cr journal, vol. 8
TRANSCRIPT
"Clear Lake Magic"
M A RT I N M c I L ROY » » » P H OTO G R A P H Y
SPRING 2014 » VOLUME 8
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The Cosumnes River Journal is published annually by the English
Department of Cosumnes River College, Los Rios Community College
District, 8401 Center Parkway, Sacramento, CA 95823.
To contribute poetry, short stories, essays, interviews (or other
creative writing), black and white photography, and other visual art,
please send electronic submissions or inquiries to
[email protected]. We accept submissions year-round.
Send three to five poems and up to three stories or other manuscripts
(up to 2,500 words, MS Word or jpeg formats) per year. Artwork can
be submitted in three formats: orignal prints; high-resolution digital
images (>300dpi at the scale of journal); or professional
high-resolution scans (>300dpi at the scale of journal). Signed
photo releases may be required with certain photos for submission.
Also, include a fifty-word bio written in the third person—to be used if
your submission is published. Reporting time is up to six months.
SPRING 2014 » VOLUME 8
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acknowledgementsWe are sincerely grateful to our donors and supporters and for the many writers and artists who submitted their work for consideration. Thank you.
special thanksCRC President Deborah TravisDean of Humanities and Social Science Ginny McReynoldsCRC English Department
YOU CAN FIND COPIES AT:Beers BooksCRC College StoreHart Senior CenterSacramento Poetry Center
tributeWe humbly dedicate the 2014 Cosumnes River Journal to Ginny McReynolds, our colleague, our dean, our mentor and friend. She has served the Los Rios Community College District in a variety of capacities, most recently as dean of our division, Humanities and Social Science. Because of her commitment to students, this publication has advanced and expanded. She is a shining example of our campus vision and mission. We are inspired by her intelligence, frankness, fairness, wit, engagement with students and all things English—not to mention her work as a writer. Ginny leaves her position to begin the next leg of her journey, and you can read about it in the essay section on the theme of Bouncing Back. We celebrate her and all of the ways she will continue to contribute to our world.
president's messageIt is my pleasure to share the Spring 2014 Cosumnes River Journal with you. This inspiring publication engages the mind and the heart with writings of life's incredible experiences, meaningful reminiscences, and the cycles of living that define, transform, and restore us. A unique collection of works, the Cosumnes River Journal is published by the English Department and highlights the imaginative and literary talents of our own poets, writers, and visual artists. Our campus possesses an innovative and supportive learning environment that draws from exceptional faculty, staff, community supporters, and friends. At Cosumnes River College, we strive for academic excellence and the cultivation of wisdom, personal growth, and global awareness through individual and collective action. In each educational experience and environment, we emphasize the power of resilience and the infinite possibilities of reinventing ourselves through openness to learning. Reverberations of this distinctive CRC ethos and a wellspring of inspiration are evident in the works compiled in this newest journal edition. I encourage you to spend a little time enjoying and reflecting on these writings and works of art. Echoes of their voices, messages, emotions, beauty, and energy will bounce back into your mind and capture your heart! Deborah J. TravisPresident
editorial staffSTUDENTSJustin BrandtKevin FrodahlMark HendersonBrandon MosleyEvey Teems
FACULTYAndi Adkins PogueKerstin FeindertHeather HutchesonHeidi Emmerling MuñozErica ReevesRose SpisakDavid Weinshilboum
graphic designAmber Foreman
printingPaul Baker Printing
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table of contents
cover "Pelican" Drawing » AFTON KERNinside front cover "Clear Lake Magic" Photography » MARTIN McILROY
« creative nonfiction »
4 Lost and Found » PHOEBE BASILIO
4 "Rain's Light" Photography » BLAIR WELLS
6 Fat » HUMNAH FAROOQUI
8 If This Is Going to Be Life » TAMARA LIPANOVICH
10 Staying on Task » KRISTINE DAVID
11 "Classical Piano" Photography » MARTIN McILROY
12 Media Bias » SCOTT REDMOND
13 Somewhere Over the Heliopause » ROBERT PAYNE
13 Photography » JULIAN ELIAS
« poetry »
14 "Row Away from the Rocks" Photography » JOSH SLOWICZEK
14 Into the Mist » JAKE KOIYOTH
15 Pen to Air » JAKE KOIYOTH
16 Falling for DH » JODY ANSELL
17 Untitled » JONATHAN DE YOUNG
18 "Tree's Light" Photography » BLAIR WELLS
18 The Birds’ Home » MAI DUONG
19 Birth of a Monarch » DIANE BADER
20 Persimmons (A Conundrum) » DIANE BADER
21 The World Looks at Me » LISA COWANS
22 Gratitude » PAT SOBERANIS
23 "Fine Art Dog" Photography » SCOTT REDMOND
23 Lesson Learned » MARINA HUTCHINS
24 Out of the Frying Pan, into the Flame » YASSMINA MONTES
25 First Harvest » JENNIFER O’NEILL PICKERING
26 Blank Page » VS CHOCHEZI
27 "6125" Photography » GERRY “GOS” SIMPSON
27 Do the Dead Speak? » DIANA SAXON
28 "Stallion" Photography » MARTIN McILROY
30 By the Numbers » STAAJABU
31 Prologue » DIANA SAXON
32 Letter to the Boatman » KIMBERLY WHITE
33 Regret » STAN ZUMBIEL
34 "Blue Butterfly" Painting » APPRIA NEGRETE
35 Tag Line » BOB STANLEY
36 "Tulip's Last Hoorah" Photography » JENNIFER O’NEILL PICKERING
36 cignificant » DAVID POTERAS
37 Laziness » JONATHAN DE YOUNG
« fiction »
38 They Don’t Have Roses in Heaven » JOSH SLOWICZEK
39 "Garden's Light" Photography » BLAIR WELLS
42 "The Absurd" Photography » JOSH SLOWICZEK
« bouncing back »
43 Bouncing Back » DIVA2DIVAS
44 Unexpected Speed and Velocity » GINNY McREYNOLDS
45 "4087" Photography » GERRY “GOS” SIMPSON
45 Cycle » DAN BERGET
46 A Nightmare or A Dream Come True? » NAREMAN RASHID
47 Huckleberry Hill, June 1987 » LORRAINE DOLL
48 Stagnate » ALEXIS BACCUS
48 "Tower Bridge" Photography » MARTIN McILROY
49 Methamphetamine » EMCEE
49 "ILX Dragon" Drawing » AFTON KERN
50 Mom » ZAIREEN AIYUB
51 Bouncing Back » REID THOMPSON
« quotes »
52 "Muscat Corniche Sea Tower" Photography » SAMUEL INIGUEZ
53 Inspirations on Bouncing Back
« artist bios »
54 Bios
55 Photography » ZACH HANNIGAN
inside back cover"Cosmic Butterfly" Painting » APPRIA NEGRETE.
that mom would fill drawers with or nag me about in the mornings until she finally found me something that was apparently more appropriate for school than a black leotard. Shopping trips were a lot like car trips—drawn out and boring. Kids had to find a way to entertain themselves. Unfortunately this is usually accomplished in ways that drive parents nothing short of insane, like messing around with sister until I made big enough of
a scene or gliding around the store in the cart. But the epitome of the shopping experience was, of course, hiding in the secret burrows. The burrows weren't actually secret. Every preoccupied mother out shopping has probably become intimately and uncomfortably familiar with these spaces at some time after losing a curious child to them, the two-sided racks of clothes that line a store from wall to wall, and hold just enough space
P H O E B E B A S I L I O
Lost and Found
Years ago, one day of the week outside of the five I'd spend being taught my ABCs and numbers, I learned what loneliness was. In the heyday of Ross, a chain clothing store that has just about disappeared from most shopping centers, I was out "shopping" with my mom and older sister—as much as a five-year-old could, of course. To me, at least, clothes were nothing more than coverings that found their way on to me daily—stuff
"Rain's Light"
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for a kid to fit in. But that's the thing—they were our secret. They were sacred spaces for adventuring kids—large enough doors as long as the rack itself that would slide open at the parting of clothing and seal closed once you'd wander far enough from the gap. Big enough spaces for kids to squat inside and hide, and small enough to keep pestering adults out. And why not enter? I mean, parents didn't want you to leave, of course, but it was more exciting to hide from your inattentive padres that sorted through clothes like paperwork, as if there was some kind of distinction between one pink blouse and… one pink blouse? And what's the difference between a blouse and a shirt, anyway? So between the time when my mother was probably explaining something like the difference between the two and asking myself why we couldn't just call one a regular pink shirt and another a fancy pink shirt, I disappeared in-between the forbidden aisles of clothing. It wasn't the wardrobe to Narnia, but it was certainly the gateway out of Willy Wonka's factory of ridiculousness. What was once harsh overhanging light gently filtered through the rows of shirts, or perhaps they were dresses (just clothes, really), and the muted tones of the once neon fabrics melded into a quiet forest of retreat and misplaced adventure. I gleefully waited to see when my mom would finally find me —there was a thrill in rebellion and a rush of adrenaline in anticipation of the punishment that might've awaited me. So I lingered in my woods of my burrow. And I waited. And I waited. And I waited. And a friend came along in our burrow, another kid, dirty blonde both in hair and kind, as it seemed to my naive self since she was kind of grimy and didn't respond when I said hello. But I heard her mother yell a name over and over and quickly the giant arm of an adult reached through the towering clothing trees and
my unresponsive friend, but friend nonetheless, was quickly snatched away. I was in my secret burrow nestled in the sleeves of the friendly forest that surrounded me, and the light danced off the metal necks of the plastic hangers, and the carts and mountains of clothes and clamor of feet and voices and loudspeaker talking about a party waiting were never ending, but I was safe. And alone. I was one of those kids that would wait for an hour in the dark during a game of hide-and-seek just to make sure that I won, but in that game someone was always looking. And this was only my game, and maybe people didn't want to play. I discovered that even more than safety or adventure, I wanted to be found. So I ventured out of the burrow. It wasn't until I was well out of the aisle that my eyes finally adjusted to the light, but my fear of solitude pushed me further than my body's
cry for stability. I didn't run—people couldn't know I was afraid, or they might be scared of me, or think I was just some needy child, or my mom might tell me that I was causing a scene. I didn't know what that meant, and my mom wasn't anywhere in sight, but she'd probably find out anyway. And honestly, I didn't care at this point. I just hoped they hadn't left without me. People had started staring and I didn't want them to find out I was lost, so I calmly walked up to a pile of stuffed animals and hugged one tightly. It didn't protest. In the periphery an adult and a kid with black hair went into an aisle —I let go of the toy and dashed behind them, and said, almost as a question, what I thought was my mom's name.
"Mom?" Thankfully it wasn't another embarrassing moment when I had attached myself to the wrong mom with the right hair color. I climbed back into the cart —I don't remember mom being overly worried, but I remember feeling safe, even with the bright white lights and disarray of clothes around me. I remember telling my stories over and over about a friend that I found in the burrows and being really brave and finally finding them while I stayed calm. I remember talking quickly without stopping so that my voice was louder than my fear. And I remember the relief in being found, because they apparently were looking for me—for some reason I only found out a year later in WalMart that a when "a party is waiting for you," as said over the loudspeaker, it means a group of people, not a birthday celebration, like the loudspeaker repeated many times as I hid in my burrow.
But over comfort and safety and tranquility, I wanted to be found. And not by anyone—I wanted my mom. And in her own way, I knew she was searching for me, even if it wasn't the way I had wanted to be found. She had someone call me over the store's speaker time and time again, and she scolded me for hiding for so long, especially as I knew better (supposedly). But she had searched for me, and there is unspeakable comfort in being found by someone that you need. And on the days of solitude I sometimes spend when I'm not being taught at school five days of a week, I know that alone and at home I am safe, and calm, and comfortable. But I've learned that more than all of that, I need to be found.
BIG ENOUGH SPACES FOR KIDS TO SQUAT INS IDE AND HIDE, AND SMALL ENOUGH TO KEEP PESTERING ADULTS OUT. AND WHY NOT ENTER?
