by Anna Forbes
Pioneer Square stands as one of the oldest districts in Seattle, and it also houses my new favorite bookstore, Elliot Bay Books. This old brick building and I were recently introduced by my best friend Emily. We pulled open the front double doors and stepped onto the creaky hardwood floor, at which point I was already captivated. After looking at stationery and the Staff Favorites section, she brought me to the dimly-lit café in the basement. I studied the posters that hung on the brick walls while a man with dreds and tattoos made my hazelnut Americano. This was Seattle.
I sipped my hot drink and scanned the wooden bookshelves, amazed at the size of the bookstore and the amount of information contained within its walls. Lately I’ve been lingering at the Biography and Religion sections. I suppose it’s because at my age, I’m making decisions that will set a pattern for the rest of my life, and I find some sort of inspiration from knowing how other people lived and how I ought to.
These past few months, I’ve thought a lot about my generation’s reputation. Let’s face it: many of us don’t know how to grow up, and quite frankly, we’re scared to. Sometimes I almost feel frozen in place, knowing I don’t want to go back in time but hesitant to step forward, uncertain of where I’ll land. I’m afraid to make the wrong choice, but I think that not making a decision is nearly the same as making the wrong one.
On the shelves in front of me sat the stories of Winston Churchill, Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther and Saint Augustine. Each of these remarkable men was at many points afraid of what the future would hold and wondered what would result from their decisions. Their fear didn’t stop them from doing what they had to. Churchill said this: “Every day you may make progress. Every step may be fruitful. Yet there will stretch out before you an ever-lengthening, ever-ascending, ever-improving path. You know you will never get to the end of the journey. But this, so far from discouraging, only adds to the joy and glory of the climb.” Such optimism in his words!
I stood there for several moments, mulling over these thoughts, and something in me changed. Ironically, I became aware of another choice. I can choose to take responsibility for my actions and take steps toward making things happen in my life, or I can wait on others to pick up the slack for me and straggle through life riding on everyone else’s accomplishments. As I see it now, that is what I’m choosing between. Personally, I would rather chase my dreams as hard as I can and see where God allows me to go with them. The adventure of this is so much greater than living a predictable life where no risks are taken simply for safety’s sake.
The pages of the books I looked at were black and white with words describing the fascinating lives of people who achieved great things with their efforts. They were not afraid to live with fear. They saw fear as the wind at their back; it wasn’t a wall to climb over. These great people embraced maturity and became adults capable of making good decisions. I am almost 22 years old and must do all I can to place myself in that same position.
Right now I’m drifting somewhere between childhood and adulthood, and although it seems like an endless fog right now, it won’t last long. We will all be something, and that will become clear soon enough. So whether you mentor children with special needs, start your own business, clean people’s teeth, or take beautiful pictures, do something that’s worth writing a book about.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Poetry: Issue 2
The Day's End
by Anna Forbes
Stubborn eyelids drop
The rumpled quilt, my magic rug,
Flies me to my dreams.
Shadows
by Allegra Weaver
Regrets, like a flock
Of errant, tawdry blackbirds
Hang over my head.
Letting Go
by Cheryl Hutchison
Tight is my fist
These knuckles are white
Clinging to the dearest things of all
Why must it be so hard
to believe you?
Is it difficult?
I mean your love,
It wraps around me
in a sheet of silk.
Your joy is a
bike ride down hill
in summer dusk with a hint of rain
Surrender is complete
One finger uncurls
Like a rose in the sun
My hand opens to you
A white dove then flies
Away free forever in your sky
Cynicism
by Jared Thornton
The meek and the weak; the big and the strong
Good and Evil; Right and Wrong
Have been debated for so long
The reason why many have gone
Out of control and out of line,
Act just like they've lost their minds
Irrational actions all the time
Never using thoughts divine
Trusting in the heat they pack
And the dividends they stack
The weight of the world is on their back
And true hope is what they lack…
In the Middle of Somewhere: An Adventure in the Arizona Desert pt. 2
by Joe Barnes
Greg stood with his hands on his hips and his head tilted to the right, waiting for a response. Luke and I stood silent. This seemed to be the best option, and a second longer of silence would have communicated distrust and fear. We glanced warily at each other and then simultaneously agreed to follow.
Five minutes later, we drove through a small town hidden between the desert hills. The inactivity and lack of color were eerie. Dilapidated houses sat on small lots surrounded by chain-link fences. The few parked cars I saw looked similar to Greg’s.
Greg slowed down, made a U-turn in the street, and parked along the curb. Luke stopped and rolled down the window, looking to him for instruction.
“Park right there.” Greg pointed to the driveway across the street.
Luke pulled in through the gate and parked, leaving 10 yards between the front of the Jeep and the trailer in the driveway. There was a house with a porch on the left. The piece of plywood sitting on the porch steps bridged the gap between the steps and the trailer door. The small yard was overgrown with weeds and scattered with empty garden pots, big desert rocks, a rusty bike, a golf club and empty spray-paint cans next to a multicolored piece of plywood.
Luke and I waited for Greg to walk past the Jeep before getting out. Greg abruptly stopped, turned around and put his hands on his hips. He glanced down at his feet and looked up at us with a serious expression.
“Look guys, I’m willing to help you, but we don’t exactly live by the law around here. So anything you see here stays here.”
“Yeah, sure,” Luke and I agreed.
Greg turned and continued walking. “My buddy lets us put our trailer home here in his driveway,” he said. “Come meet my girlfriend.” He walked up the ramp and into the trailer.
I walked behind Luke with my head tilted down, making sure to not kick his heels as we shuffled inside. The first thing I saw in front of me was a curtain. The space between the curtain and the wall revealed a small toilet. I turned left and took three steps down the narrow hallway and into a larger amount of space.
“Karen, this is Luke and Joe. They have some car trouble.”
Karen sat Indian-style on the bed in front of us, smoking a joint. “Bummer guys…want some?” Karen asked. She flipped the joint around and held it out toward us.
“No thanks,” Luke responded. I just shook my head. I didn’t say anything because in a weird way, I wanted some. I didn’t necessarily want to smoke with her; I just wanted to be high again. For a split second, I pictured myself grabbing the joint from her hand and taking a seat. I shook my head and rolled my eyes after the thought.
“Me and Luke are gonna go into town to Wal-Mart to get some parts,” Greg said. “We’ll be about an hour, an hour and a half. Take care of Joe…get him a soda or something. Joe, you want a soda?”
“No thanks, I’m good,” I replied.
Greg squeezed between Luke and me to walk out of the trailer. Luke followed him. I poked Luke as I walked behind him. He turned his head and saw me staring at him with raised eyebrows. He raised his eyebrows back and shrugged his shoulders. In the yard, I stopped by the porch and watched them walk across the street to Greg’s car.
“Have a seat on the porch, Joe. We’ll be back soon,” Greg yelled. Before Luke opened the passenger door, he looked at me. “See ya, Joe,” he said, giving me a look that told me to watch my back and be careful.
After the car disappeared from sight, I turned and noticed a bench on the porch. I went to the Jeep, put on my straw cowboy hat, and walked up the steps. I couldn’t help but notice the neon-colored swirls spray-painted all over the bench. I picked it up and moved it a tiny bit forward. Sitting down, I propped my feet up on the banister and started to observe everything around me.
The porch’s forest green paint was cracked and chipped. The rotted siding on the house was gray and faded. On the window sill behind me sat a spray-paint can, an empty Coke bottle from the ’50’s, a tin can with flowers in it, and two dirty, oddly-shaped glass bottles. Tiny, colorful rocks that looked like granite were placed in between each of these. Beside the bench sat a couple of larger rocks with geodes showing. To my right was the front door.
Thirty minutes passed, and four people stopped by. Each walked up to the front door, ignored me and yelled into the trailer at Karen. “Is he up yet? Are the girls up?” Every time Karen answered, “No, not yet, come back in a little while. They’re here…they’ll be up.”
My suspicion grew as I counted the people coming and going. I could only assume that the “he” they referred to was the local marijuana distributor. I wondered what else I didn’t know about this secluded town.
“Heeey!!” someone yelled.
I looked down the street and noticed a man standing there looking at me. I got up and walked to the front of the yard and faced him from a distance. He began to walk towards me.
“Where’s Greg?” he shouted.
“He went to town, to the store.” I pointed behind me.
“I’m Johnny,” he said as he came within feet of me.
“Joe. Nice to meet you,” I replied.
Johnny was six feet tall and had a shaved head. He had a hoop earring in each ear. His Mexican heritage was obvious from his dark hair and skin and his accent. He wore a black t-shirt and black pants and appeared to be in his late 30’s.
Without waiting for further introduction, I explained Luke’s and my situation.
“Yeah,” he said. “Greg called me and told me to come down. We work on bikes together.”
We went back up to the porch and sat on the bench. As I looked over at him, I noticed tears tattooed near the corner of each of his eyes. I remembered hearing that for every person a gangster kills, they put a tattoo in this spot by his eye. As I thought about it, I wasn’t sure if my memory served me right. Maybe the tear symbolized a friend or family member who had been murdered. Either way, he fascinated me. After a series of questions, I learned that Johnny had been released from prison 14 months ago, after serving two years. His demeanor communicated a mental distance from reality, yet he was polite and comfortable as he sat and talked with me.
Karen heard Johnny and me talking and came out of the trailer to join us. She sat on the steps, pulled out another joint, and asked if he wanted to smoke. He nodded.
“Johnny, you need to drive me up to the mountains,” Karen said. “I need to go back.” She looked out toward the horizon at the mountains she was referring to.
For 30 minutes, Karen talked about her mountain experiences. While on top of the mountain one day, God had written to her with clouds in the sky that she was the X that marked the spot where a meteorite the size of Arizona would hit the earth. She didn’t know why she was the X. All she knew was that she had to return to the mountain for further instructions. The FBI, CIA, U.S. military and local police were keeping tabs on her, because they knew that wherever she went, the meteorite would hit. She used to think she was the Messiah, but had disproved that on her own and now only claimed to be a messenger of God.
While she spoke, her eyes blinked quickly and the top of her head twitched to the left. She moved her arms around unnecessarily and changed her sitting position multiple times. She smoked the joint like there was a race to finish.
Except for a periodical “uh-huh,” Johnny remained silent. I could tell by his body language and lack of reaction that he had heard most of it before.
While listening, I inwardly prayed. If You want me to speak to her, give me the words, Lord. I don’t know what to say. I wanted so badly to interject something spiritual. I searched for the right words, but nothing formed into a coherent remark, and I was left speechless.
In the middle of Karen’s monologue, a car pulled up to the house. A thin Mexican girl got out and walked toward us. Her hair was braided, and she dressed minimally. She looked sloppy and unclean, and her teeth looked like they wanted to run away from each other. I knew right away that she was on some variant of meth. She walked up, stretching her arms and legs out in random directions and looking like a malfunctioning robot. Her mouth was wide open, and she kept moving her jaw back and forth as if she needed to stretch the joint out. She walked up to the porch and stuck her face through the wooden rods like a prisoner in a jail cell.
