Verbal Equinox

The Weber State University Writing Center Journal Fall l994

Dr. John Shwiebert is an English professor at WSU who teaches writng as a

process and is the WSU Writing Center Director. His admonition to carry a

notebook and write down everything is particularly applicable to this issue which

is dedicated to the writing opportunities and possibilities travel inspires.

Our Own Rejected Thoughts by John Schwiebert

I once heard a distance runner say he woke up every

morning with heart pounding, eager to run. As a writer you

often experience this same elation about writing - a feeling of

"I can't wait!" and "There is absolutely nothing I can't express."

Too often, however, this energy seems to come when you're in

bed, in between classes, or somewhere else without writing

utensils. You say, "I'll have to write down this brilliant idea as

soon as I get back to my desk;" but before you do, the idea

evaporates, or you censor the idea as "stupid" and neglect to

record it for that reason.

"In every work of genius," wrote Ralph Waldo

Emerson, "we recognize our own rejected thoughts." The idea

you failed to record, because you meant to do it "later" or

because it seemed "stupid," is invariably the one you rediscover

in someone else's literary masterpiece. Emerson's advice, as

valid today as it was a century ago, is simple: Don't let those

ideas get away! Write them down on the spot, as they occur to

you.

How you record your ideas is up to you. Poet Walt

Whitman rarely went anywhere without equipping himself with

pocketsful of blank scraps of paper; other creators- not just

writers, but painters, composers, scientists, engineers, and many

others- carry around pocket-sized notebooks or file cards; still

others improvise and jot down thoughts on napkins, backs of

envelopes, flyleaves of books, or any other available flat surface.

(An extreme case: William Faulkner took notes for/outlined one

of his novels on the interior walls of his house.) The crucial

point is to record the thought immediately.

But why? Three reasons come to mind.

1) They will disappear if you don't.

2) First thoughts are the best thoughts. Though com­

monly too clumsy for instant public consumption, they define

clearly for the writer what s/he cares about and wants to create.

3) Productive writers write in quantity and revise

selectively. Notes provide the abundance of materials (good, bad,

and middling) from which writers can select their most promis­

ing ideas for further development. Generically speaking, prolific

writers collect (hundreds and thousands of notes); organize

them into files for easy retrieval and review; reread these raw

materials regularly (with pen or other writing utensil in hand to

make additions and revision); and select the best or most

interesting to revise into finished and publishable texts. Sustain­

ing this process is the writer's focal interest(s) or obsession(s),

what Virginia Woolf called "some fierce attachment to an idea."

While many or most of a writer's notes may remain unused,

without ·the habit of notetaking the excellent ideas might never

be able to surface.

But you don't have to take my word for any of this; the

notetakers speak clearly enough for themselves.

"Thou, dearest scholar, stick to thy foolish task, add a line every hour,

and between whiles add a line" (Ralph Waldo Emerson, essayist/poet).

"If I get a promising idea I set it down, and it stays there. I don 't

make myself do anything with it"(Marianne Moore, poet).

"See enough and write it down. Then some morning when the world

seems drained of wonder, some day when I am only going through the motions of

what I am supposed to do -on that bankrupt morning. I will simply open my

notebook and there it will all be, a forgotten account with accumulated interest, paid

passage back to the world out there..."(Joan Didion, novelist/journalist).

"Most composers keep a notebook in which they put down germinal

ideas...They put them down where they can find them when they need to look

for ideas and they don't come easily" (Aaron Copland, composer).

"I would recommend carrying a notebook around as routinely as you

carry your house key or wallet. Whenever an idea turns up, make a note of it

The simple act of writing down a few words will help to fix the idea in your

mind so your subconscious can get hold of it

If I make a note of an idea so I won't forget it, and if I read through my notebook from time to time and make it a point to think about what I find there, the good ideas will survive and grow. The bad ones will drop out along the way, and that's fine" (Lawrence Block, mystery novelist).

"Do not fear mistakes. There are none"(Miles Davis, musician).

With these thoughts, we welcome the new 1994-95

writing assistants, as well as wish for each of you a successful

academic year. We hope that you will take the time to spend a

few moments in the Writing Center. We look forward to

assisting you with your personal writing journey.

New Writing Assistants

Alice Jo Blanscett Sue Burnham

Kim Johnson (096 tutor) Sherrie Johnson

Sharrnila Kulkarni Cliphane Lucas

Kathy Marietti (096 tutor) Kristin Richards

Patricia L. Robertson Paula Gam Sever

Ann Stoeckl Collin Turner

2

ANNOUNCING

The 1994 Writing Center

Writing Contest Catagories:

Forged Mountains by

Ed West

Short Short Story

Short Story Essay

1500 Words or less

1500-2500 Words

2000 Words Maximum

Crystalline blue flows

and

winds a

Poetry

3 Poems, 100 line Max.

path.

snake-like

Prizes will be awarded for first, second, and

third place in each catagory. First place winners will

also be published in the spring edition of Verbal Equi­

nox, as will a list of all winners.

Manuscripts should be typed, double spaced,

with author's name, address, phone, and Social Secu­

rity number on a cover sheet, title ONLY on each succeeding page. A computer disk of the manuscript

It whips and compels me forward,

while I float on captured air atop whitecaps.

The surging razor

forges grandeur mountains

that touch white cotton.

With patience,

the churning, wet

figure

of the

would also be appreciated for publication purposes,

using Word Perfect 5.1 or lower.

Bring or mail entries to the Writing Center,

Weber State University.

Multiple submissions allowed and encouraged.

Deadline

Friday, November 18, 1994 Authors retain all rights. This competition does

not limit submission potential for the author. All authors

are encouraged to also submit to Metaphor

and to the WSU Writing Competition. Their deadline

is February 3, 1995. If the same entry is selected as

first place winner and also chosen for publication in

Metaphor, choice of publication will be made by the author.

••••••••••••••••••••••

VERBAL EQUINOX

EDITORIAL BOARD

Dr. Robert Hogge Linda Larsen

Patrick McGonegal Anne Robbins

Dr. John Schweibert Lisa Kim Webster

CONTRIBUTORS

snake

grabs a pebble or two.

