Sparks: A Magazine for Creative People ISSN# 1077-4149 Editors: Jim Esch and Stacy Tartar ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copyright 1994 by Jim Esch and Stacy Tartar All rights for each work contained herein revert back to the author(s) upon publication. Published in the U.S.A. We welcome your submissions. Unsolicited manuscripts will be considered for publication and returned, provided you have included a self addressed stamped envelope. Send all correspondence to the address below. 232 North Kingshighway #616 St. Louis, MO 63108-1248 e-mail: jim.esch@launchpad.unc.edu ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CONTENTS Three Poems..........................Raymond Deffry Jr But Anyway (a story fragment)........Jim Morris Two Poems............................Anne Melone Three Poems..........................Michael McNeilley Breast Cancer in Her Coffee..........Ben Ohmart NEW WORLD ORDER RECONNO'TER..........(h)ugh wynne Three Poems..........................William C. Burns, Jr. YAWN YENN YESTA......................Daniel Jackson Perhaps The Trees Have Absorbed Us...Stacy Tartar ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ SUBSCRIPTIONS $8 for four issues of SPARKS, the print version. Make checks payable to Jim Esch or Stacy Tartar 232 N. Kingshighway 616 St. Louis, MO 63108-1248 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THREE POEMS by Raymond Deffry Jr. IT WAS THE FISH I WON FOR HER after the tilt-a-whirl ride. I became a guy who won a goldfish for his girlfriend on a first date at a fair. The two of us swam happily then for the rest of the afternoon in a comfortable cliche. That night still light from kisses she slid the fish and the water gingerly down the thin neck of a clear vase. She called me -- The fish has a home and looks happy, she said. But that's not why I called. The fish sat on her windowsill. Its vase distorted it, made it seem bigger, as if the bottom was a golden bulb. During the day, the fish's shadow moved across the wall of her room and we imagined an ocean of shadows. We fed it often and it grew. We wanted it to feel wanted, a clue in a mystery of wants. She gave me a goldfish key chain. Its painted metal clicked against itself like it was tapping on glass. Sometimes, wide-eyed and half-smiling she'd ask, what's wrong? I became someone else. Everything, I'd say, except us. And sometimes she stayed in bed awake on dark mornings and watched the goldfish swim in small circles in the gray water. She always hoped it would look at her. Sometimes she felt like she was the only one left and she was sure she had to tell me. I wanted to say something. But I didn't want to ruin it. I still liked her. And words make problems that weren't there before. ** She called, the first time in months. The fish is too big for the vase. Take it out. I can't, she said. It's too big to fit through the neck. I imagined the fish pressed up against the glass watching its shadow still on the wall. Why are you calling me? I said and felt strange saying it and waited through a long silence for an answer. But, she stammered, but its our fish. No, I said, its yours, and hung up the phone. It felt like breathing underwater. I couldn't imagine how anything could have continued -- could keep on growing in such a suffocating silence. A MARRIAGE OF SEPARATION. at some point during the twentieth century, driving on a bridge with your mother and she tells you that sometimes she thinks about swerving but never does, of course, you think of it later when a loud chainsaw begs for your hand in a splattered marriage of a blunt chain bracelet and familiar flesh and bone. But you never accept. And sometimes you have dreams you don't remember of blood-knotted car wrecks but it haunts you and you know it. And you think how the tossed body would look crumpled and limp on top of a hunk of cold rock next to the road. And the knife and blade know your name and you want to look away but can't from the ten o'clock news and your car accident that killed three that aren't you and the clip of the open heart operation that questions the sanctity of your own chest. And the eye whispers pluck me and the head desires severedness and the neck will never miss it. It just seems so easy, too easy to turn the wheel and never miss the ground. DANGERS OF SPINNING It's something no one ever had to teach the child who just did it one day arms outstretched he gains speed his hands get heavy from force then light and awkward as he slows and stops and watches the whole world spin without him or with him like a centrifuge this separates him out as his legs crumple and he laughs at the carpet ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ BUT ANYWAY (a story fragment) by Jim Morris But Anyway was looking around in back of his house, in the weeds and small bushes that lined the creek that ran through the yard. His dog, Balboa, ran up to him from behind, barked, and asked what he was doing. "I'm trying to find the ball", said But. "I've got to find the ball, and I might as well start looking here". "Where did you lose it?" asked Balboa. "I don't know", said But. Then after a long pause he continued, "I'm not even sure if I ever had it, but it's high time I got it under control". Balboa didn't bother trying to follow this, but instead tried to change the subject. "I've been spending a lot of time up on the hill overlooking the expressway". Even though But Anyway did not seem interested, Balboa explained further. "There've been tons of car fires recently; it seems that more and more people, when they finally get moving up to speed, going in the right direction, sure of themselves, Boom! -- their car catches fire. It's really strange". Just then, the ground began to shake and the sky darkened. But Anyway and Balboa looked up to find their friend, the tyranosaurus rex, standing over them. "Get out of my light!" cried But, "I'm trying to find something". "Oh. What's that", roared the giant. "The ball", said Balboa, rolling his eyes. The tyrant lizard was about to let out one of his ear-piercing shrieks of laughter, when But suddenly cried out, "Hey, you guys! Look at this!" But was pointing to a pile of old leaves. Balboa and T-rex looked at each other. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ TWO POEMS by Ann Melone BREAK Mother said I don't believe in Murphy's Law while washing the damned. dishes she's always washing those saucers when he wants to talk to her about something Mother said. be more specific I don't understand what you mean bastard. of a pot that is why don't you think that if things will probably go wrong they usually do have chunks swimming on the bottom oily scum on the top seven days a week of this. shit, oh well she said the spoon slipped from her hand and he believes it. when she tells him things never can end after. all this is not at all clean. WHOLE Show me your bellybutton blush your shy pit that soft crater suggests the word creator inverse inflator. The most obvious place your gut you got on the first day. Stick a fat thumb in it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THREE POEMS by Michael McNeilley THE MAN WHO TATTOOED THE GIANT BUTTERFLY ON CHER'S BUTT The man who tattooed the giant butterfly on Cher's butt has large, soft hands. The backs of his hands are covered with tattoos of stars, the moon, planets. Around his fingers are tattoos of rings. The dad of the man who tattooed the giant butterfly on Cher's butt once accused him of gilding the lily. "Dad," he said, "man, that's entirely silly, to think of a butt in terms of a lily." Then he thought on it some more. When the man who tattooed the giant butterfly on Cher's butt crosses the street, cars stop for him. Men who know of his claim to fame come up to him and ask to shake his hand. (That evening he sat there for hours, carefully inking the lines of most intricate butterflies, ribbons and flowers, smoothing and stretching the skin, as though bringing up something deep from within, articulating his canvas as no painter thinks to do.) If the man who tattooed the giant butterfly on Cher's butt talks to you, don't listen. He's a man who can convince a cat to fly. You'll find yourself listening more than hearing, and discover later you did whatever he told you (without remembering why) and there on your arm you'll find a red and blue filigreed heart with your ex-lover's name wrapped around on a beautiful ribbon, never to come off, because tattoos are forever and you can't turn back time. The man who tattooed the giant butterfly on Cher's butt stands all but naked on an L.A. cliff at dawn, looking out across the city. His tennis shoes are laced through to the very top eye. Across his own butt is a tattoo of his own hand. shooting star but it's been a lot worse he thought lying back in the hot tub in his yard watching the stars above trying to focus on a dim pinpoint of light that might be a satellite high up moving quickly for a thing that seemed so far away when the shooting star blazed down out of the north halfway across the sky a meteoric white and flaming arrow gone before a second had elapsed and he closed his eyes capturing the line of fire on his retinas and imagined a blazing chunk falling plummeting down from the depths of space direct through the center of his chest a black and smoking hole appearing over his breastbone leaving him dead in cooling water floating naked into dawn drawn up and back with such precision and finesse as to make the daily news in every corner of the world the streets are full of poetry the streets are full of poetry though much of it washes down the drains the little kids by the stop sign comparing brightly-packaged condoms like baseball cards the well-dressed older woman in a steaming old Caddy facing calmly forward as cars stream around her voices screaming asshole! filtering in behind the Mozart as a man in a 3-piece suit and a man in a 1-piece suit tap on opposite windows the streets are full of poetry as a man in a small black car watches a blonde in a red sports car in the next lane trying to keep pace with her and talk on his cellular phone stopping and starting while a woman in a blue pickup watches him from behind silently smoking as the rain pours down the streets are running full with poetry misting up from the gutters of afternoon rush hour as I walk by turn into the alley unzip my fly and add more ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Breast Cancer in Her Coffee by Ben Ohmart It was because the various managers were becoming unbearable that Josu had the employee lounge all to herself that Tuesday afternoon for her 15 min. break. So many disgruntles had quit, spitting in the grills of lockers, and super gluing rogue nametags to the store floor, and licking the child pictures displayed on every manager's desk, during the past week to two weeks, since everyone'd been required by policy to learn Mexican or at the very least Spanish to cope with NAFTA and the many store branches wiggling out for the pesos. She just sat staring at the one available channel blinking at her; she couldn't blame CNN for her coffee habits, but what was wrong with just scooping out her usual three lumps of generic Coffeemate that was always kept lidded on the cruddy long table top? She didn't have to