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=REBEL

CoEditors.. Nellie Johanna Lee

John R. Reynolds
Business Manager ............ Skip Huff
Co-ordinating Editor ....... Duncan Stout
An tditer =. =. Sid Morris
Copy EGHor =... Chip Callaway
Poetry Editor... «ssi Charles Griffin
Reviews Editor .............. Ed Correll
Chief Photographer ........ Walter Quade

Advertising Manager .... Rebecca Hobgood
Assistant Business Mgr. ... Mary Lynn King
Exchange and Subscriptions

Ate Susan Connor
Typist and Correspondence

BGNOr Patrick Berry
Pubucty Director........... Ben Terrell
Co-ordinating Staff .......... Janet Davis

Irvin Prescott
Photography and Art Staff George Weigand

Maurice Joyner

Steele Trail

(ony stat. Alice Sanders
Kay Mosu
Evelena Dorman
Mike Porter

Reviews Staff ....... Jennifer Salinger

Lynn Anderson
Patience Collie
Margaret Henderson
Nancie Allen

AQV6Or == i Ovid Williams Pierce

The Rebel is a student publication of East Carolina
University. Offices are located on the campus at
300 Old Austin Building. Inquiries and contributions
should be directed to P. O. Box 2486, East Carolina
University Station, Greenville, North Carolina 27834.

PRINTED BY THE GRAPHIC PRESS, INC., RALEIGH, N. C. 27603

Peterson

Contributors

David Peterson, Executive Director of the
United States Student Press Association, is the
featured poet for the spring issue of The Rebel.

Geoffrey Chapman, a senior English major, con-
tributes his second short story to The Rebel. Chap-
man, Sunday Editor of The Daily Reflector, pro-
vides us with an excellent story in his characteriza-
tion of oCrazy Annie.�

Janet Davis, a junior majoring in English and
library science, has contributed a great deal of time
and effort to the magazine. Her work will be found
in the interviews of the magazine.

Gale Freeman Morgan of Tillery, N. C., makes
his second contribution of poetry to The Rebel.
He was first published in The Rebel in 1964.

Ardis M. Kimsey, Joan W. Warlick, and Sally
Buckner, all members of the WriterTs Workshop in
Raleigh, make their first contributions in this
spring issue.

Jon Douglas Sykes of Mt. Airy, and Francis H.
Hanoid of New York City are first contributors in
this issue.

Skip Wamsley, a senior business major, is re-
sponsible for a major part of the photography in
this issue. His work will be found throughout the
book.

Making their first contributions of poetry in
this issue are Lynn Quesinberry, a sophomore Eng-
lish major; Dan Casey, a senior English major;
Alan W. Edwards, a junior English major; Linda
Faye Bryant, a freshman sociology major, and
Suzanne Whitson, a senior English major.

Contents

untitled

letters to the editor
freedom ?

sylvia wilkinson
poetry

crazy annie

the classical nude
dr. j. b. rhine
poetry

envoi

a mirror dusting
be yourself
visions of camelot
the poet

the conformist, tears
love

ceylon

when shall i ?

the devilTs half
exploration

the boy

a summer place
timeTs betrayal

to lonely people
on coming of age
gentle butterfly
portrait

cottonade farm

3

a

6

7
11
15
20
24
28
20
29
30
30
30
31
se
39
34
35
36
36
Se
38
38
39
39
40
40

Hulk

nj id, th, js
david peterson
geoffrey chapman
walter quade

jd, cg

francis h. hanoid jr.
gale f. morgan
gale f. morgan
linda faye bryant
dan casey

dan casey

allan edwards
charles griffin jr.
charles griffin jr.
jon douglas sykes
jrr

elc

jennifer salinger
ardis m. kimsey
lynn quesinberry
irving prescott jr.
sally buckner
suzanne whitson
joan w. warlick
keith lane

To be trite, Sweetie, all good things must come

to an end. It has been fun, while it lasted. The

typewriter clacking :

and people screaming was a little too much at times.

Let them hot machines cool for awhile. Middle-class it
American-style. Strike the final whimper with a happy bang.
Last words of advice from an old Restanmingdardton"
Don't take advice. Hurumph, hurumph. Incite, you have

everything to lose, nothing to gain; mumbo jumbo

jumbo. Submerge yourselves in life! Rhubarb, rhubarb.

See you in
San Francisco

Bye!

:

LEITIERS [O The

To the Editors:

What can I say that hasnTt already been said? Excellent, marvelous,
outstanding, a literary triumph? ITm sure youTve heard all these many times
already, but none of them are exaggerations. I received it (The Rebel) to-
day and started to read it with a little reluctance I must admit. College
literary publications are usually so insipid and sophomoric"emasculated
by the faculty advisers who fear someone might be offended by something

. . of course someone will be offended. Any publication worth the paper
its printed on will offend somebody."But once I started reading, I couldnTt
put it down. I took it to rehearsal with me and several of the people there
looked at it. They could hardly believe it was a college publication.

One person in particular . . . wife of a colonel, world traveler . . . was
really excited about it. She said she had never seen a college publication with
the sophistication and diversity that The Rebel displays.

Sincerely,

James H. Keller

USAF

Montgomery, Alabama

Dear Editors,

Just a note to say congratulations on another fine issue of The Rebel.
Though your fall issue was excellent, I though the winter issue to be far
more professional. The life of this yearTs book, in my opinion, has been the
individuality found in the art and design concept of the book.

I look forward to the spring Rebel . . . keep up the good work.

Sincerely,
Joe R. Thorndike

University of Toronto

" " Exe
tek acaihne ni
sh
| |

EDITOR.



To the Editors:
Thank you for your note ... and my copy of The Rebel. You have
done a beautiful job with that mag"my compliments to the rest of the
staff, too. I just canTt get over it. YouTve done more great things with The
Rebel than most college newspapers do, much less oliterary magazines.�
I hope ECU knows what a credit the magazine is to the college "The
Graphics are professional!
Again, my congrats and ecstatic commendations on The Rebel.
Peace and Freedom,
Pat Sweeny, Administrative Assistant
The U.S. Student Press Association

Nell and John,
Just let me say how much I enjoyed your satire supplement of The
Rebel. That mag is fantastic! The satire is so cleverly done that I could not
believe it was a student effort.
Congratulations"and keep up the good work.
Samuel R. Stone
New Haven, Conn.

Nellie and John,
Just finished scanning the new Rebel and canTt wait to spend some
unhurried time with it.
I want you to know that I appreciate and am very proud of the fine
work you are doing. Congratulations to you and all the staff for another
extremely handsome issue.
Sincerely,
Henry Howard
Director of the News Bureau,
and Public Relations
East Carolina University

Editorial policy: The Rebel welcomes all letters and manuscripts. The letters
and manuscripts should be typed, double-spaced, and signed by the author.
Letters should not exceed 500 words. Manuscripts running not longer than
1500-2000 words will be more desirable for publication, due to the format
of the magazine. All manuscripts submitted for publication will be returned
to the author. (Manuscripts received in the mail should include a self-
addressed envelope, postage paid.) The Rebel reserves the right to edit or
change in any way all letters and manuscripts submitted for publication.

5

ELILITORIAL...

FREEDOM 2?

We're back again today and actually we were
never sure that we would survive the Ides of
March. So we just stopped a while ago, suddenly
realizing that this will soon be the year that was.

It is spring. ThatTs what makes this time of
year significant when our thoughts wander to
other places as we watch other people and their
actions. A year of college is about to end. The end-
ing is different for all of us .. . we are about to
graduate, dropout, spend another year in college,
take a summer off or get a job. Some of us are
just leaving while others flee the draft or face it.

All of a sudden we are concerned with freedom.
We are faced with choices. What to do? Where to
go? We have plenty of freedom all of a sudden...
more than we know what to do with.

Freedom is a word that serves many causes and
ideas. And in the abstract sense, freedom is what-
ever you want it to be. Webster says freedom is
compulsion. So when we attempt to create our own
definition of freedom, we might ask ourselves if we
know of anyone who doesnTt act without some
form of compulsion.

In our Spring Rebel, we were compelled to ask
some very honest questions. We first heard Sylvia
Wilkinson saying: oI donTt enjoy writing .. . itTs
a kind of compulsion.� We wondered if science
could offer any alternatives. And then we found
that Dr. J. B. Rhine, the man who introduced
extra-sensory perception, has spent a lifetime chas-
ing mediums and the idea of immortality.

We saw that man doesnTt act without compul-
sion. Our choices, our freedoms are subject to the
demands of our various circumstances.

Al Capp said on campus a few weeks ago that
ofreedom is usually considered by most folks to be
the right to deny the rights of others.�� And that is
about where we stand now.

