Metaphor, Weber State University’s interdisciplinary journal, is published each spring semester, giving voice to the creative community on campus for twenty-five years. Metaphor is staffed entirely by WSU students. Funding for the journal comes primarily from student fees. Metaphor is distributed free of charge. Copyright © 2006 by individual authors, artists and composers. Printed in the United States of America by Weber State University Printing Services. ••• Metaphor 1201 University Circle Ogden, UT 84401-1201 Visit us on the web: www.weber.edu/metaphor metaphor@weber.edu Metaphor accepts submissions in art, poetry, fiction, academic literature and music from students of Weber State University and students who submit to the National Undergraduate Literature Conference. Metaphor uses a blind submission process. The author of each piece is unknown until that piece is chosen for publication. Cover Design by Beau James Burgess. Metaphor VOLUME XXV · 2006 Weber State University Ogden, Utah Contents x Editor’s Notes xi Acknowledgements POETRY 13 Shannon Masayo Martinez February 15, 2005 14 Halbert Pete Desert Geisha 16 Patrick Bukowski Stickfigure Sketches In Scientific Cartoons Misanthropic Volition 18 Tyler Chadwick Fruit 21 Mark Scovel The Trick Rake Crust 24 Wendy Franklin The Orange Sellers 25 Whitney Diane Lomax A Paper Cut Mary Oliver Left Me With 26 G. Cory Duclos sT pATRICKS dAY 28 Trenton M. Judson The Restless Path The Mourning Of Morning 30 Adrian Stumpp The F Word . . . Dig 33 Ryan Sherman Anesthetic 34 Mario Chard Finale 35 Robert Goodwin Modern Japanese Painting Light Shift MUSIC 39 Susan C. Spendlove March Fun 43 Robert Barney Classical Peace N•U•L•C 45 Ashley Weaver Complexity In Wordsworth’s Short Poems 51 James Best To My Younger Sister . . . 54 Crystal Millien Before We Took Shots 56 Sheila M. Fuentes On My Mother . . . 59 Amanda Hansen Soap VISUAL ARTS 65 Jason LaMont Staley Untitled 66 Matt Glass Examples Of Absurdity 68 Julia Zimmer Untitled 69 Jaqui Iannone Jackie O 70 Leah Wadman Untitled 70 Danielle Wilcox Untitled Untitled 72 Kirsten Atkin Leaf Lady 73 Alicia Konzen Nite Lites 74 Michael J. Cronen Shedding Years Suburbia On The March 75 Andy Chase Ragtime Piano 76 Katie Christiansen Untitled 77 Erin Christopher Process 78 Jim Godwin Liquid Lady 79 Chaise Payan Motivation 80 Tim Odland That Sound ACADEMIC LITERATURE 82 Tyler Chadwick Beyond Commodification . . . 87 Dave Petersen Chile: A Vibrant Democracy? 92 Kimberly Clarke For The Love Of Quilts CREATIVE WRITING 97 Adrian Stumpp How The Devil Saved Miss Colorado . . . 102 Tirsea McNeal Soup Kitchens Sawtooth Wolves 111 J Marko Zivkovic A Track About Rushing The Floor 118 Brad T. Marden A Letter Not Written 124 Robert Oliver The Artist 128 Ryan Sherman Timeworn 132 Russ Adams Lullaby 137 Brenna Carrigan Kimber Traveling Me XXV SILVER EDITION 142 Sundy Watanabe Some Blue Rodeo: 1968-1975 You Never Know 146 Linda Larsen Tides 147 Stephanie Ridge Lullaby 148 Melissa Buxton Stones On The Desert 149 Schaun Wheeler Regarding The University . . . 152 Gavin Harper Remembrance Of Things Present 156 XXV Silver Edition Contributors Editor’s Notes This is the 25th issue of Metaphor—in itself this is more than unique, it is strange. For an undergraduate journal to publish on campus for twenty-five years, there must be more than talent. It is this unidentifiably strange component that has brought Metaphor to press each year. It is something like an unspoken solidarity, which undoubtedly goes root-deep. This is more than success. It is evidence that there are individual artists, writers, and composers on campus who also interconnect in a creative community. It is this community that matters. Metaphor provides the opportunity to publish music, art and academic literature (along with the traditional poetry and prose), pulling together creative artists from all disciplines and departments, year after year, to share a single venue. These same artists supply Metaphor with the material to create one of the best undergraduate journals in the country. This is evidence of our community’s dogged vitality. The writers, artists, and composers on campus today are extending this community forward. But they owe much to past students who created its foundations, just as this year’s staff owe our place in the community to past staff members. Because of this we have included a twenty-fifth edition section. Included in this section is the current creative work of past staff members. We feel that this section is a reminder to all artists on campus that the support and attention they now automatically have was hard won by past students. Their pieces, juxtaposed against Weber State’s current students, provide a rare perspective into the paths and directions of creative people. The lifespan of an undergraduate journal is often less than five years, only to resurrect under a different name. This brings into question whether an artistic community is a common element on any campus. As sobering as that sounds, it is this fact which propels the energy and optimism required for any journal to continue. Metaphor has sustained this energy for twentyfive years. We welcome you to participate in this unique edition, deciding x for yourself if this community is real. • Editor-in-Chief Tyler K Telford • Assistant Editor Kyle Charlesworth Acknowledgements This issue of Metaphor is finished, obviously. Not so obvious, our staff has risked their sanity, health and reproductive capabilities to publish this volume. Metaphor’s staff, together with the creative energies of all artists who submitted this year, deserve the first and final thank you. It is the undergraduate students who matter most—and their part-time jobs. Also, thanks to Brad L. Roghaar, our advisor, for repetitiously instructing us in everything odd, unnatural and strange. (AKA: Academic Thinking.) All metaphors aside, a sincere thanks to everyone who helped make this twenty-fifth issue possible: the dedicated English Department secretaries, the patient staff at printing services, and the suspicious financial dealings of Chartwells (audit?). In a list of side notes and incidentals, we must show our appreciation for superheroes and villains, cellar door, and all champagne rooms across America. And while the design of this journal comes from a variety of sources, we owe a large debt to iTunes and the endless suspicious activity taking place in the greater Ogden area. Cheers, •tkt & knc xi Poetry Poetry is nearly impossible to define. Some say it is art in words, others say it is truth. Whether villanelle, sonnet, or free verse, poetry is no longer definable. It will not be controlled by labels. Poetry is elusive, but it can be tracked down. It can be found in a paper cut from a Mary Oliver book. We can Dig it up in a graveyard. The Desert wind blows it toward us. It is hidden in tablecloths, magpies, oranges and even in a crust of bread. We just have to find it. In any form, poetry can be caught. To those who were brave enough to hunt for poetry, thank you. It was an honor and a pleasure to share in your journeys. We enjoyed the experience. Keep hunting. • Poetry Editor Hannah K. New Poetry Staff • Trenton M. Judson Kate King David Thacker Bryan Magaña February 15, 2005 Shannon Masayo Martinez Even hard walls crack in raw awkward moments Where silence slips between my lips It’s moments like these I swear you’re holding breath And no substantial words form Let alone leave my tamed tongue I’d rather not speak at all Than give birth to premature words So I wait patiently for your beautiful departure I remain silent and save all words for journal walls A red smear across the page Next time, leave your luke-warm feeling at home. 13 Desert Geisha Halbert Pete Grace flows out amongst the sage. A sweeping Kimono, Bright in elegance brushes the stems. A bright white face silhouetted Against the blue sky, Dark hair that outlines the surrounding mesa’s. The winds blow and the show begins. She bends her knees and tilts her head, From out the sleeve a fan flutters open. She covers half her face, with her eyes revealed. Her face is concealed only for a moment And she moves, suddenly, swiftly across Indian Country, face now unconcealed, glowing. Lightly, she claps her hands together, her rhythm. She begins to sing a Navajo ballad, “Walk in Beauty.” The slight breeze lifts her voice. Left to right, her hands go sweeping the landscape Grazing the sky and the earth’s flesh, caressing. A small string of dust lifts off the ground Upwards it goes, circling around her. Fine sand, it shines as it swirls Like she is being surrounded by crystals Sparkling, like water shimmering in the sun. Now everything is glowing, even her lips. Shining bright red. Suddenly, she stops while in motion. Frozen in time, as the dust settles. 14 Then she begins to move, but ever so slowly. Her knees bend and her arms spread, accepting. She kneels to the elements. The surroundings are foreign and dry, She stands and closes her eyes. From across the vast ocean she came, Dancing atop ocean waves and resting on clouds. A Geisha, sacred and ancient Belongs ever so, in mythical lands. A Geisha, in Indian Country, The Geisha, dancing in the desert. This Geisha, came in my name. 15 Stickfigure Sketches In Scientific Cartoons Patrick Bukowski projected on some movie screen the blemished brick wall eaten ivy, yarrow that climbs and folds around cynical dabbles of masonry engulfed in the white and grey that swirls to blue and green forming a ladder beneath appointments made that always end up canceled after already escorting the porcelain parrot of time halfway there. living a shopping list where nothing gets crossed out, it’s hopeless to try and focus on all the static and blur with this excessive exposure length bridled in shaky hands with no artistic eye. 16 Misanthropic Volition Patrick Bukowski the male praying mantis magnificence is shown obviouslysimpleviolently crucified in a carnage of empathy and desire for the propagationthe empowering of the greater than he. the offspring, the creation and deification to thrive in his demise. such morality of Mahatma, Martin and Mr. Christ rare, a crime of sorcery, indecency in men, passive godly exaltation, universal among mantis. 17 Fruit Tyler Chadwick 1. First “She’s like an apple in a water balloon,” the doctor says. They watch their fruit unfold across the screen in light movements. Submerged beneath her sea enclosed by silent walls, slow fluid breaths inspire her ripening, baptize the room in innocence. Within this matrix of tranquility, they sense her beckoning through sound’s translucent waves, calling from her still place into time’s raging sea for a Return. Then Light ripples from round her world as from the Garden tree whence God called to Adam and questioned why His Seed had grown so ripe with blood. 2. Last Within this yellow tree 18 atop a falling hill, still shades of spring shadow the waiting fruit. Chilled rains stagnate in micro-seas about their stems, throw drops of ripened dew across his face as he climbs upward, pulls the apples from their place, and drops them to her waiting hands below. Pale bruises hide beneath the golden skin, some from their gathering, some from tussles with rough branches and hungry birds, and some born from the inside-out of parasitic guile. Holding his breath, he takes the last worn fruit and feels naked branches stealing the blood from his cold hand. 3. Return The pair, fallen with years, returns to their garden, straining for shades of green within the withered gold. They step, each arm in arm, beneath their waiting tree and rest against the trunk. 19 His eyes pursue the land into a blurry field and hers cover his face in reminiscent strokes. She sees the sun depart his gaze. Dark winds carry the breath of swollen fruit, pooled at their feet. He sighs; she leans against his arm and waits with him the night that folds across his frame. Her tears swell with their fruit, distilling through Earth’s skin into the flowing blood of generations’ veins. 20 The Trick Mark Scovel You could practice with things that do not break. But you insist on using our best. Crystal and silver. Candles and flowers. Everything that matters placed on the white table cloth. You’ve set this table for an occasion. Not a dinner filled with conversations about the events of our day. Just the trick. In your mind you have done it many times. Nothing ever breaks in your mind. But the cloth is in your firm grip, ready to pull. I want you to pause, to consider consequence. To imagine everything that matters broken on the floor. 21 Rake Mark Scovel I drag myself into the yard to clean it up, to rake leaves into piles, shove them in black bags and throw them out, make it look as if fall had never happened. I want to hear leaves under my feet, smell their smell and lie in a dusty pile. I want to crush the dry ones in my palm and tear the damp, leathery ones apart. I want to close my eyes and listen to the sounds of leaves moving, hear birds searching through copper grape leaves still hanging on the fence. I want the leaves to stay and cover the tired lawn, to smother the noise of cars on the highway, and the sound of the rake. 22 Crust Mark Scovel We sat together eating hot bread. You smiled when I told you that I have a favorite part. You laughed when I said that it’s the small folds on each side of the slice. I explained: “The dough falls over the sides of the pan, protecting it, keeping it from getting hard and brown like the top.” You said: “It’s just part of the crust.” I wanted you to find it special. “It’s like part of the inside on the outside.” You shook your head. “It’s just crust.” But there is something different, something special, finding part of the inside on the outside. 23 The Orange Sellers Wendy Franklin At the intersection lifting tired arms in dusty air In the morning, faces Bright, Hopeful, casting stares that burn the drivers passing by. Almost pretty, they. By afternoon, the lion sun has struck to dry up these faces. Matte eyes watering as these sweet presenters now sit mute on folding chairs, arms limp. In my white horse of four wheels driving home to my suburban castle, I think, Lonely people sometimes smile the most. These austere dust women. 24 A Paper Cut Mary Oliver Left Me With Whitney Diane Lomax Reaching too fast extending hands not prepared for a magnetic hold with a curious grasp. My finger caught the crook of the page which slivered open a red streak across my forefinger; a dark stripe with perfect clarity. I hope that every poem cuts into me this way. Piercing the thick surface of previous understanding and diving straight in with unremoved scars as if to say I still have so much to come to learn and so much yet to keep. 25 sT pATRICK S dAY G. Cory Duclos you turned all the stop lights green for st patrick s day no one would guess what ensued next the traffic flowed so smoothly people honking to say hello windows rolled down amid smiling faces the idea spread troops returned home wearing their green and sandy brown they gave hugs and kisses to their wives and mothers and proud healthy handshakes to their fathers in the middle east hasidic jews sat down with muslim fundamentalists to discuss the proper care and maintenance for growing long beards a coca-cola and mcdonald s merger became the world market leader of free vitamin supplements for nutrient deprived children gmc and ford created oversized filters to trap smog and patched the ozone nuclear weapons facilities were ransacked and all of the missiles were loaded on a shuttle with a course set for the sun 26 300 000 people joined hands and sang kum by ya around the world s biggest fire of the world’s biggest pile of 100 dollar bills no one went to bed hungry no one went to bed sad no one went to bed scared the day you turned all the stop lights green for st patrick s day 27 The Restless Path Trenton M. Judson pity the calico cat you often observe limping through the thorn bushes in the backyard he comes to chase the transient butterflies that only arise for two weeks in the summer he follows their varied gliding and diving and every so often crawls through the milk weeds attempting to ambush a resting winged god of the insects only to watch it flutter away there are many days he could come many harmless paths he could take but he only comes for these two weeks in the summer limping through the rows of thorns 28 The Mourning Of Morning Trenton M. Judson Walk with me now, down the cobble stone. -InfiltrateThe song of magpie discordant with the robin. The silky tendrils of the light; -InvadeThe space between the leaves of the oak. The praying mantis, Elegant and meticulous; -StimulatesThe thread green follicles of the ivy on the red brick wall. The plume of azure from the fractured iris; -PuncturesThe artless opaque shadow of first blush. Walk with me now, through the sepulcher of dawn. -SoberThe flamed arms of Apollo Stretched out to tempt a zealous Icarus. 29 The F Word or, variation on a theme by william Adrian Stumpp My grandmother gave me a book For my tenth birthday. My mother leafed through it and Said I could read it if I first got a Marker and blacked out all the “F” words. So I did. I killed every “Friend,” every “Faith,” Every “Fact.” I erased every “Father,” every “Feeling,” And every “Foe.” Every “Freedom,” “Family,” “Flower,” “Fate,” “Feminine,” “Fantasy,” they Were all blacklisted, every one. And I went a long time without these Words, severed from my wisdom; Divorced from each warning, no Sense of the weight of any virtue, Nor any vice, to be bartered with. Incomplete, I, splintered, somehow Undone, somehow insufficient, I— Incomplete. Now, years later, I like To imagine that I could graze over The bounty in search of some piece of Me that was never me. I could pick The “F” words like smooth stones From the tall grass for closer inspection To delight in each cold belly, to thrill at Each sharp edge. I would drop each one In my pocket, know its individual, Un-substitutable weight there, and carry Each one back to myself. Curled on my side in My bed, I would hold them like fireflies under 30 My nose to breathe each distinct scent, wonder at the Untapped universe of possibilities hidden within each Syllable. I would prepare in my heart the spells I would Cast, the wrongs I would undo, with all of my New words. And in the morning I would set them Back on my bookshelf clean to wait For a new challenge that may call for a “Fear” or a “Face” or even a “Fight.” Yes, my Grandmother gave me a book for my tenth birthday And today I’m going to “Fucking” read it. 31 Dig Adrian Stumpp Zoe and I, we share a secret: The only reason she’s dead Is because we buried her. I know and she knows and No one else knows, that all I have to do is get a shovel And go down to that cemetery And dig her up, and she’ll be fine. I haven’t done it yet, though, and I’ll tell you why: because I don’t Know what I’ll say when they ask me, “How did you know?” and “How is she not dead?” and “Even if she wasn’t dead, how did she survive the autopsy, the embalming fluid, the coffin, the vault, the two and a half years under six feet of dirt and flowers?” I don’t know. I still don’t know, but as soon As I figure it out, I’ll go to her. She knows. She waits. As soon as I Figure out how to explain the truth, I’m Going to go get her mother And a shovel And we’ll dig her back up, And everything that was once true will be true again. 32 Anesthetic Ryan Sherman Silence succumbs to the sound of a joke, our stomach rises getting stuck in our throat. The laughter is swelling as we start to choke. Everyone leaving where nobody spoke, casting a shadow where ashes now float. The silence is softened with a punctual joke. Something was colder, and then you awoke. The back door is open, and one missing coat. You laugh up the poison as you try not to choke. The blood is still dripping, a shirt starts to soak. Everyone watches, but their eyes are remote. The irony spits out a delicate joke. Drowning the echo of words gently spoke, by charming the air with a t.v. remote. The laughter is heavy, you try not to choke. Fingers are careless, the beauty was broke. You’re washing your hands in the blood of a goat. The silence is shattered with a hard-bitten joke. The laughter is heavy, you try not to choke. 33 Finale Mario Chard Departing I paced the cadence of her steps, longer, perhaps, than brilliant hopes pursuing elegance to so many quiet balconies. But I turned back, listening to a rain’s conversation before melody revealed her soft approaching: returning without taking breath or precedence – but my anguish. And they were dancing inside, and I missed the way the lonely smiled remembering how light rests in the eyes; so close, and so much forgiven in a movement assuring my heart the measure will last. But this ballroom is measureless with sound painting the boundaries of morning, and sorrow refrains the symphony rising; and I would dance with another if this balcony only faced another shore, one never touched with such shades of goodbye. But despair was our Overture. 34 Modern Japanese Painting Robert Goodwin Yokoyama’s sun over Fuji-san is always perfectly round and red. Rayless, but blood red. And there is sometimes mist–– clouds of it–– sometimes sinuous grey scaled dragons. He never depicts any ground, any earth. With Yokoyama’s Fujis there is only a muted sky and the bulky spire of the old, familiar peak, crowned with snow, dressed with clouds. Ground is as irrelevant as a mushroom cloud rising from a valley in the grey distance, unfurling black rain gills on a city still half asleep. 35 Light Shift Robert Goodwin Every morning there’s that shift of light, caused by the sun just breaching whale-like from behind the black-sided mountains to filter in through the blinds and scratch at my eyelids, making my sealed vision turn from black to reddish-pink. I come to, then, like a fitful light bulb— my interior processes firing up the synapses. I find I have a startup time, like a computer or an engine, or a ball rolling down the hill, me rolling down the hill in a fetal curl. There’s also that flicker and fade of solid white cloaks that obscure the sun a few moments at a time as they pass. Warm, cool, the play of light casts moods on me, like masks I have no control over, now isolated, now mellow. And there’s that fading light when the sun flops, exhausted, below the fence of distant mountains. Cold on the creep, coming in opposite to the sun. 36 Then there’s the midnight meeting with myself in front of the mirror, lit up by the hard light of the nightlight by the sink. A tense moment, regarding myself regarding me, my face cast in white glare. My eyes sunken, and empty. On such moments I’m not sure what to feel— tired, awake, awakening, dying. 