Rebel, 1988

[This text is machine generated and may contain errors.]













* - - - - - Pe _ te - T " " -" " " - " a






COVER ILLUSTRATION: This illustration, designed by Hayes Henderson,
received first place in the Rebel cover contest. Henderson is an illustration
major at East Carolina University. The cover represents the RebelTs past three
decades through the symbolic use of the number three " three windows,
three students, three fingers being raised, etc.

Hayes attempted to deal with what he feels is often common in colleges and
universities. An incoming student, not realizing their own inexperience, un-
dergoes a transformation, often positive, sometimes negative, almost always a
result of how they interpret information handed down by the oALL-POWER-
FULT professor.






a

0th






The Rebel! is published for and by the students
of East Carolina University. Offices are located in
the Publications Center on the campus of ECU.
This issue, Volume 30, and its contents are copy-
righted © 1988 by the Rebel. All rights revert to
the individual writers and artists upon publication.
Contents may not be reproduced by any means,
nor may any part be stored in any information
retrieval system without the written permission of
the author or artist. _

The Rebel invites all students, faculty, and
alumni to voice their opinions and/or make contri-
butions. Inquires should be addressed to the Re-
bel, Mendenhall Student Center, East Carolina
University, Greenville, North Carolina 27858-
4353.

4 REBEL 1988






is the magazineTs 30th anniver-
sary issue. The staff has worked
pal hard to make this is-

sue extra special. Thanks g

It should be obvious to goa (defined as devoted
Rebel readers) that the magazine has undergone a few
changes. Besides the prerequisite poetry, prose and art,
this expanded issue includes interviews with Don Dix-
on, one of North CarolinaTs most successful record pro-
ducers, and Kevin McCloskey, a noted illustration in-
structor at East Carolina University. The magazine also
includes a book review by Steve Logan, first place win-
ner of the Rebel book review contest, and a brief history
of the Rebel magazine.

Since 1958, the Rebel has provided the students of
East Carolina University a medium to express their cre-
ative talents. This issue is dedicated to the magazineTs
founding father " Mr. Ovid Pierce, a Rebel advisor for
ten years.

Although I only met Mr. Pierce on a few occasions, I
was delighted by his sense of humor and eccentric
ways. He was a gentleman, a wonderful story teller and
an outstanding writer. It is for these reasons that the
Rebel staff and I have elected to dedicate our 30th anni-
versary issue to his memory.

Enjoy the magazine and stay in touch.

Tatiyk) Taab
se, ey

Timothy D. Thornburg
Editor, Rebel 1988

SPRING-FALL 5






6 REBEL 1988

FEATURES

PROFILE: DON DIXON by DAVID SINGLETON ............. any
HISTORY: REBEL by DA SWANSON & JOSEPH CAMPBELL. 97R
PORTFOLIO: KEVIN McCLOSKEY by TIM THORNBURG..... VE

REVIEW: GARY SNYDER by STEVE LOGAN .............05: LINE
68,

="Mc

PROSE _AN

BENEATH THE BURNING SKY by EDDIE FITZGERALD.......... eee
THE ULTIMATE SOLUTION by KELLY KRIEGSMAN.............. 4_"_
MOONDROP SUNDAYS by CAROL MAYNARD............00055. oA
RED FLANNEL by ANGELA LINGERFELT ...............000% la
PR.

POETRY eh

E. WAYNE BARHAM 11, KAREN TERESA PASCH 19, DONALI
RUTLEDGE 23, D. RUTLEDGE 29, WILLIAM A. SHIRES 3
SHANNON HALSEY 37, MIKE TRIPP 44, LYNNE RUPP 46, JIM"
SWINSON 47, MARTY L. SILVERTHORNE 78, ROBERT FLANAJO:
GAN 79, STEVE LOGAN 81, E. WAYNE BARHAM 87, R. FLANA?9
GAN 89, S. LOGAN 96, KAREN TERESA PASCH 105, J. SWINSOJRE
107, L. RUPP 115

\

aA act

Art Awards

Best-in-Show: CCE Walker, Untitled

Ceramics: Victoria Higgins, My Serpentine Lover

Design: April Moore, The Art of Friendship Campaign
Drawing: Neil Kopping, Untitled

Illustration: Neil Kopping, Blue People of Troublesome Creek
Mixed Media: Bryan Woolard, Year After Year

Painting: Amy Sawyer, City Scape At Night

Photography: CCE Walker, Untitled

Printmaking: Neil Kopping, Raven

Sculpture: Erik Johnson, Type oA? Personality

Literary Awards

Poetry

First Place: Wayne Barham, Rock Formation
Second Place: Don Rutledge, Winter Bark
Third Place: Robert Flanagan, Horseshoe Crab

Prose

First Place: Angela Bland, Red Flannel

Second Place: Carolyn Maynard, Moondrop Sundays |
Third Place: Steve Logan, Beneath The Burning Sky t

QO weet OOo As Rt OOS lh"

et OO,






"".

a GALLERY

__UCE WALKER 48, HUGH OTBRYANT 50, ERIC JOHNSON 51, NEIL
__KOPPING 52, BRYAN WOOLARD 53, APRIL MOORE 54, DENYCE
gBROOKS 96, VICTORIA HIGGINS 58, AMY SAWYER 58, ROBER-
7 gi BROWN 59, HEIDEMARIE GENTRY 59, JENNIFER PAGE 60,
oTROY TYNER 65, TRACY KENNINGTON 62, A. SAWYER 63, STE-
-- VEN REID 64, CCE WALKER 64, 7. TYNER 65, SCOTT EAGLE 65,
. HINEIL KOPPING 66, ROBERT FLANAGAN 67, MONICA MOORE
68, LISA BRANTLEY 69, MELODY CASSEN 70, L. MICHELLE
"McDEVITT 71, HAYES HENDERSON 72, NEIL KOPPING 74, BRY-
__AN WOOLARD 75
..
wy ILLUSTRATIONS

_,gVICKY HEIM 10, ALLAN GUY 15, LACHELLE VIA 22, CINDY
_y,DAGGERHART 28, MIKE IVERSON 35, DOUG HILBURN 36,
TROY TYNER 41, BETY HOOPER 45, LISA FARMER 80, BILL
__PRIDGEN 84, JERRI ALLISON 88, CRAIG OTBRIAN 97, JESSICA
MURPHY 104, LAURA DAVENPORT 106, HAYES HENDERSON
(7 pill, ROBERTO RAMIREZ

T ro

ii PHOTOGRAPHY

NAJOHN O°CONNOR 12, KARIE SEYKORA 13, AMANDA JARRELL
NA80, JERRI ALLISON 31, BILLIE JEAN SMITH 38, RICHARD JEN-
SOIRETTE 39, CCE WALKER 82, MAR STARTARI 83, MELODY CAS-

re 90, K. SEYKORA 91, LAURA DAVENPORT 108, M. STARTARI

on OTHER ART

ASHLEY BASINGER 20, STEVE REID 32, ARNOLD GAMBILL 33,
A. GAMBILL 102, A. GAMBILL 103

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: The Rebel staff wishes to thank those individuals who
helped to make the magazine possible: Mr. John Satterfield, Mr. Ray Elmore, and
Mr. Craig Malmrose of the ECU School of Art for Judging the publicationTs art
contest; Mr. William Hallberg, Mr. Pat Bizarro, and Dr. Norman Rosenfeld of the
ECU English Department for judging the publicationTs literary contest; Mrs.
Yvonne Moye, ECU Media Board Secretary; Mr. Sven Van Baars, ECU Media
Board Chairman; WZMB for its continuous advertisement of the magazineTs
contests; the Art & Camera Frame Shop for hosting the Rebel Art Show; Mr.
Arnold Gambill, Rebel Art Director, for his outstanding photography; Kevin
McCloskey for his guidance with the illustrations; Mr. Greg Whalen of Delmar
Printing Company; the artists who lent their creative talents for the illustrations;
and the writers and artists of East Carolina University for their contributions.

The Rebel staff would also like to extend its gratitude to the university busi-
nesses and community members who provided support and financial assitance
during publication: The Daily Reflector, JefferyTs Beer and Wine, and Mr. Tom
Haines of the Attic Rock and Roll Club for his years of devotion to the magazine.

Apologies are extended to Richard Darden whose art work was mislabeled in
the 1987 publication.

SPRING-FALL 7






Web Eh

Spring-Fall

The Literary-Art Magazine Of East Carolina University Volume 30

EDITOR
Timothy D. Thornburg

ART DIRECTOR
Arnold Gambill

PROSE EDITOR

DA Swanson

POETRY EDITOR
Joseph Campbell

BOOK REVIEW

EDITOR
Lynne Rupp

JUDGES

ART
Mr. John Satterfield
Mr. Ray Elmore
Mr. Craig Malmrose

LITERATURE
Mr. William Hallberg
Mr. Pat Bizarro
Dr. Norman Rosenfeld

30th

Y-E-A:R

A Eulogy for Ovid Williams Pierce, Jr.

by
Dr. W. Keats Sparrow

at manner of man was

Ovid Williams Pierce, Jr.,

that so many of us would

gather today in mourning

to pay our respects? In answering this

question, I will look briefly at the

three great dimensions of his life"

that of a writer, that of a faculty mem-

ber at East Carolina University, and
that of a special human being.

First, as a writer"his own chief
area of concern while alive and the
main reason for which his name will
live on. He possessed a prose style
rarely handled with as much sensitiv-
ity and skill. His work is set on the flat
terrain of eastern North Carolina,
spanning a century from 1865 to
1970, a period of volatile transition
he portrays realistically rather than
idealistically. His characters: memo-
rable and three-dimensional. His
down-FEast dialect: masterful. His fic-
tional integrity: above all commercial
appeals.

He was a finer writer than has gen-
erally been recognized and one
whose best day may yet come.

In his second role, that of an edu-
cator at East Carolina University, he
was a teacher who had an unusually
strong sway over students. Yet he was
self-effacing about his classroom
abilities, always saying his old depart-
ment chairman, Dr. Posey, told him
only where and when but never what
to teach, knowing full well that he
would teach the Civil War anyway.

He was, in addition, the dedicated
advisor to Kappa Alpha Order, lead-
ing mainly by his gentle presence and
fine example and garnering thereby a
legion of sairitaat sons.

He was also the advisor to the liter-
ary magazine, The Rebel, which un-
der his guidance won national awards
and groomed several generations of
students for early entry into the pub-
lication field.

He was the creator of a literary mi-
lieu in the North Carolina Coastal
Plain and especially at East Carolina
University.

Last, he was a major contributor to
the academic respectability of East
Carolina University at one of its most
critical periods; the 1960Ts and
1970's.

The third great dimension of his
life is that he was a special and inter-
esting human being. He was an old-
fashioned country gentleman who
took General Robert E. Lee as his
ideal. Accordingly, he was courtly
and unfailingly courteous. He accept-
ed all people"the young and old,
the important as well as the unimpor-
tant. He was unwilling to be flashy,
puffed up, or ostentatious, and he was
aware of his own limitations.

Not least in his personality was his
fine sense of humor. Sometimes his
humor was wry and ironic and often
self-deprecatory, as with his tales
about himself as a bumbling spy"a
sort of Chaplinesque 007"in World
War II.

Of great interest about him as a per-
son were his pride in, and love for his
native eastern North Carolina. He was a
student of its literary heritage, history,
society, and speech. He was an uncom-
promising defender of the rich, but of-
ten unrecognized, cultural legacy of
tidewater North Carolina and certainly
one who through his own example, con-
versation, and writings enhanced its
richness immeasurably.

Finally, he was a most delightful
companion"witty, fun, entertain-
ing, warm, friendly, and most of all,
spiritually and intellectually uplift-
ing.

So, in answer to the question,
owhat manner of man was Ovid
Pierce,? most who knew him would
join me in saying, I believe, that he
was no mere ordinary mortal. While
he was not an imposing man in man-
ner or speech, he was nevertheless a
sterling example of a high class of
man. He was, in the truest sense, a
Southern gentleman of the old
school, the ene of chivalry, a typi-
cal cavalier, bred in the bone a lover
of the South and especially of his na-
tive North Carolina. He was, in sum,
a writer who well deserves his im-
mortality; an educator of far, far more
common ability and influence; and a
good and ennobling friend.

Let his friends rejoice that, death
having made a gracious call, this gentle,
wandering knight has found his long-
sought home at last. May he now join
his beloved General Lee in eternity.