look, it was normal. Stuff tasted really strange, and it wasn't til she was vomiting on the floor of toys and the open sneakers of little black kids that she realized something'd gone to pot smoking. The ambulance put her on the waiting list and a couple hours later, she was three pounds lighter from the sweat and the wriggling passion was over for the worse once the doc came back to the Post-Examination room. He made her close a fist, look into his eyes, feel his muscle, gave her red pills that came apart in her mouth before they lodged down her throat. Was there hair or roots of hair in her mouth? "Now don't get upset," doc started. "There are treatments, it's not necessarily as -" "What?" Josu yelled at the wall. "What are you talking about, right now? " "You've got a variable of breast cancer. Lump. It's chronic. It's irreversible, but then it's concentrated, and then and still slowly moving." The woman began to cry and doc thought it was time for more of his muscle. "Okay?" She left unpaid since she couldn't afford it. She must've circled the city because by the time her blurry eyes came out of the sky, she stared at the same subway stop at her work's corner. Josu looked at the building that did this to her. Thought on the vertical window eyes that looked like a Peter Falk fly, fingered the entity til her middle digit caught an overused cramp. Only thing that came to her mind was the average worker concern, the exploitation, but it was a first for her. She cried on the handrail leading into the dark sub station until she fell off both emotionally and physically. Her head found stone pillows a few times on the roll down, and by the time she met her first guitar player working on Kiss' "Beth", Josu knew she had to sleep with every man she could find. It was Thursday before her apt. was given up and initial deposit returned, and stereo equipment sold and bank account raided, so that she had the gas money and bucks for some high cleavage garments to go cruising the clubs. Names like The Frame in Olive Sauce, People Funk, Cunny Club, Darts and Butch. Men were conquered quickly and successively while she was dying. She'd hitch on a stud in big-shouldered shirt or jeans that looked like they'd been raped and through full eyes made the meaning obvious. Dick would bring her away, lock the front door, they'd go at it until they reached the bed, Dick would spout off, and Josu's wicked face went unchecked in the nastiness of the moment. If Dick coughed sometime when she was putting the stopper back in her legs, it threw just another sparkler in her fire. A fire built solely on revenge. Maybe a guy would come out of the norm and show an ounce of caring before shooting to put the sty in nasty, but she'd just think about the disco spot, Elf's Ears, she raided on that past Saturday - those with their open shirts to the knees and hairy balls hanging lucratively out for the point of teasing - and she'd make up for the courage of hatred in one quick fuck. Josu breathed heavier as the weeks of this went on, and her name was vastly becoming an underground legend. She felt her strength slipping and sometimes she'd have a layer of one of her eyes peeling away, but it didn't stop her from taking appointments. Men bragged that they've never paid for it, and when word of this social program went 'round, nothing could stop every second of the day from being point and dick less. When she got her e-mail number for a computer service, she made it clear that all noon and 6 p.m spots required a spot of food before sheets parted, and there wasn't a loin who thought a large Pizza Hut supreme delivered was too high a price. But soon the pop woman had to leave her shirt on, because of the armpit lumps, so Josu settled the many arguments this created with simple scissors to the front of her blouses. Nipples hard, hatred gleaming, she bonked another regiment until she had to be hospitalized. A couple days left. Josu really wanted her old doc; she'd feel his muscle now, and he'd pay the fee! But he didn't come, and there were always calls for her - the Navy sent flowers and wanted to know when she could take the S.S. Field Queen - but no visitors. Some guy offered to hire a computer sitter to structure her appointment calendar til she was up on her back again, but Josu lost interest in free enterprise, closing her eyes at a last contemptuous laugh at The Feed and Grain Report the following early Wednesday. She would've liked for her last thoughts to be wading through the tons of male flesh cursed into death's waiting list, or the faces of the trusting John Thomases urging her to make that sound like a eagle coughing up something who'd soon be buying Rogaine by the bucket, had it been true. It was only too bad breast cancer wasn't a sexually transmittable disease. The funeral was called off on account of only clergymen showing up. No one counted the kind office ladies who from repetition brought coffee. The day was bright through the scattered clouds when she went under. She continued to be screwed. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ NEW WORLD ORDER RECONNO'TER by (h)ugh wynne (for Bob Avakian) weekend, uptown, arthouse hipsters.... SOHO, NOHO, caffe-latte-sippers.... lotsa pride in LEXUSdrivin'..hwy Trooper bribin'..usin' PBA stickers.... winin', dinin', LIMO'ridin', dressd-t'-th'-9's..attend xclusv' social-mixers.... wellgroomd, wellheeld, wellschoold, lib'ral-leanin'.... wellread, wellbred, dillettantes in d'sign'r-jeans 'n'.... co-opt th' latest dwntwn trends 'n' turn it inta their own scene 'n'.... wear haut-couter without fray'd ends..affect Bohemian..but press'd & cleen.... bourgeois dandies refer t' cinema as film, the faux-pas term is movie.... pretentious egos need to be seen..be gawk'd at..wearin' GUCCI.... aristocratic, all-assumin', cavalier....too choozy.... back-bitin' not consider'd gossiping..much rath'r call it schmoozing.... What say you Friend?...ev'n tho' these prigs are all th' same.... maybe there's just 1 worth savn'..it may not be totally in vain.... t'ignite some light within 'em..unloose 'em from their chains.... let 'em make a new beginn'n..show 'em th' degradn' game they'r play'n.... show futility of static wheels that spin..'n'.... wipe off th' grin that they've been grinn'n.... remove from them their underpinn'n.... redirect these yuppie lames.... Nahhh....I don't think so..that's a fool's mission..it'd never be no good.... they're too goddam'd conditon'd..blind'd th'th' wisdom of a brotherhood.... you can lead a horse t' water..we've all heard that tir'd rap.... t' their misfortune they all b'LIEve in "NEW WRLD ORDR".... they'd rath'r die than to relinquish their b'lovd'd class-system CRAP!.... Xploitative Businessmen, double-dealn' sleazy-slimers.... prominence pretendn', status-seekn'-social-climbers.... upward-mobile, broadway showbill, thinkin' they'r so noble..never knowin' they'r malign'rs. champin' at th' bits 'n' tryn' t' sink their mitts in, imported Rhinewine spritzn' twist-o'-limers.... rightwing radio TV tawk show windbags.... speech write, incite, pick fights 'n' ego-brag.... about their views, on ethnics, commies, 'bortion mommies, GRRRls 'n' fags.... affectin' candor, propaganda, tawkin' slander...worshipin' flags.... silver tongued salesmen push worthless products as they fuel.... their one-way economy.. force feed it down th' throats of workin stiff 'n' mules.... they're just like donkeys chasin' carats onna stick..they slobber & they drool.... eyes glaz'd over, mesmerized, sacrificin' their own lives..for securities & jewels.... an epiphany just visit'd me.. that we should get 'em all.... this has to be..divinity..listen..we take 'em to..get this.. "poetic justice city hall"... turn 'em on t' their own lies..indict their system & their ways.... insert a little irony.. put some pressure on without no more delay.... force feed 'em back their hypocrisy ..make 'em smoke a magic "J".... but that's just wishful thinkin'..it wouldn't be no good.... 'cause they're too fatuous t'see th' prospect of a brotherhood.... you can lead a horse t' water..you know th' end t' that.... but those bleed'n-frigg'n dupes 're hitch'd t' New World Ordr.... they've got th' game down pat.... defense-CONtract lobbysists bribe pentagon officials.... amateurs 'n' hobbysists build model war-head guid'd missles.... marine 'n' army chaplains comfort soldiers with epistles.... these bringers of black-death, disguised..never seem t' wet their whistles.... izzit CONtradictory when christian soldiers follow jeezus.... cryst once turn'd his other cheek t' VILE'lence.... did that not rENDer guns themselves t' pieces?.... amerICHHa invades 3rd worlds still.. make cryst' xistance all but nil..where's that leave us?.... murder their own flock in war..oxymorons, that's for sure.... while pray'n that war ceaases.... armament investors make clean getaways.. why can't we list their names?.... they're makin' bloodsoak'd profits ev'ryday..it's time they stood th' blame!.... make their addresses public rec'rd..brand them with th' mark of cain!.... take ollie norths 'n' gen'rel sec'rds..send snakes like these back t' th' swamps from whence they came y'know man...we should gath'r all these scum.... load 'em inside their own cann'ns...blast 'em all t' kingdumb come.... xpose their d'ceptions & their lies t' people everywhere.... bar axcess t' their media circus..t' tribunals with 'em all.... in front of judges that 're fair!.... but there's not enough altruists for that deal t' ever work.... ad & pitchmen-mad's'n Ave.-mold our opinions..turn people inta jerks.... wall St. piedpipers pros'l'tyz US..we genuflect t' these young turks.... it's hard t' make th' crooked straight..t' make th' sick ones well.... tough t' stuff horseshit back in th' horse..y' gotta smell th' smell.... t' whoever here is drivin'.. I don't care much for SLAYridin'.... besides this sled is slippin' slidin' straight towards hell.... let's show th' dis'nfranchiz'd now..determine th' bereft.... t' not conSEEl th' decimation..so as t' view it right t' left.... track down th' WELLthy & th' gentry..not let 'em vanish inta history's clefts.... & we begin t' see..how kings dealt aces free..unfoldin' all th' mystery..in th'end th'end the whole d'scovery is all property is theft.... but let's not cover toomuch ground, it might confuse some here among us.... let's go back as far as say...CHRISTopher columbus.... 1st of all who gave him the right t' plant his flag in some1 else's yard?.... th' spanish queen he represented?..th' holy see & all his guard?.... this country's phony..was invented..a fair statement..eas'ly grasp'd..'n' not too hard.... unless 1 feels spain could steal 'n' had consentment..as if she had some magic credit card.... like spain deserv'd what wasn't hers-use that premise-that's just fine.... I'm not reserv'd-look out y' curs-prepare t' grimace-as I take your land & make it mine... I'l wear a giant crucifix..say god sent me..treat you kind.... I'll wait 'ntil yr guard's way down-smash you 'til yr blind.... I'll beat y' CENTSless, r'lentlessly, bash you w/ev'ry bludgeon I can find.... I'll render you d'fenceless..banish you t' where th' sun don't shine.... that's how things got started long ago - right?.... what could be wrong with that?.... amerika was spawned from genocide 