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Transcript of Wingspan 2 Fall 2009
A Magazine of Poetry, Fiction, A Magazine of Poetry, Fiction, A Magazine of Poetry, Fiction, A Magazine of Poetry, Fiction,
and Artand Artand Artand Art
Wingspan Fall 2009 Wingspan Fall 2009 Wingspan Fall 2009 Wingspan Fall 2009
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VOLUME 9 FALL 2009 Jefferson State Community College
Editor…………Sharon DeVaney-Lovinguth
Editorial Policy Wingspan is an annual literary and visual arts publication of Jefferson State Community College in Birmingham, Alabama. Its purpose is to act as a creative outlet for students, faculty, alumni and residents of the surrounding area, thus encouraging and fostering an appreciation for the creative process. The works included in this journal are reviewed and selected by a faculty advisor on the basis of originality, graceful use of language, clarity of thought and the presence of an individual style. The nature of literature is not to advance a religious or political agenda, but to raise universal ques-tions about human nature and to engage reaction. Therefore, the experience of literature is bound to involve controversial subject matter at times. The college supports the students’ right to a free search for truth and its exposi-tion. In pursuit of that goal, however, advisors reserve the right to edit sub-missions as is necessary for suitable print. Appropriateness of material is defined in part as that which will “promote community and civic well being, provide insight into different cultural perspectives and expand the intellec-tual development of students.” The opinions expressed are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of the college administration, faculty or staff. Letters to the editor or information on submission guidelines can be obtained by e-mail at [email protected] All rights revert to the author/artist upon publication.
Photography/Art Bethany Mitchell cover photo (front) 36 Lorie Schumann “Healing” cover photo (back) 45, 49 Sarah Luckadoo 3 Sharon Nelson 7, 14, 15 Susan Dennis 20, 21 Sandra Pugh 25, 31
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Volume 9 Fall 2009
Wingspan Wingspan Wingspan Wingspan
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CONTENTS
POETRY
Lisa Stewart 8 “Driven By Rejection” “The Great Paradox” “Grief” “God” Michael Waldrop 16 “Why Aren’t You Me?” “I Didn’t Mean to Think” Elisha 18 “Love Stands Still” “Broken Pieces Restored” Bettie Cox 22 “Earthborn” “Written Across Canvas” Mary Kaiser 26 “The Light, That Evening” J. T. Bullock 28 “Love Comes Unexpected” Bob Whetstone 30 “Signed by Author” “A Short Poem” Stephanie Menendez 32 “There Is A New Smell In The Air” “I Feel As If I Am Two People” Robbie Mentes 34 “Ember” “Ashes” “Forgotten Scent” Nicole Whitfield 36 Three Untitled Poems About Love
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Danny Brister 38 “The Garden” “The Cross Bearer” Bethany Mitchell 40 “The Silence of Peace” Drew Watson 41 “The Passing of a Great Man” “The Fatal Mistake” “The Poet” John Hagadorn 44 “I’m Doing It For Me” Klinton Helms 46 “The End of the World” “True Value”
FICTION Tom Edwards “Holy Possum” 52 Michael Waldrop “Off a Cliff” 64 Thomas Shaw “Red, I Stop” 68 Jill Deaver “What the Water Gave Me” 76 Garrett Smith “This is Life . . .” 91 S. DeVaney-Lovinguth “And this is life, too . . .” 92
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Poetry
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Sharon Nelson
8
Driven By Rejection
All the effort All the time
Working my way up Overachieving Being the best
Yearning to be average but unable to accept Trying to be perfect
Always doing the right thing Making up for mistakes in an never ending journey
Finally arrive The game changes
Crueler mistakes made The stakes of self worth higher
Unable to attain Course changed
New goals Weary, tired but not giving up
Giving my all to everything/everyone Wondering why I have to work
So hard to prove Why average can’t be enough in anything
Finances, career, relationships Taking it all is taking all of me
Can’t seem to figure out who I am or what I want Being driven to prove drains my life force
So I retreat – Come out as needed Survival forces my actions but proving I’m not who I am
Lisa Stewart
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Steals my soul When will I be enough to myself to reject – rejecting self
Put an end to hiding, settling, and analyzing self Proving, achieving, working, staying in others graces is the armor I
hide behind Too scared to stand up and be me
Because I am invisible Therein lies
The me I reject
Lisa Stewart
10
The Great Paradox
My bones are getting weak Metabolism slowing down
Skin losing elasticity – wrinkles forming Brown spots Blurry eyes
Gray appearing Tired – needing naps
Enjoyment = relaxation Recognizing aloneness in world
Grieving the past The meaning of God/Life become more elusive and more important
All this happens slowly and quickly At the same time your spirit is screaming
“I’m in here and I haven’t changed!” “Stop It!”
“I don’t like this!!” I am still young, strong and full of life and dreams
I want to run, play, yell, and sing. Why is my house trapping, suppressing and trying to smother me?
I am the same now as I was at 10, 15, and 20 I haven’t changed but my house is collapsing faster than I can make the repairs
As the changes continue the more futile my resistance becomes I am the spirit that screams, “I am alive and well in spite of this body that deliber-
ately destroys me in the end!” I will never stop fighting to be heard and I hope that others will always know that
when I’m 70/80/90 I am the same as I am now at 40 Please don’t treat me old
Don’t let my appearance make you forget me at 20 because I am the same me Spirit doesn’t age! Don’t forget me!
Lisa Stewart
11
Grief
Black, heavy, overwhelming Sucks your spirit out of you
Reality and fear crash in upon you The will to go on seems meaningless
Everything is questioned No relief anywhere
Insane thoughts and ideas race rapidly in your brain Your anger rises and you want and some will abandon God
You want relief but you don’t want to go on and be o.k. without the person you lost
The betrayal pierces your heart Everything is a haze
It’s an out of body experience A dream
You suit up and show up for life but no one is home The people around you have no idea what’s going on inside you
You can’t explain – no words Your soul screams in agony and no one can her it but you Reality and your mortality confront you with no mercy
You are slammed with the meaning of your life You hope and pray that there is a loving God
and that death is a new beginning and not the end Your are forced with a vengeance today goodbye
and your mind fights it with all the rebellion within When the beginning of acceptance begins,
you are in the truest and rawest regions of your heart You finally meet your true self
Lisa Stewart
12
GOD
God – that’s the question Intellectually impossible to believe
Omnipotent – Omnipresent – Impossible! Arrogance to believe he cares about my selfish goals/plans in this life
Preposterous to believe this omnipotent force has a plan for each individual human
Even more unfathomable is a God that loves everybody yet everybody is divided because of God
What about the free will theory As used to explain all the suffering of humanity and the proof of God’s di-
vine love? We are to reject our intelligence and knowledge and be ignorant like chil-
dren To experience God except this is called humility
Which means -to be ignorant That is the spiritual challenge
Now we are asked to trust this God with no manners, this silent, all wise God As life kicks our ass we become desperate enough to twist our minds enough
to accept all this nonsense Now we are totally confused
We start this prayer thing and talk to this Impossible God Everything starts looking like a sign to prove this God is listening and more
important answering Now we are on a quest We become obsessed
Seeking peace within our souls
Lisa Stewart
13
God is where we find this Once obtained, the world can’t touch us
Defying our logic To our amazement
The miracle happens We know we are ok no matter what we have eternal hope
No matter what happens You can never leave this God
In spite of all doubts – thoughts and emotions Faith has grabbed hold of you
God is found, Peace has saturated the soul You are now doomed to swimming in the abyss of the un-
known hope Until the end of your life when you uncover the truth –
Lisa Stewart
14
Sharon Nelson
15
Sharon Nelson
16
Why Aren’t You Me?
