"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1981

              GCC Creative Arts Magazine Spring 1981
Volume 14
I
/
THE TRAVELER
Volume 14 Spring 1981
Editor. Gale Hastings
Art Director: Rob Richards
Cover Design: Maria Sieve
Literary advisor: Conrad Bayley
Art and Production advisor: Mirta Hamilton.
Photography advisor: WiJlis Peterson
Editorial Staff: Flo Antinoro, Karen Edelstein, Helen Ehrlich,
Herb Lewis, Howard Moses, Pauline Mounsey
Layout and Production: Nancy Allcott, Cindy Bontrager, Carole Harris,
Laura Harrison, Carol Paxton, Maria Sieve
Photography for editorials and ceramic page by Alexander J. Clay
Printing: Runbeck & Associates
Published annually b~ G.C.C. English and Art Departments,
6000 West Olive, Glendale, Arizona 85302
C The Traveler, Glendale Community College, Glendale, Arizona
PROSE "The Mantor" 6
"Paper Clip Story" 000000 8
"Comfortable Camping" 00 ••• 0000000 10
"Mr. Martin's Retirement" . 0. 0•..• 00 12
"Out of the Garden" 0. 000.. 0.. 27
POETRY "A Dreamer 0 • 0" •• 0•• 0• 0• 000. 00 000• 0. 1
"The Ancient Glass-Blower" 00o •• 0 3
"Silent Words" .. 0••.•.• 0•..••• 00000 4
"The Woman at the Door" .. 0• 0• 0000 4
"Tall Bess and the London Tea Maker" 0 0 ••••••• 5
"Trip Ticket" . 0••••••••• 00••• 0• 000......•.... 7
"A Poem" .. 0•• 0.0 •• 0.0.0.0.0 •• 0 0 0.8
"Kulturkampf' 0•• 0••.. 0•.• 0• 00 0.. 0. 9
"God created man .. ." ..... 0• 0.•. 0•.• 0• 0• 00 11
"Please Don't Touch" 0.00 ••• 00000 •• 0 14
"Duel" 0•• 0•••• 0.0 •.• 0•• 0.•••• 00.0. o' 15
"While you were ~one 0 • ." .. 0....•••.. 000... 16
"But For Tonight' .. 00. 0•.• 00•• 00•• 0•....... 16
"Sonnet To My Lord" o' 0•• 0000• 0000000 17
"Measure Of A Man" . 000• 0000• 000000. . . . . . . . 18
"First Things First" .. 00•.. 0. 0000•.•. 0 20
"Fantasy" .00 •••• 0•• 0• 0• 0• 0• 0.• 0. 0000.00.00. 20
"The chameleon .. ." 0 ••••••••••••• 20
"Empty corn husks 0 0 ." .. 0 00 20
"Winter" 00.• 0. 0 000000 21
"Wintersong" 21
"Winter Horizon" 0.•. 0• 0•.......... 000• 0• 0.• 21
"As I peel 0 .." 0.0 •• 0.0.00.0 ••• 0.00. 00. 0• 0.• 22
"Raskolnikov" . 0 0 ••••••••••••••••••••••••••• 22
"Blood-Stock" . 00•• 000• 0. 0. 0000• 0000.....•.. 22
"Fern HiJI Revisited" .. 0 ••••••••••••••••••••• 23
"Tess . 0 . 1980" • 0•••• 0• 0000• 0•••• 0. 0.• 0• 0• 024
"All In The Family" . 0000. 0. 000• 0000... 0.. 0•• 24
"Into my life . . ." 00•••...•. 0000• 000.. 25
"When There Is No Me" 0 •••••••••••• 25
"Sunday Mourning" 0 0.. 000 ....• 0 26
"Run .. ." 00 0.•• 0000 .••.• 0.0 .. 33
"At Esalen . 0 ." •. 00. 0..•.. 00•• 000. 00���.• 0• 0• 034
"Springtime" 0.• 000•.•.... 0• 0. 0.. 00• 00• 0. 0•• 35
"Minor Interval" .. 0•.• 00• 0•• 0•• 0• 0• 00• 0• 0• 0• 35
"Birth" .0.0 •• 0•• 0•••••............• 0•....•. 36
"Night Colder Than An Open Grave", .. 000 36
"Lost Eyes" . 0•• 0•• 0••• 00.. 0 000 36
• • • •
Photography by John Bluco
Creative Crafts & Hobbies
Guild Photo
INTRODUCING OUR STAFF:
The success of a creative arts magazine and its editor depends upon
the competence and support of the editorial staff as well as the cooper­ation
and talent of the art and photography departments. I have been
very fortunate in all respects as editor of The Traveler and am proud to
be associated with a magazine which last year was awarded first place
for its third consecutive year by the Columbia Scholastic Press. This
honor brings national recognition to the entire GCC student body
since our staff and contributors represent both day and evening
classes.
To maintain the production quality of The Traveler, cash awards
for students placing in prose, poetry, art and photography could not
come out of the allocated budget, as they have in the past. This year,
local merchants have generously agreed to sponsor these awards pre­sented
on Student Recognition Day. For their patronage, we give
special thanks to:
Flax Southwestern
Art Place Institutional
Parker's Services
I also wish to thank Ms. Scheidat, Ms. Sweet, Dr. Herlihy, Mr.
Hartley and Mr. Brazie for judging the literary contributions and Ms.
Gotto, Ms. Chisick, Ms. Hamilton and Mr. Peterson for judging the
art and photography entries. Special thanks go to Mr. Bayley, Ms.
Hamilton and Mr. Peterson, staff advisors.
We all hope that you read and enjoy The Traveler this year and
we invite you to contribute next year.
GALE HASTINGS, EDITOR
Gale has a B.A. in English from Arizona State
University and is currently studying art at G.C.C.
She plans a career in communications or public
relations. Her two years on the Traveler staff
have been an interesting and rewarding experi­ence.
ROB RICHARDS, ART DIRECTOR
Rob has been studying art at G.C.c. for three
years and plans a career in commercial illustra­tion.
Working layout and production on last
year's Traveler, Rob found the experience quite
satisfying and was happy to fill the spot of this
year's Art Director. He will start in June at the
Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, Cali­fornia.
MARIA K. SIEVE, COVER DESIGN
A student at G.C.c. for four semesters, Maria
plans to move into the special projects section
of Graphic Design and work on book design.
In the future she hopes to publish books with
her husband, Jerry, who is a photographer. Be­sides
attending school, Maria is a freelance stained
glass designer and has had several articles pub­lished
in magazines one of which featured her
stained glass designs.
Traveler/2
The Ancient Glass-Blower
The ancient glass-blower
slowly turns his creation,
anticipating perfection.
Soft shafts of sunlight dance
in the amber vision.
He peers into clear depth,
seeking mysterious bubbles ­fragile
sign.
With a gentle tap,
he removes dependence.
The delicate vessel contains
his dream.
