[This text is machine generated and may contain errors.]
fae fale if f a oe T A | I E
MT iS) ic : ai as > mnt ~ ii ron ie ¥
a4: =
0
| i i
vi
i &
A
TF : Vi > all
m2" |e os
La
:
= -
="].
|
|
ae bg iy Dy
a. le NY 4
x
\ : fhe &
. \ : ce | p if o I a MG
. or il
eee
: « Ch, % im
Hh
wD ¢ Y
Sura Reper S97] H¥KHK The REBEL 13 A STUDENT {HoT chaT)
; ANNEX for DOSTALLY AT P0.Box 24%6, GREENVILLE, N.C. 27434) CoPYPiEHT |
Se eT
PUBLICAT/ON OF EAST CAROLIVA UNIVERS/TY. IT LivéS AT 2/5 WRIGHT
| 1971, ECU STUDENT GOVERNMENT ASSOC/ATION. THAT'S ALL. 3
nee atat
~e"e'
ie
Editorial
The Sacrifice by Nicola Glover
Beach Scene by Edwin Page Shaw
Doc Watson, Interviewed
Untitled by Regina Kear
The Flowerets by Nicola Glover
Untitled by Anita Brehm
Out of the Garden by Regina Kear
Untitled by Anita Brehm
Ferris Wheel by Robert McDowell
The Music Lesson by Thomas Jackson
Untitled by Regina Kear
Untitled by Edwin Page Shaw
Untitled by Jackie Sweeney
Against the Window by Maxim Tabory
The Wino by Regina Kear
Auction by Sharon Shaw
DELTA PHI DELTA
Annual Spring Art Show
The Meaningfulness of Art, What is
by J. Bradford McCorison
Of Silence and Slow Time
by Sharon Shaw
Untitled by David Lawson
After Grant Wood by David Lawson
In a Cabin at NagTs Head While the
Wind Assaulted by David Lawson
Mesa Verde by Frederick Sorenson
Intersection by Lawrence Cline
Deserted Barn by Thomas Jackson
A Geopolitical Revelation or, A
Sense of History by D. Lawson
Untitled by Jackie Sweeney
A ChildTs Garden of Grass, Wm. R. Day
Islands in the Stream, Fred Whittet
Be Not Content, William R. Day
Weep Not Child, Janice G. Hardison
The Dick Gibson Show, Dr. John Firth
None of the materials herein may be used or reproduced in any manner without
the written permission of THE REBEL.
\
Consider what has happened to art since the late sixties, when greed finally
outgrew itself and brought to a close the period of American life which his-
torians will conveniently pigeon-hole as ~post-war prosperity.T For the last
decade, growing numbers of people have been more or less united by a mutual
sense of intuitive existence. This general view of life has necessarily come
into conflict with systems based on the pragmatism of a society which is, to a
large degree, technologically oriented. It is impossible to say for certain, but
it would appear that the resulting political and social polarization was initiated
by an earlier aesthetic polarization. If this is the case, then the artist is indeed
on the spot.
Sometime between the '68 presidential election and the night Joe Frazier
took out Mohammed Ali, it became apparent that the old symbols would never
again be the same. The artist, who was not quite sure of his position to begin
with, was told to put up or shut up. Involvement took on new meaning and
propaganda became a poetic device. What once was regarded merely as
taste became a spiritual dichotomy which by its very nature could only be
defined in terms of one side or another.
So what? Nothing really, except that todayTs artists feel the need to com-
municate something in terms of final statement which will be considered
orelevant.� This conscious attempt to be orelevant� reflects itself in a style,
which at its best is painfully limited. This approach to art leads to a ochoosing
up sides� type of farce which either forces the artist to sell out completely or
intellectualize himself out of existence. Even if he can avoid these pitfalls, he
will be unable to communicate within a system which places only token value
on the intelligence of its leaders.
An upheaval which began because of aesthetic differences cannot be
resolved in the halls of Congress. Nor can the immediacy of art be explained
in factual relationships. The artist must maintain the honesty of his craft or
he will be blurred by his own attempts at over-extension. Whatever the
individual artist may be dealing with, he must maintain his personal honesty
without neglecting his artistic suppositions. But not until brickmasons and
abstract expressionists can understand what they both are up to individually
will art attain its proper place. To quote from an anonymous poet of the Old
School, oMany are called, but damn few are chosen.�
THE SACRIFICE
Frigid concrete
grates on the eyes of fever;
muslin, starched with virginity,
smears, and raws the flesh;
magnets of gray steel
brace the clinging fists.
The skin, taut
with bruised chicken scratches,
bumps and grinds
to life.
The pain swells, tightly,
into a consuming knot,
regressing slowly
to exhaustion.
Wailing Screams
smother the mind with terror,
sterile hands
soothe the trembling arms,
fleeting pin holes
abort the ball bearing rhythm,
stirrups
seize the legs,
leather
straps the body.
The mask!
Desperately sucked
Relief . . . one life away.
Nicola Glover
beach scene (1)
she sits
in the autumn of pregnancy
cumbersome in sun and sand
watching his athletic
ball-less forays from surf
to her bloated presence,
commanded as tribute
to his manhood.
beach scene (2)
he stands on boardwalk step
slender gulls of perfume gliding
left wrist draped by towel
right by silver chain
identifying more
than name and address
Surveying muscular bodies
calculating beside which
might be the perfect spot
to be browned
in the sun.
Edwin Page Shaw
doc watson
OCTOBER, 1970
_ Doc Watson lives in Deep Gap, North Caro-
lina. And he picks a guitar sweeter than a
nightingaleTs song. Doc picks and sings what
he calls otraditional American music,� which
is the offspring of bluegrass, country and west-
�,�rn, mountain music and Doc Watson. He has
Mastered the expression of a form of music
which sprang from the mountain people, who
were isolated from the trend of Western art.
The life of the mountain people is a gentle,
yet far-from-simple way of life. What can we,
who daily are affected by the unrelenting struc-
ture of the city, learn from a man who could
hold city audiences in his hand but prefers to
live on the side of a North Carolina mountain
In a house which he wired himself for elec-
tricity? (Doc has been blind since birth.)
What changes do you think have come about in
folk music since the early sixties?
For my love of old time music, the music itself
hasnTt changed. What people like to hear in concerts
has changed a little bit, but on the other hand,
you'll find groups all over the country that still like
the old traditional music"the oold timey� sound,
if you want to put it that way. When | play music
| have to be myself. ITm not just given to playing
the flat old time country sound; | have to put some
of my own notions into music. At our concerts now
we play quite a bit of bluegrass.
Some of the scholastic folklorists believe that
old time music as we know it now, (the type of music
that you play"real country music ) in the next 20
or 30 years will again be oral tradition music,
played for personal entertainment only. Do you feel
that this will happen?
| donTt know. | know the interest in bluegrass
music, which has been including sets by Merle and
myself at lots of the bluegrass festivals during the
summer, is growing. | donTt know how long that
will last, if the upturn will hold its own, or if it
will drop off again. If we had a big upsurge in
popularity, weTd say owell, this ainTt never gonna
quitT. ItTs anybodyTs guess, in my opinion. A lot of
people | have talked to say it will never die out,
it will have upswings and downswings. Since itTs
been brought back people have found a true and
honest interest in the music because itTs not some-
thing complicated, not something you have to sweat
over and learn how to read. If you can hear and
you're talented a little bit in music, then you can
learn it by ear. | doubt if it will ever die completely.
lTve noticed at the fiddlersT conventions at Union
Grove, Galax, Reidsville, and Beanblossom that many
people at these festivals and conventions are the
young people 25 and under. A lot of college students
seem to have found something in this type of music
which they feel they can identify with. It hadnTt been
art of their lives until being introduced to it"
ironically"when attending college.
ThatTs exactly what | was trying to get at. The
music has something to say to most people because
itTs down to earth"itTs not complicated. You know,
the modern rock sound (ITm going to say this al-
12
though | might get crucified for it) has excitement
for the young, as it would have had for me when |
was MerleTs age (21 ). But it really hasnTt much to
offer musically. ItTs just an exciting beat, a sound,
and it really doesnTt live in your mind very long.
You go on to the next fad or slight change in the
loud guitars behind the beat. And when it goes, and
it will, what are these folklorists going to lean back
on as real music? WhatTs gonna replace the good
sound of country music?
Doc, youTve played all over the country. If you
can, ITd like for you to tell us why you chose to
stay here in Deep Gap. What keeps you here when
you could be in other places of more success in
material means?
I'd like to ask you a question. YouTre young, but
maybe you could tell me why. Was there ever any-
thing that wasnTt worth much to anybody else, to
the average worldly person, the city man? Was there
ever anything in your life that there was an un-
bounding love for, that you couldnTt quite explain,
but it was there? My family and my native country,
the part of the country where | grew up, mean more
to me than anything in the world. | figured | could
do a limited number of engagements in music and
try to get enough publicity to keep myself going
for a reasonable number of years and still stay here
because | love this place and | love my family and
| donTt want to go on the road solid. | want to earn
a good enough living so | can lay a few dollars
back and some of these days build me a good warm
house, and things like that. But as to want to pile
up umpteen thousand dollars in the bank, thatTs
for the birds. A man might strive real hard and
pinch pennies and make his wife wear patched
jeans and save, but what good would it be? I'll spend
a little along and earn a little along and try to keep
things going here and keep me a little hospitaliza-
tion if | get sick.
For a long time, simply because of the geo-
graphical location of your home, the mountain
people were more or less isolated. Do you think
because of this isolation, the mountain people have
developed this closeness and a feeling for the land
that is not found so strong anywhere else?
| really donTt know why | love the mountains the
way | do. The mountains and no other part of the
country have that feel to me. If a man is raised
in the country, he puts down more roots. Maybe
it's the closeness to nature. | donTt know why we
love the country the way we do. But | can safely
say this, most of the people that youTll find up in
here like this country and wouldnTt swap it for no
where.