What can I say, do I have to rhyme to make it all okay And if I go on Will I have to stay Is the songwriter a poet if his lyrics disagree And here is the question is why aren't you me? What are my dreams, are things really as they seem Why do I want to be the things I want to be And here is the question is why aren't you me? In this life what is it meant to be, are people more than what we see I see you there and your looking back at me And what is the question it's why aren't you me? What is it to be, do I really see the things I think I see In this life I wonder or, I guess I disagree, But still the question is why aren't you me?
Michael Waldrop
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I Didn’t Mean To Think Where Am I Now? Don’t Tell Me I did this please . . . But The Answer is the same I’m the one to blame One little thought to destroy my world Where is my soul? The eyes perceive pictures that deceive Do they want to destroy? The lamp the mirror see the inner sanctum, of what? A feeling, an illusion? Please don’t tell me it’s over Please don’t tell me one thought did this so that I may lose it all, based on an accidental thought that I didn’t mean to think When the fire goes out, and you’re out of matches . . . what’s the point? Is there one anymore . . . From a perfect circumstance to nothing but a future oblivion What’s the point The mind wanders as we contemplate and our minds think what we dare not say but how could a silent thought do this to me? Where, why, how the futility if such can do this to me . . . forgive me, for thinking . . .
Michael Waldrop
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Love Stands Still
Love is always here, it will always stand Still. Love stands still. Love is in the air, You can feel it here and there. Love stands Still. Love is pure, love is true, if you Believe, it’s in you. Love stands still. You can feel love, you can hear love. Love Stands still. Joy is here, love stands Still. Love is everywhere, in every place, And every heart, and every race. Love Stands still. Love is in the air, Love is by your side, let your heart come out, you don’t have to hide. Love stands still.
Elisha
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Broken Pieces Restored What don’t kill you makes you stronger. I have been in many places in uncomfortable situations since the age of 5. Here’s a poem to describe my story. I was raped at 5 years old, hurt by someone big and bold. I’m still scared from shock and pain, my heart was bruised and stained. From place to place I’ve been put down, raped and molested and left with a frown. My own father was the main one, he violated me like it was fun. After moving in with my grandmother, my cousin did the same as my father. Then my grandmother died after two years, I hated myself with blood and tears. I was talked about at school, dogged out and fooled, pushed around, and picked on. I was treated as if my heart was a stone. With my 5 sisters and one brother, I watched my father abuse my mother. He hurt her in many ways, with rapes and licks to the face. My father left home, I woke up and he was gone. My mother moved with a friend, the nightmare didn’t end. We moved with a drunk person, she watched and stared when we were hurting. She locked us out and threatened us bad, left us hurt and sad. At 14 I moved away, I been re-stored and now I have faith. I love myself with peace and good health, I’m now sixteen and my heart is free. I stand strong and believe, God says peace be still, believe in him and you are healed.
Elisha
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Blue Dandelions Susan Dennis
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Consciousness Susan Dennis
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Earthborn
In violent Beauty Earth was Born. The Child of Universal Skies, Born unto Starlight and Galaxies reaching beyond imagination— A Planet blue-green coming forth from dreams of Abyss— Given its own Star to shed warmth and light. Depths of Oceans were Created— Sea Animals cried and reveled in freedom and fear, As land Animals cautiously hunted and bred Among verdant Forests, humid Jungles, and jagged Mountains towering in blue. Seas always rolling in emeralds and aquas, Frothy Waves curling and crashing onto Shores Of Timeless Sands
Bettie Cox
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Thus Earth was born by the Hand of God— Designed to exist Then, Now, Forever, And beyond
Bettie Cox
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Written Across Canvas
An artist’s palette drenched in colors untold swirling and dancing to the rhythm of its soul Delving into fathoms yet unknown drowning in purples aquas and golds Bursting in splashes of reds and siennas while dreaming in colors yet unknown So many hues soon to unfold as stroke by stroke the artist’s heart is told As it is written across canvas . . . an enigma that can only be his own
Bettie Cox
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Sandra Pugh
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The Light, That Evening
traced like a beveled blade the outlines of homebound fishers, the weathered pier,
slatted backs of Adirondack chairs on the west-facing lawn, and inside too, chiseled the rims of goblets, the wicks
not yet lit and even our profiles turned toward the window, as one of us
remembered a song he stole from a motel Gideon east of Omaha.
And even after we fell silent it held so firm, its line so true that we’d left the table
and drifted in twos and threes back to town before it trembled, tipped,
and gave itself up to the moon.
Mary Kaiser
27
28
Love Comes Unexpected For Liesl
Love comes unexpected it isn't something that exactly falls in our laps but we always hoped for it anyway letting life lead the march of its own parade we tried our best not to rush the procession But somehow it eluded us standing with arms crossed as others got swept away holding our breath until blues became the only lullabye we could ever sing And still we longed for all of it Tossing it aside as a pleasure reserved for the precious few because human beings often occupy the same circumstance forcing desires upon each other clinging to the notion that acting now is better than missing the ship letting the tick of time strong arm a surrender of all that was ever yearned for in exchange for what can be accessed
J.T. Bullock
29
Liesl, you and I wanted none of this would rather sit on balconies with arms empty of anything except for promise strong willed in our belief that alone is the lot we must live until love finally settles in So tell me what was it like when it actually happened Did it resemble an onslaught a car crash from nowhere broken spider web glass and smoke stacks so thick it struck you blind did clouds burst like piñatas spilling brightly colored confetti to cover the dust was it like becoming famous your first big break a sleeper hit turned box office smash a meteoric rise so swift that everything in its wake was pure vanity Please forgive me I know I ask a lot of questions it's just that I've searched the entire span of this earth for evidence but if love found you, my friend then I believe it truly exists
J.T. Bullock
30
Signed by Author
She inscribes her book of poetry with hope the words will speak to me. They do. Inner thoughts of aging anatomy that resists sanguine restoration: temple tempore. Subtext cries loneliness, surrogates replenish ephemeral affections: cat, dog. Optimistic phrases transform ordinary objects into idyllic icons: skillet, chair. Thoughts run deeper than mused woods with unblazed pathways and return to expose a psyche beyond her words so artfully crafted; boldly signed.
Bob Whetstone
31
A Short Poem
This poem is very brief, rich with imagery, subtlety. Imagine that!
