New College of Florida Brilliantly Unique; Uniquely Brilliant



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Reagent (The Summer Regeant)
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New College of Florida
New College of Florida
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Sarasota, Fla.
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May, 1983


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Sixty page issue of the student produced newspaper.
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the summer reagent may1989 new college




reagent, etc ... a new college student movement may1989 2 Editor's Note 4 Letters 46 Calendar of Summer Events 51 Campus Digest S Why I am against the ban on Assault Rifles Wyne To tin 7 The Administration Merlin D. M111Pt 9 Untitled (poem) Mib Mi1hln 10 Nature's Way (pOem) Dogfilh 11 \'\'hat Really Happened to My Car !Me Rel4 17 POST-MODERNISM Merlin D. Mari 18 Fire and Ice (poem) Melnk Hubbnf 20 Going to the Dogs WttsMrtin 31 Above The Fold Dnkl Catlno 34 Friday Night in Four Parts (poem) Trcy Fillmore 35 The Critericon Petrolius Rymous 38 A Poem and Haiku David "Dave Dgon. 39 Who Framed Roger Renne Victor Viqueir 44 Notes Toward a Proposal for a New College Journalism Program Michael Mishler 49 EnvironmentalStudies Goes Absolutely Wacko John Cover by Alan Stonebraker; collage on page 27 by Gretchen Brodtman; photographs on pages 28 and 29 by Steve Prenner, Salmagvndi *9 cover on page 30 by Jean Carter


2 protohrpe Editor's Note Mike cast the seeds of Prototype, but as far as we know, he is not the legitimate father oft his publication. As you may have already heard, he took a bath, cut his hair, and only does" academic journals" now. This is Reagent, etc. But Reagent, etc. is only a name with some historical significance. So it is now my editorial and therapeutic obligation togiveyou some hintsastowhatexactlythis "thang" is, isn't, will be, and could be. To paraphrase Kerouac: We don't do literature, but we like it. Politics confuse us, but we printthem. Love and bad poetry are like acupofevaporatedink,youwon'tsecthem. try. Fun comes in spurts, truth is confined to dry words. And solicitation is limited to the sidewalks ofTamiami Trail. Submit if you like,butwedon'tpay. (Thenagain,Kerouacwasfromanother time-why should he be a role model anyway?) These are only possibilities, hypotheses, hyperboles. We did promise "a prototype of a student publication," and if Reagent, etc. doesn't become a part of you, anappendageofsorts, please remem ber that recycling is the wave of the future. Speaking of the future, if God and the SAC will it so, an orientation issue bearing a similar name and format may appear in your boxes next fall. The issue will probably consist of reprints from old New College student publications in addition to submis sions that were loved but left over from this semester. But this is not enough, we want your stuff-flex your fingers, let those naive first years feel the mu::>de-do it through this student publication. Lie to them. Tell them a utopia and a psychology department do exist, that philosophy can be broken down into 8" X 11" charts, and condomsmakeitokay. Submitthissummer,mailthemto Box285, New College USA. In closing I'd like to thank "Dave" Dagon and Dan Catalano for their patriarchal guidance; Mac Miller for faith-and guilt; Cindy Dauer for "the names" and dirty dishes; Jason Webb and Corey Remle for trying; and Alan Stonebraker, Steve Prenner, Gretchen Brodtman, and Jean Carter for the artstuff. Thanks to all the contributorsforwitandbeauty. And thankstoMikeMishlerforre ality.


3 Swnmer 1989 reagent, etc ... a new college student movement the inner circle: Editor/Dominatrix: Associate Editor/ Onanism Consultant Philanthropist Production and Layout Coardinator: Calendar Consultant: Lisa Emily Whalley Micha!l James Mishler John Watts Martin David Sean''Dave" Dagon Franz Emmanuel Loewenherz Reagtlll, etc. l!la highly selective publication publishing carefully chosen materials written by close rrtencb or the editors who also, coincidentally, happen to be the best writers at New College. We do not publish unsolicited manuscripts; anything we have not sol kited Is, by dennltlon, not good enough to appear In Reagent 1 ttc. Abo, we advise that would-be starr en oot aUemptto lnqulreabout joining our ranks; we will contact you Jr you are found worthy. We do, however, accept applications for subscrlpUons, so If you are Interested In being a sub scriber, kindly submit a brief essay explaining your reasons for wanting to receive and read Rt11gent, etc., attompanled by your vita.. We will review your application and contact you with our decision. If you are selected as a subscriber, you will receive a copy of Rtllgtnt, etc. when It comes out, approximately once a semester.


4 protopipe Letters We would like to thank everyone who has supported and assisted us throughout this year. This includes, but is not limited to: Harry, Rachel, Damon. Ken, Dan C, Sharon. Judy, Dan O'B, Stephanie, Paul K, and Shelley. In addition. please include yourself if you ever came to a show, loaned us something, orin some way let us know that what we were doing was in some way worth the bother. We hope that you have enjoyed the shows and that you will continue to show up next year when we return fatter and creamier than ever with new covers and old equipment and the burnin' ache to rock your silly butts. Remember, we play requests. Be excellent to each other. Luv, the fauves (a/k/ a "'Meat ShOte") "Goodbye, Dr.Schoenl GoodbyeGhengl 'Bye! There'snopbcelike Oosinginonmidnight, thcla.stissueof Prototype being wrapped up while I scrawl this on a piece of used Laserwriternr feed, while all around me students come bee to face with, the reality of one week left to write seventeen papers. All this, such as itis,and I'm supposed to figure out how to say goodbye. No real time to be witty. No space for insightful rhetoric. And sadly, one of my tangential anecdotes that filled my lectures far too often doesn't seem to be at hand. So I'll wing il It's been two years of hell; two years of bliss. Two years forcing students to give up sleep to write about Sluggos and Bickos, two years of black market Daka points bought from starving students. Some of you have thoughtl was the campus narc, some of you petted my dog on a daily basis. Many of you suffered through mymutilationofthesaxophoncforfartoo manyafternoons,andahandful of you have received the gift of fermentation as it was doled out a few hours at a time in my apartment. It's odd, students come and go, it's part of the cycle of things, and yet, it seems strange, even to me, for a professor to be going. But I suppose I am. In the last analysis (sic) though, I'm really not. How can I leave all of this, all of you behind? You've ruined me for academia. I'll never be at another school where I can take a class to the beach for a lecture, or start a food fight, or watch my students be carried away by the cops. So, while I'll go, you're coming with me. Those of you who are staying here are coming with, even those that are graduating or have already graduated, and even one who has died. I'll tell stories of you to my future students. You're my new anecdotes. Or, perhaps most fright eningly, you are my new Sluggos and Bickos. Now isn't that a sobering thought. Enjoy. Lawrence M. Schoen


Summer 1989 5 Why I am against the ban on Assault Rifles WayneTotin For quite a while, we've been bombarded with essays and articles all proporting to tell us why semi-automatic weaponry should be banned forevermore. We're told that such weapons are dangerous and unnecessary. Who would actually need a firearm thatcanspitout bullets from a thirty-round clip as fast as the trigger can be pulled? Aredeerthathard to kill? Whataboutteflon-coated bullets? Are the wild boar out there wearing bullet-proof vests? Does the average really need access to plastic explosives? Would a disarmed nation be a truly safer one? To this last question, I would answer a resounding No. Like the Chairman himself said," Political power flows from the barrel of a gun," especially when that barrel can spit out 600 shots a minute. I believe that the very wellspring of what remains of our freedom in this country is guaranteed by the almost unlimited access American citizens have to the latest weaponry. Most people believe that it is the Constitution that is the mainstay of our rights as citizens but the more in-tune know that it is the realization on the part of our politicians that any single individual out there lurking in the crowd with a cheap "Saturday night special" could end their political careers forever, that keeps them in line. As an organization, the NRA knows this and is fighting for the rights of all Amerikans to bear whatever arms they see fit to own. At times, they try to disguise what they are actually doing by referring to the rights of sportsmen. Nothing could be further from the truth. I believe that when the NRA argues that assault rifles are needed to kill especially tough game like bear, they only make "Political power flows from the barrelofagun/' especiallywhen that barrel can spit out 600 shots a minute.


6 holygripe themselves look silly. When they say that teflon-coated bullets are needed so that homeowners can shoot through their own refrigerators to get at prowlers hiding behind them, they're making an absurd argument. Surely the members of the NRA know that these are truly stupid contentions to make but they're stuck. As a mostly all-American, God-fearing crew, they don't want to admit thattheydon'ttrustthedulyelectedUS.Governrnent. Theydon't want to cop to the fact that they believe in stockpiling lethal weapons "just in case". They don't want to say that if a citizen is profoundly disgusted with his or her government that that person should defend him or herself against it. But this is clearly what they believe, whether they can admit it publicly or not. Assault rifles are good for only one thing, outgunning the forces of Ia wand order when they coming knocking on your door. Teflon coated bullets, far from being useful in the forest, are clearly to enable theaveragecitizen to shoot through the bullet-proof vests of the police and perforate the bacon underneath. Plastic explosives and remote-control detonators are for dissuading the powers that be from leaning too hard on the common folk. And I am for the ready availability of all of these things to the citizenry. I believe that any government that refuses to allow its citizens to possess the latest weaponry ought not to exist, and indeed, should be violently overthrown.


