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T0·71l The Palladian The Literary Magazine of Unity College Published twice yearly by the students of Unity College, Unity, Me. Volume 2 Winter 1970-71 Number 1 TABLE OF CONTENTS For Steve (dedicated to the memory of Stephen Geldmacher 4 Of Wine and a Quiet Night, by Russ Barnes 5 Two Poems, by Elizabeth C. McMahon 13 Two Stories - with an obeisance to Edgar Allan Poe: The Just, by Daniel Linehan 14 The Graveyard Rats, by Leonard Freedenberg 18 A Dream, for Two People, by Douglas Oster 21 Realism, by Russ Barnes 22 Searching in an Erratic World, by Kathryn Homstead 25 My Vietnam, by Daniel Pettingill 26 Portrait Two, by Russ Barnes 29 Concerning a Train, a prose poem, by Robert Fletcher 30 EDITORIAL BOARD Russell Barnes, Editor-in-Chief Leonard Freedenberg Kathryn Homstead Donald Mortland, Faculty Advisor Cover design by David Barnes FOR STEVE gone. sunsets, a dream lost, a knowing and an unbelieving. gone. how do I express it? Steve was too much into life to want to be placed inside lines about his death. no song of death for Steve. yet" I must write he laughed he loved and cannot find within myself the words that I woul say. he built his friendship and he was loved in turn. but these words aren't enough. perhaps a line I found on a record album cover would best express what Steve would want. it said, ~~remember me as you find." so, that's it. remember Steve as you find. he'd like that. I know he would. 5 OF WINE AND A QUIET NIGHT Russ Barnes Uncle William sat across the table from me, his baggy eyes peering intently at the chess board between us, his bald scalp moving in tiny ripples toward the desolate shoreline of his hair, his manicured fingers drumming curses at me in Morse code. "It's your move, Uncle," I said quietly, with what I hoped was just the right amount of overbearing leer. <<It is vulgar, impolite, and entirely inconsiderate of one to prod one's opponent by gloating, Ronald," he answered stiffly. "It reflects terribly upon one's upbringing." Thus roused.from his reverie, he lifted his silk smoking jacket, rammed his index finger somewhere into the depths of his snowy paunch, worked it vigorously around for several seconds, and extracted a large wad of lint which he flicked into a nearby wastebasket with the casual expertise of many years' experience. "Someday," I said, "you are going to puncture your large intestine." He continued to glare at the Queen's Knight's Pawn as if it were a practicing Democrat and answered me only with a grunt. I was beginning to be concerned over the possibility of permanent damage to my heart if this excitement should much longer continue when someone knocked viciously upon the door and waited for no answer before entering. Uncle looked up casually, grimaced with distaste, and, with false teeth clenched, muttered, "The sea has given up its dead." No doubt it looked that way but it was merely my compatriots Alton "The Mantis" Cantwright and Winfred K. Turfwald. "Hiya, Unc!" cried the Mantis. Uncle tenderly rubbed the end of his nose but gave no other indication of life or further interest in living. <<You're in trouble, baby," Mantis said as he walked to Uncle's side and looked at the chessboard. <<Your rooks are out of it completely, your knights are too far out to come back in time to help, your bishops are both captured, and your queen is about to get raped." He looked down compassionately and laid a gentle hand on Uncle's shoulder. "Give it up, old man, give it up." 6 Uncle sniffled slightly, pushed back his chair, and stood up with the quiet dignity of a king. He tilted his head so that he could look up into the bulging eyes of the six foot six inch Mantis. nYou, sir, are a stylish man," he said sternly and with reddening ears, nyou have Vikingstyle manners, Neanderthal-style hair, and old-style smell. I could bear you if you would quietly remain a freak of nature, but you insist upon entering into the circles of humanity. Therefore, I am warning you. Leave these premises immediately or I will remove you bodily, and without regard to your wellbeing when you land upon the jagged rocks below!" Whether or not Uncle William . could actually have removed the Mantis is not important. The important thing is that at that moment he believed he could. Like the Blowfish of the Southern Seas, Uncle William swells enormously and looks ferocious. And, like the fish, if his bluff is called, he deflates and looks worried. I grabbed my coat and strode to the door. nr shall be out quite late, Uncle; please don't wait up for me." nl shan't," he answered. nu mph," said Winfred. "Umph," he answered. "Bye, Unc," said Mantis. nMay your hair fall out," he answered. We closed the door and, mercifully, were in the midst of a quiet autumn night. "Well," I said, watching the noiseless dance of some falling leaves, "where do we go from here?" "I know just the place," said Mantis, "but we 're gonna need plenty of inner power to get there. And I have just the thing." He turned to Winnie and began rummaging through the little guy's coat pockets. He gave a short