"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1986

              GLENDALE COMMUNITY COLLEGE CREATIVE ARTS MAGAZINE VOLUME 19
maricopa skies
around the multi-colored orbs,
the desert sky awakes
to spread its arms so carefully,
that nothing falls or breaks.
with hues that grow from inky blues
to fiery tangerines,
betraying senses endlessly,
a metamorphic scene.
this breakfast feast we share at last.
with nature as our chef,
each bite dissolving lusciously,
as if it were a breath.
for we can scarcely wait for day
to cease and "re-begin"
amidst the morning majesty,
that we are living in.
by Chuck Moser
The Traveler
Spring 1986 Volume 19
GLENDALE COMMUNITY COLLEGE
CREATIVE ARTS MAGAZINE
Published annually by G.c.c. English and Art Departments,
6000 West Olive, Glendale, Arizona 85302
©1986 The Traveler, Glendale Community College
L1TERAR Y EDITOR: Ellen Baker; ARTDIRECTOR: Patti Ludtka; ASST.
ART DIRECTORS: Amy Loeffler, Meg Treon; PHOTOGRAPHIC
EDITOR: Ed Cook; COVER DESIGN: Kurt Scholz; EDITORIAL STAFF:
Ellen Baker, Karen Schanbeck, Mike Longenecker; TYPOGRAPHY: Jeri
Walker, Bonnie Crow; PRODUCTION: G.c.c. Advertising Art Students;
ARTAND PRODUCTION ADVISOR: Mirta Hamilton; LITERARY AD­VISOR:
Joy Wingersky; PHOTOGRAPHIC ADVISOR: Willis Peterson;
PRINTING: Runbeck and Associates.
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
" The content of any magazine includes both
verbal and visual elements. Verbal elements in­clude
all prose and poetry; visual elements in­clude
art and photographY,' according to "The
Columbia Scholastic Press Association Critique:'
The words are simple words, words that could
describe virtually any magazine that uses art and
photography to complement written material.
But, what those words do not tell the reader is
the sheer amount of time and effort put into the
magazine by dedicated, caring people who work
together to produce a magazine that can be read
and enjoyed by everyone.
This year we had a relatively large number of
excellent stories, poems, and essays submitted
for judging. Our literary editorial staff had to
read each piece submitted and then decide which
pieces would go into the magazine. (This was
hard because there were so many good pieces
submitted.) Once our selections had been made,
the stories and poems went to the art depart­ment.
There, very talented artists Amy Loeffler,
Pat Ludtka, and Meg Treon went to work with
other talented art students and created the
wonderful visuals in the magazine. The creative
aspect completed, there still was much to be
done to get everything ready to go to the printer.
For one thing, The Traveler needed a cover. This
problem was resolved when Kurt Scholz' draw­ing
of musical instruments was selected. Then
came proofing, tears, corrections, paste-up, more
proofing, more tears, more corrections, the
printer and at last CELEBRATION.
I would dearly love to personally thank each
and everyone who took time from his/her busy
schedules to help make this year's magazine so
special but time and space don't allow for this.
However, there are some people who must be
mentioned here today for helping our editorial
staff in making The Traveler a first-class
magazine. First off, hugs and kisses (from me)
to Karen Schanbeck and Mike Longenecker
(literary editoral staff) for all the hours and
hours of reading that they did. And a special
thanks to Tom Brazie, Marti Combel, Dr. Robert
Johannsen, and Joy Wingersky for judging the
literary categories; and to Mirta Hamilton for
art and photography. And a millon thanks must
go to the English department and GCC's Presi­dent's
Budget Committee for monies for first­place
winners in the literary and art categories.
Traveler/2
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Maricopa Skies Poetry
Photography
Phoenix Fiction
Illustration
Just Be An Angel Fiction
Illustration
Exhaustability Poetry
Fine Art
When Every Day is Poetry
a Broken Promise
Photography
New Worlds Poetry
Photography
Getting Out Fiction
Photography
Mirrored Days Poetry
Photography
The Evensong Poetry
Photography
Jazz-Jazz Ensemble Photo-
Glendale c.c. Story
The Keyboard of Life Poetry
Photography
Journey's End Poetry
Photography
Blondes Have More Fun Film Review
Illustration
Da Toad Poetry
Fine Art
Soap Opera Queen Poetry
Illustration
The Meeting Fiction
Illustration
Tulip Poetry
Fine Art
Pressure Poetry
Illustration
Lament For Green Shoes Poetry
Illustration
A Light Killing Fiction
Illustration
Staff Page
Inside Back Cover
Chuck Moser
Michael Scully
Jonathon Sullivan 3
Meg Treon
Ruby Dumont... 5
Amy Loeffler
Angela M. Martinez 9
Norma Sadler
Brian Alcorn 10
Maxine E. Olmstead (2)
Duke Smith
Susan Wright... II
Momoe Mehta
Victoria M. Lipman .12
Edward Cook
Joyce Williams .14
Michael Scully
Michael A. Forry .15
Edward Cook
Edward Cook 16
Jeri Walker
Darci Lynn Trill... .18
Guy Lanahan
Jill Walterbach 19
Guy Lanahan
Delores Hanney .20
Amy Loeffler
Sally Tomchak Burke 22
Mike Johnson
Susan Olson 23
Joe McWilliams
Sally Tomchak Burke 24
Kurt Scholz
Elaine Christine Finke.... 26
Cindy Bontrager
Darci Lynn Trill... 27
Bruce Lucas
Joyce E. Williams 28
Sharon Cain
D. John Sabel... 29
Patti Ludtka
32
Amy Loeffler
By Jonathon Sullivan
No sick, no hungry, no one. Telira
had found the countryside deserted,
and it wasn't hard to see what had
happened. Renewed farmland was
scarce enough in this region, and
Telira felt rising anger as she recalled
the burned farmhouses and smolder­ing
crops she had found in the last
several days. Three weeks she had
been in the hills, alone, resting, renew­ing
herself with the techniques she
had been given by her teachers. To re­emerge
and find this...
Outside Payson she had come upon
a soldier, wounded in both chest and
leg, deep in shock and suffering
massive infection and dehydration.
She had done what she could for him
with her limited art, but he had died
without ever coming out of his death­delirium.
Not far away she had found
the bodies of some of his comrades,
wearing uniforms unknown to her.
She had found also a few wearing the
familiar livery of Gutierrez troops.
No major battle, but a small skirmish
had been fought here.
I could have and should have
predicted it, she told herself. For
months there had been rumors of a
great army massing on what had once
been called the Colorado Plateau,
above the Mogollon Rim. In the
farmhouses, homesteads and tiny
villages of the Sonora she had heard
talk of a conqueror called James, a
self-proclaimed King of the Western
Americas, who had apparently burst,
Alexander-like, out of the well-fed,
well-populated regions of the Far
North. In the past two years he had
displaced kings and barons and other
petty rulers he had encountered in the
regions once known as Montana,
Idaho, Utah, and Nevada, evidently
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intending to build an empire clear
into Mexico. Little was known of
what was going on in those areas now,
and even less was known of James
himself. News travelled slowly across
this poisoned, decimated continent.
Furthermore, there had been no waves
of refugees from his onslaughts, as
Telira had frequently noted with a
mixture of denial, wonder and relief.
For she had seen it all before. She
remembered the armies of Gutierrez
displacing Richardson at Phoenix, six
years past: blood, fire, the destruction
of a growing regional center at the
edge of a shattered, uninhabitable,
once-great metropolis. The newly­built
library and hospital-burned.
And she remembered the
aftermath-starvation, infected
wounds, diphtheria...
She sat down in the snow and
stared at the ruined village in the
valley below. Ashes. For a moment
she wondered if this had been the
work of a King James or an Emperor
Gutierrez. Probably the latter­burned
townships and crops would be
of little use to James and his advan­cing
armies. In the long run, of
course, it really didn't matter.
