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          <addrLine>Joyner Library, East Carolina University</addrLine>
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        <date>2012</date>
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        <p>at Ges een Pace<lb />pee st<lb />" ee<lb />al ae es a<lb />= . ~<lb /><lb />Li RATA +r&gt;<lb />tad LYE 4 7 o&gt;<lb />&amp; Bd i A,<lb /><lb />» he<lb /><lb />""<lb /><lb />esate Sinn i RRC cet enter tam i: cmenatmrmtae. ty<lb /><lb />'<lb />;<lb /><lb />eon ana<lb /><lb />~~<lb /><lb />sem<lb /><lb />iO em<lb /><lb />Se ee eae<lb /><lb />oR OM<lb /><lb />se esac<lb /><lb />Soe RRL em<lb /><lb /></p>
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        <p>= a a<lb />SPSS SSE SS OE ee ans liamaamenas?<lb /><lb />THE REBEL MAGAZINE<lb />VOLUME IX, NUMBER 2 SPRING 1965-1966 EAST CAROLINA COLLEGE<lb />| W. H. AUDEN: a Meeting | 3<lb />| JERRY TILLOTSON Sojourn in Asheville 7<lb />| ANNE W. NELSON The Day the Gypsies Passed By 11<lb />| FRANK TOLAR | Artist | 14<lb />| JOHN JUSTICE At the Inlet 21<lb />| WILLIAM R. TROTTER Excerpt from a novel 25<lb />MARY PASCHAL Alcohol in Russia 30<lb />| DWIGHT W. PEARCE _ ee<lb />| SANFORD PEELE 10<lb />| Poetry<lb />CAROL HALLMAN 20<lb />| AMON LINER ca pe ee :<lb />Contributors and a letter 32 |<lb /><lb />Editor, Thomas Speight<lb /><lb />Associate Editor, James Forsyth :<lb /><lb />Business Manager, Richard Papcun<lb /><lb />Cover art by Frank Tolar<lb /><lb />Published three times a year at East Carolina College,<lb />Box 2486, Greenville, N. C.<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />W. H. AUDEN<lb /><lb />April 3, 1966<lb />St. Marks Place<lb />New York<lb /><lb />James Forsyth<lb />Sanford Peele<lb />Thomas Speight<lb /></p>
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          <lb />W.H. AUDEN: A MEETING<lb /><lb />:<lb /><lb />Pa Dat quite pleasant. It was not exactly pro-<lb />Selo Ive. After we had hastily introduced our-<lb />disieens: we were shown into his six-months-a-year<lb />oTy tment. He spends half the year in England.<lb />des 4 more civilized landscape.? Stephen Spen-<lb /><lb />ee remarked, around 1953, that AudenTs rooms<lb />ig B. perpetual-student quality about them. It<lb /><lb />as oa the lights are not bright. The apartment<lb />and quiet, dusty windows, marble fireplaces, books,<lb />oun tables covered with papers. We presently<lb />i, ourselves seated, and telling him about<lb />li t people we had met. We lit cigarettes, he<lb /><lb />another. Throughout our visit, Mr. Auden<lb /><lb />was polite, listened carefully, and smiled at jokes.<lb />He spoke rapidly except when making a special<lb />point, and the rapidity, with his accent and vo-<lb />cabulary, made him somewhat difficult to hear.<lb />The impression was that he said exactly what<lb />he wanted to.<lb /><lb />Sanford opened, more or less, by asking him<lb />about his translations of the Russian poet Andrei<lb />Voznesensky, which had just appeared in The<lb />New York Review. He replied that the feeling<lb />of the words was usually lost, but the inter-<lb />nationality of smile and metaphor in these poems<lb />made them translatable. Jim asked what he<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />W. H. Auden: a Meeting<lb /><lb />thought of The New York Review. Auden had<lb />already told the editors he thought they printed<lb />too many unfavorable reviews. Bad books should<lb />not be reviewed. They only provide an oppor-<lb />tunity for cleverness or the expounding of the<lb />criticTs personal theories. There are too many<lb />critics who find it unfortunate and regrettable<lb />that there must be a poem before there can be<lb />criticism. A sympathetic reviewer will be much<lb />more critical because he is interested in the work.<lb />Bad books will die without being attacked; at<lb />worst, they will only be replaced by the next gen-<lb />eration of bad books. What should be attacked is<lb />false information and corruption of the language.<lb />Sanford offered that the review in the same per-<lb />iodical of the memoirs by PicassoTs ex-mistress<lb />was unfair. Auden agreed that the reviewer<lb />could hardly have known enough to completely<lb />support what he said; he would have had to have<lb />been a familiar of the mistress or Picasso. But<lb />the book was suspect anyway; it looked as though<lb />she had published it for the money. He added<lb />that the idea is widespread that there is an es-<lb />sential relation between an artistTs life and his<lb />work. He was only interested in the work. The<lb />relation is either so clear as to be obvious or so<lb />complex it would be hopeless to unravel; either<lb />way there is just nothing to say, and no point in<lb />saying it. Some poets, but not the majority, had<lb />led interesting lives, Byron for instance; ByronTs<lb />life would make no less interesting reading had<lb />he never written a line. There are as many in-<lb />terpretations as readers of a poem; completed, a<lb />poem is a verbal object, he said; if a reading of<lb />a poem is biographically incorrect, it may be still<lb />valid for the reader. He wrote, in The DyerTs<lb />Hand, a group of essays, that the reverse is true<lb />for the poet: his poem must be biographically<lb />valid, true to himself, oin his own handwriting.?<lb /><lb />Jim asked him what he was working on now,<lb />and apologized for the standardness of the ques-<lb />tion. Auden said he was very superstitious about<lb />work he hadnTt completed. He could easily talk<lb />it away before it got written. There was a con-<lb />siderable silence. I confessed that we really didnTt<lb />have any specific questions to ask him. I said<lb />he might consider this as sort of a social call.<lb />oWell, ask me some social questions.? I asked if<lb />he answered scholarly questions about his work,<lb />since I had noticed the author of a book on his<lb />poetry had expressed indebtedness for some in-<lb />terviews. He said he answered questions about<lb />local references, metaphors and place names a<lb /><lb />general reader might not know, and about points<lb />of fact. I asked what was the proper business of<lb />literary scholars. He said that what critics could<lb />do for him was: (1) Introduce me to authors or<lb />works of which I was unaware. (2) Convince me<lb />that I have undervalued an author or a work be-<lb />cause I had not read them carefully enough. (3)<lb />Show me relations between works of different<lb />ages and cultures which I could never have seen<lb />for myself because I donTt know enough and<lb />never shall. (4) Give a reading of a work which<lb />increases my understanding of it. (5) Throw<lb />light upon the process of artistic making. (6)<lb />Throw light upon the relation of art to life, to<lb />science, economics, ethics, religion, and so forth.<lb />While speaking, he counted these six points off<lb />on his fingers. He listed them probably verbatim<lb />from The DyerTs Hand, published in 1948, as we<lb />found later.<lb /><lb />We sat still. Jim asked if he ever read on any<lb />of the poetry circuits. He said he did, but not<lb />often; it was slightly dangerous. He thought it<lb />best for a writer to support himself in some em-<lb />ployment where it was not necessary to man-<lb />ipulate words. Of those jobs which did use lan-<lb />guage skill, translating, lecturing, and reviewing,<lb />translating was the least dangerous. He lectured<lb />and reviewed when he needed money. He hoped<lb />it came out well; he did as good a job as possible,<lb />but he only did it when he needed money. He<lb />said that now he was pretty well set up until<lb />Spring, 1967.<lb /><lb />Noticing an anthology of Blake on the coffee-<lb />table, I asked him how he liked Blake. He said<lb />that he found the Prophetic Books unreadable,<lb />but that Blake had written some very nice things.<lb />Jim mentioned that Mr. Auden had said in an<lb />essay, oAmerican Poetry,? that Blake was not<lb />particularly English. Auden explained that<lb />BlakeTs language and ideas were sufficiently gen-<lb />eral that he could have occurred at almost any ©<lb />place and time. |<lb /><lb />Jim asked if he had any opinions on Lawrence |<lb />Durrell. oYes.T?T When we had absorbed that:<lb />oHis brother writes very well. He has written<lb />some nice books about animals.? Sanford smiled,<lb />and spread his arms on the back of his chair. |<lb /><lb />Then Sanford said that he admired oIn Mem- |<lb />ory of W. B. Yeats.? Auden replied that he had |<lb />said what he had wanted to say in that poem, |<lb />but that he was unsatisfied with the rhetoric. He "<lb />now thought that there was too much of an ele- |<lb />giac tone, and it tended to overshadow the con- "<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />tent; oIt was too loud.?<lb /><lb />Auden has written allegorical poetry, plays,<lb />and combinations of prose and poetry. His essays<lb />are as much philosophical as literary in intent.<lb />He has collaborated with Benjamin Britten, and<lb />he is now collaborating with Stravinsky on an<lb />Opera. The day after we saw him, he gave a<lb />lecture on the role of the poet as lyricist or libret-<lb />tist. His contemporaries remember him as a<lb />leader at Oxford in wit and thought. Carlo Izzo<lb />Could not shake off a sense of puzzlement when<lb />he met Auden.<lb /><lb />We had gotten around, vaguely for our part,<lb />to questions of technique, and the difference in<lb /><lb />W. H. Auden: a Meeting<lb /><lb />that sense between British and American poetry,<lb />and what was going to happen to poetry in a tech-<lb />nical way. Sanford remarked that so many of<lb />the younger poets didnTt seem to have much<lb />knowledge of technical things. Auden said there<lb />had been a loss of facility and few people knew<lb />exactly what they were doing. He said that we<lb />all started in the same way, playing with words.<lb />Anyone who doesnTt know all about technical de-<lb />vices in poetry, how hany there are, and in how<lb />many ways they can be manipulated, doesnTt<lb />know what fun he is missing. oSomeone who<lb />asks me about dactyls and bacchics is interested<lb />in pretty much the same things that I am.?<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />"~"- SS<lb /><lb />ee ee ee ee ee.<lb /><lb />VIGIL<lb /><lb />I sat quiet by his bed<lb /><lb />not keeping a vigil<lb /><lb />for his sickness was not of importance,<lb />not one you could caption<lb /><lb />or read<lb /><lb />or even say casually in conversation<lb />of the pain immediate to him<lb /><lb />who felt the sensation upturned.<lb /><lb />I sat quiet by his bed,<lb /><lb />filled the room<lb /><lb />with small thoughts<lb /><lb />of swinging across creeks<lb /><lb />(children do this<lb /><lb />when time and books<lb /><lb />permit or escape them.)<lb /><lb />of small boys writing red on themselves<lb />since crows fly swiftly toward<lb /><lb />a red bandana.<lb /><lb />He would not die, I knew,<lb /><lb />and I suspect he had sensed<lb /><lb />that time had not lapsed<lb /><lb />to macabre this and that,<lb /><lb />but urgency was present,<lb /><lb />a sense of touch proportioned<lb /><lb />out of place so keen<lb /><lb />was the sound of sighs<lb /><lb />breaking loud the stillness.<lb /><lb />DWIGHT W. PEARCE<lb /></p>