We looked closer at
the lover and the unloved, the rich and the poor,
the liberal and the consevative. We looked back
and saw that life has gone this way for thousands
of years. Man is always the one who says: oThis
is for me and this is for you. Stop being grabby ...
thatTs enough for the likes of you!� And every now
and then someone comes along and says thereTs
no need to be this way .. . oshare and share alike.�

These men stand in the paths of the mighty.
These men shout out Brotherhood. And the
mighty, if they ever listen, wonder how they can
use this freedom for their own benefit. People have
always had the answers in the palm of their hands.
They have been preached at by Marx and Christ
and Buddha. Yet they always seem to persist in
seeking their own benefit over the rights of others.

So what at last will you use freedom for? To be
like a group? For greed .. . to serve yourself as
best as possible?

We have looked for the answers. Our idealism
of the past has been questioned by a vivid sort of
realism. Here we are with old precepts of right and
wrong, good and evil, fading away into the sunset.
ItTs time for a new expression of manTs spirit, a new
look at the common and often condemned moral-
ity. Greed, manTs predominant feature, is in the
position that love supposedly held. Who is the
chief beneficiary of greed? Of love? You ... or us,
depending on how we look at it.

Freedom, greed, love . . . It all comes back to
compulsion. And we are helping someone else or
they are helping us. That happens to be the sys-
tem. We must believe that the things and actions
of greatest benefit to us will benefit others at the
same time. Now we know why ocharity begins at
home� and why the religions teach that we should
do to others what we want them to do to us. ItTs
good business.

What at last will we use freedom for?

YLUIA
WILKINGON

Sylvia Wilkinson is the American dream personified for every aspiring young writer. At
age 27, she has published two novels and is currently at work on her third. Her interests
have no limits . . . sheTs a car enthusiast, plays a championTs game of tennis, and uses
her painting to visualize the characters in her novels.

Miss Wilkinson is a native of Durham, N. C., and majored in art at the University of
North Carolina at Greensboro. She continued her education as a graduate student in English
at Hollins College and Stanford University. After having taught at Asheville-Biltmore Col-
lege and the College of William and Mary, she moved to Chapel Hill where she teaches crea-
tive writing at the University of North Carolina.

Moss on the North Side was Miss WilkinsonTs first novel and was published after many
years of hard work and eleven revisions. This first novel, which she began writing at age 12,
received wide critical acclaim with the top review coming from the New York Times. She wrote
A Killing Frost, which was published last fall, in just one year. Already it has sold nearly
10,000 copies. Both novels focus on the life of a young girl growing up in rural North Caro-
lina. Later in her writing career, Miss Wilkinson hopes to broaden her scope by possibly writ-
ing about her favorite sport " racing.

Miss Wilkinson is exemplary of the new generation in America today. She is first an
individual, a woman who has definite opinions about education, racial problems and the
current state of world affairs. She is a firm advocate of total commitment. Time Magazine
describes her as ~~one of the most talented belletrists since Carson McCullers.�T

7

interview.

What was your reaction when you were told that
you had been selected as one of the ten most out-
standing women of the year by Mademoisselle?

| didnTt know anything about the award. | said:
oWhat is the Award?�T And they were very insulted.
And then they sent me a book that explained it all
to me. So itTs nice. . . sell a lot of books.

. . . They said ITd have to come to New York,
Christmas. Asked me if ITd agree to do that. | said:
oChristmas Day?TT They said: ~~No, the day after
Christmas.�

That sort of thing is... you know... the whole
time you're there you feel like youTre an imposter... .
you should be sweeping floors. ItTs really ridiculous.

You werenTt surprised then?

Oh, | was surprised. But | donTt get excited about
things. | can think back at the things that really
thrilled me and that wasnTt one of them.

The thing that really just sent me up through the
roof was publishing my first book. | mean even
though ITd been given an option and even though
I'd gotten fellowships and everything . . . | had
never been able to say: ~ITve made it, ITve really
done it!�

But when | got the notice that they had contracted
my first book . . . Man, | went through the ceiling!
That was the big moment for me... a lot bigger
than Mademoisselle.

Do you consider yourself strictly a regional writer?

No, ITm just a... thatTs a pretty tough question.
See thatTs what critics consider when they read
your work. They try to pigeon hole you and say that
you're obviously an agrarian, a fugitive agrarian or
you're... . you know. ThatTs their job.

| consider myself able to write about anything
that | know. And | figure that tomorrow I'll know
something that | don't know today. The reason that
ITve written about southern children growing up in
the South is because | was a southern kid that grew
up in the South. But | assume that when | am able
to look back on my experiences"for instance |
went to California for a year, | spent some time in
Europe, ITve spent a lot of time out at the race track
"=soon as | get enough distance from all those ex-
periences, I'll be able to write about"say race
drivers just as validly as | will a little kid growing up
on a tobacco farm in the South. Mainly, | think your
writing relates to your experiences.

| donTt feel any real firm regionalism. The only
thing | feel is that ITm writing about what | know and
| happen to know this region very well. My third
book will be set in this region but instead of being
a kind of isolated character, my character is begin-
ning to move out to the outside world.

But donTt let critics fool you on that note. See
authors donTt think of themselves as regional but
the critics do. They like everything neat and tied up
in little packages.

Since you deal mostly with the illiterate person
in many of your works, do you feel that he is closer
to the mainstream of life?

No, | said earlier that | have a very strong interest
in people and | consider the strongest person in my
first book to be the girl Cary"and | donTt consider
her illiterate"I consider her, even though sheTs
tenant farmer and poverty . . . | consider her intel-
ligence and sensitivity. | would consider her capable
of anything that she was exposed to.

My second book . . . well the little girl is already
breaking out into a kind of schooling and everything.
The old woman, although illiterate, | consider her as
possessing an enormous knowledge. So | donTt like
to consider myself dealing with illiterate people.
She may be illiterate in the sense that she doesnTt
write sentences very well, but she has a vast knowl-
edge that is kind of lost because that generation,
the generation of my grandparents, is going to be
a lost generation. ThatTs a generation that will never
have another one like it. That knowledge is dying
because the day of the small farmer is over.

What are your literary interests?

Road and Track, newspapers . . . | enjoy the Rus-
sian writers. My reading is very spontaneous. | read
most of the books my friends write. ITm very loyal.
If someone mentions something to me that is very
good, I'll read it. | real a lot of magazines. | read all
sports car magazines.

WhoTs your favorite author?

| donTt ever have one. | just change all the time.
Dovstoevsky is a big hero. ThatTs safe to say.

What are your hobbies?

Tennis, painting, cars, writing.

Do you race cars yourself?

No, ITm interested in the complete spectrum of
automobile racing. ITm not simply interested from
the journalistic point of view. | work in the pits. |
keep"run stop watches. | help people work on the
car"lTm no mechanic but | can do what ITm told.

My interest in racing .. . well, | just think itTs an
absolutely fascinating sport and | was very sur-
prised to find out the kind of people involved in
racing. TheyTre a personality thatTs never really been
exposed and that certainly isnTt exposed in movies
like ~~Grand PrixTT"movies that are nothing but sex
and wrecks. And you know ITm much more interested
in people than that.

Have these hobbies influenced your writing"or
do you think they will influence it?

Yes, oh | think they will influence it. Now racing
is a wonderful relaxation from my writing because |
don't enjoy writing. And | enjoy going to races.

You donTt enjoy writing?

No, itTs a kind of compulsion. I'd almost consider
anybody a liar who told you they enjoyed writing. |
really would.

Why?

ItTs just no fun. ItTs painful"hard work. ItTs ment-
ally exhausting.

But isnTt it satisfying?

After itTs done, but the after writing is no plea-
sure. After itTs done, thereTs a certain feeling of
Satisfaction in having it all dumped out on a sheet
of paper. But sometimes all you've done is dumped
out something that is going to bother you a little bit
more.

| think that in order for a writer to remain sane,
he has to have interests that are completely dif-
ferent. This is why | am not a scholar"very few of
my close friends are scholars. | donTt have any real
draw to the academic, intellectual world . . . to people
who sit around and talk about books"because |
donTt like to. ITd rather sit around and talk about
cars, or I'd rather play tennis. | like to get away from
that side and | think writing is such an intense
activity"itTs incredibly intense"that you need
something completely different from it to do. Like if
| write all morning, | want to go out and play tennis
in the afternoon.

So writing is not a hobby?

No, | lie a lot.

What about your painting?

Not much anymore. Just every now and then |
poke away at it. All | did was just paint my characters
that | was going to write about. You know, | wanted
to get a visual picture so | could see them through
my stories"so | painted them.

Did you start out in painting in college?

No, | started out in physical education. | spent a
year as a p. e�,�. major and then | switched to English.
Then | switched to art and then | decided on a double
major. And | graduated with a degree in art mainly.
Then | went to graduate school in English. Then |
got a degree in miscellaneous, | think.

