New College of Florida Brilliantly Unique; Uniquely Brilliant



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Reagent (Volume 1, Number 6)
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New College of Florida
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May 16, 1983


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Twenty four page issue of the student produced newspaper. Includes Requiem: Art/Lit Supplement. Some text of this newspaper is not legible due to the phsyical construction of the publication.
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Board charts C's uture by Randall Lanier Do you ever wonder what --provost does or if we need a provost? Would you like to see a $750,000 Conference and Lecture Center complete with classrooms, stage, and offices on campus? Do you wonder if we will ever get a new library? If so, these few notes from the last Board of Trustees meeting should be of interest. The Sudakoff Lecture/Conference Center made possible by the generous donations of Harry Sudakoff,was the first topic of discussion. The 12,000 square foot building will be under construction as of June 10, 1983. It will house six classrooms(five are "mobile") totaling 280 seats, a Meeting Hall capable of holding 600, two conference rooms, a projection room, a storage/back stage area, a movable stage, a kitchen, and several other functional spaces(e.g., information office, lobby, custodial office). Acoustic, aesthetic, and functional considerations have predominated, since funding is not the problem it usually is. The building is being designed in such a way that airport noise will be minimal, student art works will be maximal, and the building's diverse capabilities will be maintained. Obviously, the Board of Trustees was in agreement with this proposal. While final approval by the Board of Regents has not yet been given, there is little that they will do so th1s month. According to Dean Robert Barylski, "We have the green light." The new library is not nearly as promising a reality as the Sudakoff Center is. Barylski reported that "a good modern design" is on its way, but the "next step is funding." Barylski also reported on CIT funds, the planned renovation of the Carriage House, and NC/Airport relations. CIT funds for "recreational are now scneduled to arrive in the summer of '84. Plans to convert the Carriage House into an Environmental Studies Program facility have been completed with student assistance and are ready to go up for bid. The planned expansions.of the airport and NC are beglnning to overlap, clearly causing some problems. Barylski sees "great s1gns that be attained in three years (increases of approximately $50,000 each year) if all goes well. U One section of the report ):: contained reponses to some L questions raised at the pre[ ceeding Board Meeting. Here is .. :.\ a brief summary of the answers. The enrollment of last fall 0(361) was the smallest since : l96 B. Unless there is 11 a substantial increase in scholarship funds for A/Y 1983-84, the number of enrollees will 0 not increase significantly :}over the enrollment of Sept-::: ember 198 2. 11 S The question of merging ;H the provost and dean positions .!! was discussed. Comments ranged ::.=. from "I see no reason for spend j ing $100,000 on that office (provost) to I think we wo u 1 d ;.;: loosP ident-i+:y h ." 'T'b .,,...,, ::.::=<: ... :::.: : .. :-...: = .. : .... : ::.:-:.".:::: : ... :: .. :: ::.:.::\' of the provost was decided to we can cooperate." So far our Dean seems to have done a good job at working out mutually satisfactory plans. The loop road for the airport, originally planned to run by Hamilton Center's back door, is being pushed back so as not to dominate that area. The airport has also agreed to build baffles to reduce "warm-up" noise, and Barylski is working to establish a "buffer zone" between NC and the airport. The inequality of salaries of USF and NC faculty members was discussed as well. In response to a Board member's question, Dr. John Lott Brown (President of USF) acknowledged that 11there are differences in average figures in various sectors." He added that inequalities between USF and NC salaries were an "accident of circumstance" left over from the merger. A report on Admissions was submitted to the Board by Dr. A. MeA. Miller, the of the "Task Force on Admis ions." The eight page report stated that the 11Admissions Office has submitted a plan for the use of $156,000 for additional staff, travel, and literature, and to fund activities for students and guidance counselors on the campus and presentations or seminars on the road." This fiqure would in nothing was decided \'le might seriously consider." Barylski admitted that "We often talk about this quietlv. What should the provost be doing? In the role of provost there is something missing that was not before the merger. Vice President of Academic Affairs (USF) Greg O'Brieq said, "I'm pessimistic about merging those positions." What1do you think? I Finally, Dr. Kaye Glasser gave a speech taken from the Student Affairs Committee Meeting. The existing "esprit de corps" (or lack there of) was mentioned along with the need for additional funding for Student Affairs to support activities. Dr. Glasser also reported that "lack of communication is still a problem between faculty and students It is felt that faculty could take a deliberate effort to promote more of this kind of interaction.' Admissions was criticized for "turning-off11 prospectives in a number of ways. Whoever told Dr. Glasser of these sup pc3ed might like to know that of the 15 students referred to, all but one has enrolled. Unless these were 14 masochists here for a visit, these students clearly had a good visit. And that's all, folks.


EDiTOR.fiL Mean Gene Stackpole recently told me about some students who felt "alienated" from the Reagent because of the fact that Randall and I got "class credit" for organizing this paper. I told him that I couldn't understand how anyone could be "alienated" from the Reagent; that they were just basing that feeling on ignorance of how the paper operates. I could go on and explain that situation further, but right now that's not my concern. I want to tell you about "alienation." When I sat down to write this eeitotial, I was tird, having spent the night working on tutorial preparation. I was at that time (and I suppose I still am) subject to a hypercritical attitude towards the college and the way it operates. So when I sat down, I came up with about six pages of angry, opinionated trash. I was ready, in those pages, to destroy the Natural Sciences Division, scrap the Senior Project requirement, fire the Humanities Department. It was fun and easy to sit there and write about situation A sucked and situation B was incredibly stupid. I was gleeful that in my last editorial I would go out with a bang instead of a whimper. Then, when I was typing those pages up, I was forced to reflect on them: Where were they aimed? Were they factual or fictional? Was I speaking from ignorance? One might argue that one who tries to speak about NC speaks from but my room-mate (DM squared) helped me to see that I was only raising muck--in the sense that my points were not grounded in the world of NC. I realized that what I had been doing was precisely what I had wanted to avoiu when Randall and I began Reagent: self-serving, masturbatory editorializing. I had been experiencing the kind of alienation from myself that NC seems to make a required course at times. This editorial, you might be saying, is pretty "masturbatory and self-serving" itself. Yeah. But at least it's honest. Mean Gene was right in that some people have been alienated by Reagent. (I know. I've been one of them.} I'm hoping that those of us who are alienated by NC or the paper or themselves can see that alienation as a process through which they can become determined to be constructive, not destructive, in the campus community. Thanks for reading. Take it away, Randall. cf)wid DE AGE 2 Dear Shawn(Murphy), The true spirit of a college always manifests itself best in its students. I have often felt lucky to work with students here, and in your case, it has been a special privilege. Throughout the years we have worked together, you have been hardworking and at all times helpful. The road was sometimes rocky, the compensation sometimes not worth the effort and the boss oft times impossible, yet you established standards as a good RA that many others will be hard pressed to emulate. Your leadership was accomplished through example, which is often the most difficult method. General Heiser,after reading the article I wrote on the Generals coming to New College, has kindly agreed to share his specialized knowledge with interested students in either a tutorial or classroom format. I think a class be most interesting. Topics m1ght be nuclear warfare,military strategy,revolutionary guerilla warfare,conflict resolution or any other topic that utilizei Thank you for all you have given to the school and to me. Good luck in the future. the profound experience of General Heiser. If you are interested in participating in such a class, a meeting will be held on Wednesday May 18 at 6:00 in front of the fishbowl. Thank you,General Heiser, for taking me seriously. The opportunity to study with an American General is a rare and precious opportunity for civilian undergraduates.Harmony between the liberal arts liberals and Sincerely, our military is an essential element in the creation of a truely peaceful world. Let's study and learn together. Peter J. Fazio Area Adminis trator Housing Well, well, well--alienation. That's not my area of concentration. Nor would I like to destroy the Nat. Sci. division, fire the Humanities department, or scrap the Senior Thesis. It just goes to show that agreement is not a requisite for working together. It seems that Dan and I have alienated some people from the paper. The fact that we found out about it second-hand shows that we're .unapproachable by a few of you. Why I don't know. We've never refused to take criticism, and the criticism we've gotten directly is perhaps the sole reason this paper has progressed at all. With Dan dropping the paper, I'm left holding the rag, so to speak. Next year, NCSA willing, the will continue. I hope anyone who had problems with the paper this year will let me know what they were, or better still, how they might be avoided next year. I'm now in the process of organizing next year's Reagent on the assumption that it will be allowj to continue and will acquire sufficient funding. Right now, all that is decided is the name. The coverage of events, issues, and the structure of the whole publication is up in the air. I desperately need help to continue the Reagent. Should there be a -"staff"? Should the focus be the same? Should there be a Rick Doblin newspaper meeting prior to each issue? Would an advisory committee of faculty and students he possible? The questions go on while the answers just aren't there. The only certainty is that I will try to called the Reagen nex One thing should be made clear. If you have criticism, advice, or want to work on the paper, let know. If you don't, then obviously Reagent won't change much. If, for some unknown reason, you don't feel the Rea9ent is approachable, leave an anonymous note in my bGx(353). i don't see why that would be necessary--I'rn certainly not so subjectively engrossed in the Rea9ent that I would deny criticisms or suggestions, or them as a personal affront. and I began this as a student newspaper, and we have never refused to talk with students about it has been and where it might go; indeed, communication with students about their newspaper has alway:S been desired and appreciated by us. The people who have talked to or worked with us know that. Enough of this chastisement--many, many thanks to all of you who have helped to make the Reagent a reality. Even with all the hassles and problems we've run into, it's actually been fun' most of the time! --new college's stu