Sandra Pugh
Bob Whetstone
32
There Is a New Smell in the Air There is a new smell in the air Something so fine and rare Irresistibly it pulls me in All I can do is grin My stomach fills with a million butterflies I find myself lost in your eyes You gently place your hand on my cheek My body goes weak Why do I feel this way? Should I run away? As I start to turn The wind catches my ear Gently it whispers “I love you” Is that my cue? The wind awaits my answer What am I waiting for? “I love you” slips my lips And you softly place your hands on my hips You lean in and your lips smoothly touch mine I knew it was time The love was in the air And it brought us here The east and the west have met And they are in love
Stephanie Menendez
33
I Feel as if I am Two People I feel as if I am two people In front of everyone I am one But when I am alone I am another I fake a smile in front of the world But really die when its only me Rain constantly falls inside when on the outside only sun shines I want to be me without the glares and judging But I know I cant so I stay in hibernation I cry myself to sleep every night No one knows the true pain I feel I want to run so far away from here But my other keeps pulling me back Everyone sees a perfect life full of happiness and greatness But no one ever cares to ask for the real me So I stay behind this mask Everyday enter this masquerade ball Where I win the prize for best costume When the sun sets I begin to come out I put away my costume Hide behind a notebook and pen Rain escapes my body and I begin to drift away Yet to wake to another day I stand up and once again put on my costume I become my other me I step into the world that is set for me Put on my smile and walk through yet another day
Stephanie Menendez
34
Ember
A fading ember in the background, Hiding behind the trees.
Wind is brushing against my face And dancing with the trees. Storm clouds are gathering
But all I feel is peace.
Your Love is all around. Silently, You comfort me.
I can feel Your warmth near me. .
Inside, the embers are igniting And I’m finally seeing what you see.
Please, Stay with me.
Outside, the sky is growing darker But I know the stars will come.
Wind chimes are singing, Their voices resonating through the night.
Resonate in me,
Spread through my veins, I give my self away.
Robbie Mentes
35
Ashes A fire is burning deep within her mind. Slowly consuming her entire life. Memories are turning into ash, Leaving her with nothing left to grasp. She doesn't know me anymore. But I remember the way she was before. All of the love and laughter, Will she ever receive her Happily Ever After?
Forgotten Scent
I breathe in a forgotten scent. Close my eyes and you arrive. My world slows as I surrender. Memories of me and you, Why did you have to go? I'm breathing deeper As you begin to fade. My eyes are moist, For all I have are memories and forgotten scents.
Robbie Mentes
36
Three Untitled Poems About Love
#1 There’s just something about your eyes, And the truth in the skies, Arm around my hips, The touch of your lips . . . The smell of your hair, The chill of your stare, Dusk into dawn, And I just can’t move on. #2 A bug scampers across the floor, I hear a knock upon the door, A leaf will fall, an eagle will soar, And I have always loved you more.
Bethany Mitchell
Nicole Whitfield
37
#3
It’s not that I live once, But that I live a thousand times.
Life is nothing But analogies and rhymes.
And what pains once Will pain again.
Once . . . Twice . . . Three times the friend.
And not that I cry once, but that I cry once more. Not from my eyes,
But straight from my core. The wonderful knowledge,
It shakes me still. I feel it within, I follow at will.
And not just that once, But a thousand times.
I just can’t learn From the poem’s last lines.
And I go back, Regress, if you will.
And I get hurt, But I regress still.
I’ll have a laugh now, And then I do another.
But no one sees how I smother. I’ll live once,
And a thousand times, And tell my story
Through redundant rhymes.
Nicole Whitfield
38
The Garden
Deep down by the rivers that flow there is tall grass where flowers grow, The valley high and the mountain low overlook the greenest pastures that reside down below, the weather always just right to sustain, No caretakers needed Mother Nature will maintain, The deepest roots with the freshest fruits, From green leaves to fig trees the atmosphere is always inviting to the perfect mixture of sunshine and rain. The Garden’s beauty can be seen from vine to vine, The divine presence that the garden commands causes all people to drop down in amazement. The Lilly, Roses, and Tulips are all in anticipation of their time.
Danny Brister
39
The Cross Bearer
The betrayal by a kiss on his cheek so sweet, a weight that he carried so we wouldn’t repeat. An act of kindness and love so true, a sacrifice that was made just for you,
The price he paid for your life so dear is the same thing that draws him near. A brother, a friend, a lover and a savior so true,
Who else would have done what he has done for you? He bled, He suffered, and He was beat till his skin turned blue,
To take your sins so would be made new. Your life was changed from that very day,
To be a new creation and not have to live life the same way. The request in return for that debt is small; all he asks is that you repent and stand tall,
Live life with joy, peace’ and faith. To know that you already have been given what it takes.
Run the race strong and run it with care, Know that no matter what you through he’s always there.
These things that he asked compare no to what he went through. He did this out of love for me and for you.
Danny Brister
40
The Silence of Peace
Blue spray flies
as the waves rock
back and forth, back and forth.
The white gull soars
as the wind howls
all around, all around.
Across the tranquil sea
are faint whispers of peace.
The war is over. It is over.
Bethany Mitchell
41
The Passing of a Great Man
I knew a great man once Who made me into a man He had a plethora of friends But I was his number one fan And though he passed at sixty I knew him only twenty-five years He got to live a wonderful life But his funeral will only bring tears One of the wisest people I've known Something many others could also say He taught me everything I know And I will think about him everyday If I could talk to him again Although it would make me sad I would only have one thing to say And that is.......... I Love You Dad
Drew Watson
42
The Fatal Mistake A figure approaches, cloaked and black, With skeletal features and eyes ready to exact, His gestures are vague and lack emotion. A sinister calling is his grim devotion. Instead of running, I stay there curious. The closer he gets, his eyes appear more furious. A stench of rotten flesh plagues the air, As he moves forward the ground turns bare. Alone we are, no others around, If I were to scream, no one would hear the sound. He stops moving about three paces away, Lifts his head, a sight I will remember every day. He talks in a language I don't understand, So he beckons me closer, with his skeletal hand. Obviously not a costume, so could it be, The Reaper himself here to take me? My life flashes before my eyes, As I begin to fear my coming demise. I trip as I begin to move in, With his scythe he catches me, my life is over. Fin. .
Drew Watson
43
The Poet Poetic in nature, most creatures cannot be, With one exception, which happens to be me. Instinctively inspired to carve a rhyme, Timelessly translucent they expose me for all time. No hunting for a topic, as they come with ease, However all are the same, designed to please. Cultivating mental creations and incarnations, Luring you away from your dreaded work stations. Words are our world, the creation of all, Mine are merely a cushion, for when you fall. Magical transactions from me to you, As catchy as the wide-spread swine flu.
