UNTITLED The pair of mice, current residents of the heating ducts beneath the hood of the 1978 Winnebago, did not notice Faheem as he slowly moved toward the vessel's side entry. Their attention was fixed upon a bounty of stale crumbs and the crusts from a bologna and mustard sandwich, left on the fold down table that lined the opposite wall of the of the old RV. It lay forgotten, under a melange of bills and papers in disarray on the pebbled contact paper that lined the table, frayed and curling at the edges. Faheem may have noticed the tiny, mice-mouth sized portions of paper missing from the unanswered correspondence months ago, gnawed and torn from corners and edges of the various notices, but he often ignored the properties of his messy home, attempting to look past the physical dysfunction of space. The missing pieces had been relocated to the tubes and workings of the vehicle, makeshift beds and couches where the two mice relaxed when not traveling within and outside the vehicle walls. The pair had inadvertently traveled to more miles than some humans, and certainly most mice. They had been Faheem's copilots since November, about a month after mooring the Winnebago on a portion of Faheem's parents property near Seneca Lake. The mice enjoyed their newfound immobility much more than Faheem. He had caught a glimpse of one of the mice several days ago, as he was clearing out dead leaves trapped under the hood. As he brushed the remnants of this past Autumn toward the driver's side, one of the mice had peaked his head out of the encasement's edge near the passenger's side mirror, looking slightly annoyed. It confirmed Faheem's suspicions that had arisen three days before, while gleefully engaged in the sacred, yearly ritual of the first Air Conditioning; the holy ceremony had been interrupted by a plague of dust that burst from the vents, accompanied by the stale scent of urine, a storm cloud consecrating the front half of the Winnebago, including Faheem. A troubling combination of incense and particle washed him over; he quickly wiped it off, and used his hands to clear out his shoulder length black hair, peppered by the Eucharistic gift the Winnebago had bestowed upon him. Today, six days later, an outdoor writing session, often interrupted by one thing or another, had morphed into a makeshift sneak attack against the vermin. Green Day's "Jesus of Suburbia" played at a blistering volume on a loop from a boom box that sat on the counter of the Kitchenette inside the RV. The mice didn't seem to mind the punk opus, it was common noise at this point; it had provided Faheem with a fitting, post election vessel of musical rage, and more presciently, allowed Faheem the chance to get as far as he would into the humid Winnebago undetected, within an arm-span of the two intruders on this surprisingly hot and sunny April afternoon. He removed his flimsy and sweat stained t-shirt with his right arm slowly, letting it drop into his hand while he quickly twirled it into a makeshift, whiplike weapon of battle. As he inched forward, catlike reflexes took hold, every muscle in his body taut and cocked. He managed to mount the first step into the RV without detection, as Billie Joe Armstrong vehemently and angrily growled: "Everyone's so full of shit / Born and raised by hypocrites / Hearts recycled but never saved / From the cradle to the grave / We are the kids of war and peace / From Anaheim to the Middle East / We are the stories and disciples of / The Jesus of suburbia / Land of make believe / And it don't believe in me / Land of make believe / And I don't believe / And I don't care!" The singer repeated this last stanza several times, an impassioned declaration of apathy. As the track proceeded past the 5:26 mark, a subdued stanza of melody met with the creaking of Faheem's settling weight into the 40 year old vehicle's frame. This resulted in the full and sudden attention of both mice, who sprang into action as the rogue attempt of a surprise attack unraveled quickly. The mice leaped onto the kitchenette counter, past the sounds of the more sincere portion of the American effigy pouring from the speakers. They scurried onto the counter of the kitchenette, leaping past emptied Styrofoam containers, more bite marks marring their edges. They darted towards the fist sized hole that lay on the other end of the counter as Faheem raised his arm with the makeshift whip. Just as the first mouse disappeared into the hole, Faheem lunged towards the second mouse, dropping his arm down violently, his weaponized shirt striking down upon the counter with a force of great vengeance. Missing his intended target by centimeters, his shirt snagged a framed 8 x 11 picture, a copy of the famous Obama Hope poster he had hung last November, which went crashing into a McDonald's bag filled with various receipts, ricocheted to the edge of the table, and sent an explosion of paper into the musty air just as the second mouse made his way into the hole. A ticker tape parade, a cyclone of bank statements and receipts, pay stubs and invoices, tattered papers torn from steno notebooks, napkins scrawled on carelessly with musings on the state of the world, the state of himself, floated graciously down to the ground of the Winnebago by Faheem's feet, falling gently upon the shattered frame. Faheem began the cleanup process with a sly smile and shake of the head, parting the sea of communications and decrees lay strewn on the floor, of notices and statistical mementos from the past five years. As the floor of the RV began to reemerge, he saw a crumbled ball of paper that had rolled under the folding table, and stretched long to reach it. He grabbed at it with the tips of his fingers, and, catching a fold, retracted his body backwards and upwards, knocking the top of his head on the table's edge. As the goose egg began to form, he exited the vehicle, in exhausted