She suddenly felt anxious and
distrustful of herself, a sure sign, she
knew, that she was repressing
something unpleasant. She felt tired
and lost: a nomad physician, sitting
in the snow, with no one to care for
and nowhere to go.
No one to care for. No, that's not
quite right, she thought, shaking her
head. What was she hiding from
herself?
Perhaps it is time, she thought, to
go back to the School, back home.
I've earned rest-the Renewal is no
longer enough. I am only just
returned from Renewal.. .and yet so
tired. Nothing left here anyway,
nothing but ashes...
It would take her perhaps two
months to swing east and south,
crossing the deserts of what had been
New Mexico, on into Texas. She knew
towns and homesteads along the way;
there would be food, people to care
for, and eager listeners for news of the
developing situation here in the
Southwest. Finally she would arrive
Traveler/4
at the School, home of her childhood,
citadel of learning and healing in a
battered, brutal world. She could rest
there, at the edge of the sea, under
warm, peaceful skies. She could study
any ancient medicine uncovered by
the Teachers during her mission. And
there would be safety, too-the school
was well-hidden, small and unob­trusive,
of little interest to shifting
armies and refugee populations. Not
like the library and hospital at
Phoenix...
Phoenix! She knew then what she
had been keeping from herself. She
moaned softly and put her head to
her knees with a surge of despairing
realization. Phoenix again. That was
where she was going. Not home.
For she knew what had come to
pass here. The School had taught her
more than just healing. She knew how
to assay the fluid balances of martial
power in this tormented land. In the
weeks before her retreat into Renewal,
she had noted no remarkable buildup
of Gutierrez forces-strange in light
of James' massing to the North. Had
Gutierrez been having trouble in Mex­ico
or California, draining his forces
to the South? Or had he decided to
dig in and wait for James at Phoenix?
No matter: Phoenix was the key to the
region, it would have been James' ob­jective,
and it was there that the bat­tle
had been fought.
She stood up, kicked the snow from
her boots, and tightened the straps of
her pack.
But I am so tired, she thought. Can
I survive this again?
She knew what awaited her there,
at the edge of the vast tumble of con­crete
and twisted metal that, for some
reason, was still called by its ancient
name.
Telira knew nothing of the legend
of the Phoenix; that myth had prob­ably
gone the way of countless other
treasures lost in humanity's brief
moment of fiery insanity. Had she
been told, however, of the great bird
that arose from its own ashes, she
would surely have been astonished,
and would have wondered when this
particular bird, this ancient center of
once-flourishing humanity, would rise
again, and if it would ever rise for
good, nevermore to burn. She herself
had already seen it try and fail and
try again.
And now it had returned to ashes.
She knew it with cold certainty. There
she would find the unchanging face
of battle's aftermath: wounded
troops, hungry civilians, disease,
squalor. ..At least, she told herself, she
would be spared the ruins of a library
or hospital. Gutierrez had never
rebuilt them. Was he still Emperor?
Or did James now rule at Phoenix?
As far as she was concerned, it didn't
matter. Already tired, she would soon
find herself a sole physician among
a thousand-score wretched per­sons...
what did she care who ruled
over such madness?
She cast one brief look to the
Southeast, toward the School. She
said goodbye. Then she set her
shoulders and made off to the South,
towards Phoenix, searching along the
way for wounded and sick, for
botanicals she would need, for food
and supplies. And she tried not to be
bitter. She was, after all, trapped by
her profession and trapped by the
rhythm of her world, the rhythm of
collapse and renewal in a continent
struggling for rebirth, a rhythm cold
and inexorable, life cycle of a forgot­ten,
legendary bird. 0
By Ruby Dumont
Celeste was a precious angel, an "Earth Angel" who was
much too perfect for an earthling, slightly flawed for an
angel, but Heaven was her dwelling place. Heaven only
knows, whoever took Celeste from her mold failed to notice
that her angel wings had already sprouted. Also, her near­sighted
condition passed undetected and uncorrected. This
imperfect eyesight caused Celeste's flight pattern to look like
a butterfly with the hiccups. She flitted here and zig-zagged
there, and sometimes she nose-dived into blessed flower beds
in the Garden of Eden. Then she would pick herself up, brush
the flower petals from her gossamer gown, straighten her
thick rose-colored glasses, and flutter off unfettered into the
blue heavens.
G
E
JUST
BE r1\
AN .ti-
Traveler/5
On a clear day when you could literally see forever,
Celeste's chubby cherub form could be seen hovering and
darting on high. Her golden-feathered wings twittered as she
bustled about, dripping sunbeams from her long blonde
curls, and showering love on everything and everybody. Her
misty blue eyes were filled with the light of Absolute Love,
and occasionally a crystal tear of joy glistened on Celeste's
rosy cheek. Celeste knew perfection even if she herself were
not perfect.
Celeste was always jubilant about her divine appointments,
but her lackluster effects always surfaced. For instance, her
first stint was with "Paradise Prelude Productions."
Staffed by Seraphim, it was Celeste's duty to stage specific
saintly scenes that each earth-soul expected on arrival. Tradi­tionalists
wanted pink clouds, white herald angels with
golden harps and loud golden trumpets. Dogmatists wanted
St. Peter, mother-of-pearl gates, and an awesome throne to
approach. Those darn metaphysicians wanted green pastures,
still waters, blue skies and streets of gold. These were for­midable
feats, especially for a shortsighted angel, and one
day Celeste got her work orders mixed and produced the
wrong setting.
"Heavenly days and perfect nights, we simply can't have
this sort of mix-up here in Heaven, " shouted Seraphim in
dismay, and they promptly produced the proper props. All
was rapture again.
Celeste was then transferred, and she ascended as if on
high to "New Beginnings. " Here she was to match infants
to their perfect mothers. The babies came along on a trundle­like
conveyor belt, each cradled in a bunting of softness.
There were beautiful black babies with raisin colored eyes,
yellow babies with glistening black hair, and luscious, lively
brown babies with loving hazel eyes, and pretty plump, pink
babies with joyful blue eyes. All of the babies were waiting
for just the right mom. All the little angels bustled busily
about doing their tasks. All of a sudden, they began having
conniption fits and clamoring all about. Celeste's dim
eyesight had caused her to give a blue-eyed moppet to a cor­ner
hat rack instead of a mother. Another near bliss-miss
for Celeste. Well, that baby decided to stay and see if she
could turn the hat rack into a real mother, and since this
was heaven-the place of perfect possibilities and instant
miracles-that was reason enough.
What about Celeste? Oh, the Master Planner assigned her
another glorified job-sparkling around Heaven all day.
However, in a few thousand years, Celeste tired of her per­fectly
placid job of just sparkling around Heaven all day.
She tried entertaining herself by swinging on silver
moonbeams. Sometimes she cloud-drifted on puffy pink
clouds, and sometimes she just sat atop rainbows. But when
she was really bored, she hitched rides on shooting stars. All
of these pleasures amused Celeste, but she wanted to give
of herself. Perhaps her earthly leanings caused a yearning
for accomplishment and fulfillment. Celeste concluded, "I
need a purpose. I think I'll take the golden wings of the
morning and visit my friends in the Garden of Eden; maybe
they'll have some suggestions on helping me find my pas-
Traveler/6
sion in life. " So, Celeste took flight in her blue Heaven.
Celeste's friends, Adam and Eve, were caretakers of The
Garden, and they loved their calling. Adam was in charge
of fruits and veggies, with special emphasis on the apple
trees. Eve tended the flowers and saved the fragrance of every
flower that ever fell for the Ascender's Exultation Exhilara­tions,
held each day in the Rejoicing Rotunda. Here sweet
souls were illuminated, adorned, and assigned mansions after
their initial "Paradise Prelude Production's" welcome.