37 Music Silently, sweetly, music seems to slip in and out of the course of our daily lives. It glides on the wings of a soft summer breeze, gently reaching the ears of friends on a front porch sharing a comfortable conversation on a muggy summer evening. It trips through the air via sound waves, using the art of collision to propagate. To some, music is notes, pitches, melodies, and harmony. To others, it is rhythm tapped out on a hard surface, or even the sound of a baby’s laugh. On a crisp spring eventide in Italy, music is the echo of a lone saxophonist dedicating his soul to the night. Music is the recognizable sound of something appealing. A select few find music to be the voice unheard by others, willing them to create masterpieces of blending chords and moving tempos. In this issue, we celebrate those who have heard their music and committed it to paper. The patterns and progressions of their notes on a page are frozen in time, an expression of life, loveliness, and the forever essence of being human. • Music Editor Samantha Balaich Music Staff • Robert Barney March Susan C. Spendlove 39 40 41 Fun Susan C. Spendlove 42 Classical Peace Robert Barney 43 N•U•L•C When, in 1985, Weber State University professors Mikel Vause and Michael Meyer conceived the idea of gathering Utah’s best undergraduate writers for a conference dedicated to providing students with the opportunity to present their creative and critical works in a wider academic setting, the idea quickly exploded into the only national literature conference in the country for undergraduate students. Since 1985, students from over one-hundred-and-fifty different colleges and universities across the country have gathered in Ogden annually for the National Undergraduate Literature Conference (NULC). Not only have thousands of students attended the Conference, but many of the best contemporary writers and poets have demonstrated their support of undergraduate writing by speaking at the NULC. Over the years we have been honored by such artists as Norman Mailer, Maxine Kumin, Tobias Wolff, Tim O’Brien, and Jamaica Kincaid, among others. These writers have sent students home with the reassurance that although reading and writing makes for a difficult life, a life filled with contemplation of the human condition, it is a life worth pursuing. “Writing is a lonely life, but the only life worth living.” - Gustave Flaubert While this year there were over one-hundred-and fifty presenters accepted to the Conference, the following five pieces represent a sampling of what today’s undergraduates are thinking and writing. Take care in reading the following works, for here is the fertile ground from which great artists may emerge. • NULC Submission Coordinator Ashley Remkes Complexity In Wordsworth’s Short Poems Ashley Weaver • Louisiana State University • Alexandria, LA Due to their brevity and apparent simplicity, many of William Wordsworth’s shorter poems could lead a reader to assume that they present underdeveloped themes and are relatively unimportant on a poetic scale. Poems such as “We are Seven,” “She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways,” “Strange Fits of Passion” and “Three Years She Grew” may appear, at a glance, to be straightforward, uncomplicated poems. Upon closer inspection, however, it becomes quite clear that this is not the case. Despite their apparent simplicity, each of these poems is actually a complex commentary in which Wordsworth presents the idea that the surface meaning of life is expanded, even challenged, by the meaning derived from a blending of consciousness, perception and nature. The underlying complexity of a seemingly simple poem is evident in “We are Seven.” Though the poem deals, on one level, with what seems to be a straightforward encounter between a man and a young girl, there is much more that lies beneath the surface. This is a poem in which “the very boundary between life and death becomes blurred” (Liu 36). By showing this disagreement between child and adult, Wordsworth reveals the difference that age makes in a person’s perception of the world around them. Wordsworth uses this poem to demonstrate the way in which the natural progression of time affects a person’s consciousness and perception of death. This idea of varying perception is obviously a very important theme. Wordsworth demonstrates that the way in which events are viewed can have a great impact upon their meaning. This difference in perception is quite obvious. The man in the poem argues with the little girl over whether or not she can count her dead brother and sister among the living children. When the child insists that “‘Their graves are green, they may be seen’” (37), she clearly feels that the physical loss of her siblings does not mean that they are not still present, in a sense. She says, “‘Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door, /And they are side by side.’” (39-40). In the opinion of the little girl, her brother and sister are not really gone, so much as they are absent in body. In this way, Wordsworth “. . . recaptures what has been lost even while describing its loss” (Scofield 359). The little girl is able to 45 Metaphor maintain a link with her dead brother and sister. Because she still feels able to connect, in a way, with her lost loved ones the young girl’s perception of death is different from the man who believes that death robs humans completely of the ability to feel the closeness that was once present. While the poem may seem very simple in its concept, it actually deals with a very complex issue: death and the way in which our perceptions of it change as life progresses. Both the man and the young girl have a consciousness of death, an awareness of the sense of loss that is present. Their perception, however, greatly alters their views on the subject. The opening stanza asks, a child who “feels its life in every limb, /What should it know of death?” (3-4). While the question implies that a child cannot know much of such a thing, it is obvious that the little girl has very clear views on the subject and refuses to be dissuaded from them, despite what may seem a logical argument. She is as certain of her views as the man is of his. In this way, the poem makes it clear that everyone has a perception of death that is altered over the course of time by an evolution of a person’s consciousness regarding the world around them. Consciousness and perception as key elements which give the poem a greater meaning are also apparent in “She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways.” This is, at first glance, a seemingly simple poem. Yet beneath the surface of its three stanzas, there is an intensity of depth and feeling that could not be any greater even if the poem was much longer. Rather than overwhelming the reader with a lengthy lament, “The language of the poem does not ‘enshrine’ in a cumbersome structure, but lends support as simply as possible” (Scofield 361). Wordsworth is able to invest a very deep meaning in a very short poem. Perhaps it is the brevity of the poem that gives it such power. Because of the way in which the reader is drawn in to a greater understanding of the sentiments attached to the poem, it is given a much deeper meaning than is originally assumed. The woman of the poem is described as one “whom there were none to praise/And very few to love” (3-4). It is obvious that she is not a woman who is well known or especially highly regarded. The very line “She dwelt among the untrodden ways” (1) demonstrates that she lives outside of highly populated society. Rather, she is portrayed as a woman who lives and enjoys a quiet, simple existence. Likened to a “violet . . . half hidden from the eye” (5-6), she is a woman who is more comfortable in the quieter spheres of life than in any area which would bring her recognition or ac- 46 Weaver claim. Yet despite what, to many, would seem to be a relatively unimportant existence, the reader is made to realize that there is a definite importance attached to the life of this simple individual. This is clear as she is described as “Fair as a star, when only one/Is shining in the sky” (7-8). She is not well-known, but we see that, in the eyes of the author, she holds a place of great importance. In contrast to the description of a lovely violet hidden from the eyes of those around her, she is uniquely prized in the eyes of a single individual who compares her to a single star shining in the sky. These descriptions demonstrate the idea of individual importance and allow the reader to realize the value of what might have earlier seemed to be somewhat insignificant. It is this realization that makes the poem so powerful, despite its unimpressive length. The realization of this value gives the reader the sense of the meaning that can exist beneath an outward simplicity. The poem ends powerfully with the statement that reveals the underlying message of the poem: “. . . she is in her grave, and, oh, /The difference to me!” (11-12). These lines develop a consciousness of the true depth of feeling that exists for a little known individual and increase the reader’s awareness of the true value of life. Though Lucy “lived unknown” (9), the reader comes to understand that there is a great value attached to her. In a broader sense, this poem shows the power of perception. Not only is the author’s perception of Lucy different from what most people feel about her, but the reader’s perception is changed by the understanding of importance of life that comes from a close inspection of the poem. In “Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known,” Wordsworth explores the idea of a variation in consciousness and perception of the natural world and the ways in which these factors can change the entire context of the moment. In this poem, Wordsworth presents an extremely real portrayal of human thought and the way in which it can combine with natural phenomena to alter meaning. The rider in the poem is affected by his inward reflections on outward occurrences. In this way, Wordsworth demonstrates the ability of a combination of psychological and physical elements to alter the meaning of an incident. This is an example of the poet’s “unique fusion of the everyday and mysterious” (Scofield 357). In this sense, consciousness, perception and nature blend together to create within the rider “fond and wayward thoughts” (25). Because these elements have combined to create a new meaning, the rider experiences a moment of reflection and dread as 47 Metaphor he gazes down upon the cottage of the woman he loves. As the moon sinks behind her cottage, he says, “‘O mercy!’ to myself I cried, /‘If Lucy should be dead!’” (27-28). It is apparent something has triggered within this man this sudden morbid thought. It is not merely his surroundings that have induced in him the way that he feels, but rather a blending of thoughts and atmosphere unique to the moment. The rider travels down what he describes as “paths so dear to me” (12). It is obvious that he has traveled these paths before and had enjoyed the journey. The combination of thought and surroundings on that evening serve to make the rider view the scene with a mournful pessimism rather than the anticipation that might be expected in the situation. The “quickening pace” (11) and “hoof after hoof” (21) of the horse creates a sense of urgency, while the “sinking” (15) and “descending” (20) of the moon drives the rider to a seemly sudden lament of mortality. “Lucy has been turned into the moon by the mind” (Scofield 363). This perception, then, creates a parallel between the sinking moon and the life of Lucy. Thus, what might have been perceived as an enjoyable ride on a beautiful night is transformed into something much more foreboding and sinister because of a blending of factors which change the mood of the event. In this way, Wordsworth demonstrates the ability of various factors to alter completely the meaning of situations. The workings of nature upon the consciousness and perception of human beings is perhaps most clearly shown in “Three Years She Grew.” The speaker of the poem presents an alternate view of life. Instead of being portrayed as a passive object, nature is personified. From the beginning Nature speaks. She determines that the child “shall be mine” (5). Rather than being a mere factor in the life of an individual, Nature takes an active role in determining the fate of the girl of the poem. It is Nature that shapes the life of the young girl, molding her into the woman she becomes. Nature says, “‘Myself will to my darling be/Both law and impulse . . .” (7-8). This is a much more literal interpretation of the effects of natural phenomena upon the lives of people than expressed in any of the other poems. Nature is portrayed as the dominating force in the young girl’s life, deciding the course of her existence. The “poem concentrates on the ideal of Lucy as an embodiment of Nature’s plan . . . for a being who is utterly in harmony with Nature” (Scofield 362). It is clear that the speaker views natural phenomena as an entity rather than an object, and this unique variation of his conscious- 48 Weaver ness and perception of nature clearly and completely alters the way in which the life and death of the girl in the poem is viewed by the speaker. In this poem, Wordsworth explores an altered perception of life and death. The personification of nature gives a new meaning to the life and death of Lucy. The speaker views within Lucy various characteristics of natural phenomena. He refers to her as “sportive as the fawn” (13) with the state of “floating clouds” (19); in Lucy, the speaker sees a “beauty born of murmuring sound” (29). He relates various aspects of living, vibrant nature to the woman he loves. Because of this perception, it seems natural that the speaker refers to Nature as a guiding force. In a sense, Lucy is a part of Nature and is thus identified as Nature’s child. When Nature says, “The Girl . . . Shall feel an overseeing power” (9-11), this is a power that the speaker attributes as governing her life. It is this same power that is the cause of Lucy’s death. The speaker says, “Then Nature spake—the work was done . . . She died” (37-39). The death of Lucy is attributed to the same force that acted upon her life. In this way, Wordsworth presents a complex view of life and death, one in which nature is a deciding factor in the course of human existence. It becomes very clear, then, that each poem is, despite its brevity, a decidedly complex work. In each of the four poems, Wordsworth blends a mixture of perception, consciousness, and natural surroundings that relate a meaning far deeper than what is originally assumed. While each poem is expressed simply, it is clear that within each of these poems Wordsworth is attempting to show that the ways in which people respond to their surroundings have a profound impact on the meaning of life and even death. While it may appear that “Wordsworth so consciously and consistently chose to dramatize only situations that were instances of negative experiences” (Liu 33), it is important to note that he used these instances to show the way in which the meaning of common events could be expanded by variations in thought and action. In each of these poems, Wordsworth presents the idea of an intertwining of consciousness, perception and natural events that creates new meaning. Because Wordsworth was able to portray “events of everyday life, by preference in its humblest form” (Sampson 478), and yet demonstrate the ways in which everyday meaning can be challenged and expanded, his works offer valuable insight into the various means of viewing events in life. His ability to “. . . throw into new and surprising perspectives the simplest 49 Metaphor states of our everyday consciousness is one of his great achievements as a poet” (Scofield 357). In this way, Wordsworth was able to broaden the understanding of his audience by allowing the reader to grasp the idea of an expanded and renewed reality. In addition, by including within these shorter poems themes of great importance, Wordsworth demonstrates, not only the way in which combined elements can create meaning, but the depth of meaning that can be expressed in simplicity. Thus, in each of these short poems, Wordsworth proves that the profound can be experienced in the simple. Works Cited Hirsch, Edward. “A Shadowy Exultation” Sewanee Review Vol. 107 (1999): 22744. Academic Search Premier. EBSCOhost. Louisiana State University at Alex andria Lib., LA. 17 October 2005 <http://web16.epnet.com.ezproxy.lsua.edu/ citation>. Liu, Yu. “Crisis and Recovery: The Wordsworthian Poetics and Poli tics.” Papers on Language & Literature. Vol. 36 (2000): 23-42. Academic Search Premier. EBSCOhost. Louisiana State University at Alexandria Lib., LA. 17 October 2005 <http://web16.epnet.com.ezproxy.lsua.edu/citation.asp>. Sampson, George. The Concise Cambridge History of English Literature. Lon don: University Printing House, Cambridge, 1970. 50 To My Youngest Sister, On The Day Of Your Wake James Best • Brigham Young University-Idaho • Rexburg, ID Dear Cathy, There are no birds in Florida today. Only sand, only sea. No khaki people, no strutting lovers. The wind has disappeared every paper. Even my footsteps have been sanded over. I could be all there ever was, the alonest person in the world. But not you. Today you are the hub, you are every thought and pause. You are the North Star and I am as south as I could get. Even two thousand miles can’t stop my thoughts from revolving you. I’m sure you have bagpipes at your service, you love that dying cat sound. I can almost hear the dripping eulogies. If you’re there listening, I bet you want to gag. But under all that, the family’s whispering why I can’t face that awful music. But I dressed in black anyway. A lost shadow on a bone white beach, you’d laugh your eyes out to see me. It’s like a horrible dress up game, you’re wearing way too much makeup and I’m wearing none. Thankfully, tears don’t have color. 51 Or I’d be a Pollock. So I wasn’t there for you! What could I have done? Reached inside you and dammed up the flow of cancer? Run into your hospital closet, pretending to beat up the monsters again? Taken your last breath into my lungs and held onto to you a moment longer? I couldn’t be helpless up close! I left you sick, chemo thin and bedbound, emptying slow into the air. Couldn’t watch you go before me. So I went first and migrated, leapt into the sky and touched down here on a beach, just short of drowning. This is my confession to you, Cathy— the only perfect thing I ever believed in. Sometimes I think Florida is the place old people go to prepare for Hell. The waves are never different, you know? They only change places which makes me believe you’ll appear again, somewhere else. It’s a big ocean, but maybe I’ll find you holding a new Mommy’s hand and we’ll stop and stare at each other and you’ll either smile telling me it’s all forgiven or your eyes will slit in that way of yours 52 and I’ll know it’s you. Maybe you’ll hate me for a thousand lifetimes. I wish I knew at least but I can’t find your wave today. My eyes are so old. Sorry, Rose 53 Before We Took Shots Crystal Millien • Pacific University • Forest Grove, OR I drove by Whiskey Town Lake once, in the back of a convertible Mustang. Two of my high school girlfriends and I squeezed in back, hair whipping our faces making us squint at the evergreens lining the curving asphalt. I return sometimes the memory as present as the rush of hot air swirling around us and the beads of perspiration slipping down our spines. Words we’d yet to hear had yet to take our forty-niner’s faith that we’d live richer than our mothers. More than jobs. More than families. No less than everything. I want to make us pay attention to the ghost town we sped past before the emerald green waters came into view. But we give the wooden ruins as little consideration as the dam acting as a bridge to the other side. We never thought to connect the feral river with the miners panning the banks, never pictured the men who would come almost a century later and tame the rapids. I want to shake us and make us question the structures that will tame us. Enraptured by our own manifest destiny, we’ll stake our claims and swallow our personal flavor of dissatisfaction. 54 We’ll have no choice but to go all in on a hand dealt by the man in the corner of the dim saloon, the one who keeps the brim of his gray Stetson low, hiding his eyes. Soon I’ll cash out and saddle up seeking waters that don’t behave, and a job that will leave me green broke. The girl on my right will lay down her chips next to her independence, betting on her man and his white hat. The girl on my left will split her chips straight down the middle, hoping her pony can navigate the canyon road somewhere between the cliff and the precipice. We’ll leave the table a little richer and a littler poorer, envying one another for making us believe she found a deeper vein. But for the moment—virgin territory lays in front of us. The sun is hot in the Northern California sky. Right now, we know the mother lode waits for us just around the bend in the road. The image burns all the way down, like the straight shot of Jack Daniels we’ve not yet learned to like. 55 On My Mother And The Man Who Was Not My Father Sheila M. Fuentes • Marywood University • Scranton, PA I am eight years old and on the way to the library with my mother. We had laid towels on the seats of her old silver Nova so that we would not burn our legs when we sat down on the cracked leather upholstery, hot under the sun. Cat Stevens plays from the cassette deck, and my mother sings over him, “Can’t keep it in, I can’t keep it in, I’ve gotta let it out.” When the song ends, she turns down the volume before “Hard Headed Woman” starts. She eases the car to a stop at a red light, the brakes squeaking in protest. She does not look over when she says to me, “I want you to start calling Wayne ‘Daddy.’” For a moment, I do not understand what she means. Wayne is her live-in boyfriend, a southern gentleman transplanted to the north. Minus the gentleman part. I think to myself that one: Wayne is not my father, and two: I have never even called my real father ‘Daddy,’ only ‘Dad.’ “No,” I tell her. “What do you mean, ‘no?’” she asks me. She is always asking me what I mean, even when she knows exactly what I mean. “He’s not my dad,” I say, because it is true and it is what I mean. We are still driving. “It would mean a lot to him,” she says to me, after lighting a Marlboro. “I already have a dad,” is what I say, like she does not already know this. It is not what she wants to hear. Her knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, and she yells at me that Wayne is more of a father to me than my dad has ever been. She looses her left hand from the wheel and gestures wildly, screaming about the money my father never sends, the cigarette still burning between her middle and index fingers. She tells me that I am selfish like my father, that I need to think about other people for a change, that Wayne cares about me, and would it kill me to do him this small kindness? I want to tell her that calling someone your father is not a small thing, but I know better than to interrupt at a moment like this. Her tirade lasts almost the whole way to the library. She shouts at the road and at me, but I think really she is shouting at my father and, maybe, at herself. 56 Fuentes When she runs out of complaints and accusations, she is quiet. She smokes her cigarette furiously. I stare straight ahead. We are silent. When we pull into the library parking lot, I do not move. She gets out of the car and stands there with her door open, looking at me. “So what, you’re just gonna sit there?” she asks. “I’m waiting in the car,” I tell her. This is supposed to be meaningful, because the library is something that we do together. I am trying to let her know that I am hurt. And probably I am trying to hurt her. She slams her door and walks away. I wait in the car for a while, even though I want to go in and check if there are any new Choose Your Own Adventure books in the kids’ library. I know that she is going to be a long time. She is always a long time at the library, and probably she will take extra long today on account of what has happened between us. I get bored and hot, and decide to get out of the car. I walk around to the concrete wall in front of the library. I want to sit up on top of it, like my brother sometimes does, but I am not big enough to hoist myself up on its ledge. So instead I sit down in the dirt at its base that is supposed to pass for a flowerbed. I do not even care that I am getting my favorite green shorts all dirty. I think about Wayne. I dig my fingers into the dirt beneath me, and I think about his slow drawl and how he says, “ya’ll” even if he is only talking to one person. I think about the turquoise bolo that he wears instead of a tie, its two leather strings tapping against his shirt whenever he laughs his big guffawing laugh. I think about his weird bloodshot eyes, and how big they get when he is angry. I think about the time he called my eleven-year-old sister a bitch. And I think about my father, back in New Jersey. I think about him in his striped blue work shirt, with “Mike” sewn above the pocket on the chest. I think about his smell, like old leather and coffee. I think about him playing “Cats in the Cradle” on his guitar and singing me to sleep. And I think about how he would feel if I called Wayne ‘Daddy.’ And I am angry. I think that maybe I am angrier than I have ever been in my eight years of life. I think that maybe I want to punch something. But I am afraid. Instead, I throw a handful of dirt onto the sidewalk, and stand up. I ball my fingers up and place my fist against the concrete wall. It is not smooth like the sidewalk. It is more like stucco, tiny valleys with sharp ridges raising themselves on its surface. I drag the front of my small 57 Metaphor fist along the wall. I walk the length of the wall, scraping my hand against it until its jaggedness breaks the skin on my tiny knuckles and they begin to bleed. I stop at the end of the wall and inspect my hand. The blood is bright against my skin. “Like art,” I think. I go to the library bathroom to get a paper towel for my hand. There are none left in the dispenser, so I get some toilet paper and wrap it around my knuckles. It makes me feel like a boxer from television, but in the mirror above the sink I do not find a fighter, only a little girl. I go back to the car and wait in the passenger’s seat for I do not really know how long. It does not matter. When my mom comes out, her arms are full with what she has borrowed. Probably the same murder-mystery paperbacks and learn-to-speak-Italian-in-thirty-days tapes that she always borrows. When she gets into the driver’s seat, the anger of the earlier car ride has subsided. She looks at me and asks what happened to my hand. “Nothing,” I tell her. “What do you mean, ‘nothing?’” she asks me. I am quiet for a moment. I turn my head to meet her eyes. “I’ll call Wayne ‘Daddy,’” I say. Her eyebrows rise and maybe she is about to smile. But before I can see if she does, I turn my head back and stare at the dashboard, and I say, “And I’m going to start calling Corrine ‘Mommy.’” Corrine is my father’s second wife, my stepmother. I turn to look at my mother again. Her mouth has tightened and her eyebrows have become a hard V. She says nothing, but after a moment her features loosen and her face registers a look of understanding. Our eyes look through one another’s, hers brown and mine blue. She understands me. She knows that she is my mother, not Corrine. And she knows that Wayne is not my father. She will never ask me to call him “Daddy” again. 