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me is like a wisp of smoke; it rises up, and poses a question: Think, Claire. Who is the monster? Who is the man? “Me” I think. “I’m the monster. I’m the cow!” My eyes water at the words and Self-Esteem drown in the tears. I turn in one swift, practiced move and I run. I stumble across the cafeteria like a blind man in a marsh. I send my tray flying. There are more jeers and laughs. I hurtle towards the double doors and then I stop. I look back. My soiled lunch is splattered across the white-tiled floor. The squashed cherries look daunting from this angle, stark red against the immense white, like blood seeping into milk.Hoots of laughter rise up towards the ceiling, and I turn away. The sickly sweet incense of decaying roses reaches me before I see him. I look up and he is there. Madness. Lines draw his face down, his skin is papery, fragile. His hair is peppered with grey, slicked back in an incongruous manner. You’d think Madness would look crazier, but it doesn’t. That’s the thing about insanity. It sparks up in the most ordinary situations. You could be doing the laundry and then—snap—something breaks inside you like a bone. Only it isn’t a bone, it’s your core, the vein linking you to the realm of sanity. Some people slip into its coolness in a feverish moment, its slides over them like a wave. Others break into it like it is a watermelon. Me? I’m chased into its arms every day. I watch him warily now as he stands in front of me in his usual tailored suit, the old man with the time to spare, who first found me when I lost Deb, and began to linger on the periphery of my life.
His grey eyes hold pity. He spreads his arms open wide and a white halo plays on top of his head. He seems like an angel. He comes closer, to embrace me. I shake my head, my cheeks damp, and my stomach queasy. I shake it again. “No!” He shimmers, and then disappears, like he always does. I choke out a sob. My legs come to their senses. They take me across empty hallways lined with lockers. White paint peels off the century-old walls. Shadows roam about freely, gathering their skirts and hiding from the light the overhead windows let in. Silence oozes into dark corners and seeps into cracks in the ceiling. My footsteps echo through the halls. They multiply with each echo, turning into the footsteps of a hasty, many-legged creature fleeing from something that seems more sinister than hairy skin and pincers. Shuddering slightly, I dart past teachers and classrooms. They call after me. I ignore them. When I spot the bathroom, I dive into it and break down. Time ticks by on my wrist watch and my tears subside. I stand, knees weak, and wash my face. Breathing deep, I look up and face myself, the mirror reflection that stares at me as if it is someone else. Flab hangs from my body. It clutches it in its fist, refusing to let go of my rattling bones, bones that are weakened from the burden they bear. It pulls them down, causing them to bend low. My pale skin, dusted with freckles, is flushed pink from the humiliation I suffer every day, and yet cannot get used to. My blue eyes are puffy and red, like the coil of red hair atop my head. Pudgy hands wipe my face clean. I sigh. “Fat.” I think. “Fat. That is what I am, that is what I see. That’s all I can see. I’m Claire
H U M N A H F A R O O Q U I
Fat
“Hey! Hey! Hey! Claire!” He shouts. I flinch. I feel my body contort as it waits for what comes next. Waits for what always comes next.I crouch low, bracing myself for the attack. My ears tremble but are alert, intently listening to the wind whisper in the gleeful hush. I feel the warmth of a hundred bodies around me, the eyes of a thousand more. I clench my eyes shut as the “Moo!” rings through the cafeteria like a dong from a funeral bell. Laughter erupts in the room. I open my eyes and look around me. I see a sea of people, their laughing heads bobbing to and fro on an ocean of teenaged bodies. Schools of tiny fish, they laugh at the beached whale, laying on the tiny shoal, with bits of her tumbling out comically into the ocean. HA-HA-HA. The sounds tumble out of their mouths in giant black letters, flowing into the current of the waves, drowning my pathetic pleas of “No!” “Don’t!” “Please!” I see them, but they don’t see me. They see a large girl in the concession stand, a pale mound of flab gazing at them, cross-eyed. They see the star attraction at a circus of freaks that the circus master—the big, blonde and beautiful Sean Gaines points out to entertain the crowd, a large entity itself, about to devour me whole. I see him double up with laughter, and feel the pang that his cruel, blue eyes always send through me. They’re a crystalline blue, and sharp, like a stake. They cut through the core of me, kill the monster, and bring out the human tears, with the less-than human wailing. I clutch my lunch tray and I stand frozen, terrified. Eyes downcast, I am unable to look at the Claude Frollo of my life. The lingering bit of Self-Esteem (empty words that parade around self-help seminars and books) within
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inside, a girl, a pretty girl, but on the outside, I’m a freak!” The last words burst out of in a wave of hysteria. I feel anger boil up in me. The girl in the mirror glares at me, revulsion etched across her face. “You’re just a sideshow! A Freak! A sad, lonely freak!” I shout at her and her mouth forms the same words. I scream in frustration and look down at my feet, tears streaming out of me once more. “A freak. A sad, lonely freak.” I whisperLoneliness. It is a constant presence, like a ghost. It shadows you, goes everywhere you go. It is a stalker, following you even in your dreams, watching over you as you cry, grinning with malice as you grow to hate even yourself. You shrink into the shadows then, seeking comfort in darkness, but you always know that you are alone. I slide down to the floor, weeping bitterly. I feel hollow. Clasping my hands over a huge belly, I moan. Pain surges through me, like a river breaking through a dam. The intensity of it overwhelms me. After a minute, it fades away.I hear a laugh. A laugh that drips with honey and vanilla, that comes from a place of sanctuary, of safety and certitude. I listen to it for a moment and then I hear it disappear. It never lingers. The sudden sunbeam that goes away too quickly, eaten up by cloudy skies and icy mountains. Deb. My best friend. It’s been years, but she is still as alive as she was all those years ago. Leukemia. We had been twelve. It took her before I could even understand what happened. I could never forget that night. Deb lay in a bed of satin, pale, unmoving, cold as the ice lollies she used to eat on sunny days. On days when she laughed her honey laugh and swung about her favorite tote bag, full of my secrets, under azure skies and brilliant sunshine, with
smiles in the air and the open sea before us. It’s been years, but… I still miss her.I lost her, but I could still find her in food; in Oreos, burgers, ice cream, pizzas, and candies. All the things that she adored, and left behind, I adopted, finding solace in their memories of her. They still remind of her smiling, chubby face. They are my friends, my comfort, but because of them I am damned. I feel a sharp twinge of pain, and gasp. I realize I have moved. I am standing in front of a sink. There is a lock of hair inside it, perfect corn silk that lies innocent, sheltered. I gaze with envy at the lock of hair, so much shinier and glossier than my red frizz. “Claire.” Someone whispers behind me.I start, and whirl about. Donna Evans stands in front of me. Aphrodite in the flesh. A Mac blowout and Jimmy Choo heels are the perfect touches to her celestial beauty. My envy for the strand of hair directs itself towards her. I draw back from her, suspicious of her intent gaze, of her green eyes filled with concern. “Claire, why did you rip out your hair?” I gape at her. She reaches out and gently grabs the strands of hair around my face, those that escaped the confines of the tight knot I coaxed them into. Confusion replaces the envy as my eyes focus and I see gold instead of red. The hair in her grasp gleams. Like sunshine. “What?” I say, through a haze.She opens her mouth, worried, and I hear her voice as if from far away, lingering towards me from the other end of a tunnel. I strain my eyes, trying to catch the words streaming from her. “Claire, I’m so sorry about those guys, Sean and Tammy and all. They just get kicks out of calling you fat. It’s just that you let it get to you so much, they just go on. But sweetie,” her green eyes peer at me, “why do you think you’re fat, anyway? You’re skin and bone. I
don’t understand.” I don’t understand, either. I stare at her, my mouth open. She sighs and holds up a skinny arm. I stare at it for an instant. It’s frail, breakable, like a twig. I feel dizzy. Madness creeps up behind me, and looks on. I look at him. “What are you doing here?” He smiles at me. “Go ahead, look.” I turn to the arm, trace it back to my shoulder. Shock floods through me like an ocean breeze, strong and sudden. “How—” I gasp in horror as it morphs into an elephant trunk. Grey, rotting, thick. It stares at me, with a jeering smile playing upon its lips. It starts to bubble up and flesh falls away, and flab melts down. Bones remain; skin clings to it here and there. I look down at my body and the fat begins to subside, chunks dropping to the floor. I look up into the mirror, and a stranger looks back at me. Pale hair hangs loose around her gaunt face; there are half-moons of premature age under her puffy brown eyes. White skin, tinged with the green of seaweeds, clings to her face. Her lips are bruised and battered, her body thin, skeletal. I stare at her, and terror rises in me as I try to place her. She looks back at me. A smile creeps up her mouth, making sinister lines appear on her face. A happy corpse. A jolly corpse. A skipping, dancing, pleasant, playful, merry corpse. I start to shake. So does she. I gasp, she gasps. I stop. She stares. Her smile widens. Horrified, I recoil and step backwards. Madness catches me and I feel the silk of his suit, hear the rumble of his manic laughter resonate in his chest. I feel his hold on me tighten.I start to scream. I scream and scream, and Donna shakes me, “Claire! Claire! Hey!”
ON DAYS WHEN SHE LAUGHED HER HONEY LAUGH AND SWUNG ABOUT HER FAVORITE TOTE BAG, FULL OF MY SECRETS, UNDER AZURE SKIES AND BRILLIANT SUNSHINE, WITH SMILES IN THE AIR AND THE OPEN SEA BEFORE US.
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Traveling is the worst. In the car. Out of the car. Each action a torturous event. The stares of people as she struggles to help him in and out. More stares as she helps him to balance. He is so big and tall. Their faces show their concern and the inward battle of whether to help. She thinks that many times they must believe he is drunk, and only when they see the wheelchair do they realize it is a disability not a drunken escapade. As he toddles along, leaning heavily on her, she wishes, just once they would quit staring. Arriving at their hotel, she notes that Post Street is bustling with typical San Francisco furor. She prays they don't get run over as she struggles to get him safely to the curb. A bewildered bellboy asks what he can do to help and she instructs him to get the wheelchair from the trunk, as well as the bags from the back seat of the outdated car. Too busy to be embarrassed by the car she helps her husband across the sidewalk to the marble entryway. A patron opens a door for her as she helps him up the steps and into the posh lobby. Again the stares of the curious. By now he is pale and shaking. A clerk asks if he will be okay; she responds with reassurance that he will be. Bending down to his eye level she explains that she is going to check them in and beseeches him to please stay put. At the counter she fills out the necessary forms and as she does the bellboy arrives with their bags, the wheelchair tipping precariously on the luggage cart. She removes the wheelchair from the load and helps her fatigued husband into it. The elevator is small, so she backs the chair into it. The bellboy will come up after. The room is not large, a studio, the view out the window is the alley below. But to her it's heavenly. The room's buttery color rises up the tall walls to the crown molding of eras gone by. The refurbished bathroom, still sporting fixtures from the 20s,
adds to the room's ambiance. A refrigerator, microwave and flat screen TV bring modern comforts. As she helps her husband onto the plush burgundy comforter on the bed, she wonders if this vacation is really going to be a good thing. If this is going to be life, then we need to learn how to live it. The next morning, after helping her husband to dress, she calls for the car. The loud ringing of the hotel phone startles her, even though she is expecting the call. The car is ready. She helps her husband into his wheelchair, pushes him the short distance down the hall, and once again backs him into the elevator. The drive from the hotel to Ghirardelli Square is brief but nerve-racking as she struggles to remember the route. Pedestrians bustle in droves up and down the sidewalks; a bicyclist nearly collides with her as he swerves around a barking dog, and the traffic is moving far too quickly for the narrow city streets. As they approach the Square, traffic slows and her stress level begins to fall. She maneuvers the dark green car around the block looking for suitable parking and is relieved to find a spot close to the entrance. She parks the car and unloads the wheelchair from the trunk. Grasping her husband's hand she pulls and balances him as he grabs the top of the car door with his free hand and works to pull himself upright. For a moment she wishes they had brought their much taller truck, but parking that beast would have been impossible. Again the stares of those passing by. We aren't the tourist attraction here people, so can you look at something else please, she thinks to herself. Holding his arm, she maneuvers his body around and he plops into the waiting wheelchair. He is shaking from the effort, so she offers him a drink of water. He drinks, and as she returns the half empty bottle to the pouch hanging from the back of chair, she looks up to the brick
T A M A R A L I P A N O V I C H
If This Is Going to Be Life
entrance of the major tourist attraction and notes there are a multitude of stairs, but no ramp. This ought to be interesting. Wheeling him toward the stairs she looks for a handicapped entrance sign and finds one near the handrail. The arrow points to the right so she begins to push him that way. Following the next sign they arrive to the delivery entrance, and are directed by more signs to the foot of a flight of about ten stairs. On the wall there is a contraption that appears to slide on a rail. “Ring bell for handicapped assistance,” a sign reads. She rings the bell and a voice comes out of a small speaker. “Can I help you?” “I'd like to get my disabled husband up the stairs.” “Someone will be right there,” the voice answers. After several minutes a somewhat large black man appears. His broad smile helps to alleviate the annoyance of having to take such a long inconvenient way around. He unlocks the arm holding the contraption together, as it unfolds a small platform protrudes. “Roll him onto this.” The man directs her in getting her husband onto the platform. Then he begins to give him instructions. “Push this button to go up,” he says pointing to a button near her husband's arm. “But don't push it too hard or you'll go flying off.” “What? Are you serious?” Her husband's eyes open wide with concern and she recognizes the anxiety in his tone. “It's OK, just don't push it too hard,” the smiling man instructs. Carefully her husband pushes the button and the lift begins to rise. “Careful, that's too hard!” “But I'm barely touching it. Am I going to be safe?” His eyes widen with fear. Laughing the man replies, “I’m just
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kidding with you! Feel how slow you are going? That's as fast as it will go!” Still not sure and unable to fully process the joke her husband continues to use caution as he is carried up the rail. Once at the top he asks his wife, “Was he just kidding with me?” “Yes dear he was just playing with you. It was a joke.” “I thought he was being serious. Very funny!”