Merle, youTre a different generation and youTre
still here. Evidently you feel the same way about
the mountains that your father does and you were
born more or less in the age of technology, after
the 2nd World War. How do you feel about your
home?
Well, | just wouldnTt leave. | donTt think | was
born exactly in the age of technology, maybe in the
age but not in the middle of it. (Doc: What heTs
trying to get at is he was born in the country just
like | was.) In the same place in fact, | wouldnTt
give that for anything, especially the city.
Doc, you play blues as well as any white man
ITve ever listened to, but although you do blues so
well thereTs a lightness about your music. When
you think of the typical Doc Watson song, you think
~of a driving flat picking thing like oNothing to it�
or some of the old mountain songs you do such as
oSing Song Kitty� or oFroggie Went a-Courting�.
ThereTs a spirit about the songs, a happiness that
communicates through the record. How do you feel
about that?
Well, | play the way | feel. ThatTs the best way
| can answer that. If a man is singing about a fast
train, thereTs no use dragging it along.
At one of the concerts you led a standing ova-
tion for Elizabeth Cotton. Was there a time during
your development that you sought to emulate that
type of playing or did it come from somebody else?
Not really, it must have come from hearing John
Hurt playing. If my playing has been influenced by
anyone, it was John Hurt because | didnTt hear
Elizabeth Cotton until the mid-sixties.
One of the Kingston TrioTs biggest hits was oTom
Dooley�. | noticed their version was quite a bit
different from yours. Would you relate to us the true
story?
Tom Dooley was born before the Civil War started.
When they were conscripting men into the army
he was about 14 years old. He was one of those
boys that grows up right quick and passed off as
an 18 year old and got into the army. They say
during the period from the time he was 14 until
he was 20 he lived half a lifetime in experience.
Tom dated Laura Foster and Anne Melton and so
did Mr. Grayson, the sheriff who pressed the thing
against him. The Kingstons say it was a triangle,
but actually it was a quadrangle affair, with two
fellows and two gals. All the accounts that are
handed down affirmed that Anne Melton murdered
Laura Foster. Tom Dooley helped cover up the
the crime. He figured if he tried to put the crime
off on who should have took the credit for it, people
would just laugh him off anyway because Grayson
turned everybody against Tom Dooley. Dooley didnTt
try to blame the crime on Anne Melton but they
had her in jail on suspicion for a while. She bragged
and told them her neck was too pretty and white
to put a rope around. Looking with those sweet
eyes at Mr. Grayson, | guess she persuaded him
that she wasnTt guilty. Anyway he got her off the
hook and later married her.
They say that just before she died she called
her husband into the room and told the secret. She
told one of the older women who helped look after
her when she was sick that oif | knew | wouldnTt
get well ITd tell you something that happened to me
in my younger days. But | might get well so | canTt
tell you.� But before she died, she did tell her
husband"he almost lost his mind, realizing what
he had done and moved completely out of this part
of the country. He couldnTt stand to face his neigh-
bors, knowing the guilt.
You seem to have made a fantastic adjustment to
being blind. How has your life and music been
influenced by the fact that you have always been
blind? Has the music helped compensate for the
lack of sight?
Well, ITll say that the music may have helped me
in many ways. One thing it did, it gave me an
opportunity to meet an awful lot of folks and go a
lot of places that | never would have gone. So in
14
15
16
that respect, it helped me, because the more people
you meet the more insights you get into life and
into living life. | think with each new person you
meet you begin to understand people in general a
little better.
| think that if the good Lord takes one of our
senses away from us, or He allows it to be taken by
circumstance, that He endows us with just a little
bit extra on the others so we can get an understand-
ing of life and maybe we try just a little harder.
Maybe the absence of my eyes was for a purpose.
ITve thought about it this way"thereTs no telling
what kind of unruly snob | might have been if |
had been a sighted person. Maybe the good Lord
knew that and He let circumstances take my eyes
so that I'd be just a little more humble and take a
second look at things. | think that if you are minus
one of the senses, you learn to appreciate the
others a little more.
Do any of the people you know still compose bal-
lads about everyday life the way they once did?
No, people donTt do it any more hardly. The last
ballads that | know of"genuine ballads written
about things here in the state of North Carolina"
were done by Norman Woodly and the Carolina
Buddies. They did the oBallad of Otto Wood� and
the oBallad of Charlie Lawson.� TheyTre the last
two that | know about that can be authenticated.
oThe Ballad of Otto Wood� was written in the thir-
ties right after it happened.
A lot of so-called folk singers in the popular
type folk song, do the folk song as a protest song.
Without preaching to anybody, your songs contain
more social comment than any other performer ITve
listened to. What is your feeling about using the
folk song as a protest song?
| donTt think any good music that is solely from
the heart of people should be used to further some-
bodyTs political aim. The early country boys did quite
a few songs that complained a little bit about en-
vironment and the conditions they lived in. Actually
if you listen to those songs they are poking fun
about their troubles. Singing about them kind of
put them down rather than raising hell about it, if
you want to put it that way. | donTt feel led to use
politics in my music in any way and | just ainTt
gonna do it. | donTt sing protest songs as such, if
| sing old time songs like oCotton Mill ColicT it
would be for the fun of it.
Merle, what shall we pick?
17
THE FLOWERETS
The pain pricks,
and twists
deeper
with the clock stare
and the whisper
of another meeting
after the hands
have passed
slowly around.
If no others are shared
what remains
but a needling pain
which happy jTs and silly brew
only ease, never cure,
and speed the hand
around.
Pain... lonliness...
empty words
loudly spoken by those
who whisper
queer.
Nicola Glover
Dead-flower wilted flags
hang
waiting to be picked
and thrown away
by children
who only want
to drink
rainwater.
Regina Kear
The coyote howls
Down the chimney
And through
Frost-lined window sashes
Begging to come in,
While the plush tiger
Stuffed with straw,
Sits in front of
A false fireplace
Trying
To keep warm.
Anita Brehm
OUT OF THE GARDEN
A small child f
pn maia ound
Strangled in the ;
her feathers "
wet from weepi
hee eeping
her wings
broken from trying to fly
where ther.
No sky. @ was
Regina Kear
The sun turns its back on the moon
Leaving it at the mercy of the night
And the moon
No longer seen by human eye
Or instrument
Loses all existence
And becomes a legend
Anita Brehm
FERRIS WHEEL
all the drunk delirious lights
and the seasick screams
and the cotton candy no one meant to drop
all the candied apple cores
I'll give you back the
torn tickets, piece by piece"
and the laughter
and the rideTs
Slow
shaking
end...
and the smell of fear
along the ground
Robert McDowell
19
ee
@ aes
|
WS) \
ee FE a em \
bh, wer
~
AL Ja
4
J, as
'"_ 2
Thomas Jackson
Just as Robin thought he would have to give way
and let her onto the porch, Miss WoodwordTs frail hand
plucked from inside her taffeta sleeve a lavender hand-
kerchief. She fluttered it nervously about her face and
dabbed at a veined V of white flesh beneath the folds
of her neck.
oGoodness, itTs like the middle of summer today,
isnTt it, Jonathan?�
Robin neither moved nor answered. Miss Woodword
was thinking hesitantly about climbing around him in-
stead of asking him to move when RobinTs mother
called through the dark screen door: oHello, Blanche.
Come on in for some lemonade. J. Robin, move off
the steps and let Miss Woodword by.�
oWhy, thank you. Robin, are we ready for our
lesson?�
oITm a mechanical man,� Robin thought, and leaned
forward until he almost pitched to the sidewalk at Miss
WoodwordTs feet. Then suddenly swinging his shifting
weight upward, arms dangling, he did an awkward
about-face and marched with stiff legs across the porch,
did another about-face and fell into one end of the
squeaky swing. He drifted there, holding his legs
straight out to clear the floor. Robin imagined a spring-
driven motor running down somewhere behind his
navel. oWhirr, clickity click.� The cold muscle of blued
steel spiraled outward. Brass-toothed wheels flashed
like spinning coins.
The two women smiled and politely laughed each
other into the dimness beyond the screen door. He
listened to the squeak, squeak of the swing and heard,
o..yes, and my nasturtiums are beginning to wilt...�
as they went into the den for the weak lemonade and
cheese crackers he had had earlier. As the spring un-
coiled, Robin dripped one leg, then the other, and let
them drag the floor until the pendulum swing hung still.
Robin watched a bumblebee worry the shrubbery by
the steps and thought oshit� several times"savoring
its newly acquired wickedness"and finally said it
aloud, but low enough not to carry through the open
windows into the house. He suddenly thought how
funny it would be to empty from the porch roof buckets
of his own excretion over Miss WoodwordTs head and
watch her run dripping down the sidewalk. He had
flung the liquid net spinning outward from the roof
when his daydream was interrupted: o. .well Pauline,
it does take time, even for the talented boys.� The two
women emerged from the dark door and sat in pale
green chairs opposite the swing. His motherTs chair
creaked as she crossed her legs and tugged at the hem
of her skirt.
Robin worked hard not to hear their conversation.
He concentrated on the cracks and peeling grey paint
on the floor beneath him, remembered his dream of
slinging shit from the roof, saw his spring-wound in-
sides"but certain phrases bumped at his consciousness:
orecital,� oMore practice,� operhaps a metronome.�
RobinTs dream flinched. The clean blue spring, like
concentric circles on dark water, wavered, vanished.
As he strained to push the womenTs words away, a
bright ghost, blown by an invisible wind over the
22
lawn, flashed into the porch and out again. The large
monarch fluttered up and up, then dropped back toward
the drooping shrubs as abruptly as an awkward kite.
Robin watched.
After bright and nervous indecisions, the butterfly
selected a ragged shrub beside the steps. He touched,
sailed up, touched again and was still. The women
faded. The blue spring coiled. Robin quietly slipped to
the floor. Half-sitting, with hands and heels he awk-
wardly slid himself toward the steps, stalking quick
prey. Slowly, carefully, never taking his eyes from the
orange patch, he felt his way to the edge of the porch.