Summer 1989 7 The Administration Merlin D. Mann It had been three years to the day since the television had exploded and thedaypassed the Waltersho.roe with little incident. The day was actually more memorable, historically, as the day that Sting, the Walters' two year old Springer Spaniel, got his monthly heart-worm pill. The administration of this pill usually took the better part of two hours on the third day of every month. As Sting had a grave dislike for pills, heal ways had to be coaxed, bribed, or fooled by the entireclanintotakingit. Unfortunately, the Walters' coqld never be sure which approach would be most successful, for, even at the youthfulageoftwo,Stinghaddevelopedapersonalityasindividual and capricious as that of any celebrity that the Walters used to watch on television. On that third anniversary of the television's demise, the Walters finally won out by trickery. Mr. Walters thought that if the family sat around the table and ate peanut butter with their fingers, Sting might be coaxed into eating a bit of the stuff with the pill ingeniously tucked inside. Thus the family sat down at the table and began dipping their fingers into a large (actually Family-Sized) jar of smooth, Jiffy peanut butter. Sue, the eldest child at fifteen, was initially reluctant to participate in such a base display but soon found that she Jiked the feeling of licking the gooey spread off of her slender, shapely fingers. Danny,on the other hand, being ten and quite adventurous, was ecstatic to be able to plunge his bulbous digits into the butter without fear of being scolded. Little Tina was more outgoing than most four-year-olds but was still a little apprehensive of the whole ritual. "Look, Teeny;' said Mr. Walter, scooping out a large dollop of the stuff and hastily sculpting it, "you can make a bunny!" With that he plopped the creature into his mouth and made a contented moaning noise. Tina dove in with all fours. Mrs. Walters managed to eat the peanut butter attractively


8 flurostripe and with the grace of a ballerina, all the while making informative conversationaboutthenutritionalvalueofthefriendlylittlelegume Soon enough, Sting was licking his hairy chops begging for a bite of the peanut butter. "Ignore him," said Mr. Walters, "just ignore him." And so the peanut butter orgy continued with everyone glutting themselves on the stuff, all the time trying to make noises and comments that might make it seem more attractive to Sting. After about an hour and a half of non-stop eating, moaning, and praise, Mr. Walters rose. With a bit of peanut butter on his rep tie, he proudly told the family, "Now that we have enjoyed God's bounty in such abundance, let us share it with our canine friend." With this, everyone, including Sue, who was usually quite reserved, gave a cheer saying, "Yes, let's give our good friend Sting some of this tasty treat!" Mr. Walters winked at Mrs. Walters, signalling her to call Sting over and praise him as a good dog who did a fine job of protecting the house. As she was distracting the dog, Mr. Walters slipped the pill into a bit of the peanut butter and carefully rolled it into a nearly perfect sphere. ''Here, Sting," called Mr. Walters, '1haveaspecial treat for you: peanut butter." Sting came bounding over to his master and assumed his usual begging position. ''Yes, boy, you deserve this peanut butter.'' Holding the peanut butter in front of the dog's nose, it was only a second before he had gobbled the whole thing down. Or so they thought, for even though the pill had successfully traversed the animal's glottis, a little bit of the food had remained lodged in his soft palate, causing great discomfort and a grotesquely involuntary opening and closing of the mouth. Mr. Walters led the family in a riotous good laugh over their friend's sad state, pausing only to pet the beast and say "Good dog," and "Atta boy," and "You sure look silly." Sting continued tostruggletoextricatethepeanutbutterso that he could resume normal breathing. For twenty more minutes he struggled and for twenty more minutes they laughed. All until little Danny paused for a moment to dab a tear of joy from his eye and say, "Sometimes I wish we still had TV.''


Summer 1989 Untitled Mike Mishler a pale light flickering out our tentdoor is a TV camping out with the rest of us here in these deep woods; we missed the sunset for Jeopardy; the moon grins knowingly down on the scene-he has a beard, our man in the moon; he has long hair; he sells used cars. 9


10 Nature's Way D. Wagner Appleton Women breeding men for war & keeping score Expecting warmth, security & care, protododo Luring love like bee tree does a bear Whoring. rejecting scoring selecting Storing co11ecting, expecting more Rape is stealing love that mother never gave, &: she was raped by war Her own creation. Some day, I'll stick out my thumb &: hitch to heaven; It's happened before


Summer 1989 11 What Really Happened to My Car Luc Reid It all depends on what you like. Me, I like my car, and as many of you have seen, my car is now Substantially Damaged. The story I generally give is that I had a Negative Experience with a Mack truck. This is a blatant lie, but is much easier than telling everyone who asks all about it. This way, if you want to know, you can read this, and you'll know. I only have to tell it once. This is how it ended. I was sitting on a street comeT in Jacksonville, underneath the shadow of a bulging building owned by a remote acquaintance of my father's, a Vance Pinkerton. At the top of the building was the famous and prolific writer of life-story fiction, Nugent Quarrywasher, who of course publishes under a pseudonym. As I sat innocently on the sidewalk, eating tahini cheese sandwiches with Sue Soltis and Gretchen Brodtman, this guy I barely know by the name of Caleb Catlin (second cousin of a friend of mine in Iowa, of whom I will say nothing here), purposely and maliciously hurled himself from the top of Pinkerton's building, intending to smash my car with the impact. He almost missed, but struck the left rear comer of my car with enough force to smash the rear window and do some Substantial Structural Perversion to my car. A few people screamed, half-heartedly. A pleasant breeze brought the scent of fresh blood to my nostrils, perversely making my sandwich taste Better. Caleb Catlin, of course, was dead. Nugent Quarrywasher scribbled furiously in a dog-eared fuschia notebook that said "Algebra la" on the front in black marker (I knew this from experience: my eyesight is only Quite Good, not Bizarrely Impressive). Sue and Gretchen looked at me for a moment, finished their sandwiches, and went to look for a washroom. Ina restaurant nearby, Vance Pinkerton coincidentally choked for a moment on a fish bone and was given the Heimlich Maneuver by Claudette Sydney, the sister of the mechanic of the man who I have claimed rammed my car with his Mack truck, who atthetimewasactuallyrammingintoa1983Dodge0mni,automatic shift, orange in colour, and containing someone who turned out to be a Fugitive from the Law.


12 protosimp It all depends on what you like. The Fedennans, incidentally, like blcu cheese, General Foods International Coffees, and Adven ture. This is how it began: I was walking through the mall up on Cortez with a friend of mine whom I will not name, for the sake of propriety. The Fedennans had been asked to follow me, and were doing so. Whenever I looked in their direction their eyes would glaze over and focus on something else, always both on the same thing. They were remarkable In Tune, the Fedennans, rest their souls. It all depends on what you like. Now Nugent Quarrywasher, he liked suicides, and could sniff a suicide ten blocks away. Nugent is and always has been a psychic, a hack, and a Very Good Writer. His Recipe for a Good Novel: 1. Find one medium suicide, almost fully ripe. 2. Fetch one inobvious notebook and two sharpened #2 pencils. Store in a backpack. 3. Follow suicide to proper location. Allow to ferment. 4. While suicide is fermenting, select one #2 pencil and notebook. Write physical description of suicide. 5. When suicide is ready, wait for suicide's life to flash before its eyes. 6. Listen in. Do not allow yourself to be distracted by death. 7. Go home. Write down the interesting parts. Select name of main character out of telephone book. 8. Add three shots of vodka. Drink. 9. Type novel on word processor. Garnish with relish. Serves 10,000+ readers. I said he was a hack. It all depends on what you like. Melvin and Beatrice Fedennan had always liked each other, but they ldnd of felt they were spinning their wheels. "We might as well be dead", they would say to company. ltdidn'tmatterwhosaid it: theywerenotMelvin and Beatrice, but rather--The Federmans. ''We're just spinning our wheels." In point of fact it took them some time to realize this after they had begun spinning their wheels, back when they were In their thirties. Last year, they drove by car to Micanopy Florida, where they hoped to see some cows. On a hopeful-looking dirt road, on a rainy day, they got stuck: a large rock held thecarupas they spun the mud out from under their wheels on either side. They did this for some time: an hour and a half, actually, until the gas ran out. "You know honey," said Mrs. Federman to Mr. Federman (or was


Summer 1989 13 it Mr. Federman to Mrs. Federman?) "we're just spinning our wheels." The Fedcrrnans were helped out of their rut by a nice family: a mother, father and son whogavethecaragentlepushand watched the Federmans do a three-point tum in a field, then drive away. By coincidence, this was the Immediate family of the person with whom I would be walking in that mall in anofher two months. It all depends on what you like. What Gretchen, Sue, and Iliked was the idea of arriving safe and sound in Sarasota, so that we could stop driving my car down 1-95 (etc.) and get on with our lives. We were driving down to Savannah when I first noticed the beige Carnaro which had been following us since North Carolina. It contained Caleb Catlin along with Claudette Sydney, who had decided it was time for a Change of Pace and was hitchhiking to Florida. Shehadfortunately/unfortunatelyhookedupwithCaleb Catlin, who had chased me up from Florida and lost me in New Jersey when I turned off the Jersey Turnpike. For two weeks, he prowled I-95 until he spotted me again, and followed me back down. Into Savannah, the beige Camaro breezed past me on the left, and Caleb Catlin smiled at me across Claudette, who was reading A yn Rand's The Fountainhead and laughing aloud. Caleb Catlin has nice teeth. That's how they eventually identified him, was his teeth. Nugent and I both have this thingaboutgiving stupid information to the Law. It all depends on what you like. Mr. Federman did not like pirates. I could tell you how, as a child, he was repeatedly beaten up by fellow children who were playing Pirates Take Over a Ship and Torture the Occupants Thereof, but I won't. So: immediately after giving out their information, they went to break into my room and see if they could cotJect more. The pair, both wispy and in their seventies, lassoed the bed frames on our double balcony and began to climb, concentrating on going up. When Mr. (or was it? Let's say Mr.) Federman miraculously reached the balcony, he grabbed onto the edge and turned to ten Mrs. Federman that it was dear. In turning, however, he caught sightofourJollyRogerhangingoffthebalcony, was frightened out of his wits, and had a heart attack, slipping and falling on Mrs. Federman. Both died, of course. But you knew that. It all depends on what you like. Caleb Catlin always liked art. When he was a kid, he used to fingerpaint on the watJs with:


14 protowimp Cambell's Cream of Asparagus (wrong consistency), mom's ma keup (not bold enough), food coloring (too runny), and other Things (etc.). His parents whopped him for making a mess. What Caleb Catlin thought at the time was, "everyone's a critic''. When Caleb got into school, he would sneak into the tempera paints under the classroom sink during recess and lunch, painting brightly-coloured murals on the desktops. He was sentenced to Detention With the Spitball Crowd nine limes on account of his artistic fanaticism. What Caleb Catlin thought was, "everyone's a critic". Critically speaking, his murals were .. well, they were brightly coloured When Caleb was in high school, he took art classes. He was a large young man, and several times he was able to take female members of the art class, tie them down, and paint their legs with exotic and brightly-coloured pictures. As cheerleaders ended up wearingminiskirtsquitealotofthetime,thesewereusuallypreyed upon. Since Caleb's art instructor, Sandy Beech, was somewhat wishy-washy, she did not throw him out of the class until the ninth time he did it. Thus, Caleb was able to make his cheerleader painting perfonnancenine times, infrontof an enthusiastic audience. This was how he gained the mistaken idea that the public loved his Art. A certain kind of cheerleader stopped taking art classes. A certain different kind of cheerleader started taking art classes. Caleb Catlin was thrown out of art classes and made to take Home Economics. This was how he gained the mistaken idea that he was an Oppressed Revolutionary Genius. What Caleb Catlin thought was (etc., etc.). When it came time to apply to college, Caleb Catlin made these selections: Oberlin, Carleton, Grinnell, and New College. To each he sent the usual application, in which he stressed he was not black, but held nothing against blacks and would even probably be able to take classes with one or two, if it weren't everyday, but he was all for Civil Rights and all that. To each he also sent a portfolio of hls brightly-coloured paintings, most of them painted on overstarched oxford shirts. The New College Central Receiving room lost this package, while all the other colleges received it. The only college to accept Caleb was New College. What Caleb Catlin thought was: "almost everyone's a critic." It all depends on what you like. Claudette Sydney liked to laugh at Stupid Things, and so she read a lot of Stupid Literature, lauded many Stupid and Meaningless Gestures, and absolutely adored Stupid Art. Caleb Catlin showed her many of his paintings on the ride down. He had them stored in the back seat. She loved


Summer 1989 15 them. She kept saying, "I love them, I love them, they're wonder ful!" She laughed hysterically, but Caleb Catlin assumed that this was in Artistic Ecstasy. She just loved them. What Caleb Catlin thought was: "The woi"ld is beginning to realize my importance. At thesametimeaslhavemyrevengeonthatflea,thatincrediblescum, that loathesome fascist Luc Reid, I shall make my great, final Artistic statement." He had all the way to Jacksonville to figure out precisely what he was going to do. When he explained his plan to Claudette, she lauded it. What else could she do? It all depends on ... (and so on). Caleb Catlin liked efficiency. He called up the Federmans. "Hello, Federman residence. Melvin or Beatrice speaking." "HeJJo. This is Adventure." "Ah!" Yelled, not into the phone: "Honey ,get on the extension! It's Adventure!" To Caleb. ''We have the information you need. Dates, times, destinations, routes. He spilled it all to this ... woman. He didn't even suspect." I tall depends ... (etc., etc.). Besides cheese and tahinisand wiches, arriving home, and my car, I like Creative Procrastination. Instead of working on my thesis, for instance, I might spend a couple of hours working on a story for a campus publication. This one, for instance. This was why, when Caleb Catlin walked into the studio he was using in the art barracks, he found identical copies of each and every painting he had painted lying around. So identical were they, in fact, that he couldn't figure out which ones were his and which ones were the copies. This was important to him, for as you can imagine the original and the copy have extremely divergent Artistic Significance. One by one he went through the paintings, and began to cry. Sally A1 t, a Fine Human Being from Utah, walked into the studio at just that moment. ''What's the matter?" she asked. Caleb looked at her, his eyes red and streaming, his twenty seven gaudy masterpieces strewn around him with the twenty seven exact copies. ''Who did this?" he wailed, sounding like a banshee with a bad head cold. ''Who did this?" Sally pushed a strand of hair out of her face and realigned it with its fellows. "Oh, the paintings? Luc did those." Caleb choked down the rest of his tears, stood up, and gripped her by the shoulders. "Where is he?" he asked, with the voice of a junkie looking for his dealer. "I think he went to the mall."


16 protoblimp It all ... The Federmans liked Adventure, and had said so in no uncer tain terms to Caleb Catlin when they opened their larders to him on Community Host Day. 'We might as well be dead," said Mr. Fedennan(orwasit ... ?No,itwasdefinitelyMr.Federman.Ithink). 'We're just spinning our wheels. What we'd really like is some Adventure, like in those spy movies." Caleb had steered the conversation toward spy movies, since he didn't know much about Adventure. Now, he knew. He ran to his room and called the Federmans. (ing ring. Pause. Ring ring. Pause. Ring ri-) ''Federman residence. Melvin or Beatrice Federman speaking.'' "Hello, this is Caleb Catlin." Silence. "From the Community Host Program." Silence. A slight note of falseness. "Oh, yes. We remember you. Of course." "I need to find some things out, and 111 need somebody with a taste for Adventure to do it." Eagerly. "Just a second." Yelled, not into the phone: "Get on theextension,dear! It's Adventure!" ToCaleb. ''Whatdidyousay your name was?" Italldependsonwhatyoulike. Ilikemycar,andldon'tintend to have her lying around unrepaired until such time as I scrape up the necessary funds. There are, I can tell you, some things insurance does not cover. If anyone asks you, tell them this is fiction. Tell them Luc's car got hit by a Mack truck. People like to believe things that are believable.


Summer 1989 POST-MODERNISM Merlin D. Mann The neighbor kids learn how to play doctor. They crouch beneath the pampas, hiking up dresses and laughing nervously "This is new. This is new[" 17


18 Fire andice Melanie Hubbard I am a child of heat. I long to go clothed in a thin layer of perspiratiOJ\ protoimp pushing a breeze that finds and cools the seam of quickening sweat at my neck. Tell me how we made love one time beneath a still fan in summer, windows full-open, no breeze: "lt was our nap, siesta, and we pretended it was necessity, we were indians five hundred years ago on Shell Point. We had to fuclc in sweat, move slowly, blow cool breath on foreheads and bellies to make such torture sweet. Salt taste hung on our lips, ran into our eyes, a sting that was necessity. We were Tocabago in a hut we built beyond the village near the charnel-house. No one came there but the watch and the wind driving the stench inland under the heat. Those wrapped bones were still, rotting, baking, tanning in the shafted sun. Drying deep in our mangrove thicket, palmetto wrapped us in our sweat. A rill ran down between our breasts and continued, crushed, to the hair and stem of other juices. We gulped for wind our heat had taken in. Our joints rubbed raw on palmetto mats, a salt stream carried our desire away. It was necessity, we were indians five hundred years ago on Shell Point."


Summer 1989 I moved away from you-for months I've slept in colder, modem climes. I have traveled so far to take my leave that I am almost bound to leave myself without the sun and river I knew you by. Snow and wind have been my troubled rest. City-high grave stones mark the sun and what cold water still flows. Some days I froze among so many faces. Oh, I have eaten mld fruit -apples, pears, persimmons falling into winterand I have had my fill. I am a child of heat. I long to go clothed in a thin layer of perspiration. 19


20 protodrip Going to the Dogs Watts Martin Gregory Samson Newfield awoke from uneasy dreams to find a large gray dog waiting in his bathroom. Understand, it wasn't that he had anything against dogs. In fact, he rather liked them; he had owned a Border Collie once and had found her to be a perfectly p1easa."lt companion. Since meeting Gretchen' scat,Seymcur, he had developed a preference for felines, but it would be safe to say that-given other circumstances-the large gray dog wouldn't have disturbed him. As it was, he shook his head, put on hi5 bathrobe and went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Perhaps (perhaps) he wasn't quite awake yet. He came back into the bedroom, steam rising from the coffee mug that Gretchen had given him for his last birthday. On the side of the mug was a "Far Side" cartoon showing a dog scratching a human's stomach. The man was kicking his left leg back and forth, just like the Border Collie had done. Newfield stood silently, watched Gretchen sleeping on the waterbed, and sipped his coffee, waiting for the caffeine infusion to hit. When he felt fully awake, he returned to the bathroom and again. The still there, staring back at him quizzically from the mirror. Newfield reached up with his right hand to touch the side of his nose. The dog reached up with its left paw to touch the side of its muzzle. Newfield felt the slightly tangly gray fur under his fingers, the not-quite dry black nose just to their left, and the dog jumped back with a wild expression and dropped its coffee. The mug shattered against the coun tertop, spraying Maxwell House and bits of ceramic cartoon onto his fur. "Are you all right?" came Gretchen's voice from the bedroom "Yes. Um." His voice was familiar, but an octave lower and much scratchier. "I dropped my mug," he concluded nervously. "You don't sound all right," she said, opening the door. ''Wait!" Newfield growled in dismay, reaching a fraction of a second too late; instead of grabbing the doorknob he found himself pawing his wife's shoulder. Her green eyes widened to twice normal size. Newfield had a full second to think of something to