Requi m Well folks, here she is: REQUIEM, the Reagent's Art/Lit Supplement. Many thanks for the really tremendou s response. we printed all carne in. Two weeks ago we thought we might have trouble going twelve pages, but here she is all growed up to twenty. If you're wondering about the name, we got it out of a thesaurus. (You know what one of those is, right?) Thought it appropriate, since we're all just about closing down for the year. Oh, and if you're wondering about the audacity of illustrating photos with poems, the poem next to the picture of the two older folks was composed before the photo was taken. The rest of the stuff works in as much of what you all did as you all gave us. Thanks again. Enjoy. Cover Art By Marcella Kolmeier I The Editors (compilers) Logo Design By David Mitchell Just t1.:mty-one know its half-done springtime sunshine long gone, autumn on still, I wish that I were the one: no catcher of children nor leader of men but the real thing same One over again. The calculated randomness skies of unborn souls; they're glowing bright but tattered and worn between the midnight sun and windy cape horn. One already having sight of scourge on scorn. Still, I wish that I were the One who'll wail like a baby yet capture the sun. Robert Wi I son


e l t d p b t t s t p t. LYING LOW in Citrus Grove, we survive. This polar desert begins where vertical trees stop: somewhere south, my family angles from the swamp; somewhere north, your mother branches toward the sun. Here, we live close to our brush of finely divided roots--if the whole thawed mass of soil let go, we'd flow intact across the skid of permafrost. Each evening, our bodies mold to the other's irregular landscape: we make night a motionless layer of warm. In this land, conscience can blast winds thick with sand or ice crystals, can prune any bit of green that rears its head. See, what sprouts is horizontal; what masses underground, millions of thin hair roots extend in memory. Carol Mahler tl rt al t< me ir mi hu (y ve sh la Ui Communication is the problem to the answer. HexastylisticGrandioafiliarubrumsacerryhnia smossingsporupiferiaenenclamydenonsestridic ulumcum In essence, Ah! foreign savagery showeth no pity on on my soul. Rules, stipulations of the ancients leave their cumbersome growth rings on mine fair, imaginative internodal system lusting to know, but not classify, yet despairing of ever communicating the excess of accumulated information. Oh well justfagusourgrandiofoliaenunvasade cervezabastanteadquirirunratongrandeyolvida retodo. And learn those horrid latin genies and epitheturians like dear old friends. Randall Lanier She Walks Like That I had a gerbil once got sick, got crippled. Hauled itself hunched up on thin forelegs. Nosed around the ground. Rolling in refuse, dragging the yellowed belly across wet newsprint, it gummed up. died. Tasting Garnets had the garnets in his My son d When I pulled on the stran Saliva ran down his throat. His diaphragm convulsed. mouth. When I tugged on the strand The garnets went lax, But his diaphragm convulsed and Pulled them back. The garnets slid out quickly After that. His throat let go d t pull them back. And coul of bile on the stones It left a l m When it let go. Phlegm hung On the string. The stones Would have to be restrung. My son was tasting garnets when he drowned. h' throat Saliva swam ln d to.find the strand. For in his mouth. My son a Daniel Hyatt Sabrina Haas .-..# .... ---.. ..


qu1 m Despair and twins. n Robert Cohen Hollowing saft wallows wind and whimper one by one each water current gives away to woe Sedna is dirging in a sea floor hole her back to all the sea flesh down below. sunken almost drunk7n weight, a village or hammock twisted wrong this dirt burying itself plaiting twice her stranded hair hanging head. Ell a Wilson l ., I RIPTIDE At dawn on the gulf I always expect to see your wedding ring surface like airbubbles from fish. The house on the beach is yours. In the sand I spread footprints like litter where it says no trespassing. Every year the curtains turn grayer, and the house standing on stilt legs like flamingoes, crack paint. They say he is a fine boy now, and how could I disagree? I saw him yesterday in the toy store, roosters tailing in his hair, breakfast egg clinging to the corners of his mouth, handsomer than any other boy of five. This ocean cruise sails me away to where other rings, other beaches, other boys of five make me seasick. I cling to the railing and watch it all become bobbing buoys in the distance. Terry Drake Ronn e Greenspan garbage ga ble rogue clog ed nigger oilcan ging arnished parsley in the street pan. trashi g a c n traps te s. E Ia so


Before Flying Abroad Refusal fool, away I say, right now I am not angry, by no means--'Go-Getter,' It names (abounding) my return letter: "Narrow bitch mind that counts sticks like a bow." This time here gained ill makes the other Sensuous--and our spring stone unbruised Among the rolling torrent waters!--Abused Memories. "Mer\'age a troi?" I won't bother. ucl-ement?" I'll shatter his bric-a-brac brain With one hand, emboss his dear horned thoughts Then lance them, if laws and courts were but not. I read, timeless in grim wrath, mailed acme: St. Valentines, Sicily. Dear: In abstinence I am by hunger rent Without your walls of hands of greed And pride; menage a trois avec unsigned and full of sun, his lips off her shoulder So wild, I can (get death too, reader, if You and I know which one of us waketh Inquisitive) depict me ever closer. S Baker Requiem The decorator said: "Keep it simple. The place has nice lines." So we've done what we could: Cut slots for liquid moon, Put up screen to filter light, Taken panes from windows. We use that glass for plates, Let shadows dominate our table. They grid the floorboards Draping furniture like dropcloths, Like nets. We've learned to appreciate Placemats. Brooms. Dan el Hyatt Empty Paradox In a foul place of wine and whores, the stench of life, Baudelaire, trembling on hands and knees vomits: "It is more difficult to love God than to believe in Him. 11 "It is more difficult to believe in satan than to love Him." It is more difficult to love Man than to believe in Him Robert Wil