“Is he here?” she asked Karen.
“Yeah, go on up. Do you want to hit this roach?”
“No, I don’t smoke anymore,” the girl answered as she walked into the house. Five minutes later, she came out with her fist balled up. She walked down the steps, but turned around and pranced up to the banister again.
“I guess I’ll take one or two hits before I leave,” she said. She stuck her hand out to grab the joint, took a couple quick hits, and passed it back. She walked off in the same weird, stretchy fashion as she had walked up, got into her car, and drove away.
I now knew that “he” definitely sold something other than marijuana, most likely methamphetamines.
Karen probably would have kept talking, but luckily her Mexican masseuse showed up with his portable massage table, and they disappeared into the mysterious house. Luke and Greg returned just minutes after they shut the front door.
Luke walked up to me with a plastic grocery bag in each hand. “I got us some sandwich stuff. You hungry, Joe?”
“Yeah, really hungry,” I replied.
Greg, Johnny, Luke and I went into the trailer where the mayonnaise, mustard and drinks were. After we ate, Johnny and Greg started working on the Jeep. While Luke and I sat on the porch, Luke told me about the conversations he had had with Greg in the car.
Fifteen years ago, Greg had been released from prison after serving four years for smuggling marijuana into the U.S from Mexico. He was currently second-in-command in the Arian Brotherhood, a white supremacy group. Johnny was a lieutenant in the Mexican Mafia, and this town was the hub for the Mexican Mafia in Arizona.
Greg had told Luke about his spiritually-confused girlfriend after hearing that Luke had studied theology at a Christian college for the past four years. He said he believed the Bible and knew that it could help her, but didn’t know enough about it to share with her. He asked Luke to talk with Karen before we left.
“So, I’m going in there to talk to her,” Luke said.
“You are? Really? You’re in for a treat,” I said.
Karen was done with her massage and was sitting on the bed rolling a joint when Luke and I walked in.
“So Karen, Greg told me you’re confused about some stuff,” Luke began. “What are you confused about?” I stood silently, waiting to hear if her stories would match. She didn’t hesitate and started to tell all. Again, she spoke for a solid half-hour. Her stories were identical. I cringed as I listened, knowing that Satan had a firm grasp on her and that demons lurked in the shadows of her assertions. It was hard to be in the same room with her.
Luke didn’t waste any time after she finished talking. He laid out the gospel as clearly as possible and told her she had two choices.
Whoa! I thought. I had never heard the gospel given so succinctly and accurately; a young child could have understood it. Luke had spit it out easily. I was proud of him for being so bold.
Karen thanked him for the “advice,” and we left to check on the progress of the Jeep. “Ok, we put clean hoses on here so the water can get to the engine,” Greg said. “I didn’t have one long enough, but Johnny rigged one up that will do until you get about 25 miles down the road, to Carney. There’s a Napa Auto Store there. Stop and get yourself a new one to replace it. These should last…I don’t know how long though.”
“Thanks, guys. I really appreciate your help,” Luke said as he shook their hands.
“Did you talk to her?” Greg asked Luke.
“Yeah, I did.”
“Thanks. I’m glad I found you. That’s good.”
“See you, Greg,” Luke said, half-saluting as he opened the driver door.
By this time, I had been at the house for five hours. It was 3 p.m. We got in the Jeep and drove away, glad to be moving on.
God in the Living Room: Essay
by Cole Jeffrey
Art is intimate. Whether an artist paints, writes or composes, he is providing someone with a window into his soul. He lets you see him as he truly is. But art is also relational because while you are allowed to see him you are also allowing him to change you. It’s the same way with God. His art lets us see Him, but it also lets Him change us. That’s why we need to abandon our notions of what is practical, of how we can “use” religion, and instead, just sit under Him and be changed. If we only look at a statue, then we will just see a piece of rock carved and chiseled into an image. But if we see the statue, then we will have our minds carved and chiseled into something by the sculptor. So let’s go see God, whether it’s in church while listening to a sermon, in an art museum standing before a Michelangelo, or on a mountain roadside staring out across the great divide. Like Mary, let’s go sit at His feet and fall in love with Him. Leave the dishes in the kitchen, because God is in the living room.
People often ask if art is useful.
When they ask that question, what they really want to know is if art has any practical value. They want to know if a painting can be used for something more than giving a sparse wall a little color or if music does more than just please the ears.
But the truth is that art is quite useless. It has no practical function in the real world. You cannot “do” anything with art. However, art can do so much with you. You are very useful.
In an essay called “Experiment in Criticism,” C.S. Lewis wrote:
“We sit down before a picture in order to have something done to us, not that we may do things with it. The first demand any work of art makes upon us is surrender. Look. Listen. Receive. Get yourself out of the way.”
What Lewis is saying is that we don’t “use” art like we use a kitchen knife or a vacuum cleaner. Art isn’t used. It is experienced. The value of art lies in the experience and in the subsequent results of that experience. William Wordsworth, the poet of Nature and Experience, urged his readers to give up society and science and enjoy the outdoors. “Let Nature be your Teacher,” he wrote in “The Tables Turned.” Later in the poem, he exhorts his readers to:
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth and bring with you a heart,
That watches and receives.
Wordsworth was writing as England was on the verge of the Industrial Revolution, ready to take the plunge into materialism and the middle-classes. He was very much alone with his message of nature and beauty. But over a century later, people still go to visit a large hole in Arizona called the Grand Canyon because it’s supposed to be beautiful. Somehow, seeing something beautiful has value to people, even in an age of pragmatically-minded materialism. The experience is considered worth it.
People still read books, listen to music, and visit art museums—all for the purpose of seeing something beautiful. This is because the artistic experience is considered worth it. But it is only worth it if we remember that it’s an experience, not a tool, not something to be picked up and used like a mop or broom. The value of art cannot be translated into practical language. It cannot be expressed in terms of everyday life. Start talking about what poetry means to you, and you’ll feel ridiculous, like your soul is the stuff Hallmark cards are made from. But art has value nonetheless. However, that value can only be realized if we stop thinking about what we can take from it and instead start thinking about what it can give us. As Lewis said, we have to “sit under” art. We have to receive it.
That is why art and God always dance together in my mind. The two cannot be isolated. God is like art, because God is the force behind art and behind human creativity. In the same way that you have to “sit under” art, you have to “sit under” God. You have to receive Him. You cannot come to God with the practical on your mind, hoping to use your religion like you use your kitchen appliances. Too many Christians sit through sermons, taking notes and making outlines as they look for the stuff that can be taken away. But God calls us to experience Him. The value of a relationship with God lies in our experience of Him and the subsequent results of that experience. God said to Job, “Be still and know that I am God.” Stop thinking about yourself and think about Me. On his blog, while writing about God, art, and nature, Donald Miller wrote:
“I am wondering if sunsets, faces, mountains and rivers were not designed to [be] invitations to know God more fully, more completely. This seems the nature of a love letter, in ways. That is, a love letter adores and praises, but also invites a greater intimacy.”
Art is intimate. Whether an artist paints, writes or composes, he is providing someone with a window into his soul. He lets you see him as he truly is. But art is also relational because while you are allowed to see him you are also allowing him to change you. It’s the same way with God. His art lets us see Him, but it also lets Him change us. That’s why we need to abandon our notions of what is practical, of how we can “use” religion, and instead, just sit under Him and be changed. If we only look at a statue, then we will just see a piece of rock carved and chiseled into an image. But if we see the statue, then we will have our minds carved and chiseled into something by the sculptor. So let’s go see God, whether it’s in church while listening to a sermon, in an art museum standing before a Michelangelo, or on a mountain roadside staring out across the great divide. Like Mary, let’s go sit at His feet and fall in love with Him. Leave the dishes in the kitchen, because God is in the living room.
On Language Thoroughness and Gardening: Essay
By Samuel Moore
High school summers and school time Saturdays meant working at a gardening store. I worked with a hopper, scale, and sewing machine, metering out bags of mineral fertilizers. If I worked alone, it went slowly.
If I worked with another employee, we tried to set and break time records. I did this full-time for two summers. Eventually, I was promoted to sales. I stocked the shelves, swept the floors, memorized several pages’ worth of information in order to answer common questions that affected Bakersfield, learned how to test the pH balance and calcium content of soil, and worked the register. Every customer was to be an object of attention, though many people came in with the same problems.
I became used to the hard customers, the incoherent customers and the “enemies” (such as the gardening talk show host who only dealt with the name brand money-makers and not our local products). One day, an elderly man in overalls and thick glasses walked into the store, and I started reciting my lines. “How can I help you today, sir?” But I was taken off-guard by a product request louder than anything I had heard in the store before—except for the gas-powered forklift. He was deaf. I practically ran to the back of the store (after politely motioning that I would be right back, of course) to take refuge in the experienced wisdom of Paul, who had big sideburns and a handlebar mustache and had worked there for many years. Paul took him off my hands.
Apparently, Paul had dealt with this old deaf man before. I suppose that if he had been deaf for quite some time, he might have forgotten how physically offensive it is to yell (unexpectedly, especially) in someone’s face. But there’s also the possibility that he didn’t care how he heaved his language around. I didn’t think it would be wise to ask him at the time which was his philosophy.
Then there was the time when my neighbors came into the store. We established early on that we recognized we lived next-door to each other. They wanted to kill all of the weeds in their front lawn, and I knew what would do the job, so I explained it to them.Here’s some background though: these neighbors were not pleasant. The husband, probably in his late 60s, encouraged his stylized poodle (named Pierre, of all names) to use our front lawn as a restroom. My dad caught him doing it several times. So one day, we sort of didn’t stop our Husky-Chow mix from defending our yard by attacking the poodle, and the neighbors knew. Shortly after that, our dog’s insides turned squishy and her health declined. We had to have her put to sleep soon enough. We had no proof for anything, but we had plenty of suspicions.
I wasn’t surprised when the neighbors didn’t take my advice and walked out without buying anything. A few weeks later I noticed that their lawn had turned yellow. They hired gardeners to tear it out and replace it with new sod, and soon after that, the weeds came back. Did they know that my advice was sound, but rejected it because I belonged to the house of Moore? I tried to let my words be the mediator in the midst of the feud, and I talked to them the same way I did to the customers before and after them. But my favorite gardening-store-conflict was much more subtle, and it happened many times—sometimes several times a week. We sold a selective, systemic herbicide called Trimec, and it was one of the most popular sales. It would kill weeds, but not lawns—if used properly. Of course, there would be people who would use it wrongly, kill their lawns, and come back to our store to blame us for the mistake. Those customers made me laugh. If they got bad enough, I could use my authority to ask them to leave and never come back.