One foot had reached the top step when Miss Wood-
word noticed.
oPauline, look"a butterfly. The first one ITve seen
in I donTt know when. IsnTt he beautiful.�
Mrs. Guntz answered in a voice like thin syrup,
oAhhh. IsnTt it gorgeous.�
And Miss Woodword: oAfter what the paper said,
the spraying and all in the tobacco last year, I didnTt
really expect to see any this spring. Oh heTs absolutely
beautiful.�
And Mrs. Guntz, with thicker syrup: oOne of GodTs
own. Every time I see one I remember that Sunday
the young man came. From Tennessee I think. You
remember, the one that hadnTt been ordained. . .� They
both wandered off into the dim sanctuary of the West-
lake Baptist Church. The butterfly and Robin were
forgotten.
From where he had frozen when Miss Woodword
first spoke, Robin moved again. He was on the second
cement step, then the bottom, and finally on the walk,
the rougher cement harsh beneath his palms.
Robin unfolded above the shrubs and swiftly pinned
the MonarchTs wings together between thumb and fore-
finger.
His mother saw him: oJ. Robin Guntz, you turn that
beautiful creature loose this minute.� The butterfly
exploded upward, above the roof, and Robin felt fine
dust slick on his fingers.
oAnd come right here.�
Robin dragged his feet across the grey floor and
stood by his motherTs chair. He looked at the string
of orange beads about her neck, the silver triangle at
each corner of her glasses, the emerald perched like
a wart on her finger, and tried not to hear her. o~SheTs
a parrot,� he thought, oA green parrot talking a jungle
language and I donTt know a word of it.� But he heard
dim phrases in the jungle"gaudy fragments of the
parrotTs squawk: o. . .GodTs creatures. And they should
never be hurt . . .squawk. . .Why what would He think,
Robin? Tell me that. What would Jesus think if. . .
squawk. . .�
The purple toucan butted in: o. . .scraank . . .like
music, Jonathan, and you should never harm. . .scraank
And finally: oNow go right in for your lesson, and
pay attention to what Miss Woodword tells you. Do
you hear me?�
Miss Woodword followed Robin into the dim house
and soon Mrs. Guntz, still sipping her lemonade on
the porch, heard the piano scale stumble: oC-C-D-E-
F-G-A-B-C, C-D-E-F-G-G-G-A-B-C, C-D-E-F-G-A-B-
C-, C-B-A-G-F-E-D-C. Later she hummed out of tune
with RobinTs stiff ojoyous Waltz,� and the butterfly
returned to flutter, through RobinTs music, from shrub
to shrub around the L-shaped porch. Mrs. Guntz did
not notice him.
When she was nearly asleep, and the column of ice
cubes in her glass had crumbled and fallen, the screen
door banged. Miss Woodword and Robin came out.
Miss WoodwordTs face was slightly flushed and her
lavender handkerchief fluttered around the white V.
RobinTs mouth twitched, Mrs. Guntz noticed, and she
decided he needed to blow his nose.
Robin sat on the swing, upright this time, and Mrs.
Guntz fumbled in her purse for a five dollar bill:
oBlanche, you must stay for supper.�
Miss Woodword edged, sideways and smiling, toward
the steps, fluttering her handkerchief, and said oI canTt.
I really canTt. My niece is coming over for a lesson
later this evening.� Mrs. Guntz was inside the house
before Miss WoodwordTs crepe soled shoes had sucked
out of hearing.
It was hardly four, but the sun flooded warm hints
of sunset on the lawn. Robin noticed the butterfly at
the far end of the porch near a large First-Breath-of-
Spring bush. He glanced at the door and began to
untie his tennis shoes. When both shoes and two red
socks were heaped beneath the swing, he pulled the
bright striped tee shirt over his head and left it where
he had been sitting.
The Guntz house, like many of the older ones in
Westlake, was not underpenned but rested on periodic
brick pillars high enough from the ground for a dog
to run under. Underneath, no rain ever blew. From
beside the cement steps Robin now crawled on his
knees into the powdered red dust beneath the porch.
The quiet was dim and cool about him. He paused and
spit on his right forefinger; then, touching it to the red
dirt, he smeared two pale streaks on each cheek. Then
crawled toward the horizon of light at the other end
of the porch.
As his hands reached the fringe of weeds and grass
the boy could hear the blood swish deep in his ears.
He opened his mouth: the breath in his nose was too
loud. After a frozen moment, he turned on his back
and wiggled completely from beneath the house into
the hiding lower branches of shrubbery.
Carefully, branch by branch, Robin snaked his arm
up through the First-Breath-of-Spring. He missed one
wing, but caught the other and tore it before he could
use both hands to pin the struggling bronze monarch.
He dragged his feeble prisoner down through the
branches, blinked fine wing-dust from his eyes, and
wiggled back into the dimness beneath the porch. Soon
he was near the dark center of the house. Over his
head, from the underside of the den floor, ancient
spider webs draped a cool and silver silence.
Robin tied the insect, wrapping a piece of thread
pulled from the hem of his pants around and around
until wings, body and legs were well entangled. With
his prisoner secure in a scooped-out-hole in the dust,
Robin formed a small earthen mound in which he stuck
a weathered ice cream stick. Then, careful not to crush
his prisoner, Robin tied the butterfly to the stick with
another piece of thread. He took two candy wrappers
from his pocket and arranged them.
With the forbidden matches that he always carried,
Robin lit the gathered paper. Flames singed the dark-
ness. Light tore at the spider webs. When his prisoner
blistered, clawing with one free leg at bright pain,
Robin cried aloud.
23
My year is nearly drawn
not one complete circle
of time
but broken
fragments of round
connected
by a child
making bold (but shaky )
lines
with a
bright orange crayon.
Words of two
continents
separated by
an ocean
and three thousand miles
of lines
in bold (but shaky )
bright orange crayon.
Regina Kear
no weaver, my Penelope.
she knits and purls
the yarn of me
into whatever i wish to be,
now lover
again singer
sometimes poet
and binds off fear
of night ravel.
Edwin Page Shaw
Purple pleats that
loosely bind the
bouncing boom of her,
become the girl.
Wild laughter
and soft lines puckering
the funny corners of her mouth,
become in pleated fancy
the essence of
her.
Relative descents mar
my perfect understanding.
Wandering birds? " A falsity.
only humans wander quite
so lost in their created
emptiness.
The endless hollow of a coffee cup
becomes the sea
when held close
to a human ear"
A gravel driveway
crunching under baby feet,
becomes oback homeTT".
And purple pleats
that bounce and swirl
el=1aniare|
an echo-chambered laugh
become
what once
allowed me to believe
| had a soul.
Jackie Sweeney
Against the WINDOW
| loved old Furniture as a child "
Its distilled scent of
Generations
Perfumed many tender dreams
Now | know the world
All freshness has turned stale
Noise crows silence
Out There
An intrepid world
| feel its heartbeat in mine
| grope through myself
Toward the locked window
Rust of ages seals the latch
Out There
Leaves and birds sing of
Freedom and fulfillment
Sea gulls shriek
Awakening winds gather might "
Gentle breezes and hurricanes
Time scatters what has been mine
Once precious
Today worn Antiques
Rust of ages seals the latch
My once gentle hand
Grips a vulgar brick "
As a shadow clouds the pane
No dead matter any more
Et 43: CE jen gs
Maxim Tabory
25
THE WINO
i iTaey
with ripple-red face
Elale mare ig
like rotting birch bark
staggers
into a cluster
of gently swaying
flower children
and stares
han calomel lew iamelene
blazing suns
of the rising generation
and says,
oITm just like you.�
Wide eyes
look up
and see the
shredded black remains
hanging
on the splinters
of what was, maybe,
a great man.
i at-sTam (ele) qe-ham='-lolaime)dat-1g
and laugh.
After a while
everyone gives the wino
a dime
so he will leave
but he stays
and the laughing stops.
Regina Kear
Auction
Selling is never easy
except in shops where the very rich or the poor buy
things they can or cannot afford.
But under one slight tree
too late turned green,
too little leaved, people
do not much want to buy.
The most exchange is news,
a carpet reminds, a chiffonier confuses:
othat rug was laid when Sara was a girl.
that chest"was it always in the family?�
And people talk
and stare idly at the goods
they do not want
but could not wait to see
for seeing makes an escape from doing
and doing is dull inside country houses.
Selling is never easy.
It gives the auctioneer a sore throat
and the bidders guilt for aimless greed
and fills the road and drive with too many cars
Causing stray cats and tree-settled birds
too much confusion.
Selling is never easy
for any few gathered there who walked
upon the rug, or kept hairpins on the chiffonier
and see the rug now rolled,
the chest labelled and pushed to the front,
tapped and turned from some familiar thing
into some shrill-voiced bargain.
Selling isnTt easy.
It only may seem so
on those auction days
when oneTs whole life
sprawls jumbled
on some lawn
and silence
catches on the note
of some startled bird
or in the shadow
of some scattering cat.
Then the eye of that seller,
who is not paid to sell,
breaks across
the dying commerce of the day
and in a momentTs
ultimate horror
begs the bidding
to go on.
Selling isnTt easy.
Yet, we do it.
Here under the skinny tree
all the mad scruples of our age converge
to raise the dead
and set in high, uneven relief a life
only finally finished.
We let nothing go to waste.
Sharon Shaw
SE SAAS cA PT REDO A Sip ty dy CESARE LAE 29 SS EET
oe Mae eer ene Re aie
(ELTA Eat. Ee A
UWIAA SS. , ees =how
:
§
».
of
, T B {
") a T
s 2 |
!
Vv)
, :
siete
4M,
40
Zz
ZZ
474
Hy)
ry
ALAS
a
Li
Aeneratle
pnintinn -
WM AW4NG, ,
~Qh Ahab.�
Carr.
BW 00-A -
at
The Meaningfulness of Art, What is
Unless you're inclined to be president of General Motors, art is the only valid manner to while
away your 72 earthly years.