58 Soap Amanda Hansen • Utah State University • Logan, UT An irrigation ditch barricades my childhood home. My brothers, B.J., Brandon, and I fish for carp and catfish in the canal forking from the Green River. We slide salmon eggs and rainbow bait onto hooks hanging from tamarack branches. A fat-like foam lies on the water surface and collects at beer cans and cattails. Our Great-Grandma Fraley tells us it’s lye. She used to make soap out of it. I dip my fingers into the foam and rub the waxy bubbles. In thirteen years, I’ll take organic chemistry and learn about fatty acids and saponification; the chemical process of soapmaking. But, right now, the oily film in my thumbprints puzzles me. I feel dirtier. Not clean. After fishing in the ditch, we strip off our sweatsuits and tiptoe into the hot water. Mom tells us to get clean. She doesn’t scrub us because she’s scrubbing the linoleum. The bathtub acts as a bobsled then a row boat. Both brothers take turns shaping my shampooed hair. They mold it into cones, mountains and mohawks. We glide the Zest bar over one another’s backs then draw pictures in the lather. We quiz each other on what we have drawn. Ball. Bug. Wash Me. The bath water looks like milk because we’ve left the soap dissolving at the bottom. Forgotten soap is Mom’s “pet peeve.” According to the November 1995 Consumer Report, most soap users surveyed agree that Zest Original “dissolves more than most in water.” I beg Mom to buy Ivory soap because it floats. But she buys Zest in bulk. So we use Zest. We scrub the detergent-based bubbles into one another’s armpits. Between each other’s toes. A couple years later, I stop bathing with Brandon and B.J.. I ride my bike to the grocery store and buy Ivory soap with birthday money. I walk past the bathroom door to hear laughter and splashing. My brothers file out wrapped in Batman towels, and I take my turn. A light blue sludge sticks to the empty tub. I peel away the gluey soap then draw my own hot bath. I wash my own hair. I scrub my own feet. ••• 59 Metaphor Most anti-bacterial soaps contain a chemical called Triclosan. In August 1998, the Soap and Detergent Association (or Dial, Clorox, and ColgatePalmolive), allied with the Food and Drug Administration. A sort of soap coalition. The two forces conducted a study on triclosan-based products. The coalition’s results proved that Triclosan “controlled or reversed outbreaks of bacterial infestations in hospitals.” However, at the same time Dr. Stuart Levy of Tufts University Medical School published an article in Nature magazine. He states, “People think they are sterilizing the world by using these products, and, in fact, they are potentially changing it.” The Levy troops discovered Triclosan contains an enzyme that inhibits the production of E. coli’s cell wall. Even microorganisms fall subject to Darwin’s natural selection. Each E. coli generation grows stronger and meaner. My mom mails me scented hand cleanser which “kills 99.9% of bacteria.” I want to mail it back with a note saying, Dear Mom, Do you realize that if we use this shit for fifty more years, E. coli will have wings and fangs and foot-long legs? Amanda I don’t send it because I’m too broke to pay the postage. And the word shit would offend her. ••• During my freshman year of college, my boyfriend patched cracked coalmine shafts for $14 an hour. He dangles down steel chutes and welds until evening. Burns pepper his forearms from liquid metal droplets. Blue sparks and blackness. Eight hours a day. It’s hot and dark and cramped and it “fuckin’ sucks,” but its “okay.” He says, “I think about you when I’m down there.” I think those were his words. I don’t know. I was probably thinking about what I would say next. A ribald joke. A political complaint. Something different and indifferent. His wheezing showerhead welcomes as I saunter into a waft of steam. I pick up his soot-covered coveralls. His steel-toe boots. As the jagged, plastic shower door wheels open, I scan the grey lather spilling from his 60 Hansen moon tattoo. He scrubs with Dawn then Irish Spring. Head & Shoulders shampoo. The plink and plat of high-pressure rain echoes off the ceramic. “Come in here” he says, while standing in the shower. He asks every night. But I never join him. I slip on his clean T-shirt and slide into his starchy sheets. In the dimness, the whistling water lulls me to sleep. Later, the pine-like scent of his skin stirs me. He kisses bones at the back of my neck. I keep my eyes tight. My back turned. ••• According to the October 2001 Consumer Report, the cheapest soap was Shield Surf Scent bar soap. 2.4 cents per full-body use. At 23.8 cents per use, Neutrogena Moisture Boosting liquid soap was the most expensive. Sometimes I use liquid soap, body wash, shower gel. I pay ten times as much for fragrance. It comes in pretty bottles with pretty names: Love Spell, Amber Romance, Endless Love. Liquid soap contains synthetic detergents called syndets. Unlike pure bar soap made of organic materials, the syndets create more suds. Liquid soap lathers, plasters and convinces me I’m clean. My mom buys body wash at Bath and Body Works during the semiannual sales. She saves the pastel shower gels for co-worker’s birthdays and unexpected Christmas-gift givers. “You can give soap to anyone” she says. My best friend, Aloha, gives me soap for Christmas when we’re high school sophomores. Cucumber Melon shower gel. I hot-glued Russian olive twigs together and constructed a wreath for her room. I wrapped the craft in her favorite-color sweater and tucked it in a cowboy boot box. On Christmas Day she calls to say thanks. “You’re so hard to shop for,” she says. “I knew I couldn’t go wrong with soap.” That evening, I squirt the body wash into a ball of nylon netting. I dip the puff into my bath water and knead in the soap. It smells tart. It smells familiar. It smells like everyone else. I dab suds onto my elbow. Why am I hard to shop for? ••• I write poems and papers for professors. They scribble in the margins, “your prose has an engaging voice,” and “nice tone.” They can hear me, but they 61 Metaphor can’t feel me. One professor types, “What is at stake for you?” and “you’re not yet fully in this piece.” And I agree. I rub and scrub until the white tiles of my mind shine, sanitize, sterilize. I’m a victim of natural selection too. Each aseptic wash exterminates my weak pieces. The resilient parts divide and multiply growing sharper, longer. I could write about force, fight and father. But I don’t. I write about soap. I write about soap because it’s safe. ••• Various street drugs hide out under the name “soap” such as GHB. Gamma Hydroxy Butyrate or Georgia Home Boy or Great Hormones at Bedtime. A derivative of drain cleaner. ProjectGHB.org posts stories and Polaroids of people who have died from GHB. Samantha Reid drank “soap” after two male friends poured it into her Mountain Dew. She stayed on life support for 18 hours then died. According to the OED, sodium pentothal also poses as “soap.” In the book “Why America Slept,” Gerald Posner, a journalist, claims that U.S. interrogators injected Abu Zubaydah with sodium pentothal—soap—truth serum. The drug represses the heart, lungs and inhibitions. Therefore, information about Osama Bin Laden and Saudi Arabia bleeds from Zubaydah’s lips. In the film Meet the Fockers, Ben Stiller’s character, Greg Focker, receives sodium pentothal injections from his father-in-law, Robert Dinero. Drip by drip, the soap hammers out truths. I’d like a few milliliters of truth serum. I’d shoot up veins and seek out answers. A few more spoons and thimbles to add to my knick-knacks of truths. I know my little brother told my parents I smoke pot. I know the janitor at work doesn’t change the soap dispenser once a week. I know my mom wants to leave my dad. I’d probably inject myself with the leftover soap. I turn on my tape recorder then talk. As the drip assaults each nerve cell, I make known that I attend rock concerts alone. I only bathe every other day. I watch Lawrence Welk when no one’s home. Some truths would never surface. I’d never admit my father beat me. I’d never confess my neighbor molested me when I was five. I leave that truth under the Care Bear blanket beneath their grapevines. It lies below the Southern Utah sky where my parents will never find it. It rests below the cumulus clouds where God slept. I’d never admit I think God’s still there, 62 Hansen snoring. I might say other things. But without sodium pentothal, they stockpile inside my dark parts. Like canned goods, they rust and rot and take up space. ••• For $7.75 an hour, I bathe the elderly at a nursing home. Verla Milling suffered two strokes leaving her slow in speech and step. On her 90th birthday, I wheel her 300 pound body into the communal shower room and help her slump into a PVC pipe shower chair. She grunts inaudible directions. I take off her garments and tie on her shower cap. The handheld showerhead spurts lukewarm water over her big limbs. Latex gloves protect me as I massage aseptic medical cleanser into her back. She giggles and squeals. She mumbles through clenched teeth. Quickly, I rub, lather and rinse every inch of her body. Every liver spot. Every wrinkle. She taps my arm with her paralyzed hand. “What?” I snap. I look at her wet face and wait for a groan. “I love you” she says. I drop the showerhead. Water sprays soaking my pants. But I don’t notice. I embrace her water-laced torso. She creeps her heavy arms around my back. With my cheek pressed next to her damp shower cap, my scrub top dries her wet breasts. “I love you, too” It’s wet and weird and uncomfortable. But it feels good. It feels true. ••• The Germanic root of the word soap is sib which means to pour out, sieve, drip, trickle. I don’t know why I’m hard to shop for. I don’t know why I roll over and pretend I’m sleeping. I don’t know why I can only write about soap. But drops of evidence fall on my bare neck. Trickles. Drips. 63 Visual Arts Art makes you feel things. What a person feels depends on the person: fifty different people can look at a painting and feel fifty-one different things. The point is, the interpretation of the art rests on the viewer. Good art needs no commentary. We, the viewers, provide that ourselves. • Art Editor Lori Lundell Art Staff • Beau James Burgess Kirsten Atkin Chelsea Wheeler Untitled Archival Digital Print Jason LaMont Staley 65 Series: Examples Of Absurdity (4 of 12) Matt Glass 66 Shot with a Hasselblad 5o1 cm. medium format camera, using Tri-X 400 film. Scanned digitally and printed onto Epsom Premium Luster paper, if that matters. 67 Untitled Julia Zimmer Cyanotype 68 Jackie O Acrylic On Wood Mixed Media Design Jaqui Iannone 69 Untitled Leah Wadman Ceramic Tile On Ebony Stained Birch Untitled Black & White Gelatin Print Danielle Wilcox 70 Series: Untitled (1 of 5) Danielle Wilcox Black & White Gelatin Print 71 Leaf Lady Kirsten Atkin Sculpture: Leaves, Wire & Steel 72 Nite Lites Alicia Konzen Digital Print From Film 73 Shedding Years Suburbia On The March Michael J. Cronen Black & White Photography 74 Series: I Am Sound: Ragtime Piano (1 of 9) Andy Chase Linoleum Cut Print 75 Untitled Katie Christiansen Polaroid 76 Process Erin Christopher Screen Print 77 Liquid Lady Jim Godwin Graphite Powder 78 Motivation Chaise Payan Graphite & Ink Digital Drawing 79 That Sound Inking & Graphite Tim Odland 80 Academic Literature Learn as much by writing as by reading. - Lord Acton Academic literature can be difficult to define because it takes many forms. It is more than just a paper that includes a works cited page. For Metaphor, academic literature may be a research paper, an essay, or an article. But no matter what form it takes, good academic literature is a sophisticated analysis not only of the world but also of oneself. The academic literature section of Metaphor showcases the analytical minds of Weber State University. We have compiled three works that exemplify the different aspects of academic literature – a purely informational work, a personal essay, and a blend of these two types of papers. The authors have taken Lord Acton’s words to heart and learned something by writing. They offer the world and themselves up for further discussion and debate. We hope you enjoy reading, learning, and discussing this academic literature as much as we did. • Academic Literature Editor Melissa Brown Academic Literature Staff • Erin J. Hill Beyond Commodification: Capitalism, Consumerism, And Careerism On The College Campus Tyler Chadwick Some time ago while I was at the park with my daughter, the mother of two boys started a conversation with me. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, she asked if I was going to school. I told her I was. To this, she asked what I was studying. “English,” I replied. Her immediate response was: “Oh . . . so you’re going to be a teacher. That’s great!” Shortly thereafter, the conversation dissipated as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon and my daughter and I started our walk home. As we walked, I considered this woman’s comment and what it said about American society and, more specifically, about American higher education. Underlying her comment was the assumption (apart from the more obvious question, “What can you do with a degree in English but teach?”) that a college degree is only worth what it can offer its possessor in a strictly economic sense. While I agree that one purpose (indeed, a very rational and practical one) of higher education is to better a person’s economic opportunities, it is not, in the eyes of many, its highest and most beneficial function. And therein lays the problem. For by consistent exposure to the demands of capitalism and a consumption-driven generation, the realm of academia—especially, and perhaps most dangerously, the sphere of students—has been increasingly subjected to the process of commodification, through which an economic value is superimposed on learning at all levels and a student’s worth is determined almost solely by their present and future value in the classroom, on the campus, and in the workplace. Students are thus encouraged, as a Weber State advertisement reads, to “Capitalize” on their lives by earning a college degree—and the faster the better! This commodified view of and approach to education has filtered into the classroom from one of the highest administrative offices in Utah higher education. In a 2005 article from the Ogden Standard-Examiner, Nolan Karras, Chairman of the Utah State Board of Regents, was quoted as saying, “I want students to think about, when they enter [institutions of higher education], what their career path is” (Stewart, 2005, p. 1A). While this might appear to be sound advice, it becomes a problem when it undermines the well-being of those it proposes to help, leading students away 82 Chadwick from a liberal education, arguably one of the greatest intentions of an undergraduate education, and to stifle their desired educational and intellectual pursuits—and, often, their intellectual happiness—to follow a more practical or marketable career path. And this is just what Karras seems to suggest, stating (in the article’s words) that “students need to think their plans and goals through. For example, majoring in history may be interesting, but,” as Karras concludes, “Where does that leave the student when he [or she] graduates?” (Stewart, 2005, p. 1A). In short, what good is a degree if the student can’t capitalize on it? This overt emphasis on the marketability of degrees carries heavy undertones that higher education is simply about building a résumé that will increase a college graduate’s chances of getting a good job and taking the most from the world of free trade. But what of those students who follow this “right” path to a degree and enter a career that does not provide fulfillment outside of the figures on the paycheck? Will they join the myriad people who trudge to and from work daily, wishing they could do what they are passionate about instead of being trapped behind an iron cage, alienated from their product and their potential? Yet, this education-as-commodity perspective not only undermines the well-being of students, but further disrupts the welfare of our communities on the local, state, and national levels. Speaking of this trend over fifty years ago, educator and former principal of the Weber Stake Academy (now Weber State University) David O. McKay observed: “Students enter school primarily to gain economic or social advantage. But this aim is not . . . nor should it be, the highest purpose of education . . .. Education for economic advancement is a good investment for the individual as well as for the state” (1970, p. 429). Hence, while he agreed, as I have here, that one purpose of higher education is to give a person the economic edge, he added that this sort of education is only profitable when it ultimately benefits the community at large. And it can best do this by fostering what McKay argued is “the highest, noblest purpose in all our education from the grades to the university”: “to teach citizenship and noble character,” the hallmarks of democracy (1970, p. 434). For by facilitating an environment wherein critical thinking and life-long learning is valued over capital and career (without denying the practicality of the latter), colleges and universities strengthen the foundation of America’s citizenry and contribute to a better future for all of us, not simply for those who can get their degree and plunge into a job the fastest. 83 Metaphor One possible cause of this unbalanced paradigm is the dogma that the present system of higher education, complete with the resources it provides to help students make life-determining decisions, is just not efficient enough, keeping students in school far beyond the time when they should be using their degrees to make and spend money. Perhaps Karras and other administrators think that students are wandering listlessly about Utah’s university campuses, taking too much time to find the “right” degree, wasting time and money that could better be applied elsewhere. This idea is reflected somewhat in James Panton’s “McEducation—and bits on the side.” After detailing George Ritzer’s theory of the McDonaldization of society, Panton observes that the McDonaldization thesis seems to describe a number of trends in contemporary education: multiple choice tests replace written examinations (efficiency), league tables are used to measure an institution’s performance (calculability), learning outcomes are used to formalize all courses (predictability), and teachers’ classroom activities are increasingly regulated (increased control). (2002) With the ideals of the fast-food realm thus applied to education, it is easy to consider that colleges and universities exist simply to gratify the most people in the least amount of time with little regard for quality of product or service. But we did not arrive at this quandary in an instant. President Toni Murdock of Antioch University (Seattle) summarizes the factors leading to this “accelerated and deepened . . . commodification of American universities”: First was the supplanting of an individual’s responsibility to society with individual rights and opportunity (a result of the environment surrounding the rise of industry). Then at “the same time, the nature of our higher education institutions changed as we adopted the German research university model.” This action superimposed “a research-oriented, postgraduate education model . . . on our undergraduate liberal arts colleges . . . [Thus,] not only were we to preserve and transmit knowledge, now we were to create it” by employing a scientific framework, which discourages value judgments by encouraging objectivity. And finally, “the Cold War redefined American science and higher education’s role in research, turning our universities into research engines for a federal government engaged in 84 Chadwick the containment of communism, an arms war, and a race to put the first man on the moon” (2004). Hence, since universities have come to employ the most efficient means to preserve, transmit, and create knowledge, to use set formulas and the same curricula to get students in and out as quickly as possible, and to stay within certain agendas to keep the administration and other bureaucratic and governmental big-wigs happy, how can we place higher education once again in its proper role, as John Dewey observed, as the “midwife” for democracy? How can we create a more balanced paradigm upon which to base our relationship with higher education? Solutions to such deep-seated problems do not come easily. But we must begin somewhere. I submit three practical measures: We must first begin on the institutional level, as Murdock has suggested, walking the walk, “exercise[ing] citizenship within our own communities” (2004), creating opportunities for students to participate alongside faculty and administration in service learning projects and other volunteer work. This would give the students a proper model for what life could be like for them after graduation. We must also reintegrate, to the extent possible, a mentor/student relationship between faculty and students. Increasing this contact would allow students to see professionals who are deeply passionate about their work and would allow professors to understand the needs and desires of their students. This could be accomplished through smaller class sizes, which is not always practical, and more prodigious use of technology (e.g. with online courses including a high degree of student discussion and teacher feedback, mimicking to the extent possible a real-world classroom in the virtual realm). Finally, we could create a required introductory level course centered on the purposes of higher education. By teaching students from the beginning about the purpose of the journey through college, perhaps they will be more apt to see their education from a balanced perspective, rather than one so focused on consumption and a career that the higher purpose of education gets lost in the shuffle of multiple choice tests and fading ideals. By thus re-enthroning the higher aspects of education, we can strengthen the moral fiber of American society while at the same time reinforcing the governing framework of our nation. 85 Metaphor References : McKay, D. O. (1970). Gospel Ideals (15th ed.). Salt Lake: Deseret News Press. Murdock, T. (2004). “The Public Purpose of Higher Education”. Retrieved June 7, 2005, from http://www.antiochsea.edu/about/murdockspeech.htm Panton, J. (2001, July 18). “McEducation—and bits on the side.” Retrieved June 8, 2005, from http://www.spiked-online.com/Articles/00000002D1A0.htm Stewart, A. K. (2005, May 23). “Advice for the class of 2005: Pick a major, fast!” Standard-Examiner, pp. 1A, 2A. 86 Chile: A Vibrant Democracy? Dave Petersen Chile is often cited as an example of democratic success in Latin America. The United States has referred to Chile as a vibrant democracy, applauding new measures to secure democratic practices since the 1980’s. An initial analysis of Chile presents the illusion of a democratic state, but careful examination of democracy in Chile prior to 1973, compared with the democracy instated in the 1980’s, unveils that mirage and reveals the true nature of Chilean government. The year 1973 witnessed the replacement of a democratically elected official with an un-elected military dictator, Augusto Pinochet. Pinochet, the author of the new “vibrant democracy,” answered public pressure in 1980 by constructing a democratic appearing constitution, which was a deceptive façade. In truth a rightist agenda, not democracy, governed Chile. In 1970, Chile elected Salvador Allende as president by a plurality vote. The make up of political parties in Chile made a majority vote a rarity: “from 1932 down to 1973 Chile was able to maintain a mass democracy with widely divergent parties competing for power . . .” (international-relations .com). Allende, despite his weak mandate of 36.3% of the vote, sought only legal means to incorporate his socialist changes. His move for the nationalization of the copper industry was met with unanimous support in Congress, and the redistribution of wealth came via freezing prices and raising wages. These moves were far from universally accepted, and were met by “invisible blockades” by the United States. By 1973, the country was suffering from economic and political upheavals. The Right saw the congressional elections of 1973 as an opportunity to gain a two-thirds majority in order to impeach Allende. When the people spoke, the outcome showed the government, not the Right, with an increase in seats, strengthening the mandate of Allende’s government. Yet the voice of the people was soon to be silenced. Allende’s insistence on maintaining a democratic state created an opportunity for the people’s will to be squelched. Allende’s policies had stirred discontent both among Chilean elites and the United States. In addition to embargoes, the United States backed an unsuccessful coup in 1970 87 Metaphor to keep Allende out of power. A wave of strikes and protests occurred by the summer of 1973. Allende sensed the fragility of his administration, yet still held to democracy, having “long since rejected his far left’s advice to resort to extralegal means,” he instead appealed to a coalition for “he knew the Christian Democrats were the only political force that was strong enough and possibly willing to reach an agreement to reduce levels of conflict and thereby keep the country’s democratic system intact” (Skidmore 130). It was not to be. With the resigning of former army Commander-in-Chief, General Carlos Prats, Augusto Pinochet came into power. Democracy was quickly replaced by dictatorship under Pinochet. Realizing that democracy had failed them, the opposition stated that “the struggle now is not in the ballot box, but in the streets” (NACLA 3). Pinochet began a coup which led to the eventual overthrow and suicide of Allende. Though not directly backed by the United States, the self-proclaimed defenders of democracy, they had helped support the coup. “The United States Central Intelligence Agency, with a mandate to overthrow Allende, covertly financed strikes and opposition parties” (Spodek 794). Despite the blatant attack of democracy, Henry Kissinger rationalized that “I don’t see why we have to let a country go Marxist just because its people are irresponsible” (fsmitha.com). True democracy had been overrun, replaced by a dictatorship. Pinochet’s first move in power was to disband all democratic principles. The military government’s goal was not to reform the previous system, but destroy it. “Congress was dissolved, the constitution suspended, and parties declared illegal or placed ‘in recess’: there was to be no more political bickering.” No dissenting voice was allowed, and on “the political front the Pinochet regime never hesitated to use repression, especially at any hint of labor unrest or popular protest” (Skidmore 133). Pinochet stated that the Marxist cancer had to be purged, which meant a reconfiguring of all political aspects, institutions and politicians. Pinochet ruled in such a manner from 1973 till 1980 when he introduced the new “vibrant democracy” via his newly constructed constitution. Chile’s new 1980 constitution gave the impression of democracy, yet missed the mark. The essence of the constitution was extremely undemocratic. The unfair advantage of the Right was secured in two ways. First, Pinochet appointed 9 life-long senators. Each of these senators was previously part of his authoritarian Rightist regime. Congress itself had only 38 88 Petersen members; after one died, the remaining 8 life-long Rightist members made it 46 and swayed the majority. “The remaining eight in the right