Celeste glided in and lit on a giant gilded lily. Eve came
over and joined her, and offered Celeste a cup of fresh
apple juice. Celeste's attention was suddenly drawn to a
slithering slinky serpent as it cunningly entwined its glow­ing
green body around the apple tree branches. The snake
smiled a shifty side-eyed smile at Celeste and something for­bade
her to partake of the apple juice. So, she politely de­clined
Eve's hospitable offer.
The two began discussing Celeste's plight.
"Oh, Eve, I just want to find my true passion and be ful­filled.
I'm tired of just this string of pleasures; I want to do
something worthwhile. I know I'm heaven-sent, but I'm
earth-bound too, and I need to find my niche~'
Adam sauntered over, joined the discussion and said, "I
was at the Rejoicing Rotunda celebration for the newcomers,
and The Master told us something that might help you,
Celeste. He said, 'In you is all of Heaven. Every leaf that
falls is given life in you. Each bird that ever sang will sing
again to you. Deep within you is everything that is perfect
and ready to radiate its perfection. ' "
Celeste said, "Yes, 1 must allow this perfection to be. "
Celeste winged off in a flash of light. It was time for
Celeste's millennium performance review, so she sweetly com­municated
her disenchantment to her Advisor, "Loving Elder
Brother, I hesitate to use this word here, but I need more
fire in my life, more zest, more soul-stirring, starry-scope
challenges. "
The Angel Advisor showed dismay. "But, Celeste, " he
reasoned, "I thought you were content just sparkling around
Heaven and there are no demands on your dim eyesight. "
"I know you're perfectly right, " Celeste continued, "but
1 need to be atwitter with activity. I need to test a taste of
my own touch-a-chord talents. After all, didn't our Master
Teacher admonish us for not using our God-given talents? "
"You win, " said the Angel Advisor, "I can't argue against
Heaven's own logic, but 1 was hoping you would just be an
angel, " and he handed Celeste a business card.
Celeste was in seventh heaven as she winged her way to
the ethereal reception room where Perfect Purity Personnel
posted positions for angels. Celeste could hardly contain her
delight as she read the Jubilant Job Description Sheet.
She questioned quietly, "Do 1 have a flair for fitting Flower
of the Flock Frocks? " Celeste confessed this might be
another catastrophe considering her eyesight. She read on,
"Deity Designs needs someone to create new snowflake pat­terns...
hmmm-maybe ;' she mused, but that required good
eyesight too. Then she noticed someone by the name of Cecil
B. DeMille needed angel help for panoramic viewing, star
dust grinding, and halo polishing, but she remembered her
previous fiasco in "Paradise Prelude Productions" and she
read further. Celeste wondered if she would ever find her
niche. She knew that serving heavenly hash at the Heavenly
Host Hotel would bore her.
"Let's see what else is listed here. Eternal Engineering is
asking for someone in the research and development depart­ment.
" She heard that some earthling had pointed out the
bumble bee needed work-according to aerodynamics, he
isn't supposed to be able to fly. The giraffe's neck is too long,
the zebra is embarrassed by his funny-looking pajamas, and
the poor flamingo stands on one foot all day.
She agreed there is much work to be done, but she reflected
"That's not exactly me. " Celeste remembered botching the
assignment with the babies, but she heard via "Tell-a-Star"
that the Hat-Rack Mother was doing a superb job. That baby
had really done an exceptional job of turning the hat rack
into a gentle earth mother. Celeste wanted to personally
congratulate mother and child, but when she tried to des-cend,
her wings would not flap upsidedown. Besides, Peter,
the man at the Pearly Gates, told her she would only frighten
the earthlings, and the only way she could go to Earth was
through becoming an idea, and Celeste decided she was
happy with her angel status. The gatekeeper also told her
that Engineering and Design had already begun a beautiful
golden crown for the Hat-Rack Mother with one bright and
shining star, so Celeste decided to let well enough alone
because you cannot argue with divinity.
Suddenly, Celeste's attention rested on an entry: the
"Heavenly Herald" and the "Trumpet Tribune" both
needed cub reporters.
"Yes, that's for me! " Celeste knew in her innermost parts.
In her mind, Celeste could just see her shiny new press badge
pinned to her glowing halo. "Scoop Celeste" would be her
new "tag. "
Exuberance shone on Celeste's face. "I haven't felt this
uplifted or inspired in a million years, " she quipped to
herself, and as she adjusted her rose-colored glasses, she
transcended upward and onward.
Celeste chose the "Heavenly Herald" because it was closer
to her abode. My, how she hoped she'd make a good impres­sion
on her interview. Rumor had it that the editor was a
real perfectionist.
Editor Paul, who wrote epistles for the "Heavenly
Herald, " turned out to be an 01' softy seraph, and Celeste
warmed the cockles of his very heart with the pure love that
she always emanated. In the twinkling of an eye, Editor Paul
saw promising potential in Celeste and hired her "ad in­finitum.
"
Celeste's friends, Hope, Faith, and Charity, who were
angels-at-Iarge and roving reporters on the "Heavenly
Herald, " invited her to lunch with them at "The Sweet By
and By ,Shop, " but Celeste's appetite was on the wane
because she was so elated with her new position. Anyway,
the last time she had been tempted to taste the Forbidden
Fruit Entree, her angelic tummy had been perfectly petulant.
"Maybe just a slice of angel food. I do want to be abso­lutely
superb tomorrow for my new assignment;' Celeste
decided.
Heaven had truly showered on Celeste. She adored inter��viewing
new souls and covering the "What's New Under the
Heavens" column. Celeste's halo took on a new and won­drous
glow, and it shone brighter than ever. She awoke each
morning with gentle joy shining in her eyes. At last she knew
ecstasy; she had found her true passion here in Paradise.
One magnificent morning as Celeste flew to work, she
caught her reflection as she hovered over a pond below, and
immediately decided she wanted a new image to match her
crowning success. That very evening, she had her curls cut
into a blow-and-go style, and she asked Joseph to design a
suit for her, perfectly pink. Next, she shopped for shoes and
found "pink of perfection" heels to complement her imperial
look. Her new image was indeed inspiring.
One soft, heavenly blue twilight evening as Celeste winged
her way home from a newsworthy day at the "Heavenly
Herald, " two of her seraph friends, Serene and Surreal,
stopped Celeste to comment on her metamorphosis. These
two seraphs staffed The Guardian Angel Academy, and took
novice angels under their wings until Commencement Day.
Serene called, "Celeste, wait a second, we wanted to tell
you how much we admire your new illusion. Why, every spirit
in Heaven is talking about your very essence. Did Sampson
style your new carefr~e coiffure?"
Surreal chimed in, "And who fashioned that darling,
divine, pink suit? Did I hear you say 'Joseph's Many-Colored
Coats and Suits? ' He certainly did a superb job on those
wing slits, and the tailoring is just perfect. "
Serene and Surreal chorused, "Who really did envision all
your charming creations? "
Serene added, "All of Eden is wanting to imitate you, and
that's the highest form of flattery. "
Celeste gave an angelic smile and was off in an appari­tion
of loveliness. Celeste's choppy flight pattern had been
playing havoc with her lately, because it jarred her pink
pumps loose and caused them to fall off her feet in mid-air.
Oh, how she hoped the shoes wouldn't fall off right in front
.of her friends' admirations. Chasing those darn falling pink
pumps had caused her to be late nearly everywhere she went.
Why, several St. Elmo's fires were only a glow when she
finally arrived. "There's got to be a solution, " she thought.
"I'll sleep on it, and maybe by morning an answer will come.
I really love those pink shoes. Ahhh, sleep, blessed sleep. "
Celeste floated off to the Land of Nod on a gaggle of
goosedown, silver-lined clouds and the stillness of infinite
peace surrounded her gently in its soft embrace.
