbone is her lover-not
her only lover. Not her friend. Just a
lover.
It isn't known what Allan does or
where he lives. He just shows up at
the right time every time. Lulu would
like that if she liked anything, but she
doesn't like anything.
Liking anything is too much of a
let-down when the thing isn't there to
like anymore. Liking is self-consuming.
Lulu's exterior is punk. It tells the
world to go to hell.
Not all of the world goes to hell.
Lulu attracts other birds of her spikeddyed hair, and SIM fashion. They tell
the rest of the world to go to hell.
Sometime the day before, an elderly
woman with wrapped legs, carrying a
shopping bag looked at Lulu.
The metro driver doesn't display
any emotion when Lulu boards the
hus .
As she moves along the aisle trying
to find a place to sit her ass, people
move their parcels to the empty seat
next to them . .. except for the pimply
young man in the plaid short-sleeve
shirt and the khaki pants. He would
enjoy losing his virginity to such an
exotic bird.
To Lulu enjoyment is prosaic. Enjoyment is a manifestation of exhausted emotions. Lulu has developed
a new form that minimizes the fluctuations of brainwaves.
Lulu's lips look like blood~rolled
mountains, and her shoulders hollow
like moonscapes. These zoom shots
portray her as a vehicle for artistic
re-interpretation and not a real
human being.
The second type of projections are
tiny black-and-white contact sheets:
(FLASHED IN GROUPS OF TEN TO
THIRTY)
Lulu's body in poster girl poses
from Dietrich to Grable, and back to
Pickford.
These shots use her as a mythological sex symbol and not a real
human being.
The scene snaps shut against a
spider shadows of Lulu and Carbone
behind the movie screen. He curls to
her back, kissing her nape: the object
of the portrait that will make him
famous.
Carbone, playing blind Oedipus,
begs for a change. She mixes him a
drink, cran-apple and gin . .. her
empty hands filled with the taped
echoes of cracked ice and fizzled
pouring, like a Fresca commercial.
Like a circuit preacher, he blasphemes her nouveau richedom (and
grabs a few of her Jacksons).
Tired of that game, they begin
another .
Though he verbally assaults her,
his intonations and gestures are a
cunt tease.
He implores/ demands: "You've got
to stop seeing me." (echo machine
reverb)
And the movie screen takes over.
Black and white slide bleeds (like an
Ida Lupino movie) dwarf the live performers, obscure their vows. Their
lies.
In a questionable motel, a pouting
Lulu lies nude on a bed, a telephone
pressed to a breast. Johnson Miller
knocks at the door .
Lulu opens the door. Johnson gives
Lulu the Bogart once over and rivets
his eyes to her dght leg.
Johnson wears a prosthetic device,
strapped to a right stump, all that
remains of a leg that was knocked off
when he took a solid shot from the
outside linebacker in the 1979 Orange
Bowl game.
Lulu would laugh at him, but
cruelties aren't cruel enough for
effect / response.
Lulu kneels and caresses his device
with gentleness.
Johnson tries to kneel, loses his
balance, falls beside lulu.
Real people become insignificant
compared to their fantasies.
Their fantasies grow to direct their
actuality.
Johnson presents a non-distorted
image of handicappedness to Lulu.
She accepted it as a gift.
She told him that it didn't mean
that she had any attachments to him.
They went to bed ... without any
feeling on either's part. They slept
through half the night, woke up,
fornicated, went back to sleep.
Lulu wakes up at four in the afternoon, yells at Johnson to strap on his
device and to get the hell out, that
she wants to be alone.
Johnson stumbles through a tai chi
form outdoors on the asphalt. Animal
poses. Mantric breathing. Formalized
instinct. He seeks self containment
from the fact: Lulu is not his Vestal
Virgin.
His perfect poses perfect his
narcissism.
lulu takes a stool at the bar. The
barkeep asks to see her identification.
She replies with a frozen glare and a
state liquor card.
Banko Eddy takes a stool beside
lulu, orders a paint thinner and a
book of matches, which he chugs
down with flames rolling up the front
of his face . .. calls it his Al Jolson
impersonation : . . claims to have
impersonation . .. claims to have
played Reno for three weeks, until he
went into the hospital for skin grafts.
Banko wants to be lulu's agent for
a part in a punk review that he claims
will tour Europe. She would groom a
troupe of dancing Boston terriers - on
stage.
No deal. No crap ping dogs.
lulu walks along the street, persperation dampening her underarms I
her eye makeup running. She stops
under a sour orange tree.