cry of triumph and, with a flourish, held aloft in the moonlight a dark, kidney-shaped object which seemed to squirm 7 with a life of its own. "Bless you, Mantis!" I cried. "It's a wineskin!" Mantis grinned his toothy grin and began unscrewing the top. ((Right on," he laughed, ((and it's filled with my old man's home-brewed, one hundred percent kosher dandelion wine." He lifted the skin to his lips and sent a long, thin stream of amber liquid rushing down his throat. "Tasty?" I asked. "Tasty," he answered, and slowly started to choke. We ambled along for nearly half an hour after that, using the wineskin at whatever time we so desired, and heading in the general direction of the first bar we came to. The Mantis had been as generous as possible when filling the two-quart skin and assured me that it was completely kosher. By the time we reached 5th Street I was feeling absolutely Jewish. ((Let us stop here," said Mantis as we arrived at the corner of 5th and Montvale. "The light is good, the trees are shady, and all is groovy. Yes, let us stop at this veritable oasis and quench our burning thirsts. The fort is still a long way off and we should refresh ourselves lest we be unable to fend off the Arabs who will undoubtedly attack us." He giggled. "Besides, I can't walk much farther." Had we quenched our thirsts any more we would doubtlessly have been attacked, but something caught Winnie's eye and he spoke for the first time that week. ((Look," he said. The Mantis and I learned long ago to pay attention to Winnie when he says something--when he says anything, in fact. We followed his gaze down the sidewalk and there, chained to a parking meter in front of Mort Pillsbury's Head Shop, squatting calmly on the hood of a car and picking fleas from its arms, was an ape. More than an ape, it was a large and incredibly hairy gorilla. ((Wow!" said Mantis. "Let's look into this!" 8 We strolled casually over to the beast and were surprised to find that it was not, as we had assumed, naked, but rather was wearing a uniform of sorts. Heavy, dark red shorts and a thick, dark red sweat shirt with the number 50 printed on it were topped by a small, shinyblack hockey helmet. The gorilla seemed not at all surprised to see us and merely blinked calmly with peaceful black eyes. Winfred reached up and began rubbing the creature behind its ears. It returned to its search for the elusive flea and, showing no inclination to tell us about itself, we decided to find some evidence as to just what it might be doing there. Roughly five minutes later we found some printing on the door of the car. Careful deciphering by all three of us soon produced the information that we were in the presence of Rollo, The World's Only Roller-Derby Playing Gorilla. nFar out," said Winnie. nshut up," said the gorilla. ((What?" gasped I. ny OU heard me," Said the gorilla. I was about to start running when I looked at the Mantis. He was red in the face and shaking with silent laughter. It then dawned on me that the Mantis, among his many talents, was an excellent ventriloquist. ((This is going to be a fun evening," announced the gorilla. It didn't take Mantis long to pick the lock on the gorilla's collar. ((Come on, Rollo," I said. And as if we three were leading it to the promised land, the gorilla jumped from the hood of the car and ambled down the sidewalk behind us. 9 We had gone scarcely more than a hundred yards when the lights of a bar were shining upon us and I knew we were going no farther. Not just an ordinary drinking establishment, this venerable dungeon was known as Red Nick's Bar. It was here, too, that the Mantis's father had claimed permanent residence every night from eight until midnight. Surprisingly, the entrance of three freaks and a gorilla made little impression upon Nick's patrons. Assuredly, a few looked when the Mantis hit his head on a ceiling beam, a few looked when Winnie tripped over the doorsill because he forgot to take off his dark glasses, and a few looked when I fell on my stomach because my knees suddenly stopped functioning. But none, I swear, None looked when Rollo shuffled in on all fours and began looking interestedly at the salted peanuts. Mantis helped me to my feet and we weaved steadily toward the bar. "You never could hold your liquor," said Rollo. ((Shut up, Mantis!" I snarled. All of us took seats at the bar except Rollo, who grabbed a bag of peanuts and began tearing at it with strong and eager fingers. Cold Eddy, the bartender, came over in a quick sprint. "Hey, buddy!" he snapped, "you pay for them things before you eat cem!" ccDraw two!" said Rollo, without looking up. Eddy looked at Rollo more closely. "You're a gorilla!" ((I'm also thirsty," said Rollo. "Draw two!" The Cold One reached down, drew two beers, and placed them before the munching gorilla. "That's forty apiece for the drafts and ten for the nuts," Eddy said. ccMy friend is buying," Rollo answered dfsinterestedly as Mantis slid the money across the bar. "Why do you gorillas talk with your mouths closed?" asked Ed. 10 "Most of us have atrociously bad breath," answered