Celeste awakened and arose, eager to welcome the new day,
rise above her tribulation, and claim her good. She noticed
the lion and the lamb snoozing together in perfect peace and
tranquility, sunshine and flowers, and she knew her problem
had its perfect answer just waiting.
"By Job, my patience is running out, " yelled Editor Paul.
"I'd have to be a saint to tolerate Celeste's perpetual unpunc-
Travelerf7
tuality. If that impervious imp Celeste is late one more time,
I'm going to have to clip her wings. Time immemorial! She
promised she'd be prompt for her Previous Personality Pro­files
interview. She really has a wonderful way with those
new souls, and I can tell she's on cloud nine in her new line
of work. Her confidence shines through and just lights up
her whole countenance, " he mused as he stroked his long
red beard.
Hope, Faith, and Charity chimed, "Celeste adds a certain
'savoir-faire' to the whole news team, and besides, we love
her so very much. "
Paul sighed, "Yes, I know, if she could just manage to be
here on time. "
Then, "Scoop Celeste" darted in just one eon before never,
in a skirmish, but, nevertheless, on time. She removed her
new rose-colored goggles, tossed her billowy, pink scarf on
her desk, straightened her tousled golden hair, polished her
press badge now pinned to her suit lapel, and went straight
to work.
Outside there was a whirring noise and the whole news
staff flew to the window. There parked in all its splendor
sat a bright pink, air-bound motor scooter, its small white
gold-tipped wings still aflutter. The golden angel-with­trumpet
logo of the "Heavenly Herald" glowed on the pink
scooter's side, and directly below, but not to be outdone in
lustrous mother-of-pearl, the letters dubbed the scooter, "The
Supernal Seven~' Excitement and glee overtook the news staff,
and they chattered and buzzed Celeste with questions.
Asked if she had trouble with her solo flight, Celeste
melodiously replied, "Oh, no, the instructions from Sweet
Chariot's Carriage Company simply read 'Keep your sunny
side up and just be an angel!' "
Celeste had truly come through with flying colors and all
of Heaven was at her feet. She had found perfection here
in Paradise and the Hallelujah Chorus sang. All of Heaven
rejoiced! 0
Traveler/8
EXHAUSTIBILITY
Jab, jab
skin deep
cruelty creeps
nations crumble
ages humble
Piddle, piddle
tears stream
whispers scream
hope fades
guilt serenades
Splash, splash
greed's fault
progressions halt
traditions cease
regrets increase
Hush, hush
liberal views
yesterday's news
bygone wars
losers' sores
Scribble, scribble
cards shuffle
lies muffle
grapevines talk
ambitions stalk
Ding, ding
beings toil
tempers boil
rules bend
poems end!
BI' Anf{ela A. Marline::
Traveler 9
WHEN EVERY DAY IS A BROKEN PROMISE
when every day is a broken promise
when the mannequins take command
when boredom steps from the shadows
to rule the ruined land
when the children hide their faces
and the light fades from their eyes
when the hawks of heaven and the doves of hell
fill the earth and skies
when every song is silenced
and every book is burned
when every rose is withered
and every stone upturned
when every heart cries in hunger
when every soul cries in pain
when every man's dream bends in sorrow
I will begin again.
I will begin again.
By Brian Alcorn
Traveler/1O
New Worlds
I love kittens and rainbows
Deep thoughts and silly sayings.
My days hurry scurry busy.
My nights drowsy anticipation
Oftomorrow's new worlds.
Life, real life, is just beginningfor me.
I race through its mazes,
Discoveringbrightsecrets at each turn.
Forty, going on twenty.
No more the child but still,
Finding new worlds.
By Susan Wright
Traveler/ II
A full moon shone over the Ozark
foothills which were eerily silent ex­cept
for the hissing of the still.
Billy Joe was plenty steamed at Pa
for making him keep an eye on the
still tonight. He had planned on cour­ting
Becky Lee and instead he was out
here getting eaten by mosquitoes.
And where were Pa, Moss and Jeb?
Pa said that he and the boys were go­ing
to town for supplies, but Billy Joe
knew better. Supplies weren't the only
thing they were getting in town. IfMa
knew why she'd skin Pa alive! Ma was
a big woman, a real big woman, and
most men would just as soon not
mess with her.
Billy Joe thought he ought to tell
Ma what was going on but he was
afraid of what might happen. He
knew that Pa and the boys were hang­ing
out at the Stanners sniffing after
those Stanner triplets and not one of
them was a day over fourteen.
Traveler/12
Course, in these parts, fourteen was
practically an old maid. Old man
Stanner had been shot dead by
Revenuers in a wild shoot out on a
cold April night. Ma Stanner had
been left with those three girls, two
coon hounds and a rickety shack.
Though Stanner wasn't much when
alive, dying had made him a men
among men--or at least that's the way
his widow told it.
Right now, She wanted to get those
girls married off so she wouldn't have
to feed them. And, of course, she
would need another man and those
girls would be better gone. No sense
parking a jalopy next to a shiny pick­up
and asking which looks better.
Billy Joe sighed and leaned back
into the tree hollow. Becky Lee--just
saying her name made him feel like
his legs were made of jelly and he
could hear roaring in his head. It
reminded him of the time he just
missed going over that cliff by about
two inches when he, Jeb and Moss
had been driving home after trying
some of cousin Able's white lightning.
Now Becky made him feel that way
all the time. Sometimes, when he was
with her, he couldn't walk or talk and
he felt dumber than that Campbell
moron child who stared and drooled
all day.
Becky had only been in the hill
country for two years. Her Ma had
run off to the city with a fella she had
met at the filling station. He had been
passing through with a camera tak­ing
pictures for some book. It was a
book about Ozark folk and it was in
libraries everywhere.
Billy Joe had never seen a library
and, of course, he couldn't read ex­cept
for his name and words like
"Pepsi" and "Keep Out:' But Becky
had been to school, could read and
write and had different ways. When
her Uncle Jed came sidling up to her
with certain things on his mind, she
wasn't having any of it. She hit him
on the side of the head with a skillet.
When her Pa died, her Ma dragg­ed
her back to the hills, but she wasn't
staying. She would talk to Billy Joe
for hours on end about getting out.
Gosh, she was beautiful-long black
hair and dark eyes. She stood tall and
straight and pretended not to hear
when the other kids would taunt her.
The other kids didn't like her. They
called her "uppity" and she called
them "low life hillbillies:'
It bothered Billy Joe when she
talked about leaving. He had never
been out of Cave Hollow himself,
though he wondered sometimes what
it was like. Becky told him aU kinds
of things. Some of them he just
couldn't believe. Trains under the
ground, kids all growed up and still
going to school, big parties, different
looking people, funny ways he just
couldn't figure. But he loved her. He
would do anything for her.
Becky Lee crouched and stared at
her mother. Mom had changed so
much in the past two years they had
been here. She seemed to shrink and
fade like the fabric on her apron.
These hills seemed to suck the life
right out of her. Yet she came back
here and stayed.
Becky talked and argued for hours
but Mom refused to budge. She
would rathe live hand to mouth and
wait for those Social Security checks
among these people than be on her
own in the city. Well, Becky Lee
wasn't having it. She wasn't going to
end up here and have raggedy clothes
and a new baby every year.
Billy Joe was meeting Becky at the
burned-out Jones' barn. He was in
such a hurry, he kept tripping over the
ruts in the road as he ran through the
early morning haze. Becky was
waiting, pretty as can be, with a deter­mined
look on her face.
When she saw him, she jumped up
and ran over to him, flinging her arms
around him and giving him such a
bear hug he thought his heart would
stop. "Billy Joe;' she bubbled, "I've
got big news for you! I'm getting out
and I need your help:'
Dumbly, Billy Joe listened as Becky
Lee laid out her plan. As she spoke,
he felt excitement, sadness, fear as she
moved from one step to another.