Requi m c.1 U} UlO Cri o 0 rj If} t:lf\'0 H >-, C ri rl -, (J) I .. 1 .- +-" rl o E l1J c: -o <.....; ...... ,... 1 E -.0 _.) CJ ') ('j >,ri w (l) +-' :U 'lJ ctl -1 ,. <. .c ;rj ..c Jj """ H -t-+--' (\) <:> G+" :::: w 1' .:U c ,C:OQJC.. --: p UJ +-' r-i ...:: +' SKYWAY anonymous ONCE UPON A TIME there was a small commuDity composed of highly intelligent individuals. Its citizens lived and worked together in relative peace and harmony. Little did they know that their days of peace were numbered. AFTER A TIME, you see, the community found that it could no longer support itself. It was forced to seek out new resources, and one of these resources was a relationship with a larger community. Due to the serious nature of the smaller community's financial problems, relationship soon developed 1nto a dependency. THE ELDERS OF THE SMALLER community spoke out against the They felt that only an 1ndependent community could retain its integrity. "Existence without integrity," they argued, 11is entirely unsatisfactory." They formed little groups and met openly to discuss the "good old days." They drank toasts to the memory of the old community. THE LARGER COMMUNITY, (which supplied the smaller one with such essentials as paper, pencils, and regulations) sought to allay the fears of the dissenting elders. "Why of course we respect your integrity," they said, "you are the crowning glory of our system your products are the best we produce you are Indeed, there were no sudden, drastic changes in the smaller community's lifestyle. But slowly, quietly, it became more and more like the larger one. Crises came and went amidst the grumbling. Perhaps the most serious of the crisis situations occurred when a group of citizens decided that the community no longer met their needs. will continue to live and work among you," they announced "but we will ourselves be a community, separate from the rest.11 Needless to say, the elders of the community were aghast. An elder spoke to dissuade the seceding members: "If you had tried this years ago ... he began, but he ended in grumbles. Indeed, the whole grumbled as one, but noth1ng was done. The group seceded. The elders retired to the bistros, leaving the seceding faction to establish its own ties with the larger community and the outside world. The community was torn. Citizens began to sneer at one another in the streets. Produc tivity declined, and the smaller community became even more dependent on the larger one. Things continued as such until one evening at a bistro gathering an elder was overheard mumbling strange words to himself. "Didn't there used to be a something called integrity?" he asked. Even the past that they had cherished was now fuzzy and unclear in their minds. "Soundness, completeness, unity?" he continued. "Haven't I heard those words fi .?" No one could answer stion. John Church The elders grumbled; most of them felt that they were part of a persecuted minority. And pretty soon, members of the community who had never even been there "when" were grumbling, too. SUDDENLY, one of the more obscure elders rose to speak. He was a small man, ordinarily shy and reserved in nature. "I've got it!" he cried. "I know what happened to integrity!" The crowded bistro fell silent. The small elder blushed, and paused to compose himself. of us," he began, "complaln that the community has lost its integrity." "Here here!" said the crowd. "Well, it occurred to me that we.had our integrity until we Sald that we didn't. We were sound and unified until we said that we weren't. Maybe if we grumbled less and did more we we could restore our ideals, or at least determine what they really are." The mouths of the crowd dropped open. You could see the shock in their faces as they looked intently at the small man. A full minute passed before any move was made. Finally, the eldest of the elders rose to speak. All eyes to his grey, grizzled face. "Nah." he said. "Bartender! Drinks all around." The crowd rose as one and ran to the bar, practically trampling on the small elder as they did. That small man stepped back to his seat, and never opened his mouth again.


11Among some peoples children on the day Requiem SHELL MOUNDS of birth were so taboo thal they might not I. Turn of the Century be put on the ground. 11 --Ernst Cassi rer Trees have mel ted to ci rei es in shell; no roots, no Caloosa chanttng their voices shrunk to a drum ar.d the drum-head gone 1o rags in the shell-heap, no frame of bone where calcium traces 1ts patterns: an absence of mustc 11"1 this slow and settled clock of shells popptng down each others' backs as night at r thtckens them. Mangroves settle the moonlight, turn sawgrass down around their roots, and ratse the tide. Oaks grow taller: buoyed gtant seeds. Obelisks of branches squash the water. They are rising permanent as the dead, heavy as Creation in a wooden book. Thet r voices ring the thick oak trunks; history's packed along the s p and rougr1 bark grooves. New moonltght pulls tt, simple in a calendar of stone. II Road-Building. Boom-Time. Square 1920's trucks back tnto evet yttttng; who satd a convt ct ever I earns? FIat bush rolled underwheel around the slough, then ja;nmed reverse, as trucks humped back :ards, tailgates shelving tnto hi lis. The dead cracked abalone open in their mounds; backwash of hot exhaust on oyster shell steams like feast-days when women gathered their brown circles over the fire gleaming on their knees. Short hot stean op steam patters. Dusky f1s 1 open tn a never-drying pile b es1de the ft r e No one would hold han d s If t h e y could eat: they sat together breaktng o f shells on common ground. Square trucks buck u p a pyramid, then scoop i t down. They s h ift low-low, grtnd off, their wheels run flat on one-lane corduroy. N eN roa ds sltll n eed improvement, all downtown. This shell rolls fla t on sand. It chokes the gophers, l i es down s till. Good shell roads won't washboard at the corners; we know moving fast is smooth. N o Indian could move this way, o n grease, V Winter Solstice After a child's death, what slow expiation? Under knee-htgh grass this low mound, horse-shoe oval, loops to our right, forever held fee simple. Seven hundred seasons of rain have slowed its crest to a simple swell of turf and creepers thin as rawhtde thongs. To our left the wood rails buckle up hill to the temple-mound: a wtndtng corduroy road of shell steps under oak-boles, rough as a wolf's head, gray shag in dens of solid !eat. Mosquttoes clamber our boots as we climb the last high mound. You hold my wrist as 1 f your palm could shape my blood, could sl1ift the past up forward, future, where an oil of new atonement gathers clear as any choice. Our ltves could change. On the last high point of the temple-mound trees leap for sunlight; ripe vines wrap their highest ltmbs, as ladies might dance in a bright pavilion, lifted arms and hands linked sudden on tne chosen man. North of us, the burial shell loops on. Under our boots the worshippers slow chant a vein of solid sand; our loss is a lump raised up in dark; our bright arrns linK the crest of solstice; still .:>nc day could change \i\les. Three Quick Answers 1. and f a s t as garfi sh over crushed old shell. This Model A, f lat-out, will pea k at fifty-f i ve and e ve n more, t teeth to grip the tree; The leaves use the1r 1ny if this land weren' t so damn flat. Ill. Off -Shore. Coastal shell-mounds a r e s h aved flal. Sealed o f f b y mud-f lats out in the b ays, they rise low-profile, off-ltmits now by law .. Out there, the d ead sit solid t n tt1eir shell-lined w ells : the dead 1aw looped over kneebones penstve as h uge knuckles propped under chin s tt)ei r w h o II y t ight arrangement foetal in its u p righ t grave. Thighbones are c lean, erect, tucked under trees and s hort brown pamp a s grass IV_ Newborns. Only tlte grown dead s q u a t tn shell. Catoosa knew the child too fresh from earth shoul d not be buried, should scatter its sweetness in grasses-open to the air that breathes. her back is to the camera, the sky b illows o u t now and shapes her face. 2. She found many reasons to love her father; inside his shoes were tiny landscapes, tiny goats and tiny Chinese people rustled in her sleep. ... 3. sky lays itself down; turns her arms sweep1ng! the camera catches the curv.1ng mot1on as the water in her blood evaporates. Melinda Anthes Clll_) ... 1, J I ..._It J hi II I