Children work on a well-groomed field

moving feet, heads, chests, and legs

with focus and precision.

The stubborn, rolling sphere

finds place within its fishnet home,

while onlookers watch

in amazement amidst forged mountains.

Determined to run the hillside,

my lungs, weak and rasping

Burning - sucking air

through tunnels of despair.

I am forced by a mind set to run and

conquer the sickness.

Onlookers watch, in anticipation,

while they stand amidst forged mountains.

Now I forge another path and

listen to Magi sell philosophies

of the religion of science

and a neverending tunnel of ideas.

Sorting through mounds of books,

I gather up some pebbles.

I return to a favorite site, and

the river

David V Chevalier

Merlin Cheney

Linda Larsen

Anne Robbins

Collin Turner

Sundy Watanabe

Donna Cheney

Charlie Cuthbertson

Christina H. Millard

John Schwiebert

Les Wade

Ed West

still

flows

through forged mountains.

3

Focused flight by David V. Chevalier

1994 Most of my fellow passengers

were trying to get some sleep, so I quietly

moved through the train and found my

economy sleeper compartment, already

made up for snoozing by the car atten­

dant. I wondered in passing how many of

the others shared my escape plan and

were traveling not to journey, but to get

away from some of their own problems.

The eastbound AMTRAK

California Zephyr, loaded to near capac­

ity, pulled out of the Salt Lake City

D&RGW station right on time--5:05 a.m.

Rather than attempt any quarrels with my

enigmatic emotions, as I had for weeks, I

decided to instead surrender to the

momentary peace and not labor to stay up

at that early hour. I lay down on the

comfortable single bed, snuggled up with

the pillows and quickly dozed off to the

gentle rocking and rolling of the swaying

sleeper car.

When I awoke, I glanced out the

window to a dusky, light-brown and

orange-green landscape of the early dawn.

We were just approaching the wide

mountain pass called Soldier Summit At

that elevation, steep grade, and through

sharp turns, we were only moving about

20-25 mph, so the details of the flora

along the right-of-way were easy to make

out.

Dry, brittle plants, starved for

thirst, looked a simple spark away from

incineration. Most appeared utterly dead,

ready for cremation. But knowing Utah's

horticulture, the eye could easily be fooled

when it comes to plant life. Many of these

seemingly lifeless plants were in a unique

form of summer hibernation, merely

awaiting some splash of moisture on their

faces to awaken them into proliferation.

How unlike we humans are with

the wonderfully, environmentally bal­

anced vegetation, I thought; without a

nurturing, nourishing relationship with

our surroundings, we homo sapiens would

quickly perish. We only endure with

persistent care and feeding of the body,

soul and spirit. Otherwise, a part of us

dies off, never to flower again. In my

particular case, such was the c i rcum-

stance with my barren and splintered

relationship with my wife--soon ex-wife-­

after flourishing 17 years together.

As the Chief of On-Board

Services made his first call for breakfast

over the intercom, I was already half-way

through my car quickly moving towards

an anticipated meal of hot French toast,

link sausage and cold orange juice.

Having traveled by train many times

before, I knew many of the routine

schedules, such as meal periods, by heart.

I made my way briskly along,

dodging and weaving around and through

the passenger obstacle course, through the

filled coaches and crowded observation

car to the diner. Though traveling alone,

I didn't have to eat alone. Luckily, I was

seated at one of the few tables with an

availability remaining for one. I joined a

smiling, older couple

"Not even tile Nazi buzz

bomb could come between

us!"

The retired couple who kept me

company during our pleasant meal shared a

wonderful conversation. They told me

they were from California and headed

towards their eldest grandson's wedding

being held in Denver. Their accent,

however, sounded more like they'd

recently arrived from the British Isles. ·In

fact, both were from southern England

and had become naturalized citizens ten

years before. Seems their children had

flown the coop and, like any decent

grandparent, they wanted to be close to

their grandchildren, to help nurture, teach

and grow with them, and pass down to

them the unique ordeals and marvels of a

shared family history.

The gentleman had been an

airframe specialist on Spitfires during

World War Two and his enduring bride

had been a driver for the RAF big-wigs.

They married during the war and had

witnessed many of the horrors of the V-l

and V-2 bombing; she told me that their

shared strife, worries and tears had made

their relationship stronger, more impervi­

ous to threat. "Not even a Nazi buzz

bomb could come between us!" she smiled

wide.

I yearned to recount with them

the explosiveness, wonder and bonding

that my wife and I had had , and what our

wonderful life together was like so early

in our marriage, but then thought better

than to dig up and share that old elation.

The hurt was still too fresh, too distress-

ing.

After all, following so long an

emotional barrage that had rocketed us at

first, our volatile relationship had seemed

in the end to turn out more like a big,

fizzled dud. My emotional fortitude had

suffered through in silent susceptibility, a

part of the so-called collateral damage,

and I didn’t want to reexamine or reopen

aching, healing wounds.

"Besides," I mused to myself,

"wasn't I fleeing from 'the front' for some

sorely required ‘R and R'?" Smiling over

my plate at them, I just nodded, respond­

ing in the most socially acceptable and

proper manner. Turning away from the

moment, I looked outside and surveyed

the vast stretches of idle desolation we

sped past.

As we continued our exchange,

their faces were always aglow with great

joy every time they spoke of their children

and grandchildren. Now that joy, I knew

-- the major source of my remaining

happiness. With the tasks of our two

boys, grown, raised, and out of the house,

and an astonishingly wonderful two-year­

old daughter who waited behind for me at

home, here was an enlivening subject

about which we could openly share,

chatter and swap tales.

My daughter, my bright, beauti­

ful "twinkle, twinkle little star," loved

trains--like most little kids--and she

adored traveling with her Daddy . . . and

Mommy, a natural for our daughter in her

role as an AMTRAK Conductor. "Not

this trip, baby," I heard myself medita­

tively calling my girl. "This depressing

journey wouldn't be good for your perfect,

radiant innocence."