Then he felt desperate when he
thought of never seeing her again un­til
he realized that she expected him
to come with her.
It was too much. He pulled his hat
over his face and lay back on the
grass. This required some thinking.
After blurting out the whole plan,
Becky became quiet and watched him
as he thought it out. Now, he was
crazy about Becky, but all they had
ever done together was talk. He
couldn't bring himself to act like the
other boys. It just didn't feel right to
him. And Becky Lee was special but
he didn't know what to do next.
Course, if he helped her he had bet­ter
leave town if he valued his hide.
"I'll have to think on it Becky Lee:'
Becky smiled and, leaning over, kiss­ed
him squarely on the lips. He was
a goner.
He spent the rest of the day moon­ing
about it, looking for some kind
of sign as to what he should do. Ma
wanted to tonic him and Pa said he
was just lazy and ought to be thrash­ed.
When evening finally came and
Billy Joe was almost asleep, he gave
a start and knew what he would do.
An owl had hooted three times in the
night and that was his sign.
He and Becky met the next day and
settled their plans. Maybe this was go­ing
to work out. The plan was very
-simple. The needed a stake to get to
the city and live until they could both
get jobs. Pa kept his still money in an
old coffee can buried somewhere in
the woods. Now Billy Joe didn't know
where, but he didn't have to know. Pa
would bring the money to him.
The plan would take some time and
some waiting, but it would work. Pa
and his brothers usually went to town
once a month, but lately it had been
twice a month, so he a.nd Becky
waited. And while they waited, Becky
told him stories about the city. Stories
about refrigerators, movies, schools,
big stores full of more cans than Ed's
general store would hold in a lifetime
of business.
Finally, Pa and the boys went to
town. Becky Lee and Billy Joe follow­ed
them straight to the.Stanner house
and there with Becky's Polaroid they
caught Pa with his pants down. Why,
when that flashbulb went off you
could just see the stars in Pa's eyes!
Becky got off a second shot and really
blinded him. At first, he thought
lightning had hit though there was no
thunder-not that he would have
noticed. He was busy.
Becky and Billy Joe ran like crazy
through the woods and finally
stopped at Skunk Creek to look at the
pictures. They were perfect. Becky
laughed so hard her sides started to
hurt. They raced back to Billy Joe's
place.
Billy Joe was calm as he spoke to
Pa. Course, it helped that he had a
twelve gauge shotgun across his knee.
"You see Pa, you give us your still
money and we don't show Ma these
pictures:' Pa was real mad, but he
acted sly as he could be and started
talking about family and how he was
Billy Joe's Pa and deserved better.
And Billy Joe started to remember
that Pa had always favored Moss and
Jeb. Then he started to think about
how Pa would beat him when he got
drunk, if he could find him. Billy Joe
decided to give those pictures to his
Ma after he got the money. Pa came
across with the cash. He cussed and
glared, but he gave in. He was pro­bably
thinking that he could catch up
with Billy Joe or Billy Joe would
come running back from the city with
his tail between his legs. Yes, siree,
that's what h$ thought.
Becky Lee snuggled closer to Billy
Joe in the boxcar as it rumbled toward
Williamsville. Pa's money still made
a nice fat wad in Billy Joe's pocket.
He could still see the postman's face
when he asked him to address an
envelope to his Ma and to mail it, but
only after three days.
Too bad he couldn't be there when
it arrived, too bad. 0
Traveler/13
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Traveler/14
Mirrored Days
I sit at the mirror every morning,
day after day after day,
Not really looking, but skillfully applying
the expensive, scented epoxies
That bind to me the slowly eroding face I present to the world
day after day after day.
I do not see the changes.
They creep insidiously, like mortar dripping,
day after day after day,
Until some morning when I'll sit at the mirror and really look.
And an old woman's face will gaze back at me
day after day after day.
By Joyce E. Williams
/
the evensong
the evensong
uncloaks the night and sets it free
chases "day" away from me
the methane sea
engulfs the sun seductively
the lunar pull won't let me be
a cool, night breeze moans the evensong
he and, awash in clean moonlight
my mifi'tl oams free, I feel alright
a partner with a ntamMight
I shed my boots; and sand feels cool
I can't resist the lunar pull
the breeze moans on, so sensual
the evensong
cool and free
chases pain away from me
By Michael A.
Traveler/I5
The word "jazz" evokes a century of American
musical memories and visions of brilliant com­posers,
musicians, and stylists. These visions,
stereophonic with the syncopated strains of a
thousand unforgettable songs, illustrate the
musical roots of America, jazz.
Jazz is alive and flourishing at Glendale Com­munity
College. Begun in 1980 the jazz program
includes the Jazz Ensemble, which is comprised
of day students, and the "Pro" jazz band, which
is comprised of continuing students, who are also
professional musicians.
These performing groups are recognized both
educationally and professionally for their in­novative
excellence in jazz.
The day students, who have participated with
high acclaim at state jazz festivals, perform at vir­tually
every campus event, and also hold infor­mal
"jam" sessions in the student union.
The "Pro" jazz band has given the college a
new dimension by bringing recognized artists to
the campus for concerts and clinics.
Recently, the groups have video-taped their
performances with the Newport Jazz All-Stars
and Clark Terry's Jazz Clinic. They are also
responsible for a number of successful recordings
that are played on local jazz stations.
The musicians annually host a jazz festival,
where they entertain and entice jazz students
from every satellite high school.
Rhythm and blues, swing, jazz rock, and com­petition
jazz charts can all be experienced at
Glendale Community College where jazz direc­tor
John Thrasher provides opportunities for
enrichment and growth in the classical music of
America, jazz. 0
Traveler/17
Traveler/18
journey's end
Noah, you know where this road ends.
Can you recall each dark hour
and engrave it upon my memory?
I know now, you understood your journey
That uncontrollable pain, that changed you
Also let you hang on silver clouds,
Playing tag in the heavens.
Noah, you lived with demons at the end.
They screamed and wailed across your dreams,
But I'd like to believe you were hiding,
Safe in the silence of your clouds,
Floating past mountains
Screaming in silent pain
As time evaporates like dew.
Noah, you've found your rainbow,
at last.
But, I see no colors.
I am lost in the sea of life.
There is neither rest or pain,
Only enduring.
We sail on faith alone,
Not knowing where the road leads,
But, Noah, you know where it ends.
By Jill Walterbach
Traveler/19
A film review by Delores Hanney
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•
There's an expression they use in
Louisiana for something that is
more than expected, a delightful
surprise, The expression is
lagniappe (lan'yap), A movie pro­minently
featuring a rock per­sonality
that never degenerates into
exploitation, but is instead an
almost old-fashioned film, straight
out of the Cosmo Topper school
of screwball comedy is definitely
lagniappe! That it exhibits little
trash mouthing and even less skin
goes beyond surprising; it prac­tically
staggers, Desperately Seek­ing
Susan is the serendipitous find.
Basically an Alice in
Wonderland story, it's a con­voluted
tale about Roberta, a
romantic, dissatisified housewife
from Fort Lee, New Jersey, whose
identity crisis reaches epic propor­tions
when an improbable series of
events (that includes amnesia and
mistaken identity) catapaults her
into the life of a street-wise
hustler, conveniently including a
suitcase full of the trashy wardrobe
she will need for her new role in the
exchange. Roberta, who now
believes she is Susan (aforemen­tioned
street-wise hustler) is pur­sued
by her husband, who wants
his wife back; by Susan, who
wants her trashy wardrobe back;
and by a mobster who believes she
is Susan, who he thinks has his
loot from a heist that he wants
back. Are you with me?
That this mish-mash works is
due in no small part to the purely
delicious casting. Looking
something like a cross between
Bambi and Laverne DiFazio, Rose­anna
Arquette infuses her Roberta
with a dizzy relatability. There's an
honest vulnerability about her and
sort of a firm vagueness that lets
us empathize with her quiet
desperation and feel angry when
her sister-in-law belittles her feel­ings.