wing’s voting bloc transformed the Concertation’s slight majority of 21-17 senatorial seats, won in the 1993 elections, into a 21-25 majority for the Right” (Posner 75). This undemocratically elected majority to the Right effectively blocked any efforts for the opposition to amend the constitution, which required 2/3 vote. Pinochet had ensured the existence of his undemocratic constitution by placing 8 unelected life-long senators into power. The second way that Pinochet’s constitution hindered democratic voice was through the elections of Congress. According to the binomial electoral system, a “political pact is guaranteed a seat in any electoral district in which it wins a minimum of 33.4 percent of the vote” (Posner 75). This means that unless the opposition is able to double the amount of votes, through coalitions, the Right is guaranteed 50% of the seats, in addition to the additional 8 life-long senators. A constitution that creates “a binomial electoral system which required more than 65% of the vote to gain both seats in a constituency,” would make “it hard for any coalition to secure a significant majority in the Senate” (Chile Profile 8). Where is the vibrant democracy spoken of in Washington? Pinochet’s 1980 constitution made it impossible for the elected senators to implement any socialist or political reforms. Political parties were powerless to initiate the wishes of their constituents. Not only are their constituents un-represented politically, but economically as well. Yet another undemocratic aspect of Pinochet’s constitution was that Congress, in regards to fiscal policy, could only “accept, reduce or reject the services, employment, salaries, loans, benefits, expenditures and other related proposals made by the President of the Republic” (Carey 33). This meant Congress was powerless to advance the economic reforms that got them elected in the first place. By ridding the opposition of distributive power over the economy, the Rightists ensured that the opposition did not fulfill its agenda by addressing economic inequity. Pinochet, in claiming to have secured democracy, truly abolished true democracy, as seen with Allende, and secured Rightist control. Pinochet’s goal never was true democracy, but democracy of the Right. Pinochet declared that “The Supreme Government has established as its most important objective the creation and consolidation of a new institutionality, founded on a real democracy, a democracy vigorously de- 89 Metaphor fended from its enemies” (Loveman 2). The truth was that Pinochet viewed the people’s voice, as exercised in electing Allende and strengthening his mandate by voting to increase the socialist congressional seats, as the true enemy. The intentions of Pinochet’s constitution are shown through the constitutional right for the military to block legislation: “Pinochet and his sympathizers in the military officially referred to their ability to block legislation under the 1980 Constitution as a ‘guided democracy’” (Agence France Presse). Herein lies the truth to the “vibrant democracy” of Pinochet’s constitution, a vibrant democracy was censorship of the people’s will for a “guided democracy,” which was in actuality a dictatorship. Regardless of what the United States might think, Chile understood the lack of democracy in its constitution. As a result of Pinochet’s constricting constitution, Chile has recently taken steps to return true democracy to their country. “A historic political deal to reform Chile’s Constitution purges most, but not all, vestiges of Augusto Pinochet’s 17-year rule, politicians said. ‘We have completed Chile’s political transition,’ Socialist Senator Jose Antonio Viera Gallo said. Critics contend Pinochet’s transition of power to an elected government in 1990 was still not complete, because inequities in the Constitution did not allow democratic freedoms” (Agence France Presse). The truth is that Chileans have political apathy towards the democratic process in Chile, for they understand that “The constraints that the military regime imposed on the Chilean democratic transition, coupled with the impact of structural reform and political renovation of the dominant parties of the center and left, have made these political parties, allies of the popular sectors, unable or unwilling to represent them in the political arena. This has led to widespread political apathy and disenchantment” (Posner 60). The only people fooled by the “vibrant democracy” in Chile seem to be the people of the United States. Chile has often been used as a modern example of democratic success, yet such a statement ignores the facts. The United States, often considered the champions of democracy, aided in the coup of the democratic government of Allende, replacing a democratically elected official with a military dictator. For decades before 1973, Chile served as a true example of democracy in Latin America; Pinochet failed to continue the legacy. Pinochet’s first move made evident his distaste for democracy, by silencing all protests and political parties for 7 years. His constitution, heralded as a great step for democracy in Chile, truly only served to oppress the people 90 Petersen who were not of the rightist party. The life-long senators and bicameral Senate ensured that the constitution would remain unchanged. It also stopped the elected officials from being capable of passing legislation representing their constituents, since the Right was guaranteed the majority. In closing, Pinochet never envisioned a democratic state. He recognized that his victory over Allende came not through the people, but through force. His constitution was not a democracy, but a guided democracy, guided in that it presented the people with the Rightist platform, and that platform alone. A vibrant democracy was what was held under Allende; a dictatorship is all Pinochet’s constitution brought to Chile. Bibliography: Carey, John M. “Presidential Agenda Control & Spending Policy.” American Journal of Political Sci ence. 1999. Ferguson, James. Latin America in the International System ( The Department of Interna tional Relations, FHSS, Bond University, Queensland, Australia). Goldberg, Peter A. “The Politics of the Allende Overthrow in Chile.” Political Science Quarterly, Vol. 90, No. 1. (Spring, 1975), pp. 93-116. Loveman, Brian. “Military Dictatorship and Political Opposition in Chile,” 1973-1986 Journal of Interamerican Studies and World Affairs, Vol. 28, No. 4. (Winter, 1986-1987), pp. 1-38. NACLA’s Latin American & Empire Report, V11, no. 8, October 1973. Petras, James. “On the U.S. and the Overthrow of Allende: A Reply to Professor Sigmund’s Criticism (in Communications).” Latin American Research Review, Vol. 13, No. 1. (1978), pp. 205-221. Posner, Paul W. “Popular Representation and Political Dissatisfaction in Chile’s New Democracy.” Journal of Interamerican Studies and World Affairs, Vol. 41, No. 1. (Spring, 1999), pp. 59-85. Skidmore, Thomas E. Modern Latin America (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001) 38-9. Spodek, Howard. 2001:The World’s History. New Jersey: Prentice Hall. 554 Chile Country Profile. The Economist Intelligence Unit, 2002. Lexis-Nexis: . “Reform of Pinochet-era Constitution may cap democracy in Chile.” Agence France Presse (Oct 8, 2004). U.S. Department of State. Bureau of Western Hemisphere Affairs November 2004. . Worldhistory@fsmitha.com, Salvador Allende and Chile < http://www.fsmitha.com> 91 For The Love Of Quilts Kimberly Clarke When I was a little girl, there was always a quilt on my bed, a double wedding ring pattern with a yellow back. I don’t remember being given the quilt; it was just always there. My grandma made it, piecing it from scraps she had left over from all her sewing projects. I would sit for hours looking at all the different fabrics in the pattern. Every color of the rainbow was represented along with flowers, animals, and designs of every kind. In the nineteen years I had that quilt on my bed I could never pick a favorite scrap for more than a week at a time. Grandma’s sewing was beautiful. She had an artist’s eye for color and design, so working with scraps was not a challenge for her. She was able to put them together in a way that looks perfectly planned. My grandma was more of a sewer than a quilter. In her day machine quilting was unheard of, so most of her quilts were tied. On mine she used yellow yarn to match the backing. I’m the only one in the family to have a quilt made by her. I’m also the only grandchild in the family to carry on her name, Vilate. That quilt started a love of quilts that has only grown as I have aged. My mother, also a sewer, but not a quilter, helped me along the way. Every baby or bridal shower she hosted included a tied quilt. We also tied many quilts together in Girl Scouting and at church functions over the years. We even made other quilts for my bed, but they never replaced my double wedding ring. When I got engaged I had to face the fact that I would no longer be sleeping in a bed with my quilt. Not only was it twin sized, but was in tatters with whole scraps missing in places. I washed it carefully and put it in my cedar chest. Then I was ready to buy the fabric for my wedding quilt. At the store I saw women sitting around a frame hand quilting. I fell in love. It amazed me to look at a plain piece of fabric, a white sheet, and see an intricate design of flowers puffing out of nowhere. I asked if my quilt could be quilted, not tied. That is when I learned that quilting was a form a needle work that my mom can’t do. I was crushed to learn that the craft I had fallen in love with was the one my mom could not teach me. She had spent all of my twenty years trying to teach me to knit, crochet, or tat, all to no avail. And 92 Clarke now, a needle craft that I would give anything to learn, and it couldn’t be from her. I picked out a green flannel with ducks for the top of the quilt, and a green plaid for the back. My fiancé, James, loved ducks and had already told me that he would not sleep in a flowery bed. I was hoping with the flannel to make a quilt as warm and comforting as the double wedding ring had always been. We tied it, but not in the traditional manner. Instead of having each knot separate with pieces of yarn sticking up everywhere, we made our knots and ran the yarn between the layers of the quilt to the next knot, much like old mattresses were put together. By eliminating the yarn tassels on every knot, I at least got some sense of a quilted quilt. Our duck quilt served us well in our first years of marriage. We lived in Germany where our house was heated with oil. We paid almost as much a month for oil as we did for rent. We only heated one room at a time, and we paid equal monthly payments instead of outrageous amounts during the winter and paltry sums in the summer. It got so cold that the condensation on the windows would freeze solid. Thanks to our quilt we were always warm on those cold winter nights, and, as flannel does, it only got softer with wear. We moved back to the states and settled in to our new neighborhood in northern Utah with houses built in the ’40s with single pane windows. Once again our quilt saved the night. Almost the first thing I noticed in our new church was a quilt in progress leaning against the wall. Every week a little more quilting had been done on the quilt. A group of older ladies got together to hand quilt twice a week, I found out. I sat in church every Sunday and noted the progress of their quilts. I studied the designs they quilted, the seemingly invisible stitches, the beautiful fabrics and colors, but never got up the courage to ask if I could join their group. Surely women of such age and talent would not appreciate a young upstart cramping their style. My first child, Tyler, was born two years after we came back to the states. I found myself a stay-at-home mom. I had hours and hours on my hands with just my son for company. I thought I would go mad from lack of adult conversation. James, tired of hearing me complain, told me to take up a hobby. I got up the courage to ask one of the church quilters if they would mind teaching me to quilt. They told me to bring my young eyes and darling baby that very Tuesday. 93 Metaphor Soon, the church quilters were the “quilting grandmas,” as they adopted my son and he them. My young eyes, and arthritis free fingers were soon threading every needle, and my son was a hot potato. He loved the attention and, as he got older, the sweets and toys the grandmas couldn’t resist buying for him. My son had two parties on his first birthday, thanks to the grandmas, and more gifts than he could play with. Tyler would beg to go quilting if he was sick, or if there was a holiday. I credit the quilting grandmas for making him the social child he is today. The grandmas patiently taught me to quilt by hand, and laughed at me when I crawled under the quilt to look at the pattern from the bottom. I was taught many other things around those quilts. I learned about unconditional love from a grandma who drove two hours each way to visit her son in prison every Saturday, rain or shine. A lesson on death came hard when a 93-year-old grandma, Alice, passed away. Because of Alice, I learned the importance of every quilter. With those 93 years of looking at tiny stitches, her eyes were going bad. A second quilt was always set up for Alice to work on, usually a baby quilt and made from “quilter friendly” fabric, fabric that has a printed design that lends itself well to quilting. Instead of using thread we used yarn to quilt with, making it big enough for Alice to see. Even though the other grandmas could see the small stitches just fine, someone always sat at the small quilt with Alice. With those grandmas I learned so much about joy and heartbreak, about aging and the importance of family. They taught me more about motherhood than all of the books, magazines, and doctors ever could. The advice I received is still priceless today. I learned to appreciate experience and wisdom. Three of the quilting grandmas have passed on and one more is nearing the end of her days. We don’t get together to quilt any more, but their lessons and spirits remain with me and my kids. Tyler remembers them fondly, and still misses quilting with them after six years. James learned quickly that the quilting bug had come to stay. I begged for a quilt frame of my own so I could make quilts for my family. He kept asking me where I thought I was going to fit a quilt frame big enough to stretch a queen size quilt in our small house. The internet became my best hope as I searched for a type of frame that wouldn’t take up much room. Within a week I presented James (a woodworker) with the plans for a compact frame that allowed the quilt to be held on rollers instead of being spread 94 Clarke out. It had beautiful turned legs with scroll-saw accents and I told him that was all I wanted for Christmas. He said that he thought we might be able to fit it in the basement somewhere. My father came up with some solid oak for the legs and accents and my husband started thinking that, maybe we could move some stuff in the living room to make room for it upstairs. After the Christmas tree came down and the first quilt was on the frame, James informed me that the frame would have permanent residence in the living room, no matter what we had to move. My husband’s support of my hobby grew after the frame was made. On a working trip to Hawaii he had instructions to bring me something pretty home. He spent hours in the markets with the other guys shopping for their wives. He found the perfect gift for me, and was ridiculed by the other men. They placed bets to see how many nights he would have to sleep on the couch after presenting me with my gift from Hawaii. He didn’t spend any nights on the couch, and the gorgeous six inch squares of Hawaiian print fabric made a spectacular quilt for our bed. By now the duck quilt was starting to wear thin. My kids have found the benefits of living with a quilter, too. My son’s first quilt was made when he was just an infant, not yet crawling. It was my first pieced project, a very simple design using only squares and triangles. I made a scene of boats on a lake with fish in the lake and birds in the sky. The fish and birds were bigger than the boats, but he loved it. Nine years later that quilt still lies across his bed. Picking the pattern was an ordeal when my daughter, Monika, got her first bed sized-quilt. Monika was a perfectionist and afraid of missing something good in another book. She spent days looking through books before finding a pattern called “Puss in the corner.” She loved cats and thought we could put a cat in each corner of the block. That sent us combing the fabric stores, tape measure in hand, for the perfect print with just the right sized cats to fit in the corner squares. It turned out beautiful; she even took it for show and tell. The frame is empty right now, but my Hawaiian quilt has been on my bed for seven years now. I’ve always wanted to make a double wedding ring pattern for myself, but never quite dared. Last year my grandma passed away, leaving me her sewing machine, the very machine that pieced my first double wedding ring. I think the time has come. 95 Creative Writing The writing found in this year’s creative writing section offers a wide variety of styles, themes, and views. As we scrupulously read through each submission we found ourselves being pulled from the streets of Seattle to the inner feelings of a Satanist and the emotional and political conflicts of a woman in Tehran. The selections found in this section present general themes in new ways that not only kept our interest, but made us reevaluate our own personal stance on prevalent issues in our society. We are pleased to present an assortment of both fiction and non-fiction pieces that expand the boundaries of everyday thought, and we are sure that they will serve in expanding both the mind and souls of our readership. • Creative Writing Editor Ammon Nelson Creative Writing Staff • Emily Davies Brenna Carrigan Kimber Brian Heslop How The Devil Saved Miss Colorado: A Love Story Adrian Stumpp One thing about Jay Meeks: the baphomet tattoo on his right forearm. He made Richard Cordova give it to him while they were frying balls on acid, with a heroin needle and a package of Bic pens. It bled like a son-of-abitch so that Richard thought he might get sick. Jay said, “You should be ashamed; it’s just a little blood, you pussy, do it.” It was a lot of blood and it wouldn’t stop, so Jay wrapped it in an Ace bandage until it was all dirty and bloody and smelled rotten. Then one day it was gone and so was the swelling. In its place was a thin upside down star and wheel etched against Jay’s chalky skin. Rumor about Jay was that he was a Satanist; that he practiced the rites of the black mass— whatever that was, animal sacrifice; that he could conjure the devil. He never denied it, not even to Maya Hernandez, who asked him point blank, are you a devil worshipper? Maya Hernandez went home with him one night and vowed to her girlfriends the next morning that Jay Meeks slept with his eyes open, never ate, took icy showers. Beau Walker didn’t think much of Jay Meeks, except that the world would be better without him. Beau’s daddy was the County Sheriff, and Beau, an All-State second baseman before he graduated, spent his free time with his friends, driving his daddy’s pickup down Main Street, whistling at girls, pitching empty beer cans out the windows, and loving Jesus. That’s what he was doing the night he saw Jay walking down Main Street without a shirt. It was midsummer and midnight, and Jay glowed like halogen on the side of the road, that dirty star black against his arm. Beau pulled over and addressed Jay Meeks. Beau only meant to hassle Jay a minute, but Jay would not stand for it. He told Beau Walker to fuck right off. Guess it was more than either of them gambled on ‘cause Beau submitted Jay down and hauled him off in his daddy’s truck, and drove him out to Zapata Falls. The water fell clean and free and echoed thunderous as drums around the valley, so every living thing was left deaf. Beau Walker’s friends held Jay Meeks down while Beau had his pleasure beating him pretty bloody. Beau got down close to Jay’s face, close enough to kiss him, and asked, “Do 97 Metaphor you accept Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior? Say it, and I’ll let you go.” Jay only laid there all carnage and fighting to catch his senses. Beau said, “Say I love Jesus. Say it. Say Jesus is my Savior. Say it.” Jay caught his breath and made as if to talk. Beau got down close to him to hear what Jay had to repent over the roaring falls. Jay only spat in Beau Walker’s face. That’s how they tell it. It was about that same time that Melissa Johnson came to Alamosa. She had been Miss Colorado three years running and a former Miss America finalist, before her scandal. Her daddy, the honorable Governor of Colorado, Mr. Robert Johnson, sent her off to Colorado State University to get educated. She was none too keen on the idea, wanting to go to some liberal arts college in Washington State, but the Governor had an election to think of and it was in his best gubernatorial interest for the young Miss Colorado to stay respectable. About a month into her second year it came to the Governor’s attention that his daughter was missing. She was not in her dorm room. She hadn’t been to class in weeks. It was a big story, sure enough. Governor Johnson’s daughter had been abducted. He offered a ten-thousand dollar reward for information leading to the recovery of Melissa Johnson. She got found out living in a hippy commune in Northern California, cultivating honey bees. Somehow the Governor managed to get reelected, but it was important to keep Melissa in low profile, so he decided to hide her away in Alamosa. She kept a studio on Main Street, above the U.S. Army recruiters’ office. Appeared every day at high noon looking too elegant in all this deathly heat, fresh and lovely. Her skin was moist and white, shining in the gory sun like opal. She went around barefoot, a toe-ring glaring in the sun, which seemed obscene to the better ladies. Rambled off to the café to eat a bowl of fresh fruit and read the morning paper. Every noon the men would come out to the street to watch her soft stride along Main Street. Beau Walker was no exception. He had no qualms about offering his services to any lovely girl. Beau asked Melissa for a date right off. She graciously declined. “Beau Walker, you are too sweet,” she said. “But my father has sent me here on probation and I want to stay on his good side, which means no boys.” Indeed, the Governor had already 98 Stumpp charged Beau’s father, Sheriff Riley Walker, with his daughter’s welfare, something everyone knew. “Aren’t you the sheer image of your father,” Melissa said to Beau. “I’m sure you’re a gentleman same as him. I feel safe already, just knowing you’re here.” And Beau smiled, shocked at the rejection, and wringing his oafish hands so as to avoid his broken heart. Beau solemnly swore that he was a gentleman like his father and set himself to every awkward chivalry on Melissa’s behalf. He escorted her to the market where she did her shopping. Did her heavy lifting, her handy work, anything she would let him do. On every encounter he solicited her for affectionate company, and she politely declined. Beau Walker kept his head high, but when he was alone he felt miserable and wanted to cry. It was after breakfast that Melissa Johnson met Jay Meeks. Beau had been detained by a hangover and she was left to walk herself home. Jay stood with his back against the recruiting depot, dry blood on his face and hate in his heart. She smiled and he glared back at her so wretchedly it made her stop. Her eyes were confused. She searched him out. Tried to find him behind greasy hair and battered skin. “How do you do,” she said, but he said nothing. “My name is Melissa, what’s yours?” Jay shook his head, lit a cigarette. “Please don’t smoke,” she asked, and he exhaled at her. “It’s very rude to ignore a person who only wants to be polite and make new friends.” “Is it?” Jay Meeks asked. “Yes, it is,” Melissa Johnson confirmed. “I am not kind,” Jay Meeks said. “No, you’re not,” Melissa Johnson confirmed. “I can see that now, so pardon me.” She made to walk past him. He said, “My name is Jay Meeks, and I’ll smoke where I like.” She stopped and looked at him again. Used one long finger to pull the hair out of her eyes. “I’ve heard of you,” she said. “You’re the Satan worshipper, aren’t you? That’s silly. Why would you worship something that does not love you?” “Because I hate love,” Jay said. “You’ve never even seen love,” Melissa said. “If you think by spurning Christ you will spurn love, you are sorely mistaken. Divinity is not love; it is only a vessel for love, same as you. Without love, you die. Hear me. Love is in you. I know it.” 99 Metaphor Jay said, “I love no one and yet I live.” Melissa Johnson narrowed her eyes on him and saw something in Jay Meeks, the kind of thing no one could ever be accused of seeing in his likes before. She said, “I like you, Jay Meeks. Meet me here tomorrow at noon. I want to show you something.” Don’t nobody know what it is Melissa Johnson showed Jay Meeks the next day after noon breakfast, only that he must have liked it and she must have liked showing it to him. They met on the sidewalk in front of the U.S. Army recruiters’ office, Jay Meeks and Beau Walker, side by side. Melissa opened her parasol and curtsied, and Beau Walker offered his arm. “Always the gentleman,” Melissa said, “Beau Walker I feel safe just knowing you’re here, but not to worry. This boy here, Jay Meeks, has agreed to escort me to breakfast this morning.” The gasps were audible all down Main Street, where the men stepped out of their businesses every day to watch Melissa walk to breakfast. They had attended this particular morning with increased interest when they noticed both Jay Meeks and Beau Walker waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Beau stood slack jawed and red faced. Jay Meeks only shrugged and walked alongside Melissa down to the café. After breakfast, Jay Meeks was permitted what Beau Walker was not: she invited him upstairs, alone, to her boudoir. Whatever it was, it was bright. Even foiled by the midday sun, you could see something glow behind the draped window above the Army recruiters’ office. Brighter than any heavenly body, it started off soft and swelled until it overwhelmed the horizon. Some kind of magic, they whispered, some kind of witches spell. So bright and lovely it made the daylight sun seem dull. All the folks of Alamosa that day looked up at the sky, at that beautiful slash that effaced the heavens, and when they looked back at one another, tears streamed down their faces. To look at it filled you with a wonder and a glory, and you had to weep. Beau Walker had ample reason to feel spurned, everyone agreed. Something harmful came into his eyes and every man feared it. “What’s to Jay Meeks?” he asked resentfully. “I find him quite interesting,” Melissa said, “and you’re not very interesting, are you, Beau?” 100 Stumpp him?” “I suspect not, if by ‘interesting’ you say ‘weird’?” “That’s exactly what I say. Good day, sir.” Beau’s heart broke for want of love and he nearly bawled, “But why “Because he shows me what I need to see! He sees me and it burns me straight through!” Beau found himself relieved of his duties that day. Melissa went to noon breakfast with Jay Meeks and even permitted him to smoke at the table. His bruises were all gone, as well as the dry blood on his face. He assumed a healthy luster after that and was even quite handsome. Sheriff Walker commented to her concerning her choice in company and reminded her of his oath to her father. But she only said, “Sheriff Walker, you are such a gentleman. My father would be pleased at the faith you keep, but never mind about my visitor.” She continued to invite Jay upstairs. Sometimes he stayed all night. When he did, the glow that came from the window was so intense as to turn the black night sky to clearest day so that no one noticed when dawn came. Everyone who beheld it wept all through the night with awe. No one would deny that Beau Walker had a mean streak to him, and he lit out with a vengeance after Jay Meeks. Confronted him at the steps of the recruiters’ office one morning while Jay waited for Melissa to appear. “I mean to beat you nearly dead,” Beau Walker said. “Then do it,” said Jay Meeks. Right then Beau Walker saw something in Jay Meeks that no one ever suspected in him before; beat Jay Meeks nearly dead is just what he did. “Say I love Jesus,” Beau Walker commanded. “Say Jesus is my Savior.” “I love Melissa Johnson,” Jay Meeks sobbed. “Melissa Johnson is my Savior.” Melissa Johnson came to Jay’s rescue then. She chased Beau off and told him he was no gentleman and never come back again. And then she gathered up all the broken pieces of Jay Meeks and took him upstairs. 