Drew Watson
44
I’M DOING IT FOR ME
IT HAD BEEN SO LONG, SINCE I HAD ATTENDED SCHOOL I HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN, THE OLD GOLDEN RULE
READING, WRITING, AND ARITHMETIC ALL LEARNT BY THE HICKORY STICK
WELL THAT SURE DIDN’T SOUND, LIKE MUCH FUN TO ME SO AT THE DOOR OF THE SCHOOL, I STARTED TO FLEE
YOU KNOW I HAD MADE IT, THROUGH LIFE THESE 40 SOME ODD YEARS AND HAD MADE A PRETTY GOOD LIVING, THROUGH BLOOD, SWEAT AND
TEARS SO WHY SHOULD I GO BACK, AND RACK MY LITTLE BRAIN WHY I HAD ENOUGH SENSE, TO GET IN OUT OF THE RAIN TWO NIGHTS EACH WEEK, FOR WHO KNOWS HOW LONG
AND THEN TAKE A TEST, THAT WAS NOT AS EASY AS SINGING A SONG WHY PUT MYSELF THROUGH, THIS PAIN AND AGONY
THE REASON BECAUSE, ITS NOT FOR YOU, I’M DOING IT FOR ME HEY IT WAS FOR ME, I KNEW THAT GUY
HE WAS THE FIRST ONE IN THE MORNING, THAT I LOOKED IN THE EYE HE WAS THE VERY ONE, THAT I CHERISHED AND FED
I EVEN SLEPT WITH HIM EACH NIGHT, AS I LAID IN MY BED I PETTED AND PAMPERED HIM, EACH TIME HE WAS SICK OF ALL MY GOOD FRIENDS, HE WAS ALWAYS MY PICK
I KNEW WHEN HE HURT, AND I KNEW WHEN HE WAS SAD I KNEW ABOUT THE GOOD TIMES, AND THE THINGS THAT MADE HIM GLAD
I KNEW THINGS ABOUT HIM, THAT NO ONE WOULD EVER KNOW IF HE WAS THIS IMPORTANT, THEN I REALLY SHOULD MAKE HIM GO SEE I HAD THE POWER TO GUIDE HIM, IN ALL THE RIGHT DIRECTIONS
TO HELP HIM MAKE HIS GOALS, AND TO REACH FOR GREATER PERFECTION SO THIS NEXT STEP IN LIFE, OF RECEIVING MY GED NO IT’S NOT FOR YOU HONEY, I’M DOING IT FOR ME
John Hagadorn
45
Lorie Schumann
46
The End of the World Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four,
Klinton Helms
47
Three, Two . . . I was having too much fun. I never heard “one.”
Klinton Helms
48
True Value
Lookee, lookee, at what I’ve found What I’ve found on a bookstore’s ground: A first edition In great condition. For just a buck Or is it four? I hope my luck Will bring me more. Lookee, lookee, at what I’ve got What I’ve got in a parking lot: A first edition In good condition. I read it once And once again. Would you consider That a sin? Lookee, lookee, at what I’ve read, What I’ve read upon my bed: A first edition In used condition. A weathered book Covered with earth Has finally Proven its worth.
Klinton Helms
49
Lorie Schumann
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Fictions
51
52
Holy Possum
“Get up boys, time to get ready for church,” Maw hol-
lered. Maw started every Sunday morning the same way, rousting
all six of her children out of bed and into the kitchen for breakfast.
“Jim, Jim, where are you? Has anybody seen Jim?” Maw asked as
she stomped out on the porch looking for Paw. “Jim Johnson, I
know you can hear me! It’s time for church.” But Paw didn’t an-
swer. Maw stormed back inside mumbling something about a hea-
then.
All of us kids were at the table munching down on a good
Sunday morning breakfast. Cathead biscuits, salt pork, grits, eggs,
and blackberry jelly. Maw really knew how to cook and we weren’t
late for the table very often.
Meanwhile, Paw had slipped out the back while Maw was
cooking. He heard Maw calling him, but kept on paddling, because
he was going fishing; Paw loved to fish on Sunday morning. He
always said that most everybody else was at church and he had the
whole river to himself. Besides, he really didn’t like listening to
Reverend Jones. He said that Reverend Jones went on and on so
long that it would put a soul to sleep, except that Reverend Jones’
whiney voice was so irritating that you couldn’t sleep.
Tom Edwards
53
Paw talked to the Lord in his own way and I know this to
be a fact, because every time he caught a fish, he would say,
“Thank you Lord,” and put it on the stringer.
Back at the house, Maw had fed us all and was making
sure that we were all dressed properly. With this done, she lined us
all up and made any last minute adjustments if necessary. Then she
would look at us and throw her hands up in the air and shout,
“Thank you Lord Jesus for these fine children and look after my
heathen husband, wherever he is. Amen.”
We all knew to start walking as soon as she said Amen, so
we headed off down the dirt road toward Chissom Creek Baptist
Church. It was about a two mile walk and we made it every Sunday,
unless it was lightening. Maw didn’t like lightening. She said it was
the Lord’s sword striking down evil spirits and that we didn’t need
to be out on the battlefield, less we might be mistakenly struck
down. She said that the Lord was getting pretty old and she didn’t
know how good his eyesight was anymore.
We arrived about thirty minutes early as always and we
were in fairly good shape. Little Bob had jumped in a mud hole and
had mud all over him, but it really didn’t matter because I don’t
think anyone at church had ever seen Bob without mud on him
somewhere. John had a knot on his head, where Will had hit him
Tom Edwards
54
with a rock and Will had whelps on his legs, where Maw had
switched him. All in all, it was one of our more successful walks to
church.
We walked into the churchyard and Maw was speaking to
everyone about anything new that had happened in the community
that week. The older men were gathered up on the far end of the
yard exchanging cuts off of assorted plugs of tobacco. That’s where
I headed, hoping that Mr. Watson would give me a cut of his
Brown’s Mule without Maw finding out.
Reverend Jones walked up to Maw and said, “Good
morning Mrs. Johnson and how are you on this fine morning?”
“Very well Reverend Jones, I’m just proud that the Lord
has given us another day.”
“That’s the spirit Sister!” Reverend Jones smiled, “And
where is Mr. Johnson today?”
Maw’s face drew on a concerned look, “Reverend, I don’t
know what I am going to do with Jim. He slipped out of the house
this morning while I was cooking breakfast. He’s probably down on
the river fishing.”
“Maybe I should go and talk with him next week,” Rever-
end Jones offered.
“Oh, no,” said Maw, “The last time you talked to him, he
Tom Edwards
55
started slipping out on Saturday and didn’t come home until Mon-
day. At least now he’s home on Saturday.”
Reverend Jones frowned a little and said, “Everyone
come inside now, it’s time for the service to get started.”
The women and children started in first, as the old men
lingered while they spit their tobacco out and wiped their faces as
best they could. Maw guided us to our regular pew and lined us all
up before we could sit down. She always wanted the three youngest
on her right because she was right handed and could twist an ear if
necessary. The three oldest were on her left and we knew that if we
cut up, we would get cut down later.
Reverend Jones made the usual announcements and
started on the prayer list. When he got to the end of the list he said,
“And we need to say a special prayer for Jim Johnson. That he
might see the light and come to church on Sunday morning.”
John spoke up and said, “We can’t even see the church
from our house preacher, much less a light in the window.”
All the men and children busted out laughing and the
women cut their eyes at John and frowned, while Maw was putting
a twist on John’s ear to silence him. Reverend Jones interrupted,
“Let’s have reverence in the Lord’s House. That’s not the kind of
light I was talking about.” The laughter stopped and everyone’s
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56
attention was on the preacher.
It kind of caught him off guard and he had to explain
himself. “It’s the light from the Lord.” We were all thinking about
lightening and sat there with bewildered looks on our faces as Rev-
erend Jones continued. “The light of the Lord, you know, from
heaven.” He paused with a shortage of words. “Brother Mims,
would you come up and lead us in a song.”
Brother Mims was a happy, cheerful man in his fifties that
everyone liked. He hopped up and grabbed a hymnal and we were
off and singing. We all loved to sing and it made Maw proud to see
us all join in. We were probably the loudest pew in the whole
church.
Brother Mims led us in three songs and then he said,
“Lets sing Heavenly Sunlight,” which was my favorite and he knew
it. He asked me to come up and help with the song and I did. That
song set the tone for Reverend Jones. The whole congregation was
ready to worship the Lord.