Requiem JilJJN D. Johanson I'm all dressed up right now since I have a date tonight. I've got some time before he gets here, so let me tell you what happened at work today. I was sitting at my desk as usual when the phone rang. After I finished talking I have looked very surprised, because the g1rl who sits next to me said "What is it, Lori? You look like you've ;een a ghost." "No, but I feel like I just finished talklng to one." "What do you mean?" "That was my old softball coach from high school. He asked me to meet him for lunch today haven't seen him for six years." "Did you know him very well?" "Yes. We had a strange relationship." "Why? What happened?" "It's a long story." II "Let's take a break," she said. "We can go to the lounge." Sheila's another one who likes to hear my stories. "All right," I said. "Let's go." We walked into the lounge and sat on a couch. "It all happened when I was seventeen," I said. "I was the shortstop_on the girl's soft-Sabrina Haao ball team, and we had this coach--Mr. Rollins. He was around thirty, and all the girls thought "'Thanks ... coach, I won't say anything if he was a fox. I liked him, but I always thought that's what you're worried about.' of him more as a friend, and as the season wore He shook his head and said, "'Goodbye, Lori.' 'Bye, Coach. on we got very close. After a game, I!d stay behind and help him pick up the bases. I always "He drove I stood there, holding my enjoyed it, since we'd be alone in the late after-blke up, look1ng after him. I was tremendously noon with the cries of the game still in our attracted to him then, and I wished he'd taken heads. me away in his car. He knew my reputation "I always pulled up home plate and first around school, so he couldn't have been worried while Coach Rollins pulled up second and third. about deflowering me or anything. Besides, I'd Then we'd meet on the pitcher's mound and sur-thrown myself at him, even if it was in friend-vey the field to see if anyone had left equip-ship. I don't know why he felt so quilty. What ment out. After a game with Riverside he would any man do if a well-built girl of seven-yo need a ride home, teen, swe ty and dishevelled after a game threw "'I'd like one, but I've got m y b i k e r herself into his arms?" "'{ve could throw it in the trunk.' I guess he' d d o just what Coach Rollins did," "'Thanks Coach. I'd like that.' Sheila said. "Coach Rollins and I walked over to the empty "Of course he would. Th a t s w h y I couldn't bleachers. We locked up the bases inside a big understand why he left, especiall y after I'd box, and stood there for a second. There's offered to go with him." something funny about being in a place where a "Was he married?" crowd has been, because you can remember the "Yes. That had something to do with it, but noise they make, and yet, it's perfectly quiet. it wasn't the reason." Coach Rollins and I talked about what a great "What was it then?" game it had been, but we also shared the still"I think he wanted to protect me, but that ness. was silly. He shouldn't have worried about me." "The air was cool, and the sun was slanting "What finally happened?" across the ground. I was only seventeen then "As the season wore on, the tension between but I felt nostalgic. I guess that's the us grew. I made it pretty clear that I was open way I can describe what it's like to be alone to a relationship, but he ignored me. Our prac-with your coach when the game is over. tices were the worst. I'd come up to bat and "Coach Rollins also felt it. Only I don't he'd be pitching. All the players would be in know if it was nostalgia for him so much as their positions, watching, waiting; and, as the something else. Like I said, he was thirty. infield chatter rose, so would the private He still had a flat stomach, but he was going energy between us. I'd make eye contact with bald. The sunlight made him look tired, but it him during his wind-up, and he'd get rattled and wasn't because he was worn out after the game. throw the ball over my head or something. He It was different. He didn't look so young was a great pitcher, but he walked me every time. anymore. He settled down after a while, but that was be"I knew he wanted me. But I had so many cause I quit looking at him. boyfriends in school I was distracted. It must nThe season ended three weeks after he kissed have been hard for him, being near me all the me. I didn't see him after that, and I was hurt time, watching me run around at practice in my because our friendship had ended. I couldn't tight little shorts, doing exercises that spread understand the way he'd acted, so I forgot about my legs right in front of him. I don't know him. how he stood it. "But you're having lunch with him today?" "That's right." "Anyway, we walked to his car and he put my bike in the trunk. It had been such a day After six years he calls you up out of the and such a great game that I gave him a hug. blue and asks you to have lunch?" "I was surprised when he hugged me back and "Yes." kissed me on the mouth. "What do you think will happen?" "'Mr. Rollins,' I said, 'We'd better go some"I have no idea.n where private if you want to do that.' My date should be here.pretty soon, so "'I'm sorry, Lori. I'm sorry. I forgot who have to get the rest of this down fast. It's you were. I--' funny, but it seems like I had lunch with "'Don't worry, Coach. I don't mind. In Coach Rollins a year ago instead of this after-fact I enjoyed it. I just never thought of you noon. Anyway, he'd given me the name of a that way.' restaurant where I was supposed to meet him "'Forgive me, Lori. I forgot. It just hap-and as I left work Sheila wished me luck. pened.' I was pretty nervous. en go o the restaurant, I waited out"'It's nothing, Coach.' Wh I t t "'You'd better ride your bike home after all, side for a second to compose myself. Then I Lori. Here. Let me get it out of the trunk. took a breath and opened the door. Our looked exactlx like he


had six years ago. I'd half expected him to be bald and fat, but no, he was the same Coach Rollins. .. Hello Lori.'' he said as he stood up. hit's wonderful to see you. 11 It's wonderful to see you too, Mr. Rollins." I kissed him on the cheek and we both sat down. "Call me Jack," he said. I had a hard time with that one, but I said "Okay .. Jack. 11 "You look stunning," he said. "And I see you've stayed in shape." 11SO have you," I said, 11You haven't changed a bit.11 In the space of a few seconds I realized that the tension between us hadn't eased up at all, it had only changed. The waitress came up. 11Would you care for cocktails?" she asked. 111'11 have a scotch on the rocks, .. Mr. Rollins said. "Lori?" "I shouldn't drink at lunch, but bring me the same." She wrote down the order and left. 11Has it really been six years?" Mr. Rollins said. 11It sure has. That's a while, isn't it? High school seems like one of my past lives." "Not for me. Those days were some of the happiest in my life." "What are you doing now?" 11This and that. I quit my job in Texas and moved up here in search of work. I got your number from Jackie. "Jackie?" "Remember her? She played left field." 110h yeS II 11She found out from your brother and then she told me.11 "I'm glad you looked me up." "So am I, What have you been up to?11 "Working, living, writing. I play tennis once in a while." The waitress brought us our drinks. I was glad I'd ordered something strong. I took a sip and said, "That's pretty stiff." "So it is. Tasty though." e a c I got a divorce, you know. "I'm sorry to hear that.n "Don't be. The worst thing I ever did was get married too soon.n The waitress came back. "Would you like to order now?:: she ':lsked 11I'll have the club sandwich, I sa1d. "Bring me the same,11 Mr. Rollins said. 11Thank you." we sat in silence again. I couldn't think of anything to say. Mr. Rollins lit a cigarette. "I didn't know you smoked," I said. E _,.; Requiem 11I started about two years ago, but I only smoke when I'm nervous.11 11Why are you nervous? .. "Because I'm here with you." we looked at each other. "Can I see you tonight?" Mr. Rollins asked. 11For dinner?11 11I'm afraid not, Jack. I have a date." 11How about tomorrow?" 11No, I don't think so." I wasn't sure how to refuse him politely, but I definitely didn't want to go out with him. Somethtng about his manner bothered me. 11When can we go out, Lori?11 "I don't want to date you, Jack.11 11You used to like me." "I was seventeen then.11 11Are you so different?" "No, not really. But I don't feel the way I did six years ago." Remember when we used to pick up bases after a game?" "Yes." "I enjoyed that." 11SO did I." "I loved you, Lori.n "Why didn't you ever tell me, or show me? I was willing.11 11I couldn't. You've got to understand.11 Silence fell. "But now I'm free. Now we could get together. Have some fun." "No, Coach. It's too late." 11What do you mean?11 "It's not the same anymore ... 11It isn't?11 "No. The waitress brought our sandwiches. I wasn't hungry, but tried to eat because the scotch had made me a little drunk. "Let me give you some time," Mr. Rollins said. "I'll call you later." "No, Jack. I'm sorry." "All right. I understand. I missed my chance six years ago." I say "What K.e t The wa "I have to get back," I said. enjoyed see-ing you again, Mr. Rollins." "Jack," he said. 11Jack." We stood up and he stared at me, looking beaten. "Goodbye, Lori." 11Goodbye, Coach." I walked out of the restaurant and started back to the office. On the way--oh there's the doorbell. I have to go. I feel sorry for Coach Rollins, but timing is an important part of any game. en co co :r co c ... .0 co t/J