Do you feel that writers should stand completely
on their own merits or should they be compared?

Oh, | think they should stand as individuals. |
think the reason theyTre compared is just the simple
reason that itTs easier that way. It gives you two sets
of standards to stack up against each other. And
thatTs just kind of a little toy for crtics to play with
in their cribs. But | think each writer will, each really
great writer will stand as an individual talent.

For instance"William Styron"heTs one of my
heroes right at the moment. As far as a recent writer,
| think heTs the best writer since World War II. Not

because of Nat Turner but because of Lie Down in
Darkness. | think heTll stand as a significant writer"
a truly significant writer for his individual works
alone. Now on the other hand, a guy like Truman
Capote did the same sort of thing in a sense when
he did oIn Cold Blood.T�T | do think thatTs an incredi-
bly over rated novel . . . and not any where near the
scope of Nat Turner. ItTs a much smaller thing and
just blown all out of proportion and itTs no where
near the significant book.

Do you think Capote tried to cover:too many
aspects?

No, | think Truman Capote sold out. | think his
earlier writing was fine. | think thatTs (In Cold Blood)
is just a big, boring, slick book. | mean itTs great
that someone went out and worked real hard writing
a book. Well, | think the point is to work very hard"
like Styron did on Nat Turner"work extremely hard.
Nobody can imagine how much suffering and think-
ing that guy must have gone through to write that
book. How hard must it be to sink into the mind of
Nat Turner, a slave whom you know practically
nothing about. But the work shouldnTt show. ItTs a
heck of a lot harder than researching a murder. |
think CapoteTs book is just a super, duper detective
story.

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But | do wish ITd written Valley of the Dolls.

Really?

I'd be sorich...

WhatTs your opinion of Valley of the Dolls?

| donTt know. | didnTt read it. You couldnTt beat
me and make me read it. Nobody could make me
read that book!

| cracked it open one time just to get a taste of
her style and . . . Gosh, sheTs terrible"just horrible.
But she made her a stack of money.

What do you think of the public reaction to Valley
of the Dolls ?

Well, | guess itTs like the old cliche"itTs like
putting the cookie jar on the top shelf. The same
thing that happened with Tobacco Road years ago

_ . sold more copies than the Bible.

Tell somebody itTs a forbidden fruit and they want
it. Every secretary in America is going to read it.
You go by a news stand and you see a whole thing
full of confidential magazines. ThereTs a certain lure
that they all have . . . itTs trash.

How do you think North Carolina is progressing
in literature as compared with the rest of the United
States?

In literature weTre doing beautifully. But in open-
housing, education, highways . . . | think we have a
very high percentage of excellent writers.

We have one of the six most attractive creative
writing programs in the country for college students.
We have creative writing for exceptional high school
students"the GovernorTs School. And _ practically
all of your state"local creative writers today
teach at one of these schools whether part-time or
full-time . . . and they are available for teaching and
for lecturing. Well, you know the South . . you know
we have literary contributions.

What do you think about the activist movement
in the South and all over?

ThatTs an awful big question. Well, | can start
out by saying ITm very interested in politics. | am a
political liberal and | spent a lot of time last year
working for desegregation in Virginia and this year
I'd like tc spend my time writing for better public
education in North Carolina.

| think that public high school education needs
more expansion"more vocational schools, better
college preparatory schools. | think our North Caro-
lina college preparatory program is rotton. And ITm
still very interested in race relations in North Caroli-
na... in open-housing, poverty programs. ITm very
disheartened to see people like Gardner and Sar-
gent Shriver pull out because of a lack of funds.

ITm very much against the war in Vietnam but as
of now | donTt feel like ITm in any position to speak
against the war in Vietnam because | canTt offer
a solution. . .

One of the biggest problems of the state is the
problem of priorities and the amount of time we
waste on things like deciding whether to make some-

thing a university or whether or not to put a comma
in the title of it. You know... all these minute little
things when we have massive problems in the slums
and all this, but weTve got our priorities all out of
order. We donTt put whatTs important first. Because
a riot is a result not a cause... . itTs a result of a
miserable situation and in order to prevent riots
you donTt put more police on the force. You get
rid of the cause of the riot.

| think at the top of the priority list is education.

What difficulties do you observe in the writers
in your class?

They are very self-conscious"they want to create
images, symbols . . . very contrived. They want
every story to have a plot. YouTve got to free them
from all these old barriers. As far as ITm concerned
everyone who tells you youTve got to have a plot
before you write a story is just like a person who
tells you a manTs name, person, place or thing. You
donTt need that kind of information. | want them to
just keep writing until they hit on something"kind
of regurgitating until they hit on something good.

What advice would you offer to writers trying to
break into the field of writing?

Well, if theyTre writers, theyTve got no problem"
but most of them arenTt. | try to be as hard on
them as possible, as discouraging as_ possible.
Every now and then you find a genuine talent. I'll
work with it but the majority of kids who take
creative writing . . . | just hope theyTll come out
being very good readers and very good critics. |
work very hard at discouraging them because theyTre
just headed for a very big hurt.

Do you think that thereTs any preparation that
one can make . . . or do people just have ability
for writing?

| change day by day but you see ITm still very
young myself and ITm only four years in teaching
now and | change overnight . . . But I'll tell you
what my daily opinion on that is, (WilkinsonTs law
of the day), | cannot teach students style, their style
will come of itself. It'll be the way they talk, the
way they act, the way they do everything. Their
writing style will come of that.

| can teach them technique. And thatTs my
approach right now. | can expose them to a great
multitude of ways they can tell a story. | canTt have
anything to do with the story that they intend to
tell . . . that depends on their own experience and
imagination, but | can show them ways to tell that
story. | can show them the difference between a
totally interior monologue and an interior mono-
logue that has people from the outside interfering
with it. You know, thereTs just a whole multitude of
ways to tell stories. And | think | can teach them
that . . . but | canTt create talent.

AL: = JD,
Un, JS

a face of pale
eyes crystal blu@ gray clear
and dark hair Shining

i see her face

in a thousand puddles

after spring rain

by David Peterson

11

GREY FRIDAY
END OF JUNE

the gentle rain sings softly and so the robin
as gray consciousness emerges from troubled sleep.
and my thoughts, they are of you,

for i know i tasted the essence

in a few days.

sadness descends softly

the rain grows to a roar

and then sings no more

though darkness grows light,

it is yet grayer

the essence i taste is but the salt

of a single tear

the essence i taste is but the bitterness

of a single fear

crescendo the rain.

spent and weary of loveTs demands

my mind shrinks and falls softly away away
but slowly slowly.

kaleidoscope

the grasp is broken
as hintingly emerge
the delicate promises of a flower

water pulsating eagerly flows
In shadows sounding of
the whisper of summer sun

a butterfly tells us
that life has won
temporarily another day

the fruits meagre

are gathered brightly

under shrill sounding skies

of transluscent nectar symphonies

the gray trees listen

with time elapsed understanding
as cold winds sound forth

final tastes.

and all my yesterdays



the/now i feet

- > .

how empty these, halls and rooms:
how bare my bed
how quiet-thé space

and deep the sadness

a future of nothing
a present of pain
yesterday is gone unreachably
and i cannot touchT
your mind

or your body

or that time

again

2

are sad

and all my todays
unhappy

and all my future
unknown

and you ask me why
i do not smile

ad

3

in my life :
i have loved

not once

happily

and that is all



Allan Edwards

« sinplest piste of good -ty

on parting two impulses:

one to hold and one to curse you,

sadness and anger at still loving but never knowing why.
from the beginning,

when i awoke and told you not to cry

and you wiped the tears from my eyes,

i knew it would be a one-directional, one-dimensional
unreal storybook affair.

my love, unasked and uninvited,

lingering longer than grace and taste would allow,

could never inspire another.

such love is burdensome, constricting movement,
hampering plans, limiting freedom.

i can not hold you against your will

and know i should not try.

a river dammed becomes a lake.

sky enclosed is colorless air

but i will not say i no longer love you, giving graceful exit
you would see the lie in my eyes

and i do not want your conscience to be free.

i cannot exempt you from the guilt of the past

or the uncertainty of the future.

and you cannot erase the trace

that time has carved in your brain

and begin again

though i might angrily wish that a thousand objects of pregn
would remind you of my love and our days together, _
time and memory, california and its beaches, will suffice.
the persistence of memory and the irrevocable How of time
are absolutely absolutes

and so you too are condemned.
but the past only scars, the future gashes and tears :
your blue eyes, sensitive touch and gentleness that
tell even a stranger that you are a lover.
and so you too are condemned.

in another time and another place yet unknown
my curse will become yours
as he appears and you are drawn helplessly to.
you will love him utterly
without cause and without redemption.
but you will not reach him or teach him or tot
the irresistible object will stand unmoved _
by all your immovable forces and hidden grief.
time quickly passing he will leave as you are leaving.

in my love i wish that curse upon you.

only then shall you be wise

only then shall you know what you must about love and lovinT
only then shall you know me and understand these tears.





him with your lov

seer Pew

FICTION

OWZYy

ANNIE
by Geolfrey Chapman

Crazy Annie woke up as usual to the lonely
clatter of the garbage truck on its rounds through
Henry Street. She knew it was half past seven. A
dull, throbbing pain in her back told her she lay
on her hump.