Untitled
13
CONTACT
By Da7.'id Applehy
North Third Street, a one-way
street, contains the bowery red-light
district, beginning one block past the
Wiliiam Penn Art Museum and ending at Progress Avenue. It also contained me. It seemed a splendid place
to live after dropping out of college
and breaking off a marita l engagement. I simplified my life. I walked to
work where I loaded and unloaded
tractor trailers for eight ho urs a day .
I paid fifty doUars a mo nth for rent
(including heat) , and co uld always
find a neighb or who would buy me
beer, since I was only twenty years
old . 'This is what grea t writers,
poets, and playwrights portray," I
thought to myself as I sipped beer
and watched thre e winos kicking
George , a fellow wino who curled
into the fetal position. I guess they
wanted so mething from him. I never
bothered stopping them because the
next day , I kn ew I co uld find bruised
and beaten George suckin g o ne o f
the other's cocks in an aba nd o ned shoe
store doorw ay. I'd see n thi s cycl e
repeat itself twice befo re . '"T hey must
know what they want or th ey
wouldn 't survive , '" I a ft en th o ught. I
spent more energy igno rin g th ose four
guys than thinkin g about them . They
smiled more than I did. When th ey
weren't fightin g, they were smiling.
"Walt Says Hey", Gary OberbilliJ{
14
From Jat f' May t l ' ea rl y Uuubt'J,
spent most of my idle ho urs drinking
beer on the fr o nt steps of m y apart ment building. I even bought a pair
of Photosun p rescripti o n glasses, so I
could stare without mak in g eye-to-eye
contact. On this stree t, eye con tac t
meant you wanted eith er a fight
and / or so me mo ney. Before r ow ned
the Photosuns I sta red a t a hoa ry
woman . She cradled a doll baby and
hurried across the street. I sm iled and
met her glance. She stopped abruptly
and yelled , "What the hell do yo u
want?" That questio n startled me . J
said no thing for fear of a further confrontation. Truthfully , I had n o
answer for this e nra ged woman
clutching her doll . I hun g my head
hoping she'd leave me a lone. Her
overt affection for a piece of plastic
frightened me . "How could she
possibly settle for a doIl?" I wondered. She vanished into a crowd
waiting for a bus. I got up, dashed
inside to fix a meal, grabbed another
beer, and tried to answer the doll
lady's question .
I was well into the case of beer I
had started during George's beating
that morning . There were more
empty bottles than full ones. There
wasn't much time left to come up
with an answer. "Christ , what do I
want?" I said out loud, as I leaned
o ver to turn ' up the volume on the
stereo . 'The drunks love and beat
each other, and the old lady loves a
doll. All I do is work, drink beer,
and watch. I'm tired of just watching ."
The phone rang. My little brother
answered my "hello" with , "Hey,
what's up bra?" He's only two years
younger and resents me when I introduce him as my "little brother,"
" What do you want Ricky?" I
chuckled. Ricky wanted to "party" at
my place, and if it was "cool " with
me, to let him and his girlfriend,
Mary, sleep together in my living
room. I said it was fine with me as
lo ng as he bro ught a case of beer.
When Ricky and Mary arrived , it
was clear th e sooner I left the living
room , the happier they'd be . "Look
Ric ky ," I said, trying not to let on I
that Mary was making me just as
horny as she and Ricky were, 'Tm
go ing out for so me cigarettes. It may
take a while so feel free to use my
bedroom for the night." Ricky gave
me a gra teful nod and Mary blushed
a nd sa id, 'Thanks a lot, Dave."
" Now they ' re two people who
know what they wantl " I thought as
I headed down the apartment hall.
When I reached the street, I thought,
'"A little affection would be nice ." I'd
bee n to college, I can settle for better
than what the winos .and doll lady
have. Suddently I knew the answer to
the doll lady's question. I felt like a
kid running away from home . I didn't
bother with the details about how or
where, I just knew I wanted to find
a hooker.
Armed with four bottles of Miller
High Life, cigarett es, Photosuns, and
a twenty dollar bill , I too k my place
on the front step s a nd waited . My
hands perspired . The first hooker
strolling towards m e looked exquisit<,.
So exquisite I forgot to say anything .
I just stared. My hea rt started hI
pound when she paused a few yards
past th e steps a nd lit a cigarette. "Hi
there," I squ eaked. It was too laU'
now . I was committed. "Got a ligh t,"
asked, makin g sure my matc he,
w~re out o f sight. She didn 't say anyhIng, she slowly walked over, put
her hig h-heeled shoe on the step
lea ned forward and struck her li ght er .