After taking too much time

occupying our table and telling enough

lies regarding our offspring's phenom­

enal, near-superhuman capabilities, the

waiter pushed us into one of two options.

Would we like anything else or were we

done ... as there were other people

waiting to be seated. The subtle hint was

received and understood.

The older couple and I rose and

parted our ways with cordial smiles,

handshakes and a prospect for dinner

together. That was fine by me, but I

walked away knowing what a roulette

4

wheel chance seating was for the diner

during the dinner meal--the most popular

with rail passengers during their trip.

After I got back in my roomette,

I plopped down in the forward facing

seat, as the porter had thankfully made up

my room while I was at breakfast.

Withdrawing my grey, leather-covered

legal pad that I am almost never without,

I began to record my hodgepodge of

impassioned thoughts. "Free time to

freewrite while freewheeling down the

track," I reasoned.

...my hand jotted jown run­ away sensations

garnered from tile vista, transitory thoughts, and

secret passions.

As the darting train swept along,

down and out across the open expanses of

the desolate southern Utah desert, my

mind strayed as my hand jotted down

runaway sensations garnered from the

vista, transitory thoughts, and secret

passions. I also reluctantly formulated

plans for an impending fury of ungovern­

able turmoil.

Divorce. Such a vile word. The

fact of our separation was bad enough

with its despicable sensations ofloneli­

ness, abandonment and betrayal. This

wearisome separation was but a precursor

to our divorce. The idea behind the

finality of divorce just amplified these

agonizing torments. Brooding momen­

tarily to myself, I sensed the train begin to

slow.

As we stopped briefly in Grand

Junction, Colorado, to pick-up and drop­

off some passengers, I noted I'd already

filled many pages of the legal pad with

cryptic pen scratchings that only remotely

looked like handwriting. Between my

random reflections in freewriting and the

uncertainty of the movements of the

gently pitching car, it appeared as though

I'd graduated from a medical school

prescription writing class. Looking my

work over, I smirked and chuckled under

my breath, abruptly envisioning in

passing that if the train was in a grue­

some accident, no one would be able to

decipher my surviving final thoughts.

Suddenly there was a quick bump and

tug, and we pulled away from the depot

and moved on, starting into our long

climb up and over the Rocky Mountains.

The beauty outside my window

was magnificent. Pine trees began to

appear irregularly along our route. There

were mountains in every direction, and at

every angle and elevation -- rolling, jetting,

jutting, and even expanding out and over

the tracks in places. The crystal brilliance

of the translucent river running

next to the right -of-way was rushing away

in the opposite direction of our travel

making it look much swifter than it was.

Sporadically along the way, there

were kayaks, canoes and rubber rafts

filled with adventuresome souls hoping to

fulfill their own escape plans, and looking

as though they were having a blessed of a

good time doing it. It was genuinely

engaging when they would seize a brave

moment, drop their guard and release

their concentration from their treacherous

river adventure to exchange waves with

us on the train. Caught up in the genuine

deliverance of the moment, I waved back

with childlike delight. What a wonder­

fully distracting feeling of relief. A cool

sensation of release washed over me.

"Now. Write right now," I reflected.

I looked long, hard and be­ wildered down into the flickering glitter of the

waters below as we crawled through a long canyon.

What would it be like . ..after?

After the despondency and impoverished

sorrow, grief, anger and hollow feelings

of the divorce were final, what would it be

like? My hand moved and the pen

printed "Freedom" - the first word that

popped into my mind, like a Fourth of

July firework going off. Wow! But how

could I suddenly feel any good about the

hurtful end and distressful loss of what

had been a favorable and loving mar­

riage? I looked long, hard and bewildered

into the flickering glitter of the waters

below as we crawled through a long

canyon. I felt lost.

Then, it happened. Almost too

fast to respond, let alone react. As we

rounded a tight, sharp curve, there they

were--a huge rubber raft filled with Boy

Scouts in big orange life jackets. The

leader stood and was hurriedly motioning

the boys with his hands. They too stood,

grabbed at their waists, and each and

every one of them pulled down their pants

and mooned the train.

The laughter that filled our car

was reverberant. It seemed to permeate

every room, every spectator, every soul,

right down to the very bone. At least

that's how I felt. Such a simple little

sophomoric act, and y et I hadn't

laughed out loud so hard in some time.

"My God, " I said, as I real­ ized my solace, "Life really

does go full-circle."

Instantaneously it hit me that I'd

heard a similar story before . Dad's

brightly smiling face suddenly took form

in my mind ; he was retelling a story to me

of when he was young. He and his

buddies had gone skinny-dipping at the

local creek and they had mooned the

Milwaukee Hiawatha passenger trains

that ran past my grandmother's farm.

"My God," I said, as I realized my solace.

"Life really does go full-circle."

I reacted simply, almost tit-for­

tat, matter-of-fact-like, expressing my

understanding. "Thanks, Dad! This part

of my circle is now complete." The

release of it felt remarkably good! Then

another word popped into my mind and

out onto paper, “Recuperation."

Whatever happened, I knew that

the forthcoming journey of providence

would happen. Whether I traveled along

as a rider or driver, spectator or partici­

pant, was entirely up to me. The adven­

ture was just beginning; I was determined

to focus on my flight. My little girl

needed to hear the stories of how her

grandpa flashed a passing train ...and

how her Daddy, keeping unconscious

tradition, had mooned some Boy Scouts.

* * *

Dedicated to my Dad because I truly

listened to you; to Christine because I

honestly loved, respected and cared about

you; and to Shannon because you're Gods

and Daddy s most marvelous, exceptional

and loving little girl.

T

. es-mi)

England Waits. . .

. . .a look at travel, inspiration, and print, through the eyes of the participants.