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to the Sonnet: an Ode

hundred year old weeping willow tree,
(the oldest of its kind for miles around),
majestic, stands in early filagree,
the green of Easter dresses creeping down

the supple draping branches, bursting forth
in frilly catkins; fragile, conch-shell light
embalms the bark in rosy dew. What worth
the individual genius, dazzling might

against the press of mass, and space, and time?
Secure in grasping root and grainy pith,
custodian of loversT joys, and mime

of life in harried gestures, it is with

regret that | salute and turn away
as crush of steel and concrete rules the day.

WAYNE BARHAM






JOHN O'CONNOR

12 REBEL 1988




KARIE SEYKORA

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sth.

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SPRING-FALL 13






It wouldn't be long before Oliver came in his pick-up " going to town
to start his drinking at the roadhouse. The old man looked up
the road hoping to see the rusty truck, but the road was empty.

14 REBEL 1988

BY EDDIE FITZGERALD

y dawn the old man was

up, staring out the kitchen

window at the sky turning

pink over the dark fields.

He thought of fixing a skil-
let of potatoes but the effort seemed
more than it was worth. He was sick
of potatoes, sick of the smell and the
greasy taste that remained with him
all day. Besides, he was afraid he
might miss Oliver.

He took a straight-back chair and
left the house. The morning air was
cool and still. A few birds were chirp-
ing in the thorn bushes by the porch
as he dragged the black chair across
the yard and down the dirt road to a
curve where the woods began. There
he put the chair in the dust, and sat
down. Occasionally he looked up and
down the empty road without an ex-
pression on his tired, old face.

Soon the sun climbed higher in the
sky, topping the pines on the other side
of the road, making the shadows shrink.




CD wm? CD A meet Fe UO OO

Ti ait

ote YN ae

It wouldnTt be long before Oliver
came in his pick-up " going to town
to start his drinking at the roadhouse.
~he old man looked up the road hop-
ing to see the rusty truck, but the
road was empty.

the coolness of the morning was
quickly burning off. Heat was visibly

ginning to rise, making a mirage of

a water puddle in the road. It was
Oing to be another searing August
ay. Ke could already smell the hot,
arren fields and the stagnant water
rom the ditch overcoming the pine

scent. His eyes grew tired in the

bright light. A few beads of sweat
stood out on his forehead. The hyp-
notic heat waves blurred his vision
and memories began filling his head.

Images of the past were in black and

white. He couldnTt conceive the past

In terms of color, or if he did, he was

unaware of it. The visions he had

Were distortions of his memory, slow

and awkward, disconnected and

sometimes senseless.

There were sad black figures at the
wake. Curtains were drawn. The
weak oil lamps only lit the faceless
mourners and the plain pine box sus-
pended on two chairs. The room was
cold because the door and windows
were open to the winter night to less-
en the odor of death. The old man
knew it was his wife in the coffin, but
whenever he moved through the
memory to a place over the box and
looked down, it was himself he was
looking at " gray-blue and cold "
still.

He broke the memory by shakin
his head. He felt his heart racing an
sweat rolling down his face into his
collar. It was hard to breathe. He was
frightened and rubbed his chest. The
ald man was afraid of death, which
seemed to hover over him as close as
the burning sky. His hands shook and
he was all too aware of his weak heart
and shallow breathing. He knew if

ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALLAN GUY

only Oliver would come by with his

rusty truck he could go to town and

maybe talk Oliver into getting a little
pint of something to ease his nerves.

The road was still empty and it was
almost mid-day. That was unusual. By
this time of day there should be at
least two or three cars coming by. But
today the road stayed empty. There
was nothing but heat on it. Even Oli-
ver always came between dawn and
noon. Sometimes, when he was in a
good mood, he would give the old
man a ride to the edge off town where
they would sit at the roadhouse and
drink cold beers and eat sausages.
When Oliver was in a real good mood
he might even buy the old man a little
pint of something cheap to help him
through his fears and misery.

But, no matter how hard the old
man looked and hoped, Oliver and
his rusty truck never appeared.

SPRING-FALL 15






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the old man and Oliver had
dug the grave the night before
in the cold moonlight, within
hearing distance of the
mournerTs wails

When OliverTs truck was shiny and
new he had pulled it up to the back
door of the old manTs house and they
had put the coffin in it and drove out
over the fields to the little cotton-
wood grove where the old man and
Oliver had dug the grave the night
before in the cold moonlight, within
hearing distance of the mournerTs
wails.

Now Oliver wasnTt coming and the
sun was burning down. The sky
looked pale and the: shadows were
Py? He stared vacantly straight "

is face worried and drained.

The distant sound of a motor came
like an insect. The old man didnTt pay
any attention at first. But, as the
sound got closer and became louder,
he turned and looked up the road.
His mouthed opened in anticipation.
He focused his glasses and strained

16 REBEL 1988

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F)
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ef ae
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his neck. But he could see only so far
around the curve for the woods.
When the motor sounded like thun-
der it was too late. Only a black blur
in a cloud of dust roared into vision.
The car slid around the narrow curve
barely missing the horrified old man.

He became engulfed in a soft
brown cloud of dust. He couldnTt see
anything except a light trying to shine
through, making a rosy color. The
shock of noise and the big black car
coming toward him seemed to have
suspended the old man between a
feeling of existence and nonexis-
tence. He couldnTt feel his weak heart
or shallow breathing any more.

The tranquil rose light slowly
turned to grey and got harder. Music
came from somewhere " a pop tune
from the fifties. It made his head
float. The gray got so hard and the
music so loud " there was laughter
and bumps " he was inside of Oli-
verTs truck looking out over the hood.
The radio was on and they were
drinking from a pint bottle and feel-
ing the biseae on their faces. It was a
happy time. They were headed for
the roadhouse.

When they got there the parking
lot was filled, as it always was on Sat-
urday nights. There was a neon sign
on the wall of the white washed
building that said TOMTS, and a red

"_
""""- -
=

« PS

light that said BEER in the window.
When Oliver turned the radio off he
had to check it again to make sure
because the music from the road-
house was so loud that it could be
heard in the parking lot.

: na was the night Oliver got in a
ight.

oThe old man got drunk long before
Oliver. He stumbled out to the truck
and lay in the back to sober up while
Oliver tried to get acquainted with a
woman he had met inside.

Not long after the old man slipped
into an uneasy sleep somethin
pounded on the side of the truck ind
woke him. It was OliverTs head. A big,
wild-haired man had Oliver by the
ears and was beating his head against
the side panel. The old man looked,
hoping it wouldnTt make a dent. But it
did. He knew Oliver would be mad
when he saw that. The old man feared
Oliver would try to blame it on him
somehow. When it was over and the
big man seemed satisfied, he walked
away, leaving Oliver mumbling to
himself. The old man asked Oliver if
he was alright.

oAre you alright??

oHuhp?

oT said, are you alright??

oHuh? What?? The old man ad-
sig his glasses. oUh ... Yes, ITm
ine.






He looked at the man standing in
front of him wearing a suit and a tie
and wondered if he was real.

oI was worried,? the man in the
suit said. And he looked worried. oI
didnTt see you as I came around the
curve.

The old man looked at the car. It
was a big, black sedan sitting diag-
onally across the road where it had
skidded to a stop. The door was open
and the radio was on " tuned to a
sospel station. A sad spiritual faded
and a fire-and-brimstone preacher
came on condemning the empty car
to hell.

oTm afraid I almost hit you. Are
you alright??

The old man nodded.

oIf you donTt leave off those evil

good whiskey to ease the pain out of
is arm.

The memory brought a smile to
the old manTs face.

oNow you sure you're alright??

oUh?? the old man looked at the
inan wearing the suit like he was see-
ing him for the first time. oOh. Yes,
ITm fine. What do you want young
man??

The old man nervously adjusted
his glasses.

The man wearing the suit wasn't
young. He was middle-aged, with
short, greying hair, and gold-rimmed
bi-focals.

oWell, if youTre sure you're al-
right, maybe I can interest you in
purchasing a Bible. I sell them to fi-
nance my pues work.?

oT donTt have a dollar and a quar-
ter,?T he said, looking at his old
cracked shoes in the dust.

oDo you have any money?? The
preacher still sounded hopeful.

The old man shook his head.

oThen might I at least pray for you
dear sinner??

The preacher was getting caught
up in the fiery sermon coming from
the radio.

Before the old man could answer
he was dragged from his chair by a
strong hand and forced to kneel in the
hot sand. The preacher got on his
knees also. His eyes were closed, his
hands clasped, and his face intense as
he began.

The old man was frightened. His
heart was racing dangerously. The ra-
dioTs angry, hopeless forecast blend-

@ ways and come down off the devilTs The old man hada puzzledlookon ed in with the confusion of the
& high horse youTre going to get his face. reacherTs passionate pleas. Nothing
7b deeb! going p p
s D>urned. ThatTs right, sinners. That oITm a circuit preacher.? made sense. Where was Oliver? He
e oldevil rider donTt care nothinT ~bout There was an awkward pause.
: iit; just wants to see you burn oYou would be furthering the
: me are cause.? His voice was starting to
Bewe cload. oHalpine in-CodTs work?? @ neon sign on the wall of the
\imost hit you? rang in the old The old man seemed more alert . rags
= mans mind, drowning out the ser- when he heard God being men- white washed building said
*- mon '
a ' tioned. )
= Oliv I ~ i: He straightened his glasses and TOMTS and a red light in the
ver was mumbling to himself, cleared his throat.
v. te from sige to side. In his oHow much are the Bibles?? window said BEER, ... That
?,?ar-view mirror all he could see was oJust doll d ter,? th : :
e ust one dollar and a quarter,? the
e #8ray cloud, like a fog bank following preacher said with a relieved smile was the night Oliver got in a
¥ wes song he thought he knew was _ starting across his face. fight
e Playing on the radio, but he couldnTt The old man frowned. He didnTt T
remember the words, so he made have the money. He only wanted to
q Some up. Then he remembered that know how much a Bible cost.
i dnTt sing, so he mumbled.
?,? sun was setting. It was gettin ae
e £. as £ ae Oe I
k cork yor for him to use the Seals rare Te | See Te
e lights, but he left them off because he
a would be home soon and he could if
still see, even though everything was wahoo :
d 5 ays Yan See DB. 4? 4
e old man heard the truck but QpApyy erie?
BITTEN Leap
4 looked the wrong way. He had been sei eee iad
. ?,?xpecting to see Oliver chive Ma eet et ,
o 1 iehpias tne curve. When he oan AE) agi hgh anita e i
. © WuckK was a hing from the QA TFA7ZAA Ae ee een ee oy
t pproaching MLA / i i ie eo ty
; other direction it was too late. His aly UN dee et aa Be
¢ Mouth dropped open and a bolt of ae / Wade Te
j Pain that shocked his brain into a | By Vif \ ii gts
j kK ite quiver, knocked him off his [iF////5As i fi fie
, Cnair and into the ditch. He lay still, RB ¥/ ie He 19 a, Ki
, With an intense white heat inhishead M1744 voy AS ae ZO
] and arm. a), fn Ye
) Then, there was Oliver standing |
¢ over him, Weaving in and out of sight.

He was shocked and sorry. He helped
the old man up and took fish toa :
tor. The doctor put a cast on his arm
and eased the white pain out of his
ead with a pill.
~Iver came every day after the ac-
, Cident and took the old man to the
roadhouse and bought him a pint of

He

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wis

G
ie
= te ar I we

SPRING-FALL 17






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o. « maybe | can interest

you in purchasing a Bible. |
sell them to finance my
evangelical work. ITm a
circuit preacher?

looked past the preacher. The road
was still empty.

o... Please put fear back in him
and give him the wisdom to stay out
of the road... ?

oand send your wrath down on
them. Be merciless and dry up the
sinners who refuse your nourishment
... the radio preacher shouted.

The old man tried to stand up, but
the preacher held him down. Noth-
ing made sense! Everything seemed
connected " the radio preacher and
this salesman preacher. The sky
looked threatening as it heated up

18 REBEL 1988

with the final colors of the day. The
old man was afraid the sky was going
to explode and a shower of an fe was
going to fall and kill him for oiicndune
God with his miserable life.

The preacher got up, jerked the
old man to his feet, and wiped the dirt
from his pants.

oNow, donTt you feel better?? the
preacher smiled. oA word for the
Lord always lightens the soul.? He
patted the old man on the back.

Then his tone lowered " became
more confidential. oBrother, when I
come this way next time, I hope you
won't be exposing yourself to the
dangers of the highway again.? He
winked and poked the old man in the
ribs. oAnd I'll pray that you have that
dollar and a quarter for one of my
Bibles next time.?

The old man watched him walk
back to his car. When he got in and
closed the door, the sermon on the
radio was silenced. The car roared
away, leaving a cloud of dust that
floated over the fields and vanished.