defeat, to the green plastic Adirondack chair that constituted a front porch. He sat, and began smoothing the crumpled relic as Billie Jo Armstrong sang: "And I leave behind / This hurricane of fucking lies / I lost my faith to this / This town that don't exist / So I run, I run away / To the lights of masochists" The paper contained an untitled poem, marked only with a date: 1/20/17. A raging river of consciousness, lifted from the style of his heroes, long gone - Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, Ginsburg, it was a rough mutt, hastily scrawled and equally forgotten. To call it free verse would be high praise. In recent years, Faheem had often kept his thoughts to himself. Neither person nor page were allowed to see the hopes and fears, freedoms and horrors that existed in his mind. This certain day, however, was one that begged for contemplation, as wind change often bring, and Faheem viciously wrote his thoughts with the rare strength of a driven mind. He finished reading words from three months prior and he set the paper down on the newly green grass; it was rapidly regaining its warm color, reaching towards the Spring sun that set westward behind Faheem. His words and thoughts from the recent past were rough, and they both embarrassed and grounded him. He never enjoyed reading his own words, though he appreciated that they may exist in a physical form, for some innate, immeasurable reason. He was lonely in his mind, much more than in the world at large. But bridging the gap between his crowded mind and the empty paper was one of the more difficult aspects of his recent struggles in attempting to live a life, some life, out loud. He had so much more to say, and he certainly knew there was a poem, a story, in these past few minutes, in this moment, but he could not muster the energy to organize his jumbled thoughts. Bills to pay, debtors to avoid, holes to fix, mail to sort, insurance company to fight with, feeds to scan, pictures to like, news to swallow, looks to avoid, opinions to ignore. Mouse traps to buy. He felt defeated this day, and chose to enjoy the radiant hum of a crowded mind as he turned his chair around to face another sunset. He'll remember this moment tomorrow, and his thoughts may become more concise, more adept, less disjointed, than the ever present now. He worried he was lying to himself as the Green Day song started anew, for the umpteenth time since everything had changed. "I'm the son of rage and love The Jesus of Suburbia From the bible of none of the above." by Christopher Knitter Theatrical adaptation by Neil Bardhan & the audience volunteer is none other than Sophia McMaster
Portrait Thought to be of a Young Man as Hermes, God of Travelers, 21st century, color photo, American, Harnas School of American Photography, 2017. Soft lighting, enigmatic smile, long flowing hair emulates the contours of the figure; the shallow stage lends immediacy to view the beguiling figure. Photo of a Scene Thought to be Hermes’ Diary Room, still life diorama, American, Harnas School of American Crafts, 2017. Obscure lighting falls on a scrim shaped like the side of a camper and plays with the light and shadow over the objects of natural gas tank, oilcan, bench, and recliner. Hermes was known to travel around the globe in a camper, writing notes in a diary of his expeditions. Set in a shallow stage, viewers have immediate access to Hermes’ favorite writing lair. by Kathrine Page Ritual, felted stones, and traveling journal by Shannah Rabado Warwick
DAY 5 I made it! My first 20-mile day and I can barely feel my legs. A sip from the flask as a reward, but no fire tonight. It's not a busy campsite - one RV and a cook pit too close to share. Not sure if anyone is home. Protein rice over the camp stove tonight and another chapter of "Finding Me." It was the first day that felt strange without social media - and still no reception. Maybe the neighbors will want to chat. DAY 6 I decided on a rest day. My legs were like jello this morning and the weather wasn't great. Windy but no rain. Probably overnight. No one came in or out of the RV - I even knocked to ask about the cook pit. No answer so I used it anyway. Almond butter tastes better on toast. Feeling strong again and ready to hike in the morning. DAY 7 Crazy storm last night! A branch fell - missed me but not my tent. I pounded on the RV and no one answered. I let myself in. It wasn't locked and I wasn't safe outside. The RV was neatly abandoned. Someone left not long before I first arrived. The food and water, gone. Photos, journals, books, and decorations still in place. It was an intentional disappearance; an entire life left behind. Not forgotten, but gone forever. What I saw in the RV is no indication of who walked away from it all. I hope I meet her. By Sean Lukasik mixed media piece by Terry Oakden
Hi, Aaron. I’m sitting in our tent right now, camped outside of Devil’s Backbone Brewery in Virginia. They let hikers set up in the woods near their...well, I guess it’s a campus really. They have this huge brewpub and an outdoor stage with outdoor bars, small stone bonfires, and cornhole and horseshoe sets. There’s a “Royal Flush” pinball machine like the one you used to play at Mountain Fire Pizza, before they got rid of it.. After the past few days of hiking it was such a huge relief to hitchhike down here. There’s no shower, but I did give myself a towel bath in one of their outdoor bathrooms. The beer was great and I’ve never eaten fries so fast in my life. Some of my trail friends are camped around me. We wandered back here with our headlamps, fairly drunk (or at least tipsy), and crawled into our tents. One of them, See-More, just sleeps under his rain fly--he doesn’t even use the tent itself. I couldn’t do that. The thought of ants and frogs and stuff crawling on me at night gives me the creeps. I was long overdue in writing this. To