"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1983

              HE
RAVELER
G.C.C. Creative Arts Magazine
EDITOR: Betty Whitaneis; ASSISTANT EDITOR: Christy Dunham; ART DIRECTOR: Kay N.
Yetter; COVER PHOTOGRAPHER: Marion L. Peddle; EDITORIAL STAFF: Karen Edelstein,
Larry Larson, Tawnybell Grover, Leigh Ann Hunt; GRAPHIC DESIGN STAFF: Brian Galvin,
Kerry Gross, Linda Johannpeter, Ken Legan, Sally Schmitt; STAFF PHOTOGRAPHER: Susan
Sheenan; ART AND PRODUCTION ADVISOR: Mirta Hamilton; LITERARY ADVISOR: Dr.
Robert Johannsen and Mildred Fischer; PHOTOGRAPHIC ADVISOR: Willis Peterson;
PRINTING: DE Cooper Printing
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROSE
Cynthia Yokam 3
Jack Baker 6
Alia My-Lynn Tung 14
Dolores Seats 18
Robert Hall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
Sharon Hallman 24, 25
Christy L. Dunham 27
Larry Larson 30
POETRY
Vida Aguilar. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 19
Nolan Anglum 5, 10, 13
Alice Burt 31, 32
Theresa (Akido) Collie 8
Christy L. Dunham 9, 16
Karen Edelstein 16, 26
Helen Ehrlich Back Cover
Sandra Ellis 10, 13
Tim Francis 13
Robert Hall 4
Sharon Hrebicek 1
Elizabeth Ann Jones 12
Larry Larson 11
Jackie Morris 21
Anna Reynosa 26
Becky Schlofner 4
Dolores Seats 11
ART
Anthony Banayat 32
Sally Cordova 8
Mary Dougherty 33
Betty Bowman 5
Brian Galvin 17
Georgia McCoy 17
Julie Pollard 17
Jennie Porter 29
Dorothy Ray 16, 20
Kim Russo 1
Joyce Thompson . . . . . .. 26
ILLUSTRATIONS
Mary Eckstein 3, 4
Brian Galvin 31
Kerry Gross 24
Linda Johannpeter 30
Ron Jones 16
Sally Schmitt 21
Deanna Smith 26
PHOTOGRAPHY
Karen Altender 11
Peggy Avina 13, 22, 23
Bob Gater 10
Justine Jennings 12, 19
Gina Lee 9, 11
Sandra Howard Mazur . 7, 14, 18
Marion Peddle 14,25
Jennie Porter 29
Brenda Stevens 13
Published annually by G.c.c. English and Art Departments,
6000 West Olive, Glendale, Arizona 85302
© 1983 The Traveler, Glendale Community College
I
c:!
..
FROM THE EDITOR
It is with pride and pleasure that
we, the staff, present the 1983 edition
of The Traveler, Glendale Communi­ty
College's creative arts magazine.
Our purpose is to demonstrate the
creative talent on campus in as broad
a spectrum as possible. To that end
we have included varying styles and
genres which represent students
from eighteen to "older", from
various nationalities, as well as from
the day and evening class sessions. In
this way we express our "community
spirit."
Maintaining our award winning
tradition took a lot of hard work and
dedication. Iwould like to compliment
the entire staff on their discipline and
perseverance. Particular apprecia­tion
goes to Chris Dunham and Kay
Yetter for their continuous support.
I also want to thank the many
faculty members for their assistance:
Mr. Brazie, Ms. Brophy, Ms. Schiedat,
Ms. Grandt, Mr. Hartley, Dr. Johann­sen,
Dr. Herlihy, Ms. Sheidat, and
Ms. Sweet for judging the literary
contributions; and Mr. Hillis for
judging the art and photography.
Special thanks to Dr. Johannsen, lit­erary
advisor; and Ms. Hamilton, art
advisor; and Mr. Peterson, photo­graphy
advisor; for their valuable
guidance.
I am proud to be associated with
The Traveler and hope you derive
much pleasure from reading it. I en­courage
any student, regardless of
his/her major, who has an interest in
the creative arts to consider con­tributing
to next year's magazine. We
will begin accepting submissions for
the 1984 edition next September.
.~. ~ y{-<-Z~
MEET OUR 1983
TRAVELER STAFF
Betty is a Registered Nurse and has
an A.A. degree from G.c.c. She is
presently completing courses that will
enable her to pursue a career in
technical or creative writing.
Illustration seems to be the primary
concern of Kerry Gross, especially
cartooning with some fine technical
work in airbrush. Enrolled in graphics
classes at G.c.c. he is serving as
both a staff illustrator on the College
Voice and a designer illustrator on the
Traveler.
Leigh Ann Hunt is also a staff member
of The Voice, G.c.c.'s campus news­paper.
She is gaining experience and
credits to apply towards a degree in
journalism. (no photo)
Traveler/2
Kay Yetter, a part-time student of
G.c.c. for the past three years, is
working for her A.A. degree, with the
primary focus being Graphics. She is
presently fulfilling her life's dream, by
starting her own Graphics business.
Kay has found working with The
Traveler to be an invaluable and re­warding
learning experience.
Larry Larson is familiar with the
creative process. He writes poetry as
well as prose and has had editorial
experience. He, too, is pursuing a
career in writing and/or publishing.
(nophOIO)
Christy L. Dunham is an escapist from
the work world who finally, after
notable Libran procrastination,
arrived at G.c.c., to explore and to
become a part of the world of
literature.
Tawnybelle Grover is an honors
graduate from G.c.c. She will be
attending A.S.U. to pursue a career in
creative writing. (nophOIO)
Interested in the field of illustration
Sally Schmitt has taken classes at
G.c.c. in drawing, water color and
graphic design. She's sharing her fine
art experiences in this year's Traveler
Magazine and preparing for a career
in commercial art.
Graduating from Glendale College
this year, Susan Sheenan, is transfer­ri~
g to the Arizona State University to
pursue a B.A. degree in Graphic
design. She has joined The Traveler
as a staff photographer which has
just recently become her new media
for graphic expression, but her
serious interest is to prepare for the
professional field in graphics and
typography.
Ken Legan is a second semester
student in Graphic Design with a
strong background in fine art. His ex­perience
in production has been not
only classroom oriented, but he has
worked professionally in serigraphy
and presently enjoys developing
posters and flyers for his member­ship
organization The MGM
Owners Association.
Linda Johannpeter has been attend­ing
G.c.c. gaining experience in fine
arts. She has worked in the graphic
design area for the past year and is
planning fo formalize her training in
graphics as her career field. She is a
participating member of the Valley
Artist League of Phoenix.
A staff artist on the school news­paper,
and an enthusiastic designer,
Brian Galvin, will be attending G.c.c.
for two more years. He is working on
a comprehensive commercial art
portfolio, and to achieve that he will
be building his learning experience on
both his classroom work and travel to
Europe.
-,----------------------------- --
He stands, majestic, pure, per­fectly
reflected in the pool. The
moon's silvery light creates an ethe­real
glow over the darkened woods
and greenery which grows to the
water's edge. As the light touches
his horn, it refracts into myriads of
colors, the blossoms of a rainbow.
Golden hooves impatiently paw the
ground as he dips his horn into the
water, purifying it for the multitudes
of animals awaiting in the growth.
Neighing lightly, the unicorn calls to
his mate. The mare, smaller than he,
quickly joins him, rubbing against
his side. The female is heavy with
their unborn, the product of their
everlasting love. Unicorns mate
for life.
The female unicorn nuz­zles
her mate, indicating
her time is near. .."
