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Richa was indeed a dazzling beauty.
Like a bright moon on a dark night.
But everything changed on that fatal day.
Would she remain beautiful forever?
Read Gorgeous, a short story that is going to stay with you for a long time to come:
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Virtue Jo Fern
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North Melbourne
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@virtuejofernart on Twitter
Virtue Jo Fern
Queensberry St Art Studios
North Melbourne
Beauty, even in death,
Is related to life. The spark
Dyes the translucent veins
In a memory of times past.
Is related to life the spark
Near the edge: nature is red.
In a memory of times past
She licks her lips and nails.
Near the edge, nature is red.
Her smiles are never benignant
She licks her lips and nails
Disguising the evidence.
Her smiles are never benignant
As she raises the mirror
Disguising the evidence
With a lipstick in hand.
As she raises the mirror
She paints words on her face
With a lipstick in hand
Dusting her own features.
She paints words on her face
Dusting her own features
Taking away the red:
Beauty, even in death.
(Pantoum by SiRiChandra)
#bnwmood #bnwsouls #bnw_life #societyfeelings #blackandwhiteonly #blackandwhiteisworththefight #blackwhitephotography #bnw_planet#monochromatic #igpakistan #spilledink #portait #selfportrait #instagram #words #creativeminds #imaginetones #bnw_captures #liveauthentic #life #portrait #dream #creativewriting #mobilemag #visuals#ourmoodydays #creativecompositions #sunset #clouds
294/365
It's National Why I Write day or something of the sort and I told Ms. Proulx that I'd dedicate my 365 for today to it.
So.
I write because sometimes life doesn't bring me where I want how I want and instead of getting out there and being all assertive and annoying and whatnot I can go and pretend it happened by channeling the music-loving/emotion-feeling/self-aware romantic in myself (not hard, I should say. It doesn't actually need any channelling at all) and opening my laptop and creating a character that reminds most people uncannily of the author herself and creating a situation that is mysteriously parallel to something that happened recently. Except there's always a perfect ending.
Either that or I'm just in the mood for something to read and I can't find anything to read that suits my criteria for what I want to read about so I'm just like "screw this I'll write it myself"
That's actually what happens most of the time but the former situation makes me sound much more eloquent.
New professional/portfolio account!! www.flickr.com/photos/megreillyprofessional/
The softest midnight airstream spoils the trees,
Jiggling discoloured leaves that we know green
Against a black-blue dish, stirred by the breeze.
We hear and watch, out of our submarine
Exile - the sound of bells muted by time –
Jiggling discoloured leaves that we know green.
And we perceive, under the silent chime
Music and words, motionless noise, one more
Exile - the sound of bells muted by time.
The shadows on the walls, whispering door
- a silent movie on a silver screen -
Trailing organdies curtains on the floor.
And we’re awake, oblivious of the green:
It’s black, you see? Because it’s white, so dark
A silent movie on a silver screen.
We sail on by, in our linen ark,
The softest midnight airstream spoils the trees.
It’s black, you see? Because it’s white, so dark,
Against a black-blue dish, stirred by the breeze.
(Terzanelle by SiRiChandra)
The fish was not warm
An unmelted square of cheese
They had no ice cream
Haiku written by me, Scott Henderson
Tuesday September 30th, 2025
A poster created for our English language arts and social studies departments (humanities) to use in their classroom, as well as in the library.
Stuffed into an airtight container, you've all been there a while. You've acclimatized, holding your breath seems normal...for all.
A united front...
It's not eternal darkness, the lid of this coffin, in which you are confined opens from time to time. Light pours in with fresh air, you can almost imagine the collective relief and the sound of a deep breath in perfect unison.
Sadly, it's not entirely a reprieve...
Another brother disappears; you're never certain if they're being saved or terminated. You wouldn’t be so terrified, if you didn’t know that your day will come.
Simply waiting for the end or saving grace...
Plucked roughly from the crowd. No words were spoken, you didn't scream or fight, nor did you say goodbye. Thrown into the bottom of a porcelain mug, a chance to get your bearings. At least you can breathe in your new home.
Sold. One light filled home...
A paradise in comparison but with no place to move or stretch, it's a jail cell none the less. Your jail cell becomes a torture chamber with boiling water rushing over your body. There's no chance to scream let alone process the pain.
Whoever thought you'd wish to locked away again...
You body numb to the pain but alert enough to feel the water swirling around you. You take short breaths each time your head emerges from the now, fragrant water.
Unceremoniously removed and dropped in a similar manner, you have what you've always wanted. Fresh air, sunlight and views of the outside world.
Content to have seen it, you take your last breath...
Your life was seemingly a meaningless statistic on shopping lists and receipts. You traded your life to give me tea, yet there will be no funeral, not even a burial or plaque.
You rest with you fallen brothers. Soaked to the core lifelessly lining bottom of the bin, a mass grave in every kitchen.
Reading, writing, studying, taking pictures -
that's what I've been up to lately. And, of course, settling in the new city, at a new university, and a new flat with 3 new flatmates. So much input at a time! My room still looks a little messy, and I haven't figured out a lot of stuff around here, but then again there is no real need to rush, I have only been here for three weeks now.
I have been reading a lot lately, partly due to the new semester and hundreds of pages of course work, and partly because I have stumbled across a Bookcrossing spot only 100 meters from my new home and picked up 3 books. Plus I have signed up for membership at the local library in addition to the university library and took 12(?) books home.
Most of them are on creative writing, since I'm preparing for next month (November is the National Novel Writing Month). The picture above shows one of these books, The Virginia Woolf Writer's Workshop. It's a nice read, especially if you like Virginia Woolf and are a bit familiar with her writing, but even without that there are some helpful tips and ideas on writing.
And I have been taking this books and a notebook wherever I went the past two weeks and whenever there was some time, I tried a little writing exercise. Still, I really need to get more disciplined in order to succeed even remotely next month. We will see.
I’m living a persistent déjà vu:
I don’t know if it was or if it is.
It’s weird to know exactly what’s going to
Happen the moment coming after this.
Can déjà vus extend in our past
As in our future? Do I have that once
Or was I there, somewhere, in lighting blast
Backwards the other way, taking a glance?
The shape of time is 8, having a nap
- The infinity character is a knot -
A coiled cobra, a double gaped gap,
Biting its tail and swallowing the lot.
Time is a line, a circle, a dot, a seedful bag
We pick and choose its form, leg walking after leg.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
BREAKING NEWS.....Caught on camera. This is a cell phone picture (captured by the homeowners) of a little "Bigfoot" looking into the door of a home in Mt Juliet, Tennessee. Mt Juliet is located about 17 miles east of downtown Nashville and is known as "The City Between The Lakes", with Old Hickory Lake to the North and Percy Priest Lake to the South. The neighborhood where little "Bigfoot" was captured on film, sits alongside the western half of Old Hickory Lake in Wilson County. According to Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency, there are numerous species of plant and animal life in and around Old Hickory Lake, but until today there has never been a report of a "Bigfoot" of any size. At least two residents of this small town in Middle Tennessee will tell you that there really is such a thing as Bigfoot. But in this case, the feet of this hairy creature happens to be measured in inches, not feet. The homeowners said "She was trying to disguise herself by wearing a black mask over her eyes, but we knew right away what she was!". The homeowners said that they DID feed her to prevent what could have been an "ugly and very messy break-in". The homeowners further stated that they do realize that it is against the law to harbor or feed any known "Bigfoot" species (no matter how big or small), but until the law is in their shoes, they will do whatever is necessary to prevent angering her. The female occupant of the home, who was visibly shaken said "She is a Mama. And that means that there are more of these creatures in the woods only 15 feet from our back door!!" We did interview several neighbors and were told that they believe that the homeowners of the attempted little "Bigfoot" break in was all staged. One neighbor told us that they think the homeowners have dressed their cat up in a costume and have even tought it to walk on its hind legs. A second neighbor said that she has seen the female homeowner out in the front yard, "at all hours of the day", with a herd of wild White Tailed Deer following right behind her. A third neighbor spoke out saying "Just wait until December. You can come back and do a follow up story on how those 'Dawg Pound' nuts "saw" Santas reindeer on their roof!!". The 'Dawg Pound' that the unidentified neighbor spoke of is the group of NFL fans that cheer on the Cleveland Browns football team in Northeastern Ohio. Apparently the homeowners had moved to the Mt Juliet, Tn area from Lake County, Ohio a number of years ago. We were told by TWRA Officials that their officers are trained to protect the public from any and all animal species, without exception. We will be sure to update you with any new developments on this story. One last note, the homeowners did invite us to spend Christmas Eve with them. Should Santa and his flying reindeer land on their roof, we'll be sure to get the story!