tell you the truth, I have been so busy hiking North that I’ve rarely thought about you. That’s one of two things I hoped might happen with this trip; I would either obsess over you, or I would “forget” you. Of course I can’t forget you. It’s been over a year. There was a long time where I cried myself to sleep every night in our apartment. I don’t really know when that stopped. Months. Judy and Amos finally talked me into seeing a therapist. I know you aren’t haunting me, but I have been haunting myself. I felt like a ghost in our apartment. Around our friends. Around town. I clinged onto every scrap of you that remained. I miss your dark hair and how you would smile more with your eyes than your mouth. I always wanted to know what you were thinking--what was going on behind that hint of a smirk. I did leave my customer service job. That’s good, right? You hated how much I hated that job. I’ve been making ends meet by substitute teaching, dog walking/sitting, and a lot of freelance work. None of it pays particularly well by itself, but together it’s not a bad living and I rarely have time to be bored. What am I saying; “have?” Had. I guess I got ahead of myself. I’m on the Appalachian Trail right now! It just felt like the right time to do it, you know? We always wanted to go and I’m not chained down to my work, so. I thanked the landlord and broke the lease. Used our, well, mostly my at this point, savings to buy gear. Did the research. Talked to Cara about it. Your sister has been so supportive in general. She gave me her maps, loaned me her stove, and some other things that didn’t get trashed during her hike. I haven’t really used the maps because everybody out here uses this phone app called Guthook’s, but I still carry them anyway. I like to pretend they’re a protective totem or juju or something. Every single day out here is beautiful. Hard, but beautiful. Each step feels like a small triumph, in a way, and it seems like the most successful hikers (or, at least, the ones most likely to complete the trail) have the mantra that; “There’s one way out of this, and that’s to finish. One foot in front of the other, keep walking north.” I’ve relied on that, and them, a lot. We all have trail names at this point, if we’re going to. There’s See-More, of course, which is a play on his name (Seymore) and the fact that he frequently struts through camp in his underwear. I have become pretty close friends with Way. She carries a copy of the Tao Te Ching and talks about this trail being her Way, and “infinite mysteries this” and “unknowing that.” You would have gotten a kick out of her, if her woo-woo talk didn’t annoy you too much. Camped across from me are Ted and Young Ted. They’re brothers. The older one’s name is Ted, and I don’t actually know Young Ted’s name but somebody called him that and it stuck. I cheated and gave myself a trail name. It’s not really a big deal if you give yourself one, but I didn’t like a lot of the names people were suggesting for me. I thought a lot about it through the Smoky Mountains and decided it should be Hummingbird. I hum, you liked when they’d migrate through our backyard, I don’t know. It works. And there hasn’t been another Hummingbird this year yet, so people know it’s me (if they know me). My gear is too drab to really stand out. You know at least half the guys hiking out here wear girl’s shorts in the most ridiculous colors? I’m talking hot pink booty shorts. Nobody really cares. It’s obvious who the hikers are, and when I go into town it’s impossible to blend in even after a shower and stowing my pack somewhere. I had been so focused on my own physical pain and struggle as I hiked through the cold southern states that I didn’t think about much. I either tried to push the thoughts out, or think about my next week of hiking and plan it out in my head. I’ve been snowed on three times, thought for certain I would freeze to death one night, and though I haven’t had any bear encounters yet, I have nearly stepped on two huge rattlesnakes since entering Virginia. The weather is hot now, and the trail is full of flowers and shady green leaves. The past couple days were really intense though. I came down off a mountain into a two-story shelter next to a waterfall. Spent the night there with Way and a few other fast hikers we had caught up with. Then, I had the long trek up The Priest, a mountain I’d been hearing about for weeks. The first 4k footer for a long time! When I got near the summit there was a shelter (also called The Priest shelter) where hikers confessed their “sins” to the mountain in the trail log. Some were funny, some were sarcastic, some were heartfelt and sad. A lot of confessions were about not burying poop properly or hanging bear bags right. I picked up the pen to write something funny, but I just...started writing. I wrote an entire page of all my regrets, all my anger that you left me alone. My frustration of being unable to move on, and my disinterest in seeing other people while our friends would hint at; “how long it’s been,” in their loving but tone-deaf way. I wrote about how I just want you, and our future, back; and how I don’t want a new future without you. It came out very real, and very sudden. I lost myself in my writing. Way hiked into the site and set her backpack down next to me on the picnic table. I realized I was crying and I tried to hide my face so she wouldn’t see; regardless, she could definitely see that my hand was trembling over the page. When I had finished writing, I moved to rip the page out. She placed her hand down on the log so I couldn’t lift it. “I had no idea,” she said. She had been reading over my shoulder. I hadn’t told anybody on the trail about you. I’d avoided talking too much about myself anyway, but I didn’t want to invite your ghost to follow me. You left for work one morning and there was a snowstorm and you never made it home. I