The Weber State University Writing Center Journal Special Insert Fall 1994

· ... . .....,...,..4. "m:oe sunsbine in QEnglanb

.::#',...!: tuas part of a pbpsical gift. m:oe sun Walking to scbool earlp in ®ctober '92, . TN -· [on tbe bribe] from alisburp to

.:fflerlin anb 1f began to tuonber. . . ..... .. ,.... tratforb ...gabe brilliance to tbe f tbings 1f satu. 1ft seemeb tbat aU tbe

Wbat if ®n a Wilb Wbim. . . i ,E! tii!ii element of nature bab combineb tbat bap to gtbe an unparalleleb probuc- tion of beautp anb peace."

We took a few students

To stand in the spot where

Becket was martyred

Walkf".d inthe cloisters

And heard boys' sweet voices

Float high to the top

Of the dusty, dark arch?

What ifwe marveling held

A hawk on our hands

Then stood on a bridge

On a cool gray evening

And thought about rainbows

Over old stone spires?

What ifwe circled blue monoliths

On a misty March morning

While the ages of earth

Swiveled round us

Then drove down the byways

Where pastorals carne true?

What ifwe strolled down the street

Where walked the man

who holds us enthralled

Four hundred years later?

What if we conquered the city

No one tires of till they

Tire of life?

1fngrib .:fflorriU

JJ OA#f'r . "m:oomas 1!iecket's sbrine

at Qeanterbucy became a faborite

site for pilgrims tubo came to

bisit tbe martpr' s tomb. 1ft is

fitting tbat Qeanterburp tuas our first bestination for tue, too,

tuere pilgrims."

Qebristina ..:fflillarb

"1f bab no cboice but to

go to QEnglanb 'emptp, open,

cboiceless as a beacb -­ Would the same songs haunt other's souls

That push us to dare to share ours? lrlaiting for a gift from tbe sea."'

ilBonna QCijenep 1fngrib .:fflorriii

0Wanton rio!' Wanbeting in SS>ttatfotb

· utet tbe lap QCbarlie QCutbhertson

"... 11 sbaii be forgot,

jliut be'll remember, witb ab\Hmtages ,

Wbat feats be bib tbat bap . . ." 1!,lenrp l'

Excuseme,Father · ct Jil', cene iii IfI stand mute before you

Inthe small church where you lie

Attended, serene,

Foundation of sunlit corner

Organ notes cascade in swirls around me

Like a dizzy parade of characters

Freshly rememb'red.

But what words, what words?

What testimony may I speak to you

When the words that splashed from your pen

Cleanse like drops of tangy wine

On stalty tongues, arid with misuse .

When will you be done?

I finger crumpled stubs in my pocket

Reminding me of you,

Reminding me of heroes and harlots and fools

Fluttering flags over the theatres of Avon

Flowers gathered by the feet of a doomed prince

Roses thrown to Lear on a star-filled summer 's night

Folio-crisp harvests of speech

Allow me to dream, perchance ,

Clutching my catalogue oflanguage.

I picture you in some neighborhood pub

Relaxed and aloofby some corner table

Dark ale raised high, murmuring down your throat

Eyes of sparkle laughter

Open, open

Hearing what you see, revealing what is silent

And I wonder

What ifyou were not?

What ifyou never were?

Excuse me, Father

IfI stand mute before you

IfI,humbled, silenced like you never were,

Place counterfoils at your headstone,

Bow my head and weep, softly:

Not for what was lost,

But for what remains,

What remains and what shall endure.

"'[;f)e baps' unfolb so

easilp, eacb one blenbing

hlitb tbe fibers of tbe one

before, mobing togetber

into one gentle, perfect

hibole . .3J am berp mucb at

peace bere. W::be bap is

fiHeb hlitb grep daubs, a

stiff hlinb, patcbes of baffo­

bils anb green eberphlbere.

· W::be most imrebible of an

mornings ...We spent at

olp W::rinitp QCburcb,

hlbere bakespeare is

burieb. s' we bJa(keb in,

sunhgbt was streaming

tbrougb tbe hlinbohls anb

tbe organ was plaping . .3J

sat, perfectlp still, I isteneb

to t{Je organ , anb wept." nne 3Robbins

II

jf irst jfligbt 1erl in QCbenep

When first we linked our hands

And ran at life. We hardly thought we'd leave the ground. But swift beneath our wondrous gaze

All England sprange to view:

The ancient towers of Canterbury

Stretch upward inthin air.

And Dover's cliffs, still geamingwhite,

Forever beckoning and fair,

Recede beyond the mystic sea At Channel crossing there.

At Salisbury's plain the ancient Henge, Too far in time to speak to us In language we can tell,

Proclaims the human spirit That outlasts all meaning else.

And Salisbury's spire that pierces heaven, Borne up by human faith,

Defies the laws of weight and stone And draws from stress of marble bent A ringing note to pierce the soul

But as we streak for London,

The teeming center of that world,

That promises to each what we love most,

Peripheral vision mourns the loss

Of Oxford slipping by.

And York, the Viking home,

And Edinburgh, and Inisfree.

And Oh my hungry soul,

There's Wales,

And Ireland waiting still,

And Hebrides whose circled stone,

So rumor has, is older than the world .

Exhaustion damps our eager hearts,

And we are back on earth

With daily chores and chosen work

Where dreams dissolve in common day.

But strange to us our souls have changed. The vision does not fade.

We wait and gather strength. Preparing for the day,

When love and friendship link our hands In exponential power

To pierce the air inquickened flight

With threads of glory from this world As stays against eternal night

QCatbebral jf aces :fflerlin QCbenep

The chill and green of English spring still holds them where they stood: gray tan cathedral walls, defying centuries of weight and human need for pulling down,

fling spires of stone against a sky of blue that vaults all mortal care.

And buttresses parenthesize

a filigree of floating lace

that hangs too light and delicate for stone.

Three hundred feet of solid earth

join air and wind and sky

in seeming weightlessness of weight to summon human eye.

The blue and red and flame of glass ignite the sunlight into fire, illuminating filces lifted up

by stone and glass and sky

in brilliant transformation from the light within and out

Your face that brought the faces here ·

is kindled like astar.

In moment unaware, your gaze

a soul of love reveals, transfigured by the light of faces etched in time.

Today Iwalk on heavy earth

beneath an ordinary sky. Yet, shall the memory shape for me

these cathedral faces for eternity.

m

.