That’s not the best part. Time after time, customers would walk into the store and ask for Triaminic, which is a brand-name cough syrup for children. Most of the time I would inwardly laugh at them and hand them a bottle of Trimec. I tried to understand (or imagine) their logic: Oh, no: a word I haven’t seen all my life...but I’ve heard this word on TV. It must be the same thing because it looks like it could fit. I don’t know how accurate that was, but it gave me peace in my perceived superiority. I distinctly remember one red-faced woman (maybe in her late 40s) with the kind of glasses that didn’t look thick, but still magnified her eyes when I looked at them. She came in blustering. “I need some Triaminic to kill splurge.”
(Note: she meant, “I need some Trimec to kill spurge.” Spurge is a creeping green and purple weed that grows close to the ground and has networking root systems. Also note: I may be mixing memories here. This may or may not be a singular event.)
I coolly responded that children’s cough syrup would not kill spurge, but I did, in fact, have Trimec, which could. She looked up and clearly didn’t get the joke. It was a blank stare she gave, and then she blinked. “How much is it?”
My smugness was wasted. I didn’t question then why I would try to play on customers’ cursive readings of brand names, but now I know that to teach them to do otherwise would have been like trying to teach a rabbit not to hop. It seemed to be so deeply ingrained in their reading skills that only a time machine could have stopped them from misreading words they weren’t used to.
See, there is a difference between clarifying or correcting language for the purpose of communication and doing so for pride. I let the latter happen (or, more accurately, pushed the latter to happen), and I generally helped those bad pronouncers in contempt. I’m glad lessons can be learned after the incident.
But it’s not all serious. Sometimes it’s really funny. I wonder who the first Southerner was who put the “r” in “wash.”
Master Minds: Inspiration from the Past: Editorial
by Heather Donckels
One night about a month ago, I walked across the baseball field in the dark. The Astroturf felt springy under my feet, and above me, the white half-moon hung in the sky. The air was so clear that I could see the half of the moon that was supposed to be hiding. It looked like a faintly glowing handle attaching the moon to the blackness. I found the gate in the chain link fence, stepped through it, and crossed the path to the Bryce House.
Anna and Debbie, my fellow editors, were waiting for me in the Writing Room across from Dr. Simons’ office. It is a small room, containing two computers, a bookshelf full of writing books, a coffee table covered with old yearbooks, and a water dispenser. On the far wall, there’s a window covered with blinds, the cheap, flimsy, off-white kind, and a deep windowsill crowned with the two-volume Oxford Compact Dictionary.
After a minute, Titus Gee finished his phone call and joined us. He is tall, with a goatee, rimless glasses and nearly white blonde hair held back in a ponytail. In 2001, he edited and published Master Minds for its first year. After about an hour, a petite young woman wearing a purple sweater joined us. She had soft brown bangs on her forehead. Her name was Christine Berwick, and she was the editor of Master Minds after Titus.
For two hours, Titus and Christine taught Anna, Debbie and me about newsletter layout, how to gather content, writer-editor relationships, and what we could expect our editing experiences of the semester to look like. But also, perhaps without knowing it, they passed along their original vision for Master Minds.
“Every night, the Bryce House used to be full of students,” Titus told us. “People would come here to hang out and study and talk philosophy. This was the art hub of The Master’s College.” Today, the Bryce House is a discarded shell of the old days. It’s almost always quiet.
Titus and Christine left for a meeting. Debbie and Anna left too, but I stayed behind in the Writing Room. “This is your office,” Titus had told us, “your home away from home.” I looked over the first year’s issues of Master Minds and was transported to the days when it ran strong, being published bi-monthly.
I sat down in the desk chair and looked around—at the world map on the wall and the picture of Albert Einstein that Titus said they’d salvaged from the Science Department when they were remodeling. I thought about a noisy Bryce House. All I could hear was the ticking of the clock and the computer fans spinning. Where do the artists and writers of TMC discuss ideas? I wondered. I hear the English majors whispering behind me in class, and their whispers tell me they’ve talked things over already. So they must talk somewhere. What about creative expression? Where do the writers and poets express themselves and get read? Master Minds hasn’t been published in a year. What has the artistic community of The Master’s College done in the meantime?
Then and there, I decided that as much as it depended on me, Master Minds would be that creative outlet. Master Minds’ motto is “Read, Write, Think, Discuss, Create.” I want this newsletter to live up to that motto. As a result of reading Master Minds, I want people to think and discuss and be inspired to write and create their own art.
Before I left the Writing Room, I whispered a prayer that Anna, Debbie and I would be useful and honor God in our editing this semester. And then I added to myself with a smile, “Maybe this is the beginning of something new.”
So, writers and artists of The Master’s College, come out of the woodwork. Feel free to express yourself and glorify God in that expression. If He has given you a gift, don’t hesitate to use it.
In the Middle of Somewhere: An Adventure in the Arizona Desert Pt. 1
by Joe Barnes
Arizona and New Mexico have little to offer bored eyes. I’m stuck picturing the large, three-pronged cactus as Native American people waving goodbye. Every five miles or so, an old cowboy appears in the mix. It becomes apparent that the desert is truly forsaken when you realize that both the Indian and the cowboy are waving goodbye with both hands, instead of just one. Once you reach Texas, it takes a couple of hours before you start enjoying the scenery, and by then you’re almost home.
My 22-year-old brother Luke sat next to me driving his ‘98 Jeep Grand Cherokee. Earlier that morning, Luke and I had woke up at 6 a.m. to begin the tedious task of driving 22 hours from Santa Clarita, California, to Austin, Texas. Luke had received his college degree the day before. Once we arrived home, he planned to continue his physical training in preparation to enter the Marine Corps as an officer. He’d been running and weight-lifting since February, although this training was merely an extension of playing soccer for four years at The Master’s College.
When I thought about living at home that summer with all of my old friends, I became nervous and anxious. I didn’t know how I would withstand the pressure to abandon all I had learned and simply pick up where I’d left off, or what they would think about how I had changed. I didn’t know how I would tell them what I had learned and if I should even hang out with them. I looked over at Luke and smiled as I turned up the music.
Luke is five foot nine and has a shaved head (he shaves it instead of leaving his thin hair). I’ve heard girls compliment his clear blue eyes, which create an attractive contrast to his thick black eyebrows. Some have said he’s “dreamy.” His posture and walk are confident, not to be mistaken for arrogance, and he has a sarcastic sense of humor. He’s known for loving sleep and never saying more than necessary in the morning.
Therefore, we were silent as the loud old engine and the air against the windshield formed a mind-numbing vibrating noise as we rode. Two of our friends, Rob and Kelly, also soccer players, were headed to San Antonio, Texas, and caravanned close behind us. Rob was the tall, dark and handsome type and Kelly the short, sweet and cute.
We reached Phoenix in six hours. I stepped out of the car into the Subway parking lot, glad to stretch. After we ate, we walked through the parking lot back to the cars and noticed a long trail of liquid streaming slowly down the asphalt, coming from under the hood of the Jeep.
“Man, what is this!” Luke exclaimed.
I opened the driver door and pulled the handle to release the hood. Kelly and Rob stood by as Luke and I examined the engine. The antifreeze had been seeping out, nearly depleting the coolant in the tank. There was a hole in the tank near the cap. Luckily, an auto store sat in the shopping center we were in. It took us the next 45 minutes to seal the area around the cap with tar and replenish the tank with antifreeze. Hot and sweaty, the four of us climbed in the cars and drove back to the 10 East.
Thirty minutes down the highway, just as I had begun to get cool and relax, Luke noticed the engine temperature gauge running way too hot. “Joe, check this out! We need to stop!”
I sat up and leaned over to see. “Yeah, pull over.”
Luke slowed down to let Rob know we were stopping. Now slightly angry, we got out of the car and popped the hood again. We watched in wonder as blue antifreeze spewed violently out from under the lid, melting the tar we had just applied and making it bubble up. Baffled, Luke did what any Barnes boy does when car trouble arises: he called our dad, the self-taught, nearly-professional mechanic.
Dad told us to drive to the nearest gas station and then call him back. Luke had Dad back on the phone as I pulled up next to the air and water tank at the station. I got out and raised the hood, darting backward to avoid the geyser of hot antifreeze. As it shot up two feet in the air, Luke relayed instructions from Dad, shouting at me to cool down the engine with the hose. I sprayed water wherever I thought best, all over the dark, steamy abyss. Nothing was working. Luke’s tone was demanding and harsh as he instructed me to jam the hose in the radiator and flood it to cool it off.
Kelly and Rob stood by with their jaws dropped. I glared over at them as they tried not to laugh. Luke yelled to my dad that nothing was working, while hot antifreeze and water splattered all over me.
“Chill out, Luke!” I shouted.
Luke quickly ended the call. “Dad told me to call him back when I’ve calmed down and can talk in a normal voice!”
“Yeah, calm down, man!” I yelled.
Rob, Kelly, Luke and I stood staring in dismay, silently watching the geyser run its course and the hose flood the engine. Water spilled over the grill onto the concrete. Strangers looked on with glances I interpreted to be calling me an idiot. That was okay, because I felt like an idiot, and I knew I looked like one. With wet hair and a drenched shirt, I stood out of breath with my hands on my knees, bent over and blinking at the concrete.
The tank soon depleted itself of coolant. I got Dad back on the phone. He told me to fill up the tank with enough water to keep the engine cool and drive to a mechanic. But it was Sunday, and the mechanics weren’t open. Though they politely offered to stay and be of any assistance they could, Luke and I urged Rob and Kelly to get back on the road. I talked it over with Luke and proposed that we stay at a friend’s house 30 minutes away and find a mechanic in the morning. Pulling out from the gas station, Rob and Kelly turned right, back on the road towards Texas, while Luke and I made a left, back towards Phoenix.
Luke and I arrived at Justin’s around 4 p.m. While I hung out with Justin and swam in his pool, Luke continued to talk with Dad. He could not relax knowing there was a chance he could fix his Jeep and get us back on the road. I didn’t bother convincing him to swim, knowing he was too stubborn to relax and wait for a mechanic. I accepted it as pride of ownership, considering I’d probably do the same.
He disappeared and came back a couple hours later, explaining that he had replaced the tank cap at the auto parts store, refilled the antifreeze, and test drove the Jeep through town. He declared it would be okay to skip the mechanic and leave first thing the next morning. My desire to be home silenced my skepticism. We stayed the night to get some rest.
We left Justin’s house at 8 a.m. It was my turn to drive. The Monday morning traffic slowed us down while leaving Phoenix, so I suggested finding an alternate route. Before drifting off to sleep, Luke pointed out a detour on the map that bypassed the bumper-to-bumper traffic. I drove on the shortcut through the desolate, hilly terrain in the Arizona desert, making sure to constantly check the engine temperature.
Around 9:30, while going up a long and steady grade, the engine temperature started to rise, and suddenly the car lost power, locking the breaks and killing the engine. I quickly steered to the side of the road and made a sudden stop. Luke sprang up, and once again, we got out and popped the hood. The antifreeze bubbled from the same place as before. It wasn’t spewing out, but the engine was definitely overheated. With the loss of power, a new problem arose: our battery died. Being in the desert and off the main highway, neither of our cell phones had reception. I walked over and leaned against the driver side door, slowly knocking the back of my head against the window. A story I’d recently heard about a man whose car broke down came to mind. He had prayed, acknowledging that the Lord was in control and said that he would wait for the Lord to work the problem out.