Rollo, who then began shuffling toward the other end of the bar in search of more nuts. On his way, unfortunately, he bumped into a huge customer seated several stools down from us and who, in our condition, we had not previously noticed. nwatch where you're goin!" bawled a gravelly voice, and the whole room went quiet. The man Rollo had bumped was none other than Herman Cantwright, father of the Mantis, and affectionately known as Herman the Horror. Quickly described, Herman looks like Rollo with a rough shave on his whole body. He also has a temper worse than twenty gorillas put together. His only hobbies are fracturing skulls and busting furniture, drinking and painting houses being his lifetime occupations. Rollo stared quietly at the furious human glaring at him and, for whatever reason crossed his monkey mind, opened his mouth in a truly massive yawn. I don't know if the Horror was more affected by someone yawning in the face of one of his threats or the sight of some deadlylooking fangs. nPsssst, Herman," said Eddy, nthat's a gorilla." Herm snorted, but took a step backward to get a better look at his intended victim. nHiya, Dad," said the Mantis, stepping up beside Rollo. "Ain't too damn careful who you're hangin' around with lately are you?" the Horror said warmly. ~~You, sir," said Rollo, nshould remain quiet lest you be beaten severely about the head and shoulders." 11 Mantis, I might add, would never have said this to his old man's face, but with a gorilla's mouth and body working for you, how can you go wrong? nYou sound like my son," said Herman. ''You look like my mother," said Rollo. Gorilla or not, the Horror would stand for none of that. He gave Rollo a severe shove on the shoulders which actually succeeded in moving the 500 pound beast backward. This, however, was no ordinary, mild-mannered anthropoid to be shoved about by a barroom brawler. With a casual, backhand sweep of his forearm, Rollo sent Herman sprawling back into the bar. The Horror was surprised, very surprised, but recovered himself quickly. He pulled in his huge beertrained stomach, thus revealing his massive silver belt buckle which was made in Mexico and depicted a scene of some ancient orgy, and charged Rollo with a deep roar. Not for naught, however, had this hairy athlete been roller derby's most feared competitor. As the Horror reached him he applied a quick and very hard knee block and, with a growl of what seemed to be satisfaction, tossed his opponent toward the back of the room. Herman pumped his arms and legs mightily and bellowed throughout his entire flight, but it was to no avail. Three barflies, two hookers, and the Saturday Evening Beer and Marching Society watched in amazement as the Horror sailed over their heads and landed with a tremendous crash in the middle of a table of poker playing construction workers. With cards, chips, and table legs raining down upon him the Horror thundered, ''Help me get that monkey!!" Immediately the men around the Horror began rushing Rollo, figuring that the unknown dangers of tackling a gorilla could not be half as bad as certain disfigurement at the hands of a raving madman. 12 The Mantis was now beside himself with excitement and was giving Rollo an outstanding voice. ''Tackle me, sirrah, and all the hounds of hell will not stay my vengeance!" Even the unusual event of an ape imitating Shakespeare gave no pause to the rush of the construction workers who quickly buried Rollo in a pile of bodies, flying fists, and monkey wrenches. The pile, however, quickly untangled as Rollo began giving serious attention to his work. Biting, clawing, and throwing men in all directions, the gorilla shouted, "But all I want to do is establish a meaningful and viable relationship with you members of the hard hat society!" At this point, the Mantis wandered too close to the action. Rollo's giant arm stretched out and delivered a tremendous blow to the Mantis's chest. This not only knocked out the Mantis and left the gorilla speechless, it made Winnie's wineskin, hidden all this time beneath the Mantis's coat, pop up into the air and land with a plop on its u nconscious carrier's chest. ''My kid!" screamed the Horror, "you've knocked out my kid's bladder!" Rollo turned to meet the attack of his largest opponent, but was much too slow. The Horror had now secured a length of brass railing intended for the bar. With a swing reminiscent of Mickey Mantle at his best, the veteran barstool crusader caught the hapless creature square on the jaw. Without a groan, sigh, or inspirational speech, the mighty Rollo slumped to the floor unconscious. "That was great, Herman," said Cold Eddy, "helping your kid out like that." "That wasn't it," said the Horror with a quiet snarl and look of utter scorn, "I just didn't want no stinkin' monkey establishing a mean and vile relationship with me!" 13 I look about the house. On a piece of paper I find his name. He is a man bouncing his new daughter on his knee or holding his son on his lap. He is a picture in a family album. When we talk, we call him "Daddy." When we pray, his name falls from