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          <lb />SOJOURN IN ASHEVILLE<lb /><lb />JERRY TILLOTSON<lb /><lb />The city crowns the mountain like a tiara of<lb />ancient jewels. By day, the jewels turn into<lb />8ray buildings that become part of the leaden<lb />Clouds, snows, and winds. In the night, the city<lb />becomes a tiara again, glittering with flashes of<lb />Silver, dashed with slurs of crimson, green, and<lb />yellow. The city and mountain are happy; they<lb />have joined the sky.<lb /><lb />* * * *<lb /><lb />I became part of Asheville two months ago.<lb />It may have been centuries because my spirit<lb />feels withered with living and age. I was a stran-<lb />Ser when I came here, but the city wrapped me<lb />into a gray coverlet of anonymity which protect-<lb />?,?d me against loneliness. There were other so-<lb />JOurners here with me, before the snow began,<lb />Who walked the blue-shadowed sidewalks.<lb /><lb />Solitary and quiet, we were often seen sil-<lb />houetted against the huge sweep of cloudy sky<lb />that hangs over Pack Square. There is a half-<lb />hidden alley along the avenue which ends on a<lb />Steep hill. You think the sky is an ocean there,<lb />4nd you want to dive straight ahead.<lb /><lb />You would have recognized us by the ex-<lb />Pressions on our faces: quiet and faraway. Our<lb />Voices in Tingles Cafe or the library were low<lb />4nd rumbled together indistinctly. The intona-<lb />tions of our vocal cacophony reminded one poet<lb />of the school of stories told by winterTs wind in<lb />°rchards; or of the apple and pumpkin scents<lb /><lb />wafted on autumn twilights. The little green<lb />radio shrieks: o... and we repeat, this will be the<lb />last evacuation warning. Attention all Asheville<lb />residents: you are asked to evacuate immediately.<lb />Emergency vehicles are located at Pack Square.<lb />The blizzard is expected to grow worse, cutting<lb />off all food supplies and heating systems by to-<lb />morrow morning. Death-tolls thus far are esti-<lb />mated... ?<lb /><lb />Michael, Cherokee. Perhaps they too came<lb />to the mountain unbidden, but they had built<lb />their own walls of granite, grown their own roots<lb />of blue laurel, long ago.<lb /><lb />1<lb />o.. Asheboro ... Black Mountain ... Ashe-<lb />ville...T Mr. Bean roared these words out in his<lb /><lb />most sonorous tone; most of his breath was<lb />wasted since I was the only person in the little<lb />storage room of his grocery store. I was out the<lb />door before he had finished with o. . . ville.?<lb /><lb />The bus chugged deliciously as I slithered<lb />through the narrow doors and into a seat in the<lb />extreme back. While the driver looked rather<lb />stupidly at my crumpled ticket, and the two other<lb />occupants drifted back into their snooze, I looked<lb />through the window to see what the last sight of<lb />Blue Rock would be.<lb /><lb />A storm was in the air, winds blew remnants<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />Sojourn in Asheville<lb /><lb />of paper and whirls of gravel against the un-<lb />painted structure called oBeanTs Produce Gas and<lb />Notions.? Across its only and broken window<lb />was a poster nearly as old as the event it ad-<lb />vertised: Blue Rock Centennial: Sept. 2. Yes the<lb />the biggest little town in North Carolina will cele-<lb />brate its birthday on this date and included will<lb />be a greasy pig chase, a cake walk, and a woman-<lb />less wedding. Everybody come. Sincerely, Craw-<lb />ford Bean, Blue Rock Mayor. Blue Rock...a<lb />name lost on the map between Greensboro and<lb />Raleigh. For me, a cradle and a grave, a birth<lb />and a death.<lb /><lb />Salisbury was our only stop. The station<lb />felt cool and moist from the heavy rain and winds<lb />that followed the bus from Blue Rock. Gold lights<lb />were lit in the station, burnishing everything<lb />into muted visibility.<lb /><lb />oHey Judy, give me a suggestion for some-<lb />thing to eat,? the bus driver asked the fat wait-<lb />ress.<lb /><lb />Judy leaned against the counter, her plump<lb />breasts perilously close to the bus driverTs coffee<lb />cup.<lb /><lb />oWhy, Bill, our Heavenly Patties are so<lb />good,? she cried, her face becoming red from ex-<lb />citement, her coyness disappearing behind the<lb />counter.<lb /><lb />oLet me tell you how we make them,? she<lb />began. A tiny spot of saliva glowed at the cor-<lb />ner of her mouth.<lb /><lb />oFirst we take tiny pieces of onion and<lb />spread them on the meat pattie, which is cooked<lb />all the way through,? she gasped out. oThen we<lb />put mayonaise and mustard and pickle on. Sounds<lb />good, huh??<lb /><lb />Her breasts heaved from this recital. She<lb />glanced hungrily at the hamburgers simmering<lb />on the grill.<lb /><lb />The driver said with a note of fright in his<lb />voice, oITll take .. . two.?<lb /><lb />oYou want two Heavenly Patties, donTt you,?<lb />Judy grinned. oWeTre the only bus station diner<lb />that has Heavenly Patties.?<lb /><lb />The bus was empty when I returned. The<lb />two sleeping passengers had drifted away, and<lb />now there was a little crowd at the door of the<lb />buss. Through an open window I could feel the<lb />autumn air become metallic with cold. The driver<lb />crept back into his seat with a sigh. He opened<lb />the door and the few people stumbled along the<lb />aisle. There was a plump woman in a soft, blue<lb />wool coat; in the dark " overhead lights " her<lb /><lb />coat looked as warm as a gas light in autumn,<lb />not cold and stiff like the sky. A thin, crew-cut<lb />boy followed her sleepily, and slipped into a<lb />front seat. His lips were pursed in an invisible<lb />whistle. The woman waddled unhurredly toward<lb />me.<lb /><lb />oHoney, you donTt mind if I sit with you, do<lb />you?? she dazzled a smile. oI hate to sit alone<lb />on these long trips up the mountains.?<lb /><lb />She collapsed into the seat next to me, waft-<lb />ing a collage of juicy-fruit gum and strong per-<lb />fume along with her. The paper bag she placed<lb />in her lap emanated delicious meaty scents.<lb /><lb />oWell, let me introduce myself. ITm Katie<lb />Shackleford ... and you must be a college girl.?<lb /><lb />I told her of getting a scholarship to Buckner<lb />Institute in Asheville and how "<lb /><lb />oOh,? she interrupted, o~youTll simply love ©<lb />Buckner. I had a niece to go there and she just<lb />loved it. SheTs got a good job with the Welfare<lb />Department in Kenansville . . . and where will<lb />you stay there, honey?? she asked curiously.<lb /><lb />oWell, itTs at the Mountain Hotel; my father<lb />once stayed there years ago and became friends<lb />with the owner, and the owner is letting me stay<lb />there for a real nice price, twenty dollars a<lb />month.?T<lb /><lb />A look of distaste crossed her baby-face when<lb />I said ~~Mountain Hotel.?<lb /><lb />oHow long was it since your father stayed<lb />there, honey?? She raised her eyebrows in an<lb />effort to tell me something.<lb /><lb />oTen years and theyTve got my room ready<lb />and everything. The Dean of Women says itTs<lb />a nice, respectable place and several more girls<lb />will be living there.?<lb /><lb />She stared at me incredulously and mur-<lb />mured, oWell, I suppose youTll like it.?<lb /><lb />She told me of her little cottage in Biltmore;<lb />how every morning she would have to fix a big<lb />pan of biscuits and a large breakfast for her hus-<lb />band, Roy; and how she loved to catch the Bilt-<lb />more-Caledonia bus every Thursday morning and<lb />go into town.<lb /><lb />oOh, youTll simply love Asheville. ITve lived<lb />there for ever so long, I got tired of other places;<lb />but not Asheville. You have to be careful, honey,?<lb />she added with a sudden low voice, oDonTt ever let<lb />it catch you; it can make you never want to leave<lb />it, even for a little while. The wind beat against<lb />the windows in a way I had never heard before.<lb />oThatTs the winter wind,? Katie said in a voice "<lb />that reminded me of mountains. oIt always ©<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />Starts around September, and it blows all the<lb />time.?<lb /><lb />She opened the delicious-smelling bag on<lb /><lb />her lap. oHere, honey, I canTt possibly eat all<lb />of this.? She handed her a bundle wrapped in<lb />Wax paper. oMy sister Bessie worked in that<lb /><lb />Salisbury bus station. She always fixes me with<lb />an outrageous supper every time I go to see her.?<lb />The wailing wind seemed friendlier now that I<lb />Munched on the chicken and felt warm potato<lb />Salad inside.<lb />I knew we were reaching the city when I saw<lb />Speckles of silver light blinking below us on the<lb />left. oWe'll soon be there, honey,? Katie said,<lb />between mouthfuls of chicken. We passed through<lb />Tavines of rock and timber; travelled up sheer<lb />drops of asphalt headed toward the stars which<lb />Shadowed all the mountain world I was en-<lb />tering. The crew-cut boy was asleep, his head<lb />lolling faintly as the bus turned the corners. The<lb />driver hunched over his wheel, lifeless and black,<lb />like g mannequin. As we entered the outskirts<lb />of the city, we passed a closed filling station and<lb />an all-night hamburger stand, then more and<lb />More buildings, houses, bridges; the streamlined<lb />Clover-leaf intersections, the radio towers, and<lb />the peaks of buildings. oWe're here, honey,?<lb />Said Katie, her lips glittering from chicken grease<lb />the moonlight.<lb />oTaxi, Miss,? a voice called from one of the<lb />yellow cabs. The wind was bone-touching, blow-<lb />ing my skirt against my knees, blowing away the<lb />Sight of Katie as she got into her cab with a<lb />Wave of her hand. The driver of my cab was<lb />Scrawny and talked with a voice that sounded<lb />ike the wind.