_/_/_/_/_/ _/_/_/_/_/ _/_/_/_/_/ _/_/ _/_/ _/_/ _/_/ _/_/ _/_/_/_/_/ _/_/ _/_/ _/_/ _/_/_/_/_/ _/_/_/_/_/ _/_/_/_/_/ I n f o r m a t i o n, C o m m u n i c a t i o n, S u p p l y ------------- E l e c t r o Z i n e ------------------------------ ******************************************************************************** Established in 1993 by Deva Winblood Information Communication Supply 12/18/95 Vol.2: Issue 8-1 Email To: ORG_ZINE@WESTERN.EDU Visit our Web Pages: http://www.western.edu/happen/welcome.html S T A F F : Email: ICS Positions: ============== ============ ============== Steven Peterson STU000012255 Managing Editor, Writer Tim Halas STU000058410 Writer ... David Trosty STU000037486 Writer, Poetry Editor George Sibley FAC_SIBLEY Editing, Faculty Supervisor Others TBA All addresses @WESTERN.EDU _________________________________________ /=========================================\ | "Art helps us accept the human condition; | | technology changes it." | \ - D.B. Smith / \***************************************/ _____________________________________________________________________________ / \ | ICS is an Electrozine distributed by students of Western State | | College in Gunnison, Colorado. We are here to gather information about | | topics that are important to all of us as human beings. If you would like | | to send in a submission, please type it into an ASCII format and email it | | to us. We operate on the assumption that if you mail us something you | | want it to be published. We will do our best to make sure it is | | distributed and will always inform you when or if it is used. | \_____________________________________________________________________________/ REDISTRIBUTION: If any part of this issue is copied or used elsewhere you must give credit to the author and indicate that the information came from ICS Electrozine ORG_ZINE@WESTERN.EDU. DISCLAIMER: The views represented herein do not necessarily represent the views of the editors of ICS. Contributors to ICS assume all responsibilities for ensuring that articles/submissions are not violating copyright laws and protections. |\__________________________________________________/| | \ / | | \ T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S / | | / \ | | /________________________________________________\ | |/ \| | Included in the table of contents are some | | generic symbols to help you in making a decision | | as to whether an article or story may express | | ideas or use language that may be offensive. | | S = Sexual Content AL = Adult Language | | V = Violence | |____________________________________________________| |------------------------------------------------------------------| | 1) First Word -=- Winter's Tales and other thoughts. | | 2) A Writer -=- Haiku by Tim Hallas. | | 3) Fishtasy -=- Short Story by Chris Jones: Kafka comes to town. | | 4) Untitled Poetry -=- By Stacy Keuhnel | | 5) New Prejudices -=- Essay by Steven Peterson: Thorny Art+Roses.| | 6) Cosmic Rhythms -=- Poetry by Tim Halas | | 7) Billy -=- Short Story by Chris Jones: Desperate LA Love [AL,V]| |------------------------------------------------------------------| 2-8-2 2/20/96 |------------------------------------------------------------------| | 8) Equations from Space -=- Poem by Tim Halas. | | 9) Crumbling at the Feet of the Pyramids -=- Literary Feature | | by Steven Peterson: a cultural peek at today's Egypt. | | 10) The Funeral Hand -=- Short story by Chris Jones: two views, | | presented for your approval. | | 11) Untitled -=- 3 poems by Stacey Kuehnel. | | 12) Independence Day -=- Short story by Elizabeth Kurtak: | | college daze in the big cold of Anchorage . . . [AL] | | 13) Last Word -=- All Lost in the Supermarket: where we've been. | |------------------------------------------------------------------| +-----------+ | First Word \ +---------------+ December in Gunnison: the mercury plummets like Netscape stock after the honeymoon's over. To keep our minds off numb toes and brittle lobes, we escape into our stories, our tales of imagination and wonder. After a crushing end to the term, we've managed to assemble another collection of raw, unbridled buffoonery for you and yours this holiday season. Call it manic literature, forged in the bask of the terminal's glow. Frenzied visions and lingering doubts, the lot of writers everywhere; from the maelstrom, we stop to write down our whole lives, one piece at a time. This time 'round, Chris Jones, a Western student makes his, ah, splashy debut in ICS with some fresh fiction. We welcome his voice, and if you'd like to respond to his work, send email c/o org_zine. >8*) --Ed. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- a writer at first it is warm when it is born it cries to live is painful --Tim Halas -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- )O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O> Fishtasy )O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>)O>>* Billy *<< By Chris Jones They say all the world's a stage and we are merely players. Well, that's fine for all intents and purposes, but for Billy S. Spear it wasn't fine at all. Not one bit. Billy was an old man, well past his fifties last he remembered, he was balding more everyday (what he had left was a bright silver), his back was permanently screwed from years of uncomfortable posture behind the desk at the insurance company, and he was alone. Billy was married several years back, but now he knew nothing of his wife. Last he heard, she had joined a nunnery somewhere in the outskirts of the outskirted state of