I was tremblin g. "How much?, " 1
asked . She s tr aig htened up and
looked me over. "How old are you?"
she said, with a g rin . "Almost twen tyone, not too o ld I hope," I sa id trying
t o understand why age matter ed .
"Are you a cop?" she said, looking
serious. I laughed a genuine laugh,
which relaxed me . I hadn 't laughed
fro m the gut fo r a whil e. Before I
could say anything else to he r, a
cream-colo red cad ill ac pulled over to
the side of th e curb. "How much?"
said a deep male voice from inside
the car. The ho oke r spun around ,
eyed th e shin y cadill ac and adjusted
her low-c ut dress a nd sa id , "That a ll
depend s on what yo u want honey ."
"Get in, " sa id the voice in a deliberat<'
tone. When she and th e cadillac
pulled away I looked across the street
just in tim e to see the last car leav e
an empty parking lo t .
"That bitch th inks she too good 1\,
yo," said a slurred voi ce from ti l<
doorway of th e apartment. It was thl'
wino, George . "Hey m.:t,. man, you
like wine?" he said, showing me a
large green jug of Gallo . I told him,
''I've got a whole case of beer George,
and you 're welcome to help me drink
it if you promise not to grab my dick
o r anything. "
"I won't pull no thin man," he said.
George and I drank until all the beer
was gone. We laughed about the doll
lady and snickered about Ricky and
Mary . We lo oked each other in
the eye.
""J
15
BACK IN PLACE
By Steven Barnes
Where you used to sleep in my room:
I've changed the face of that.
Some of my most delicate tools,
the jeweler's pliers, screwdrivers, probers ,
lie there in disarray .
They sit around that lovely old clock radio
that classic thing ;
well, we've opened it up , scattered bits about ,
because she finally stopped working;
it 's funny about that clockwork.
The radio never was clear or loud, but
the clock stayed true so long,
until that fateful week .
I've saved all the little pieces
the shell, the numbers, and those hands,
yet for all the new things I put inside,
oh, they will spiff her up,
but she'll be that nostalgic , maroon splendor again ,
my piece of the ages .
At the heart , a generation o lder ,
on the surface the same,
maybe scratched a little deeper.
None the worse for wear ,
and Back in place on my shelf ;
we'll watch the movement and hear those songs ,
and welcome th e goo d thin g home .
photos by Laura Jolicoeur for The Seattle Aquarium
Lhi,sa Reish
"Looking for Critters or the Crawdad that Ate Sea- Tac Airport"
JAMIE TEACHING ME TO HANG GEAR
By Carol E. Butler
The adventure begins
nets are hung slowly
knots are tied, strength pulled and squeezed into the web
our fingers blister, aching for protective callouses
magic marker lines mark
the crucial lengths
the knots will snare mass schools of unsuspecting fish
that 's the plan he tells me
we take turns for our backs and music changes
in an effort to .relieve
the tension of steady rhythm
my fingers twist incoherently
desperate to dance
to the tune of generations we imagine
windblown women on a pebbly beach
wrinkled as the surface of the sea
and endless
harboring as it does
the s ubstance of their lives
hours float by us , measured
intent like we are to be on with it
bus ride
EUCLID AVE
By Monique Dubois
By C. Valentine
I was walking on Euclid Avenue
the street lined with shade trees,
the maples that followed the elms
that blight destroyed
Past grandfather's store where
credit slips gathered dust
in the register drawer.
Past Saint George's church
murmuring a penance,
a prayer for the dead.
Past the pear tree where you
gathered windblows in your hands
and sighed at the many fallen.
Past a face angled like yours,
a body that moved like yours,
but turning revealed a stranger.
I was walking on Euclid Avenue
while the city held its breath.
at the bus stop was
a traffic guard
he had the softest ripples
in his face
and a hand like a woman's
and the wind tickled through
your fingers and made my nipples hard
i boarded the bus
and the driver slipped your tongue
behind my ear
as she glanced at my pass
in the back of the bus
a pair of wing~tipped shoes
polished and glaring
reflected your eyes
behind glasses
the bus rolled home
and i slid into every hill
and hump of the
freckled upholstery that
was your body
!
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25
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WAKING UP DEAD: FRAGMENTS
OF A DREAM KNOWLEDGE
By Tornbow
In a sing song voice:
So, I am a corpse and you are too.