Who was he? the old man won-

dered. Why did he keep calling me
brother? It was all very upsetting. He
wished the night would come as he
sat down shaking from the experi-
ence. The whole day was wasted
again,

A small, brown wind disappeared
at the end of the road. The sky was
red, sore, burning.

oDon't leave off those evil ways
you re going to burn... burn.?

The sun was getting low in the sky,
sinking behind the trees. Shadows
crawled over the road making the
curve look dark-blue.

Oliver wasnTt coming. Maybe he
was sick. Maybe he wrecked his
truck. The thought almost made the
man sick. He pictured battered and
twisted metal, rusty in the bad light.
Oliver hunched over the steering
wheel, bleeding. The radio playing
some sad country song and an up-
ended tire squeaking as it slowly ro-
tated.

The silence was shattered by a
horn, as a white and brown station
wagon came out of the blue curve. It
was a family. The man leaning on the
horn looked out the window with a
hard, angry face. He was cursing. It
was easy to read the exaggerated
movements of his lips. The lady sit-
ting beside him had her hand over
her face. Her eyes were large with
fear. There was a girl with shiny
blonde hair sitting behind the fright-
ened lady. She looked at the old man
with a pained expression and quickly
looked away " embarrassed. The car
slowly passed. In the back, a boy with
his face pressed to the window
looked out at the old man. His face
was blank. He didnTt have fear in his
eyes, or anger, or embarrassment in
his face. He was just a small boy. The
old man smiled at him and the boy
smiled back. Then the boy stuck out
his tongue just before a cloud of dust,
red in the ailing light, hid the car and
settled over the silent fields.

The sun went down. The fire in the
sky went out, leaving everything dark
blue " healed.

The old man knew Oliver wasnTt
coming. The day was over. Someone
like Oliver didnTt want to spend his
time with a broken-down old man.
He slowly got up and one of his legs
cramped. He almost fell in the ditc
as he hopped around until the pain
subsided. He adjusted his glasses,
climbed the fees ditch bank, and
started out over the purple fields to-
ward the small grave in the cotton-
wood grove.

The empty chair sat on the road,
beside the ditch, as the moon came
over the trees following the sun.




1 WQGQ -* Ud ~a OD

THE UNFALLEN LEAF

i. Out on a limb
it struggling against
e the torrid winter wind.
a Alone and abandoned
d not wanting to be stranded.
% Fighting fiercely
r to fall to the crowded
h ground below. Wishing
the single burden
would snap ... so as to
drift,
drift,
aes.

7 =.
!

Orta SO

KAREN TERESA PASCH

77)

r © ©

,

SPRING-FALL 19




i








SPRING-FALL 21




4,

Pa






AUTUMN LEAVES

And the smell of smoke and pine needles

warm these early November nights
as our anxious faces watch
for the ones that get away.

We try to follow and catch them
barehanded, all of us

laughing, chasing stray sparks
like fireflies after dark.

Some burn forever and make trails;
others quickly fade, turn gray ash,
disappear in the trees.

Time for our ritual:

oPick up a stick.

Dance around the fire.

Form a circle, like this!?

~Course we always wind up running,
impelling time

out of our minds.

Fires burn down.
Tomorrow, a cold rain.

The leaf-piles
our science built,
reduced to charred ruins.

The snow promises

a new kind of architecture.

And then we'll barely remember
these late autumn nights.

DONALD RUTLEDGE

SPRING-FALL 23










EDEL,

ee ee aS eS

DON IDLATION

PRODUCER « SONGWRITER + MUSICIAN

By
DAVID SINGLETON

n inescapable facet of the

abundant and varied mu-

sic of 1987 was the boun-

ty emanating from North
Carolina. In college radio circles, art-
ists such as the Pressure Boys from
Carrboro, and FetchinT Bones from
Charlotte released albums that re-
ceived national attention. In the com-
mercial arena, Don Dixon from Char-
lotte, with his first solo album, and
The Connells from Raleigh, with
their debut, made music that gained
more widespread popularity. Region-
ally, a slew of independent bands
made music in the studio and on stage
that expounded the cultural values of
the New South.

This recent wildfire-like spread of
North Carolina music, I believe, can
most easily be traced to the co-pro-
duction of REMTs first full length al-
bum, Murmer by the aforementioned
Don Dixon and Winston-SalemTs
Mitch Easter. The two musicians had
been long-time friends, and when
Mitch enlisted DonTs help with the
record, the fit was a natural and suc-
cessful one.

The resulting LP was a break-
through in a number of ways. Primar-
ily, it marked a starting point for com-
mercial radio programersT look to

College Radio for new music. This, in
turn, began to inch open the flood-
gates that had been holding back a
vast amount of material emanating
from the underground. The multi-tal-
ented Dixon, along with Easter and
North CarolinaTs Dolphin Records,

still in its infancy, were instrumental
in the development of the stateTs mu-
sic scene with Mondo Montage and
More Mondo. These two compilations
received important national atten-
tion and led to the signing of bands
like the Bad Checks, UV Prom, The
Connells, Southern Culture on the
Skids, the Graphic, and FetchinT
Bones for albums of their own. Other
bands thought the same could hap-
pen for them and began making the
pilgrimage to the new southern mu-
sic center in North Carolina.

Dixon began making music profes-
sionally about twenty years ago with
the legendary regional band, Arro-
gance. From 1969 to 1983, Don
played bass and shared singing and
songwriting duties. In that time they
released 5 LPs"most notably, Pro-
lepsis (1975), Rumors (1976), Lively
(1981)"and toured endlessly. Al-
though a high percentage of their
touring was in college town clubs and
at schools, they also opened for a
number of major acts.

I asked him what it was like on the
road in the Seventies.

oIt was weird ... YouTd just bust
your butt, and try to get somebody to
listen to you. We'd just try to deliver,
and thatTs basically what it boiled
down to. Working within the format
of the band"a real communal or
democratic situation"we'd all try to
contribute, together like a band.
Compared to now, itTs real different,
because with Arrogance, itTs the way
we made a living. Now itTs the way we

SPRING-FALL 25




i el

"ae

Marti Jones, originally from
Union Town, Ohio, has been
recording with Dixon since 1985.
She has released two albums,
Unsophisticated Time (1985),
and Match Game (1986), and will
have a new album on the stands
this summer, Used Guitars. She
can most frequently be seen casting
knowing glances across the stage to
Don with another local band, the
Woods, providing the background
tunes at Raleigh area clubs.

26 REBEL 1988

waste money... sort of.?

Did it ever become a ~grindT?

oIt was never really a grind. There
were a few occasions when it was
tough with Arrogance, but we played
a lot. ItTs much more atypical now. I
hardly tour at all.?

What kind of stuff were you listen-
ing to then?

oItTs hard to say. I donTt remember.
YouTve got to remember that I was
with Arrogance for a fourteen year
period. I listened to a lot of stuff. We
got together in late 1969 and broke
up in late T83. My tastes changed.?

How has your writing style
changed over the years?

oI feel that for a long time during
the Seventies I was fighting, subli-
minating a lot of things about my
writing and going for more of a clever
angle. A lot of those songs from that
period are awful from an emotional

and directness point of view. I like
them musically, but I think they are

just too clever somehow. They lack ©
direct contact with anything that

really matters.

Since the break up of Arrogance,
Dixon has released two solo al-
bums"Most of the Girls Like to
Dance, But Only Some of the Boys Do
(1986) and Romeo at Julliard (1987).
Besides the commercial success of
Most of .. . with oPraying Mantis,? a
remake from his Arrogance days, he
has been receiving widespread criti-
cal approval for Romeo. . . . Accord-
ing to Dixon the success can be attrib-
uted to his own growth as a writer.

oI think T've become much better
at letting myself be more direct. I
now have more courage as a writer
more than anything else. I mean, itTs
really stupid to hear somebody who
wrote oPraying Mantis? talk about
courage as a writer. I donTt have any
delusions about what a lot of the
songs I write are. Some of them are
just fun. oPraying Mantis? is pretty
much just a clever little song. But, in
general, my writing, including the
writing ITve done for other people,
like Marti Jones, has maybe a little
more integrity.

oITve learned a lot about how to be
simple. A lot of my older stuff was
really complicated and I donTt think
this format is a good place to try to be
complicated. TheyTll never get it.
And itTs not necessarily good, it
doesnTt necessarily move you just be-
cause itTs complicated. I think the im-
portant thing is that you get inside
somebodyTs being on this non-intel-
lectual level. And thatTs the whole
ticket as far as ITm concerned.?

Coinciding with DixonTs re-emer-
gence as a musician and songwriter
was his rise as a producer in the state.
As I mentioned earlier, he was one of
the major players in the development
of North CarolinaTs new musical well-
spring. His expertise, recognition,
and state-of-the-art studios have re-
cruited talent from all parts of the
country, making music that, in effect,
has increased the musical output of
the state exponentially. Marti Jones
(Union Town, Ohio), Wednesday
Week (New York/Los Angeles) and




ons as SC

=_
or

We A ae We Me

\v
v

fa.)

Guadalcanal Diary (Marietta, Geor-
gia), are just a few of the artists who

Made the pilgrimage to experience

and capitalize on Dixon and the scene
that was developing here.

His Charlotte studios, carrying the
title, Reflection, are not his only
workshop, however. Demand for his
talent began growing after Murmer
resulting in more and more trips to
other studios up and down the east-
ern seaboard. Recently he sojourned
to upstate New York to make Mary,
Jean, & Nine Others for Marshall
Crenshaw in 1987. Two weeks later
he was at Axis Studios in Atlanta to
produce 2X4, the latest from Gua-
dalcanal Diary from nearby Marietta.
Between those dates he managed to
fit in production time at Reflection
for Wednesday WeekTs Enigma Re-
cords debut, What We Had. So, why
the heavy work load? What makes
Dixon stand out as the pre-eminent
eastern producer?

Generally people enjoy working
with me because we try to have fun.
Having fun and trying to reflect the

andTs point of view, regardless of
what might be trendy at any given
moment is the way to enjoy it.?

How is that different from the
norm in record producing??

If youTre always trying to take a
band and change them, and make
them like somebody else, thatTs the
way record companies are. They
tried to get us to change REM. I pro-
duce records for the group, not for
the record companies. I think thatTs
'mportant, so ITm not real popular
with some record companies, but the
Sroups tend to be happy. Any success
ITve had, I think, is because ITve tried
to be real straight with everybody
and help them get what they wanted
rather than jerk them around. ITve
been jerked around a lot as an artist,
and thatTs one of the reasons I feel this
Way.?

_ Another factor in his success, I be-
lieve, is linked to his tight and hur-
ried production schedule. Most
ands produced by Dixon are in and
Out of the studio in about two weeks.
he result is a capturing of emotion
that can get lost when stuck in a stu-
io for months at a time. It is also

more economically feasible for bands
just breaking through"the types of
bands that are DixonTs specialty.
Many times itTs the only way they can
afford to make a record.

It becomes apparent after talking
with Dixon and the bands he pro-
duces that showing attention to the
musicians, and the sound they want
to get out makes his variety vacation-
land in Charlotte a desirable place to
make music.

It all goes to show that the musical
powers that be in this state keep the
artist at the focus of a hectic music
industry. The OlT North State is fortu-
nate to have the wide array of music it
enjoys and, unarguably, Dixon is a big
reason. But he would be the first to
tell you that he doesnTt do it alone.
He just offers musicians a ~ReflectionT
of themselves. And that reflects well
on him.@

Don Dixon has been making music
since 1969 when he was bassist
and songwriter with the Charlotte
band, Arrogance. Since the 1983
breakup of that band Dixon has
become one of the most important
producers and songwriters on the
East Coast. The song, oPraying
Mantis? from his first solo album,
Most of the Girls... , hit the top
forty, and his latest album, Romeo
at Julliard, quickly became a
critically acclaimed regional hit.

SPRING-FALL 27




si A a a: ke

ee eee eg

Si aa

hs ibe






WINTER BARK

| fee! your pulse
at my fingers numbed
from too much exposure.

Like the bark of the great live oak
that stood next to the house

/ dug into with my thumbs,

trying to peel it away,

breathing into cupped hands

so they would bend and do the job.

Brother we had a time once
when the leaves fell softly
in the neighbor's yards

and you enlisted me

to rake them into piles,
neat ordered piles.

Even then | made it hard

for you, brother"dragging

the rake across the long grass
as if it were a comb,

plopping down in the leaves,
spreading them everywhere,
making you curse the extra work
that kept us there longer.