'n' larceny.... it's nuthin' new.. it's all old hat.... so if y' think what you have now is yours 'n' come through honest means.... if yr truly honest, measure by an honest yardstick 'n' y'all find that NONE of us owns beans.... but if you think what you have now is yours..think back t' how th' Indians were cleaned... c'lumbus brought world order then..carnage that no god can mend.... swords kill'd then 'n' so did pens..feather'd diff'rent way back when.... th' U.S. eagle primp'd 'n' preen'd.... you may think you hear within this piece..moralyz'n & r'ligion.... y' might be right, y' might be wrong.. but we're all link'd - we're led along like uns'spectin' pigeons.. remember fish swim all their lives never knowin' that they're swimmin'.... conmen b'LIEve in their own cons..well-wishers can't be trust'd what they'r wishin'.... what's left there t' b'lieve in?..who can really say for sure?.... how can we end up even?..keep up & still stay pure?.... this h'rangue aint just pet peevin'..we could really use a cure.... but most people never list'n..cause in this informatoin soup they'd drown.... they'r too busy workin' for a pot t' piss in t' notice truth is hidd'n & is bound.... in laws always amend'd by legislat'rs language-double-tawk'd 'n' much reknown.... for betrayin' trust we lend 'm..they turn us inta cLOWns.... that have t' eat this shitfill'd sandwich daily..have t' choke it down.... but luckily-just symbolic'ly..or else our teeth would turn th' color brown.... how 'bout you friend?..are you sadden'd at this free-f'r-all.... so hard t' tell the players with no program..difficult t' see it all.... but not hopeless alt'gether..t' PEACE a picture from a sketch.... t' try t' hold ourselves t'gether..while holdin' beack th' retch.... not recoil from all this xcess..from all this obscene wealth.... that liars, cheats, 'n' thieves accumulat'd..acquir'd usin' stealth.... so if 1 is t' free 1's self..1 has t' have 1's head on straight.... r'turn this legacy t' whom bequeath'd it..fuk around with fate.... r'ject this path of omnicide - box it in a crate.... too many deaths - too many die..we need a brand new slate.... stuff th' new world order up its ass.... take some courage..show true class.... stand up 'n' be for real at last.... y'll metamorph'cize yr hate ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THREE POEMS by William C. Burns, Jr. FRIGHTENED PEOPLE Mine is but breath Do I threaten you by breathing? Can I inhale the whole sky? By what right do you sequester the sky-blue dream? Deny my life deny my breath? WASHINGTON Why is it that we insist on making the man sit When we kill him? What is it about "You shall be hanged by the neck until Dead?" I guess Dead men tend to twist in the wind when they are hanging by a rope An ugly reminder you know . . . not good for the kids to see With a sitting dead man We can pretend he's just sleeping not really dead, just relaxing a bit before the next show At least when the druids sacrificed their criminals They tried to attach some kind of religious significance to it MEMORY GHOST Something I could barely touch moved in the room Something I could almost name spoke in the dusty silence Someone I almost knew stood cloaked in the glittering motes reaching for another place ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ YAWN YENN YESTA by Daniel Jackson My Christmas break began earlier than Neil's that year so Mom and I were at home alone. Dad left for work early that day. I sat on the family room floor with my legs stretched out under the coffee table and my elbows propped on top. The ashtrays and the centerpiece (a piece of shellacked, Cypriot driftwood my Dad had preserved for my Mom upon their departure from Nicosia) rested on the floor in order to make room for my art supplies. Mom stretched out on the white satin sofa behind me. Family room furniture in white satin is undoubtedly a contradiction in terms, but there is no contest between form and function in my Mother's eyes. Besides, what else goes well with sculptured carpet in lipstick red? This is suburbia, after all. The table tops were white marble, so they made excellent art tables when cleared of decor -- or red ceramic ashtrays dependent upon your perspective. Dad hated the whole scheme. He particularly disliked the fact that the redecoration transformed the only comfortable room in the house to yet another 'you have to genuflect before you can enter' mausoleum. Little did he know that some of us got to sit on the furniture and even draw at the table -- but only during rare moods. Today was one of those we-can-relax-in-the-red-room letter days. "I can't think of what to draw." "Draw anything." "But I don't know what to draw." "Here, let me show you something." I couldn't believe my ears. Mom was going to draw for me? She must be ill, or getting ready to leave again. No matter, I'd long since learned to seize a moment even if I'd yet to hear the phrase carpe diem. Mom scooted under the coffee table next to me and took a pencil in hand. I watched as she created a three-dimensional line box before my eyes. I was in absolute awe of her talent. Show me how! Show me how! For the next few hours Mom drew flowers and vases and boxes and nonsense and I took instruction while adding 'artist' to the list of credits my Mother had accrued in my mind. I haven't seen her draw since then so her artowrk is still the sum of those masterpieces seen through my child's eyes. I can still draw a three-dimensional box with the best of them, so there. As we drew, we chatted about the coming holiday and Mom teased me with the list of possible gifts Santa might bring. Silly her, didn't she