They found her at the bottom of the stairs, eyes closed like the ones on porcelain dolls when you lay them down on the floor. Brown locks of hair spilled from the roots in her head like blood leaking from the skull. It was only hours before the whole town learned that she was gone. Her spirit or soul, if you believe in the spirit or soul, went to wherever you believe the spirt or soul go to after death. It didn't matter where the inner life of her went, what mattered was that her body was still peculiarly draped across the stairs. The scene appeared like a painting. Everyone wondered why such a beautiful girl, such a talented girl, such smart girl, such a girl who had an entire future ahead of her, would be careless enough to die on the stairs. Some suggested suicide, but her parents and friends claimed that oh no, why would such a beautiful girl, such a talented girl, such a smart girl, such a girl who had an entire future ahead of her, take her own life. The cat perched itself next to the body and blinked every few seconds, debating whether the porcelain doll had lost her life climbing up the stairs, or going down. That cat was clever. That was a clever cat, indeed.
163
We sat on the border lines of his personal prison as he used his hands to beat on a single snare drum, creating a rhythm that only his ears could interpet as correct. His throat formed what began as hums into words. Mumbling, he formed lyrics that he'd soon forget and would soon dissipate into just thoughts that couldn't ever be fathomed into any sort of feelings.
I leaned over to touch his bicep, to feel it flex and relax while he played. I told myself I was feeling all the things that he couldn't - that I was feeling for him. Resting my head against his shoulder I counted his breaths and memorized the texture of his shirt. I ran my hand down his forearm and wrist, halting his playing and grabbing his hand. He couldn't feel the texture of my skin or the pressure of my fingers against the top of his hand. But once he saw, he felt the emotion.
He grabbed my hand and the corner of his mouth twitched up. Squeezing my hand just a tiny bit harder he asked, "What's it like?"
"Holding your hand?"
"No. Being able to feel a connection with someone physically and mentally."
I shifted my feet under myself and stroked his hand with my thumb. "It's hard to describe. It's something you need to experience in order to understand."
"Try," he said, as he moved his drum to the ground and sat down in front of me. "Please."
Giving in, I uncrossed my legs and moved my hands to his neck and up in his hair, then pulled them forward and cupped his cheeks. "It's... powerful. Being able to see something or someone is one thing, but feeling it or them is something different entirely. To be able to memorize textures of skin, where every mole, groove, indention and scar is. Feeling like you know someone else's body better than they do... it's a whole other level. And then when you touch and you can almost see the electricity that you feel, it...," I sighed, closing my eyes and dipping my hands under the collar of his shirt to explore the top few inches of his back, "it fills a void."
His hands searched for my wrist, waiting for me to guide it into his hand and then guide his hand to his face. He leaned into my hand. "And kissing?"
I smiled at him. "Better than anything you could ever dream of."
He smiled back at me, sadly. "I wouldn't know what to dream."
"You will."
He brought my hand within his line of sight, carefully trying to place my finger tips on his lips. I didn't help, and he pinned it right on point. He closed his eyes and pecked my fingers. I scooted down off of my chair and knelt in front of him, taking his other hand in mine and pressing my forehead against his. His eyes diverted from mine for a second and watched his hands press to my waist.
I wanted to kiss him, I wanted to tell him how badly I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to allow myself to kiss him, but how selfish it would be. Our first kiss and he wouldn't be able to share the moment, share the feeling. His sight and hearing impeccable, other three senses is where he is falling short. How someone could live without knowing what a hug feels like, what pleasure feels like, even what pain feels like, was something I couldn't even begin to try and relate to. To never taste or smell. Not once getting to enjoy a homemade meal or smell freshly mown grass. It might explain how he ended up here, but yet how his attitude remained so positive was beyond me.
His fingers danced on the concave sides of my chest. Figuring out a beat, he closed his eyes and sang to me in a whisper.
"Gonna sing you an old country song, from the heart
So I can cry your name and call you when I'm sad
When you have gone, run so far from me in the trees so far,
Walkin' down that old country lane, drops of rain
Call upon the ones who call your name
Will I see you again and please just come on back home to me
So I'm not all alone
Gonna sing you an old country song, from the heart
To the beat of this old beat up drum."
His hands gradually grew softer, fading out the song in his own way. And as it did, so too did my memory. These were the things I remember and crave like I certainly did now. I sat there, staring at a sweating cup of iced tea. To blind eyes the concentration on his abandoned glass would seem innocent - harmless even. As if there was no story behind it, as if he just forgot about the cup, as if the reason behind its abandonment was simple.
It was not.
If you're all the way down here, thanks! I know that this is a long description, but it makes the photo make sense. I've been sitting on this "story" for a few weeks and after my lovely friend Amelia read over it and blah blah, I decided to bring it to life!
Quick and simple lettering with spring butterflies and blooms give colour and life to the library. I displayed books on the arts, crafts and creative writing under the display, but should have taken a photo when the display first went up. When I took this photo, almost every book had been signed out.
Professor Meagan Cass is a fiction writer whose work has been published in PANK, The Hayden's Ferry Review, and SmokeLong Quarterly, among other journals. She teaches creative writing at UIS, and her course offerings include Introduction to Creative Writing; Creative Writing, Publishing, and Community; and Writing Linked Story Collections. She serves as the advisor to the UIS student-run literary magazine, The Alchemist.
The Evening News (James Watkins) not hdr
Catalytic confrontations
Calculated crawl,
Embryonic isolations,
Future free-for-all.
Energetic exhortation,
Apoplexied brawl,
Catatonic saturation,
Isometric ball.
Egocentric salutation,
Fatalistic fall,
Megalithic mumbo jumbo,
Paganistic pall.
Pugilistic palpitation,
Excavated sprawl,
Perspiration aggravation,
Aspirated wall.
Ammunition malnutrition,
Superstition stall,
California concentrated,
Captivated thrall.
Bound and ground,
Then taken down,
By the very best-
With one more show
Worth watching,
And then we’re headed west.
Recreation generation,
By the book denomination,
Families filled with hesitation,
RVs racked for roaming.
Picking up the pieces,
Layed down on the land,
With wasted wealth and watersheds,
And regions raped by man.
Calibration castigations,
Asymmetric aberrations,
Guided tours with revelations,
Ratted out and ruined.
Catastrophic congregations,
Commutated castings,
Calvinistic computations,
Debonair and prancing.
Altruistic aspirations,
Stoned, bemoaned abbreviations,
Terrified with trepidations,
Gnomes long gone and gassed!
Honed and cloned then overthrown,
Granted one last wish-
Celebrated, then negated-
Dangling near the dish!
Partisan unprinciples,
In petrifying packs-
With news and views
And loop-de-loos,
And stab-‘em-in-the-backs.
Ready for the ruckus,
Sitting at the shrine,
Thought they really
Had the goods,
Now listen to the whine.
Thought they had it marketed,
Cornered and refined,
Around the town
The teaching wound,
Until they lost their mind.
Settling to the bottom,
They slid to lower ground,
Between the lines and valentines,
Some lost their Royal Crowns.