* * * * *
She rolls over and opens her eyes, for a moment disoriented. Her eyes focusing she remembers that they are in a new hotel room. The morning gray plays peek-a-boo around the darkness of the drapery edges. She lies for a moment and hears his breathing, soft and slow. She thinks about the differences between the posh hotel of yesterday and this emergency stop on the way home from their San Francisco adventure when he declared he was too tired to make it the last half of the ninety minute drive. If this is going to be life, then we need to learn how to live it, the words echo in her mind. Easing herself out of bed she walks quietly to the bathroom. Returning to the bedside, she glances at her phone, 6:45. She is wide-awake. With the stealth of a cat she pulls out the chair at the small round table. Quietly she opens her computer and clicks it on. For the next hour or two she works on the computer, entertaining herself with emails, Facebook, and then homework. Finally, he opens his eyes. “How long have you been up? You could have turned on a light.” Rising stiffly from her chair, she cracks the drapes; a ray of sunshine enters the room. She slides under the covers and draws him near. “How did you sleep?” “Okay” he responds as she clicks the TV on. “Are you hungry?” she asks. “I could eat” he replies. Pulling the package of shredded wheat from the white cardboard box full of travel snacks and supplies, she pours two bowls of cereal; pulling a container from the small blue and white travel ice chest, she adds milk. Carefully she hands him his slightly oversized bowl. And, even though the bowl
is only half full, she worries he may tip it. “You got it okay?” His “yes” does not match his movements as his shaky hand reaches for the bowl. “Here, let me help you sit up,” she says setting the two bowls on the small nightstand. The pillows re-arranged, she helps him sit upright. As she hands him the bowl for a second time, she steadies his outstretched hand with her own free hand. Grasping the round handle of the soup-sized spoon he struggles to get each bite safely from the bowl to his mouth. She watches him take a bite and then slides in next to him with her own bowl and begins to eat. After breakfast she gets him his morning medicines, does her hair and make-up, and then begins to pack their bags. The black travel bag is full of zip-locks; one for shampoo and conditioners, one for toothpaste and toothbrushes, another of medicine bottles, she adds a hairbrush from the counter and zips it closed. The medium-sized suitcase full of clothing shows signs of wear from travels taken long before she bought it at a yard sale for five bucks. Asking him what he would like to wear, she removes a dark blue pair of sweats with a small tear near the waistband, a white t-shirt with the words “don't bother me” in large gray and green letters, and a slightly dingy pair of crew cut socks, and she tosses them to the bed. Returning to her packing she adds her pajamas and turns to find him grabbing onto the flimsy hotel table. His knuckles white and his face drawn, he rocks from toe to heel. Moving quickly, she grabs him by an arm, preventing a fall. “Here, sit on the bed, and I'll help you get your pants on.” “I, I, I got it,” he stutters in reply. “No, I'll help you,” she insists as she helps him dress, much as a mother helps a child. His clothes on, she helps him lay back on the bed. “Rest, honey, let me pack the car.” “I should help you,” he says dejectedly. “You are too unsteady. Rest, so you will feel up to travel,” she replies. Loading the suitcase into the car she turns it sideways so it will slide into the backseat of the two-door Thunderbird, leaving the trunk free for the wheelchair. This Motel 6 sure
leaves a lot to be desired, she thinks as she inserts the key card into the door. Entering, she blinks to help her eyes adjust to the dimly lit room. Not seeing him on the bed where she left him her eyes dart to the floor. She sees his slippers first. As she rounds the corner of the bed, she sees his body out flat; the tremors that shake his body are visible but not jerking. She bends to wake him and calls to him, “Theo, Theo honey, wake up,” as she gently shakes him. He opens his eyes, dazed and disoriented, “What happened?” Reaching to the top of the hotel nightstand she grasps a half empty bottle of water and twists off the lid. Holding his head with one hand, she uses her free hand to place the bottle in his hand and helps him put it to his lips. He drinks deeply. “I'm so cold; help me back to the bed.” “Not yet, you need to be more stable.” “I can do it,” he replies as he attempts to rise up and falls backward again. “Not, yet.” she says again, this time more firmly. “But I can do it!” he says insistently. “No, wait until the tremors have subsided. Here, I'll get you a blanket.” Her tone is what she would use for an impetuous child. Reaching over to the bed she pulls off the soft fleece comforter emblazoned with Steelers insignias that she has brought from home. Draping it over him she recalls the Christmas that her daughter made fleece blankets for everyone, personalizing each to the receiver’s favorite thing. Moving her own horse-covered blanket, she grabs a hotel pillow and places it under his head. “Rest here for a minute.” Rising from the floor, she crosses the room and picks up the receiver from the old hotel phone, “Hi, I'm in room seventeen; I'd like to make arrangements to stay another night.”
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Everyone in the computer lab stares intently at the screens, each pair of eyes seeing something different, a glow reflected back into them. Most of them appear to be only foreheads, the rest of their faces obscured by computer monitors. They all work quietly, the clacking keys of the keyboards the only sounds most people make. Others, when they do talk, do so in hushed, respectful tones usually reserved for a library. The only consistent movement, aside from busy, typing hands, are the teachers’ aids walking around, going to various students in an effort to help anyone that might need their assistance. We are all working on different projects, unknown to each other, and my observing them is quite unknown to them. As quiet as the room is, there seems to be a buzz of energy in the air. So many keenly focused brains in one room create an almost palpable mood that makes me want to stop staring and get back to work. In front of me is my screen and keyboard, or the one I’ve chosen that day. My essay, as I write it, takes shape on the screen in bursts, punctuated by long, thought-filled pauses while the curser waits impatiently with its blink, blink, blinking rhythm. It seems to say, ‘and? And? And?’ with each waiting pulse as I search my mind and surroundings for inspiration. On the walls on either side of the computer lab are windows. Instead of facing the world outside, the windows allow us a view into two other computer lab classrooms. The one to my left is almost identical to the one I occupy. All of the students are at their computers, solitary, zoned in on the various things they are there to focus on. The room on my right boasts an atmosphere that is in stark contrast to mine and my neighbors to the left. Behind the glass of that window is a seemingly rambunctious class engaged with an equally rambunctious teacher who stands at the whiteboard. The
students in that computer lab sit behind their computers, but their eyes are on their energetic teacher who draws a diagram in steps, pausing to gesture some explanations intermittently. Students will occasionally call out a question or an answer to something and the teacher responds with matched enthusiasm. It appears to be an oddly exuberant group for what I take to be a computer class and I wish briefly that we were as animated in our own classroom. The girl next to me rests her chin in her hand, bored, as she waits for her computer to log in. Her finger lazily scrolls through something on the screen of her phone, that sort of absent minded trolling through Facebook people are prone to engage in when attempting to kill time. On the other side of me is just the opposite, a man busily typing, his eyes moving back and forth between a piece of paper and his computer screen. He contemplates the
paper, the clicking at his fingertips halted for a moment, hovering just above the keyboard. The next burst of inspiration comes and in a flash, his eyes are back on the screen, hands punching out his thoughts with spirited keystrokes. In my periphery, I get the odd sensation that the man keeps looking at me but when I turn, I see that it is just his head moving from paper to screen, paper to screen, so engaged in academic rapture that he doesn’t notice me spying on him. My attention is diverted to the front of the room when a young student enters talking loudly on his cell phone. He moves into the room, fully engaged in conversation
then appears to be suddenly struck with the awareness of whatever social cue it is that causes him to regard the quiet he has disturbed. As though someone has turned down his volume button mid-sentence, his voice drops to an almost imperceptible level to say a quick word of goodbye to the person on the other end of the phone. He hangs up and shoves the phone into his pocket before making his way to a computer. The back wall of the room is made up of more windows and these offer a second story view of the inviting, sunny day just outside. I find myself staring longingly at towering treetops rustling in the breeze, the students down below on their way to the rest of their days, appearing to enjoy the sun. It’s hard to not draw a comparison between the inviting, fresh aired afternoon outside and the gray walled, air-conditioned classroom that offers
little in the way of relaxing beauty. As inspiring as the atmosphere can be in here to work, it’s nothing compared to the thought of laying in one of the many patches of soft green grass outside and doing nothing at all. I tell myself that the more I stay focused, the faster I can take advantage of the day so elegantly framed in the window behind me. It makes me wonder if the architect was on to something when they designed and built this campus.
K R I S T I N E D A V I D
Staying on Task
BEH IND THE GLASS OF THAT WINDOW I S A SEEMINGLY RAMBUNCT IOUS CLASS ENGAGED WITH AN EQUALLY RAMBUNCT IOUS TEACHER WHO STANDS AT THE WHITEBOARD.
"Classical Piano"
M A RT I N M c I L ROY » » » P H OTO G R A P H Y
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“Why not go out and volunteer somewhere?” “There is nowhere within walking distance, and I can’t get places as I don’t drive.” “Why not get a temp job?” “I don’t know where or how to get one of those, besides I don’t drive so that makes it harder to get somewhere.” Often times I felt that no one really truly understood what I was going through. They were just placating me to get me to stop being mopey. None of them could ever understand my pain and loneliness. They were just people that said stuff to me on Facebook after all. Granted I knew many of them in reality from high school or college; it still felt disconnected. I had dropped out of college and run off to Utah, hoping for a new life and this desire to get away. Things went south and opposite of what I had thought. I stopped going to work, got myself banned from ever working for K-Mart again, and lost my residence because we were evicted for no rent month after month. Begging my parents for help I came crawling back to Sacramento, back to living in my childhood home with no hope. The only bright light my younger sister, someone in the same spot as myself. Like two moths flying to close to an open flame, we got burned. Dark and depressed, we fed off each other and only made it worse as it was us against the world in our minds. “You two should get up and do something for the day.” “Just gonna sit around the house anyways.” “Why don’t you see a shrink, get some help?” “I hate talking to strangers; I’d rather talk to friends about this.” For years it went on, delving deeper and deeper into the pit of despair we called home. Till the day my sister pulled a move from my plan book. She found a way to escape, fleeing
S C O T T R E D M O N D
Media Bias
It would be so simple, just take the blade and aim it at my stomach and push it in. Maybe I could even set the handle against a wall or counter and then push into it. I thought about the feeling of a knife going through my belly, as well as the feeling of it sliding across my wrist to draw little lines of blood behind it. It was just one of many ways I thought of ending it all. If I’m to be honest, I probably never would have been able to go through with ending my life; there was something seemingly too selfish about it and knowing how much my family would hurt put a stop there. Yet it never stopped the visions and ideas in my head. I could fling myself out into traffic or could drink something that would poison me. It all seemed so slow and possibly painful though. Shooting never entered my mind because getting a gun to do the job seemed impossible and it was bound to be so messy for someone to clean-up afterwards. What with the blood and possible brain matter everywhere. I couldn’t do that to them, not along with the pain of my death. I was truly and deeply depressed, though never diagnosed as such. You can tell when you’re in a depression of sorts without someone letting you know. Like the pain of those ways I thought to kill myself, it’s just something you know right away. “Why are you depressed?” People would ask me. I want to say I had no answer for them but I had an entire list to roll through. It just depended on the person and the situation, then I would know which one to bring out. “I don’t have a job.” “I sit at home all the time.” “I have no way to get around.” Sadly they were all true and were legitimate things that got to me. People would offer their suggestions and I would be quick to shoot them down.
to Hawaii with a friend she knew from the world of online. Once again I was alone, left to my own devices. I was distraught, finding myself to be a failure as more and more things began to pile on my head and the world seemed to be content to finally do me in since I never had the guts to do it myself. Kicked out of school again with the chance to get back in if desired, after semesters of our skipping and feeding darkly off one another, all hope seemed lost. A spark. The fire within was ignited with just the one thought. What if I make a change? One simple change, a change to bring on the others. What if I change something so fundamental it just has to help all other things? A change of school, and scenery. Sac City left behind with Cosumnes River laid out before me. A class taken just to fill general education, seemingly fun, to learn about how to write and report the news. One choice, my entire life changed. From learning to doing, I joined the school newspaper. Gone was the darkness from my mind. Instead there were people, people that wanted me around and were willing to help me and teach me. People that cared. No more thoughts of knives or poison. Images of my brains all over the ground went away, replaced by think paper and ink, a byline with my name upon it. Gone was the loneliness and feelings of alienation. Instead there were amazing people that quickly became my friends, people that I spend as much of my free time with as possible. I guess in the end you could say just one thing: the news saved my life.