<lb />__ oNah, the Mountain Hotel isnTt a bad place,<lb />\tTs had better days,? he whined. The cab sped<lb />along dark avenues, shapeless stores and build-<lb />gs. I could see nothing. I was shivering from<lb />herves. oHere we are,? the driver said hollowly.<lb /><lb />hrough the darkness I could see a pale doorway.<lb /><lb />oCan I help you, Miss?? My nervousness in-<lb />Creased as I stood before the counter facing what<lb />Tesembled a living male-ghost. He was slender<lb />and fragile, but not delicate. There was nothing<lb />*ffeminate in his figure.<lb /><lb />_ oYes, we certainly do have your reserva-<lb />tion.? His voice was hollow, reminding me of<lb />the noise I heard in seashells at the beach.<lb /><lb />oYou look tired. The trip must have worn<lb /><lb />Jerry Tillotson<lb /><lb />you out.? His eyes were dead, like two marbles.<lb />There was something very attractive and re-<lb />pulsive about him.<lb /><lb />oIf you'll follow me, I'll show you to your<lb />room.? When he lifted my suitcase, I forgot the<lb />slenderness of his body and thought how much<lb />it reminded me of a tree.<lb /><lb />oYou will be the only one on the fourth floor<lb />for some time. The other girls who were to live<lb />here changed their minds.? His voice was like<lb />the telephone recording, yet I could hear a par-<lb />ticle of feeling in it, intense to the point of<lb />hysteria.<lb /><lb />The elevator smelled of mothballs and dis-<lb />infectant. He stood, not visibly breathing, be-<lb />fore the elevator buttons. We stepped into a<lb />long, silent hall. The wind could be heard creak-<lb />ing and snapping at things in the rooms.<lb /><lb />oIf you get frightened here or should want<lb />anything, just push the button here by the bed.?<lb />With the air of having done it many times before,<lb />he opened the bathroom door, turned on some<lb />more lights and then faced me.<lb /><lb />oThe janitor lives here on this floor, so you<lb />wonTt be completely alone,? he said.<lb /><lb />oOh, what ... type of man is he?? I asked,<lb />feeling ridiculous.<lb /><lb />oDonTt worry,T the young man said with a<lb />trembling of his lips, oI wonTt harm you. ITm the<lb />janitor, Michael. Some people call me Mike, but<lb />I hate that.?<lb /><lb />He walked toward the door. Half-way<lb />through he stopped. oOh, your luggage will be<lb />here tomorrow morning; itTs in Statesville now.?<lb />I didnTt hear him walk away because of the car-<lb />peting. Something told me that he stood in front<lb />of my door for a long time.<lb /><lb />My room looked as though it was what my<lb />father must have seen when he passed through<lb />ten years before. It had samplings of all the<lb />worst in dime-store millinery, furniture, and pic-<lb />tures. Cheap cotton curtains hung stiffly over<lb />the windows, not stiff with starch but with dust.<lb />The cardboard pictures flanking the mirror were<lb />bad, early twentieth century memorabilia. One<lb />was of a young flapper sitting on a knoll over-<lb />looking the ocean, the other was of Jean Harlow,<lb />heavily retouched. The bed looked sound enough,<lb />and when I sat on the edge, the other side raised<lb />in the air like a swan.<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />BORN 1891<lb /><lb />For her who gave up most utterly<lb />Everything to God, because at sixty<lb /><lb />She had had all else worth having,<lb /><lb />Praise be " the voices in the Myrtle<lb />Heard her bloodTs bargin and though one<lb />Yellowed eye observed her burnished cock<lb />Astride a little hen like rippled water,<lb /><lb />She could pray whole mouthfulls of prayer<lb />And set the rigid sinews of her black neck<lb />Against a margin of desire worn back "<lb />A time of rodent and October sun<lb /><lb />Busy and communal among the fallen corn.<lb /><lb />At this heart of darkness, richer than<lb /><lb />Black paint she wore, believing color<lb /><lb />Hid a color made colorless by love "<lb />Transparent as the vengence she would<lb /><lb />Not revive, though driven like sweet<lb />Water upward and alive singing suffer<lb /><lb />For your patch of black " she saw, that<lb />To have been born thus and scratch<lb />Yourself for difference and see beneath<lb /><lb />A swirl of gentle hair laid bare<lb /><lb />The rose red infinitesimal corridors of grief,<lb />Is home " where pigs root among the sour<lb />Remains of summer " and all small<lb />Satisfaction must be heartTs glazed hazelnut,<lb />The green thing pulled toward golding.<lb /><lb />POEM FOR CELEY MOSS, NEGRO<lb /><lb />SANFORD L. PEELE<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />SHORT STORY<lb /><lb />THE DAY THE GYPSIES PASSED BY<lb /><lb />ANNE W. NELSON<lb /><lb />_ The day the gypsies came they were playing<lb />' the yard with the silver cardboard swords that<lb />ad been in the back of the linen closet since<lb />alloween. They had forgotten about them until<lb />nnie had found them that morning and sent<lb />£m out to play where it was cool in the yard<lb />Under the trees. The cardboard had begun to<lb />Shred with the heavy metallic paint flaking off<lb />ke thick fish scales when Minnie came out on<lb />© porch and called them, her gold brown Negro<lb />Voice Shaking deep in her throat until it pierced<lb />?,? shadowy quiet beneath the trees with an ur-<lb />Sent, white toned shrillness.<lb />rom where she made them stand on the porch,<lb />©Y watched the caravan come nearer and near-<lb />haa along the road. The wagons seemed not to move<lb />'N the bright sunlight, but to enlarge through<lb />Some trick of the sun and heat until they were<lb />Suddenly near enough that the slow sounds of<lb />© wagon wheels turning through the powdery<lb />outs of the road became a part of the swish the<lb />Teeze made through the trees in the yard.<lb />g innie tried to get them to go into the house.<lb />he tried to pull them with the strength of her<lb />ark fear. They knew she silently urged them<lb />th 80 in. Her effort was obvious to them through<lb />© Violent strain her fright smote the air with.<lb /><lb />ut her horror they could ignore; their excite-<lb />Ment rendered them immune. They clung to the<lb />mystery of the bleak caravan until their imagina-<lb />~Ons pulsed with a spectacle-saving colour that<lb /><lb />endowed the meager stumbling parade with the<lb />circus-like majesty of brilliant pace. And finally<lb />they swooped with the thrill of having seen the<lb />unknown. They stood on the porch and screamed<lb />a unanimous salute of joyous welcome to the<lb />brief vision that passed in careless splendor along<lb />the dusty road past the house.<lb /><lb />There they all stood next to the white woven<lb />gingerbread of the porch railing until Minnie<lb />enviously crumbled into quivering shards of<lb />thrill and darted mumbling with relief back into<lb />the safety of the house from which they heard<lb />her in a loud, skittering voice boast of the dan-<lb />gerous witness she had made. Knowingly, they<lb />flowed back into the yard, made into a docile one-<lb />ness by their bold confrontation.<lb /><lb />It was more fun to play pirate now with the<lb />gypsies just gone by, far better than it had been<lb />earlier. Their daring took on new force. And<lb />Mathew learned that he could quite easily sail<lb />over the porch railing, over the hydrangea and<lb />azalea bushes, into the yard. He had never been<lb />able to jump that far before. But Harvey in-<lb />sisted that he try. And Vernon approached the<lb />suggestion with a new dignity. And Mathew was<lb />not one to stand back in the face of new feats.<lb /><lb />They were wildly practicing jumping from the<lb />porch in a pell-mell unison of limber abandon<lb />when Aunt Lucy came out to say that they must<lb />help catch all the chickens and get them into<lb />coops in case the gypsies came back to steal them<lb /><lb />11<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />The Day the Gypsies Passed By<lb /><lb />that night. So they took the limp swords and<lb />went to the back yard to round up the ellusive<lb />chickens. It was hard to catch the chickens,<lb />especially the old speckled rooster who had knife-<lb />sharp talons and kept getting in a corner by the<lb />doorstep and then lunging out when they were<lb />at him with his mean beak stabbing at their legs<lb />and his hateful claws spurring the air when they<lb />reached toward him.<lb /><lb />They got very hot running so much and Vernon<lb />became sick. Aunt Lucy would not believe him<lb />until he vomited in great choking sobs into the<lb />verbena bed where the rooster was making a des-<lb />perate last stand; then she sent him into the<lb />house where Mama made him lie down with a<lb />cool cloth on his head. Mama smelled good. She<lb />smelled like starch and she smelled like rose<lb />water and glycerine. It was very quiet in the<lb />house and very still. But his body kept drifting<lb />and dropping and rising as if he had been swim-<lb />ming for a very long time and the water adhered<lb />to him like a ghost.<lb /><lb />He could hear Aunt Lucy giving directions as<lb />to how the chicken coops should be shut un. And<lb />he could hear Minnie rattling pans in the kitchen.<lb />He could hear Mama rocking in her gooseneck<lb />rocker in the front parlour. He knew that she<lb />was making the button-holes on a new shirt for<lb />Mathew.<lb /><lb />Aunt Lucy had been there as long as he could<lb />remember. She had Mammyed him and Harvey<lb />and Mathew. She had Mammyed Mama too. Aunt<lb />Lucy was very old. She wore white string wrap-<lb />ped in a tight spiral around the little plaits she<lb />kept her hair in. He had seen her do it many<lb />times. But he did not understand how she did<lb />it. She began with a string about a yard long<lb />and when she fininshed it looked as if she had<lb />used many strings. None of the young Negroes<lb />wore their hair like that. Minnie didnTt. She just<lb />wore hers in plaits. Someday he would ask Aunt<lb />Lucy. He could ask her because she was old. He<lb />hoped he would not forget.<lb /><lb />He was still thinking about Aunt LucyTs in-<lb />tricate coiffure when there was a noise at the<lb />window and Mathew pulled himself up into a<lb />precarious crouched position on the window sill.<lb />Mama had told Mathew and Harvey to stay in<lb />_the yard and play while Vernon was sick. Mama<lb />thought he would feel better sooner if he stayed<lb />very still and did not exert himself in the other<lb />boysT wild activity. Vernon was glad to see<lb />Mathew. He wished he did not feel so tired. He<lb /><lb />12<lb /><lb />would have liked to have been friendly to Mathew.