The female drinks deeply of the
silver waters as the male calls to the
waiting animals who wish to share
the communion of drink. From the
darkness of the forest emerge deer,
rabbits, ground squirrels, badgers,
ferrets, and field mice. The shrubs
yield foxes, wolves, chipmunks, and
porcupines. All walk together in
friendship to share a moment of
peace and love with Nature's most
precious of creatures. The unicorn,
of all the animals on earth, has no
enemies, takes no lives, and aids in
prolonging life. The elusive horned
beast, hidden from man's conscious
life, rarely appears even when man­kind
experiences a relaxation of
conscious thought.
Somewhere in man's past, his
ancient ancestral past, he knew the
unicorn. They were at one with the
God. Then man changed. Greed,
hate, and envy stole his peace of
mind and separated him from his
magical brother. Still, the unicorn
continues to niggle at the subcon­scious.
Wavy images remain, the
Repetition
Cynthia Yokam
lIIustrated by: Mary Eckstein
clear-cut picture distorted by
human attitudes and prejudices.
The animals sit, side by side,
conversing in the universal language
of the forest. The female unicorn
nuzzles her mate, indicating her time
is near, and slowly, meticulously
picks her way through the under­brush
to a predestined hollow. The
white male, drenched with moon­beams,
remains at the edge of the
pool and quietly awaits the birth of
perfection and beauty,God's
promise to them that all is not wrong
with the world.
A black cloud blankets the
moon and a loud, cacophonous
sound scatters the menagerie. The
unicorn remains stationary, a pris­tine,
white guardian, boldly aware of
the danger, yet determined to sacri­fice
his life defending the female.
Ears pricked forward, stance
fixed, the unicorn, without sound,
communicates peace to the female.
She was afraid, but is now calmed.
Her love, her life, will protect her
and their unborn progeny.
"Damn it, throw the net."
Rough voices pierce the night. Dark
shapes, ragged, unshaven faces, un­clipped,
stringy hair, and tensely
whispered words merge to describe
the hunters. Presuming himself to be
silent, but perceived awkward and
loud by the animals, Man approach­es
the peaceful pool. Minutes before
teeming with life, it is now divest of all
living creatures except one. The
unicorn does not move, does not at­tempt
to escape, does not want Man
to discover or take the promise of
"They always run in pairs.
Look for the female."
tomorrow, his child. He now stands
motionless, a gleaming, sleekly mus­cled
statue of emotions as Man
quickly and deliberately surrounds
the small pool and the unicorn.
Traveler/3
'They always run in pairs. Look
for the female." The coarsely growl­ed
words are bitten off as man advan­ces
and drops the net on the male,
imprisoning his resolute body. The
words are understood as the unicorn
begins to fight and pull away, des­perately
trying to distract his
captors. Nickering loudly, he tells
his mate to stay, to live, to bear and
raise their young. Lastly, he whin­nies
his love to her as he is dragged
struggling away.
"We'll come back for the fe­male,"
a hoarse, breathless voice
asserts as they move slowly from
the pool area.
Quiet descends and the female
nuzzles the fresh, newborn babes
as a tear silently courses down her
cheek. Two lives, a male and a fe­male,
so tiny, fragile and perfect,
depend on her. She must now de­pend
upon herself. Forest animals
gather and stare in wonder at the
beauty before them. Here was the
God's promise that all was not wrong
with the world.
Slowly the tiny heads lift, and
wobbly legs strengthen as mother
nuzzles them. The children stand
and begin to suckle. Mother stares
out toward the pool where she's last
seen her mate. Now, for the babies,
she's alive, but only until they can
survive alone. She has no wish to live
longer.
Adults now, the two babes had
been well taught by their mother.
The lone female disappears to phys­ically
die. Her life's spirit ceased to
exist that night when greed, hate,
and envy stole her mate from her.
Nature, however, is ever replen­ished.
The cycle is complete.
He stands, majestic, pure, per­fectly
reflected in the pool. The
moon's silvery light creates an
ethereal glow over the darkened
woods....•
Traveler/4
The Drunk, Sleeping Wino
First Place Poetry
no one relies
upon
a drunk, sleeping
wino
crusty with life's
excrement ~
next to plastic .
trashbags.
Robert Hall
LIFELINES
The vines of green hung from high tree terraces.
A cry of dinosaur, ready for the kill,
arises from earth to sky.
Stomping through the growth of time
we arrived at our destination.
The roaring rockets flew overhead as inhabitants
went their way.
Cars screeched to a halt as the small girl walked
out from the curb.
Streamlined Ships of the Stars explore
planets and populate them.
Tens of thousands of years later new ships go forward
An ancient dinosaur lets tears stream down on a
small girl and an old, worn out car.
Becky Schlofner
SUBWAY
,
Black sooted finger 1ines
Made against a bl~~k€med sky.
Subways passi'ng in gray days
Of childhood. Bricks of yesterday's
Red, blood, and clay.
Hardened clacks, wheels on tracks,
Riding jagged¥'on the cracks
Of broken dreams and broken backs.
Passing row upon row, floor on floor
Past festered, now just living sore,
A pain so old, it's pain no more.
A blight, disease of urban light, •
Diffused and clouded, not sunshine bright,
That makes gray days and grayer night.
Mutated, faded, outside moles
Retreating from the paste fji:d holes
That captured and then ~ilI~d their souls.
No ansWer to the human belt
A curse on man from man befell
To spend gray days in man made hell.
BlacK sooted finger lines
Made against a blackened ~ky
On subway windows passiY{g by.
Nolan Anglum
Traveler/5
She were killed last
grizz' while she were
berries down by the
OLD
MAN
MILLER
Jack Baker
First Place Fiction
The crude sign on the gate lead­ing
to the old Miller homestead had a
simple message: NO HUNT, NO
FISH, NO TRASPAS, and THIS
MEAN U! Running from the gate
down the hill to Bear Creek was a
trace of a road that was nothing
more than two brown ruts separated
by dead weeds. Mark had to put the
pickup in four-wheel drive to cross
the creek because the crossing was
washed out. The road leading up the
hill from the creek to the house was
in even worse shape; it was dissect­ed
by gullies up to two feet deep.
With the pickup still in four-wheel
drive, Mark never stopped on the hill
for fear of losing traction on the
muddy slope. He did slow down,
however, when we passed a skull sit­ting
on top of a post with a sign that
said, "Bad Dog."
"Maybe the neighbors are right!
Maybe old man Miller is as crazy as a
loon," said Mark pushing down har­der
on the gas pedal.
"Maybe so," I replied, "but I
think there's some kind of feud going
on between the Parkers and the
Millers. And Parker did admit that
he had only seen old man Miller three
times in the last thirty years."
"Yeah, I guess you're right.
That's not really enough to judge a
man."
With the truck bouncing up and
down and the engine groaning, we
finally got to the top of the hill and saw
Traveler/6
the Miller place for the first time. It
looked like all the houses in this re­mote
valley; it was just another
old gray house that needed paint­ing.
As Mark pulled up and stopped
the truck at the end of the flagstone
walk leading to the front porch, Isaw
a white-haired old man in bib overalls
and a blue denim shirt coming out of
the front door. I didn't see the shot­gun
until he sat down in his rocking
chair and placed the gun across his
lap.
"Well, that must be old man
Miller," I said.
Mark shut off the engine. ''I'd
like to· get Fraser out here for just
one day and watch him trying to tell
these hill people they can't live here
anymore."
Mark and I wore our pistols (in
violation of official state policy) for
the first time since we started ser­ving
condemnation notices. When I
stepped out of the truck, I heard the
old man's rocker creating a disso­nance
of moans, creaks, and other
strange sounds punctuated by regu­lar
intervals of silence. In spite of
the fact that we were trespassing on
his land, the old man didn't seem to
be upset; furthermore, he kept rock­ing
away as if he had visitors come
up the hill every day of the week.