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Did you happen to notice that on August 25, 2012 everyone looked slightly different? Uh-huh, yep. Had everyone gotten new clothing or lost a few pounds? We wish. Had everyone gotten some “work” done, a collective nipping and tucking? No, it was more subtle than that. So subtle indeed, that we did not realize it until three days ago, more than a year after it happened. So subtle because it happened 11.3 billion miles away from here, with here being Earth. As a member of humankind, you and I had, for the first time ever, sent a manmade object into interstellar space. We are now part of a species that can fling stuff into other interstellar backyards. In solar system terms, we are now wearing big boy pants. This was achieved when the Voyager I spacecraft crossed over the edge of our solar system into an interstellar transitory zone known as the Heliopause. Think of the Heliopause as the immigration office for anything wishing to leave our sun’s jurisdiction. If our solar system is Kansas, then the Heliopause is populated with Munchkins and has a wizard. How did we do this? Apparently, quite remarkably given that Voyager I was launched in 1977 and was made with advanced technology of its time that included an 8-track tape player for data storage and a transmitter using about the same wattage as a refrigerator light bulb. It is powered by a radioactively decaying pellet of Plutonium 238. Okay, that last part is pretty cool, even by today’s standards. How antiquated is this technology? Well, the Voyager’s scientific team was long ago moved from its sexy facilities at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena down the street to a non-descript office building next to a McDonald's. Next to a McDonald's. “Would you like fries with your Plutonium 238?” Voyager’s technology is so antiquated that for some of you, the people who created you
R O B E R T P A Y N E
Somewhere Over the Heliopause
weren’t yet glimmers in their grandfathers’ eyes. So antiquated that when Voyager’s 8-track player needed some tweaking, there were no tweakers who knew how to tweak it. Susan Dodd, Voyager Project Manager, had to look far and wide and finally found 77-year-old Lawrence Zottarelli, a retired NASA engineer, to do the work. It would be like going to Honda and asking for someone to help fix a buggy whip. So what’s the next milestone for our intrepid little spacecraft? Well, in 40,000 years
it will pass by a dwarf star named AC+793888 in the constellation of Camelopardalis. (And so marks the most anticlimactic sentence I have ever written.) Voyager’s home planet will surely still be around, but the species that made the spacecraft will probably not be, though McDonald’s might be. So here’s to you, Voyager I. As you romp through the Heliopause with the knowledge that no solar system can contain you, may your little 8-track heart revel in the knowledge that you’ve redefined your humble creators.
J U L I A N E L I A S » » » P H OTO G R A P H Y
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The mist, it blankets allwith no discrimination.I step forward and it cloaks me.Perhaps I do this to lose myself.But better yet, that if I return,I do so with the pieces of methat were missing before.
J A K E K O I Y O T H
Into the Mist
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I have a coward’s tongueAnd oft my hands trembleSo I take my pen to airSealing the letters I write in my eyesIn the hopes that if they meet yoursYou will read of my love
J A K E K O I Y O T H
Pen to Air
"Row Away from the Rocks"
J O S H S L OW I C Z E K » » » P H OTO G R A P H Y
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Because death chanced by, it sought their breath. What unfolded but the length of a man reaching to follow the variegated grey cliffs, all the precipitous
days she’d stayed indoors, dream sotted, having abandoned the trees, the cold ground, the paththrough the wood. What happens in that split
infinity when suspension ends, that transcendent second when perception shifts and falling begins? When gravity came he thought of her, of how
he left her in a riddle of silence. It was true,she never knew what he wanted, nor the gravitasof her own desires—driven by the impulse to cross
divides, to inhabit a different watershed withoutawareness that all waterways belong to the sea. Unable to navigate the exacting lines of granite,
they had to diverge, to take their hurts elsewhere.Neither understood a decision could settle so deeplyor resurface, as if a new fissure in faulted rock.
Who knew gravity could be so robust a sideways glance would be enough weight to tip a personfrom secure footing on a firm ledge into a backward
dive? Who reflects on the distance that vibrates when a rock is dropped? How can love be measuredother than by its consequences? What is it to fall?
J O D Y A N S E L L
Falling for DH
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It seemed good to burn our Christmas treeOn a Tuesday afternoon in late JanuaryAnd ask for no one's approval. I would not put it out for sparrows or other little birdsTo shield themselves from winter's deep freezeAs my plumber George suggested.
There had been disagreements aboutHow to get it properly into the stand,Or what side should face out,Or how many ornaments I should have put on,
But my wanting to burn itHad nothing to do with that.
In the end, it was a splendid tree,And I always quickly plugged in the white and color lightsWhen I came home, even deep into January.
I cut the fourteen foot tree in two with a saw,Dragged each half out the door,And stacked them on top of each other by the cornfield.
With only one match, its flame touching a single needle,The entire tree engulfed itself in seconds.
I stared at orange fire-gold flames,Black smoke, and deep green needlesAgainst icy cold snow,And was deeply purged, even of my sins.
When the tree trunk's two halvesLay dying and smoldering in charcoal black,
I was sad only about the absence of flame,And not of tree.
J O N A T H A N D E Y O U N G
Untitled
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They live on a tree nearby my window They wake earlier than the orange sun They sing songs for me every dawn.They remind me, “Wake up, wake up, ma’am.”I watch them, hear them before I leave my bed.They seem to know, I love them.They seem to know if they leave, I will be lost.They seem to know we are alike; I need to be free.And like them, I need a safe place to live, To avoid the Communist’s discrimination and feud I have flown to freedom, where I write anything without fearI have flown to freedom and achieve my long dream They sing in their home and I sing in my new home, too.
M A I D U O N G
The Birds’ Home
"Tree's Light"
B L A I R W E L L S » » » P H OTO G R A P H Y
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milkweed leaves traversed bymicroscopic wriggler
munch, munch, munchcrunch, crunch, crunchpersistent nibbler
body swellsskin stretches, splitsthree times
caterpillar attachesto a leaf
sheds skin once more
hangs upside down ten day metamorphosis until
jay-shaped crysaliswears crown of goldebonizes becomes transparent
dawn arrives shiny black legscrawl out of crysalis
tiny folded wings shudder as huge body pumps life into them
four wings unfurl,
lengthen, spread, drydazzling in the sun
D I A N E B A D E R
Birth of a Monarch
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persimmons ripenin the stillness of autumnthat time which is the thresholdbetween two worlds—the world of the livingand the world of those gone before—it is a time of reflectiona time to invoke ancestors whose DNA has been passed down to usperhaps we wish to thank themor to curse themnever mind, we can't change itbut we can search for the strengthsthat buoy us up, that teach ushow to live to the fullest
do persimmons know this, I wonderdo they think about their ancestorsthey are attuned to the rhythmsof the seasonswhich we shut outin our rush through life
D I A N E B A D E R
Persimmons (A Conundrum)
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The world looks at me as if I am ugly Because my skin is dark. The world looks at me as if I am dumb Because I never went to college. The world looks at me as if I am an angry black woman Because of all the hurt that I have encountered in my life.
Now,
I have something to tell the world. I am a beautiful black woman With my beautiful black skin; I am in college now, And I am no dummy by far. I say to the world:
No,
I am not an angry black woman. I just see things as they are Not as they seem, So I say to the world Take a good look at me, And you just might like what you see.
L I S A C O W A N S
The World Looks at Me
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You raised me to belike you:polite, helpful, caring—a good person.
You were so young;a blond beauty, abandoned.I was your baby doll, your joy,your mistake.
You taught me howto make Grandpa Dean’s spaghetti sauce,to sew like you and Grandma Vivian,to decorate on a budget.
You championed me,designed and sewed my dreams:our song-girl outfits,my satin prom dresses.
You stood by me, even joined me once,when my explorationsof the counterculturemystified you.
You ingrained in mea workingman’s sense of fairness,a politics of everyday peoplerooted in the Great Depression.
You were there for mewhen I had no one else:packed for my move when you were 60,drove 200 miles to visit me when you were 74.
P A T S O B E R A N I S
GratitudeYou gave me your genes:my wide nose and crooked smile,the inflections of my soft voice,the comforting touch of my small hands.
You gave me life, my life,and I am grateful.I love you and miss youmore than you will ever know.
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One statement becomes an offense,One’s desire to recompense.Many words spoken in error,Of regret, I am the bearer.
Persuaded by a trap; a snare,Loving FORGIVENESS is my prayer.A lesson learned, I’ve paid the cost,A bridge is burned, one asset lost.
M A R I N A H U T C H I N S
Lesson Learned
"Fine Art Dog"
S C OT T R E D M O N D » » » P H OTO G R A P H Y
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Awareness slowly flows through Sweeping the fog from my headI am in a hospital, in a hospital Bed, and I cannot move, speak, see
I hear voices all aroundI hear them speakingAround me, about meAs if I am not here
One says I may recoverFrom the coma, butI will never get better
I am forever confinedIn this solitary placeOf my body’s creation
With no walls, no doors,No windows, just a shell Of bone, muscle, flesh
Y A S S M I N A M O N T E S
Out of the Frying Pan, into the Flame
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Before the skies pepper with fowlthe first hard freeze she climbs the knollbooted feet the muddy roadcomplaint of knees basket slung on flannelled armthe farmwoman’s charm bracelet
Fog cobwebs the orchardnoon sun brooms awaysurveys a family’s labora daughter’s inheritance
She chooses Mirabelles, Bartlett, Anjous, Boscfor their fragrance: honey and spiceimperfect skins conceal pale sweet flesh chooses for color: lutescent coppery, sumac red, those blushed by summer’s constant gazefor their song of curves
for how they fill an empty hand.
J E N N I F E R O ’ N E I L L P I C K E R I N G
First Harvest
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A thought jumps inTriumphantly headed For the blank pageThe writer rejoices
A knock on The door interruptsThe right thing to do Would be to Ignore the intruder
But the civil, socially Well-adjusted individualDutifully answersReturning, religious Pamphlet in handThe writer heads back towardThe goal whistling happily
Nature callsAnd is addressedThought still intactYet fading
The writer heads towardThe blank page againThe phone rings
V S C H O C H E Z I
Blank PageThe intelligent writerListens as the callerLeaves a messageCall me back, it’s important!
The rebellious writer Sits at the computerEmail is open
Urgent message Is the top lineThe writer is sucked in
50 minutes laterThe pamphlet is filed The email is answeredThe phone call is returnedThe thought is goneThe page is blank.
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Do the dead speak?They who are sleeping on the hill;Do they yet have words for those who dare to live?Do they whisper regrets into the dreamer's deaf ear?Do they speak of poetry: of green valleys and walks in the Elysian Fields?Do they make mischief: leaving footprints upon dusty tile floors?Do they touch the poet's shoulder at midnight and possess the silver pen?Do they bellow their rage by quaking the ground beneath our feet?So are the mysteries of those in the grave.Or perhaps the dead can only speak through what they leave behindFor those still yet living to find.
D I A N A S A X O N
Do the Dead Speak?
"6125"
G E R RY “ G O S ” S I M P S O N » » » P H OTO G R A P H Y
"Stallion"
M A RT I N M C I L ROY » » » P H OTO G R A P H Y
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In the beginning cells divided and multiplied,and a species became by the numbers
We by the numbers educate our prescribednumber of children teaching them theimportance of numbers as soon as they cansay two-years old then turn them over toa school system that disburses fundsby headcounts and tax bases not faces,not races, not places in need of morebecause of poverty or language barriers
How many students in overcrowdedclassrooms can sit and listen afterbreakfasting on sugar/chocolatemarshmallow non foods whilewatching cartoons that make them want torun, shout, scream jumphit somebody or tear something up?how many can become creative, pursueknowledge, invent, imagine, revolutionizetheorize, philosophize in this antiquated schoolsystem where bore, bored and boring have becomethe standard script spit from the lips of childrenas young as five and how do they survive teacherswhose sole purpose is to count heads thencount the ducats in their digit on pay daywhether they teach anyone anything or not?
S T A A J A B U
By the NumbersBy the numbers we declare a person educatedwhen they have studied a number of years,completed a number of courses, written a numberof publications, and display a number of lettersafter their name not by evaluating their intelligenceBy the numbers students pursue careers, insteadof vocations, callings, truths, passions or beliefsseeking the highest pay with the least sweatmustn’t sweat, that is a big no-no in thisno sweat man, no sweat boss, no sweatsociety where sweating is only allowedin fitness centers.