What do | mean by that! Well, for one thing | donTt mean art is drawing pictures or whatever
activities are currently considered oart� by the ocultured.� Art is, rather, a verb, a way of life, a way
of doing, which means a lapse of purpose-consciousness that unselfishly turns attention to the
method of achievement and by doing so, creates an experience satisfactory in itself, a disinterested
sense pleasure. Another happy result is that quality usually goes up when pleasurable care is taken
in the doing.
lf this feeling of art is applied to all human activities, then life is good (but, too, if you know the
definition, life will be oh-so-hard without it). On the other hand, if you want to be president of
General Motors you arenTt interested in pleasure and you'll be able to afford enough diversions so
you wonTt have to think about it"or anything if you choose. But remember, once a person asks
oWhat is it all about?�, art is vital. Philosophy and religion are concerned with the purpose, the end
(unless they are done with a sense of art ) but art is what gives life to the time students of the world
spend questioning, before they donTt find the answer.
She finished the dishes, rinsed out the sink, wrung out and hung up the dish cloth, while
staring out the window. She thought, oBreakfast is over. Lunch is hours away. Here | am between
meals again. What shall | do (period. no question mark ) | may live another 50 years.
Art gives meaningfulness to your 72 years. It is unChristian. That is, it doesnTt count on heaven
for happiness. Art is the present.
Old Master: | churn the clay by hand and pack it into my brick forms here with my hands.
Young Upstart: ItTd be real easy to rig up a crank and funnel that would do it twice as fast.
Old Master: Yes, it would.
Young Upstart: Well, why donTt you do that?
Old Master: Because | like to do it with my hands. | know each brick that way.
Can the Old Master tell Young Upstart his reason? He can come close with functional, practical,
efficient words, but the communication will be complete only when Y.U. ogets it.� When he lets the
manner of the old masterTs work show him the beauty of the bricks, the beauty of living.
Some things are best said in words; others are fluid and elusive and best represented by images
45
46
or actions. Such expressions restrict the audience because they require (-intuition?- ) but they widen
the range of communication and raise the quality for the reason that they restrict the audience.
Perhaps a word about words is due here. There are two owords� as there are two oarts.� These
immediate words you are seeing here are functional. However, the words in the scenarios above
manipulate images, and are artful. Get it?
So, letTs see, where are we? It seems like ITve said"can it be true" anything can be art? Even
washing dishes? Sure. It can be an art. But just as oart� and owords� have at least two levels, so do
artful activities. Objects produced with no ulterior function but sensual pleasure are the noun form of
our previously defined verb, oart.� They are things said with visual or sensual media and they are true
only in their own realm. If philosophers or critics attempt to say oThis painting, or whatever, is --------
it may or may not be true. It translates poorly. Just as you must judge whether a written or spoken
statement is true, you must do so with art"without translating. You have to learn to think in the
language, my Spanish teacher told me.
We must learn to derive meanings from perceptions on their own level, which means we cannot
submit to laziness and accept a second-hand judgment. Is it really a wretched day? | believe, say,
that the world is round, but | know the difference between dirt and sand. | know it with my feet, my
hands, my eyes, my nose, my ears, even my mouth and tongue and teeth. And furthermore, | can tell
you what those differences are"and it will be almost like the real thing.
Of course, this means that we must also learn to trust our interpretations.
The lean adolescent, twixt undershirt and training bra, held her head carefully high and still as
she talked. ~~Mother, what is love?�
oThatTs a hard question.� The scissors clicked slowly across the fringe of tawny brown hair on
the childTs forehead. Mother stepped back, discerned that the left side was higher than the right
and stretched her scissor hand forward to correct the error.
oDo you love Daddy?�
oYes,� she replied, looking at her daughterTs face now, instead of her bangs.
oHow do you know?� It was an honest question.
Devoting all her maternal concentration on the problem, she said, ~You just know.�
The music was even louder than before. The room smelled of tobacco and gin. Only a dozen or
so guests remained. As | carried my empty glass back to the trough, | passed two men | recognized
from my visit to The Company, one considerably older and rounder than the other. The More
Rotund said, oYes, but is it art?� The young slender junior-executive face of the second man showed
clearly that he did not know.
Art must, by its nature as we have defined it here, have a truth. An artist knows that truth and
expresses it. The work of art becomes an energy trap for that truth. If it is understood by a perceiver
there is communication; if not, there is an expression and still a truth.
What is the meaningfulness of .. .
meaningfulness?
A Poem by its Author:
| know
that | donTt understand
of 3
categories:
You donTt understand
but you think you do
or
you think that you
donTt understand and everyone else does.
So you make riddles, not |.
But, | lie.
jbmcc
47
S. SHAW
From a distance it seemed an orderly world with neat pastures and fields of fig trees
and wheat following one another along the road and up the sides of the valley. But seen
from a closer point on the winding dirt road, the squares and rectangles of the old
farms encroached upon one another and the geometric pattern lost its fine clarity in
the gnarled confusion of ancient growth.
One piece of land was mostly pasture with fig trees in the far corner and a herd of
black goats moving in slow circles. In the center was a cone shaped white dwelling
half shaded by a grotesquely twisted olive tree. On a bench in the shade of this tree
lonnis ate methodically from a long loaf of bread and cast a watchful eye toward the
goats. Once he raised his hand to his forehead and removed the black handkerchief
he wore when he worked in the sun.
As he ate the bread slowly his eyes left the goats to trace the three blocks of land that
were his. A hundred yards away he could see Sophia moving about gathering rocks
and piling them into mounds so that tomorrow when he began to work, the plow
would not hit the stone and break.
lonnis watched the woman moving in and out of the shadow of their oldest olive tree.
Occasionally she walked far to the right to place on a special pile the small pieces of
wood she found. He remembered a day like this when a much younger Sophia had
gathered stones and firewood on this same piece of land.
oTonnis!� she had called and, turning toward her he had seen that she held a large
object in her hands. oViepete! Vlepete!, lonnis.� She had hurried to the house and
motioned him nearer.
oIt is only a clay jar,� he had said looking closely at the brown shape.
oYes,� she had answered, wiping one side of the jar with the corner of her apron.
oBut look, Ionnis, here beneath the mud are colors and here,� she wiped harder, othe
head of a man!�
oI will hold it. You get a clean cloth and water and we will wash it.�
He had held the jar while Sophia washed it. Then they filled it with fresh water from
the spring and put it on the wooden bench in the shade. After that, every summer they
left the jar on the bench and they always had cold water to drink. In the winter they
filled it with wine and left it inside on the rough wooden bench between the olive
oil and old bottles filled with rice and flour.
lonnis ate the last of the bread and reached for the jar which rested a few feet away.
After a drink he re-tied the black band around his forehead and reached for his long
stick. The goats were beginning to stray.
Past neat piles of stones arranged like small pyramids and looking like Indian grave
markers walked a tall young man in khaki trousers and a short sleeved red-checked
cotton shirt. With the back of one hand he wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
Strapped to his back he carried a knapsack from which could be seen one corner of
a blanket and the thumbworn edges of several notebooks. At his side hung a scarred
49
50
leather camera case. His only other burden was a pair of thick sunglasses which he
had removed and carried carelessly by the bows.
oKalimera,� he said to the woman piling the stones. She returned his greeting, pausing
to examine him quickly and carefully, then bent again to her work. Strinton walked on
through the field toward the white house still some distance away. The day was hotter
than any March day he had ever known at home in Michigan, despite the discomfort
caused by the weather, Strinton thought Crete even more exciting than it had seemed
to him six weeks ago when he first stepped off the boat from Piraeus.
Looking ahead as he neared the dwelling he saw with relief the shade cast by the olive
tree. Beyond the house the goats moved noiselessly. Strinton saw lonnis pause half-
way between the herd and the house, lean lightly on a tall stick and patiently await
his approach. Slowing his own pace imperceptibly, Strinton imagined for a moment
that the old man was a shepherd from the classical past. His posture against the
somber quietness of the animals so mimicked antiquity that Strinton was practically
upon the house itself and the old man had dropped his stick and moved to meet him
before the vision faded.
oKalimera,� he repeated to the man.
oKalimerasas. Ti Kanete?�
Strinton was fine, but hot and eager for a drink of water. oPoli Kala. Parakalo, kirie,
thipso.�T
oNai. Nai.� lonnis nodded and motioning Strinton to a seat on the bench he walked
into the house. Returning a moment later with an empty wooden box and another
glass he sat down on the box and reached for the water jar. Strinton had dropped his
knapsack to the ground beside him and reached gratefully for the glass the old man
handed him. For some moments neither man spoke. Strinton drained his glass and
brushed his forehead with his hand, but he was perspiring less now that he could
relax in the shade. lonnis, however had shifted his box almost directly into the sun-
light and leaned forward resting both elbows on his knees.
As the men talked langurdly punctuating their conversation with long silences, the
goats grazed quietly. Sophia gathered the last remaining rocks and was stacking them
in a small pile. Propping one foot on his knapsack, Strinton gestured toward the land
about him.
oBeautiful.�
Ionnis half closed his eyes and accepted the praise with a smile. oYes, it is beautiful.
It is mine. You are American?� He moved his box to face Strinton and poured more
water into the young manTs glass.
Strinton nodded, then asked, o~Where did you get this jar? It is a fine looking thing.�
Konnis placed the empty jar on the sunlit end of the bench. oIt is broken a little and I
think very old. . . poli palyo.�T He repeated the last words watching Strinton and
s+
52
thinking how all strangers looked alike. oThe woman found it while gathering stones
in the field. Once in a museum in Iraklion I saw jars that were chipped and beautiful
like mine.�
Standing up Strinton looked at the jar for a moment then at Ionnis. After a moment
he lifted the vessel from the bench and walked back and forth before the house,
holding it carefully and looking from the jar to the fields.
oYou are like all the others,� Ionnis told him. o~All the others who come here tell
me this is a very old jar and then they look at it and at the fields as you are looking
at them now.�
Without answering, Strinton returned to the bench and placed the jar just where Ionnis
had left it. Then he backed off without taking his eyes from it. Against the white house
the jar cast a sharp clear shadow. oIt is very beautiful,� he said.
oThe sun shines brightly on the colored figures,� Ionnis remarked watching him.