I led the way, walking slowly up
the flagstone walk toward the porch.
Old man Miller had made direct eye
contact with me from the moment I
had stepped on the first flagstone. I
shifted my gaze back and forth be­tween
the shotgun and his face as I
approached. I noticed his leather
brown skin caused by a lifetime of
working out-of-doors; moreover, he
was taller and thinner than the men­tal
image I had constructed of him
after hearing his neighbors' descrip­tions.
His clothes seemed to be too
big, as if he had once weighed much
more. When I stopped on the last
flagstone at the foot of the steps, I
was on eye level with old man Miller,
who was only eight feet away. His
dark eyes stared straight into me; he
neither blinked nor looked away
occasionally as most people in the
city would do.
"Jason Miller?" I asked, looking
directly into those dark eyes once
agam.
"Who wants to know?" He stop­ped
rocking long enough to light his
pipe.
"Did you get the letter from the
state about the dam over on Rough
River?"
"Maybe, maybe not. I ain't felt
like walkin' out to the mailbox since
Bess pass away."
"Bess?" I looked at the condem­nation
papers. "Was she your wife?"
"01' Bess were my mule!" Old
man Miller slapped his knee and
let out a whoop of laughter that start­ed
a dog howling.
With the unearthly sound echo­ing
off the hills behind me, I felt
the hair on the back of my neck
standing up as a little shiver of fear
ran up my spine. Both Mark and I
looked around quickly since the
BAD DOG warning sign was still
fresh in our memories.
"Ain't no need to fret now,
boys," said the old man, his eyes
shining with amusement, "cause Big
Blue won't hurt you. He's chained
up out back."
"Whose skull is that down there
on top of that post?" asked Mark.
"Oh, that's Sarah." Old man
Miller's face radiated sadness now.
"Your wife?" I asked, double­checking.
"Yep!
spring by a
pickin' wild
crick."
Mark and I smiled at each other.
There hadn't been a grizzly in this
state for over one hundred years.
"Why did you put her skull on
top of a post?" asked Mark.
"Some varmint keeps diggin' up
her bones, so I decided to put Sarah
up there'cause she always liked that
view of the crick. I had to put her in
the shade of that big maple tree
though. Sarah never could stand too
much sun." Old man Miller rocked
away lost deep in thought about a
world that no longer existed. His
eyes stared straight ahead, not
seeing anything or anyone.
"Sir," I said finally, trying to
bring the old man back.to the reality
of the present, "if you will allow me
to explain, 1..."
"Ain't no one ever call me 'sir'
before!"
Mark pointed to the state insig­nia
on his uniform and the door of the
truck. "Mr. Miller, we're here on of­ficial
state business."
"Hmmmmmm!" was his only re­ply.
It was hard to tell whether old
man Miler was ready to listen now or
not.
"A huge dam is being built over
on Rough River. In five years the
lake will back up Bear Creek, flood­ing
your property," I said quickly
before he could interrupt me.
"And..."
"You mean to tell me you're
goin' to flood me out, an' there ain't
nothin' I can do 'bout it?" asked the
old man, rubbing the stubble on his
chin.
"But you'll be paid a thousand
dollars an acre for your property.
With your quarter section, that
comes to $160,000, so you'll never
have to work again."
"I ain't working now!"
"Mr. Miller," said Mark, "you're
a rich man now. You can buy a
house in town, put your money in the
bank, live off the interest, and never
worry about where your next meal is
coming from."
"I got a fine house now, Sonny,
and I ain't never missed eatin' even
one day of my life. No need for a man
to pay for store-bought food when
God provides rabbits, squirrels,
quail, deer, and trout. Money can't
buy all this," he said, pointing to the
trees and hills around the house.
"All of your neighbors are mov­ing
into Denton," said Mark. "With
all the new houses that are being
built there, I would expect the popu­lation
to grow to five hundred or
more before the end of the year."
"I ain't partial to livin' in such a
crowd. If Parker and all the rest want
to live like that, it ain't none of my
business."
"Do you live here all alone
now?" I asked.
"Nope, I still got my dawg!" Old
man Miller frowned. "This were a
bad year for me, that's for dang sure.
Lost both Bess and Sarah."
"That's another reason why it
might be best to take the money now
and move into town before the win­ter
comes," said Mark.
Old man Miller thought for a
moment. "Nope, it ain't right to up
and leave Sarah jus' like that. Be­sides,
I were born right here an' I plan
to die right here. I ain't movin' no­where
'til I see the water rising up in
the yard."
I noticed again how thin the old
man was. "How will you find enough
game to eat this winter? And won't
you run out of shotgun shells and
supplies before spring now that you
don't have a mule to ride into
Denton?"
"I ain't got no shells now," he
said, opening up the doublebarreled
shotgun to show us that it wasn't
loaded, "but I don't need a gun when
I got a dawg like Big Blue. Why he'll
go fetch me a rabbit or a quail any­time
I ask him."
"I never heard of a dog that
could catch quail," said Mark, smil­ing
and winking at me.
"Big Blue is a powerful runner,
Sonnyl He can run into a covey and
grab a Bob White before any of 'em
have a chance to up and flyaway.
Why sometimes he'll run through
them quail so fast he scares the day­lights
out of them, and then he'll
turn and run back through and grab
Photography by: Sandra Howard Mazur
the last one right out of the air. One
time I seen him catch two at once,
one in his mouth and one in his paws.
Yes sir, Big Blue is the best dang
huntin' dawg I ever did see. He can
jump clear over a tall man."
"Can your dog catch anything
else besides rabbits and quail?"
asked Mark, encouraging the old
man to str~tch the truth even fur­ther.
"Sure he can, Sonny! Big Blue
catches trout for me when there ain't
no ice over the crick. He's a power­ful
swimmer."
"Your dog can catch trout?" I
asked in amusement.
"Yep!" Old man Miller reflected
for a moment. "I guess he has the
mostest trouble with deer. Ain't no
trouble runnin' 'em down, but it
takes him awhile to tote 'em all the
way back here by hisself. He comes
back an' gets me to help when he
downs a big buck. I got enough deer
and bear meat up in the spring house
to last me two lifetimes, so I ain't wor­ried
none 'bout runnin' out of grub.
My onliest problem now is Big Blue.
He's been feelin' mighty poorly since
his run-in w;th that grizz' last spring.
But 1guess I'd feel under the weather
for quite a spell if I'd fought a grizz'
like he done."
"Was that the bear that killed
your wife?" I asked.
"Yep, same one! Sarah were
down pickin' berries by the crick
when she were attack. I hear her
screamin', screamin', so I grab my
deer rifle an' run out an' unchain Big
Blue. He ture off down the hill and
chase that bear clear across the
crick, but Big Blue were too late
'cause poor '01 Sarah were dead
when I got there.
"I seen Big Blue pesterin' and
nippin' at that grizz' 'til he clumb up
in that big oak. By the time I waded
'cross the crick, Big Blue and the
bear were goin' at it 'bout halfway to
the top of the tree. Iain't never heard
such a caterwaulin' in all my born
days. 1couldn't shoot 'cause I might
hit my dawg. 1jus' had to let'em fight
it out to the end." Old man Miller
stopped talking long enough to take
a draw on his pipe.
"Well, Big Blue, he kept nippin'
that 01' silver-tipped devil 'til he
backed out on a dead limb that broke
under his weight. That grizz' fell out
of the oak tree an' landed on them
big rocks down below. 1finished him
off with two shots to the head. Poor
01' Big Blue was torn up something'
fierce, an' he ain't been the same
dawg since."