Pauline Mounsey
Photography by Alexander J. Clay
Traveler/3
Illustration by Rob Richards
Back in them days as the gaslit nineties
Moved over for the incandescent new century,
Tall Bess waited tables at the Golden Day,
Downtown Denver.
She was gettin' some gray, considered
Too old for the oldest profession, but still a
Good serving Swedish-stock blonde, big-boned and
Oak tree solid.
The Tea Maker, now, he was from London.
A frail little fella come to America
'Cause he had TB. He'd bought some silver
Claim sight-unseen.
He'd promise real loud to love her forever.
Folks heard him wooin' Tall Bess, proposin', wantin'
Her to live up there with him diggin' awl
Singin' love songs.
But she always yelled the idee down. She'd say,
"Ain't no such thing as love what lasts forever,
Especially not diggin' a livin' outta
Cold mountain ground."
He never gave up though. Kept right on askin'
Everyday she was surrounded by joyful flowers,
Readin' love words he wrote and tied with bright
Ribbons of hope.
She was fallin' in love. Touchin'. Needin'
His touch. A Matin' gentle as clouds and show drifted
Into happiness blown higher by winds
Of shared laughter.
Tall Bess
and the
London
Tea Maker
(A ROCKY MOUNTAIN ROMANCE)
So she married him. Moved up to that
Little tarpaper palace folks still see there.
Tea maker called it their own love nest
Warmed by the stars.
Mine was a hole on a straight-up hillside
So steep they had to crawl to it and butt-sled back
Down. She'd dig on, she said, only 'til the
Love vein ran out.
Spring, nineteen-o-four, their tunnel caved in.
Other miners saved her but they just couldn't find him.
Finally gave it up. All but Tall Bess.
She dug three days.
Miners supposed she'd give up hope sooner.
She never made it deep into where he must have died.
The third night, the sky held only them stars
He loved so much.
Countless diamond flickers of pain across
Vivid black. Whole world turned cold for her then. No hope
Anywhere for a place warmed by stars and she
Went back inside.
They say, in spring, if you're in love, you can
Hear Tall Bess diggin' while her lover, that London Tea
Maker, sings to move the mountain and wake
The long ago.
By Gerry Benninger
Traveler/5
Illustration by Joseph Lauretta
Traveler/6
MICHELLE DITTFACH
T hirty miles south of Elsinore, high on a
hill top, there stood a small brick house
overlooking the Mantor River. A 'Y0oden
bridge that once covered the river had collapsed,
leaving splintered pieces of timber as proof of its
previous existence. The winding road that led
from the house to the paved highway, was over­come
with wild grass and weeds. No car had
touched its surface since the death of Mrs. Lorne,
five years before. It was Neil Lorne's birthday.
The cuckoo clock rang four times before Neil
lifted his hat from the rack and started out on
his daily journey. The bald spot at the top of his
head was now covered, and long white strands
of hair flowed from beneath the frayed cap. Shad­ows
cast by the rim of his hat darkened the deep
crevices of his face, and allowed his clear blue
eyes to look freely at the countryside. His faded
blue overalls fit loosely about his thin frame and
the material made a swishing sound as his legs
brushed against each other. He walked slowly
and was careful not to drag his feet or stumble
into one of the numerous potholes.
Most of the creeks near the town were filled
with pop cans and paper wrappings. They foamed
at the edges and their bottoms could not be seen
until the sun had dehydrated their decaying
bodies. The river by the old man's house was
untouched by human hands. There was no debris
harboring in its depths, and the soil at the Man­tor's
foundation looked as clear as the soil by its
side.
The Mantor had filled its belly with the first
rains of spring; its surface almost touched the
remaining planks that connected the dirt road.
With each step Neil took, the boards sank, and
the water caressed his feet. The wetness on his
soles left footprints on the ground as he contin­ued
his walk.
The old man stopped when he reached the
main road. Several cars sped past, leaving trails of
black smoke that rose in the sky. He waved to
the drivers but no one waved in return.
When the path was clear the old man crossed
the road and opened the rusty door to his mail­box.
He crouched down to look at its contents.
It was empty.
On the way back to the house a small black
puppy jumped out of the thick grass and started
to tug at Neil's trousers.
"Go away you little whipper snapper," he com­manded.
The puppy wrung its wet hair out and con­tinued
to follow the stranger.
The old man turned around and questioned,
"Don't you understand English? You don't belong
here."
The pooch paused for a moment and looked
up at the man. The dog's eyes lowered and his tail
stopped wagging. Tiny drops of water trickled
from the dog's coat.
"Alright, you don't have to cry. You can come to
my tea party at the house," Neil said as he bent
down to stroke the pet.
The pup began to wag its tail quickly and gave a
loud bark.
"Toby, oh Toby, I can hear you!" shouted a
boy from the forest. "It's dinner time, hurry up!"
The animal's ears straightened and his chin
raised as he ran in the direction of the voice.
"Toby, how could you?" the boy asked. "Mom
is going to kill you when she finds out you were
in the river again."
As Neil neared the brick house the telephone
rang. He started to run but his legs slipped in a
puddle and he fell to the ground. The old man
slowly stood up and brushed off the dirt from
his clothes. His hands were scraped and tiny
rills of blood oozed from his palms. When he
opened the squeaking gate to the house the phone
ceased to ring.
Neil walked over to the barrel beside the counter
and cleansed his hands with the rain water it
contained. He filled the tea kettle and placed it on
the gas burner. The old man put the pound cake
on the table, lit the candle, and sat down in the
rocking chair that his wife had been so fond of.
He closed his eyes, folded his hands on his lap and
rocked slowly back and forth.
The piercing sound of the kettle woke Neil
from his sleep. He straightened his back and
glanced over at the candle that had melted into
a ball of wax in the middle of the cake. The chair
changed its current with each movement of the
man's legs. He shut his eyes once more and whis­tled
softly with the cry of the boiling water. 0
Trip-Ticket
/
Illustration by Valerie Leonard
Stranded ...
between dusk and dawn
caught in the tentacles
of a long and lonely night
Unseeing and unseen.
Stranded ...
between silence and clamor
entangled in the shadows
of my own being
Unloving and unloved.
Stranded ...
between wish and deed
between what is
and might have been
Alone and lonely.
Helen B. Baldwin
Traveler/7
Traveler/8
~--------------=~::.:.~._~;;:.=====:--------- January 6, 1979
Acme Drivel Company
7674 W. Bossmuddle Ave.
New York, N.Y. 00103
Mr. Howard Yawn, junior executive
So you've decided that you want your very own paperclips. Congratula­tions!
There are, however, several things you should consider before you're
truly ready for your pet.
First, why do you want a paperclip? Please examine your motives care­fully,
as these are sensitive creatures and we naturally wouldn't like to see
one placed in the tenuous position of trying to hold a shaky corporation
together.
Perhaps the most crucial person in the care of the paperclip is the secre­tary.
Can she type well? Is her spelling correct? Is she organized? If your
secretary possesses these qualities, don't give up. There may still be hope.