Maine. He'd been living in the City of Angels for almost twenty years, now. He'd experienced enough earthquakes that he could sleep through a ten- pointer. And through all of this, he'd been acting on the stage of life. "Well no more," he whispered. He was sitting at home, sprawled out in the middle of his old leather couch. His legs were spread out, his feet stretching beneath his socks, arms were equally spread, the fingers reaching outward and in. "No more." He wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but he did know it was time for a change. He wanted and needed to alter his stage. Oh, what a task he had before him. * * * * * The next day was bright and hot, the usual in Los Angeles. Billy took the ten o'clock bus into the city. He wasn't exactly sure where he was getting off, but he'd know when the time was right. He looked around, carefully examining each person on the sparsely populated bus. There were a few couples, but most were alone, not unlike himself. But he had a mission with a significant purpose, not like these people playing with no cause or effect. They needed to learn to fight for themselves and what they wanted. The bus pulled to a stop and Billy got off. He was on the corner of Eleventh and Hareford, wherever that was. He looked around. There were a few tattoo parlors, a Harley-Davidson dealership, a Chinese restaurant, and a pub. The other shops appeared devoid of anything except dusty boxes and rusted bars over the mostly broken windows. Billy decided to get some food at the Chinese place. He liked Chinese food. * * * * * The place was dimly lit. A sign said to seat yourself. Billy took a booth in the corner. It appeared he was the only customer in the restaurant. The silence was heavy. He wasn't sure whether anyone heard him come in when the waitress came around the corner. "Hello," Billy said. She was a younger woman, probably late twenties and fairly attractive. "How ya doin' today? Could I start ya off with something to drink, possibly some sake?" She had a Texas accent and chewed wide-mouthed on a piece of gum. Her hair was sandy blonde and cut short. "No, no. I'll just have a glass of iced-tea." "Alrighty, I'll be back in a minute, darlin'." She turned and went back around the corner. Billy watched the way she walked. It was beautiful how her figure swayed as if to glorious, unheard music. It had been years since Billy had been with a woman. He dearly needed someone to talk to, to hold on to, to share his life with. When she returned he said, "Would you like to have lunch with me?" "You aren't some strange sort of weirdo, are you honey?" She studied him for a minute. "Well, you look innocent enough," and she blew a big, pink bubble. Pop! "Let me go an put your order in so Chu Man Mo-Yo can cook it up." "Would you like anything? I'm buying." "No sir. You kinda build up a slight disliking for Chinese food after so long. I'll just grab a cup of coffee." "Okay, then I'll have the sweet and sour shrimp, please." "Good choice, darlin' I'll return shortly." When she returned, Billy noticed she had taken her apron off and somewhat made herself up. She sat down across from him in the booth. "So," she said, "tell me your name, sugarplum." "Billy Spear. And yours?" "They called me May at birth, even though I was born in June." "It's a pleasure to meet you, May." "And you as well, Billy." They talked awhile, as all strangers do, about their lives. May was from the Middle of Nowhere, Louisiana. That was good for it her a sweet as pine disposition. Her father raised chickens and pigs. Her mother was a simple housewife who was usually pregnant (May claimed to have eight brothers and four sisters). She had grown up Catholic, but had abandoned religion saying it was "just a bunch of hooplaw." She concluded, "I've lived here in California for six years, now. That's probably why I've abandoned religion." There was a period of silence while they sat there and smiled at each other. "Well, I better go and get your lunch; I heard Chu Man Mo-Yo ring the bell. Don't you move, sweety." She slid out of the booth and around the corner. Billy sat there, his mind in a dreamlike state pondering what the future might have planned for him. Could this be the opportunity he'd longed for? Could this woman help him enjoy life again? His pondering was broken by the opening door. * * * * * What walked in could easily be described as an extremely pumped-up giant-of-an-animal that appeared unbelievably angry. His entire body was clad in tanned leather: boots, pants, wristbands, belt and vest. He had long, black dredlocked hair pulled into a ponytail. His skin was a dark tan and produced big, protruding veins. A tattoo on his arm said "BORN PISSED OFF." It surrounded a smiley face. "MAY!" He boomed "MAY!" "Excuse me, son," said Billy, "but I believe she's getting my lunch." The beast of a man turned and looked sternly at Billy. "Do I look like I really CARE? And don't call me SON!" Replied Billy, "Maybe, possibly, you should care." "Maybe I should just blow your wrinkled, old HEAD OFF!" The man pulled a pistol from the inside of his vest and pointed it directly at Billy's head. May, humming a tune, came walking around the corner. "Oh my God!" The tray fell from her grasp; the gooey neon-pink sweet and sour sauce spread itself outward in a slow gravitational realization. May's feet squished on the boiled shrimp as she carefully approached the man. "P.O. what the hell do you think you're doin'?" "This old MAN has a major DEATH WISH!" "P.O. would you pleases stop that god-awful yellin'?" she calmly asked. "Sorry, you know