"Big Blue can climb trees too?" I
asked.
Traveler/7
\
I'VE BEEN THIS WAY BEFORE
How do we go on?
To be one again
the visible two
Grains of sand that
slip
silently
Through the cracks
of
Time...
How do we go on?
Gathering the richness
of Autumn years
To release heavy heart
and hidden fears ...
How do we go back?
Grains of sand that
slip
silently
through the cracks to
Time...
How do we go back?
to yesteryear
brimming full
of scintillating mystery
and
hot - blooded nights...
. \,1\ .~.
"\
\
I·I ' -
We cannot
go back
After crystalline tears
have shattered dreams
And innocent hopes
smothered by fears
"Sure can, Sonny! How else
would he fetch squirrels for me?"
"T00 bad we can't see Big Blue
do all these things," said Mark, wink­ing
at m_e again.
Old man Miller tapped his pipe
on the porch railing to loosen the
ashes, and then he placed the pipe in
his pocket. "Would you boys like to
stay for supper? I'll send Big Blue
out to catch us a couple of rabbits."
"We've got to be going, Mr.
Miller," I said, not wanting to waste
time watching the old man's dog
chase rabbits. I walked up the steps
and handed the condemnation pa­pers
to him. ''I'll leave these papers
with you, and we'll come back in a
week or two after you've had a
chance to look them over."
"It ain't no use leavin' them pa­pers
here, Sonny. I can't read!
Sarah were the smart one in the
family."
"We have to leave the papers,
Mr. Miller," said Mark. "It's the law."
"Well, leave 'em then! I'll use
'em to start fires."
Mark and I walked back to the
pickup and got in; Mark started the
engme.
"Old man Miller sure is an inde­pendent
old cuss, isn't he," I said,
looking back at the lonely figure
rocking away on the porch. "Some­how
I think he's better off out here
than in town. How old do you figure
he I.S?."
"Oh, I'd say he's in his eighties
or nineties, maybe older. I wish now
that we had a tape recorder with us,"
said Mark. "I've heard that some of
the other teams are recording moun­tain
music and folk tales, but I'll bet
none of them could top this old boy
when it comes to tall tales."
"That's for 'dang sure, Sonny!".
How do we go back?
To times
that gently whisper
soft caresses
against skin - thrilling delights ...
Theresa (Akido) Collie
Traveler/8
us
Park benches,
Naked of pigeons,
Remain vacant
as the sky grays.
Hurricanes of people
once swirling,
Now
Gone.
Lovers drink love
From each others bodies
To dissolve
Into the folds of one another.
Grow thru winter
Springtime waits
To Begin.
Christy L. Dunham
You ask why time is now so slow?
It is so you can more fully spend,
The mile-long time of your life; although
Tomorrow your life's turn may end...
Seconds move a slow pace.
Minutes float on by.
The clock hands run a snail· paced race.
Time passes so slow - WHY?
Dolores Seats
FLORABUNDANT
Third Place Poetry
...my desert greenhouse without walls
to shelter it from thermal change...
southwestern Eden, ages old...
perpetual aesthetic range:
wild plants grow in secret places,
undisturbed by human voice.
Desert paintbrush splashed crimson,
rainbow cacti - painter's choice.
Bladder sage with pods like tissue,
proffer nut-like seeds all year.
Red-barked ponderosa pine has
waving blue pentstemon near.
Lupine thrives in sandy washes.
Century plant is marking days.
Silver sage with purple shadows ­our
Lord's candle lights the ways.
Poppies, asters, and verbena
mingle through the tall wild grass .
tinting sand dunes and the valleys .
solar spectrum of stained glass.
Hours plod towards the end of the day.
Weeks, like derelict boats, drift by.
Here comes another year to play.
Decades are mountains that scrape the sky.
The seconds tick-tack away.
Minutes become demons of speed.
On hurricane winds, clock hands away.
Where is the time you need?
THE TIMES OF YOUR LIFE
Hours rush to the end of the day.
Weeks in fast racing cars zoom by.
Years no longer come and stay.
Decades vanish in the blink of an eye.
Larry Larson
You ask why time passes so fast my friend?
The answer: there's too much to do.
All too soon lives come to an end.
When will time finally catch you?
Traveler/ll
Traveler/12
PHASES OF THE MOON
Second Place Poetry
Impish girl.
Peeking 'round the corner of twilight
eager to grow up.
Veiled lady.
Luminescence dissipated, not dimmed
By the cloud's lacy edge.
Brilliant Luna.
Slowly showing the light in your face
To truly call it night.
Discreet woman.
Leaving quietly before the harsh eyes of day.
Soft memories remain.
Nolan Anglum
the bitter truth
it bites the flesh
and all hearts fall
from time to time
but mine must surely
hurt the worst
just because it's mine
Tim Francis
TIMES SHARED
Minutes crawl as days fly by-
What's time to one like you or I?
We take and hoard each precious hour,
Creating memories with love's power.
Times shared - they bring to us such pleasure
As only friends in love can treasure.
Sandra Ellis
Traveler/13
ALIA MY-LYNN TUNG
First Place Non-Fiction
Taking my morning walk one day, I gleefully dis­covered
wild flowers blossoming at their most beautiful
by the roadside shrubs. My first impulse was to pluck
some and offer them to mother who was always thrilled
by whatever flowers I brought. My energetic plucking,
however, slackened as I sank in the sad remembrance
that mother had passed away almost two years ago. I
had wished to convey my love to her with those flowers,
and I was stunned by a bitter emptiness.
However, I could not resist continuing my collection
of the fresh and lovely yellow, white, and violet blossoms.
As I was trying to decide which vase would most suit
them, I suddenly realized I had completely forgotten
where I lived and which home I should bring the flowers
to.
This feeling lasted but a blink moment. I had only
one home then. Perhaps constant moving over the years
contributed to my disorientation. My family had moved
from house to house during the past twenty years. De­pending
on our income, some had been spacious and
well-furnished, while others were simple and modest.
The fact that I had often visited my parents was probably
another factor. Whatever had caused my confusion, one
thing enlightened me then and there. There is some
special factor, something that ranges prominent and high
in human consciousness and that supersedes all worldly
structure, that constitutes what we call "home."
It does not surprise me that as I fell into a bliss of
exhilaration admiring the wild flowers, the very first per­son
I thought of offering them to was my mother. Mother
had been the essence of my home. The first place I
thought of bringing the wild flowers was to my home. My
home was my center. Therefore, mother and home have
formed the core of my love and chief concern. What kind
of a home it was, where it was situated, whether it was
elegant or modest, had been secondary considerations.
It seems that what is essential to the place I call
home is that it is a refuge from all weathers; it is a place
where I can find peace and ease, can rest my tired feet
and cook my meal in any style I like, can decorate with
a few wild flowers and feel elated as if it were the most
elegant palace in the world.
A Chinese idiom says, "Shut up this door and you
are king of your own house." Within this domain, we lay
our roots, bear our children and keep ourselves fit. From
Traveler/14
this domain, we offer our talent, energy, and time to so­ciety
in various exchanges. Home is the very cell, and
thousands of cells consolidate to make society.
I have visited many of societies' cells, including mag­nificent
palaces, huge mansions and finely decorated
residences. Apart from admiring them, they bore little or
no significance to me. Not because I didn't own them,
but because I found no attachment, no coziness, and no
dear source there.