Annie remained still, staring at fleeting shadows
on the ceiling, and tried to think about it. The stir-
rings of a memory were spurred through unused
channels in her brain by the throbbing in her back.
The memory assumed a nebulous shape, but it was
there. And with it were the voices, far away, like
an echo in a forgotten, empty corridor of her strug-
gling mind. Most of the words were lost now, but
their meaning still came through: taunting, hate-
ful, teasing the hunchback, the oCrazy Annie.� She
no longer could hear the taunts, she just felt them.

But Annie had fought back. In the only way she
knew how, she answered them. She smiled. And
over the years, the smile had become as permanent
and crooked as the hump on her back. She wore
them both to bed.

Crazy Annie struggled and rolled over toward
the edge of the cot. A minuteTs rest and then a
thin leg was eased over the edge. A twisted toe
touched the floor. The toe was her thermometer.
This morning it rebounded from the floor like a
rubber ball. Annie wriggled the toe about frant-
ically, seeking warmth beneath the covers.

Crazy AnnieTs teeth would have chattered, it
was so cold on that floor. As it was, her gums just
smacked with a liquid sound. She felt a shiver
through the length of her body and she wrapped
her long arms around it as tightly as she could.

oAhhh,� she articulated, wiggling her buttocks
through the warm hole in the mattress. oAhhh,�
she breathed again, her goal achieved. Annie wait-
ed and watched a shadow.

Annie didnTt own a clock, but she knew it was
eight when the tip of the shadow touched the far
corner of the floor.

15

Looking toward the shadowTs
origin, Annie could see a wisp of wind gently wav-
ing the sun-faded curtain through the paneless
window.

Out popped the toe. It dangled just off the floor,
hesitated, then dropped quickly. The floor was
warmer. The message was transmitted and in a
moment, it reached home. Annie chuckled and
spat, aiming precisely at a crack in the floor. She
moved, deliberately. She began to function.

Crazy Annie got up.

She moved across the floor, dragging her lame
right leg behind her. It always stiffened in the
night and it took a while to loosen. She didnTt have
to bend of her own accord to the old wood burner
against the wall, and it took but little effort to
crouch to a dwindling pile of wood. She got a fire
going. Annie laughed"no, gurgled, like a baby"
as she peered into the pot on the stove. It was half
full of the brew from yesterday morning, or the
day before.

Now it was time to clean house, while the pot
boiled. It wasnTt much of a task. Annie shuffled
the few steps to the other end of her tarpaper
shack. She snatched the top cover, gave it a shake,
and put it on over her shapeless one-time dress.
Now she wore two.

oMaxwell

House...

Next, the flannel shirt. Plaid it
was, or used to be. Now there was no color. And
finally, the ancient olive drab overcoat that she
had picked up . . . where? She put this on and
Crazy AnnieTs bed was made and she was nearly
fully dressed. She gurgled again, happy at the
accomplishment.

Crouching ever so slightly, Annie picked up the
spit can by the cot. It bore the faded legend,
oMaxwell House,� not that it mattered. She
couldnTt know and wouldnTt have cared. She shuf-
fled over to the doorway, pushed aside the terry
cloth bedspread hanging there, and dumped the
contents of the can in a dirty brown semi-liquid
puddle by the concrete block steps. She spat after
it in a gesture of finality to the act, and set the
can where she stood.

Retracing her path back to the cot, she sat
down, grunting as she did. Reaching a long arm
under the edge, she extracted a pair of leather
boots. Annie admired them for a moment, poking
a finger tentatively through first one hole and
then the other. She pulled them on. They had no
laces.

Now she returned to the stove, sniffing appreci-
atively the bitter aroma of the old coffee. She re-
moved the pot and turned eagerly to the business
of breakfast.

Crazy Annie broke her fast luxuriously this
morning. She had three biscuits left from Sunday
and an inch or so of molasses in the bottom of a
cup. After a brief inspection of the cupTs bottom to
be certain its contents had not leaked through
the crack, Annie sweetened her coffee with the
molasses and softened the hard bread in the thick
black stuff. She enjoyed her meal slowly, lingering
over every bite and sip. And when the last of the
bread was consumed and there was no trace of
molasses in the cup, she licked each finger care-
fully. Annie gurgled, burped, spat, and cackled
gleefully. She was wide awake now and became
more verbose. She cackled again as she stood up.
It was time to go.

Crazy Annie moved again to her cot and lowered
herself to her hands and knees. She peered under
the cot and cackled when she was sure the sacks
were there. She reached under and grasped the
burlaps, dragging them out.

Annie shook out the sacks and tossed them over

16

her shoulder, holding them by the necks with one
hand. With the other, she reached inside the night-
stand there and felt for the knitted cap. She found
it quickly in the corner where it always slid when
she tossed it in at night. Plopping the shapeless
thing on her head with a snort to blow hair out of
her face completed AnnieTs morning ritual. She
cackled and spat through the crack, wiped her
mouth with the back of her hand and walked out
the doorway.

Outside it was warmer and Annie stopped for a
time, luxuriating in the warm sunshine. The air
still felt nippy but the sun shined brightly; it
threatened to be a beautiful Indian Summer day.
There wasnTt a cloud in the sky that she could see.
Annie lifted her wrinkled face to the sun, and clos-
ed her mouth and eyes. She bathed in the sunlight
for several minutes before moving on her way.

She didnTt know yet where she would go or
which way she would get there. All she knew,
though the thought never took definite shape in
her mind, was what she would do and where she
would end her day.

Annie would wander about the town, going up
one street and down another, completely at ran-
dom, collecting. Eventually she would take her
sacks into the little store at the end of Henry
Street. There, she would empty the sacks and sort
their contents into three piles: things she would
keep, things she could sell to the man who ran the
store, and things she didnTt want and he wouldnTt
buy or trade for. Often, before she ended her day
at the store, she would stop several times to sell
the soft drink bottles she collected. They were too
heavy to carry around and on rare good days she
found many of them.

Annie shuffled along the street, cackling as she
went, picking her way carefully through the de-
bris, and feeling warm all over for the first time
since the afternoon before. She felt warm and she
felt happy.

Passing through the neighborhood with its row
upon row of houses just like her own (though some
she often admired for their doors and windows) ,
full of people, decaying, and exuding an aroma
which Annie had learned to ignore, Annie listened.
She heard the sounds of the street, the houses, the
people and the animals"the sounds of life on
Henry Street. Many of the sounds she heard she

ie

oGo to hell. Annie "_

could not understand, or at least she could not
identify. But Annie could classify the sounds.
Some, a few, were good; some were neither here
nor there; and some were bad, unhappy sounds.
The sounds of Henry Street or any other street
that Annie happened to be on fell in one of her
three categories.

Annie heard a happy sound and she widened her
smile a little and cackled. In a weak and cracking
voice she called out softly, oPuppy, puppy.� The
little dog barked and growled fiercely at Annie,
causing her to cackle anew. She wiggled her fingers
at him and he scampered around, yapping wildly,
then came to her and licked her hand.

oNice puppy,� the unused voice cracked.

The little dog ran away in answer to a distant
whistle and Annie stood and watched him go. She
spat, wiped her mouth without molesting the smile,
and shuffled along her way, a feeling of optimism
for the day filling her being.

Annie turned left on Ford Street, a continuation
of the squalor that was Henry Street which led
right into Adams Street the townTs main street.
From there, it was only two blocks to University
Road, AnnieTs favorite and most frequently trav-
ersed street. Here it was that Annie found some of
her most valuable"though not her favorite"
things.