A good secretary should be friendly, open, and, above all, dependable.
You certainly couldn't expect an innocent paperclip to lie around the desk
all afternoon while the secretary was running around, say, improving
her shorthand. Her time would be much better spent at her desk, where she
could keep the paperclips company while arranging her pencils or some­thing.
The boss, too, has certain obligations. He must understand that, in spite
of what he may feel personally toward his paperclips, it is basically his
responsibility to direct them to some purpose in life. A conscientious boss
will realize that he is primarily to blame if his paperclips should forsake
lives of purpose and instead become meaningless little wires.
Now a word about the paperclip itself. Unlike pencils by the telephone,
paperclips have a long life span and enjoy a healthy sex life. One office
manager in Chicago left two of those little devils in his desk over the week­end
and came back Monday morning to find enough paperclips to form
their own political party and elect a member to Congress. Always bear in
mind that your average paperclip is not very bright, but extremely cunning,
and bears considerable watching.
If, after reviewing the above suggestions, you feel that you are prepared
emotionally and financially to care properly for a paperclip, respond at once
and we will begin processing your request. Until then, I remain
Yours very truly,
Lance Wireborn
Ron Dickson
A ®Poern
Electrical gadgets
there is So m hare Wonderfuli tho
EI Uc we lngs
ectric ty . can maste ' pe~wnter II r.
every mist k s a OW~ me t
Rae- only~ faster' 0 make
on Dickson .
COMFORTABLE
CAMPING
The only positive thing I can
think of about camping is
toasted marshmallows, a treat I
can obtain on the backyard
barbeque. However, the rest of
my family can rave for eons
about the joys of camping.
There's the "isn't it beautiful"
sunrise that brings the delight­ful,
sleep-shattering chirping of
millions of birds. There's the
"fresh, brisk" (read cold, blow­ing)
morning air that sets my
teeth chattering. There's the
gathering of dead wood under
which many "cute" creatures
have spent the night. My favor­ite
is snakes. There's the wonder
of washing dishes in the woods
("Isn't this fun, Mom!") and
the late morning arrival of in­solent
people-loving insects.
There's the pre-lunch fishing
trip where hooks get caught
everywhere except in fish, and
the post-lunch hiking trip where
campers learn about the local
flora and fauna, blistered feet
and aching backs. Camping also
offers the onerous opportunity
to share the toilet with the rest
of the animal kingdom, a real
"back-to-nature" experience.
I have related only the high­lights
of "The Joys ofCamping"
as written by my family. I hate
camping. I hate the packing,
the unpacking, and almost
everything between. Camping I
could never love. But I do love
my family. So, at least once a
year, I agree to go on a weekend
camping trip. To make the excur­sion
more bearable, I have
adopted techniques conducive
to comfortable camping.
Obviously, the most comfor­table
camping is done in a fully
rigged fifth wheel trailer. The
closest I've been able to get my
family to this luxury is an in­sect/
snake proof four-man tent.
Traveler/l0
by
Karen Edelstein
I refused to sleep under the stars,
under a tarp, or in a floorless
umbrella tent. My family loves
me, too.
One of the first things I learn­ed
was that an unorganized per­son
can spend an entire day
preparing and packing for a
camping trip, a disgraceful
waste of time. I bought a large
trunk that would fit into the
car luggage rack. The trunk
holds all the needed parapher­nalia
with space left over for
canned and boxed food. When
it's time to pack, the trunk comes
out of the storage room, stops
in the house for cans and boxes,
and goes onto the car. The tent,
tarp, stove, lamp, etc. are stored
in their boxes and go directly
to the luggage rack. Clothes are
kept to a minImum (I inspect),
placed in a duffle bag, and
loaded. One particularly un­comfortable
trip taught me that
a large, efficient cooler saves
driving to Prescott or Flagstaff
for ice. Packing this way takes
about an hour.
I next turned my attention to
disentangling myself from the
role of "camp slave." Even
three-year-olds can roll out their
own sleeping bags. Dishwash­ing
requires minimal skill. I
decided that if! was going camp­ing,
it would be as "one of the
boys" - a much more comfor­table
role than "mommy." Given
no choice, they accepted.
The first trip convinced me
cots were no improvement. Sev­eral
trips showed me that patch­ing
leaks in air mattresses (even
canvas ones) would be a never­ending
chore. Then I discovered
foam. A two inch high density
three by six foam pad is pass­ably
comfortable. At least I
sleep. It even rolls into a rela­tively
small cylinder. The whole
family sleeps on them now. I
am a corrupting influence.
For years I allowed my family
to intimidate me about portable
toilets. Apparently, there is sup­posed
to be something charac­ter-
building about surviving a
campsite public toilet or an
outhouse. I wouldn't know. I
could never stand the bug-in­fested
stench long enough to
find out. So, I shared the great
outdoors with the rest of the
animals, braving bites in places
one isn't supposed to scratch
and the anxiety of imminent
discovery. No insect bug ever
bit me, but the day I heard a
click and turned to find a grin­ning
camera bug was the day
before I bought a portable toi­let.
Everyone agrees it is very
comfortable.
When my family goes hiking,
I watch the campsite, i.e., I read.
Even people who prefer hiking
will admit that reading is more
comfortable. But when they go
fishing, I go watch. It is a regu­lar
Laurel and Hardy scene ­delightfully
funny.
Thus, I have made camping
so much more comfortable over
the years that I no longer dread
it. Armed with my mosquito
repellent, I look forward to
roasted marshmallows. But un­til
I teach the birds to whisper
in the morning and the breeze to
proceed from a southerly direc­tion,
once a year is enough. 0
• • ••••
•
•
MR. MARTIN'S
RETIREMENT
A Sequel to James Thurber's "The Catbird Seat"
Illustrations by Dick Kelly
It was three days before Easter
and Mr. Martin found himself
feeling more despondent than
he usually did on this solemn
day. He had only picked at his
fish fillet at dinner and when he
left Schrafft's, he headed up the
street to St. Patrick's Cathedral.
It was that hour of the evening
when tourists have left the
church and only the most lonely
or fervently religious are still
congregated. He walked down
the long, center aisle to the
front altar, then over to a table
filled with candles. The majority
of them were lit and he stood for
a moment, trying to distinguish
the flames from righteous fire.
Unable to do so, he took a bill
from his pocket, deposited it in
the locked collection box, Ii
one of the unburned candles
and prayed to the Blessed Virgin. When he was
done, he left the church, went home and went to
bed.