Lord, I’ll trust you, I said to myself. I know You’re in control. I stopped the knocking and slightly grinned.
We spotted a house across the street and down the hill about 200 yards and began to walk towards it in hopes of finding a land-line to use. Walking up the dirt driveway, I stared at the rectangular white house sitting alone on a couple acres of desert. A chain-link fence bordered the property.
I walked up the stairs and onto the long, prairie-style porch, then knocked on the door and peered through the window, quietly repeating, “Hello? Is anyone home?” Never an answer. “Who would ever want to live here?” I asked Luke.
We walked back to the car. I retrieved the jumper cables and began swinging them around as a beacon to any car that passed by. Luke stood by with one arm in the air. In 10 minutes, two cars had gone by, neither caring to stop. Five minutes later, a two-door silver sports car made in the early eighties passed us, still running in spite of its age and seemingly-obvious number of wrecks. It slowed down to make a U-turn and puttered straight up to the front of the Jeep. The driver knew exactly where to position the car for a jumpstart.
As he pulled up, I walked to the right side of the Jeep and stood beside the hood, dangling the jumper cables at my side. Luke stood opposite on the left side. We watched the driver slowly open the door, use the top of the frame to hoist himself out of the driver’s seat, and then finally stand to his feet. He stood close to six and a half feet tall with scruffy facial hair and a beer belly. His skin was weathered and leathery and browned from the sun. His legs, arms and face were covered with a layer of dirt as if he had not showered in a couple of days. He wore thong sandals, baggy, gray cotton shorts, a white t-shirt and a trucker ball cap that didn’t fit. However, the wear of his appearance was not to be mistaken for weakness. He looked in our eyes as he spoke and seemed to possess strength and fury capable of being released at any time.
As he slowly walked toward the hood of the Jeep, Greg (that’s how he introduced himself) made a comment in his scratchy deep voice, acknowledging our car trouble. The way he walked made it look like he had just woken up from an afternoon nap and was trying to regain his balance.
Tucked in the slot behind his ear and skull lay a browned and rotten-looking cigarette. A cigarette becomes this color when it gets wet and has time to dry out again. After drying, the wet tobacco stains the white paper brown. Not only did Greg have a salvaged cigarette behind his ear, but the cigarette had ripped, taking the shape of an L.
Luke and I noticed the cigarette at the same time. We exchanged a smirk that said, “You see that, man?” We looked back at the cigarette, affirming that we had glanced at each other for the same reason, all the while holding back our laughter, so as to not offend the stranger. He was oblivious, and something about him made me assume he would rather wrap the broken cigarette with tape, dry it out and smoke it again, instead of tossing it in the trash.
Reaching the hood, he braced himself with both hands on the grill and hunched over, leaning his face close to the engine. He began inspecting it, swiveling and turning his head and upper body as if he were a snake looking for a way to slide through the small gaps and crevices under the hood.
“I think I can help you out,” Greg said. “Looks like your water hoses going to the engine are clogged. Yeah, you probably need new hoses.”
He stood up and took a step back. “Follow me to my house,” he said, looking at both of us. “I live about 10 minutes away.”
Greg stood with his hands on his hips and his head tilted to the right, waiting for a response. Luke and I stood silent. This seemed to be the best option, and a second longer of silence would have communicated distrust and fear. We glanced warily at each other and then simultaneously agreed to follow.
Arizona and New Mexico have little to offer bored eyes. I’m stuck picturing the large, three-pronged cactus as Native American people waving goodbye. Every five miles or so, an old cowboy appears in the mix. It becomes apparent that the desert is truly forsaken when you realize that both the Indian and the cowboy are waving goodbye with both hands, instead of just one. Once you reach Texas, it takes a couple of hours before you start enjoying the scenery, and by then you’re almost home.
My 22-year-old brother Luke sat next to me driving his ‘98 Jeep Grand Cherokee. Earlier that morning, Luke and I had woke up at 6 a.m. to begin the tedious task of driving 22 hours from Santa Clarita, California, to Austin, Texas. Luke had received his college degree the day before. Once we arrived home, he planned to continue his physical training in preparation to enter the Marine Corps as an officer. He’d been running and weight-lifting since February, although this training was merely an extension of playing soccer for four years at The Master’s College.
When I thought about living at home that summer with all of my old friends, I became nervous and anxious. I didn’t know how I would withstand the pressure to abandon all I had learned and simply pick up where I’d left off, or what they would think about how I had changed. I didn’t know how I would tell them what I had learned and if I should even hang out with them. I looked over at Luke and smiled as I turned up the music.
Luke is five foot nine and has a shaved head (he shaves it instead of leaving his thin hair). I’ve heard girls compliment his clear blue eyes, which create an attractive contrast to his thick black eyebrows. Some have said he’s “dreamy.” His posture and walk are confident, not to be mistaken for arrogance, and he has a sarcastic sense of humor. He’s known for loving sleep and never saying more than necessary in the morning.
Therefore, we were silent as the loud old engine and the air against the windshield formed a mind-numbing vibrating noise as we rode. Two of our friends, Rob and Kelly, also soccer players, were headed to San Antonio, Texas, and caravanned close behind us. Rob was the tall, dark and handsome type and Kelly the short, sweet and cute.
We reached Phoenix in six hours. I stepped out of the car into the Subway parking lot, glad to stretch. After we ate, we walked through the parking lot back to the cars and noticed a long trail of liquid streaming slowly down the asphalt, coming from under the hood of the Jeep.
“Man, what is this!” Luke exclaimed.
I opened the driver door and pulled the handle to release the hood. Kelly and Rob stood by as Luke and I examined the engine. The antifreeze had been seeping out, nearly depleting the coolant in the tank. There was a hole in the tank near the cap. Luckily, an auto store sat in the shopping center we were in. It took us the next 45 minutes to seal the area around the cap with tar and replenish the tank with antifreeze. Hot and sweaty, the four of us climbed in the cars and drove back to the 10 East.
Thirty minutes down the highway, just as I had begun to get cool and relax, Luke noticed the engine temperature gauge running way too hot. “Joe, check this out! We need to stop!”
I sat up and leaned over to see. “Yeah, pull over.”
Luke slowed down to let Rob know we were stopping. Now slightly angry, we got out of the car and popped the hood again. We watched in wonder as blue antifreeze spewed violently out from under the lid, melting the tar we had just applied and making it bubble up. Baffled, Luke did what any Barnes boy does when car trouble arises: he called our dad, the self-taught, nearly-professional mechanic.
Dad told us to drive to the nearest gas station and then call him back. Luke had Dad back on the phone as I pulled up next to the air and water tank at the station. I got out and raised the hood, darting backward to avoid the geyser of hot antifreeze. As it shot up two feet in the air, Luke relayed instructions from Dad, shouting at me to cool down the engine with the hose. I sprayed water wherever I thought best, all over the dark, steamy abyss. Nothing was working. Luke’s tone was demanding and harsh as he instructed me to jam the hose in the radiator and flood it to cool it off.
Kelly and Rob stood by with their jaws dropped. I glared over at them as they tried not to laugh. Luke yelled to my dad that nothing was working, while hot antifreeze and water splattered all over me.
“Chill out, Luke!” I shouted.
Luke quickly ended the call. “Dad told me to call him back when I’ve calmed down and can talk in a normal voice!”
“Yeah, calm down, man!” I yelled.
Rob, Kelly, Luke and I stood staring in dismay, silently watching the geyser run its course and the hose flood the engine. Water spilled over the grill onto the concrete. Strangers looked on with glances I interpreted to be calling me an idiot. That was okay, because I felt like an idiot, and I knew I looked like one. With wet hair and a drenched shirt, I stood out of breath with my hands on my knees, bent over and blinking at the concrete.
The tank soon depleted itself of coolant. I got Dad back on the phone. He told me to fill up the tank with enough water to keep the engine cool and drive to a mechanic. But it was Sunday, and the mechanics weren’t open. Though they politely offered to stay and be of any assistance they could, Luke and I urged Rob and Kelly to get back on the road. I talked it over with Luke and proposed that we stay at a friend’s house 30 minutes away and find a mechanic in the morning. Pulling out from the gas station, Rob and Kelly turned right, back on the road towards Texas, while Luke and I made a left, back towards Phoenix.
Luke and I arrived at Justin’s around 4 p.m. While I hung out with Justin and swam in his pool, Luke continued to talk with Dad. He could not relax knowing there was a chance he could fix his Jeep and get us back on the road. I didn’t bother convincing him to swim, knowing he was too stubborn to relax and wait for a mechanic. I accepted it as pride of ownership, considering I’d probably do the same.
He disappeared and came back a couple hours later, explaining that he had replaced the tank cap at the auto parts store, refilled the antifreeze, and test drove the Jeep through town. He declared it would be okay to skip the mechanic and leave first thing the next morning. My desire to be home silenced my skepticism. We stayed the night to get some rest.
We left Justin’s house at 8 a.m. It was my turn to drive. The Monday morning traffic slowed us down while leaving Phoenix, so I suggested finding an alternate route. Before drifting off to sleep, Luke pointed out a detour on the map that bypassed the bumper-to-bumper traffic. I drove on the shortcut through the desolate, hilly terrain in the Arizona desert, making sure to constantly check the engine temperature.
Around 9:30, while going up a long and steady grade, the engine temperature started to rise, and suddenly the car lost power, locking the breaks and killing the engine. I quickly steered to the side of the road and made a sudden stop. Luke sprang up, and once again, we got out and popped the hood. The antifreeze bubbled from the same place as before. It wasn’t spewing out, but the engine was definitely overheated. With the loss of power, a new problem arose: our battery died. Being in the desert and off the main highway, neither of our cell phones had reception. I walked over and leaned against the driver side door, slowly knocking the back of my head against the window. A story I’d recently heard about a man whose car broke down came to mind. He had prayed, acknowledging that the Lord was in control and said that he would wait for the Lord to work the problem out.
Lord, I’ll trust you, I said to myself. I know You’re in control. I stopped the knocking and slightly grinned.
We spotted a house across the street and down the hill about 200 yards and began to walk towards it in hopes of finding a land-line to use. Walking up the dirt driveway, I stared at the rectangular white house sitting alone on a couple acres of desert. A chain-link fence bordered the property.
I walked up the stairs and onto the long, prairie-style porch, then knocked on the door and peered through the window, quietly repeating, “Hello? Is anyone home?” Never an answer. “Who would ever want to live here?” I asked Luke.