By the numbers we are losing our young toconsumer oriented happy happy happybuy buy buy advertising which will teach themthe number of things to possess ifthey want to be considered a successregardless of the consequence, regardlessof the price, the highest being not a number,but their soul.
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It is the color of limpid blue water flowing away from the mountain caps. The cry of a deer in the black forest wounded by the hunter's gun.The taste of rusty nails trapped in my throat.It feels like an icy dull knife wielding into my skin.The empty longing for a visitor who never arrives,I am its hostage succumbing to the fog.The air is so thin, I cannot breathe;Gasping, struggling to hold onto the flame of life.
Oxygen.Let it ignite!
D I A N A S A X O N
Prologue
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When you carried me over,stripped of the trappingsthat held me together(or so I lived to believe),you did not stareat the nudity of my soul.The fare you extractedwas a mere moment of memoryof the new warmth of spring.I watched it scatter across your face, play in your hooded eyeslike a young bird in a bathbefore it was corralled,contained and filed awayto be sipped like wineat your secret hearthin those moments of nightthat are not night, not daywhen there is nobody waitingat the dock.
There is nothing about methat sets me apartfrom the thousandsyou carry every day,naked and terrifiedof the unknown in the next worldand I know you discardseparate memories of single faces,know the faces we wear.
K I M B E R L Y W H I T E
Letter to the Boatman
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Incoming storm—empty dining room—stone fireplace to the ceiling—blazing fire—waxy wooden floor reflecting flames—shadows cast into the vacant, silent corners—
We should have danced.
We should have risen from our table, waiter watching without movement from the wall,
and danced.
We could have danced to the wind or danced to the fire or the near silence from the kitchen.
We could have danced to music in our heads.
We could have danced to fleeing the storm or turning to face the wind.
We could have danced around empty tables and in front of windows that looked out on the sea turning green and dark with accumulating rain.
We could have danced to laughter and shells lying loose and uncollected on the beach below the bluff.
The wind was picking up, and it was cold.
We should have stayed by the fire
—dancing.
S T A N Z U M B I E L
Regret
"Blue Butterfly"
A P P R I A N E G R E T E » » » PA I N T I N G
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Soup is good food
The hungry man is a cliché now:brownhaired dad in his plaid shirtcomes in from an overcast sky, it must be fall as thescreen door bangs shut and twokids trundle behind, and a big dogtoo, everything movement and smiles, wide-eyed boy, girlkeeping up as they sweep by the kitchen counter where momladles, yes, soup, steaming the red pot(red best color) kids getting their bowls firstand the dad – he pauses to peck blushed cheekof the mom, focus in on thatbefore the camera cuts to the canthe name of the brandthe famous tag line that just fitsthe warmth and the soup and the kids who—pull back—turn unfocused at just the right momentdog’s tail wagging blurs behind distinctive scriptcliché working, each of us living our ownedge of the demographic:older now, still hungry manready for bowls of a soupas afternoon turns to evening.
But for us it’s Saturday, August hot,and we go for tomatoes at the very end of farmers’ market, when Joe bundlesbig bags of them, three dollar bag, so they don’t rideback to Dixon with the truck. We lug bags to the car,plastic bag-handles sharp on loaded hands
B O B S T A N L E Y
Tag Line
and soon as we’re home wash, trim, slice, and roastthese nearly-too-soft-with-summerGreat Central Valley jumbos in midday oven,and once onions and garlic simmer,we chop and throw them into the pot, the old red one that used to be pretty,because we’re hungry,and our recipe is to stay hungry.
On day of rest we choose to work: cutting and blending this sacramental mealtaking the slow wayto make our own soup, in this announcement for our lives, focusing on what we choose:the soupthat will not last long,our own message,our own tag line:we’ll make itin our own sweet time.
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the room is cloudywith that soft grey haze thatglides through the room ever so tranquilly.it burns so good.so bittersweet it is.but im dying, im living.im addicted.i must stop or it will stop me.this will be the death of me,literally.
D A V I D P O T E R A S
cignificant
"Tulip's Last Hoorah"
J E N N I F E R O ’ N E I L L P I C K E R I N G » » » P H OTO G R A P H Y
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The mind may move,Or even the heart,But not my bodyFrom this comfortable leather chair.
The coffee is gone from the white ceramic mug,The newspaper read.
The Beatles play on a soundtrackReminding me of howMy wife's beautiful voice sang Beatles' tunesIn our courting days in Chicago.
I would rather sit hereWatching workmen drag scaffolding,Than rise to face anyone at all.
Not even hunger for a freshly baked black currant sconeCan rouse these bones from their less than poisedBut nestled position in this smooth warm chair.
Now I know how stone statues must feel,And how comfortable they must beIn their fixed positions and I findMy own position becoming even more fixed
On this strange Tuesday morning in late FebruaryWhen even my pen seems tired,
But somehow I find the courage to lean forwardAnd gently stretch my legs.
J O N A T H A N D E Y O U N G
Laziness
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It was just another sunny day in southern California. There was a stillness in the air that allowed an almost unbearable heat to cascade over the trees and the mountains, overwhelming little Fallbrook Valley. Dim flies hung
motionless in the air while dogs took shelter in the shadows of trees and awnings. It was too hot for anyone to move about, the kind of weather that kept people in their air conditioned houses or sheltered wooden porches, drinking lemonade and pressing the gossip of the town among one another. Terrance Beckard would have loved nothing more than to be one of those people, sheltered from the heat and the uncertainty, from those dark things with teeth. Unfortunately, there was no chance of immediate relief as he sat outside of the Fallbrook Greyhound station on a concrete bench, wedged between a trashcan and a dying Manzanita. The tree might have been frail, but the trashcan was in bloom with a wretched smell of slow-cooked rotten food. It was like a piercing headache that came and went. He kept his eyes clenched shut, trying to ignore the heat, the smell, and the sweat that rolled down his face and onto his dark blue shirt. He only needed to suffer twenty or thirty minutes more before that blue and chrome bus pulled up and took him north, up the 101 and into the horizon. The thought of freedom echoed in his head as he counted the countless things he could do, pictured a life finally worth living. His sweaty hand was clenched; there would be no letting go. So, he crossed his arms and let his imagination take him farther and farther away from the sorry excuse for a town where he had lived his entire life. A sharp chime echoed over the intercom as the display next to the ticket booth changed, informing him that the 3:30 bus would be ten minutes late. Letting out a sigh, the young man bowed his head and cupped his hands together in his lap, looking at his fingers intently as if every last bit of hope he could scrounge and steal rested in the palm of his hands. Ten minutes wasn’t that bad, but knowing luck ten minutes would become twenty, twenty would become thirty, and so on and so forth. Beckard Boys have no luck. That was the motto of the family and a punch line used by the rest of the town. Terrance may have been only sixteen, but the amount of times he had heard that mantra snickered and whispered behind his back was just as numerous as leaves in the fall. Usually, they were statements made about his father, but blood will always be blood. Castles had bards. Courts had jesters. Silverado had the town drunk, and Fallbrook, California had Daniel Beckard. That was just the way things went. He was the kind of man who was always hard pressed for money, luck, and sympathy. In his younger years
J O S H S L O W I C Z E K
They Don’t Have Roses in Heaven
he was a hell-raiser, a drop out, a forgotten child who travelled from correctional facility to halfway house and back again. Finally, before the age of twenty-one, he graduated to full-blown prison for grand theft. After serving his time he came back to town and mellowed out for a while, marrying his high school sweetheart, Shelly, who lived in Rick’s Trailer Park & Storage just on the edge of town. Soon after, Daniel moved in with her and came to enjoy a few brief years of a woman’s love and steady employment. But nothing ever really lasts, and, due to complications, Shelly died shortly after giving birth to Terrance. Daniel would come to say it was the only five minutes of his life where he felt he had a family. It took about a year for Daniel to lose sight of things, and having already know the trails leading into that dark forest of drugs and desperation, he took residence in that place where the mind should not linger. Daniel wasn’t around to be much of a father, but he was still better than others. None could argue he didn’t work like a dog day and night to keep food in his son’s stomach and a roof over his head. He labored the worst of jobs at the lowest of pay for his right to raise a son and drink constantly, a life in the land of the free. It was no surprise to find Daniel at the bar at any night of the week, bleary eyed and spouting the talents and qualities he never truly had. Usually, by the end of the night, his brain would be so soaked in whiskey that he became impossible to understand. There were those who claimed his lifestyle was because he was slow in the head. Others said it was because he dropped out of high school. Either way, the general agreement was that he was a sinner, and if only he’d turn to Jesus his life would take a turn for the better. This did not sit well with Daniel, or the local minister for that matter. Whenever they crossed paths Daniel would fly into a rage and chastise the man loudly. “What kind of caring god steals a young mother’s life, Tom?” he’d snarl. “Where was your Jesus when that sweet woman drew her last breath?” There would never be an answer. For five generations nothing ever went well for the Beckard Boys. They were usually widowed or abandoned by their wives, and left with children that they rarely cared for. Yet, they would stick it out in Fallbrook, mentally exhausted and emotionally crippled. This amused the good Christian folk of Fallbrook. Those Beckard Boys, with their cursing and intoxication, their lack of decency and faith, were all an affirmation to the town that God was out there and was always watching. That was all they needed to know, and they could pass
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judgment well enough on their own. However, an all-seeing deity was the last thing on Daniel Beckard’s mind as he poured some Jack into his coffee and sat down at the small, wobbly kitchen table with his son. “I need you to stay home today Terrance. I need you to stay here until I get back.” “Why?” “I just need you to stay home until I get back” he said, pausing to take a healthy gulp of his coffee. “And I need you to pack a small bag full of clothes. We’re going on a trip up to the mountains when I get back.” “What about school?” “You’ll have to finish your education on the road,” said Daniel. “It will be rough, but you’re a smart kid. You’ll manage.” Daniel touched his son on the shoulder and stood up, slowing making his way to the door. “I’m off to work. I’ll be back after I finish up Ms. Willowmauker’s house. I’ll tell her you say hi.” “Dad?” The father stopped and turned around to face his only son. “Why are you wearing grandpa’s lucky watch?” Daniel smiled, looking at the dull gold watch on his write and then at his son. He took another gulp from his mug, giving that casual shrug that had caught the eye of his wife so many years before. “It just seemed like a good day to wear it,” he said, opening the door. “Promise me you’ll stay in the house till I get back. We’ll be leaving in a rush.” “Yeah.” Daniel stepped out into the day and closed the door behind him. Terrance listened to his father’s work boots clopping along the sidewalk outside as he stared dully at the empty bottle of Jameson standing in the middle of the kitchen table like an empty and flowerless vase. He was old enough to understand the implications of the demand, having learned not to ask questions about his father’s business from a very young age. By sheer repetition, Terrance had become oblivious to the sound or sight of his father stumbling in drunk at four in the morning, smelling of alcohol and cheap perfume. He no longer saw the bloodstains in the shirts, or on the white kitchen floor, or crusted down the cracked bathroom sink. He no longer stared at the loaded forty-caliber that could often be found lying next to his father’s keys and wallet on the kitchen table in the morning. Daniel Beckard worked in several fields in order to make ends meet, a modern day renaissance man without need of pen or paper. In the towns surrounding Fallbrook Valley the Mongol motorcycle clubs were always in need of a heavy hand. Yet, none of this bothered Terrance as he got up from the teeter-tottering kitchen table, making his way down the dimly lit hall and into his small and cluttered bedroom. “Only clothes,” he mumbled. He stared around at all of the posters on the walls and the
small knick knacks that cluttered the nightstand, the dusty window sill. Broken toys and polished pieces of glass faintly reflected the intensity of the sun coming in through his window, flashing beacons of the fractured childhood he was about to leave behind. Daniel spent the rest of the morning doing yard work for a couple houses on the other side of town. It was grueling in the heat. At twelve dollars an hour he was the cheapest non-immigrant laborer in the town, and certain good, god fearing folk found that because he was lighter skinned than all of the other workers, he must have been the man for the job. Their excuse was that they wanted to keep the work going to residents of the town, but the fact of the matter was that if another white man came and offered to cut lawn, he’d quickly replace Daniel as the local landscaper. An hour or so after lunch, Daniel’s beat up red Ford Pickup putted down Eucalyptus lane and pulled up in front of a bright red mailbox that bore the numbers 2789, the Willowmauker residence. He dropped into neutral and jerked the rusty old e-brake up with a grunt. The smoke from his cigarette looked pearly white and beautiful in the sunlight that beamed through his windshield. It curled upwards in a dance that had no order or form, falling into
"Garden's Light"
B L A I R W E L L S » » » P H OTO G R A P H Y
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itself and slowly rolling out the window up into the sky, up and into nothing. He enjoyed those last few seconds of silence before getting out of the cab and working his lawnmower down from the back of his truck. Ms. Frances Willowmauker would come out when she was good and ready. She was an elderly lady, widowed decades ago, who had taken to growing roses and napping out in her backyard. He kept fond memories of running around her lawn as a child, and riding his rusty red Schwinn cruiser up to her steps for a sandwich or free lemonade on a hot day. She was a strong woman and a good person, someone who asked for nothing and gave only happiness. Frances was in the backyard with her roses when she heard the roar of the lawnmower out front. She sat, motionless for a minute, trying to tune out the sound of the smoky motor that had jolted her from her nap. Smiling, she looked around at all of her roses. How she loved them, how she loved them all. There were dozens upon dozens of bushy green plants and stalks and vines, all offering up balls of vibrant color as a reward for a little love and a lot of water. She had found the simplest of joys being able to stare for hours at a time at a pure white Carolinae in bloom, or smell the burgundy dipped Synstakae. Happiness was to delicately snip a blood red Chinansis at the stem and carry it around with her all day. For her, roses were a painting of life, hundreds of beautiful instances and images coming and going with the seasons, each being unique, each being special in its own way. No matter how different a rose was from the rest, it was never ugly. Slowly and stiffly she picked herself up off the chair and wobbled her way along the gravel path to the front of sun-bleached house. Frances looked somewhat comical as she pulled a large straw sun hat down firmly on her scraggly white hair and adjusted a fluffy and ill fitted blue summer dress. As she rounded the corner and came to look upon Daniel Beckard mowing her front lawn, she knew something was different. Daniel looked calm. Usually, he was hung over or battling tooth and nail for his sobriety, but today he seemed at ease, a peace that was almost disturbing when it came from someone with such a distant face. Daniel stopped the engine as he saw Frances standing by the gate. “I see you’re still around Danny,” she said with a chuckle. “Did somebody write down the wrong name at the police station this morning?” Daniel laughed. “Look who’s talking you babushka. I had expected those horrible relatives of yours to have put you in a home already.” “Nonsense!” Frances said, slapping Daniel on the arm with a frail and bony hand. “They haven’t got me yet. I’m here for the long haul with no rush to leave.” She chuckled and pulled a red rose from the front pocket of her bright blue dress. “Too many clouds up there, not enough roses.” “So you tell me,” he said with a grin. “I’ve heard their barbeques are pretty shitty too.” She slapped him on the arm again.