was alone. “It’s nothing,” I told Way. She nodded. “Everything is Nothing,” she replied. Her matter-of-fact nature combined with the absurdity of everything she says is probably my favorite thing about her. She gently took the shelter log and pen from me to write her own confession. I sat there and ate a flavorless granola bar. The oats rolled around on my tongue and felt like lumps going down my throat. The more I thought about Nothing, the more hollow I felt inside. I wanted to shred that page up; not to prevent others from reading it, but to somehow get rid of all of those feelings that were tormenting me. Way’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Would you hike to Devil’s Backbone Brewery with me?” “You know I hike slower than you.” “That’s fine. The beer will wait for us and I’d like the company.” So here we are. The hike down here was silent until we got to the road and hitched in with a friendly, local trail maintainer. We met up with the Teds and a few other members of our extended trail families, drank our beer, and ate fried foods and fresh salads. Everybody acted the same toward me because, of course, only Way knew now--but I felt different. That entry in the hiker log had been the first time I had opened up about my feelings. I hadn’t even done that with my therapist, really. I felt quiet and exhausted. Laying down in this tent--our tent--and writing this by headlamp has been the catharsis I’ve needed since you died. I’ve thought a lot about you, and why I’m hiking this trail, and what will come next for me. I think a part of you is all over this trail, but in that, “we are all made of starstuff,” way. I don’t think there’s life after death. Your brain stopped working, and “you” are gone, and you couldn’t possibly care about me or if I date again or move across the country or anything like that. If I go back to Gorham, I’ll just be haunting it as a surrogate for you. Maybe I can crash with my cousin out in Oregon for a while. I need a new start, something to let me get over this monumental sadness that I carry everywhere. I know, intellectually, it’s not what you would want for me. We had a great life together but it’s gone. Now, I hike every day, sometimes in excess of twenty miles, and eat noodles mixed with instant potatoes, and dig holes to poop in the woods. I hike like it’s my job, but I hike because it’s my life, and that’s enough for now. I think the only way forward, for me, is one footstep at a time. Ever northward. Katahdin awaits! After that, I’ll see what comes. It felt good to get this all out. Maybe it’s the exhaustion or the booze or something else. Maybe I’m just ready to finally start talking about this. I feel like I should burn this letter, somehow, in some special place. Maybe when I hike through NH. I’ll stop by our old apartment, swing by the fire pit in the backyard, and light this on fire to send it to you. Everything is Nothing. I’ll say one last goodbye to our apartment, our town, and our life. Then, I’ll keep hiking. I loved you, I still love you, and I will always love you. But you knew that. Happy trails, Chris (“Hummingbird”) by Joe Noel installation, trail journal, and trail snacks at the event by Jenny Wittmaack
Twilight at Dawn 1. Late Night Letter Jay, you know I never watched the news —Afghanistan, Iraq, I couldn’t point either out-- so when you went, it’s like you were lost. Or no, it was like I couldn’t follow. No, I was lost. I can’t write it all in one place so I spread it out and know it less. Do you think your mother thinks I’m dead? Even if she’d give them to me, any stars of yours would be dark-- dark stars are useless. I want to shine. 2. At the Laundry Heavy load of sweatshirts and stuff rolls up; eventually though, they tumble, the basket turning, working and working just to dry the clothes. And I watch the whole pointless cycle start again. Then it stops, jeans soaked. No more quarters. I never have enough. They gave us grades all through school-- math, social studies, even gym. I mean, there’s got to be a way to know, now, as adults, if you’re doing it right. Even how straight our letters were got grades. 3. Another Letter We had extra-curricular priorities, you and I; Elle’s almost twelve, proof of that. We had to hide from your mother back then; even now, she can’t seem to find me. Reality star, Elle says. Or some days, Engineer for NASA. So I’m taking classes on loans I might not ever be able to pay back. Now I get what a thesis is, and I’m learning elementary algebra. And what I’m made of. We do homework in sync, mother and daughter, each in silence, becoming what we can’t yet know. 4. Cleaning Up and Homing In The laundry’s in its basket still, days later; heaped up junk mail layers the kitchen table. Elle’s shoes make walking the hall a hazard. Yelling does no good. I begin with the clothes then work my way back to the table. Then sit. Objects finding their place eases me, even if order’s hard to achieve and doesn’t last long. Kitchen ready, I put on the pasta water. Home, the fact and feeling of it, is a softening I can make for Elle. It has to happen every day. Memories, mom used to say, won’t cook the sauce. 5. Starting Homework in the Gloaming I tower my textbooks against the window. Sunset’s long over, fireball gone, but above the black bulk of the hills yellow highlights the important edge. Gloaming, my new vocab, refers to being in-between. One word embodies many meanings. Twilight, on one hand, is darkness shouldering into day; on the other, light blooms on the stem of night-- betweenness means living the transition. You can’t trust words. So I start with math. Equations. Proofs. Let’s see what x is this time. 6. Last Late Night Letter In the small quite hours, I wake, and, magically, feel cozy in my trailer, in my life. Elle snores, but gently, the sound a comfort. Let me go, Jay. Let me live, and I’ll, I’ll, I will let you die. It’s been eleven years, eleven years, six months. Through my window a star I think is Venus gleams like a jewel. Night-time is becoming my friend again. Daylight’s no longer drudgery. I whisper Move on, move on, only partly to you. Embraced by star-shine, I snuggle in to sleep. by Edward Dougherty "Desperation" by Mary Weatherbee