Strinton nodded and moved closer to trace them with the tips of his fingers. lonnis
laughed. oIt will not break if you touch it. The pictures are old but they will not fall
off.� He laughed again at the careful way in which Strinton touched the jar, and this
time his laughter was so loud that Sophia turned from the field and waved to him
before she gathered the small pile of wood in her apron and began walking toward the
house.
Ionnis, watching Strinton would have said themberazi but he knew it was no good
saying never mind� to such young men. Instead he said, ooVases and old jars are good
for museums and good for people to see but not as good as rows of fig trees and olive
trees.�
Slowly Strinton withdrew his hand and moved a little so the sun threw his shadow
across the bench. Ionnis had stopped laughing. oYou are different from other
strangers,� he said, turning away.
Strinton stared hard at the jar. He thought of Knossos and the huge jars that stood
there behind heavy wires, and of the bronze head of Sir Arthur Evans that rested by
the entrance to the palace. He thought of the woman piling stone, the old man in a
moist black headband and the water from this jar that had tasted so cool. He turned
away from the jar and he and Ionnis stood smiling as Sophia approached.
oTi Kanete? she called across the brief expanse of land oHow do you like our jar?�
oIt keeps the water very cold,� Strinton called back.
oYes, it is good.�
oThe goats are beginning to stray,� Ionnis said, moving away. ~ooWe have lamb... you
must eat with us.�
Strinton nodded and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
SKK ISRO OX
WITH YOUR MUSKET, FIFE, AND DRUM
When he was six and tough-guy
and she had chocolate on her face,
he said, T| want to be a firemanT,
and went on climbing trees
against the sunTs dumb blazes
far in the upper leaves.
She stayed below
full of lollipop attention
and reeled off miles of hose
from the garbage can.
Then he was twenty
and she was his wife,
anxious to suffer the paradise
of plastic dishes
and cold linoleum
guarded by a sometimes Car.
And two months later
he was shuffled off
to a din of drunken hero fanfares,
to a nightmare land of funny men
and jungle death ten thousand miles away
from the toy town trees.
She made a real religion
of the coming of the mail
and answered with the sacrifice
of anxious prayers, stale cookies.
On this mute Sunday
there is no one at the station,
except the boys who do a regal two-step
around the hearse and slam the door
like so many potentates
at a clerkTs coronation,
perfunctories for the defunct who drive away
and, out of sight, light cigarettes
and talk about old ball games.
The show is cardboard.
There are no more tears
for the awful ride
to the cool old home
beneath the burning branches
when dogs were bears
and every garage was really
a den of japs.
David Lawson
53
AFTER GRANT WOOD
Now you are dead, all of you.
And with you died the body
of three generationsT tyranny,
the absolute and sphynx-like disapproval
of everything from love and whiskey
to quiet April rain.
Even your children
in the echo of your rusted chains
are now too old to change their lives.
They walk with the inarticulate
ghost of guilt
half-smothered
in monotonous meals and payment books,
the weekly rags which culminate
in a thousand restless, deathsome Sundays,
the four oTclock fear
and terrible twilight
when the scripture starts to quiver on the shelf.
You schooled them in your churchy ways
and never smiled without purpose;
every word a quote or couplet:
Timothy minus the fermentation,
Franklin without the whimsey.
You preached God's light.
But Christ!
54
In the middle of a midnight sweat
when Satan grinned
on the landing bannister,
each floor creaked with enough conviction
to make old Calvin re-consider sin.
And now secure in your martyrdom,
breathing the wispy hymn-filled air
beside your celestial, sexless fathers
in the Beulah Land
for which you lived and trudged
with downcast eyes
through eighty years of allegory
and middle-class privation,
can you know the measure of your victory?
We walk like half-believing prisoners
recently pardoned
for a crime beyond memory,
now that you are dead,
almost all of us?
David Lawson
IN A CABIN AT NAGTS HEAD WHILE THE
WIND ASSAULTED
We were by the stove
while the ocean threw a tantrum
and the wind assaulted the outside walls
to pummel itself on the rooftop.
It was a tar black night
but the coffee was strong as turpentine
and the cigarettes tasted
good enough to eat.
the cheap chianti,
un vino simpatico,
rattled our heads and we talked about
our neurotic friends all over the nation
and the trouble with civilization.
Then somebody tried to quote Yeats,
and somebody chortled.
On the shore in the morning
was a slick fat fish.
His tail had been cut clean
by a passing boat.
David Lawson
MESA VERDE
The dead boiling up
In the ground
| have been to a great cave
Where the dead lived
Dead Indians
From a long lost age
| have climbed
Their ancient now-renewed
Ladders
Peered into the places
Made to store grain
Climbed from level to level
In houses where even stocky men
Must have had to stoop
Drunk from the spring
Where they got their drinking water
Looked out
Over miles
Toward the horizon
As they must have scanned it
Searching for the enemies
Who finally overcame them
In that time
Long ago
Frederick Sorenson
55
56
INTERSECTION
BY LAWRENCE CLINE
As the traffic signal changed from green to
yellow to red a pale blue Falcon slowed routinely
to a halt. Small crowds of late evening shoppers
hurried from corner to corner seeking temporary
shelter from stinging November winds.
Inside the car Christopher Lamonde glanced
disgustedly at the small black knob on the dash-
board labelled oDEFROSTER.� With glove-covered
hand he reached to clean the driver's portion of
the foggy windshield and inadvertently sprinkled
cigarette ashes across the opening of the defroster
vent. After taking the last possible puff his cig-
arette could offer, he carefully balanced the filter
on a growing pile of butts in the ashtray. oGod, it
must be cold!� Christopher shuddered as he gazed
through his self-made window. He was delighted
to discover the flashing First Federal sign a block
down the street. Twenty-three degrees at six forty-
one. A quick look at his wristwatch left him smil-
ing. His watch was truly independent. Another
group of shoppers passed by. Smiles were absent,
not so much due to unfriendliness as to a fear of
splitting stiff chapped lips. Fingers burrowed deep-
ly into overcoat pockets, leaving the warmth re-
luctantly to aid a red runny nose. As the last of
the shoppers filed by, Christopher realized the
light was once again green. A loud horn blast from
the car behind accompanied his left foot as it
eased out the clutch. The unexpected reminder
caused the Falcon to jerk into motion. Simul-
taneously a carefully balanced filter rolled off a
pile of cigarette butts and fell to the floorboard.
oSon-of-a-bitch!� barked Christopher instinctively.
Quickly he changed from first to second gear and
smoothed out his jerky start. Looking to the rear-
view mirror, he strained to see the driver of the
impatient car. A foggy rear window restricted his
vision, and brought a wry smile to his face. He
didnTt really want to see the son-of-a-bitch anyway.
Strangers were good people to know, and Christo-
pher wanted to keep it that way.
With the time and temperature of the First
Federal sign several miles behind him, Christopher
turned into a well-lighted gas station. The double
ring of the service bell announced his arrival to the
attendant, who buttoned the top of his coveralls
and came outside. Christopher rolled down his
window in order to open the door with the outside
handle. Stepping from his car and slamming the
door shut, he heard the attendantTs greeting.
oFiller up, felluh?� The attendantTs name was
Jack unless he was wearing someone elseTs cover-
alls.
oYeah, and check the oil if you donTt mind.�
oDonTt mind at all, felluh. ThatTs what | get
paid for.� Christopher nodded in agreement and
headed for the warmth of the building. Pulling off
his gloves, he searchd his pockets for cigarette
money as he crossed the oil-stained concrete.
The search yielded only two dimes and a couple of
cold brown pennies. Unable to pay off the vending
machine until Jack returned with change, Christo-
pher looked for the restroom. Outside another car
had just pulled into the station. Jack placed the
gas pump on automatic and left the blue Falcon
to drink by itself. He obviously knew the driver of
the other car, for he went directly to the passenger
side and hopped in. The driver of the car was a
woman but Christopher could not get a clear look
at her. She must be a real beauty if Jack could
jump right into the front seat beside her. Jack
wasnTt the most handsome guy Christopher had
ever seen. Maybe she was his wife. No, Jack al-
most ran to get in the car. CouldnTt be his wife.
57
Christopher gave up on the mystery customer
to relieve his expanded bladder. Closing the rest-
room door behind him, he unzipped his pants.
Above the urinal was a hand-written sign: oOut of
Odor!� Christopher moved inside the small booth
and with careful aim began a vigorous bombard-
ment of a cigarette butt floating in the toilet.
That Jack sure had a fine sense of humor. Christo-
pher looked up and down the walls of the restroom
to check out the local graphitti. He saw nothing
he had not seen before, some time, some place.
Completing the destruction of the imaginary ship
in the yellow ocean below him, Christopher step-
ped out of the booth and up to the sink. As he
washed his hands he checked himself out in the
remaining portion of a shattered mirror. He was
tired and his eyes made the fact obvious to anyone
interested enough to notice. He looked around for
a towel of some sort. There were no towels. Christo-
pher folded his arms across his chest and dried
each hand under a warm armpit. Jack probably
enjoyed seeing people leave the restroom with wet
hands. Remembering something that he had for-
gotten to do, Christopher walked back to the toilet
and flushed it.
Jack was still sitting in the other car when
Christopher came out of the bathroom. A large wet
spot under the rear bumper told Christopher his
car was filled with gas. While waiting for Jack to
come back inside, Christopher gazed at the various
displays scattered about the stationTs interior. On
the counter beside the cash register was a display
of headache remedies. Christopher had no head-
ache, so he quickly moved to other items of inter-
est: an STP display, various brands of motor
oil, and a November calendar with a naked woman.
Gas stations were pretty much the same. Looking
overhead Christopher stared at a Budweiser clock
with the familiar horses pulling a beer wagon.