Terroristic tinkering,
Tumbling and tinkling,
Fundamental farkles,
Helpful and home grown.
Patriotic particles,
Hidden in the articles,
Compact and post partial,
Buried to the bone.
Vacuumed packed
And gunny-sacked,
Pre-segmented squalls,
Appalachian apparitions,
Headed to the malls.
Fevered and fantastic men,
Marching to the moon,
With masticating matriarchs,
In subcutaneous swoon.
Breasts blown up beautiful,
Complicated castings,
Fallen faces on the floor,
Mesmerized for masking.
Sacrificial sublimations,
Surrogates sublime,
Tetrahedral, analgesic,
Sentimental crimes.
Pawing, pungent prisoners,
Soothing, sexy swine-
Sows and cows and sinning sons,
Tasting tempting wines.
Navigation nuances,
Nuptials by Nair,
Feudalistic fragrances,
Held up with heavy hair.
Practical imbalances,
Factory unrepairs,
New wave cold and chemical friends,
Facts blown up with air.
Salivating swindlers,
Solo Simon says,
High-falutin prostitution,
Fixed up with the Feds.
Sports and courts and teasing torts,
Women going wild-
Dow Jones Average hemorrhage,
Help the homeless child.
Down the daunting highway,
Less than overnight,
Covering ground without a sound,
Filtered by first light.
Lazy lit up lethargy,
Loosed by lying lips,
Bought the farm in triplicate,
Then sailed a sinking ship.
Galvanizing garrisons,
Gathering at the line,
Pushed ahead though nearly dead,
They won it one more time.
Tested in the tumult,
On solid ground they stand,
Groping with the changer,
Positioned close at hand.
Nightly, brightly flickering,
Turn the clicker off-
Before you go,
Don’t miss the show,
An evening totally lost!
James Watkins (03-06)
Stirring old memories with a barge-pole
- The well is deep, it spans beyond decades -
Looking inside the source thru the pinhole
Of gazing down, a bait with hooks and blades.
The blancmange bait is crumbling on the spume
Making something emerge: a face, a kiss,
Blue eyes exploding in ecstasy, abloom
Of a love once alive. I follow this
Ripple that breaks the surface. I see more
And more eyes looking out, and some are shut.
The nearest are the bluest. On their seashore
I left the sweetest blancmange as a glut.
Alice, while looking down, fell in a different land:
I stir old memories and write dead names in sand.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
I’m sick and tired to cope with cold black rage
Only because I’m here. I do not want
To be the pen, the one who writes the page
Of your sad story: if you can, then don’t.
I look at you with cold eyes, through the lashes
As if through a spy hole; but in my chest
A turmoil of still burning red hot ashes
Is running and destroying all the rest.
Trying to look composed and unconcerned
I feel sometimes a teardrop running down
My cheeks: I know that they are burning
Not for my shame. It’s yours, it’s what you own.
Today, if I could fly, I’ll take the longest route
Keeping my wings on air, avoiding storm and draught.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
Written on water, or imprinted in ice
The words that passed the sills of our lips,
‘Cause our talking was pointless, and had its price:
The jewellery robbed by the pirate’s ships.
And eyes that met, and hands longing to touch
The other’s hands, the smiles we spilled around…
We used ourselves in a frustrated crutch
We did not care about the other’s wound.
It was a game we did not play by rules
Since we forgot them and didn’t want to know
And once more what we lost were sparkling jewels
The silver bangles that we did not show.
Water and snow enshroud the gems we found and lost
Maybe someone will find them, at the melting of the frost.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
“Violet,” I call over to her. Her name is Violet. Crazy Violet, they called her in school. No one calls her that anymore. Not since the fire. It was in all the papers. I don’t read papers.
Adam’s walking ahead but turns when he hears her name. He walks back to where I’ve stopped. His hands are in the pockets of his tattered black bomber jacket, a smoke dangles from chapped lips.
“What’s she up to now?” he asks. “Not the damn corners again.”
“It’s not the corners, man,” I tell him, not for the first time. “It’s the break in the symmetry of the lines on the wall, caused by that corner. She can’t help herself.”
Adam looks up and down the street. Traffic inches along Yonge like thick snot from a congested nostril, slow and painful. Exhaust pipes exhale billowy blue clouds of shit into the atmosphere. It’s cold out and the sky is the colour of the sidewalk under our feet. Everything feels flat. Around us, shoppers and street people dance in and out of each other’s way, all moving in different directions. Adam takes a big drag from his smoke.
“So now what? It’s fucking freezing out here.”
“We wait. You can’t talk to her when she gets like this. Just give her a minute.”
“Fuck man, why are you putting up with this shit from a chick? She’s like a fucking anchor around your neck and she’s gonna pull us all down with her.” Adam’s agitated. He doesn’t like the cold. I don’t blame him, but we’re not leaving her.
“You go, man,” I tell him. “You know where Manny lives. Just ring the buzzer and he’ll buzz you up.”
“Manny doesn’t like me. He’s too paranoid about the cops and shit. He ain’t gonna let me up without you.”
“Then I guess you’re waiting with me.” I cut him a winning grin like I’ve just farted.
Adam shakes his head, clearly annoyed at what he thinks is a predicament. He has the patience of a five year old on Christmas morning.
“I’m hitting Timmy’s for a coffee,” he says, then turns and starts walking down Yonge Street again. I yell for him to grab me one and he responds with a middle finger without looking back. But I know he’ll grab one for me. He’s annoyed but he ain’t an asshole. Plus, if he wants to get high at Manny’s, he’d better look after me.
“Hey,” I yell a second time, “grab Violet something… an orange cruller.” He keeps walking as if he didn’t hear but I know he did and I know he’ll bring the cruller.
I walk over the Violet, making sure not to get too close to her, sorta the way you’d approach an injured bird.
“Wanna smoke?” I offer. She says nothing. I put the pack away and just stand there. I notice a few shoppers glancing over to us as they enter the mall doors.
Violet’s not my girlfriend, I should point out. It sorta seems like it sometimes, but she’s really more like a kid sister. Nuttier than the mad hatter with a head injury, mind you. Not always, though; and I suppose that’s why we’ve stuck together for so long. When she’s lucid and on her day, she’s great. She has this droll sense of humour that always breaks me up. She’s got a kind heart, too. Very generous. If she wasn’t such a crazy crackhead, she’d make a pretty solid girlfriend for some lucky guy. Those days are long over for her, though.
I jam my hands into the pockets of my corduroys and do my best two-step to keep warm. I can see my breath in the air. The light of day is fading fast, as night approaches. In the distance a siren lights up, then dies back down. Not a cop, an ambulance. When you’ve been on the streets as long as we have, you can tell the difference with just a short squawk.
Violet finally turns her head to face me. Her body remains rigid in the corner. It’s sorta creepy how she does that. Her eyes spark. She blinks a couple of time.
“Where’s Adam?” she asks, one foot in the here and now, the other still off in la-la land.
“Gone to get you a cruller,” I say. “He’ll be back in a minute.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t say anything for a minute or so. We both stand there looking at each other.
“I’m sorry, Pete,” she finally says. “Just give me a moment longer, kay?”
“Sure, hon, take as long as ya need.” We stand some more. It’s getting colder. I notice she’s got no socks on, for chrissake. Foot traffic into the mall has lessened. It’s getting to closing time, I suppose.
Finally Violet comes over to me and wraps her arms around my neck. I pull her close and pat her back. I can feel the energy drain from her as we stand there. She starts to cry. I just hold her. That’s what I’m supposed to do. That’s what she needs, what she counts on.
We part and she takes my hand. In a small voice she tells me she loves me. I tell her I know, and that I love her back. She wipes away the tears from her pink cheeks and gives me a half smile.