<lb />His feeling bad made him need to be nice to<lb />somebody. And it was sometimes quite easy to<lb />nice to Mathew because he was so little and won-<lb />derful with eagerness. But Mama would not like<lb />MathewTs being on the window sill; she would<lb />put them both in trouble.<lb /><lb />oYou better get out of that window before<lb />Mama catches you,? Vernon said. oYou better go<lb />on before she comes in here, Mathew.?<lb /><lb />oTI tell you what,? Mathew said, ojust get out<lb />of the bed and come on out the window. She<lb />ainTt going to come in here no time soon. She<lb />is on the front porch behind the Kate Jazmin tree<lb />looking at everybody go in the store.?<lb /><lb />oWell, I donTt feel good.?<lb /><lb />oThen you might as well come on out here<lb />with us.?<lb /><lb />oT donTt feel too hot. I feel bad. I donTt want<lb /><lb />to put on my clothes. Those stockings itch my<lb />legs horrible.?<lb /><lb />oCome on,? Mathew said. oJust come on out<lb />the window. She ainTt going to know.?<lb /><lb />oShe might,? Vernon said. oAnd you are going<lb />to fall if you stay on that window sill like that.<lb />Why donTt you come on and get in the room??<lb /><lb />oNo, ITm going back out there in a minute.<lb />We've got something out there.?<lb /><lb />oYouTve got on another pair of new stockings,?<lb />Vernon said.<lb /><lb />oPapa didnTt see me get them. I went around<lb />the counter and hid until there were a lot of peo-<lb />ple in the store. Then I got them.?<lb /><lb />oMama is going to find out about this after. a<lb />while,? Vernon said. oShe is going to find out.?<lb /><lb />oT ainTt scared of her. SheTll just beat me.?<lb /><lb />oThat wall is going to be full after a while if<lb />you keep cramming them in that hole. That whole<lb /><lb />wall is going to be full of stockings.?<lb /><lb />oWell, I am not going to wear them after they<lb />It hurts my feet to wear<lb />them when they have been sewed up,? Mathew<lb /><lb />have been sewed up.<lb /><lb />SA FTN NSO SME PRE INES MR FI CORE ROPS Pe ETAT TARE coe agae ane ee<lb /><lb />eee ise a<lb /><lb />RRR IRE A A<lb /><lb />said. oITm going to keep getting me some new<lb /><lb />ones out of the store.<lb />stockings over there.?<lb /><lb />oThey hurt my feet, too,? Vernon said. oBut<lb />I am afraid something will happen and Mama will<lb />find out that that wall is crammed full of stock-<lb />ings she has darned.?<lb /><lb />oNothing ainTt going to happen. That wall will<lb /><lb />be just like that a hundred years from now. Right<lb />full of stockings that have been sewed with rough<lb />places in them,? Mathew said.<lb /><lb />There are a whole lot of<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />oGet out of that window and come on in here,?T<lb />" said. oCome on in here and stay with<lb /><lb />ag<lb /><lb />oIT got to go back out there with everybody<lb />else,? Mathew said. oWe got something out there.<lb /><lb />© got HarveyTs gun. And Lester is out there<lb />4nd Bud and Al.?<lb /><lb />oThat gun wonTt shoot,? Vernon said. oThe<lb />thing that pumps air is broke on that gun.?<lb /><lb />oYes, it will too,T?T Mathew said. oIt will shoot.<lb />It will shoot a nail. Big Boy fixed it so it will<lb />Shoot a nail.?<lb /><lb />oMama told us not to play with the niggers<lb />T42ymore. DonTt you know Mama will beat you<lb />If she catches you with Big Boy??<lb /><lb />oBig Boy ainTt out there,T Mathew said. oHeTs<lb /><lb />°Wn in the thicket waiting for us.?<lb /><lb />oMama said that Pappa is going to beat us<lb />hisself if he catches us with that air rifle, again,?<lb /><lb />?,?rnon said. oYou all have not been shooting at<lb /><lb />at mule have you??<lb /><lb />oWe ainTt been shooting that mule today,?<lb />Mathew said. oWe just got that gun fixed. Just<lb />While ago,?<lb /><lb />oYou go on,? Vernon said. oI think I am going<lb />to be Sick. I think I am going to vomit again.<lb />Why donTt you come through the room and go out<lb />ike that??<lb /><lb />oAll I got to do is jump,? Mathew said. He<lb />dged around on his heels and dropped to the<lb />Tound. He stood on his tip toes and rested his<lb />chin On the window sill. oAre you sure you donTt<lb />Want to go to the thicket with us, Vernon??<lb /><lb />: ornon did not answer. A fly was buzzing<lb />Sainst the screen on the inside. He wished<lb />athew had not kept the screen open so long.<lb /><lb />th. Wished the fly would see the little crack at<lb />bottom and go back out.<lb /><lb />I tell you what,? Mathew said. oIf you change<lb />your Mind, come on down there where weTre<lb />S°ing to be at. You do that.?<lb />?,? counterpane. The peacocks in the-counter-<lb />Pane, The big birds with the purple and green<lb />oathers, MamaTs Mama made the counterpane.<lb />srnon wondered what Mama would do when she<lb /><lb />a Out that Mathew and Harvey had cut the<lb />ge off that side of the counterpane last night.<lb /><lb />© Side of the counterpane next to the wall; he<lb />ss glad. The purple fringe. Like in the barber<lb /><lb />°p. Except it was fringe. Mathew was the one<lb /><lb />Anne W. Nelson<lb /><lb />who had thought of it. But Harvey cut it off be-<lb />cause he was older. Harvey was oldest of them<lb />all.<lb /><lb />Vernon wished he felt like going to the thicket<lb />with everybody. He wished he did. He liked the<lb />thicket. He liked the Chinaberry trees with the<lb />purple blossoms. And the old bottles and cans<lb />Mama told old Sim to throw in there. He thought<lb />about the dark blue bottles and the broken cups<lb />and the rusty cans. He wondered if goats really<lb />ate tin cans.<lb /><lb />The thicket reminded him of the counterpane.<lb />He thought about the peacocks in the Chinaberry<lb />trees. MamaTs duster made out of peacock feath-<lb />ers was hanging by a string inside the closet<lb />door. The door was open and he could see the<lb />feathers stirring in the heat. He wished he were<lb />in the thicket with the counterpane and the pea-<lb />cocks and Mathew and everybody. The counter-<lb />pane. And the thicket. He was holding a handle<lb />broken from a cup in his hand. A white cup<lb />handle and a little gold mark. He threw it up<lb />through the branches of the Chinaberry trees.<lb />The peacocks began to hum. It was a tune he<lb />did not know.<lb /><lb />oMathew,? the peacocks chorused, oshot that<lb />salesman who just drove up. He shot him with a<lb />nail he had in that air rifle. But he was aiming<lb />at the horse. They made him do it because he<lb />was the littlest. They made him shoot at the<lb />horse and the nail hit the salesman who always<lb />has that free candy in his buggy. Papa is going<lb />to beat Mathew. He is going to beat the others<lb />too. He is going to beat Big Boy.? The other pea-<lb />cocks nodded.<lb /><lb />The thicket felt soft and green. The peacocks<lb />hid in the purple blossoms. Mathew was erying.<lb />A cup handle fell out of one of the Chinaberry<lb />trees. It landed on MathewTs chest. He lay there<lb />crying and his tears were soft in the green thick-<lb />et. The peacocks were whispering quietly. Mama<lb />peered through the Kate Jazmin bush. She waved<lb />and the air was like smoke with the smell of<lb />Kate Jazmins. The wall crumbled like rain run-<lb />ning down a window and MathewTs black stock-<lb />ings quietly slid in an unending surge into the<lb />room and around the bed. Finally the fly went<lb />out of the little crack at the bottom of the win-<lb />dow. The black stockings ignited and the room<lb />burst into a million flames.<lb /><lb />13<lb /><lb />: ore<lb />ania ng a ee<lb /><lb />ne Se a<lb />; Silane ales = "<lb /><lb />Saag NN neem aa<lb /><lb /></p>
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        <p>i:<lb />z<lb /><lb />cae<lb />"<lb />ABE Re ae<lb />: es<lb />eS<lb />es<lb /><lb />Frank Tolar studied with Joe Cox and George<lb />Bireline at the N. C. State School of Design from<lb />1958 to 1962, with Russell Arnold at Atlantic<lb />Christian College in 1962-63, and received a Mas-<lb /><lb />| terTs degree. from East Carolina College in 1963-<lb />64. In 1965, he won the Harrelson Purchase prize<lb />at the North Carolina Museum of Art. He teaches<lb />at A&amp;T College in Greensboro.<lb /><lb />14<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />0<lb /><lb />FRANK TOLAR<lb /><lb />This is a very close commentary. Close to Tolar and close in meaning. -ed.<lb /><lb />ToLar: What am I talking about? [ITm against<lb />all art, in all seriousness against all art. And<lb />m trying to be serious about it, too. In a world<lb />ull of fools and artists, which is my world, ITm<lb />Tying to destroy the principles, the elements, the<lb />oesthetics, and the disciplines and the mores."<lb />?"?M trying to destroy all that and develop a new<lb />art form which is not based on any of the old<lb />nes, and I fully believe it can be done. There<lb />are too many panty-waists involved in it for my<lb /><lb />Ste. What ITm saying it that a new art form is<lb /><lb />in need of being developed, and I mean an art<lb />form which is completely negative to all the es-<lb />tablished, accepted principles of beauty, love,<lb />sweetness, hate, devotion, etcetera. ITm saying<lb />an art has got to be developed that destroys all<lb />these concepts and yet remains art. And since,<lb />of course, the only means right now I have of<lb />judging art are by the things ITve just been put-<lb />ting down " ah " ITm having a bit of a time.<lb />However, I see progress " progress. It is rough,<lb />ITll agree. ItTs one of those problems which ITve<lb /><lb />15<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />Frank Tolar<lb /><lb />got to face, as an artist, whatever that is, you<lb />see; the very essence of what I want to do will<lb />destroy my being an artist. Yes, I know it sounds<lb />funny, but to me itTs a very valid thing. To me<lb />itTs the problem ITve set; itTs not one of space,<lb />time, form, function, or anything else, but simply<lb />my own problem.<lb /><lb />INTERVIEWER: Well, it just contradicts itself,<lb />thereTs no solution.