Summer 1989 21 say while she remained completely motionless. "Uh," he said, then elaborated, "Uh." She reached up to his paw where it lay across her shoulder and pulled at it, as if confirm ing the fur was really attached, then screamed and stepped back, stumbling. Then she slammed the door full in his face. He stepped back, rubbed his nose, and stared at the door. Then, a little unwillingly, he turned and looked in the mirror again. Yes, he was definitely some sort of wolfhound, although he wasn't enough up on the canine scene to recognize the exact breed. Of course, he wasn't really a dog; he looked rather like someone wearinganabsolutelymagnificentmasqueradecostume,orperhaps a cast member in an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. He brushed the ceramic from his fur and sobbed. It came out as a whine. When Gretchen gathered enough courage to cautiously peep into the bedroom thirty minutes later, Newfield wrs sitting on the foot of the bed watching television. "Come in," he said, without looking at her. He realized he could smell her standing just outside the door. "I have silver bullets," she announced in a hoarse squeak. 'We don't have a gun," he pointed out. "And you're not coordinated enough to shoot straight." "Greg?" she said after a moment. "Are you really ... ?" "Am t really w_hat?" he snapped. ''Really Greg? Really furry?" "Are ... are you a werewolf?" He snorted. "Do you think I broke in here last night, ate your husband and waited for you in the bathroom?" "Of course not," she said, although her expression said she hadn't ruled it out quite yet. "But you expect me to believe you ... you just woke up like this?" "I don't believe it," he said. ''Why should you?" "But how can you be just sitting in here watching television?" Her voice was creeping past the edge of hysteria. "Geraldo's almost on." "Greg!" He growled,looked surprised, and his tone became small and helpless. "Because I don't know what else to do." "Today we talk to three Catholic priests convicted of bestiality. Did the Church try to cover up their crimes? Stay with us," said Geraldo Rivera. Newfield changed the channel. '1-more cartoon fun on SuperStation WTBS!" someone who was not Geraldo screamed. A title screen for a cartoon flashed on and off. "I'm so happy," Droopy the dog said mournfully as he walked onscrecn. Newfield started to cry.


22 pumpkintip "Well, you're obviously not really canine," Doctor Avery said. AverywasaresearcherattheUniversityofSouthflorida'smedical school; he was also Gretchen's brother. Despite the fact that his field was genetics, he was her first consultation on anything less trivial than a common cold. Thus, he was somewhat surprised when she brought him a problem he was genuinely interested in, if not any better equipped to deal with. "I'm aware of that," Newfield said. "I'm human. The question is, why am I furry?" "Well," Avery coughed. "It's not that simple. And with your last batch of tests, the complexity has gone up exponentially.'' He handed Newfield a sheaf of papers, waited the obligatory fifteen seconds while his patient tried to figure out what they meant, and snatched them back. "You see, your DNA isn't actually humi\n at all. Not quite, at least." "Then what is it?" "That," the doctor said, slapping his hand melodramatically on the counter, "is our question, isn't it? "It doesn't match any known DNA. The seemingly obvious would be a cross between canine and human, except that such a cross is, of course, impossible. And even if we confirmed that itu.w such a cross, knowing that wouldn't be particularly helpful." "You're saying he just woke up one morning with something else's DNA?" Gretchen said. She was remarkably controlled. In fact, she had been quite calm for the last week, and had eve stopped flinching visibly whenever Newfield touched her. "EssentiaUy," her brother said. ''That's impossible," growled Newfield. ''Yes. Quite," agreed Avery, walkingtowardsasupplycounter. "Have a cup of coffee?" Gretchen turned away, scowling, and tripped over an unidentifiable but delicate-looking piece of equipment which shattered mostundelicately. Avery winced and shook his head. ''You know how I am," she said defensively. ''Then how do you explain it?" Newfield cut in. "I can't," the doctor said, almost cheerfully. "Haven't a clue. It's too ... too ... too ridiculous to be a recessive gene, a mutagen, or any natural process we know of, and it's far too advanced to be something artificially created." He produced two mugs from an overhead cabinet. "If it's not natural and it's not artificial, what does that leave?" "Absolutely nothing. Alien space rays. Magic wands. As I said, I haven't a due. I really am sorry." He poured coffee into the mugs. "Do you take sugar or cream?"


Summer 1989 23 "And until you find out what it is, there's no cure," Newfield said, his ears drooping. "Cure? For something in your genetic pattern? Gregory, this isn't a sex change operation you've had. You can't go back no matter how much money you have. You might as well try to stop being an albino. If you pursue treahnent, I'm sure several institu tions will pick up the medical expenses just for the chance of studying you. But all you'll get is the chance to experience the life of a lab animal first-hand,and I suspect you'd find it wasn't terribly pleasant. I'd advise laying low, waiting for the publicity to die down-even for something like this, it'll go away surprisingly quickly-and seewhathappens tenor twenty years down the road. Who knows?" "Black, please," said Newfield. Newfield didn't admit A very had been correct until some three months of passing from research center to research center, being poked, prodded, scanned, and sampled by everyone with a medical degreeinanyficld whatsoever. Noneofthedoctorsorscientistsor technicians were as forthrightly pessimistic as Avery had been, of course,and they just kept reassuring him that everything would get better as they ran all sorts of expensive, inconclusive tests that they wrote journal articles about. Although Newfield had no way of knowing it, he was going to be an extremely popular topic for t,'iaduate theses in the natural sciences that year. It was about this time that Gretchen stormed out of the house. She had been finding more and more reasons to be away from Newfield; finally, he threw a fit about her absence, and about her absolute refusal to even sleep in the same bedroom with him since the change. "You're still my wife," he shouted. '1'm still your husband!" "I didn't marry a dog, Greg!" she screamed back. '1 can't sleep with a dog!" "You won't even hug me anymore." His tone became a pathetic whiffle. '1 haven't been held by anyone for months.'' "I'm sorry. You're just-literally-not the same person anymore." "Butlam. Eveniflhavefur,lstillam!" Shelookedaway. "As far as dogs go, I think l'm pretty cute," he ventured. "So is Benji, Greg. I won't sleep with him, either." "That's beside the point! And Benji's a female," he said, walking towards her. She almost flew towards the door, spinning back to face him with sharp, wary eyes. "Wait!" he said, running for her. Gretchen ducked out and slammed the door behind her; he


24 cokepJight flung it open in time to see her gliding into her 911-their 911-and taking off. "I can't sleep with a dog, can I?" he screamed at the Porsche' s receding drone. He walked back inside, closed the door, and headed towards the kitchen. "You wouldn't mind sleeping with me, would you, Seymour?" he asked the not-quite-asleep cat lying on top of the VCR. Seymour blinked and rolled over. Newfield found the largest mug he owned, filled it with espresso, and headed back to the Jiving room, with Seymour watching. The cat was a silver-orange tabby with an odd kink in his tail. ''What do you Lllink I am, an animal?'' the cat asked as Newfic)d sat down in front of the TV. "Of course not. I was just kidding," Newfield said crossly. "1. ... his voice trailed off. "You-uh-what?" "Meow," repeated Seymour. Newfield shook his head and looked away, then suddenly realized he had understood themeowas,"Isaid, Whatdoyouthink I am, an animal?' It was a joke." ''You spoke!" ''This is true," Seymour meowed, licking his left front paw. "I've been wanting to talk to you ever since you changed, but whenever the bitch leaves she usually takes me with her. Tnis is the first time we've been alone when one of us hasn't been asleep in months." ''You understand English!" "Can't get one past you humans, eh? Actuilly, if you were still human, I'd get it by pretty easily. I really don't understand much English; my own language only has a few hundred words. Cats usually don't have to say much." "But-" "''m not speaking English now; you understand what I'm saying, butnotconsdously,soyourmind'srationalizingitintofull sentences. That's whars happening, isn't it?"' Newfield nodded dumbly .. Good. By the way, you drink far too much of that stuff. "Can I understand all animals?"' "'Most of them can understand you, too. Empathy. Most of them won't know as much English as us domestic cats, though ... "You're not spedal?" "'Not at all. You're the special one. You're the first ... "First?" ,.First anthropomorph." Newfield was silent again. He had the feeling that his neurons were about to go on strike for better working conditions. He dosed


Swnmer 1989 25 his eyes and massaged his temples. "Think of it as the next stage in evolution," Seymour said patiently. "There's no way evolution can explain this." "I'm sure you people have figured out that evolution comes in spurts; you're too damned smart for our good. Well, those spurts aren'tjusttomakesomethinggoodatsurviving,see,it'sperfcction. That's why humans evolved. It was trying for perfection." '1t?" "Nature. Evolution. God. Whatever. It doesn't matter. The problem is, humans didn't work, see? So then animals evolved." "Animals came first," Newfield snapped. ''V\7e evolved from you, not the reverse." "femporal orderdcesn'trnatter," Seymour yowled impaliently. "Not that kind of evolution. Animals came closer to what was wanted, but-" "You don't have thumb5!" "You're still thinking like a human," the cat said reproachfully. ''Thumbs aren't the point. Maybe they were left out because they cause so much ll'ouble." "All right," Newfield said,crossinghis

26 hormones trike It's all in motion." The next morning, Gretchen came into the bedroom and stood by the door until he woke up. She moved almost silently now, but since the change, he was a very light sleeper; he looked up after a few seconds. She had a suitcase in one hand. I know what's coming, he thought wryly. This is the way these scenes always start out in the mavies. "I'm leaving, Greg. I just can't stand the ... the stress anymore.'' "You can't stand the stress," he echoed." Refresh my memory. Which one of us suddenly found himself with the long floppy ears and the bushy tail again?" "You know damn well what I mean!" "You have a feather in your hair," he said. She flicked it onto the floor impatiently. "Where are you going?" "I'll go stay with my parents for a while. They've wanted me to leave ever since-you know." She looked over at Seymour. "I'll take the cat with me; I know you won't remember to feed it.'' Seymour looked up from where he Ia y curled on the foot ofthe bed and meowed. Greg heard, "My fur is on end with anticipation, tailless one," and laughed. "It's not funny, dammit!" Gretchen screamed, scooping up Seymour with her free hand. She moved with a curious grace she had never evidenced in their four years of marriage. "No. I understand." "I'm sorry .... She almost looked it, he thought sourly. "I don't blame you. Really," he said. "Go on.'' "Goodbye, She turned, shook her head-<:ausinganother feather to flutter to the carpet-and left. Greg watched the car drive a way, then looked down at the two feathers. As he headed out to the kitchen, he started laughing.