;l

rJ . i

jf or tbe 3L\oob 1llreamer nne 3RobbinS'

Stone washed with pre-dawn dark,

Moss and mist on this

Isle inlet of Solway Firth.

Green heath, grey light, six centuries

Since Hadrian built the wall

Secluding this solemn wind-auved world.

Sandaled steps follow a solitary pat

Through dew-wet grasses that catch

At garment's hem;

Hood and robe flap in early breezes

Heavy with salt and sea sounds.

From chapel cloister, it is not far

To this place apart.

The cross waits, serene in sol;Jtr-

-· - if - He kneels, forehead and hands hr ssed

"" ' "Fervently to the stone; 1';

.Lips move insilent prayer.

·i "t • Communion begins as malle

if t and an iron spike -

1:? . '!r-' uch like th?se, e thought,

, ·t : i used to crucify Him-

I .,' '/ l <;;:arve words of life inimmortal , : ' :· .";·. !/1. ,'There heed none he afraid . '.

.. I •

(t i - .. ..., •

I •

/_ .:- !,; ' Chiseled shards lie scattered,

l ·.f:f , Precious jewels ,of ho and.IJ.til@i'i! "f 'Revealing faint outline offal •

I - ..who'b ru s o · " I

hi t _ 1'f. •

t: th'e best oL 6urdens. ., . ,, r..·, I ,._,- \ ;

' Fii'St rays' of gentle ight embrace him;»'

let _rests ,b. ells toll the da ' _..d Centunes to <{Qme. . .., • - •

.. • .t."

# ..... .;+- -

Bel<lje?-soul-ment r, · .. ,

Protector of my past;1cnow this:

A'fumion mornings -he ,

.I place my hand .on·printed page

f _.

.• _...

And feel humble supplication etched

In sacred stone. · ·

IV

tt.

tonebenge QJ:barlie QJ:utbbertson

One could imagine Guinevere riding through your stone slab arches

Making the long journey by night in a misty drizzle

That obscured your ramparts from afar.

Contemplating betrayal, she kneels in the centre of your circle,

Sadlv raruant, and awaits the darity of the dawn.

What visions came to her on that rounded slope,

Between those mossy clockwork monoliths ,

Under the accusatory flashes of the ravens' eyes.

As we see her now, a mythical ghost of Avalon,

Then could she not see us in a confused blur?

Dew settling on her eyelash,

Worn grass staining her earth-toned cloak

As the world centers intself round this chalk plateau .

.!

I•

·:·; .

"Jiiecause we arribeb late

in tbe afternoon, tbe sun

was close to setting anb its

raps truck tbe stones in

sucb a wap as to cast long,

bark sbabows from eacb of . tbe stones...Jf ftlt a sense

..· of awe anb curiositp at tbe

i. .

, ., . . . ·.· < .. tf ,.--"'" mpsterp of .,- ..

· ··; - QJ:bristina :fflillarb

) .. : r......

. . •40:/ i

... ' • I

,•

v

'

"tltonigbt h:Je celebrateb. . .in a pub nameb tltbe :marquis of :Westminster. tltbis bas been innebible."

nne 3t\obbins

<!&ne jij,igbt ®nip QI:barlie ·QI:utbbertson

It was so packed in that damn pub,

Icouldn't move without being molested.

Smoke crinkled the air like cheap plastic wrap,

Ale smell hiccuped from overturned glasses,

and kids kept coming inby the dozens.

Good God, it was electric stuff,

and you could feel the buzzbuzzbuzz of the amp

Humming all the way down your thighs

As more people came in

and more ale broke from the keg taps in

Bubbly gold-dark blisters offoam,

and the cigarettes made my throat water and sweat,

and how many more people can they fit INthis place!

But by the time the band plugged in,

Iwas pressed against the drinking elbows

of the couple in front of me,

and the breasts of the girl behind me

were gently nudging me,

and no one said anything, they just started to play.

The accents were different, but it was stuffIknew-­

Goddamnit! Jackie Wtlson and Sam & Dave

and Eddie Floyd and Wllson Pickett-

Stuff we use for car commercials and fast-food advertisements;

Nobody really listens to it anymore,

But hereIam in this pub in the middle of Cnaterbwy, England,

and not only is the bar band playing Sixties R & B tunes,

but everybody,Imean everybody in the goddamll audience

is singing along, and it's

likel'mintheApolloin '63.

But this is England, land of illegal dances, 1993,

and I am far from home, but here in this pub

I'm closer to it than I've ever been before,

and we're singing and drinking and dancing, .,

and somebody says, "Do Otis Redding!"

and we all sing "Dock of the Bay"

and kiss and laugh and the saxophonist winks at me,

and the night goes on forever, oh please,

as I dance with foreigners I know I will never see again,

but this time is ours and this music is ours and we know each other.

"So," they ask me later, "What was the high point of your trip?"

"Oh," I say, "probably Stonehenge or maybe seeing Hamlet,

or walking in London at dawn," and I smile quietly

Because in my secret heart, my honest heart,

I know it was 5 brash youngsters

Belting out the songs of my culture,

Gulping down dark ales between sets;

and a cute hom player blocking out the midnight chimes of

Canterbury Catherdral, 5 blocks away.

VI

®oing orne

After twelve days

Of wearing ourselves out,

Oflooking at too many things,

Of walking too many miles

We breathed sighs of relief

And slept solidly as

The plane brought us home.

The next day we started

Back to classes, so very early,

Back to work, even on tht first day.

Within 24 hours England seemed

A distant memory,

A place we once had been .

Caught up in our workaday world

We walked in a web of reality.

Yet all it takes to go back

Is half a moment.

The golden word Cadbury on a label

And we taste shared chocolate sin.

Inthe nod of a daffodil,

We smell the rainy green meadow

To Anne's thatched cottage.

Yawning at a boring speaker,

We see gentle, gray St. Giles or

Marvel at white swans

swimming on the Avon,

Or squeeze into a richly cowded

London pub .