“Language Danny,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously. “What’s on your mind you ruffian?” Daniel shook his head. “Nothing to worry about, but I’m afraid I’m going to be leaving soon Ms.Willowmauker. I only have time to cut your lawn today.” “What kind of trouble are you getting yourself into Danny Beckard?” “No, no trouble. Not today,” he paused. “Just some things I need to do for Terrance.” Frances looked at him and gave a big toothy smile. “Oh, I guess it’s alright just this once. You will stay for a sandwich and some lemonade though, won’t you Danny?” “Sure I will. You know I can never turn down your sandwiches, Ms. Willowmauker.” “You need to cut that shit out. As if you don’t make me feel old enough as it is, calling me Ms. Willowmauker. My name is Frances, How can such a scruffy looking man have such nerve? I remember when I could shut you up with one point of my finger.” She chuckled, turning away and wobbling towards the front door. “Get yourself back to work, I’ll bring you out a sandwich when you’re done.” It took thirty minutes, and soon after Daniel found himself sitting on the porch enjoying a sandwich and iced lemonade in the shade. To strangers it was an odd sight indeed, two figures, opposite in every way, a little old lady and a rowdy looking man, sharing a meal and laughing. “Are you sure you’re doing alright Danny?” “I’m fine Frances. You don’t have to worry about me.” “Oh I know,” she sighed. “But your mother would kill me if I didn’t check up on you from time to time. She wouldn’t have it any other way you know.” Daniel shrugged. “I know. I’m sure she’d be happy. I’ve got to get going though.” He cleared his throat and she nodded slowly. Painfully, she stood up to kiss Daniel on the top of his head. “Take care of yourself Danny.” Without saying another word Daniel stood up and left. Ms. Willowmauker was already inside before the truck roared to life. Slowly, she made her way through a house cluttered with memories and walked out into her back yard carrying a glass of iced lemonade. She smiled and looked around at all of her beautiful roses. How she loved them, how she loved them all. Daniel was smoking a cigarette in his truck again. He was waiting on the far end of the parking lot with his eyes closed, windows down, and enjoying what little silence he could. After a minute or two he opened his eyes. From his glove box he pulled out a flask of Wild Turkey and took several large gulps, letting out a gargle from the back of his throat as the stinging liquid fell down into his stomach. His eyes wandered to his wrist and the dull golden watch that hadn’t been working since he was a child. His
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father, Tom Beckard, called it his lucky watch, and said it was the only thing that got him through Vietnam alive. Not that it did any good afterwards. Like most men who fought, when he returned Tom found himself socially disconnected and alone, nothing but an empty shell that had once shown promise. In his remaining time after the war Tom Beckard managed to father a child and then die of alcohol poisoning one summer’s night in 1985. Luck, if there was such a thing, came few and far between for the Beckard Boys. Daniel exhaled slowly, blowing out a large cloud of smoke and emerging from what few memories of his father he had. He would not do the same to Terrance. He would not leave him in the shadow of his own crippled state. The chain had to be broken. There was no doubt about this in Daniel’s mind as he looked at the empty black backpack in the passenger seat and the loaded forty caliber revolver in his lap. Taking one final gulp from the nearly empty bottle, Daniel stuffed the revolver down the front of his pants and got out of the car. Terrance was lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling when he heard the screeching brakes of his father’s truck out front. He ran into the kitchen just as Daniel’s bulky frame burst through the front door. Without saying a word to his son he walked over to the kitchen cabinet and pulled out an envelope that had been folded and creased many times over and again. He turned to his son and roughly shoved the envelope and a heavy black bag into his son’s hands. “Dad,” said Terrance shakily. “What’s going on? Why is the—? “Terrance, I don’t have time to explain. Did you pack a bag of clothes?” “Yes dad, but-” “No questions Terrance,” snapped Daniel. “Grab your clothes. You take this bag and the envelope and go out the back door. You make your way to the greyhound station. There’s a 3:30 bus that goes up the 101. You get on it. I’ll meet you there or find you down the line.” “Dad, I—” “No Terrance,” yelled Daniel. “You have to go now” “Dad, I don’t want to go. What’s going on?” sobbed Terrance. “I’m not explaining Terrance. You go. You get on the bus, and you never come back. Do you understand me?” And with that Daniel guided his son towards the back of the house, gripping Terrance’s shoulder tightly. He kicked open the back door and pushed Terrance out into the blazing sunlight. “Don’t open that bag until you are on the bus,” Daniel said, pointing to the backpack. “And never let anyone else touch it. Don’t wait for me. Do you understand Terrance?” “Yes, but wh—” “I’ve always loved you. But now it’s time for you to go and find a better life. You get on that bus and you don’t stop moving.” Terrance squeezed his father with all of his might. “I love you dad.”
After a second Daniel let go of his son, and his face turned to stone once again. “Now go,” he said, pointing over the fence. “Run and never come back.” Terrified and crying Terrance flung the backpack over before climbing it himself. He made his way down the dusty back road, tripping and stumbling from the panic his father had instilled in him. He ran all the way to the bus station, a full ten blocks away. He ran until he couldn’t run anymore, and finally, Terrance collapsed on a cement bench at the front of the station, wedged between a garbage bin and a dying Manzanita. Exhausted and worn he looked around, and then, against his father’s wishes, slowly opened the bag he was given. Inside was a tumbled mess of stacked bills. Hundreds, all of them, crisp and shiny as if they had just been printed or had spent most of their days tightly packed one on top of the other. They were all wore white bands holding them together that loudly proclaimed the total worth of ten thousand dollars. Then, something caught Terrance’s eye. One stack did not have a white band covering the face of Benjamin Franklin; rather it was covered by a dull golden watch, the band tightly stretched around the money. It was his grandfather’s watch, it was his father’s watch, and now it was his. He stared blankly, reaching into the bag to pull the watch off from around the bills and hold in his hands, the last heirloom of a forgotten family. The newspaper would later claim that the bank robber, Daniel Beckard, age thirty-nine, died of a self inflicted gunshot wound to the head at 4:05pm after a thirty minute stand-off with police who were outside of his residence. He was found sitting on the couch, a gun in one hand and a picture of his long-dead wife in the other. After a thorough inspection of the residence no traces of the money or the son he had claimed to be holding hostage could be found. Daniel Beckard’s memory was spit on and disgraced by almost everyone in the town. He was buried a broke and friendless man, honored by none, understood by few. Three weeks later, a wide-eyed young man emerged from the dark and tinted shelter of a Greyhound bus. Buildings and towers hovered above him as people rushed by on the sidewalks. Cars screeched and honked in busy intersections, and bright store-fronts beckoned him inside their cool and air conditioned rooms. It had been a long journey of random stops and searching, of questions and little sleep, but finally he had come to find himself in the heart of Seattle. Shouldering his bags and wiping his face off with a faded blue t-shirt he slowly made his way down the street. From behind a tall glass tower the sun emerged, glinting and reflecting off a dull gold watch on his wrist that, ever so quietly, started to tick.
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Just like the hardened basketballDouble dribbled in the netDreams shattered—position? varsity forward Honor fallen, small town—where? high school Pittsburg, CAVirtue lost—when? junior year 1990Rumors started and confirmed—what? Pregnantbouncing backFirst love, promise ring—engagementFear, the unknown—mother to beFuture life plan—altered foreverPreparation—baby showerDelivery, pain, joy and tears—Summer timebouncing backWedding coming soon—FallPlanning to dance across stage in celebration—senior 1991Graduation approaching—applications consideredCollege bound—not yetBummed out—depressionbouncing backReputation restored—straight A’sAnnouncements printed and mailedAlong with—birth announcements to familyAccomplishment despite choices - faithGlamour pictures taken—cap and gownbouncing backTeething, immunizations—baby boyDiaper’s and baby formula—comes firstChild care—expensive gotta have itWelfare and W.I.C.—public assistanceReality—seventeen years of agebouncing backFriendships drifted—no funResponsibility shared—with? baby daddySenior activities—over ratedGraduation Day—received diplomaSucking pacifier too young to realize—mama’s victorybouncing back
D I V A 2 D I V A S
Bouncing BackSearching for employment—not successfulPreparing to wed—ready for freedomExpectations about life and the real world—fearQuestions who to ask—God?Hello… you there listening?bouncing backYouth advisor in local church—helping teen girlsListening and sharing—testimonyAccepting new roles—newly marriedCommitment, responsibility and new goals—family orientedReflection, basketball possible scholarship—never knowbouncing backValues never forgotten—costly mishapEmbarrassment and shame… BOUNCING BACK
"The Absurd"
J O S H S L OW I C Z E K » » » P H OTO G R A P H Y
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Mary Grace and I are standing in the middle of her street, at least forty feet apart. She grips a tiny, striped rubber super ball in her right hand. It’s a thing of beauty, this new toy she won as a prize fished out of the Grab Bag in her sixth grade class, an honor awarded her because she got 100 percent on her math test. She winds up like an MLB star and the orb leaves her hand with such speed I move quickly to my right to keep it from hitting me. It curves past me to the left, almost magically, and hits the rear bumper of my car, parked in front of her house. The ball stops for a millisecond on impact, then changes course and bounces back with a force much greater than that of its original arc. There is some kind of physics principle at work here that neither MG nor I understand—or really care to—but we both look at each other with wide eyes as the ball goes over her head and doesn’t land again until nearly the end of the block. Later, when we are working on her homework and she is copying this week’s spelling words, I think about that ball and how we are each a little like it—Mary Grace on her way to something and me headed someplace not yet named. Just like the ball rushed past me with promise and energy, MG is speeding forward, new things every day, no map, no plan, the simple life of a twelve-year-old. Here I sit, fifty years older than she, on a different path. And a bit like that little striped ball struck my bumper and then took off in its own self-propelled direction, I reached my own stopping/turning point a couple of years ago. There wasn’t one day or one moment that I remember the shift, but I recall a gradual sense of the ending of one part of my life and the beginning of another. I was on my own route, living a life I had chosen largely by default, imagining finishing my career, entering retirement, wondering what I might do to fill my time and my soul following so many years of working. After decades of serial monogamy and generally entering relationships for all the wrong reasons, I was finally in a strong, healthy, interesting
G I N N Y M c R E Y N O L D S
Unexpected Speed and Velocitypartnership. But in the rest of my life I was bored. Truthfully, I had kind of fallen into a teaching career in the first place because that’s what people in my graduate program did. And I’d only gone to grad school because my college roommate was going and because I wasn’t brave enough to go out into the world to be a newspaper reporter. Luckily, teaching English and journalism at a community college made a reputable calling, and the security and respectability of it kept me from having to dream up something big, scary, and more compelling to shoot for. But I discovered that, after nearly thirty years of trying to inspire nineteen-year-olds, the refuge of a safe job exacerbated the tedium. Unfortunately for my pocketbook, I was still at least five years short of being able to relax financially. So, I moved to another college and became an administrator, but I find myself thinking now about what I might do when this part of my career comes to an end. Like most people, the planning and dreaming I’ve done over the years has been about relationships, working, and moving from one house to another. It’s not that I never thought of the time after working—god knows a huge part of my income has gone directly to that cause—but whenever I heard people talk about retirement, they always seemed to be glad to get to sit on their porches and watch the world go by. That didn’t sound awful to me, but it didn’t inspire me to buy new cushions for my porch chairs. Then, in a disconnected series of events, things started evolving in my life in a different way. I know that visualizing the future doesn’t have anything to do with physics, but the wallop of picturing a life filled with golf and naps and volunteering seems to have awakened my creativity and has thrown me onto this trajectory that feels like the one MG and I witnessed with the super ball. I wrote a novel during National Novel Writing Month. It was sappy and amateurish, but I wrote it. I quit drinking in the year I
turned sixty to mark the transition to my next decade. I started winning my age group in the fun runs I’d been doing miserably in for years. I took a photography class and then figured out how to use Instagram to enhance and post the shots I’ve taken on long, lolling walks along the river. I got married to my partner of a dozen years when it became legal in California last summer. And, I decided to go back to school and study writing again—this time really study, meaning try, learn, fail, improve, grow, try again—in a way I might have done forty years ago if I’d had more self-awareness and less skepticism about my own skills. These events happened quietly, really, and over the course of a couple of years. I saw their connection to me, but not necessarily to each other. Then it occurred to me that, somehow, I had found a secret door and opened it, and the massive expansiveness of the next part of my life was all there in front of me, inviting me onto a new arc, not really headed back in the direction I’d come, but to a much richer, more vibrant place. Who knew there was another bounce—and that it held this much possibility? As I was gushing recently about all of the great undertakings I’m enjoying these days, and showing my listener the “Countdown to Retirement” clock on my cell phone, he said, “Where will you retire?” I wasn’t even sure I’d heard him correctly since I have no plans to live somewhere new, but I realized that’s his fantasy of what happens in the next iteration—an apartment in Paris, a condo in Hawaii, a beach house on Cape Cod. I laughed to myself because I realized then that everyone’s second bounce is entirely their own and we are all probably planning carefully for it on some unconscious level all the years we’re trudging to work and home again. I like it, though, that I didn’t know back then that all of this existed at this end. I like it that there are so many possibilities ahead and I like it mostly that I’m still completely capable of being surprised by them.