OVE AND ED UCATION: A Personal Manifesto By John O'Hara Church The beauty of popular songs. In a mind cobwebbed by doubts, it is the one thing of which I have the least doubt. I listen to them on the radio, and write down their words. '//hat could possibly turn me to editorializing? I'll tell you. Right in the midst of a Socratic moral paradox, I spotted a sign on Center night that cerned. I decided that I didn't want to think myself apathetic, especially if that meant being compared to a state university student, as he who wrote the sign dared to irnnly. So I put the most sublime homosexual of Nestern Civilization on hold while I answered that bitchy plea and wrote an article. My first one, I might add, for this hallowed publication. I don't even know what they're calling it now, but I am aware that New College scribblers tend freely to use the first person (singular) in their scribbles, and thus make precious little sense. They're a complex lot. I, for my part, shall shamelessly copy their humble example. But still, it is my first time, so please be gentle with me, gentle readers. Or cease reading. I shall write about a subject which has been much on my mind of late. I intend to write about love, for, like my hero Socrates, that is the only subject of which I profess to have any knowledge. I'm even doing my thesis on it. Actually, of course, I know nothing. Socrates would nod in silent approval at the modern liberal arts education: it makes one aware of his own ignorance. I am at New Col lege because I am ignorant, and vice-versa, naturally. However, I have always believed that a discontented Socrates is much better off than certain blissful labor foremen, poor white trash, and state university students I have known. So much for my biases on education. Now, back to love. What can I say about this grand cliche, and about college love in particular? To begin with, let me warn you: don't ask me what it means. Look it up in the dictionaryif you can, in one of those contemporary editions where you'll find it cross-indexed with HERPES. As for me, I have to look up love all the time in Vebster's, because I forget ting what it means. It certainly seems safer to seek love in a book. The worst one can get is sweaty palms. Regarding collegiate love (I don't mean group sex), I can say this with the utmost certainty: the best thing about college is that it is not the world. It is a world, of Stendhal course, but it is not the World. We are placed in a university--whether by our friends, ?ur parents, the Federal Government, or var10us forms of institutionalized superego--11ke laboratory rats thrown in a maze, an eft re ative y free to scurry about un til we find the stimulus that elicits the most comfortable response, or until we graduate--whichever comes first. (Sometimes they come simultaneously.) Jith a lot of luck, we may come to know ourselves. We may even come to know love. Oh, what delight. We are all student lovers, some more assiduous, others indirect. And fortunately, it is how 'we play the game that counts. I set three goals for myself when I entered college: 1) to store up a sizable amount of useless but impressive information, 2) to decide who I am and what my place will be in the world, and 3) to learn how to love. I am pleased at this moment to say that one out of three ain't bad. (Some of you newer students may not know exactly what I am saying. Good. That is what I intended. I love impressionistic art.) Let me get personal. Love-wise, I was fooled. I was fooled by Plato (love of the ideal), and I was fooled by Freud (idealized lust). I was fooled by those who wistfully call themselves Romantics (idealized lunacy), and I would have been fooled by the Christians (idealized idols), if they hadn't been so Christian. I was fooled, and I thank my benefactors for it, when I am not cursing them. The game would not be so fun if my sanity weren't at stake. But I duped, I admit it. Particularly by that tribe of brain-mongers we call psychologists--those modern-day Etruscan judges with their enigmatic clay smiles, reclining on their germ free couches while handing down and sentence in the same silent breath tsorry, Doctor). They fooled me with their hydraulic theories and their plagiarized myths--to the extent that I actually surmised I was overcompensating for an insufficient amount of love received as child, to the extent that I even began to list the personality traits of all my nast lovers, to see how they resembled my mother's. Fooled. And above all by your ubiquitous Romantic, who, whatever manic form he took, led me to make idols out of villains, who led me from woman to woman in search of an indescribable Feeling, who blinded me and made me say things like, "I love you more than my


Sabrina Haas own life," and guided my hand as I penned pathetic Petrarchan ditties like The Exchange black-eyed sinner swore I gave her pain: She touched and was not touche --e man c Of one whose lines of tears still shine, whose So long unanswered, still echoes in my brain. smiled at the purity of that rain, Like some blind fiend whose warm and emnty eye [s scorched by the one rare flame that flew too She bled on me, but mere dried blood remains. And it's my own. They're now returned in kind, Those gifts I gave: the vomited remorse, The acid, starving flow of useless tears. It lends a sort of pleasure to my mind To crawl where she once crept. But feel my ears Pay, pay the screamed price of her blind course. Yes, they all played tricks on me. I wandered around for years, slipping from coed to coed, losing what remained of my virginity over and over, looking for the big L, calling it El Dorado, falling in love with the search and stumbling past the goal (sorry, dear). But I want that to change now, and you do, too. I want to be free and aware now, I want to be in charge. I want to assume full responsibility for my behavior with those three Jewish princesses who lived on my sophomore hall. I'd like to snort at my present jealousy the same way I chuckle at those cloak-and-dagger routines I pulled 2! years ago. I am still alone, but I want to make friends with the tapeworm dwelling inside me and be able to tell you his hometown. I hope to buddy up to my past and tell you why they called me The Pervert at my all-male Jesuit high school. I want to do all these things, so that someday I'll be able to look you in the eye and repeat without blinking the words of my ninth-grade theology teacher (an obese layman who used to hit me over the head with his Bible and called it "learning by osmosis"): "Love is a decision." Unfortunately, fellow undergrads, it's also a need. Plato let me down, so I'll quote you Aristotle: "Happiness is the good for man," or something like that. Nhen God fled my universe, I tried to renlace him by seekinF some of order in things, a principle, an ethos, something you could put on a and hang on your wall. But then I gradually realized that a man may walk through a room full of circles and triangles, and still weep. He knows precisely what they are, but he doesn't .know why he is. Yes, you flippant Nietzsches, you fashionable preppie nihilists, give us back our God! Something anything more personal than the Theory of Relativity. Yes, children, we need love. What's missing among all those circles and triangles and empty spaces is this: meaning. #e need to know that we are needed; that's how we mean. See what we all have in common? It's a quirk of the snecies. It's called love. My no or Tristans und Isoldes, let me rmt it another way. Love is not apathy (which is not to say that it is always pathetic). Love is a drug. Love builds strone egos. You can relate to that. You can understand that to touch yourself, you must touch others. (Still with me, pre-meds? Fine. This long o self-justification is Q RtuDor has it 'm o low. say Rumor, because he's probably the only one who will vouch for mP. I haven't been gettine much work done on my thesis lately, becauce I've been too busy with field research (sorry, Professor). But you can trust me, Novi Collegiani, because you know I'm not getting any credit for this article. Someone occasionally has to restate the obvious. I'll end it by issuing a rude and very un-Socratic exhorta-tion. Jesus, you've really got to hand to those Christians: their rules about loving indiscriminately may always end up breaking the emotional budget, but at least there's none of that trickle-down bullshit of Plato and the Great Romantics. As for old Sigmund and those of his ilk, I may not often be able to see what's behind their spectacles, but I do wish sometimes that they'd jumn down here in the trenches with the rest of us. I-yi-yi, don't be so first person singular. To hell with theory--love, you iuiots! Jo it with a book, do it to a test tube, or on a potter's wheel, but always do it with your hand full of someone else's flesh. 1\.nd fullv aware of that flesh. As qlways, we neo.d it now more ever. Fellow rodents, we are al1 free to bounce along these walls for such a short time (yes, Dad), so do start/maintain/renew your search for love. Practice. Decide. And remember: in this liberal arts maze, the best reward is that which you purposely stumble unon--a mirror in the other rat's eyes. Postscriut: M'y friend Church wrote these sentences last October. They strike me as embarrassinely Rnd obscenely nomnous. You may overlook the absurdities: he vvas painfully in love at the time. Thank God he is out of that woods now. If any one of you should ask him what his nreference would be regarding love theories, I believe he should coolly reply that the truth lies somewhere in between a Romanticized Freudianism R,nd a Platonized Christianity. Church is improvinp; under r1y care. R.D. Laing