We walked back to the car. I retrieved the jumper cables and began swinging them around as a beacon to any car that passed by. Luke stood by with one arm in the air. In 10 minutes, two cars had gone by, neither caring to stop. Five minutes later, a two-door silver sports car made in the early eighties passed us, still running in spite of its age and seemingly-obvious number of wrecks. It slowed down to make a U-turn and puttered straight up to the front of the Jeep. The driver knew exactly where to position the car for a jumpstart.
As he pulled up, I walked to the right side of the Jeep and stood beside the hood, dangling the jumper cables at my side. Luke stood opposite on the left side. We watched the driver slowly open the door, use the top of the frame to hoist himself out of the driver’s seat, and then finally stand to his feet. He stood close to six and a half feet tall with scruffy facial hair and a beer belly. His skin was weathered and leathery and browned from the sun. His legs, arms and face were covered with a layer of dirt as if he had not showered in a couple of days. He wore thong sandals, baggy, gray cotton shorts, a white t-shirt and a trucker ball cap that didn’t fit. However, the wear of his appearance was not to be mistaken for weakness. He looked in our eyes as he spoke and seemed to possess strength and fury capable of being released at any time.
As he slowly walked toward the hood of the Jeep, Greg (that’s how he introduced himself) made a comment in his scratchy deep voice, acknowledging our car trouble. The way he walked made it look like he had just woken up from an afternoon nap and was trying to regain his balance.
Tucked in the slot behind his ear and skull lay a browned and rotten-looking cigarette. A cigarette becomes this color when it gets wet and has time to dry out again. After drying, the wet tobacco stains the white paper brown. Not only did Greg have a salvaged cigarette behind his ear, but the cigarette had ripped, taking the shape of an L.
Luke and I noticed the cigarette at the same time. We exchanged a smirk that said, “You see that, man?” We looked back at the cigarette, affirming that we had glanced at each other for the same reason, all the while holding back our laughter, so as to not offend the stranger. He was oblivious, and something about him made me assume he would rather wrap the broken cigarette with tape, dry it out and smoke it again, instead of tossing it in the trash.
Reaching the hood, he braced himself with both hands on the grill and hunched over, leaning his face close to the engine. He began inspecting it, swiveling and turning his head and upper body as if he were a snake looking for a way to slide through the small gaps and crevices under the hood.
“I think I can help you out,” Greg said. “Looks like your water hoses going to the engine are clogged. Yeah, you probably need new hoses.”
He stood up and took a step back. “Follow me to my house,” he said, looking at both of us. “I live about 10 minutes away.”
Greg stood with his hands on his hips and his head tilted to the right, waiting for a response. Luke and I stood silent. This seemed to be the best option, and a second longer of silence would have communicated distrust and fear. We glanced warily at each other and then simultaneously agreed to follow.
Poetry: Issue 1
Well-Read
by Debbie Stampfli
Behind your cover
You’ve been read more than once
With fingerprints and signatures
Of those who once knew your plot,
And memorized lines
Of meaning(At the time).
And bent down corners
To save their places.
With highlights and coffee stains,
And pencil shavings,
And cigarette burns
That fade the pages.
While the outside
Looks as though it’s been dropped
Into a puddle,
Or even a river.
But he paid anyway,
And gave his money at the register,
And counted his change,
Carefully;
So he wouldn’t be taken.
But when he carries you home
In the plastic white sack,
And reads the beginning,
And finishes a chapter,
He’ll realize:
It was never that interesting,
Not even worth it.
And will proceed
To throw you out.
Escaped
by Allegra Weaver
It looked impossible to them,
The fire blazed and licked the hem
Of woolen cloak and gown worn thin,
And then its whiplash reached the skin
Of praying mother, father grim
With one accord they sang a hymn,
While tongues of fire leapt and flared,
Amidst the wild crowd’s hungered stares.
The flames engulfed the hands, the face,
As Death came on at quickened pace
To seize his prey, secure his store
Of souls to feast on evermore.
But while at last their bodies burned,
To dust and ashes, roundly spurned
By those who gazed in open mirth,
Their souls enjoyed a living birth.
by Allegra Weaver
It looked impossible to them,
The fire blazed and licked the hem
Of woolen cloak and gown worn thin,
And then its whiplash reached the skin
Of praying mother, father grim
With one accord they sang a hymn,
While tongues of fire leapt and flared,
Amidst the wild crowd’s hungered stares.
The flames engulfed the hands, the face,
As Death came on at quickened pace
To seize his prey, secure his store
Of souls to feast on evermore.
But while at last their bodies burned,
To dust and ashes, roundly spurned
By those who gazed in open mirth,
Their souls enjoyed a living birth.
Birthday for Evie: A Short Story
By Anna Forbes
Evie scrambled into her car-seat and reached for the seatbelt, but Dad found it first and winked as he handed it to her. She had been excited for this all week. Dad was taking us to the park for her eighth birthday. This would be the best part of her day. Evie loved to be outside so much more than inside. The indoors made her think of the dreaded school and books. Evie had moved to the first grade this year after two years of kindergarten, lots of testing and special tutors. She was one of the oldest in her class, but by far the smallest.
We arrived at the park, and I hopped out into the cold wind. I zipped up my jacket and waited for Dad to help Evie with hers.
“Look up, Evie. We don’t want your chin to catch in the zipper.”
Evie always got her chin caught in the zipper, and it always left a mark. She ran ahead of us to the playground, but paused several times to make sure we were still coming. Her small, delicate face lit up as she pumped her frail legs to swing. Something in her eyes seemed hollow. Her bobbed hair whipped across her face in the strong wind. Evie was blissful. She didn’t have to think or talk. She could just enjoy the simple moment all by herself. I often wished she would take me with her to the places in her mind.
Dad and I watched her for a minute, and then he suggested we race. He knew how I loved to run and that I loved racing against him. I secretly knew he could win, but I always said I would out-run him one day. I bent over and set my fingers in the cold grass, ready for the signal. Dad crouched next to me, and I prepared myself for his pranks. He said “Go!” and my legs flew, two strides for every one of his. Tears streamed down my cheeks as my eyes reacted to the rush of cold wind. He let me get ahead of him, but I knew what was coming. His fingers gripped my waist, and we fell to the ground in a mound of bulky coats and laughter.
Catching our breath, we sat up to see Evie standing on the edge of the sand, with her hands on her hips and disappointment written across her face. Dad knew she felt left out, so we challenged her to a race. We took off running to the other end of the field. Soon I was leading with no one behind me. I stopped and turned to see where everyone had gone.
A look of horror covered Evie’s face. Those once hollow eyes were now filled with fear and confusion. I quickly understood the situation. Her delicate frame couldn’t run against the wind, and the harder she ran, the more she was blown back. Seeing us fade farther away was more than she could handle. She couldn’t understand why she was being abandoned, and she screamed because she didn’t know what else to do. She wasn’t fast enough to catch us, but to turn around would be going farther away from us.
Dad ran to her and knelt down so his eyes were looking straight into hers. His thumb wiped her tears away, and he scooped her into his strong arms and carried her to the car.
I slowly walked back, wishing Evie was normal. Then everyday things like footraces wouldn’t be turned into disasters. I sat next to her in the car and watched her sad face. Tears clouded her eyes until she went to sleep; then her nap was interrupted only by a hiccup and a sigh. She had looked so helpless and vulnerable out there on the field. I thought about the world from her perspective: cold and unforgiving, with no one to understand.
No one but Dad. He was her rescuer. He had protected her from so much and had never spoken a word of disapproval or frustration. He did that for both of us, and we loved him.
Evie scrambled into her car-seat and reached for the seatbelt, but Dad found it first and winked as he handed it to her. She had been excited for this all week. Dad was taking us to the park for her eighth birthday. This would be the best part of her day. Evie loved to be outside so much more than inside. The indoors made her think of the dreaded school and books. Evie had moved to the first grade this year after two years of kindergarten, lots of testing and special tutors. She was one of the oldest in her class, but by far the smallest.
We arrived at the park, and I hopped out into the cold wind. I zipped up my jacket and waited for Dad to help Evie with hers.
“Look up, Evie. We don’t want your chin to catch in the zipper.”
Evie always got her chin caught in the zipper, and it always left a mark. She ran ahead of us to the playground, but paused several times to make sure we were still coming. Her small, delicate face lit up as she pumped her frail legs to swing. Something in her eyes seemed hollow. Her bobbed hair whipped across her face in the strong wind. Evie was blissful. She didn’t have to think or talk. She could just enjoy the simple moment all by herself. I often wished she would take me with her to the places in her mind.
Dad and I watched her for a minute, and then he suggested we race. He knew how I loved to run and that I loved racing against him. I secretly knew he could win, but I always said I would out-run him one day. I bent over and set my fingers in the cold grass, ready for the signal. Dad crouched next to me, and I prepared myself for his pranks. He said “Go!” and my legs flew, two strides for every one of his. Tears streamed down my cheeks as my eyes reacted to the rush of cold wind. He let me get ahead of him, but I knew what was coming. His fingers gripped my waist, and we fell to the ground in a mound of bulky coats and laughter.
Catching our breath, we sat up to see Evie standing on the edge of the sand, with her hands on her hips and disappointment written across her face. Dad knew she felt left out, so we challenged her to a race. We took off running to the other end of the field. Soon I was leading with no one behind me. I stopped and turned to see where everyone had gone.
A look of horror covered Evie’s face. Those once hollow eyes were now filled with fear and confusion. I quickly understood the situation. Her delicate frame couldn’t run against the wind, and the harder she ran, the more she was blown back. Seeing us fade farther away was more than she could handle. She couldn’t understand why she was being abandoned, and she screamed because she didn’t know what else to do. She wasn’t fast enough to catch us, but to turn around would be going farther away from us.
Dad ran to her and knelt down so his eyes were looking straight into hers. His thumb wiped her tears away, and he scooped her into his strong arms and carried her to the car.
I slowly walked back, wishing Evie was normal. Then everyday things like footraces wouldn’t be turned into disasters. I sat next to her in the car and watched her sad face. Tears clouded her eyes until she went to sleep; then her nap was interrupted only by a hiccup and a sigh. She had looked so helpless and vulnerable out there on the field. I thought about the world from her perspective: cold and unforgiving, with no one to understand.
No one but Dad. He was her rescuer. He had protected her from so much and had never spoken a word of disapproval or frustration. He did that for both of us, and we loved him.
Cultural Repercussions of a Paradigm Shift: Essay
By Austin Smidt
Without a doubt, the West is undergoing a change. Certain philosophers are identifying this change as a major paradigm shift from modern to postmodern thinking, while others see this change simply as the necessary consummation of modernization and modernity. The latter view is referred to as “late-modernism” or “ultra-modernism.” Regardless of the exact terminology one would employ, it is no doubt that an all-encompassing change is just over the horizon for the West and the world as a whole.
Change isn't something that we should be surprised about. By nature, culture is dynamic. Change is inevitable, as humans learn from past mistakes, grow from those experiences, adapt to new cultural and ideological tides, and adopt new beliefs, values and symbols from the international community. However, even though culture is dynamic, it hasn't always been so quick to change, as it is now.