“You know, I remember when I was a kid. At the end of our street there was this big white house with green shutters on the sides of the windows. They had a white picket fence and a dog. I remember thinking one day I’d have all that. A nice guy, kids, a life… you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” I reply. This isn’t the first time she’s told me this. “Sometimes stuff just doesn’t work out the way you hope. You gotta play the cards you were dealt, right?”
She nods and looks down at her feet. I see the tears start up again in her eyes. She sniffs and wipes her leaking nose. “Can we go somewhere warm? I’m freezing.”
We start walking down Yonge Street. Coming towards us – a cardboard tray with two coffees and a small paper bag that most certainly contains an orange cruller in hand – is Adam, wearing a shit-eating grin. With his free hand he flashes a peace sign. It’s going to be a good night after all.
________________
Check out my blog for daily photos: www.LazyPhotographer.ca
The Lazy Photographer - Book 1, now available: www.blurb.com/books/2549571
If you're interested, I've uploaded three slide shows of my street photography, with music. Check it out:
Slideshow #1: youtu.be/5T06_DQhXwA
Slideshow #2: youtu.be/VDWFR9FJgNI
Slideshow #3: youtu.be/w5YV3xYaeS8
Sydney Bieber reads during the Uncanny Senior Symposium for Literature Majors was held in the Old Main Lincoln Room on Thursday, Feb. 27, 2020.
The Creative Writing Program at ASU presents author Jess Row in a reading from his work followed by a Q&A and book signing.
Row is the author of White Flights: Race, Fiction, and the American Imagination, as well as the novel Your Face in Mine and the story collections The Train to Lo Wu and Nobody Ever Gets Lost. White Flights is his first book of nonfiction. One of Granta’s Best of Young American Novelists of 2007, he lives in New York and teaches at the College of New Jersey.
Book Summary
White Flights is a meditation on whiteness in American fiction and culture from the end of the civil rights movement to the present. At the heart of the book, Jess Row ties “white flight”—the movement of white Americans into segregated communities, whether in suburbs or newly gentrified downtowns—to white writers setting their stories in isolated or emotionally insulated landscapes, from the mountains of Idaho in Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping to the claustrophobic households in Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. Row uses brilliant close readings of work from well-known writers such as Don DeLillo, Annie Dillard, Richard Ford, and David Foster Wallace to examine the ways these and other writers have sought imaginative space for themselves at the expense of engaging with race.
White Flights aims to move fiction to a more inclusive place, and Row looks beyond criticism to consider writing as a reparative act. What would it mean, he asks, if writers used fiction “to approach each other again”? Row turns to the work of James Baldwin, Dorothy Allison, and James Alan McPherson to discuss interracial love in fiction, while also examining his own family heritage as a way to interrogate his position. A moving and provocative book that includes music, film, and literature in its arguments, White Flights is an essential work of cultural and literary criticism.
PRAISE
“Row has produced a thoughtful and timely meditation that serves as a call to white writers.”—Pop Matters
“This intelligent collection is often deeply engaged in realms of philosophy and literary theory. . . . There is something for every reader . . . in the message that fiction not only reflects but acts upon real life, and that each of us is obliged to act for justice, in reading and writing as in life.”—Shelf Awareness
“With these superb essays, Jess Row reveals himself to be an insightful critic of both literature and the American condition.”—Viet Thanh Nguyen
“Jess Row performs a much-needed analysis. . . . The landscape of the imagination, like the country itself, he argues with rich insight and brio, is neither equal nor free.”—John Keene
I shall plant
a tree
in green
for you
Hold my hand
a wee
wee bit
marvel at the blue
Sky’s like sand
you see
it bleeds
stars old and new
Love is not blinding, it just turns you around
So fast, that you can’t see the loved features.
You say, “This face, this beauty is renowned
Like the most stunning among human creatures”.
You spin, and you are twirled in a dance
Your eyes are fixed into the other’s eyes.
If you let go, for sure you’ll lose balance
Falling awkwardly as the laugh arises.
Around you, the entire world is in a blur
You feel a dizzy emotion quite upsetting.
Even your body is losing its contour
Because you’re giving more than you are getting.
It’s better to keep spinning, avoiding closer glances.
Another turn: bedazzled, you have no other chances.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
dedicated to Zenwithin, one-sided answer to his question
As September 9, 2011 ends, I have 2,077 photos on Flickr. My “safe” photos number less than 180 of the 2,077. At the end of 9-9-11, my site has 5,906,730 “view counts” (photos, photostream, & sets). If you’re not a member of Flickr and you’re visiting here, welcome. You are viewing my “safe” photos. You can easily see my “moderate” and “restricted” photos of women if you take some simple steps: join Flickr (it costs you nothing to join and to remain a member); once you’ve joined, you can set your “safety settings” so that you can view all three types of photos. Flickr explains how members can be in control of their own Flickr experience, make their own decisions concerning what they want to see. I quote--in my “profile”--directly from the Flickr staff concerning how you can choose your own filter levels.
Grandma never made it to the Rock of Gold.
While we listened to her (saucered eyes, capitalOed mouths, hands clasped to our siblings’ hands) of course we dreamed to be there. But Grandma told us “never to not even dream of it”.
The river was dangerous only during the rainy season. More a brook than a river, through the endless summer days it was our swimming pool. We could sit in the sallow water, freezing our entrails, and imagining ourselves moored on a desert island. We did not care about Grandma’s stories as we climbed the mossy rocks, looking at the grey crayfishes running away from our wrinkled toes. We did not know why, but by the river we preferred to play together, very near to each other, almost touching. We walked home at night, one by one, drenched to our twiggy bones, our hair smelling of a swamp. And again we asked Grandma to tell us about the Rock.
It stood high by the river, and it was apparent only a few moments before sunset. Its walls were steep and shiny, painted with a slippery gold glaze that disappeared at nightfall, inch by inch, beginning at the feet of the rock and ending at its very top after sunset. Grandma said that it was the time for the fairies to begin dancing. They did not like to be seen by humans, therefore she never tried to look at the Rock at night. When she was a little girl, her now respectable waist leaner than ours, her best friend hid by the rocks during a summer evening, and was never seen back at the village.
Grandma told us to look carefully for little things the fairies left behind for us children to play with: a ribbon, a slipper, sometimes a jewel. I found a pearl once, the size of my little finger nail, and brought it home at night. Mama made me throw it in the water barrel by the backdoor. She told me never to pick up anything: it was a dirty habit and the thing could be cursed. I looked inside the barrel the day after and my pearl has disappeared. I never asked Mama about it.
During autumn and winter, in dry cold days we went to the woods to pick up twigs for the fire: even the smallest children had their small wicker baskets and helped the best they could.
In winter I preferred to walk by the river looking for the wood brought down by the stream. I did not realize I was so far from the village that day, and so near to the rocks, almost by the swimming pool of our summer plays.
She was sitting on one of the highest rocks by the water, her back to me. I could not see her face, only her green hair almost to her waist. She was looking at herself in the water, and around her shoulder she wore a wolf fur to keep her warm. Her left arm was bent under her hair, the hand at the nape of her neck to hold it away from her face, like a lady admiring herself in a mirror.
In a moment I could not breath anymore. I run away, the dry bushes flogging my bare knees and leaving dark marks on my tender skin. I thought I was falling. I was blind, and my feet touched water and ice a couple of times. Hearing the patter of the gravel on the road to the village was a blessing. My basket was nowhere to be seen. I must have left it by the water, and I realized it only when I was safely at home, my heart jumping inside my ribcage and in my throat. I never told Grandma of the fairy I saw just under the Rock of Gold. I would not hear her telling me about the curses and how unlucky it was to see a fairy combing her hair by the river.
In a few weeks it was spring again, and we children went to play by the river for the first time that year. I was sure I would never see the fairy yet again, but at the same time in a way I wanted to make myself sure I saw her. My best friend clasped my hand and tried to make me run to the rocks. I stopped and tried to make up my mind: was I ready for anything?