GERALDO OPENS DAKA JIM'S FREEZER! I r INDETERMINA s confession-IMAGE oF ELVIS SPOKE to ME IN FRENCH! LIZARD MAN si ghied in SARASOTA BA'/ fA.fldVf#/F m.ot 7 f(f'EAL!. .. "My husband's Other Woman was a '' The long-lost Salmagundi 4#9 rover next month: The Beach Boys "Smile" album!


Summer 1989 31 Above The Fold Daniel Catalano There was a flash of blue-green light, a burst of static that snapped her blouse tight across her abdomen, and she wc1ssuddenly enclosed in a veil of soft pressure, like the inside of a storm cloud. Her foot, dropping halfway between sidewalk and asphalt, missed the street like the invisible step at the top of a dark stairwell. She would cross that space everyday, four long strides from the backoftheprintingroom,and she could still feel that chilling surge oflight flash up her spine like cold mercury. That had been the end, for Mason. He had been compassionate, like a good lover could be, but the twins were simply too much for him. Even after they had been surgically separated, and then warmly accepted into foster care, he still shook his head sadly, confused and unhappy. Less than a month later he had moved out. She hadn't seen the twins for a long time now, but last she had heard they were being cared for by a widow with thirteen other foster children. You can always count on the human spirit, Shelly never ceased to marvel. She skirted that spot now, stepping down into the storm drain and picking her way past wet toilet paper and floating leaves, invariably getting her heel caught in the steel grating. She wasn't normally superstitious, but she couldn't set her foot on that section of concrete without feeling cold plastic beneath her naked back, withoutseeingthosemisshapenheadscrouchedoverher,soutterly lacking in human contour, without thinking of what had happened, of how she had been violated. Oh, it was an experience all right, she wouldn't deny that, but the idea still gave her the shivers. If it wasn't for the twins, who had turned out to be telepathic, perhaps she could have forgotten the entire incident. But every time she had looked at her swollen belly, she would remember that hazy light, the walls of strange equipment, those oversized naked forms running their cool hands across her flesh. They had dropped her back behind the paste-up room, where she landed on the tile with an audible pop and the sudden smell burnt carbon. She had to show them where on a crudely drawn


32 proto tight map of lhe world, tracing her finger along the east coast of Florida as they mumbled and grunted behind her. She had finally pin pointed the area, and they had done a remarkably accurate job of lan.ding her near the office, fully clothed and without a scratch. That was a blessing, anyhow. After all, the could have put her somewhere in the Atlantic, near that stupid triangle that they had penciled in off the coast of Bermuda or something. Guess you should never underestimate higher intelligence, she had decided, fishing her car keys out of her purse. She still parked in the same lot, near the mausoleum, because she was a slave to routine. Besides, 5he thought, lightning doesn't strike twice, right? She took a great comfort in folk wisdom, even thought she knew that it was an hogwash. She had picked up a for cliche from her mother, which helped her writing immeasurably, no matter what the staff had to say. People like to be reassured, especiaJly in a world as unpredictable as this one, and what's more reassuring than a cliche? Not much. That much Shelly knew for sure. She hopped back up on the sidewalk, her heels ticking off the next block and a half without incident. She hunted down her Cclica, still marveling at how little her co-workers really understood. They were forever talking about real journalism, lost in the myth of criticism. You can't get more real than this, she would patiently explain. Human interest, entertainment, fulfillment, that's what real journalism is. It was her solid conviction that success and merit could only be judged on readership, and not some pretentious standard of excellence. Her colleagues complained about lack of artisticpossibility,butShellyknewlhattheywerejustdisgustedby their own lack of talent. That why they were staff, and she was an assistant editor. On the way home she stopped by the Pick'n'Pay to grab some things for dinner. She saw Walter Hudson's mother loading up her cart with packs of bacon and cereal, wearily pulling three full gallons of milk from the dairy aisle. ".Katie, are you still feeding that boy?" Shelly was maneuvering her cart around a toothpaste display, waving cheerily in .Kay's direction. "Hey Shelly, how you doin'?" She was barely smiling, weighed down beneath an annload of white bread. Shelly pulled up next to her and helped stack the loaves in orderly piles. "I hear he's finally pulled himself out of lhat bed." .Katie smile again, looking a bit more sincere, "Yeah. Coin' on five hundred pounds gone. We're all real pro d of him." "I'm so glad, really I am." Shelly grabbed a package of dinner


Summer 1989 33 rolJsand tossed themintohercart. "Keep me posted, all right Kay?" "Of course, Shelly. You'll be the first to know when he leaves the house." Shelly waved again and pivoted towards the check out lanes, mentally counting her items. 'The express lane was out, so she was forced to wait behind an old woman with a dozen cans of cat food and a box of Pepsodent. It takes all kinds, she thought, glancing around the store. She caught her byline, next to the register, and it made her smile. It was nice to sec your name in print, even in a supermarket. She almost had an accident on the way home, jumping the embankment while trying to avoid some kind of animal that ran across the highway. At first she thought it was a goriHa, because it was walking upright, but it seemed much too taU. She didn't get a very good look, because it was running, and by the time she squealed the car to a stop it had disappeared. She popped the door handle and got out cautiously, wondering what the hell that had been. After scou tingaround for a minute, she discovered a massive footprint, stamped into the sandy bank. The foot must have been at least eighteen inches long, and its outline was broad and deep. It had five toes, splayed against the soil, that had dug deeply into the bank. Shelly squinted at the print,, and picked several long, coarse hairs out of the packed dirt. The car was apparently unhurt, and it started on the first try. Well, she thought, wonders never cease. She drove home carefully, watching the edges of the road as the chorus of "Love Me Tender'' dtifted from her broken radio. Shelly nodded in to the music, turning the Celica into her driveway. At the front door, she had to pause, shifting her bag of groceries while she sea1ched for her house keys. She smiled at nothing at all, vaguely wondering if the ghost of Rock Hudson was still in her bathroom.


34 protoplasm Friday Night In Four Parts Tracy Fillmore Bhatki means loving devotion and we are riding to the Red Hot Chili Peppers concert. Hugh wings the comer in his red car as we listen to the Meat Puppets. The guy next to me grins a bolero smile. He tends to look at me through the comer of his eye. So bhatki means loving devotion and noetic is the way you find religion in the writing. And a girl has just passed out on a stretcher at the Red Hot Chili Peppers. There is a serpc:1tine fight at the center of the crowd. We dance on the fringe a little off rhythm. A heroin addict is stalking his stolen hologram necklace on a gold chain. And there's beautiful men by the ice machine-let's give them "bhatki," which will maybe lead to "moska." Skin connected by a blood-red relationship. The bolero man sits cross-legged, as we dance around. Now puppet-s could not dance any better. But could puppets know the way to liberation? I think of the ones from "Fanny and Alexander" and certain poems the size of religion and growing more puzzling than deformed acrobats and the local color of a city never visited.


Summer 1989 The Critericon Petrolius Raymous Part of an Occasional Series Documenting the Decline and Fall of New College 35 The New College community has recently been asked to help select a new Director of the Resource Centre. The event gives one cause to reflect on the history of the Centre. The Resource Centre of years gone by, which consisted entirely of Mike Alexander & Christine Eagan, resembled a cross between Leo "Dr. Hug" Buscaglia's techniques and a well-intentioned quasi-eastern de rivative oi crystal worship. Since the resignation of the entire counseling staff one year ago (almost to date), the counseling services on the Sarasota Campus have been in a holding pattern, aided from time to time by the magnanimous charity of profession als in the field (their names will come to me shortly) and abetted by the capable appendages of Dr. Oare Dozier-Henry, Ed.D. The human side of this dilemma of resources, however, has often been overshadowed by the administrative efforts to hire a replacement for the position. Like the scraping of feet, the efforts to hire have finally gained momentum, and there is an impending sense that something might happen. It was in complete ignorance of this conspiracy of errors that students assembled on Friday, a May 5th, to discuss what they wanted from the Resource Centre, what they could reasonably ask for, and (ultimately) what they could expect. The meeting consti tuted a workshop and as such established the powerra tio between students and administrators; Oare played the numerator. (His tori-In classic Romper Room fashion, the participants were asked to place red stick-it-dots beside the qualities they thought most important for an iibercounselor.