Requiem Echoes Midwest mother and father Pig butchers wildly Carving Admired handiwork Displaying sections Proudly rolling Dog wild eye foam face Breaking Into run from smell see look feel Crow speaks loudly Of former deeds and killings Some other past No longer strong, perched Palm tree beside car road Still tearing at food and feces Beeling a place when He was King But knowing that it was not Only dream sparrow watching Courtney Pellegrino I close my eyes and hear the echoes of days gone by Of unfinished arguments and tears never shed. They call me back, howling like a cold winter's wind. Some days I hear them not at all. And some days I hear them in the streets In people's words In people's faces, Though no one has spoken. Echoes They do lve on. Madeline Altabe canto van a veces a veces van, y van viendo, y van volando. A veces van, van a veces. Y de repente rompe la rueda y todo roto queda; i tan de repente! i tan roto! Y lue o de nuevo J:ejos se lanzan; y la luna linda con ese cielo sin luz, cielo iluminado. Mauricio Hosie monkey darts crick in a crack shack trap, don't qo in. Hold to your pinfeathers st1ck to your You will have time to play tennis in Venice t1me to skate in Crete now plant your feet in the crack, sit and wait. A soldier never shudders in the shadow or his in ripe mangoes. The nat1ves wrll sniff him out he will dangle by one dripping. Mud hours pass grass skirts path their will to attack only watch the solid shack sit and wait. Elisa Wilson


WHAT JASPER GRITMAN TOLD ME ABOUT HIS WORK "Day don't come down the shaft," that bores the crust. "It's night crawls out." "You got to squint to see," the pinprick from the sump. "Day don't come down," to cut the dust. "They pump in air so we can breathe." The ore crawled out on tracks. "Sometimes tools don't do." Black hands picked coal. "Day don't come he couldn't see his cuticles black where blood dried out. Every vein he knew last shift was gone. The mine took back. Each miner paid when he came down. Its night crawled out. Daniel Hyatt Lynne Robertson Requiem THE PROBLEM THAT HAS NO Pink tennis shoes run, slap, run on hot pavement. Knees absorb the shock. Runners suscept their bodies to blinding, torturous pain. A marathon race--who will have the first baby? She pushes black and blue. Maternal instinct runs dep in veins never breathing air. Toe shoes giving birth to dancing like sugar plums, rip blisters on feet. is a masochist in cotton candy binding. Moths dancing in air Beat their wings against the glass splinters make them bleed. Bound in bandages, they know Biology, Destiny. TerryDrake


Requiem IN MEMORY: DEVELOPER "He built the marshlands into homesites." 1897-1976 I Days of the scratch-plow down through Georgia turned over with the century: in backlands, green from being forgotten, waterwheels sawing timbers did not appear overnight. Gears first showed up in town with Micks and Hunkies; they latched on, working the ragged teeth; so sawdust speckled the wild blue rivers running south. New refugees from Georgia paced the banks on south--"fly-up-th'creeks" he called them. II When pines were notched they bled rough honey for the stills. He slept on raw split boards that winter, ten years old in the turpentine camps. scratch-plows were left to the Seminoles; his father's heavy hand was platting streets before the first fall crop turned green. In his teens, the new steel plow was a knife to cut the furrow, a share to slice under sod, and a mold board to turn it over. Soil went spilling up as wood dust from a chain-saw sprays on water running south. After the banks turned over, he was and left wit a sheaf of deeds too the War turned over; then he stood straight on his plowshare of money, firm as teeth on a sawmill smiling his slow smile. III Now it was pines and mangroves spilled back from the bay-front houses rising stiff as furrows squared against the watershed and earth itself turned over as his dredges sucked the marsh; They packed up parking lots and condos, single-family waterfront retreats, marinas that rocked in their seawalls and solid squared-off homes for second-generation pioneers. From the asphalt airport overland new Snowbirds flew the creeks their powerboats whipped the river solid brown. "People h 1 11 I e 1, he aaid, "are better than the love affair of some damn clam," and smiled. Ronnie Greenspan IV In the fifties, right was his 'fee simple.' He had earned it. Others had not slept on split pine boards that winter of '07, with the century younger than he'd been, as the ground cold rose through cracks in the flooring, if the fireplace drew at all. So he platted in his sixties looping drives and subdivided tracts as south as the small plots near the r1ver, where his huge hand drew the line. Come seventy, he knew limits soften all resources. Things overshoot and collapse, ans so his body--sound for 80 years-turned over in December, remembering perhaps the shine of bright pine dust on water, and settled near the river, in squared land that bears his name and deed upon it. A.McA. Miller power failure In candle light ou let the fright 1n your room overtake you. I am your fear. I have taken form: the rain falling like footsteps; the shadows your aloneness wispering from dark closets. You lock the door seemingly safe in gentle terror. Your are alone. maybe. Robert Wilson


photu by amy kimball Veo una rnasa verde que rapidamente se desliza bajo mis piesviniendo de adelante. Intermitentemente la veo cerca amis ojos, y luego lejos, extranarnente lejos. No se bien si es de noche o de dia. Una fuerza bruta me hala repentinamente, y e el verde, en vez de deslizarse bajo mis pies, se viene hacia rni, me absorve, me devora. Un mundo negro viene a mi, y naufrago en el; mi yo se diluye por completo. Las raices del tiernpo van penetramdome poco a poco para obligarme a un retorno. Siento un sabor amargo y frio en todo mi ser. Son siglos (y tal vez llevo tan solo un segundo) de tratar de abrir los ojos y encontrar tan solo un negro denso que me entumece de nuevo evitando mi retorno. Un nuevo esfuerso, y por fin, rayas verdes cruzan el fondo negro. Tal vez mi yo regrese nuevamente de ses mar negro y profondo; como la sal que los hombres de mi tierra extraen lentamente del mar con la ayuda caliente y constante del so inmenso y luminico. Asi, poco a poco, un aire tivio me va reviviendo, y soy sal .. ganando lentarnente forma y brillo. Es commo una lucha absurda de los sentidos por volver a ganar su independencia, pues es tal el caos de mi cuerpo, que se han mezclado y unido para mantener la lucha contra lo negro. Las difusas rayas verdes van poco a poco tomando forma .. percivo, creo, unos ruidos, lejanos y fuertes ... algo me pasa! Ya no hay mas verde ni negro. Un azul inmenso y manchado de blanco se me presenta; cruzado en mementos cortos por vahos marrones y rosados. Alfo me refresca; empiezo a sentir mi rostro. Mauricio Hosie Requiem Back 1937 when Hiram won the wrist wre tling champlonshi[' of the Senior class, June would never have believed that one day her arms would be bigger than his. Dani.-,! Hyatt