You couldnTt even see what time it was for the
damn wagon. How long had he been waiting for
58
Jack to return, anyway? Christopher began to grow
uneasy and walked outside. Taking the gas nozzle
from his car, he replaced it on the pump. He
noticed Jack was sitting in the middle of the front
seat next to the woman. Both were sitting very
low in the seat so that only their heads were
visible from the rear of the car. Christopher walked
up to the door of his car, opened it, and looked over
to see if he had gained JackTs attention. He hadn't.
Christopher was becoming quite irritated with the
service heTd received. JackTs work was worse than
his humor. He eased behind the wheel of his car.
Trying not to be too interested, he glanced over
the trash barrel between the two cars. Goddam!
Ole Jack was really going to town. This was un-
believable. So thatTs what Jack gets paid for.
ChristopherTs irritation was now mixed with a
strange sort of embarrassment. He felt weird sit-
ting at a gas station with a couple making love in
the front seat of a car five feet away. It was like
being at a drive-in movie and looking at the car
beside you, except for the gas pumps.
ChristopherTs thoughts were interrupted by
flashing headlights. A third car pulled into the gas
station. Jack must have seen the lights too, for
he quickly reached the door of his girlfriendTs car.
When he got out, his girlfriend drove away. Jack
stood there breathing heavily, trying to button the
front of his coveralls.
Christopher reached out his window, opened
the door, and got out of his car. Jack walked over
as if nothing had ever happened. oYou musta been
driving on fumes. It took almost fifteen gallons
to filler up.�� Christopher handed him a credit card
and followed him into the station. The horn on
the third car made a polite honk and Jack threw
up two fingers in recognition. oBe right with you.�
Christopher thought of asking for change in order
to buy a pack of cigarettes, but decided against
it. Jack mumbled the figures as he filled out the
credit card form. ~Fourteen eight tenths gallons
.. . thirty-six point nine...� After checking the
pump again for the total Jack turned to Christo-
pher. oThat'll be another five bucks you owe at
the end of the month.� He tore off the receipt
and handed it to Christopher. ~Thank ya, felluh,
and hurry back.�
Christopher hadnTt said a word to Jack since
he had first told him to fill up the tank. He felt
the need to say something before he left. oDidn't
you check the oil?� Jack gave him a questioning
look and then broke into his business-like smile.
oOh yeah, I'll catch it right away.�
oThat's all right.� Christopher returned the arti-
ficial smile. oYou're probably pretty tired.� As
Christopher walked out the door the third car
pulled away from the pumps and was gone. Christo-
pher stopped, turned around, and looked at Jack.
Shaking his head in disbelief he walked back to
his car, got in, and hurried to get away. He had
known Jack only forty-five minutes at the most
and already knew him too well. What a bastard.
Several miles down the road the pale blue Fal-
con slowed routinely to a halt as the traffic signal
changed from green to yellow to red. Christopher
Lamonde looked out a foggy window at the few
people still walking the streets. Christopher felt
a little more at ease. Strangers were good people
to know.
59
DESERTED BARN
Prow pointed,
Like an old grey ship,
This weathered barn
Deadheads her hollow hull:
An empty ark.
No Noah
Nor sons of Noah
Whose hand or will
Can hold the helm
Or heel the timbered decks,
She shudders
Against the waved furrows
As in a gale.
Abandoned by all but rats,
She hauls the run-out ends of ropes,
The tack and tools of dead trades;
Shipping slow ruin
Through split strakes,
She slips in timeTs slack tide,
Her wake, toward dim shores
Where hulks and relics vague
Lie quiet
As bones.
Thomas Jackson
A GEOPOLITICAL REVELATION OR,
A SENSE OF HISTORY
Ascending a hill in southern Ohio
| look back across the water
to the powdery mountains of West Virginia
and instantly grow aware
of the river | crossed:
Not long ago | was over there
far to the south of those shadowy mountains
deep in the ancient dust of
North Carolina
chasing the ghost of Lord Halifax
and his train of specteral pretenders
in their faded lace
through the feeble moonlight
and broken tea cups
of sad plantations.
And now | am climbing a cartoon hill
speckled with comic book cows
and big Dutch barns
near Pennsylvania.
| have crossed the Ohio River.
The jugular python of the Grand Republic
all times prior to sixty-five
now mothers beer cans
and a few lethargic barges.
Ascending a hill in southern Ohio
this part of the country
becomes a sandbox
full of curious,
apparently purposeless toys.
David Lawson
61
Lc ca a crams oam
~.
REVIEWS REVIEWS REVIEWS
A ChildTs Garden of Grass
By Jack S. Margolis and Richard Clorfene
Americans are notoriously addicted to guide
books and hand books and how-to-do-it books;
they crave the reinforcing opinion of some self-
appointed expert. Now, for the 20 to 40 million
regular potsmokers in the United States, there
is A ChildTs Garden of Grass: the Official Hand-
book for Marijuana Users. Sound facetious? It
is, and equally informative.
The authors begin in quite a straightforward
fashion. oOur viewpoint, without defending it
here, is simply that marijuana is not harmful
in any way. . . does not lead to the use of hard
narcotics, and should be made legal subject to
the same or similar regulations which now apply
to the use, distribution, and sale of alcohol and
tobacco.� Margolis and Clorfene are enthusias-
tic advocates of marijuana, and in this little
book they recommend it for everything from
headaches to frigidity.
Sandwiched in between the sales talks are
some valuable pearls of wisdom for the curious.
What does it feel like to get stoned? oThe first
sensation you feel will be physical; a new ting-
ling of some sort, a band of light pressure
around your temples... you will relax. . . this
relaxation almost instantly melts into a quiet
contemplative euphoria, and a soft muting of
everything.� That is a subjective but fairly
honest description.
A ChildTs Garden of Grass may be subjective
but it is never aloof. Every aspect of the weed
and its enjoyment is examined, from rolling a
joint to seducing a woman. Here the authors
make a valuable distinction between grass and
the drug it is most often compared to, alcohol.
oLiquor, of course, has been the traditional
euphoria producing tool of the seducer. Seduc-
ing a drunken woman is as satisfying and stimu-
lating as winning a philosophical argument with
a dead goldfish. . . but grass heightens your en-
joyment of your perceptions and conceptions
tremendously.� The next few paragraphs are
religiously devoted to the joys of sex and mari-
juana.
Serious consideration is given to the dangers
of marijuana: getting busted. Margolis and
Clorfene advise that you hollow out a book and
hide your pot in it, but not his one because it is
too thin. The authors shower you with a treasure
of practical and impractical tips"recipes for
those famous grass brownies, instructions for
making a water pipe, and a diagrammatic trea-
tise on the European Joint. A ChildTs Garden
of Grass has something for everyone, with the
possible exception of John Mitchell.
William R. Day
63
NT
64
Islands in the Stream
By Ernest Hemingway
Ernest HemingwayTs celebrated posthumous
novel ISLANDS IN THE STREAM provides most of
the elements that Hemingway lovers admire, which
are also the elements that his critics have grown
to deplore. The novel written in the late forties
presents Thomas Hudson, an established and tal-
ented painter, as another ~~Hemingway Hero� who
involves himself in stoical contemplation, love-
making, fighting, killing, suffering, and dying. His
adventures are as unbelievable as real life, and his
comments are often concentrated gems of human
understanding. HudsonTs developing character is
the central unifying device in an otherwise loosely
structured work which takes place in two distinct
settings of time and place. The theme is interwoven
with HudsonTs character and essentially concerns
his psychic -journey from disciplined happiness,
through tragedy, to a type of existential resolution
which ends with his mortal wounding at the end of
the novel. The time is first an unidentified date in
the thirties and later an early date in World War
Il, and the places are the Bimini Islands and Cuba.
In addition to Thomas Hudson, Hemingway has
created a group of keenly drawn minor characters
who are roughly the same local-color types that the
reader has seen in the other novels, particularly
FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS and TO HAVE AND
HAVE NOT. Collectively they seem to represent
most of the virtues of human interaction, including
bravery, trustworthiness, selflessness, and a sense
of kinship with other men. There are several
memorable ones such as Honest Lil, the prostitute
with the proverbial heart of gold; and Willie, Ara,
and Henry, three exceptionally mean and loyal
basques. Other unique characters are Hudson's
three young sons who appear only in the first sec-
tion of the work. The reader is drawn sympathetic-
ally to these figures who are presented in a
splendidly idyllic beach setting which also includes
a long fishing scene comparable to the longer one
in THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA. The beautiful
boys are unbelievably precocious, but otherwise
they serve as symbols of the innocent perfection
possible for human beings.
The scenes in the novel are like islands in a
stream, fading into a slow moving and dream-like
narrative for which Hemingway has purposely not
prepared the reader. Although it is with HudsonTs
character that the reader is primarily concerned,
it is possible to go beyond Hudson and lose your-
self in the narrative, partially because other char-
acters reveal themselves through the third person
point-of-view and partially because the settings
themselves are inviting. The reader quickly accepts
the implicit invitation to roam the beach, to swim,
fish, and drink with HudsonTs group. Hudson is
selfish only with his memories, and for the occa-
sional sex scenes the reader is forced to find his
own partner since Hudson does not share his
openly but merely mentions when he has finished.
Otherwise the sensitive reader suffers along with
the other characters and is only too happy to be
alive after the heavy firing at the end of the novel.
The only difficulty in following the narrative lies
in the fact that Hemingway dies not use the same
characters in each of the three sections; instead,
he introduces a realtively new group each time and
presents the earlier characters only as memories
in Thomas HudsonTs mind.