36 protoorgasm workshops were called "studios" in the "think tanks" or informal"rap sessions" in the 1970s, and "inten sive brainstorming sessions" in the early 1980s; but like sausages, the ingredients have remained the same for ages.) The movement of the meeting was an extraction of two cents from the students Their suggestions for improving New College counseling services ran the gamut from chakra channelling to psychotropic pharmaceuticals-little surprise coming from a place known for cultivating the social graces of a Salvador Dali in every incoming student. Eagerly wishing to interface with the students, the one player team of Student Affairs called for suggestions. Some students offered their opinions as to what a Resource Center should do from 9 to 5. They were abruptly cOOrdinated, their suggestions shunted to the proper list and category. Through a gruetting process of candid sharing, outreach, and creating, the Student Affair(s) Staph ensembled a list of the qualities that fail to elicit smirks from the audience. In classic Romper Room fashion, the participants (how else does one describe them?) were asked then to place red stick-it dots beside the qualities they thought most important for an counselor. A friend of mine who endured the conference com mented afterword that the selection of qualities from respective categories resembled oriental cuisine. The menu of categories included: ColumnA 1. 2. New-age 3. Ultra-Sensitive 4. Sympathetic 5. Well-integrated 6. Intellectually Involved ColumnB Crystal-Sucking Psychodynamic Achievement motivated Decisive Positively Oriented Resource Oriented ColumnC Clinical Generalist Ph.D. M.B.A. MS.W. Flake Lobbyist The approach makes a fitting chinese restaurant metaphor of the search-you pick a number from each column and put them together. The resulting combination of ''buzz words'' describes the personality of the candidate for the Director position. This ap proach promises to fill the position with great elan and minimal eclat. One could hardly fault the staff for rushing the search for a Director; after a solid year of delay, the human needs put in abeyance are now approaching a rolling crisis boil. Worse still, if they get out of hand they could cost someone her job. Charity begins with job security Offering no explanation of what resources a Centre should


Summer 1989 37 have, the workshop died a death fitting to most Nurenburg rallies: a feels-good network approach. "Alright, I need all of you to get out there and set these ideas in motions, and make of this the cornrnunitywhatweadvertiseittobe." Likeacheapminttoothpaste,these parting words left a lingering impression. The whole organization of the search process, the pandering to student input, the ery of the brain storming session of workshop environment, the embarassing preoccupation with buzz words-in short, the whole coordinating fiasco tended more toward crowd control than sin cere inquiry into student needs. Trendier aspects of the meeting made it complete as a work of political theater; the paradox of this sort of meeting is that the more it runs like a machine, the more human it feels. The meeting served its agenda well by framing the student opinions on thesearchprocess within an "advisory'' context. While this hidden subtrefuge behind meeting with students may have escaped the more even tempred, the feeling of being stroked was


38 A Poem and Haiku David ''Dav( Dagon The Transcendence of Bread Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich flowing eternal etherizing astral projecting always present protofluff always being always All On the Death of Pan While shucking peanuts, And Super Chunck on his breath Peter Pan slips-Cone!


Summer 1989 39 Who Framed Roger Renne Victor Viquein& At the modem USFNCcomplex, the faculty huddles together, a herd of swine, each one trying to keep his (or her) snout warm, all the while continuing to serve USF interests at the expense of the very principles crucial to the continued existence of the NC What is missing here? Along with a generalized lack of real belief in New College's published philosophy, there is also only a faint impression of genuine love among faculty members for 'the very ideals that attracted many of them here in the first place. The consequence has bee a plummeting respect for Nf: as a distinct community on this campus. There is also only a faint sign of the optimism Aric Johnson wrote of ( in his thesis, From Intention to Concrete :The Founding of New CoUege and l.M. Pei' s Plan): The optimism for the success of the institution over the course of its "five-hundred-year" future ignored even obvious obstacles to its more immediate success. If a reasonable degree of critical objectivity had intruded at any number of points in the planning process, it is unlikely that it would have established itself as one of the great undergraduate institutions in the country (Johnson 85). As with any growing bureaucracy (an organization with a built-in mechanism forreducingfeedback, thediametricoppositcof what we have been told the NC program represents), what is missing above all isaccountability. Specificatly, Dean/Provost Bobs are accountable only to distant, remote forces in Tampa and Tallahassee. All of which only begins to respond to the growing, and disturbing, list of (the so far unanswered) questions that we as a community deserve answers to: Why did the dean piss away our land in an evil pact with the Airport Authority without even a pretense of consultation with students, the faculty, or even the Foundation?


40 protobaggins Why have students been hauled off to JaU for essentblly Internal, campus Issues, without any bona fide Internal investigations? (e.g., the43urested defending theoakhammock,.PeteCemy, Jennifer Ran dolph ) Is it too Inconvenient for offid.alslike Walt Hooper or the Bobs to do their Jobs? Why was David Dunn denied a tponeonhlpdtange lhortlybefore his suicide, by memben of both the faculty and the administration? Why ls that at a college that demands consistently superior performance from Its etudmts, there Is barely a sluadow of any real counseling services available? Did Eilat Johnson commit suicide, or did she die of a lack of Impetus to continue a lk 7 How an the SASC expel first-term NC students writing it was spedfically stipulated that this could not happen? And, as Lenin might pat It, Is it a mere coincidence'"' that politically active students find themselves frequently called up for review by the SASO Is there a relationship between who your sponsor is and probation/dismissal by the SASC7 Why has the new Catalog failed to be printed? Could it be that the faculty and administrators prefer to maintain theirpresent ad hoc (i.e,.. situation ethics) approach to academic, and student life, questions? Or has the money for the CAtalog's printing costs been rechanneled into other pockets? Is there a connection between tenure and/or raises and one's relationship with the Provost (and concommitant willingness to unsat. selected students)? Finally (and the questions could go on indefinitely), why is the ad ministration trying to remove a faculty member who has actually madean effort to with these abuses, Roger Renne? I contend that his presuppositions are consistent with our philosophy, beneficial to the community,and essential to a freethinking environment. Admin istrative meddling will have a dire effect on the entire student/faculty community. This article is not merely a sentimental journey to save my home or a friend. It is the beginning of a project in documenting, and clearly demonstrating, that recent attempts to expel deviant students and faculty have been fundamentally inconsistent with the NC community's core principles, as reflected over the years in a multitude of official and unofficial published materials. Thus, these attempts are illegal, in violation of longstanding, formal community interests as well as of the merger agreement. Clearly, any hope for NC hinges on serious student/faculty efforts to thwart any attemptsatorchestrating anyone'sexcommu-


Summer 1989 41 nication. We can only hope that the faculty can again come to see clearly what might be the eventual consequences of supporting the Provost's scheme to oust Renne. I am tired of having a faculty whose members supinely surrender, renouncing their professional obligations in favor of mere personal convenience. Entropically choosing to remain numb, year after year, to relevant issues of urgent import to our community, faculty sheep herd into the Fishbowl twice a month or so, indulging themselves in a collective fantasy, the "Deliberative Assembly.'' At once comatose and chaotic, these faculty "meetings" serve an important decorative function for the Provost, who uses them and their proceedings as a fig leaf for his essentially dictatorial approach to management. This reality puts the charge lodged against Renne of "disruption" in a starkly different light from the Provost's preferred perspective. If there is truth to that charge, there is also truth to to "make no specific recoJIUllendation" to the Provost concerning Renne's possible removal, remaining content to leave colleagues and students hanging in limbo, they are effectively saying: "Lett he Provost do the dirty work!" If the work of such committees were evaluated according to standards applied by the SASC to proba tionary students, the members of those committees would have long since been dismissed. The SASC, judging from my own experiences, would expect better analysis; sound research practices, including background information and a list of examples consistent and inconsistent with the background data; and, in conclusion, a "specific recommenda tion." This kind of "due process" is the basis for conducting good research, and for evaluating and reviewing community members, both faculty and student community members. I am convinced, however, that much of the faculty has no real historical conception of why this college was founded, its original principles and subse quent adaptations (both during and after the merger crises). Faculty members-and most certainly administrators (and, worse yet, faculty administrators)-have forgotten the principles of integrity, intellectual and otherwise. A brief refresher: Each student 11 responsible in the last analysis for his or her own education. The best education demands a joint search for learning by exciting teachers and able students. A student's progress should be based on demonstrated competence and a real mastery rather than on the accumulation of credits and grades.


42 linotype The best libertd educatiC?n derives from of 4 smRll number of vital idetJS, and motks of analysis. Students should have from the outset opportunities to explore in depth RretJS of interest to them. ( 1986-1988 Catalog 8) These principles have emerged in various written forms since the time of the first NC graduating class, formally reflecting the college's founding ideals. Specifically, they have appeared in a variety of NC publications, official and otherwise, including faculty and student handbooks, facultymeetingminutes, Admissions propaganda, and, of course, the most recent (1986-1988) Catalog. To be sure, faculty "historians'' are quick to add, often in support of rigid SASC policies, that in NC's early days, the program was more" disci p1ined," and yielded a crop of good, obedient students. These relics miss, among other things, the much greater commu nity role the faculty then shared with the student community. Besides, it is possible that the more "disciplined" structure of the earliest years was more of a "teething problem" than an actual point of accomplishment. A bettergaugeof program success might be found in the period immediately following the NC gestation and infancy periods (c. 1965-1968)-the middle pre-merger period (c. 1969-1973), which clearly demonstrates the gradual practical im plementation of the core principles listed above, not as lofty ideals, but as the foundation for the campus community's (student/ faculty) identity. One possible conclusion The faculty collectively finds it safe, and warm, to remain tied securely in its paddock. Meanwhile, a number of faculty members have become far removed from personal contact with students outside of formal settings, whether at walls, PCPs, or-God forbid-in surprise or impromptu visits. At great student expense, the faculty plays along with administrative hypocrisy, effectively encouraging the Provost to remain Faculty Chair For Life. ''But it's too much work," whine our poor overworked profes sors. Consequently, student co-members of this community of scholars are paying a high price for the sake of their advisors' convenience. Is it too inconvenient to take risks, to follow your curiosity, to become whole? Too fucking bad-we want whining, "inconvenienced" professors out. And we want the Provost outof faculty decisionmaking. Faculty members should stop wimping out and start dealing as advisors to students. Stop looking to the Provost, the PAC, and