our lips. I've been searching for him all my life, yet the older I get, the further away he seems I'll never find him now, for he's nowhere to be found. He was real once but not now. To me he is someone to hear stories about; someone I'm told I resemble. He's like a hero in a novel,- you love him and wish him near, yet he never comes. A Thunder Cloud - it passed over me and blocked out the sun. It rained a little - but that's all right, the trees and flowers needed a bath anyway. You 're a thunder cloud too - you passed by me, and took away the sun. I cried a little - but I guess I had to; there was something in my eye. Elizabeth C. McMahon 14 THE JUST Daniel F. Linehan Death, as a means of punishment, is the most permanent form of penance. For some it is a long and frustrating wait, in the death cell, for legal execution. For others it is quick, at the hands of an aggressor. But what does this accomplish? If a man has been given the death penalty for a crime, no matter whether it was through judicial channels or not, why should he be allowed a quick death, with only the minimum amount of pain? No, my friends, the man that has wronged me shall not repent that easily. He shall find out what it is to die for a crime. The physical pain, the mental anguish, the knowledge that death is near yet so far away. And only I, the real executioner, if merciful, can grant his final wish, Death. Do you think I am Mad? I am mad, but at the courts. The judiciary system has become a farce. They cater to the demands of the criminal, by offering quick death, for hideous crimes. This is no way to prevent crime. The criminal knows that if he is to make atonement with his life it will be quick and painless. When the courts act in this manner it is not a deterrent to crime, but an easy way out for the criminal. He does not have to justify his reasons or suffer at any length. That is why I feel it is my duty, as a citizen of the state and a member of society, to inflict slow death on the man that wronged me. It is not merely vengeance that provokes my actions, although it does play a part, but it is notice to other criminals that the courts are not going to save them from society. He will be released this day, from his detention cell, at the County Court House. Long have I waited for this moment. An entire week has passed since the authorities detained him. Vengeance and justification will be mine. 15 There is a room, below the compound of my home, that has been outfitted for this occasion. It is quite simple in design, actually. The room is approximately ten feet long and ten feet wide, with only one piece of furniture, a torture rack. The rack, which I designed myself, is very similar to those used during the Medieval and Inquisition periods. It has the basic mechanism of stretching the body over a very coarse piece of wood, but with one addition, the use of wires. If a criminal is subjected to only one punishment he will become accustomed to it, and mentally disregard the physical pain. So, I have installed into the rack a series of electronic shocks, which burst forth periodically, to different parts of the body. These shocks are very unstable and may strike minutes or hours apart, striking one part of the body or consuming the whole body. I may assure you that the voltage is not enough to kill him, just stimulate. I have introduced the shocks for only one reason, to keep him conscious. If he weren't the punishment would be to no avail. Therefore, it is my conviction that the victim will either die from the stretch mechanism or become insane. In either event the final effect is the same, slow death. Ah, there he is now on the courthouse steps. Should I rush up to him? No, that would be too suspicious. I must do it nonchalantly in order for my dinner invitation to seem nothing more than an invitation. He's accepting the invitation within the false proposal it is being expressed. A night to make amends, to forgive and forget the crime he committed. The fool, does he think that I would offer him a night of entertainment through dinner, pleasant conversation, and a game of chess after the crime he perpetrated against me? I think he is suspicious of me. 16 The dinner was excellent but unenjoyable, for I was impatient. I had to be patient, gain his confidence, and then strike. This process was especially hard; I despised him and could not stand his presence in my home. Finally, the moment came; I rendered him unconscious and proceeded as planned. While I was having a drink, I heard him scream. He awoke earlier than I expected and promptly surmised that death was near. Needless to say, I was glad that he had realized the horror from the start, because then his mental agony would almost equal his physical agony. It was amazing, only fifteen minutes on the rack and-he received forty-six shocks, that I had counted, and he grew a half inch. He was screaming like a madman, and I feared that he might break down mentally before he was justly punished. I tried to tell him that this was only mere punishment for his crime and he should accept it as a man who wants to make