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Euphoria, heart racing. This is how it always starts. If successful, nights are spent not sleeping, but waiting. Nervous jitters and a one-track mind. The excitement never fades, but lingers within, pounding away. Messages are sent, conversations are had, smiles are shared. Connection established. The flittering of buttons, of laughs, of plans. We get coffee. Then a meal. The night goes on, neither wants it to end. But then something happens. There's a divide. What was once promising falters and fades. Days pass. The conversations are shorter. The questions are fewer. The stories shared don't mean as much. There's more silence between the words, more waiting on the other end. This has happened before and now it's happening again. It goes on and on, a cycle, unable to be broken out of. But I bounce back. Time goes on, life goes on. New people come, old people go. Friendships are made. I bounce back—because I always do. Because I need to.
D A N B E R G E T
Cycle
"4087"
G E R RY “ G O S ” S I M P S O N » » » P H OTO G R A P H Y
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Finally I took the first step toward a career; I waited nineteen years for it to happen. Last year, during the spring semester, I was finally enrolled in classes at Cosumnes River College. Unfortunately, things went wrong at the very start of the semester. I began receiving serious, gruesome pain on the right side of my body. I wondered what was going on and why now. I thought it was my bad luck or a message telling me to quit and go back to my old boring life as a housewife. It felt like a shocking nightmare.
My doctor told me I was experiencing a herniated disc in my neck and lower back. It was not easy especially when I was taking a keyboarding class that required very good posture, speed, and flexibility. But I did it with all the encouragement I gathered from the people surrounding me, allowing me to become very determined to reach my objective.
I think sickness and treatment come from deep inside us; no matter how many doctors we see or medications we take, the best remedy comes from within. To be strong when we make a decision and keep our heads up to achieve our goals is what heals our pain. Everyone has distractions surrounding them, but to be brave and pull one’s self out of the nonsense is, personally, what I call turning a nightmare into a dream come true.
N A R E M A N R A S H I D
A Nightmare or A Dream Come True?
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You could mistake the Barbie-sized trailer for a cozy getaway if you don't look outside. There's not much left: the fireplace, rock walls, the tight, steep driveway, and ash. My grandmother holds court here at the couch/table/bed, writing, supporting peace, engaging as always. She's the magnet and core of past and future memories.
The Father arrives to bless her absent house; afterwards we sing This land is our land, this land is your land, from California… Sadness and hope jostle within my heart as I admire my grandmother. I learn she's not materially sentimental, actually somewhat detached. Approaching eighty, she's known loss.
The rebuild embraces Japanese sparseness. She's delighted to sleep on her tatami mat on the floor, meditate in her luxurious sunken tub, and live this near-to-the-end next chapter.
L O R R A I N E D O L L
Huckleberry Hill, June 1987
The ashtray was overfilled with cig butts and joint roaches, the room with smoke. Jerry was in his bed, blanket drawn up over his head like a hood.
“You should take a walk. Stretch your legs. Get some fresh air.”
It took Jerry some time to get dressed; the result was only a change into jeans and sweatshirt, but he listened to music, pet his grey and constantly purring cat, looked outside and sussed out that there wouldn't be as many out on the street on a weekday. The cat sighed at the last melodic slow song.
“The same reason I love you is the same reason it's so hard to live with you; you're such an artist. All that moody passion and sensitivity—such a chore to manage, isn't it?”
A L E X I S B A C C U S
StagnateHis stomach bloated as he walked. Jerry breathed through his mouth as he gave only a fleeting thought to how much he smoked. His legs were heavy on the pavement even as his blood heated, as if he could feel his veins on fire. If it weren't for drones from cars on the road, he was sure he'd hear his bones creaking from the effort.
“You work so hard—you put everything into your work. I know you love just as hard, but it's the work that you really live for… sometimes it feels like I'm the only one equipped to take care of you.”
The canal on the way was filled with mud and rank of sewage; ducks still swam in the browning green mess. The leaves were all orange on the trees and crunched under foot, a chill blowing away the clouds and passing
over the sun. Jerry squinted as his eyes adjusted, his vision full of sparks, probably from staring at a screen all day, he thought.
He picks up his pace as he passed the house with decoys of ducks decorating the fence. He'd been wondering if the gunshots he heard late at night from the river were real or just in his mind, shaking his head. Jerry nearly tripped as he climbed up to the river bank.
“I love everything you do, of course. The paintings, I mean.” She would laugh; her teeth wouldn't have to be perfect. Brown doe-eyes, like a seal, or his old dog. Was that weird to think that was cute? “They're so surreal but… heavy. Not realistic but—well, I don't know enough art terms to say it.” Right, she had her own thing going on… music or writing.
He made it. With the laughs in the distance, the people on their bikes yelling at each other in conversation, the old men going out to their boats, the people all exercising shamelessly, the teenage girls gossiping behind him, the grandmothers and granddaughters on walks, the baby carriages—he was alone on the river's beach. The trees sank their roots through to the soft sand. Moss covered the roots. The ground glittered.
“Look at all of this color. Not that I know anything about painting, but—” Jerry closed his eyes and tried not to think of all the blank canvases in his room. Maybe next time he'd bring his sketchbook. Maybe. He passed a blonde girl on his way back to the bank, as he tried to find his way back through the cover of branches and vines broken from a storm, like a dark fantasy forest.
She could be blonde. No, she'd dye her hair all the time, never deciding on a color.
"Tower Bridge"
M A RT I N M c I L ROY » » » P H OTO G R A P H Y
How many times have you begged for your life? I lost count after forty. I have traveled too far to get here—Asia, Europe, and now what they call Land of the Free, America—only to be turned into a human punching bag. I was only seventeen when Paul swept me off my feet. His demeanor was as smooth as silk, and I was so in love, or so I thought. He was the definition of perfection, and his smile made my knees weak. As I was blinded by infatuation, I allowed myself to be swallowed into his world of Methamphetamine. Of course I never touched the drug myself, but I watched as he and his friends indulged this horrid drug every single day. Three months into the relationship, I finally met the devil himself. Paul picked me up from work one day, and I knew his withdrawal was affecting him greatly. He asked me for money, I had none. He asked me for valuables, I had none. We were in his father’s cargo van when it first happened; he punched me, so hard where my glasses flew off my face. This was the first time he hit me, but definitely not the last. The abuse started to increase day by day. His abuse strategies became more bizarre. I am sure you have played tag at least once in your lifetime right? Paul’s game of tag was like a one way street. You can only go one way. He would chase after me in his car with the full intention of running me over. The highway is awesome is it not? It allows you get to your destination faster. Paul’s favorite place was the highway. He knew not many people would pay attention to what is happening next to them, as they were too focused on driving instead. He would drive and punch me over and over again until he was satisfied. Thus, I hated the highway for a very long time. The abuse elevated, as [butcher] knives became involved and dragging me down the stairs by my hair became a favorite. My life took a turn when I was sent to Juvenile Detention Center, then eventually ended up homeless with him. Each day I lived in sorrow and darkness, and I wanted to kill myself; I
E M C E E
Methamphetamineactually wanted him to do it for me so I could get it over with. After a year and a half of torture, I finally escaped. Why I did not leave sooner or how I left is another story for another rainy day. I had to go through one-on-one counseling for one year where I was staying because I suffered from anxiety, panic attacks, nightmares, and I
hated myself. It has been six years and I have almost bounced back to my old self before I met Paul. Occasionally, I have nightmares about Paul; I have this weird fear about driving on the highway, and I have anxiety, but I love myself more than ever. I learned that everyone goes through a dark time in their life, but there will always be light at the end of the tunnel.
"ILX Dragon"
A F TO N K E R N » » » D R AW I N G
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On an early August morning, everyone is sleeping after the blissful Sunday we had. The month of Ramadan is big in Islam, especially the moon night. The clock ticks 4:42am. “Crap!” my dad yells. He makes his way to my mom, so she can go to dialysis. As he puts his hands on my mother’s forehead, he realizes she is cold. He runs to my room. “Zaireen, go see why your mom isn’t waking up,” he mumbles. I wake up quickly and make my way to my mother, not knowing a thing that is going on. “Mom… ma, wake up.” There is no answer. I put my hand in my mother’s hand and god is she cold. She doesn’t wake up. I try and try. I hold her, massage her head, nothing. As I dial 911, a lady picks up, and all I say is “My mom isn’t waking up. She isn’t breathing. PLEASE HELP.” At 5:00am sirens are all around my house, and the lady on the phone is trying to calm my dad and me, telling us not to panic. I do everything I can, CPR, heart pumping, everything. The firemen make their way in. They check and pronounce that she is no more. My aunt enters my house, yelling and tears running down her cheeks. “Sammi cannot just leave us like this. She was just fine a few hours ago.” The morning of August fifth will never get out of my mind. My mother’s dream was for her daughter to reach high peaks, to be a well-educated child of hers, to have the relaxed, luxurious lifestyle that my parents didn’t have. She wanted me to work hard and make my life meaningful. I will make my mom’s death my motivation, and I will do whatever it takes to fulfill the dream my mother had for me.
Z A I R E E N A I Y U B
Mom
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Starting the highly regarded most difficult sport, golf, is hard enough, but as a sophomore and on varsity, even harder. I was an above-average baseball player, but after getting cut early sophomore year, I felt like the butt of bread that no one wants. I was spit on, scrutinized, name-called; the worst part was the bulk of the insults that came from obnoxious freshman that miraculously made the team. I had no other options, the book club or golf. Joining the team was easy but fitting in another story. I felt like Smalls from The Sandlot, the new kid on the block that was thrown into a pack of wolves. But I bounced back, practicing like a boxer trying to make weight. I spent every waking hour at the golf course from sun up to sun down, hour after hour after hour. By the time season hit, like a whiff of chloroform I was ready. I miraculously made the varsity team; I felt like the 1980 US hockey team defeating the Soviets. I was thrilled. It was only afterward that I rose up against all odds and became the MVP my junior and senior year. I bounced back from being cut and made the best of my situation. Looking back, it was one of the greatest decisions I've ever made.