know that Dad was Santa Claus and his workshop was the walk-in closet in the big guest room? I could have offered to show her but I didn't want to disappoint her so better not to speak of it. Besides, how could she know, she hadn't been around for Christmas in years. We always saved her gifts in the closet until spring, or summer, or whenever she returned home. At some point my Mother began talking about Christmas when she was a little girl in Nicosia. Mom rarely spoke about her childhood. From my Dad I learned that Mom was the middle of three daughters born to a Cypriot barber and his wife, Gregory and Calliope by name. Calliope died when my Mom was relatively small (between five and ten)? Then Gregory had remarried and had two more daughters. Calliope died from breast cancer. Maritsa was Gregory's new wife. My mother had said just enough about Maritsa for me to surmise that she was the incarnation of Cinderella's wicked stepmother. Maritsa was my sole surviving grandparent (of sorts) and so far we hadn't met. My Mother kept Maritsa away from us with a vengence (which wasn't difficult considering she lived in Africa with one of her daughters). Going by Mom's description, I was comfortable with Maritsa's exclusion from our lives; she sounded positively evil. Cinderella had it easy compared to my Mom -- at least she had a fairy Godmother to balance the books. My Mother had no fairy and lost her father in a motorcycle accident in her teens and this left her with only a wicked motorcycle mama-type step-person. Poor Mom. Anyway, today's story was about Christmas and even though Maritsa was serving in Calliope's place, Gregory was around still to protect his 'first' girls from the evil one. Gregory fared better in history than Maritsa while not as well as Calliope. Gregory didn't come off like Hugh Beaumont but he usually came off as crazy-funny-loyal and mostly redeemable. I relaxed when I realized this wasn't going to be a post-Calliope and Gregory tale; post-Calliope and Gregory tales invariably resulted in our crying for those three, poor little Cypriot girls fending off the evil, interloping wench. As this story went, Christmas was approaching and the 'first' daughters needed new shoes among other things. Practical gifts seemed to reign in bygone Cypriot times. I was silently grateful that our Santa's workshop-come-closet contained real Christmas gifts, read: TOYS. So it went that Gregory bought little Athena the shoes she wanted and on Christmas day said Athena was so overjoyed that she wouldn't risk spoling the new shoes even slightly by so much as putting them on her feet. I couldn't relate to being excited by shoes so I certainly couldn't fathom being so excited that you couldn't even bring yourself to wear them. Why do I get the feeling that this story doesn't have a proper Yuletide ending? Why, because this story doesn't have a proper Yuletide ending that's why. Malevolent Maritsa took the damned shoes and gave them to someone. I could have died. Who did she give them to? I haven't a clue. I heard the words Maritsa and took in the same sentence and started crying. What an awful thing for Maritsa to do to my Mother at Christmas. How could she? I couldn't believe my Mom was still alive. Through my tears I couldn't understand how she could be so calm about this; I say we tell Oprah. Maritsa stole your Christmas shoes before you even got to wear them?! I could have told you that not wearing them was a bad move. Stupid kid: God, how did you let that happen? I couldn't stop crying. I did stop crying eventually, but only after my Mom convinced me she wasn't going to die from the memory. I didn't stop thinking about those 'hot' shoes though. Boy oh boy that Maritsa person better never show her face around here, and if she does I say we hide all the shoes and go barefoot for the duration of her visit. Does she steal toys, too? I don't think I like her. Tell me again; she's not my real Grandmother is she? Thank heavens. A few days after I'd stopped sobbing about the shoes while still ruminating over the shoe caper, Dad took Joe and me shopping for Mom's Christmas gifts. We looked at clothes and jewelry and kitchen gadgetry and bought a selection from each category. Buying real Christmas gifts for Mom made me feel better but I couldn't help thinking of those stolen shoes, and I couldn't think how to tell Dad we should buy her shoes without having to repeat that story. If I told that story in the store Dad might cry, and I knew I would. Just thinking about it made me feel sad. Besides, while Dad was generous he was mostly rational so he would undoubtedly mention Mom's shoe closet and its irrational contents. I didn't care, we had to get her at least one more pair of shoes -- pretty ones. The prettier the shoes the better; we had to make up for Maritsa's meanness. "Dad?" "Yes Buschka?" "Can we get Mom a pair of shoes?" At this my Dad threw back his head and luaghed while repying: "A pair of shoes?! Buschka, your Mother has at least a hundred pairs of shoes!" I knew he would say that. To make matters worse Neil was rolling his eyes at me in disgust. Damn, this is not going well and we HAVE to buy Mom shoes. Okay, and much as I hate to I'm going to have to tell a condensed version of the dreaded shoe caper. By the time I finished I was in Dad's arms crying in a store aisle as he patted my back and said "Alright Busch, stop crying and we'll get your Mother shoes. Please, if you'll just stop crying." Dad was teary too and Neil was more disgusted than ever. I'm not sure whom Dad was crying for, Mom or me; if I know my Dad he was crying for both of us. How do you think my Mom got