If I had ever thought of the challenges of middle school, the problem I faced would have never come to mind. My first period class, including me, had been informed of the school writing contest. This was a chance to show your true talent. Our quirky English teacher had told our class, hoping to resurrect our dead spirits towards the assignment. I was hooked at the idea, for writing stories is one of my great pastimes. But, for once, I felt as if I was trying to bake a cake with no ingredients. I didn’t know how to start my story. To avoid my constant habit of procrastination, I decided to take a short walk down the hallway. As I entered the long corridor, I was greeted by the brisk, glacier-like air clearing my mind. In a serene state, I stretched out my hand to the paper-white brick wall. It was as if my hand was an oar and my body was a boat, sailing through an ocean of air. Could I possibly be entering a state of enlightenment and inspiration? Nearing the end of the corridor, I felt my hand brush over something rough. The texture was drastically different from the smooth surface of the wall. The wood-like area of the wall was an indent in the hallway, making up a mere tier in an unknown cake of wall. I was surprised that I had never noticed this disembodiment while transporting myself through the corridor. Moving my hand in several full revolutions, I came to discover that the region I was touching moved slightly at its top. This must be a door, I thought to myself. The door must have a purpose, but what was it? Thoughts of childish excitement bombarded into my head like an extra neutron in an uranium atom. This nuclear fission overcame me. Could it be a pipeline of ductwork that led to every classroom in the building? Or was it a portal to another dimension with rainbows and unicorns and clouds made of fluffy cotton candy? Filled with curiosity, I got on my hands and knees, while I prepared to open the door knowing whatever lay behind it would amaze me. Checking the hallway to see if anyone was occupying the space, I decided to proceed, pass go, and collect two-hundred dollars. Well, maybe not the two-hundred dollars part, but something amazing, I hoped. I gave a gentle push on the door. The small board moved through the air like a stealth boat on dead calm water. I crawled through the small entrance, greeted by a dimly-lit room. The motion-sensor light illuminated a small portion of the room, the rest of the space was coated in inky shadows. Taking up the rest of the space were large articles. There were two chairs upside-down that were placed atop a small wooden table. On the other side of the rectangular room, a shower stall and a pinball machine lined the wall. Looking back on that day, I never truly understood how I found a storage closet so intriguing. Thinking of nothing better to do, I took down one of the chairs from the top of the table and sat in it. The cold, firm plastic sent a tickle up my spine. As my awe for the room had floated away like the graceful smoke of an extinguished candle, the thought of the story competition struck me like a snake in the grass. What was I going to do? I pondered over the issues to what felt like a great amount of time. I took a second glance at the articles in the room and several ideas came into my mind. Hmmm… I thought looking at the old, tired pinball machine. Maybe I could enter a story about a man named Ramon and how he met a girl, Stella, at an arcade or a casino, or any place that adults go to have fun. Or, peering at the shower stall, I could write about a naked lady who was murdered in her own bathtub. No, that wouldn’t work, I realized. It sounds like one of the boys in my class would say that to annoy the girls. Could I write about one of my adventures? None of these ideas seemed to work at all. Standing up from sitting at the table, I felt my chocolate wavy hair fall over my shoulders like a waterfall. Then, all of the sudden, I realized something important. Inspiration can come from you inside, not just what you see in the world. With this wisdom, I knew my story that I was going to write would be great. by Sophia McMaster Photograph & installation by Chris Walters
That sound, ding ding….ding ding ding….. the smell of stale beer, the creek of an old wooden floor. Then his stare, soft and welcoming, from across the room. It’s all a dream now. A tiny vignette of a vivid memory. That’s how we met. And that’s how he drew me in. I was open for it, I was always open for it. Sex was what I could control and the intimacy was what I craved. His eyes promised that intimacy… if only for the night. That sound ding ding….ding ding ding….the smell of stale beer, the familiar creak of the sticky wooden floor. Night two. There he was again, the same promise in his stare, the same kindness in his stare. And the guarantee of an intimacy that had cradled me from the night before. Repeat. Repeat, Repeat. Then came the promise of commitment. The promise that these feelings would last forever, that the lust would last forever, that the kindness would last forever, that the intimacy I craved, would last forever. I was 24, I had moved back home, to hicksville, to escape 1980’s New York City. Aids, drugs, more drugs, no direction, needed to clear my head, needed to nest, needed to reset. He held the promise of a picket fence, kids, and security, even though he never offered that out loud, I innately knew that he was controllable. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, but for the moment, I wanted to take this turn. In New York, I could not control the world around me. I just knew how to control my sex. That was my superpower. That was how I kept them coming back. Sex was where I could let go and be truly free. Free of the performance that was required for daily survival. Sex was not a performance. The act was pure and real, it was freeing and the intimacy, oh the intimacy in that moment made up for a childhood where I was forced to build a shield, no, a wall, to hide my emotions. Not allowed to cry, not allowed to show fear or flaws. That is what my father dictated. I was meant to be smart, no brilliant, talented and confident. I played the part well, hid my fear, hid my lack of brilliance. Charging in like I owned the place. Hiding my cognitive disability, my sensitivity, all the while burying my insecurities. Another superpower? I was the ultimate performer, just like a well-trained dog. That sound… no, no sound now, quiet, very quiet. Just the smell of fermenting wine, the small house on the hill, and the birth of my first child. Ah yes, he would be the genius. Envisioning my own mortality. A tired, blurry memory now. I was just 25. How do you make another human being, how do you care for another human being when your superpowers don’t allow for a crying baby. My parents successfully created and raised another life, or had they. Both my parents were still childlike in their needs, and wants. Did they do the best they could, did they? It would be another 10 years before I learned how to hate then forgive then love them again. It would be only 3 years until my father left my mother and I became her mother, the only adult in the room. But the love I felt for this crying baby, overpowering, all consuming. All the time repeating to myself… don’t fuck it up, don’t fuck it up… Wish I had felt the same for the father, the baby’s father. But I was just 25… He was not my knight in shining armor, but he was handsome. He was not a great provider, but we were never hungry. He was against public displays of affection, but he did love me. Why did I ache for more… That sound, ding ding….ding ding ding….. the smell of stale beer, the creek of a familiar old wooden floor. Then his stare, sexy and inviting, secret and seductive, from across the room. The desire, no, the need to feel my superpowers again, if only for one night. No big deal, I can handle this. Just an hours indiscretion, then back to my wifely, no, my mommy duties. It will be my, no, our little secret, no big deal, no one will ever know… Then came the promise of love and intimacy, and public displays of affection, a better life financially. He never promised it out loud, but… I was 32, hot for my age. I had had three children by then. I decided infidelity was instinctual, not my fault, I had read all about it in a magazine, and I forgave myself. I believed that I could switch my man partner, breadwinner and my children wouldn’t suffer. He would provide and make me happy, them happy. And I would finally be happy. We would all be happy. That sound, ding ding….ding ding ding….. the smell of stale beer, the creek of an old wooden floor. Then his stare, into the eyes of a younger woman, a childless woman. Not stares at me anymore, was I loosing my shine, were children my kryptonite? I had been tossed, just as I had tossed… aside. I felt pain, real pain for the first time. A heart wrenching, vivid memory. How was I able to be so cruel to the father of my children, why had I not felt his pain as I inflicted it. Why did I not see the suffering, the sadness of the children, my children. Eyes open, internal growth for the first time… but at what cost? I would spend the rest of my life fixing that cost, making it right, for the children that is. Forgiving myself over and over and over again. Looking all the while for a new superpower. Accepting that I couldn’t turn heads anymore, I wasn’t the pretty girl in the room anymore. The boys, no, the men didn’t look twice at me anymore. Coming to grips, intimacy would have to come from within. Learning love of self is a long lonely road. My new superpower, self-honesty?, mea culpa chick?, copasetic girl? No, no superpower now. Just be, just exist, just be kind. Just live in the moment. Woman adult-ing. By Jennifer Duke Anstey (Harpending) performance by Maia Stam
music by Tyler Cassidy-Heacock & Joseph Kannel THE USUAL Her inky-black pupils, suspended in rings of glossy hazel, dilate as she enters the dark interior of Del’s Tavern. She’s assaulted by the pungent odor of stale beer fused with shelled peanuts, like rancid lager saturating a vat of greasy peanut butter. It’s a fragrant reminder that she’s about to break the promise she implemented over a month ago. She scans the cheerless room, hoping Ricky’s lanky frame will be hunched over a tumbler at the bar. That for once, he’ll be waiting for her. But all she sees is the perpetual assemblage of random barflies. Lit by flickering neon, they’re anchored to the same seats they always use. As if Butch, the portly and bulbous-nosed proprietor, assigned a seating chart that none of them have the courage to disrupt. Not seeing Ricky, she makes her way to the bar. A few steps in, the soles of her heels begin to shatter peanut shells strewn across the floor, a result of Del’s only source of sustenance. For a dime, Butch will dip a soiled plastic flowerpot into a mammoth bag of cut-rate peanuts and send them across the lacquered bar to those that need sodium to accompany their musty brews. After sucking out the insides, the barflies discard the shells onto the floor, creating a carcass-laden landscape of tawny husks that are crushed under the oily-bottomed work boots of Del’s clientele. She walks up to the bar, and pulls out a broken-down stool, vinyl seat held together by frayed duct-tape. She sits and crosses her legs, causing her jean cuffs to rise, which reveal her meaty ankles, one of the many despicable things she inherited from