atonement. But he would not listen to me; he just kept on screaming, saying that he did not deserve such punishment. I told him it was not for him to decide; I was the judge and knew what should be done. So, I left him there for two hours, while I read the correspondence for the day. It was then that I decided to end his life by more conventional means. I had just received the electricity bill and it was much too high. Much to my dismay I had to perform the finale. When I arrived next to him, he begged me with all the sincerity of his heart to let him go. For some strange reason I got the impression that he wanted to live. Imagine that, a common criminal wanting to live in a society of decent people! He really looked sincere, with tears streaming down his face; had I not known his past and had he not wronged me I would have let him live. But I did know; it's in his blood to be a criminal, so it is his blood I will deprive him of. Then placing a bucket under each wrist and joint I cut them. He was so full of the want to live, it was a pity he had bad blood. 17 Having completed my first execution for society, I now prepared a plan for its members to follow. It was a basic plan. "If anyone has wronged you (as in my case), then you may inflict just punishment, through torture." The rule was simple and very liberal: there could be so many varied forms of punishment. Now was my moment of triumph. I proposed to the world my plan, and as I expected the masses of people, discontent with the courts, flocked to my side. Everyone was willing to be an executioner of just punishment; even members of the judiciary system joined the group stating that, they too, were against the courts and their leniency. It was a wonderful night for me, their savior, the father of the society for just punishment. That night all that joined repeated their pledge, nTo rid society of the criminal and become a pure, honest, and evil-free society." Yes, last night was wonderful. It was the beginning of a new era, a new reality. But now as I look onto the streets filled with my followers, there is nothing but mass murder. People are killing people frantically. No one person can escape the punishment of the just society. I have created nchaos." The beginning of time, again. 18 THE GRAVEYARD RATS Leonard Freedenberg I was leaving the R---Graveyard at dusk, when I chanced on Jasper Wright. I had spent the better part of the dreary afternoon at the grave of my beloved April. He stepped out of a cross-path and collided with me. A clatter of metal and wood drew attention first to the pick and shovel he had been carrying. The man immediately excused himself and, as the dying rays of the sun shone full on my face, he gasped my name. I stood there in the path, looking at a forlorn, ragwrapped shell of a human being, whose face, stained by the sinking orange sun, seemed covered with blood. I looked at him stupidly and then he spoke his name. Oh, sad fortune, he was my best friend from my University days! He had risen high in the legal world and was said to have the best legal mind in our time. Then came the scandal of 19-- and his career was snuffed out like a halfburned candle. I threw my arms 'round him in tearful greeting and he, likewise, embraced me. We gathered up the tools and retired to his little shack at the rear of the grounds. There, over a few glasses of cheap Scotch, he reviewed his history since 19--. After having me swear a most solemn oath, he told me his greatest secret. Jasper Wright was not only caretaker of R---Graveyard, but resident grave-robber as well! I was aghast. I sat speechless at the thought of the best legal brain in all America reduced to such a degrading job and such a revolting sideline. Wright carefully outlined the location of the grave he was to rob that night, and told me of the fabulous diamond stick-pin and the beautiful emerald cuff-links which adorned the body. The gold watch-chain was an item he would also be glad to possess. 19 I asked Wright what he had done with all the past treasures he had stolen from the luckless corpses. He became embarrassed but finally admitted that he had turned to alcohol as a means of ridding his mind of the past glory he had attained. It also helped to drown out the constantly recurring images of the graveyard rats. As big as dogs some of them were, and their voracious appetites left few corpses untouched. They would gnaw through the bottoms of the coffins and drag the bodies down their tunnels to be devoured. He had lost many a prize that way, but did not intend to lose this one. I begged him to give up his twisted existence and rejoin the world of sanity. After much pleading, I finally convinced him to do so. After receiving his promise that tonight's foray would be his last, I left, contented that I had saved him from such a mind-warping life. I retired early and awoke refreshed and ready to help my old friend move his meager belongings to my home. After a light breakfast I set out for the R--- Graveyard and went at once to Wright's little shack. Imagine my worry when no answer came to my knock. I tried