Can stability be maintained in a fast-paced, dynamic community (worldwide or local)?
If we examine the civilizations that lasted long periods of time, one thing is evident: they remained fairly static, usually under the leadership of one dynastic line. (To be clear, I am by no means advocating dynastic rule). Yes, there were changes. But the changes that the Ming and Ching dynasties faced were slight, subtle and for the most part very similar to China’s preceding cultural structures. The Ottoman Empire lasted for about 600 years, give or take a few (from the 14th century to the early 20th), while undergoing many changes in leadership. But it wasn't until the 19th century when things began to fall apart for the Ottomans (because of massive cultural changes), and things fell fast and hard, leading ultimately to the demise of the empire around the end of World War One. The Byzantine Empire, which the Ottomans eventually conquered in the mid-15th century, also remained a relatively stable empire for many centuries. This empire underwent very little change up until the end, when it faced drastic cultural changes. Of course, there are many other examples throughout history that follow this same trend (and of course, there are always a few exceptions to the majority rule).
Now let’s turn our focus to the “proudly-boasting” dynamic communities of the modern period (specifically the West), because I think I have begun to notice something fascinating. As cultural anthropologist Conrad Phillip Kottak points out in his book Mirror for Humanity, culture is not only dynamic, but it is also integrated:
When these changes confront us, there is one of two results: adaptive behavior or maladaptive behavior. And as Kottak goes on to explain, even adaptive behavior very often produces negative repercussions—maladaptive behavior:
If: - Cultures exist, and
Let me try to explain. It seems that modern, "Western" culture has never faced a paradigm shift such as the one it now faces. Ever since the Enlightenment, fixed beliefs, values, laws, and rules have governed. But now these once standard truths/realities that were so essential to modern life are losing importance and soon may fall out of existence. Granted, there have been many subtle societal shifts with substantial effects, but nothing that sweeps across the board in the same way that this paradigm shift, based on postmodern, relativistic thought could. A whole new way of thinking is now surfacing, not just in theory, but practically. Just imagine what could happen. Are we ready to deal with such changes? Can we as a culture survive such a major shift? Or will the ensuing reactions be so maladaptive that we crumble into the annals like the Ottomans?
Before I close, I would like to clarify something. I am in no way advocating modernity. I am not a modernist. And I am obviously at disagreement with the postmodern world. My point is not so much, “Which is the better ideological system by which we should live?” Rather, what I hope has come across through these few words is that the highly-praised paradigm shift that is staring us in the face might not be such a positive cultural decision. I really have no definitive closing thoughts, since this is just something that I was thinking about while I was at Starbucks and had to put to paper before I forgot. But let me run for a minute in closing.
One more syllogism:
If: - The West is facing a major paradigm shift, such as has never been seen before, and
- Any shift in any aspect of culture will produce an integrated effect, and
- Maladaptive results are to be expected from a shift in a single aspect of any given culture, and
- The current shift in the West directly affects multiple areas of our culture,
Then: - The West is staring at possible repercussions, stemmed from an integrated paradigm shift, that could produce undesirable effects, with great magnitude in every area of our culture, because each individual aspect of culture is necessarily linked with the integrated whole.
Without a doubt, the West is undergoing a change. Certain philosophers are identifying this change as a major paradigm shift from modern to postmodern thinking, while others see this change simply as the necessary consummation of modernization and modernity. The latter view is referred to as “late-modernism” or “ultra-modernism.” Regardless of the exact terminology one would employ, it is no doubt that an all-encompassing change is just over the horizon for the West and the world as a whole.
Change isn't something that we should be surprised about. By nature, culture is dynamic. Change is inevitable, as humans learn from past mistakes, grow from those experiences, adapt to new cultural and ideological tides, and adopt new beliefs, values and symbols from the international community. However, even though culture is dynamic, it hasn't always been so quick to change, as it is now.
Can stability be maintained in a fast-paced, dynamic community (worldwide or local)?
If we examine the civilizations that lasted long periods of time, one thing is evident: they remained fairly static, usually under the leadership of one dynastic line. (To be clear, I am by no means advocating dynastic rule). Yes, there were changes. But the changes that the Ming and Ching dynasties faced were slight, subtle and for the most part very similar to China’s preceding cultural structures. The Ottoman Empire lasted for about 600 years, give or take a few (from the 14th century to the early 20th), while undergoing many changes in leadership. But it wasn't until the 19th century when things began to fall apart for the Ottomans (because of massive cultural changes), and things fell fast and hard, leading ultimately to the demise of the empire around the end of World War One. The Byzantine Empire, which the Ottomans eventually conquered in the mid-15th century, also remained a relatively stable empire for many centuries. This empire underwent very little change up until the end, when it faced drastic cultural changes. Of course, there are many other examples throughout history that follow this same trend (and of course, there are always a few exceptions to the majority rule).
Now let’s turn our focus to the “proudly-boasting” dynamic communities of the modern period (specifically the West), because I think I have begun to notice something fascinating. As cultural anthropologist Conrad Phillip Kottak points out in his book Mirror for Humanity, culture is not only dynamic, but it is also integrated:
“Cultures are not haphazard collections of customs and beliefs. Cultures are integrated, patterned systems. If one part of the system (the overall economy [religion, ideology, value systems, etc.], for instance) changes, other parts change as well.”
When these changes confront us, there is one of two results: adaptive behavior or maladaptive behavior. And as Kottak goes on to explain, even adaptive behavior very often produces negative repercussions—maladaptive behavior:
“Sometimes, adaptive behavior that offers short-term benefits to particular subgroups or individuals may harm the environment and threaten the group’s long-term survival. Economic growth may benefit some people while it depletes resources needed for society at large or for future generations... [And] by-products of... ‘beneficial’ technology [automobiles, air conditioners, etc.] often create new problems [air pollution, depleted ozone layer, global warming].”
So, before I go any further, let me organize my thoughts into a syllogism:If: - Cultures exist, and
- The West is considered a culture, and
- Existing cultures are necessarily dynamic, and
- Existing dynamic cultures face negative repercussions due to changes,
Then:-The West, an existing culture, is necessarily a dynamic culture that faces negative repercussions due to change.
Now this may not seem like anything to write home about. But really, it is fascinating. For all the vaunted talk about the “positive” aspects of post-modernism in academia (relativism, moral neutrality, open-mindedness, free-thought, etc.), it seems as though the West is running headlong into a ditch. - Existing cultures are necessarily dynamic, and
- Existing dynamic cultures face negative repercussions due to changes,
Then:-The West, an existing culture, is necessarily a dynamic culture that faces negative repercussions due to change.
Let me try to explain. It seems that modern, "Western" culture has never faced a paradigm shift such as the one it now faces. Ever since the Enlightenment, fixed beliefs, values, laws, and rules have governed. But now these once standard truths/realities that were so essential to modern life are losing importance and soon may fall out of existence. Granted, there have been many subtle societal shifts with substantial effects, but nothing that sweeps across the board in the same way that this paradigm shift, based on postmodern, relativistic thought could. A whole new way of thinking is now surfacing, not just in theory, but practically. Just imagine what could happen. Are we ready to deal with such changes? Can we as a culture survive such a major shift? Or will the ensuing reactions be so maladaptive that we crumble into the annals like the Ottomans?
Before I close, I would like to clarify something. I am in no way advocating modernity. I am not a modernist. And I am obviously at disagreement with the postmodern world. My point is not so much, “Which is the better ideological system by which we should live?” Rather, what I hope has come across through these few words is that the highly-praised paradigm shift that is staring us in the face might not be such a positive cultural decision. I really have no definitive closing thoughts, since this is just something that I was thinking about while I was at Starbucks and had to put to paper before I forgot. But let me run for a minute in closing.
One more syllogism:
If: - The West is facing a major paradigm shift, such as has never been seen before, and
- Any shift in any aspect of culture will produce an integrated effect, and
- Maladaptive results are to be expected from a shift in a single aspect of any given culture, and
- The current shift in the West directly affects multiple areas of our culture,
Then: - The West is staring at possible repercussions, stemmed from an integrated paradigm shift, that could produce undesirable effects, with great magnitude in every area of our culture, because each individual aspect of culture is necessarily linked with the integrated whole.
And We Can Face the Music Together: A Short Story
by Rachel Thompson
Jazz held my breath that night.
Four months earlier, I was alone in my apartment, making a cup of tea. When the microwave beeped, I took the cup out by its handle and let the steam touch my face to warm my nose. I poured some honey in and tried to be delicate—avoiding the tea bag. I lifted the string up and down, up and down, though I knew better. It makes the tea taste bitter, but I wanted to throw the bag away before I left the kitchen. I hate when the tea bag touches my lips. I hate having to put it on a napkin or magazine and watching the moisture make spots on my round, antique table. I did the unpardonable and squeezed the bag to hurry up the process. It was tossed into the trash on the way into my damp- smelling, under-decorated, wallpapered-in-the-80’s living room.
While I sipped my tea and watched the television on mute, a conversation replayed in my head. I’d talked to Lydia that morning, the woman who owned the hair salon on 6th Street. She spent the majority of my haircut passing on gossip about people I didn’t know. She also told me about her Louis. She said they’d had their rough spots, but she’d never loved a man so much. In the end, they couldn’t live without each other. The sentiments were scattered throughout a lot of talk about his bad habits. But what I could not stop thinking about was what she said about tea—or rather, about her Louis. She told me, when his job would take him away every other weekend, sometimes she’d set out a cup of tea for him, to feel like he was there. And she’d call him up and ask if he wanted any sugar in it or not. “I know, it’s silly,” she had apologized to an imaginary crowd of un-romantics. I was that obvious, I guess. The image of Louis’s tea sitting there growing cold was so vivid that I didn’t even see what was playing on the television. I felt myself growing cold, sitting there on our old loose-pillow, gray couch.
I woke up to fuzz radio. Jon said it was the only sound irritating enough to wake him up. But associated with the irritating sound was the miserable feeling of having to force oneself out from underneath warm covers and into cold morning air. Consequently, fuzz radio was probably my least favorite sound. That morning while I let the conditioner soak into my hair, I read the bottles on my shower rack. Right under the shampoo label Silk Threads, it said, “Enrich your hair and you’ll enrich your life.” I had come up with that. I remember it was a Tuesday, and the company threw it at me last minute. I had tried to pick the best adjective I could think of between luscious and healthy. Those two had been done before, effectively so. Enrich was the end result of my not-so-rigorous brainstorming. To be honest, I hadn’t tried at all. At work, I scooped whatever natural brilliance lay on the surface of my brain and tried to get all the mileage I could out of it. I’d written a thousand other slogans that could make a person cringe. I turned the Silk Threads bottle toward the shower wall and began to rinse the conditioner from my coarse brown hair. It had grown coarser every day since we bought the apartment.