The noise in the living room jolted him up­right
from his sleep. He sat there in the dark,
listening to the sound of voices coming through
the door. Quickly, he rose from his bed, put on
his robe and slippers and went to the bedroom
door. He opened it and stood, hand squeezing
the doorknob. His lower jaw dropped, as if a trap
door had opened up beneath it. There, before
him, instead of his living room, was a noisy,
crowded courtroom. As he walked down the
middle aisle to the judge's bench, the crowd's
muted mutterings gradually receded, until the
room was absolutely still. He looked up at the
judge and was completely unnerved to discover
it was his boss, Mr. Fitweiler. The crowd behind
Mr. Martin again began to mumble in increasing­ly
louder tones, until Mr. Fitweiler began bang-ing
his gavel on the bench and
ordered them, once more, to
silence. He then told Mr. Martin
to go and sit at one of the two
tables set up in the room. Joey
Hart, his assistant, was already
seated and was fumbling
through some papers. He gave
Mr. Martin a weak smile as he
looked up from his work. Before
he sat down, Mr. Martin no­ticed
Miss Paird nervously
knitting in the front row of
spectators. She seemed not to
notice him and was busily con­centrating
on the tangle of
steel and fabric that clicked and
mated in her hands. At the
other table, directly opposite
his, stood Mr. Roberts, the head
of personnel.
As Hart continued to shuffle
papers in time to the click-click
from behind, Mr. Martin looked around the un­familiar
room. At first he hadn't noticed her sit­ting
quietly next to Roberts. She seemed much
smaller than she was the last time he saw her,
five months ago. The flesh around her neck had
melted, like snow drifts at the end of March. Her
eyes were mounted in bone white frames and
hung on a wall of gray pasteboard. The mouth,
once wide and flashing gold and enamel, was
now tight and thin and there was a slight tremor
in the lower lip. Yet, there was no doubt, as he
studied her distant face, it was Ulgine Barrows.
She sat hunch'ed and weary looking in an indis­tinguishable
dark dress that hung to her ferule
frame. As he watched her in her quiet despair,
he was interrupted by Joey Hart tugging at his
bathrobe sleeve.
"I did the best I could, Mr. Martin," Joey said
unconvincingly.
"I'm sure you did, Joey," Mr. Martin answered,
Traveler/12
recalling Joey's on-the-job incompetence. "What's
this all about, anyway?"
His questions went unanswered, as Mr. Fit­weiler
again banged his gavel and roared, "The
prosecution will call its next witness."
Roberts, apparently the prosecutor in this
mysterious case, announced, "The prosecution
calls Mr. Martin to the stand."
In total confusion, Mr. Martin rose and took
his place on the stand. A clerk swore him in. Rob­erts
strode elegantly to a position between the
judge's bench and the jury box. He was obviously
enjoying his role in this case.
"Mr. Martin," Roberts began, in a tone usually
reserved for tardy employees, "did you, or did you
not, on the evening of November 10, 1942, with
pre-meditation and malicious intent, delude the
defendant, Ulgine Barrows, into believing that
you were a deranged, alcoholic, heroin-addicted,
nicotine fiend who intended to murder his boss?"
"It wasn't meant with malicious intent, I ..."
Mr. Martin began.
"Just answer 'yes' or 'no,' if you please, Mr.
Martin," Roberts sardonically sneered.
"Well, yes, I did give that impression."
"And were you not aware of the fact that the
defendant, in her zeal, would make a full and
complete report of your actions?"
"Yes," Mr. Martin shifted uncomfortably in
his seat.
"And were you not also aware that, because
of your long standing reputation for temperance,
these accusations would appear to be the ravings
of someone on the verge of a nervous breakdown?"
"Well, you see ..."
"Yes or no?" Roberts interrupted.
"Yes."
"And did the defendant indeed not have a ner­vous
breakdown as a result of your actions, that
caused her to lose, not only her job, but her pro­fessional
reputation as well?" Roberts empha­sized
the point by pounding his fist into the palm
of his hand.
"Yes." Slowly it was becoming apparent to Mr.
Martin what was going on here. He was on trial.
That miserably destructive Mrs. Barrows was
suing him. All he had wanted to do was to keep
a mean-spirited, obnoxious woman from ruining
a fine, well-run department. At least that seemed
to be the reason for his actions. Now, he wasn't
sure. Why, he might have to spend the rest of his
life making settlement payments to this horrid
monster. "Oh, my God, what have I done?" he
thought.
"Just what was it, Mr. Martin," Roberts' voice
shook him back to reality, "that made you feel
justified in destroying this fine, decent lady's life?
The court would be very interested in hearing."
"It's true, I did intend to ruin her reputation
but you make it sound as if I murdered her," Mr.
Martin replied weakly.
Roberts looked into Mr. Martin's eyes. "What
makes you think you didn't?" he said evenly.
Mr. Martin drew a deep breath and out of the
corner of his eye, he saw Mrs. Barrows sitting,
sadistically smiling in her storm trooper black
dress. Suddenly he realized why he had felt so
peculiarly distraught this day. Up until this mo­ment,
he did not know why it was so important to
crush Ulgine Barrows. He folded his hands on
the railing of the witness stand and spoke in a
soft, firm voice. "Mr. Roberts, there comes a time
when it is necessary, when someone's actions are
so despicable, so obviously destructive, so clearly
a threat to the rights, to the very existence of
others, that someone must do something about
it. Someone must say, 'This cannot be.' "
Out in the courtyard, the sun was beginning
to come up. Shadows stretched from the far wall,
partially shrouding the row of men who stood
waiting. Mr. Martin was deep in thought as Mr.
Fitweiler walked from out of the shadows to join
him at the other wall.
"Would you like a blindfold, Mr. Martin?" He
held it out carefully, like a gold watch.
"No thank you."
"Is there anything you want, before ..." Mr.
Fitweiler's voice trailed off.
"Yes, there is," Mr. Martin smiled into the
sun, "I'd like a cigarette, if you don't mind." 0
Traveler/13
Please Don't Touch
Standing out in the hall, I heard
A baby Indian might die. Meningitis, they said.
Everytime they touched her she bled.
Across the way, her great-grandfather, one hundred three,
Lying in that room surrounded by White Eyes, bed B.
They hate to watch him. He doesn't speak a word.
He chants a sing-song prayer to a living sky
And makes them mad when they can't understand why.
I believe my grandfather finds peace his Navajo Way.
Each hour of song conquers one more pain-ridden day.
His old-age-happiness can't be absurd.
While others face death in fear or hide, he still sings
Ta guardian life forms of clouds and wings.
White Medicine Men, give his chant a time to be heard.
Please don't touch his sacred painting, his ritual flower.
Don't bleed his gods. Ancient faith also had its power.
Gerry Benninger
Photography by Bob Zitlau
Traveler/14
Photography by Barbara Brown
Illustration by Andy Ledesma
Duel
I see you
You see me
Bloodstains dye your mind
Drip, drip, drip
Go your thoughts
Stab, stab, stab
Go mine.
Ron Peer
=----- - - - --
/
Traveler/IS
But For Tonight
Tomorrow,
I'll leave the window open to every wind
and let laughter slip past the door
to snuggle between my sheets.
I'll sprinkle the frothy gray shadows
with smiles, allowing sunbeams
to unravel my nerves.
But for tonight,
I'm sleeping on my feet.
Helen B. Baldwin
-'
While you were gone
While you were gone . . .
the kids broke a window,
the tub overflowed,
the painter didn't show,
But I coped.