Reverend Jones started preaching and he was really let-
ting the hammer down. Over half of the congregation had their feet
pulled back under the pews because he was stepping on some toes.
Mrs. Davis was feeling guilty because she had been gos-
siping and vowed never to gossip again: which lasted until church
Tom Edwards
57
services were over and she found someone to talk to. John Moore
felt ashamed because he had been looking at Chet Walker’s wife.
The list went on and on as Reverend Jones was on one of his Tell it
all brother sermons.
Allan Morris jumped up and confessed, “Lord, forgive
me. I haven’t been as good of a husband as I should have.”
“Tell it all brother!” Reverend Jones responded with
much enthusiasm.
“Lord, forgive me. I received more change than I should
have at the grocery store and I kept it.”
“Tell it all brother!”
“Lord, forgive me. I stole one of Bob Rush’s goats and
sold it back to him yesterday.”
The whole congregation stood up and looked at Allan as
Reverend Jones broke the silence saying, “I don’t believe that I
would have told that brother,” with a very concerned look on his
face.
Meanwhile, Bob Rush had started out of his pew with a
message for Allan, who wasn’t hanging around to receive it. He ran
out of the front doors of the church with Bob right on his heels.
Reverend Jones finally controlled the situation, as Allan and Bob
were conducting their business outside, he continued his sermon.
Tom Edwards
58
Well, Reverend Jones went on and on and on. I was start-
ing to get hungry and little Bob was fidgeting around like he had
ants in his pants. I liked coming to church and the singing. I even
liked the first forty-five minutes of the preacher’s sermon, but the
other hour was hard to take.
Mrs. Wilson was sweating and had her hand fan going
wide open when something wet touched her leg. She looked down
and there was a possum, baring his big teeth and slobbering on her
leg. She jumped up on the pew with a loud “Lord, help me!” Then
other people started standing up and shouting, “Yes, Lord help
her!”
There was a whole lot of repenting going on and that
possum had started it all. About that time, that possum ran across
the aisle and I saw him. I guess it had been hiding under one of the
pews and had took all he could take of Reverend Jones’ sermon and
was trying to get out of church before he went crazy.
I jumped up and headed up the aisle to catch the possum
and Reverend Jones shouted, “Come on my son.” I was headed up
that aisle pretty fast and took a hard right as Reverend Jones was
coming down to meet me.
I caught up with the possum at the edge of the first pew,
which I really don’t know why we needed it, because nobody ever
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59
sat there. As I grabbed the possum by the tail and snatched him up,
Reverend Jones was coming to meet me with open arms. When I
turned around with that possum bearing those big teeth, Reverend
Jones fell out, flat of his back.
Mrs. Wilson, seeing what had happened to the preacher,
passed out cold and she was still standing on the pew. She fell like a
wet rag, right in George Lucas’ lap. When Mrs. Lucas, who had
been praising the Lord with her hands up in the air and her eyes
shut, opened her eyes and saw Mrs. Wilson in her husband’s lap,
well, it wasn’t a pretty sight. She picked up a hymnal and was beat-
ing poor George over the head with it.
It sure was a sight, women screaming and running out of
the church doors. Most of the men were laughing their heads off,
while some of them were screaming and headed out the doors with
the women. “It’s just an old possum,” I hollered, but that didn’t
seem to calm anyone down.
Well, I was standing there in church holding that possum
and I figured that I had better get him out of there, so I headed out
the front doors with him. As soon as I got out the doors, everyone
that had run outside screaming, took of running and screaming
again.
I stood there grinning like the possum that I was holding,
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60
at such a sight. All the boys gathered around me to get a good look
at the possum.
“Look there, that possum has got a notch in his ear,” one
of the boys said. I looked down and sure enough, there was a notch
in his right ear and I knew that notch.
I had been possum hunting with Paw many times and if
he caught one that he didn’t want to keep, he would notch his ear. A
lot of the old timers did that so they would know if they ever caught
that particular possum again. Well, that notch was Paw’s notch, but
I didn’t say anything. Paw was in enough trouble as it was.
Reverend Jones and Mrs. Wilson finally came to and
realized that it wasn’t a one of Satan’s demons, but just an old pos-
sum. Some of the congregation was straightening up the mess in the
church while I was about to release the scared possum at the edge of
the woods. Mr. Watson walked up to me right before I turned the
possum loose. “I sure would like to have that possum. I’ll trade you
a plug of Brown’s Mule for him.”
That was a deal that I couldn’t afford to turn down. So I
took the plug of tobacco and Mr. Watson headed home with his
possum. Meanwhile, Maw had rounded all her children up and we
headed home. All the way home, Maw kept saying over and over, “I
wonder how that possum got into the church. It just don’t make
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61
sense.”
When we got home, Paw was sitting on the porch and
Maw was so bent out of shape about that possum disrupting the
service that she didn’t even ask Paw where he had been. She went
on and on about the whole ordeal and Paw would say, “No, you
don’t say,” and try to look real serious, but I could see the twinkle
in his eyes.
Maw finally quit ranting about the possum and how Rev-
erend Jones had fell out cold and went into the house to start sup-
per. With Maw inside, Paw couldn’t hold it anymore. He just busted
out belly laughing so hard that I started laughing too.
Paw grinned and his eyes sparkled all evening long and I
knew what he had done. Paw had went down to the church on Sat-
urday night and put that possum in the church. I guess it all worked
out just as he had planned it, too.
I just couldn’t stand it anymore and asked, “Paw, how do
you think that possum got into the church?”
Paw rubbed his chin for a moment and said, “Well, a
possum is always looking for something,” then paused and said, “I
guess he was just looking for the Lord. He must have been a holy
possum.”
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62
We laughed and went inside for supper. This had been a
Sunday to remember.
***
The moral of this story is…
A creature as simple as a possum,
can sometimes arouse the soul of man.
***
Tom Edwards
63
64
Off a Cliff
They said, "Stop! You're running off a cliff!" Foolishly our
hero didn't listen, but luckily as he was falling our hero hit a
tree which saved him from an untimely demise. He was so
high up and so far away from his friends that he knew that he
was stranded and inevitably would have to wait there for an
extended period of time. And he did for two days, and our
hero finally decided to climb down himself.
Unfortunately, our hero became very lost in the
woods that surround the cliff. Then he remembered some-
thing as if it were a cartoon flashback:
"Look at this," said his dad.
And our young hero replied, "What is it?"
"It's a compass; the needle always points north, and
if you happen to run off a cliff, get lost and start having car-
toon flashbacks you can use it to get home," his father re-
plied.
So he looked in his pocket for a compass, but didn't
find one. So he became very frustrated, and thought about
ways to navigate his way out of this wooded area. Then he
Michael Waldrop
65
thought to himself, "I know. I'll use a G.P.S.!" He remem-
bered what his uncle always said, "real men don't use G.P.S."
Then he exclaimed, "Forget that, I'm going home!" So he
sprinted toward the tree which he had spent two days at ear-
lier, but as he was about to get close enough to touch the
tree, he remembered that his backpack flew off his back
while he was falling. Then he said to himself, "This is impos-
sible. I'll never get out." However, he remembered his spe-
cial powers, which he used to open a portal to another di-
mension and transported himself to the top of the cliff. Then
he thought to himself, "Why didn't I do that when I was stuck
in the tree two days ago?" Then a mysterious voice ex-
claimed in a humorous manner "'cause you're stupid."