Maybe you are more animated than I
am, the way your eyes scan the print.
Isn't it a shame? No word could ever
reach you . You have been buried too
deeply .
Sometimes you sit in some American restaurant, spoonfeeding your
cadaver's wormy mouth , which opens
and closes like a manhole cover . Your
flesh must feel like a shot of novacaine. Numb like rubber. Sometimes
the fork you poke misses the cavern
of your mouth and strikes your teeth,
chipping bits of them away, and
sometimes the tines of the fork pierce
your lips, and imbed little pieces of
your supper inside the pores of your
skin. But no matter! You've been
dead for so long that there is really
no difference whatsoever between
these greasy food particles that you
collect with every prick of the fork,
and the other parts of your body,
that seem to move and twitch and
otherwise give the illusion of living
tissues as you now apply salt and
pepper to your hamburger bun.
Oh Lord! You have that sullen
tomb-like air that hovers about you
like a dense unpenetrable fog. I wish
you could see yourself! Monster! I'll
bet each morning you consume
dozens of chemical preservatives,
cramming the gelatin capsules down
inside your mummy body so that it
might not become unraveled or disjointed during the corpse of your day .
Wouldn't it be funny though if you
just started falling apart around lunch
time, no not lunch time, that's your
favorite time of the day! God how
the dead love to eat! Just look at you
now! Those movements you are
making with your jaw are loathesome! I would prefer to watch a
mantis gorge herself on the body of
her husband!
How is your body today I wonder?
How is your corpse? And how is that
cesspool you call your mind? I see it
overflowing like an open sewer-hole,
running down your face! It looks like
coffee! Quick! Lick it! Before the
28
waitress happens by! But of course
your tongue is incapable of tasting it
unless you pour copious amounts of
red ketchup into it. The red ketchup
that now flows through your veins!
>'The red ketchup that is now your
only blood! That's you alright! Stale
sugared tomatoes, watered down
coffee, worms and maggots. Eyes that
have been grafted into the dead
sockets of your skull. Eyes that are
only capable of regi s ter ing daily
newspaper copy. No wonder words
can't reach you! You are buried so
deeply!
Sometimes your dead body tricks
you and falls limply into your platter
of food. You breathe soup up into
your nostrils . Don't let the waitress
catch you like that! Wake up! Get up
out of there! But you don't hear me .
You are dead to
the world. You in- .
.
se nsate creation! How does it feel to
be at one with the dirt? Does it hurt?
I'll bet not. Not enough to make you
smile! Oh, but please! Don't try to
smile! Don't ever do that! It would be
so false, so iJtterly horrible! Some of
your teeth look darkened like the
sharp keys of the piano. When you
display them to me in that manner,
you only flash to me your deepest
secret. Yes! Your innermost secret is
made apparent. You are truly among
the dead!
My god you are dead! Do you
know it? But of course you do! It is
our little secret isn' t it? What would
the waitress say, if she were to know .
She is already dead-beat exhausted
from carrying around those stacks of
heavy china dishes. You'd think she
was a weight-lifter, getting ready for
the Olympics, the ways she manages
to pile up so many dishes on her
arms. And now, as she stoops to pull
your face .from out of your dinner,
where it has fallen, and as she wipes
the mustard and ketchup from your
nose and lips, and watches in ho rror
as a stream of soup flow s from Y0ur
nostrils, perhaps she ha s a lready
guessed your secret! You have layed
there so long without moving! Without breathing!
Certainly she is about to telephone
for an ambulance. Quick, quick! You
know she likes the color of your
money! . Green just like the moss that
grows between your toes. Dark cream
green, almost like the color of your
rot ting flesh. There it is! Your fat
wallet! Just in the nick of time. Now
if you can manage to make it out the
door in time perhaps you can avoid
another embarrassing incident. Hey!
Do you remember the time you
walked around the city streets in
nothing but your pajamas? With your
arms outstretched like a stereotype
sleepwalker? Everyone thought you
were pretending! Local television
crews were dispatched to interview
you. Your face appeared on the six
o'clock news.
If anyone really bothered to look,
they too would have known your
secret! The truth would have slapped
their faces like a cold cut of roast
beef, leaving dark blood-stains and a
humming sting on their cheeks. It was
rather obvious that you were dead!
When the newsmen pushed their
microphones towards you, everyone
could plainly hear the things you had
to say. You were reciting the current
New York Stock Exchan,ge rate!
Listen! Can I ask you a question?