Summer 1989 43 all the so-calledadhoccommittees,todotheso-called "dirty work." Have the guts to do your own housecleaning. Finally, to my silent, long-suffering comrades, you are duelong overdue-the minimal respect from your sponsors of not being subjected to an SASC Tribunal/Inquisition. Demand meet ings with both student and faculty members of the SASC-in fact any official meeting must be open to the publicin this state. Don't listen to those stale assertions from the USfNC Nomenklatura about "invasions of privacy'' -the privacy they claim to be protect ing is yours: you have the right to involve anyone you choose in the process; don't fatt for their shit The interests of the Administration, in the persons of the dean, the provost, the campus police, and all their cronies should always be subordinate to the NC student/faculty community What we have at New College is, by definition, a student-centered proce5$. bnything less is unacceptable. A Friendly Warning From Campus l\311ce ---------


44 protosexual Notes Toward a Proposal for a New College Journalism Program Mishler Editot'a Note: This is a revised version of the appmdix of Mike' thesis essay, "Editing and Journalism in a Liberal Arts ContexL" It is clear at least to me that New College students want to have a "regular'' student publication. In the past, the problem that would-beedilurs faced in trying to satisfy that desire was logistical: a tthe beginning, how to pay for it, and, inevitably, how to keep the publication in existence past the first year. Connected with these questions were secondary problems, such as how to provide for an "orientation issue," and whether to sell advertising. Student government, in its various incarnations over the 25year history of New College, has been the arena in which would-be editors have had to wrcstfunding for their projects. The inevitable result has been a perception that the publications "owed" some thing to student government operatives. This perception has sometimes, unfortunately, been accurate. Funding has been held hostagefromtimetotimebecauseofpersonalityclashesorpolitical disputes; at times, the demands of some student government leaders have amounted to a degree of censorship so blatant that, had administrators made the same demands, they would have been removed from their positions. Meanwhile, the faculty has remained uninvolved for the most part with student publications, partly because they have not often been invited to participate, and partly because of New College's lack of a journalism program. Another factor was the constant appearance of short-lived student publications which never could get past the beginning stages of their existence because of a dependence on year-by-year funding from student government. I do not have a solution to these problems, but I do have several suggestions. First, we could have a separate budgetary line, in student government, for student publications. Next, the faculty could designate one professor as the sponsor of student publica tions projects, which would enable students to get academic credit for their endeavors because of the attendant accountability such an


Summer 1989 45 arrangement would offer. Ideally, the designee would be a professor of Journalism and/or Mass Communications, and would occupy an interdisciplinary faculty chair straddling the Divisions of Social Sciences and Humanities. But even without such a "dream" faculty position, we could begin toputsucha program into opera tion. Finally, work on the student publication would now be part of the New College academic program, so College Work-Study funds could be made available for students involved in the pro gram, whether in editing or in production. In my baccalaureate exam, the question arose as to what kind of syllabus such a group tutorial as I have proposed would follow. Frankly, I can only suggest that those involved in it experiment with various approaches. One suggestion that arose at the exam was that the group study various "style books," discuss the under lying biases each-or all-of them might reveal, and then write its own consensus-based style sheet. As for how such an experimental approach to the subject under study might actually work in prac tice, Cris Hassold's Film I/11 classes in the 1986-1987 school year come to mind as examples, as do Mac Miller's voetry workshops and Literary Criteria/Editing Decisions (the New Collage hothouse) e.nd the Editing Workshop, Bryan Norton's Fall 1987 group tutorial. In the context of such an arrangement as I have described above, student government funding decisions would be open to scrutiny by the faculty; accountability would be enhanced, and more of the community would be involved in the process. Since continuity would be assured from year to year for student publica tions, those interested in being involved could get on with the task of putting out a good publication on a regular basis. The actual editing process would become the focus of attention, instead of the campus political process.


46 daguerrotype Calendar of Summer Events May26: May27: May27-28: May27-29: May29: Graduation PCP, probably about 11 p.m. Alum Reunion, various venues, including Palm Court of course ... The Fourth Annual Desoto Watermelon Festival in Arcadia. Contact Edna LaZar at the Desoto CountyOtamberofCommerce, Box 149, Arcadia, Fla. 33821, phone (813) 494-4033, for more infor mation. The Sarasota Film Society has scheduled screen ings of the recent French documentary, Hotel Tenninus: The Life and Times of Klaus Barbie, pro duced and directed by Marcel Ophuls, in the Plaza Twin Theatre at the Crossroads Shopping Center, South Tamiami Trail at Bee Ridge, Saturday and Sunday, 11 a.m.; Monday, 5:15 p.m. Tickets are $3.50. Phone (813) 388-2441 or 953-5111 for more information about the film or the Sarasota Film Society. Memorial Day. Southwest Florida Wine Fair at Captiva, an event that includes a lawn party, a winemakers' dinner (Dr. Schoen, take note, wherever you are ... ), seminars and a wine tasting. Phone Jennifer Hussey, (813) 472-5111 for more information. June 3: New Moon. June3-5, 10-12: The Sarasota Film Society has scheduled screen ings of the Swedish epic, Pelle the Conqueror, di rected by Bille August and starring Max Von Sydow, in the Plaza Twin Theatre at the Cross roads Shopping Center, South Tamiami Trail at Bee Ridge, Saturday and Sunday, 11 a.m.; Mon day, 5:15p.m. Tickets are $350. Phone (813) 388-2441 or 953-5111 for more information about the film or the Sarasota Film Society.


Summer 1989 JuneS: June 10: June 17-19: June18: June19: June21: June24: June24-26: June30: July 1-3: 47 The 39th Annual Hibiscus and Plant Sale in Ft, Myers. Phone Ruth Watson of the American Hibiscus Society at {813) 936-4675 for more infor mation. The Downtown Gainesville Blueberry Bash, fea turing a plant sale, an arts and crafts show, and a recipe contest. Phone {904) 377-0400 for more infonnation. The Sarasota Film Society has scheduled screen ingsofthecomedy,OutCold,directedbyMalcolm Mowbray (A Private Function), starring Teri Carr, RandyQuaidandJohnUthgow,lnthePlazaTwin Theatre at theCrossroadsShoppingCenter,South Tamiami Trail at Bee Ridge, Saturday and Sunday, 1ta.m.;Monday,5:15p.m. Ticketsare$3.50. Phone (813) 388-2441 or 953-5111 for more infonnation about the film or the Sarasota Film Society. Fathers' Day Full Moon Summer Solstice The 10th Annual Sandcastle Building Contest on St. Pete Beach. Phone Clynna Hanchette of Don CeSar Beach (813) 360-1881 for more infor mation. The Sarasota Film Society has scheduled screen ings of Soviet director Eldar Ryazanov's A Forgot ten Tune for the Flute, in the Plaza Twin Theatre at the Crossroads Shopping Center, South Tamiami Trail at Bee Ridge, Saturday and Sunday, 11 a.m.; Monday, 5:15p.m. Tickets are $3.50. Phone {813) 388-2441 or 953-5111 for more information about the film or the Sarasota Film Society. Rainbow Gathering; send SASE to Box 3433, Ann Arbor, Michigan 48106, for more information. The Sarasota Film Society has scheduled screen ings of the British 40s period piece, The Dressmaker, in the Plaza Twin Theatre at the Crossroads Shop ping Center, South Tamiami Trail at Bee Ridge, Saturday and Sunday, 11 a.m.;Monday,5:15p.m. Ticketsare$3.50. Phone(813)388-2441 or953-5111 formoreinformationaboutthefilmortheSarasota Film Society.


48 July3: July4: JulyS: July 14: July 17-23: Julyl8: july26: July29: August1: AugustS: August 11: August17: August 21-27: August28: September 4: September 15: September 16: New Moon Independence Day stereotype Eighth Annual Chili Cook-Off in Ft. Pierce. Con tact AI Fort of the Ft. Pierce Exchange Oub, Box 249, Ft. Pierce, Fla. 34954, phone (407) 461-2414, for more information. Lisa Whalley's 21st birthday; Bastille Day. Hemingway Days Festival in Key West. Contact Michael Walton, Hemingway Days, Box4045, Key West, Fla. 33041, phone (305) 294-4440, for more information. Full Moon Sixth National Whores' Conference and Hookers' Masquerade Ball in San Francisco. Phone (415) The Selby Gardens Summer Plant Fair. Phone Francine Walsh Dieme.r of Selby Gardens in Sara sota, (813) 366-5730, for more information. New Moon The Annual Possum Festival and Parade in Wau sau. Contact Dalton Carter of the Wausau Com munity Development Oub, Chipley, Fla. 32428, phone (904) 638-0250 for more information. Franz Loewenherz's 20th birthday; submission deadline for the orientation issue of Reagent, etc. Send all submissions to Lisa Whalley,NC box 285. Full Moon 1989-1990 Orientation Week 1989-1990 Term I classes begin. Labor Day Full Moon Probable date of the first PCP of the 1989-1990 academic year. September 22: Autumnal Equinox