it's my bad habit. Oh, I almost forgot." He turned and pointed the gun at May. "You, WOMAN, owe me money. Uh um. . . sorry about that." "No, I don't think so. P.O. I told you I was not goin' to be bullied around by you no more. Do you understand, I ain't ever goin' to walk those filthy streets ever again!" It took a minute for the last statement to register in Billy's mind. "Excuse me, May what did you say? No, never mind, I know. Why didn't you tell me this before?" asked Billy. "Because you didn't need to know. It was all in the past, as far as I was concerned. But, nooooo," she turned and looked at P.O., "Mr. Bonehead here won't get it through his thick skull that I am done! Finished! Kaput! The cows have all grazed!" At that May about-faced and went back around the corner. Billy and P.O. stared at the vanishing figure. Billy said, "Well, you heard the lady. It certainly sounds as if she is through with you." P.O. stood there. His hands were clenched into fists, his brow furrowed deep. He slowly started towards Billy. Billy sat there unsure what to do. Usually, he would just run off and forget about the problem. But he learned his lesson many times. He was not going to sit there and be plummeted to death by this Goliath figure. No longer was he going to act like an incompetent human being. Not for anyone, and especially not for May. Billy quickly got up from the booth. He'd forgotten about the gun; he had to think fast. "Now, I can't believe you're just going to shoot me. Just like that. Bam. Dead. I would think you, of all people, would be the one to fight like a man, rather than act like one." "Oh, I am SORRY! It would be a waste of a BULLET! Here, see, I'm putting it DOWN!" Billy cautiously watched as he put the gun on the table. "Are you HAPPY?" "I'm not sure that happy is exactly what I'm feeling, but definitely better." Billy was sweating, he could feel it under his arms and on his brow. "Whatever, old man. Let's get this OVER WITH!" At that P.O. let fly with a blow to Billy's shoulder. It knocked him to the ground as he tried to grab the table. The cloth came off, as well as the iced-tea. He was stunned and soaked. "Oh my god," Billy thought to himself. He attempted to rise but was kicked back down by the boot of P.O.. "Have you learned your LESSON?" Billy couldn't answer, much less breath. "Did you HEAR me?" P.O. laughed and began fixing his hair in the reflection of the window. "No," Billy said muffled and low. P.O. didn't notice. Billy looked for a way out. Underneath the table he saw his iced-tea glass. The top had broken into three jagged peaks. "No," Billy said louder and lunged at P.O.. The man turned, astonishment in his eyes. The glass caught him in the shoulder, ripping through the tattooed face and flesh beneath. Billy expected a scream of pain, but there was none, only P.O. holding his shoulder, his face a fiery red. "Now I'm PISSED OFF!" Here came his boot again catching Billy in the jaw. The pain shot through his head. He staggered around looking for the glass. He heard a crunch, looked, and saw the glass-sharded soul of P.O.'s boot. It connected with Billy's stomach. He fell, writhing in pain, to the floor. The boot connected again and again while each time P.O. said "I'm PISSED OFF!" Billy heard a click. He looked up and saw May. In her hand was a sawed-off shotgun. Her other hand was on the pump. "P.O. you'd better knock it off, right this minute, before I blow your damn head off!" P.O. stopped kicking Billy and turned around. His breathing was heavy and sweat ran down his cheeks. He seemed to move towards May but retracted. "Whatever," he said. "I'm sick of this SCENE! I'm sick of YOU! and I'm sick of beating the CRAP out of HIM!" He turned and went out the door. "Oh, Billy. You look like a gutted hog." Billy couldn't say anything, his jaw was broken. May took him into her arms and in her sweet, down-home girlish way said, "Why did you act so manly?" Leaving Billy S. Spear with a smile the size of Texas on his face. [][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][] ******************************************************************************** Information Communication Supply 2/20/95 Vol.2: Issue 8-2 S T A F F : Email: ICS Positions: ============== ============ ============== Steven Peterson STU000012255 Managing Editor, Writer Tim Halas STU000058410 Writer ... Joe Katz STU000051474 Tech Director Stacey Kuehnel STU000070412 Poetry Editor, Staff Writer George Sibley FAC_SIBLEY Editing, Faculty Supervisor Others TBA All addresses @WESTERN.EDU /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ equations from space -------------------- The lights in the room were sedating Their memory lingered what do you have to hide? my emotions inside why are they so secret? life is a white lye the music went on cosmic rhythms the music went on universal equations frightening verses filled their ears the conversation they were having appeared to be prophecy the big will happen but you may be afraid was the encounter a success? no one will believe you -- Tim Halas ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------*)--- ^ Crumbling at The Feet of the Pyramids ^ / \ By Steven Peterson / \ / \ / \ ----- ----- The tear gas enveloped the small crowd out on the street, sending the small knot of writers and poets into convulsions. Over the last week, I had come to know several of the brave Egyptian artists who were risking their lives on a hot Sunday afternoon; in the face of immense political and religious oppression, these slight figures are showing the world what it means to save a culture. "We