101 Soup Kitchens Tirsea McNeal Years ago, my sister took me sightseeing. We drove into the city and stopped on a side street. The two of us stood under the freeway. Cars, trucks, and busses buzzed 60-80 feet overhead. A cold driving wind blew at our backs, and my sister described where she had once lived. It was a place colder than the morning wind. Huge cement girders and asphalt in deep shadows mixed with small patches of sunlight from above. Looking around the empty concrete vastness, her words transformed it. “It’s all very different at night.” She paused, then pointed toward the center girder, “There’s a streetlight over there.” As she pointed, a truck vibrated above. The noise was muffled by the vast intersections. She pointed toward the industrial section, an ominous and empty part of the city. In the distance, I recognized the Kingdome, a large and popular public stadium. “Where did you sleep?” I muttered softly. “There,” she said, pointing again to an area of deep shadow between two giant cement sentinels. Above us, more cars and trucks whined and passed, their noises receding, leaving a moment of silence. I stared at her for a moment. She stood with her hair blowing about her face, seeming unaffected by the icy blasts. I noticed wrinkles around her eyes and the taut skin over her high cheekbones. However rough her life might have been, it wasn’t reflected in the smoothness of her face. Her eyes, sometimes full of mirth, gave no hint of the difficulties faced while living in this underpass town. I shivered involuntarily as we both walked the area between the two giant girders. They held the freeway aloft. I looked upward as sunlight glinted down through the bridges of road. The air smelled of exhaust and oil. “See?” She pointed with a jutting of her chin. I saw a stained molded mattress standing on its side. Hidden beside the bed debris was a shopping cart tipped on its side. I looked back to my car parked on a side street some 50 feet away. This place was nearly invisible from there, hidden behind the girders and lying in the shadows. “I don’t see how you slept here,” I whispered more to myself than 102 McNeal her. She was grinning at me. “What?” I looked at her, surprised by her glee in this dark gloom. She shook her head. “I told you, it’s different at night. It becomes alive. This is our place. It’s a small town” “Whose place?” I asked, a little bewildered. “OUR place,” she said with pride, “Ya know, Skins.” She looked at me stern and serious. “It’s safe.” Safe? I didn’t think so. I continued glancing about, trying to imagine it as she described a scene from her life. “At night we all met around here. Like family. We took care of each other.” She was emphatic. Her eyes bore into mine and I saw a pleading. “Family, you understand?” I didn’t. I was her family, not these dark shadows with no faces. The image she had painted swirled into nothing but the cold concrete and dampness of Seattle air. We walked toward the car, and I pulled my jacket collar up around my ears. The wind continued to blast my senses. Her brown eyes studied me in mirth, “You really don’t know street ways, do you?” I shook my head, relieved I did not. She patted me on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I want to show you something.” We got in the car and drove around the city. Her city. As we drove around Pioneer Park she used her chin pointing and indicating people she knew. She didn’t wave or give voice to any greetings, and yet she communicated with them. Nods of heads in our direction or a glance had meaning to my sister. I began to notice things I hadn’t seen before. When we had driven around the park twice she had me pull over in front of an old building on an unpopulated side street. “Sometimes I slept here.” Her comment was more sullen. “Here?” I asked, looking but not seeing anything but empty doorways of old businesses. She didn’t look my way, but kept looking at one building. “See how this entry way is larger than the others?” I glanced down the side-street at the other buildings. It was true, this entryway was larger and deeper than the others. Its stoop was under the roof. I nodded, even though she wasn’t looking at me. 103 Metaphor “It’s a good place—away from the rain and snow.” It was hard to imagine, but as I kept looking, I could see how someone could get some protection from the elements in this small cubicle. I was beginning to see this city from her perspective. She showed me other areas of the city where she had once slept, or hid away from danger. I started looking at parking complexes, noticing the deep suggestion of dwellings under the stairs. Entryways of buildings and overhangs on business roofs—shelters. As we drove closer to the waterfront, the wind buffeted the car. The harbor was grey in the distance, and small white caps formed and disappeared amongst heavy boat traffic. Rusted ferries rocked in their places by large docks while gulls screeched overhead. We got out to walk along Pike’s Place. Crowded vendors and fish markets lined the boardwalk. Street people and business people strolled along in a herd of humanity. Strong fish odors mixed with exotic spices, and sourdough breads. Musicians and artisans drew crowds and money. I tossed a quarter into a beret lying in front of a cross-legged musician. His haunting eyes caught my attention. A strong chiseled face with a heavy black beard hid his youth. With one swoop of his hand he pushed back his unkept curly dark hair and smiled. As he resumed his guitar playing, my sister and I continued down the boarded walk. I glanced back once and found him staring after us. I purchased a loaf of sourdough and we returned to the car. Driving from the waterfront we saw more “Skins” darting in and out of traffic. She pointed to the food bank where she sometimes would get a meal. It was around lunchtime and we drove to the soup kitchen she once frequented. Once in a while, Angie would hug a man or woman and introductions were made. I don’t remember their names, only the hardened faces of the hungry. Sightseeing. It was a different city I was seeing as we drove out and back into the string of freeway traffic. I had seen humanity with a different face. Beautiful parks and paved streets transformed as night transcended this city, and every city I have seen since. Images of mothers and babies clinging in doorways against the elements of night winds, and men huddled in despair against cold brick buildings. The question lingered in my mind, Why? As if she sensed the question, she spoke. “I know it doesn’t make sense to you. You have a family, job, 104 McNeal friends.” “But you have family, too!” I interjected. She shook her head. “You just don’t know what it’s like. These people have become my family!” she insisted. “I belong to them.” “I don’t get it.” How could she live day to day without knowing where her head would rest at nightfall? Lots of dangers existed in the city, especially for a woman. Underpass town was a vacant lot of asphalt. Transformed by night? I didn’t see how these faceless strangers could be family. She sighed, but remained quiet. Silence was her answer to me. “Sorry,” I offered. “I guess I just don’t get it.” She smiled, but remained quiet. She spoke no more of her past “street” life. Five months later she moved out. I drove her to a motel and we unloaded various items of her household into her small motel room. “You sure you want to do this?” I asked. “You know you don’t have to go.” I was looking up at the looming overhead motel sign. Below the burned out neon light it read: Day, Week or Month. The motel’s faded yellow paint was peeling in several places and the dirty panes of windows had long ago lost their luster. “Hey,” she said, “What goes around comes around.” It was a saying that would forever stick in my head. She always said it, and from what I could tell it was her life’s motto. “You’ve done enough for me. It’s time I did for myself and others.” I waited for her to call, but the phone didn’t ring. I went back to the motel a few weeks later, but she had moved on. She had come into our life briefly, and then left again. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I traveled to the places we had toured, but only strangers roamed the parks and streets. No familiar faces to ask, and a feeling of dread I could not shake. I got out of my car and visited the “soup kitchen.” It was a new crowd of faces. I searched for someone whom I could ask “Where is she?” but, it had been too long. She had told me people move on. The chilly autumn nights brought winter rains. It had been six months since hearing from her. As the snow fell, I hoped she wasn’t out there somewhere in the cold. I watched the snow swirl around the windows and thought of the doorways on the city street. 105 Metaphor In 1994, I was summoned to the Seattle City hospital where I saw Angie one last time. We were separated again, this time by death. I clung to her cold clammy hand. I watched her face for a glimmer of life. The respirator tube jerked slightly as oxygen pumped forcibly into Angie’s comatose body. Her long black hair cascaded over her pillow, her face puffy and complexion a waxy yellow. Except for an occasional whoosh of the respirator or a beep from a bedside monitor, the room was quiet. When the doctor came in next, the respirator was turned off. The life was now gone. I had only her memory. I took a trip back to Seattle a few years after she had gone. Underpass town still existed, although the Kingdome had been torn down. I found Pike’s Place is still the best place to buy a loaf of sourdough bread. It was then a dawning of understanding transpired. As I drove by an alleyway, I glimpsed a women in a torn jacket with long dark hair. The jacket was a flannel coat like the one I had seen Angie wear so many times before. The shape was the same as I remembered, but when I turned around and looked again she was gone. I turned my car around and passed by the alleyway. No one there, only the wind and the distant memory. I’m sure she was there though, riding the wind through the winding streets, down the boardwalk to Underpass town visiting her places, her family. “At night we all meet around here. Like family. We take care of each other like family, you understand?” I heard her in the breeze. I understood. Her family, her town. She belonged to them, to the city. As I drove out away from the city, I looked once more downward toward the Underpass city. It wasn’t visible. Cars and trucks kept my mind occupied on the task of driving and I left her again, this time without worry. I would see her again in each homeless person and at different soup lines. “What goes around comes around.” Sound advice to a world full of soup kitchens. I never would understand the homeless lifestyle, but I didn’t need to understand it, just Angie. She was my sister, my friend and for awhile, my tour guide. 106 Sawtooth Wolves Tirsea Mcneal It was a media event. The grassy high meadow was filling with spectators. A rough uneven trail led down to the meadow “arena.” Folding chairs had been arranged in a circular fashion facing the adjacent tree-covered slope. As I proceeded down the beaten path, I was greeted by Horace, a Nez Perce elder. His thin white braids hung on either side of his reddened face, possibly from the exertion of walking in the cool winds of oncoming evening. “Tots que lowitz,” he spoke. “Tots que lowitz, Uncle.” I replied. “What is it you need to know?” he asked I wasn’t sure how he knew I needed something. It was a mystical quality Horace possessed. I pulled up my recorder and explained I was doing a radio story for National Native News. “A feature on the Winchester project,” I explained. “Here,” he said, pointing to a couple of chairs at the side of the hill. “Sit, and we can talk.” I complied and he began telling me how we all came to be here in this beautiful Idaho valley. Off to the right, about 1,000 feet, barely visible from where we sat, were two 10-foot high cyclone fences. The fences marked off the 11-acre wolf enclosure. Inside the enclosure, and out of sight, was a small wolf pack known as the Sawtooth Pack. Earlier in the day they had been released from a truck laden with kennels. It had been a long journey, and only a handful of media and Nez Perce tribal members. This evening ceremony was given to honor them and give this valley, and them, a blessing. Horace was to be their officiator. “These wolves are special to our people,” he told me, his voice slow and deliberate. I didn’t turn on the recorder, although I don’t think he would have minded. The machine just seemed too intrusive. I sat and listened as others gathered below us. “The Nimiipu and the wolves have always been close. Our people have a special connection with them.” As he spoke, I watched the rest of the people and media arrive. As 107 Metaphor they sat, they stared in the direction of the enclosure. I saw Sam Penny, our tribal Chairperson, standing at the front. He stood patient with the mantle of leadership. He waited for people to stream down from the makeshift parking lot. He spoke to someone from the Wolf Education and Recovery Center (WERC). I turned my attention to Horace, but let my eyes wander to the ridge and valley below us. As Horace gave an account of the morning release, a man laden with a heavy camera hiked the small rise toward us. “Mr. Axtell? Could I get a minute of your time before the ceremonies begin?” “Not now,” he said. “I am talking with this young woman.” The man bristled a bit, but acknowledged with a nod and clambered back the way he had come. He was from the local town TV station. I also saw a local newspaperman whom I recognized. I had brought my radio recorder along, but it sat turned off by my side. The information Horace gave me concerning our relatives, the wolves, was not for modern, technological ears. As the sun dipped lower and evening advanced, Horace and I made our way down the rise into the small throng of people. I took my seat in the folding chair and listened as Sam Penny began speaking. He made the usual introductions of VIPs and Horace. I tuned out the introductions and watched an eagle climb and rise over the valley, then dip and disappear into the heavy woods. Like everyone else, I listened keenly for the lone howl of a wolf. Everyone gathered had come with the expectation of hearing them howl. Earlier in the afternoon I had watched them at the fence. The alpha male had settled a dispute between two younger half-grown cubs with bared teeth and a low snarl. Quick and sharp, the alpha male had nipped the dark wolf cub. The cub had retreated, his tail curled beneath him, showing submissiveness. As a final submissive gesture, he had rolled onto his back baring his belly to the Alpha. The Alpha ceased his growls and the other pup had continued biting and playing. The incident was fast, and to me unsettling, but I had a new respect for them. They were wild animals, and the fence between us didn’t make them domestic. Jim Dutcher, a worldrenowned photographer had filmed, photographed and interacted with this pack; but they were still wild. They weren’t Jim’s wolves, and they weren’t the tribe’s wolves. They belonged to the mountains. The wolves were wild, but not free. Since their interaction with man their lives had changed. This enclosure and the protection it provided were the best man could do for 108 McNeal them now. Their home seemed endless, following the slight rise of hill and valley amongst the trees; however, the fences were boundaries. A bell rang and broke me out of my reverie. Horace used a bell in his ceremony. Sam had requested all recorders and cameras be turned off. I glanced down at my recorder. It was still. Horace rang his bell again and then began singing. His song was mournful and brought a heightened sense of sacredness to what was otherwise a media circus. We stood as he requested and faced east. The sun was almost setting in the sky, and the valley was steeped in shadows. He quieted his bell and proceeded to pronounce his blessing over the wolf pack and their new valley home. He spoke Nimiipu Timpt. The ancient language spoken by this elder echoed over the valley floor. A mournful howl started low and crescendoed out over the people and grasslands. One lone wolf siren followed by another. Their shrill melodic howls brought chills to the back of my neck. I shuddered with the majesty of their calls. Horace kept uttering his prayer, and the wolves kept singing. We faced east away from their enclosure until Horace stopped speaking. He rang his bell again. As the bell quieted, the wolves’ sonata also ended. It was done. They had responded in kind to the quiet, ancient Nez Perce. The spirits of wolves and man had been in harmony for one moment in this valley. As Sam concluded the ceremony with a speech, I glanced toward the west, toward the Sawtooth Pack. They were not visible. Our brothers and sisters were somewhere hidden in their new home. A reverence hung over the valley. The human pack ascended to their vehicles in a serene line of reverent whispers. A hawk screeched somewhere in the western end of the valley, but the wolves remained quiet. I saw a man fumbling with his tape recorder and holding the mike high over head. He tried in vain to capture another wolf utterance. There would be no more cries this night. I knew it, and so did Horace. They accepted his prayer and would not give audience to man. The light was disappearing, and as the chairs were packed up and people began to leave, I stood on the crested knoll and stared back at the grassy lowland, at the majesty of conifers and deep evening sky. I glanced down at my tape recorder and thought of all the stories I had taped in the past. I would do a wolf feature, but the sounds and cries of the Sawtooth Pack this night would not be heard on NPR, or any other station airways. It was good. I was one of the last to leave, and as I started my car and left the 109 Metaphor valley, a light mist began to fall. 110 A Track About Rushing The Floor J Marko Zivkovic Prelude. Drums introduce the song, establish the rhythm. CB is my cousin. The initials stand for “Crazy Big” because he’s crazy. And because he’s big. Kelsey is the athlete. He has worthwhile hobbies like snowboarding. Me, I just sit on my ass, play X-Box, and listen to CDs. So it’s Kelsey, CB and I, standing in line outside the E-Center, waiting for the big Slipknot concert. The opening band is giving their best effort right now, but no matter how much ass they’re kicking in there, it’s lost on us three. Kind of a shame we missed them just because CB was dicking around. See, he’s a hardcore rapper so it’s giving him an identity crisis that he’s going to a metal concert. On the way here, he had to roll through every intersection of Main Street, windows down, system cranked, rap bass thumping. Street lights seriously shook. When he detoured around the temple—Mormon capitol of the world—the people inside, doing baptisms for the dead, they mistook the feel of his 26 inch subwoofer for the Holy Ghost. “You see this line?” Kelsey asks. “By the time we get in there and start buying beer, Slipknot is already gonna be playing.” “Shit, son,” CB says. “Have a little faith in ol’ CB. Long as I’m here, you gonna have a crazy story to tell tomorrow.” He punches my shoulder and winks at me. Kelsey is first to go through the security guards. The guards look identical so you can spot one easily in case of an emergency, like if someone in the mosh pit elbows you in the eye and you need someone to hold you gently and wipe away your tears. The uniform: bright yellow polo shirts with “SECURITY” across the chest, steel-toed boots, bald heads, biceps the size and shape of footballs, and bored expressions. Two guards pat Kelsey’s pant legs and they make him hold his arms in the air like his mom’s putting his shirt on for him. He holds up the contents of his pockets: wallet 111 Metaphor and keys, concert ticket, condoms, a rubix cube, a travel ukulele, a picture of your mom, and a butterfly knife. They confiscate his camera because the band doesn’t allow unauthorized photography. They push him through to the next guard who rips his ticket in half and says, “Your seats are through portal F. Third entrance down that way.” You see the same people at every metal concert. Guys go to these kinds of shows to come across as lost souls, angry and oppressed, so they’ve spent two hours on their make-up. But, just as bands have nuances, their fans have characterizing differences. A typical metal crowd displays the official colors of black and pale. Slipknotters add every shade of red to the mix. These people could be employees of a haunted house. Goblin faces. Bloody clowns. Let me explain for those of you who grew up in Wyoming: Slipknot is a raging metal band, and their main gimmick is wearing horror movie masks. And just like KISS before them, their worshippers pay homage by imitating their costumes. One girl—I think it’s a girl—wears a gas mask just like Cid, the band’s DJ. CB thinks the mask shtick is lame as all hell, like, maybe the band would look better if they wore necklaces with golden dollar signs bigger than their heads. He asks, “Is the band really gonna be wearing those masks? In person?” “It’s part of their act,” Kelsey says, “It creates an atmosphere. They can go crazier than any other band ‘cause they’re not just musicians, they’re characters. “ “So,” CB asks, “do I have to give ‘em some candy so they don’t trick me?” Verse 1. A mellow riff, but you know it’s going to explode when it hits the chorus. In rock and metal, the chorus always has to be hardcore enough to make heads bang, but nowadays, they write real mellow verses for contrast. The opening band still has a song or two, so we could go find our seats and catch the last of their show, but it’s more important to get alcohol wristbands so we can get started on drinking right away. We’re going to need gallons of beer tonight because our tickets are for seats. See, the E-Center’s day job is to be a hockey venue. For big con- 112 Zivkovic certs, they knock out a quarter of the rafters, melt the ice, and herd the audience onto the concrete floor, so most of the rafter seats are still available to view the onstage insanity. But it’s an oxymoron to watch a metal show with your ass planted in a mass-produced plastic seat. Anyone who knows how to go to a concert wants to jump around, push people, and mosh. To do all that crazy stuff, you need to buy tickets for the floor, or general admission, or GA for short. By the time my paycheck came, those tickets were all sold out. Even more sold out than Metallica since the Black Album. Kelsey and I are bummed about having to watch our heroes from the sidelines, but it’s not like we have much of a choice. An assigned seat does have one advantage though: you can down a whole beer without somebody knocking into you and spilling it on your jacket so that you have pull their hood down over their face and punch them in the throat and go buy a new beer. I’m betting I can buy twelve cups before the vendors cut me off. The reason it takes so many is because of stupid Utah laws. The beer here only has about half the alcohol content of anywhere that’s normal, so brewing companies have to make special “Utah beer” that the state legislators piss in to water it down. CB is still back at the first set of security guys. He’s making them explain to him why he can’t go through the girl’s line and get frisked by a female guard. He’s one of those people that gets antsy and feels like he’s wasting time if he’s not being loud, crazy, or outrageous. Sometimes though, he can still surprise the hell out of us, like when he told us he bought a ticket for tonight. He says, “What am I gonna do? Sit home all night and nail your babysitter while you guys go to a show without me?” We still thought he was joking, but then this afternoon rolls around and he tells us to hop in his car. I didn’t argue. I was just glad Kelsey and I wouldn’t have to take the bus. Pre-Chorus. The drums crescendo. Faster and louder and faster and louder. CB smiles at the ticket taker. He says, “Hey man. You ever see a fat guy run as fast as he can? Looks like a penguin.” He pushes the guard to the floor and takes off running. 