her mother. As she tugs her jean cuffs down, Butch approaches and cracks a monstrous grin, lips parting way to nicotine-stained teeth. He tells her that it’s been too long. She smiles and agrees, about to order a drink when Butch waddles away, saying he’ll get her the usual. She hasn’t wanted the usual, Butch’s sugary and watered-down take on a Boston Sour, for over a decade. But she’ll accept it, not wanting to offend him if she declines. She’ll wait for Ricky to arrive and order her something else, not giving Butch a chance to dislike her, even for a moment. As Butch prepares her drink, Wallace, one of the barflies, shuffles towards the pinball machine. He fishes around in the pockets of his threadbare coveralls, coming up with a grimy quarter. He pops it into the slot, causing the game (Card Whiz, if she remembers correctly) to quiver to life. Flaxen lights glow, illuminating Wallace’s craggy face, nose riddled with broken capillaries. His knobby fingers, stained with oil and grease, pop the buttons on the side. His hips undulating with each ding and rattle inside the machine, willing the pinball to hit combos and kickout holes to rack up points. Butch winks as he plops down her cocktail, causing a shriveled maraschino cherry to rock in the golden liquid. Off his wink, she flashes a crooked smile, tilts her head and emits an overzealous thank you. Even before the words emerge, right when her cheek muscles contract to create the off-kilter smile, a wave of self-hatred washes over her. Anger rises, causing her milky-white skin to redden at the fact that she smiles and complacently whispers words of gratitude to any flirtatious glance, wink, or nod. She knows it’s happening, can hear the small cry from the back of her mind trying to quell the instantaneous reply. The inner shriek attempting to calm her crooked smile and cheerful response but it spews forth, unchecked whenever someone of the opposite sex engages her. Like her sturdy ankles, she blames this inherited trait on her mother, another constant reminder that she holds the physical and emotional attributes of a weak woman she hasn’t seen since her and Ricky started dating. Whose hair parted to the same side as hers, who is to blame for her pale skin breaking out into red, scaly rashes, and whose lack of self-respect allowed one of many stepfathers to shower down abuse over the years. She inherited the worst from a woman she left in a crippled and tear-filled wreck, bawling into the shag carpet the color of rotten plums, when she was sixteen. Vowing to never return. To never become her. To calm down, she hoists the Boston Sour to her lips but notices the grimy fingerprints that plague the scratched tumbler. She looks at the soiled glass and wants to throw it. Hurl the cocktail she never wants, but never has the courage to refuse, at the potbellied man who made it. She fantasizes the drink sailing past him, smashing into the tarnished and greasy mirror. Causing the dollar bills taped up to the burnished surface to come crashing down, shards of glass piercing the green-inked portraits of presidents long since passed. But instead, she sips the weak and candied drink as Wallace curses at the varying chirps and whistles emitting from the pinball machine. Knowing that as soon as Ricky’s whip-thin silhouette appears in the doorframe, she’ll straighten up and smile. Relying on the knee-jerk reaction she just cursed to bring him into her arms. Not caring that the promise she made to herself was broken the moment she agreed to meet him here. Not caring that Ricky will utter excuse-riddled apologies that are disguised as requests for her to be the warm body he crawls into bed with after a double shift. Not caring because underneath the tavern’s familiar odor of ale, Jiffy, and despair, Ricky’s pleas are the same as hers – he doesn’t want to be lonely, and neither does she. by David Ebeltoft Special thanks to Vinnie for letting me film this at Volo on Market Street in Corning, NY.
EXT. SMALL RURAL TOWN - STREET - DAY A God-forsaken dot on the map as you drive the two-lane. A tired, dusty CAR pulls up at a neglected CAFE with a faded name. Wisps of steam escape from under the car's hood. A WOMAN, 29, hesitantly emerges from the car to survey her situation. She is full-faced with make-up tips she inherited from her mother. She dresses to play up what she considers assets. The WOMAN cautiously approaches the cafe. INT. CAFE - DAY The PROPRIETOR, elderly, stands behind the counter and stops wiping it when the door opens. Like the cafe, he has let his health and appearance run down and he doesn't have the energy to care anymore. He looks suspiciously at the WOMAN. The WOMAN closes the door and guardedly advances to look around. A mismatched collection of tables and chairs, a lunch counter, no customers. A couple of old discolored illustrations on the wall. Faded red gingham table clothes. An unattended laptop open to an uncompleted solitaire game on one table. A biker's leather jacket draped over a chair at another table. Then, the WOMAN's gaze fixes on one spot. Multi-color stripes on the floor lead to a small stage at the back. An arcade game and unused chairs clutter the stage. A black door is open, but it is too dark to see beyond. The PROPRIETOR apprehensively eyes the WOMAN. She turns toward him. A smile slowly appears on her face. The PROPRIETOR looks gravely concerned and firmly leans on the counter. PROPRIETOR: NO! ### by Edd Harnas film by Pressly Dowler