Annie had once found a ring which turned out
to have a real, though very tiny, diamond. She had
seen it flung away by a very pretty young girl into
the hedgerow which guarded the edges of the uni-
versity campus grounds. Annie had been watching
through an opening in the shrubbery. A young man
had stood in front of the girl, facing her. Both had
made sounds unpleasant to AnnieTs ears. She
couldnTt remember most of the words, but it had
ended with the ring in the hedge, almost at AnnieTs
feet on the other side. Both young people had stood
silent for a moment, the girl with tears in her eyes,
looking at each other. Annie had waited, poised
to spring after the ring. The boy had looked after
the ring, returned his gaze to the girlTs tear-rimmed
eyes, and said in a voice so cold and clear that An-
nie could still remember, for a reason she couldnTt
fathom, oGo to hell, Anne.�

Annie had returned to that same spot many
times since. The man at the store had given her ten
dollars for the ring. But she never again found any-

thing quite so valuable. Once she found a watch,
for which she got five dollars. She had found
several other pieces of cheap jewelry and a wallet
with one dollar and some cards, a white one with
a picture of a boy on it and another picture of the
same boy with a girl. But never again did she
strike it so rich at one time.

Annie shuffled and cackled her way down Adams
Street until she came to the intersection with Uni-
versity Road. She waited for the light to change,
eyes fixed on the top one. She knew that when
the bottom light came on, she could cross the
street. The light flickered and went out. The bot-
tom one flashed on simultaneously.

Annie had taken one tentative step off the
curbing before she became aware of the noise. It
was a roar and a shriek which, together, filled her
head and pounded at her aching bones. Then, so
swiftly she had no time to focus, a blur of motion
flashed by, accompanied by a louder roar, another
shriek, a flurry of smaller motions within the blurr,
jumbled voices, and the word. 7

Annie was frozen to the spot, one foot on the
street and the other on the curb. All she knew"
and there was no mistake"was that the word was
bad, so bad. Annie had a brief and blurred image
of cars filled with boys moving down Henry Street,
their occupants taunting in harsh, bitter voices the
children, the young girls and women and her with
"the word. ThatTs all that ever registered per-
manently in AnnieTs brain"that word. She had
seen children cry. grown peonle lash ovt in anever
and something else she could not identify in re-
sponse to that hated word.

She heard it often. And every time she did, her
smile flickered for an instant, vanished, and some-
how never felt the same when it returned.

Annie didnTt know how long she had _ stood
there, but when she looked up, the top light was
on again. Again she waited, watched; and when she
finally crossed the street, the word had been tuck-
ed away in some remote corner of her brain, wait-
ing to be summoned forth again.

Annie shuffled along the campus side of Uni-
versity Road, the empty burlaps slapping against
her buttocks as she went. They reminded her of
their emptiness.

Annie had watched and waited, listened and
spat, poked and peered about in the shrubbery she

oAnnie removed her boots...

knew not how long before she left her favorite spot,
her bags as empty as before.

She moved along, slower now, with a vague con-
nection forming in her brain between what hap-
pened at the corner and her subsequent lack of
success. Annie spat nothing. Her mouth was so dry
that her gums clicked rather than smacked. Annie
felt unhappy for the first time today.

Automatically, AnnieTs brain turned her down
the street which would pass by the laundromat
and, further along, through the faculty residential
section. She didnTt know, though, until she saw
the small white building, exactly where she was.
She couldnTt read the sign, oUniversity Laundro-
mat,� but she didnTt need to. Annie waited.

When she was sure that the building was empty
for the moment, Annie went inside, slowly,
cautiously.

A satisfied cackle was given birth when she
found the socks. Annie had only gone through four
machines when she found them, flattened wetly
against the side of the basket near the top and
under the overhanging lip of the machine. She
wrung them in shaking hands and held them up to
examination, ignoring the rivulets of water tracing
wiggly paths along the prominent bones of her
fingers and hands. Another cackle was AnnieTs
final approval. After a quick look around to as-
sure her privacy, Annie removed her boots and put
on the socks, still wet.

It didnTt matter that one was black and one
was white.

Annie was happy again. She cackled and spat
her pleasure to the silence of the empty building
and went outside.

It was sometime after noon when Annie sat
down by the willow on the edge of the playground
by the faculty housing development. She leaned
sideways against the tree, avoiding pressure on her
aching hump and placing herself with the tree be-
tween herself and the playground. It was, she
knew, better that way.

Having dropped her sacks before she sat down,
Annie now upended one. The other was still empty.
The litter at her feet had a value for Annie that
no amount of money could replace, which was
fortunate since she knew no amount of cajoling
could have sold it to the man at the store. She had
found no bottles, no money, nothing salable. But

18

she had a small fortune in pleasure. There was a
piece of felt whose color was meaningless but which
sent an electric thrill all through her body when
she rubbed it against her face. There was a catTs
eye, plucked from the edges of a finger-drawn
circle in the dirt on the far edge of the playground.
How it sparkled in the light! But it was topped
by the glitter of light from the small round pieces
of tinfoil collected from around the trunks of the
ancient oaks in the universityTs arboretum. Today
there were four of them. They were so pretty to
look at that Annie always kept them. Their same-
ness made no difference.

From somewhere came the memory, an ancient
one for Annie, of the time she had first found one
and discovered how pretty they were. It had been
"where? There had been a car, parked, and Annie
had heard soft voices, good sounds, and later"
had the sounds changed? She couldnTt remember.
But she had seen a hand at the carTs window. Just
a hand. And it had thrown something. Annie had
gone to the spot later and found the thing which
glittered even in the moonlight. She had ignored
the other thing which lay nearby, her eyes attract-
ed only to the brightness of her prize. It was only
later that she discovered their ready availablity
in the arboretum. Annie didnTt know how many
of them she had; and she never tired of collecting
them. She didnTt think about it. She just kept
them.

The memory was vague and was not cut very
short by what she heard next. Annie was looking
directly into the back yards of a row cf neat brick
houses confusing to Annie for their sameness.
What she heard was the slamming of a screen
door. What she saw was a blond, somewhat plump
woman, dressed in tight-fitting shorts and a plain
blouse. Looking over her shoulder all the while,
the woman crossed the yard, almost at a run. Hav-
ing reached the back door of the next house, the
woman knocked so lightly that Annie could bare-
ly hear. After a moment a manTs form became
visible in silhouette behind the screen.

oGoddamn!,� was the only word of their hurried
conversation that Annie comprehended before the
door opened and the woman scampered in. A low,
scratchy moan found its way out of AnnieTs throat,
an unhappy sound made reflexively in response to
the unhappy word and the unhappy tone of it.

She had no time to lament, even in her brief,
faltering awareness of it, for almost immediately
the first door opened again. This time a man ap-
peared. He called a name, said something else,
and started off at a trot toward the second house.

Annie didnTt wonder why he failed to knock be-
fore he went in, scant seconds after the woman had
entered. She didnTt wonder at the ensuing loud
voices, bad words, a crash of something breaking.
She didnTt wonder at the woman crashing through
the screen door, stumbling, finding footing and
running headlong back across the yard, screaming
as she ran. Annie didnTt wonder because she was
aware only that it was bad, all bad. There wasnTt
room in her brain for anything else but that and
the automatic, unthought actions which put her
treasures safely back in the sack and lifted her
body to as upright a position as it was capable of
achieving.

Then, as quickly as she could, Crazy Annie aim-
ed herself toward Henry Street and moved, just
moved.

Along the way, Annie found several bottles,
some small ones and a big one. She would get a
nickel for the big one, eight pennies for the small
ones. Thirteen cents in all.

Annie clutched the change tightly in one hand,
the sacks in the other, and waggled her tongue at
the puppy scrambling about her feet as he head-
ed down Henry Street toward her tarpaper shack.

oNice puppy,� the voice cracked as the little dog
trotted away. AnnieTs smile regained its morning
angle as she watched him go.

Crazy Annie went home, ate a supper of beans
and bread, and went to bed.

Feeling safe at last, warm and tired in the em-
brace of her cot, Annie reached out over the mat-
tress to turn off the lamp, squinting in the glare of
the bare bulb. But she paused. Annie looked down
at the feet which stuck out from a hole at the
foot of the cot. She admired her new socks. And as
she did, Annie became slowly, slowly aware that
they were different somehow. Annie cackled, spat
into the can by her cot, turned out the light, and
stared in darkness toward where she felt her feet
to be.

oBoth the same now,� Annie said to the world.
~All the same now. All the same.�

Crazy Annie went to sleep

19

by Walt Quade

The GLASSIGAL "
NUDE

A Study

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J. B. Rhine was born September 29, 1895, in
Juanita County, Pennsylvania, and was educated at
Ohio Northern University, the College of Wooster,
and the University of Chicéago. He received his Ph.D.
from the Department of Botany at Chicago in 1925.

After three years of research and teaching in the
field of plant physiology, Dr. Rhine and his wife, Dr.
Louise E. Rhine, began their exploration in parapsy-
chology, ~~the science of psi,� (~~psychicTT phenome-
na) at Harvard in the fall of 1926. The following
year they went to Duke University to work under
Professor William McDougall.