My friend smiled and gently pulled me to the water. She was leaning on her right side and her left foot slipped and nearly splashed into the icy water. I steadied her, pulling her towards me, and doing so I saw a turf of dried grass by her heel, almost hidden by a stone.
I looked over her shoulders and I saw the rocks. No one was sitting on it. There was a log near the biggest one, and some debris in the small pond over it, next to a discarded basket.
We moved towards home. I turned once, and even if it was not the right time of the day, I saw the Rock of Gold.
(Short story by SiRiChandra, January 2012)
We are passionate about bringing a relaxed approach while creating beautiful, natural and vibrant images.
Tonight I’m fairly sure the moon is cheese
And whales are fishes with a crooked tail.
You talk, but what you say is hollow breeze
And what I write I’ll have to read in Braille.
Confused, and sad, and bad, and tired, and strange
The Chinese moon is sailing up the hill
Not in a straight line, tonight, for a change:
Hopping and bopping, swallowing a pill.
The whale is loudly humming a silent tune
Riding around the moon, asking for more.
Two little stars are throwing a balloon
Fighting for scoring, running at the door.
A giant whale is hiding the Seas and moony Valleys.
The drunken moon is swaying, tripping dark bumpy alleys.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
We are passionate about bringing a relaxed approach while creating beautiful, natural and vibrant images.
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June, 1959, I ran away from home, Columbus, Ohio, and traveled Route 40, the National Road, to San Francisco. I followed Horace Greeley’s advice: "Go west, young man, go west and grow up with the country." Horace Greeley, editor New York Tribune. 1855. I joined the Army soon after arriving in San Francisco.
The first time I went for the glory, San Francisco, I ended up in jail in Salina, Kansas. I took this trip the summer before my freshman year in high school; great vacation. Mom came on bus, and I was released to her; we had a great trip, bonding together, on our way home.
The next time I went for San Francisco was in 1959.My granddad gave me ten dollars for graduating from Grandview Heights High School; ten dollars would be equal to seventy dollars today, 2010 dollars. I financed my trip with this ten dollars. Grandad Hayes also gave me a quarter for each "A" I got on my report cards, so I got a lot of A's. Muchly appreciated Grandad. Grandad laid brick for fifty years, an Irish bricklayer. I will give my three grandchildren incentive as my granddad did.
I stayed at the Salvation Army in Indianapolis the first night, breakfast was chicken noodle soup, and stale donuts much to my delight as I knew I was going to run short on money during my odyssey. The second night I slept in the bus station in St. Louis, Missouri, and encountered in a filling station bathroom the largest water bugs (roaches) I have ever seen. I thought we had large water bugs when we lived on Hubbard in flytown in Columbus, Ohio, but the St. Louis waterbugs beat the cake. The third night I stayed at the Helping Hand mission in Kansas City, Kansas. I mopped floors from nine p.m. to eleven p.m. for my bed. I was selected to mop the floors as I was one of the few able bodied residents of this flop house able to mop floors; however, I had to be taught as I had never used a mop bucket equipped with a wringer.
I kept my wallet inside my underwear band so that if someone tried to rob me, I would feel it, and stop them. I then lucked out with a ride with two teachers going to southern california to study for their masters. We stopped in Salt Lake, Utah, where they paid for a room for me. Then, onto the San Francisco Bay Bridge, and Treasure Island. I had twenty-five cents when I crossed the Bay Bridge. A black cleaning lady at a bus stop heard my story, and gave me one dollar.
I went to the Presidio Golf Course to caddy and make money to live on. See fn.1 for creative nonfiction about 2012 open at Olympic. But, finding out that military officers were cheap, I headed for Olympic Golf Course where the U.S. Open had been held the year before. I drew a good bag, and made a handsome tip. My Jewish golfer also gave me five dollars for a better pair of shoes and a promise that I would talk to a army recruiter. I traced the man down in San Francisco while in San Francisco for a weekend pass; however, his daughter thought I was there for a handout, so I did not get to thank him.
Most important to my odyssey was meeting a Jewish caddy who took me home with him, and his family put me up;otherwise, to this day, I have no idea where I would have stayed that first night in San Francisco. The family was paying forward. I first read of paying forward in my readings from the New York Times where I read a review of a book by a Jewish writer. The expression pay it forward is used to describe the concept of a received good is repaid by doing a good turn to others; for example: see the movie, Pay It Forward (2000) More at IMDbPro ».
I tried paying forward in 2010 and failed. I hired my sixteen year old neighbor to cut my grass, but he wore flip flops, so I gave him an additional twenty dollars for shoes, his mother went ballistic and I have not seen him or his brother again. His younger brother had also helped me. But, I will keep trying.
I have used the term Jewish to pay credit to a concept of the Jewish culture. I later in this story refer to a Lebanese soldier who I had big trouble with. Why is the race important? I was seventeen and being pushed around by this foreign noncitizen draftee so I have said where he is from. I use the term African-American when referring to Israel Garth to recognize his service; Israel is the only African-American in the picture. Eleanor Roosevelt ended exclusion of African-Americans from the Army in 1948, but the discrimination continued into the 50’s. Mr. Kelly, my instructor said my paper had a racial overtone. I used the names of the races as part of the story, not as pejorative terms. And to fill out the description of the people I met in the peacetime army. Our class was a lab class so my fellow members criticized my paper. We had three marine veterans from the mid-east in our class out of fourteen students. One marine spoke up and said conventional wisdom was not needed in my paper since the eras I wrote about, were different from today. SEMPER FI.I got a job as a mail clerk having scored the highest any person had ever scored. Unfortunately, or fortunately, my references fell through. I got a telegram that night telling me not to report to work.
I got a telegram the second night that I stayed with my Jewish friend. The telegram told me not to report to work, my made up references did not stand up.
Next, I went to the Army recruiting station. My recruiter implied that I could get into photography. I grabbed at the straw since I was leaving the place where I was staying. I did not get a recruiting guarantee, but thought my prior photography experience would be my entrée into my desired field of service to my country. Wrong. I never came close to being an Army photographer. Without the guarantee, I was dead in the water, subject to the needs of the big green machine. The recruiter taught me a good lesson: watch out for yourself in the Army, as no one else will; however, the recruiter did get me a room until my parents sent their permission for me to enlist as I was underage.
Snail mail was all we had in 1959. My five days at the Embarcadero YMCA were eventful. The queers tried to get into my room, but I would keep the chain on when I opened the door. The recruiter did not warn me of this bothersome problem.
Finally, the recruiter transported me to the Army, the Oakland Induction Station. I remember the Doctor who examined us for hernia. He went down a line of forty men in a New York minute telling us to turn our heads, and assume the position, bend over, and cough as he examined us for hernias. Then, the regular army NCO’s (noncommissioned officers) took over and proceeded to holler and badger us as we were prodded and tested. I realized I was now in the real Army. Every one stepped forward and took the oath, to defend our country from enemies within and without the United States. Fifty of the inductees were draftees. But 1959, was the Eisenhower era, not the hippie era. In the hippie era, some inductees did refuse to step forward. I do not remember what sanctions they incurred for their refusal to be sworn in.
Next, my new buddies and I were loaded onto a bus and delivered to Fort Ord for basic training. Fort Ord is located eighty miles south of San Francisco on Monterey Bay, and was commonly known as Fort Crud, as many of us caught lingering chest colds. Basic training at Fort Ord was known as eight weeks of sand and grass.
The weather in the late fall and winter is rainy, cold, and miserable at Fort Ord. My Brother, Allan also caught the crud at Fort Ord before going to Vietnam with the First Cavalry. Al went to OCS but did not finish. Linda A came to visit in Florida, and the Company Commander would not even let Al give his bride a hug; vision of things to come with the Army, the Army had also held Al in repo company for months waiting to send him to OCS, which time did not count against his twenty four month obligation. So, Al bit the bullet, and took the invevitable assignment to In Country.