<lb /><lb />TOLAR: Oh no, no. The very essence of the con-<lb />tradiction you spoke of is the solution, that there<lb />is an art form someplace " and I donTt know<lb />where yet " but thereTs an art form which I<lb />plan to find which will destroy even the essence<lb />of contradiction. It will be an art form which<lb />is neither yes or no, but simply 7s, for a moment<lb />in time, and it doesnTt have to exist forever like<lb />the classical art forms do. ItTs the kind of art<lb />which you can plug in or turn on and off, or you<lb />can get it in a box and mix with water and itTll<lb />dissolve. Sort of like TingleuyTs sculpture that<lb />blew itself up in the Museum of Modern Art gar-<lb />den and "<lb /><lb />INTERVIEWER: Actually, the trouble was that the<lb />thing didnTt completely destroy itself.<lb /><lb />TOLAR: Yes, I know. There was metal left.<lb />INTERVIEWER: No, it wasnTt that; it didnTt really<lb />work.<lb /><lb />TOLAR: ThatTs not the artistTs fault, itTs the en-<lb />gineerTs fault.<lb /><lb />INTERVIEWER: Yes, but the New York Fire De-<lb />partment had to come around and put it out.<lb />TOLAR: Well, this is good; it was a happening,<lb />then. Want me to tell you about happenings? I<lb />think happenings are the next form of art, after<lb />Top. WeTve had Op, Pop. Top Art " topograph-<lb />ical art. Quit laughing.<lb /><lb />INTERVIEWER: ThatTs a one-piece bikini.<lb /><lb />TOLAR: There you go " a topless art. Form<lb />with no art. All right Larry, all right. It think<lb />itTs more fun to shoot a game of pool anyway.<lb />INTERVIEWER: The most obvious question is, are<lb />these assemblages any step in the direction you<lb />were just talking about?<lb /><lb />TOLAR: Yes.<lb /><lb />INTERVIEWER: All right, how? Any casual ob-<lb />server looking at it would see elements of paint-<lb />ing and sculpture.<lb /><lb />TOLAR: ITll say this much: I have discovered for<lb />my own personal ends, now mind you, not for<lb />anybody elseTs, artists or otherwise, that to do a<lb />good painting or a good sculpture is an art com-<lb />parable to craftsmanship " now theyTll bomb my<lb /><lb />16<lb /><lb />"""""___" &gt;<lb /><lb />house, with eggs. But ITm far enough along that<lb />I can knock out a good painting or a good piece of<lb />sculpture without any effort. ItTs a craft, itTs like<lb />playing Bach. I mean itTs already been said, all<lb />ITm doing is just mouthing the words. But what<lb />ITm searching for, as I said before, is a non-art,<lb />and these assemblages, as you can probably tell,<lb />while they certainly work painterly and they work<lb />spatially, have something else in them, and this<lb />something else is what ITm going to control pretty<lb />soon. ITm going to get to the place where this<lb />something else will be so strong that you won't<lb />even be able to see the elements of painting and<lb />sculpture. ItTs a long road, but this is the prob-<lb />lem.<lb /><lb />ITve got a classic thing, by the way, when |<lb />start a beginning painting class. Beginning stu-<lb />dents have this fear of a canvas, you know, itTs<lb />sort of natural-born. Always I'll wait until they<lb />start, and they just stand there wondering what<lb />to do, and I'll walk up and get a large " a number<lb />20 or so " Grumbacher flat bristle, load it up<lb />with paint, and I mean real greasy black, and<lb />ITll say, ~Now look at the beautiful virgin canvas<lb />here, so pure, so unadulterated " look how boring<lb />and plain and sterile it is!T Then ITll just crucify<lb />it with black paint and say, ~I just raped it, but<lb />now itTs interesting because it has a story to tell.T<lb />And their eyes get big because they hear the<lb />word ~rape. ITm also very much against art<lb />teachers " including myself.<lb /><lb />INTERVIEWER: Here we go again.<lb /><lb />TOLAR: As I said, the ideal student-teacher re-<lb />lationship would be completely negative. We<lb />wouldnTt even be there. However, we live in 4<lb />competitive society and we have to have degrees;<lb />and a great deal can be learned from artists by<lb />working with them, listening to them.<lb /><lb />The important thing has been for me to find<lb />a means of capturing time. That sounds so fa-<lb />cetious " itTs not really. But itTs what ITve bee?<lb />trying to do I guess for the past two years. And<lb />I donTt mean to freeze it in space as much as J<lb />mean to establish it; to say: this happened, i§<lb />happening, will happen."and I donTt want to re-<lb />cord it for posterity. I just want to freeze it right<lb />where it happened. Now the boxes " itTs partly<lb />psychological, itTs like peeping through a key-<lb /><lb />. hole, you know, and seeing something " it is0o-<lb /><lb />lates the viewer. In fact, I imagine that I wil<lb />evolve very soon to a peep-hole sort of box where<lb />only one person can see at a time, and what they<lb />see will be their own. It wonTt be the kind of<lb /><lb /></p>
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        <p>\Ww } scm exe<lb /><lb />Tr<lb /><lb />thing where you can go oooh-ahh, how great!?<lb />and share it with some little mink-coated friend,<lb />Which is about all that happens at these art open-<lb />gs anyway. But I feel as though ITm on the<lb />verge of a very big thing, something which is<lb />80ing to be tremendously innovative and vety<lb />Meaningful to me. Now whether it is to the<lb />World or not, I donTt givea....<lb /><lb />INTERVIEWER: I donTt mean to get technical about<lb />this, but in the sense of an impressionist tech-<lb />hique " you do certain things to get certain ef-<lb />fects. :<lb />ToLar: Well, to a degree. I use the shadow-box<lb />effect to get this key-hole thing I was talking<lb />about, and with the four sides I compress space,<lb />4nd thereTs a certain crispness "<lb /><lb />NTERVIEWER: I was wondering if there were any<lb />?,?chnical gimmicks which were directly related<lb />0 time.<lb /><lb />SOLAR: This is essentially what youTre asking "<lb />What does red represent, what does space repre-<lb />Sent, what do I use to represent time? The fact<lb /><lb />at as you look at it, you were just looking at it.<lb /><lb />Night Flight<lb /><lb />INTERVIEWER: If youTll untangle that...<lb />TOLAR: ThatTs what makes the boxes interesting.<lb />INTERVIEWER: Yes, but what about time? Sure,<lb />objects exist in space, but still I donTt see any<lb />way of "<lb /><lb />TOLAR: What do you mean, oexist in space?? I<lb />find emotions existing in space.<lb /><lb />INTERVIEWER: Have you been taking LSD lately ?<lb />TOLAR: No, the time thing ITm talking about "<lb />ITm after something so real that it just happened.<lb />I mean ITm after something you just saw, you<lb />just lived, you just felt. And ~just,T I donTt know.<lb />A minute ago, a year ago " it doesnTt matter.<lb />INTERVIEWER: OK.<lb /><lb />TOLAR: Have you heard of deja vu? This is the<lb />sensation of having done something before. And<lb />it doesnTt have to be something you personally<lb />did before, but it has to make you feel that way.<lb />You want a damn technical gimmick " deja vu.<lb />ThatTs my boxes, deja vu. OK, there you have the<lb />secret. ITm the only artist in the world right now,<lb />alive, doing something called deja vu. Yes, this<lb />is worth your time.<lb /><lb />17<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />nana its Sc A a za : a<lb /><lb />scsi antabuse tinal esse<lb /><lb />KeplerTs Revenge<lb /><lb />18<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />mean ntes aera<lb /><lb />a<lb /><lb />ns<lb /><lb />""<lb /><lb />SO ici eae<lb /><lb />The Voyage<lb /><lb />19<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />20<lb /><lb />THE GLACIAL AIR OF WINTER<lb /><lb />The glacial air of winter<lb /><lb />Knifes my brain and like a thief<lb />Steals my breath while I skim the<lb />Sea of leaves below the sky,<lb />Whose flaming candle at once<lb />Bursts into a last brave glow<lb />Before it melts into night.<lb /><lb />Then tongues of hoary winter<lb />Air encrust the fragrant pines,<lb />And the frozen, dappled sky<lb /><lb />Above shrouds her sleeping child.<lb />The knife of air sharper still,<lb /><lb />I turn to face the wind and<lb /><lb />Blend in with the churning leaves.<lb /><lb />CAROL HALLMAN<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />SHORT STORY<lb /><lb />AT THE INLET<lb /><lb />JOHN JUSTICE<lb /><lb />The live oak is the only tree which isnTt<lb />Killed, choked by it moss " the great gnarled<lb />trees with their grey filigreed trimmings are the<lb />Most permanent fixtures in the low-country land-<lb />Scape. The low-country is lonely, and sweet as<lb />an eternal sigh. Extensive stands of sky-reach-<lb />Ng pines are fixed in the grey sandsoil, and dark,<lb />flat rivers trace slow paths toward the ocean.<lb /><lb />lack marshes are scattered like sins deep in the<lb />orests. The oaks are tired and ancient as time<lb />~8 measured in this silent land. They are over<lb />three hundred years old, and dimly dream of<lb /><lb />?,? mailed Spaniards who burst upon them like a<lb />Summer storm, long ago. The soil is porous,<lb />Unfertile, and unprofitably tilled.<lb /><lb />Time ... the word has meaning where the<lb />dull, unrough rush of the sea toward the shore<lb />oontinues through untold days and nights. Mur-<lb />TellTs Inlet people live mostly outside: fishing<lb /><lb />Sats and small farms of soybeans, corn, toma-<lb />Ses, so that their senses are formed by and at-<lb />4ned to the sharp, outrageously clean sea breezes<lb />4nd the sun-dazzled creeks and ocean, and the<lb />Waving green fields of marsh grasses. And time<lb />~++ Most will stay in the village until they die.<lb />They will live between the sea and the forests,<lb />oNd in death they will be taken across highway<lb /><lb />two miles down a rutted, splotched, woods<lb />"oad and there be given to the sand, their graves<lb />8ently littered with pine cones and needles, their<lb />Mortal remains guarded by the straggling iron<lb /><lb />fence around the Methodist Church Cemetery.<lb />The names are pebbled memories: Alston, Flagg,<lb />Lachicotte, Murell, Pawley, and Turbeville " a<lb />little foreign and evocative of times past, before<lb />Roosevelt, before Wilson, and even back to the<lb />now unimaginable days before 1861, when the<lb />countryTs undeniable tendency toward " that<lb />grim and ludicrous word " schizophrenia was<lb />as yet unmanifested.<lb /><lb />A warm, colorful land far from the by-God-<lb />damned-eternal steel and stone of more progress-<lb />ive locales. At times hurricanes smash mind-<lb />lessly past the dunes and trembling creeks, but<lb />these are infrequent times. Mostly the land<lb />sleeps.<lb /><lb />James remembered as he caught sight of the<lb />trees before the house. Lillah had told him.<lb /><lb />oDo you remember telling me how the live<lb />oaks got their moss??<lb /><lb />oNo, I sure donTt.? She smiled a little va-<lb />cantly and lit a cigarette as they stopped. oIn<lb />fact, I donTt remember myself how they got it.?