113 Metaphor Chorus. Frantic and aggressive. Power chords crunch at triple heartbeat speed. CB charges past us and through the nearest portal, his fists pumping at his sides. He’s actually going to try to get into the show for free. The lyrics of the chorus are Kelsey yelling, “God damn it CB! I thought you bought a ticket!” We jump out of the wristband line to follow him. CB yells to us over his shoulder, “Fuck that! I ain’t paying money to see no Slipknots!” The portal spits us out at the top of a stairway aisle. Rows of spectators on both sides of the aisle turn in their seats to watch CB thunder past them. Kelsey stops and I almost run into his back. This chorus is something about running, like in “Run like hell” where Pink Floyd chants, “Run. Run. Run. Run.” I watch, wide-eyed, as CB gobbles up a stair at a time, snorting like a rodeo bull. A bystander carrying three drinks and a tray of nachos gets plowed down. Diet Coke and gooey cheese splatter over ten rows of audience. The ticket-taker guy screams into a walkie-talkie and holds back the line with one arm. Second Verse. A lull in the storm. We’re in the side of the arena opposite the stage. The members of the opening band jump and cavort violently, pretending their guitars are cobras trying to strike their jugulars. But it’s chaos meticulously rehearsed—no less about image than a pop star’s dance. A rabid remix of Brittney Spears. Between us and the band, yellow, blue, and red lights project jerky, kaleidoscope designs on the sixty rows of faces in the stands. Chandeliers made of speakers churn sound waves until they boil over and burn any ear canals they land in. Center stadium, in GA, lasers skip over the bobbing heads of the mob on the concrete floor. The people in the mob, pasted together by a mucilage layer of sweat, bounce and sway as one, as cells of a single, writhing organism. A sentient body of marijuana smoke loiters in the rafters. The body odor in the arena has already reached a choking level 114 Zivkovic of funk, unimaginable even during afternoon hikes at fat camp. The way CB heads straight for the floor, he must be guided by his ghetto instinct for evading cops. If he can make it down the stairs and get lost in the crowd, he’ll get away with it. Even though he’s the biggest, stinkiest guy in the building, the guards could never find him among the other 5,000 bodies. It’s called rushing the floor. This is the first time I’ve heard of someone doing it because they broke in to the concert. Mostly, guys do it because they bought seat tickets —like us—but they can’t resist the siren’s call of the swirling mosh pit. But CB, all he knows is he’s pulling a crazy stunt. CB is yelling something to us that we can’t hear over all the background static. But I know him well enough so that I can imagine his face as he pants, “Get your (huff) asses (huff) down here! Pussies!” Pre-Chorus. I go to tug Kelsey’s sleeve, ready to tell him I think we should just go find our seats. Let CB stand on the floor with a bunch of metalheads without us. That’s what he gets for lying to us about buying a ticket. But Kelsey’s already out of my reach, jumping down the stairs after CB, clearing ten at a time. Split-second decision. Option A. Follow the fat man. An orange, plastic barricade separates the seat section from GA. At the bottom of the stairs is an opening in the barricade, one-person-wide. If there was red tape stretched across that opening, CB could be the winner in an Olympic marathon. But on the other side, instead of photographers, two security guards crouch, ready to pounce. Option B. Spend the concert in my assigned seat, a lone drunk, while those two get to jump with the crowd, grope crowd-surfing chicks, punch crowd-surfing guys, and fight their way to front row. I shake my head and run after them. Chorus The rhythm guitar is the cheering, whistling crowd. Percussion, our six shoes doing a double time battle march down the stairs. On lead guitar, we 115 Metaphor have the electronic pulse of a hundred speaker cones. CB thunders through the barricade and steps down onto the concrete floor of the general admission area. The two guards hold out their arms to clothesline him, but they have about as much chance to stop CB as a stampeding buffalo. For them, it’s a losing round of red rover. Two backup guards are racing to catch Kelsey and me. One jumps in time to grip both of Kelsey’s arms. Kelsey gets up in the guard’s face, his eyes huge and menacing, and he grunts like a wild pygmy: “Ooga booga booga!” The startled guard falls back, lets him go. The guy’s tough, but nothing could have prepared him for that. The lyrics of this chorus are the whooping and hollering of Kelsey and CB as they reach the back-edge of the crowd and disappear into the swarm of anonymous bodies. Then the last guard tackles me around my waist. My body breaks his fall as we hit the concrete floor together. Bridge. The guard picks me up, pushes me against the barricade, pulls my arms behind me, and yells to his partner, “I can’t believe you let that guy go!” The partner shrugs. “You get to escort this little piece of shit outside!” the first guard yells. The partner shrugs again and jogs over to us. Cold handcuffs bite into my wrists. I’m throwing a tantrum. “No! I’ve got a ticket! See! Right here! Don’t kick me out!” I wiggle my left hand, still clutching the crumpled, sweaty ticket stub. “It’s for a seat. Let me go and I’ll go sit in it.” The rookie guard puts his arm through mine like he’s a gentleman escorting me to a ball. “Sorry, pal. Shouldn’t have tried to rush the floor. Be glad that kicked out is all you’re getting. Class B misdemeanor. I should hold you here till a police officer can come and cite you.” “But I wasn’t trying to rush the floor, I was just . . .” No, actually, that’s exactly what I was trying to do. Rookie unclasps my cuffs and pushes me out into the cold parking lot. I stand there stupidly, not sure where to go or what to do. On the radio, they end songs with a fade-out. The chorus keeps 116 Zivkovic repeating, getting quieter each time until it’s silent. Over and over, you hear the lyrics about a stupid person following his friends when he knows he shouldn’t. Or is this song about law enforcers? How they excessively punish the weak for petty crimes because they can’t catch the sources of the real problems. Nah, songs aren’t about anything nowadays. But it wouldn’t fit the tone of this song if I just gave up, sat in CB’s car, and waited for those two guys to come out when the show’s over. This song’s about running, so I get myself ready to run again. Chorus. I chug the rum CB keeps in a flask under his driver’s seat, then I turn and charge back towards the E-Center. On the radio, it’s okay for a song to keep repeating until it fades out. But in a live show, that’d be boring as all hell. So, what bands will usually do is, after the bridge, they’ll play the chorus one more time and then suddenly stop. 117 A Letter Not Written Brad T. Marden My dearest AtefehI, I have not abandoned you, nor have I forsaken you. Rather, I have fallen into such a state of mental disarray since that ill-fated evening when you were carried away by the tumultuous masses of Tehran, that I can scarcely assemble the pieces of each regrettable day. Please allow me to make another effort to respond to you. I will try once again to pick up the shards of our lives and send them to you as a cluttered and useless scattering of words. The truth is that these words may never reach you. There are scores of letters I’ve written to you and then discarded. I have no confidence in myself any longer, Atefeh. I have lost my ability to write to you. I feel as though I am an observer watching my life from afar—I am a speck on the horizon of my own existence. In Tehran it all began, and in Tehran our dreams collapsed under the monumental weight of incompatible cultures. In this churning city of 12 million people we failed to recognize that our individual lives had no value or significance whatsoever. Mistakenly, we believed in ourselves and in the inherent potential of humanity to do something meaningful and good. We foolishly believed in the primacy of life. Fueled by a naïve sense of purpose we did not realize that we were being systematically devoured by the unappeasable demands of that tortured city. Tehran, with its maddening cobwebbed streets and industrial prowess, takes possession of the individual in the same calculated and ruthless manner that heroin captures its unwary users. Tehran is a complex puzzle and a cruel paradox; it is simultaneously alluring and repulsive. In one moment it can be compassionate and in the next instantly horrid and heartless. 1 The relationship implied in this letter between the writer and Atefeh is entirely fictional. Her name and her tragic story were chosen to represent the injustices that befall many Iranian women. 118 Marden Tehran breathes life into the masses and then relentlessly suffocates them. It gives the millions of inhabitants an indisputable sense of collective worth and then it crushes them. It completely crushes them. The city roars forward each day in defiance of the physical laws of the universe and in utter contempt of the humble needs of mother and child. Tehran makes one shudder with a combined sense of fear and respect. There is something hauntingly devious about Tehran: one feels the pressing need to flee Tehran coupled with the insatiable desire to return. One must always return to Tehran. It was in this helter-skelter city that our lives became inextricably combined. We did not meet, but it was here that everything we understood from our past began to unravel. It was here in this living morgue that the calamity of the present began. Do you recall when you were not there to meet me in Tehran? Shuffling through the unnerving maze of customs, security, and passport control, I was sweating and trembling in fear. I needed to know that you were near to receive me in your outstretched arms. I needed the confidence of your proximity to help me. The penetrating and humorless gaze from the Mehrabad airport police reminded me of my vulnerability. I anticipated a terrible outcome: of imprisonment for false possession of a controlled substance or accusations of being a foreign spy. I suffered a steady procession of such anxieties; only through knowledge that you were near did I find the strength to continue. Once it was over, and I cleared the razor wire of security, I was shovelled onto the streets of Tehran and thrown to a pack of hyenas. I was very much alone, disoriented, vulnerable prey for the predators of the city. The startling awareness of your absence was severe. Although we had never met, nor ever spoken to each other, I searched for you. Patiently and longingly I searched for you. You were present. I know it must have been true. But I could not find you. I could not find you. I knew well why you were not there, but for a long while I could not forgive you. Now there is no longer any point to consider why you were not there for me. I forgive you for everything. How can I harbor any animosity toward you? You sacrificed everything you had for me. You gave me a glimpse of 119 Metaphor what life should have been. You showed me something about the world that cannot be understood from the tightly controlled perfection of my country. You made me realize something that I should have known from the beginning of my time on this earth. And now I fully understand, too late, that the paths I have followed led inescapably toward failure. You showed me a pristine view of a fulfilled life far beyond my imagination. You made me feel for a fleeting moment that there was a profound meaning to life, and that it was achievable. Together we believed we had the power to realize this potential. Then, for reasons beyond all control and anticipation, it was taken away. It was taken away. You know better than I why our lives did not cross until we were plunged into the uncompromising midst of scholars. Why did we have to find one another in such an impossible time and place? Under the steady gaze of the media and the central security agency we spoke in scientific terms and whispered the truth through down-cast eyes. You knew as well as I that there was not a glimmer of hope in our wishing-well thoughts. But you pushed forward and you moved us close to the edge of freedom. You were cunning like a fox, and I followed your lead. We went together as one uncompromising couple each day, day after day, with hands held noticeably apart. We conducted our ecological research, presented our results to colleagues, and granted interviews on Iranian television. We detailed the character of each formidable desert. Later, we traveled through the dazzling Persian past and gazed in awe at the tiled magnificence of the Great Emam Mosque in Esfahan. You showed me the ancient splendor of Persepolis and in Shiraz we paused in the fragrant garden of Hafez. It was all carefully choreographed; two professionals assisting one another and exchanging technical details. But, I wonder: did anyone know? Could no one see beneath the surface of our formalities? The demand for such proper and dignified behavior seemed never to end. Yet on a fine and terrible night we had our opportunity. In the depth of darkness I followed you far out onto the bitter playa. Each awkward step brought an elevated sense of fear and trepidation. I knew we could never return once we embarked. We wandered far, too far, from the scrutinizing 120 Marden eyes into the deafening silence of the desert. We struggled across an Escher maze of geometric patterns formed from the painfully desiccated mud. The stars shed a faint and guiding light from another sky that we cannot view in our Western Hemisphere. In the night sky of Iran there are stars that do not exist in the subdued heavens above my haughty country. I know now with great certainty that the rotation of the earth in an infinite universe is but a fanciful myth. On that fateful night I realized that so many of our fundamental truths are merely a façade and a distraction from the miserable dance that is daily life. In impenetrable silence you smothered me with your thoughts. You moved gracefully like a silhouette silently floating across the landscape. You urged me to follow without uttering a word. You showed no emotion, nor any indication of purpose. You provided only the obvious need to follow your shadow through the night. I trailed behind for hours in the opaque mist. Ultimately we came to the edge of a barren sea and there we inhaled the salt-laden air. You pressed me close to your softly murmuring heart. We collapsed into formlessness and then rid ourselves of the burden of conformity. Reality became absent on that overheated night. Trailing behind was the unwelcome future; ahead of us lay the only correct, yet forbidden, path. We were stranded without options. The merciless desert settled upon us. Its traitorous air smelled of sage, salt, jasmine, and of smoke from the distant burning villages. Villages were unexplainably ablaze during that quiet and unforgiving night. Villages were burning, yet no one cared. You know it all so much better than I. You with your luminous thoughts comprehend the world about you in ways that I can’t even begin to discern. You have the supple mind of a brilliant academic combined with the subtle training of one who has absorbed the world around her from the sheltered depths of a chador. You perceive so much more than I ever will. Of this I am certain. When you finally fled, in a veil of black into the darkest of Tehran nights, I realized with absolute certainty that the life we think we live does not exist. The bare and dull burden of reality seized me entirely and it has never 121 Metaphor lessened its grip upon my soul. Until that final suffocating night in Tehran, I harbored the illusion that there was a deeper meaning and significance to my life. There was an element of excitement, of optimism, and a yearning to explore guiding me through life. I now realize this was mere self-deception that has finally been unceremoniously tossed away. I discovered your letter sent with such care and concern for me. In delicate steps you painted a stunning landscape of emotion from our time together as we tumbled through the deserts of Iran. You resurrected the dust-filled memories like a skilled artist. And you did this with genuine compassion. How is it possible for you to write such a letter? I could see from the soiled stains and repetitive wrinkles that you had written at great personal risk. And again I wonder: how are you able to send such a letter? It miraculously arrived. Yes it arrived. And now I understand that we wandered too far onto that salt-saturated playa. We trespassed into forbidden and unforgivable territory on that starlit night. You are condemned to a life in prison. I have no alternative but to live a life of tormented freedom. From your letter I realize that there is no fairness in this world. You gave everything to show me a glimpse of perfection and for this tragic gift you will be destroyed by the unrelenting hand of the Sharia law. Most remarkably, you express hope in the face of undeniable hopelessness. You have told me that there is an angel trying to go back to repair the damage that has been done. She is trying to fix the things that have been broken2 . She is a beautiful and delicate angel casting her frail body against the billowing fury of time. You have said she has deep brown eyes, slender fingers, a tender yet penetrating gaze, and . . . sadly, you feel that although she will not succeed, she will never stop trying. 2 Reference to Laurie Anderson’s collection of songs entitled: “Strange Angels.” 122 Marden Atefeh, night has again irresponsibly given way to morning. I am listening to Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Number 14 over and over and over again. You have said Beethoven was touched by God and that he then gave this gift to the world in the form of music. It is indeed true. Through the music you have secretly loved, I find you again alive in my soul. I am listening for you. It is with a deeply troubled heart that I must say goodbye for now my dearest Atefeh3. There is no hope that this letter, like the hundreds of others I have written, will ever reach you. But I will keep trying. I will never stop trying. Devotedly yours, me 3 In Neka, Iran, August 2004, Atefeh Rajabi, a 16 year-old girl, was executed by hanging for “Acts incompatible with chastity.” Atefeh, like other Iranian women, was imprisoned and then executed for crimes that would incur minimal or no punishment under laws of most democracies. These injustices are compounded by grossly inadequate legal representation. It is not uncommon for Iranian women to be held accountable and punished for their own rape. 123 The Artist Robert Oliver “Detective?” Ryan turned from the painting to the direction of the voice. He hoped to see the man tonight, in fact he expected it. After all, the man was the artist whose work was on display. “Great to see you tonight,” the Artist gripped Ryan’s hand and shook it against his will. “Oh dear, did I call you, Detective? They busted you down didn’t they? Patrol? Or did they can your ass altogether?” The Artist rubbed his chin in mock thought, still gripping Ryan’s hand with the other. Ryan pulled his hand free and gestured at the paintings behind him. “Nice work you got here. I’ll bet the crowds really go wild. Any takers yet?” “Stop the act,” the Artist snapped. “I know you’re still nosing around. What part of ‘case dismissed’ don’t you understand? Isn’t it illegal to continue to follow and harrass an innocent man? To think our taxes pay you people to be so pathetic.” Ryan ignored the insult and turned to study the paintings. He had to remain cool. He was on a short leash, and by the grace of God he was able to seek redemption. “You and me both know what you did.” “Paint?” the Artist looked hurt, “If that is what you are referring to, why yes, I do paint, and as you can see I do it quite well.” “I don’t consider this abstract shit art; a two-year old could do just as good. I’m talking about the five dead girls.” The Artist glanced behind himself at the the people milling around. “Last I heard, they hadn’t found any bodies.” The Artist stepped closer, “Wouldn’t that make them just missing?” “We have a witness and we found blood on your hands.” “In an illegal search, thanks to you, Detective.” The Artist’s teeth sparkled as he tilted his head, “Your witness is a drunk, and I still don’t 124 Oliver know how you planted that blood.” An older man approached, hands in pockets, wearing a sweater and smelling of money—a potential buyer. Ryan stepped back to let him through. The Artist remained where he was, but Ryan caught something in his eyes. He was getting closer. The newcomer studied the paintings intently. “The color tones are just so . . .” “Unique,” the Artist finished. “Yeah,” the newcomer flashed the Artist a smile. “You took the words right out of my mouth.” The newcomer studied the paintings for several more moments then meandered down the wall of hopeful masterpieces. Ryan stepped closer to study the paintings. There were four in the display—all abstracts. The colors created mind numbing patterns that seemed to trap the viewer in the murderous designs. “Are you planning on arresting me and ruining the rest of your career?” the Artist whispered, just loud enough for Ryan to hear. “If you stop now you may still get a job at McDonalds.” Ryan ignored him and studied the paintings. They seemed to mock his inability to catch their creator. “Detective?” the Artist said. Ryans eyes dropped down the painting and caught the gold name plate. Fourtune. The misspelling puzzled him. “Detective, if you have no further--” “Five girls are dead.” “Missing. And you’ve already stated that tragedy.” “Four paintings and five dead girls.” “Yes, as interesting as this is, if you have nothing else to do but harass me and my work, I’ll have to ask you to leave.” Ryan scanned the other titles. Unity, Devil, Thrice. “I’ll call security. Your superiors will be informed.” The Artist’s voice cracked. He was getting agitated. Ryan thought about the titles. Unity had the root of uno. Thrice was a synonym for three. Devil, now what was that? Ryan contemplated the significance, then it hit him. Deuce. The devil was sometimes a synonym for deuce. “The killer would have been smart and meticulous,” Ryan contin- 125 Metaphor ued, determined. “He would have to be to elude the police and dispose of the bodies. Killers like these though, they need something, something to relive their adventures . . . their killings.” The Artist turned to walk away. Ryan quickly lashed out and gripped his elbow. “You would’ve been foolish to still have blood under your nails after a kill, you already disposed of the body, it was never found. All you had was the blood.” “What are you talking about?” the Artist hissed, his eyes narrowed. “If you had anything you’d arrest me.” Ryan stared again at the paintings. The answer was before him. It always had been. The paintings. All abstracts, but the color. The goddamned unique color. It was the paint. “You can go,” Ryan released the man’s arm, “but I’m taking the paintings.” “What?” the Artist was stunned. Ryan caught a glimpse of fear in the mans eyes. The Artist placed himself protectively between the paintings. “You need a warrant.” “The blood on your hands. We caught you in the act. You flushed the blood, and disposed of the fifth painting right before we arrested you. You were in such a big hurry you forgot to clean your nails.” “A theory, and nothing more.” “The blood’s in the paint. That way you could relive each killing and in a twisted way keep each victim alive. Forever immortalized in your art. You were even brazen enough to name each painting for the victim number whose blood you used.” The Artist’s eyes filled with fury, and he glanced around nervously. “Even if that’s true, the paintings are mine. You need a warrant.” Ryan reached into his back pocket and pulled out an unexpected object. The Artist stared at it, unable to comprehend. Ryan flipped open his checkbook and pulled out his pen. “I’ve saved up quite a nest egg to take a vacation to the Bahamas. It’s more than enough to buy the entire lot.” He quickly scribbled with his pen, while the Artist’s face drained of all color. 126 Oliver “Maybe you can use it to buy a decent defense.” Ryan tore free the check and roughly gripped the Artist’s collar. The Artist squirmed as he was pulled closer, until their faces were almost touching. Anger stormed through the Artist’s eyes, but it was trampled by Ryan’s resolve. Ryan grinned the biggest grin of his career; he could almost picture each of the missing girls sharing the same smile. Ryan tucked the check into the artist’s pocket as he whispered into his face. “You’re a sick piece of human garbage.” What little color that was left melted from the Artist’s complexion. “Now that, you miserable shit,” Ryan tapped the man’s ashen forehead, “that is a unique shade of white.” 