After transporting himself to the top of the cliff, our
hero noticed his friend's car was gone, and said to himself,
"What friends! You get lost for two days and they drive off."
So our hero walked homeward through the brush and sud-
denly bumped into a wall of glass. He looked out and saw a
seemingly infinite desert of red sand, and he realized he was
on mars! Yes, he was in fact on mars because the woods he
Michael Waldrop
66
had been lost in had been incased in a glass dome by aliens
in order to study the life forms inside. Then our hero thought
to himself, "How am I going to get home, what do the Mar-
tians want to do?"
He quickly hatched a plan to defeat the Martians.
He picked up the first sharp things he could find, a stick and
a rock, which he would use to defeat the Martians. But then
he thought to himself, "Why am I doing this?" Then a myste-
rious voice exclaimed in a humorous manner, "Because
you're stupid!" The mysterious voice continued, "The Mar-
tians don't want to conquer the world just yet, they just want
to probe you."
"No not a probe!" our hero shouted. He was think-
ing, "How am I going to get home, what are the Martians
going to do, and who is this mysterious voice that calls me
stupid in such a humorous manner?" Then he remembered
his special powers and opened up an interdimensional portal
that took him home. Then he thought to himself, "Why didn't
I do that earlier?"
Then a mysterious voice exclaimed in a humorous
Michael Waldrop
67
manner, "Because you're stupid!"
Then our hero said to the mysterious voice, "Who
are you, and why do you keep calling me stupid in such a
humorous manner?"
"Who says you have to know?" said the voice.
Then our hero said, "I say I have to know." Then
they paused for a while. Then our hero said, "Seriously why
are doing this?"
Then the voice said, "Because the writer told me
to." Then they paused for a while. Following this extensive
pause, our hero heard a mysterious whistle followed by the
voice saying, "Well, that's the end of my shift, see ya." Then
he heard footsteps and a mysterious door close. Then he just
stood there for a few seconds due to his utter confusion.
Then he said "I'm hungry I think I'll go to McDonald's."
Michael Waldrop
68
Red, I stop
I drive through the Birmingham city limits edging
closer to full speed. The rocks left from fresh cement shake
my car. The city skyline is beautiful on a night like this--
cloudless, full of stars. The buildings reflect the light from
the moon with grace.
Each turn I hit glues me to my seat with a firm pull.
Valet parking restaurants and haute nightclubs are left in the
dust. Blood drips down from my windshield. I blink once.
The blood is rain, not blood at all. Biting my nails, I look to
the rearview mirror. The cops are still not tailing me. I wish
they were.
Traffic lights blaze overhead.
Green: I press my foot down.
Green again: I press harder.
Red: I stop.
Thomas Shaw
69
A stretch of sidewalk lines the entrances to jewelry
shops and gun stores on both sides of the street. The street
signs read Richard Arrington Boulevard. A boy skips past
my car to my left lit by a moonlit spotlight. His polo of blue
and white stripes seems so familiar. His short brown hair
stirs memories. He stops, turns to make eye contact with me.
The boy looks like my son. It’s him! I panic. It can’t be. I
roll down the window.
“Michael, go home!” He runs away. I blink once. The
boy is now wearing a little league baseball outfit—his hair is
blonde. I roll up the window.
Green: I go.
The strip approaches. I know it well. My eyes veer to
the left. D’Angelo’s Bar and Grill. Somerset Clothes and
Accessories. A pizza joint has opened. There is no time for
food. I try to squeeze in some sightseeing to my right. Mi-
chael is in the passenger seat.
“Why am I dead?”
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70
“Dead? Why are you in my car, Michael.”
“Why are you driving so fast?”
“I don’t have to answer you, I am your father.”
“That’s fine. Don’t worry; the cops are just a mile
away,” I blink once. He is now in my lap. I cannot see the
road. I look into his eyes. Hollow. Empty.
“Get off me!” It does me no good. Memories stir.
“Are you asleep, Michael? I walk into his room. My
vision blurs. Every time it comes into focus I see the assorted
stuffed animals on his bed. A cookie monster lamp rests on
his nightstand. A bookcase sits parallel to dresser draws
against the light blue wall.
“Almost, Daddy.” He tucks himself under his Sesame
Street covers. He is wearing a blue and white striped polo
and blue pajama bottoms.
“Anything the matter?”
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71
“Read me a story.”
“Any story?”
“Any story.” I grab the first book I see from the book-
case. Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. Mi-
chael is busy situating himself. I place the dagger I slide
from my pocket in between the pages…
“Stop it!” I punch through empty air. There is no one.
My car continues to take me deeper into the city. Lights be-
come dimmer. Active establishments become rare. Buildings
sport broken windows. The doorways are cracked in. Look-
ing to my rearview mirrors, I see the lights.
Red: I stop?
White: Oh, no.
Blue: Shit.
Thomas Shaw
72
Thomas Shaw
They have found me. One patrol car leads the pack with two
friends trailing behind. I cannot go any faster. My surround-
ings are unfamiliar. Trees are the main attraction. I give it
two months till they are pushed aside for corporate America.
I see no traffic lights. There is a sign on my right. Interstate
exit. I take it.
There is no one on the road. My gas is on empty. I am
fast. The cops are faster. The lead cop bumps my tail. I
stomp my pedal but gain no ground. I can only do one thing.
I hit the brakes. Time stops. The first car crashes into my car
going vertical. The second car slams into the first’s front
wheels leading the third to veer off and slam into the guard-
rails setting its exterior ablaze. My windshield opens for me
like a gate inviting me to a new world. I am flying. Heaven
waits. I blink once. My son is flying with me.
“Do you have any confessions to make?”
“No.”
73
“He won’t let you in.”
“Why not?”
“First, you murdered your own son—“
“I don’t even care anymore. You were sick. We couldn’t
afford to take care of you.”
“Watch out for oncoming traffic.”
‘What?”
I am not dead. I crash into the pavement. I stand up. My
knees are bleeding through my jeans. Skin is missing from
parts of my arms. I am alive nonetheless. The next exit is just
ahead. I check the sign.
Exit 17: Turn around, asshole.
Thomas Shaw
74
I turn around. A cop survived. Blood drips from his nose
and uniform. His hair is a little disheveled. He is alive none-
theless. A trigger is pulled. The nightmare stops.
Thomas Shaw
75
76
Jill Deaver
What the Water Gave Me
It is early when we board the plane to Philadelphia.
Janet is afraid to fly, she says that she knows too much about
plane crashes. I do not pretend to know what she means, and
I do not ask her. I do not see how it is possible for her to
know about plane crashes, but perhaps she has done some
research. The way I see it, the worst thing about a plane
crash is surviving it. I am not afraid to fly. We place our
bags under the seat in front of us. We settle in. I decide to
try to make something artful out of an itinerary.
May 4, 2008
8:05 AM- We are buckled in and ready to take off.
8:30 AM- We are in the air. Janet is trying to relax. She is
listening to music on her iPod. Her lips are pursed and her
head is nodding to a rhythm I can’t hear. I imagine this is
what she looked like as a teenager. She takes deep breaths
and looks out the window.
8:40 AM- We lift off the ground and I glance over at Janet.
She sees me and she forces a smile. She’s afraid, but likes
77
the window seat—I’m not afraid, and hate the window seat.