Ever since we moved into the apartment, I had stopped running outside when it rained. A few times I didn’t even know it had rained until I had to walk out to my car to drive to work. Now I realize why, but at the time I didn’t understand reasons, just results. Now I realize it was because Jon had started working one week on, one week off. His off-weeks were spent catching up on sleep and fixing up our place. It was because I had become a businesswoman. It was because we had replaced holding hands with brushing our teeth together. Life had butted heads with whatever we had when we were young.
I remember meeting him when I was just 18. We met in a bookstore. He was buying a children’s book for his sister who taught kindergarten. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the fiction section, discovering the genius of Kurt Vonnegut. Jon walked up and talked to me like he knew me. So I let him get to know me. After that, I guess we fell in love. I know we did.
I picked up a copy of that day’s newspaper on my walk from the car to the office. My eyes scanned the fluff section, and I located my birth date just for the heck of it. My horoscope read, “Today will be a good hair day.” I giggled for the first time in a long time. Someone’s step quickened behind me, and I saw my co-worker Jim catching up next to me. He was a natural type of guy—always friendly, always honest.
“Wow, Suzie.” I hated that nickname. I really hated it.
I lifted my eyebrows, bidding him to go on.
“Bad hair day?”
My hand rose to the top of my head as I smoothed down two lumps. I’d…nope. I hadn’t brushed my hair. How could I have forgotten to brush my hair? The newspaper in my hand was shrieking with laugher as I crumpled it up into a tight ball and threw it into a nearby trashcan.
Work was lifeless. Maybe it was more listless. But I am not as sure about the definition of the word “listless” as I am about the feeling it conveys. I know exactly what the word “lifeless” means, however. And although it’s dramatic, I will use it. I believe I know personally, and to a greater extent than most, what “lifeless” feels like. You ought to be asking yourself a question at this point. Maybe, “How can a person be lifeless and alive at the same time?”
There is nothing redeeming about typing up descriptions for teeny-bopper hygiene products. Everything must be exaggerated and made to sound life-changing. I knew I was making false promises to 14-year-olds when I wrote, “Make him love you” on their perfume bottles. But oh—the pay and the benefits…the pay and the benefits.
I called Jon. His voicemail was always the same. “It’s Jon. Leave me a message.” The tone of his voice made it sound like you’d interrupted him. I didn’t leave a message.
After work, I drove to Antelope Valley High School to pick up my brother Shane. He was 12 years younger than me. In her old age, my mother found it difficult to take on normal parental duties. She told me it was because she felt young. She needed to take some time for herself “finally.” Besides, playing chauffer was the least I could do. She had paid for me to go to college. She had spent the better part of her life driving me around. I wished her arguments made sense.
Shane wasn’t alone. He and Casey were waiting, playing with some kid’s skateboard. Casey kept falling, but she’d just laugh and dust off her hands. Once they got into the car, I turned down the talk radio. Five minutes into the ride, they found a permanent black marker on the floor in the back seat. No restraints now. Casey started laughing before anything even happened. She knew exactly what she was going do with it. She took the cap off and drew on Shane’s face. It was a messy job, but it resembled a mustache, mostly because of the placement. “Guys, I hope you know that’s permanent,” I warned from my seat of authority. They didn’t hear me. It was Shane’s turn, and he held Casey’s chin in his hand and drew right above her lip and below her nose. They titled hers a “Hitler mustache,” and she let him make more art on her cheeks, her chin, even the tip of her nose.
I shouldn’t have spied, but I noticed something. And once you see past a person—I suppose you could call it “seeing their insides”—there is no looking away. It’s one of those “finish what you start” kind of things. I noticed how gently Shane held her face. He’d draw something and then let himself stare into her eyes. He’d stare and then look down quickly. Not quick enough for me. I knew he loved her. They laughed and took pictures of themselves. When we dropped Casey off at her house, Shane yelled out the window, “You look good with facial hair, Case!” and she disappeared. On the way home, I thought about the worth of adjectives and whether I ate too much yogurt. Shane thought about Casey’s soft face.
Most people would call Jon and my marriage a young marriage. A spark should still be easily lit. The truth is, in spirit, we were an old couple, maybe about 65. We’d stopped getting to know each other after the first year. I knew his hygiene habits and his snore like they were my own…but I couldn’t remember for the life of me what his favorite book was anymore. And maybe he had a new favorite by now. I just didn’t know.
It was obvious by our looks and tired smiles. Our uneventful evening would be ending shortly. The blood that flowed through my hands felt like ice water, and I remember struggling to fit the key into the car door. Jon rubbed his arms rigorously and looked sideways at me. That look had so many different meanings. Tonight it meant, “I’m cold, baby.” I heard the words though he never said them. The key finally clicked in, but I stopped in the process of opening the door. I heard music. Like someone had pressed play in the middle of a song. A couple walked out of the small jazz club down the street, and as the door shut, the music stopped as abruptly as it had started. The parking lot was gray. Everything about it: the ground, the cars, the night lights, the cold. I took the key out of the door, and it slid through my fingers to the asphalt.
“What’s up, Suze? I’m freezing here,” Jon said.
I put my cold hands over my face (this was a shock, yes, but I was too stubborn to take them away) and started to cry.
“I…what’s…” Jon was a wonderful handler of female emotions. I was so comforted by his words that I kept crying.
“I’m sorry…I just…can’t take it anymore. Honestly. I can’t.”
“Take what? Susan…I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jon sighed. But there was no reason for him to be frustrated with me. I rarely acted irrational. About a year after our wedding, my random bursts of tears had dwindled and finally disappeared almost entirely. And so had Jon’s understanding of me. I stood there with tears making everything colder, everything worse. But then Jon stopped. That is, he stopped being the husband I knew too well and yet not at all. His eyes seemed to flash compassion, guilt, maybe even understanding. I think he was even surprising himself. He was making a face I hadn’t seen since…I don’t know. Had I ever seen it? “Come on…let’s not go home just yet. We can go inside for a while.”
And he didn’t even wait for me to respond or to walk toward him. He came to me, put his arm around my waist and led us both back out of the parking lot and down the street. The music played again for three seconds and stopped. I didn’t remember that I was cold anymore, when I saw that Jon was leading us toward that little jazz place.
We walked in like shy guests. “It’s warmer in here, hmm?” Jon whispered in my ear. I whispered something back—not for the sake of communication, but more for the chance to whisper in his ear. A doorman led us to seats up close to the band. He seemed to think we were serious music connoisseurs. I was still wiping the wetness off my cheeks, by now feeling more awkward about the whole crying thing. But Jon kept his hand on my waist, even after we’d sat down. I just felt different…felt like I was with someone different. Jon was behaving as if he wasn’t busy and tired, though I knew he was both. I had hardly slept the night before, but those thoughts didn’t consume me. The flute player’s fingers did.
The air was smoky, but it only contributed to my alertness. I would say happiness, but it’s such a strong word. The piano player had handwritten sheet music in front of him, and when he began to play, all the other musicians stopped and watched. They nodded their heads and smiled with eyes closed. The trumpet player was the leader, you could tell. His presence was large and silencing. He hardly moved, but he shut his eyes, and sometimes he’d mouth words. I felt distinctly that he was the best musician there.
Glasses clinked. An old man sat at the table next to Jon and me. He had come for the music. His withered face made me picture him young…a young soldier. And his gray hat made me picture him dancing to the same song 20 years earlier. The drummer played the rim as the song reached its climax. I glanced at the old man again as he sat there with his eyes closed, his hands tight around a glass of liquor. Jon told me later he noticed the man, too. And he told me that the guitar player had caused him to think about improvisation for 10 minutes. I was happy in those moments.
There was a table full of women, probably from out of town, packed elbow to elbow. They’d stolen chairs from other tables around them. They drank assorted martinis, laughed and talked, and didn’t know there was music playing. At least not in the same way that old man did. I leaned over to Jon and asked him to grab me a lemon slice. There was a platter of them going by. He laughed and shook his head at me. I remembered just then. Fitzgerald. That was his favorite author. F. Scott Fitzgerald.
I wished I were wearing high heels and sweet perfume for him. I’m sure if I’d analyzed my feelings, I would have been shocked, maybe even worried. But listen, I wasn’t analyzing. I was listening to jazz music and holding my husband’s hand. I was smiling. The trumpet player lifted up his instrument and played what he felt. What I felt. All the nights of my life had led up to black and white keys that kept and matched the pace of my heart.
The drive home was rainy. And having settled back into my normal self a bit, I started thinking organized thoughts, though not questioning the night just yet. I decided I ought to put Jon and me inside a metaphor. I decided that we were like a drop of rain running across a car window. Glistening, traveling, breaking up and coming back together again as a bigger drop—with all the more speed. Our car was approaching a tunnel. Jon said with sincerity, “Ok, now hold your breath.” He gulped in and kept the air all in his cheeks like a chipmunk. I didn’t start until halfway through the tunnel because I was staring at Jon’s childlike enthusiasm. I gulped, and we both held our breath until the car made it out of the gray tunnel and into the lit up street.
Four months earlier, I was alone in my apartment, making a cup of tea. When the microwave beeped, I took the cup out by its handle and let the steam touch my face to warm my nose. I poured some honey in and tried to be delicate—avoiding the tea bag. I lifted the string up and down, up and down, though I knew better. It makes the tea taste bitter, but I wanted to throw the bag away before I left the kitchen. I hate when the tea bag touches my lips. I hate having to put it on a napkin or magazine and watching the moisture make spots on my round, antique table. I did the unpardonable and squeezed the bag to hurry up the process. It was tossed into the trash on the way into my damp- smelling, under-decorated, wallpapered-in-the-80’s living room.
While I sipped my tea and watched the television on mute, a conversation replayed in my head. I’d talked to Lydia that morning, the woman who owned the hair salon on 6th Street. She spent the majority of my haircut passing on gossip about people I didn’t know. She also told me about her Louis. She said they’d had their rough spots, but she’d never loved a man so much. In the end, they couldn’t live without each other. The sentiments were scattered throughout a lot of talk about his bad habits. But what I could not stop thinking about was what she said about tea—or rather, about her Louis. She told me, when his job would take him away every other weekend, sometimes she’d set out a cup of tea for him, to feel like he was there. And she’d call him up and ask if he wanted any sugar in it or not. “I know, it’s silly,” she had apologized to an imaginary crowd of un-romantics. I was that obvious, I guess. The image of Louis’s tea sitting there growing cold was so vivid that I didn’t even see what was playing on the television. I felt myself growing cold, sitting there on our old loose-pillow, gray couch.
I woke up to fuzz radio. Jon said it was the only sound irritating enough to wake him up. But associated with the irritating sound was the miserable feeling of having to force oneself out from underneath warm covers and into cold morning air. Consequently, fuzz radio was probably my least favorite sound. That morning while I let the conditioner soak into my hair, I read the bottles on my shower rack. Right under the shampoo label Silk Threads, it said, “Enrich your hair and you’ll enrich your life.” I had come up with that. I remember it was a Tuesday, and the company threw it at me last minute. I had tried to pick the best adjective I could think of between luscious and healthy. Those two had been done before, effectively so. Enrich was the end result of my not-so-rigorous brainstorming. To be honest, I hadn’t tried at all. At work, I scooped whatever natural brilliance lay on the surface of my brain and tried to get all the mileage I could out of it. I’d written a thousand other slogans that could make a person cringe. I turned the Silk Threads bottle toward the shower wall and began to rinse the conditioner from my coarse brown hair. It had grown coarser every day since we bought the apartment.