<lb /><lb />oWhen the Spaniards first came,? they got<lb />out and walked over the imbedded oyster shells,<lb />oone of the soldiers fell in love with the daughter<lb />of an Indian chief, the tribe up the Waccamaw.<lb />But the chief didnTt think the Spaniards worthy<lb />enough to mingle their blood with the Waxa-<lb />phaws " sounds familiar, doesnTt it??<lb /><lb />The smoke of her cigarette was even bluer<lb />than the sky.<lb /><lb />21<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />At The Inlet<lb /><lb />oSo the soldier hanged himself on a tall oak,<lb />and the moss we see now is a reminder of his<lb />lost love.? James grasped a tangle of the soft<lb />grey moss, and with a slight bow presented it<lb />to her. Their fingertips grazed through the in-<lb />tricate strands.<lb /><lb />With a sweet smile she said, oHow old were<lb />you then??<lb /><lb />oT donTt know. About ten, I guess.?<lb /><lb />oI was twenty-two then... it must have<lb />impressed you.?<lb /><lb />oOh, I was very much impressed. I made a<lb />drawing of the soldier hanging by his beard in<lb />the moonlight.?<lb /><lb />oT remember.?<lb /><lb />oYou remember how old I made him look?<lb />Because I thought only old persons had beards.?<lb /><lb />oYes, yes, you made him with wrinkles on his<lb />forehead, James.? She laughed happily.<lb /><lb />Stale, cool air rushed out against then when<lb />Lillah opened the door. She moved at once to<lb />open the windows. The house was chill with<lb />desertion.<lb /><lb />oDo you think we need a little fire??<lb /><lb />oTt might help, anyway.?<lb /><lb />oDo you know how to work the heater??<lb />Her blue skirt flared like a flame in the dim room<lb />as she stooped to pick up a long-dead flower.<lb /><lb />James struck a match, and waited for the<lb />sibilant voice of the gas. He turned the brass<lb />knob down to a whisper, and joined the gas and<lb />match with a puff. The little rows of blue fires<lb />danced in their sockets. Outside, the irregular<lb />throb of a motorboat reached them, and they<lb />went to the window, the white curtains softly<lb />rising and falling. The boat, far out in the chan-<lb />nel, was a red dot driven before a white froth.<lb /><lb />oCan you tell whose it is?? he asked, look-<lb />ing at her as she watched the boat.<lb /><lb />oT think itTs old man NemiahTs, the one who<lb />takes fishing parties out.?<lb /><lb />oIsnTt he the one who got in trouble a few<lb />years ago for not paying taxes??<lb /><lb />Her profile was sundrenched, and gave him<lb />a picture of her face he would remember " a<lb />new point of departure: the smooth, gently<lb />curving brow beneath the burnished, generous,<lb />dark hair, her fine nose and firm chin, the rushing<lb />clean line of her slender neck, the well-sculpted<lb />lips always promising ....<lb /><lb />oYes, thatTs him. If they got him for every-<lb />thing heTs done, heTd never see a free day again.?<lb />She was still looking out past the wide green<lb /><lb />22<lb /><lb />marshes and blue slices of creek to the white<lb />dunes miles off. |<lb /><lb />oYou have a smudge on your face,? he point-<lb />ed out, but they were standing so close that the<lb />gesture was ridiculous, his elbows touching his<lb />stomach and his wrists curved like a fairyTs, and<lb />his finger inches away in the gentle morning<lb />light. She raised a hand to her forehead.<lb /><lb />oNo, here.? One slim finger spanned their<lb />lives and touched the browned cheek. She turned<lb />her serene face to him and moved her hands<lb />down. She wiped absently at the place and walk-<lb />ed away, leaving him trembling and weak with<lb />lust, as the sea-breeze blew cool and mocking<lb />over his skin....<lb /><lb />The key to James, the fact without knowl-<lb />edge of which no one could know him, was that<lb />he once sat in a closet all night waiting for his<lb />stepfather to kill him.<lb /><lb />JamesT mother married Garland Hart whet<lb />James was twelve. They moved into a small,<lb />well-built house in the country, five miles from<lb />the nearest town. Pastures stretched greenly<lb />out from the front and both sides, and woods<lb />loomed behind. When they first came, the grass<lb />had not yet come up, and the front yard was 4<lb />sea of red mud. The leaden, wintry sky imposed<lb />a vast silence on the place " the mud-brow?<lb />creek below, the long, red-ochre fields, the stark;<lb />black trees with occasional wild flights of black<lb />birds. James despised the lonely and cheerless<lb />new life, and vented his anger by reading aloné<lb />in his room for long hours. He answered curtly<lb />any of his stepfatherTs remarks. His stepfathe!<lb />was a huge farmer, tall and strong, with tough,<lb />dry skin. He looked like a cruel and stupid Lin<lb />coln.<lb /><lb />One night as the three of them sat at din-<lb />ner around the long, lacquered pine table, Hart<lb />broke a perfect silence with: oGawd dammit! [ITve<lb />taken as much as I can stand.? James and his<lb />mother looked up at him " he had on only his<lb />undershorts; he often appeared this way, show?<lb />ing his huge, darkhaired chest and flat, pale<lb />stomach. He pointed a rock-like fist at James:<lb />ec fare , you think youTre too good to livé<lb />on a farm. You think your ....2. is better!<lb />Well, God-damn-you .. .?<lb /><lb />James mumbled an indistinct denial.<lb /><lb />oLet me tell you, if youTre going to live<lb />this house, my house,? he breathed great chunk*<lb />of air; both arms tightened into columns of mus "<lb />cle, othereTll be no more of your back-talk and |<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />Lar) .<lb /><lb />ee a a ae<lb /><lb />Slamming doors, you little ________.<lb />think youTre better than me.. .?<lb /><lb />oGarland,? JamesT mother crooned, reaching<lb />out a short, plump arm.<lb /><lb />o«.. but youTre not, by God. You ainTt worth<lb />Gene Price or any of his niggers, do you hear??<lb /><lb />oGarland!?<lb /><lb />James stared down at his plate, feeling he<lb />Would rather die than take this. Yet he sat still<lb />m the warm, coffee-scented room.<lb /><lb />oT may not have an education or be as smart<lb />48 you, but I pay my way " with these,? Hart<lb />Snarled.<lb /><lb />Silence. ,<lb /><lb />oWhich is more than you do, you no-good<lb /><lb />Silence.<lb /><lb />oAnd if you donTt like it, by God, ITll beat<lb /><lb />eal out of you.?<lb /><lb />James was twelve. The night passed, and<lb />When morning came, they sat down at the same<lb />Shining pine-board table and had breakfast "<lb />hot convivially, but polite and constrained, with<lb />"Veryone passing dishes without being asked.<lb /><lb />By the time James was in high school, Hart<lb /><lb />~ad changed his theme; with the exquisite sensi-<lb />vity of a Southerner, he had discovered that<lb />James did not hate Negroes. oGod-damned<lb />ligger-lover,? he would say, oITll go to hell be-<lb />fore I'll feed and clothe a ______ nigger-lover.?<lb /><lb />ut he did pay some expenses, and James came<lb /><lb />me at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and in the<lb />Summers, as though there was something in both<lb />of them that loved self-hurt.<lb /><lb />James was always powerless, though by his<lb />first year at the State University he was six feet<lb /><lb />~1. Hart would always stand when he began<lb />1S tirades, always catching James when he was<lb />Sitting. He would stand in the doorway of JamesT<lb />~oom. oITd be willing to go to prison just to<lb />touch you with these,? he would intone, raising<lb /><lb />1S massive hands. James took the words and<lb />Vilifications and thrust them into his nethermost<lb />Mind so that he would not be plagued with the<lb />Mocking demonTs faces.<lb /><lb />_ The first nightmare came when he was in<lb />his Second year at the University. Late on an<lb />autumn evening he awoke to find himself stand-<lb />'ng before the shattered window, the curtains<lb /><lb />Tpping wildly in the night wind, and the over-<lb /><lb />fad light blazing.<lb /><lb />oFor ChristTs sake,? his room-mate breathed.<lb />He Was a quiet mountain boy. oFor sweet JesusT<lb /><lb />John Justice<lb /><lb />sake,? from the doorway where he stood with his<lb />hand on the light-switch.<lb /><lb />James looked and saw himself holding his<lb />arms outward as if in supplication, bright rings<lb />of red gleaming on each hand, and blood drip-<lb />ping gently to the worn, wooden floor. All he<lb />could ever remember was a terrible loneliness,<lb />alive in a black, endless plain, followed by a<lb />choking sensation that something was coming to<lb />kill him in an unspeakabie horrible way, all trans-<lb />posed from his mind to his stomach and nerves.<lb /><lb />He lost three roommates and fifteen pounds.<lb />He began staying up until dawn reading, drinking<lb />coffee, and smoking tasteless cigarettes without<lb />end. He would only fall into bed in the first<lb />soft light of morning, when he was certain he<lb />would have no time to think or remember before<lb />sleep overtook him.<lb /><lb />The night when he sat in the closet, waiting,<lb />came between his sophomore and junior years,<lb />when he was nineteen years old. Nineteen years<lb />old " it galled him. He could never understand<lb />the forces which compelled Hart to spew his<lb />hatred. Considering those dramas as a series,<lb />they were ridiculous and really pointless " the<lb />aging and still potent cursing Hart and slim,<lb />blond, docile James. And James could never<lb />learn to anticipate the attacks. They might be<lb />talking amiably in one of their long truces when<lb />something in HartTs slow-working, hypersensitive<lb />brain would trigger a flood of abuse.<lb /><lb />The summer James was nineteen, HartTs<lb />face was eight years older, he was slipping past<lb />the edge of middle age into his old years. His<lb />face was tinged with purple blotches, and the<lb />thick veins on his rock-hard arms, which had<lb />always given James a twinge, stood out danger-<lb />ously. One night his parting words were: oYour<lb />motherTs always stood between you and me, but<lb />by God... .?