When | was just six years
I'd pull a bloody knee

to my lip and suck

the cut clean

because it took the sting
if | made it

bleed enough.

oDONALD RUTLEDGE






AMANDA JARRELL

30 REBEL 1988






JERRI ALLISON

; SPRING-FALL 31






STEVEN REID

32 REBEL 1988






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ah. ee

Ps
3

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me ak , ten, Sah
GASB goes

SM eg WI
Rone, AS

3,
eo

ARNOLD GAMBILL

SPRING-FALL 33

:
;
;






THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS

It has been raining. The streets and parking lots are wet and one weary clerk is on duty at a corner convenience store.

Inside, a hulking man with slouchy clothes walks about, buying nothing. If anyone notices, he is watching the customers
who come in.

Beneath the bulge of his waist, he wears a weapon. Concealed. He is a plain-clothes guard, hired for this night because it
is a particularly dangerous time for convenience store clerks.

A young man comes in searching for a corkscrew. He says he has looked everywhere, all over town. The clerk looks again.
There they are, on a board above the wine shelf. The young"very young"man looks relieved and buys one.

A few minutes later the young man sits beside his teen-age girl in the front seat of a new tan Honda, busily and awkardly
working on the cork of a bottle of wine.

They sit in the yellow light of the store, in the wet asphalt blackness of the parking lot. He works with the corkscrew,
grimacing, determined to open the wine. The girl holds paper cups.

oMerry Christmas,? someone says at the door of the convenience store.
The man in the slouchy suit looks sharply at the newcomer.

WAS

34 REBEL 1988

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DOUG HILBURN

36 REBEL 1988




A HOME

A huge wall surrounds the city.
One gate leads way to the outside,
A heavy, iron gate;

and in this city | live.

In this city,

day and night,

with the towering wall

not heeding way to what is on the outside.

Keeping me trapped in.

| canTt call this place a home,

itTs just where | stay.

! can go out of the protection of the wall,
but only to go back in later.

When the gates closed,

| was stuck there.

For so long | wanted to go out of those gates,

and not come back,
but where could | go?

Then one day | met a man who told me to follow him.

oOut of the city?? | questioned him.

oYes? he said, oI know a place where you can go

and be free of the towering walls and the iron gates.

But,? he said, oYou have to follow me and keep looking ahead.
Never look back; never go back.?

oWhere is this place?? | asked him.

oWell,? he said, oLet it be called home.?

That's when | decided to go with him.
Fven now | am tempted to go back to the city where | once lived,

But | always know that that place was a prison;
that place controlled my every step,
and that place was never my home.

SHANNON HALSEY






BILLIE JEAN SMITH

38 REBEL 1988






RICHARD JENRETTE '

SPRING-FALL 39




He stood in front of the door

uncertainly, the flashing neon

light illuminating his face and

lending a garish quality to the

soft darkness. Then he opened

the door and walked jauntily
to the counter.

THE

UITIMATE
SOLUTION

KELLY KRIEGSMAN

t was drizzling when the boy ar-

rived at the diner. He stood in

front of the door uncertainly, the

flashing neon light illuminating

his face and lending a garish qual-
ity to the soft darkness. Then he
opened the door and walked jauntily
to the counter.

oHey, mister, cTn I have a soda?? he
asked in that high-pitched voice pe-
culiar to all children.

oGot any money?? the man behind
the counter answered. His name was
Hal and he was a grumpy person who
kept mostly to himself.

oI got twenty cents,? the boy vol-
unteered, and dropped two dimes on
the grubby counter. Hal looked at
them and snorted.

oTain't enough,? he grunted. The

ILLUSTRATIONS BY TROY TYNER
40 REBEL 1988






SPRING-FALL 41






boy looked crestfallen and slowly
started toward the door, dragging his
feet as he went. oHey, kid,? said a
raspy voice behind him. The boy
turned around and saw an old man
with stooped shoulders sitting by
himself in a booth.

oCome here,? the man said, crook-
ing a finger invitingly. The boy ap-
proached the booth hesitantly and sat
down on the edge of the seat.

oHey, Hal,? the man called, obring
the kid a Coke. Now,? he said, turn-
ing to the boy, owhatTs your name
kid??

oTommy,? the boy whispered.

oEh? Tommy? Well, Tommy, what
are you doing here at this hour??

oI couldnTt sleep, so I came over
here. I only live a block away.?

The man nodded, seemingly satis-
fied. He leaned forward and stroked
the boyTs cheek.

Tommy jerked back. oHey, watch
it, mister!?

The man seemed not to hear.
oYou're beautiful,? he said softly. Be-
fore the startled boy could react, the
man continued, oAll children are.
YouTre pure and innocent. If we could
only shield you from lifeTs tragedies!
ThatTs the trouble with adults. They
let what they see influence them.
They are influenced and they sin.?

oHey, mister, you a preacher, or
something,? Tommy interrupted.
The man smiled at him.

oNo, son. At least not in the way
you think. ITm a crusader. A crusader
for purity.?

Hal appeared and set a glass of
Coke on the table. oF ifty cents,? he
muttered and lumbered back to the
kitchen.

The old man leaned forward and
clasped his hands together.

oWhy donTt you tell me the real
reason you re here?? he said quietly.
The boy reddened and ducked his
head. He muttered some incompre-
hensible answer.

The old man cocked his head. oEx-
cuse me??

The boy looked up and glared at
him. oI ran away,? he said defiantly, ,
silently daring the old man to do
something about it.

oWhy?? the man asked. The boy
didnTt answer. The man prodded him

42 REBEL 1988

in a gentle, non-threatening way.

oI hate her,? the boy said finally.

oWho??

oMy mother. She donTt love me.
She donTt even know ITm alive. She
has that man now, anT she donTt need
me. Hell, she wonTt even miss me.?

oWhat man??

oI donTt know! Some man. It ainTt
my pa. She says sheTs gonna marry
him. She " she says she hasTta, cause
ITm gonna have a little brother or sis-
ter. I donTt want him, or her! I donTt
want any of Tem.?

The man whispered, oYes. . . yes!?
and his eyes blazed fiercely. The boy
looked into them and was frightened
by their intensity.

oYou must come with me,? the man
said excitedly. oYou must! YouTve
seen too much already. To stop fur-
ther corruption, you must come live
with me. ITll keep you safe " keep
you innocent. I'll shield you from sin,
and when you die, there will be a
place in Heaven for you.?

oCan I go swimminT?? the boy
asked, slurping his drinking.

oOf course not! To remain pure,
you must be shut off from the rest of
the world and not engage in frivolous
activities. DonTt you see?? he asked
beseechingly. oBy living with your
mother, by seeing her become big
with child, a child conceived out of
wedlock, you are only enhancing the
corruption of your being. Your moth-
er is poisoning your mind and black-
ening your thoughts. You must get
away before it is too late!?

oMister, are you crazy??

oDo you know what war is, son??
the man asked quietly. The boy nod-
ded. )

oBut, do you know what it is? Do
you know that itTs sweltering in the
summer and freezing in the winter?
Do you know that itTs killing people
and living in mortal terror that you'll
be next? Do you know that itTs starva-
tion and sickness and lice and blood?
Do you?! he thundered, leaning for-
ward to emphasize his words. The
boy shrank back, his eyes full of fear.

oOf course you donTt,? the man
continued quietly, and settled back in
his seat. oNow,? he said matter-of-
factly, oI can take you away from all
of that. I can keep you safe from the

~illuminated by a flashing neon sign

oI can take you away from all |
of that. | can keep you safe |
from the worldTs fury and
make you pure. You must
learn the word of God. ItTs an
evil world, son.?

worldTs fury and make you pure. Yot
must learn the word of God. You wil
not be allowed outside where thé
world can influence you in the wron{
way. ItTs an evil world, son. One yot
donTt belong in. If I can save you, |
can save others, and pretty soon thé
whole world will be the way God in
tended it to be!?

The manTs eyes blazed with a queel
light and his breath came in rapié
spurts as he looked beyond the boy al
something only he could see. |

oYTmean I canTt go outside té
play?? the boy asked plaintively, and
the man looked at him, startled.

oCertainly not! You will live with
me and see only who I permit you té
see. You will not go swimming, of
play baseball, or do anything thal
might damage that innocent soul. Te
become pure, you must surround
yourself with the Word of God and
nothing else.?

oYou mean church?? the boy cried
incredulously. oNo thanks, mister! ITd
rather have ten sisters than go td
church everyday! ITm goinT home!?
So saying, he scrambled out of the
booth and ran out the door as fast as
his legs could carry him.

The man leaned back and smiled
with an air of satisfaction. He heard 4
strange choking sound and turned td
see Hal convulsing with laughter.

oI gotta hand it to yaT, Boss!? Hal
gasped. oThat routine you give them
runaway kids really works. Didja seé
his face when you told him he
couldnTt go out to play? And tellinT
him he had to go to church everyday!
That really got him!?

Still chuckling, Hal ran a rag ove!
the counter and started wiping glass-
es. Outside, a fine mist was falling,

that lent a garish quality to the soft
darkness of the night.m@




o>
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A Ata tee ean we *
Ps :
eas






FRACTLES

Sighing into the sewer

making the mark of the needle

the tear-stained untold story revolves again!
points of sense appear to know no reason
never returning to the lesser evils

the extended silence sees fit

to reach an unbearable presence

and sighing into the sewer

reassembles into the flowing command lights
senselessly frowning on empty streets
marching the syringe mark

too.

two things are known:

there is no denying self-awareness .. .

and god is of no gender.

MIKE TRIPP











46 REBEL 1988

TRADING TREES FOR GREEN

For Doris, what an ominous feeling,

peering in the window of

that brand spanking new building,

where nTer the boot of a student had stepped,
a professor professed, a poet dreamt.

We won't deny the architecture is art,

but one will wonder how many objectors

now walk around this once grassy ground,

and sigh to the sky for a willow which wept
one hundred years before an axe wiped its tears.

Still, after much restraint and resistance

one will submit to such pedantic polemics:

There exists on this campus a greed, need to build,
insensitive to trees, greenery, and consequently the only
sustenance which mollifies this philosophic paradox.

LYNNE RUPP




U Il

An old man told me once
that we exist
in greed and brutality.

| was inclined to agree

as most of us romantics do.
He welcomed me to his world.
No Stop lights or Go lights;
we just shared

Blue sky,

not one tight stomach,

only love

and children sang together.
Taken against my will
to where | dreamed.

A garden

where | wished the whole world

could see

what | had.

| believe it can happen.
| want to, also.

JIM SWINSON

SPRING-FALL 47




Ipome











HUGH OTBRYANT THE WELCOMED OF NOT SO WELCOMED EMOTIONS

~$0 REBEL 1988






SPRING-FALL 51

TYPE oA? PERSONALITY

ERIC JOHNSON






NEIL KOPPING BLUE PEOPLE OF TROUBLESOME CREEK

52 REBEL 1988






BRYAN WOOLARD YEAR AFTER YEAR |

) SPRING-FALL 53






7
Fe: J . " 4
~4 SSeS ne oa

~If 1 were to define architecture in a word, 1 would say that architecture is

a thoughtful making of spaces.T

L. KAHN

WILSONART.

t learn architecture

srouldn t talk about

P| JOHNSON

APRIL MOORE

54 REBEL 1988






" Whichever technique the architect chooses, the architect's purpose is to

propose a way of lite

P. SMITHSON

" Consider the great event in architecture when the walls parted and ¢ olumns

became - and light was let into the room."

L. KAHN

WHLSONMART.