are tired of being afraid," one of the poets, Talwaah, said before the ill-fated march. The simple act of writing a short story or producing a stage play, with a plot and character development, rather than a series of sketches held together with songs, has become an almost heroic act of defiance in present-day Egypt. Moslem fundamentalism rules this nation, and they mean to assert their rigid version of Islamic law, no matter the cost in spiritual, artistic, and cultural terms. Islam, one of the three major world religions, was once a tolerant faith. Now, the culture of the Book, introduced in the name of a return to religious roots, bears no rivals. The veneration of the letter over the spirit has reached the point of idolatry; apparently, no other text can compare to the divinely written Quran. The question "Are you or have you ever been an atheist?" is implicit in every attack on a writer or academic. It is the charge leveled at specific artists by street corner preachers and repeated in the dozens of cassette tapes that are sold outside mosques all over Egypt. These tapes have titles such as "The Filth of the Artistic Community," or "Art is Filth". Talwaa, a poet, tells me that he is "frequently picked on by name and damned as a `corrupter of youth and an atheist'." Under Islamic Law both charges are theoretically punishable by death. Yet, it is not only the streetside extremists who preach retribution against the artist. The official and semi-official press is no less threatening. Many people have fallen victim, without any possibility of reply, to orchestrated campaigns of vilification. The Egyptian government's characteristic response to these attacks on artists is to further increase censorship and simply ban many of their works. As it is, the State Security service maintains control of the various boards of censorship through their nominee as Director of Censorship, Mr. Hamdi Sorour. The "higher interests of the state" are the latest excuse for the banning of plays and film scripts; even Pop songs have to be submitted for a recording license. It is hard to describe what it is like to visit a society whose culture is dying. It's not just a question of the persecution of writers and academics, nor of the tightening of restrictions on publications and the increased censorship of theater and films--it is more than the lack of schooling that Talwaa writes of, or the climate of censorship that he fights against with his friends. It is a little like watching a large and lumbering animal slowly being sucked into the mire; it is the knowledge that what was won by past generations is being lost, possibly forever. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Note: Talwaa is a composite character; although he may not exist in our reality, there are many authentic individuals in Egypt facing the same conditions . . . >SP, 96 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ =========================================================================== | -+- | The Funeral Hand | By Chris Jones It's early in the morning and my mother is in my closet getting out my good suit. I continue to lie in bed with my hair frazzled and my eyes full of that crunchy stuff in the corners. My Star Trek sheets are warm and I don't want to leave them. "Come on, get out of bed. We'll be late for the funeral." "Do I have to take a bath, mom?" "No, we don't have time," she says, "just brush your teeth and hair and get dressed." She marches out my door to her room. I do as I'm told. In the bathroom I carefully brush my teeth making sure to get way back there. I part my hair down the middle and comb it straight down the sides of my face. I go back to my room and begin putting on my suit. The pants are grey and pressed tightly. I hate wearing them. They make me feel funny, like I'm going to my father's office. The shirt is white and starched. I tuck it in and button it up to the top. It feels tight around my neck and it itches, too. Next, I put on my necktie. It is striped blue and red and has a little clip that I attach to the exact middle of my collar. My mother has pulled out my brown dress socks, the pair I despise. They only go up a little ways past my ankles and they're thin. I like my white cotton socks that come up to my shins. My shoes are brown and polished. They're stiff and have a hard inside. Last, I put on my brown, knit blazer and go awkwardly to my parent's room. "I'm ready, mom." "Oh, honey, you look so handsome." She's fixing her hair in the stand- up mirror. My father is in his underwear shaving. I wish I could shave. "Go downstairs and fix yourself some cereal." I do as I'm told, hopping down every other stair. The cabinets in the kitchen are too high for me so I pull in a dining room chair and step up. I choose the Frosted Flakes and mix them with milk and sugar. I move into the living room and sit directly in front of the television. Sesame Street is on and Big Bird is singing a song about growing up. It makes me think about my great-aunt Glydia and her funeral, today. I never knew her that well. I had met her twice in my whole entire life and it was a long time ago. She always seemed to know me well; always patting my head and saying, "I hear you're doing well in school. Are you still playing in the Little League? Look who's getting so big." I wonder what it is about old people that makes them so smart. My mother and father come down the stairs. "Turn off the t.v., honey, it's time to go." The funeral parlor is full of relations, as my father calls them. Everybody is dressed real nice, but their faces are all