<lb /><lb />James stood a moment watching the fleeting<lb />silver and grey patterns thrown on the bedspread<lb />by the moon and racing coulds. Something par-<lb />ticularly furious in HartTs eyes suggested to<lb />James that this night would be the culmination<lb />of the years of rage. He went to his bureau and<lb />felt his way through papers, books, golf-balls, old<lb />pens and mirrors, and found an ancient scout<lb />knife, long, with a leather thonged handle. He<lb />eased himself into the closet and down onto the<lb />floor among the rugs and old clothes, and he<lb />waited. His heart made sickening leaps trying<lb />to free itself. If Hart came in, James would<lb /><lb />23<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />At The Inlet<lb /><lb />be hidden for an extra instant behind the bureau<lb />to the right of the closet door. He could spring<lb />up from the clothes and plunge the knife into the<lb />pale stomach. He had no doubt that something<lb />would happen this night; he only doubted whether<lb />he could get to the point where the knife touched<lb />the flesh, so he could consider himself having no<lb />choice, and ram it as far as it would go. Natural-<lb />ly, Hart would not have thought of James like<lb />this, and would be unprepared.<lb /><lb />James was an avid newspaper reader, and<lb />was aware that hardly a week passes without a<lb />farmer somewhere in the country shooting, knif-<lb />ing, axing, or poisoning his family. Possibly Hart<lb />would kill himself after James and his mother "<lb />some consolation. He visualized HartTs per-<lb />verted Lincolnesque feature above the headline:<lb />oN. C. FARMER SLAYS WIFE, SON. PLEADS<lb />TEMPORARY INSANITY.? Through the thin<lb />closet wall behind him, James could hear angry<lb />muttering from the bedroom. The knife handle<lb />grew damp in his grasp.<lb /><lb />24<lb /><lb />eee ll<lb /><lb />Gradually resignation replaced the acidic<lb /><lb />fear. He began to look forward to HartTs coming<lb />" it was all ordained and planned long ago that<lb /><lb />he should die or kill in this room in the house that<lb />he hated. He cursed and wept silently, passing<lb />into near madness, ready to take the initiative<lb />and kill Hart, watch his stupid, brown eyes fill<lb />with death. He held the knife as if it were 4<lb />grail. Leaning back into a musty pile of old<lb />rugs, he slept. And waking later to the raucous<lb />cries of the chickens and the aristocratic snorting<lb />of the pigs, he saw the delicate blue morning<lb />sky behind the elms out back. He crawled into<lb />bed without thinking much of how ridiculous he<lb />felt.<lb /><lb />To James from that time, his loves, his<lb />friends, his dreams, all his life had to be placed<lb />beside that night, fitted to the touchstone. The<lb />memory was a dark beacon, hideous, but no less<lb />cherished for a malign face. The nightmares<lb />continued.<lb /><lb />ce el &gt;. fp FD wt me OU MOOR es 6D<lb /><lb />ma "_"- ta on rn _ ee oa, 6 6_ " "_" pee "_ Fry<lb /></p>
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        <p>©<lb /><lb />ann enn ne ecm<lb />an cena t a  A e<lb /><lb />EXCERPT FROM A NOVEL BY<lb /><lb />WILLIAM R. TROTTER<lb /><lb />Speaking again, the web began to draw<lb /><lb />~Ughter around him, the facts and dreams, in-<lb /><lb />~eparable, began to thicken; and she spoke about<lb />?,? future and she saw it, the future which he<lb />hew was the outgrowth of the past which he<lb /><lb />. " not see: he himself stood right in the mid-<lb />e<lb /><lb />» Tight in the smack center of it, to hear her<lb />~Speak " he would color what came from now on,<lb />but not to any altering of the physical aspects of<lb />~t, which he knew and reassured her was as it<lb />Should have been and could be no other way. She<lb />Spoke a little in spattered fragments of the<lb />Teams of the past, connecting words and phrases<lb />~here came the bulky shadow of South America<lb />drifting through their minds like an unthinkably<lb />Vast exotic birdTs shape flashing by over water,<lb />~een only by the shadow and never by the actual<lb />~ight, the continent supine and humid with fer-<lb />le dream, steamed hopes rising from the earthy<lb /><lb />Pit of her brain, skeletal statements fleshed out<lb /><lb />Row for the first time: they talked, they talked,<lb /><lb />utpoured synthesis of their love, words edged<lb />With all times reckoned by men, depthed with<lb />touch and thought, they talked in the essential in-<lb />~Mate way they had to talk, synthesis of love in<lb />words, the free exchange where past and future<lb />Wirled around present. The continent again, the<lb />~imple uttering of the two words that made up its<lb />" was enough to wash away many trivial<lb /><lb />°ughts and leave something primal there, flat<lb />Nd wide and receptive, with images falling on<lb /><lb />it and splattering thickly like big soft rocks,<lb />warm, magmous, words like falling snowballs,<lb />listening to the words flow cooly up from her<lb />throat, visions: the throat a long, dark, cool tun-<lb />nel with the words lurking there, all of them,<lb />now-and-future, hanging like bats inside her<lb />skull, hanging by sharp talons, hoary fears left<lb />unuttered, eyes of bestial glowing yellow, the<lb />yellow a lone night-walker fears to see suddenly<lb />looking at him from some dark place; listening to<lb />her speak was liquid time pouring through the<lb />brain, a flow uncharted, perhaps circular, or per-<lb />haps meandering in a course more intricate and<lb />twisting than the mind itself could follow, a<lb />course which reason was unable to determine,<lb />but which instinct might have dimly sniffed, and<lb />shuddered: Future.<lb /><lb />There would be the continent stretching out<lb />like a lover, quivering at the hot touch of her<lb />spoken dreams, the jungles turning fragrant as<lb />she passed, the mountains, the Andes, the moun-<lb />tains like great vertical loaves of bread filed to<lb />points with mysterious dream blocks of ceno-<lb />taphic stones clinging to their sheer sides by in-<lb />visible ancient roots, dark temples of the mind,<lb />mythos and mouldy ruins inscribed to forgotten<lb />gods, in the mist lost llamas wandered bearing<lb />robed, masked priests accompanied by disem-<lb />bodied flutes streaming in the rare atmosphere<lb />like thin silver jets of mercury, threads of bright<lb />silver lost in the black mists: puma-eyed dreams,<lb /><lb />25<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />Excerpt<lb /><lb />Inca drums, wailing cliffs, hardly navigable ter-<lb />races leading to something unguessable; her<lb />words touching and stroking and raising vibra-<lb />tions in the chords stretched by the sounding<lb /><lb />drum of the unconscious, " the images of her<lb />words would gradually thicken like solidifying<lb />nebluae and assume shape: Somewhere " Inca<lb /><lb />fortress " she had seen it, and there she seemed<lb />to have touched the face of serpent gods and<lb />breathed the sweat from conquistador helmets,<lb />scraped and imbedded forever beneath her finger-<lb />nails the blood of shattered condors, sacrificed<lb />granite Andean virgins, her soul having mounted<lb />the condor skies and soared across to the other<lb />mountains, the far ones, the ones which you<lb />could not learn to know in ten lifetimes; des-<lb />cending from the side of the mountains to the<lb />valley where the mist never melted and where<lb />the rivers were there one hour and gone the next<lb />and traceless, sourcesless; the Indian: " the ones<lb />with tarnished gold lurking in the depths of their<lb />eyes, the ones with shawls the color of the au-<lb />tumnTs flute music, the ones whose eyes saw not<lb />only through the air around them, and through<lb />the mist, but through the mountains themselves<lb />into whatever lost caverns there were inside<lb />them, whatever unguessed entrails hid the fa-<lb />bled long-sought treasures, whatever intestinal<lb />darknesses moved slowly, slithering " the Indian<lb />eyes that not only looked through the pillars of<lb />the low lead sky, but saw through time and could<lb />see at any given instant, the ancestors of their<lb />race in their dazzling, dyed condor feather plum-<lb />age, dancing steps taught to them by dreams,<lb />by moonlight dazzling on broken jewels and drip-<lb />ping blood, diamond daggers in hot bronze hearts,<lb />steaming vessels like poured gold, beaten into<lb />sunbursts over subterranian temples where gods<lb />still brooded on their onyx thrones rooted to the<lb />walls of rock; Indian eyes seeing to the places<lb />where the gods must still live, Indian eyes that<lb />always seemed to be hiding some incredible se-<lb />cret, eyes the white man could never look into,<lb />but eyes which SHE had looked into and seen<lb />within the mute touch of grandeur and the end-<lb />less coiled serpent of suffering; she did not know<lb />their secret, but she would someday be able to<lb />make a guess: he saw a vast mountain split to<lb />reveal a monstrous scaly worm coiled there for<lb />uncounted centuries; the Indians whose rare and<lb />singular smile was worth innumerable civilized<lb />expressions, the people among whom she would<lb />someday go...someday....<lb /><lb />26<lb /><lb />Why, why as a veteranarian? The only rea-<lb />son she could give him had been given when<lb />they had first met, and she had revealed to him<lb />that which she would become, what she had al-<lb />ready been working on with her summers in a lab-<lb />oratory up north, with her studies in the advanced<lb />biology course, and now, yes, when she mentioned<lb />it he remembered the times he had taken her<lb />home during the afternoon and there had been<lb />waiting there some mysterious package in which<lb />would be neat data cards and little cotton-swad-<lb />dled bottles which contained specimens and re-<lb />sults from something or other, some project<lb />which she had left unfinished in the care of one<lb />of her numerous unnamed intimate friends whom<lb />she always seemed to leave behind her in her<lb />wanderings like a trail of lost garments " the<lb />single small rat foetus which resided in special<lb />significance on the top shelf of her closet, lost<lb />and sorrowing remarks about a dog which, he<lb />gathered, had been used for something that past<lb />summer in that same laboratory, on which she<lb />was running tests with small tools and droppers<lb />bottles smelling of pale lavender chemicals which<lb />seemed somehow unhealthy to him... . the way<lb />she would sit there and make little comments to<lb />him about the dog: oWhy, why didnTt they go<lb />ahead and kill her " now the stuffTs spreading<lb />through the system according to these latest sam-<lb />ples. T'm going to write back and demand that<lb />she be put to sleep. It would have been so much<lb />simpler if they had done it in the beginning when<lb />they injected her with it...T The veteranary,<lb />horse doctor, the woman with the medicine " to<lb />the Indians, because she would not have been<lb />comfortable as a human being in the white manTs<lb />world and because she loved animals so much and<lb />because there was not anyone down there, not<lb />anyone, to look into those Indian eyes and try<lb />to comprehend centuries of subjugation, try to<lb />tell which flashing spark in those slant orifices<lb />might be the gene of some ancient prince gleam-<lb />ing like a dagger in the moist darkness; She<lb />would help them, she would doctor, he supposed,<lb />their flocks and their llamas and she would of<lb />course doctor them when there was something<lb />she could do " and he knew, the way she had<lb />spoken of subjects touching it, that she had at<lb />times and in places as yet unrevealed, learned<lb />how to doctor people in initial stages of treat-<lb />ment " better, it was implied in her very mo-<lb />tions, better than a graduate of the red cross<lb />courses; tricks she had learned during what<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />plague and what conflict? Mexico.