Although ISLANDS IN THE STREAM is a novel
centered around the war with its subsequent trage-
dies and deprivations, the themes are neither poli-
tical nor involved in polemical idealism. This lack
of social analysis will possibly alienate a number
of contemporary readers who have grown to expect
a dialectic discussion in their fiction. However,
such an approach to fiction was never HemingwayTs
forte, even in his serious political novel FOR
WHOM THE BELL TOLLS. Hemingway seemed to
prefer basing his themes in the universal aspects
of the individualTs struggle in his journey through
life. The reader can note this unique personal
struggle in all of HemingwayTs novels and in most
of his short stories. In this respect Thomas Hudson
is simply another turn of the oHemingway Hero�
who develops resolution in the face of meaningless-
ness, danger, and tragedy. It is only the names of
the oheroes� and the settings that change from
novel to novel, and the minor characters even
seem interchangeable. The reader needs only to
compare the irregulars in FOR WHOM THE BELL
TOLLS and TO HAVE AND TO HAVE NOT, or the
regulars in A FAREWELL TO ARMS to see the
similarities. But such comparisons do not make
ISLANDS IN THE STREAM a weak novel, nor does
it make Thomas Hudson any less desirable to note
that his creator made several other men in his
likeness. Hudson must be examined, as a man and
as an artist, in the context of his own struggle.
In examining Thomas Hudson, the reader must
note that Hudson has an extra dimension. He is an
artist, and he is forced to view himself as distinct
from other men, at least in the first section of the
novel. Hudson is dedicated to his painting, and he
works at it instead of leading a normal family life,
probably because his driving talent will not allow
him to follow bourgeois pattern. Ultimately, his art
becomes a duty more important than anything
else for his mental well-being. His art in effect
resolves his existential quest for meaning and
allows him to re-define himself daily. However,
HudsonTs driving passion becomes something
merely parallel with art in the last two sections of
the novel when he begins chasing submarines in
his boat. His sense of duty remains, but his urge
to create is not the predominating passion. Thus
we may view him as a universal existential hero,
as well as an artist, who must satisfy his quest for
meaning each day through the duty he has set for
himself. Clearly the duty in the last two sections
of the novel, chasing submarines, is not creative
in the same sense as painting, but it serves the
same purpose in his life.
HudsonTs existential resolution is easy to follow
through the three sections of the novel as he
accepts his tragedies and deprivations by burying
himself in his sense of duty which includes, later
in the novel, a passive desire to be finished with
such a precarious life. When we meet Hudson in
the oBimini� section, he has had two divorces and
his boys visit him only occasionally. He is alienated
from a typical family life which he seems to miss;
however, he understands that such a life and his
work are not compatible. And since he loves his
work, his life is carefully structured with a daily
routine that will not allow him to reflect on the
absurd aspects of his life and which gives him a
daily sense of purpose and fulfillment. Hemingway
explains: oBut he [Hudson] knew he must keep on
working now or he would lose the security he had
built for himself with work.� This security lasts
only until he learns that his two younger sons
have been killed, and Hudson does not appear
again as a painter. Hudson is revealed again several
years later, after he has learned of the death of
his oldest son. Hudson now clothes his resolve
in military duty which supplies the existential
purpose needed to cope with the meaninglessness
invoked by the death of his boys. Hudson speaks
of his oldest son: oGet it straight. Your boy you
lose. Honor has been gone for a long time. Duty
you do�. But it is the duty of the injured man who
is no longer the creative artist.
It is during the sea chase scenes that Hudson
regains his ability to work daily and to work well,
but he is a man keenly injured, unlike the isolated
painter in the first section. His sense of separation
and absurdity has gone beyond alienation from a
bourgeois life, and memories of his dead family
only invoke more pain. He therefore must work
SY
more and more diligently and drive himself beyond
physical limits in order to find that balance neces-
sary for his sanity. It forces him to superhuman
efforts in the search for the German sailors and
concludes with his mortal wounding in the final
shelling. He regrets his impending death, but he
shows an understanding of existential reality when
he says: oDonTt worry about it, boy. All your life is
just pointed toward it.� All life is pointed toward
death, and Hudson faces the fact stoically, accept-
ing death as he accepted the elements of his life"
with resolution intact.
ISLANDS IN THE STREAM is a novel which will
probably be read infrequently after it drops from
the best-seller list, and like HemingwayTs earlier
works and much of FaulknerTs work, the novel will
fade out of the mind of the average reader as he
seeks his fiction on ever newer best-seller charts.
Unfortunately, the novel will probably not enjoy
much academic use either because HemingwayTs
other novels cover essentially the same themes and
character types, and they are simply better novels.
But the novel will be read frequently by those who
are concerned with Hemingway himself and by
those scholars who are concerned with the develop-
ment of American Literature, primarily because the
novel allows another opportunity to review the
heroic code and the theses that are important to
the lives of all persons who take themselves seri-
ously. ISLANDS IN THE STREAM offers a perfect
opportunity to meet Hemingway if you have not
read him before, and if you have, it offers one more
opportunity to refresh a lasting friendship.
Fred Whittet
66
®
Be Not Content
By William J. Craddock
First of all, to begin with a confession"not
of guilt, but of experience. Be Not Content is
not just William J. CraddockTs experience, but
thousands of others as well. It began as some-
thing free and alive, and by the end we had
seen it shrivel and die.
This is essentially an autobiographical first
novel, staged in California and starring Abel
Egregore as an outlaw motorcyclist/college stu-
dent turned acid head. oI was eighteen and the
whole concept was truly appalling.� For two
years he maintained these roles, then abandoned
the first two and devoted himself completely to
the use of consciousness-expanding drugs.
It was a frantic life for Abel, as full of illu-
sion and disillusion as his kaleidoscopic world.
As his committment to LSD and social ex-com-
munication increased, so did his identification
with what now may be termed the ohippie� sub-
culture. Be Not Content is a rambling, disjointed
narrative adventure into that subculture.
Craddock does a good job with the narrative,
paring it down to a procession of unprofound
but interesting episodes. One of the best is a
loveless sexual encounter with a girl named
Wendy, a scene of self-reproach and disgust.
oHer inner suffering was so painfully evident
that I nearly vomited... but didnTt and simply
took off my pants, then hers, and made her from
behind with cold fast stabs. It was nothing"
cold flesh zero"nothing.�
But there were good times for Abel, times of
friendship and joy. Sitting in a luxurious sauna
bath with fifteen naked freaks smoking count-
less joints, camping up at Big Sur, tripping light-
ly down to Berkeley. It was a good enough life
until he began to question it with a gallon jar
of Kool-Aid and LSD. Every day for two weeks
Abel drank off a hearty glass of the potion,
staying spaced out until he hit the delirious
bottom. And it was cold down there.
Not only was it cold, but it was getting lonely.
AbelTs friends were being thinned out by narco-
tics busts, the draft, methedrine, and heroin. His
scene of peace and tolerance was vanishing into
radicalism and backlash. Life was becoming a
. .colossal drag.�
Be Not Content is not a conventional novel
with plot, characterization, and theme. ItTs more
of a literary mutation, unified with hallucino-
genic perception and presented with modest
competence. There is no ending, the story
simply fades off. Perhaps this is what the Can-
terbury Tales would have sounded like had they
been written in 1967 by a disillusioned twenty-
three year old acid head.
William R. Day
67
Editor's Note:
James Negugi, a Kenyan, is currently serving as
author-in-residence at the Northwestern University.
His other novels include The River Between and
Grain of Wheat. He has also published a play, The
Black Hermit. Professor Ngugi attended the East
Carolina University African Studies Institute this
spring.
Weep Not Child
By James Ngugi
For those who still hope that the future will cure
the ills of the present, James NgugiTs Weep Not
Child is a demoralizing reading experience. It as-
serts unequivocably that the troubles that befall
mankind have no end, and that man himself is |
sick with diseases that have no cure. Written in
a simple narrative style, the novel traces the
emergence of an innocent, idealistic child-hero
into his tortured manhood. Its theme is entwined
in the primacy of the land, in a Kenyan familyTs
respect for tradition, and in one young manTs
search for a role in the troubled affairs of his
fey =10) 8)
NgugiTs final assessment of his heroTs chances
to realize his dreams is a dismal one. Believing,
as the author does, that men cannot change the
future until they can accept the reality of the
present, he proceeds to write an all too vivid de-
scription of that reality. The horrors of the Mau
Mau uprising conspire to shatter the dreams of
every faction of the populace of Kenya, white
overlords, missionary teachers, black men, young
lovers whose fathers are enemies. And the high
political purposes used to justify early atrocities
dissolve in the wake of personalized terror, torture,
and revenge murders. Political honor turns into
personal hatred.
As tragic as these events are, they pale beside
the tragedy of discovery by the innocent Njoroge
that wealth, power, education, religion, nor love
can sustain a man when he falls prey to another
manTs hatred. :
NgugiTs story of a Kenyan familyTs plans for the
future is void-of any hope. NjorogeTs father,
Ngotho, has fatclic elamm comm eg-leliaielar-]imediey-] Mell ico)anie
but he has ambition for his sons. It is the sons
themselves who are condemned to attempt recon-
ciliation between their ties with their own land,
now fallen into white hands, and the white manTs
encroachment upon their way of life. One by one,
NjorogeTs brothers join the revolution. Boro, who
despises his fatherTs defeated passivity, loses re-
spect for him. Family ties dissolve, the bonds too
strained by political upheaval to hold..
In the midst of terror and tragedy, Njoroge per-
sists in his delusion that education will show him
the way to a new and beautiful day when all men
will have peace:
Through all this, Njoroge was still
sustained by his love for and belief in
education and his own role when the
time came. And the difficulties of
home seemed to have sharpened this
appetite. Only education could make
something out of this wreckage. He
became more faithful to his studies.
He would one day use all his learning
to fight the white man, for he would
continue the work that his father had
started. When these moments caught ~
him, he actually saw himself as a
possible savior of the whole of GodTs
country. Just let him get learning.
Let that time come when he...
When Nioroge is taken from his beloved school
by guardsmen, tortured, and sent to see his physi-
cal wreck of a father, who has confessed to a mur-
der committed by his alienated son, he loses his
will to believe that men can erase strife through
the agency of compassion and love. Not until he
has lost everything"~~my education, my faith, my
familyT"is he able to confront the reality with
which he has no means of coping. In the face of
sucn a shattering realization, he loses his own wit!
to live.