The summer I got my driver's license, I was going through my actively-embracing-white-trashiness phase. At the time, I was styling my hair every day. sunbathing at the gravel pit a mile from my house. working 3 part-time jobs. disregarding my curfew. wearing obnoxiously bright lipstick. sporting jelly shoes, a fuck-ton a bracelets, overly distressed light wash jeans, barely-there tops. Sometimes just a swimsuit. While unintentional, that's how it came to be that I appear naked in my driver's license photo. The pale pink edge of my tube top, barely visible, allowed the exposure of bony shoulders care-free cleavage Since then, I've been through nearly every cycle of emotion toward my driver's license photo ironic pride actual pride light embarrassment deep shame dread joviality aloofness denial nostalgia longing I've seen every type of reaction to my license photo, from friends, family, bartenders, judges, law enforcers and store clerks. Glances: furtive, cautious, incredulous, creepy, mirthful, blank Whistles: sexual, surprise Gestures: Hand-over-mouth, raised eyebrows, held breath, blushing, laughter, choked laughter, adjusting glasses. Verbal responses: Well now. I see, I see. This is you? New licenses have been printed, with the exact same photograph because of addition of organ donor status. name-change due to marriage. replacement for pick-pocket incident in Madrid. state-wide changes to license design. name-change by way of divorce. Today, 15 years have passed since the license was issued. I am waiting in line at the DMV. applying obnoxiously bright lipstick in the reflection of a laminated "NO SMOKING" sign. sporting jelly shoes, overly distressed light wash jeans, and a pale pink tube top. ready for my closeup. By Willa Rose Vogel Images by Arlie Sommer
She didn't know what she would find when she opened the box. Her memories of him, the old sage who passed along all of his knowledge, never seemed to own anything that would be this grand, this heavy, this full of potential and yet rife with memories of the overwhelming nature of his passing. He was not young, but also was not ready to leave this world; so many missed opportunities, stories, lessons on love and memories of her ancestors long gone. Her grandfather left her one simple thing in his will: “the contents of storage unit 55 at Al’s Cheap-Ass Storage, 1422 Rt 66, Chicago Illinois.” There she was, standing in front of the unit, which appeared to her a bit smaller than she imagined, opened to the setting sun with dust sparkling in the early spring light, and full of junk. Boxes of newspapers from 1950, Coke Cans held onto in the hope that one day they would be “antiques,” broken clocks that didn't appear to have any working components, even a few busted laptops. Then she noticed it. Sitting in the back corner, covered with a tattered sheet and fastened with the most glamorous bronze-plated locks that she had ever seen. It was huge, almost up to her chin, and appeared to have been cared for meticulously throughout his whole life. Next to it laid a note with her name written in calligraphed script. The note described his life as a travelling artist. He had a knack for voices and an incredible stage presence that once made Judy Garland spit her martini across the table. He explained his deep love for theatre and his desire to create sets out of his favorite family scenes, how he would mold the marionettes after the people he held most dear. As she opened the oversized box, she saw something magnificent. Inside was an exact replica of her favorite place on earth. His bar, where she had gone after school each day to wait for her dad to pick her up; where she had learned to love listening to his stories and those of his customers; where one time she had way too many Shirley Temples and threw up next to the regulars smoking cigarettes outside. The recreation was perfect, down to the exact detail. He had restored the drapes, a disgusting red and black that looked like they belonged as a coat on the little labridoodles from Mrs. Jensen next door. He had even perfected the first pinball game in the corner that she adored. It was spectacular. As she opened the box further, out fell two marionettes: one of an old man with grey hair and knowing eyes holding a cocktail shaker, and one of an wide-eyed young girl with blond hair and full smile. She was not sure what she would do with this miniature world full of memories and laughs, a place that was both the place where she both grew into womanhood and had her first beer and the place where she realized the true love a grandfather has for his granddaughter. She began to smile her dry smile, full of melancholy nostalgia. by Henry Powell Then, at that moment, the “Book of Dreams”, a book she found solace and comfort in, gently slipped from her lap to the floor.
She spent much of her time reading that book, since recognizing, in her teens, she had 'the gift', the gift of prescience. Before that revelation, she was regarded as a 'troubled child', who 'knew too much'. Hearing adults whispering about her caused her to retreat, to isolate herself from social contact. Some years went by. Her grandmother, who also had the 'gift', died. It was a natural course of events that she had subsequently come to live with her grandfather. 'Big Al', as he was known, quietly came into the shaded parlor. Picking up the book, he placed it on the stand next to her, along with a manila envelope-the number '55' scrawled on the front. locks & epilogue by Noel Sylvester At Beulahland, on Thursday, June 22nd, Amelia & Noel explained the secret core basis of the collaborative writing project and the entire theme of 66 OURS. Another view of Suppertime assembled in the upper studio inside the main house at Beulahland.
The vignettes are assembled on the sides of the shadow box, given the piece its depth. Unfortunately, from this angle, you can't see them... |
66 OURS - Collaborative Writing ProjectStarting with Phase 1, writers had 66 days to base their writing on 1 anonymous person & 1 vignette, dutifully and judiciously assigned to each writer by Amelia. Photos given to the writersEach writer was given a combination of 1 person + 1 vignette from the following:
Person 1
Person 2
Person 3
Vignette 1
Vignette 2
Vignette 3
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