<lb />Peru itself.<lb /><lb />Peru ... the dark green mossy sound of the<lb />word in her mouth like a monolith overgrown on<lb />Some barren moor. The dream which found it-<lb /><lb />Self in mystic fullness and yet had the porous<lb /><lb />Perhaps<lb /><lb />Wiliam R. Trotter<lb /><lb />flexibility of dreams, bending in his own thoughts<lb />like soft iron, electric to his mindTs touch: that<lb />would mean medical school when she got out of<lb />high school, after two years of college at least,<lb />let us say, he thought, six years before we can<lb />get married ....<lb /><lb />27<lb /><lb /></p>
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        <p>ANOTHER SPRING FOR THE LOVERTS BENCH<lb /><lb />The invisible lover sits<lb /><lb />on the pale loversT bench, waiting<lb />for love, or Romantic music.<lb />Greyflaked, the bench waits<lb /><lb />for another season, for the chance<lb />to settle into rich texture.<lb /><lb />Empty, milk-bottle air of this<lb />early Spring reduces the bench<lb />to flatness. Barren, slick<lb />branches and strawdull grass<lb />wither the concrete<lb />come-hither. The pellucid<lb /><lb />lover settles for invisible<lb />peerings at shocking pink,<lb />egg-golden, and gunmetal blue<lb />negligees flashing on<lb /><lb />the clothsline. Swollen in<lb />playful winds, like seductive<lb />philosophies, the vivid sheers<lb />convert the pellucid lover.<lb /><lb />No longer the obsolete lyric!<lb /><lb />Let the fat bird with the<lb /><lb />dingy orange front<lb /><lb />make his own song as he<lb /><lb />scrabbles for worms and dirty straw.<lb />The invisible lover waits<lb /><lb />on the pale bench, to settle<lb /><lb />into seethrough textures, |<lb /><lb />dense with the colors of bathroom<lb /><lb />and synthetic blood.<lb /><lb />AMON LINER<lb /><lb />28<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />~~See, the vase is empty,TT said the Monk<lb /><lb />)<lb />I slide my hand over<lb />its cold flank; the white<lb />porcelain does not<lb />respond; the vase<lb />knows its use, somehow<lb />by that formal knowledge<lb />artifacts have built<lb />into them. Wiser than God,<lb />or even a wife, this vase<lb />is joy, a silence<lb />equal to, but more music than,<lb />this barren web of stone and light,<lb />watching me with bloody eyes<lb />and a hunger for garish noises.<lb /><lb />2.<lb />brittle as language<lb />and as streaked<lb />with marks of fire, the vase<lb />agrees with my idea<lb />of Vision, a silence<lb />more human than GodTs,<lb />more music than rage. I slide<lb />my hand over the porcelain; the vase,<lb />of course, does not respond; it knows<lb />the uses of silence,<lb />and flowers would be<lb />a formal declaration of war.<lb /><lb />AMON LINER<lb /><lb />29<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />ALCOHOL IN RUSSIA<lb /><lb />MARY PASCHAL<lb /><lb />oPlus ca change, plus cTest la méme chose.?<lb /><lb />In his recent book, Conversations with Stalin,<lb />Milovan Djilas points to the truth of the above<lb />saying, particularly in regard to the drinking<lb />habits of the Russions. Jehan Sauvage, a 16th<lb />century French traveler to Russia,T and Djilas had<lb />similar experiences in accepting Russian hospi-<lb />tality.<lb /><lb />Jehan Sauvage of Dieppe went on a trading<lb />mission to Russia in 1586. He sailed from Dieppe<lb />to Vologda on the Dwina during the summer<lb />months, carrying tallow, leather, flax, beeswax,<lb />and tanned hides. He was stopped on two oc-<lb />casions by the Russians. The first was at Varde-<lb />housse where it was necessary to obtain per-<lb />mission to proceed to Archangel, and the second<lb />at Archangel where the merchandise was sold.<lb />The ships, however, proceeded to Vologda.<lb /><lb />When Sauvage arrived at Vardehousse, the<lb /><lb />officer in charge delayed his voyage for three<lb />days because he had no commission to allow<lb />Frenchmen to pass, for no Frenchman had been<lb />there before. Sauvage paid a tribute of 250<lb />dalles which was followed by a welcome to Sau-<lb />vage and his men. Sauvage gives the following<lb /><lb />*Milovan Djilas, Conversations with Stalin (New York:<lb />Harcourt, Brace and World, Inc., 1962).<lb /><lb />*Jehan Sauvage, Mémoire du voiage en Russie (Paris:<lb />Auguste Aubry, 1855). The references are to this edi-<lb />tion, published by Louis Lacour according to Manu-<lb />script 71403 of the Bibliothéque Impériale.<lb /><lb />*Tbid., pp. 5-6.<lb /><lb />30<lb /><lb />account:<lb /><lb />. the servants of the lord brought to M. Colas a<lb />large pot of red wood which held more than twelve pots,<lb />which was completely full of heavy black beer and<lb />stronger than wine, and it was necessary to drink it all.<lb />And believe that the lords Colas and du Renel were<lb />angrier at drinking so much than at the money they<lb />had just spent; for it was necessary to empty this jug<lb />or else to act like a drunkard in order to leave, for such<lb />is their custom.*<lb /><lb />After leaving Vardehousse, Sauvage was al-<lb />lowed to continue his way to Archangel. There<lb />again he had to pay tribute and customs. The<lb />official at Archangel was much pleased to have<lb />merchants from France and caused alcoholic bev-<lb />erages to be served in their honor.<lb /><lb />He took a large silver cup and had it filled, and it<lb />was necessary to empty it; and then another, and still to<lb />re-empty it; then still the 3rd that it was necessary to<lb />finish; and having made these three drinks, one thinks<lb />to be through; but the worst is the last, for it is neces-<lb /><lb /></p>
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          <lb />Sary to drink a cup of brandy which is so strong that it<lb />Sets oneTs stomach and throat on fire. When one has<lb />drunk a cup, it is still not all, and having spoken a word<lb />With you, it is necessary still to drink to the health of<lb />your king, for you would not dare refuse it, and it is<lb />the custom of the country to drink well.~<lb /><lb />In 1948, Milovan Djilas has a similar experi-<lb />?,?nce in the consumption of prodigious quantities<lb />of aleohol when he was visiting in Moscow. Dijilas<lb />Was a guest at a six-hour dinner at StalinTs villa.<lb />The dinner began with a proposal, probably from<lb />Stalin, othat everyone guess how many degrees<lb />below zero it was, and that everyone be made to<lb />drink as many glasses of vodka as the number of<lb />degrees he guessed wrong.T? Djilas had checked<lb />the temperature earlier, and by calculating the<lb /><lb />eon<lb /><lb />~Ibid., p. 12.<lb /><lb />*Diilas, op. cit., p. 161.<lb />*Thid.<lb /><lb />Ibid., p. 158.<lb /><lb />~Ibid., p. 161.<lb /><lb />probable drop during the night succeeded in<lb />missing by only one degree. Beria missed by<lb />three degrees, saying that it was an intentional<lb />miss so that he might drink more vodka. This<lb />oparlor game? caused Diilas to recall that Peter<lb />the Great of Russia held similar suppers with his<lb />lieutenants oat which they gorged and drank<lb />themselves into a stupor while ordaining the fate<lb />of Russia and the Russian people.TT Before the<lb />evening was over, Djilas was forced to drink a<lb />glass of peretsovka, a strong vodka with pepper.T<lb />Stalin ended the dinner by proposing a toast to<lb />the memory of Lenin. Djilas recalls that: oWe<lb />all stood and drank in mute solemnity, which in<lb />our drunkedness we soon forgot.T<lb /><lb />The forced drinking on social occasions in Rus-<lb />sia is that which changes, yet stays the same.<lb /><lb />81<lb /><lb /></p>
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        <p>A NOTE FROM ALLEN TATE<lb /><lb />Minneapolis, Minnesota<lb />March 18, 1966<lb /><lb />To the Editor:<lb /><lb />Sir:<lb /><lb />Mr. Aiken informs me that I was wrong in what<lb />I said about the revival of Trumbull StickeyTs<lb />poetry. It was Mr. Aiken himself to whom we<lb />are indebted for getting Stickney back into the<lb />anthologies. Mr. Aiken odiscovered? Stickney<lb />at Harvard in 1909, and later put him in his<lb />Twentieth Century American Poets, which ante-<lb />dated by some twenty-five or thirty years the<lb />rediscovery by Matthiessen and myself.<lb /><lb />ALLEN TATE<lb /><lb />CONTRIBUTORS<lb /><lb />Jerry Tillotson is a graduate of ECC writing for the Wilmington Star News.<lb />oSojourn in Asheville? is the beginning of a novel.<lb /><lb />Anne W. Nelson teaches high school in Wilson.<lb />John Justice works for the North Carolina Fund in Durham.<lb /><lb />William R. Trotter is a senior at Davidson. The excerpt is from his third<lb />novel. He is having oThe Winter War, Russia against Finland,? a diplo-<lb />matic and military history, published by North Michigan University this<lb />summer. He is now working on a biography of Stravinsky.<lb /><lb />Mary Paschal teaches in the foreign language department at ECC.<lb /><lb />Dwight W. Pearce is a graduate of ECC teaching at Fork Union Military<lb />Academy in Virginia.<lb /><lb />Sanford Peele taught English at ECC last year. He is now an assistant<lb />editor in the language arts division of Silver Burdette Publishing Company.<lb />Carol Hallman is a freshman at ECC.<lb /><lb />Amon Liner is a graduate of Davidson and UNC. He has been published<lb />in many olittle magazines.?<lb /><lb /></p>
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