THE ART OF FRIENDSHIP CAMPAIGN

SPRING-FALL 55




|

DENYCE BROOKS

56 REBEL 1988

Lipp,
OM,

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SPRING-FALL 57






58 REBEL 1988

AMY SAWYER

VICTORIA HIGGINS

MY SERPENTINE LOVER

BILLY IDOL TEA SET






GROWTH FORM

ROBERTA BROWN

HOMAGE TO MY DREAM

HEIDEMARIE GENTRY

SPRING-FALL 59






ee

THE OBEDIENT DOG FIGHTS TEMPTATION

JENNIFER PAGE
60 REBEL 1988






UNTITLED

TROY TYNER

SPRING-FALL 61




BARN

TRACY KENNINGTON

62 REBEL 1988






CITY SCAPE AT NIGHT

AMY SAWYER

SPRING-FALL 63






| STEVEN REID MONO LITHO 2

CCE WALKER UNTITLED

ii}
;

|

|

| 64 REBEL 1988






TROY TYNER WILSONART |

SCOTT EAGLE PORTRAIT OF GALL

SPRING-FALL 65 }




REBEL 1988

NEIL KOPPING

RAVEN






FAMILY ROOM

ROBERT FLANAGAN

SPRING-FALL 67






MONICA MOORE CASCADING FIGURES IN FIRE AND ICE

68 REBEL 1988






UNTITLED

LISA BRANTLEY

SPRING-FALL 69






UNTITLED

MELODY CASSEN
70 REBEL 1988






L. MICHELLE McDEVITT

sh cg
th

ee 8

WOODARD SUPPLY STORE

SPRING-FALL 71






HAYES HENDERSON

72 REBEL 1988











NEIL KOPPING 3 UNTITLED

74 REBEL 1988






O80 Pg OF bi ALT 8, OF

|
:

4 AO i Sip ye :

A PAIR AND |

BRYAN WOOLARD

SPRING-FALL 75






76 REBEL 1988

BRYAN WOOLARD

JOAN HOQE

UNTITLED






ED Wi Gr

| SEMPLE
POE Ge cle Fee ty,

DESIGNED 1956
DY HERMANN, ZAPF

abcdefghijklmnoparstuvwxyz

V2 345 678° 9-075

OPTIMA

AMANDA JARRELL OPTIMA

SPRING-FALL 77






WILLOW IN THE WIND .
(FOR W.B. YEATS) :

"Round my Grandpa's garden, a young girl did | meet;

She was brazen bronze from her head down to her feet.

She bid me not to kiss and tell, but | was quick to boast;
Now | wallow in lustful pride as the bough of the body roast.

In a hammock by the river my gal and | did swing,

| wrapped my arms around her and promised everything.

She told me, go s-l-o-w a-n-d e-a-s-y, with matters of the bone;
But | was young and hasty; and now I'm all alone.

MARTY L. SILVERTHORNE

78 REBEL 1988

|






EVE IS NO ICES

The underweight spokesman, pulling at his too
tight tie, with all his wind began to speak:

In consideration . . .

Permission is given...

is issued hereby.

Art against liability, however arising.

Water loses weight in a river touching
stones:

Flat filtering

Grey goose egg
pretty to paint on
great amount of
here.

Eve is no ices.

But funny girls throwing bugs
into the water cause all kinds of things:

" dead in the snow
" dead on vacation
" the bee as bird
" the bird as bee
" in shallow water.

ROBERT FLANAGAN

SPRING-FALL 79




. ree .
. 4 entry an heel ob
6 bt . .?)

hed
yf Nats \

eed é
oe






BASEMENT APARTMENT

Alone
in the black corner
together

on a
sagging humid bed:

shadows of sunlight
escape
in through

a lone foundation
window,
sheening

dying paint alive;
soundless,
clever,

the dangling socket
quivers.

Beyond
the sweltering walls
whistles

the wind,
beckoning wildly
over

fissures
ripping open the
blacktop

STEVE LOGAN

SPRING-FALL 81






.

CCE WALKER

Us

ae:

oi ity

82 REBEL 1988






MAR STARTARI

SPRING-FALL 83




3b a TEP ig OS UR A ES 2 eave

EC a Pear NESE
x o>. rae , he 2.

* Fe eee a Base ae

=

*
ot
3

eee
Mi id

ae ~
7"

~~

sd

ILLUSTRATIONS BY BILL PRIDGEN
84 REBEL 1988






MOONDROF
SUNDAYS

Aunt Saddie used to have grape vines in the back yard filled with sweet
berries, but every now and then you'd get a tart one and your mouth

would dry up and twist funny.
BY CAROL MAYNARD

ane leans back in the navy-blue
directorTs chair, balanced on
the two back legs. Her head
rests against the living room
wall"nodding up and down.
With her eyes closed, she lis-
tens to the crunch of her hair against
the wall. She cups a wine glass in both
hands, the stem caught between her
fingers. Red wine in a white room.
The wine is sweet and warm, just like
berries. Aunt Saddie used to have
grape vines in the back yard filled
With sweet berries, but every now
and then you'd get a tart one and your
mouth would dry up and twist funny.
Jane runs her finger around the rim of
the glass, then licks her finger, slow.

Michael walks in from the kitchen
and moves in beside his sister. He
Snaps his fingers in front of her face.

oWake up.?

Jane jumps, loses her balance, and
the chair pitches forward. Her wine
Sloshes out, landing on her white
thigh. oJesus!? She lifts her leg to her
Mouth trying to catch the spill. Mi-
Chael laughs as he sits on the sofa. He
makes a fist with his hand as if it were
a microphone.

oEarth to Jane, earth to Jane. Come
in, Jane.?

Her look falls on him like a club,

but she smiles.

oCute, Michael.?

oAwe, come on, Sis. Lighten up a little.?

Michael leans across the table, knocking
over his half forgotten beer.

oShit.?

He wipes up the stale Miller with yester-
dayTs news. The comic colors bleed into
black-and-white.

oAren't you going to throw that away??

_ Jane says as she walks to the window.

The rain is just a drizzle now and the car
wheels make a tacky sound, water popping
beneath the tread. ItTs a humid night, so
even breathing close to the open window
doesnTt help much. The air hangs low.
ThereTs a car stopped at a green light.

The phone rings in the kitchen. Mi-
chael picks up the soggy newspaper
and carries it with him and dumps the
lot in the sink. He catches the phone
on the second ring.

oHello?? he says, oHi Mom.? He
pulls the cord away from the wall and
slinks down into a squat in the door-
way, all his weight on his thighs. He
watches Jane watching wheels. SheTs
lost, and doesnTt hear much else.

Michael talks softly, oI know, Mom.
I know. Dad talked to Jane earlier.
Turn on the AC. ItTll make you feel
better. Moonlighting is on tonight.
Why donTt you watch it? You know
how much you like laughing at those
two.? He cradles his head in his hand.

SPRING-FALL 85






oItTll ease your mind some.?

Jane climbs into the window sill
and sits with her legs folded, chin
resting on her knees. Her arms are
wrapped around her calves, and she
rocks herself a little. She shrinks from
the sound of her brotherTs voice. Eyes
closed. Quiet.

oMom, look. DonTt worry. We'll be
there. Both of us.?

Jane looks up, but doesnTt move.

oNo, she canTt come to the phone.
We'll see you tomorrow. Love you
too.? With his thumb, he presses hard
on the little brown button of the re-
ceiver.

A pale light surrounds Jane. Her
azure eyes blink when the traffic
lights change. Yellow. Red Green.
She doesnTt see the change.

oThat was mom. She wanted to
make sure about tomorrow.?

Jane tilts her head back against the
window frame.

oDid you hear me, or what??

86 REBEL 1988

oITm hungry,? she looks at Michael.
oYou??

oNo.? He stands up and goes to the
refrigerator. The light blinds him for
a minute. He squints and rubs his
eyes with his fist. DukeTs, olives, and
half an onion bagel. oGood thing,? he
says, shutting the door on the light.

Michael walks over to the T.V. and
squats down, staring at the dusty
screen. oWant to watch T.V.??

She nods her head back and forth.

oYou're really getting on my
nerves.?

Jane jerks her head in his direction.
oYou're getting on my nerves and ITm
not going back tomorrow. So donTt
ask me again if ITm going.?

Michael turns on the T.V. and starts
switching the channels loudly. The
colors changing fast like neon signs.
oLook, youTre not Grandad.?

Jane rests her forehead on her
knees while thoughts of yesterdays
cloud her vision like a silent rain.

Grandad had hated funerals. They
made him nervous after his heart at-
tack. Weddings and funerals. Even
when Sadie died, he couldnTt bring
himself to go to the church, or the
service outside. Jane and Michael
went though, and wore their Sunday
bests " she in her white dress with a
white bow and white patents, Mi-
chael in a bow tie. It was hot outside
the church, so Jane crimped a bulle-
tin to fan herself. Mother said, oJane,
sit still.? Michael just twiddled his
thumbs, faster and faster.

Nobody knew anything about
where Grandad was, except where he
wasn't. It was an hour after the funer-
al that he showed up. His pickup
kicked the gravel in the drive into
choking grey clouds. The screen door
slammed. Somebody said, oDid you
get by the cemetery??

Everybody looked up at him.

oYep.?

Uncle Billy said, oSo " what did
you think??

Grandad just stared at him.

oShe won't get out.? Calmly, he
walked out the front door and sat on
the bottom step. The yard was freshly
mowed, with the dead grass lying
across the young blades in strange
patterns across the lawn. The Sunday
morning was covered in drops left
from the last nightTs moon.

oLook, Jane. ITm really sorry. I
didnTt mean it. Can we just forget
about this funeral thing for a while??

JaneTs eyes widen.

oI guess what I mean is, Grandad
had a sense of humor about it. I just
donTt think he would want us to carry
all this stuff around because of him.?

Jane sighs, then swings her legs out
of the sill, her arms braced on the
ledge. oI know,? she says. oITm
hungry.? Her heels gently rebound
off the lower wall as she lifts herself
out of the window.

The black and white tiles of the
kitchen floor feel cool to her bare
feet. Finding an orange, she walks
over to the sink and peels the fruit
with her thumb. The peeling falls into
the sink in a continuous spiral strip.

oo -" 2.» .- 2 ~~. oo COO eee




THE ROCK FORMATION

I
My fingers probe the granite surface
for familiar handholds
to hoist me to

my aerie view of the silent woods"
a discordant presence. Settling into
the soft silence,

| wait the transformation
(an act of the mind,

the body is motionless).

The muttering breath of beeches
tickles the nape of my neck. Sunlight
shafts the leafy canopy,
shattering
color across the drab carpet,
igniting
the rock, my skin, my hair.

It has begun"

the forest flowing
slowly toward me, an ever-tightening
circle of sound,

(the primal yawp?)
as my flesh turns to granite,
molten metal

seeping through my veins"

part of the rock.

ll
Time is a meaningless memory
to disturb only madmenTs dreams.

The frosty beard of winter,
the twining garland of spring,
the humming song of summer,
the brilliant blaze of fall
pay their tribute, then fly
on fleeting feet

(the past is sold
at the yard sale on shilling Street)
"but | remain,

ecliptic,
sovereign of time...

lil

A solitary thrush alights at my feet
to flit away with an iridescent beetle,
snatched from a crack in eternity.

The slanting sun summons
back to life
my torpid muscles,
stinging with newly-rushing blood,
(the mind slamming shut,
recoil from the effort
of emotion recalled in tranquility),
propels me homeward to
the hearth of human concern.
The rock will remain
(static in the mind)
whether | return.

E. WAYNE BARHAM

SPRING-FALL 87






A

JERRI ALLISON
88 REBEL 1988






HORSE SHOE CRAB

The night's play was evident

that morning.

The shell of a dead primitive

lay open,

its razor-dome casually harmonizing
with the sea.











My sister had fished

from amniotic fluid, ¥
my father had dreamed of it

and | huddled close to

gain a bit of colour.

The beautiful grandfather lay open 3
on the wooden pier; .
it covered all eight feet "2
from the shore.

To rise and fall on its edge ted,
called all to bathe and rub 7 wW EN
their sand flat against eed

the belly of the ocean.

ROBERT FLANAGAN

_

NR gor mae
ze SRR i



Rete,
iii

oa

PA os
Cad






MELODY CASSEN
90 REBEL 1988






KARIE SEYKORA

SPRING-FALL 91






30 YEARS OF EXCELLENCE

BY

DA SWANSON e JOSEPH CAMPBELL

Dear Editors,

I thought it appropriate to write this
letter before the first issue was pub-
lished for what I have to say doesn't
concern the appearance or the materi-
al included in the magazine, but it
does concern the idea of a literary
magazine on campus. I feel that it is
one of the finest ideas developed at
East Carolina in its fifty years of oper-
ation as a college. I would also like to
congratulate the person, or persons,
who thought of the project.

I have read that your policy is to
accept only student writings. I think
this is a fine idea, for so many college
literary magazines accept faculty stuff
and sooner or later it turns into merely
a faculty journal. I hope that The Re-
bel will become a true organ for stu-
dent expression, for certainly we need
one here.

Sincerely,
Lewis Gordon

92 REBEL 1988

ere in our tiny, cell-like Re-
bel office, the past thirty
years of our publishing life
on the East Carolina cam-
pus quietly lines one wall.
Issue stacked on issue, the
archive represents a
strange snapshot, an assemblage of
visionary, idealistic, angry, gleeful,
and clearly work-aholic twenty-year-
olds spanning three decades. Imagine
bringing together all of the past edi-
tors, writers, poets, and artists, just as
they were at that fleeting collegiate,
youthful moment. No matter what
any of them may have become years
later on the outside, they are still
promising young artists in the truest
sense in the Rebel.