While you were gone . . .
I paid the rent,
bandaged a knee,
fixed the shade,
And I coped.
While you were gone ...
I cried at night,
alone
in the dark
and I couldn't cope.
Susan Jean Dye
Traveler/16 Drawing by Rob Richards
Measure Of A Man
Not how did he die,
But how did he live?
Not what did he gain,
But what did he give?
These are the units to measure the worth
of a man as a man
regardless of birth.
Not what was his station,
But has he a heart?
And how did he play
His God-given part?
Was he ever ready
with a word of good cheer,
to bring back a smile,
to banish a tear?
Not what was his Church,
Nor what was his creed,
But had he befriended
those really in need?
Not what did the sketch
in the newspaper say,
But how many were sorry
when he passed away.
F. Foster
Traveler/I8
Photography by Shirley Levine
Traveler/19
First Things First
I've many-a-many
a-thing to do -
What with unwashed dishes
and dirty clothes,
With uncooked dinners
and dusty floors -
But wait,
Wait a minute.
My child grows.
Jenny L. McCoy
Photography by John Bluco
Fantasy
Fantasies
Empty corn husks hang
Rustling in the northern wind.
They sing of harvest.
Pauline Mounsey
' ..
fly ­farfetched
and
free.
How
I wish­that
fantasy
was
me.
Linda Lawler Peel
Traveler/20
•
<' .--,
':~ . _ •• ;. '<"f.. """
~ .I. • ,F"
\ '
Photography by Cathy Spann
The chameleon
Adapts itself; its purpose
To deceive. And you?
Karen Edelstein
Wintersong
The once and inevitable wind
moves cold and silent on the common.
Blows yesterday's leaves, now dead and drying.
Clears a place on the sterile grass.
And the sky, in her ninth month swollen,
braces herself against white church steeples.
Makes one cry that rages through the streets.
Bears, upon that clear, cold common,
a softly breathing child.
J. K. Evans
Photography by Barbara Brown
Winter
frosted trees ...
a cutting breeze ...
lonely curls of evening smoke
clean, cold moonbeams ...
hanging slantwise in the sky.
Helen B. Baldwin
Photography by Jennie Porter
Winter Horizon
The vast white snow blanket
Exhibits unmarked infinity;
Burwithin this virgin sphere
I kneel, astounded
At the epitaph I see,
Written by innocent feet.
Pauline Mounsey
Traveler/21
/
Raskolnikov
What kind of killer am I,
that leaves no bloody carcass?
With only the murderer in despair.
Oh, God, what am I?
I am the emperor Napoleon,
unclothed in vanity.
No?
A savior then, who has chosen
not to bring back Lazarus from the dead.
Or else, a madman,
raging in his fevered room.
Rotting from self-inflicted wounds.
Tell me, Sofya Semyonovna,
am I so different
from others you have come to know?
And why do your bloodless hands now tremble so?
J. K. Evans
Drawing by Sheila Eastman
Blood-Stock
Wild,
golden horses run
an old, tree-lined trail
in gypsy blood.
Manes fly
into thought streams,
ancestry honored.
New breed disbelievers
shun the silent band,
unable to accept
unshod hooves.
Pauline Mounsey
"As I peel my sweet white onion will I
Remain dry-eyed? Or will I tear? Or will
I need a crust of stale bread to be still
Able to continue on, though I cry?
And as you watch me slowly stripping my
Sweet white onion, will you help me to fill
The time? And can you help me warm the chill?
Or do you wish I'd simply bake a pie?"
"Yes, bake a pie and I will light the stove.
I'll sing love songs to fill our passing time.
Together we'll cut wood against the cold.
You'll peel your sweet white onion; I'll peel mine.
Without stale bread. And when we're very old,
On baked sweet layered onion pie we'll dine."
Karen Edelstein
Drawing by Maria Armstrong
Fern Hill Revisited
A farmhouse rises, framed in green and haystacks.
The sun is bleaching, even as the night stars glow,
And he is sung to waking
by the rooster restless day.
Out, into that golden sun,
into the heat of grain.
Through sacred streams he splashes.
By barley, ripe as July, he runs.
Trees dance in youthful wind,
shaking an unripe apple, now and then,
down to fertile ground.
He dances in that same soft wind,
while fox and horse, in different tongues,
speak of his gentle fire.
In that tender time he spins before lamb clouds,
soars in that pheasant sky,
flying on the wailing wind,
is carried high by wise-winged night.
Young as Adam,
playful, in the company of his own rib bone.
Easy, like the rising moon, he moans.
Until a wave explodes
Upon the chain-green stone.
J. K. Evans
Illustration by Rob Richards
Traveler/23
Photography by John Blueo
Traveler/24
Photography by Dennis Herrmann
When There Is No Me
When there is no me,
(only
the painting
the music
the poem)
When there is no me,
(only
the dancing
the writing
the loving)
When there is no me,
(only
the seeing
the laughing
the we)
Only then can I be.
Karen Edelstein
Into my life
stole a numb but nagging
anguish
a paralyzing pain
a phantom of falling
frightened ­calling,
not wanting to be vanquished
- premature ­in
vain.
I'd rather die in sunlight
than in life's falling rain.
Gulliver
Photography by Judith Darrh Simpson
Traveler/25
Traveler/26
Photography by Marion Peddle
i
Sunday Mourning
As I flew across the Arizona desert to a new home,
Passing storm clouds dangling like earrings
And a high necklace of rainbow lights
Cindy shot herself in the Reservation room
Where we had spent happy, laughing Sundays
Baking for sales, we then bustled
Through to raise money for a library
Most Indians didn't want and never use.
Little toy blue soldier-words march,
March around helplessly in my head.
I wish I was dead, I wish I was dead.
I almost wish I was dead, too,
Not helping your loved ones bury you.
Oh, Cindy, what was it you never said?
What pain were you going through?
I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead,
Not selfishly wishing to be dead,
Not wondering forever what I didn't do
To help you go on living, too.
Gerry Benninger
OUT
OF THE
GARDEN
Karen Edelstein
T he room seemed warm and friendly, in
spite of its use, in spite of its bareness. No­thing
was there for purely decorative rea­sons;
everything was functional. Yet, where the
atmosphere should have been cold and aloof, it
was warm and friendly. He had long ago solved
this paradox. It was the wood, the oak of the
furniture and the paneling that had aged to dif­ferent
shades of golden brown. Years of use had
worn comfortable depressions in his chair and
in the three chairs before his bench. He wondered
if the occupants of those chairs noticed. Glancing
at them, he doubted it. Well, at least all three
chairs were occupied this morning.
The judge shuffled through his papers. He had,
of course, already studied them, already made his
decision, but he liked to take a few moments to
observe the parents and especially to observe the
defendant. He flinched - she was a child, really.