It also lets us worry, in a
mild way, when this innocent is set
loose in the wilds of New York
City.
In a classic juxtaposition,
Madonna, with her lank hair and
underwear worn as outerwear,
brings a whole new meaning to the
term sleazy (in some circles that
new meaning is: fashionable). We
may not yet know- if she can act
but she is clearly a presence. As
Susan she's an amoral,
manipulative user, but lacking the
hard edge that would render her
just nasty. She may not be ad­mirable
but she does possess a cer­tain
gutsy attractiveness and a cat­like
quality that makes us suspect
she will always land on her feet.
As Roberta's hot-tub en­trepreneur
husband Gary, Mark
Blum gives a perfect portrayal of
upward mobility run amok.
Caught up in the ever-expanding
expectations of his acquisitive life
style, he conveys as much confu­sion
as concern at Roberta's disap­pearance
(which the police hint is
most likely due to extra-curricular
activities, possibly prostitutional in
nature). Gamely, if somewhat inef­fectually,
he undertakes to search
for her himself, thereby pitting his
straight arrow persona against such
unexpected backgrounds as a used
clothing store and a gay bar with
hilarious results.
The same scrupulous attention
has been lavished on the sup­porting
cast and they wallow in
their roles with equally joyful
abandon. Aidan Quinn is Roberta's
gentle, sympathetic if rather reluc­tant
rescuer; John Lurie is suitably
menacing as the gangster in spite
of (or perhaps even because of) his
Chevy Chase grin; and Laurie
Metcalf brings the east coast to
the southwest as Leslie, Gary's
pushy, abrasive sister. Desperately
Seeking Susan is, in fact, liberally
sprinkled with little gems of
character: a slimy owner of a
scuzzy nightclub, a half-blind
magician's assistant, a hooker who,
thinking Roberta's in the trade in­quires,
"How do you use the
birds?"
A relatively recent New York
University film school graduate,
director Susan Seidelman seems to
have a special feel for the subur­ban
woman with a yen for the
glitzy exhilaration of big city
streets. Her first movie, the
independently produced
Smithereens was also a Little-Miss­Muffet-
Goes-Punk yarn. A 1983
award winner at Cannes, it
ultimately bagged for her the op­portunity
to direct this bigger
budget picture for Orion, which,
one tends to conclude, is just a bit
on the autobiographical side.
Leora Barish's spirited script
provides Seidelman with plenty of
grist for her zippy farce in its
looney characters and outrageous
situations-even the throwaway
lines are marvelous. Together they
have given us the first movie that
attempts to explore the burning
issue: Do loft dwellers make better
lovers than yuppies? It perks along
at a madcap pace, literally and
symbolically ricocheting us back
and forth between the seamy,
seedy, colorful low life of New
York's East Village and sleek,
sterile, gadget-filled Fort Lee. At��mosphere
is all important here and
cinematographer Edward Lachman
and production designer Santo
Loquasto have served up a glossy
but comfortable and comparatively
wholesome suburb to contrast with
the carnival-like seductiveness of
the New York streets. It's a con­trast
that works.
Some have called Desperately
Seeking Susan a woman's movie,
and, in truth, it is women that it is
focused on. But this is no Jane
Fonda flick. N9 one is raising
anyone's consciousness here. It's
too playful-and too universal­for
that. In her own offbeat­upbeat
fashion, Roberta touches
that lunatic part in all of us that
longs to break out and have an
adventure (preferably a nice "safe"
one).
I have enjoyed this movie several
times: with my twelve year old
daughter and with my seventy year
old mother, with men and with
women. No one that I have
witnessed has left the theatre shak­ing
their head in wonderment or
marveling at its vast cosmic im­plications.
No one drags out tear­fully
either. They bounce. It's that
kind of- a movie. 0
Traveler/2l
SOAP OPERA QUEEN
My life is as boring as a life can be;
there's no excitement or thrill for me.
The children are happy and growing just fine.
My husband is loyal, decent and kind.
Oh, for the life of a soap opera queen
If I had a name like Fallen or Quinn,
I'd trick and I'd tease and I'd live in sin.
The men in my life wouldn't be Larry or Jo;
they'd have to have names like Blake or Frisco.
If I had a name like Alexis or Raven,
I'd be rich and a bitch and have all that I'm cravin'.
My clothes would be costly and really divine,
while my house would be perfect and rather sublime.
Oh, for the life of a soap opera queen
If I was like Delia, Erica, Eden or even Colette,
I'd never dust, vacuum or clean a toilette.
There'd be lots of affairs - one after another,
but I couldn't be sure one wasn't my brother.
If I wasn't happy with my character role,
I would die and come back as some other sweet soul.
With a name like Ciji, Kitty or even Jaylynn,
I'd skip out for a while and return as a twin.
Oh, for the life of a soap opera queen
I could be pregnant by Asa while married to Bo,
have an abortion or two, and no one would know.
Children aren't common in the household you see.
They only show up when they're about twenty three.
I could murder my lover while he's sleeping in bed,
twist all the facts and blame it on Zed.
I'd have a career, run a house, too,
lie and cheat like all sweet girls do.
Oh, for the life of a soap opera queen
You must have a Whitney, Valene and Hope
to draw attention to any good soap.
There's a Roxie, and Marisa and even Marley,
but I draw the line at Calliope.
If I had a name like the ones listed here,
I could face any disaster without any fears,
but with a nice common name like Sally or Jean
I could never be a soap opera queen.
By Susan Olson
Travelerj23
th.(J1.eetill
By S,lIy Tom'h'k Bock' ~
The Bogwan sat hunched on a rock at the edge of the
clearing, paddling his webbed toes in the soft mud beside
the stream. Late afternoon sunlight, filtering through the
jungle canopy, made his pale green skin appear almost
luminescent as he gazed impassively, with bulbous red­orange
eyes, at the pacing human.
"Comfort." He creaked. "Time is arriving."
The man shot him a look and sat down abruptly, expell­ing
a huge breath of air and running nervous fingers through
his tousled hair. He hadn't meant to appear impatient.
A large insect buzzed relentlessly around the man's head,
oblivious to the smokepots churning out dark clouds of
smoke, meant to keep the insects at bay. The man swiped
at it savagely, and it darted away, too near the Bogwan, who
shot out a sticky, pink tongue, snagging the insect in mid­air.
He clicked in amusement. The man glowered at him and
the Bogwan straightened and began swinging his spindly legs
casually, like an errant and uncaring child, humming a tune,
which to the man sounded little different than the ceaseless
droning of the everpresent insects.
:'Quiet!" The man commanded irritably. And the
Bogwan ceased his humming.
Gazing unseeingly at the billowing smoke, the man
frowned, contemplating his situation. He remembered his
pride at being chosen to represent his expedition at the
meeting with the Gorron representative. His youth and vigor
had bolstered his ego. Now he felt anxious and uncertain,
lacking in experience.
The meeting was purely ritual. The men had been accepted
on the planet long ago. Yet such meetings were customary,
an assurance of good will between all involved.
"He comes."
The man sprang to his feet, rubbing the dampened palms
of his hands against the sides of his pants, while the Gor­ron
approached silently walking upright through the jungle
growth, manlike and imposing. All was silent except the
dripping of moisture and the sputtering of the smokepots.
In the distance the man could hear the resonance of insects.
Upon entering the clearing and regarding the man
brieny, the Gorron turned his golden, lidless eyes toward
the Bogwan and spoke in a series of creaks and clicks, before
returning his gaze to the man. His pupils were thin, dark
lines running vertically through the amber gold of his widely
set eyes and the man repressed a shudder, forcing himself
to return the gaze.
"The Gorron says he is honored by your presence and
hopes for pleasant relations between your two peoples." The
Bogwan rasped in the human's tongue.