-Requiem abortion Orphaned kitten saved from the jaws of suburbia clawed my blanket pawed across sheets and settled in my lap. I stroke the pulsing purr staring nonchalant into accepting eyes pick up my .38 blow its head off. It's red inside. Robert Wi I son P enitent Preacher's 3onnet I1ve seen you i n a v i s ion, ligh t 3aint Francis, Still belted in bone, still clothed in the habit of Your peculiar olive flesh. That bearded love Is woven sparse around your mouth and lack s its Razor still, like the stubble of unwashed corn on Tuscany's winter hills. Your ocean eyes 3till try to hide a tempting smile, your long lips gaze In the silence of Job, in Mary's reborn. And I can not blink at the signs etched in Your wholesome fists, I will not nail my Sight into your feet. Your robe is soiled, its cord Too short to hang me still. I've my own wretched Wounds to comfort me. Look, saint, into my eyes: Their poverty speaks. Now leave me to my whores. John Church Against a background symphony of the stream and spirits singing in concert, the incense curls and the air is heavy with evaporating snow. The burning wood crackles and like Ryokan I long to walk with one who has left this world far behind---and no one comes. Randall Lanier I c.._ Barbara Hum Ronnie Greenspan


FRIEND A butterfly flies from my mouth to your shoulder You are surprised by my frankness But the butterfly has already entered your ear And tickles the insides of your eyes. Your wide eyes watch me. I await your butterfly--it never comes. Sometimes I see it dancing with mine behind your iris. But it eludes me. I know it is more magnificent than any other creature of that instant Yet it is a prisoner and I don't have the key. My butterflies invade you But you do not run. Quiet you wait for me to stop With mouth and ears closed you tremble with fear I am contaged and run away Taking my butterflies. Miriam Miller A tattered banner of gold pokeweed leaves ,Swayed gently in the winter breeze Beckoning the robin to taste its last fruit and thus sow its last seeds. Randall Lani e r ) Love The tiny green thought grew in the warm earth beneath my skull, nurtured by your company. I slid the thought at the stem's base where sweet juice oozed. I ripped the soft roots out. t .. Patty Hoban


equiem Why do people drink? The obvious, if unsatisfactory answer to this question is: to get drunk ... I have never seen any man mix a dry martini to quench his thirst; and, though a first beer may fulfill this office of slaking a dry throat, the second, third, and fourth are rarely ordained to do so. So what is it exactly, that makes the state of drunkeness so desirable? In short, why do people drink to get drunk? This question, far more complex than my first, has been the subject of my thoughts for some time -and not all of those thoughts have been sober. I think that-the things people drink to are a good indication of the motives of drunkeness. In Irish pubs you hear frequent exclamations of 'slainte!' over the din of broguish philosophizing and singing. The word (pronounced slawn-cha) means 'to your health!' 'Shalom!' is another pre-chugging exclamation, meaning 'peace!' Calls for long life, happiness and success are also not uncommon among imbibers of spirits. These and other invocations of good fortune are often tossed heartily about in drinking and drunken circles. From these examples it becomes clear that drunkeness is both the result and the catalyst of a hospitable and jovial mood. Another equally valid reason people get drunk is to 'forget.' you condemn it, though, remember this: Man, by virtue of his humanity, is a conscious creature conscious of failure, of thwarted love, of vanquished dreams, of unrealized hopes .. and this consciousness is no uncertain burden. I seldom wonder these days why Sartre wrote and though of consciousness in the cafes of Paris. Surely, it was not the coffee that attracted him. Sartre felt himself to be condemned to an overwhelming freedom, trapped in inescapable nausea (indeed how could the man ever have come up with 'nausea' to describe the human condition unless he'd had at least one good hang-over?) Eh, Simone! un autre bier! If(as his translator says) it is strange that Sartre never mentions mysticism as a way out of the vicious cycle of conscious life, it is stranger still that he fails to suggest as a temporary resp1te from consciousness.* So now we know that people drink to get drunk and get drunk to celebrate, to wish good and happy states for their friends or themselves, or they drink to forget. And now for my third, and perhaps my most important question: Why, why are drunken people treated in a despicable manner? in a manner more befitting a nasty cur or a naughty child? Why the condescending cups of black coffee? Why the mistakenly maternal cold showers? Why is a drunk derided to his face as to his condition? Why can't a person be drunk in DeeCee Berres public if he is hurting no one and causing no disturbance? Why the belligerent distaste of : drunken barking? (ah, Jones!) I am at a loss to answer these questions. Wh1ch is not to say that I have no reaction to them; nor is it to say that my reaction to them is vague or un Not at all. On the subject of the sober and sobering treatment of drunks I have a thesis. That thesis is this: Drunkeness is an investment and should be treated as such. Drunkeness is an investment first, of MONEY. A six of Old Millwater goes for a buck ninetynine on good days at Winn Dixie. Bud, Miller and Busch all exceed two dollars. And this is not even to mention the exorbitant cost of drinking the harder stuff or drinking out. If, for example you get $125 a month for food (as I do), which comes to $4 a day, then you have to figure that one six of the cheapest beer (not including Fischer's Ale, which is not-beer) costs the equivalent of breakfast and half of lunch. Pity the poor drunk! .,.t l II I ) ) Second, drunkeness is an investment of TIME. When one is drunk, he is likely to remain so for anywhere from, oh, three to ten hours, depending on what time he starts drinking, what time he goes to bed, and on how much money he can borrow from his sister or a friend. The time that follows the snapping open of that first beer (which sound is the song' of myself and a few others) is necessarily devoted solely to being drunk. At best, one can listen to music, smoke cigs and converse with friends (all completel virtuous and worth-while past times, don't you agree?). Yes, the drunken individual is throughly employed at being himself, at being drunk. Finally(and this is not to say that my list is in any way exhaustive), drunkeness is an EMOTIONAL investment. Any of you who have had the experience of a ;bad drunk', when the physical effort has been made (i.e., when the beers have been opened and poured down), but the psychological effort has failed (i.e., when you have failed to forget the time and money you have wasted) then you know that you would not want to repeat such a fiasco. It takes unflagging emotional energy to lift your spirits, especially since the spirits you