Having the opportunity to peruse
most of the past issues"a few are
sadly lost"during our time with the
magazine, only one thing seems to
have been a continuous factor"an
over-riding concern for the younger
generation as a part of the creative
community. Sometimes that voice
was high-browed, sometimes mili-
tant, sometimes conciliatory, some-
times eloquent, sometimes not so elo-
quent. But it was always ours.

The significance of student control
becomes apparent when the Rebel is
compared to its only rival in national
collegiate publishing, Idaho State
UniversityTs Cold Drill. While among
the finest literary magazines display-
ing student work that we have seen,
the publication is managed primarily
by faculty. Without students making
the final editorial decisions, we be-
lieve a campus magazine cannot be
considered a true mouthpiece of
those students.

Maybe itTs just sentimentality, but
we think that really means some-
thing. As Lewis Gordon points out in
his letter-to-the-editor, oI hope that
the Rebel will become a true organ
for student expression, for certainly
we need one here.?

The magazine began in the old
Austin building (located on the pre-
sent site of Jenkins Art Building) un-
der the guidance of Ovid Pierce, to
whom this anniversary issue has been
dedicated. Pierce saw a need to have
a student literary magazine, and in-
ducted two students, Bryan Harrison
and William Arnold, Jr., to assist him
in launching the project. They began
the magazine as a tri-annual, a format

- = > & - = . °






The Rebel

: Spring, 1958

SPRING 1958 " SIMPLE ACADEMIC
INTEGRITY

See Casas

The Literary Art Magazine
of East Carolina University

1978 " APOLITICAL ARTISTIC PURITY

Z oF Pe Q x,

WINTER 1968 " POLITICS, IDEALISM & THE
EXPERIMENTAL COLLEGE

1988 " YOU BE THE JUDGE

SPRING-FALL 93






51 1318 1b

Fall, 1958

from oThe Poetic Mind: A Theory? by
Purvis Boyette

... What is the duty of poetry?? A
poem may be compared to an engine
forcing the mind of the reader back
into the spirituality of the poetTs
mind. It should be remembered that
this same spirituality is also the cre-
_ ative intuition. .. . Poetry becomes a
vehicle which conveys the non-ge-
nius into the world of the genius, a
spiritual world of intuitive truth.
The degree to which a poet may be
considered successful is determined
by how well he is able to reproduce
for the reader his own spirituality,
which in itself has a measurable mag-
nitude.

REBEL A

Spring, 1964

from an interview with Atty. General
Robert FE. Kennedy

I think that racial disturbances have
been intensified by the fact that
they ve received a good deal of atten-
tion in public. ThatTs probably natu-
ral. Frequently the demonstration
grows and spreads because of the at-
tention it gets in the newspaper. And
then that, in turn, increases the
newspaper coverage, and that in
turn, increases the demonstration, or
the intensity of the demonstration. It
is difficult in a free society such as
ours to avoid this. . . . The interest in
obtaining the passage of the Civil
Rights legislation probably wouldn't
be present if some of the demonstra-
tions hadnTt taken place over the past
three years.

Spring 1969

from an interview with Doris Betts
... from watching students at Caroli-
na, which is the closest end of the
funnel that I have to look through, I
think they are very impatient with
nearly all the old things. Which is
great. ThatTs healthy, thatTs good... .
students nowadays are writing about
how alienated they are. And, that
you are standing up there all the time
saying what fiction is all about; oIt is
relation of person to person.? And
the students are saying, oyou are al-
ways telling me to write out of my
experience, and thatTs not what my
experience is. My experience has to
do more with isolation. So you just
hush up and let me write what 'm
writing. ?

"_

in which it continued through the
early seventies.

The Rebel soon established itself
not only as an artistic forum, but also
as an outlet for informed intellectual
debate. During the turbulent sixties,
the oRebel Yell? became a regular
editorial column that addressed East
CarolinaTs growing importance as a
part of the cultural revolution.

The editorials became more and
more politically slanted through the
decade. Some of the many interviews
during that time are indicative of this
shift. Past Rebel staffers spoke with
several noted politicians on various
important issues. Among them are
Channing Phillips (the first black man
to be a serious contender for the

94 REBEL 1988

presidency)"1968, Senator Terry
Sanford"1968, and Attorney Gen-
eral Robert Kennedy"1964. On a
more artistic slant, the Rebel has been
honored to have spoken with such
North Carolina literary giants as nov-
elist and short story writer Doris
Betts, Pulitzer Prize winning play-
wright Paul Green (anti-capital pun-
ishment activist and author of The
Lost Colony) and bluegrass legend
Doc Watson.

In 1967 the Rebel faced its first ma-
jor struggle for survival. According to
an emotionally charged story in the
Raleigh News and Observer, odisturb-
ing reports from East Carolina Uni-
versity, [indicate that] no funds [were]
forthcoming for the continued publi-

cation of . . . the ~RebelT.? The maga-
zine had obviously garnered a strong
following in the state for the article
concludes: oIn this time when almost
everyone seems hooked on creating
an image, it seems unlikely that offi-
cials at E.C.U. will willingly sustain so
serious a loss as the ~RebelT ? (Sept.
24, 1967).

The magazine survived this en-
counter only to be faced by another
in 1973. In the throes of the civil
rights movement the editors found
the magazineTs title to be oa name
that [had been] outgrown aesthetit-
cally and functionally?. The pro-
posed name, Morpheus, was consid-
ered to be more indicative of oour
interpretation of . . . Art [sic] and our




1971 " Supah Rebel
from an editorial by Woody Thurman
Considers what has happened to art
Since the late sixties, when greed fi-
nally outgrew itself and brought to a
close the period of American life
which historians will conveniently
pigeon-hole as ~post-war prosperity.T
. Sometime between the T68 presi-
dential election and the night Joe
Frazier took out Mohammed Ali, it
became apparent that the old sym-
bols would never again be the same.
The artist, who was not quite sure of
his position [political or social] to be-
Zin with, was told to put up or shut
up. Involvement took on a new
meaning and propaganda became a
Spiritual dichotomy which, by its
very nature, could only be defined in
. terms of one side or the other.
=

Spring 1973
from oWhen the Gentle Must Rage? by
Rick Atkinson

. I again inventory the universe:
four matches, a broken cigarette
lighter, a map of Wyoming, a pocket
knife, one battered station wagon,
sans fuel, a coat, no blanket, no
gloves...acan of lighter fluid. I un-
fold the pocket knife, the gleaming
silver erection rapes the seat uphol-
stery with a tearing, ripping, biting
sound. I suspect a similar sound
awaiting release in the soft spongy
padding of human flesh, and the
thought warms me with terror as I
plunge the upholstery again and
again, lifting out spongy, squishy
handfuls of fibrous stuffing with
which to build a fire. But it is the
black sky that bleeds and bleeds and
bleeds. White blood...

1976

oEbony Turf? by Helena Woodward
My hair ebony turf,

through which you jerk your fingers
seeking brown thrills

with your forked viperTs tongue
and forcing from me a stereotype
dying from lack of obedience.

Meanwhile, I sip Strawberry Boone's
Farm

toast my prized virginity

and perch

inertly as a yogi;

awaiting from you

some other unexplored recognition.

Watching you, I think that you
would like to venture into words
again.

Instead, you grin your cheshire grin
and pounce on me.

imposed intent with this publication?
(editorial, Winter 1973). The propos-
al was approved by the Publications
Board, but failed when it went before
the student body for approval.

By 1976 the interview, book re-
View, and editorial were no longer in-
cluded in the magazine. Each had be-
come simply a vehicle for political
grandstanding, diverting the artistic
focus of the magazine. Editors with-
drew their personal opinions and is-
Sues to let the works themselves be
the voice; the editor became the si-
lent observer. In 1976, one of the
MagazineTs more important changes
Came when staffers decided to recog-
nize the growing prominence of the
Art School"hence the birth of

oThe Gallery.?

One of the magazineTs proudest
moments, in retrospect, must be the
literary debut of Rick Atkinson with
his story excerpted above. Atkinson
went on to pursue a career in journal-
ism and, tapping the creative forces
fostered in the Rebel, wrote two se-
ries of stories at the Washington Bu-
reau of the Kansas City Times which
brought him the 1982 Pulitzer Prize
in journalism. He is currently on
leave from the Washington Post turn-
ing the second story, a piece on the
1966 class at West Point, into a book.
Another career, among countless oth-
ers launched by the Rebel, was Luke
WhisnantTs, who first published as a
freshman and went on to become the

magazineTs editor in 1978 and T79.
He is now a widely published and re-
spected writer as well as a writing in-
structor here.

Indeed, the Rebel has been many
things: a critical forum for original
student fiction and scholarly writing,
a political forum using art as its medi-
um, and an artistic forum that tran-
scends any pat definitions of style or
genre. The message is diluted and
personalized according to each artis-
tic contributor. A message that may
best be delineated in the same way
the Joycean character Stephen Deda-
lus expresses his duty: o.. . to forge
in the smithy of my soul the uncreat-
ed conscience of my race.?

SPRING-FALL 95






96 REBEL 1988

91]

l

She's in shock, the father said
Cry! my eyes demanded

Cry!

Not just for the stricken girl
but for the discretions, the shunted
core

Emotions have no place ... no right
ITve no time for sentimentality. It's a
waste

il

I've tears as big as mud-washed flats
with cattails and rotted cypress trunks
touching my flesh

Brittle leaves, intricately webbed, crackle
and blustery afternoons pause before whipping
misty rain into protected faces

And | defeat the tears (another injuryT
and my ride trudges impatiently
up to the front stoop.

STEVE LOGAN




eto cin
¥ Be
\! a

~ ar oS

er he

a) ace: Vc






PORTFOLIO

KEVIN MceCLOSKE Y

Artist « World Traveler « Department Store Santa Claus

sign on the door read,

oKevin McCloskey, II-

lustration.?? This must

be it I thought to my-
self. Knocking on the door, I heard a
muffled, oCome in!? I opened the
door slowly to an office no larger than
a walk-in closet. Without turning
around, he mumbled,. oHow can I
help you??

oMr. McCloskey, my name is Tim
Thornburg. ITm here to interview you
for the Rebel magazine.?

Quickly spinning around on his
stool, he immediately stood up and
extended his hand. oTim, thanks for
dropping by my office. Come inside
and make yourself comfortable.?

The office was small, displaying
few decorations. His desk and shelves
were cluttered with books and stu-
dent assignments. Typically a teach-
erTs office I concluded.

oITm very honored that you want to
interview me,? he boasted. oITm not
sure, though, if my life is exciting
enough to write about.?

oOh, ITm sure it is,? I replied com-
plementarily. Making myself com-
fortable on a stool as he suggested, I
began the interview without hesita-
tion. oNow, Mr. McCloskey... ?

oKevin. Please, call me Kevin. ITm
too young to be called Mr. McClos-
key.?

oAlright, Kevin. LetTs start from the
most logical point " the beginning.
If you would, give me some back-
ground information. Maybe tell me
about growing up.?

oLet me see. I was born in New
Jersey in 1951. My parents ran a ho-
tel and bar in Asbury Park. It was
called the Lake Park Hotel, just a

98 REBEL 1988

BY TIM THORNBURG

block from the boardwalk Bruce
Springsteen sings about. In the 50Ts,
it was a great place to be a kid.?

oHow so??

oWell, every night weTd walk the
boardwalk. There were Shetland
ponies on the beach. There was a
boat shaped like a swan, and Mr. Pea-
nut walked the boards. There was
even an artist. He sat in a little Victo-
rian kiosk doing portraits, not carica-
tures. I loved to watch him.?

oIs this what sparked your interest
in art??

oT wanted to either be a fireman, a
veterinarian, or an artist. Then one
day my house caught fire, I ran out-
side and a dog bit me, so... ?

oYou're joking??

oOf course.?

oSeriously, tell me more about
your interest in art. Who or what in-

fluenced you??

oFirst of all cartoons. My family al-
ways got the Sunday Funnies. The
strips were fantastic. oThe Katzen-
jammer Kids,T ~Popeye,T oThe Little
King.T ~The Little KingT had no words
so I could ~readT that one to myself
when I was three or four. Later, I
came to admire anyone drawing real
people doing real things like Van
Gogh, John Sloan and Paul Hogarth.

oMy first teacher was Jon Gnagy. I
would draw what he drew on his TV
show, ~Learn To Draw.T He was a self-
taught artist. A tremendous teacher.
ITve looked at his books again and ITm
certain he was inspired by Robert
Henri, the great art teacher at the Art
StudentTs League in New York. They
both thought there was an ~art spiritT
in everyone. Are you familiar with
GnagyTs show??