the door and, finding it unlocked, entered the hovel, only to become frantic when I saw the bed had not been slept in. I went quickly to the spot where the infamous grave lay, and found the shovel and pick; but of Wright there was no sign. I lifted the cover of the coffin, and a sight more horrible than a dead body greeted my eyes. The coffin was empty! A jagged, gaping hole in the bottom of the coffin confirmed my worst fears. The body had been stolen by the rats and Jasper Wright had gone after it! My mind in a turmoil and sick with worry, I ran wildly through the Graveyard seeking help. I finally reached the main office, and there I told the sad tale to the manager. This good man immediately summoned the police, who arrived with shovels, lanterns, and guns, and we set out for the grave once more. 20 There was a trail of blood and fluid, embalming fluid I suppose, leading away from the hole, and not ten feet from the entrance of the tunnel lay the body of a giant rat, shot neatly through the head. I had never seen such a tremendous rat in all my life. It was fully as big as a basset hound! The tunnels were large and we only had to stoop a little to make our way. We followed the crimson trail through the dank earth and found another dead rat and, further on, still a third. We found three more together, all shot, and an empty revolver had crushed the skull of a fourth. I knew now that Wright was unarmed, and shuddering to think what fiendish play the rats would have with him, urged the police on. We were at a fork in the tunnel with one branch going only about ten feet further. Down the main path we went, but only twenty feet or so, where we found the remains of the corpse which had been Wright's undoing. Surely I knew that Wright was either hopelessly lost or dead. The police were ready to call off the search but I implored them to explore that shorter passage. On closer inspection we saw that the tunnel ended there because the roof had caved in. We dug frantically, and finally we came to the bottom of an old coffin, gnawed through like the one through which we had descended into this pit of Hell. We tore at the boards until finally they came away and revealed the dead body of Jasper Wright, his hands clutching the velvet lining. What had happened became all too clear. The rats, with their uncanny minds, had sensed that Wright was no longer able to defend himself. He now became the hunted. Seeking refuge in one of the numerous passages, he must have rejoiced when the roof caved in behind him, making him temporarily safe from his ravenous pursuers. When he tried to crawl further, the horrid truth must have burst upon him. He was imprisoned in an old empty coffin. Jasper Wright had buried himself alive! 21 A DREAM FOR TWO PEOPLE Douglas Oster As we look out across the brown fields, fields filled with strange brown death, Our thoughts are filled with love and new experiences, Awakening and birth of feelings, that are as heavy As the fresh, crisp air we breathe, As the deep thoughts we feel. Perhaps we are just beginning to taste the cup of ultimate happiness. Ultimate happiness runs in many strange directions But all directions lead to the center of the cup, called love. As the black bird attempts to devour the corn from the brown fields, Maybe we should attempt to devour the cup of ultimate happiness. Yes, my friend, the cup of ultimate happiness Filled with the precious substance, love! 22 REALISM Russ Barnes Sam explained it to me first. ''Realism is what is really happening, baby," was the way he put it. This is awfully deep thinking for Sam, and I asked him what had brought this statement on. "This," he said, with an off-hand gesture toward a newspaper lying nearby. I picked it up and nearly lost my eyeballs in staring at the headlines. "Crippled Mother Burns Her Two-Headed Son Alive," it screamed. "Hey, man, " I said, "you're really digging into the classics these days, aren't you?" "Aw, that's not classical," Sam said, "I just read The Investigator when I really want to know what's going on." I flipped through the paper, observing such lines as, "Eating A Charcoal-Broiled Steak Is Like Smoking 3,000 Cigarettes," and "Laxatives Found To Cause Rickets." "This isn't realism," I said; "it's junk." Sam was deeply hurt. "What do you mean, It's junk?" he shouted through a mouthful of tuna fish sandwich, "Didn't you see the full color pictures?" "The pictures aren't what I'm talking about. I mean it's junk because it isn't realism. This stuff isn't what's happening. This stuff, if it's true, is just events which happened on the edge of realism." "I don't know what you're talking about," Sam muttered. "If something really happened, then it's realism." I decided to explain things to him gently, hoping that things would penetrate into the nethermost regions of his brawny skull. 