Arriving at 11 PM, we were greeted by clerks hollering at us to move along and pickup our military issue clothes. The clerks eyeballed us for size, and made us keep moving; no arguments allowed.
At 5AM, a Sergeant came into the barracks banging a trash can lid hollering obscenities. So, this Sergeant was to be my leader.
Sgt Nesbitt was my platoon sergeant in basic training. I had been issued brown boots left over from the Korean War, and a bottle of black dye. Sergeant Nesbitt accepted no excuses. I couldn’t get a shine on these boots, but the Sergeant rode me like he had a saddle on me, and I was discouraged. The Army way, and my way intersected, and I had to adjust to the Army way. I did not have a choice. I had to get with the program.
One of my friends in basic training was a misfit. The Army tried to make a soldier of him, but it was like trying to pound a square peg into a round hole. My friend was discharged as unfit for military service, a section 208 discharge. The section 208 discharge would be a blot on his record for the rest of his life. A section 208 discharge will disqualify you for some jobs, and some employers will not hire you if you have a section 208 discharge. The army recruiter should have realized that my friend would not make it in the army, and saved the army and my friend a lot of grief. Yes, the recruiter made his quota but recked havoc on other affected people.
To a lesser degree I was a misfit: 17 years old, 1,500 miles away from home, family, friends, and girlfriends. Captain Lynch, the Company Commander called me in, and counseled me: he told me a metaphor about life in the army, and sucking it up; he was transferred with his family to another post, 1,500 miles away, so away he went with one car, one wife, and one baby, and his possessions on a 48 hour nonstop cross country journey. Life is a journey, some times rough. Professor Carney, Otterbein, similarly described his journey. He, also, was in the Army in 1955, and was transferred 750 miles away, so away he went with one car, one wife, and two babies, and his possessions on a 24 hour nonstop hour cross country.
Thanks, Captain Lynch, now 82. You paid forward.
We had forty-four recruits in 3rd Platoon, D Company. I had a Lebanese resident alien draftee in the bunk above me. He was arrogant, and mean. We did not duke it out. I wish he had gone for me. I almost never lost a fight. I had to accept the situation.
Israel Garth was the Company guidon, and drummer. He was the only African-American in the platoon. I wonder why? The guidon led marches signaling march orders and directions using the guidon, the company flag. The drummer kept the beat for marching ditties led by our NCO’s; for example, my sister lives up on a hill, she won’t do it but her brother will. The acting jacks were older men, typically draftees, and college dropouts around the age of twenty-five. They were called acting jacks because their stripes only lasted until basic training was over. I found that these draftees had good judgment, were fair, experienced in life, and good trainers for the young volunteers, and were men of experience. An acting jack shared a room with another acting jack. The rest of the platoon were double bunked in the bay. Rank has its privileges. On the other hand, these twenty-five year old out of shape men had trouble with the physical training. For example, the dreaded double time runs under Route 101 to the rifle ranges on the Pacific Ocean were hell on these draftees; also, we wore boots, not tennis shoes. On the other hand, the volunteers, known as regular army, were to a large part recent high school graduates, and still in shape.
Draftees only had to serve two years; volunteers had to serve three years; this was the last time I volunteered for anything.
I sometimes wonder how many of the soldiers in my basic training company stayed in the military and were killed in Vietnam.
Fort Ord was the basic training post for Alaskans who were kept in the same training company since language and culture would have been difficult to deal with if the groups were merged; however, I would have liked to have known them. It was quite a sight seeing a company of these short squat soldiers running around the area all dressed alike in their fatigues. They didn’t speak English.
My advanced training was clerk-typist school. I became friends with Robert Dallas, a resident alien, born in Scotland, immigrated to Australia, worked the South Pacific on tramp steamers, and immigrated a second time, to Los Angeles where he was drafted. If you seek the benefits of our country, you can defend the country was the government’s position. Bob was a world class long distance runner. He opened my eyes to the world with his stories about living in many places. Dallas was transferred to the 623d Quartermaster Company at Ft. Bragg, and we we were mates for one and one half years; Dallas being a draftee, got to go home after one and one half years in the 623d, I had to stay two and one half years: unfair, volunteer gets screwed over. Army way.
I was selected to play on the Company football team having played three years in high school. The coach had started for Southern California, and was assigned to the Company, not the training platoons. I was rewarded with weekend passes for being on the team. Well, the last week of clerk-typist school, we all got weekend passes. I told the coach I was not playing anymore since I could not earn any more weekend passes. Boy was he mad. He, in effect, said I was unethical using barnyard language to describe me. I didn’t care. I avoided a game and got my pass.
Lipps was in my clerk-typist school, and from Berkeley, California. His mother invited a few of us for Thanksgiving. I had a great time since I had no family in the area. Also, Lipps had a sister who was gracious with her time and friendship. I got to see part of America later to be famous in the vietnam riots.
After advanced training, I was scheduled to go to Korea; however, my mother did not want me to go there. I do not know why. I wish I had asked her. The army said if I volunteered for the paratroops I would not have to go to Korea. Hell of a choice.
Before I left Ord for Bragg, I was assigned to the Human Research Project at the Presidio of Monterey, Monterey, California. Yes, the army researching you is scrary. So, the army asked for a control group to go inside the isolation room in the locked pitch-black soundproof room with a chemical toilet for three days. Well, I volunteered for the control group which didn't go into the absolute solitude buried in the dark. I stayed in the barracks, periodically taking tests to compare my reactions to the control group. The Dr Sranglove people were scary shit. water boarding, and chemicals: I can't even read the rest of the article.
EFFECTS OF PROLONGED SENSORY AND PERCEPTUAL DEPRIVATION
Google: FKfECTS OF PROLONGED SENSORY AND PERCtfPTUAT ...
Google Article:
bmb.oxfordjournals.org/content/20/1/38.extract
I had turned eighteen, three months before, and had learned never to volunteer. I lesson I have profitably used in my life.
Next after three weeks I went to Fort Bragg, N.C. to be a paratrooper. Volunteering for the paratroops was the only way to avoid going to Korea. Jump school had a captain in charge. Well respected, and one day when I was at Myrtle Beach, I saw him on the pier, alone, looking sad, and lonely. The Army could, and was a lonely place since I had had no moves, and women were scarce.
January 1960 I qualified for the basic parachutist badge. Jump school, at Fort Bragg, N.C. was a cold, rainy, outside, experience in January. We completed our blood run, four miles, the last week of ground training. If you fell while running, the guys in the formation ran on you; usually the fallee was an out of shape NCO trying to get his wings for the $55 a month jump pay. Finally, I got my blood wings on Sicily drop zone, the largest drop zone in the U.S.: named after the 82d's drop zone in the Second WW in Italy.
Our unit at Fort Bragg, the 623d Quartermaster Company (Airborne), was put to the test to supply parachutes for the proposed jump into Cuba during the missile crisis. Our unit repaired and packed parachutes. Lieutenant Stockey was the shop officer. We were working ten hours a day, and half a day on Saturday since the 82nd Airborne Division did not have enough parachutes to make the jump.
Lieutenant Stockey was the shop officer and a graduate of Rutgers, and an airborne ranger. I always thought this was strange that a ranger qualified officer would be in a quartermaster company. I devised an accounting system to calculate how many parachutes we needed to pack and repair to meet our weekly goal. The riggers had their quotas done by Thursday afternoon because Lieutenant Stockey would let them go on weekend passes starting Thursday afternoon if they met their quota.
Lieutenant Feasenmyer succeeded Captain Stockey as the shop officer. Feasenmyer came up through the ranks and had a temporary rank as an officer since he needed to finish two years of college. Feasenmyer liked me: June 1962 I was scheduled to end my three years, so Feasenmyer called me into the shop officer's office and wanted me to go to officer's candidates school. I wanted to go go home. Even though I had run away three years before, and I did move back in the house after I got out June 29, 1962. Feasenmyer said I would not be able to make it on the block; that I would be fighting the bears for food out of trash cans. I said I wanted to try it. Lieutentant Feansmyer retired as a Major. I liked the guy; he was fair.