"Wben tne neeb a brief

cure from realitp, tne es­

cape to Qfnglanb in our

minbs." 11Bonna QI:benep

VII

Qfnglanb Watts %£nne 3L\obbin5

It is Tuesday evening, two days

past London . I am sitting on my bed,

surrounded by a happy mess of trip

memorabilia . Two nights ago, through a

swirling fog of fatigue, I managed to drag

my faithful grey-green dufile bag up one

final flight of stairs to my room. The stairs,

I noted at the time, were nowhere nearly as

narrow as those to which I'd recently

become accustomed . I resented the fact

that they didn 't slope to one side or creak

with age -- greatly lacking in character, I

decided .

1\vo days have passed and the

dufile bag still gapes open, spilling its

contents over the bed and onto the floor.

Most of the clothes have been washed

and hung in the closet, but I am reluctant

to put away the mementoes that are

tangible evidence of England- art tubes

from the Tate, St Michael 's strawberryjam,

shortbread and sweaters, subway passes

and a picture of Stonehenge at sunset. All

of it, even the silly, sweet Jelly babies , are

pieces of the puzzle that I want to keep

intact I am not yet ready to distance

myself from even the smallest part of it, not

even by placing it out of sight in a drawer.

Thus, I continue to sit, to hold, to think.

My friend from across the street

rings the doorbell , lets herself in, and

climbs the stairs. She finds me lining up

jars of jam and stacking shortbread .

"Wow," she says, surveying the chaos,

"Looks like you brought most of England

home with you! Did you have fun?"

I finger a postcard and try to t

hink of what to say. Did I have fun? I look

at the postcard . The picture is of marble

cathedral coiumns feebly framed within a

three-by-five-inch space. I point to a

bench in the foreground . "This is where I

sat," I explain to her. "the organ -ever

since I was little, I've wanted to hear a

" be finb5 me lining

up jar% of jam anb %tacking

5bortbreab."

cathedral organ. Finally, after all these

years, I could feel the vibrations of the

organ in the benches. and the sound -oh.

it soared upward, to a ceiling eighty feet

above me! Never have I heard a sound

more pure, more beautiful ."

She is quiet. She is a dear friend

who wants to understand whatever is

important to me.Likewise, I wish I could

give her at least a small portion of the

treasure. Yet we both know that some

things cannot be completely shared. Of necessity, they must remain locked within

the souls of those who were there. Still, at

her insistence, I proceed .

Carefully choosing my words, I

tell her how I clearly felt the past had

waited patiently for me to find it. Th re

were cathedrals built by those who refused

to let go of a vision that burned within

them. At Dover, I believed I could easily

reach out and clasp the hands of people

I've never met, perhaps to share a fire or a

blanket with them. At a quiet breakfast

table in Salisbury, I understood that all

ages of humankind are linked by common

dreams, experiences, and emotions . Within

the hushed halls of an art gallery, I saw the

timeless, immortal brilliance of the human

spirit captured on canvas. Finally, the

serenity of Holy Trinity Church brought a

quiet affirmation of the purpose of it all -­

that the peace and majesty of the past are

gifts to humbly accept and then humbly

give.

"%£g 3J talk, 3J am

reminbeb of tbe fairp tale

cbilbren hlbo left a patb of

breabcrumb5 ..."

As I talk, I am reminded of the

fairy tale children who left a path of

breadcrumbs through the forest so they

wouldn't lose their way. Maybe these

scattered pearls of perspective are

somewhat the same. For centuries, they

have been lovingly prepared and placed

across my path, awaiting the day of my

discovery. Now, it is my turn to carefully

leave them behind me..Perhaps on some

distant day, my friend, or another fellow

traveller. will find the luminous gems and

want to follow where they lead. Only then

will the treasure truly belong to both of us.

But for today, I walk by friend to

the door; she leaves with shortbread and a

promise to call her inthe morning.I

reluctantly realize that life will soon resume

its familiar pattern. Yet it will never again

be entirely the same.For me, seven hours

away, a spire sleeps in pre-dawn silence.

Stones will soon stand in silhouette ·

against a grey-green sky, as they have for

more than a million mornings . Stained

glass patterns will pronounce yet another

benediction oflight on a quiet grave. At

evensong, an organ will speak eloquently

of a past that transcends all time and

distance. With eyes closed briefly in

thought, I am there. And I am at

peace. England waits.

VIII

The Shoe in the

Road by Linda Larsen

There it is again - another shoe.

Right there in the middle of the road, just

lying there, right in the middle. How

many times have I seen a lone shoe sitting

between two yellow lines or straddling a

dotted white one? Too many. Every time

I ask myself the same questions, "How did

that get there?" "Why is it there?" "Does

it MEAN something?"

The first time I remember seeing

a shoe like that, I was just a kid, it was

summer, and the shoe was a black and

white Ked. It was pretty worn, and I was

pretty dumb. My brother told me some

jogger probably had a blowout on the

sticky hot pavement. I believed him.

He told me in graphic detail about a guy

he knew that broke his leg when it

happened to him. The jogger was going

so fast, he was four blocks down the road,

bleeding and about to collapse, before he

realized it had blown clean off-- just like

a semi truck that blows a tire and leaves

strips of rubber all over the freeway.

I spent that entire summer

hawkishly watching for

joggers who may have put

too many miles on their Keds.

Sounded good to me. Perfectly

reasonable . I spent that entire summer

hawkishly watching for joggers who may

have put too many miles on their Keds. If

those kinds of accidents really did

happen, I wanted to see one.

But I never did. I saw more

shoes, but I never saw a runner actually

blow out.

My sister told me the Shoe Fairy

puts the shoes on the road to remind us of

all the poor unfortunate people who only

have one leg and so they only need one.

I asked her, if there's a Shoe

Fairy, why doesn't she just give all the

extra shoes to somebody else that needs

just a left or a right? That way they 'd all

have twice as many shoes. Leaving them

in the road is a waste and even I couldn't

picture some stupid fairy trying to dodge

cars while they drop off a size 13 that she

could hardly lift.

No. My sister definitely had a

credibility problem with that one.