R E I D T H O M P S O N
Bouncing Back
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QuotesThe man who complains about the way the ball bounces is likely the
one who dropped it. —Lou Holtz
Inside of a ring or out, ain’t nothing wrong with going down. It’s staying down that’s wrong.
—Muhammad Ali
Oh, boy! You mean I can have my bounce back? Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo! —Tigger
I always laugh when people ask me about rebounding techniques. I've got a technique. It's called just go get the damn ball.
—Charles Barkley
"It is not the strongestof the species that survive,
nor the most intelligent,but the one most responsive to change."
—Charles Darwin
So go ahead. Fall down. The world looks different from the ground.—Oprah Winfrey
Fall seven times, stand up eight.—Japanese proverb
Don't lose your confidence if you slipBe grateful for a pleasant trip
And pick yourself up, dust yourself offStart all over again”
—Frank Sinatra
INSPIRATIONS ON BOUNCING BACK
"Muscat Corniche Sea Tower"
S A M U E L I N I G U E Z » » » P H OTO G R A P H Y
ArtistBios
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VS Chochezi, EdD has had poems published in Speak, Write, Dream an anthology of contributions from ZICA members; Drum Voices Revue, a publication from Southern Illinois University, Sierra College’s literary journal and Sacramento Poetry Center’s Poetry Now publication. She and her mother Staajabu share spoken word as Straight Out Scribes.
Lisa Cowans is a strong and determined individual. She graduated high school in 1980 with a GPA of 2.0. College was not in her plans at that time and she went straight on to become a nursing assistant until she became ill in 2009, which led her to attend college for the first time in 2010. Even though she did not score well on the assessment, Lisa has been working hard to attain her degree in social work. She now has a GPA of 3.5 and hopes to be ready for the social work program in the fall of 2015. She started from the bottom and is now rising to the top, a true example of bouncing back.
Kristine David is a Cosumnes River College student who majors in Theater. She has always had a passion for writing and is enjoying the writing process at the college level. She is an actress and musician but plans to keep writing for the rest of her life.
Jonathan De Young’s work has been published in Central Penn Parent and the Christian Science Monitor. He is the author of Any Day is Father’s Day, a collection of narrative nonfiction, and the texts Writing Made Simple and iGrammar. He is Professor of English at Harrisburg Area Community College in Pennsylvania.
Zaireen Aiyub is a current CRC student with plans to transfer to UC Davis as a Biology major. Her mother’s dream was for her to succeed in life and have an ongoing career. Zaireen will be the first person in her family to graduate fro m college.
Jody Ansell has been published in Susurrus, Poetry Now, Poetry Depth Quarterly, the Sacramento Bee, and the Sacramento Anthology. She recently returned to Sacramento after several years on the east coast.
Alexis Baccus was born in Santa Monica and raised in Sacramento. She started writing at thirteen. Her other interests include art, comic books, drawing, local music, and anything morbid or surreal. She aspires to find something to do with her life and hopes it will have something to do with writing.
Diane Bader has written prose and poetry throughout her life. She is the family genealogist and has written three books about her family. She has been part of a poetry writing circle at the SPC for four years. She has also sung with the CRC Gospel Choir for twelve years.
Phoebe Basilio is another name on the list of people burdened by the plethora of options found almost exclusively in first-world countries. While she attempts to figure out what to do with the rest of her life, she attends various Los Rios colleges and plans to transfer and tentatively major in linguistics.
Dan Berget has lived in Sacramento his entire life. He's currently working on his first novel, mentored by Christian Kiefer, author of The Infinite Tides. In the spring he'll be attending Sacramento State as an English major.
Diva2Divas is currently a CRC student aspiring to be an RN. She is a proud supporting wife and mother of six gifted children. Her hobbies include reading all types of literature, listening to music and traveling. She believes do not be a dejected individual—Keep PUSHING it’ll work eventually!!
A life-long learner, Lorraine Doll is currently teaching Court Reporting to adults at CAJ Career & Education Center in Sacramento.
Mai Duong is a member of the Champa people, an indigenous people in Vietnam. She came to the USA in 2009 and has attended CRC since 2010 when she was fifty-two. Writing is her hobby but creating poems in English is not easy for her. She has tried to achieve her dream: Knowing how to write poems in English. She says, “I almost did it.”
Julian Elias became interested in and involved with photography almost thirty years ago. Since he moved to California in 2008, he has been amazed by the natural beauty here, and he enjoys taking photos that capture the unique wonders of the West Coast.
Emcee is not only a student at Cosumnes River College, but she is also a single mother. Her goal is to become a Social Worker. She has lived in three different continents in the world and her hobbies include baking, traveling, sleeping and most of all, spending time with her child.
Humnah Farooqui is nineteen and from Karachi, Pakistan. She is going to college to be trained in media arts. She hopes to one day be a journalist and a visual artist. She writes, draws, and reads for leisure, and she’s betting on her hobbies actually morphing into career paths.
Zach Hannigan is a twenty-one-year-old journalism student at Cosumnes River College. He has obtained an AA degree in that study and will eventually continue on to a four-year university. However, he will take a five year hiatus to blow stuff up, otherwise known as the Marine Corp.
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Marina Hutchins is a thirty-one-year-old woman, born and raised in Sacramento. She is married and has one daughter. Mrs. Hutchins is autistic and has overcome many life struggles. She spends her Saturday afternoons feeding the hungry and aspires to become an astrophysicist.
Samuel Iniguez is currently enrolled at University of Washington Bothell in the MFA in Creative Writing and Poetics. He has received an MA in English from San Francisco State University. He taught English at the University of Nizwa in Oman last year and taught from 2004-2010 at Cosumnes River College. He has written/directed a play, Sandia, and a short film, Mujer Cosmica. He is currently on work on two novels and will be releasing a poetry book, Signature of Revolution, and hip hop CD, Every Color of Shoes, later this year.
Afton Kern has been drawing since she was very young. She has a four-page feature in Imagine FX vol. 75, a sci-fi and fantasy art magazine sold worldwide. Recently, Afton was selected to show art at IlluXcon alongside legendary fantasy artists such as Roger Dean, Boris Vallejo, Michael Whelan, and Ian Miller. She sold one of her pieces to John A. Davis, creator of the Jimmy Neutron series. Afton is expected to return to the 2014 IlluXcon show.
Jake Koiyoth is constantly teetering between being a Music or English major. He loves to write fiction and poetry. He is also currently a part of the Chamber Singers, and he recently appeared in the musical A New Brain.
Tamara Lipanovich is a mother and grandmother. She holds a Masters Degree in Special Education from CSUS and is currently pursuing an AS in Equine Studies (along with any other classes that seem interesting) at CRC. A former ministry leader and teacher, she quit her jobs to become stay-at-home caretaker for her disabled husband as he battled a mysterious disease called Conversion Disorder. In the midst of her struggles, out of frustration, she began journaling. Many of her writings reflect these struggles.
Martin McIlroy is a Principal Engineering Geologist and Civil Engineer who works throughout California on public works engineering projects. He received his BS in Geology from the University of California at Davis and has been practicing geology for seventeen years. His career has taken him to remote areas of California like the towns of Happy Camp, Weitchpec and Kettenpom, and to the north slope of Alaska. During Martin’s professional travels (and not so professional travels), he likes to take photographs of bridges he has worked on, of natural landscapes, and of interesting people and places. He lives in Sacramento, plays beer league ice hockey (much to his wife’s dismay), and has a cat named Mr. Right.
Ginny McReynolds is a longtime writer whose essays have been published in both The Sacramento Bee and Sacramento News and Review. She taught English, journalism, and communications at Sacramento City College for twenty-two years and is currently Dean of Humanities and Social Science at Cosumnes River College. She is also a first-year student in the Master of Fine Arts Program in Creative Nonfiction at Goucher College in Towson, Maryland.
Yassmina Montes is a student at Cosumnes River College, majoring in English Literature. She is writing a memoir, and much of her writing is related to her life after facing a disease that brought her blindness as well as a unique point of view. You can read more of her writing at yassieslife.wordpress.com.
Z AC H H A N N I G A N » » » P H OTO G R A P H Y
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Appria Negrete is a "pre-med" student with two daughters. Her hobbies include sleeping in text books and paying bills.
Robert Payne is a Senior Health Care Analyst working in Rancho Cordova. He lives with his wife and two sons on acreage in Sacramento County and draws writing inspiration from his family and current events, especially as it relates to astronomy and staring at the nighttime sky.
Jennifer O’Neill Pickering is an artist, writer, and teacher. She has written “The Improbable Cat Lover,” a story published by Harlequin. Her poem, “I Am the Creek,” is included in the Sacramento sculpture, Open Circle. She is the editor of Sable & Quill: The visual art and writing of writers who are also artists.
David Poteras is a full-time, first-year student at Cosumnes River College and enjoys writing and drawing in his spare time. When he's not writing or drawing, you'd most likely find him working under the hood of his car. He hopes to transfer to a four-year university within the next couple of years and graduate with a bachelor's of science degree in civil engineering.
Nareman Rashid was born in the Palestinian town of Aseera. She was the second woman in her family to earn a degree in computer science. When she was twenty-one, she got married and moved to the US to pursue the American dream. She has four children and loves cooking and volunteering.
Scott Redmond is officially now a CRC graduate with an AA in Journalism, preparing to transfer to California State University, Sacramento for the fall semester. While at CRC, Scott honed his love of writing by writing for the school paper, The Connection, many times ending this current semester as the Editor-in-Chief.
Diana Saxon lives in Sacramento, California and attended American River College’s 2013 Writer’s Colloquium. When not toiling in the world of political fundraising, she spends her time with her rabbit that is fond of destroying laptop cords or fretting about lengthy English assignments. She is nearing the completion of her first collection of poetry.
Gerry “GOS” Simpson is a self-taught Visual Artist/Photographer whose work communicates positive images of his community and the people, places and interesting things around him… GOS” creates vibrant scenarios with the aide of his brushes and the lens of his camera… His main focus is to keep it simple so that the story can be easily told…
Josh Slowiczek is currently studying journalism at Cosumnes River College. He hopes to one day be an investigative and conflict journalist though his first passion was for writing short stories. He would like to dedicate “They Don’t Have Roses in Heaven” to his parents, for all of their love and support.
Pat Soberanis is a poet and nonfiction writer now based in the East Bay. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of San Francisco, and credits Heather Hutcheson's creative writing class at Cosumnes River College and the Hart Senior Center poets for inspiring her to write again
Staajabu is originally from Camden, New Jersey. Since 1991 she and daughter VS Chochezi have co-authored six books of poetry and produced two CD Poetry compilations as the mother/daughter poetry team “Straight Out Scribes.” Staajabu has never had writer’s block and will write on any topic. She has written health articles for an online medical website, been a staff writer for the United States Air Force Reserve’s Newspaper and Sacramento’s Because People Matter. She has written short stories, biographical pieces, science fiction short stories, and essays. Her poems have been published in numerous anthologies and publications.
Poet Laureate of Sacramento from 2009 to 2012, Bob Stanley has published two chapbooks, edited two anthologies, and recorded an album of original songs. President of Sacramento Poetry Center, Bob lives in Sacramento with his wife, Joyce. His newest collection, Miracle Shine, was released by CW Books in 2013.
Reid Thompson is currently attending Cosumnes River College, and he is a member of the Folsom Lake College Golf team. Reid is undecided in his major, but he is interested in a sports career. Currently, he delivers pizza two nights a week, but he spends his summers working at Camp Barnabas.
Blair Wells is a Los Angeles-based photographer, whose journey with a camera began by using “disposables” to articulate his experience living in Central Los Angeles. His passion for documentary photography, to visually tell a story—the struggles and successes of everyday people—remains the single most compelling subject of his work.
Kimberly White’s poetry has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. She is the author of four chapbooks, Penelope, A Reachable Tibet, The Daily Diaries of Death, and Letters To A Dead Man; two novels: Bandy’s Restola, and Hotel Tarantula. Find poetry and collage art on her website, www.purplecouchworks.com.
Stan Zumbiel taught English in middle and high school for thirty-five years in the San Juan Unified School District and has had a hand in raising four children. In January 2008 he received his MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. He continues to write in Fair Oaks where he lives with Lynn, his wife of twenty-eight years.
"Cosmic Butterfly"
A P P R I A N E G R E T E » » » PA I N T I N G