Master Sergeant Deason was the NCO in charge of the rigger shed. One weekend he came in on his own, and counted the actual inventory of chutes on hand. My books were off. Sergeant Deason was a street wise sergeant. Later, Sergeant Deason became the first pig; that is, the first sergeant. If you screwed up you dug a 6 x 6 which is a hole 6 feet wide and six feet deep. Sergeant Deason even set up keg lights so that you could work into the night. An obit tells your story: see my mentor, and friend, First Sergeant Waldo Deason's obit: three wars for our country: for the story of rigger school see www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-jVuK8YbCc#t=153
I learned to Cha Cha Cha at the enlisted men's club; the Cha Cha Cha is still the only dance I can do. The elderly thin as a rail instructor dutifully brought her record player and records to the club and a few of us showed and learned. I could not learn the other steps; what a wonderful person. Thanks, for the memories. Sergeant Zollie Stifel, was a small in stature, but big in heart platoon sergeant in our rigger company. He was a new york jew, and a cultural resource.
I took a thirty day leave, the maximum you could take at one time, in the spring of 1962, and came home to Columbus. Bored. So, I hitchiked to Dayton to Wright-Patterson AFB, and got a hop to San Antonio and visited my aunt Helen. Then, onto LA, and the World's Fair.
I did my three years on my enlistment, and got the hell out of Bragg.
I returned to Columbus and joined the 2d Special Forces Group (Airborne) stationed at Fort Hayes, Columbus, Ohio. The 2d was a reserve unit.
We used the basement of the Shot Tower. Bob Ruda was a civilian assigned as a recruiter at Fort Hayes; also, a sergeant in the unit. Again, a recruiter painted a glossy picture of service in the Army. He was selling travel to training schools, and friendship with other veterans attending Ohio State University. I joined.
The group commander was Lieutenant Colonel Ray Glaze. Colonel Glaze had been awarded the Distinguish Service Cross, the nation's 2nd-highest military decoration for valor in combat, the Silver Star,the nation’s third-highest military decoration for valor in combat, a purple heart, w/3d Ranger, Headquarters, Sicily, 1943, and three bronze stars for valor in the Second World War. He fought with the 2d Ranger Battalion, and the 3d Ranger Battalion; also, he is listed on the Vietnam Memorial. Colonel Glaze wore the 2d Ranger patch on his right shoulder signifying he had been in combat with the 2d. The patch is pretty, and not many people were still in the service in ninety sixty four who were authorized to wear the combat ranger patch.
He should be in the Ohio Military Hall of Fame, but no one carried the flame in subsequent years to get him admitted. The Hall is not for heroism, but for service to veterans. Awards ceremony and induction. 2011. Veterans Hall, Columbus, Ohio, remarks. unattributed.
Captain Mike Quinn, Mad Mike, the Irishman, was an officer. Mike's daughter was a prosecutor for Franklin County at Juvenile Court when I public defended.
The summer of 1962, we went to Camp Dawson, West Virginia. The army rented a beat up bus that barely got up Wheeling Mountain on route 40. In 1962, Interstate 70 had not been built.
Camp Dawson is on the Cheat River. The prior year, the unit used the bottom land of the Cheat River for the drop zone; unfortunately, two of the parachutists landed in the river, and could not get out of their chutes, and drowned; Capewell releases did not work, a Capewell is a modification to a T-10 parachute harness installed in 59-60 to allow the parachutist to release the canopy.
In 1962, we made a night jump with the drop zone being the top of a hill on the farmer’s field. We put out ham cans full of gasoline; the cans were lit and the C-119 pilots and pathfinders delivered us to the designated drop zone.
Active duty Special Forces troopers attended camp as advisors. One officer had been a German SS officer. He looked the part: blond haired, blue eyed, and in good physical shape.
Then, Tim Kelly and I went to jumpmaster school at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, over spring break 1963. What a strange experience: from college finals, to learning how to conduct a parachute jump. Tim studied geology, and explained the geological rock cuts on the highway as we headed to Fort Campbell. We went to Nashville, and toured the Ryman Auditorium, the Mecca of country music.
January 1964, I resigned from the unit. Having served three years on active duty I had the right to resign at my pleasure. April 1964, the unit went to Clinton County air force base for a jump. Unfortunately, the winds were too high, and the jump was canceled. The planes were recalled, but one plane turned the wrong way, and collided with a plane holding nine members of my unit. Eight died, including my bud Tim Kelly, and one was thrown free in the collision. Colonel Glaze made it through the Second World War, only to die on a training mission in Ohio one day before his forty-fifth birthday. C'
le vie. That’s life. Also, Bill Cornell was killed. Bill was a professional student at Ohio State University in anthropology working on his Ph.D. Bill’s claim to fame was that he was in the occupation army in Paris in 1947, and had an affair with Picasso’s wife. Bill was forty-four years old when he joined our unit, and went to jump school. Bob Reither, was a captain, and the group S-2, Intelligence chief. He was a vet of Korea 187th Regimental Combat Team, and a special forces trained korean vet. Bob drove a two seater jag, and was a sight, 6'4" sticking out of the jag. Reminded me of my Lt Stocky, 623d QM, Ft Bragg, Airborne Ranger, who drove a karma ghia sport car, panache. For colonel Reither's life story see www.legacy.com/obituaries/dispatch/obituary.aspx?n=robert...
Robin Priday was my high school football coach. He was a quarterback on Ohio State’s first national football team in 1942. Then, he left to join the Air Force, only to return in 1945 as a quarterback for Ohio State. "... The 1945 Ohio State team was again under the direction of Coach Carroll Widdoes, who was returning
for his second season at the helm for the Buckeyes after being named the Coach-of-the-Year in 1944.
A graduate of Otterbein College, Carroll had been an assistant coach at fabled Massillon (Ohio) High
School under the legendary paul Brown; before following his boss to Ohio State as an assistant in 1941.
With a backfield that included the 19 year old sophomore Cline (5’11” and 195 lbs), Paul Sarringhaus,
Dick Fisher, and quarterback Robin Priday, a veteran of 61 air missions during the War...." Google. When Robin, my observation, did not have a shirt on in the dressing room, you could see chunks out of his back where he had been hit by shrapnel.
I again caught up with Major Priday at Clinton County Air Force Base where he flew C-119’s, supporting our Fort Hayes, Special Forces, Group, on our jumps. In World War II he was a copilot of a B-25 bomber. He served with Lemay's might 8th Air Force, and the 9th Air force. The 9th supported the invasion rather than daylight bombing as the 8th did with their B-17's. Among other raids, he made bomb raids in support of the surrounded 101st airborne division at Bastogne. The 101st was known as the screaming eagles; also, in jest, the puking buzzards.
Once again Robin entered my life at Franklin county municipal court. Robin was a check chaser. A check chaser took merchants’ bad checks, filed charges, and attempted to get the money. Jail time or fine did not matter; getting the money owed on the check was the aim. Robin was a fish out of water. You needed a heartless person to say pay or stay; that is, I will dismiss if you can pay the check, but if not, I will ask the judge to put you in jail. Robin has a big heart.
My next enlistment was in 1972, when I needed a job. I applied to the Columbus City Attorney’s office, and was hired. The City Attorney was Jim Hughes, commander of the 166th infantry battalion. Jim called me into his office and asked me to enlist as his battalion legal clerk. What could I say? I replaced a lawyer, John Gall, who was finishing his eight year National Guard obligation. Jim Hughes position was that a lawyer in a battalion legal clerk’s job was a great deal.
I served ten months as the battalion legal clerk and resigned. I earned the following badges:
Thus, I ended my journey in the military. www.flickr.com/photos/lonesome1/6972443016/in/photostream
"Peacetime Soldier," Creative Nonfiction Class, 2011, English 268, Su 11, Ohio State University. For Bill Kelly.