Ever since we moved into the apartment, I had stopped running outside when it rained. A few times I didn’t even know it had rained until I had to walk out to my car to drive to work. Now I realize why, but at the time I didn’t understand reasons, just results. Now I realize it was because Jon had started working one week on, one week off. His off-weeks were spent catching up on sleep and fixing up our place. It was because I had become a businesswoman. It was because we had replaced holding hands with brushing our teeth together. Life had butted heads with whatever we had when we were young.
I remember meeting him when I was just 18. We met in a bookstore. He was buying a children’s book for his sister who taught kindergarten. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the fiction section, discovering the genius of Kurt Vonnegut. Jon walked up and talked to me like he knew me. So I let him get to know me. After that, I guess we fell in love. I know we did.
I picked up a copy of that day’s newspaper on my walk from the car to the office. My eyes scanned the fluff section, and I located my birth date just for the heck of it. My horoscope read, “Today will be a good hair day.” I giggled for the first time in a long time. Someone’s step quickened behind me, and I saw my co-worker Jim catching up next to me. He was a natural type of guy—always friendly, always honest.
“Wow, Suzie.” I hated that nickname. I really hated it.
I lifted my eyebrows, bidding him to go on.
“Bad hair day?”
My hand rose to the top of my head as I smoothed down two lumps. I’d…nope. I hadn’t brushed my hair. How could I have forgotten to brush my hair? The newspaper in my hand was shrieking with laugher as I crumpled it up into a tight ball and threw it into a nearby trashcan.
Work was lifeless. Maybe it was more listless. But I am not as sure about the definition of the word “listless” as I am about the feeling it conveys. I know exactly what the word “lifeless” means, however. And although it’s dramatic, I will use it. I believe I know personally, and to a greater extent than most, what “lifeless” feels like. You ought to be asking yourself a question at this point. Maybe, “How can a person be lifeless and alive at the same time?”
There is nothing redeeming about typing up descriptions for teeny-bopper hygiene products. Everything must be exaggerated and made to sound life-changing. I knew I was making false promises to 14-year-olds when I wrote, “Make him love you” on their perfume bottles. But oh—the pay and the benefits…the pay and the benefits.
I called Jon. His voicemail was always the same. “It’s Jon. Leave me a message.” The tone of his voice made it sound like you’d interrupted him. I didn’t leave a message.
After work, I drove to Antelope Valley High School to pick up my brother Shane. He was 12 years younger than me. In her old age, my mother found it difficult to take on normal parental duties. She told me it was because she felt young. She needed to take some time for herself “finally.” Besides, playing chauffer was the least I could do. She had paid for me to go to college. She had spent the better part of her life driving me around. I wished her arguments made sense.
Shane wasn’t alone. He and Casey were waiting, playing with some kid’s skateboard. Casey kept falling, but she’d just laugh and dust off her hands. Once they got into the car, I turned down the talk radio. Five minutes into the ride, they found a permanent black marker on the floor in the back seat. No restraints now. Casey started laughing before anything even happened. She knew exactly what she was going do with it. She took the cap off and drew on Shane’s face. It was a messy job, but it resembled a mustache, mostly because of the placement. “Guys, I hope you know that’s permanent,” I warned from my seat of authority. They didn’t hear me. It was Shane’s turn, and he held Casey’s chin in his hand and drew right above her lip and below her nose. They titled hers a “Hitler mustache,” and she let him make more art on her cheeks, her chin, even the tip of her nose.
I shouldn’t have spied, but I noticed something. And once you see past a person—I suppose you could call it “seeing their insides”—there is no looking away. It’s one of those “finish what you start” kind of things. I noticed how gently Shane held her face. He’d draw something and then let himself stare into her eyes. He’d stare and then look down quickly. Not quick enough for me. I knew he loved her. They laughed and took pictures of themselves. When we dropped Casey off at her house, Shane yelled out the window, “You look good with facial hair, Case!” and she disappeared. On the way home, I thought about the worth of adjectives and whether I ate too much yogurt. Shane thought about Casey’s soft face.
Most people would call Jon and my marriage a young marriage. A spark should still be easily lit. The truth is, in spirit, we were an old couple, maybe about 65. We’d stopped getting to know each other after the first year. I knew his hygiene habits and his snore like they were my own…but I couldn’t remember for the life of me what his favorite book was anymore. And maybe he had a new favorite by now. I just didn’t know.
It was obvious by our looks and tired smiles. Our uneventful evening would be ending shortly. The blood that flowed through my hands felt like ice water, and I remember struggling to fit the key into the car door. Jon rubbed his arms rigorously and looked sideways at me. That look had so many different meanings. Tonight it meant, “I’m cold, baby.” I heard the words though he never said them. The key finally clicked in, but I stopped in the process of opening the door. I heard music. Like someone had pressed play in the middle of a song. A couple walked out of the small jazz club down the street, and as the door shut, the music stopped as abruptly as it had started. The parking lot was gray. Everything about it: the ground, the cars, the night lights, the cold. I took the key out of the door, and it slid through my fingers to the asphalt.
“What’s up, Suze? I’m freezing here,” Jon said.
I put my cold hands over my face (this was a shock, yes, but I was too stubborn to take them away) and started to cry.
“I…what’s…” Jon was a wonderful handler of female emotions. I was so comforted by his words that I kept crying.
“I’m sorry…I just…can’t take it anymore. Honestly. I can’t.”
“Take what? Susan…I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jon sighed. But there was no reason for him to be frustrated with me. I rarely acted irrational. About a year after our wedding, my random bursts of tears had dwindled and finally disappeared almost entirely. And so had Jon’s understanding of me. I stood there with tears making everything colder, everything worse. But then Jon stopped. That is, he stopped being the husband I knew too well and yet not at all. His eyes seemed to flash compassion, guilt, maybe even understanding. I think he was even surprising himself. He was making a face I hadn’t seen since…I don’t know. Had I ever seen it? “Come on…let’s not go home just yet. We can go inside for a while.”
And he didn’t even wait for me to respond or to walk toward him. He came to me, put his arm around my waist and led us both back out of the parking lot and down the street. The music played again for three seconds and stopped. I didn’t remember that I was cold anymore, when I saw that Jon was leading us toward that little jazz place.
We walked in like shy guests. “It’s warmer in here, hmm?” Jon whispered in my ear. I whispered something back—not for the sake of communication, but more for the chance to whisper in his ear. A doorman led us to seats up close to the band. He seemed to think we were serious music connoisseurs. I was still wiping the wetness off my cheeks, by now feeling more awkward about the whole crying thing. But Jon kept his hand on my waist, even after we’d sat down. I just felt different…felt like I was with someone different. Jon was behaving as if he wasn’t busy and tired, though I knew he was both. I had hardly slept the night before, but those thoughts didn’t consume me. The flute player’s fingers did.
The air was smoky, but it only contributed to my alertness. I would say happiness, but it’s such a strong word. The piano player had handwritten sheet music in front of him, and when he began to play, all the other musicians stopped and watched. They nodded their heads and smiled with eyes closed. The trumpet player was the leader, you could tell. His presence was large and silencing. He hardly moved, but he shut his eyes, and sometimes he’d mouth words. I felt distinctly that he was the best musician there.
Glasses clinked. An old man sat at the table next to Jon and me. He had come for the music. His withered face made me picture him young…a young soldier. And his gray hat made me picture him dancing to the same song 20 years earlier. The drummer played the rim as the song reached its climax. I glanced at the old man again as he sat there with his eyes closed, his hands tight around a glass of liquor. Jon told me later he noticed the man, too. And he told me that the guitar player had caused him to think about improvisation for 10 minutes. I was happy in those moments.
There was a table full of women, probably from out of town, packed elbow to elbow. They’d stolen chairs from other tables around them. They drank assorted martinis, laughed and talked, and didn’t know there was music playing. At least not in the same way that old man did. I leaned over to Jon and asked him to grab me a lemon slice. There was a platter of them going by. He laughed and shook his head at me. I remembered just then. Fitzgerald. That was his favorite author. F. Scott Fitzgerald.
I wished I were wearing high heels and sweet perfume for him. I’m sure if I’d analyzed my feelings, I would have been shocked, maybe even worried. But listen, I wasn’t analyzing. I was listening to jazz music and holding my husband’s hand. I was smiling. The trumpet player lifted up his instrument and played what he felt. What I felt. All the nights of my life had led up to black and white keys that kept and matched the pace of my heart.
The drive home was rainy. And having settled back into my normal self a bit, I started thinking organized thoughts, though not questioning the night just yet. I decided I ought to put Jon and me inside a metaphor. I decided that we were like a drop of rain running across a car window. Glistening, traveling, breaking up and coming back together again as a bigger drop—with all the more speed. Our car was approaching a tunnel. Jon said with sincerity, “Ok, now hold your breath.” He gulped in and kept the air all in his cheeks like a chipmunk. I didn’t start until halfway through the tunnel because I was staring at Jon’s childlike enthusiasm. I gulped, and we both held our breath until the car made it out of the gray tunnel and into the lit up street.
Saturday, April 7, 2007
Welcome to Master Minds Online!
Welcome to the Master Minds blog! As a publication of the Communication Department at The Master’s College, Master Minds serves as a mode of artistic expression on campus. We publish student writing, including short fiction, poetry, essays and travel writing.
Master Minds’ motto is “Read, Write, Think, Discuss, Create.” We want the writers and artists at TMC to have a place to join together and discuss ideas and spur each other on to use their talents for the glory of God.
We’ve posted the articles in each issue of Master Minds so you can comment on them. Feel free to discuss the ideas in the essays or offer constructive comments to the writers. Also, we’ve included links to some of our contributors’ blogs so you can read more of their writing.
Since only Communication and English majors receive Master Minds in their campus mailbox, please spread the word about this site to anyone who might be interested.
--Anna Forbes, Debbie Stampfli, and Heather Donckels
Editors of Master Minds, Spring 2007
Master Minds’ motto is “Read, Write, Think, Discuss, Create.” We want the writers and artists at TMC to have a place to join together and discuss ideas and spur each other on to use their talents for the glory of God.
We’ve posted the articles in each issue of Master Minds so you can comment on them. Feel free to discuss the ideas in the essays or offer constructive comments to the writers. Also, we’ve included links to some of our contributors’ blogs so you can read more of their writing.
Since only Communication and English majors receive Master Minds in their campus mailbox, please spread the word about this site to anyone who might be interested.
--Anna Forbes, Debbie Stampfli, and Heather Donckels
Editors of Master Minds, Spring 2007
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