Dad said it wasn't a fairy at all.

It was Road Gremlins. He said they were

little critters that steal shoes off kids as

they sit on tailgates or fool around in the

back of station wagons and trucks.

Sometimes they even sneak them off

baggage racks. Why? So they can leave

them in the road and some poor schnook,

who's tired or maybe had a few and

shouldn't be on the road anyway, will

think it's a cat or dog and swerve or slam

on the brakes and get in a wreck. Dad

said those little critters just love to watch

people crash. I wondered how many

accidents were caused each year by Road

Gremlins?

Then, when I started learning to

drive, I noticed there were all kinds of

shoes that ended up stranded in the

middle, just like that first Ked I'd seen as

a child. Really. I've seen about every

kind of shoe you could imagine -­

sneakers, thongs, dress pumps, sandals,

and even wing-tips. They weren't all old

beat-up tennies or loafers. It seemed

strange to me that any pair of shoes, any

color, any size, any style, could end up in

a split that resulted in a tenuous existence

on the fringe of disaster.

I mean, well, a shoe that's had its

glory days and was all beat up and ready

to the garbage bin or the second-hand

store could easily fall off a dump truck or

get thrown out a back seat, but a brand

new, shiny, patent leather, three-inch

heel? It could only have been forgotten by

some murderer, caught on the bumper as

he stuffed the rich widow 's body in the

trunk, only later to have it fall off as he

bounced through a pot-hole, on his way to

dispose of the evidence.

I even saw an Italian number

that I could only reason came from some

upper class addict, some young, hand­

some, too-soon-successful executive, who

tossed it carelessly out the window of his

Mercedes after sniffing all his contraband

out of his Dr. Scholl's insert.

For years I've thought there should be a

division of the police department dedica­

tion to unsolved shoe mysteries. Perhaps

they could train some shoe-sniffing dogs

that could somehow track the perpetrators

of these heinous shoe crimes. I know the

explanations are out

there somewhere -- if only we could

develop the technology to understand

what is going on.

Last week, I saw another one -- a

brown dress shoe that surely went with an

insurance man 's suit. No one speeding

along that four-lane highway paid it much

attention. It was in the meridian, upright,

looking almost. . .expectant.

I found myself turning around

and parking right across from it. I

watched the cars go by -- four lanes of

traffic moving smoothly, stretching into

colored blurs as they whizzed pass me. I

sat behind the wheel. . .watching the

shoe.

It never changed positions.

It never looked any different

It never did anything.

But I watched.

It quivered sometimes, when a

truck or low-built car came too close, but

no one actually hit it. No one seemed to

see it. That bothered me, but I drove off

after awhile and chuckled to myself that I

had spent so much time on such a stupid

activity.

The next day I did the same

thing.

What was this fascination? I

didn't want to retrieve the shoe. I didn't

want to see it run over. I don't know

what I wanted, but the shoe bothered me.

Two more days I sat behind the

wheel and looked at the shoe between the

blur of cars. It never changed positions.

It never looked any different. It never did

anything. But I watched.

And then the shoe was gone.

Gone.

Oh, I drove around a little.

Actually, I drove around a lot. I

checked the gutters. I checked the side

streets. I wondered if anyone was curious

about me. I even looked under some

garbage in a drain. The shoe was gone.

I still don't know why these

solitary shoes are there or why they get to

me. Maybe next time I see one I'll do

more than look at it. Maybe next time I'll

stop. Maybe I'll eyen pick it up.

Maybe next time I'll understand

of why it's there.

Maybe.

5

Home by Collin Turner

Home is where the spirit runs

when the body sleeps. It is the place

where your mind wanders when it is

given a moment alone. Your heart is with

the ones you love, especially when they

are distant or no longer by your side. But

the heart is not at home unless your spirit

calls it, your mind sees it and your body

takes it there. Home is intangible; it is

more than a location or a foundation. It is

sacred ground that is blessed by some

memory too far lost in time to ever be

traced by an earthbound mind. Home

exists before, during and after you walk

through it. Even after the appearance of it

has changed, its sacred nature will always

exist and always call.

Home exists before,

during and after you walk

through it.

It is late July in 1986; the sun is

now a fiery band of crimson washing over

the sandstone landscape of Northern

Arizona. I have the windows down,

letting desert wind pull teasingly at my

hair and wash the smell of Irish Setter out

of my worn Ford Fairmont. Robert Plant

cuts through the roar of sixty-five mile­

an-hour wind and lulls my gut into

silence. I say nothing, sing nothing. All I

do is watch the old Chevette and Interna­

tional pick-up ahead of me and follow

them to a new reality - a new house in a

new city where a second chance at life

awaits me packed among a boxful of

sacrifice. The drugs that pumped through

me are mere traces but the after-effects

still ripple through my life. It is because

of them that I follow the cars, and because

of them that I have left my life behind in

a puff of oil smoke and cauterized

emotions.

The dog in the back seat snorts

as the tape ends. I watch Page, Arizona,

pass off to the side and marvel at the

number of pick-up trucks, mostly Dodges

and Fords, that pack the small city. This is

Redneck country, I think. I pass a road

sign that has a weaving car on it. I know

it means "Slippery When Wet" but laugh

when my Dad 's voice comes over the CB

and tells us to watch out for "drunken

Indians." The impressions and premature

judgements are already forming. When

mixed and allowed to ferment, they

combine and become prejudice -- a

dangerous thing to carry in a land where

the flames of prejudice crack the dirt and

bake bones. I hit the rewind button on my

stereo, reach back to pet the dog, and

drive into a small canyon that winds

down onto the Vermillion Cliffs.

I watch the walls of the

Vermillion Cliffs blaze in tile

dying embers of sunset,

Calmly, I look off the sandstone

lip as my speed blurs the guardrail.

Nearly a thousand feet below, stretched

out like a giant skin, lies the Painted

Desert. It revitalizes the sunset, its colors

reflecting to the sky, off the few clouds

and onto the darkening canvas. My

inexperience at driving long distances

forces me to concentrate on the road and I

don 't have much of an opportunity to

ponder the beauty of this land from above.