Traveler 24
The man relaxed somewhat then, stepping forward and
extending his hand through the curls of smoke toward the
Gorron. Quickly, the Bogwan chirped an explanation of the
gesture, and the Gorron offered his own hand, a large,
clawed appendage, the palm of which was covered with
adhesive pads, whose grip was softly suctioning. The cool,
dry skin of the Gorron was loose and covered with beaded
scales, and the touch of it electrified the man with revul­sion.
As he fought an urge to snatch his hand away, a faint
odor wafted past the smell of smoke to his nostrils. It was
something that he had smelled before, long ago, but he
couldn't remember what or where. He muttered a saluta­tion,
which the Bogwan translated, and the man's hand was
released.
He stumbled back and seated himself on a rock, not dar­ing
to rub his hand against his pant leg to remove the of­fending
smell and feel of the Gorron's touch. The meeting
had begun, yet the man could not keep his mind on what
was being said. The smell-the stench-pervaded every pore
of his body. He was breathing it, gulping it in with the air.
He tried to push the thought of it from his mind, but it was
of no use. He couldn't ignore it. The smokepots! Frantically,
he stooped, adjusting the wicks so the smoke would billow
darker, thicker, heavier, to eliminate the foul rankness. Yet
still, it was there, clinging to the back of his throat.
He remembered then. The reptile house! At the zoo on
earth, when he was young. Even as a child he had been
unable to tolerate the fetid, suffocatingly damp enclosures
inhabited by creatures primeval and alien.
"Excuse me. 1. .. I'm sorry." He swallowed convulsively,
clamboring to his feet.
The Bogwan blinked his transparent eyelids rapidly in con­fusion,
but the Gorron sat silent, staring at the retreating
figure stumbling wildly down the jungle path. The man ran
blindly, consumed with illness. When out of sight of the
other he nung himself to the ground on all fours, retching
violently. The acrid taste of his own vomit sickened him fur­ther,
forcing him to heave again and again, until his body
ached and his forehead beaded with moisture
Finally spent, he pushed himself from the ground with
weakened limbs. He brushed the back of his hand across
his mouth and stood, chilled and trembling, clinging to a
tree for support. Flinging his head back he drank in clean
air with great gasping breaths, his eyes closed to his sur­roundings.
He was furious with himself for allowing his
emotions to possess him. The Gorron. What was he to tell
the Gorron? Or the Bogwan? Or his men? He had failed
miserably.
Back in the clearing, the Bogwan spoke in the Gorron's
tongue as they moved closer to the stream, away from the
churning smokepots. "Pardon the alien. he has not been
well. "
The Gorron croaked his understanding and said quietly,
"The aliens are intelligent and industrious, and have adapted
well to our environment. I am certain that our peoples shall
be able to live in harmony, side by side. However," and he
lowered his voice further in a tone of confidentiality, gaz��ing
in the direction in which the man had disappeared. "I
doubt that we shall ever grow accustomed to their odor. I
had heard that they attracted many insects. After getting
a whiff of one of them, one wouldn't wonder why. I was
glad for the clouds of smoke, though it did little to mask
the smell."
The Bogwan, whose sense of smell was not as acute, click­ed
and said. "Insects indeed! Living near the aliens one never
wants for lack of food!"
And they both clicked their amusement. 0
Travelerj25
Traveler/26
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W~'I.. ~e~' By Elaine Christine Finke
Traveler/27
/
Lament for Green Shoes
Traveler/28
Dull shoes, bright shoes,
Day shoes, night shoes.
Red shoes, blue shoes,
Give me any two shoes.
Pink shoes, white shoes ­Are
there any trite shoes?
But I'm afraid I've never seen
The perfect pair of shoes in green.
Gold shoes, black shoes,
No female should lack shoes.
High heels, low heels,
Some (even) with no heels.
Brown shoes, tan shoes,
Nothing like a man's shoes!
But I'm possessed - I'll never find
The green shoes that 1 have in mind.
Sneakers, sandals,
Some which may cause scandals.
Silver shoes, gray shoes ­Have
you any playshoes?
Taupe shoes, beige shoes,
Never-tell-your-age shoes.
Oh, rapture great beyond compare!
(I think) at last I've found a pair
Of green shoes, green shoes
Put-them-on-and-preen shoes.
But when 1 try them on, 1 find
They pinch (Oh, Fate, you're most
unkind!).
And I lament; I've still not seen
The perfect pair of shoes in green.
By Joyce E. Williams
A.T.L. relaxed as he waited for a car to drive
past his corner. He had a wait, because he was
in charge of the slowest intersections if not the
slowest at night in the whole city. Yet he didn't
mind. It gave him time to look at the amazing
sights of the human world. Oak trees everywhere
the eye could see! A.T.L. viewed them as the most
beautiful of God's creations, except for himself,
of course. From the oak trees' massive poles, grew
a myriad of limbs that had little green things
growing out of them. He had no idea what these
parts were called for he got his information only
from the mouths of humans, and all they had
mentioned was that they were called "oak trees"
and they were going to "leave" sometime in the
near future. He didn't want them to go. They
helped pass the time of the boring night hours.
A.T.L. was an Automated Traffic Light. But he
didn't like to be called that because people didn't
get famous or remembered if they had long
names. He had been installed at the intersection
of Pierce and Third Street only three days ago,
and was working out just fine. He had a twelve
foot long magnetic plate placed into the pave­ment
on both sides of Pierce, the less busier of
the two. He was programmed to leave the lights
facing Third green, but when a car would stop
at the red light of Pierce, the magnetic plate
would detect the metal underneath the car and
send a message to A.T.Cs control box. This was
located in the median on Pierce being no more
than a one-foot tall green box. Once the control
box got the message, it would send it to one or
more of the four lights that were on the corners.
Then the light would turn green to allow the
waiting driver to move along. A.T.L. believed it
was a complicated procedure at first, but then he
got the hang of it.
A
LIGHT
KILLING
D. John Sabel
By
He was a new invention. As far as he knew all
the other traffic lights worked on a timer. In fact,
the program that worked days was one of them,
a senile old goat that should step aside and let
the more modernized equipment take over. But
he refused to let it take over completely, so he
allowed A.T.L. to work the graveyard shift, when
hardly a car would pass.
Now, after his third day of working, A.T.L. felt
that he did not need the magnets to tell him when
a car was waiting. He could see the cars coming
through eyes that were either magical or super­natural.
He didn't know where he had acquired
this vision, but he didn't care where. As long as
he could see. He believed that his vision came
through the red lights of each of his four poles,
but wasn't positive.
So he just stood there, waiting to change the
color of his lights.
Then he recalled his memory.
".
Traveler/30
Since he had been working he had seen his
share of automobiles and their drivers. There
were cars that smoked exhaust, cars with bald
tires, cars with doors and cars without, and fan­cy
jobs and old klunkers. People that drove fast
and people that drove slow, people that were tired
and people that were wide awake as could be. But
there were two drivers that interested A.T.L. the
most.
One of them drove a metallic blue 71 Chevy
Nova. The car was definitely an attention getter
with its smooth paint job from the front to the
jacked-up rear end. Its chromed wheels were
polished constantly, its blue velour interior
vacuumed, a stereo worth a couple grand was
kept on, blasting away the silence, and the license
plates that read "2-Blue:' But the driver was an
eyesore. He probably kept better care of the car
than himself, which may not be that far from the
truth. He was about 5'11" with green eyes that
highlighted his dirty unkempt blonde hair. From
what A.T.L. could make out about his attire was
that he wore blue jeans and a black t-shirt that
had a name on it that was barely legible. He
assumed it was the teen's name. It read Ozzy
something or another; people just don't get
famous with long names. He also had a cigarette
in his mouth and he would flick his ashes on to
A.T.L:s pavement while waiting for the light to
turn green. Although he did look comical to
A.T.L., he viewed this young man as a clever sort
of person. Each time A.T.L. saw him he had a
Pepsi cup full of beer. What cop would stop you
for drinking Pepsi and driving?