How many thanksgiving meals did it
take to make your body all cold and
bumpy like a turkey's skin? How '"
many ' toilet seats have you unfolded
your hams upon throughout the
centuries, conspiring to create a little
fecal matter? It never seems to come
does it? Why, I'll bet it's been more
than a hundred years since you were
able to do something like that! I
ima g ine your intestines have all
shri v~lled up! Your guts are useless.
Your body absorbs everything, like a
fungus. You're just like a bloated
spo nge! Why, you're a black hole in
space, that's what you are! God! And
what a musty smell you produce!
Like the meat cooler at Safeway. Like
an open unmarked grave! Like old
fishing tackle encrusted with rotting
bait! Like the downstairs foyer of the
county courthouse building!
I like your conversation too! It
consists of meaningless cliches, like:
Have a nice day. Okay I will thank
you. How are you today? I'm fine
thank you. The weather is a little
chilly. Oh I hadn't noticed. My
you're looking well today. Oh thank
you! The Sonics seem to be doing
well this year! Oh my goodness how
nice . Should we form a queue here?
Oh look at the darling bedroom set! I
could sleep forever on a mattress like
that! But of course, forever is a figure
of speech.
And how about the time that
Greenlake froze over, when you were
out doing the dead man's float, on
your back, looking up into the urine
yellow holes of the heavens? How
were you to know it was the middle
of the night? How were you to know
it was the middle of the Winter? In
the morning the ice was more than
four inches thick, and people came
out to walk upon it, and to don ice
skates, and swish and tumble and
throw rocks about, and when they
walked out towards the middle of the
lake, they were quite shocked when
they looked down and saw your dead
face staring up at them from beneath
the thick translucent layer of green ice.
It looked as though you were
downtown, peering into a department
store window. Looking at your reflection in some manikin. They laughed
for the longest time to while away
their horror, and then some enterprising child suggested that they dig
you out, so everyone began chipping
away with ice picks and garden
spades and tablespoons. Weren't they
a little astonished, after your great ice
cube had melted away, when you got
up and brushed off your blue body,
and walked off across the frozen lake
in your plastic flippers, so nonchalantly, flip-flopping your way towards
your tomb of a home on Woodlawn
Avenue? Why, they couldn't believe
their eyes! They were convinced that
they had either witnessed a miracle,
or ' were suffering from mass hypnosis!
To comfort themselves they im-
---
mediately went home and watched
eight full hours of color television.
Some of the more sensitive souls had
to sedate themselves with several gal-Ions of chocolate ice cream before
retiring to their graveyard beds.
Others simply turned up their electric
blankets so that they would not have
to experience the full force of the chill
which threatened to numb their
sk ulls, freeze their thoughts so they
can't get your image out of their
minds; your horrible complexion,
and your thin pencil line smile, as
you strolled across the frozen surface
of the lake, with your superior manner, so superior to them in the fact
that all day long they had been
troubled by the suspicion that the ice
was not quite thick enough to actually
walk upon, and they were haunted
~y the fascinating possibility that
they might fall through and drown.
Whereas you, you had emerged from
your cold storage death and walked
away, smiling.
-
-
ALL WA~. TIIAtfEL SEIItIICE, IIIC~
"So pot.DeJfulls ...Hy'. light
that It can lUumlne the
whole earth. "
the Bah8'iFaith.
Fa,. In/ormation Call:
357-8()80
866-2024
WESTSIDE SHO~~ING CENTER
OLYMPIA . WASHINGTON
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EDUCATIONAL CENTER
Sine. 1931
For informalia,l.: P,. ••! Call:
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843-8701
843.8700
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Real Food
Lunch arid Dinner Special Too!
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green peppers, onions
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Piranhas' Omelette ..
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sausage, feta cheese,
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garlic bread
lasagne (meatllll) .
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grllleG . fr"ncl: fries
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11 i N. Columbia
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~~
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Ni~ - DA YTONA- DIPLOMAT -
M-Th 10 a.m. to 8 p.m.
Fri 10 to 10
Sat10to6
Closed Sundays
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6th ANNUAL SPRING SALE
Seattle 324-7433 or (800) 227-4766 toll free
Up to 60% Off on Selected Items
Storewide Clearance on All Winter Skiing Equipment
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FLEETWOOD TRACTION
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MOTOR SUPPLY.
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943-3650
Open 7 days a week
. 8a.m. - 8p.rn.
Reg .
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Sal e
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Sale
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25-30 % Off
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