23 nNow what I'm talking about mostly is realism in literature. Once you see my point, I'm sure you'll have to agree. First of all, nearly every book you see today is supposed to be portraying realism in one way or another. Yet only a few of them manage to do it. nRealism, to my way of thinking, consists of all the things both good and bad which make life what it is. The author of the novel Call It Sleep portrayed the life of a Jewish boy in the slums. It is a depressing novel, full of sordid details. It shows life at its worst. It portrays realism in the slums. To the people who actually live such a life, realism consists of the sordid. ((When a person reads this novel, he is stunned by the realism portrayed in it. He has to ask himself how such conditions could actually be existing in America." Sam could take no more. nWhat about these?" he said, pointing to a list of movies at nearby theaters. nAren't these showing realism?" I looked at such titles as nThe Hot Pink Panties," and usadism, U.S.A." nThat Sadism movie is really a good one," Sam said, nespecially that part where the hero rips out his wife's tongue by the roots. To me, that's realism." nYou've almost got a point there, Sam," I said, nbut not quite. Sure, these things such as sadism and prostitution are a part of the real world. Everyone knows that. But to use these parts of realism in such a way that they seem to represent all of reality is to destroy their effect.'' nTo me, the only way to use realism effectively is to use it in interpretive literature. Make a reader or viewer say to himself, (If this is realism, what can I do to change it?'. Of course, all realism isn't bad. And if a reader or 24 viewer sees pleasant realism effectively portrayed, he should say, ~This is wonderful. How can I keep things this way?' In other words, use realism to make a reader or a movie-goer think. ncheap books and cheap movies portray only bad realism and portray it to the point where you think there is no good realism left. Such things aren't even used interpretively. It is pure rubbish used for escape and to help the author make a quick dollar. ~~To put it simply, Sam, realism used only for escape is worthless. Whether it's a movie or a book, if it uses realism only for thrills and not for thought, then it does nothing worthwhile. Realism isn't only what's happening, Sam, it's what is making things happen nAnything else?" I asked. nYeah," said Sam, "make me a tuna fish sandwich." 25 searching in an erratic world my head is unclear; my mind clouded with doubt, with uncertainty. nowhere can i find the answer which i am seeking. i wander restlessly through luminous clouds full of mendacious thruths ... searching .... searching ... searching my lonely soul seeking the response to the unanswered ... i indulge myself in a world that mingles with humanity a,nd material things, but all the while seeking ... searching ... someday ... someday, the dawn of light will penetrate, blinding the darkness. then i will answer, with certainty, with no doubt, but emotion. until that day i will be searching ... searching ... searching ... Kathy Homestead 26 MY VIETNAM Daniel Pettingill I have, of late, been reading Dr. Tom Dooley's Deliver Us From Evil. This book has prompted me to write about Vietnam as I found it. In all fairness to Dr. Dooley and to myself, I would like to point out that he wrote about the North Vietnamese who were fleeing Communist terror in 1954 and I am writing about an aggressive South Vietnamese nation in 1968-69. Just like Dr. Dooley's experience, my experience with Vietnam was military in nature. But, unlike Dr. Dooley, who tried to save lives and win against communism by love, I was in Vietnam, as an infantryman, to fight a war. July 14, 1968, found me in the city of Ben Hoa as a replacment for the 82nd Airborne Division. My first impression of that city and the country in general was that both the heat and the smell were great and almost unbearable. Day by day I became more used to the climate and the culture until I really didn't mind it at all. My unit was based at Camp Rodreguize, just outside of Hue, Vietnam, where we were fighting the North Vietnamese regulars in the mountainous jungles. Without going into detail I'll say that the food was bad, the water was bad, and, in general, life was rotten. Many of us men had wives and children at home. As for myself, I had a wife who was expecting a baby at anytime. In short we were going through a form of nhell on earth," and we were giving up a lot for the ~~privilege''! After three months in the northern part of South Vietnam, my unit pulled out and went all the way to the Saigon area where it was relocated to a position northwest of Saigon towards the Cambodian border. I spent the rest of my tour in that area. 27 During my year in Vietnam I had many buddies who paid a high price for the "freedom of the people of Vietnam." We, as a country, have given the South Vietnamese the tools to build a nation and the arms to protect that nation from oppression. It takes a strong nation to supply all we have supplied to that country, and a strong will to pour the blood of Americans into it. But it takes a blind nation to keep on paying the price it is costing us when the recipients sit back and laugh and sneer at us. What is the attitude of the South Vietnamese soldier and civilian towards us