gloomy. My mother and father are talking to some people I don't remember. My cousin, Nicholas, runs up to me. "You should see her all dead like, and all. Come on, now." He grabs me by the arm and we run up to the casket. It's too high for us to peek over so we have to stand on the kneeling bench. We stand there side by side, staring down at dead aunt Glydia. It's a weird feeling, like she's supposed to smile at us or pat our heads. "Go on, now, touch it. I dare you," Nicholas says quietly. I lean over and put my hand on hers. It's cold and gray and wrinkly, much larger than my own, even for a woman. They look like they've been around for a long time. I stretch out my fingers imagining my hands that big. I wear a look of puzzlement on my face. Nicholas laughs at me, breaking me out of my trance. "You look funny!" I begin laughing as well. "Nicholas! Christopher!" Our fathers say sternly. We scurry off the kneeling bench and slide beside our mothers. Her hand made me wonder if it's their wrinkles that make them so smart. ****************************************************************************** ********************* ****************************************************************************** Death will always be the strangest learning experience in youth. At least that's how I feel. For me, my great Aunt's funeral was where I received my first lesson, but not nearly my last. My mother had gotten me out of my warm, cozy bed early in the morning and I had dutifully dressed myself. I had no idea what to expect. This was the first funeral I had ever attended and it still stays rooted in my mind after all these years. My cousin and I had always been the little "hell-raisers" as our parents' would call us. We frantically ran around the funeral parlor playing hide-and-seek, flicking holy water from our fingers at each other's faces, giggling uncontrollably. Neither of us had ever really pondered dying, why would we? We were only about four or five at the time. But that day and its events were like a hard, sharp smack in the face. My cousin, Nicholas, had dared me to touch my Aunt Glydia, who lay in the coffin like a wax statue. We stood on the kneeling bench staring at her. I don't know what my cousin was thinking, but I remember thinking about myself: is this what I'm going to look like when I get old? Not necessarily like a woman, no, but with wrinkled skin and thin, gray hair. "Go on, now, touch it," my cousin had dared. I cautiously bent over and put my small, smooth hand on our Aunt's cold, gray one. A look of confusion spread across my face. Where was Aunt Glydia, now? Was she watching my cousin and me from somewhere far above, possibly that magical place called Heaven? Even to this day, I have no answer for that question. I remember feeling extremely light-headed and I felt a million miles away. My hand remained frozen on my Aunt Glydia's. My mouth hung open and went dry, any attempt I made to close it was feeble at best. Finally, I heard Nicholas' laughing fade into my ear and I looked up at him. "You looked funny!" I stared hard at him. He obviously had not learned anything from our Aunt's funeral. "She's dead," I said plainly and stepped off the kneeling bench. Nicholas immediately was quiet. His mouth hung open like mine had before. We didn't say another word to each other during the rest of the proceedings. We stayed by our respective mothers' sides, hardly glancing at each other. After the funeral, we went to our grandparents. Out on the cool green grass we spoke, again. "You're right," Nicholas quietly said to me. I didn't respond back, there was no need to. We sat there side by side and stared at the starry sky. Before we went inside to go to bed, I looked as far as I could into space. "Goodnight, Aunt Glydia." ============================================================================ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Untitled 3 Poems by Stacey Kuehnel - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - It makes me wonder sometimes why the petty things make a difference with the big things. Why would people dissolve from your life and act like it doesn't matter. Never giving any- one an explanation. They disappear into thin air. You begin to wonder what you have done wrong and if you did anything wrong. I have begun to realize who really matters to me and why they matter so much. I have lost someone I thought I could depend on. He was swallowed up into the mist and has yet to return. I don't think I have done anything wrong, but the fear of him being gone for good has strengthened in my mind. His hatred for me is filling my soul and I feel I have no where to turn to. You don't realize till they are gone, what they really mean to you. I have started to miss this certain person. I cannot forget what I thought was being created between us. I wonder if everyone's life is filled with sorrow and pain; something I have begun to feel all to well in my soul. This has awakened the realities of desertion on the chambers of my brain. I only fear what is still left to be discovered of me inside the depths of my inner soul. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Life is like a river Continually flowing almost drying up coming back to life Each contains it's own personality Flooding at times Destruction and chaos. Will return to normal. Can not help the littering and pollution it's body sometimes endures. Some are lost to the unknown never to return. Some never started to begin with others bounce back when cleansed properly. Some rivers never fear the bad poisons others continue to fight off. Toxins seeping at a deadly pace. When the bright fire sucks again the life tries to revive. Droplets replenish its system. Sometimes dammed and broken up. Spirit taken away unexpectedly. Sometimes the great circle gets the best of this river, it becomes a desert and the funeral arrangments begin. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - I'm sitting here in stone cold silence. Words being said to my ears Not commuting in my brain So relaxed Inspiration is the key My pen moves across the page Writing words my mind tells the arm to Fascinations and supernatural are hidden in my thoughts of thoughts Want to explore the unknown of the open minds I am losing the inspiration in this white confinement I want my freedoms to roam in the strange ruled over world My destinations are there on the hills Will take my strength and life to reach my high point Where I will find my fate and fantasies My passions and desires. --Stacey Kuehnel /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ ****************************************************************************** \/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ Independence Day By Elizabeth Kurtak I heard from Emily the other day. She wants to come to Colorado this summer; I told her we'd love to have her. All she said about Vivien was, "what a bitch that woman turned out to be!" I guess they don't hang out anymore; she also told me that Michael had graduated and moved to Fairbanks. "Has his moose been back around?" "Nope, not this year. Vivien broke her leg again, though." * * * I was so happy when I finally got my acceptance letter to Anchorage University. After taking three years off, attending ten funerals (zero weddings) and living with about thirty roommates, I was ready for it. Oh, yes. I was sick of bouncing back and forth between Colorado and California, and by God, I was going to live where the mountains and the ocean were in the same place. I didn't know a single soul when I arrived at the dorms that September; I also had that "travelling" feeling I get every time I go to a new place. Everything was beautiful and surreal, just as I'd hoped. It radiated, if that makes sense. Emily told me it was "the Great Spirit." Vivien told us we were both weird. It took me a whole day to meet Vivien and Emily, my downstairs neighbors. I woke early that first day, still struggling with the time change. I was having a Coke when my feet started vibrating to a Grateful Dead tune. I stuck my head out the kitchen window to have a look; the girl downstairs was doing the same and we startled each other: "Good morning little school girl!" Her accent sounded Eastern. "Can I come home witchooo!" I replied, playing along. I'd checked out the view when I'd brought in my stuff the day before: a babbling brook ran along the length of our dorm, complete with flora and fauna. "Come down for some coffee, neighbor!" An order, not a request. "Sure," I followed the music to her door (Jerry the pied piper) and that's how I met Vivien. Emily was her roommate of two years; she hailed from Boston. She was a lovely, unassuming person with great skin; she also practiced the fine art of eye contact. I thought, "God, her kids aren't going to get away with anything." "So, when did you get in?" "Last night." "It was pretty clear yesterday. Did you fly in before dark?" "Yeah!" The memory was still fresh: mountains as far as the eye could see. It was like flying to the moon; I felt very far from home. Emily smiled warmly and I didn't feel any need to explain. * * * I decided to ditch class and go climbing with Vivien. Three years ago, this guy had dropped me on belay. He barely got his shit together before I hit the ground; I hadn't climbed since. Vivien had managed to talk me into going again, although I noticed it was always on her terms. She had the car, and I was the one who would end up missing class. We set out for Boy Scout Rock. The climbing was moderate and challenging, not too scary, and there were good places to set up top ropes (safety first). I remember stretching out while Vivien sorted out her gear. "Gear Queer! Gear Queer!" "I'm going to lead today, if that's okay with you." "Okay New Hampshire. You think you're bad?" "I know I'm bad." She tossed her long, dark hair back defiantly and put it into a ponytail. Vivien had mentioned leading last week, but I wasn't interested. I was just starting to feel comfortable with climbing again, and I felt just fine being safely anchored into the top, thank you very much. However, I was willing to give her a belay. She started up (no stretch for Vivien today?) and set in her first anchor at eye level. She continued along her merry way; until, about twenty feet up, her gear started coming out. She had maneuvered around an overhang, and now the rope was pulling out the gear she'd set below despite my loose belay (pop, pop, pop). "ohmygod," she whispered. Sewing-machine leg is just what it sounds like: you shake and your leg bounces up and down like a sewing- machine needle. Viv had it bad. "Are you okay?" A dumb question, but I didn't know what else to say. "Yeah, just a little fatigued." Vivien shook like a leaf. She had passed the halfway mark; the rest wasn't too bad. "What do you want to do?" She'd been hanging for a while and I didn't want her to get too tired to finish, or come down, whichever she decided. I stood directly under her, figuring she'd be better off falling on me than hitting the ground. I was anxious, but I didn't want her to know that. "I'm coming down!" Shit. "Okay!" I would have felt better if she'd gone up. She