all those shoes?! I felt better when we arrived in the women's shoe department. Dad was still carrying me as I had navigated us to the heels (I was a head taller than my Dad when held high in his arms). He put me down and I headed straight for the reddest, tallest pair of heels I could spy. "These." "These?" "These!" Neil was rolling his eyes again. (I hope they stick that way.) "Are you sure?" "Theese!" I was adamant. In real life there is no red like the red of these shoes. A four-alarm fire doesn't even begin to capture the spirit of these bright orange-red, stiletto heels with the brass toes. I'm sure only I saw the relevance of these shoes and I'm equally sure that we bought the only pair sold nationwide. Regardless, and even if they looked as if they should have a battery pack for recharging, in my imagination these were the only shoes that could ever possibly fade the memory of Maritsa's holiday heist. Emotional scars require heavy makeup -- pancake works best. "Okay, if you're absatively posolute." I loved it when he said that; humor always indicated surrender on his part. I was so happy I couldn't even remember what else we had gotten Mom but I knew we had shoes -- red shoes -- CHRISTMAS SHOES! The red shoes went into Santa's spare-bedroom closet and I rested easier waiting for Christmas day. It's Christmas! Quick, get the shoes. I rushed to my parent's room and shook my Dad awake and then started tugging on my Mom's nightgown (a definite no-no). "Busch, don't upset your Mother; she'll come later." "No. Now. Mom has to open her presents first. Get up Mom." "What! What? Oh Buschka, I'll come later." "Now! You have to open your presents first Mom -- pleeeeaaassseee." "Okay-Okay, bunayumoo gory" (Greek for 'God, I hate this part?!) as she glanced at my Dad with a look that said '...I said I'd have them and you had to raise them; you have just violated your agreement to rescue me from this crap and you will pay later...' With that I rushed down the hallway to the front living room where our little tree stood on an end table. I scooted all Mom's presents together by one of the chairs and waited for Dad and Neil and her to turn the corner into the room. Come on guys! Mom opened all her presents except the shoes in my lap. I couldn't wait for her to finish oohing and ahhing over the others so she could got to the shoes. When the shoes were her only unopened present I handed her the box and I must have looked crazy with excitement because Mom glanced at Dad as she took the package from me. She tormented me by carefully removing each piece of tape (I hate people who don't know how to properly rip gift wrap to shreds) and then folding the stupid paper before lifting the box lid off -- COME ONNNN! Please, I'm dying here. (Neil was rolling his eyes again but Dad understood and if her kept doing it eventually they would stick -- so keep it up Neil). Just as Mom lifted the lid off the box and exposed the flaming red shoes I couldn't contain myself anymore and shouted: "Christmas shoes!" and both my arms and hands shook with the release of contained excitement. Mom was stunned and I was crying again. I wasn't sad, I was reeling in anticipation of righting a great wrong and I was shaken with the arrival of the moment and my desire to rosy up a sallow past. "He insisted we get these shoes," Dad explained. "They're Christmas shoes!" I said again as I shook both my arms and hands to the umpteenth rolling of Neil's eyes. I didn't want anyone saying too much; I just wanted this to be a private moment between Mom, Maritsa and history. Mom sat quietly looking from the shoes to my Dad and then to me and back to the shoe box. I made her put those shoes on right away -- just in case Maritsa surprised us with her first visit to the U.S. Some people never change. Later in the day we dressed for Christmas service. This was the first holiday service the four of us attended in my lifetime. Mom changed from a short dress to a long, flowing dress when I insisted that she wear her new shoes. I thought she looked beautiful. I also thought it was very intelligent of her to wear a dress that hid her new shoes -- who knew where Maritsa could be lurking?! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ PERHAPS THE TREES HAVE ABSORBED US by Stacy Tartar I could write my best song and it would never be more beautiful than that tree outside that window. An attic window, an evergreen tree. I'll call it a Pennsylvania Pine, though there's no such creature. So what. What's in a name? Maybe you can picture it. It's green, brown, part hemlock, part Christmas tree. The needles are soft, flexible. The Pennsylvania Pine is the most spectacular creature in the neighborhood right now, more soothing than the song I've been practicing, pretty without effort. Even during the miserable cloudy days, the horrible winter days when even mist bites, she warms the eye with her deep forest color. On happier days she pierces and dazzles against the cold, clear winter blue. Brown, green, blue. Simple as they are, these colors so often are enough to make me happy. The attic too is warm against the twilight winds, and the Pennsylvania Pine is shimmering in a soft, late afternoon haze, framed by the small window beside me, poised as if to comfort me as I write. Surrounded by trees, a person feels something. In a forest, we may feel primitive terror or a primitive sense of protection. Surrounded by so much height and cover, we may feel blanked, negated. We are lost, terrified. The trees have absorbed us. Or perhaps we are cradled, nested. Perhaps we are home. I'm home. Down among the trees again, not on top of them. Living