What does the RFA and 3 and D mean on flag? Soldiers in front row are acting jacks. College draftees, college dropouts, and men of experience compared to me and others. Fourth row fourth from left. African-American in front row was the drummer: Israel Garth from Arkansas who had worked a mule and chopped cotton. Israel was one of the great guys. I just realized Israel is the only African-American in the picture.
Many eskimos went through basic in 1959, but were in the same company. I would have liked to get to know them, if they had been integrated into all the companies.
Language was a barrier. And, Racism. Artifact by Foster, Attorney. Private in this picture.
If you are in this Picture Post a reply.
Original Size is sideways when I scan 8 x 10 1/2 glossy. Flickr says that happens. If I go to Original, I can read name tapes if I turn my head sideways. Pass cursor over visual, and box will appear showing me.
Today, November 16, 2011, Route 40 no longer exists as I knew Route 40 in 1959 when I hitchiked to San Francisco. Route 40 is not Interstate 80 west of Salt Lake.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/U.S._Route_40#Utah_2
And Then The Course Gets, Got, Gat Tough, Olympic, the golf course I caddied when I got to San Francisco in 1959.
SAN FRANCISCO — Just before 7 Tuesday morning, Tiger Woods pulled his driver from his bag and turned to face the first hole at the Olympic Club. The fairway ran out straight before him, then disappeared around a corner to the right. It leaned down the hill upon which the entire course sits. At the bottom, out of sight, sat the green, some 520 yards away, a wicked and punishing par 4.
Starting today, this will be the start of the U.S. Open.
And then this course gets tough.
Olympic’s first six holes set a tone for the tournament that is unrelenting and inescapable. There are par 4s of 520, 498 and 489 yards. There is a par 3 of 247 yards with nowhere safe to miss. Rarely does a fairway find a flat spot, with the entire course cascading down a steep pitch toward Lake Merced. And when the breeze picks up off the Pacific, just across the road from the clubhouse, watch out.
“The first six, if you play them for four straight days even par, you’re going to be picking up just a boatload of shots,” Woods said. “They’re just difficult.”
The U.S. Open annually bills itself as golf’s toughest test, and this year — particularly with the memory of soft and squishy Congressional Country Club in Bethesda, Md., rolling over for champion Rory McIlroy last year — it almost certainly will be.
McIlroy set records of all manner, finishing 16 under par, shooting four rounds in the 60s, slaying Congressional and all but embarrassing the United States Golf Association. The USGA says revenge won’t be a factor this week. Scarcely a player in the field believes that.
“With what happened last year, with Rory shooting a million under, they’re going to kind of torture us a little bit,” said Steve Marino, who is making his fourth Open appearance.
The most difficult U.S. Open in recent memory came in 2007 at Oakmont, Pa., where Angel Cabrera’s winning score was 5 over par.
“I think here matches it,” Masters champion Bubba Watson said. “Maybe a little bit tougher.”
That is not, however, a consensus. Olympic’s quirks — from that torturous opening stretch to a finish that could be relatively benign — will dictate how this plays out.
In the last Open at Olympic, in 1998, Payne Stewart hit a 6-foot putt on the viciously sloped 18th green, only to watch it roll 25 feet back down the hill. He eventually finished one stroke behind winner Lee Janzen. Since then, the greens have been overhauled twice. Some of those slopes have been softened. Lifelong Olympic member Johnny Miller, who will call the tournament for NBC, called the layout “the best it’s ever been.”
What that means for the tournament is up for debate. What’s not: The punishment of the opening stretch could be offset by the close. There are no par 5s at Olympic until No. 16. Another awaits at No. 17. And the closing hole, a 344-yard par 4 with a fairway not much wider than a crack in the sidewalk, will leave almost everyone in the field taking an iron off the tee, then a pitching wedge to get to a tiny, elevated green.
“It gives you a chance to finish off a round,” Woods said. “Generally, we’re just trying to hang on coming in and make a bunch of pars. But you’re trying to make a bunch of pars throughout most of the day, and then all of a sudden you’ve got to change gears.”
That could present an interesting dynamic: Survive for 15 holes, score for three, and see what washes out.
“All of a sudden it lets you in with a chance,” said Frank Nobilo, an analyst for the Golf Channel who played the U.S. Open at Olympic 14 years ago. “At least you get three scoring clubs in your hand ... to create that sort of weird finish and give you a little bit of hope.”
Hope, in U.S. Opens, usually comes in small quantities.
A great finish, a rough start and a U.S. Open-style course in between. Beginning today, Congressional is a memory. At Olympic, the Open is set to return, perhaps with a vengeance.
SAN FRANCISCO — The lead at the U.S. Open belonged to Michael Thompson. The buzz came from Tiger Woods.
Even as Thompson strung together four birdies on the back nine at The Olympic Club that carried him to a 4-under-par 66, Woods put on a clinic on the other side of the course yesterday morning on how to handle the toughest test in golf.
Phil Mickelson hit a wild hook for his opening tee shot that was never found, presumably lost in a cypress tree
After opening with a birdie, Lancaster’s Joe Ogilvie turned to his caddie and said, “Seventy-one more pars and we’re hoisting the trophy.” He shot 73
Luke Donald, the No. 1 player in the world, is trying to capture his first major. It most likely won’t be this one. He failed to make a single birdie and shot 79.
Beau Hossler used a practice round with his idol, Phil Mickelson, to build confidence this week in preparation for the U.S. Open.
Then, the 17-year-old in braces shot an even-par 70 in the first round at The Olympic Club and was six shots better than Mickelson, a four-time major champion.
Hossler, the first high-school player since the early 1950s to qualify for consecutive U.S. Opens, wasn’t surprised in the least by his own performance in front of dozens of family members and friends who made the trip from southern California.
“Not at all,” said Hossler, one of eight amateurs in the field. “I’ve been playing really well lately. I expected myself to go out there and get a lot out of my round.”
Oddly enough, he said Mickelson’s advice to him after a Tuesday practice round was “conservative lines and aggressive swings” and “taking your medicine” with pars on the tight, twisting layout.
Hossler, who recently took second at the state high-school championship as a junior, had 12 pars, three bogeys and three birdies. He said it helped having qualified and played in last year’s U.S. Open at Congressional, even though he missed the cut with rounds of 76-77.
“I was a lot less nervous,” he said. “Not saying I wasn’t nervous at all, because I was pretty nervous. But last year was pretty ridiculous.”
One golfer told his caddy, I shot a 73 today, one over par, If I can shoot par out for the tournament, I will win.
Holding the open is a burden on the members: course closed for a long time before tournament for making rough rougher, making greens faster,, club disrupted during tournament, dining, and recreational facilities not available.
The automatic writing project started out as an activity among friends and locals. I would write a line someone else would write a line and so on... Then people would overhear us and ask if they could participate and write something too (which surprised me) of course I said "yes!" At that point I realized that lots of people have something to say. I started asking strangers to add entries, then I graduated to offering people $1.00 to participate, some people do not accept the dollar and some pay me a $1.00 (paying it forward). It's becoming quite a lovely, surprising and compelling project. People from many walks of life are participating: homeless, a news reporter, academics, students, doctors, drug addicts, lawyers, tourists etc... People have written things in my journal that they'd never say out loud, not to anyone. Some of it's so sad, some intriguing, hilarious and so on... At the end of the day, every one of these people understand that their entries are being uploaded to the internet and are comforted in knowing that they will be heard. I have no idea where this is going, but it's going just fine! FYI: English is not everyone's first language here. I will be illustrating the book/journal after the text is done. I hope that everyone who reads these entries learns something about people, mostly that we never know what someone else is going through.
Feel free to stop by my facebook page if you like: www.facebook.com/collageandautomaticwriting/