But then, all his defendants were children and
he knew that what he did, or did not do, could
affect their lives profoundly. Only rarely had
his in-court observations entirely altered his
decision. More often they modified it and even
in this apparently straightforward case he felt
those observations necessary. Those three people
would either affirm or deny his decision.
The mother was small, her mien bird-like; she
moved constantly, her hands, her position, her
legs crossing and uncrossing. Every few seconds
she patted her daughter. Her face was full of
concern, the brow knitted, the eyes sad, fearful,
pleading. She looked at him and he turned his
attention to the father. A military man, he con­tained
himself well. The judge imagined there
were many times this man must hide his feel­ings.
Yet, he had moved closer to his daughter
and he sat out on the edge of his chair, leaning
forward and toward her. He alternated his gaze
between her face and some indistinct point in
the room. The judge felt pleased.
Now he let himself look at the daughter. In­voluntarily,
his eyebrows raised. This disturbed
him almost as much as what he saw. He prided
himself on his well-developed ability always to
appear unruffled, but he was totally unprepared
for her demeanor. She slouched in her chair, her
legs crossed straight in front of her, her arms
folded across her chest. She ignored her parents
and surveyed the room with an angry smirk,
passing over his figure with apparent indiffer­ence.
Inwardly, the judge shook his head. Never in
any trouble before. A straight "A" student. All
the teachers' reports indicated a model of be­havior.
A good, stable family according to the
social worker. The parents' statement had only
praise for this daughter. He had seen this stance
so often, but never had it been so unexpected.
The father whispered to his daughter and she
sat up. But her expression remained. Puzzled,
the judge started the proceedings by reading
the charge.
The girl was, as people often do, going over
what had brought her to this time, this place.
Now that she was faced with the culmination
of the event, she could avoid it no longer. She
remembered that it had begun with a whispered
argument, an argument with her best, and only,
friends.
"But you have money, don't you?"
"Sure we do. But it'll be more fun to lift them.
You're just scared."
"You bet I am. If we get caught, they'll call
our parents - my dad'll kill me."
"They won't call your parents. Allen Phillips
got caught once and he made up a story that his
dad had run off and his mom was sick and he
just took the earrings to try and make her feel
better. All he had to do was clean up the store­room."
"But he only got away with that because his dad
really did run off."
Chris piped in. "But just last week Jim Blair
got caught stealing records - all he had to do
was pay for them. His parents still haven't found
out."
"But you can pay for them now. I just don't see
the point. Besides, it's wrong."
"Oh, I know what's the matter with you ­you're
afraid lightning's gonna strike or some­thin'.
You're a total bore." Beryl sneered. She
and Chris got up and walked away, toward the
record display.
She sat at the counter stirring her coke. It had
taken almost two months to make these friends
and she didn't know how long she'd be here. If
they started talking against her, she might not
make any more friends at all in this town. That
had happened to her once. In the fourth grade
she hadn't had a single good friend. Why did
she have such a hard time making friends? Boys
probably didn't like her because she was too
smart and she had lost some friends because
Traveler/27
she wouldn't help them cheat on tests. Gossip
and clothes didn't interest her and there was
no point being interested in boys. She should
try not to be so different, to fit in better. Her mother
was probably right. She read too much. She was a
total bore.
She got up, walked over to the records, and
looked at the small pile on the corner of the stand.
"Are you guys still gonna take those records?"
"We can't. We don't have any place to hide
them. You're the only one with a sweater and
you're out of it." They turned their backs on her
again.
She took a deep breath. "Well, I can't take that
many, for sure. And you guys are being too ob­vious.
I'll take four, that's all. And you'd better
started toward the door, certain that every step
gave her away somehow. Her focus took on the
aspect of a fish-eye lens she had looked through
once. The store wrapped around her. The door
at the center of her vision was clear, but too far
away. On each side, reality became increasingly
distorted. It took great effort not to run and equal­ly
great effort to take each step. Only the magic
of finally stepping through the door restored her
perspective.
"Wow! We did it!" She felt herself grinning,
her mouth almost painfully stretching across her
face. It was difficult not to hop up and down, she
felt so light. The sun hurt her eyes.
"No, not here." Beryl pushed the sweater down.
"Wait 'til we get out of town."
buy a couple, too - kind of a diversionary tactic."
This could be exciting.
"Wow! Okay! Don't you want to pick outa couple
yourself?"
"No!" She said that out loud and both Chris
and Beryl started. "I don't have a record player,"
she whispered, explaining.
While Chris and Beryl were paying for one
record, she picked up the four they had left in
front of the right corner slot. Letting her sweater
fall in front of her, picking them up with the
sweater, she felt clever. But her hands were shak­ing
and they were wet and her mouth was dry.
Sure someone was standing behind her, watching
her, she kept looking to see. Chris and Beryl fin­ished
paying and called for her to come on. She
Traveler/28
"Hold it right there, girls." The blow struck her
ears at the same instant the hand clasped her
shoulder. She felt like one of thoe music box dolls
as he turned her around. "What do you have under
your sweater?" He knew.
She locked her gaze on his thin nose. "Nothing. I
don't have anything under my sweater." She
spoke purposefully and very clearly. Maybe he
only guessed.
"Either you take those records out, or I will."
"Not here, please, not here."
"Come with me, then, all of you." As he led
them back inside he maintained his grip on her
shoulder, destroying her vague notion ofsomehow
returning the records to their proper place. Even
after she had relinquished them, her focus re-
mained on the thin throbbing lines inside each
arm where the record edges had made indenta��tions
as she tried to grip them out of existence.
The man's talk was a droning radio that finally
caught her attention.
"I watched you two choose those records and
I watched you take them." He sounded almost
gleeful. "I'm sick and tired of being bled dry by
you kids. I had this one-way window installed
a couple of weeks ago and I'm going to stop you.
You girls will make a good example to the rest of
your friends. Sit down. Now, what are your
names? And your fathers' names? Where do you
Iive?"
"On base." Beryl answered. "But we can pay for
the records." She took out her wallet. "Besides,
it was just a dare - a game. We were going to
come back in and pay for them anyway."
"That's right. You don't need to call our par­ents."
Chris was very matter-of-fact, too.
They both looked at her for further confirma­tion.
But she was unable to comply. He ignored
her. "I might have known you were army brats. I
wouldn't believe anything one of you little hooli­gans
said. Besides, I've been waiting for this."
The dam broke. Between sobs she could not
control, she tried to make him see. "Oh please,
please don't call my father. I'm sorry, really sorry.
I'll do anything you want to make it up. I promise
I'll never do anything like this again, only please
don't call my father."
"Tears and hysteria will not help, young lady.
You'd better get control of yourself." He dropped a
box of tissues on her lap. "Not only do I intend to
call your parents, but I'm calling the police, too.
I'm going to press charges. You base kids are
gonna learn not to come in my store to do your
stealing. Now, what are your names and tele­phone
numbers?"
As they gave him the information, Chris and
Beryl started crying. But the realization that
she was truly trapped, that there was nothing
she could do, silenced her sobs. She answered
his questions in a metered monotone, precisely
and exactly.