He saw this young man a total of five times
since he had been working on this corner and
each time he drove under A.T.L., A.T.L. could
smell a strange odor coming from the car. It made
him feel light-headed and once he couldn't even
control his lights from blinking on and off. He
didn't know how he could smell: Maybe he was
more human than he thought. Which got A.T.L.
to wonder if the things he smoked were really
cigarettes, after all.
Then there was the man in the four-door brown
Oldsmobile; it was the kind of car you saw every­day
that you couldn't care less about it. The man
had brown hair and a little extra on his belly. You
could say that this middle-aged male was
moderately overweight. He had one unique
quality that the other drivers didn't show much
of. He was always in an angry rush the three times
A.T.L. saw him. Coinc i.dently, he had been stop­ped
at a red light each of those times. And all
the time he would stick a single finger up at
A.T.L. and say words that were simply not in
A.T.L:s vocabulary. He would claim A.T.L. had
something against Oldsmobiles when A.T.L. was
only doing his job, letting cars pass that had been
waiting longer than the others. So maybe he was
a doctor of some sort and had to rush to the
hospital for some reason. That is no excuse to
ask the highway system to step aside and let him
pass. Frankly A.T.L. didn't like the man's tone
of voice.
Now he was hearing, which made him come
to think that all traffic lights could see, smell,
hear, and think as he could. Up until now, he
thought he was unique.
He let him pass, but each time he would say
the same words and stare at his red light waiting
for it to turn green. This made A.T.L. grow
angrier and angrier.
But now it was time to let the old timer take
over. The road was getting busier and light was
beginning to shine through the trees. Light hurt
his eyes. He slept through days and lived during
the nights, just like an old folklore character
whose name slipped his memory.
He had to do something about that angry man,
but now he slept.
9:00 p.m..
The angry man wouldn't be here for another
hour and the Nova driver for another half an
hour, which gave A.T.L. enough time to ex­perience
this new sensation he was feeling. Little
drops of water had begun to drop on him. Later
he would come to know it as rain. He could feel
it:
Thirty minutes and the Nova driver wasn't
there yet. Maybe there wasn't a party tonight or
maybe it was cance,lIed because of the rain. It
would be impossible to party with the rain lan­ding
on their funny little cigarettes and putting
them out, unless, of course, it was possible to
avoid the rain.
But the rain amused A.T.L. So far he had seen
cars swerve and skid on the wet pavement, but
he had especially enjoyed watching the frightened
looks on the drivers' faces that believed for cer­tain
that they were going to crash.
The rain took the boredom out of that night.
It looked so beautiful dripping off the trees.
Then he noticed them.
A brown Oldsmobile was doing the limit on
Pierce and a blue Nova was doing at least ten
miles over it on Third.
How convenient.
After all, the angry man was a threat to the
safe and cautious drivers with him being in a con­stant
rush.
And, although the Nova partier was fun to
watch, with his peelouts and the burning of rub­ber,
he was expendable. There are many people
I
like him, almost too many. But he would die a
hero in having the lead role in getting rid of a
menace on the highways of progress.
A.T.L. turned his light on Third red to make
the partier slow down, while leaving the light
green on Pierce.
The angry man thought he had finally beaten
the light; it couldn't stop him now. Even if it did
turn yellow he would still have plenty of time to
get across.
A.T.L. took in all the calculations of speed,
weather conditions, and the teenaged mind. Then
he turned the light green on Third at the precise
moment, while also leaving it green on Pierce.
The Nova suddenly accelerated, as A.T.L. had
thought would happen.
The angry man watched the light, but it didn't
change! He would finally make it across!
But he didn't get another chance to beat the
light again.
A Nova came springing out of Third Street and
he felt it collide with his car. And then he felt
no more.
A.T.L. never saw a sight like it. It was so in��spirational
watching the two cars collide.
They once were two perfectly fine automobiles.
Now they were thrown together to make one
hulking piece of junk. Their front ends were prac­tically
glued together, glass lay everywhere, and
many other parts were separated from their cars,
with most of them covered with a red liquid of
some sort. Yet he could not see the humans
anywhere.
It took an hour for a big red truck, a yellow
van, and a white car with a black stripe on the
sides to arrive. All three of them had these great
blue and red flashing lights that entertained
A.T.L., as the men inside these automobiles were
loading the human remains that were hidden on
the floors of their cars into the yellow van. A.T.L.
liked the lights that were on these automobiles.
He would have to see more of them, soon, real
soon.
Not until it was almost dawn was the intersec­tion
completely clear of debris.
It was the perfect crime! They'd blame the ac­cident
on the teen because he was intoxicated.
They wouldn't even think an innocent traffic light
was the cause.
He laughed to himself.
Then, just before it was time for A.T.L. to call
it quits for the night, a Cadillac loomed up to
his red light.
In it was an old lady who could barely see over
the dashboard, with horned-rimmed glasses that
were sliding off her nose. He wondered why she
didn't use a pillow to sit on to give her a better
view of the road.
He let the light turn green and she slowly drove
off, and he watched her drive down the road in­to
the distant forest. She was going twenty miles
under the speed limit at the very least. People
who drive slowly, slow down progress, and pro­gress
is essential.
He would have to do something about her, but
later; it was quitting time.
He really wished that the trees wouldn't leave.
After all, they did help pass the time. 0
Traveler/31
(110 r)Ed Cook, Pal Ludlka, Jeri Walker, Meg Treon, Amy Loeffler, Ellen Baker, Karen Schanbeck, Bonnie Crow, (nol shown) Mike Longenecker
Ed Cook is a 2nd year student working
toward a degree in photography. He likes "art
walks" in Scottsdale, movie festivals, and fly­ing
kites. Ed would like to travel the country
in a hot air balloon to do a high-class photo­story
on historical outhouses.
Patti Ludtka, art director, is studying graphic
arts, although she has been working in the
field professionally for three years. She en­joys
advertising design and plans to continue
a degree program at A.S.u. Her original
major, moth anthropology, proved costly and
ate a hole in her budget.
Jeri Walker, editorial staff, attends G.c.c. as
a part-time journalism student. She is also
interested in graphic arts, especially
typography. She has aspirations of becom­ing
a "stage-mother" for her pet worm, who
is a brilliant actworm.
Traveler/32
Meg Treon, Graphic Designer, is a 2nd
semester art major at G.c.c. She hopes to
enter into a career in visual communications,
such as advertising or graphic design and
packaging. She has plans for inventing a
dripless popsicle because she enjoys eating
them while sunbathing in the nude.
Amy Loeffler, graphic designer, a second year
art student at G.c.c. is planning to attend
Art Center College of Design in the fall for
a B.A. in illustration. She wants to become
another"Madonna;' and has been stocking
up on underwear to wear as outerwear.
Ellen Baker started at G.c.c. when classes
were being held at the Jewish Community
Center in 1964. She is currently a full-time
student working toward a degree in business
administration. She says in her next life she
will be born rich as well as beautiful and will
raise goldfish instead of children.
Karen Schanbeck, editorial staff, is a frame
attendant for Mountain Bell. A member of
Phi Theta Kappa, she is a part-time student
interested in creative writing. Her goal is to
become a published author, unless she
receives a staff for Christmas, then she will
become a goat herder.
Bonnie Crow, a career student, has been in
college since 1966. Her goal is to have a
degree in something. She is currently wonder­ing
whether she qualifies for a retirement
pension from G.c.c. She is an avid music
lover and an "Alvin" groupie.
Mike Longenecker is attending G.c.c. on a
President's Scholarship. He has aspirations
of becoming an illustrator and writer. He will
give up his career as a mud wrestler to achieve
these goals.