:

/

;

:






















ooIn 1971, | took a trip around the world. | had already hitch-hiked from

Canada toTFlorida, so | knew | liked to travel. | love to be Jost. Its

intoxicating to me to be lost in the city or the wilderness. | know I'll

eventually be found... . By the time | reached the Himalayas, I'd learned
to keep my expenses down to two or three dollars a day.?

oNo, ITm sorry ITm not. ThatTs a lit-
tle before my time.?

oOh!? he quietly said. After paus-
ing a moment to collect his thoughts,
he continued.

oWell anyway, my family moved to
Elizabeth, N.J. when I was in the fifth
grade. I went to parochial schools
that had no art classes. Fortunately,
there was an artist, Hannah Hoffman,
who had a studio there. I studied wa-
tercolors and pastels with her for sev-
eral years. My dad worked at a paper
factory so there was always plenty of
paper for my creations. I really didnTt
decide to pursue art as a career until I
was 20 years old.?

oTwenty? Why so late??

oI wasnTt sure of myself. I guess I
just wanted to be certain. So, after

100 REBEL 1988

making up my mind, I enrolled at the
School of Art at Ohio University.?

oWhat then? Did you continue
with your studies??

oNo. In 1971, I took a trip around
the world.?

oA trip around the world? What
made you want to do that??

oI donTt know, just impulse I guess.
I had already hitchhiked from Can-
ada to Florida, so I knew I liked to
travel. I love to be lost. ItTs intoxicat-
ing to me to be lost in the city or the
wilderness. I know I'll eventually be
found. I think everyone should expe-
rience the world and various cul-
tures.?

oSounds exciting. Where did you
get the money??

oI was still enrolled at Ohio U. I

paid my tuition with the student
loans. My trip cost léss than out-of-
state students were charged to live in
the dorms. By the time I reached the
Himalayas, ITd learned to keep my ex-
penses down to two or three dollars a
day.?

oWas the war on??

oYeah, in Saigon it was hard to

sleep with rocket fire. Fortunately, it "
was all outgoing fire. Later in Cambo- |
dia, I was sitting on the banks of the "
Mekong and someone started shoot-

ing at me.?
oDid you write about this kind of

event? Surely, there were thousands "

of interesting things going on.?

oI did send a story from Saigon |
with drawings back to the Ohio Uni- |
versity Post. The College Syndicate "
Press bought the story and it ran all "
over the country. It was called ~A Day ©
in the Life of a Whore in Saigon.T |

There was an uproar about it.?

oI can imagine. What happened
next,? I asked as I sat on the edge of "

the stool.

oI came back from India in the |
summer. I dropped out of school, "
traveled, wrote. Worked as dishwash- _
er, maintenance man. Worked seven ©
seasons as a department store Santa ©

Claus.?

oSanta Claus. What does that have ~
to do with developing your art ca- _

reer??

oNothing. Absolutely nothing. I "
had to make a living somehow. I am |
proud to say I made it all the way to |
the top of the Santa Claus business at |

Macy's.?

oTell me more about your art ca- |
reer. What did you do to develop it |

further??

oT started freelancing illustration. I |
moved to San Francisco and was 4
street artist. I did paste-ups for Roll-
ing Stone. My ~Prehistoric LifeT car- |

toons also ran in the San Francisco :
Bay Guardian. LetTs see. Oh, ITve |
worked freelance for the New York |
Times. About half a dozen times I ac- |
tually received assignments. Normal- :

ly I would submit a packet and they
would buy a bunch. I did over 50 for
them. Eventually, I enrolled in the
School of Visual Arts and studied with

a an ~~

some of our greatest illustrators such |
as Julian Allen, Marshall Arisman, |




James McCullan, and Robert
Weaver.?

oBesides cartoons, what other
kinds of art work have you done??

oI came up with an idea for conver-
sion kits for roach motels.?

oRoach motels. ThatTs a bit bizarre
isnTt itP?

oNot really. I became possessed
with roaches. I took postcards from
grand hotels and put them in plastic
bags with four inches of astro turf,
little lawn chairs, bottles of cham-
pagne and roach motels you buy in
the supermarket. I made one like the
Arch of Greenwich Village in Wash-
ington Square. I even had a show of
these motels in a gallery in Manhat-
tan on Spring Street. I filled the win-
dows with roach motels, made a
mountain with a train running around
and had plenty of roaches.

oAt one time, I did a series of rub-
ber stamps with roaches on them. I
made a waiter roach, a roach with a
boom box on his shoulders, and a va-
riety of others. They were a lot of fun
to do.?

oRight. How about some of your
more realistic works. Tell me about
them.?

oProbably my favorite piece is the
Ralph Space painting. ItTs very inter-
esting. Ralph Space is an American
Indian who has a zoo and museum
called Space Farm in northwestern
New Jersey. He made his fortune dur-
ing War World I growing minks. He
gathered up dying horses to keep his
minks fed. I think he even had the
first silver fox in the United States.
Anyway, he had good luck breeding
animals.

oT had an assignment to paint some-

oI did send a story from Saigon with drawings back to the Ohio
University Post. The College Syndicate Press bought the story and it ran
all over the country... . | came back from India in the summer. | dropped

out of school, traveled, wrote. Worked as dishwasher, maintenance

man. Worked seven seasons as a department store Santa Claus.
! am proud to say | made it all the way to the top of the
Santa Claus business at Macy's.?

one living in isolation. To me, he fit
the description. HeTs created his own
world by building a zoo and museum
to house all of the things heTs ever
collected. He charges four dollars to
see his roadside attraction. He has
one thing he calls an early American
dog collar, if you can imagine digging
one up. He has unusual roller skates,
apple dolls and old tobacco cans. Not
everything in these buildings are
valuable, they are just things heTd
collected over the years.

oIn the background of my painting,
you can see all these stuffed animals.
They make him look like ~the great
white hunter.T The fact is all of them
actually. died on his farm of natural
causes and he had them mounted.?

oTell me a little about your book,
Walking Around Hoboken. What is it
supposed to represent??

oThe whole idea of it was a pedes-
trianTs view of the city. I found that if
ycu re walking you get a good look at
details. I would go out everyday so I
could finish two pieces a week. If it
was raining, I'd do interior pieces. If
the weather was nice, I would do
signs, details of buildings and peo-
ple.?

oAnd now, what new projects lie
ahead for Kevin McCloskey? Any
plans for the future??

oTm not really sure,? he said. Paus-
ing briefly to think, he began to smile
like a Cheshire cat. His smile grew
wider and wider until the corners of
his mouth seemed as if they were go-
ing to crack. With a chuckle, he said,
oAll I can say is my passport is in
order.T

SPRING-FALL 101






ARNOLD GAMBILL

102 REBEL 1988






ARNOLD GAMBILL

SPRING-FALL 103


















oe

Nagle ea

a "

SL a EO Ee ee me oe

106 REBEL 1988 |






pig ee
er 3 *o

te Sas a

LAURA DAVENPORT

NUDE TREES HAVE NO TAILS

Frozen. The sound
explicates

my feelings, as wind waters
eyes. Blue turned gray

for this season.- As always,
loved, while feared

that we will

statue.

Wood sculptures of naked skeletons
guard my backyard,

resting to run with

orange ball.

JIM SWINSON

SPRING-FALL 107






LAURA DAVENPORT

108 REBEL 1988






MAR STARTARI

SPRING-FALL 109








~
:
:



: aig ~s ~

é
n. ff,

~
IOC

a e. or

| felt tired, yet happy to see the place where | had grown up. The big
yard, the maple trees, the clothesline, the gravel driveway and the oak
tree that once held a tire swing reminded me of the Barbie dolls and

lightning bugs.

BY ANGELA LINGERFELT

here are times when only
the smell of things will do.
Nothing soothes my nose
as much as the aroma of
my grandmother's
house"a mixture of Ben-
gay, bacon grease and a
damp basement. It was that familiar,
comforting smell that lured me to her
house in the Appalachians the last
time I visited. 3

Driving up the steep driveway
after a six-hour trip, I felt tired, yet
happy to see the place where I had
grown up. The big yard, the maple
trees, the clothesline, the gravel
driveway and the oak tree that once
held a tire swing reminded me of the

eat Barbie dolls and lightning bugs.
oNow you girls quit running in and
~~ out,? Grandmother always said to my

sister and me when the screen door

banged shut.

As I stepped onto the porch, now

closed in by sliding glass doors to
make her oplant room?, I smelled the
musty odor coming up from the base-
ment. I looked down the concrete
steps, dotted with water bugs, to the
dark entrance. A door covered with
chipped white paint blocked my view
into the three-room area under the
house that my family once lived in..
Now the basement was filled with
boxes of junk. But, for a moment, I
pictured Daddy making us be quiet
while he watched the news. I saw my-
self hiding under the coffee table,
squeezing my little sisterTs hand
while Daddy pointed a gun at Mom.

_Near us, on the speckled black tile

floor, sat a basket of clothes with
holes in them. My new yellow school
dress that Mom had bought from a
cheap outlet lay on top of the pile. All
of them were splotched with ugly
Clorox stains and holes,:made when
my father poured a jug of bleach on

HAYES HENDERSON
SPRING-FALL 111






oI bet you donTt remember
me, do you?... DarleneTs
husband shot me five times
in the stomach when | was
on a date with her after they
got the divorce.?

them and.the furniture while we
were gone.

oItTs about time you got here,?
Grandmother said. She hurried out
on the porch to hug me. oITve had
supper ready for an hour. Did you get
a late start? I thought you were leav-
ing at eleven. I was worried to
death.? She squeezed me tight while
I explained why I was late. It was
good to see her apple-face-doll smile
and feel her smooth cheek against
mine. I followed her into the kitchen.
Sweet potato casserole with marsh-
mallows.

oI made you a sweet potato casse-
role,? she said, picking up pot lids
and banging cabinet doors. The
neighbors, who lived more than an
acre away, always claimed they could
hear her fixing dinner. oI made fried
chicken too"the kind in the oven
with the corn flakes for the crust"

112 REBEL 1988

and buttermilk biscuits with cooked
apples, and banana pudding.?

oGrandmother,? I said emphasiz-
ing the ~grandT part, oYou didnTt have
to do all that just for me.? My stom-
ach growled.

oYou know I donTt mind,? she said,
oSharon told me that you said I never
cook as much for you as I do her. I
wish she could have come with you.
Are you sure she couldn't get off
work? Looks like they would have let
her...? Grandmother chattered on
about my sister while I sat at the
round table. My elbows were stuck to
red plastic tablecloth as I watched
her speed around the kitchen. Open
the refrigerator. Sling a magnet but-
terfly doo-dad on the floor. Slam the
refrigerator door. Pull an oven rack
out with a Chicken-print potholder.

After dinner, we sat on the blue-
flowered couch in the living room
talking and laughing, oblivious to the
next item up for bids on ~The Price is
Right.T The sun had dropped behind
the autumn-tinted mountains outside
when Grandmother got out a box of
black-and-white pictures. The kind
that have the dates stamped on the
borders. While I was looking at one of
me at two months old, dated April
1962, Grandmother picked up a
piece of paper that had fallen from

the coffee table onto the carpet. It
said, oLawnmower, 9 a.m.?

oThe hardware store is bringing
my lawnmower over in the morning.
Oh " that reminds me. When I went
in there the other day, I saw Henry
Pollard. I didnTt know who he was at
first, but he said, ~I know who you
are. You're Genevieve Grady, Dar-
leneTs mother. I bet you donTt remem-
ber me, do you?T I said no, but that he
looked familiar, and he said, ~Dar-
leneTs husband shot me five times in
the stomach when I was on a date
with her after they got the divorce.T ?

oI donTt remember hearing about
that one,? I said.

oWell, he did. Darlene and Henry
were at the Rainbow Drive-In over
on Fleming Drive one night when
Phil drove up and parked beside
them. Of course, he had been drink-
ing and when he saw Darlene on a
date, he got out of his car and stuck a
gun through the window and started
shooting.? Grandmother told the sto-
ry like it wouldnTt bother me to hear
such tales about my father. She could
have added more misdeeds to the list:
He had never paid child support, he
had kidnapped me and Sharon, he
had poured sugar in our carTs gas
tank. I hadnTt seen him in fifteen
years"since Mom had taken us to
visit him in a Tennessee prison,
where he was serving time for making
moonshine. GrandmotherTs story
didnTt really bother me, but I pre-
ferred to think about the special
times we had together"Christ-
mases, squirrel hunting, fishing at
Lake James, digging through garbage
dumps to find otreasure? while he
picked blackberries.