are drinking are a natural de pressant perhaps you should know of the incident that prompted this theory of as a nancial, temporal and emot1onal investment. Perhaps you have bad an expenience similar to the one I am about to describe. (Then again, perhaps you haven't and perhaps you don't care to bear it or perhaps you aren't even reading this anymore, it's ,o long.) Perhaps Give It up rolght? O.K. It was a dark and starless night (argh) and three people I know (third person is so.comfortable) were in Tampa, stay1ng for the ight in the temporary residence f one of them. Said residence was the home of this one guy's brother and his Baptist wife (who declined to perform certain sexual acts after the rings were in place). Well, these three people de :ided that rather than drink in this domestic environs (for to drink was what they wanted), they would go out and experience the bars of the city. They drove around with a s i x for the road and eventually end ed up in that swinging hot-spot )f Tampa night-life, the bar of :he TraveLodge motel. (Yah!) If rou have never there, pay )articular attent1on to my tale ind you will avoid the )f tbese thre e um acqualn: jl-11'6 e s The bar held expens1ve eers, base(though scant i l y females, ogling males of correspondingly low nature, abysmal music and one whirling, disco light. These three danced to what :hey thought was a Beatles song, >ut which turned out to be that ?ick medley of tunes by that and that !-don't-know-who put :ogether. They boycotted the )J by standing with th7ir >n their hips and tapp1ng the1r :eet with an air of disgustill on the crowded dance floor. pretty automatons and their Jlobbering mates paid no heed. Perhaps it was the perver sity of the human soul that tept my three friends there for ks long as they stayed. More ikely, though, it was the fact :hat they were drunk and knew >f no other less unentertaining >lace to go in Tampa. Despite the place (or maybe >ecause of it) they maintained :heir good humors. So you see, :heir triole investment was not rewarding: .hey spent time, money and ?lenty of emotional energy in :he TraveLodge that night. Finally, when their en:husiasm began to wane, they :eturned to their temporary tbode. In the kitchen they decided :o drink plenty of water to ake the next morning's awakenng less rude. They were conversing in fhispers in order that the gen :leman and dame of the house Right not awaken. Then, in a fit of good lumor, one of my friends spritzed (yes, spritzed) some water (a rery small amount) onto the shirt of another friend. The atter had just whispered some-thing which called into question the character of the first. This water-from-the-mouth spritzing was a good-humored reaction to a good-humored, though derogatory, remark. Before any of my friends knew what was happening, there was an all-out war of mouthsquirted water. They laughed quietly (or so they thought) at each other's slowly wettening visages. Suddenly ("here the twister comes, here comes the twister") my closest friend looked at the floor behind her companion, between his feet, and there she espied a bare and tapping foot. Her eyes followed the leg up to the hips on which two clenched fists were planted. From there her gaze traveled to two decidedly pursed lips and squinting eyes. (My friend told me later that she was reminded of her own objection, earlier, to the miserable DJ.) By this time all three of my friends stood gazing at the woman of the house, so Baptist, so stern. They stood suppressing laughter. A few brisk words about the hour she'd spent that day mopping the floor lowered my friend's heads and muffled the1r mirth. The wake of silence which she left behind her engulfed my friends as the woman disappeared. (I am aware that my narrative abilities are deteriorating. I am at home drinking Tuborg.} My friends were quiet. They put their glasses d own and slinked (slunk?) like dogs to their temporary bedroom, where they slept on the floor. And they were ashamed. Their former gaiety vanished and was replaced with thoughts of how they could manage to rise early enough 1n the morning to avoid the womanof-the-house's inevitable icy stares. Morning carne too late and they left the house with the woman in the garden, grimly pruning hedges. * So that's the story. The little woman had grasped my friends' multiple investment between her teeth and shook her head as I imagine a priest would tear into the confessing soul of a wayward parishoner a grim and calculated clench designed to teach a lesson. There is no justice-except that which you qualify with 'Doenecke'. The trauma that my friends underwent was, in my mind, cruel and completely uncalled-for. Where do people get this inclination to censure and deprecate the drunk? Surely it does not proceed from antiquity--for in the Old Testament (though I forget exactly where) it is said that wine is a gift from God and meant to make men merry. Requiem Further, when Euripedes wrote Alcestis around 438 B.C., he put these words into the mouth of Heracles: "Go on,/enjoy yourself, drink, call the life you live today/your own, but only that, the rest belongs to chance get rid of this toomuch grief,/put flowers on your head and drink with us, fight down/these present troubles: later, I know very well/that the wine splashing in the bowl will shake you loose/from these scowl-faced looks and the tension in your mind."** Clearly, then, drunkenness is not only an investment, as I have pointed out, but it is also a VIRTUE, granted and condoned by the very gods who rule men's lives!! *Here I refer to Being and Nothingness. **This is from Greek edited by Grene and Latt1more. It's the third volume that contains Alcestis.


AIU\ Flynn -Tonya Snowball


Re gent EARN $100 Lo,oking for a person to deliver an em 16 boat trailer from Seminole to East Rutherford New Jerse/ 1 a, H-++-H--t-+-t-+il Write : ro Box 7j4 Maywood, New 1 tUSey 07607 Or 201-843-3084 GRADS AND GRAD SCHOOLS JULIE BERRONE -Tulane Law Shool DOUGLAS COHRAN -NC '82 University of Chicago with National Defense Education LAURA DEL VECCHIO -NC '82 Washington Universtiy at St. Lo Louis MBA program FRANK DOPP -NC '82 University of Minnesota Medical School ELIZABETH ELIN -Harvard Russian Studies Proaram FRANK HAMMEL -NC '82 Aedill School of Journalism Northwestern University DAVID JOHANSON San Francisco University --Golden Gate Law School KEI KISHIMOTO -National Science Foundation Scholarship Award to Harvard Graduate program in Immunology and will attend. Also accepted w ith scholarships at Rockefeller University, Yale, Duke, Washington, and University of Michigan 3 MICHAEL LACQUA-St. George's University School of Medicine CHRISTINE LAING University of Michigan Physics PhD. program with a teaching assistants.hip VALERIE LERH University of Maryland with a graduate antship SUSAN MAYFIELD -MBA program at Syracuse University MICHAEL MAZZOLA -MBA program University of Rodchester ESTABAN MIRANDA -Sanfrancisco University --Golden Gate Law School HARRY MOULIS -NC '82 University of Miami Medical School SHAWN MURPHY -Microbiology and Immunology at Duke University JAMES OLIVIER -Duke University, University of North Carolina, Florida State University, and University of Florida JUAN QUINTANA -Graduate English program at Duke University, University North Carolina --Chapel Hill and sity of Virginia RONALD ROSTOW -NC '82 Columbia University Public Policy program CHARLES RUTHEISER Graduate fellow in anthropogy at Johns HopKins University MICHAEL SAMRA -Graduate study at the University of Texas -Austin with math fellowship JULIE SKOBY -Dental School at Boston University, Washington University (St. Louis), Emory University and Universityy of Florida (Will attend UF Dental School) ELISA SCHNEIDER -Duke and Vanderbilt Universities School of Business with scholarship LJ....L:.!-11--1-:+-+---+-++-HAn open house with Dr. Benedetti t-+-+-+t DAVID SMOLIN -NC '80 Gerogetown University, Ohio State and be held on Sunday, May 22, University. of Illinois School of Law 1..-!.-4--..j........!-1--+-H--t-+-+--tfrom 3tO 5 pm. in room 209 M A R Y BANE S TE V E N S -Field School of Archaeology of University 1..-!.-4-..j........!-1--+-1-++-+-+-1 The main topic of the discussion be Admis sions. If yo u hav e 1-+--+-a o f A rizona at Grassho e any suggestions or comments, or --.nn.'U' DESCO Syracuse University and Emory University Law ROBERT TONNIESRensselaer Polytechnic Institute, University Admissions effort, please attend. As Of 11 am M +-+-++--lDr. ay 11, graduates sltould Jnt Novurn Colle .soon as possible about post orrnf-l-++-1f-tl <UD raduate SChool plans. of Utah, University of Colorado--Boulder, will attend Dartmouth with math fellowship DAVID WHRITENOUR -Cornell, Yale, Berkeley, Wisconsin and Massachusetts Institute of Technology in chemistry MAY wu Yale School of Drama ERIC OYRESON University of Arizona with fellowship ERIC GOTTSHALL -Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, Brown Uni versity, University of Delaware, Case Western math THOMAS St;HMIDTNC '81 Universtiy of Pennsylvania, UniversitY of North Carolina and Berkeley University 5350 N. TAMIAMI TRAIL New College student 1968. New and used bicycles, motorcycles and mopeds Dependable factory trained performance work New and used parts Tom and Lois Ford, owners Located just north of the Sarasota Airport 7316 North Tamiami Trail Fhoo.e 355-59i3


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