Established at Duke in the Department of Psy-
chology, Dr. Rhine began the studies that led to
the development of Parapsychology as a branch of
science. His first book in 1934 introduced the term
oextrasensory perception,T based on six years of
work in the Department of Psychology. In 1937,
with the sponsorship of Professor McDougall, he
launched the Journal of Parapsychology, the lead.

INTERVIEW: DR.

ing scientific periodical in this field today. A popular
account of the ESP experiments, entitled New
Frontiers Of The Mind, was a Book-of-the-Month in
1937. A scientific book jointly authored with four
colleagues, entitled Extra-Sensory Perception After
Sixty Years, appeared in 1940.

A book for the general public, The Reach Of The
Mind, was published in 1947, and New World Of The
Mind in 1953. A textbook, written by Dr. Rhine with
a colleague, appeared in 1957 under the title
Parapsychology, Frontier Of The Mind. In 1961 Mrs.
RhineTs book, Hidden Channels Of The Mind,
appeared; and in 1965, Dr. RhineTs book, ESP In
Life And Lab, was published.

As Dr. RhineTs retirement approached, he estab-
lished the Foundation for Research on the Nature of
Men, to take over the Parapsychology Laboratory
and reorganize it as the Institute for Parapsychology.
The Foundation and the Institute are located in the
University community, but are independent.

J. B. RHINE

yt

Since 1927, the J. B. Rhines have conducted at
Duke University the worldTs first, and still practically
its only, full-time laboratory research into the in-
explicable events that occur and the thoughts that
are transmitted without the aid of the senses or any
physical means. Separating from Duke in 1965 after
his retirement from the faculty, Dr. and Mrs. Rhine
founded the Institute for Parapsychology, which is
supported by the Foundation for Research on the
Nature of Man, founded by them in 1962.

The Institute for Parapsychology and its support-

25

ing foundation are both located in a two-story white
frame house across the street from Duke University.
In his upstairs office Dr. Rhine greets you with:
oITm a little on the deaf side.TT So you make it a
point to speak clearly.

Dr. Rhine believes that Duke may have been the
only place in the world that research such as he has
conducted could have been started in 1927. The
university was new and the president was a very
liberal man who approved a small annual grant for
the Rhines to conduct their studies.

Even after the proof of extrasensory perception
in 1933, the academic world remained hostile, and
the parapsychology laboratory brought Duke a great
deal of publicity, both favorable and unfavorable. It
was in the former Duke parapsychology laboratory
that the Rhines and their assistants first conducted
the tests that they say took the question of ~o~psi�T
ability (the term now used for the full range of ESP
and some related capacities) ~~out of the realm of
debatability.TT For six consecutive days a research
assistant twice ran through a pack of special cards,
moving one card per minute without looking at them.
In another building another student recorded his
guesses as to the order of the cards.

After six days they totaled the results. The student
had guessed right 40 percent of the time, which
according to the laws of probability or chance was
twice what he could have been expected to guess.
Since only five types of cards were used, the student
had a 20 percent chance of guessing correctly each
time. According to Dr. Rhine, ~~such a result could
not be expected to occur by chance once in a trillion
such experiments.�

Since that day of proof Dr. J. B. Rhine has de-
voted his study to attempting to discover the nature
of the ESP process, while Dr. Louisa Rhine has
collected and analyzed many thousands of reports
of psi experiences occurring throughout many parts
of the world.

Once you accept the fact that the Rhines have
absolutely no doubt that ESP exists, you can under-
stand easily why they have devoted their lives to its
study. The public attitude toward ESP is much im-
proved today, and Dr. Rhine believes that o~the only
scientists who donTt believe in it are those who are
ignorant of its strongest evidence.�

The experiment proof of ESP rests on the laws
of probability and necessarily so. oOver 200 years
ago mathematicians worked up a yardstick of stan-
dard deviation for the use of the gambling halls,�
said Dr. Rhine in explaining how the uninformed can
easily misunderstand the meaning of what seems
like a minor deviation. ~~Recently a student wrote
me that he had gone through a full deck of cards
200 times guessing their color and had gotten only
53 percent of them correct. He said he threw away
the results because they were not significant. But his
meager three percent deviation was four times the
standard deviation, and the odds were 10,000 to one
against his doing it so well by chance alone. In the
lab weTd say this was a good pilot experiment"-good
enough to try to repeat.

~~No science is absolutely exact. All we seek in the
lab is the ability to handle results safely. WeTre work-
ing with something so extremely contestable that we
have to carry additional safeguards. We have three
mathematicians check all our published results.�T

Using such simple tools as cards and dice plus
rigid control procedures, Dr. RhineTs staff has proved
to its own satisfaction that man, without using his
senses and muscles, can control physical actions
such as the roll of dice, see things that his eyes )
cannot see, hear unspoken messages, predict future }
events"to a significant (better than chance) extent.

Though laboratory work is a highly significant part
of the role of the institute, the most exciting aspect
of ESP is that which occurs outside the lab. The
study of these occurrences is the job of Dr. Louisa
Rhine. Her second book on the subject, ESP In Life |
and Lab, is an attempt at outlining the mental pro- |
cess that produces ESP from the laboratory side of
it and as it works out in life experiences.

o~The process begins with our awareness of some
knowledge which we canTt explain. Somehow the

Extrasensory

outside world becomes available to persons at a
deeply unconscious level and then transfers up to
the level of consciousness. This conscious awareness
is usually in the form of a dream or intuition,�T she
explained.

The most common such experience is for a person
to have a dream which comes true. oITve had so
many cases of dreams come true that they no longer
interest me very much,� she noted. ~~What interests
me now is the thought process involved.TT One of the
most spectacular cases she recalls happened many
years ago in Washington State. A man had a dream
so vivid that he asked the district attorney to investi-
gate. In his dream his son, who was in the moun- |
tains at a mine, had been killed by a stranger to ~
whom he had given a ride. The district attorney did
investigate and found the son in a shallow grave with
all the circumstances as had been described.

lui lilt aa i a ttn

en apne

~o~But we donTt need the spectacular occurrences
like that to prove our point, for that is done by ex-
periment,TT Dr. J. B. Rhine continued. o~But we value
them highly. Every time we have an article written it
reminds people of experiences theyTve had, and they
report them to us. When an article appeared in the

26

ReaderTs Digest, | stopped counting the responses
after 5000. We analyze the types of experiences
reported and let them accumulate until we have a
reasonable file of similar reports, and then we try
to interpret them. ITd guess that one out of three
people have ESP experiences they donTt recognize.�

The people who do recognize their experiences
sometimes turn to the institute for help. A mother
in Missouri, for example, wrote that her four-year-
old son consistently has knowledge of things he has
never seen/or that have not yet happened"such as
the appearance of a person who is coming to visit.
The mother is worried that when the boy starts
school the other children will make fun of him. The
Rhines will try to help analyze the boyTs situation
and see what action should be recommended.

Experiences reported to the institute often center
around the recognition of cards, probably because
this is a game that so many people play. Dr. Rhine
recalls a child from North Carolina that told her
mother one day she had discovered a new trick.
~The mother laid out five cards, face down, and the
girl guessed them all correctly. When she repeated

Perception

the trick for her father, he bought a new deck of
cards and laid out 10 of them. The girl guessed
eight correctly. A staff member from the laboratory
visited her several times"with good results. But, as
often occurs, within a few weeks her ability dwindled
to a mediocre level, and a few months later she
dropped to the negative side"missing so many
more than the laws of chance say she should miss
that it was clear there was unconscious avoidance
of hitting.�

Missing, to the Rhines, is just as significant as
hitting"if it is consistent enough. ~~Since the ESP
process goes on unconsciously, the person has little
control of it. Therefore, if some unconscious dis-
orientation should occur, his ~aimT can be deflected
like that of a rifleman with defective sights, and he
can miss the target consistently without knowing it.TT

A very unusual case that involves all hits and no
misses was reported by a newspaper editor. A young
girl had been accused by her brother of cheating at
cards. ~~But ITm not cheating,TT she said. ~~I know all
the cards you have in your hand but | havenTt seen
them.TT And she named them correctly. When the
newspaper heard the story, it tested the girl with a

27

new pack of cards. She guessed every card correctly
except that she sometimes confused ~'6TsTT and
ea� See

The newspaper editor called Dr. Rhine, who urged
that the girl be sent to Durham. Instead, however,
she was studied by a child psychologist. ~~This is a
shame,TT said Dr. Rhine, ~~because he is probably
not trained to work with ESP.�

Dr. Rhine says ~~psiTT ability may be latent in
everyone while it is ~~shownTT by only a few. For peo-
ple who are curious about their own abilities, he
recommends a self-testing method like the ~~four
acesTT test using a deck of cards.

oOn a table, lay the four aces face up in a row
and the remainder of the deck face down. Looking
only at the four aces and not at the top card of the
deck, place the top card on the ace that your intuition
tells you matches its suit. When you have finished,
turn over the cards and record your correct guesses.
Do at least 10 such runs through the pack.

oSince you have four possible choices for each
card, you should guess one-fourth of them right by
chance. Thus, you would get 12 right each time you
go through the 48 cards in the deck (not counting
the aces), and you should get 120 right on 10 tests.

oIf you average 15 or more hits per time, this
rather definitely suggests that you have ESP ability.
The same will be true if you guess consistently be-
low the chance average of 12 cards per time.