8:47 AM- There is some turbulence now. Some people gasp.
I write, “but I’m OK being in the air and I think I should
write this down because now I might die.”
8:50 AM- I stop reading my book because I realize it is just
for show. There’s no way to concentrate on a plane with a
book. It’s better to sit and watch as people adjust their air
vents, or try to find cosmetic cases in their overhead luggage.
On a plane someone going to the bathroom is a study in hu-
man behavior. I like to make direct eye contact when people
pass by. Especially when I know the bathroom is already
occupied.
8:55 AM- Drinks are served. Jill= Ginger ale; Janet= noth-
ing. She tells me that she wants to consume less. She says,
“I need to simplify my life.” I do not understand what she
means. What is more simple than six ounces of ginger ale? I
hold the plastic cup in my hand; I feel the sharp edge of the
rim; I brace myself to cough from the effervescence, and I
am forced to question my own desire for airplane hospitality.
Am I another monkey eating peanuts?
Jill Deaver
78
3:00 PM- I can’t keep up with this itinerary idea. I will make
up something up when I get home. Though, it might be im-
portant to mention that we have boarded our connecting
flight to Philadelphia. We are in Cincinnati; buckled in and
ready to go.
3:20 PM- One more thing, a woman has boarded with a
chocolate ice cream cone and I wonder what kind of person
can lick an ice cream so close to strangers. She struggles to
place her carry-on in the overhead compartment. Ice cream
melts down her wrist. After she heaves her bag in place, she
pauses to lick at the stream of dark brown cream. Her
tongue licks upward into the palm of her hand and sits down.
I think I can smell her sticky wrist. She sits next to me.
3:30 PM- I like to watch the heads of everyone in the plane
as we take off (and when we land too). They all bounce and
shake in unison. Everyone’s body shakes. Everyone is
quiet. Some people close theirs eyes. I always tighten my
seat belt and squeeze my hands together. If I could I would
reach down through the plane and claw our way to a stop.
Jill Deaver
79
When did I first separate myself from myself? When
did I become two?
I began taking pictures of myself in college—sprung from an
urge to calculate my unhappiness. My boyfriend did not
love me, my friends did not like me, and I did not know what
to do with myself. I spent a lot of time in my studio apart-
ment. Sometimes I would go out to a house party on Middle
Street, or to the local bar. Sometimes I would start to go but
was unable to leave the apartment. I would become afraid
that one would want me around. Sometimes I would go back
to my full length mirror, look at myself all dressed up, get out
my camera, take a picture and put a movie into the VCR.
The night would become me in a tiny, white-walled apart-
ment, watching a movie, drinking wine and playing with
sleeping pills. Sometimes I watched my reflection watching
a movie. Sometimes I would take a picture of it. Sometimes
I would cry at the most sentimental episodes on TV.
Here it is. I want to make sense of it. I take all
these pictures out of a box. I lay my self-portraits down in a
row in front of me: Me in Store Window, Me in Pink Sweater,
Jill Deaver
80
Me on the Floor, Me in the Park by the Lake, Me in Gas Sta-
tion Bathroom Mirror. I work to read the image but I cannot
make sense of that face. The eyes large; arms, skinny; hair,
brown. There is nothing I recognize, no exact feeling I can,
for certain, retell. It is a picture of me as I was then, which
must say something to who I am now.
Frida Kahlo surrounded herself with her own re-
flection. Here is a self, she might say, but that is not me. But
it is. It is one of many.
Janet and I touch down in Philadelphia and we call
Susan and Jennifer from the train. They had arrived earlier
that day. They give us walking directions to the hotel and
we meet them in the lobby. Jennifer greets us with arms up
and her adorable squeal; Susan, with her ever casual, ever
sing-songy, “he-ey.” We all hug. And I think that if I can
hug them for longer, I will keep myself from floating above
this scene, because I feel myself struggling to be in this
place, in this moment.
We are all uprooted. In a city to see an artist’s
Jill Deaver
81
work. The largest Frida Kahlo exhibit in the United States. I
have come for answers. My friends have come for their own
reasons.
We go in search of dinner. As we walk around I
feel myself pull inward almost instantly. A foreigner in this
city, and somehow a foreigner to my friends. Or they are to
me. It is wrong of me to feel this way. I invited them all
with me. While booking our plane and hotel on Janet’s com-
puter, we felt so grown up. We sat there, in our 30s, starting
at the screen, waiting for my credit card to be approved. We
marveled aloud: “We’re almost like adults!”
At dinner, I could not join them in their ooohs and
ahhhs over the wine and organic salad. Janet must feel re-
lieved to not be the only vegetarian. When I first thought of
the trip, I imagined one trip to the street vender, Tony Bour-
dain style, eating a Cheese Steak with Jennifer, the only
other meat eater. But I heard the news right before the trip,
she had become a vegetarian. I dislike converts, and so I am
always suspicious of new vegetarians. Like born-again
Christians, new vegetarians are over zealous, and protest too
Jill Deaver
82
much over their past sins of carnage. They make too-
dramatic faces and unnecessary protests to show their disgust
over bacon, pork carnitas, or a medium-rare filet mignon. I
imagine they have to do this to convince themselves that it
doesn’t taste good anymore. But Jennifer is not a zealot,
though does ask, “Is there any meat in it?” I reject their love
of the fresh, organic beets, the perfect vinaigrette, their desire
for the waiter to tell us everything about the wine we were
tasting. Susan adores our waiter. He tells us that if we want
more good wine, that we should visit his boyfriend who
works at a vintage wine bar. Feeling that I have a purpose, I
write in my journal: 15th and Spruce, ask for Josh. But now I
see that there are also two other names on this page: Bou-
mont and Antonio. The girls share their food. My mozza-
rella sandwich is full of crispy prosciutto. It is delicious, but
I cannot share.
I had anticipated seeing Kahlo’s work in person. I
wondered if I would be blown away, and awe struck. Would
it feel like I was experiencing something? I wanted it to.
My journal is dated April 5, though I know this must
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83
be wrong. I know this for two reasons. One, because we left
immediately after my semester at Montevallo ended, and two,
because I had been, since February, getting the dates wrong
on everything.
May 5, 2008
Janet and I are waiting in the lobby for Susan and
Jennifer. We have admitted that we miss our husbands.
When Susan and Jennifer are ready, we go sight
seeing as we walk toward the day’s destination—The Mutter
Museum. Walls of empty skulls and tiny inscriptions of oc-
cupations and causes of death; the cancerous breast with nip-
ple hair seemed to flower somehow as the edges, where it
had once attached itself to a body, ruffled cloud-like and
hovering, in the pale green solution. I must have stared at
the aborted and miscarried babies for half an hour before the
high-school field-trip interrupted me. The eight-month-old
fetus seemed to communicate cryptic warnings, or messages
of comfort, un-lived and preserved and floating—one eye
closed the other half-closed. I’ve been told that my eyes do
the same thing when I sleep. My husband took a picture of it
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84
once to show me. Ghostly, and dead.
May 6, 2008: Inside the Frida Kahlo Exhibit
I wanted to connect. Had I anticipated it being too
great? I felt detached. There were so many people at the
exhibit that the only thing that made me feel that I was actu-
ally there was the bright blue scarf I was wearing. I wanted
Frida Kahlo to answer questions for me, like why do I need
to see my own reflection. Why does it comfort me? What
does it answer for me? The museum was warm and I had on
too many clothes. But I could not take off my new scarf.