above the trees has been a new experience for me, a foreign beauty--it's larger, more distant, more all-encompassing. But now, sitting under this tree at this window I feel a personal, private connection to this particular tree. I feel the heavy sway of its branches, the moaning air, the creaking. I swear I almost feel protected by this tree! It seems to want to take care of me, feeding me brilliantly filtered light and color. Life can really change one's window view. From a skyscraper, one sees...sky. In St. Louis, where I live when I'm not home for the Christmas and New Year holiday, I see much more sky on a daily basis than I ever have before. I see far off horizons above the soaring treetops and then a great canvas of liquid sky, filling with color, drifting with clouds. I see it sniffle, drizzle, flake and twinkle. Nightly I observe the mysterious divisions between day and dark unfold; I watch the sun sink into a different drama each evening, baffled as never before that the whole earth is forever spinning, journeying...where? This sky, which is not human, not animal, is nevertheless alive, growing all the time, tossing in shades of gray and blue, yellow, orange, purple, green, pink and black, mixing more light and color than I rightly know what to do with. A view with so much sky is clearly macro- rather than microcosmic. In it one sees more than oneself. Whole neighborhoods appear. Washington University ascends in the middle. Further on, the county seat, upscale courthouse town with its government centers, business offices, malls, apartments and mini-skyline that catches the earliest rays of sunrise and sparkles at night. A little to the left, hidden in the trees, the Art Museum. To the right, guilded mansions from another age. Gated, private streets. A popular shopping district: art galleries, antique shops, coffeehouses, sidewalk cafes, bookstores, boutiques. Far to the right, more hidden still, a ghetto as desperate as any in America. Buses and highways head bring people from every direction. At our back, three major hospitals. Hundreds, thousands of seen and unseen citizens, neighbors, pass underneath my window. Above all moves the sky. Below, an entire human cosmos. The city. In Media our windows fed us a smaller view, a view mostly of ourselves. Our garden, our street, our neighbors, our cars. In the next block, the courthouse around which we walked Lucy, our dog, each day. We could see our neighbors as they walked into town, walks as regular as the sunrise some of them. We passed by as they mowed their lawns, raked their leaves, planted their flowers, chatted with one another or with us, placed a stray newspaper on a step where it belonged. People who moved away from our street left a void, even when they only moved two blocks away, like Chip and Debbie, or a few miles away, like Mark. No more familiar whistle or smile, no more shout. We saw children, saw one or two of them grow up, some of them already grown when they moved in. Their noise filtered through the screens as we sat reading or watching TV. Sometimes they sounded serious, other times shrill; something about summer twilight causing them so often to erupt in peal after peal of high-pitched laughter (that made us wonder when their parents would call them in). Teenage skateboarders with teenage-skateboarder- haircuts, baggy shorts, big sneakers and XXL t-shirts whizzed through town, landing in the Main Line Federal parking lot, practicing jumps and spins into the night. There was the couple next door whose extra-loud shouting matches made us eager eavesdroppers and embarassed neighbors. And then there were the elderly whose regular presence in the town inspired a certain calm and respect for life. I can still see the thin, stooped glide of a certain gentleman who made his way past our door almost every day, pulling his shopping cart on his way to Thriftway or Deals. On Sundays he would slowly walk to church. And I can see the widow on the next block, her tight gray bun trussed firmly in place, sweeping off the speck of dust that had somehow escaped the morning's broom and attacked her porch. I can see her wiping her car, a silvery '62 Chevy that looked absolutely brand spanking new. Our windows in Media kept us connected to all of these aspects of our neighbors and ourselves. Media was once a town with a lot of beautiful trees, most of them big old shady pin oaks. In fact, when we first moved there, the town had exactly one hundred and ten more trees than when we left five years later. That's because in 1989 the Philadelphia Electric Company came and cut down one hundred and ten beautiful trees. For weeks the murderous sound of chainsaws pierced the town. Every block filled with the sad odor of wasted sap and sawdust. The result was that dozens of streets were transformed forever. Where there had been shade there was now scortching sun. Where there had been privacy and cover, there were now exposed windows and crumbling red brick. The town took on a shaved look. But the problem had started even before PECO came and murdered the trees. One afternoon we had a terrible thunderstorm and one of the tall trees in our backyard, a tree that had been dead for some time, fell over and destroyed our neighbor's back deck. Our landlord's solution to this disaster was to cut down all but one or two of the other tall trees in the backyard...transforming it forever. It's entirely possible that the destruction of the town's trees led eventually to our own departure. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ END OF FILE SPARKS jim.esch@launchpad.unc.edu ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~