127 Timeworn Ryan Sherman The limbs of an antique rocking chair groan in a high pitched protest, moving shakily back and forth on the curvature of the splintering legs: . . . creeeeak . . . creeeeak . . . creeeeak . . . endlessly on the wood of a perishing attic floor. An ancient coating of green paint is faintly detectable in occasional spots along the chair’s frame, and in the long grooves of rough sections of wood. The agent of the rocking is an old woman, looking as worn out and well-used as the chair itself. Silver hair falls behind her skeletal neck and drapes crookedly around her blanket-wrapped shoulders. Loose skin hangs and trembles off her bony hands as they move quickly back and forth, wielding long dancing needles that fold and twist loose trails of red yarn into an unwavering pattern. Her work no longer requires conscious attention, and her detached gaze floats around the small world of dusty wastelands and tracts of vegetating cobwebs. She appears disorientated, as if her mind has ceased comprehension while her body simply continues in a long unbroken pattern: rocking, knitting, rocking, knitting, rocking, knitting. In this way the entire scene amalgamates into a dirge of banality: one flat measure, endlessly repeating—all except for one easily missed deviation. In the old women’s eyes there are shadows dancing. Long ago she escaped from her small dank attic, with its one naked bulb flooding the room with gloomy light, and surfaced in a world of sunshine, gold wheat fields, horses, long summers, warm nights, camp fires, unexplored woods, ominous mountains, skinny-dipping, animals, endless rivers, long dusty roads, and rolling hills. And as the shadows dance she begins to sing unconsciously, keeping time with creaks of her rocking: The summer sighs. It wears and fades, and stumbles as it ages. It shuts its eyes, it browns and grays, 128 Sherman and turns its final pages. At that moment, she catches a deer in the corner of her eye and turns, but instead she finds a young boy in ragged overalls and a dirt-smeared face standing in front of her smiling, and holding a fish on the end of a line. His mouth moves, as if speaking, but she hears nothing, and stares hard at his lips as she strains her ears. Her earnest expectation suddenly bursts into a fiery pain as a cacophony of meaningless noise erupts. She shuts her eyes and tries to cover her ears, only to find that her arms won’t move. The sound is a mass of resounding voices, talking at all different volumes, tones and speeds. This horrible overload persists for about a minute, until an echoing laughter, as if from the other side of a long tunnel, becomes distinguishable above the general din which has begun to steadily trail off. The laughter is sustained and becomes increasingly less resonant, until only the distinct giggling of a young girl is left. She opens her eyes and finds herself face to face with a wall of thin wooden boards. As she turns around she can see she is in a shed. Her best friend is still giggling as she lies in the soft dirt, next to a neatly organized collection of bird feathers and interesting rocks. Someone is calling her name. It is a strong, rich voice which she loves to run to; so she runs. Outside the door she stumbles and trips, and finds herself rolling down a hill that wasn’t there a moment before. When she stops she is in a quiet field of long, golden wheat stocks with fuzzy heads. A young dog licks her face, and she laughs, “Raphael!” She stands up, wiping her wet cheek with her sleeve. A shadow falls on the field as a cloud apparently interrupts the sunlight, but the shadow continues to grow darker, and when she looks up she sees an indigo sky with a grey sun still darkening. A lively song is finally calmed. A ghost moves on without a sound. Winter gently takes the shell and lays it in the ground. The sky has fully darkened when she finally looks back at Raphael, who appears older now and is lying awkwardly on the ground whimpering. They are in a remote wood, and a large spot on the side of his golden-haired body is matted and shiny. She touches it, finding blood, and begins to cry. 129 Metaphor It is now completely night, and when she looks up she sees the silhouettes of pine trees framing the starry sky as a deep pool with a black, jagged shore. Dead-leaf dances, As naked branches Claw stars by the moonlight.The sky is weeping. And moonlight creeping, swallows up the night. She stares for a long time into the gently glowing full moon, noticing eventually that she is looking through the wooden frames of a window and sitting on the side of a bed. She glances over at a bedside mirror and sees a beautiful young woman looking back with a thin transparent material between her and her reflection. It’s a wedding veil. She looks down and finds she is wearing a long silky gown and smiles, and then looks back into the mirror. A low busy clamor drones incessantly outside her door. She picks up a bouquet of lusty, white roses, first admiring them and then holding them up to her face and breathing in deeply. Turning back to the mirror, she finds the veil has now turned black. The mirror is on top of an oak dresser and next to it is a wedding ring. A soft voice speaks behind her. “Mom?” She turns to find a tear streaked teenager watching her with wide eyes. She tries to say something but her face suddenly feels heavy and her eyes fall closed. When they open again she is all alone in an empty field, and a distinct stillness permeates the static air. A pale sky looms above her tiny figure. A vivid redness has streaked across it in veins and gathered darkly on the horizon. The skeleton of a small tree stands before her, and only a few dull brown leaves cling to the crooked branches. The tree draws in her full attention, and it seems as if it sits upon the earth’s axis and the whole world spins around that spot. Suddenly it bursts into hot, white flames, and as it burns, the flames begin to turn blue, then yellow, then orange, finally ending in a dark red blaze with black smoke flowing heavily from it. While this happened, the branches of the tree had steadily taken on lighter shades of brown, then yellow, and finally a vibrant green, which now bursts into bright little leaves. Eventually she becomes aware of a presence on the other side of the smoke and staring hard, she makes out the dim form of a small child. The smoke begins to recede as the dim image becomes a lit- 130 Sherman tle girl, and before the facial features are distinct she recognizes this child as herself. The smoke finally diminishes to the point where their eyes meet and suddenly she becomes very tired and sits down, finding her rocking chair ready to catch her. She situates herself comfortably and sighs deeply. After a few moments she reaches down and retrieves two silver needles and a ball of red yarn from a bag and begins rocking back and forth, creaking, knitting, and softly singing: The summer sighs. it wears and fades, and stumbles as it ages. It shuts its eyes, it browns and grays and turns its final pages. 131 Lullaby Russ Adams Of all the abject contributions he made to my life, it was his legacy of brutality and fury which I treasure most. It’s not as if I craved these attributes, nothing could be farther from the truth. They merely became a way of subduing what was inside, to camouflage a boy broken by aggression. Through inheritance I became cruel and terrifying—dominant traits, as I understood them. As I sit in the darkness and recall my life’s work I wonder—was there ever a time I felt anything more than hate? How did I get here? I’m surrounded by the bodies I’ve viciously laid to rest. I’ve told myself a hundred times or more, the deeds I’ve committed were in the line of duty, but somewhere inside I know better. There was a moment, in a distant recollection, when I was happy, a time when I was normal, at least as normal as society would have me be. Then again what does it mean to be normal? Is it merely society’s demand that you follow its trends? Regardless, with every passing year I lost a little more of that happiness. I was less interested in being common for the sake of society. My interest was to be, to survive the agony of my childhood. I read a tale when I was young about a ship trapped in a winter storm. I connected with the story, reading those final surviving moments as the waves crashed upon the deck, taking her down until finally she was lost. It was the same with me: with each crashing wave I felt that child slipping into the darkness of the abyss. I remember the Captain in the story; he stood at the wheel without fear as his world plummeted into the gloomy deep. I recall thinking how courageous he must have been to stand against that overwhelming force while the ice and wind assaulted his body. I saw that storm as a soulless brute, ambivalent to its savage attack on such a small and insignificant craft. There was no remorse, not a thought to the harm it inflicted in such a short time; it merely continued on. It blindly raged passed the wreckage and the lost lives, never looking back. I admired that Captain. He may have lost, but he faced the storm and didn’t flinch. He didn’t shed a tear, and he never begged the storm 132 Adams to stop beating down on his boat. Instead he stood tall and wouldn’t allow those waves to knock him down, to get the best of him. You could say it was because of that book that I stopped crying out. I stared my oppressor down with equally furious eyes. I even smiled at times. I vowed that I would never again give him the satisfaction of submitting. Because of my new found insolence, the beatings had gotten worse, but I was always true to my pledge, and he never again saw a single tear. It was quite a few years later when I began to reflect on those days, before I found strength in my hate. Remembering myself in that way made me angry and ashamed of who I was. Of course, I had forgotten how young I was when it started. Still, somewhere inside I felt humiliated. One day in particular will stay with me always. It was this memory that fed my rage more than any other. My stepfather had beaten me with one of my toys, a plastic racing strip in the living room. I remember he pressed my head down on the arm of the couch as he thrashed me. I remembered that my arms were extended to my mother, begging her to make him stop, but she just stood there. I begged for help and got nothing. There were worse beatings than this, times when I needed medical treatment for burnt finger tips, bruised ribs, and head trauma which resulted in the swelling of my brain stem. Yes, there were worse times, but this one in particular stood out. This one reminded me that there was no mercy in this world, and the only person you can rely on, is you. I remember these days because they keep me angry, they keep me from ever being that weak again. It is a source of endless rage which has proven useful to me over the years. I was smaller than other children my age, that is until the summer I turned sixteen. I spent that season baling hay on my cousin’s farm. I remember how my back ached trying to keep up with that wagon. We had to grab the bale by the two twine ties and hoist them into the cart. We would throw hundreds of bales each day. Between the hay bales and lifting weights at a friend’s house my body ached all the time. My muscles were as hard as stone even when I tried to relax. By the time school started in the fall I was no longer the ninety-five pound weakling I had once been. I weighed one hundred and thirty pounds. I had only grown a few inches, but no one was commenting on my height. The beating stopped after my stepfather realized what he had created. I was his enemy, stronger than he had ever been, and fused with the endless rage that came with a lifetime of violence. 133 Metaphor He knew I hated him and that given the right opportunity I would return every last beating in a solitary assault. I realized my commitment to revenge one fall morning as he and I returned from a hunting trip. We had been covered in the darkness of the woods since early morning. We hadn’t seen a single creature all day and finally packed it in early that afternoon. We began crossing a field on our way to his mother’s house. As the canopy of trees receded and the warmth of the sun bathed my chilled face, a feeling crept over me. I stopped for a moment and stared at him, the storm that once hammered at a forgotten child. He must have noticed a moment of awkward loneliness, and turned toward me. He saw the smirk that emerged on my face, the grin that suddenly indicated a change in the wind. I have always carried my gun with the stock tucked under my arm and the barrel across my forearm. His was always slung over his shoulder by the strap. Somehow, whether from guilt or intuition, he knew what I was thinking. Had I chosen to shoot him that day, he would have never gotten to his gun in time. He was terrified and with good reason. I was comfortable with the idea of killing him. I restrained my urge only because I hadn’t thought the deed through, but the seed was planted. I could feel his thoughts and the trepidation that came with them. Like a light sweet scent that drifted through the cool November air, I smelled his fear. He was weak now; his hard life had all but broken him. He was merely thirty-seven and moved like a geriatric beast whose time had come and gone, and he knew it. He was the lion that lorded over the pride without remorse, but his rein was turning to dust before his eyes. A new beast stirred in the distance, ready to take everything from him. That day finally came in late January of 1987. I designed the affair as best I could and in retrospect it seems more brilliant in its simplicity than it had so many years before. I used my pocket knife to deflate the car’s driver side tire. The next morning I noticed that the vehicle was on jacks and the tire had been removed. I watched as he rolled its replacement from the garage. I heard his body creek like a decaying floor as he lifted the tire onto the lugs. When the job was done he pulled the car into the garage, then withdrew into the house. I pulled a pair of work gloves from my back pocket; I put them on and removed the tire iron from the trunk of his car. I loosened two of the lug nuts he had just tightened and placed the rest in my shirt pocket. Everything 134 Adams was returned to its rightful place, and then I too went inside the house. As I planned, my mother asked him to pick up my sister across town. Of course asking him to do anything often put him in a foul mood, and this was no different. I volunteered to ride with him. As we pulled out of the drive way, I buckled my seatbelt. He briefly commented about this, my never having buckled up before, and we sped away. As we drove down the highway I began to pull lug nuts from my pocket. I used the material on my sleeve to wipe off any finger prints I may have left behind. One-by-one I dropped them as my arm hung out the window. It was Sunday, and just as I hoped, the old highway bridge was empty. The steering wheel began to shake; the time had come. Before he could pull over, I casually reached across the seat and grabbed the steering wheel, jerking the car to the left. The car flew into the concrete dividers. I remember hearing the impact. The sound of steel shattering like glass as it smashed into the divider. I was dazed at first; it took a minute to realize where I was. My stepfather’s head was resting on the steering wheel. I saw his eyes floating around the car, like a drunk stumbling around in his mind. Slowly he began to realize where he was—it wouldn’t take long for him to remember who caused the accident. I took the opportunity to smile at him before hitting him in the face. It occurred to me that I might have broken his nose, but it didn’t matter; the injury could easily be explained away. He held his face, and cried like a woman—I never thought I would see the day. There were no cars coming from either direction so I seized the chance. I grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the steering wheel again, and again. When I let go he fell back into his seat. He looked surprised as if he didn’t think I had it in me to retaliate. His eyes began to roll away, he was about to pass out. There was no way I was going to kill him in his sleep; he wasn’t getting off that easy. I sealed my hand over my foe’s mouth and nose. His eyes swelled as he tried to suck the last bit of air from the cup of my hand. He slapped at my arms, but there was no real attempt to fight back. Perhaps I planted his face into that steering wheel one too many times. It took only a few minutes to stop his breathing, not nearly long enough—nowhere near as long as I would have preferred. There was a moment when I was finally able to express my elation—a point when his eyes 135 Metaphor opened and he stared at me. As the bully became the victim in his pitiful struggles for survival, I whispered in his ear one last lullaby: “This is for all the memories—Dad.” He was gone. As I stared at him, the cyclone that destroyed my childhood, I felt no more than a moment’s relief. Though he was dead, I felt that storm surging again. Like the ship from the story so many years ago, I too had been pulled into the gloomy deep. His violence survived within me. My father’s death was ruled an accident. There was little to no investigation. When the officers notified my mother of the tragedy, she quickly recalled the flat tire. Her story, coupled with mine, explained away any mystery. The event was reduced to nothing more than neglect on the part of my stepfather. Neglect—it took sixteen years, hundreds of beatings, and a flat tire to finally convince them. 136 Traveling Me Brenna Carrigan Kimber Mm. That smell. Latin America. It smelled the same in Costa Rica. Maybe it’s just the scent of foreign travel. It seeps into my nostrils and fills me with a curiosity and ambition unique to the moment, the place. I never feel this at home. I long for it. Crave it. It is the only reason I would want to be a millionaire. How did I get here again? Oh, yeah. My ambition. I picked the wrong time to catch the bus. Our bodies press all together into a human conglomeration of sweat, fatigue, and the acceptance that makes us just deal with it. It’s five. Five in the afternoon. The humidity fills my hair, makes my clothes feel like Glad saran wrap, and turns my pores into great waterfalls. I let each drop run down my spine, face, without interruption. The drips are infinite and never cease. In the shower they only combine their forces with the running tap water—they never actually wash away. Like the pains of some of these people. I love them. I know I could help them find more. Something more. But my own weaknesses and pain keep me from them. “Jesus é quem salva, Jesus é quem salva.” The skinny dark complexion had asked me if I wanted to hear a song. I tried not to laugh at his Michael Jackson-like version of a song he must have made up. He says he wants to be a gospel singer. Maybe it is a fantasy that keeps him happy as he polishes shoes like mine. His greasy hair and ratty black clothes won’t score him an audition. But then again, the brush, brush across the top makes a nice accompaniment for all his vocal inventions. Quem é Flora? Flora is the lady with whom I live. Her four foot frame stoops a little. Her short hair requires no maintenance. Big glasses rest on her prominent cheekbones. I can’t say that I know her. I’m temporary around here. She says little. They say she is my “avozinho” (little grandmother). She looks like one. She looked a little frail at first, but I’m pretty sure she could whip any man into shape. But to me that title entails a little more intimacy. All I know about her is that she is immaculately clean and gets angry when we’re late for dinner. I feel bad sometimes about the way I see her, but they do say communication is everything. Every morning she takes my shower towel and hangs it on the line to dry. Nothing dries 137 Metaphor inside. It hardly dries outside. Perhaps Flora finds happiness in her religion. Every morning I wake up and look at the cross hanging on the wall. I wish I could tell them what I know. I see the Bible on the table. I look at its wilted brown cover with the thin, worn pages, and I know that Flora’s fingers have made the book what it is. I find the old woman gets bored of the silence. She turns on the TV and a novela screams from the kitchen so loudly that I can no longer study. Her love for soap operas gives me a hunch that she has some spark for the romantic and overly dramatic. A spark for something beyond cooking and cleaning for me—a stranger she lets into her home on good faith that she’s strong enough. Flora talks to her dog the way I imagine her talking to her children; sometimes she quietly whispers as she lovingly takes Spanky his food and at other times she sharply commands, “Não, Spanky! Venha!” This is all I know of Flora besides the fact that she loves cucumbers. This she told me. It’s raining again. It thunders down and crashes upon the streets, roofs, sidewalks. I swear heaven’s dams have burst again. The streets flood in minutes and we walk in random unpredictable maze-like paths to avoid the contaminated water. It’s because of the rats they say. It’s not the rain that is bad, but the water underneath that shows its face as it mingles with the water of the sky. Despite the mess, I love the rain. Everyone carries uma sombrinha and they bump into each other. I like to call it “Clash of the Umbrellas.” Thankfully, I’m just a little bit taller than the gauchos and my umbrella battles best. Bam! I flinched on the couch as the child started to cry. You could say he was a terror, but he wasn’t old enough to talk. He wore just a diaper and his bare feet crumpled from underneath him. A belt. She had used a belt. For no reason other than her own frustrations—her dead-beat husband, his absence. I felt catapulted back to an era that I’d seen only on TV. Did people still do that? I sat horrified, uncomfortable. And they wonder why their children are so rebellious, so deaf to their commands. You think they’d catch on. The girl next to me had been here longer. “You’ll get used to it,” she said. I’ll never get used to it. Get used to this. The bus station. Always a chaotic mess of travelers and bums. Bums know we have to have money to leave. I stand in line, waiting. He came over old, hunched, filthy, smelly. Um real? No, I reply. 138 Kimber Alguns centavos? Nothing, I reply. My money burns against my leg inside my pocket. Why do I lie? I’m hungry, he says. I push past him and get on the bus. I choose to suffer with my own guilt than without my one real. Did I really just do that? We visited Salizete today. She seems an innocent child until you visit her home and learn that she cannot be so. Her husband is an alcoholic. He beats her. Her one tooth smile falls at times. You’d never know if you passed her in the grocery store aisle. She is simple and always wears her hair straight back in a dark ponytail. Her child is fair and freckle-faced. She is beautiful. I really like Salizete. I know she must have an inner strength that keeps her heart pulsating despite its disappointments. I don’t know if I like to visit her though. She talks a lot which is OK, but she always insists on serving us. Once she gave us cevada. It is horrible when it is good, rotten when it is cheap. Hers was cheap. I drank it anyway because I hate it when her smile falls. Adeli. We sat in her “backyard,” a three by ten foot alleyway accessible through her backdoor. It’s just big enough for a few chairs and the rooster pen. The walls of her home and the home behind keep it shady always—a nice escape from the cruel sun. She cuts her hair at the barber, she was saying. Super cheap and he gives her a nice head rub. Antonio, her husband, gave a wary look. Not sure I like that, he countered. Adeli laughed. She knows he loves her. He knows the barber poses no threat. He smokes profusely and swears he’ll quit. He knows he could be better, wants it even, but doesn’t believe it. He cries when he says thanks. Says we’re always welcome, like family. They feel like family. She sat in front of me with her face in her hands. Crying again. She is like an aunt to me. She is one I want to put in my pocket and take home with me. I’d give her a cute little house and a porch where she could drink chimarrão and visit with good ladies who love their husbands and have faith in the better part. Then she’d be happy. Josete. I love to hug her. Her head presses into my ribs and her bare shoulders stick to my forearms. I think she thinks me an angel. I think her a friend with whom I would visit just to visit, and I never do that. She has a secret she wants to tell. I won’t let her. I don’t want to know, be an accomplice, view her husband the way she does. I just want to be here when she cries. Every time. Every time we go over, her table is filled with the most delicious creations. She had a bakery once. Each dish filled with color. 139 Metaphor The beans match the color of her eyes, the carrots the color of her wall. She contents herself living alone. Her courage brought her here. He beat her. He beat their children. She left one day with all in tow. She built her own life. Her joy is creating—food, embroidered towels, crocheted bikinis. She sweats when she cooks. Maybe a drop or two falls into the pot, making it perfect. Who knows? I just know that the Hollandaise mouse pie thing she made me for my birthday is the best I’ve ever tasted. I said I was temporary around here. I knew I’d have to leave. I just didn’t realize I’d be leaving my home—my new home. My heart keeps trying to turn around in my chest and look back. I’d let them have it—my heart. Instead I tell it to sit down and just remember. The scent slowly fades from my nostrils. I still have hours before it fills again with the scent of home. I want to turn back, too. Close my eyes to my own world. I’ll keep her inside—the traveling me. She won’t let me forget. 