When the policeman arrived she took little
notice of the whispered argument between hini.
and the druggist Finally, in a :voice gtav€lly
with anger, the policeman directed her to come
with him. Stilted, robot-like, she followed him
out of the store. "Just walk next to me. We'll pre­tend
we're strolling through town." His voice
was softer now and she looked at him for the
first time.
"Why aren't Beryl and Chris coming?" She
measured the question out carefully.
"He's not pressing charges against them." His
voice was gravelly again, but his eyes were soft,
encouraging her.
Photography by Matthew E. Lit
Traveler/29
"But why? He watched them, too. It wasn't
just me." Her tone was more normal, puzzled
and strident.
"He says you carried the records out and he is
within his rights, but the real reason is that their
fathers are officers and yours isn't. I wonder what
he would've done if one of them had carried the
records out."
The policeman kept stomping along even after
she had stopped. She knew Beryl's dad was base
commander and Chris' was some kind of colonel,
but she hadn't thought that mattered. Jim must
have gotten off because his dad was a bank presi­dent,
and he was a town kid. She felt the police­man
put his arm around her shoulder. Forcing
her chin off her chest, she let the man start her
forward. She counted 396 steps to the bench where
he deposited her saying, "I'll take care of the
paperwork."
B y the time her father arrived at the police
station, she had counted the ceiling tiles
and the floor planks twice each, attaining
the same figure each time. There ought to be more
planks and she was too preoccupied figuring out
areas to overhear the conversation just a few
feet from her.
"Don't be too hard on her, sir. When we were
kids, a good birching was sufficient for such
pranks. For girls like yours, it still is."
The father nodded. He had signed the papers,
heard the facts, and now he watched his daughter
sitting stiffly on the edge of a bench, studying
the ceiling and mumbling.
When he called to her, she stood very slowly
and raised her eyes to where his should have
been. But only his rapidly receding back accused
her.
He drove straight to the drugstore and left her
in the car. Imagining he was going in to apologize
and try to make restitution, she started to tell
him she had already done that. But he was gone.
His almost immediate red-faced and tight-lipped
reappearance frightened her. But between the
words she wasn't supposed to hear were words
that told her his anger was not for her, but for
the man who refused to drop the charges.
"I'm sorry, Daddy," escaped her lips. She had
intended to say nothing, wanting to avoid his
direct attention as long as possible. She flinched
as he turned toward her.
''I'm sorry, too. I hope this doesn't cost you
more than it's worth. The officer told me what
happened. Your court date is next Friday. When
we get home, go to your room and stay there 'til
dinner."
Her room became her refuge at home. There
she could avoid the sympathetic looks and extra
kindness her parents meted out instead of pun­ishment.
That room was never cleaner, her
drawers never more orderly. She even cleaned out
Traveler/30
her old junk drawer where she found the gold ring
her grandmother had given her the year before
she died. She had to dump the drawer out to find
the little card that was hand printed so a seven­year-
old could read it. She squeezed the ring hard
in her hand as she read it again:' "To the best
granddaughter a grandmother ever had."
The ring no longer fit even her little finger, so
she had put it on a chain and around her neck.
She wore it hidden at school. School, where she
spoke only when necessary and then in a clip­ped
way. Beryl and Chris had made a point of
telling her that their parents were really angry,
that they were restricted for three months, that
they were really sorry. But she saw the relief in
their eyes and she avoided them, too, skipping
the bus ride for the longer, but solitary, walk
home_
On Thursday afternoon as she turned into
the path that meandered through one of
the fields surrounding the base, she heard
someone shouting her name. Curious about the
pounding behind her that said she would soon
have company, she stopped. It had been a boy's
VOIce.
Allen Phillips! Her surprise quickly turned to
chagrin. He knew - from big-mouthed Beryl.
But when she looked at his face, it wasn't the ex­pected
ridicule she found. It was admiration. She
was obviously tougher than he had thought ­coming
back to school the very next day - keep­ing
quiet. He liked that. He never blabbed all over
about his business. It wasn't cool. Clearly, she
was cool.
But she wasn't cool. How dare Beryl - Beryl
who had gotten her into this and herself out ofit ­how
dare she tell anyone. Wasn't it bad enough
that she got arrested just because her dad wasn't
an officer? And he could have been. Many times
she had heard the story of how he'd refused to
go to officers training school, how he didn't want
to be an officer. He wanted out of the army. Then
they'd had one kid after another, making that
impossible, too. Now here she was - no money
for nice clothes or trips to the beauty parlor, no
bicycle, no record player, no friends, no nothin'
except being the only one arrested just because
her dad wasn't an officer.
He interrupted her rumination. He must have
thought she was worried about going to court
the next day because he started telling her how
it would be. He'd had experience. She asked ques­tions.
It did help to know what was going to hap­pen.
He figured they were a bunch of twerps, pre­tending
they cared what he thought. They had
the power and would do what they wanted any­way.
So he just ignored the whole thing. Proba­tion
wasn't so bad. You just had to agree with
whatever some old creep said and then go about
your business. Grownups don't really care.
Remembering the glee in the druggist's voice,
she knew Allen was right. There was no reason
to believe she'd be anything other than a base
hooligan in the judge's eyes either. She was cer­tainly
not going to beg again, especially to some­one
who had probably already decided against
her. She couldn't stop them from making an
example of her, but she didn't have to take it
meekly. Picturing busted drugstore windows,
she smiled. Since he asked, she told him what
was so funny - and why.
If she really meant it, he'd help her. That town
was full of creeps. He had some scores to settle,
too. Could she run? She needed to be a good run­ner
or she might find herself back in court. He'd
show her where to run before they did anything.
He continued talking, telling her about some
of his adventures. She was impressed with how he
planned, what he learned. She knew he was
bright from his classroom clowning. Even though
she often disapproved and was sometimes em­barrassed,
she always laughed. He never missed
the mark. The longer she listened, the easier it was
to hear his rough language without wincing. His
world sounded like much more fun than hers,
probably because it was much more dangerous.
But if she could get used to the language, she
could get used to the danger. He talked about the
parties he and his friends had. They did things
she'd never even thought of, and though she didn't
always understand what he was talking about,
she was drawn by the description of a kind of
comaraderie she'd read about and then dreamed
about. Real friends!
They reached the corner of her street. He told
her not to worry too much about tomorrow. It
was out of her hands, anyway. Except for one
thing. She didn't have to answer when the judge
asked her for her plea. They couldn't make her
talk. As she walked away he called out after her,
"Practice running!"
So she did, and as she did the ring banged rhyth­mically
against her. She couldn't belong to his
world. Whatever it took - guts, indifference,
cool - she didn't have it. But there was no way
she was going to remain silent, either in meekness
or in rebellion. When asked, she would proclaim
her guilt loudly and boldly. "After all, it is the
truth!" she snapped at the slammed bedroom
door.
NOw it was almost time for that proclama­tion.