GrandmotherTs sock-feet were .

propped on the coffee table while she
talked about Phil. Occasionally she
took off her tinted glasses and rubbed
the narrow bridge of her nose. Her
left foot wiggled back and forth,
keeping time with her mouth.

oHave you seen him lately?? I
asked her. Phil still lived in Morgan-
ton.

oHe was just here last month to
paint my house. HeTs living over in
Highland Trailer Park with some fat
old woman. I think heTs been painting
alot lately. Says he wants to buy some

a ain a a a aan " - ~ S aa _- " he - er oo re -
~" ee aad a ee ee ee ee ee oe ed rrr - oe

~~~ - fe - 2 - o- ~~ -

o_o rs






oe fe ee

land of his own and build a house.?
GrandmotherTs dark blue eyes fo-
cused on mine when I didnTt say any-
thing. She had something else on her
mind.

oWhy donTt you call on him and see
if heTll come over? He was asking
about you. Every time I run into him,
he asks about you and Sharon. I told
him you had your masterTs degree
and a good job. He beamed from ear
to ear, like he was real proud of you.?

oHow old is he now?? I asked.
oWhat does he look like? I donTt even
know when his birthday is.?

oLetTs see. How old is Darlene?
Forty-two? That means heTs about
forty-eight. He looks like he always
did.?

oITm scared to call him,? I said. A
panicky feeling settled in my gut
when I thought about seeing him"
like when you get to the top of a stair-
case in the dark and think thereTs one
more step, but itTs not there, and, for
an instant, you almost fall. I wanted to

see him again"sometime; but what
if he died before I decided to do it?

oShould I??

oWell, he ainTt going to bite you.
He'd be tickled to death.?

oWill you call him for me??

The next night Phil came. I was
picking at the ruffle on the green frog
pillow when he walked in.

oWell, hey there,? he said in a
mountain drawl. He had the same
voice.

oHey, Daddy.? Had I really called
Phil oDaddy?? For a moment, we
looked at each other awkwardly
each sizing up the other. He was
shorter than I remembered, and skin-
nier. He had on a red flannel shirt
tucked into old blue jeans that stayed
up with the help of a crinkled-leather
belt and a oWinston? buckle. His hair
didnTt have a speck of gray in it.
Grandmother was right"he did look
the same, except that the black horn-
rimmed glasses he had once worn

were replaced by silver wire ones.
And his rotten teeth were white
now"the dentures made his upper
lip stick out a little.

~You're not fat,TT he said. oI
thought you would be since you were
such a chubby little baby.? I got up
and hugged him. It wasnTt a gripping,
emotional hug"like you see on TV
when long-lost relatives reunite. We
had our arms around each other, but
we were barely touching. I didnTt feel
an inkling of love, or joy, or sadness. I
didnTt feel anything. It was like hug-

oHey, Daddy.? Had | really
called Phil oDaddy?? For a
moment, we looked at each
other awkwardly"each
sizing up the other... He
had on a red flannel
SHHT 3.

SPRING-FALL 113






oMom said you kidnapped
me and Sharon one time.?
oI didnTt kidnap ya'll. | just
came and got you younguns
one day to get some ice
cream. But your mom had a
fit and called the law.?

ging a stranger that smelled of ciga-
rettes, Skin Bracer, and an old trailer.

oIt sure is good to see you, Cindy,?
he said. He lit a Marlboro with a silver
flip-top lighter. oYour grandmother
says you finished college and got a
good job.?

oYea, I did"finally,? I said bash-
fully. I wanted to tell him about my
degree, how I had worked three jobs
at a time to pay my way through
school, how much I liked my job, and
how much I got paid. But he wouldnTt
be interested. He had finished eighth

114 REBEL 1988

grade.

oT still go hunting all the time,? I
said. oDo you still hunt squirrels??

oOh, everT now and then. But not
like I used to.?

oDo you still play the banjo??

oYea. I pick on the same one I had
then.?

oT always remember you sitting on
that green couch in the basement
playing the banjo.?

oWell, what makes you remember
that??

oT donTt know. I just do.?

oPhil,? Grandmother interrupted.
oI saw Henry Pollard the other day
when I went to get my lawnmower
fixed. He told me about the time you
shot him five times in the stomach.?

oHa. I didnTt shoot him five times,?
Phil said. He propped his elbows on
his knees and rested his chin on his
cigarette hand. oI shot him six times.?
I looked at Grandmother. She was sit-
ting in a chair between us embroider-
ing an owl on a pillow.

oHe said five times,T Grandmother

~ argued.

Phil, grinning the whole time, told
his side of the story. He was proud
that he remembered exactly how
many shots he had fired.

oMom said you kidnapped me and
Sharon one time and she had to get a
sheriff after you,? I said, curious to
know what heTd say about that.

oT didnTt kidnap ya'll. I just came
and got you younguns one day to get
some ice cream. But your mom had a
fit and called the law.?

oI remember me and Sharon in the
back seat while you were driving
fast.?

oOh, Cindy. You werenTt old
enough to remember that,? Grand-
mother said.

oI do too remember it.?

Hee Haw was on television. We
watched the cornfield scene and
some commercials before Phil stood
up and said he had to get back home
to his wife.

oYou mean I have a stepmother??

oI reckon,? Phil said on the way
out. I followed him to the driveway to
say good-bye. As I watched him walk
in front of me I suddenly didnTt want
him to go yet. Tears were coming to
my eyes.

oHere,? I said, oI wrote down my
address so you can write to me. ITve
got your address. I was going to send
you a Christmas card last year, but I
chickened out.?

oHoney,? he said, looking at me in
a funny way, oyou donTt have to be
scared of me. I did some stupid things
a long time ago, but I always loved
you and Sharon. You'll always be my
little girls.?

oI do love you ... Daddy.? We
hugged again " hard.

Tears dripped down my face as I
watched his red taillights disappear
at the top of a hill. I walked back to
the porch, stopping a minute to look
at the waterbugs on the basement
steps. Grandmother came out, still
holding the pillow with the half-fin-
ished owl.

oHe ain't really married to that
woman,? she said. oHe just told you
that so you wouldnTt think bad of
him.T




a Ahly tat te A em ny ie

_"_""

"
ie p

i.
Pr

"""" es

ni

wy PP

eS ee ee ann ae ee

LAMENT OF A STUDENT POET,

A REPRIMAND,

AND THE VARIOUS EXCUSES RESULTANT OF SUCH

l

oSave me from myself!? she cried,
her thin arms reaching upward,
waving in the wind.

With her head tilted slightly backward,
she could see that pale blue
plane just on the horizon.

Once she came blazing through the door,
slapped your face and left
a trail of dirt behind her.

il

ITm a poet possessed,

still telling myself,

oStop the writing nonsense.

You must give up
the desire to transcribe
every idea.

Put down that
pad and pen
right now.

Put them down.
Put them down.

You've got to drop
this obnoxious addiction.

No. It is not okay.

No one gives a shit
about the syllabics in that
line besides you, anyway.?

Hl

When subjected to people for extended
periods of time with no respite,

| become somewhat paranoid.

IV

| try to see poetics in everything.
At times | may articulate

ideas quite clearly,

at other times

! cannot.

Is this going to be
one of those times?

With you, Ph.D.Ts,
it always seems to be
one of those times.

V

Alas, my tire was slashed

on the wheel with lug nuts too tight.
So itTs been rather difficult
completing my tasks.

And since the sidewalks
are covered with ice,

my boots stumble through
another impediment,

snow, towards school.

LYNNE RUPP

SPRING-FALL 115






116 REBEL 1988

Axe Handles
San Francisco: North Point Press, 1983

GAIRY SN Y DER

POET ¢ ACTIVIST * NATURALIST

BY STEVE LOGAN

or Gary Snyder"Beat poet,
activist and naturalist,
schooled in Zen Buddhism

and tempered by a North-
west American and Japanese life-
style"it is autumn. Nearly sixty-
years-old, he continues his quest for
higher understanding, and, in Axe
Handles (San Francisco: North Point

Press, 1983), Snyder reaffirms his no-
tions of the regenerative nature of
the universe, the interpenetration
necessary between man and natural
elements, and the healing capabili-
ties of the sensual world. His legacy
as an original American poet secure,
he continues seeking to link him-
self"without sentimentality"to




the past and to the future through a
concrete confirmation of his present
realities.

Still, in oI:VI:40077,? he laments:

You canTt slow down
progress

And the early morning

" log trucks remind us,
as we think, dream and play
of the world that is carried away

(from oLittle Songs for Gaia?). Here
his frustration with the world is evi-
dent. Yet he reacts, not with rage and
anger, but with a gentle, compassion-
_ ate awareness of one whose spirit has
been enriched, not trampled, by the
journey. His vigor remains intact; his
passion for truth is steadfast. In
oThree Deer One Coyote Running in
the Snow,? he still wants oto study
how that news all got put down.? And
in a section from oLittle Song for
Gaia? he writes:

Look out over

This great world

Where you just might walk
As far as the farthest rim

ThereTs a spring, there

By an oak, on a dry, grass slope,
Drink. Suck deep.

And the world goes on

The world of Gary Snyder will, in-
deed, go on. And the poet wishes the
reader (and his son, Kai) to carry or
his spiritual quest. In the title poem,
for example, the making of the axe
handle becomes a figurative rebirth.
Just as Ezra Pound and Shih-hsiang
Chen were his mentors, Snyder views
future poets"and Kai"as possible
apprentices:

And I see: Pound was an axe,
Chen was an axe, I am an axe
And my son a handle, soon
To be shaping again, model
And tool, craft of culture,
How we go on.

It is this reverence for natureTs
eternal, regenerative presence which
sustains Snyder. Within the natural
world he seeks images which might
elevate the human imagination to un-
attained levels. To harness this poten-

tial, Snyder explains that it is neces-
sary to find the clues which nature
constantly affords us. In o~True
Night,? what begins as a middle-of-
the-night rage at trespassing scaven-
gers (oITm a huge pounding de-
mon/That roars at raccoons"TT), be-
comes a recognition of the poet's
failure to awaken to the reality sur-
rounding him. Nevertheless, he is
comforted in the promise of a new
day:

Fifty years old.
I still spend my time
Screwing nuts down on bolts.

At the shadow pool

Children are sleeping.

And a lover ITve lived with for
years,

True night.

One cannot stay too long awake

In this dark
With the dawn.

To wake each day. To view life as
an oact,? and oexperience,? and nota
oproduct,? is essential to understand-
ing Snyder. As a farmer, logger, truck-
er, et.al., he understands the signifi-
cance of nature:

As the cricketsT soft autumn
hum is to us,
so are we to the trees
as are they
to the rocks and the hills

(from oLittle Songs for GaiaT). Be-
cause human beings are just one part
of nature, it is a logical act when in
the first section of oNets? the poet
literally leaps into the landscape:

after all day scrambling on

the peaks,

a naked bug

with a white body and brown
hair

dives in the water,

Splash!

In turn, Snyder juxtaposes nature's
sanctity with a harsh, uncompromis-
ing Twentieth Century. He writes in
oFishing Catching Nothing off the
Breakwater near the Airport, Naha
Harbor, Okinawa?:

Jet plane outriders"scouts"
Displaying with Soviet pilots
whoTs weak? whoTs strong?

Burning millions of gallons o
kerosene

Screaming along.

Still, modern-day insensitivitie:
aside, Snyder is faithful to the knowl-
edge that the universe is a regenera-
tive body. And in his mock-anthem
oFor All,? the bookTs final entry, he
reveals his doctrine for survival:

I pledge allegiance to the soil

of Turtle Island,
and to the beings who thereon
dwell

one ecosystem

in diversity

under the sun

With joyful interpenetration for
all.

SnyderTs hope is for a greater un-
derstanding, a larger sense of rela-
tionships between people, the plan-
et, and the universe. His mission is to
strike down fear and ignorance so
that new ideas might be more readily
accepted. He doesnTt want us to be
afraid, for instance, if we see (as he
writes in oOld Woman NatureT):

The sweet old woman
calmly gathering firewood in
the moon...
DonTt be shocked
SheTs heating some soup.

These lines are vintage Snyder: the
universe as nurturing, maternal pres-
ence, healing, comforting, and acces-
sible to all. These are the elements
embodied in SnyderTs poetry; and he
wants them to survive even after his
journey has ended.

SPRING-FALL 117






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119














Title
Rebel, 1988
Description
The Rebel was originally published in Fall 1958. The purpose of the magazine was to showcase the artwork and creative writing of the East Carolina University student body. The Rebel is printed with non-state funds. Beginning in the 1990s some volumes included a CD with featured music.
Date
1988
Extent
Local Identifier
UA50.08.30
Permalink
https://digital.lib.ecu.edu/62599
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