Weep Not Child is a lyrical account of the an-
guish inflicted upon an innocent youth who con-
fronts a problem which otomorrow� is not the
solution. It is NgugiTs first novel. In subsequent
writing he has reflected some hope for the fate
of mankind, but the substance of this first one
delivers a loud and clear message that manTs will-
ingness to fight his own kind outweighs his desire |
to live in peace. ~~Hope of a better day was the only
comfort he could give to a weeping child. He did
not know that this faith in the future could be a
form of escape from reality of the present.� Weep
Not Child is a sad and moving commentary on the
universal human condition.
Janice G. Hardison
78," =
A: x
SM CAIVIS GILINN
aa
April 21, 1971
Dear Mrs. Glover,
YouTre just going to hate me for this, but | wasnTt able to put together that Stanley Elkin review
you asked me for. | got the book. It was over in the bookstore like you said. | guess the bookstore
people forgot to let me know my order had arrived. So, | did get the book after all, but a couple of
things kept me from having time to read it.
Number one, | have a lot of other important reading to do. | try to keep fresh on McCrimmonTs
Writing with a Purpose, for my freshmen. Then, thereTs The Scarlet Letter for the sophomores. And,
I'm reading the historical novels of Ovid Williams Pierce, to help someone with his thesis. On top
of all that, | feel | ought to go through The Daily Reflector pretty carefully.
Number two, every time | pick up ElkinTs book, ITm stunned by the dust jacket. It has two different
pictures on it, one on the front, and one on the back. (ITm not counting the little picture of the
Random House on the binding edge. ) The front picture shows a man seated at a green table. ThereTs
a telephone on the table, and the man is holding a sheaf of paper in his hands. | guess itTs a script
for a radio show. The reason | guess itTs a script is because instead of a head the man has an old-
timey radio microphone growing out of his collar. And, thereTs a speech balloon coming out of the
front of the microphone (where the manTs mouth would be, if he had one). In the balloon it says,
oTHE DICK GIBSON SHOW a novel by STANLEY ELKIN.�
The manTs shirt is tan, his pants brown pinstripes. His socks and suspenders are lavender, and heTs
wearing yellow and white saddle shoes. All this is done in Sunday funnies cartoon style. You can see
the tiny dots in some of the colors.
Now, | know Stanley Elkin didnTt draw that picture. (Robert Korn did. ) But, ITm sure he had a hand
in it.
HereTs what | think heTs trying to tell us, and | hope youTll forgive me if | get a little bit philosophical
as | get into it. Life is like a radio show. To be more specific, itTs like one of those late-at-night talk
shows, where the listeners can call in. (ThatTs why thereTs a telephone on the table. ) And we people
living here in America in 1971, we're like radio announcers. Night after night we talk our shows out
into the blank, broad American darkness, and sometimes a listener calls in and says he likes the
show. Sometimes cranks call in and threaten the announcer.
The way we handle ourselves when the cranks call in is the way we survive. So much depends on
what we say in those situations. So much depends:on our tone of voice, our every nuance. (Right there.
Hear that subtle shift, delicately nasal and fruity? ) Is it a nine year old millionaire on the line, or is it
69
really a mad, hyphenated psychologist who means you harm? Because we donTt know the callerTs true
identity, or his intentions, we have to be ready to shift our tone of voice. Maybe, to change voices
entirely. Maybe quit the whole show and start a new one. Change majors. Change jobs. Get divorced.
Get an unlisted number.
That is to say, as Benjamin DeMott suggests in Surviving the Seventies, we must be prepared to
change life-roles, and we must be prepared to enjoy them, the lucky ones. ITm not just somebodyTs
reviewer, and youTre not just somebodyTs literary editor.
Anyway, life is like a radio show. Sometimes, we broadcast egg prices to small rural audiences,
and shut the transmitter down at dusk. Sometimes, weTre rolling out on 50,000 watts, clear channel,
to a whole metropolitan area. And if we have a network hookup, they can hear us in lots of cities
at once.
That means we've got to be ready to talk to different places, the different worlds that co-exist,
occupying different spaces in the same time. IsnTt it incredible to think, here in Fortress Greenville,
that right now, simultaneously with ourselves, somewhere across America San Francisco is existing.
And Santa Barbara. And Denver. Mrs. Glover, are we ready to broadcast to those places? Are we
ready to hear from them, if they call in? Any more ready than for the messages that came in from
Selma, or Prague, or Mordor, or Kent?
| can see |Tm getting away from the subject, the picture on the front of The Dick Gibson Show. Yes,
ITm sure thatTs what the book is going to be about: how life is like a radio show. ITm also sure about
how itTs written, if itTs anything at all in the manner of Stanley ElkinTs three other books. Providing for
a little evolution in his style, | think | can expect even more abundance in the language, a surplus,
a plenitude, a tendency to say the thing many ways, over and over, an exploration of the resources, a
liberality, a profusion, a luxuriance, a lavish exhuberance, a copiousness almost to repletion.
But the voice is never taxed. ItTs convincing language, never straining the understanding. Once,
Elkin told about a seance which took place some time ago in Lockhaven, Pennsylvania. The medium
claimed to have raised the spirit of William Shakespeare, whose voice then issued from his mouth.
Someone, a Mr. Gibson, asked, oWell, if youTre Shakespeare, how come you donTt speak in blank
verse? | always associated Shakespeare with blank verse.� And the voice of Shakespeare replied,
~oWeTre white men here, Mr. Gibson. That blank verse was just for the niggers. SoTs they wouldnTt
understand.� Which | take to mean: fancy language is a con. That ought to be obvious by now, so many
dictators, and professors, and senators use it. So, when | hear somebody saying something fancy to
me, | know he has a low opinion of me. Stanley Elkin doesnTt want his readers to think he has a low
opinion of them. | put him over with Vonnegut and Heller.
OK, so much for the front of the dust jacket. The back is the part that really captures me. It moves
me. ItTs a black and white photo of Stanley Elkin. From the waist up.
Now, on the back of ElkinTs last novel, A Bad Man, thereTs also a photo of Stanley Elkin. ItTs an oin�
shot. A lot of the photographerTs equipment standing around framing the subject. Big floods, wiring,
drops. StanleyTs seated on a steel office chair hunched forward, loose-wristed, elbows on knees.
Obviously easy-going, but maybe concealing some paunch. Tweed jacket, burr haircut, horn rims,
deep-water khakis, desert boots. You recognize the style: early Korean vet.
But that was back in 67. A lotTs gone under the bridge since then. The photo on the back of The
Dick Gibson Show is different. First of all, itTs outdoors, there are trees and bushes in the background,
and a house, partially obscured by the vegetation. See? No more posing amidst the mechanisms.
And StanleyTs standing there in the bushes in a sloppy denim shirt, doing some bad soldiering. The
whole frontTs unbuttoned, and one of the pocket flapsTs unbuttoned. HeTs lost weight, evidently. But
thereTs hair on the chest. And on the chin (he hasnTt shaved in two or three days ). And thereTs some
70
greying at the temples, the Stewart Granger white hunter look. And the hair on his head. Uncombed.
Long.
But itTs the facial expression, especially around his eyes, that gets to you. ITve seen that sadness
once before, on the face of another writer, who explained that a friend of his (also named Gibson ),
although he was almost fifty, had just discovered the existence of evil. You know the look?
| already wrote to Stanley Elkin about the photo. ItTs getting around. | recently saw it in Newsweek
too. HereTs what | said to Stanley.
Dear Stanley,
| just got my copy of The Dick Gibson Show but | canTt get started reading it because that
picture of you on the back is so sexy itTs making me queer. It seems to be telling a story. The
thing that | mainly donTt understand about it is why are you about to cry? Is it because Joan said
open your shirt and take off your glasses? Or is your sorrow somehow related to the fact that
the window shade is pulled halfway down in the upstairs room in that house in the background?
Is there someone in the room who musnTt have too much sunlight? A relative or a friend?
Keep up the good work!
Yours truly,
John Firth
As you can see, Mrs. Glover, | say things to him | wouldnTt say to you or any other lady connected
with literature. In my line of work, a fellow needs all the friends he can get. The tone | took with
Stanley Elkin was pretty informal, and joking. Still, the point | mean to make is in there: something
sad has happened around here in America. Something else went under the bridge along with the
G.|. Bill money, and the Guggenheim and the Rockefeller money.
That man looks like heTs having to call up his reserves. | think thatTs the American experience right
now. WeTre going to see what reserves of tolerance, and wisdom, and love weTve got backing us up.
So, it would probably be a good idea for both of us to read The Dick Gibson Show to see if there
isnTt some help in there, like weTd switch to a Conelrad station in a national emergency. LetTs see
whether some of ElkinTs fake anthropology can make us more comfortable with our own bizarre
realities, whether some of his comedy about genitals can make us less scared of bodies, whether
his ear for the different kinds of American language can make us more appreciative of the possibility
thereTs different kinds of people talking that way. And finally, whether weTre not ready for (Lord knows,
we need them) some new national emblems. Seven out of ten of us are urbanites. So why are they
playing us songs about fields of waving grain? Are we buffaloed by these old symbols?
Let the radio be our symbol, Mrs. G. The talk show, the model of our democracy. Let us phone in,
and say whatTs on our minds, unafraid, saved from our own worst natures by the six-second tape
delay. LetTs say, Up the Irish! Up the Jews, the Italians, the Young, the Sick, the Black, the Middle-
class, eee the Rich, the Stupid, the Angry, the Wasps! All people! All callers, all listeners! And,
Off the FCC!!
Respectfully yours,
Professor John Firth
P.S. You can use any parts of this letter you want to in your magazine, seeing as how | hear you're
really stuck for material. ,
P.P.S. If you do use any of this letter, please check for spelling errors.
71
cover
23
8,9
10,13,15,17
bob burns
j. bradford mcCorison
ross mann
george zellers
j. bradford mcCorison
nicola glover
daniel mcCorison
ross mann
mike flynn
ross mann
j. bradford mcCorison
elizabeth ross
j. bradford mcCorison
ross mann
bob burns
~ f