~If you consistently score above or below average,
you may want to experiment further by having some-
one else place the cards for you so that you never
see even the backs of them. If your score remains
high and you want to experiment more, write the
institute for further instructions: FRNM, College Sta-
tion, Durham, N. G:. 27708."

The more that people know about and accept the
need for research in psychology, the more worthwhile
the Rhines will feel that their four decades of work
has been. They look forward to a time when under-
graduate degrees in parapsychology will be available
at major universities, a time when scientists will
honestly confront the most intriguing subject of all"
othe less physical side of manTs nature which the
evidence of ~psiT ability seems to indicate.�T

NJL
JD
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28

Francis

H.

Hanoid, Jr.

i
aia
}

Sus

For, once my soul did tell a sleep on me

All espaliered upon the midnight sun,

And Greece, who smiled on Homer, laughed on me
(While England sees a Milton or no one).

O clever, splintered, caustic poet-would-be,

Your shriveled soulTs upon an Age impaled:

If not the throne of immortality,

At least the sympathy of those who failed.

Gale F. Morgan

S

"a me ae

WM erors; Wiulbows and OTA
A Mrror Dusting

29

Fellow spirits, if still I thought *t would help
I'd gladly vomit on some pretty vellum
And stir once, twice lightly with a needle,

Such exertion being suited to the times
To be sure. But the bonds of brotherhood,
The prerequisites of honesty preclude

A too-rude iocism. Call me generous
To a fault; say T'm muddy if you must;
A grotesque"of the neck, red"yet hear me.

For I am told a vision whereby X
Still equals God, cleverness still a lame,
Old, un-enlightened animalism; felt

The thread of tough-new sentimentality

Snap to the soft, insistent burden of
Ideal. And so to try... (to cry) .. . again.

Gale F. Morgan

|
|
i

BE YOURSELF

Walk with head erect, my dear.
Be outgoing"Catch your man.
Thrust that bosom; bounce those hams"
Remember, honey"Be yourself.

Bow to the top man; kick those weaker.
Powder, paint, and prune your face.
Nature mustnTt show, you know.
ThatTs right, honey"Be yourself.

Kiss that stranger"do it, do it.
DonTt be bashful"we wonTt jeer.
| Do one thing and say another.
| ThatTs right, baby"Be yourself.

| Let your hair down; be a bitch.
| Go to church but close your ears"
| ReligionTs just a fabrication.
Be yourself"just be yourself
Linda Faye Bryant

VISIONS OF
CAMELOT

|
|
|
|
{
|
Trumpets of reform and Utopia
|

Cast against shadows of forethought

Bare etched moats of insufficient data T -7 Ee PO ET

Saviors cry of smiling voices that sweep

| from clouds. His song must be of fog; of thoughts that
| Larks fly North and grass burns in traverse, that spiral, that leap and
| DanteTs hell. fall, that are and resend, that
| Stoic stares at brazen geese echo to Camelot, that die and arise
} Mirrors reflect and empty walls dwell That beauty is of dimension, of essence of
\ in solitude. stagnation and perfume, of the rough"
| Projections of the functional hewn; of eloquence which is nothing,
I Abstractions that vanish from billboards and wholeness of partiality.
and boastful evolution of puppets
Apparitions dance in unison to distant Dan Casey

crys of computers.
Wind-blown streets with rough-hewn
temperament
Visions of morning and stares at
sales house catalogues.

Dan Casey

30

The golden drops,
Each alone,

Rise and fall,

Flows and ebbs

As it caresses the sand.

Each solitary drop
Soaks then dries
The beach where | sit

Constantly changing its mind
Each drop runs

In, then out.

Thinking it has changed

Its own mind.

When, in actuality

It is the conformistTs conformist.
One of the thundering thousands
Of its kind

Each drop is like a man.

It runs in and out,

Back and forth, All in a great herd.
Yet, still feeling like

An individual

[ears

Tears are golden
Drops of love.
The silvery dew
Of affection.

Our tears are the
Most priceless gift
We can give.

For our tears

Are our love.

A mortal flaw.

Our tears fall
Not for ourselves,
But for those we love.

Allan Edwards

love

If | sing of the Fall

when the leaves come drifting from the trees
and love is the kind of thing

that awkes you early in the morning

with a knowing insistence

that assures your entry into the morning
then you know the cool sharp mornings
and how hard it is to leave the bed

and the perfume and wine and sweat
that hangs about like a curtain

like a halo from homage and worship

at the altar of Eros

If | sing of the Winter

when the trees stand stark against the sky

and love is the kind of thing

that makes you put on your best suit

and stand waiting nervously before the preacher
for her to walk into the room dressed in her best
then you know the welling up of tears

and the remembrance of the ones you might have known
and you know the look she gave

when she put her hand in yours

and you ran with her into the cold night
through a shower of rice

to the lawful bed

If | sing of the Spring

when the wind carries seeds across the brown earth
and love is the kind of thing

that sleeps warm beside you

with her legs apart and her stomach

swelling softly against you

then you know the way she smiles

when she wakes and places your hand on her
and you feel the small alive child

kicking the boundary of his world

and you take her gently each day

careful of the seed already placed

careful of the future growing in the Spring

Charles Lindsay Griffin, Jr.

32

coy low

: | White ship sailing on a blue sea

iP White bird flying in a blue sky

Ceylon green land singing a dark song

Colombo to Kandy is seventy two miles

Of black ribbon road winding

Through roots of Banyan trees and ferns

Rice paddies are a thousand rings

When the rain falls and the land

Is a smell of decay and steamy heat

The people dark and small are roots

Of the land reaching for the sky

The men are gnarled trunks |

The stock and support of the seed

The women are flowers with eyes

That know too much and smiles

That gather the windblown

And sea borne seed of foreign root

With them the stock continues

With them the seed improves
|

| walked through a forest

And the flowers had four colors

And each one haunted me with beauty
But when | touched them

A green stain ran down my hand

And the path burned where it ran |
Still the flowers sang with beauty

But a beauty that would always be alone
Far far | shall run but the smell remains
Along with the memory of the pain

Island island island are you not

An island almost alone in the sea

A dark flower whose petals almost touch
The outstretched fingers of another
Sing your song for we walk alone

And the winds carry me away

White ship sailing on a blue sea

White bird flying in a blue sky

Charles Lindsay Griffin, Jr.

33

When Shall I?

When you come closer than a whisper
And tell the things you havenTt told,
Then I shall write you long, long poems;
I shall write you words of gold.

When Shall I?

When I have seen your hair pulled back,
When on your cheek my lips are cold,
Then I shall write you long, long poems;
I shall write you words of gold.

When Shall I?

When I have gone within you lightly,
Among the sweet crushed marigolds,
Then I shall write you long, long poems,
I shall write you words of gold.

IT sought you when the hills were red

I loved you when green grass was dead

I yearned for you when leaves were bled"
(I loved you for an autumn-time
With a hammer, with a rhyme)

The skies were slung with amethyst
The moonfire burned through amber mist
The coiling wind was a serpentTs hiss

(I loved you for a winter-time

With a hammer, with a rhyme)

There were flowers sprung from forest looms
There were whitening Jaughs in sunburst rooms
There were walks in the after-rain perfumes"
(I loved you for a green spring-time
With a hammer, with a rhyme)

But when I cut the roof-beams long
When the hammer clacked a trippling song
When the smell of cedar was crisp and strong"
(I couldnTt love you in summer-time
ItTs the hammer I love, and not the rhyme)

Jon Douglas Sykes

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hi
1)
ti

REVIEWS

the DAIS half

(The DevilTs Half by Ovid Williams Pierce, 287
pp. Doubleday and Company, $4.95) .

Many books have been written about the post-
Civil War South. It is nearly impossible to say
anything about the South during that time that
is in any way fresh or moving. Yet, author-in-
residence Ovid Williams PierceTs new book, The
Devil's Half, is an exception.

Pierce has displayed with a staggering amount
of insight the way the Southerners of that time
must have felt about the tribulation and the
challenge of adjusting to new times.