People live in this world but a few decades. Within
the dimension of limitless time, one's life span is but a
wink, or less. A house means merely a temporary pro­tective
shelter made of materials and shaped in certain
traditional or non-traditional forms. Whether the house
is a huge, ornate mansion or a humble chalet makes little
difference since both will serve for short-term shelter.
But with that special factor that constitutes home,
one can even borrow another person's house, mansion,
or palace and enjoy it to the fullest.
Once we borrowed a friend's seaside villa, where we
lay down on a meadow under shady trees and relished air
sweetened with pine fragrance. For city dwellers, it was a
real and rare change. These trees that lined up at the
backyard of the villa and led straight to the back
fence and then to the beach sang in cool sea breezes and
delighted us by showering thousands of pine needles, as
if greeting us with their slight prickly touch. The sea's
waves left crops of tiny silver fish and shells on the sand
for us. After many hours of swimming from a beach ex­clusively
ours, we had a picnic with roast fish wrapped in
banana leaves and cooked on a campfire. That villa
seemed built especially for us on that particular day.
come and see. Papa has brought home fish! Dad's
home! Tonight we are going to have fish! Mum, cook it,
fast, fast!" As if magic had touched it, that dirty back-lane
quarter turned suddenly into a wonderland of content­ment
and wholesomeness. The sky darkened and street
lights glowed. That happy commotion was still resound­ing
as I turned my steps toward home...
Home, cozy, warm and dear ~ it holds so many
attachments: life, kinship, and that special factor that
outshines any palace and raises any wooden shelter to
sublimity, that unique ingredient that turns a house into a
home with an unalterable soul of its own. That ingredi­ent
often transcends time and space to make all other
things in the world objective and less and less important.
I recognize, of course, that the big spaces, the
beautiful environment, the fine furniture, well-manicured
garden, and up-to-date appliances of a villa can add to the
comfort and enjoyment of life, but they are not part of
the special factor that constitutes home.
Once, at sunset, I saw a worker walking briskly and
holding a tiny fish and a few stalks of vegetables. His
blue, ragged, dusty clothing was soaked in sweat and
dirt. However, I saw him smile, and by the way he was
hurrying, I guessed he was heading for home. I followed
him secretly. After a number of shabby lanes where gar­bage
smells filled the evening air and stinking sewer
water flowed down a pavement of broken bricks, I saw
him enter a wooden shelter as low and dark as a den,
one of those squatter's makeshift shelters. No sooner
had he entered than out burst a commotion of hails,
laughter, and welcoming remarks as children yelled with
excitement, "Dad's home! Dad's home! Ah fish! Mum,
That, perhaps, explains why mother still lives in my
heart, and I wonder which home I shall bring the flowers
to. In every home I have had that special factor ~ Love.•
Traveler/15
Traveler/ 16
DIOU~
ODY~~~Y
You looked at her,
gazing,
resting your eyes upon
her breasts,
quietly,
silently,
arresting your expression,
freeing your mind­to
wander her body,
caress her soul
to wonder of her...
loving me,
yet,
wanting her.
Christy L. Dunham
The shooting star bursts
incandescent bright before
fading into night.
Karen Edelstein
Top right drawing by: Georgia McCoy (lst Place)
Bottom right drawing by: Julie Pollard
Top left drawing by: Dorothy Ray
Middle left illustration by: Ron Jones (lst Place)
Bottom middle drawing by: Brian Galvin
...
/
Singing Grass rubbed her
bramble-scratched arms, unaware
that she was part of a living legend
of the lost tribe now called Hohokam.
Traveler/18
Perspiration ran in rivulets down her
grimy face and her body sagged with
weariness from trudging along the
dry wind-scoured riverbed in search
of food. She had been gathering
pithy stems and leaves dryas thorns,
and collecting anything that walked,
crawled, or slithered and that could be
caught or pried out of the ground
with a stick. Red Cloud, her hus­band,
was contributing to the hoard
by knocking birds to the ground with
the atali, his throwing stick. His ef­forts
proved unrewarding since the
quail, doves, and sage hens ~re flying
further to the north in desperate
need of water.
Each evening she stashed the
days provisions in the secluded un­derground
cache concealed with
earth, the keeper of secrets. Edi­bles
were hidden from the eyes of the
despised marauding tribes that
swept down in darting raids from the
north, killing and crippling her peo­ple
and stealing their harvest.
In past years, she had not had to
gather seeds, wild grasses or grub in
the ground for the spicy bark of roots
and wild onions. Red Cloud had
fought the harsh forbidding environ­ment
and cultivated the land. He had
clawed and scraped trenches into
which the river water had always
flowed, built a rock barrier dam
and filled its cracks with snarls of ar­rowweed.
This year, they had waited in
vain for signs of the bushy plants to
break stone-hard baked caliche and
produce four-inch long ears of corn.
Tepary bean plants withered and yel­lowed
at sprout stage. Cotton
plants, a crop so vital to their exis­tance,
failed to mature.
There would be no new breech
cloths or blanket dresses to protect
them from the desert, bone-rattling
cold nights. No matter how they
scrounged the land, they could not
find enough supplies to carry them
through the winter.
Day after day, she watched
grandfather Batuka, the tribal
medicine man, chant incantations
and entreaties to the Great Spirit to
send rain. He rolled the sacred
stones and murmured to the Great
One, but no rains came. The sun
shone hot and relentless. The sky
held no clouds, as he danced his be­liefs
that they would not be a forgot­ten
people.
Batuka scattered hallowed
pollen into the searing winds as he
shook the revered coyote tail. Time
after time, the old man intoned the
ancient chants of legends until one
could almost visualize land covered
with restless waters offorgotten seas.
He begged the gods' forgiveness for
having forgotten some of the peti­tions
of his weather-wise ancestors.
Looking to the skies, pleading for a
miracle, Batuka implored that none
should perish.
Suddenly, the sky blackened.
Singing Grass was puzzled. Undula­ting
darkness spread over the moun­tains,
moving toward them. Swarms
of locusts were approaching on the
wind and settling on the land. For
them, too, the need for sustenance
was hopeless this year.
Singing Grass cowered in fear.
She clung to her grandfather, who
supported her with his presence and
comforting words: "Granddaughter,
this is not an ominous threat. This
flying cloud of droning insects will
prove a blessing instead of a curse.
Our worries are over. These insects
will be our survival. Hurry! Get the
nets that were used to catch the food
that swam. Now they will be used to
catch the food that flies. We must
trap and beat them to the ground as
our ancestors did. We can dry and
store them in our red clay jars, to be
roasted and ground into flour."
Grandfather spoke the wisdom
of the ages. Singing Grass was re­lieved.
They would survive.
ROBERT HALL
Second Place Fiction
Traveler/20
J
The rain had stopped, and the
freshly cooled summer breeze blew
gently across my bunk. I was just be­ginning
to enjoy the coolness that mon­soon
brings when Jeff walked into my
room. He sat heavily on the bunk oppo­site
mine, and his foot began toying with
a crumpled potato chip bag on the floor.
"What's happening?" I asked after
a couple of moments of silence.
"I can't speak the language," Jeff
said dejectedly.
"What language?"
"Spanish, I can't speak Spanish,"
he replied, looking up from his bag for
the first time.
"Neither can I."
"You're not Mexican."
I stared out of the window and
watched the relentless sun eat away the
mist still clinging to the rice paddies.
He was right; Iwas not Mexican, and for
the first time I realized he was of Mexi­can
descent. To me he had always been
the archetypical California beach bum
who had made a small mark in compe­tition
surfing.
Jeff still sat on the bunk staring at
~e, and I felt a need to help him out of
(continued on page 32)
The math monsters hold me captive.
They force me to be adaptive.