That waits until I am off the cliffs and

driving through the surrealistic desert,

letting the Fairmont float over rises,

around curves and through bridged

arroyos. In the rearview mirror, I watch

the walls of the Vermillion Cliffs blaze in

the dying embers of sunset, understanding

why they carry their name. And in those

moments, I feel my spirit begin to

awaken.

All my strength is channeled

into keeping

myself "clean," not in

running from tile coyotes

or owls.

Two cars and truck on a road

that seem to loop infinity. Then I notice

the pinpoint flash of headlights far behind

me, vanishing as I round a curve. Only a

few minutes later, I see them closer and

moving in fast. My mind breeds images of

a predator closing in on a helpless victim.

The weak are its prey; that's the way the

circle works -- the weak giving life to the

strong. I was the last in the line, and I

was the weakest. All my strength is being

channeled into keeping myself "clean,"

not in running from the coyotes or owls.

Caught in traveller 's imagination, I let

my foot pull away from the gas pedal. The

taillights of my brother 's car begin to

shrink and the faded orange needle of my

speedometer slowly falls to forty-two. The

headlights flash, close, and my hands

tighten on the vinyl-padded steering

wheel. It tops a rise, swooping down, then

weaves around me and past -- sleek, black

and humming with power. My foot slams

down and the sluggish engine pings to

life. The pursuit was meaningless, but it

let me see . Images, smeared by twilight,

streamed by me. I pass the Chevette, then

the International, and sail out on my own;

chasing the dream awakened in my spirit

and my mind .

This us a land of shifting

realities. It matches my

scrambled mind but with a

patience that is both infinite

and brooding.

My Dad calls me over the CB,

but I ignore it. "The Big Log" drifts

through the wind, seductive layers of

electronic music adding to my lone flight.

I am alone, no longer following anything

but a winding road that leads into a land

older than the bones of Adam. My eyes

scan every detail: silhouette images of

sage and saguaro, shale stacks and

crumbling hills. I feel it here, life and

death, hot and cold, drought and flood.

This is a land of shifting realities. It

matches my scrambled mind but with a

patience that is both infinite and brood­

ing. I am embraced by it.

Several minutes pass before a

static burst caught my attention. When I

listened carefully, I hear my father telling

me to stop at the next pull-off. I don't.

answer, but when I find a place big

enough, I hit the brakes, the dog is

thrown forward and I skid into the

pull-off. I climb out of the car, shutting off

the engine but leaving the last verse of the

song playing. The sky is filled with

flickering stars and the faint band of the

Milky Way. I lay on my hood and watch.

Shooting stars cut into the darkness and

the distant sounds of night life accompany

the sounds of approaching vehicles. My

6

7

family arrived I say nothing, but lie on my warm hood, staring

into the sky and letting my spirit become acquainted with this

ancient land.

As I lay, a moving van roars past, carrying nearly

everything we own from one empty house to another. I don 't

care about where I am going anymore, I will eventually adapt to

it and try to shed my poisoned skin. But I know that I am

already home. Even as I drive away, into the mountains that

cradle Flagstaff, I feel part of my spirit staying behind. It melded

with the thousands of other wandering spirits and acts as a

beacon.

Now, several years and numberless events later, that

part of me still calls out I feel it now, as I write. I dream about

it when I sleep. Eventually, I will need to leave, if only for a

short time, and return to the land that I know as Home, "South

and Red." When I get there, I will probably just stand, or lie on

my car and watch the stars. I will let the cool breeze cleanse my

mind and chill my angers. My spirit will reunite with itself,

become whole, and the homecoming will be complete.

•••••••••••••

THE NORTH AMERICAN INTERDISCIPLINARY

WILDERNESSCONFERENCE NOVEMBER 10, 11 & 12, 1994

to be held on campus

November 10-12, 1994

please contact: Mike Vause @ 626-6654 or

Bill McVaugh @ 626-6600. ASAP.

Amtrack:

All the Night Things by Sundy Watanabe

Where grasses shiver

along a river bed,

train tracks run through.

and the wind and the river

the moan

of the

river tumbles beside.

Rhythm and Blues

burns along rails of steel

through spruce and pine

nudging,

pulsing,

screaming,

and after it reaches the ridge,

just flows--

spider hair sucked through

blue-black

caverns on the mountain

over

under

trestles framing measures miles below.

Willows by a stream

stream by, pool

in pockets of valley

silence­ hard land long

behind, riveted to shadow.

Call for submissions for the Winter edition

of Verbal Equinox. Theme: Writing Methods and Practices

Emphasis on the variety of ways writing

can be produced. What works for YOU?

Deadline: December 15, 1994

Send to The Writing Center, SS042

All the night things

wail tunes: blowsy

horn,

breezy harmonica,

cool sax.

8

Not Forgotten

By Les Wade

Remember when we forgot the pancake turner

and the can opener?

I cut a jagged lid from a peach can

with my Boy Scout knife

and made a make-shift spatula

by shoving the lid between the tines

of my odd fork.

And then the time we left the butter,

and the kids begged a cube from the

campground hosts so I could fry

the fresh-caught R a i n b o w s .

I don't know who forgot the poles,

but we scrounged some string,

cut a green willow pole,

hooked a safety pin baited with

a hunk of pancake

the squirrels had somehow missed;

we didn't get a bite.

And once you left the cooler with the food

and the box with all the cooking gear.

Old Faithful Inn's

cheapest steak, $12.95,

tasted great, but next morning we loaded up

on all kinds of picnic stuff

paper dishes, plastic utensils,

sugared cereal, green bananas,

sliced wheat bread and bologna.

And that time we came home and found

the lost orange juice oozing

from a ruptured cardboard can,

gooing all over the gas stovetop where

someone set it while packing Coleman's cooler.

And that night in empty

Blue Mountain campground,

way above Monticello,

on our trip to Mesa Verde,

I lay lonely in a collapsed nylon tent, pegs forgotten,

my head stuck through the unzipped orange door,

the boys asleep in bags under bare June stars -

I had not forgotten you.