It’s what I had picked out to wear for when I saw Frida’s
work, in person, for the first time. The line was long and I
felt the need to occupy myself, I wanted somehow to get into
myself, trick myself into thinking that I was alone, and that it
was just going to be me and Frida when I went through the
entrance to the exhibit. I wrote in my journal: I can see that
she’s waiting for me, peeking out over the crowd. She says,
“We are the same. We like to document our sadness, but
we’ll never be satisfied with it.”
Jill Deaver
85
The line slowly inched forward and I think to my-
self how I’m going to refuse the head phones for the guided
tour. I didn’t need someone telling me about Frida’s life and
why she painted this or that. Wasn’t it obvious that every-
thing she painted was an attempt to figure herself out? But
as we got to that spot, I didn’t object. The woman handing
out the machines complimented me on my scarf, and how I
contrasted my colors. I said, “Thank You,” and “Oh,” as if I
had just realized it myself. But I put this outfit together on
purpose. Wide legged blue jeans, black heeled, mary-jane
shoes, a red-orange tank top (to match the land where Frida
grew up) and a turquoise blue scarf (like the house she lived
in) and a red purse (for something strong and unexpected).
During my acting so flattered, I was distracted and took the
headphones from the young woman, who was now compli-
menting my friend Jennifer’s earrings. I placed the head-
phones around my neck and I walked forward with everyone
else. I can see the first painting, and everyone is tall and I
worried that I wouldn’t be able to see anything. It reminded
me of when I was young and in the concession line at the
Jill Deaver
86
ball park, people—adults—would step around me. They
thought I was younger than I was. Eventually, I just had to
say that I was the next in line. They always backed up. Eve-
ryone crowded around Frida, Self-Portrait with Monkeys, the
one I saw peeking over the heads when I was farther back in
line. There were people all around me. I felt like I couldn’t
take my time. Why did I think that I would be alone in front
of this portrait? The braids in Frida’s hair look like monkey
hands. The monkeys look like they are protecting her.
There was a room full of photographs, and there
were so many people in that room.
Someone said, "She's much prettier than she makes
herself out to be."
Another woman, "She looks angry." Another
woman sighs.
People placed their delicate fingers over their
mouths. They attempted to get closer and closer to the wall.
Everyone was bumping into everyone else.
I had imagined what seeing her paintings would be
like—I expected more, I expected to be able to experience
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87
something. I wanted inside of it.
Before I left the exhibit, I took these notes: I stand
at this painting and look into the eyes of Frida Kahlo. My
eyes fall into her eyes. Eyes fall into eyes. My hair grows
long and dark and into a long pony tail, or bun tightly
cinched at the nape of my neck, her neck. My skin smells of
mole and masa flour. There is a celebration in my mem-
ory. Time Flies and the plane takes me with it. The clock
always stops here, and this dress is my dress. The paint
dries around me and I am still. I am looking out in the
room. People walk by and look at me, but they like the other,
more deconstructed, portraits better. Like the one about my
miscarriage, or my broken back, or my twin. I am here and
quiet. My skin turns to paint, and I become still and staring.
I look back at myself still drying, and I don’t believe that it’s
me. How am I supposed to understand myself if my own re-
flection doesn’t make sense?
* * *
We are on a plane again, this time we all fly out
together. Janet asks me if I know what I’m going to write
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about. I say that I have no idea. We become silent and I feel
guilty for wanting to be away from her. I have never felt so
tired. My feet are throbbing and my whole body wants to
give in and recoil into itself. If could, I would find a corner
and fold myself there and hide. The best that I can do is hide
my face in my hands. I lower the serving tray and rest my
head on my hands. It had been a long and terrible semester.
There was a death and conflict over a grade, and a need to
break away from scholarly writing, and a desire to piece my
whole life together somehow. Turn it in to something artful.
There was a choice to make. I need to either close both eyes,
or open them. I should quit or continue floating.
* * *
At home, I float in the bath. My feet, a mirror im-
age of themselves. Slowly memories surface in the water. A
dress, a gift, I received on my first birthday. Mom and Dad
holding my old brother, years before I was born. Mom never
smiles in pictures. My father lets me trace the lines in his
hand as we sit in church. I fall into the nicotine and oil
stained creases.
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I stretch my body out in the park three times: once
to watch the meteor shower, once to picnic at midnight, and
once to lie naked, then rise up from the cold wet grass,
bruised around the neck. My underwear had shown neon
white in the moonlight as I walked away from it.
Tightrope walking, studying trees and dead birds. I
am perceived as a failure for simply floating here.
I slip down, submerging myself. My ears fill with
water. I allow the pressures and sounds of all these memo-
ries and images to grow and fill my head. My eyes close and
are weighted by the importance of every little detail, every
crawling insect that ever crawled past, every childhood re-
alization, every dream that I never remembered right, every
drop of water I sucked into my lungs. Every thought of
death, and every actual death.
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This Is Life . . . “This is life in the 9th month. I feel more discomfort as comfort approaches. I picture myself angry but all I do is stand. My blood is boiling, but only because it’s been left on the stove. I’m drowning myself in intelligent thought, but it only makes sense to me. I have a big problem associ-ating people with their appearance. I’ve told myself I’m a good judge of character, on the same hand I’m unfair and judgmental. I’m constantly analyzing my environment and the people that occupy it. People are shallow but I guess it’s not their fault. They didn’t choose to be born into the shark pit that is southern upper middle class suburbia. Mothers in makeup who are more concerned about gossip than the crip-pling state of the economy. Fathers that work themselves tirelessly and draw their only happiness from boats and tree stands. Children that drink on the weekends because they’re bored. My angst has been born and it is slapped on the ass by a woman in an SUV that buys her daughter birth control. Wal mart is breeding ground for ignorance, but who can pass up those prices, right keep your eyes to the side and watch that mouth child, god is listening. I feel like the ghost of a man. Is this nature or the product of nurture? I’m only a maid and a blacksmith’s son.”
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And this is life, too . . . “If I have to push a grocery cart up the aisles of a store one more time, I think I will shatter into a thousand points of unhelpful light, glowing nowhere. Already my eyes tear up as I approach the vegetable and fruit aisle, smile firmly in place, I wonder if I will measure my life in the number of bananas I have left to eat before I die. I’m sure there’s a for-mula somewhere to predict it and price it—the banana, my apple in the garden of Eden that is suburbia. I don’t blame Walmart. I do blame SUVs. They just reflect what we are, ourselves. But I can see that a kid would blame me. When I was a kid, I would’ve, and I would’ve hated being called a ‘kid.’ But that was before I had this strange late, middle of life per-spective: Adults have very little control and power for all their blustering and big cars and furniture and fancy dress balls to raise money for diseases. Everyone gets dropped into the game like a foreign football, and figures their way around from there. I am an American football on a Chinese field, and it all seems strange to me. It isn’t like there’s a real plan, you know? I get the angst, though, I really do, especially knowing that it can’t be fixed by lower prices, lots of alcohol, or the moon shining in some guy’s eyes, or even a tiny, sparkly pair of ruby red slippers. I feel like a ghost, too, child of a lost mother and lost father of unspecific origination.”
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