I must learn:
to factor and fracture,
to equate and exponentiate;
not forgetting nomials-,the mos, bis and tris.
When you're having fun - time sure flies.
Math
.~
i "\
oristers
~/
Algebra I left the scene,
or did I have a dream?
Algebra II took its place.
I may head for outer space.
There's still one more to go,
and that will be the end of the show.
The formulas are so dreary,
do I really need all this theory?
I guess it's nice to know,
but when I enter the flow,
the computer will do all the math,
while I just sit back and laugh.
Jackie Morris
Traveler/21
Traveler/22
A CLOSER L
Photo story by: Peggy Auina
Copy written by: Betty Whitoneis
Layout by: Kay N. Yetter
Phoenix is 350 square
miles of modern buildings, tile­roofed,
adobe houses and palm
trees. It is a large, clean, spa­cious
city unlike many metro­polises
in this country.
There is, however, a uni­versal
sight which is identifiable
anywhere-"downtown." The
buildings are older here than
those in the rest of the city.
The park benches are occupi­ed
and the birds mingle as do
generations and cultures.
At one time, Phoenix was
a small, dusty, "wild western"
town. It has evolved into a
progressive, "All American
City." It has a wonderful his­tory
and a center common to
us all-"downtown."
Traveler/23
[GRAND AVENUE
by Sharon Hallman
We all have our little indicators that tell us what kind
of day we're going to have. For some, it can be a horo­scope
reading; for others, it may be biorhythms. How­ever,
my "omen" isn't anything very mystical or compli­cated.
My day depends on a traffic light. Sound simple?
It isn't. If I catch a green light on Grand Avenue on the
way to school in the morning, Ican be assured of a good
day. So far this year, I've had two good days.
For those of you who may not be familiar with
Grand Avenue, I'll try to explain. Actually, explaining
Grand Avenue to someone is rather like attempting to
explain Einstein's theory to a pre-schooler.
Nevertheless, I'll try.
Grand Avenue is a four/six lane highway/street (see
it's already getting confusing). It was supposedly created
for expediting travel through the city of Phoenix in a
northwesterly direction. It's not a freeway; there are
MANY traffic signals. These traffic signals have almost
assuredly :interfered with the progress of our city­possibly
the progress of mankind. Each intersection is
like a giant roulette wheel. Your chances of getting off on
the right street are about as good as they are for breaking
even when you go to Las Vegas for the weekend.
Longtime residents are convinced Grand Avenue is
a curse put upon us by the Hohokam, who are punishing
us for desecrating their ancient burial grounds. Another
theory is that Grand Avenue is actually a Communist
plot, designed for the purpose of diverting us while they
quietly infiltrate the city. If this is the case, then Grand
Avenues will begin springing up throughout our country.
If so, we're doomed. Little wonder the Lost Dutchman
turned up missing.
My first encounter with Grand Avenue taught me
something - fear. But, Ijust keep coming back for more.
Leaving my northeast Phoenix motel, early one morning
about four years ago, I plotted my course for southwest
Phoenix. (Now if you were paying attention, you would
immediately realize this course is in direct conflict with
the route which Grand Avenue follows.) (Everything in
my life is in direct conflict with Grand Avenue.) All I re­member
is seeing a street sign saying "Grand Avenue."
The next thing I knew, I was back in my motel room and
four hours had somehow been lost. I will never again
scoff at people who claim to have amnesia.
I now know how pilots feel when they cross the
Bermuda Triangle or how Captain Kirk responds to
being caught in a time warp. I, too, have successfully
efied gravity and lived to tell about it. •
Traveler/24
'm becoming paranoid.
In spite of being semi­average
with 2.3 chil­dren,
a mortgage anda
couple of cats in the
backyard, I'm getting a
little crazy. (Trying to figure out
what I did with that .3 child isn't help­ing
a bit. I sometimes lie awake at
night trying to imagine what a .3 child
is like. Probably much like the two I
already have.) Anyway, the alarm­ists
in this world have taken a toll on
my sanity.
Alarmism has reached epidemic
proportions in this country. It is
not a discriminate disease; it can
strike anyone regardless of age or in­telligence.
It doesn't take a PhD. to
deduce that frightening people is a
real attention-getter.
Alarmism is the favorite indoor/
outdoor sport of many people. It's
really quite easy, and I suspect some
have a natural talent. There are no
rules, and you don't have to check
with your physician before getting
involved. Alarmism ranges from the
subtle to the bizarre, and you are
only as good as your imagination.
Some participants consider it to be
an art form.
Many alarmists deal in generali­ties;
others are more specialized.
The general, or basic alarmist, covers
a lot of territory-anything from a cat
up a tree to an all out war. By the
time he gets around to telling the
truth, we have envisioned ourselves
in the worst possible crisis imagin­able.
By this time, we have made out
our wills, sworn off all bad habits, and
wished we hadn't yelled at the kids
quite so often.
Natural disaster alarmists come
up with some of our most creative
scares. They are the true artists of
the alarmist community. Fires,
earthquakes, tidal waves, killer
bees, and oversized lizards are but a
few of the devices they employ to in­spire
fear. The celestial alarmist is
also included in this select group.
Blessed with a vivid imagination, a
few obscure facts and a telescope,
these folks get the job done. The
Jupiter Effect, just past, is a prime
example of their work. Of course,
we never take these forecasts sen­ously,
even though some of us have
purchased abandoned missile silos
just in case.
Juvenile and/or parental alarm­ism
is interchangeable. Anytime
there is a lock of attention on the part
of either, steps must be taken to re­assure
the insecure alarmer, or a­larmee,
that he or she still holds a
place near and dear to the heart of
the victim in question.
For a parent, these attacks can
be lethal. Any parent who sees mvher
own child's blood, hears a cry of
anguish, or waits for his/her off­spring
more than one hour late,
immediately assumes the worst and
then becomes a blubbering idiot.
In most cases, the child in question
wanders in, totally unconcerned,
wondering why the police are out­side
and why mom and dad are seda­ted.
On the other hand, parents are
guilty in their own right. Although
most of these assaults upon children
are committed purely in the name of
love, or coercion, few of us have
managed to escape this phase of a­larmism.
In order to force a child
into acquiescence, all manner of
threat is perfectly acceptable, re­gardless
of how ridiculous it may be.
The romantic alarmists are likely
to be the most amusing of all. They
provide us with many a laugh at the
expense of their own misery. We
must try to overlook their total ir­rationality
as we have all been
exposed to this at some time in our
lives. Romance can, in some in­stances,
be very serious, even life
threatening. We must deal delicately
with the amorous sufferer, lest he do
himself or others bodily harm.
Luckily, the condition is only tem­porary.
Marriage is usually the'most
effective cure.
The commercial alarmist is the
businessperson of all the alarmists.
He may look foolish, or may make us
look foolish; however, his assault
upon our intellience is for one rea­son
- a trip to the bank. The
commercial alarmist never fails to
appeal to our sense of insecurity,
creating unrealistic situations to turn
a profit. Once more, our imagination
runs wild as we perceive oursleves
caught up in an embarrassing situa­tion:
away from home without cash,
our deodorant giving out at a cru­cial
moment, or contracting terminal
"greasies." The commercial alarmist
will ever be with us, just like roaches,
merchandising us into bankruptcy.
For those persons who accept
crises with quiet reserve - great. I
just don't happen to be one of those
people. I am, quite frankly, an alarm­ist's
dream, a reactionary in the first
degree. I am the type, who, when
they hear phrases like, "I have a bit of
bad news" or, "We interrupt this
(continued on page 32)
Traveler/25
Drawing by: Joyce Thompson
That golden brown leaf
was shimmering plump rye green
the last time I looked.