was only three moves from the top, although I'm sure it didn't seem so close from her perspective. She made her way down; then, when she got about eight feet from the ground, she fell. "Thanks for catching me, neighbor!" "No problem." Vivien came out without a scratch. I spent the next two days on the couch while my roommate Katy put ice on my swollen back. I would later get to return the favor. * * * I had to write this term paper on elephants; they're interesting critters. They migrate constantly, like a wrinkly travelling circus with no particular destination. I read one account in which a whole herd swam through a large river, but one little baby couldn't make it across, so they swam back and decided to migrate in a different direction. They could cross the river when the baby was bigger. * * * Katy, my roommate, was a redhead from Washington, D.C. She had recently joined a gay march on the White house. She loved gay people and gay rights; it was her thing, even though she wasn't gay herself. She'd give long test- imonials on the subject and then say "that's my opinion, and it's worth what you paid for it!" or "more power to 'em!" We mostly tried to stay out of each other's way, but now and then we'd have a good talk or share a meal. I noticed, around the same time we started getting down to eight hours of daylight, that Katy didn't seem to be her buoyant, politically correct self. She seemed tired and grumpy: "Are you feeling okay?" I asked, tenaciously. "I don't know. I'm going to the doctor tomorrow." "What are your symptoms? What do you think it is?" Katy was a nursing major, so I thought maybe she had attempted a self-diagnosis. "I don't know! I'm just really fucking tired and I don't feel right! OK!" Yikes. Feeling like an intruder in my own home, I decided to visit the downstairs neighbors. Vivien greeted me; she yanked me in by my collar. She pulled me over to the coffee maker and poured me a cup. When she began to refill her own, I started to tell her she'd had enough this morning when I was interrupted by singing. It was coming from outside, loud and off-key. We went to the window to see what was happening: "Oh, Christ! Michael again, I'm going to call security." Vivien made her disgusted face. "You know what's up with these natives, don't you? They can't hold their booze. It's like, congenital, or genetic, or something. One day he was out on the quad with some whore, and the police came. Natives get preferential treatment, though. They told him to go back to his room, and that was it." That day, Michael was butt-wasted and chanting on the quad's main lawn. It occurred to me that the white man had stolen his spirit and replaced it with alcohol. Vivien continued: "They always find some frozen natives in the winter. They just pass out in snowbanks and freeze to death. Funny, huh?" Vivien started to dial campus security, but I pushed the hang-up button. "Is that a moose?" I hadn't seen one yet. "It sure is. Michael better watch out." He sang to the moose. It came toward him and stopped, just out of his reach. He sang for a while, then he began to cry. He talked to the moose briefly, in a language I couldn't understand, then turned and went back to his room. The moose just stood there out on the quad, looking up at us. "God, like I need this!" Vivien said, exasperated. "Maybe you do," I told her. Vivien came to Alaska to conquer the mountains. She climbed ice when it got too cold for rocks. She had done some mountaineering in New Hampshire, but nothing major. She was a very independent person, to put it politely. "When Vivien broke her leg last year, I thought I would die." Emily looked at me seriously, searching my face for understanding. "She couldn't do anything, I had to drive her everywhere. I didn't mind, really; she's my friend. It's just that she hated it so much that she had to make me hate it too." "Em, most of the people I've met here are trying hard to be independent. I wasn't thinking that way, because I've moved to places by myself lots of times. Did you feel that way?" "No. I wanted to get so far away from my family that they wouldn't come visit. My dad's an alcoholic." "Oh. Why do you think Vivien moved here?" "To climb mountains. I know, she doesn't do that. I think, maybe, Vivien had a hard time making friends at her last school . . ." * * * That night, Katy told me that she had to go in for a spinal tap. The doctors thought she had multiple sclerosis and a tap was the only way to be sure. "Do you want me to go over there with you?" "No. I have a ride. I'm taking a cab back." Katy went to bed; I was left alone in the kitchen, doing homework. Vivien came knocking at my door very quietly--after thinking twice, I let her in: "I'm studying, so I can only stay for a minute. Look what I found." She had a book with her that was open to a page with a picture of a Hindu idol. The excerpt explained that it was Ganesh, The Remover of Obstacles. It was half-man, half-elephant, with many arms. "I know you probably can't use it in your paper, but I thought you'd dig it anyway." "I do. Thanks, man." The next day, I came home from class early, then skipped the other two. I wanted to be home when Katy got there. Her friends were attending some campus function with a guest speaker. I didn't know if she'd be alone or not, but I figured I'd be there, just in case. I could hear people talking in the stairwell, so I went to see what was up. Katy had one arm around the cab driver, who was helping her up to our third-floor hall. I met them at the second floor, got an arm around Katy, and we got her to bed (face