140 XXV Silver Edition Twenty-five years—that’s a long time! Almost a whole generation— and a whole lot of change. But Metaphor is more about continuity and tradition—a place for change to make itself known. For ten years now it has been my great fortune to act as faculty advisor to Metaphor. It has been good fortune because the experience has always proven rich and rewarding. Like so few things, it never disappoints. What is unique about Metaphor is that it is truly new every year. A new and unproven student editor and staff step up to the task each year. What has been done, to a great extent, is lost on the new staff, and Metaphor needs to be reinvented. As an advisor this can be a scary thing. But what I have learned from Metaphor is to hold a great faith in students. Each editor and staff bring specific and varied strengths to their issue, and each year new challenges and difficulties arise—never the same. The one thing all have in common is that the task is always done—and done so well. I no longer wonder if Metaphor will be done and done well—I only wonder which strengths and surprises Metaphor will open to me and its readers. It is editors and staff that I think of when I think of Metaphor. Each one of them has proven to be the best—and this can be. What Metaphor proves to me each year is the value of absolute faith in the creativity, diversity, and energy of students—the resilience of talent. Thank you, editors and staff. • Faculty Advisor Brad L. Roghaar (1996-present) Some Blue Rodeo: 1968-1975 Sundy Watanabe This kid named Frank showed up in sixth or seventh grade, I can’t remember which. I was crazy about him. Just electric, the chemistry, you know? He was this dark haired, bow-legged, Elvis cowboy in new Wranglers who wore a big silver rodeo belt buckle. When he looked at me, or caught me looking at him around somebody’s shoulder? Woah. We couldn’t even talk, the air around us was so thick. This one time, he rode his bike all the way from Ellsworth’s ranch (that’s where his dad worked) just to see me. Yeah, that was about twenty miles. It was a Saturday and I didn’t even know, although all day I pictured him standing with one leather boot heel against the fence at school and thought about how his hips moved, walking toward the bus. When I was fourteen, this guy, Gary, kissed me after the county fair in Salmon—sixty miles from Leadore. I didn’t expect it at all. Here’s how it happened: after the rodeo, we walked through the dust and straw to the car parked in the dirt lot and didn’t so much as hold hands. The door was open. I think my brother was driving. I swung into the passenger side and turned to say good bye. He leaned down, and it happened that quick. My first kiss. He acted so normal. I couldn’t see straight, couldn’t even talk afterwards, you know? Too many fireworks, just like they always said. He flipped his hair out of his eyes and walked away with his hands in his jeans pockets. All the way home, I pretended to sleep. The stars shone really clear that night. My first real crush, Brad, dumped me for another blonde closer to home. We started going out the summer I turned sixteen, I think. Yeah, it was summertime. I remember because I was taking 142 Driver’s Ed and I read his notes over and over in the back seat of the car when it wasn’t my turn. He was from Salmon (his parents had city jobs) and he changed movie reels downtown. He’d write wisecracks and love letters in the dark, up there above the audience. I lived for weekends when he’d drive an hour to come see me for an hour. He hadn’t called in two weeks and it was almost time for school to start. We were supposed to meet after the rodeo and, you know, “talk.” That summer, I got glasses and saw leaves for the first time. At college, I kissed my best friend, Lester, in the library stacks. He’d illustrated a book for me about a bear taking care of this Alice in Wonderland type girl who could’ve been my twin. I lost his Carpenter’s Christmas album, talked to him about guys I was dating, flirted to prove I could hook him and avoided him when I lost interest. Boys get the talk, you know? About being careful with a girl’s emotions, that they’ll expect something more, like maybe commitment. They go about that all wrong. Boys are tender, vulnerable—even when they pretend they don’t care that you’re riding off to Utah with some guy you think you’ll marry. 143 You Never Know Sundy Watanabe You never know, do you, which man’s gonna parade outside your window till somebody opens the door a crack and lets him come sashaying across the threshold all tan and sleek, like he belonged? You didn’t invite him. But in no time, he’s claimed the soft side of the couch, left prints on your kitchen counter, guzzled from your carton. Who said he could, anyway? Think you can get him to move–lock the door, leave early, get home late? He knows all the tricks. You think you closed that window up tight and next morning there he is under your covers, sleeping on your pillow. It’s so natural, pretty soon your sister’s calling him pet names and it’s Sammy this and Sammy that and bring him down for Christmas. Now just hold on. Nobody asked me 144 how I felt about it. 145 Tides Linda Larsen I called you today— Ten days since we spoke, since I heard your voice, since you waited for my replies. And, I felt you trembling, across the miles— Your words like a drowning sea, roaring tenderness and ebbing with my quiet sobs. My barren beach waits soft in the moonlight, hesitant as your questions and golden fringed by your persistent surf. Breathe softly, till then. When the tide returns, the beach is always there, anxiously meeting the foam. And who can truly say . . . which one moves. 146 Lullaby Stephanie Ridge It is 5 am, and it is cold. Despite that, the crickets continue to drone, and chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp and drone their way into a monotonous groove. I am almost lulled by it. The weight of missing you cradles my heart pressing a bruise into every beat. There is no more mournful sound in all the world than that of a single train whistle as it passes in the night. I am almost lulled by it. 147 Stones On The Desert Melissa Buxton I am learning about myself in this barren landscape this scrub desert this half sand life. It is different than I expected. A shadowing and angled light showing a life equally angled into deeper corners of silence and a quiet more consuming than any I have known. It is repetition. Repeating layers of red and white; the degree of space between them deep and ancient; I am learning about myself in this barren landscape this sparse expanse this half sand life, the separation of this and stillness growing larger— looming and waiting. where loneliness burns me everyday like a brand; a darker mark; a wider scar; white on red, red then white; repeating and deep like the desert. 148 Regarding the University: An Essay On The Costs Of Education Schaun Wheeler Mark Twain, in Life on the Mississippi, describes how he learned to pilot a steamboat. He tells how he had to learn the whole river by heart, so he could literally pilot it blind. That’s pretty impressive. But Twain states: “Now when I had mastered the language of this water and had come to know every trifling feature that bordered the great river as familiarly as I knew the letters of the alphabet, I had made a valuable acquisition. But I had lost something, too. I had lost something which could never be restored to me while I lived.” Twain used to be fascinated by the river. There was a time when the sun hit the river just right and turned the whole Mississippi to blood. He said, “I stood as one bewitched. I drank it in, in a speechless rapture. The world was new to me, and I had never seen anything like this at home.” But after a while, that red sun only meant a windstorm was coming. The river concealed sandbars and snags that would sink the boat of any pilot who did not know his business. Twain knew that. After a while, that was all he saw: No, the romance and the beauty were all gone from the river. All the value any feature of it had for me now was the amount of usefulness it could furnish toward compassing the safe piloting of a steamboat. Since those days, I have pitied doctors from my heart. What does the lovely flush in a beauty’s cheek mean to a doctor but a “break” that ripples above some deadly disease? . . . Does he ever see her beauty at all, or doesn’t he simply view her professionally, and comment upon her unwholesome condition all to himself? And doesn’t he sometimes wonder whether he has gained most or lost most by learning his trade? I realized the truth in Mark Twain’s account after I took an art class. I learned to look at the world, at least in some small way, as an artist. Then one day, I was talking with a friend and I realized I was dividing her face into value shapes. I noticed how her hair against her shoulders created a very interesting negative space shape by her neck. And I made all these observations 149 Metaphor academically, just noting them to myself. It wasn’t until later that I looked back on that moment and realized she was kind of pretty too. I’ve done the same thing with buildings, a sunset, even my own face (which, by the way, is a really weird experience). It’s not just art. I received a bachelor’s degree in anthropology, and I look at my own religion and can’t help but see social norms, boundary maintenance devices, and culturally constructed metaphors. I’ve gained an education. What have I lost? Those parts of my life that pertain to my field of study still fascinate me, but they rarely strike me with awe anymore. I’ve lost a lot of the childlike wonder that I had in the beginning. I think many, if not all, of us who specialize in any sort of field no longer feel the same kind of wonder that we felt when we first began to learn our trades. We’ve gained an education; we’ve lost our awe. The cost of our education was more than tuition, fees, and books. We’ve paid a part of ourselves, and we have paid dearly. In exchange, we have a chance to make a contribution to the world. We have boats to pilot. That’s no small thing. Considering the fact that my education has allowed me a degree of comfort—in the form of upward mobility—that many other people do not have, this might seem like an odd, maybe even dark, way to regard my university experience. But if the university didn’t teach me to look at my life honestly, then it didn’t teach me anything. I admit my bias, but I think the social sciences are hit the hardest. We are trained neither to strive for the pure creativity of the arts, nor the pure practicality of business. Even the hard sciences have a more or less uniform language with which to describe the world. We’re forced to live somewhere in between, pulled one way by the creativity that is inherent in the term social; pulled the other way, sensing that if we can’t use what we’ve learned about politics, society, history, or the mind to help people, then we haven’t really learned much at all. Education endows us with not only the ability, but also the responsibility to do things that others can’t. No matter what our vocations might be, that is our job. In terms of awe we pay a higher price than others. We also have more to give than others. Because we are stuck in the middle, we have a unique perspective and unique opportunity. I might not see my religion through the same eyes that I did as a child, but now I can see how other people with different religions can live together without killing each other. We hold the middle ground in a very real sense. We can stand between dif- 150 Wheeler ferent ideas, political systems, or points of view and see their similarities, and help them to cope with their differences. An aweless, analytical, sometimes even detached, view of our own ideas and beliefs is the price we pay to stand on this ground, but I’m grateful for the chances this position gives me. It’s not just duty and responsibility. Sure, I paid a higher price for my education than I expected. But I haven’t lost my religion and, yes, I can still tell that a sunset is beautiful. But I want my awe back. I think the search to regain lost wonder is part of what leads the best scholars, artists, scientists, and entrepreneurs to do great things, and that search, whether we like it or not, is now our search. If we are to live with dignity, we must use that which our education has given us. If we are to live with purpose, we must work to regain that which our education has cost us. Have we gained most or lost most by learning our trades? We’ve done both. But Twain was wrong. He said he had lost something that he could never regain as long as he lived. I refuse to believe that. I won’t—I can’t—give up on my awe. The greatest realization of my undergraduate career has been that my education has cost me more than I ever dreamed it would. However, in recognizing and admitting to myself what I have lost, I better understand myself. And one great lesson I’ve learned from anthropology is that if you can understand people, you can help them. At least, that’s what I hope. 151 Remembrance Of Things Present Gavin Harper Her fingers caught in the small patch of hair on his chest, and she felt the rise and fall of his still labored breathing. They lay in darkness broken only by the speeding rectangles of light from passing cars outside. “Good?” She asked simply, afraid to say more after such expense. “Yes.” He sighed and pulled a strand of her hair from between his lips. As he lowered his arm, she was reminded again of the sharp citrus smell that emanated from him. Not cologne or aftershave, but something deeper, inherent. Even in still moments his scent was palpable to her. She had spoken about it once and he had laughed it off, as if she were teasing him. Robb’s eyes were open and she could see them flicker back and forth as if reading some tiny print on the ceiling. She knew she would sound hopeless if she asked him what he was thinking. She let the thought trail off, the question would be a horrible gaffe. Months ago, her mother had given her a book on relationship advice, and the small lists still whirled around in her mind, appearing at the slightest behest, at the visual signals of impending emotional danger. Such meaningless, desperate facts. Rule #1: Never ask a man what he is thinking. The answer will invariably be “nothing,” and he will resent your intrusion into his private thoughts. Madison couldn’t remember what she had eaten for breakfast that morning, yet these lists would flash clearly in her brain like railroad warnings. She moved her toe slowly down his inner foreleg, feeling the muscle tense at her slow advance. He flinched at the pleasure. Perhaps it tickled, she wondered. “I want to know something.” Her toe continued moving along his ankle and across the pad of his heel. He twitched, visibly this time, and she saw the corners of his mouth tighten in a hidden smile. He was like this, even in moments such as this, contained, impenetrable. He was ticklish, and Madison smiled quietly at her triumph, at her exploration of him. His head turned only slightly at her question, his eyes still on the ceiling. A nearby motorcycle revved loudly and the sound charged through the silence between them, and they both waited for the rumble and squeal of tires to pass. Robb was content with the silence, she knew, but she needed this. Just this one thing. 152 Harper “I want to know something about you. I want to hear something that no one else knows.” His response was an outpouring of breath that could have been a giggle or something close to the sound of her grandfather’s ventilator misfiring. “You mean something really juicy like . . . me getting a pedicure once a month? Or like who my first crush was?” He was teasing her now. She had known the answers to those questions since their first date. Had he forgotten? The visuals of him in a salon chair with moisturizer all over his lower legs and feet was not a sight she could banish from her memory. “No.” Her breath fell, and she wondered how to phrase it, exactly, without sounding intrusive. “I mean something real.” She knew now what she was asking, the precipice she was standing upon. Ever since she had first followed his retreating form through the Prime Choice Market, she had wanted to know him. She wanted to know the internal workings that caused such virile confidence, such a display of masculine insouciance. She had watched him reach tomatoes, turning them, each of them, searching for perfection. She trailed behind him as he searched for exotic vegetables and found herself fascinated with his purchases. She saw him reach behind his ear, stretching and tensing his arm, his fingers tracing the dark hairline at the back of his neck—all while choosing a pomegranate. A pomegranate? What on earth, she had wondered, would he do with it? She had fallen in love, then, with his purposeful stride and the confidence with which he finally returned her stare at the checkout stand. He had waited gently rocking his cart back and forth after his purchases, and for a moment she was afraid. He was waiting for her. She knew she would allow him to walk to her car, and was glad for the daylight. Madison was not sure if she would have had the courage to allow his proximity in a darkened parking lot. Since then, their meetings had been filled with that same confidence and spontaneity. Their first date at a jazz club, The Iridium Room, left her charmed with his smile and tenderness with a new waitress. On the sidewalk, after dinner, he had lifted her softly to avoid the wreckage of a broken set of beer bottles. In bed that night, alone, she had imagined his handprints glowing at her waist, red and yellow lights with thumbprints pointing upward. Madison needed some answer tonight, some integral part of him, something beyond the physicality of his existence, beyond the warmth of his hands on her waist. 153 Metaphor Robb still lay quietly, and his breathing was growing quiet. Her hand was still resting in the hair between his breasts, a finger casually circling. For a moment, Madison imagined driving her hand down, past his skin, sinking beneath bone, feeling what lay beneath, an emotional osmosis. He lay there in a masculine armor, muscle, reticence, and silence. “When I was a child, I remember my mother spanking me.” When he began to speak the rumble of his voice frightened her for just a moment. She had not expected this kind of an answer, but the absurdity of the comment made them both laugh. “No. She really spanked me. Hard. One of the worst beatings of my life. I had broken a lamp or something. I’m not sure what is was.” He laughed outright at this, some unknown joke. “After the beating I told her that I hated her. That I would hate her forever. Until I died. Forever. You know . . . the nastiest stuff I could dream up.” His smile was potent now even in the darkness. “I was sentenced to my room for like three hours, or something.” He shook his head back, and continued. “She sat me down on a step and grabbed my chin. Forced me to look at her.” He demonstrated with his hands on a phantom child. “Really hard, you know, with fingernails in my jawbone. ‘You can’t hate me forever.’ she said,” and his voice deepened here, the infamous angered parent, “‘In fact, you won’t even remember this in a few days. You got in trouble, and you’re angry now, but it all goes away. You won’t remember this house, or this place, or this moment. You hear me?’” His voice fell away, normalized after the impression of his mother. “I was horrified, ran upstairs, slammed the door, the whole bit. I was torn up because I couldn’t imagine the world I lived in just disappearing. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers, or meant to, but there was mostly silence in the room now. “Right then I was so angry that I sat up and knew what I had to do. I started cataloguing everything in that room. I looked around and knew that I was always going to remember this moment, this anger. I had Garanimal curtains on the walls, which matched the bedspread. You remember those? Where you could match your pants and shirts together by matching the red lions or yellow giraffes on the labels?” She nodded. “Well, they made curtains, too. I had four picture books lying on the floor, and I remember them all—even the Ranger Rick magazine with this tiny little raccoon . . . “I told myself that I would remember this always, in reeeaaaly melo- 154 Harper dramatic terms, of course. Lots of exclamation points. That’s what was so funny, earlier, I swore to remember that moment, but I can’t even remember what I did to get a spanking.” His smile faded, and Madison felt him pulling away slightly from her body. “Mom was right, I guess. I hate that. I had to grab onto that single memory, that single little moment, and now, almost everything else is gone.” He turned away from her, and pulled the sheet up tightly around them both. Robb returned to silence and Madison saw the light glint upon the sheet around them. He was off now, somewhere decades ago, searching. She had hoped for something more this evening. Something more than the hopes of a young boy, attempting to stay young forever. She had longed for Robb to open up, the metaphorical chink in his armor that would allow her to glimpse what was happening inside. He had not. Instead, something had changed between them, a loss. He had given her something, in fact, a story very similar to the one she had wanted. What was wrong then? The story was just not as she had wished, imagined, hoped and longed for. There would be further strugglings in the dark; she couldn’t walk away from him this simply. How would she ever explain the fact that his story had broken, no, not broken, begun unraveling whatever there was between them? For now, he was fine, but not, in the end, enough. She imagined, pulling the sheet up around her shoulders, the memories of her own childhood. The memories were clear, many of them unobstructed by time or space, of parks, forests, home, love. One, in particular, came in to focus, a memory of a stone she had thrown from a small footbridge at school. She had looked carefully for teachers or chaperones, and had found none. It splashed quietly, almost imperceptibly. The stone had fallen and fallen through clear waters, retreating and spinning hopelessly down until nothing remained but the possibly imagined shadow of its existence. She was chilled, and waited in vain for sleep to claim her. 155 XXV Silver Edition Contributors • Sundy Watanabe: served as a general staff member of Metaphor for the 1995-96 issue. She received a Masters of English degree from Utah State University with an emphasis in the theory and practice of writing and then for the next five years began her own “theory and practice” by writing and teaching, thinking and studying. For three years she was the Assistant Director of Composition at Weber State University. She spent a year in the Electrical Engineering Department at the University of Utah working as a Professional Development Instructor of Writing. Currently, she teaches First Year Composition courses at The Academy of Math, Engineering, and Science (AMES). Sundy is a Ph.D. candidate at the University of Utah, pursuing a joint degree program—a combination of courses in Rhetoric and Composition and in the Department of Education, Culture, and Society. • Linda Larsen: served as Editor-in-Chief of Metaphor for the 1993-94 issue. She has been working in the field of publication as an Assistant Editor for Gibb-Smith Publication Corporation. Currently she is a Training Monitor for Air Combat Command at Hill Air Force Base, and she is also serving as an Adjunct Faculty member for Weber State University. •Stephanie Ridge served as Editor-in-Chief of Metaphor for the 2004-05 issue. She is currently considering attending law school, and working toward a paralegal certificate. She loves to write, and remains firmly committed to Metaphor and undergraduate journals everywhere, giving voice to those who may not be heard otherwise. 156 • Melissa Buxton served on poetry staff of Metaphor for the 2002-03 issue. Since graduating from WSU in 2003, Melissa Buxton has published poems through the University of Colorado at Boulder where she attended workshops in the fall of 2004 and summer of 2005. She has also attended a workshop through the Red Rock Institute, where Terry Tempest Williams had taught. While Melissa claims that writing has become something of a pastime, she does admit that she is working on a novel. In addition to this writing, she is currently pursuing a degree in nursing. • Schaun Wheeler served as Editor-in-Chief of Metaphor for the 2003-04 issue. He is working on his Ph.D. in anthropology at the University of Connecticut, where he also teaches. Schaun works on issues of national identity. He recently completed a study of student perceptions of America in high school U.S. history courses, and his current research focuses on the effects of increased Islamic fundamentalism in the Republic of Kyrgystan. He is training to be a practicing anthropologist—he plans to work as a consultant for lending institutions to help countries qualify for long-term loans by helping them resolve internal cultural divisions among their citizens. • Gavin Harper: served as Assistant Editor of Metaphor for the 1993-94 issue. He received his Masters of English from Brigham Young University with an emphasis in Renaissance Literature. Since graduation he has been working as an Adjunct Faculty member in the English Department at Weber State University. He is currently a Ph.D. candidate at the University of Oregon, pursuing a degree in Shakespeare studies and film. 157 A Note On The Design This book was set in Bodoni, one of the first significant modern typefaces. Named for Giambattista Bodoni (1740-1813), this particular face is known for its contrast in thick and thin elements, and a more angular finish of details. Bodoni, the printer and type designer of Parma, was among the most influential designers of modern typeface. This volume of Metaphor was designed on an iMac G5, using InDesign and Photoshop CS2. • • • • Public Relations Steven Bagley • Layout Team Jim Beitz, Beau James Burgess, Kyle Charlesworth, Heidi Esplin, Tyson Taylor, Tyler K Telford