Karen Edelstein
SUMMER IS
Sitting
Underneath a tree.
Meditating on
Memories.
Everyday with a smile,
Resting oh so peacefully.
Anna Reynosa
Traveler/26
A lone morning cloud
sits on a mountain listening
to eagles' silence.
Karen Edelstein
Il1ustration by: Deanna Smith
(3rd Place)
OUTCRY
Christy L. Dunham
Second Place Non-Fiction
And reaching up my hand to try,
I screamed,
to feel,
to touch the sky.
The clouds join together like the intricate parts of a picture
puzzle. Inside my mind, I'm pondering the meaning of it all ­life
in all its uncertainty reminding myself that time will endure
on its own and take me with it, swirling me behind, dancing my
waltz of "death." I feel the struggle of it all, being different, a step
apart from others. I comfort myself with the fact that ( am
young and capable, with life lying in wait for me to achieve it,
take it, instead of its taking me. My "death" is being seized, con­trolled
by a malfunction of my brain, elusive and strong, capable
of total control of my body. It produces a fear, a fear alien to
me, for I am born of a free spirit, wanting to lose control, but
only on my terms, not the terms of a seizure. I do not want the
ugliness to be a part of me, but, no matter what, it will be there­perpetual
in its grasp. Each seizure is like a stonemason chip­ping
away, taking some here and there, forcing me into the
depths of a blackness unlike the night - a blackness which
exists only in the mind. (understand it will not deform me,
make me insane, or deplete my intelligence. But it has caused
suffering like no other I have ever experienced. Nothing ex­ceeds
what epilepsy is able to do to one's life. The pain of losing
love, complete disappointment, defeat in my own personal
attempts to succeed, conflict and frustration demand that (
search for an "end" to it.
My lifetime, nearly all twenty-seven years of it, has been
shrouded by the fact that I am an epileptic-doctors, hospitals,
tests, barbiturates. The life of my family is one of terror, confu­sions,
once, long ago, misunderstood, misconstrued. When I
had my first blackout at the age of fourteen, my family was not
present. They found me afterwards lying on the floor, the
phone dropped onto the floor with the earpiece close to my
head. It frightened them, coming home from work, finding me
lying face-up on the floor, pale white against the bright carpet. (
felt their fear and knew something was wrong. It all began slow­ly,
passing out here and there, once in a while. As (grew older,
changing in my body chemistry, changing in my life, the passing
out became more frequent and emotionally exhausting. (t was
not until I was eighteen years young that the questions of my
blackouts and sudden lapses of unconsciousness were to be
answered - partially.
I would question these blackouts for a time: then, without
reaching any satisfaction, I would dismiss it, bury all the
questions somewhere far enough away that they could not
come out unless I wanted them to. These thoughts were
daunting. A fear built up in me that made glass out of my
emotions. (became fearful of the horrible sensations which
arose and climbed quickly throughout my entire body for I
knew it would take me.
The sickness comes, engulfing all of me. It bends me over
at the belly and crawls in blackness up over me. The dizziness
and ringing is intolerable. The ultimate is loss of control, a loss
so difficult to accept, one ( cannot deal with. It is as if a monster
comes inside of me, seizing my belly, contorting it into a painful
cramp that I must excrete. It works its way up and over me un­til
it reaches my ears, making them ring in high pitches, until,
eventually, there is no external sound: I hear screaming in my
head, my eyes roll backward, my face begins to contort, per­spiration
drips from my body. Colors illuminate, sight is gone.
The sickening fall takes me, sounds, yelling, cold, cold inside
my head. Flashes of life come sometimes, faces ill­proportioned,
disoriented and disfigured, and then silence.
The seizure has control and will run its path through my
body, stiffening me to rigidity with its enormous electrical
energy. There is no memory of the seizure itself. Then,
through the hollowness of blackness, I hear again, inside my
mind like a vacuum sounds, far, far away. I cannot reach, can­not
speak back. Total confusion exists. Consciousness comes
slowly. I vomit. I'm in a cold sweat, exhausted, and, oh, so
frightened. I feel the wetness of urine and the softness of feces
between my legs. I cry. Disgust. I hate it.
It's over for now. Will my desire and dreams of it never
happening again dissolve away into the reality of epilepsy?
(look at myself in the mirror and don't see an "epileptic." But
I am. It's a characteristic of me, a part of me that will never
change. And yet, I must go back to the mirror, to look again, to
reestablish myself, to convince myself that it doesn't show. I
see blue eyes, blond hair, a woman with no visible deformities,
only a crooked smile. And, when I look further, I see the fear,
hatred trapped inside me and wonder why it doesn't show, at
the same time thankful that it is not obvious. No one would
know unless ( told them or they saw me seizing - the fraud of
the symptoms of epilepsy.
The memory of the seizure stays, hanging on, making me
dread the next one even more. (know there will be another,
and another. When the "aura" comes, ( want to run, fight it,
get away. Nature protecting me, common sense dictating to
me that I must lie down, not run, or it will hurt worse, telling
me there is no safe place to go. It will take me.
After I graduated from high school and moved away from
home to begin my career, ( experienced my first Grand Mal
seizure. I awoke in the back of the ambulance, a paramedic
giving me oxygen, assuring me that I would live. The last I had
known, I had severe cramps and a sickening nausea. I was
hospitalized, my mother flying to my side, my having told her
( was diagnosed as having either leukemia or ~pilepsy - my
Traveler/27
naivete saved me - I knew of neither their consequences nor
deliverances. I was too busy living out my fantasies of the
career woman, yearning to be someone, somebody. All my
life this is what I had wanted, a paradox to what I would be­come:
I was to learn discrimination, stigma, skepticism, and
alienation.
The seizures worsened, their frequency, their severity. I
would wake in the night, dizzy with vertigo, nauseated with
pain, climbing to the bathroom until it took me and released
me, to cry and shake, frightened by my "death", until someone
came to hold me and carry me back to bed. The night or noc­turnal
seizures are the worst - no time for "aura", no time to pre­pare
myself mentally that I am going to have a seizure; it's
already happening.
The sickness comes, engulfing all of me.
I look at myself in the mirror and don't
see an "epileptic." Such an ironic situa­tion,
where one is so beautiful and
satisfying and the other so gross and
unwanted.
This fear sent me on my search to a multitude of doctors. I
had to know. I could no longer live with this revolting brute in­side
me. When I was nineteen, I was admitted to a university
hospital. Their techniques were "orthodox" experimental
treatments - a medical training hospital. Tubes were inserted
into me hundreds of questions were asked about attributes of
my self which I had never thought about, siezures would be in­duced,
EEG's, brain scans, CT scans, Dilantin and Pheno­barbital,
spinal taps and lots of blood work. The diagnosis was
vague - "seizure-like episodes" with a summary that was not
able to confirm a diagnosis of temporal lobe epilepsy, but
could not exclude it, and the treatment was to be Pheno­barbital
one and a half grains daily and Dilantin 300 mg.
per day as a "dind of therapeutic test." It was a gues, nothing
concrete, not an explanation of why, where or how come - just
past history of a car accident resulting in a mild concussion and
testimony from people who had seen me seizing. No one ever
said, "You are epileptic"; it was, "You have seizures." Okay, I
can live with that, and I began taking my medication reverently
in the belief that it would control, end them, and never-never­land
came - bouncing me between reality and subsistence.
The powerful, sedative effects from the medication took over.
I was to spend the next five years scratching and clawing
though the maze of barbiturates. What started out to be three­a-
day became four, then five, until, eventually, it was eight.