down, of course). "How did that feel?" I asked, kidding. "I loved it," she replied dryly. "What do we need to do for you?" I asked, seriously. "Ice." Vivien and I had been having trouble getting along. As the days got shorter, so did our tolerance for each other. "You never want to go play with me anymore!" "Maybe I'm tired of being on the receiving end of our one-sided conversations!" I was in a bad mood, and Vivien was exacerbating it. "My dad says that your pineal gland is the part of your brain that releases hormones in response to light. If you don't get enough light, you get depressed." "That's right, Viv, you're sucking the light out of me." Vivien's dad was an eminent psychiatrist, and I had overheard many of their conversations. I didn't care for his advice to her, and I cared even less for her questioning him about what stimuli might be eliciting my behavior. "Why don't you like me?" she whined. "Why don't you go out with John? He meets your height and educational requirements." John was hot. We'd had dinner with him and some of his friends the night before. He'd asked Vivien out and she shot him down mercilessly, like a duck in a pond. "He's a fisherman, Liz. Is that what's bothering you? That I think John is below my station?" (Did people in New Hampshire really talk like that? Station?) "Well, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to learn that people have to act in their own best interests and do what's right for them." "That's right, and that's why I don't like to play with you anymore!" She was a WASPY bitch and I hated the way she talked about people. I tried to remember if she'd always been that way; I finally decided that she had. * * * I went back to the house: nobody home. Suddenly, I decided to go home-- Colorado home. I called my folks and told them the good news; I could still get in for spring semester, no problem. Vivien showed up a few days later, presumably to heal our rift. I told her about my plans; she replied, "That doesn't surprise me. You really don't have what it takes to live here." Emily agreed with her. "You aren't battling demons, Liz. You're looking for friends and fun. People come here to prove that they can handle themselves. I think you've already done that for a long time. Vivien, on the other hand, can't make a move without her parent's approval, no matter how far away they are." "So I suck, because I'm happy with my life and my decisions?" "No, but that's why you're not fitting in." Emily looked deep, to see if I understood. I looked deep too, to see if she was humoring me--she wasn't. "A lot of people here, they're kind of between realities; everybody's running away from something. They come to Anchorage to get away from whatever, generally find they don't like it enough to live here, and move. It's a transitional place. Vivien can't even pick a major! She's been here for two years, she's got more than the required number of credits to graduate; but because she can't or won't decide, she's a twenty four year old sophomore. Do you think she feels good about that? She's hiding from her own life." "How can you stand living with her?" "I can't. I'm saving up to move off-campus." Emily smiled big. "Good for you, man. Good for you." I stayed in town longer than anyone. My plane ticket home was on the frequent-flyer program, so I didn't get a prime booking. I stayed through the winter solstice, alone in the dorm. The sun only made quick U-turns: a two hour spin out, around, and back behind the mountains. "This place lacks balance," I thought. The next day, I took a cab to the airport and flew home. * * * People always want to know, "So what's it like up there?" I never know where to begin. I usually just tell them about the natural wonders, how beautiful everything is, and suggest if they're planning a visit, to do it in the summer. People rarely ask me why I didn't stay; it's as if it doesn't occur to them. When they do ask, I usually just smile and tell them "I didn't think it was very funny." ^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^+^ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ +-----------+ | Last Word \ +-------------+ All lost in the supermarket: a line from a tune by the Clash. It could be our theme song here at ICS. Shopping merrily through an eight week term, we kind of lose our identity. So it goes. Big snow, long colds and brilliant blue skies. The mountains and valleys cast their siren song and I wander through the forest instead of hacking away at my 'board. Other minor crises intrude--the good things in life are always so hard, complex and slow. The next thing you know, that deadline's so far back on the horizon it's just a distant little radioactive gleam of shame . . . Our toes a trifle scuffed, faces blushed, we're back with more features, stories, poems and goofy thoughts of all sorts. Through the spring, we'll be recruiting a fresh batch of voices; let us know what you think of their work (writers . . . always aching for feedback). As always, we're looking for a few good stories: amaze us. Until next time, Live Well. --Ed. >8*) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ICS would like to hear from you. We accept flames, comments, submissions, editorials, corrections, and just about anything else you wish to send us. We will use things sent to us when we think they would be appropriate for the issue coming out. So, if you send us something that you DO NOT want us to use in the electrozine, please put the words NOT FOR PUBLICATION in the subject-line of the message. 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