Summer 1989 49 Environmental Studies Goes Absolutely Wacko "An Ivy League Education for the Price of a Good Stereo" Department New College and Haroard: A Field Guide John Duncan IN lHE BEGINNING (c. A.D. 1960) the creators said, "Let there be a Harvard of the South! Letthere be a community of scholars, an intellectual center right here in Sarasota, a New College!" Thus there sprang up in south Rorida a college so much like Harvard that only the most skilled and observantcollege-watchercan tell the two apart. This college's own admissions office, as well as some administrators and teachers and even some students, admit that they have difficulty distinguishing the two, so the editors commis sioned Dr. Harvey Sudafed, a noted and steady-eyed college watcher, to provide some comments on the fine physical and behavioral distinctions between these two sub-species of the species highus educationus. It is true that both schools live in bustling areas and are close to busy mass-transportation terminals (the Sarasota/Bradenton air port, in fact, is located almost as conveniently as the Harvard Square subway station) and that they both have large swimming pools (and nearby less-swimmable bodies of water). They both also have proportionately large and well-stocked libraries. Dr. Sudafed points out, however, that there is a noticable distinction between the schools' bookstores. Of course Harvard is very large and supports ten or twenty bookstores and New College is very small and supports only one bookstore, but the skilled observer dis counts this as superfluous. Both school's bookstores are run by competent managers and both accurately reflect the interests and lifestyles of the students and faculty: the Harvard Bookstore con tains a very diverse range of genres and opinions, white lhe New College Campus Books hop reatly doesn' thave many shelves, other than those for required books and a few racks of books centered in a narrow literary range. This is certainly nobody's fault, and probably doesn't hurt New College students who are at least resourceful enough to around for that elusive interesting book. So the trained eye must


50 protoceratops look elsewhereand to_ Dr. Sudafed's trained eye, the dead give away is that Harvard has something that can actually be called a "campus" while New College does not. Harvard has grassy commonareasand high campus wall thatprovideautonomy, com munity boundaries, and security from off-campus crime. The skilled observer must not be fooled, however, by the large area of grass and old buildings surrounded by the decorative fence at New College. This is a decoy. The actual campus is across the street and resembles a shopping center or a complex of low-rent dentist's offices. This make it hard to tell whether many of smdents, sources of noise, bicycles, etc. are part of New College or not part of New College and in an odd way estranges many ofthepeople there from each other. Once upon a time a student suggested that the school move everything to the beautiful grassy area on the other sideof the highway and build a watl around it so that New College, too, could have a campus, but this student was immediately evaluated by the Student Academic Status Committee and expelled on the grounds that in the last analysis he held his teachers and administrators, rather than himself, responsible for the quality of his education. Dr. Sudafed's last bit of advice concerns habitat: go out into the area surrounding the college and take a random visual survey of ten people. If eight of them appear to be younger than thirty, rest assured thatyouareatHarvard. Ontheotherhand,ifeightofthem appear to be over sixty Welt, Dr. Sudafed hopes you get the idea. He also hopes that he has presented some tangible, concrete distinctions between these two educational birds so that you will never again fall prey to the old wive'stalethatHarvardisthehidden,reclusiveeaglethatcan't help but to be respected while New College is a flamboyant peacock that runs around the farmyard flaunting its average admissionsS.A.T. If all this is accomplished, says Dr. Sudafed, then his life's studies indeed have not been in vain. Stay tuned-next issue's environmental study go wacko. Dr. Sudafed discusses the rare Green-Billed African Lazybird that waits fori ts chicks to hatch and then tells them to build its nest, and examines differences between subway systems in New York City and Washington, D.C.


Summer 1989 51 Campus Digest ... around the campus ... around the campus ... Henry Sightings Amid rumors that she is actually the Director of Student Affairs, Dr. Oare Dozier-Henry was sighted twice last week in the vidnity of the Student Affairs office. As usual, Dr. Henry could not be reached for comment. Cerny Sets Record Early last week, Alumnus Peter G. Cerny (NC '87) was arrested for a record fifth time by Campus Police. Cerny was spotted by off-duty officer Randy "Dr. Crime" Gonzalez at the North Trail Publix. Explicated the vigilant Gonzalez: ''I don't want to kick this kid's butt, but he knows he's not supposed to be on or near campus." Asked whether it was a little drastic to arrest Cerny one mile away from campus, Gonzalez replied that Cerny was perusing the produce department in a menacing and drug-crazed manner, and that he represented a clear and present danger to the U.S.F. community. Cerny was released after his weekly strip search and a stout cup of coffee. USF Institutes New Incentive Program On a sad note, Reg the copy guy, Larry the mail guy, Bobby the cook, and "Momin"' Bob, have an been fired in what admini stration insiders call the "Coup d' Kind." It seems that the dismissals are the symbolic kick-<>ff of a year-long plan to fire any U.S.F. employee who is overly nice or helpful to students. As extra incentive, the Dean has personally offered a "merit piss-<>ff" pay to employees who "show exemplary bureaucratic ineptitude and/ or excessive and/ or absurd discourtesy to enrolled/ graduated and/or former New College students." To show that he means business, the Dean brought the press and local residents along to the Cook Library to watch him hit Ed the library guy with an atlas. ''I'm tired of being a nice guy," Barylski announced. MORE COOD NEWS>


52 campusmight Jenkins Snags New Title, Degrees At her Coronation last Tuesday, Chief Head Librarian Dr. Althea Jenkins officially ascended her throne as the proper "Queen Of The Stacks." Dean Dr. R.V. Barylski presented her with a "really pretty" sceptre and two more doctorates ("Fun with Popsicle Sticks" and ''Putting Things in Boxes") to complement her Ed .. D. A spokesman for Nova University, the Queen's Alma Mater, matched the Dean by offering doctorates in "Church Science" and "Modem Balloons." The Dean read aloud from the memo rial plaque presented by Nova: '1n keeping with Nova's policy of weekend-only classes and credit for 1ife experience,' we are proud to give Drs. Jenkins all of the credentials that her skills commend." This makes 18 degrees for Jenkins, none of which required theses. Errata (i.e., fuckups) In the final, Spring issue of Prototype, several sins of omission were committed, most notably two: in the Acknowledgments, I failed to thank Merissa Lovett for her cover and for her illustration that appeared in the "centerfold" of that issue; and I failed to thank Sue Soltis for her poem, 'The Blur of Jasmine" (page 57). For the record, I am now thanking both Merissa and Sue for their submis sions, which added profoundly to the quality of that issue. I also mangled two paragraphs in Rodrigo Diaz's essay, "The Self-Destruction of Phenomenology" (pages 47-56). (Learn from my children: do not type complex, arcane arguments at 3:30 a.m.) The first, which appears on page 54, should read as follows: It should bedear,however, that Husser!' s attempt to skirt around the consequences of his own position on transcendent essences creates an immense problem for his philosophy. What Husserl's position entails is that any pattern of appearances is "consistent" and forms a self-identical and "harmonious" essence insofar as the pattern of appearances is a pattern of appearances, a set of hyleticdatawhichinsomewayoranotherhavebeenassimilated, no matter how easy or how chatlenging the assimilation was to effect or for what purpose or value it was effected. This conclu sion fotlows from the fact that for Husser! an essence is the self identity formed by a pattern formed by an infinite set of infinite sets of immanently given appearances. Because the required


Summer 1989 number of appearances can never in fact be immanently given, wecanneverknowwhattheappearanceswhichareimmanently given are appearances of. Because knowing what the appear ancesareappearancesofisthejustificationforassimilatingthem in one pattern to theexclusionof any other, for holding that there isone"correct" and thus "consistent'' way to assimilate them, we can assimilate the appearances in any way we like and legiti mately call it "consistent." The key, then, to the relativistic con sequences of Husserl's position on essences is the central role played by the immanently given in determining essences. But this role, of course, just follows from the phenomenological reduction of the natural standpoint-according to Husserl, the proper beginning for philosophy. 53 The final paragraph of the essay, which begins on page 55, should read as follows: It is perhaps fitting, then. to conclude by a.uing what leads Husser\ to contradict himself in this way. Why can the philosophernotrestwlth thedevelopmentofhis position on essences up to the point before he introduces his spurious rules? Part of the answer seems given in the following passage: .... pure or transandental phenomenology will be established ... As 11 science of cssenlial Being (as "'eidetic"' Science); a science which alms exclusively at establishing "knowledge of essences .... ( p. 40) Husser I places the phrase 'knowledge of essences' in quotes, one suspects, because, after all, he does not hold that essences are in factevercompletelydetermined. ButHusserlcanstillrefertothe aim of phenomenology as knowledge of essences because he does hold that essences are in fact determinable in some "general" sense. However, ifhavingtheaim of knowledge of essences leads Husser} to the apparent contradiction caused by the introduction osspecialrules,whydoesthephilosophernotsimplygiveupthis aim and remain content with essences which are in fact always incompletely given and so never, in any ultimate sense, at least, known? The answer can only be that such a move would result in the complete unraveling of phenomenology. For though Husser! says the aim of phenomenology is knowledge of es sences, in truth phenomenology pursues this goal only to secure a greater victory, that of moving beyond the presuppositionsand habits of the natural standpoint to the absolute certainty of the immanently given. A position with respect to essences which deniesthattheycanbeknowninanyultimatesensewouldmake theimmanent"enigmatic";quitesimply,wecouldnotultimately know what the immanent is. What the immanent is would becomewhattheimmanentisforourselveswithallourpresuppo-


54 fleabite sitions and habits; the thesis of the natural standpoint would penetrate the boundaries of the epokhe. Husserl cannot giveup his goal of knowledge of essences, then, without destroying the phenomenological reduction. But if his only way of attaining his goal is by appealing to his notion of rules for the ideal possibility of perfecting imperfect givennesses, it seems he cannot avoid de stroyingthereductionanyway,forhemustcontradicttherelativ ism itimplies by appealing to a notion thatsmacksofa borrowing from thenaturalstandpoint. Either way it appears Husserl must destroy the reduction to save the reduction. Indeed, the heart of the matter is that, byentailinga relativisticconclusionconceming essences, whatisimmanentlygivenis, the phenomenological re duction self-destructs by reducing itself to the contingency of the natural standpoint. Theanswer,then, to our question as to what leads Husserl to contradict himself is simply phenomenology itself. Whew! Glad tlulrs straightened out! Apologies are extended to all concerned, particularly the pa tient readers of Prototype. -Michael James Mishler




56 goodnight IR

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