Each time I had a seizure the medication was increased in an
effort to balance and stabilize its therapeutic value. My
personality changed. Inwardly I wanted it all; outwardly, I
looked like a junkie - my eyes circled in dark rings, pupils
dilated and glazed, speech and coordination impaired.
My life was going to revolve around epilepsy, not around
me. The stigma hard and cruel attached itself to me as a para­site,
defeating me and eating me, 'til I would be nothing. I
blamed the barbiturates for everything: job performance failure,
balloon gums, acne, and a total lack ofcommon sense in terms of
money and how to treat it. Medical bills piled up. I was as
uninsurable as I was unemployable. But, through it aliI never
really felt a thing - the downers sedated me, took the exhilara­tion
out of me, left me loose and untouchable.
There developed a vicious syndrome - the frail line be­tween
"wanting to lose control" and "losing control involun­tarily."
The only other thing in life where one must be able
to lose control is orgasm. Such an ironic situation, where one is
so beautiful and satisfying and the other so gross and un­wanted.
I was afraid of being touched by anyone - repulsed
Traveler/28
by my body, I separated myself from it. [was closed off, even
from a motherly hug. And, yet, I craved it, w.mted it badly.
Resentment seethed inside me at my inability to be affection­ate.
The suppression was enormous, insufferable, contained.
It had to come out, release itself from inside me. The stress
was making the seizures worse, but, still, I could not let go. My
mind did it for me. A fugue occured. The las I had known I had
been at home on my lunch hour eating a sandwich, the next, I
was at the office at my desk. Nearly an hour and a half had
passed. I had no awareness of the activity of driving, working,
nothing. The impact of "waking up" made me hyperventilate
and seize. I was taken to the hospital.
Therapy was to be my answer to this tormenting situation.
Upon my arrival at the hospital, my neurologist talked with
me and called a psychologist. With a letter in my hand, a nurse
by my side, we walked to the mental health clinic. I spent two
weeks in sessions with him, talking about my divorce, fears,
seizures. He placed me in group therapy.
I had a seizure the day before one of our Monday after­noon
sessions. The mental turmoil was the same - hating my­self,
resenting my life, wondering why it was me, despondent,
unwilling. Mary, our group counselor, was probing at me.
Would [ take a risk with the group? I was hesitant, my fear
of the unknown obvious. Prior rejections surfaced. Silence as
they waited for my answer. Their faces were warm, no pres­sure.
I knew of them and their reasons for being there - this
was a sharing group. I trusted them. She asked me to stand
in the middle of the circle of chairs and to close my eyes. I
stood, remembering their faces and the message in their eyes
before closing mine. There was absolute silence for a minute.
Then, rustling sounds; [ knew they were getting up out of their
chairs...and leaving! [began to cry with all my memories of
loneliness and separateness; this was cruel, another game_
Then a sensation on my forearm, a warm touch, then another,
another, and another until I was covered with a feeling, a
feeling of acceptance, a feeling for the first time in years that [
was okay. Iwas crying harder, pouring out all of my past, taking
in my needs. I opened my eyes and they were all there, holding
me, crying with me, loving me. My pain was seeping out of
every pore in my body. We began to laugh. It was over. I was
finally going to be all right. [could feel again, without appre­hension,
without fear. This experience opened my life again, I
was exhilarated for the first time since the beginning of it all.
I remained with the group for another six months before I
felt confident enough to leave them. Never again will I have an
enlightening experience such as this one. I love them all. I had
touched the sky....•
NINTH COLONY
Larry Larson
2nd Place Humor
I I 1/
/'
I /
!
'" \
"...And now the top story in the news tonight. Eight
, colonies within a fifty mile radius were totally devastated
\ ) by unknown forces. The colonies of Sardak, Andites,
~ Mypat, Leviaton, Xelia, Cadmon, Kloonyoo, and
I· Rasputen were completely destroyed," the reporter
/ said grimly. 1'if \'
'/ "Survivors of the terrible experience at Andites, tfie . I
f/ hardest hit colony, stated that they felt the earth shcWe ....
/ violently before the destruction. Eyewitnesses say th'ey ~. \
saw the San Andites Mountains crumble and topple: '\
down upon the colony. Federal help is being sent.:":"
"Wow! Mom, did you hear thatT the youngster'
quizzed.
"Quiet!" his mother said scornfully.
".. .Iet us hope that no other freak accidents like that
occur tc:> any c:>ther ~olonies. That's the news f~tonight.
Good m...Walt a mmute...THE GROUND.. .ITS~HAK­lNG!!!
RUN! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES, QUIC~ ..."
The TV went dead. The youngster became h~$teri-cal.
His mother looked up just as the roof of th~r\~ome
caved in upon them. \ \ \
Outside the little girl stomped upon the a~t flilt,a d
ran off laughing, counting NINE upon her fingers.'.
'~,
J
"
\/
'\.1
!" ,i
\
\.
\
~
Traveler/30
BACKSTAIRS LOVE
A silver thread,
Like silken hair,
Wound its way
Behind the stair.
Gossamer soft,
Hidden from view,
For a spider who
Waits for the fly
Who flew askew!
Alice Burt
Traveler/32
ALARMIST AT LARGE
(Continued from page 25)
program for a special report" or, "Do
you have a little boy with blonde hair
and a red bicycle?" etc., etc., im­mediately
suffers coronary arrest.
In our world of thrill-a-minute
living, people refuse to relax and let
nature take its course. I suppose it
is, .in many instances, merely a way
of mJectmg a little excitement into a
normally dull existence. Neverthe­less,
whatever reasons these people
have, it's beginning to get to me.
. I hope I have helped you identify
Just a few of the alarmists who are
running around loose in our world. I
only wish I could give you some
sound advice on how to deal with
them. We must each learn to handle
these people while maintaining our
sanity. Giving up your family for
adoption and moving to a deserted
island might be one answer. You
may choose to break off all commu­nication
with the world by changing
your name and becoming a Sherpa
guide. Group therapy has proven
helpful in some instances.
I really don't have a solution. All
I can do, at this point, is wish you
luck. I really must be going. I hear
a siren. My daughter hasn't come
home from school yet. The Emer­gency
Broadcast System just inter­rupted
my favorite television show. I
think I smell smoke.•
JEFF
(continued from Page 20)
his strange depression. I had never
seen Jeff depressed before.
"Listen," I began, "you were
born in California right?"
"Yeah."
"Your parents were born there
too, rightT
"Yeah."
"You're an American in the
United States Army, right?"
"Yeah."
"So for Christ's sakes, you're
supposed to speak English" I
finished, the matter resolved i~ my
mind. A victim of my own argument.
"Yeah, but my name is Vasquez,
and the GODDAMN ARMY PLAS-TERS
IT ALL OVER EVERYSHIRT I
HAVE!" he screamed. "Every other
Mexican can see who I'm supposed to
be," he finished in a small voice as he
walked from the room.
I didn't see Jeff for about two
weeks after that, but I had heard
many stories concerning the heroic
amounts of drugs and alcohol he con­sumed
nightly in the nearby Korean
village. Eventually I heard the M.P.'s
found him one night after curfew half
in and half out of a butcher shop'win­dow.
The plate glass had done a num­ber
on his face.
Disciplinary action was taken a­gainst
him, and he was placed on the
chain gang, or menial work force.
I finally saw him one day around
noon time. He was painting roadside
rocks white in the baking sun.
"Hey Jeff, what's happening?" I
called.
"Nada man, nada," he smiled
and his scars crinkled whitely against
his dark tan.•
restless sunflowers
like wild stallions held at bay
by rusting barbed wire
Helen Ehrlich