The judge had read the charge, the
affadavits, and summarized the reports,
but she had listened to none of it. It was the si­lence
that brought her back to the court room.
"You must answer. Guilty or not guilty."
He said it quietly, kindly, and she looked at him
thinking she'd seen his eyes before. Touching
the chain around her neck, she took a breath
and looked inside herself for the boldness she
had planned. It wasn't there. There was only an
emptiness in her stomach something like hunger
and a terrible ache in her chest.
The judge sat silent and still and hoped the
parents would do the same. The girl had drawn
herself in so that she seemed smaller. He doubted
she knew she was crying. He would wait.
She tried again to speak and could not. She
looked at her mother, but her mother was watch­ing
the judge. Looking at her father, she remem­bered
what she had overheard that afternoon
he'd brought her home. "Don't say anything to
her. She's been through enough and it's not over
yet." Their door had closed, blocking her mother's
reply. Now he was looking at his knees. He could
not, or would not, help her. She looked at the judge,
his eyes, the policeman's eyes, her parents' eyes.
"You must answer," he said again. "Merely
as a matter of fact."
Dropping the chain and quietly, but very clear­ly,
she did. 0
Drawing by Rob Richards
Traveler/31
Run
to the top of a grass covered hill
and gaze all about you
in all directions
as far as your mind can take you
the beauty is there
Ancient and
deep rooted into the very earth of earth.
And
gaze if you will
at the bright blue and white cluster clouded sky
in all its magic vastness
and paint with your mind the pictures that are there.
Hike
to the bottom of the greatest canyon
and gaze all about you
up and down, side to side
you'll see the signs of ages
the beauty is there
Ancient and
deep rooted into the very earth of earth.
The
waterfalls and wildlife
and formulas in rock formation
chisled there by time
as if to tell you how and why.
Walk
through the most enchanting of forests
and gaze all about you
through the trees, at fallen leaves,
a solitude made seen,
the beauty is there
Ancient and
deep rooted into the very earth of earth.
The
great redwoods, tall and sound
and pine smell all about you
to compliment and make a home
for all God's forest creatures.
Jog
down the longest beach of all
and gaze all about you
back and forth, in and out
and at your slapping feet
the beauty is there
Ancient and
deep rooted into the very earth of earth.
The
sea shells and sand crabs
seaweed, sand and you
sand oozing through your toes
only to be washed by the tide.
And sleep
fall into the greatest dream of all
and gaze into yourself
through in and through out
into darkened depths unseen
the beauty is there
Ancient and
deep rooted into the very you of you.
God
gave these gifts to use
to know, to feel, to see
and a heart to accept yourself
as chosen for this beauty.
Gulliver
At Esalen I learned to love my bod,
To throwaway all sense of guilt and shame,
To understand no ever-loving God
Had ever meant his children any pain.
In Gestalt I was taught to love my now.
Unborn future - dead past. They don't exist.
I learned the philosophic Gestalt vow:
Going my way? If not, at least we kissed.
Est taught me to accept my inner self,
To stamp my foot, insist on what was mine.
"That's how I fee!!" went on my motto shelf.
It makes my rediscovered ego shine.
So I've done all they said would make me new.
I love myself; now dammit, why don't you?
Karen Edelstein Photography by Judith Darrh Simpson
Drawing by Carol Paxton
Traveler/34
Drawing by Mike Mitchell
Photography by Dennis Herrmann
Springtime
Springtime confusion,
profusion
of color, newborn.
Sweetly savored
blush of youthful
fantasies.
Tyranny
of desire and dreams
for young hearts
and old souls.
Helen B. Baldwin
Minor Interval
Still-life objects enlarge in
my mind to become power
crazed giants with
absolute rule. i cringe under
the shadows they form, move
to the trumpet's directions. Sheet
music carpets my floor.
am i sane?
I shake my head, attacked
by reason. The images are
gone. Did I dream their
existence? i stoop to
gather shards of notes.
i keep a tidy house.
Pauline Mounsey
Photography by Alexander J. Clay
Traveler/35
Birth
Traveler/36
t Colder Than
Open Grave
Be it not, for I have yet to see.
Halt your thoughts, ever repetitive in my mind;
My soul remains, I have not given thee.
Warnings force me on, I am blind.
My mission is everyman's;
No being can escape.
Distorted tales of humans that can,
Blown out of shape.
Instinct overpowering logic,
Have you no grace?
Though outcome may be tragic:.._-..------­Tell
this not to my face.
Your womb is everlasting tection;
Open the gates of love arejection.
Night c der than an open grave
and bla er than its tenant's sight.
More sil t than cadaver's dream,
calls to mence nocturnal rite.
She lies u on that ice blast hill,
a tossed t rain, a glazed flood,
with mout part in Thespis moan
and eyes a ull in dried up blood.
He kneels fr ed'in that frigid moon,
with hands c ved darkly into stone.
She takes her easure, as she lies,
of passion brit as a bone.
J. K. Evans
Lost Eyes
Dennis Herrmann
Engulfed within an empty 'd,
All her life deceit and lies ­With
no one left for her to trust,
She spoke with just her eyes.
Shooting up and tripping out,
On a path of no return ­Immersed
in dark oblivion
With no where else to turn.
Who was this aimless woman-girl?
The how, the where, the w
Was she prese uture,
On the curb there sat a young girl
Maybe fifteen years or less;
Her Lost Eyes had told the story
life - a wasted mess.
Seekin fuge in a needle,
She was w eyond her years,
Blocking out t orld before her -
No more sorrows.
passing by?
In my mind I felt her anguish
As if it were my own -
Her eyes were begging, pleading ­"
Please help, I'm so alone!"
A one-way street where time stand
At times too much to bear;
Her life seemed so a part of me
I know - I once was there!
Now I came and sat beside
To help soothe her silent cr.
And for the first time sinc
There was hope in those
PROSE
Karen Edelstein
J. K. Evans
POETRY
Helen Baldwin
Gerry Benninger
Karen Edelstein
J. K. Evans
Pauline Mounsey
BEST OF SHOW
Rob Richards (Illustration for Tall Bess and the
London Teamaker)
DRAWINGS
1st Place - Rob Richards (But for Tonight)
2nd Place - Sheila Eastman (Bloodstock)
3rd Place - Carol Paxton (At Esalen ...)
Honorable Mentions - Sheila Eastman (Silent Words),
Rob Richards (Whiskey and Walnuts), Dick Kelly (Mr.
Martin's Retirement)
PHOTOGRAPHY
1st Place - Shirley Levine (Measure of a Man)
2nd Place - Kathy Spann (Kulturkampf)
3rd Place - Judith Darrh Simpson (When There
Is No Me)
Honorable Mentions - Alexander J. Clay (Glass­Blower),
Barbara Brown (Pelican), Marion Peddle
(Sunday Mourning), Judith Darrh Simpson (Sunday
Mourning), Bob Zitlau (Please Don't Touch), Alexander
J. Clay (Minor Intervals)
Photography by Alexander J. Clay