as Americans and allies? As far as I could see, all the Vietnamese want is to make a ''fast buck" off us, as we fight their rotten war for them. To best show what I mean I'll give a few, and these are only a few, of the instances I experienced while in "the Nam.'' We worked with a company of South Vietnamese soldiers who were to assume half of the combat load in our area. They refused to do anything at all unless we fed them our food. They had a food supply of their own but it didn't suit them. There were times when we were thirsty. The civilians would come and sell us a cold coke that they had stolen fro'm the United States Government off the Saigon docks. Many times the noble soldiers of the Republic of South Vietnam ran away under fire, leaving an outnumbered American force to fight their battle. Vietnamese whom we befriended would, time and again, steal everything, from pictures of our loved ones to our rifles. 28 One G. I. stopped his jeep and administered first-aid to some civilians who were victims of an auto accident. While he gave assistance some Vietnamese by-standers stole everything in his jeep. The list goes on and on. We were and still are being used by the Vietnamese people. Worst of all we are allowing American blood to be spilled while we stand by uncaring. Let's wake up before it's too late! 29 PORTRAIT TWO Russ Barnes in darkness he walked to the shore of the lake. his wandering eyes brushed the stars, touched the night; tried to pierce and to cut. on his left, on his right he saw the first reaches of the coming day. "listen," he whispered. the wind rustled past, and the quick-paced splashing of the quick-breaking waves swallowed the word. no moon-glow on the cold-pebbled shore. no moon etched the dead logs on the shore in silver and black or tinted the waves. on the whole eastern track he could see the new power of the oncoming day. ''Listen," he said. the wind rustled past, and the quick-paced splashing of the quick-breaking waves now hushed the one word. he lowered his eyes and glared at his feet set in hard-edged gravel and the play of the waves. and he gritted his teeth, and clenched his raw fists, and threw back his head, and threw back his shoulders as to carry the sky. "LISTEN!" he screamed. the wind fell short, and the quick-paced splashing of the quick-breaking waves sharply echoed the word, and he smiled. about him the sun broke the cold night in two and buried him deep in its rays. buried him deep and danced far beyond, burning such path as it chose. 30 CONCERNING A TRAIN Robert Fletcher Concerning a train, I've never been on one; but as a man sometimes does, I have put the little things that bother me first in my mind's eye. When I see or hear a train leaving at night sometimes I wish I were on it, putting miles between myself and my real self. Then the second leg of my imaginary journey always be gins. I think of the good things around me and the things I've got left to accomplish and then somehow my dream turns to one of going home.
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|Title||Palladian Winter '70-71|
|Title-Alternative||Winter 1970-1971 Palladian|
|Subject||Universities and colleges--Unity College--Unity, Maine--Student publications|
|Description||Contains student writing and artwork|
|Location||Quimby Library, Unity College|
|File size||1743008 Bytes|
|Relation||IsFormatOf: Palladian Winter 70-71|
The Literary Magazine of Unity College
Published twice yearly by the students of Unity College, Unity, Me.
Volume 2 Winter 1970-71 Number 1
TABLE OF CONTENTS
For Steve (dedicated to the memory of Stephen Geldmacher 4
Of Wine and a Quiet Night, by Russ Barnes 5
Two Poems, by Elizabeth C. McMahon 13
Two Stories - with an obeisance to Edgar Allan Poe:
The Just, by Daniel Linehan 14
The Graveyard Rats, by Leonard Freedenberg 18
A Dream, for Two People, by Douglas Oster 21
Realism, by Russ Barnes 22
Searching in an Erratic World, by Kathryn Homstead 25
My Vietnam, by Daniel Pettingill 26
Portrait Two, by Russ Barnes 29
Concerning a Train, a prose poem, by Robert Fletcher 30
Russell Barnes, Editor-in-Chief
Donald Mortland, Faculty Advisor
Cover design by David Barnes
a dream lost,
a knowing and an unbelieving.
how do I express it?
Steve was too much into life
to want to be placed
inside lines about his death.
no song of death for Steve.
yet" I must write
and cannot find within myself
the words that I woul say.
he built his friendship
and he was loved in turn.
but these words aren't enough.
perhaps a line I found
on a record album cover
would best express what Steve would want.
it said, ~~remember me as you find."
so, that's it.
remember Steve as you find.
he'd like that. I know he would.
OF WINE AND A QUIET NIGHT
Uncle William sat across the table from me, his baggy
eyes peering intently at the chess board between us, his
bald scalp moving in tiny ripples toward the desolate
shoreline of his hair, his manicured fingers drumming
curses at me in Morse code. "It's your move, Uncle," I
said quietly, with what I hoped was just the right amount
of overbearing leer.
|Source||Palladian Winter '70-'71|