Pierce was interviewed in the Fall issue of The
Rebel and in that interview he spoke briefly about
American writing in general. He said, oSome
American writers see a scene in an almost one
dimensional way. A scene in a vacuum of time and
values. (FaulknerTs) present moment is the break-
ing edge of a wave begun far back, far away. A full
understanding of that past is necessary for com-
prehension of the present moment.�

If this is PierceTs credo, The DevilTs Half is the
chalice in which it has been blessed. The language
of the book is beautiful, the prose is like a great
eloquent lament for all people everywhere who are
caught up in the merciless hands of on-rushing
time. One need only open the book to any page to
get a sample of PierceTs genius:

oSomething in the manTs face caused me to look
at him. His hand trembled. In utter astonishment
I saw that he was afraid. ~God knows,T he said,
~thereTs so much a man canTt do.T

The despair of a lifetime seemed to clutch him
to the spot. His breathing was labored. ~So much
that your doing canTt change. Your color, where
your heart goes, what folks can and canTt give.T

What he had said would have startled me, but |
knew that heTd forgotten | was there, no longer
cared that I was there. The uncertainly of the night
was a closer presence than mine�

With a keen understanding of the way people
feel"not in great upsurging events or short periods
of tragedy or exhilaration" but, simply, from day
to day, from seemingly insignificant occurrences
to more earth-shaking events, Pierce tells his story
to the reader.

36

In this respect, PierceTs writing is much like
ChekhovTs. Chekhov believed that the small things
in life were really just as important, if not more
important, than earth-shattering events. oFor in-
stance,� he said, opeople are having a meal, while
at the same time their happiness is being created
or their lives are being all smashed up.�

Orville Prescott of The New York Times was
perhaps reminded of this often low-keyed dramatic
intensity in PierceTs book when he said, oIt is il-
luminating, full of heartbreaking insights into
character and full of a resigned and melancholy
wisdom ... This is a book Turgenev and Chekhov
would understand and admire.�

The Devil's Half is an exciting book for this
reason. In a moving and unique way this novel
takes on perhaps the foremost quality a novel can
achieve"~~to live with the living.�

JRR

zi

~

EXPLORATION

(Exploration Into God, by John A. T. Robin-
son, 158 pp, SCM Press, $1.50) .

Those who keep abreast of theological develop-
ments are aware of the current upsurge of religious
thought, now of several years duration. The fer-
ment has been a fact for many years. However,
what is new is the wide spread public awareness
of it. For the initial publicity given to what has
been called oradical theology,� we have largely to
thank the Anglican Bishop of Woolwich, England,
the Right Reverend John A. T. Robinson.

In 1963, Bishop Robinson published HONEST
TO GOD, which, he later stated, was simply meant
to elucidate his opinions about matters of long-
standing interest and debate among his theological
contemporaries. The vehemence with which the
reading public seized his work soon proved that
the religious populace had been unaware that ear-
nest thought was being given to the matters to
which the Bishop addressed himself. And the
publicTs positive response to the opinions he de-
livered proved that it had never before heard those
opinions from theologians.

In Honest To God, Bishop Robinson spoke of
the untenability of the traditional theistic concept
of God, a concept which presents God as a Being,
separate from the world, located oout there� and
by implication, away from the world. In EX-
PLORATION INTO GOD, Bishop Robinson be-
gins a re-evaluation of the nature of God and His
relationship to the world, attempting to make
contemporary the Christian theology"the truth of
which he does not doubt.

Exploration Into God is a fitting successor to
Honest To God, an earnest scholarly and lucid at-
tempt to speak affirmatively to the problems rais-
ed earlier. It is to be hoped that Bishop Robinson
will add further volumes to his work in order to
evaluate traditional theological problems in the
hght of the ideas expressed in Exploration Into

God.
ELC

the BOY

(The Boy"A Photographic Essay. Ed., Georges
St. Martin and Ronald C. Nelson. New York:
Book Adventures, Inc., 232 pp: $19.95.)

The Boy reopens the door of life and of
innocence as its photographs capture the beauty
of boyhood. The editors write: oIn this book we
have tried to assemble a group of photographs
which epitomize the irrepressible spirit of youth.�
They have done just that. The pictures, taken in
all countries, opossess that vital spark� and grasp
the moments owhen a boy is most a boy.�

Most of the two hundred and sixteen photo-
graphs are done in black and white offset litho-
graphy. Appealing close-up shots such as a freck-
led-faced, red-headed boy, or a blond Norwegian
youth, tell of the happiness of a free day.

The theme of this essay is carried on by the ter-
rific exuberance for life that is demonstrated by a
boy whether he is laughing, singing, dancing, play-
ing, fishing, reading, or dreaming. The impression
is made that boys all over the world possess the
same elements of wonder and love for life.

One particular section of the book contains
photographs of young actors of the movie Lord of
the Flies, based on William GoldingTs novel, in
their island location.

Another interesting aspect of the quality of the
essay 1s its focus upon nature and the phenomenon
of water in promoting a boyTs happiness: water in
a mountain stream where a boy may fish or swim
in the nude; water in a drinking fountain to quench
the thirst of an active baseball player; or water to
send the sailboat he has just made across the sea.

When one closes the covers of this visit into the
life of the young, somehow the experience will not
only have added a bit of yesterday to today, but
the adult will have tasted a closeness to life which
he does not encounter in the mechanized world of
1967. We learn from The Boy a freshness in explor-
ing the realm of our world. As Byron so perfectly
expressed the timelessness of boyhood"~Ah!
Happy years! Once more who would not be a

boy?�

Jennifer Salinger

timeTs betrayal

he told me i was wrong"to play through peopleTs minds
he spoke of ideals, word-prayers.
for once we reversed sides
and the laugh was on us.
1 laughed at his concern"while my own eyes searched and cried.
: he held a gentle light that day.
but the wind blew cold.
and 1 froze.
a whole world closed with him"when he went.
how could i tell him?
that he was the right one.
how could i say?
only the time was wrong.

SSS SEE Seas

Lynn Quesinberry

To Lonely People, Wherever They May Be

you stand outside the door
and

you never come in

you donTt even knock

you just wait patiently,

sometimes longingly,

always hopefully,

for someone to come out

| and

: play. Irving Francis Prescott, Jr.

39

Your shoes are so much smaller than I remembered,
And the laces tie in very human knots.

A moment ago, your finger touched the daisies;
They are daisies still,

Not a diamond among them.

I would not have heard this truth a sooner day;
Now I can speak it, smiling.

Hearing, you smile,

And I love you more and better

Than when I adored you. |

On Coming of Age

You will want to know: |
i I have buried all my fairies

i Beneath a distant willow

Alongside the devils and angels"

Not without tears; the funeral rites,

I assure you, were quite complete.

But I am done with pigtails and with mourning.
Give me now your dear, ungodly hand,

Neither as crutch nor in caress,

But in equal meeting,
With joy.

Sally Buckner

GENTLE BUTTERFLY

Like an elusive butterfly who flits in and out
of a personTs conscious life. The wings are bright and beautiful
to bring happiness to all who dare gaze upon the phenomenon,
but when the alluring butterfly is scared,
the wings close and only a dull covering can be seen.
The butterfly with all its richness is alawys there for
anyone who has the patience to wait for the wings to unfold.

iacho AORN An iil s

Each of the little creatures is a marvel in itself.
With open wings, the essence of life is offered.
The wings cannot be forced open,

but who would have the audacity to try? |
A gentle prodding is hopefully acceptable il

since most individuals crave a unique treasure. To be
given and to be received in its own special way. To care.

) Time may bring forth the miracle.
Is it asking too much to wait till the 31st of June?
Who, on earth, would think it worth the effort?

Suzanne Whitson

J no neice ERATE CRNA OTT A OT MRR eT

40

narra immer

Nearing seventy " refusing
to merge delicately
into softness and hues
of pink, gray, and mauve "
Their painted wrinkles wore
circus colors.
Arched scawlings
over

desperate eyes
bore the same mute testimony as
henna wisps
protruding
from heads swallowed

by

flowers

Joan W. Warlick

When white buds popped the flower Spring and morning
The surface lake heat rose and froze the dragonfly in flight
The splendor songed his thoughts on the noonday green
Where the crickets swelled in harmony

Bathed there in the sky kaleidoscope

I was fortunate and happy as the turning leaves

And said so to each passerby

Even as the children on the rolling lawn made noise
There hung in the balance of their play no greater gift
Than the unsung music of their minds

And the trees their prophecies would whisper
While limbs not naked yet still had their tongues
To sigh when children sang in smiles

The burning of each fallen brother

Heaped neatly in the yard in piles

Each billowed to the East in plumes

Of white and grey

Since random was a word I knew too well

The change in shades no notice drew

And when the sun its reason run

Drifted down to sleep upon

A cloud bed in a dusty sky

It streaked the same with hue no painter ever knew

The dark
Cleared lawn
Of child

And lark

Keith Lane

41

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